the pieces of my life

Normally I average around 70 hits a day (hello, my loyal 70 hits!). So far today I’ve had 397 hits. Why? Because one clever little monkey on Adam’s Sons of Sam Horn board found my posting about Adam posting in their message board (hmm, that was a little convoluted) and had a field day with it (hence the comments on that post). I’d post the thread, except it’s on their super-secret password-protected site. So for those visitors from SOSH, I post this for you: When’s Randy Johnson coming? And how sweet is it that Roger Clemens got shelled in what should be his last All-Star game start. Serves that fat hick right. And by the way… dead.

I now return to my regularly scheduled blog.

As Adam says, Doodles is now as smart as a puppy. He also has similar interests. Doodles will eat food (as long as it’s Cheerios and Veggie Booty) off the floor. He loves to try and pull the toilet paper off the roll. He responds to simple commands (such as “Splash, Doodles!” in the tub). He rips up newspapers and magazines. He finds a toy and singlemindedly mouths it until it’s completely slobbered upon, and when he loses interest, he tosses it aside without a thought. Doggies like to swim; Doodles likes to swim. He even sort of barks like a puppy. If puppies spent their days trying to stand on their hind legs, the comparison would be complete. So I guess Doodles has one over the dogs.

I’ve got writer’s block of the blog. I need new topics to blog about. Any ideas?

This is the only scenario I can imagine: a group of TV creatives sat around a conference table, their careers at stake. The networks needed something new, something to compete with The O.C. and The Simple Life. Something to grab that 18 to 24 market. As the TV men (and they must be men because women would be smarter) drank their Chai Creme Frapachinos, they contemplated what the 18 to 24 set does.

“Summer time is approaching,” they must have thought. “What do these kids do over the summer? Who can we best sell our Doritos and Oreos and Mountain Dew to? Ah, the crowd that has the munchies! Let’s make stoner TV!”

Now, being respectable TV men, they weren’t sure what stoner TV would be like. So one evening they dropped a copious amount of acid and went to work. “There should be these space creatures!” one would have said.

“No, no,” says another, “not space creatures. They should be ‘five magical atoms of power, light and fun!'”

“Excellent,” says another. “And they should live in pods that whirl in an iridescent glow of rainbow light!”

“And they should dance!” adds yet another. “Hypnotic trance-like dancing to hypnotic trance music.”

“People can play with different household items, doing weird things with them.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” another says and they begin developing this far-out show. Psychedelic lights. Bright colors. The atoms of light.

So finally the show was done. And as networks everywhere must do, they tested their show. Nothing like a focus group to tell you what you’re supposed to think. Gathering a roomful of potheads, the network execs excitedly screened their new offering. Ah, the lights. Ah, the music. Ah, the dancing. Ah, the atoms of power, light, and fun. And you know what happened? Those potheads freaked out. Screaming, pulling hair, shaking violently. They just couldn’t take it. This show was way, way, way too out there for them.

The TV men began to freak. They accidentally out stoned the stoners. This show had to work. Their careers were on the line.

“So what do we do?” cried one in panic. “Who will watch our show?”

They huddled together and tried to salvage what they could. Their budget was nearly depleted so few changes could be made. They tossed ideas back and forth. Could it be the next Friends? Just add some twentysomethings. Maybe they should make it a reality show. Add in a live behind-the-scenes camera. Maybe it could become the next Law and Order ripoff. A few cops, a morgue, a little blood. Unfortunately, all of this was too expensive.

“What can we afford?” one asked.

“We can’t even afford minimum wage. All we can afford is kids. Really, really young kids.”

Eyes lit up. The “ding ding ding” was practically audible.

“Kids, hmmmm?”

In a matter of days the potheads were replaced with the under four set. Everything else–the psychedelic lights, the trance music, the weird storylines and odd narrator–remained the same. Even the name, Boohbah, still worked. Pop it on PBS, and the TV execs knew they’d hit paydirt.

Okay, so maybe that’s not really how the show came about. But I can’t figure out any other reasonable explanation for this show. Doodles loves the show. Again, he only watches TV in about ten minutes spurts on those days when I’m just beat (which tends to be those rainy days when we’re cooped up and I’ve exhausted every song and toy I can think of), so it’s not like he watches it daily or even weekly. But when it does come on, his eyes get that zoned out look that wouldn’t be out of place at a college dorm at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night.

I wish I could do this show justice in my description, but I simply can’t. It must be watched to be believed. However, if you’re over the age of two, you may want to get yourself into an “alternative” state first. It won’t make any sense otherwise.

Doodles and I were on one of our many walks, when I noticed that someone was throwing out a stack of National Geographic magazines. As Doodles loves to read magazines (in other words, flip pages and tear out random sections), I grabbed one for him to look at. It didn’t seem like a very old issue–it’s from June 1973. I remember June 1973. Okay, not specifically and not well, but June 1973 doesn’t feel that long ago. Until the other afternoon when Doodles became obsessed with the rattle on his stacker and yet didn’t want me more than three feet away. With nothing else in range, I grabbed his magazine and leafed through it. After reading the ads, I concur, 1973 was an age ago.

For starters there was the Ma Bell ad (not that any company name was given–just the little bell logo) advertising how cheap a three-minute station-to-station call between the U.S. and any number of countries is. 1) It wasn’t cheap. $6.75 to France. $9 to Japan. 2) Station to station? Does anyone even remember those calls? Those were just the plain old pick-up-the-phone call as opposed to person-to-person calls where the operator asked for the specific person you wanted to speak to and if he wasn’t there, you didn’t pay for the call. More things–along with rotary dials, turntables, and typewriters–that Doodles will have no knowledge of when he grows up.

What if you wanted a new car in 1973? Well, a Chevrolet Caprice Estate Wagon might fit the bill. Pure luxury. Doesn’t get any finer. “Roomy all-vinyl interiors, molded full-foam seats, new soft rim steering wheel are all standard.” Plus, they “improved its flow-through power ventilation and provided an electrically powered clock.” An electrically powered clock! Where can I get one of these babies?

Of course, there was one ad that even I didn’t understand. It was about “how Western Union is improving the nation’s communications.” Sure, I know what a telegram is, even though I’ve never seen one in action outside black-and-white movies. But what the heck is a Mailgram? They explain it, and I still don’t quite get it: “It works this way: you phone your message to Western Union, toll-free, and our computer instantly transmits it to a U.S. Post Office nearest its destination. Your Mailgram is put into a distinctive blue and white envelope an delivered by regular letter carrier.” If you’re at the phone to call in the message, why can’t you simply call the person you want to give the message to? Is there something here I’m missing? (Side note: you can still send a telegram. Who knew? There’s something very sad to me about Western Union holding on to the whole telegram thing. How many telegrams are really sent a year these days?)

It’s interesting to me; I have the TV on mindlessly in the background while I write this. What commercials are we going to look back on and laugh at the datedness of or at the supposed advancements that will seem so minor by the time Doodles is an adult?

And that’s me. I turned 36 last week. And that means I’m closer to 50 than 20. How did this happen?

I am running. It’s tough going, but I’m doing it.

I’ve joined a marathon training group, Boston Fit, which is part of USA Fit. The program is fabulous. It’s a four-day a week running schedule, with the during-the-week runs by minutes, not by miles. Our long runs are done on Saturdays as a group, and let me tell you, running with a group makes a huge difference. I won’t say the miles melt away, but they certainly pass faster. So far, our long run is eight miles (nine this coming Saturday) and it feels pretty good. I run a lot faster with the group (especially since I’m not pushing Doodles in the Baby Jogger).

Of course, my individual runs have improved significantly as Adam got me a Garmin Forerunner 201 as a present. I haven’t had any problems yet with losing the GPS signal and I do a lot of running on a heavily treed trail (the Minuteman Trail). So far I’ve actually found it really motivational because knowing my pace and distance pushes me to go just that much faster or farther. I haven’t figured out half the features, but the ones I’ve used have been great. I used to wear a heart rate monitor, but I’ve read a lot lately that says the old working out in “zone” is a bunch of bunk and I never found it useful because I’ve never been able to run in my range.

Way back when, before I was a blogger, I used to bike ride. My buddy Eugene conned me into doing the single-day Seattle to Portland bike ride four years ago (only when we did it, it wasn’t the “Group Health STP”; it was simply to STP). I did it as a challenge to myself, to see how far I could push myself. And, truth be told, I did it because the boys were doing it and hell if I was going to let the boys do something without me (I’m a big believer in “anything you can do, I can do better”). But Eugene was an amazing coach. Every week he sent out a coaching newsletter chock full of information. Some was motivating talk. Some was training tips (I’ll never forget his advice to “imagine that there’s a rubber band on the top of a hill pulling you up”; I actually frequently think of this as I’m running up a hill). Some was encouragement of what we did (“and on Saturday, we rode 72 miles, and we all made it up the 65th street hill” [these are not exact quotes]). He gave suggestions for new training rides. It was such a treat.

Now, Eugene is going to run the NYC marathon with me (and when I say “with me,” I mean it in the same way that we rode the STP “together.” We started at the same time and managed to stay at the same pace for the first five minutes at which point he took off). So, Weegie, I need some encouragement. Where’s my newsletter?

Okay, so Papa wasn’t a rolling stone (he wasn’t even a Papa; he was a Peter), but Mama definitely was a hippie, or at least a hippie-wanna-be (hard to be a hippie with two kids, a mortgage, and a Mercury Cougar). She did her best to instill all those good old fashioned liberal ideas, using that good old fashioned tool of the liberals–song–into me and the Tweedle Twirp. It began with Peter, Paul, and Mary. It continued when we went to camp, where we sang songs such as “If I Had a Hammer.” And what liberal childhood is complete without Free To Be … You And Me?

So now, I fight the evilness that lurks in our house (aka Adam’s politics) using the powers my mother passed on to me. Adam, as he was influenced by his hippie-bashing father, doesn’t understand the potency of song (when I called Tweedles tonight to confer with her on the words of “If I Had a Hammer,” Adam said at one point, “She’s singing to you, isn’t she?” which is something he finds alien. As he said, “You know, I grew up in a household where not every statement inspired someone to break out into song.” Welcome to the Brown Family. I’m sure, right now this second, that sentence led my mother to think of some song that she’s now singing).

So, every morning, in my subversive suburban way, I play “Free to Be… You and Me” for Doodles. I skip over the spoken word parts–don’t get me wrong; these are still some of my favorite parts (how can you not love, “Hi, I’m a baby.” “What do you think I am, a loaf of bread?” “You could be, what do I know? I was just born five minutes ago!” but at ten months, Doodles doesn’t appreciate my spoken word, never mind a CD’s spoken word). He rolls around on the diaper changing table to “Every girl in this land, grows to be her own woman.” He pulls himself up on his toy to “When I grow up, will I be pretty? Will you be big and tall?” He yanks all the books off the shelf to “Some mommies are ranchers or poetry makers.” He wails and we call it a morning at “A doll said, William, is what I need, to wash and clean, and dress and feed.” (I consider this proof for the “he’s straight” side; other proof: he pulls off bibs and hats; the kid despises accessories. Evidence on the “he’s gay” side: he flirts more with boys than girls. Either’s okay with me; I just hate not being in the know.)

Adam doesn’t understand the power of the music. Oh, but he’ll learn. In five years, Adam’s not going to know what hit him when Doodles demands universal health care and day care and a complete overhaul of the welfare system. And I’ll credit it all to Marlo Thomas.

Here I am, another Wednesday night, and I just don’t have it in me to do anything creative here. I’m beat. Doodles has become quite the active little monkey (although he hasn’t been quite the Holy Terror this week that he was last week), and I’m spending my days chasing him saying, “Oh, that drawer that you keep slamming your fingers into is no fun! Try playing on this nice soft carpeted area” and “Oh, standing holding the bathtub is so passe. Try playing on this nice soft carpeted area” and “Oh, that open staircase you’re heading for isn’t interesting enough to crawl down. Try playing on this nice soft carpeted area.” You get the idea. That and he was up at 4 a.m. today and all his naps were in the stroller so it wasn’t like I got to crash out while he was snoozing. I can barely keep my eyes open. My free time has been minimal because I’ve had a lot of work due. And I had to update Doodles photos online. Takes longer than you would think–all his pictures are good ones.

So, if I were in the mood to blog, here’s what I would have been blogging about this week.

• Running: I’m movin’ and groovin’ on my marathon training.
  
• Weaning: So many feelings about this, so little energy to write about it.
  
• Doodles’s friend had a first birthday party at our house
  
• My utter spaciness: Things like needing to call Adam when I’m halfway down Route 2 because I realize I forgot to turn off the hose that I was using to fill Doodles’s pool.
  
• I thought there was more, but all I can think of is sleep.

Maybe next week my mojo will be back. Till then, get some sleep. Oh, wait, that’s me.

When he was just a wee one, we started calling him Doodlebug. He was such a tiny cute thing and, simply, he was a Doodlebug. But then he grew and he started gaining more boy qualities, and Doodlebug didn’t really seem to fit anymore. He was more of a Doodles, as he began to grab and smile and laugh and develop a personality. And now as he enters late babyhood, Doodles doesn’t fit so much either. He’s bigger, more verbal, and just not as passive as he once was. So he needs a new nickname. And the only one that comes to mind is the Holy Terror .

And, oh, what a Holy Terror he is. Mobility is not a pretty thing. That little monkey is not only crawling everywhere (still commando style), he’s suddenly developed a knack for pulling himself up. On everything that I don’t want him to pull himself up on. We have toys just the right size for him to grab onto. The couch is his. The sides of his crib are readily available. The carpeted stairs are nice and padded. So what does he want? Oh, the stereo looks nice. The sides of the bathtub beckon. The new toy rack that hasn’t yet been anchored to the wall. The Jumperoo but only when another child is actually jumping in it. When I offer him lots of opportunities to stand upstairs where the floors are carpeted, he refuses. But on the hardwood floors downstairs, he can’t get enough. Do you know how loud the smack of a baby’s head hitting the floor is? It’s not a pretty sound.

Of course, if it were just an issue of pulling up, that wouldn’t be a problem. But it’s also, well, everything else. There are the temper tantrums my formerly angelic child now throws when he’s dropped his toy/spoon/my keys/teething biscuit for the fifteenth time and I refuse to pick it up again. The separation anxiety that hits in the middle of the night. The solid food strike he’s been on for the past week and a half (he has this adorable way of clamping his mouth closed, shaking his head, moaning angrily “nnnnn,” and waving his hand in front of his face to block the incoming spoon). The “I want to do it myself” for holding his spoon and picking up his bowl of cereal (he won’t eat it, but he’s perfectly happy to grab it and fling it onto the floor). The beginnings of him weaning himself (a plastic bottle is better than me? I’m insulted). The melodic way he opens the kitchen cabinet doors and then slams them close (and then gets surprised that when he shuts the door on his fingers that it actually hurts).

Okay, so it isn’t all bad. He laughs and giggles more. His curiosity is incredible. The look of wonder on his face when he accomplishes something new is amazing. And he’s so interactive now. It’s simply fun. Or at least it will be once I invest in a baby helmet for the HT and a pair of ear plugs for myself.