Piano teachers are from Hell

There’s something about Sport’s piano teacher that really intimidates me. Maybe it’s the golden tint of her waist-length, peroxide-treated hair, or the flash of turquoise on her well-manicured toes. Possibly, it’s the glitter and flair of the rings she wears on every finger of each hand. Or it could be the way she applies a layer of thick pan makeup to hide the wrinkles around her eyes, a clever and skillful way of disguising the fact that her 60th birthday is fast approaching.

Don't get me wrong -- she's a good teacher. She’s very talented, but her intensity is a little scary. She eats musical notes for breakfast. But I've always thought music teachers were a bit odd. She seems to have conversations with the busts of composers sitting on shelves near her piano. She’s also got about 10 cats living with her. And Sport loves her.

Once she chewed him out over a poorly-practiced piece of music. Sitting there on the piano bench, tears filled his eyes. “I’m just a little child,” he told her. One look at his pooling baby blues, and she broke down and hugged him. From that moment on, it’s like he became her favorite student. Is it because he had the courage to talk back to her? That he wasn’t afraid to show his emotions? Or is it because he’s just too darn cute to resist?

I’ve had many piano teachers over the years, but the one I remember with the most clarity is Mrs. Stout. She was a little old woman with gnarled hands and a sour expression. My sister and I went each week to her house, dutifully dropped off by Dad. The house smelled of baby oil and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on. (Was it tapioca?) Being the oldest, I’d go first. She’d wrestle my fingers into position. When I played a wrong note, she’d slap me on the back of the hand with a ruler. I really didn’t like her.

She had an ancient bulldog. We’d hear his labored breathing long before he appeared in the living room, his toenails clattering on the tile floor. He’d sit on the floor near Mrs. Stout’s handmade ragdolls. He looked comically out of place next to those bright, embroidered smiles.

Last night, Sport’s teacher chastised him over the quality of his scales. I tensed, waiting for her to pull a ruler out and smack him on the hands. Instead, she gave him a high five and a piece of candy.

Times have certainly changed.

Teenage girls can't stop the rock!

Took LegoGuy and Sport to see their first "rock concert" last night -- MuggleFest in Norman was featuring Harry and the Potters. The show opened with Draco and the Malfoys. (No word yet on appearances by Ron and the Weasleys, Hermione and the Grangers, or Dumble and the Doors.) There was an annoying costume contest in which the audience was invited to cheer and applaud for their favorites.

Did I mention there were a lot of teeny-bopper girls in the audience? And when they cheer, it's really more like screaming -- a double octave, high C kind of scream? I thought my eardrums were bleeding.

When Draco and the Malfoys started thrashing across the stage, a large group of these girls rushed up and jostled about for the next hour and a half. No boys their age were brave enough to join the fray. LegoGuy wasn't about to do it -- he was too cool. Sport might have gone up to check out the drum set, but I was afraid he'd get crushed under the mass of gyrating, prepubescent bodies. Then Harry and the Potters got up to belt out an earsplitting blend of punk rock, thrash, and magic. The girls went wild when one of the Harrys jumped into the audience and started dancing. Hormones oozed out of pores and onto the floor.

Watching these girls took me back to my own middle school days. Not long after Elvis died, our school was visited by a local Elvis impersonator. We were all transfixed by the groundswell of public grief over the King's passing, watching memorial shows on TV and old broadcasts of Elvis in his glory days. So once the impersonator hit the stage, we girls knew what to do. We impersonated the Elvis fans of the 1950s with an eerie authenticity. We screamed, we danced, we emitted fake sobs, we reached up to grab at his leg. He threw silk scarves at us. My sister even tossed him her comb. He pulled it through his greasy pompadour, then threw it back to her. Later, she taped that comb up on our bedroom wall. It stayed there for years, a silent reminder of the extremes of teenage emotion.

Rock 'n roll, baby! Rock ... and ... Roll.

Why be normal?

You know how the atmosphere shivers ahead on the highway when you drive through the desert? That's the way things feel around me right now. Uncertain and unreal. At any moment, I'm expecting the other shoe to fall. The signs are all there: increased manic activity, prophesying, spending sprees, mood swings, crying jags, ultimatums. I'm pretty sure my mom is about to launch into another psychotic episode, and my whole body is tense. I look back, far back into the past and try to find normal.

I was about 12 or 13 when Mom had her first vision. We were driving home from a tiny town in Soutwest Texas where my father was serving as interim minister. Nearing the outskirts of San Antonio, my mother covered her eyes with her hands and starting shouting: seeing the faces of relatives who had passed over, praising the Lord. freaking the hell out of us.

This was not the best way to enter adolescence. At first, I was convinced my mother was dying. Later, wrapped up in self-centeredness, I didn't care what was causing it. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted her to quit crying all the time. I wanted someone to pay attention to me. Ahhh, teenagers. It wasn't until I'd graduated from college that she was diagnosed with Bipolar Affective Disorder. So now I watch LegoGuy and Sport from the corner of my eye and wonder, which one is it going to be? Who's going to pass that little gem of a gene onward?

But, as Eeyore said to me the other day, that kind of thinking is colored with shades of Nietzsche. What's normal, anyway? There's probably not a single family who doesn't have its share of crazy. Crazy is trying to watch a documentary on American history while the boys' bowels rumble with a calliope of fart sounds, making us all giggle. Crazy is seeing a pretty girl walk across the parking lot while LegoGuy launches into a porn ditty ("Bow wow chicka bow wow"). Crazy is spending 6 hours cleaning up the boys' room and knowing that later I'll be watching them trash it in exactly 45 minutes flat.

Why be normal when crazy is so much more interesting?

The boys are back in town!

Bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked and brimming with stories, LegoGuy and Sport returned from a two-week vacation with their uncles, aunt, grandpa and cousin in the mountains of Colorado. They shared their adventures: long hikes, rides on the 4-wheeler, a hayride, campfires and s’mores every night, a trip via the electric train to visit the Denver Mint and the Natural History Museum, and an afternoon at the Denver Bronco’s training camp. Needless to say, they had a ball.

And so did we. For twelve days, SO and I got a break from the parenting routine. It was heaven. We ate out a lot and watched movies uninterrupted. The house stayed clean. There wasn’t much laundry to do. We got together with friends, had long talks, played board games. I read and worked in the garden. Needless to say, we had a ball.

Now they’re back, and we are settling into the old routine. God, I am not ready to do this again! I forgot how clueless these kids are! Sometimes I think they’re retarded. I really do. I know it’s wrong and politically incorrect for me to even use the word, but how else to explain the routine we have to go through day after day regarding the simple basics of personal hygiene? You’d think that after being reminded for five solid years to make their beds in the morning, they’d eventually do it automatically. Isn’t a habit supposed to be formed in 21 days?

SO and I get sick of hearing our voices saying the same old stuff over and over, and yesterday I made some flash cards, hoping that would prompt the boys to action.

Teeth brushed?
Dishes cleared?
Hair combed?
Shoes put away?

I’ve even taken to threatening them with a sharp object. “Do you want me to poke you with a pin?” Call the Child Abuse Hotline!

School starts in less than thirteen days. Sport’s piano lessons start back up next week. Soon we’ll be over our heads in scheduling, deadlines, teacher-parent meetings, orchestra concerts, contests and recitals. The memories of our two-week oasis will fade.

Next summer, I’ll be in the market for someone who’s willing to host the boys for a couple weeks. Any takers?

Currently reading:
In Cold blood, by Truman Capote
Just finished:
Flushed: how the plumber saved civilization, by W. Hodding Carter
New obsession:
The Colbert Report (Comedy Central)
I'm sick of hearing about:
Mel Gibson

Winning isn't everything, it's the ONLY thing

How comfortable are you with competitiveness? Do you forge ahead in any game, stepping on every toe, eyes on the brass ring, savoring the taste of victory in your mouth and doing a little happy dance on the bodies of your vanquished foes? Or do you hold back just a little, afraid you'll hurt someone’s feelings, and credit your win to the luck of the draw.

If you do the former, you’re probably a man. If you do the latter, you’re most likely a woman.

There’s no polite way to say it: I suck at sports and I’ve never been Numero Uno at cerebral activities. But I can play a mean game of Scrabble, and, more importantly, I love the game. Over the years I’ve had a few Scrabble buddies who pushed me to play harder and better. I watched Word Wars about true Scrabble champions, and I’m well-adjusted enough to be grateful I’ll never be that good. The game has always entertained me, and I really can’t remember learning how to play. I never studied any strategy guides or surfed the net to look up advice.

Now I’ve got a new Scrabble buddy, and he’s really pushing me to get better. For the first time, I picked up a book called Everything Scrabble, and spent an entire weekend working through anagrams, looking at parallel plays, memorizing acceptable 2-letter words -– in short, I gloried in the world of the word geek.

In my competitive frenzy, I noticed something. The nature of competition cropped up in several of the books I’m currently reading. I first came across a discussion of it in The girls of summer, in which Coach Anson Dorrance talks about the difficulties of making competitiveness not only socially acceptable for the members of the U.S. women's soccer team, but admirable.

Our society trains women to be acquiescent and is fundamentally at odds with the culture of competition in general and athletics in particular. Women tend to be motivated differently than men; for women, relationships mean as much as competition. Aha! I said to myself. This is why I always fret after playing a game, hoping I didn’t crush anyone’s self-esteem or destroy a fragile psyche.

Then, I read of another concept in a book by local author, Allyn Mitchell Evans. She explores the difficulties women have in breaking free of male-dominated cultural roles. Like her, I was brought up with Southern cultural imperatives: be nice, don't call attention to yourself, remember your manners, mask your own desires while putting others before you. These instructions came from my parents, which were passed down from their parents. Once you're accustomed to wearing a mask, it's not easy to remove it.

Maybe one day I’ll be comfortable with my desire to crush my Scrabble opponents. Perhaps I’ll be able to walk away from a game, after having bluffed everyone into accepting a made-up two-letter like “Za” (for a double word score, no less), and not have to justify it internally on the 20-minute ride back home.

Until then, I’ll keep playing. And studying. And, hopefully, winning!

Wrapped in plastic

On Saturday, I went to pick up my grandmother for lunch. Arriving at the house, I found the vacuum waiting for me. "Would you mind?" my mother asked. "I've already picked up all the mats, so it will be easy!"

My mother has about 457 floor mats scattered around her home. She's also covered each chair and sofa with a blanket or throw of some kind. There's little chance a bare foot or pant-covered thigh will touch original carpet or upholstery. What is her deal with keeping furniture pristine?

This must be something inherited from the previous thrifty (some might say cheapskate) generation. Each summer during the 1970s, we would travel to Arkansas to visit my dad's parents. We kids would groan to ourselves. None of us liked going. A visit to the Arkansas clan was never fun. It was always hot, and the mosquitoes were bad. The relatives were all ancient, and went to bed at 7 o'clock. We had to do lots of yard work and we couldn't sit on the furniture.

That's right. We weren't allowed on the furniture. Grandma Lena had purchased a new couch in 1965. Ten years later, it still looked brand new. And it was still covered in the plastic it had been wrapped in at the factory.

We used to make a game out of it -- see which one of us could sit on it for the longest amount of time. It was the single highlight of our dreary day.

The air hung heavy with humidity and the smell of fried food. Grandma Lena would only turn the air conditioner on when the preacher came by for a visit. The rest of the time she used ancient fans to push the heat around. My brother would sneak into the living room while my sister and I played dominoes at the big dining room table. Sure enough, tiny Grandma Lena would swat him on the leg and chase him out of the room.

"Get off my couch!"

Her ear was tuned to the sound of crinkling plastic. One night, as I sat watching an episode of Little House on the Prairie, I slid under the coffee table where it was cooler, lying on my belly. One of my feet happened to graze the bottom of the sofa, and the plastic gave a low moan.

"Get off my couch!"

My sister was the worst offender. She was the favorite of the Arkansas clan, as she most resembled that side of the family. Her status gave her temporary immunity, but there was only so much sofa sitting Grandma Lena could handle. She'd glare at my sister, her hands crossed over her chest in disapproval, until the tension was unbearable. Finally my sister could stand it no longer, and she'd hop off and run with me to the front porch. We'd sit in the wooden swing, swatting skeeters and making footprints on the wall, laughing at how silly it all was.

Grandma Lena's gone now, but I'll bet that couch is still out there somewhere. I wonder who finally took off the plastic and plopped down on it, pressing flesh to fabric, admiring the sheen of the pristine material. I wonder if it still smelled new.

Head wound Harry

It's the late night call all parents dread.

"Don't worry, he's all right. Just a little flesh wound."

My brother was on the other end of the line, his voice careful and calm, telling us that Sport was in the emergency room. He'd tripped over some firewood and fallen onto the flagstone, tearing a gash into his left arm. He was going to need stitches, and the doctor wanted to talk to us.

I passed the phone to SO. I could feel panic setting in and I didn't want to embarrass myself, as I've already got a reputation for being overly emotional. As he relayed our insurance information to the hospital receptionist, I had flashbacks to other incidents. With kids, you're always poised on the edge of disaster, no matter how careful you try to be. Any wisdom you try to pass on is ignored; instructions are forgotten; warnings are dismissed. Kids run pell mell into danger. Nine times out of ten, they're fine. But when danger catches up with them, it breaks your heart.

LegoGuy is 3 years old. He's got his bike helmet on and is slowly riding his tricycle down the driveway. He hits a patch of gravel and flies over the handlebars, knocking a front tooth out on the pavement. Blood is all over his face, lip puffed up like a French pastry.

Now he's a year older and running across a field. He falls hard on a twig and a piece of wood is lodged deep in his leg. It gets infected and has to be removed. The doctor is digging it out, and despite a local to numb the area, LegoGuy is screaming. I have to hold him down as he thrashes, "Mommy, please! I'll be good. Don't let them hurt me! I promise I'll be good!"

Sport is learning to walk. He's on the driveway and falls forward, scraping his nose. Before he lets out a bellow, he turns to find me, and though he can't talk, I can see it in his eyes. Why didn't you catch me? Why did you let me fall?

We're at a friend's house, getting ready to go swimming. She's telling me about an acquaintance who drowned, and I'm suddenly aware that Sport is not beside me. I turn and see him flailing in the pool. Fully clothed, I go in after him. He's trembling, and so am I.

Now he's climbing the back fence. He's just turned 4, and catches his arm on a piece of metal. The puncture wound is deep, and his cries make me cry along with him. We wash the wound out, clean it with peroxide, and put on a butterfly bandage. He falls asleep in my arms, exhausted.

"Don't play on the flagstones," I tell LegoGuy. He is 7 years old, and full of energy. I turn around, then hear the crash. I know what's happened before I turn back to see my child on the ground, the skin on his leg turned to hamburger. I put him in the bathtub and run water over the leg, scrubbing it to remove the gravel and sand. He tries to be brave, but there are tears in his eyes.

This latest incident with Sport is only a link in a chain of many more disasters to come. But each time it happens, there's one thing that SO and I are both thinking that we never voice.

"What would we do without them?"

I wish we'd all been ready

"I'm not sure how you feel about the Rapture, but I hope you're ready," my mom told me this morning. She figures that the Israeli bombings of Lebanon, the latest tsunami in Indonesia, and the current heat wave affecting the entire United States must mean Jesus is getting ready to part the clouds and gather the faithful few. "It's the End Times," she assured me.

I've heard that phrase so often throughout my lifetime, I'm thinking of getting it tattooed on my left shoulder. Growing up, every earthquake was an indicator of the End Times. Hostage crisis in Iran? End Times. The attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan? End Times. Floods, mud slides, hurricanes, dogs and cats living together? End Times.

As for the Rapture itself, I've got a foot in both camps. True, I've grown way beyond seeing it as a literal return of Jesus Christ. For example, there's that troubling little verse in Matthew in which Jesus tells his disciples, "Verily I say unto you, There be some standing here, which shall not taste of death, till they see the Son of man coming in his kingdom." (Matthew 16:28) And having been told about 10,000 times that it's just around the corner has dulled my sense of anticipation. "Alright, already, Mom. Let me know when you hear the trumpets sound."

Still, I retain enough of my childlike wonder to know that I wouldn't blink if I saw Jesus descending in a cloud, a beautific smile upon his face. I'd be first in line for a hug. I'd also be the first to run and hide if Christ started exploding Unbelievers, as Tim LaHaye has described in his repulsive Left Behind book series, making little flesh bombs out of their stubborn bodies. "If you'd only believed in Me, I wouldn't have to do this!" Crash, kerpow, splat!

My therapist has told me that I was a victim of religious abuse. I guess if I had to be a victim of some kind of abuse, I'm glad it was religious. I'm glad I'm not in one of the growing support groups filled with little girls who were recipients of their parent's verbal, physical or sexual abuse. But I will say it's no picnic to be hyper-imaginative and hear that the devil's out to get me. It's no fun to lie awake in the dark and fear the swooshing sound I hear is not the curtain rustling in the breeze, but one of Satan's minions crawling out from under my bed to grab me by the ankle and into the depths of Hell. It's rather disturbing to search the house for Mom and Dad, and, not finding them, fall to my knees sobbing, certain I'd been left behind. That I wasn't good enough. Never good enough. I was bad, sinful, evil.

Okay, that's a little heavy.

Mom feels End Times events are bad news wrapped in the promise of good news. I guess I think it's wishful thinking. "Hurry up Jesus and take us away from a planet we've trashed so badly, it's almost too late to save it. Hurry up, Jesus, and save us from ourselves."

I think I'll buy a bumper sticker I saw on the way to church the other day. It really cracked me up. In case of Rapture, can I have your car?

That's so random

We’ve experienced a couple of slow days at work this week, and by slow I mean the watch the paint curl on the wall, stare at the blades of the ceiling fan, hope for a gas leak on the block so we can all go home kind of slow. To entertain myself, I emailed Shank a philosophical question about whether or not it's more stressful to be too busy or not busy enough and got a rather unsympathetic rant about “the Kafka-esque prison of ennui that the Cataloging Department has become” and how he was just a little bit too busy at the moment to debate the issue.

All these random thoughts and emails are flitting through my brain, and I’m flinging them into the blogosphere.

Is it true, as Sport says, that there is too much potato in French fries?

Was Roy Keane, as LegoGuy insists, the best soccer player in Ireland?

SO asks, Does being a good son require that he dog-sit a yappy Schnauzer for an entire month in October?

EarthMama wants to know, Which relative would you resurrect and what would you ask them?

BlueCat wonders, If our lunch hours overlapped, would it cause a time warp that would rip the very fabric of the space-time continuum and suck all of us into a parallel dimension where the books and CDs cataloged us?

Snickers says, Do all B&Bs require their guests to socialize and have breakfast with the proprietor, (like the old lady in Flirting with Disaster)? And if so, why?

Cher asks, Does anyone have the guts to sneak into our mother’s closet and throw away the pink Pimp Daddy beret lurking there? Anyone? (Bueller … Bueller …)

Shank agonizes, Why did Zidane throw a headbutt, and what are the moral implications that come with defending the flawed, but god-like futboler?

I’m wondering about the term, Lucky Pierre, which I heard at lunch today, and if there’s such a thing as a Lucky Pierrette. Is the thought of it more enticing than actually participating?

Aaahhh, so many questions. So much time to wonder.

It ain't easy being hot

I've been trying to imagine life without air conditioning. I have some inkling of what it's like; we didn't have central air when I was growing up -- just an enormous window unit working overtime in the South Texas humidity. None of the public schools I attended had air conditioning. We threw upon the windows and fanned away the gnats that flew near our eyes, seeking moisture. My sister and I often slept on the floor of our room, heads hanging out into the hallway to catch the faintest of drafts. I remember being very, very uncomfortable.

But it's been years since then, and I'm accustomed to being cool. I sleep with a ceiling fan on and a little one next to me whirling white noise into the night. I get cranky when I'm hot. Most people do.

A fellow cataloger passed an article to me the other day about the environmental costs of air conditioning. It made me very, very unhappy. I know I'm part of the problem. So I've been trying to kick the thermostat up a couple of notches and drive without turning on the air. Today, I had to make an emergency trip downtown to deliver some notes to my boss. I kept the windows of the car rolled down. It was freakin' hot. I started to sweat, but I didn't cave. I left the damn thing off.

I know it doesn't make a bit of difference to the environment, but I'm trying to see if I can make it when we finally have no choice. I don't want to be one of the weak ones -- weeded out by the heat index.

Thinking back, I know that the only thing that brings relief to an unairconditioned soul is water. As kids, we'd spend lots of time in the public pool, splashing the grown-ups who were chatting with each other in the shallows, or running through the sprinkler, or flopping on our bellies on a yellow Slip 'n Slide. It kept us out of the sweltering indoors.

Tonight, while walking the dog, a storm rolled in, bringing with it a welcome breeze and the blessing of rain. The boys rushed out of the house and started puddle jumping. I sat with my back against the front door and stuck my hot, bare feet into the waterfall pouring off the roof.

Sheer bliss.

I love Superman

Earthmama's expecting the birth of a new grandson -- the baby should be making his arrival any day now. Her son and his wife are thinking of naming him Superman. Think about the advantages this kid would have with a name like that. School bullies would think twice before pushing him around. Teachers would be eager to call on him to answer their questions. Teenage girls would yearn to smooth down his spit curl. He'd have it made.

Yesterday afternoon we took the boys to see Superman Returns. It's a pretty good movie. As usual with Hollywood blockbusters, the special effects are awesome. The actor is an eerie replica of Christopher Reeve. The story is tried but true: Superman saves us from the evil schemes of bad boy Lex Luthor after first fighting off the effects of Kryptonite.

There is something so compelling about Superman. He's idealistic and concerned. He looks down upon Earth, cape spread loftily out behind him, and listens to cries for help. Then he goes into action, flying from continent to continent at nearly the speed of light. He's inspiring.

And those red go-go boots he wears are to die for.

My boys love Superman. LegoGuy spent the first five years of his life drawing Superman pictures, dressing up as Superman, praying he could fly like Superman. He'd stand in front of the mirror after his bath and pull down a lock of hair, shaping it into a perfect curl, pressing it flat against his forehead. Sport used to wear a Superman costume, complete with sculpted abs. He loved running around, looking over his shoulder as the polyester cape flapped.

I love Superman, too. But to be honest, I don't understand the guy. I don't get it. Why does he keeps saving us? Why doesn't he get depressed when he sees us continue on our path to destruction? Why doesn't he just say, "Screw it!" and go in search of another planet to champion?

He must be a masochist.

5 more good reasons to have kids

And now, to finish the list.

6. You'll have a chance to do it better. Look at parenting as a chance to change patterns or break cycles that have been passed down from generation to generation. My father was raised in Arkansas by Christian parents who were, quite frankly, bigots. He inherited some deep-seeded prejudices against people of color, but to his credit, he did not pass this on to his children. My grandmother passed her fear of water on to my mother, but Mom made sure each one of us took swimming lessons so we wouldn't be petrified at the pool. Although SO didn't grow up with an overly-affectionate father, he is a very loving dad, kissing and hugging the boys on a regular basis. I was raised to join the ranks of conservative Republicans -- but my kids are liberal Democrats-in-training. Much, much better.

7. Your kid might change the world. Over the course of their short lives, my boys have had a number of ideas as to what they will do when they grow up: cure cancer, invent a hybrid that runs on trash, fly (like Superman), start a colony on Mars, become a garbageman/ policeman, serve as a professional football (or futbal) player, retire and then become a referee, write a symphony, give all their money to the poor, move to Hollywood and be "discovered," start their own country. They're cute, they have charisma, and with the help of SGK, they really might do it.

8. There's something to be said for sacrifice. I used to love shoes. Adored them. I had almost as many shoes as Robin U., the girl we all borrowed clothes and accessories from in college. But along came the boys, and the number of items in my closet began to shrink. I'm not going to say I enjoyed the deprivation, but after awhile, it just didn't matter anymore.

9. Adoration is addictive. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. (You get the picture.) Add to that lots of hugs, kisses, and precious baby eyes, and you just want more and more and more.

10. They'll take care of you when you're old. Face it, they won't want to do it, but you'll have years of stories to guilt them with. I've made about 257 scrapbooks to use as ammunition, and when the moment is right, I'm going to pull out one of those carefully crafted suckers and spring it on 'em.

"You want to put me in a nursing home, eh? I don't think so. Take a look at this double-page spread. See that rapping spider costume? It took me 48 hours to make. Look at this birthday stage I spent the entire weekend cutting out of a dozen computer boxes. Leave me in that rat-infested old folks' home? It ain't happenin'. Now get in there and run me a bath ... and make me a grilled cheese sandwich!"

5 good reasons to have kids

I always knew I would have children, if given the chance. Even though I was the oldest of four, that didn't sour me on the parenting thing. I've got maternal instincts in abundance. I'd mother anything from a homeless kitten to an exhausted honeybee. I liked to babysit. I'd tell my boy cousins scary stories for hours (until I was asked to stop by my aunt -- they were having nightmares), and I'd style the hair of my girl cousins into elaborate braids and pigtails. Then I'd get my $5 and go home.

When you've got your own kids, however, there's no going home alone -- and no time off for good behavior. You're on the job 24/7, including holidays. It's relentless, and you tend to complain about the downsides rather than dwell on the good things.

Some friends of ours are thinking of starting a family. I've been told by one such friend (none too gently) that I'm not much of an advocate for procreation. He's right, I'm a whiner. I like to think I spin my tales of parental woe with a certain flair, but there's no disguising the fact that I'm a sissy.

So to put his mind at rest, I figured I could come up with 10 good reasons to have kids (only one of which may be slightly sarcastic) Here's the first 5:

1. You'll open the door to a hidden room. When I had my first baby, and he looked right at me with his dark, unfathomable eyes, I had the strangest experience. It was as if I'd walked into the house I'd grown up in and discovered a hidden door. Opening the door, I found an endless collection of treasures, each one spectacular and unique. How could I have spent so much time in this house and never come across this door? Who knew there were so many incredible things hidden away? I thought I could never love anyone more deeply and with such intensity than SO, until that baby was placed in my arms. He revealed to me a part of myself I didn't know existed.

2. You'll see a reflection of yourself. When it came to the boys, the DNA fairy didn't spend much time mixing up our genes -- she just divided them equally. Sport favors my side of the family; LegoGuy is his father's son. When Sport was a tot, he looked so much like my baby pictures that I put him in one of my dresses and felt a shiver of recognition. It was like looking in the mirror. When he has an emotional outburst, I know exactly where he's coming from, because I've been there. LegoGuy is laid back, a watcher rather than a doer. We used to call him an old soul. He's easy going and has a great sense of humor. He's so much like his dad. "Yes, he's mine," I think sometimes, when one of them behaves exactly the way I did at his age. He is me.

3. You'll remember your childhood more fondly. Our children are gripped by the tyranny of choice. They simply have too many things to choose from for their entertainment: Xbox, MySpace, iPods, Gameboys, a room full of toys, a garage full of sports equipment. If they aren't entertained for 16 hours a day, they moan about boredom. It's times like these you'll be tempted to talk about your own childhood, but it's best to reminisce to yourself. The kids won't get it. They can't fathom having only 3 dolls to play with, or sharing a pair of skates with your brother and sisters, or riding a hand-me-down, oversized bike because your parents said you'd grow into it. How uncool is that? And no matter how crappy parts of your childhood were, you'll start to think of it fondly, with nostalgia: Shrinky Dinks, Big Wheels, Knicker Knockers, record players, Crissy dolls, building a rickety club house with the neighborhood kids, catching toads and fashioning a house for them out of bricks, playing hide-n-seek in the dark -- none of those experiences will translate well. But you'll remember, and you'll smile.

4. You'll laugh -- a lot. When kids start stringing words together into sentences, grasping key concepts and ideas, it's hilarious. They bring insight and innocence to topics we no longer give much thought to. Kids really do say the darndest things. One example-- while pregnant with Sport, we took it upon ourselves to explain the whole "birds and the bees" process to LegoGuy: male and female body parts, the egg, the millions of sperm racing up the birth canal.

"Millions of sperm?" LegoGuy's eyes widened.

"Yep, but only one can fertilize the egg," I told him.

"Hey, Mom -- I won!" Priceless.

5. You'll feel awe and wonder. Our first major purchase as parents was a video camera. We've managed to document most of the boys' milestones. When the kids are bored, they get the tapes out and have a good laugh at their chubby, toddler selves. Their father and I are transfixed by the changes to their bodies and minds in just a few short years. It's hard to believe when you're in the thick of it, but babies do grow up. And one day they'll leave, or so I've been told: "Enjoy the time you've got together. It doesn't last forever." I feel awe when I imagine that the infant I wrapped in a flannel bunny blanket will one day make his way into the world. And if we've done our job right, we'll be amazed.

An inconvenient everything

That's great, that's just f---ing great, man. Now what the f--- are we supposed to do? We're in some real pretty shit now, man ... That's it man, game over man, game over, man! Game over! What the f--- are we gonna do now? What are we gonna do?

Hudson -- Aliens

I'm no alarmist, but I've just seen Al Gore's movie, An Inconvenient Truth, and I gotta tell ya, this is a scary, mind-blowing walk into the end of the world as we know it.

On bad days (and I've had a lot of bad days since the Bush Administration took hold of the country's helm), I'm not above wishing for some kind of flu pandemic that reduces the world's population by half, but I always manage to pull myself out of a depressive funk by focusing on the good things human beings have accomplished: art, music, literature, Junior Mints. It's not all war, racism, greed, and Mounds Bars, right?

I really don't understand how anyone can see the movie and dismiss it outright as a partisan rant. It's obvious how much Al Gore cares about this issue. He is much more energized by the subject than he ever was by the possibility of being president. Sure, the film makes some digs at the current president and the administration's anti-science bias, but the photographic evidence of what is happening in the polar regions should call all of us to action, regardless of political affiliation. If Gore turns out to be Chicken Little, then so be it. If it turns out some of the facts have been skewed a bit to make a point, so what? Global warming is real. I'd rather err on the side of caution than to watch my home state of Oklahoma be converted into beachside property.

Our honorable, elected officials are too busy stuffing their pockets with gold to realize that it's hard to swim weighed down like that.

The one benefit of sitting by and watching while the human race destroys itself is knowing that the earth will be able to heal itself over time. Once those pesky people are gone (and given about a 10,000 year window) some other critter will step up to fill the evolutionary niche left empty by the elimination of homo sapiens.

I hope it's not the cockroach. I hate cockroaches.

Soccer sensory overload

The World Cup is wearing me out -- I've watched more soccer in the last 2 weeks than I have since -- well, since the last World Cup. Last night I was out kicking the ball with Sport, and, I kid you not, after about 15 minutes, I was so winded I could barely walk. I felt a twinge of shame because I'd found myself shouting at obviously exhausted players to "Hurry up and get the ball down there!" So much easier to coach from the comforts of a big couch than to play the game.

Although I was rooting for the USA (since I am kind of partial to my country) I'd developed a real fondness for Ghana as they progressed, holding their own and even beating some really good teams. I've found my underdog, and I'll be rooting for Ghana in the next round. As an underdog myself, I like a good success story. It remains to be seen if they can take it to the next level. It's going to be awfully challenging.

Never been much of a sports fan. Never had any natural athletic ability. My sister was a bit of a tom boy: she ran track, played basketball, and was a soccer goalie. I joined track so we could run together, but I lacked that certain spark. I hated any and all physical activity on the playground. It was hard to foster a love of athletics when it was my head being targeted by the dodge ball. I discovered volleyball in college. That was a lot of fun, but since I'm short, I could never spike it.

SO is a huge soccer fan, so in order to keep and hold his attention back in our early days of dating, I decided I'd better at least pretend to be interested. Surprise, surprise -- I actually liked the game. I like that it's relatively short -- only 90 minutes. Watching a skilled player dribble the ball down the field and shoot on goal is a real thrill. And those soccer bodies -- well, they are works of art in themselves.

When we were sophomores, my college roommate and I had a particular interest in a Canadian soccer player. He was so blonde, his eyebrows and lashes disappeared into his face. He had the most muscular thighs and legs we had ever seen. He could do things with that ball that defied the laws of physics. Looking at him, we sinned in our hearts.

I'm going to be watching David Beckham in the England vs. Ecuador game on Sunday ... and sinning in my heart.

The best-laid plans

We had a plan. It was a really good plan. We were to meet up with L'il Angel at the entrance to Mud Island at noon. From there, we were going to explore downtown Memphis and end up at the National Civil Rights Museum (NCRM).

The state park we were staying at was located about 12 miles north of town, in the middle of rolling hills, thick groves of trees, and winding roads. The signage was terrible, and we'd gotten lost several times going in and coming back out; therefore, we decided to leave around 10 a.m. to make sure we could find a parking place and the Mud Island entrance. There was lots of construction downtown, but we arrived safely at 11 a.m. The boys started their mad dash from one end of the park to the other.

Mud Island is so awesome! I visited this place as a kid, and I remembered how much fun I had wading down the replica of the Mississippi River. The boys took off their shoes and traced the different twists and turns. Every 30 inches represents one mile of the 1,000 mile span of the lower Mississippi. It goes on for five blocks, and ends in a miniature Gulf of Mexico, where visitors can take a paddle boat ride.

I watched the time, and we all trekked back to the north entrance to wait for L'il Angel. After awhile, I called her cell phone. "I hit some construction, but I should be there in about 10 minutes," she told me. SO took the boys back into the park, and we agreed to meet at the paddle boats. I read my book. When I checked the time again, 45 minutes had elapsed. Where was L'il Angel? I dialed her number again.

"I'm lost! I don't know how I ended up here." I could hear the frustration in her voice and the sounds of her hungry children in the background. After some discussion, we decided to call off the meet-up. We were both disappointed, but I'd noticed that there were more than one entrance to the park, and wasn't sure we'd even find each other before my own kids started clamoring for lunch.

That wasn't the only plan that we changed. We also tossed out our visit to William Faulkner's home in Oxford, Mississippi.

After visiting the NCRM, we decided we needed to find an activity to do that the boys would really enjoy. I think LegoGuy got something out of the museum: he knew about the assassination of MLK Jr. and was aware of the Civil Rights Movement, but there was so much information to process. He was completely overwhelmed. Sport liked seeing the replica of the bus on which Rosa Parks made her famous protest, and the burned out bus of the Freedom Riders, but it was way over his head as to the historical significance of the subject matter.

So, instead of taking a guided tour of Rowan Oak, the next day we stayed at the park and went swimming. As a souvenir, we all got a lovely sunburn. We went back to our cabin, ate some frito-chili pies, played a game of SPOONS, told scary stories (until Sport got spooked), and then shared our most embarrassing moments and other assorted childhood anecdotes.

It was a total blast!

Yeah, this place is great -- now when do we eat?

Sport and LegoGuy have this endearing little thing they do when we go to museums. I always forget about it until we're actually at one of these monuments to history, and then I have the urge to hit myself in the forehead and say, "Oh, yeah."

They have a race to see who can get through the museum the fastest.

SO and I rediscovered this at the Clinton Presidential Library. We'd chatted with the security guards while they checked our camera bag for explosives, and then visited with the friendly volunteers while the boys made a mad dash for the escalators. We'd barely made our way through the Campaign exhibit and past the Cabinet room full-scale replica before Sport was back, bouncing from one leg to the other.

"Wonder what's on the third floor?" he asked.

"Honey, pace yourself. Take a look at all this stuff. Hey, here's a letter from Bono!"

That held his attention for about 5 seconds. Quickly, I passed him off to his dad and hid out in the Timeline alcove. Then, I ran into LegoGuy.

"Is President Clinton dead?"

"No, he's not dead. Why don't you spend some time at one of these interactive stations and learn something about him?"

The family gathered in the Orientation Theater to watch a short film on Clinton's life and political career. Then it was off to the 3rd floor to see a reconstruction of the Oval Office and keepsakes from world leaders presented to the 42nd American President.

"When are we going to go eat?" It's Sport again.

"It's only 10:30, kiddo. Can you give us another half hour?"

My favorite moment came at the end of our tour. I talked one of the volunteers into summoning an archivist from the bowels of the library. Dana used her special magnetic key to take the family past the security doors and into a section reserved for researchers. She told us she was one of 9 archivists employed at the Clinton Library. Her background was in Political Science/Museum Studies, and she and answered all my questions with enthusiasm.

"So few of our visitors are interested in how the documents are organized and accessed," Dana said, and went on to explain their cataloging and classification system, which is decided by the White House of Office and Records Management (WHORM). It sounded arbitrary and chaotic to someone used to the rigidity of AACR-2 and LC classification schemes. On the other hand, it sounded like a completely fascinating job. "Some of our research projects can last up to 2 years. We become experts in the subject over that period of time. I could write a book!" Dana trilled.

The boys were sprawled on a couple of leather couches, glazed looks in their eyes. I took pity on them and wrapped up the visit.

We walked down to the gift store where I bought an "I miss Bill" bumper sticker. I'm thinking of sticking it on my dad's car, right above the "Loveya Dubbya" that graces his back window.

Too late, too early

Today has probably been the most relaxed first-day-on-the-road-trip we've had with the boys. LegoGuy set up an adolescent bachelor pad in the back seat of the rented mini-van (complete with GI Joes, miniature airplanes, and books), while Sport took residence in the middle seat, thumbing through his card games. SO put in our homemade trip CD, featuring artists such as Johnny Cash, Emmylou Harris, Snow Patrol, and Sia, and we were off on a smooth ride. Surprisingly, we didn't run into any construction on I-40 until just outside of Little Rock. That never happens.

The hotel was right off the highway. We unloaded our gear and thumbed through our Arkansas Travel Guide. Eeyore had recommended we visit the Central High School National Historic Site, and we negotiated the streets in downtown Little Rock to arrive promptly at 4:30 -- right when it closed. We peered through the glass, but the park ranger, clad in regulation brown, wouldn't even look up from the cash register where she was busy tallying up her drawer.

At least we could look at the high school. It was just across the street, and enormous -- much bigger than I had ever imagined it to be. I'm not sure the boys understood its significance, but SO and I were glad to have the opportunity to see it.

Shank had recommended we try out Doe's Place, supposedly a favorite Clinton eatery and hangout when Bill was governor. We parked and showed up at the door at 5:00 -- 30 minutes before it opened for the supper crowd. We were eyeballed by a group of men standing on the corner by the Salvation Army. Sport suggested we pull out the soccer ball and have a game while we waited, but we were too hungry, and piled back in the van to look for another eatery.

You know how this turns out, don't you?

We got caught in rush hour traffic downtown, waylaid by an accident, lost in the suburbs, stopped back in at the hotel to ask directions to the nearest restaurant, participated in a "heated" discussion, before finally pulling into the Fireside Grill for hamburgers, quesadillas, and fried cheese. Afterwards, all the boys wanted to do was go back to the hotel to swim.

The hotel seems to be rather loud -- with huge diesel trucks pulling in and out of the parking lot. I hope I sleep tonight.

I got the "Hunnerd Percent Cotton" blues

It's the same thing every year: I get jazzed about planning our family vacation, plotting the trip route, picking sites to visit, checking out the Off the Beaten Path guides for a destination jewel, and then, before I know it, it's the day before we leave on our trip. Pre-departure day. I spend the next 8 to 10 hours loaded down by the drudgery of list making and packing. It's enough to make me swear off any future family vacations. But, like birthing a baby, you forget about the pain once you're on the road.

Because the next 8 to 10 hours are so much worse.

Every pre-departure day brings with it a distinctive meltdown. In the past, we've exploded over lost spatulas, misplaced tennis shoes, what kind of music CDs to bring, and excessive stuffed animal passengers. Our latest melt-down ocurred over laundry. I thought I'd done every last stitch of laundry in the house, but overlooked the one in our bedroom. Of course, this contained all of SO's newly purchased t-shirts and shorts, so he started a load about 7 o'clock and finally pulled it out of the dryer around 10 p.m.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" I heard him shout from the TV room. "These shirts are ridiculous! Look at these wrinkles!"

I checked the tags. "100 percent cotton. They'll need to be ironed." We stared at the pile of clothes, frozen like deer in the headlights of an H3.

I'm not sure what this little episode augurs for our trip to Memphis, but I think it has the potential for a great little blues song. Here's the first verse. I'll work on it some more and keep you posted, if I can find a local library in Little Rock that welcomes out-of-towners. Leave me some suggestions for a second verse, if you're up to a challenge.

Hunnerd Percent Cotton Blues

Got me a package of t-shirts,
Washed 'em with water and soap.
Pulled 'em out of the dryer,
And lost e'vry last bit of hope...

Oh, I got the blues,
Hunnerd percent cotton blues.
Them shirts are wrinkled, and shrunken, and sad,
Don't know what it means, but it must be bad.
I got the blues, them hunnerd percent cotton blues.

God moments, part 2

I grew up in San Antonio, South Side, and most of my friends were Catholic. They’d invite me to catechism on Wednesday nights, but I always had plans. In the evangelical church I grew up in, Wednesday nights were dedicated to NYI. There, I was told that all my Catholic friends were going to burn in hell because they worshipped Mary. Not in so many words, of course – they were more subtle than that. But this is the message conveyed in the pulpit, in Bible study, in the songs we sang: We’re right, they’re wrong; We’re in, they’re out; We’re saved, they’re damned.

I knew it was heretical, but I didn’t believe it. No matter how many times it was crammed down my throat, a part of me would whisper, “It’s not true.” My faith evolved over time, and I came to believe that God’s grace was extended to all. I still considered myself to be a Christian.

But the definition of “Christian” has changed significantly in the last 20 years. Now, many in the mainstream connect Christianity to the words and actions of people such as Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, James Dobson. These men may call themselves Christians, but I don’t identify with them. They have hijacked my faith.

How to get it back?

The other night, a group of ten gave a special presentation at my church. They are members of CrossWalk America, and are trying to change the face of Christianity to be more compassionate, more in touch with everyday life, more justice-oriented, and include Jesus’ radical welcoming of diverse people and viewpoints.

After the presentation was over, I found myself talking to a gentleman I'll call M. He had a white beard, great tan, and kind smile. He was about my father's age, and was raised as a Baptist.

"I was as conservative as you can be," he told me, and we discussed our similar backgrounds. But he told me he'd had a change of heart about ten years ago. I tried to picture my father changing his personal belief system, but I couldn't do it. It was impossible to imagine what would bring about such a radical switch in my dad.

Apparently M had made friends with a woman at work, and they'd really hit it off, had lots of things in common. Then, he learned she was a lesbian. His personal relationship, his love for this woman -- his friend -- called into question everything he'd been taught, everything he believed in, and he found he couldn't believe it any longer.

I shook M's hand, looked into his eyes, and saw something holy. I was reminded of a lyric from a Les Miserables song: To love another person is to see the face of God.

I sat in my car after the program and sobbed. Love changes everything.

Love changes everything.