What Happened to Funny?

I don't care if you're an immortal film critic, Grandma's Boy is a monumental waste of time. If it's on your Netflix list, remove it immediately.

It was on my list, then off my list after I thought better of it, then back on in a desperate attempt to rent a laugh. I planned a little date with Robin that included frozen lasagna, cheapo wine and the movie. I looked forward to it all day.

After five painful minutes of flat jokes and awkward acting, I said "If I don't so much as smile in the next five minutes, I'm turning it off." Ten minutes later I couldn't take it any longer.

It was the worst fifteen minutes of television I have ever watched. A 30-something-year-old video game tester pot smoker moron who has to move in with his grandma because his roommate used their rent on erotic massage. Maybe you could do something with that if you used real actors? Or a real script? I don't think anyone could smoke enough pot to think this movie was funny. Sigh. What a disappointment. Guess I'll just rent Forty Year Old Virgin again if I want a laugh.

Death by Dip

If you ever find me tipping the scales at 1,000 pounds, fused to my couch from not getting up in over a year, it will be because of this evil, evil combination: Stonemill Kitchens Artichoke Jalapeno Dip and Stacy's Pita Chips. Both found at Costco.

God forbid these two ever find their way into my home again.

Oh, is this what it's about?

Last Friday I think I got why some moms wouldn't give up the SAHM title.

I awoke to sit with Gigi and Mister Rogers. She demanded I sit right next to her and eat her cheerios. So I did, except I was the one who actually watched the show, she wandered off after a few minutes. The characters sang a song about being glad they were the way they were and being pleased with themselves. I tried in vain for almost an hour to find the song online. I found similar songs, but not that one.

Anyway, it made me feel so good about myself that I cried. Only Mister Rogers can work that kind of magic.

Later that morning I called a mom in my group who lives down the street to see if she wanted a ride to Seattle Center to see The Green Sheep. Another mom had arranged for a group of us to get a discount for the show.

We had a nice ride downtown and made it to the theater with ample time (always a good feeling when kids tend to slow you down). The waiting room before the show was crazy. I was drowning in children, yet I was calm because my child was so well behaved. Gigi weaved around the kid-packed room a few times, checking everyone out. When it came time to move to the show room, she reached for my hand and we followed the crowd like, um, sheep.

I didn't know the story of The Green Sheep, but no matter. It was splendid! And, I cried again because of the experience. I was a little embarrassed. No, I'm not PMSing. G was in wide-eyed wonder the entire time. I stared at her and grinned some silly grins.

At home I put her down for a nap, but after almost an hour of her playing and singing in her crib, I tried reading her a few more stories with warm milk. It worked, even though I had to wake her up to pick up H at school.

That evening we went to Harrison's Montessori Last Day of School picnic. At the beginning of the picnic, the music teacher led the students in a round of songs, starting with My Country Tis of Thee (just the first verse). And yes, I cried again. Harrison stood just a few inches in front of the others and enunciated, with active lips, every word. Then they sang all the songs that Harrison had been sharing with us over the last month. I loved it.

Spending a day like this, uncluttered with thoughts of another job, makes me truly appreciate the opportunity to do this full time. Most days are more challenging, with tears not of joy, but thank goodness for these brilliant few that compensate for the rest.

Pirate Joke

Robin made up a very, very nerdy joke:

What did the pirate say when he overfilled his ship with loot?

"Argh-a-mateys!"

Dogville

I mentioned to a friend that I didn't particularly like Nicole Kidman as an actress, yet I liked many of the movies she's been in (The Hours, The Others, Birth, The Human Stain). He said I might enjoy Dogville then. While I appreciate something different and unexpected, I wasn't quite expecting this film.

It opens with an aeriel view of the set, which is a lone street in a tiny Rocky Mountain town. The minimalist set looks like a stage production might before the props are put in place. Bright white painted lines outline the houses, storefront and church. Within the outlines are written the names of the inhabitants. For instance the names "Chuck and Vera" are written within the outline of their small house that they live in with their seven children. The name "Elm Street" is written along the street where the action takes place.

The set feels bizarre, yet seems to serve a purpose. Perhaps giving the town a transparency removes its mystery. You can see what's going on in whatever building is nearest to the action at hand. Rather than this being distracting, it permits greater focus on the dialogue and characters. It's more like watching a live play than a movie, and were it not for the all-star cast (and a few shocking moments), one might keel over into a coma due to the slow and sometimes repetitive pace.

A wealthy-looking woman, Grace (Kidman), stumbles into this town while escaping from gangsters. The suspicious townsfolk allow her a two-week trial period to show her worth. She helps each household in earnest, and at the end of the trial, the people vote to keep her as a resident. But as out-of-town officials start pasting Wanted posters in the town, the townsfolk start demanding more of her in return for their silence. They figure she's lucky to be there, so she should pay for the privilege.

The disturbing demoralization of the townsfolk reveals their true human natures, including their ugly desire to command power over someone more helpless than themselves. It's as though Grace's time in the town was their time in purgatory; their chance to prove themselves as good people. As much as she forgave them, they failed.

The theme of morality underlies the film and is philosophized by the main male character. The brutal ending leaves it up to the viewer to think about and determine whether any of the characters deserve the title of Moral.

Apart from the gift of thought provocation, Dogville offers unique presentation and all-star performances. Not for everyone I'll admit, but a good break from the cookie cutter fluff of most summer flicks.

Little Old Me

Boy, was I good today. With the exception of needing a little rock-rock at 3:30am, I was a stellar child.

Woke up just before 6:30am, allowing mommy nearly 30 extra minutes of sleep (minus 15 minutes at 3:30am) than normal. She still begged, "Here's your milk, please sit here," and crawled back into bed while I chilled with Mr.Rogers. Luckily I woke up to miss that inane Teletubbies show. Who writes that crap? Clearly Mr. Rogers is the one with the brains - someone I can learn from. I'm going to marry him.

After the show I pitter-pattered (I purposely make the pitter-patter sound because I know how freaking cute it is) over to mommy's bed. Usually she's annoyed when I yank her out of bed by her hair, but this morning she was cheerful and didn't look nearly as ragged.

She "made" my breakfast: cheerios with sliced bananas. Real creative, mom. I could feed a third world country with the number of cheerios I've eaten. Wait, are those blueberries in your cereal mommy? Where's the love.

Then Harrison got up and was oddly cheerful as well. While he took an hour eating his breakfast, I held back torturing him with my razor-nails. The mellowness of the morning felt kinda nice and I didn't feel like starting a ruckus. Yet. Maybe after school.

After dropping H off at school we went to the grocery store. I always learn something there - usually what buttons to push to make mommy cry - but this morning I learned that mangoes don't make much noise when they hit the floor. Way less noise than the glass did when I broke it on the kitchen floor last night. Must try this experiment with melon next time. We did get more blueberries, so maybe mommy will share tomorrow morning.

At home I helped with laundry, then we were off to the park near our house. The stroller ride was particularly nice today because the sun was out but it wasn't too hot. A nice breeze blew my curls to and fro. I looked damn cute I must say.

For lunch I had leftover pork chops with a mashed potato/broccoli side. Did mommy add more salt? Somehow it tasted better than it did last night. Or maybe she put extra butter? Or maybe I was just starving since I wouldn't eat my snack at the park.

What a treat: Elmo's World is all about babies today! I just started saying "baby" last week, so here's my chance to shine. "Baby baby baby!" Oh look how proud mommy is. Sucker.

Naptime was pretty boring as usual. Dreamt about those animal crackers from last night. Why can't I have those flying dreams I keep hearing about? Maybe if I try falling asleep thinking about jumping off the jungle gym at the park, I'll end up dreaming about flying over to the swings. That would be awesome.

Woke up and did yet more laundry. Seriously mom, get a life.

Since Daddy flew someplace on an airplane (yeah, I know what those are, but I can't for the life of me imagine how he gets small enough to fit in one), mommy said we could have McDonald's for dinner. I sucked ketchup off of about 20 fries before I was full. Mommy tried to stuff some of those nasty nuggets into my mouth, but I'd rather chew on Harrison's lead-painted trains than ingest that poison.

Harrison and I tried our regular evening ritual of screaming and fighting until mommy loses it, but apparently she was prepared with Finding Nemo, a delightful and mesmerizing film about sea creatures who eat other baby sea creatures. And giant scuba monsters who steal fish children. That's as far as we got so I can't wait to see if there's a happy ending to this nightmare. Mommy promises it's THE BEST animated film ever made, so I'll give it a shot.

Had a relaxing bath with bro, then warm milk (gosh I miss those bottles) and stories. Not a bad life I guess. Maybe I'll let mommy sleep in again tomorrow. She might need it.

The Happiest Years of our Lives

Occasionally I hear older parents say that the happiest years of their lives where when their children were very young. Never mind the exhaustion, sleep deprivation and sheer relentlessness of children, it's all downhill from here.

I thought this sentiment might only come from dads who slept through year after year of middle-of-the-night feeding-changing-crying. No, it's moms too. Were they just lamenting their final days of being young? Maybe. Or perhaps it was the last hopeful pause before their marriage fell apart? Who knows. Why weren't the years when the kids were older just as happy?

Whatever the reason was, I turned to Robin the other night right before falling asleep and said, "If these are the happiest years of our lives, I want to acknowledge it right here, right now. Because when our lives are in shambles, I need to know that we didn't take what we had for granted."

Then last weekend I may have had the best day of my life. Maybe there's truth in what they said.

We woke up at the usual time of 6am (thanks to Gigi, aka Cock-a-doodle-do). Breakfast was a spinach quiche I'd made the day before. The kids love quiche, so there were no arguments getting them to eat. With a solid protein breakfast in their tummies, we treated them to donuts from Top Pot up the street. I had my usual iced soy latte, which I sipped for three hours.

Then we were off to Annie's Playground, the neatest playground in Seattle. Someone who loves to climb surely had a great time designing the play structures. Harrison kept saying, "Awesome!" as he ran from rope climber to climbing wall to ladder to hill. Gigi's new thing is hanging from bars, and there were plenty within her reach, which thrilled her.

The playground is as beautiful as it is fun. The walls surrounding it are covered in sea-theme mosaic art. It was obviously well thought out and built with love. You can see that even without knowing the reason it was built. It's called Annie's Playground because when Annie died suddenly and inexplicably right before her third birthday, her parents had the playground created in her memory. I thought about that as I pushed Gigi on the swings and couldn't help tearing up for a grateful moment.

Back at home Gigi napped while Harrison watched some TV and I read. Robin left to finally order our new door (which we promised to do after Josephine died, since our current door, in addition to looking ragged, has a giant kitty door sawn out of it). Nothing like sitting back while someone else takes care of a long-awaited domestic chore. Ahhh.

We spent the afternoon in the backyard playing on the jungle gym (kids) and cutting spent flowers (me). We BBQ'd burgers to look identical to the PCC newsletter picture that had been posted on the fridge for two weeks. The picture showed a perfectly grilled locally-farmed beef patty topped with blue cheese (possibly roquefort), lettuce, tomatoes and red onions. I chose the smallest whole wheat buns I could find so that the bread wouldn't overpower the meat. It was the best burger I'd ever eaten.

The evening was mellow with baths and stories before the kids fell asleep. All-in-all a perfect family day. If you only remember days like this, of course they're the happiest years of your life. And I suppose when children are innocent, uninhibited and bursting with a love of life, you can't help but live vicariously through them, which is probably a happier life than your own.

It's their joy that makes it the best years of our lives.

I just hope we can make them as happy as they are now for the rest of our lives. Then wouldn't every year be the happiest year of our lives?

Some Uplifting News

Do you remember when we sat in a dark closet, cloaked in a dark mood, suffocating in fear that the planet was speeding towards an overpopulation that would devour itself? I do. Which is why last week's Economist cover story made my day. The title read "How to deal with a falling population."

Huh? That wasn't supposed to happen. That's far too optimistic. For years I remember hearing about the dangers of overpopulation and the resulting scarcity in resources that would kill every living thing.

The article explains that for thousands of years the world's population steadily inched up until the industrial revolution, after which it quadrupled between 1900 and 2000. But now women around the world are starting to have fewer children than necessary to keep the population steady. It's estimated that the world's average fertility will fall below replacement by 2025. (But the population will still peak around 10 billion by mid-century.)

So now, and I still can't believe it, there is actual concern that the population will fall too much or too fast, which could pose problems for each country's workforce, and therefore their economies, not least of which includes paying for the care of their elderly.

After a biting remark about women choosing to "go clubbing" and "buy handbags" in their 20s instead of raising children, the article ends up recommending more support for working mothers, because "in societies which make breeding and working compatible, women tend to do both." This would be one solution to the problem of women having fewer babies. I'm all for that.

But for now, I'm just going to breath a sigh of relief for this one bit of good news. With all the other global bad news going on, it's a needed respite.

The Bottle

Of the many milestones that mark the passage of a child's growth, I think potty training and giving up the bottle most decisively leave behind the baby days. Since potty training is still at least 6 months away, I'm happy to accept the latter for now.

If it weren't for the books and experts admonishing the bottle past 18 months of age, I'd probably let Gigi have it indefinitely, as long as she promised not to take it to prom. The bottle has been our best friend since birth (with daddy and brother tied for second). Yes, the bottle has been good to us.

It offered respite from the pain of breastfeeding around the clock in those early weeks.

It was my ticket to freedom when I needed an hour or two away from home to cut my hair or date my husband.

It allowed us the satisfaction of seeing exactly how much our baby was eating, because you never know with those tricky boobs.

It bought us precious extra minutes of sleep at five in the morning, when we could give her a bottle and put her back down.

It provided short but essential breaks from unexplainable fussing.

It was the surest way to get her to sleep at naptime or bedtime.

But things had to change, or I wasn't doing my job. She was two months past the cutoff date and besides, sippy cups are just easier to clean and easier to substitute for, say, a to-go cup from Starbucks, not that I ever need that option, but in an emergency, it'd be handy.

So I started weaning her from the bottle a month ago; only bottles at nap-nap and nigh-night time. Not a problem, as long as I kept the bottles hidden when it was sippy cup time.

Last weekend as I was handing her a sippy cup with warm milk, she freaked out. "Nyooo!!" she said, pointing above her head. There on the kitchen counter, sparkling in a ray of evening sun, was a bottle. Uh-oh. I panicked for a moment, but didn't give in. I deftly distracted her with a banana, and when she was out of the kitchen, I packed up all the bottles and put them out of sight, forever.

Now that they're gone, we do have to get up a bit earlier, and at bedtime she demands we show her that Harrison, as well as the baby in her Leslie Patricelli books, are going nigh-night too. But I have to say it's gone better than expected. She doesn't do the excited bottle-laugh and bottle-dance when I hand her a sippy cup, but she does take it.

I thought about this milestone later in the week when I went for a walk. Alone with no distractions, I thought I might get a little choked up. She was no longer a baby. Instead I smiled, knowing that potty training was still on the horizon.