Portrait of the artist as a young man

Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man.

Seven years ago tonight I was trying to watch the season premiere of Without a Trace.

I was in the hospital, having given birth to #1 earlier in the day.  He was off lounging in the tanning bed receiving phototherapy for mild jaundice.  The spousage had gone home to get a full night’s sleep, which I sorely needed myself, having been awake more or less for four days at that point (ever since my water broke late Sunday night).

As I recall, the episode began with a steamy scene between two of the characters, but even that couldn’t keep me awake.  I slept soundly for an hour or two until a nurse returned my wee son to me, all five pounds and a few ounces of him.

He was such a beautiful baby – big eyes, round head, a whisper of dark, downy hair.  And now he’s a beautiful boy.  Still has big eyes.

If the Jesuit saying holds true, he’ll be a fine man, I think.  Smart, yes, but kind, too.  Cautious but enthusiastic.  Generous and affectionate.  Occasionally impatient, but deeply ethical.

It is both a great challenge a great pleasure to be his mother.  Seven years ago, I had no idea how much, of either.  I think we are both looking forward to the next seven!

Avast!

Yes, mateys, it’s Talk Like a Pirate Day!  Arr.

I am so sleepy this morning!  I’m still suffering the tail end of The Cold That Wouldn’t Die, so I indulged in a little Nyquil last night.  While I slept like a log, I’d really prefer to have continued doing so long after the alarm sounded.

I did get in nearly a mile’s walk this morning, through an odd series of events that began when I pulled over on Broad Street to grab some Windex at 7-11 (the inside of the windshield was so smeary that, coupled with the bright, bright rising sun, it was nearly impossible to see).  Mom Phooey didn’t hear me say I’d be right back, and drove away with my handbag and laptop in the trunk of the car.  I assumed she’d just gone around the block, but after 20+ minutes, I began to wonder.  My cell phone was in my handbag in the trunk, so I cadged a call from the 7-11 guy, but Mom didn’t answer her cell.   It was a lovely day, so I walked east to my office, stopping at my favorite food cart for a breakfast sandwich.  About the time I was sitting down at my desk, Mom Phooey called.  She was downstairs with my laptop.  When she got home, she saw my stuff and realized I hadn’t meant for her to drive off.

And now I’m working on a proposal for a government agency (can’t tell you which one, but it rhymes with rasa), and all I want to do is put my head down on the desk and nap.

It’s that time again

#1’s birthday is coming up.

Regular readers will know what this means.  I’ve broken out the spreadsheets.

I have a list of supplies needed/purchased, with quantities, prices and costs per item (for my own info).

We’re doing pencils in lieu of sugary treats, some with a birthday message, and others with his class’s self-chosen moniker, The Thunder Thinkers (he was a Smart Owl in 4k, and a Respectful Learner last year).  Oh, and an assortment of pencil grips and eraser tops.

One I confirm the number of kids in his first grade class, I can figure out how many pencils each child gets, and I’ll know how much ribbon I need (this in case the pencils won’t fit in the sparkly pillow boxes I found on clearance at Oriental Trading; I can always repurpose those for another event).

Plans are still coalescing for his party, but we have a guest list, and I’ve ordered paper cups, plates and napkins, and party favors.  And trick candles!  If he goes along with my tie dye activity idea, I’ll only need those supplies and we’ll be ready to go.  I’ll bake the cupcakes on the day; we are still discussing flavors.  And colors.

Yes, I should be doing work instead of party planning.  But this is so much more fun!

And doing this stuff helps me to forget that I have no idea what his present/s should be.  Maybe this?

I still can’t figure out how I became a person with a 7-year-old child.

Backseat Boys

Fear of a female planet

Why are religious groups so afraid of other religious groups, of people who are less religious, or who profess no religion at all?  Is it because they fear the weakness of their own faith?

Or is it because they are dominated by men who fear women?

Like the Catholics who don’t want women in the priesthood.  Like the Muslims who want women obscured from head to toe.  Like the Jews who don’t want even modestly-dressed girls playing outside their school where males might see them.

Why bother sending them to school at all? Keep them where they belong.  Under cover.  Inside.  Marginalized.

Wigs, long skirts, high necklines, burqas,  these are for your benefit, men, not ours.  Honestly, guys, learn to keep it in your pants and to play nicely with others, and let the rest of us go to school, play outside, wear what we want, be what we want.

Oh, and earn equal pay for equal work.  That, too.

 

[Don’t even get me started about this.]