While completing yesterday’s post, my independently-playing son spewed 52 Handy Helpers all over the floor.”What are Handy Helpers?”, you ask. Why, they’re “52 handy cards to help enhance your child’s development and to strengthen that special bond you share with your child.” Direct from Discovery Toys, where they smarmily encourage you to “play with your children…[because] it’s the best investment you’ll ever make!”The irony is not lost on me.Neither is the humor.

Three books.Four paintings.Two photo albums.Hundreds of photographs.Four knitted Christmas stockings.One mural.One hand-made quilted garland.And at least five blog entries.These are items that are on my personal to-do list. Of course, I have another to-do list: Laundry. Cleaning. Lawn-care. Child-care. And I don’t possibly have the time to do everything on both lists. Not now. Not next week. Not next month. And probably not this year. Simple Economics dictates that proiritization is required. But, I’m ashamed to admit, I struggle — sometimes daily– with those priorities.On my brighter days, I look at the creative things on my list and I’m proud that I have these interests. I’m proud that I’m constantly creating, always growing, and enduringly passionate about trying new things. But on my darker days, I look at my lists and I’m saddened. I’m saddened by the things that won’t get done. I’m embittered by the non-existent time I want so desperately to devote to all of these things. I’m embarrassed by my passion for the selfish endeavors, sometimes to the detriment of my obligations to the necessary matters. I’m frustrated over the choices I must make, and ashamed by the poor choices I, too often, do make.I once mentioned that I was fearful of writing about myself. I’d tried before, several times, but found the constant introspection uncomfortable, at best. Faced with thinking things about myself that were painful, I abandoned the task. I escaped. But my writing in this blog, has, for the most part, been free of the damning introspection that’s hindered me in the past. It’s personal, yes. It’s truthful, yes. It’s even, at times, painful. But it hasn’t degenerated into the closeted skeleton revelations that have arrested my past writing attempts. Perhaps it’s because I’m older. Perhaps it’s because I’m in a much different place than I was long ago. Perhaps it’s because I no longer have any skeletons of which I’m ashamed. Whatever the reason, this blog is something I’m very proud of, not the least of which is my devotion to it.But lately, my devotion to writing, and my devotion to every other one of the items on my personal to-do list, has been troubling me. On one hand, it’s an energy that pulls me to do some things I love, very much; On the other hand, it’s an energy that pulls me away from other things, things that inevitably get coldly characterized as “obligations” and “daily matters.” And when I so characterize these daily tasks — laundry, cleaning, lawn care, and, yes, child-care — I inevitably wind up filled with guilt and shame.I’m drawn to these personal pursuits precisely because I get something positive out of doing them. Out of my writing — it’s introspection, mostly positive, entirely productive. Out of my art — it’s confidence and relaxation. Out of my reading — it’s soul-touchingly pure pleasure. Out of all the other things — a combination of any of the above benefits. No wonder I’m devoted.I can’t reasonably expect to derive such benefit out of laundry and lawn-care. On an esoteric level, perhaps, I could expect a warming reward for providing basic needs for my family, but, that’s a stretch. So it makes sense that I struggle to put that load of laundry at the top of my to-do list on any given day. But, the point is, it shouldn’t settle to the bottom of the to-do list every day, and, more often than not, it does.”Child Care” is another matter. Don’t get me wrong. I love my children. I love playing with them. I love being at home with them. But there are moments, regular moments, when I seek out the calming, fulfilling reward of my personal pursuits simply because I’m not getting rewarded from caring for my children. The two-year old crying and three-year old whining drain me, and I forage for nourishment elsewhere. I admit, I do this, sometimes, to the detriment of my duties as a mom. It’s as basic as Maslow’s Pyramid; my self-rewarding behavior, on some days, stems from the lower bounds of that needs-continuum. Childish. Immature. When my needs aren’t met, I struggle to meet the needs of others.I’m painfully aware, then, that my pursuits are entirely selfish, and sometimes wholly irresponsible. Ouch. What was it I said about this blog not inflicting damning introspection?But I’ve also said that writing has brought a discipline to my life. It certainly has. I’ve been disciplined to look at daily events with a different perspective, always considering how to best re-capture the moment — even the most mundane — in words. I’ve been disciplined to sit down, each day, and find those words and put them to paper. And I’ve been disciplined to do this, even when it’s not easy to do. Some days I cop out — presenting a simple, undeveloped thought. Other days, like today, it’s not a cop out at all; it’s hard work. All in all, it’s work that I’m proud of — every day.I recognize that I should take the same balanced, but disciplined, approach to my other “to do” list. Some days, it’s all right to neglect that list. The laundry can sit an extra day, and the kids can have some self-directed play time. Most days, though, I need to do right by that list as well. I need to find the right mix, and get it right, most of the time. Striking that balance, making my life work both for me and for my family — that is work I want to be proud of. (But maybe not the laundry.)

It must have been the two glasses of iced tea at dinner. I just couldn’t get to sleep the other night.So, at 11:30, I found myself deep in a discussion with my husband about the Coriolis Effect. Our discussion was complete with illustrative examples, including an imagined game of catch between two people on a merry-go-round. (You stand in the center, tossing a ball to your friend, who is standing at the edge of the merry-go-round — right behind a giraffe. As much as you try to aim your ball at the giraffe, it always exits the merry-go-round at the elephant, two animals behind the giraffe.)That discussion degenerated into a conversation about the theory of relativity, complete with its own illustrative example. The example consisted of a ship-watcher standing on a dock, and a tall ship — a really tall ship — with a mast 186,282 miles high, to be precise. We both got a little lost on that one, creating our own theory in the process.And still, all of this talk was not enough to lull me to sleep. Quite the opposite, in fact. Ten minutes after we’d turned off the light, I was still mulling it over. If the Coriolus Effect is observable in forces running parallel to the Earth’s rotation, what the hell does this all have to do with draining the kitchen sink, by all measures a downward force?It was a fitful night’s sleep, to say the least…Thank goodness there’s the Internet in the morning. I can now breathe a sigh of relief and look forward to a restful slumber.The downward gravitational pull of the drain on the kitchen sink does create a force parallel to the Earth’s rotation, presumably opening the door to the Coriolis Effect. (Think about a floating bubble in the sink. It first floats across the top of the water — parallel to the surface of the Earth — and then proceeds down the drain.) But don’t think the world has ended when you see your kitchen sink vortex rotate counter-clockwise in the Northern Hemisphere. There are far too many other forces at work in your kitchen sink to easily observe the Coriolis Effect in action.I’ll save the tall ship story for another day. I wouldn’t want to put you to sleep or anything.

My dog. What if we let ‘m loose at a buffet? Hmmm.Cal, meet Golden Corral. May the best man win.

One Chicken Salad Sandwich.This, in and of itself, is really nothing.But, when it’s preceded by an unruly toddler in the library resulting in a bruised cheek, a meltdown at the same library over a non-existent ballerina book, a forty-five minute temper-tantrum over missing swim-goggles and an entirely imagined finger scrape, and a diaper change turned wrestling match which I lost, it’s just enough to put me over the edge.I seriously considered opening the front door and letting Cal walk out into the great wide world. And I wondered, if I left the door open just long enough, would the kids follow him?These were but the tamest thoughts and actions on my part.Not one of my greater moments, courtesy of Cal.

Because my son has been (relatively) slow to develop his speaking skills, I relish it even more when I witness him achieve a verbal milestone. This week we celebrated the “adjective, noun” mini-sentence. We were driving Zoe to school when I heard Evan shout his usual “guck!” in response to spotting an eighteen-wheeler at the intersection.I shouted with enthusiasm, for the thousandth time, “Yes, Evan, a truck!” Good thing he can’t see my eyes rolling. And then, as if he knew he needed to really get my attention, “Bee. Guck.”Bee Guck? Bee Guck? Oh! “Big Truck! That’s right Evan, BIG truck!” This time, the enthusiasm was genuine.Soon, everything was describable with an adjective.”Tah. Cane.” Tall Crane.”Mommy. No.” Mommy Nose.”Ha Ha. Cah.” Hot Car.But, by far, his favorite adjective remains “Big.” Even things that aren’t really big get pre-pended with this favorite:”Bee. Daw-gie.” Big Dog.”Bee. Toe.” Big Toe.”Bee. Gagor.” Big Tractor.”Bee. No.” Big Nose. (Don’t even go there.)And, my favorite:”Bee. Atch.” Big Watch. Or, Bitch, if you’re me talking to my husband trying to call someone a “Bitch” in front of the kids.Bee-atch.Thank goodness he was actually holding a watch in his hands at the time, or I’d have had to wash his mouth out with soap.

Babysitting Swaps and Buy-1-Get-1 free coupons.A free babysitter, two tickets to ADF for the price of one, and $20 off dinner for two at Bakus make for a hot date at a cool price. I’ll take it!It used to be, I didn’t need to be this thrifty, but boy, I’m thankful I know how. It’s “Sensible Chic” turned to nightlife. No one will be the wiser.Now, if only I can figure out what to wear…

It’s as bad as PIN Number: NPR Radio. Sheesh.Where art thou, o editor?

The Connection, an NPR radio broadcast, is running a series this week entitled “The Book That Changed My Life.” In it, authors are discussing other authors’ works that had a profound influence on their own lives in some way. The influences are powerful, helping to re-shape each author-reader’s vision of their own work, their own lives, and the world in which they live. I’ve enjoyed listening to the series, and it’s made me think about books that have had an influence on my own life.Although there are many books on that list, I find myself coming back, again and again, to one particular book: Howard Norman’s The Bird Artist. And I smile when I think of how it’s changed my life. Its influence is not the earth-shattering effect that the series title would proclaim; I didn’t alter my life’s direction, re-define my values, or re-shape my self-image after reading it. Rather, its influence is subtle, but profound none-the-less.I read The Bird Artist in my early twenties. I was a recent graduate, spending my first year outside the protective environment of college or home. I picked up the book at the bookstore with little self-determination, its probable face-forward position on the display shelf having more influence on my decision to buy it than any other factor. That was to be the last ambivalent association I had with the book. As soon as I read the first page, I was entranced.It’s been well over ten years since I first read the book, and time has played its usual trick of depriving me of the details of the book. But time’s trick is not cruel, as I’m still left with the feelings the book evoked from me, as intense and fresh as if I were reading it today. I recall being mesmerized — by the story, the characters, the writing, the place. Everything about the book took me in, captivating me while I read it, and for years and years since. It’s precisely the spellbinding power of the book, for me, that makes me mark it as one that’s changed my life.I read The Bird Artist at a time when I’d fallen out of love with reading, and was wondering whether I’d ever loved it to begin with. I’d been through years of force-fed book selections, rarely giving the books more than a cursory skim. Books that were supposed to be “classics” or esteemed writing weighed me down; books that were characterized as light “beach reading” left me feeling cheap and dirty. For me, there was no passion associated with curling up with a good book; it was either a burden or a waste. The Bird Artist changed all of that for me.My captivation with The Bird Artist transformed into a compulsion, wanting more of the same. I returned to the bookstore and library, again and again, seeking another book that could pull me in as entirely as The Bird Artist had. Reading that book re-ignited, or perhaps truly started, a passion for reading that has brought hundreds of books into my life in the years since. In those hundreds of books, there are many books that did not match The Bird Artist’s allure. But there are many, many more that have matched it and gone beyond, allowing me to journey through worlds and minds both very different from and very similar to my own. The Bird Artist is the first book in that journey. My first love.I recently pulled The Bird Artist from my bookshelf to lend it to a family member. Before I did so, I considered cracking it open again for myself. But I hesitated, and eventually decided against it. My grandfather always warned against examining your history too closely. “You’ll be sure to find a skeleton in your closet,” he’d say. I feel similarly about re-reading this book. I’ve such a passionate bond with it — a profound attraction to it — I’d hate to re-read it and find its allure diminished. Instead, I’ll go right on remembering it for what it has meant to me for so many years: a book that I loved; a book that brought reading to my life; a book that changed my life.

Zoe is in pre-school three days a week this summer. This means, among other things, that I can’t possibly find enough errands to run with Evan for three days straight, so I actually have to have some playtime with him. Today, I took him to Playspace. (This could also be called “A mother’s Godsend on a 96 degree day.”) When I picked Zoe up from school, it took her no less than three seconds to spy the star stamp applied to Evan’s right hand. Instantly, with the jealous intensity of a jilted lover, she grilled me: “Did you go to Playspace?”Ah, yes, darling. The world does revolve when you’re not around.

If there’s not an entry in Webster’s for it, the dictionary is decidedly behind the times. Teva-stink: ‘tee-vah ’sti[ng]k; ‘teh-vah ’sti[ng]k 1. a strong, offensive odor, emanating particularly from the rubber soles of Teva shoes.The makers of Teva shoes must have been alerted to their product’s intrinsic problem early on in their manufacture; they now produce the shoes with Microban, a treatment that protects them from odor causing bacteria for the life of the shoes.Unfortunately, this modern fashion science has not trickled down to the knock-off Target brand shoes for small boys.My dear sweet son. Your feet stink.

This just in. A full twenty-eight minutes of silence into her afternoon nap, Zoe breaks out into hysterical sobbing. What is the matter?