Random Tuesday Thoughts

I'm trying out a new thing. A few of the mom blogs I've latched onto (like a newborn at the teat) write Random Tuesday Thoughts in which they spew whatever...random... stuff that comes to mind. It ends up being pretty entertaining, in fact. I'm feeling randomy, so here goes:

• I smell like a yak right now. I haven't had a shower in three days and instead of hopping in there right now, like I should, I'm spending my time doing this. Totally productive.
• My sewing machine broke a week ago and I still haven't taken any definitive steps to have it fixed or replaced. I've gone to two sewing shops, researched new machines, and considered my options, but for some reason I feel paralyzed with indecision. I think because sewing is a major part of my business, I want to make sure I get the absolutely perfect new machine and there are HUNDREDS to choose from. Too many options! Just tell me what to get and I'll buy it!
• My friend Jenn has finally nagged me into joining facebook. She was right. It is really simple and better than myspace. But I see it becoming another easy distraction, so I'm laying low.
• Jenn has also inspired me to try to blog a little more often than usual. She did it in the most obvious way: by appealing to my ego. I check everyday, she says, and I always wonder why you haven't blogged for like a week! It's nice having a reader. You know, the one besides my mom and husband.
• Maybe River's obsession is getting to me, but I think about boobs all the time these days. boobiesboobiesboobiesboobies. It's pretty fun to say. You should try it.
• Thom has diagnosed our cat with PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) and I actually think he's right. Every morning when the coffee grinder starts running Poe freaks out and attacks her brother Edgar, makes the most pathetic high pitched squeal, and is generally manic until the grinder stops. Thom says if it was just anxiety, exposure therapy - hearing the damn thing every day for the past five years - should have worked by now. So PTSD it is. Poor girl. I wonder what horrible thing happened before we adopted her to create such black spot in her life.
  
• Now that I'm near the end I can say I love these Random Tuesday Thoughts! It's totally liberating to get rid of all that useless stuff rolling around in my head and not have to make a funny, poignant, or meaningful post about it. Just dump it out!

I would do that linky thing other people have done, but I'm feeling too technologically lazy right now. Maybe next week I will have it figured out.

anyone got some duct tape?

River and I are enjoying breakfast at the Diesel Cafe in Davis Square (okay, that should read: River is running around in circles avoiding his muffin while I try to pound my coffee). After a few hundred laps around the room he jumps up on me and suddenly gets very snugly.

I should preface the next part by saying that though River has been weened for a while, he still has quite an obsession with my chest (he's a man; I suppose the obsession is hard-wired). He likes to use it as a pillow as he's going down for a nap. I've tried to discourage overt fondling, but occasionally he still sneaks in a few seconds of motor-boating. So he's there, resting his head on my ladies, when he suddenly looks up and shouts to the roomful of strangers, "BOOBIES!"

Saturday my friend Ben is in town to play a show (awesome job, by the way) and he crashes at our place. Sunday morning River is busy eating an apple in my lap and looks over to Ben, points to his apple and says, "Apple." He then points to my chest and says, "Boobies," whereupon he rests his head and finishes his snack. Just in case you wanted to know what I'm doing, Uncle Ben.

Back at the cafe... After River shares his love of boobies with the room, he notices his nose is running and he's conveniently left a slime trail across my shirt. He has to let the people know, right? So the next thirty seconds proceed with me turning a new shade of red as he screams, "BOOBIES! BOOGERS! BOOBIES! BOOGERS!"

I guess I should feel lucky he didn't feel the need to talk about his penis too...

WALL OF ART

I've been thinking about the amazing art space we were going to create for River ever since we decided to buy this condo. I initially imagined dedicating a large wall in the family room in the basement for this purpose: the three-part wall would have a chalk board, a giant roll of paper, and a magnetic board. He'd be supplied with crayons, markers, paint, magnetic letters, construction paper, stickers, glue, and any other crafty thing I could think of. If there was ever an art-mergency we would be covered.

Since then, we filled half of the family room with our enormous book collection and I've taken the other half as my sewing/craft space. Sorry, River, no art space for you - you'll just have to get by with the crayons and scraps of paper I hastily throw your way every now and then.

Okay, okay, I didn't really abandon the idea altogether. I just decided that River's downstairs room (yes, he has two - see, the kid isn't suffering) was plenty large to house an art corner, and that is what Thom and I have been working on this month.

Here's what this space looked like before:






















Pretty sad, huh? We've had the table and chairs for a few months (they were a part of my original design) and recently we found a cool roll of paper which we attached to one end of the table and anchored to the other side so pieces could be torn off and the roll moved forward.

The next step was to create the WALL OF ART, which is pretty much how I think of it. Imagine James Earl Jones or Patrick Stewart saying "WALL OF ART" in an epic, booming voice and you get the idea.

Around 5am one Saturday morning I woke up thinking about how I wanted to design the WOA, and started sketching a large chalkboard with a bright wooden border, shelves, and a decal that said "Imagine." When morning finally arrived we headed to Home Depot and bought chalk board paint, magnetic paint, and molding. I made the cuts on the molding myself (yea, handy!), nearly came to blows with the old lady trying to cut me in the paint line, but we got everything we needed.

















We have a large collection of tools at home so we didn't need much besides some hardware. The original plan was to paint the magnetic primer with chalkboard over it, so the wall would serve two purposes. Turns out that primer works NOT AT ALL, so those three coats of magnetic paint were for naught.

The chalkboard paint worked significantly better and while I waited for coats to dry I worked on the accent pieces.






















I painted the table, chairs, outlet covers, vent, and molding with four colors. We attached the molding withe nails, hung the shelves, and I made a fabric decal with the title of one of our favorite John Lennon songs.

Thom took on the enormous task of entertaining River and keeping him from stepping in paint cans while I worked. After about 5 days, this is what we had:






































It didn't get nominated for a contest I entered on Ohdeedoh, but River loves it and I love it, so that's all that matters.

EDIT: I DID GET NOMINATED! YEAH!

all about my man

I saw this meme on Bartender's Wife and was inspired to do my own. Anyone who reads this blog knows that Thom is a fantastic partner and the love of my life, but you might not know some of the nitty gritty details about our relationship. So here you go:

What are your middle names?
Thom's is Sandford, after a grandfather. (That's where the "rd" in his business Kerdan comes from.) Mine is Ryan. Instead of cutting all my hair off or getting piercings, I started going by Ryan when I entered high school. It created a lot of confusion for people who knew me as Summer as well as those who only knew me as Ryan but kept hearing everyone call me Summer. Thanks to my best friends it was a losing battle.

How long have you been together?
We've been together since August 2001 and married since August 2003.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
I met him in high school. How? you might ask, since he's six years older than me? Funny story. See, I dated his little brother in high school (who now happens to be married to one of my best friends from high school and lives just down the road from us). Thom and I kept in touch as acquaintances for about 7 years before we thought, hey, there could be something more here...

Who asked whom out?
I guess, technically, I asked him out (though really, it was just an innocent request to get together for dinner). Still, I should have known he was putting the moves on when he offered to cook at his place.

How old are each of you?
I'm *cough* *cough* 29. For another month. He'll be 36 in March.

Whose siblings do you see the most?
Definitely his. The afore mentioned brother and sister-in-law live in our city, so we get together about 2-3 times a week. I would love to see my brother more often, but since he's in Vegas, we can't just hop over to his place.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
I think we could probably both use more sleep. Ever since we hired a sitter, I have more down time (but since I'm using that time to start a business, is it really "down"?). Thom has approximately ZERO down time. I know we both want to exercise more and have more time with each other, but I just keep telling myself the toddler days won't last forever.

Did you go to the same school?
We both graduated from the same high school (Jenna Jameson is one of our illustrious alums). For college he went to MIT and I went to Sarah Lawrence.

Are you from the same home town?
Pretty much. I wasn't born in Vegas, but it's the place I call home. Thom was born and raised there.

Who is smarter?
Thom is totally smarter. He has an incredible mind and is constantly working on new ideas. He has a much better memory for details than me and can enter a debate without breaking into tears. I'm constantly learning from him.

Who is the most sensitive?
Thom is incredibly sensitive, but he doesn't really stand a chance next to the tornado of emotion he's married to. He doesn't project his emotion all the time, whereas I can't help but spew my inner emotional life on anyone within a ten foot radius. In this area - emotional intelligence - I am probably the smarter one. I can read people, anticipate their needs, and react to them without really thinking about it. Thom has to think about it.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
Eat out? Uh, what's that? We order from a great pizza place called Beauty's quite a bit.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Fiji, for our honeymoon.

Who has the craziest exes?
Neither of us have that many, and they're not that crazy. I guess I did once date a guy who wanted to be Brandon Lee in The Crow, so I probably win.

Who has the worst temper?
Did I mention I'm an emotional tornado? Thom is so easy-going, sometimes it seems like nothing gets to him. I'm always surprised by those very rare occasions he gets mad (thankfully, I'm usually not the source of his anger).

Who does the cooking?
Me. And me. And, um, me. Thom used to cook more, but I'm kind of a kitchen nazi, and he's found it's just easier to stay out of my way than have me hovering over his burners and telling him to add more salt. He likes to get up on Saturday morning and make pancakes while I'm still in bed (I can't hover if I'm asleep).

Who is the neat-freak?
We're both incredibly messy by nature. And we both know our relationship will survive only if we maintain some kind of order in the house. I'm home more, so I end up working on the mess a little more than him. About once a month, when I have to do a large amount of picking up after the boys, I lose my s**t a little and start breathing fire. Thom knows it's best to just get out of my way for a couple hours and get me a cocktail once I'm done.

Who is more stubborn?
Neither is particularly stubborn, but since he's more easy-going we end up doing things my way more often.

Who hogs the bed?
We have a huge bed, so space isn't an issue. But he is a notorious blanket hog.

Who wakes up earlier?
Thom. I need a couple hours at night to wind down, so I stay up later. He's sensible and goes to bed early and wakes up with River most days.

Where was your first date?
His apartment in New York? Does that count? Our first outside date was at the Guggenheim Museum (where we saw a Frank Gehry exibit).

Who is more jealous?
What's there to be jealous about?

How long did it take to get serious?
I knew he was the one in a month. I think he did too, but he took longer to say it. On September 11 he was in Boston on business and I was in Manhattan working at Starbucks. He couldn't get in touch with me for hours and when we finally did touch base he told me he loved me.

Who eats more?
He eats faster and more quantity at mealtimes, but I probably snack more than him.

Who does the laundry?
Usually me.

Who's better with the computer?
Heh, heh. Yesterday I FINALLY figured out how to change my masthead. He went to MIT. What do you think?

Who drives when you are together?
I'm getting better about letting him take the wheel lately. But just don't ask us who's the better driver.

Bruce

In the course of my day it's easy to get caught up in all those things that don't really matter: matching River's socks to his shirt, putting on make-up before I go out, running errands, cooking dinner. So much of life is consumed by the little details that don't actually mean anything in the grand scheme. Still, every night I rock my boy to sleep and thank the universe for that time together, every night I kiss my husband goodnight and reflect on how lucky I am to have him, every day I think about my parents and Thom's parents and know that we would not be the people we are without them.

Is that enough? Should disaster strike, will I feel angry with myself for not relishing every moment? Will I regret all those opportunities to play with River I missed out on because I was doing laundry? If my world comes crashing down will I find peace with the way I've chosen to live my life or will I be filled with regret?

Last week my aunt and cousins were smacked in the face with unimaginable grief when my uncle Bruce was taken from them suddenly and unexpectedly. Shock and sorrow spread in a widening gyre as the news spread to his mother, his brothers and sisters-in-law, his nieces and nephews, his friends, his coworkers. He touched so many people and I'm sure that many of them feel as I do that he was too young, that we didn't get enough time, that it was too soon for him to go.

I spent the better part of a week alternately grieving and continuing to live my life (getting River fed and dressed, keeping appointments, going to playgroups). Part of me was relieved to have things to do, things to keep my mind off the grief, and part of me was irritated that life couldn't just stop so I could escape into mourning, bury myself in a hole and not come out until the sun was shining again.

Thom, River, and I flew to Nebraska this weekend to see my family and attend a service for Bruce. I was looking forward to having a chance to celebrate Bruce's life, finding a way to process the loss, crying and laughing together with so many people who loved and will miss him. And that happened, in a way.

But grief doesn't work like a lightbulb; you can't just flip a switch and turn it off. Instead, it seems to ebb and flow, alternately rising and falling like a stream. Eventually it may trickle down to nothing, that painful stab of loss gone, and I will be able to remember Bruce with only joy and happiness in my heart. For others, I imagine that trickle of pain may never end.

Right now I just feel sad. And I'm going to go hug my baby boy.

River News: Month Twenty-Two

Dear River,

Evey time we go to a playgroup these days and run into someone we haven't seen in a couple weeks they look at you and can't help but express how much you look like a "Little Boy!" I see you every single day and I still can't get over it.

Much of it is the way you look - baby fat gone, you have long, lean, strong limbs. But it's just as much about what you can do these days. You walk with such confidence and are close to tackling stairs on your own. You can climb the ladder of your bunk bed (you always want someone near to "push butt," but all you need is the confidence a hand at the ready gives you). You can twist the cap off my contact case, you can pull your saggy pants up, and you can say, "Orange trash truck."

























You amaze us every day with your growing independence. One of my favorite developing skills is definitely your language. You repeat about half of the words we say, following just about every sentence with some attempt to learn a new word. It goes like this:

"Let's take the recycling out."
"Sike-lin"

"Thom, have you seen my cell phone?"
"Cell pone"

"Here's your vitamins, River."
"Vimatins."

"Do you want macaroni or peanut butter and jelly?"
"Mac-oo-nah."



















You're refining the words you already know as well. Working on saying "adder" instead of "jzah jzah" for ladder, using "bana" instead of "lurlurlurlur" for banana (don't ask me how lurlurlurlur ever meant banana - it just did. It also means balloon). Two of my favorites are using "mommy" and "daddy" instead of "mama" and "dada". I love hearing that sweet little "ee" at the end of the word.

This month you've learned a bunch of new colors, numbers, and letters (your world is no longer only shaded in blue, 2, and D!). Green, orange, red, purple, brown, white, black are all part of your vocabulary. And every time you take the stairs you count them as you go (1, 2, 3...1, 2, 3). You have a firm grasp of opposites and like to explore under and over the blanket, jumping up and laying down, hot and cold, happy and sad.

























We started a music class this month. I overheard one of the mother's in the class express disappointment that the music wasn't hipper ("you know, throw in some salsa or rock n roll"). It was a valid, and hilarious, point. But yes, what we get when you, daddy and me head downtown once a week is silly, tinny children's music to dance and move to. Perhaps it was the music that turned you off, or just being expected to do the same thing everyone else was doing, but the first couple weeks were a struggle. You fought us walking into the room, and then asked repeatedly to "go. go." On the third week, however, a transformation occurred and you lit up when the first song was sung, and you spent most of the class running in circles, showing your enthusiasm for the whole experience. Quite a welcome change.


















This week you surprised both of your parents by climbing unassisted into your crib. At first you were tentative and careful, and now you just hop in every time I have my back turned. The obviously distressing deduction is that if you can climb in, soon you'll figure out how to climb out. And if we knew you would spend the time out of your crib entertaining yourself by reading books (and not, as we fear, decorating the walls with permanent markers) we wouldn't be quite so panicked by the prospect. I guess it's just a part of getting more independent, and if it means you move to your big boy bed earlier than I'm ready for, so be it.



















As you develop more independence, I feel a little pang for those long-gone baby days. Every now and then, when you're sick, or woken from your nap before you're done, I'll go in your room and sit and rock you back to sleep. Watching my sleeping boy is such a luxury: feeling your hair tickle my chin, feeling you in my arms, relaxed and at peace. Every day you get older, and every day those moments start to slip through my fingers. I recently heard someone express it so well: the knowledge that the day is coming when it will no longer be acceptable for me to hug you so tight or to feel your sleeping body next to mine brings such a pain to my heart, I almost can't bear it.



















I don't know how to balance it all - cherishing the baby you were, relishing who you are in exactly this moment, and looking forward to the man you will become. Seeing your whole life before me is overwhelming: when will I stop tying your shoes, wiping your nose, carrying you through the grocery store? School will come, and girls, driving, and sports. You'll get in trouble, you'll do amazing things, you'll graduate, and I will always be here for you. But the day will come when it's no longer my primary job, when you don't need me every day, when you need to be on your own. How do I even imagine that day? How is it possible to live with that knowledge and not feel my heart breaking?



















I'm trying to get through it and realize that I still get a lot more time being Mommy with a capital M. There are a million days left for playdoh, splashing in the bathtub, silly games with your critters, playtime with Finn, chasing you around the house, and hugging you until your stuffing falls out.

I love you my little little man,
Mommy

Sobbing like a baby watching this

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

stupid law reconsidered

An update on my previous post:

The Consumer Product Safety Commission just announced a one year stay on the testing and certification requirements of the Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act (CPSIA). Presumably they're going to take the time improve the seriously flawed act.

no place for hand made

I've been trying to find a way to talk about a new business I've started - I wanted to tell a funny story or poignant one about how I was inspired to start making things and selling them online. But quite honestly, after working on children's toys every spare moment for the past two weeks, I have no excess creative energy with which to write. Go see what I've done: The HooberBloob Studio. It should speak for itself.



















In lieu of HooberBloob's origin story, I give you an article from Forbs about a government act which threatens to dismantle my business before it's even off the ground:

Scrap The Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act
Walter Olson, 01.16.09, 04:21 PM EST
Self-congratulation makes for bad law.

If someone you know volunteers at a thrift store or crochets baby hats for the crafts site Etsy or favors handmade wooden toys as a baby shower gift, you've probably been hearing the alarms about the Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act (CPSIA).

Hailed almost universally on its passage last year--it passed the Senate 89 to three and the House by 424 to one, with Ron Paul the lone dissenter--CPSIA is now shaping up as a calamity for businesses and an epic failure of regulation, threatening to wipe out tens of thousands of small makers of children's items from coast to coast, and taking a particular toll on the handcrafted and creative, the small-production-run and sideline at-home business, not to mention struggling retailers. How could this have happened?

Congress passed CPSIA in a frenzy of self-congratulation following last year's overblown panic over Chinese toys with lead paint. Washington's consumer and environmentalist lobbies used the occasion to tack on some other long-sought legislative goals, including a ban on phthalates used to soften plastic.

The law's provisions were billed as stringent, something applauded by high-minded commentators as a way to force the Mattels and Fisher-Prices of the world to keep more careful watch on the supply chains of their Chinese factories.

Barbed with penalties that include felony prison time and fines of $100,000, the law goes into effect in stages; one key deadline is Feb. 10, when it becomes unlawful to ship goods for sale that have not been tested. Eventually, new kids' goods will all have to be subjected to more stringent "third-party" testing, and it will be unlawful to give away untested inventory even for free.

The first thing to note is that we're not just talking about toys here. With few exceptions, the law covers all products intended primarily for children under 12. That includes clothing, fabric and textile goods of all kinds: hats, shoes, diapers, hair bands, sports pennants, Scouting patches, local school-logo gear and so on.

And paper goods: books, flash cards, board games, baseball cards, kits for home schoolers, party supplies and the like. And sporting equipment, outdoor gear, bikes, backpacks and telescopes. And furnishings for kids' rooms.

And videogame cartridges and audio books. And specialized assistive and therapeutic gear used by disabled and autistic kids.

Again with relatively few exceptions, makers of these goods can't rely only on materials known to be unproblematic (natural dyed yarn, local wood) or that come from reputable local suppliers, or even ones that are certified organic.

Instead they must put a sample item from each lot of goods through testing after complete assembly, and the testing must be applied to each component. For a given hand-knitted sweater, for example, one might have to pay not just, say, $150 for the first test, but added-on charges for each component beyond the first: a button or snap, yarn of a second color, a care label, maybe a ribbon or stitching--with each color of stitching thread having to be tested separately.

Suddenly the bill is more like $1,000--and that's just to test the one style and size. The same sweater in a larger size, or with a different button or clasp, would need a new round of tests--not just on the button or clasp, but on the whole garment. The maker of a kids' telescope (with no suspected problems) was quoted a $24,000 testing estimate, on a product with only $32,000 in annual sales.

Could it get worse? Yes, it could. Contrary to some reports, thrift and secondhand stores are not exempt from the law. Although (unlike creators of new goods) they aren't obliged to test the items they stock, they are exposed to liability and fines if any goods on their shelves (or a component button, bolt, binding, etc.) are found to test above the (very low) thresholds being phased in.

Nor does it get them off the hook to say an older product's noncompliance with the new standards wasn't something they knew or should have known about (let alone to say anyone was harmed; the whole controversy from start to finish has gone on with precious little showing of real-world harm to American kids from most of the goods being banned).

Thrift store managers, often volunteers themselves, have no way to guess whether every grommet or zipper on a kids' jacket or ink on an old jigsaw puzzle box or some plastic component of Mom's old roller skates would pass muster.

"The reality is that all this stuff will be dumped in the landfill," predicted Adele Meyer, executive director of the National Association of Resale and Thrift Shops. Among the biggest losers if that happens: poorer parents who might start having to buy kids' winter coats new at $30 rather than used at $5 or $10.

And even worse: Since the law does not exempt books, children's' sections at libraries and bookstores will, at minimum, face price hikes on newly acquired titles and, at worse, may have to rethink older holdings.

After all, no one has the slightest idea how many future violations lie hidden in the stacks and few want to play a guessing game about how seriously officialdom will view illegality. "Either they take all the children's books off the shelves," Associate Executive Director Emily Sheketoff of the American Library Association told the Boston Phoenix, "or they ban children from the library."

Antique dolls? Old model-car collections? Musical instruments? Vintage bicycles? Some will go underground in private collectors' clubs, others will be tossed on the bonfires of the new Cultural Revolution.

A traditional attraction on the heritage festival circuit is the kids' dance or performance troupe in ethnic, pioneer or frontier garb, often handcrafted with the sort of ornate detail (beads, pendants, lace inserts, etc.) that will not be practical to test.

The same goes for Native American kids' cherished moccasins, buckskins and powwow gear. Making matters worse, many foreign producers of craft and small-batch toys and clothes, chary of liability under the law, are planning to exit the American market entirely, a step already taken by three German toymakers.

In recent weeks, as thousands of crafters and retailers began to compare notes and realize that they would soon be left with stocks of unsalable merchandise, forced out of business or both, the protests have begun to mount: alarm-raising at hundreds of blogs and forums, a torrent of Twitter discussion, YouTube videos, endangered-products lists, Facebook groups and so forth.

A group called Handmade Toy Alliance is calling attention to the law's burdens in that area. Booksellers are mobilizing. Yet prominent consumer groups have continued to defend even the law's more extreme applications, and their spokespersons are dismissive of public outrage. "I haven't heard a single legitimate concern yet," Public Citizen's David Arkush wrote last month.

The consumer groups--and the congressional offices of key CPSIA backers Bobby Rush, D-Ill., and Henry Waxman, D-Calif.--have blamed opposition to the law on "misinformation" and "confusion."

Defenders of the law point out, for example, that item-by-item enforcement at thrift shops is unlikely to be an enforcement priority any time soon for the Consumer Product Safety Commission's 100 field investigators.

The thing is, few librarians, eBay sellers or knitters want to be told that they're outlaws but at too small-fry a level to attract the authorities' attention. They want to be legal.

Besides, the law grants enforcement authority not only to the CPSC but to the 50 state attorneys general, which means anyone who ships nationally, small fry or not, is at the mercy of whomever turns out to be the least reasonable attorney general, a post for which there is always considerable competition.

As CPSIA opponents mobilize, the phrase "unintended consequences" is often heard. Part of the irony, after all, is that the Hasbros and Targets, with their standardization and economies of scale, can afford to adapt to such rules as part of their business plan, while the sorts of enterprises that initially looked to benefit most from the Chinese toy scare--local, organic and so forth--are also the ones who find it hardest to comply.

But the failure here runs deeper. This was not some enactment slipped through in the dead of night: It was one of the most highly publicized pieces of legislation to pass Congress last year.

And yet now it appears precious few lawmakers took the time to check what was in the bill, while precious few in the press (which ran countless let's-pass-a-law articles) cared to raise even the most basic questions about what the law was going to require.

Yes, something's being exposed as systematically defective here. But it's not the contents of our kids' toy chests. It's the way we make public policy.

Walter Olson is a senior fellow at the Manhattan Institute and the author of The Rule of Lawyers and other books. He edits Overlawyered.com.

I won't actually let this keep me from making and selling my products on Etsy, but that doesn't mean my favorite small-scale local toy and book stores will be able to do the same thing. More likely, thousands of small businesses around the country will be closing their doors at a time when jobs are so desperately needed. Or they will have to adapt and sell the same mass-market plastic McCrap you find at Ubermarts across the land. And that would be a real tragedy.

...the dogs die

I've been spending way too much time on youtube lately. For those of you who miss those awkward junior high sex ed classes, I give you "Sensual Stretching." (Grandma, you can skip this one):

our day in the snow

The conditions were perfect for building snowmen today, so after lunch and naptime, we all headed out back and went to work. River followed us around as Thom and I rolled three little balls of snow into three very sizable snowman parts. River kept falling into the foot high drifts, and every few seconds we'd hear, "Stuck! Stuck!" and have to go pry him loose. The going was slow, but the effort worth it in the end. We made the face from a lemon, a parsnip, and a handful of blueberries. It's been over ten years (perhaps 20) since I last made a snowman - a fact that is just astonishing to me. All in all, it was a pretty perfect afternoon.

mother of two

I have a new son and his name is "Bear." River is very fond of this large, cuddly stuffed bear our friend J-man won at the Circus Circus in Las Vegas (word is he had to crush the hopes and dreams of a pack of 5 year olds to get it, so I feel pretty honored to have acquired the coveted prize). We've had Bear around for almost a year now, and over that time River has developed a real friendship with him. He carries him around, plays under "tents" with him, pushes him up his bunk bed ladder, and generally treats him like a friend.

In the past week, though, Bear has become a member of the family. It started the other day when River dressed him in a fireman hat and pulled him behind him for hours. I love the idea of River creating an imaginary friend from his critters - it was a favorite pastime for me when I was little. But the damn hat wouldn't stay on his head, so every thirty seconds--as River pulled Bear from room to room--I'd hear, "Bear! Hat! Bear! Hat!" and have to replace the offending headgear. Then I tried to get all three of us upstairs for lunch and picked both "boys" up and started climbing. You would not believe to squeals I heard. The squealing continued for twenty minutes until I finally followed River's pantomime's downstairs and let him push Bear up, step-by-excruciating-step. River just wanted Bear to climb up like a real boy, and would not give up that idea until it was done.

After that whatever River was doing, Bear had to do too. If River read a book, Bear was right next to him. If River had lunch, Bear was on the seat beside, drinking from his own sippy cup. When it was necessary to do a diaper change, Bear had to have one too, and River then insisted poor naked Bear needed clothes. He's been a shadow to our every move this week, and like a little brother to River. He takes naps, puts on his coat to go outside, and takes car rides with us. He likes chocolate milk and has a habit of catching on fire (so River and his fireman "guys" can put him out).

This was not how I imagined life with a second child, but it could be worse. At least Bear doesn't wake up screaming in the middle of the night.

goodbye and hello

Since becoming a mother almost two years ago, I've had little time (and if truth be told, inclination) to pursue any acting work. At the moment, I feel safe to say I am on an indefinite hiatus from acting and don't know when or if I'll go back to it.

Instead, what started as extreme nesting syndrome has slowly developed into a passion for creating things for the home. As this new year begins, so does a budding home business in which I will make toys, artwork, clothing, and home decor to sell online. My focus will be on children, but some more subversive ideas may develop into an adult (no, not like that, you dirty people - just "grown-up") line as well.

I'm in the process of finding some childcare so that I actually have time to make things, but once that is settled, I'll be excited to get up and running.

Of course as all of this is in the works, I found in my email today a message from a director I worked with a few years ago. Turns out the festival circuit was a dud but someone liked his movie enough to add it to the IMDB list. Which means, as a cast member, I can be found on a pretty legit database. I checked it out this morning and found out a few of the movies I've been in have had at least moderate success promoting themselves, because I'm listed under three films. Crazy, no?

Needless to say I'm pretty happy that all those years of work led to at least the minor appearance of success. It's funny that it should come now, just as I'm ready to tuck that chapter of my life into a box and store it way. I feel a sad little loss of identity in making an official goodbye to acting, but I also know that should the time come, I can happily dust that box off and begin anew.

overheard in the bathtub

Thom: "Eye. Patch. Eye. Patch."

River: "Eye...patch. Aaargh!"

River News: Month Twenty-One

Dear River,

Happy 21 months! Between traveling, Christmas, and New Years, this one kind of snuck up on me. It wasn't until about 9am on New Years Day, as your dad and I were lounging on the beach in Cabo San Lucas, that I realized you had officially turned one month older. You spent the day making your grandparents swoon and giggle, while your dad and I basked in the sunshine and drank margaritas--a wonderful way to kick off a new month and a new year.





































So much of this month has been consumed by making and (as little as I could possibly get away with) buying presents that I'm having a hard time thinking of all the wonderful kernels of how you've changed. One reason I was able to accomplish so much (three stuffed animals and 32 placemats sewn!) is that you have learned how to entertain yourself for longer and longer periods of time. Now, we're talking five minutes here, ten minutes there, but compared to the constant attention you demanded just a few months ago, this has felt like an eternity to me. Five whole minutes without reading any books, pushing any trucks, or doing any silly dances?! That's an insane bounty of time!



















When you have those happy independent moments it's hard to actually use that time wisely and not to just watch you dreaming up your own world. You make little games of tearing up paper and throwing it away, coloring abstract expressionist art, talking to your critters and "guys," and I am dying to know what's happening in the amazing labyrinth of your mind.










































As your language keeps growing and growing, it's easier to figure out what you're thinking and what you want. You've just had an explosion of words this month, putting little sentences together like "make playdough" (the cutest word in the world, which sounds like "pay-oohh") and "mommy tickle." The words you are learning faster than any other are names for people and pets. Our kitty Edgar has gone from "Ger" to "Egger" and in addition to Dadu and Nanu (my parents) you've started saying "Ama and Apa" (for daddy's parents, Oma and Opa). Cousin Sydney ("Neyce"), Uncle Nelse ("Unc"), auntie Jenn ("Jar"), Auntie Crystal ("Tanta"), Uncle Kevin ("Unc Kev") have all enjoyed hearing their new River names.



















This month we went to Las Vegas to celebrate Christmas, and you had an extraordinary time. You slept well, ate well (as well as a toddler can be expected to), played with everyone, and seemed to have no trouble spending time with any of the million people paraded in front of you. Your dad and I took this opportunity to go away from you for the first time, leaving you with the grandparents while we had a little Mexican holiday over New Years. It was four days of bliss for all of us. You were on your best behavior for the grandparents, and dad and I were able to relax, read books, and only occasionally pine for you. By the last day, I was really ready to see my little guy, and as soon as I broke through the airport customs door, I ran over and swooped you up. And, true to form, you said, "Dadda."



















Apparently, all that good behavior was very draining on you because the next day you were a pile of whine and fuss. The flight to Boston was the roughest we've had yet - 40 minutes of straight screaming - but once we got back in our own house with our happy cats, you found your way back to sane.

























I was going to start this next paragraph with something like: "The theme of this month has been Get Away From Me Mommy! You have decided that your dad is just the bees knees and you want to be near him constantly. Meanwhile, I'm as appealing to you as a week-old slab of spam. Any effort to show affection or love is met with a firm, "No!" No hugs, no kisses, don't hold me, don't touch me, you silly mommy, you. I know this is a common phase for toddlers. Suddenly that life-giving, all-powerful, pure source of love - the mommy - turns into a not-so-fun robot set on the verbal repeat of "No." Daddy is exotic - he's away for most of the day, so he's not around to tell you not to eat food off the bathroom floor or to shove you into uncomfortable snow boots and coats 15 times a day. I get it. I do. Dad is rad, and mom is the stuff you want to scrape off the bottom of your shoe."



















However, since we came back from Vegas, this severe distaste for all things mommy seems to have faded, and you've gone back to being my cuddly, funny, mommy-loving boy. It's amazing what a few extra hugs can do for my mood. After a little session of snuggling and peek-a-boo in bed yesterday, I felt like I'd been mainlining opium. Whoo hoo! Look at all the colors! I'm sure we'll go back to the grumpy-gus at some point, but I'm drinking these moments in right now.




















This has been a hard and wonderful year. More than ever I feel like being a mommy is the most difficult, most rewarding, most life-fulfilling job ever, and I cannot wait to see what 2009 brings for all of us.



















I love you love you love you,
Mommy