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The Saga of Sticky.

It’s incredible what comes to life for kids. Stuffed animals have long and complex stories, dolls have personalities on par with stars of daytime soap operas, and favorite blankets can get their feelings hurt by the mere mention of the words “washing machine.”

Still, even with all that, I wasn’t prepared for Sticky.

It started with what had been the rejected tube of toothpaste, the “too spicy!” toothpaste that I had tossed back in the drawer months ago. But that night we were completely out of the preferred toothpaste. My number one rule: desperate times call for creative re-marketing.

As I pulled off the cap on the new “cool” big girl toothpaste, I peeled off something somewhat pliable and sticky at the same time – the little bit of blue toddler toothpaste that had dried in the cap of the tube. About the size of a playground pebble, it had the consistency somewhere between dried chewing gum and fresh playdoh.

Mireya, four at the time, began playing with it idly, and as we finished up getting ready for bed she carried it off.

Then she named it. Sticky was born.

Then she needed a house for it. Sticky got a plastic Ziploc bag, since we determined it didn’t breathe and therefore could be placed in a sealed bag.

Before we knew it, Sticky was a small, yet active member of the family. Sticky came to breakfast. Sticky hung out at story time. Sticky watched movies, no doubt dreading the moments when large waves of water were featured. Sticky even rode to school a few times.

Then, like all precious things of childhood, Sticky got lost.

“STICKY!” Mireya cried out. “I can’t find Sticky!”

Sticky was indeed gone. We searched everywhere, even tried to recreate a sort of “Son of Sticky” by leaving out some beads of toothpaste to dry for a few hours.

“It smears,” said Mireya with disgust, blue streaks appearing on the bathroom counter. “It’s not Sticky.”

Then, in a miracle only partially explained by the rarely performed act of “cleaning our room,” Sticky reappeared from under the bed.

Sticky was resting, I was told.

Someday Sticky will be really lost, lost to a world where stuffed animals turn into inanimate objects and dried toothpaste is just trash.

But for now, I love that little bit of blue.

Long live Sticky.

Climbing Toy Mountain

Our daughter's birthdays are within weeks of each other and right before the big birthday extravaganza starts I like to cull through the Mt. Everest of toys and try to bring it back down to K2 size.

I am rarely successful in this because no matter how careful I plan, or how quickly I remove the stash, the kids somehow bring them back from the brink of recycling. It's absolutely uncanny. They go from not noticing a pile of laundry that has built up to avalanche proportions to detecting the tiniest erosion in their six-story toy mounds.

This is part of their father's American Indian heritage, no doubt. If only I could send them out to track a few jack rabbits, then I might be able to sneak out a couple headless dolls or odd fast food toys.

How does this happen? How did our house become home to the greatest deposit of plastic and acrylic fur on the block?

Before I run off with a nice long story of how cheap toys have destroyed our national appreciation for well-made, hand crafted toys and how if it weren't for global competition I wouldn't be able to add a seemingly infinite number of toys to the bin for a mere two or five bucks, let me confess.

It's me. The packaging, the little cute outfits, the interesting things you could build, the snappy television and movie tie ins—they sucker me right in. I have no resistance. None.

This is part of why it takes so long to cull the toys, why I can't swoop in there with a plastic bag while the kids are outside for 30 minutes. It's me. Well, not me exactly. It's because there's a little girl in me that just can't part with the circus train that has the cages and open car for the giraffe and the snazzy snow boots and cape that go with the doll and sleigh set.

That's right. I'm a toy marketers target market. They probably have a picture up on the wall of me with the caption "There's one born every minute! Go Get Her!"

Still, it's getting dangerous in the family room and with the recent addition of the princess bed (which is another story altogether) and upcoming birthday celebrations, we've got to get rid of a few bags full of toys. So I have a plan.

Next week I may be able to get both daughters out of the house for a few hours in the morning, and I'll try to dig my way through the mountain. If I'm not back by noon, just come on over. You can help me build a miniature circus town complete with snow park. But I get to drive the train, 'k?

I Used To Be So Much Smarter

(fabulous photo taken by Andrea, the world best photographer)

My niece has a 13 month old baby and she reminds me of just how “smart” I was before I had a baby, and how “not smart” I was afterward.

I remember saying, before my kids were born, that they’d just have to learn to sleep through noise because I wasn’t going to tip toe around “my” house.

Of course it only took two sleep deprived days before that little plan flew out the window. I nearly strangled three separate delivery men that first month. I also revised my understanding of the phrase “sleep like a baby.” Clearly it meant waking up every two hours and screaming.

I remember saying, before my kids were born, that I was going to keep going out and having adventures. It took one viewing of Finding Nemo to stop me from backing out of a parking space without my seatbelt already on, never mind riding on the back of a motorcycle.

I remember saying, before my kids were born, that I would still eat out and my kids wouldn’t be screaming or going crazy. Let’s just say that I’ve learned lots of ways to cook chicken at home.

I remember saying, before my kids were born, that I would not take time for myself, after all, you had to be balanced about these things. These days I look up and realize I forgot my earrings, am wearing a shirt that doubled as a face wiping rag earlier and haven’t shopped for new shoes since they came out with pointy toes. Was that the late 1990s? Are they back in?

I remember saying, before my kids were born, that I was busy. Ha! Back then I had time to complain!

I remember saying, before my kids were born, that I loved my dogs, loved my job, loved my car. Until you can hold out your hand to catch partially chewed food, picked out all the peas of a veggie medley, crawled under a bed to recover a lost stuffed animal despite the fact you might get stuck under there and end up on the 10:00 news, and carried someone in 100 degree heat from an event you never would have come to because you knew this would happen but they begged and begged… well, until then, you don’t know true love.

Yes, I was brilliant back before they were born. Now I’m just a silly ol’ mommy, figuring things out as we go along.

Sisters are forever.
Sisters, I tell my daughters, are forever. I imagine that Moms with boys say brothers are forever, too.

It’s part reminder, part plea for peace, especially when they seem willing to shove each other off the nearest cliff, or into a bucket of purple paint.

Be nice to each other, I tell them, you’re stuck with each other. This can be a bad thing, but it is mostly a very, very good thing. When friends fade, when people move, when things you think are solid suddenly give way, you’ll have your sister, hopefully.

Your sister is the one you’ll turn to when you need to talk about how crazy your Mom is and she’ll be the only one who really gets it.

Your sister is the one who you’ll call in the middle of the night when you would worry about waking anybody else.

Your sister is the one person who won’t forget that time you had a cow in the grocery store and we all had to leave the cart in the check out lane. But it doesn’t matter, because you’ll remember when she freaked out over that alien in the movie that everyone said was a good kids movie and wouldn’t sleep with the lights out for four years.

Your sister is the one person who knows when you’re really hurt and when you’re just playing for some extra TV time.

Your sister is the only person who gets all your jokes, or at least laughs at them even when they’re really lame.

Your sister is the one you’ll turn to when you realize that the ground under your feet has turned to quick sand and you can’t remember if you are supposed to do the breaststroke or the freestyle to get out of it. She might not remember either, but she’ll probably have a rope to throw.

Most of all, after you finish arguing over all the silly things of childhood like who gets the most attention, who is too bossy, or who your parents like the best, after your spirit and limbs grow past the time where you fight with your family and into a time where you fight for it, everything will change.

You’ll realize this is your relationship; it belongs only to the two of you. And it’s forever.

Getting Old Without Grace.

Something terrible happened in my kitchen. Usually a place of safety and predictability, something absolutely horrible happened.

I couldn’t read the soup can. I needed to see if this soup required the addition of a can of water and out of nowhere the letters disappeared into a fuzz ball.

I was not ready for this development. I mean, sure, I’d noticed it was getting tougher to read some things. I’d get some cheaters I’d bought primarily as a fashion accessory and read the fine print – named precisely because it’s hard to read, right?

But this was a can of SOUP. A can that wasn’t particularly small or covered in fine print.

Right at that moment I realized something.

I’m getting old.

Okay, not old. Older. After all, it’ll take a while to actually get there, right?

Ha.

I always imagined that I’d grow old gracefully, accepting my gray hair and wrinkles as they came along. I’d celebrate each one as a badge of honor, experience manifested on my body in a natural way.

It’s amazing how delusional you can be in your 20s.

The “aging gracefully” bit lasted about a year. To be fair I was going gray a little early, but I was no more accepting of the crow’s feet and wrinkles when they had to gall to show up.

Out came the hair dye, magic lotions, and virtually any other product with the words “age” and “defying” in the description.

I went from the “graceful plan” to the “kicking and screaming plan,” complete with hands gripping the doorframe.

I suppose it came as a shock because we do have such young children. Our life is filled with kid pursuits, with soccer balls, trampolines, swings, slides and toys with much assembly required.
You feel young with little kids around, at least until something rolls under the couch. Or you have to read the instructions to assemble some toy. Or you think all the music they listen to is awful.

So I pulled out my fashionable cheaters (which my daughter loves to wear, ironically), and read that no water was required for the soup.

Now I have to carry these things around with me. Half the time I forget my earrings – how am I going to remember these things? Isn’t memory the next to go?

At least I think that’s what they say…

Yikes!

Optimist Rules

There is nothing more perfect than the first few days of school. Every pencil is sharp. Every item is neatly in place. Notebooks are blank, ready to be filled with brilliance, or at least some pretty cool doodling.

We arrived at school early and already everyone was vowing to get to school early every day.

This is what happens when you’re a family of optimists. A family of realists probably accepts that early arrival is strictly a first week thing. They blast right through the first week completely delusion free, mentally prepared for a year peppered with tardy slips, lost homework, and mismatched socks.

But with optimists it’s all possible. We can get there at 7:05 am! We can ignore the fact that it’s completely dark outside. True, my theory has always been that if God wanted us up that early, he’d have the lights on. But who cares! It’s a new age! We’ve got alarms, enthusiasm, a passion for learning, and plenty of sugary cereal. We can do it!

The first week of school there’s no homework, but already there are promises to get it done the minute we arrive home, thrilled with the very idea of spelling, math, and science. It’ll be a breeze, we’ll get through all of it so fast it won’t even feel like homework. It’ll be a joy, pure joy!
The first week of school backpacks are neatly hung up, lunch is made in plenty of time and in the refrigerator, outfits are selected and set aside.

It’s like some sort of Disney movie complete with soundtrack and happy meal tie in. I can just imagine it. Kid run into the fast food place to see what the toy is and oh look! It’s the Organized Prosapios! Let’s get the whole set! Look this one comes with a clean car! And the little one – look she’s got the cutest matching shoes! And the big girl, her hair is brushed beautifully!”

Of course in a month we’ll be back in reality TV land with last minute scrambles for hairbrushes, signed permission slips, and homework finished off on the car ride. If there was a fast food tie in to that reality, it would probably feature duct tape, some crushed crackers, an inside out t-shirt, and four dozen socks that don’t match.

But that’s October. For now, everything is still possible.