THE GUY WHO JUMPED FROM SPACE

"What was his name, Mom?"

Sideways look shot from my place over the sizzling French toast...

"Oh," he says, "the guy, you know? That guy who jumped from space?" gesturing skyward wildly with his hand like the good mini-me he is.

My eyes dart towards the upper lefthand corner of my sockets, clearly indicating I am stretching my 43-yr-old brain to try and uncover that little tidbit of info I used to be able to recall at the drop of a hat for a good Friday night trivia game, even after a couple of glasses of wine, but now can only seem to use tp form the best possible SEO sentence to plug into the googler.

"guy who jumped from space"

The results of which then sent me unexpectedly into tears for the next 10 minutes as I read him the whole story about how an 84-yr-old retired Air Force Colonel, Joe Kittinger, was essentially Felix Baumgartner's mission control and Jiminy Cricket, talking him thru some seriously intense moments on the way up as well as down, including an outer stratosphere out-of-control spin that nearly killed the very same Colonel a half century before.

And by the time I read about how the Austrian daredevil stood at the edge of his capsule, saluted, and marveled at feeling so very small standing there looking out over the entire world, I was literally heaving.

He plummeted at over 833 mph, released his parachute 1000 miles above New Mexico, and landed on his own two feet.

The data his crew of scientists and engineers were able to compile will be used for years to come, and only open up wider the inevitability of tourist space travel. And THAT idea just makes every hair on my body stand on end. Can you imagine? It would be like standing next to the first successful open-heart surgery. To be able to experience that, to feel that sense of hugeness and smallness at the same time, to actually be taking steps forward and beyond and into the infinite...

I was just a big bawling mess at the breakfast table this morning.

So...I'm either pregnant, which isn't really gonna happen without my research, order form, and signature of the FedEx delivery of the nitro tank, or I'm just pms'ing...

THE FRANTIC LAST MINUTE DIY SCHOOL BASKET PROJECT

"Oh, mom," she says during dinner last night, "I have to turn in my homemade basket tomorrow." Chomp, chomp, crunch.

"What basket, baby?"

And so begins the frantic scramble for any and all remotely applicable household materials to hurriedly create the best. basket. ever. in about...oh...30 minutes. Ugh!!!!

After floating a good six really pretty awesome ideas off the top of my head, she finally settled on this one and set to work.

Materials:
1 bottom half of a large Christmas sweater box
1 empty wrapping paper roll
3 different rolls of crazy designed duct tape
Newspaper cut into strips for filling
And multi-colored yarn cut into 5" strings for fringe

And the result, I have to say, was pretty darn fabulous!! Yay for last minute adrenaline rushes! :)

THE AGE-OLD DEBATE: CARESS VS HARASS

Overheard from the monsters' bathroom this morning:

[singing in unison, out of tune, and at the top of their lungs]

"MAY THE BIRD OF PARADISE FLY UP YOUR NOSE (UP YOUR NOSE) / MAY AN ELEPHANT CARmumbleHARmumbleASS YOU WITH HIS TOES..."

"Wait," he says, "did you say 'harass'?"

"Yes," she says, "why, what did you say?"

"It's 'caress,' not 'harass'!" he laughs.

"What's the difference?" she asks (as I shudder from my core).

"Well," he explains, "caressing is gentle, like this, and harassing is like bullying and mean. He's caressing you with his toes..."

"Ewww!!" she exclaims, "I'm pretty sure I'd feel harassed."

IT'S THE 4TH GRADE BEE!!

"I don't think I wanna try out for the Spelling Bee this year," she said.

"Oh no? Why not?" I ask her.

"I just don't like being up there in front of everyone," she replies, which, in Saia language, means I'm not gonna set myself up for disappointment by showing how much I want to be selected, so I'll just feign disinterest instead.

But she couldn't really suppress her excitement when she was chosen to be an alternate and then went to bed last night secretly wishing the girl with the fever wouldn't show up for the competition this morning.

But she did. And Saia did a great job of being a good sport and supporting her classmates and, a little less enthusiastically, her brother.

The boy, on the other hand, makes no bones about his love of words and has been itching and raring to go for weeks. Despite his prep work, he sat unusually still on stage and looked uncharacteristically nervous. When he passed his 1st round with "honest," he let out a visible sigh of relief. Then came "huddled," which is not a difficult word, but it's hardly ever a big word that takes you down in the Bee, you know. It's a forgotten d or a missed double letter or a transposed l and e, but he took his time, and paced himself, and knocked it outta the park.

And it was on to round 3!

There are only 14 children left, and it's at this point that you find yourself, in spite of yourself, wishing not-so-well on the remaining pack of 9- and 10-year-olds. Just a little slip here. Just a little too fast there. Just a minor flub anywhere...

COME ON, ALREADY!!!!

And then he got "transatlantic." And I'm pretty certain I stopped breathing.

But he aced it, and is now TOP 8 OF THE 4th GRADE CLASS and moves on to the school-wide finals!!!!!!!! And, based solely on the number of exclamation points I've already used in this post today, I may just need to take a mild little sedative before that one.

WHAT'S REALLY IN YOUR FALL-OUT SHELTER?

So, the world didn’t end today.  Maybe you heard.

But maybe the lesson here is actually that we should spend more time acting as though it were still going to.  Maybe our take-away is to live our lives as though our days are actually numbered.  Because they are, of course.  And for some of us, even single-digit kinda numbers.

So, what would you do, WILL you do, now given the opportunity?  Who would you reach out to?  How many people would you contact to make amends for things?  To heal old wounds?  To tie up loose strings?  To. Leave. No. Regrets.

How much tighter would you hold your loved ones tonight?  How many more “I-love-yous” would you whisper? How many “I-hate-yous” would you retract?

How many hours would you shave off your work day just to have dinner at the table tonight instead of on the couch?  How many battles with friends, siblings, coworkers, your children…would you concede just so that you can laugh one more time at a laffy taffy joke instead of yelling?

How many random strangers would you open doors for, give spare change to, take into your home, provide a warm meal, offer a smile, speak to as though they were actually human beings with lives and memories and histories written on their innermost inside walls that no one may ever know?

How many animals would you free from zoos, testing facilities, shelters, abusive homes?

How many foster children would you take in?  How many elderly would you offer to read to, sing to, brush their hair?

How many meetings would you miss just to see the last sunrise or sunset?  And how many colds would you risk to be able to run through the rain, fall down in the snow, sleep under the stars, or swim in the ocean…just…one…more…time?

How many ripples would you leave behind?

It’s not necessarily a bad thing that quite a huge chunk of us went to bed last night with just the teensiest bit of wonder about the fate of the world today.  But it’s even better if we wake up tomorrow with that same wonder.  And the day after that.  And the day after that.

So, maybe tonight…take stock of what’s really in your fall-out shelter.  It’s not all canned goods and Twinkies.   With apologies to Prince and gratitude to Tim McGraw, to survive the apocalypse of humankind, you gotta live like you were dying, not like it’s 1999.

LAST-MINUTE TOY BUYING GUIDE: BOYS vs GIRLS

Just a friendly reminder from Saia and Chago...

A BUG'S LIFE: ELECTION 2012

…or "How women, Latinos, and the LGBT community rallied together to topple a formidable economic agenda in favor of establishing a new social order and issuing a mandate to the country that while we, too, are concerned about our jobs, our bank accounts, and our retirement, we refuse to be the kind of country that sacrifices our humanity in order to drive a Lexus."

And I do say all of this knowing that these are first-world problems we’re talking about. Without refute, there are innumerable other countries in more dire straits than ours. But everyone’s line in the sand is relative. And we drew ours last night.

It made me most proud, as a Latina, as a woman, and as a lesbian mother of two to be able to look my 9-year-old twins in their eyes this morning and tell them that this time, this time… the bullies did not win. This time, the ants banded together and overthrew the grasshoppers – and not because we truly believe we are in a better state economically than we might be with another leader, but because with that other leader we would have so assuredly suffered as a people, as a community, as a country, under the weight of what would mostly have been, and genuinely felt like, a racist, bigoted, mysoginistic, elitist decision.

And no, that is not to say that all Republicans are racists. Or bigots. Or misogynists. Or elitists. But the social impact of a Romney administration would unequivocally have crushed the dream that is our actual America. The dream of immigrants. The dream of minorities. The dream of the persecuted. The dream of the downtrodden. Those are the bootstraps from which we began. Those are. Those.

And we have to remain true to them. Because if we don’t…

If we don’t continue to fight to recognize that all of our minorities, all of our disenfranchised, and all of our marginalized people ARE equal, deserve equal rights, and STILL HAVE AN EQUAL VOTE, then we risk losing who we are at our core. Who we truly claim to be as Americans.

And yes, of course I realize how important it is that we have balance. Why having a Republican House but a Democratic President is actually a good thing. Why term limits on our top political seats are crucial to the reinventing of ourselves as a people, reinvigorating our public, redefining our collective goals, and restating our deal-breakers. And I have accepted, and will continue to accept, whenever a political leader wins with whom I fundamentally disagree because that is what makes our country better. But it’s equally important to note that I didn’t vote for Barack Obama yesterday. I voted for a better America. I voted for an ideal. I voted for the dream.

And this morning, I woke up feeling strong…and heard…and visible.

This morning, I didn’t have to swallow my pride anymore.

I didn’t have to apologize to my children for the people who mistreat them, us, others because we don’t look exactly like they think we should look or act or feel or believe. Because last night, America did what was right for our country as human beings. Last night, America played fair. Last night, America chose decency over pocketbooks. And now the foundation for real forward progress has been laid.

And while there will always and forever be slips and backward steps here and there, the miles we crossed last night and the streams that were forged mean that my children learned a lesson every parent hopes to be able to impart.  They learned about optimism. Not hope. Not change. I don’t buy the rhetoric any more than you do. Because they’re fleeting. Because they’re taglines. But optimism is mindshift.  It's a way of life. Optimism is not just about overcoming adversity. Optimism is not just about doing what’s right no matter what and believing that it’ll all work out in the end. Optimism is about knowing...in your bones...that your one little voice can change the world.

And the world. let me remind you, doesn’t look to America, envy America, respect America, and want to emulate America because we make more money than they do.

The world looks to us because here…an ant can overcome a grasshopper.

OUR "PUN"kin CONTEST ENTRIES THIS YEAR



Saia's Content Entry:
"PEOPLE PIE: The Pumpkin's Revenge"



So, it started off last week with...

"I think I wanna carve out the Death Star," he says. 

I googled it.  Printed out the instructions.  And we...and by that, I mean me...immediately ditched that idea, as just the thought of it made my carpal tunnel flare up.

"I think I really wanna do something spooky scary," she says, "like a haunted house...with vampires...and cats...and blood...and..."

But I still have FOUR...OTHER...PUMPKINS to carve for our own front yard, I'm trying to explain to them. Please have mercy on Mama.

Let's simplify, I prompt.  Sometimes the simplest things carry the strongest message.  And then that somehow triggered...

"Oh!" she yells, "How about we do Barrack Obama and Mitt Romney???"

"I'd rather do Obi Wan and Darth Vadar," he says.

What's the difference, Mama mumbles under her breath.

"Still too complicated," I beg.  "It would require stenciling, and shading, and tools I just don't have in neither my physical nor artistic arsenals."

And then, somehow, during the busiest week I've ever had, the heavens opened up and my brilliant children came up with ideas that they could actually create all on their own. 

And they...were...awesome!

Saia and I baked a little pie crust and put a couple of her dollhouse people inside the baked pie for her Pumpkin's Revenge: The People Pie.

And Chago, of course, decided to play with words...



Chago's Entry: "How does a pumpkin relax before Halloween?"



With "AcuPUMPture," of course!

A BOY AND A BIDET

"So, how was the party, bubba?" I ask him, as his sister and I walk him home under the full moon.

"Oh, it was great..." he begins, and then launches into a laundry list of oh-so-wonderful things he experienced, as his sister kicks rocks down the hill, seething with jealously.

You see, although they abhor attending parties to which they have BOTH been invited, they appear to be in complete agreement on the fact that the other can NEVER have a better time than they had without them whenever they're invited to separate parties.

So, as he describes the "waaay cool climbing tree," she tells him about the pumpkin spice sundae with caramel sauce she had at the ice creamery while he was gone. And as he shares his new fascination with Star Trek movies and proceeds to explain how each of his buddies clearly takes on each individual personality of the cast in the first movie (not the TV series), she makes sure to one-up him with details of our bike ride to the park to play soccer in the moonlight.

And for every cupcake, hamburger, party game, and goodie bag he puts forth, she's got an equally awesome story about walking Reynita, listening to the frogs at the park, and watching her bike reflectors light up with passing vehicle headlights.

And by 3/4 of the way home, my head is about to explode from the twin terror tête-à-tête...until...he gets to the toilet.

"So, the best part of the night," he says with his trademark smirk, "was their toilet."

"Their what?" I ask, as we round the corner past the house with the magnolia trees so fragrant I feel instantaneously transported back to the Garden District in New Orleans.

"The potty, Mom," he says, clearly translating now for the lesser species and snapping me out of my déjà vu.

"Yes, I understand, son, but what was so great about it?" -- fully aware that I just willingly and wontonly opened the door to a potential flood of boy birthday party bathroom humor...

"Well," he began, cocking his head slightly as he turned towards Saia, "it had all these buttons."

"Buttons?" she asks timidly, also well aware of his penchant for punning...

"Like a command center," he says.

"What were they for," she sidles up next to him.

"Oh, different things," he says, attempting nonchalance, but blatantly laying the bait.

"Did you push 'em?" she bites, so fully engaged now that they can barely put one foot in front of the other.

"Mmm-hmm," he says, smiling.

"Annnnnd?!" she gesticulates wildly.

"It squirted water," he says.

"Eww!!" she gasps. "It squirted water at you?! From the potty?!?!"

Quickly realizing he's about to lose her fascination to disgust, he stops walking to better explain with accompanying hand gestures.

"No, no," he says, "it's CLEAN water, like when you flush. It shoots up this little stream of water to your...(he glances over at me)...butoire (a made up Frenchified word we used when they were little to refer to their bottoms)."

She looks over at me immediately, knowing they were treading into territory verboten. Intent on hearing the end of this story myself -- without influencing the outcome, if possible -- I just nodded my silent assent for them to continue.

She turns back to him, as they begin walking slowing down the last hill, and he continues, "It's a soft spray. It doesn't go inside or anything," which, apparently, was a huge concern for her because it immediately put her at ease.

"Oh, so, what do the other buttons do?" she asks.

"Well, they pretty much all do the same kinda thing...just at...um...different places...and...um...different heights..."

"But what's it FOR?" she finally asks.

And I begin my very short explanation by alluding to that ridiculous toilet paper commercial with the family of bears with pieces of TP all stuck to their bottoms...

"So, anyway... how long were you in the bathroom, bubba?" I break in.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, "but Beckman had to come find me."

"Did you ask Max anything about the toilet? Did you even tell him you liked it?"

"Oh, no," he said, aggressively shaking
his head. "Not one person said anything about it all, but..."

"What?" she prods.

"Well, they all had this weird look on their face when they came out of there the first time."

"So...you know, son," I interject, "those toilets are actually called bidets. They're European..."

And the pun. Did not. Elude him.

Thoughts at 9:11 on 9/11

It was still dark out when my brother called me. My alarm hadn't even gone off yet. Nothing good ever comes from those calls.

He was in Texas. I was in Seattle. "Turn on your TV," he said. And we just sat there...for a good hour...just watching. Together.

I hate how the events of that day have redefined our personal and our nation's sense of security and freedom forever. I ache for the needless loss of life, for those that still suffer, and for those that will also mourn the other 364 days of every single year for those they've lost.

But there is something inexplicably magnificent for me about the fact that this day and that moment will always link my brother and me.

I Don't Drrrink Rrrrootbeer Often...

But when I do, I make sure it's IBC.

THE END OF THEIR CHILDHOOD

The last day of 3rd grade sucks.

It may as well be the end of the world, it sucks on the suck-o-matic scale of suckiness so bad.

And no, I'm not being melodramatic. You don't know! You're not here!

The days of single-digit birthdays...GONE!

The days of holding out on sleepovers precisely because of the single-digit age...GONE!

The days of holding hostage all-day, multi-kid play dates because they were just to young to be trusted in large groups, and too young meant until you're in 4th grade...GONE!

The days of school field trips if and only if one of their parents could tag along and photodocument the entire escapade for the eternal baby books...GONE!

The days of succumbing to my fashion desires because it would make a much better picture than a tank top and sports shorts...GONE!

The days of deciding for them what summer camps, extra-curricular activities, student council activities, talent show entries, and book reports they should do because, of course, I always know what's best, which also happened to be what they really really really want but didn't know they wanted...GONE!

The days of allowing your parents to influence your choice of buddies, which is almost always based on your parents' ability to even remotely tolerate their parents...GONE!

And, based on our recent viewing of "We Bought A Zoo," the days of not being so grossed out by two people kissing that you squirm yourself into a frenzied fit of giggles...

Well...luckily...I still have that one, dammit.
...

FUELING HER DESIRE

Silly, I know, that something as simple as her insisting on gassing up our vehicle and cleaning the windshield could suddenly make me see her as a CEO, Nobel Peace Prize Winner, Olympic champion, and mother of six.

But it does.

WHY SUNDAYS ARE FOR SUNNING

It's days like these that remind you why stopping to smell the roses is time-tested and true.

The boy out golfing with his Mommy. And the girl with me at her BFF's pool party. And for the first time in quite a few weeks, my shoulders have dropped below my ears and my sigh is is more inhale than exhale.