There was a Stone Temple Pilots song out about a decade ago (yikes) that had a lyric — “feeling like a hand in rusted shame” — which I mis-took as “Feeling Like a Ham and Mustard Shake”. It didn’t occur to me that my translation made no sense at all. Context gave me no clue.Since Zoe is now very much into listening to songs, and singing what she hears, we’re enjoying quite a good spate of ham and mustard shakes. Sometimes, she’ll ask for a specific song by a lyric and we’ll have to decipher what song it is she wants. Sometimes, she’ll sing along with her own reality of what the lyrics are. There’s no correcting her. Its all a great game.

This doesn’t bode well for us. If her hearing and context development are this bad at three, we’ll have no hope of getting through to her at thirteen. Can’t wait for the sex talk.

• A cup of coffee — hot.
• A newspaper, read entirely and without interruption.
• The ability to walk out of the door within one minute of making the decision to go somewhere.
• The ability to make a decision, impulsively, to go somewhere.
• Camping.
• Mountain biking.
• Catching a band at a local bar — at midnight.
• Having the funds to do…whatever.
• Cooking dinner with my husband, over a glass of wine, calmly and relaxed, enjoying each other’s company and thoroughly enjoying the art of putting together a meal.
• Sitting down and eating dinner with my husband, calmly and relaxed, enjoying each other’s company, and thoroughly enjoying the taste of a good meal.
• A small purse.
• A clean car.
• Walks with the dog because I want to walk him, not because I have to walk him.
• Seeing my dog as another beloved member of the family, not as another demand that has to be met.
• Being able to be entirely absorbed in whatever I’m doing at the moment.
• Perusing bookstore shelves with my husband.
• Afternoons to do…whatever.
• Sunday mornings.
• Two empty hands.
• Sick days.
• NPR Morning Edition in the car.
• Quiet car rides.

These are just some of the things that I miss. I miss them dearly. I need to honor them.

On a day I’m feeling not-quite-so melancholy, I’ll be able to make a longer list of things I’m happier for having now. But, today, a little reminiscence.

So, we took the kids to Marsapalooza today. Rockets. Telescopes. Roving machines. Portable planetariums. Meteorites.

It wasn’t Zoe or Evan that had to be pulled away from every display table.

If it weren’t for them, I would have never made it out of there today.

Several years ago, I was slated to fly to Omaha, Nebraska on business. Perhaps images of the insurance capital of the world and Marlin Perkins of Wild Kingdom fame don’t excite you. They did for me. Despite being relatively well travelled outside of the U.S., I have very little experience with these here United States — particularly any state that does not host some length of Interstate 95. So, I was giddy. Excited to see something new. Prepared for the exotic.

I got off the plane and saw Chili’s. And Macaroni Grill. And Office Max. I checked to see if my plane had even taken off. I spent the week in Omaha and, were it not for the warsh, ruffs and ruts (wash, roofs and roots) , I would have never known I’d left my own town. Sad.

I’m not saying that Omaha, or Mason City, or Raleigh, or Richmond, for that matter, haven’t their own identities. I know they do. Mason City has its Ransom’s. Raleigh has its Rialto. Richmond has its Shockoe Bottom. But their unique personalities are being overgrown each time a strip-mall, house farm, or big-box pops up. Commercial kudzu, as it were. On my compassionate days, I recognize that this homogenization provides a curious sort of comfort for some. Even in the strange and exotic land of Omaha, I had at my convenience the comforts of familiar, if uninspired, bar food, if I wanted it. (I didn’t). Though I recognize this appeal, I don’t at all empathize with it. In a new city or space — and even in my own, everyday life, I don’t want to seek comfort in the familiar.

I like to think I’m more adventurous than that. I like to think, quite frankly, that I’m more unique than that. I don’t go to Chili’s or Macaroni Grill; I prefer to support the local businessman in most of my specialty shopping; I hate new houses; I don’t watch (that much) TV; I don’t know who Ashlee Simpson is. These little things make me straighten up my shoulders and say “No. Not me! I’m not your cookie cutter.”

And then along comes Rebecca.

Her son’s name is Evan. My son’s name is Evan. Our daughters have the same “lovey.” Our daughters have remarkably similar quirks and personalities. We both left well-established careers and tossed aside our higher education to stay at home with our children. And, don’t ask how we know this about each other, but we wear the same bra. Though we’ve confirmed that we were not, in fact, separated at birth, our lives bear remarkable similarities — if only on the surface.

Rebecca and I are not fast friends — we merely stumbled upon one another at the corner on the Internet one day, and have enjoyed uncovering some curious similarities in our lives. It was surprisingly easy to “run into” her. I suspect, in fact, that there are other Rebeccas out there — other women with Evans, or Zoes, or fantastic nursing bras. Essentially, I could fly to Omaha and run into a Rebecca.

In fact, I begin to think that maybe I’m not so far out of the mold as I’d like to believe I am. Maybe I’ve done a little too much shopping at Wal-Mart. Maybe that kudzu has taken rut, er, root in my own life. If I can so easily stumble across someone “like me”…well…how long will it be before I start choosing Chili’s as my restaurant of choice?

But then I realize that’s not the case at all. I’m still unique. I still have my own character. I still have my Rialto, my Ransom’s, my Shockoe Bottom. Rebecca doesn’t share that with me. And I don’t share what’s sure to be unique about her.

But, I have found comfort in seeing the familiar in a strange land. Knowing that there are other folks out there, so similar to me, navigating this difficult terrain of parenthood, well, it helps just a little. It comforts, just a little. So, I’m still not empathetic to needing to go to Chili’s when I fly to another city, but I sure am grateful to see a little of myself in someone else sharing this same, untamed adventure of parenting.

I’m glad Evan is a second child. Because, otherwise, I would have never fed him popcorn at 15 months. And then I would have never seen the look of pure, unadulterated bliss on his face as he found something that finally tasted good to him after six days of illness. Stick with me kid, we’ll go far.

There it was. His face scrunched up, as if his cheeks were trying to meet his forehead, creating two impossibly cute wrinkles between his nose. All that was left of his eyes were two warm, glimmering lights. A smile. I’m feeling better, Mom.

At the risk of falling into a potty-themed-rut, I simply must mark this occasion. My daughter now goes to the potty — for both forms of elimination — “facing front-ward”. This may seem like no big deal to you (whoever you are). But, up until now, my daugther’s elimination experience has been entirely backward, facing the commode tank. This was initially a way to keep her from “sprinkling when she tinkling”-ed (don’t ask…just suffice it to say that she had poor aim), but then it became a habit she was unable or unwilling to give up.

Until this week. She has decided she wants to face front-ward.

I’m still waiting for her to wipe her own ass.

(Credit for the “ministone” goes to Rebecca.)

Meet Cal. 7 years old. Mutt. His coat has the kind of effect women pay hundreds of dollars to achieve. And this kid likes to eat. Its actually amazing. I used to feel bad about it — all the things I’ve unintentionally allowed him to snarf. But then someone put it to me this way: he spends his entire day thinking about how to get food. At the risk of sounding uppity, I, quite frankly, have better things to do than to scheme to keep that same food away from him. At least, that’s how I justify that my dog can outwit me in a nano-second.

Its not as if we starve the kid. He gets two squares a day. Yummy expensive stuff. Stuff that cleans his teeth, slims his body and makes him fart roses, supposedly. (Though his extracurricular snarfing tends to entirely negate the latter two benefits.) These two meals are the highlight of his day, and he makes sure we know this. Each morning, at precisely 6:14 am, he lets us know its breakfast time. And when the clock rounds to 12:43 pm, its lunch time. In our house, there’s no negotiating with terrorists: we give him what he demands. Else, an incessant chorus of sharp barks begins with the promise of no end until his mouth can be otherwise occupied with gulping. [This entry is so entitled because Cal chose to so demand a “second” lunch. I actually yelled at him: “You’ve already HAD your god-damned lunch!” Me. Cursing at a dog. I need help.]

We even treat him to the occasional meal scraps. With an eye on health, he gets all the vegetables he wants. Red Bell peppers are some of his favorites. And he’s no stranger to the sweeter side of life, either. No ice-cream bowl goes un-licked in this house, no banana-end gets tossed; these are his delights, exclusively. Clearly, his epic eating is not entirely related to hunger.

So, then must I deduce that I have a pet with an eating disorder? Have I so poorly raised this dog as to instill deep psychological trauma? Have I left him so hungry for love and attention that he must seek in vain to quell that hunger with food? Dr. Phil, Oprah, Madame Pet Psychic, PLEASE HELP!

Its not that we haven’t tried to change this behavior. We have. We started with the typical stuff of sage dog trainers: insisting that he eat from his bowl only after we give the command to do so. Psychologically speaking, we were training him to eat only when we commanded him to. He readily agreed to “wait for his supper,” but it didn’t do a darn thing for his between-meal snacking.

When that didn’t work, we resorted to guerrilla tactics: hot peppers and hot sauce splayed all over the counter. Surely a bad experience would burn into his mind a negative connotation of “buffet food.” He lapped it up. And then he looked at us like, “C’mon. Is that all? Can I have seconds? Please?”

Finally, in the “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” methodology, we resolved to keep food out of his reach. Shelves in our pantry were re-organized to put the canned and inedible goods on the lower shelves and the “snacks” on the upper shelves. But damned if he didn’t become a living example of intra-generational evolutionary adaptation. Seriously. Stuff that was un-reachable suddenly became reachable. The only logical explanation: Cal grew additional vertebrae so as to extend his vertical reach. He’s working on his slam dunk.

When we moved and were blessed with a closeted pantry, we thought all of our troubles were behind us. Surely the dog can’t learn to open doors. To some extent, this is true. He hasn’t learned to open the pantry door. But the pillaging continues from the countertops. Perhaps we’ve been lulled into complacency. Perhaps I have two children occupying 98.4 percent of my brain capacity at any one time and I feel like I have the god-given-right to put a box of cheerios on the freakin’ counter. Whatever it is, in the elapsed time its taken me to write this entry, he’s consumed an entire box of Cheese-nips (Shrek shapes, no less!) and two loaves of roasted garlic bread.

Yummy. Can’t wait for him to climb into bed with us tonight.

One wallet
One adult scarf
One magazine stolen from the pediatrician’s office
One pair of adult gloves
One package of wipes
Pre-school class roster
January’s pre-school calendar and newsletter
One checkbook
Two toy trucks
One bottle nipple (WTF? I didn’t even bottle feed my children!)
One child’s comb
Three pens
The mail from January 19th (six pieces)
Two late DVD rentals (NO MORE LATE FEES!)
A realtor’s promotional pocket calendar — for 2004
Two pre-school registration packets (only one is necessary)
Emergency Room discharge papers (six)
Three un-used, but wadded tissues
One pocket tissue wrapper
One cell phone — dead battery
Three blank envelopes
Five Eucerin product samples
One empty bank envelope
Eleven purchase reciepts
One toy bracelet
One toy ring with secret lip-gloss compartment
Three stickers
Two notepads — each containing “to do” lists that didn’t get done
One play-group roster
One appointment reminder
One hair band
One children’s museum punch card
One paper clip
One safety pin
Thirty-five cents in loose change

But not one single diaper.