Mail Call!

So many things sound like a good idea when you're a mom. You read about it in a parenting magazine and you think "Hey! I need to try that with my kids!"

Someday I'll stop reading those magazines.


In our home, we are now faced with the mailbox maelstrom. Every day it's someone's turn to check the mailbox. This involves leaning out the car window and plucking four tons of sales circulars out of the mailbox so they can be disassembled then transported into the trash.

I got this idea from a magazine that suggested it was a great way for children to learn how to take turns and allows them be part of the mail experience even if they don't get a letter.

Right. I should have canceled my subscription right then.

It started out fine. There was great excitement pulling up to the mailbox, as if I was uncovering a lost treasure chest.

Then I forgot whose turn it was.

My children, (whose minds, I've been told repeatedly by those aforementioned parenting magazines, are like sponges) couldn't remember who had checked the mail the day before. My mind has long ago become a sieve, barely able to retain my shoe size, let alone the details of "the turn."

And the battle of wills began.

Like little lawyers, they pressed their case. Suddenly I was thrust into the role as Supreme Court Justice of the Mailbox.

"She checked it – remember she dropped the blue postcard!?"

"I didn't drop it! It's my turn!"

"She always gets her way!"

"I wanna check the mail!"

"If she cries, she's going to get to check the mail and it's not fair!"

By this time I'm wishing it was Columbus Day, or Martin Luther King Day or Postal Carriers Get A Break Day and there was no mail delivery anywhere in the world. I didn't care if there was a letter in there saying some distant relative left me a million bucks – I didn't want to even drive within a mile of the thing.

How did checking mail become such a battleground of sibling rivalry? Why can't I get this kind of dueling over the privilege of unloading the dishwasher or putting away the laundry? Are my children destined to become the next Postmaster General of the US? Or maybe direct mail queens with a special affinity for bulk rates?

One day we had discovered a black widow spider had set up housekeeping in our mailbox and required eviction by our official bug smusher, Dad. You'd have thought the threat of a poisonous spider lurking in a dark corner you repeatedly reach into with unprotected fingers would have taken a little of the shine off.

Not a chance. It was almost as if the whiff of danger increased the allure.

With any luck all of this will wear off by the holidays. I hope so, because I'm really looking forward to opening up the mailbox and pulling out all those red, green and white envelopes. My turn!

The Eyes Have It.

Do you know the old saying, “the walls have ears”?

Well, at our house, the salt has eyes.

It started, like so many of the more bizarre things at our house, with a craft project. We’d come across a little craft project book that had attached to it a small Ziploc bag of googley eyes. Those are the little round circle eyes with a black pupil that shifts around in a googley kind of way.

Initially we dutifully followed the instruction. Sierra, who was five at the time, added googley eyes to a few recycled bottles. Then she added them to a few drawings.

Then I made the mistake of leaving the room briefly. I must have forgot the time she painted her entire arm red when I left her alone with the finger paint when she was three and a half, looking like she’d been in some horrible accident. Or the time she trimmed all her stuffed horses manes and tails. It looked like she was running some sort of equine rescue organization.

You’d be stunned to learn how many things in your house can sprout eyes if a five year old is involved. I came back into the kitchen, only to find that the entire room was staring at me.

There were eyes on the refrigerator, eyes on the spatula, and on the salt and pepper shakers.

As time goes on, we’ve gotten rid of most of the eyes. But every now and then I’ll come across something staring at me from the oddest places. A pair of eyes were watching from their spot on the patent leather shoes Mireya had outgrown. Another set showed up on a stapler. But it’s the salt and pepper ones that I’m most enamored with. What were my most boring salt and pepper shakers are now my most precious. There they sit, watching me as I prepare dinner, like little sentinels of seasoning.

Of course, this can creep you out sometimes. Suppose they are reporting back to the parsley? Maybe they are sending comments out via carefully alternating salt and pepper bits.

It’s tough not to get paranoid when you’re being stared at, even if it’s just a googley stare.

But mostly it’s a reminder. A reminder of the day when I walked into the room and the entire room looked back.

The Blessings of Moms.

Every Thanksgiving there is a blessing that stands head and shoulders above the others.
One year it was the blessing of doctors for my eldest daughter.

Another year it was family members who found a way to bury the hatchet and get together for the holidays.

Another year it was my daughter’s miraculous return home when she turned four. She managed to come back home after an entire year during which she had been replaced with a screaming three-year-old banshee with curly hair .

That was a particularly big blessing.

So when I sat down to think of my biggest blessing this year, I realized that it was really big. This year it’s all the other moms.

We’ve had a particularly crazy year and I haven’t been able to keep up with the flurry of activity. Frankly, I wouldn’t have made it without all the other moms.

There’s the mom who calls and emails me to remind me to get in another CD for my daughter’s entry in the PTA contest because the one we sent wasn’t working.

Then there’s the mom who emails me a schedule so I don’t forget my daughter’s events because so often my daughter forgets to tell me she even has an event and her carefully typed notices crawl under her bed unnoticed until spring cleaning.

There are the moms who volunteer at the school and maintain peace in the playground where tribal warfare breaks out regularly.

There are the moms I don’t see, helping out in classrooms, in the library and all over the school, making up for what tight school budgets can’t support.

There’s the mom who accepts my frantic call as I’m trapped in two hours of traffic. She’s the mom who picks up my daughters when my carefully choreographed backup transportation arrangements fall apart like first grade macaroni art.

There’s the mom who watches my girls so I can grab 20 minutes of sanity.

There are the moms who run our girl scout troops who are more active than most Fortune 500 companies and the team moms who coordinate everything from snacks to photos.

These are the moms who put our children in our community ahead of everything else in their lives for hours, days, weeks, months.

From one mom trying to juggle it all (and in the process dropping a good bit of it) I just want you to know – you are our blessing.

The Voters have spoken...

Now that the elections are over, I find myself wondering how losing politicians do it. How do they explain to their children that they've lost.

Is it a bitter "Well, honey, the people have spoken and they just don't like Daddy." Or do they, in true political fashion, put a positive spin on things? "Looks like I can take you to scout camp after all, kid. The voters won't have your mommy to kick around anymore."

Life at the Ranch

I think this is a good time to let the good people at the Comal County tax office know that I will be coming in to apply for an ag exemption.

Because we have MORE BABY MICE.

I’m pretty close to losing my affection for these tiny little furry things who are way too family oriented, if you know what I mean. I figured mice in general were a short term pet commitment. I didn’t count on the generational factor.

Our mouse adventure started innocently with just two mice. Then we had the unfortunate cat encounter, which required a replacement mouse, looked a little fat.

A word of advice. If a mouse looks fat, return it to the store immediately.

We ended up with a litter of baby mice. We watched them grow and picked a favorite, then handed off the boys to the store.

About three weeks later the mouse master Sierra noticed Mousezilla was very fat.

“I think she’s pregnant, Mom!”

“No, honey,” I said, confident that we had rid ourselves of all possible papa mice. “There has to be a boy mouse for her to get pregnant and we gave all the boys away.”

“She looks pretty fat to me.”

“Clearly she’s watching too much TV. Let’s get her a gym membership.”

“Moooom!”

A week later I walk in the room having heard some squeaks. Apparently mice squeak when they are in labor, because there were the little pink wiggly things.

“I can’t believe it.” I was stunned and perplexed. Was it a miracle? Or are mice privates just tough to identify?

“More baby mice!” Sierra was overjoyed, both at the idea that there were more mice and that Mom was spectacularly wrong.

So what are we supposed to do? Send all the mice to live in convents? Do I buy a snake and just complete the circle of life? Or do I go with the flow here? We seem to have a bit of a gift for multiplying mice.

That’s it. Mice ranching. I’m not sure how long it takes to qualify for an ag exemption, but I imagine after a few years we’ll have quite a herd going. We could set up elaborate sorting cages, maybe develop a tiny branding program so we can tell everyone apart. Like with nail polish.

Then even Mireya would be part of the round up.

(this may be the only way I'm going to keep my mice from makin' bacon, so to speak)

Dungeon or Sun Room?

Recently a friend and I were talking about the relative value of having a dungeon. So many parental challenges could be readily managed with the mere existence of a house dungeon.
It's the ultimate time-out corner.

Chances are that you'd never even use it. Most likely a mere gesture in the dungeon's direction would be enough to get those socks picked up, the broccoli eaten and the homework completed without a peep. Like nuclear weapons, a dungeon would be an effective deterrent, used strictly to keep warring parties vested in an uneasy peace.

But lately I've been rethinking--more like remodeling, I suppose--this dungeon thing. I'm beginning to think the dungeon might make a good place for me to hang out.

Yes, much like a storm shelter of the great plains, a safe house for the mafia, and a rehab center for disgraced politicians, a decent household dungeon could be the place where Mommies could safely escape the constant pressures of child rearing.

It would be a place where the furnishings were simple, just a few decorative chains, maybe a stool or raised stone bench, all of which would require virtually no upkeep.

Of course there would be a sort of austere room service, complete with meals provided on a regular basis, and no requirement to do the dishes afterwards.

The properly built household dungeon would be remarkably quiet, with the stone wall quite efficient at insulating the occupant from the sounds of Barney, sibling rivalry and teenage angst.
Within the walls the temperature would be cool and the air moist without having to remember to wash out the humidifier for the 50th time.

And there would be no laundry. Ever.

I can see this idea catching on among home builders, becoming an option right next to sky lights and walk in closets:

Woman, reviewing paper work while a toddler attempts to staple her thigh: "So how much more is it if we want a dungeon?"

Sales person, beaming. "It's included if you go with the bonus room plan. "

Parents: "Sold!"

There is, of course, one problem with the dungeon. Chances are, your kids would learn how to pick the lock in no time.

Holidaze!

(this is a classic Crib Notes)

Here it is, weeks before Thanksgiving and already I know there is no way we can be ready for Christmas.

Sure, we should be thinking of Thanksgiving. We should be planning our leaf tour. We should be harvesting something. But since we didn't make our presents for family in July like we usually do, I'm in a PANIC.

Christmas with children takes on a whole different dimension, a stupendous increase in the production—and it's not just the gift side of the equation. It's the endless train of festivities—the creation and maintenance of a crazy number of rituals.

There's the ceremonial picture for the holiday card. Followed by the realization we are too late for photo cards and must run to the store to buy the box of holiday cards.

Then we have the sacred untangling of the lights, followed by the purchase of new lights because the old ones are hopelessly tangled.

We've got the traditional writing of the gift list and the also traditional slashing of the list when we realize our last name is not Dell or Gates.

Then we've got the ritual baking of 5,000 cookies. This is followed by the eating of 4,990 cookies, leaving precisely one for each neighbor as long as we don't count their children.
And that's just the tip of the tree, so to speak.

When I dreamed up these activities B.C. (before children), I always imagined it as a blur of tinsel and tradition, melding just the right mix of heart felt values with red and green paper chains on the tree. We'd sit there in the quiet fire lit living room, stringing popcorn for the birds, singing carols, and drinking hot chocolate.

As the big guy himself would say, ho, ho, ho.

At this point it's a Daytona 500 race to December 25th where all the drivers are already on lap seven and I'm still getting my fireproof suit on.

In the early stages of this pre-season panic, I can admit I created this monster myself. But since I worked pretty hard to get everyone to buy into it, now it's my monster. And no amount of eggnog is going to drown it at this point.

So, I have a plan. I'm going to par down the activities this year so we can have a relaxing holiday. No big parties. No huge shopping trips. No original holiday card. No over the top baking.

Okay, you can stop laughing now.

Anyway, I've got to go. I need a new rolling pin, we've got our photo session scheduled for Tuesday and the first party is in a week. See you at the finish line!

Beware the Turkey…

Never take your child out to see real live turkeys BEFORE Thanksgiving.

I could probably end this column right here, because you can imagine the rest, right?

The big turkey platter is brought to the beautifully set table.

The crowd ooohs and ahhhs. The head of the family prepares to slice into the tender breast with the biggest knife in the house.

Then a look comes across your child's face. A sudden awareness of what TURKEY means.

Suddenly the dinner on the table has a whole different dimension. A "hey, I knew this guy!" dimension that is not easy to deal with between the stuffing and mashed potatoes.

Before I continue, I'd like to state for the record, there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a vegetarian. I've had bouts of vegetarianism in my life, although, I confess, I always end up caving in to my inner carnivore when confronted with a filet mignon at the Grist Mill.

The only real problem I have with the whole vegetarian thing is I have no clue how I'd feed my kids if they decided to never eat meat, especially since that is almost all they eat. And they hate all but two kinds of vegetables. How much can you do with green beans and broccoli?

This all started when we had a turkey-calling contest for an event about seven years ago. Sierra meet two of the biggest, proudest, fluffiest Toms to ever strut a playground. She was only three and these Toms were easily as big as she was.

I had hoped since the meeting took place in early November and she was only three, that we'd make it to Thanksgiving with no real understanding of what a drumstick was all about. But with all the turkey decorations in the room, I didn't stand a chance. I think if anyone had started some good-natured gobbling at the table we might have witnessed a full-fledged vegetarian conversion right there.

I wonder if she had grown up more exposure to farm life than our annual trip to the petting zoo, would it be a little easier to explain the Tom-to-Dinner thing? Do they have a peewee league in 4H where, after a few weeks of caring for a demanding animal, it wouldn't bother a child to then eat it?

Somehow, I imagine that would only make things worse. I can just see my daughters releasing all the hogs from the 4H barn in the dead of the night, creating the first Elementary School Underground Railroad for swine.

In the end, one of the things I was most grateful for that particular Thanksgiving was that hot dogs bear no resemblance to cows. Or pigs. Or whatever was in there.

Hmm. Maybe I should have broken out the broccoli instead.

Super Nanny need not apply

We were flipping through the channels looking for yet another show on lemurs or zebras or some animal, when we stumbled on “Super Nanny.”

If you’ve been spared, “Super Nanny” is one of those reality TV shows where an expert comes in and helps the hopeless with a healthy dose of common sense, raised eyebrows and “a my-way-or-the-highway” approach to all situations.

Anyway, on the show a little boy, about 3, was in full meltdown. The reason? They had taken away his bottles and he was going cold turkey.

We watched as he lay on the kitchen floor, crying his eyes out while his mom looked like she was ready to join him.

I guess that someone along the way had decided that it was high time for him to give up his bottle habit. There was probably a good reason, like it was going to impact his SAT scores. Frankly, I’m a big fan of picking your battles with 3-year-olds and bottles are not even in the top 10. Yelling, hitting, sure. Bottles, not so much.

I turned to Mireya, who is 6 and was watching this with some interest.

“So what do you think? What should they do?”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully. “I think they should give them back.” She paused for a moment. “But you know, I can’t really say anything about it because I still drink from a bottle.”

“Actually it’s a sippy cup,” I clarified.

“Still ...” she said with a sigh.

I was pretty proud of her for recognizing that she couldn’t be objective. She could teach something to most of the television newscasters and a few politicians.

Needless to say, we won’t be inviting the Super Nanny over to our house anytime soon. I imagine she’d have all of us on the kitchen floor or sitting on naughty stools, trying to think of a way to sneak outside and retrieve our most cherished bits of childhood — even if we are big girls now.

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NOTE: At the start of November, I ask my children to tell me something everyday they are thankful for — with no repeats. We are up to mice and chocolate milk. This year, I’d like to hear what your children are thankful for and feature them in Crib Notes on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Post them here or email them to me at cribnotes (at) gmail.com

Raising a Stink

Nothing says Daddy at our house like a wildlife encounter. The father of my children has what I consider an over developed need to bother animals that have the terrible misfortune of being spotted.

A few weeks ago we were at a friends ranch and the kids ran in screaming about the snake in the window. It was curled up safely on the other side of the screen, digesting a mouse.

So of course my husband had to extricate it, creating more screaming, then demonstrate the correct holding technique, point out the mousey lump in its belly, and generally ruin the snake’s day. This is the fourth snake to enter the wildlife legend collection which also includes two fawns, a buffalo, a hawk, many bees, and the all time favorite – a skunk.

(this child in the photo is in the UK and a clear inspiration for my husband)

In fact, the very favorite story our daughters like to tell their friends is the-time-daddy-was-sprayed-by-a-skunk story. It’s been such a popular story I’m surprised they haven’t written a song about it, complete with lyrics like

“He just had to go and see what that noise could be,” and

“Three days are really long when you smell pretty strong.”

But this weekend we had a new skunk story. Sierra was up early with her friend Cammie, who had stayed overnight. Along with Mireya they’d created a haunted house the night before complete with a zombie (a broken Spiderman piñata wrapped in toilet tissue and splattered with red food dye). So they were especially attuned to scary noises.

Like the sound of a skunk with a can stuck on its head at 6 am.

“Mommy! There’s a skunk outside and it’s got a can on its head! It’s going to DIE!”

Sure enough a skunk, undoubtedly the one that has sprayed our dogs more than once, was wandering the yard with a yogurt container stuck on its tiny head. We ran outside to…

This was where I paused to consider my options. I was driving the kids to Marble Falls in a few hours, and if I got sprayed it was going to be a looong trip. So, wisely, we woke up our wildlife handler, who, with a plastic raincoat and thick gloves actually picked up the skunk, yanked off the yogurt container and stood there in ideal spraying range.

I prayed I was up wind.

The skunk blinked a few times, then calmly left, tail down in appreciation.

So cut up those yogurt cans, folks. But keep your skunk handler on standby.



By the way, this is a real issue. Boycott Yoplait, they don't give a darn about fixing the problem:
Activists raise stink for 'skunk safe' yogurt
By Andrew Quinn

SAN FRANCISCO July 17 (Reuters) - Your tuna sandwich may not be hurting the dolphins, but is your yogurt skunk safe?

In a new campaign, a California animal rights group has declared that Yoplait brand yogurt containers are leading to the agonizing deaths of skunks across the country.

"Thousands of skunks and other wildlife are dying in yogurt containers," Camilla Fox of the Sacramento, California-based Animal Protection Institute said Friday.

"They jam their heads in as they are looking for yogurt and then get trapped."

The stink over skunk-safe yogurt follows earlier campaigns for dolphin-safe tuna, in which animal rights activists targeted tuna fishing nets they said were responsible for the needless deaths of dolphins.

Fox said Yoplait, with its distinctive tapered container, is equally deadly for skunks.

"They are attracted to the smell of the yogurt, and wedge their heads into the container," she said. "When they try to pull out, the rim that curves in acts as a locking mechanism against the animal's fur.

"Because they have short legs, they are unable to push against the container to extricate themselves."

Fox said the skunks, locked in a Yoplait helmet they cannot remove, are blinded and frequently die of suffocation.

"They bump around, they get run over by cars, and they obviously are easy prey," Fox said. "It is a fairly brutal death. One they don't deserve."


Officials at General Mills Inc , the maker of Yoplait, say they have been taking the problem seriously enough to mount rigorous design tests in which they stuff fake skunk heads made of foam into different prototype containers.

Larry Sawyer, General Mills' Director of Government Relations, was not available to comment Friday. But he told the San Jose Mercury News the company was trying to help.

"It is a problem," he said. "We're working on a solution."

Over the next several weeks, a new, "skunk friendlier" Yoplait container with a warning to consumers and a special ridge at the bottom to help skunks extricate themselves will hit supermarket shelves. But the familiar tapered design will stay because it makes the brand recognizable, Sawyer said.

Fox and other skunk advocates say this is not enough, and are encouraging consumers to write to General Mills president Steve Sanger to demand a total container revamp.

"We are trying to negotiate with them," Fox said. "We want to talk more before we call for a boycott."

Donna Backus, a Massachusetts wildlife rehabilitator who was one of the first to identify the Yoplait threat to skunks, says General Mills officials simply do not understand how dangerous the containers can be.

"I'd like to put a huge Yoplait container on the CEO of General Mills and set him out loose on the streets of New York," Backus told the Mercury News.

Copyright 1998 Reuters Limited.