Milk, bread, eggs

I am having a grocery list trauma. For many years my beloved spouse has tried to get me to use a Palm with varying degrees of success. I am a paper and pen sort of girl. I like the physical action of crossing things out. But I play games on the Palm. I keep an address book, but the thing I use most often is a grocery list program. It's great. You can have separate lists for all kinds of things. I have a Target list, a travel list, a license plate list (just in case anyone has actually read my blog from the beginning. Brent, maybe). Since Baby D has been born, since I have dyed my hair somewhere in the vicinity of its actual color, I am getting brave enough to say -- deep breath -- I am tired of carrying the Palm around just so I can play Chuzzle. I bought myself a small date book I can carry in the backpack.

The real problem, of course, is the grocery list. I always felt so cool, so Mom-on-the-go with my Palm list, but I sort of didn't like it because you have to hold the Palm in one hand, the stylus in another and you have to keep tapping it on. I felt buried in the Palm with no free hands to reach for groceries. I didn't really want to set it in the cart. It's expensive. My jeans may be of a certain size, but my pockets aren't big enough for it. I don't know.

I have been experimenting with lists on the web. Grocerylists.com is the winner so far, but they're a little weird. They want you to leave the list in the cart so someone else can mail it to the website. Apparently they get a strange sort of kick reading grocery lists. Cozi.com is my experiment this week. I have just downloaded something to the computer my husband will have to clean off later if I don't like it. Poor man. If only I would just do what he suggested in the first place.

Testing one, two, three . . .

Colin was three or four when we went to manditory preschool screening and he flunked speech. We were referred to early childhood special education where they decided he "fell on the autism spectrum" (ouch!). He does so very well now. He receives speech, occupational, and social therapy and attends a mini session of adaptive phy ed two or three days a week.

We are so proud of him and know for certain that God is creating Colin to be exactly what He needs for his kingdom . . . and yet there is a part of me that still kicks myself in the rear. I knew something was a little off with Colin, but I come from a long line of quirky people. I married quirky. I am definitely quirky. It didn't surprise me I might have a quirky child. But I should have been more firm, made more of a fuss.

So Darling Mindy, the sweet and lovely early childhood special education elf has been here today to look at Daniel. She declared she would like to come back and work with him because he is so cute, but there is no need. She will come back in six months.

All right for now.

Things to remember

My last prenatal vitamin is sitting alone in the bottle on the table waiting to be consumed in the morning. I remembering a year and a half ago how completely freaked out I was about getting those vitamins. I had to have them. The baby HAD to have them. I was responsible for him. Before I found out I was pregnant was becoming -- again -- very, very focused on myself and what I needed and what was important to me, but then all of a sudden I was sharing living space and I had to take care. What I ate mattered. What I did mattered. Proper diet, exercise, vitamins.

The past year and a half has gone so quickly. Newborn hats have been packed up and given away. The swing has been taken out to the garage. The crib has been lowered once and probably should be lowered again. All of it happening without much thought. We are too swept away in the necessity of daily function to notice.

And yet there is my last vitamin . . . the last vestige of pregnancy and nursing . . . the end of an unexpected time of blessing, excitement, promise.

Right now Baby D is upstairs wailing because he does not want to go to sleep, but I am the Mom and I say that 10 month old babies should be asleep at 9:30 at night. He is exerting his own will and his own thought. This little person who depended on me for his very life declares that he is not tired and will not sleep.

And here we begin the process of letting each other go.

Damn vitamin.

It's all worth it

Pregnancy hormones and I had a real struggle the past two years. Up and down we went with what seemed like a real emphasis on the down. I have not been entirely sad to see them go . . . until today.

Last year I got my very first flu shot and I remember thinking, "That was just a tiny prick of an immunization. I must be sure to do this from now on." One year later and I am thinking," Oh, my stars, where can I get a new arm?! How am I supposed to hold up my baby with this debilitated lump of flesh hanging off my shoulder?!"

I just know it's worth it. The only thing longer than a Minnesota winter is flu in the Minnesota winter.

Fly Away

Our neighbors across the street, Louis and Barbara, are packing their cars to head down south for the winter. It is everything I can do not to pack myself a little bag and jump into one of those cars.

I know global warming is a serious and terrible thing, but it's sort of hard not to see some of it as a benefit here in Minnesota. Winter is a long, frustrating event here. There's a pretty fall for four or five weeks and then it is cold and brown or cold and white until April. Prince had a song years ago "Sometimes it Snows in April." Yeah, it does. And even though we may not be the ice, frozen tundra all year round I imagine some figure us to be, winter is long and cold and dreary and, frankly, I don't look forward to it.

Well, thank goodness, I am not a prairie pioneer girl getting settled into my sod hut. At least I have cable.

It's all in the way you say it.

Colin and I were watching Survivor the other night when one of the contestants, feed up with his camp mate, told the camera she needed to "Get over it, B***h!" Honestly, why must we have this in the "family hour" (HA!) of television?

A couple of years ago we heard this same word uttered during the seven o'clock hour and I said to Colin, "That's not a nice word, okay, Colin?"

"What word, Mom?" he asked.

"The word that man just used. It started with B."

"Ball?" No. "Beans?" No. "Bull----?" Um. No. Although, you're right. That's not nice either.

So I am not naive. I know my child is hearing all sorts of things out on the playground, but we certainly don't need to hear it on television in our home. Do we? So I start again this time.

"That is truly not a nice thing to call someone, Colin," I said.

"What, Mom?"

"That B word that man just used."

"What word?"

Well, now I have learned my lesson. I do not want to hear out of my precious boy's mouth all the bad words he knows that start with B, so I just go ahead and say it. "It was b---h. That is not a nice thing to call someone. Okay?"

"Okay, Mom. If someone calls me a bench, I will say, 'That is not a nice thing to call someone.'"

"Well, yes, honey, but I don't think anyone is going to call you a bench. It's b---h and mostly girls get called that and it's not nice."

I have this vision of my son, age 25 or 26. He is having his first fight with his lovely intelligent girlfriend. A la his father it's sort of hard to tell he is fighting but he's really frustrated and he turns to her and says, "You are just really being a bench." And she just laughs and says, "What?!" And the whole thing is over. Well, good for her.

And the Oscar Goes to . . .

I am thrilled that my dramatic personality has once again over reacted in proportion to the situation and that the Room 406 Harvest Party was a great success. Mrs. P. has her students whipped into perfect third grade shape. Games were played in rows. Everyone said "please" and "thank you." One little brown noser stood up and gave a speech about good sportsmanship. (That's right, honey! Every does deserve a big "Good Game!" for tossing their styrofoam ball into the Halloween -- oh, sorry -- harvest pumpkin cutout bucket.) The hysteric meylay of spitball throwing, angry urchins fighting each other for the "good" prizes after the "lame games" were no where to be found, and I am profoundly grateful.

I know that I sometimes appear more worried (or upset or excited or disappointed) than I really am, but for some reason, this event really had me sweating. My sister, as usual, nailed it right on the head. I just hate the unknown. I felt like had agreed to something without knowing all the details and I was expected to perform in a way I did not feel I was gifted. I was particularly worried about the games. But here's the thing: I found someone who was talented at that sort of thing and she took over. Before we left, she was even talking about what games we could play at Christmas. She even seemed excited about it!!