All I Want For Christmas

When my husband asked what I want for Christmas, I drew a blank. I'm not some altruistic person who never thinks about my own needs. It's just that, I don't want to be disappointed.

Of course I could have asked for some grand, expensive something or other. But, considering my first hand knowledge of our finances and the desire I have to remain out of debt and to travel some day and retire well, I know that money spent on frivolity now, would disappoint me later.

So, I said I'd like some bubble bath. And not Lightening McQueen, nor Elmo, nor Bubble Gum scented bubble bath. I would like some relaxing, grown-up, high-quality bubble bath. I'm pretty sure I'll get what I want.

However, as I've put more thought into it, I've realized there are at least two more things I would like for Christmas, both of which would probably cost little in the way of cash, yet are probably far too costly to request. And both harbor huge risk of utter disappointment.

First of all, I would like to never concern myself with garbage, compost, or recycling again. I want it to magically disappear before I can even think "Gee, the garbage is getting kinda full." Same goes for the recycling and compost bins. I don't want to have to think "Boy, it's pretty full, I should do something about that." Then, two days later, "I don't think I can stuff another thing in there". Nor arrive at the point where "if I trip over another empty bottle, I'm going to scream!" or even "Where are all those fruit flies coming from?" And especially, I don't want to ever have to utter, or even think the phrase "Could you please take that out?"

I just want it to magically disappear.

Secondly, caulk. I never, ever, ever, ever want to concern myself with caulk again. I don't want to think "Boy, that caulking is starting to look a bit shabby and moldy, I should really do something about it." No, I want the caulk redone before that. I don't want to have to calculate the next time we're going out of town exactly when to strip the old caulk (in the midst of packing everyone's suitcases and cleaning the entire house) so I have maximum drying time before applying the new caulk as we're walking out the door, in order to allow maximum drying time whilst we're gone. Nope, I don't want to even get to the calculating point. And I especially don't want to ever scrape the moldy old caulk from the tub, nor apply the new caulk in a "simple, narrow bead, smoothing it with my finger". Yeah, right. I never want to Google "caulk bathtub" again. And I certainly don't want to ever feel compelled to utter the phrase "Will you please re-caulk the tub?"

I just want it magically done.

See what I mean? Way too costly, and surely to be disappointing. But a girl can dream.

Tomorrow I'm taking a luxurious bubble bath in my newly caulked tub, after I take out the trash.

Language of Love

I've rediscovered some old italian cds I purchased when I was in Italy some 12 years ago. It seemed like only yesterday however as I listened to and sang the heart-wrenching lyrics of Claudio Baglioni's Piccolo Grande Amore.

You may say that cheese is cheese in any language, but in Italian, cheese is poetry. Let me share some of my favorite phrases and a loose translation:

Quella sua maglietta fina
tanto stretta al punto che m'immaginavo tutto

(Her thin t-shirt was so tight, I could imagine everything)

ti amo davvero, ti amo, ti giuro, ti amo, ti amo davvero

(I love you truly, I love you I swear, I love you, I love you truly)

E lunghe corse affannate incontro a stelle cadute
e mani sempre più ansiose di cose proibite

(Long walks under falling stars, and hands always more anxious for prohibited things)

non sono sicuro se ti amo davvero
non sono, non sono sicuro

(I'm not sure if I love you truly, I'm not, I'm not sure.)

che lei
lei era
un piccolo grande amore
solo un piccolo grande amore
niente più di questo... niente più

(and she, she was a big little love, just a big little love, nothing more than this, nothing more)

adesso che saprei cosa dire
adesso che saprei cosa fare
adesso che voglio
un piccolo grande amore

(now that I'd know what to say, now that I'd know what to do, now that I want a big little love.)

Wow. Everything's better in Italian.

I bet you know someone that could use some italian lessons.

Law Vs. Theory

I have a theory as to why my kitchen floor is rarely fully mopped. You see, I seem to think I can only mop if my kitchen itself is completely cleaned. My mother taught me to clean the floor last because what sense does it make to clean the floor, then wipe down the counters, do the dishes and drop crumbs and dishwater everywhere right? I realized, that I never seem to have a large enough block of uninterrupted time in which to clean and mop. So, I clean the kitchen, move on to something else that is pressing, and before I can return to the floor, the kitchen is filthy again. My theory therefore is that, my imaginary rules are just that--imaginary. I think that if I break that rule, and mop the floor of a filthy kitchen, my floor will still be cleaner, and my kitchen will be as clean as usual.

So today, I tested my theory. I shoved the kitchen table, with a few remaining breakfast dishes and all, over in the corner, rolled my full, clean dishwasher out of the way, cleared one half of my sink and filled it with mop water. I swept and mopped my floor. I did it! I no longer have to clean before mopping (reminds me of the moment I discovered that as an adult, I can turn on the A/C and roll my window down if I so choose). It felt good to have just gotten it done . . . until Murphy showed up.

Not 5 minutes after finishing drying my clean floor, I walked past that kitchen table in the corner and accidentally knocked a half-full cup of apple juice off the table, spilling it all over my clean floor.

My Theory, zip; Murphy's Law, point and game.

Is there a Doctor in the House?

I'm so glad my son received the Flu mist this year. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about flu vaccines. Ethan had influenza A a couple of years ago and it was the most miserable experience for all of us in recent memory and I vowed to get my children vaccinated from that point forward. The flu mist is apparently a kinder, gentler vaccination. No shots, no bandaids . . . oh and no dead virus. Yeah, the flu mist contains a weakened LIVE virus I've since been informed. So pardon my skepticism if the flu mist (that they give out for free in the elementary school to keep kids healthy and in school) is a prime suspect in my household. One to four members of my household have been ill since November 10th. That is just three days after Ethan received the mist. He has subsequently missed 4 days of school and we have paid over $100 in office visit copays and I'd guess about that much in prescription and OTC medication, not to mention the $200 we'll likely be billed for Matt's chest X-ray to rule out pneumonia. Some free vaccine.

This morning we had another man down. Elliot, who appeared on the upswing the past week, suddenly came down with a fever. As Ethan had developed a secondary infection (ear) and Matt as well (bronchitis), I knew the routine. I called our family practice. Being Friday, they were unable to get me in until very late in the day. I took the appointment, but called the pediatrician who couldn't do much better. So, I decided to try our former family practice which we left last year when the doctor we liked left. Little did I know I was about to be scolded.

He already has an appointment with the family practice.

Yes, I know, I was hoping to get one sooner with you. How do you know he has an appointment?

Our practices are both owned by the hospital and the records are shared. I show you have an appointment this afternoon. You can't just jump around to different doctors.

So I'd have to have my records transferred back if I wanted him seen this morning?

That would be the only way to do it.

Okay, is there an urgent care clinic near by?

Yes.

So, I could take him to a doctor at the urgent care clinic who's never seen him before and has no records, but not to your practice where he has been seen before and obviously has some records on file?

That's up to you.

You're kidding. We saw a doctor there last year. It's not like he's seen the new doctor a whole lot.

I show he's been in 4 times this year.

Big brother now aren't we? So he had a diaper rash, it's not like he's chronically ill. So, if I wanted to transfer his records, do you even have an appointment available?

With the nurse practicioner.

Thank you, I think I'll call the urgent care clinic.

I knew there was a reason we left that clinic.

Perhaps someone could explain to me the difference between seeing a doctor within a practice who is not my doctor, because he is available, and seeing a doctor in a clinic owned by the same people that obviously has my records in their system? And who is working for whom here anyway? Isn't it my (and my insurance company's) money that pays these bozos? Why can't I just switch doctors lady? You still get paid, Miz Gatekeeper--NO DOCTOR FOR YOU!!!

So, I spent a couple of hours at the urgent care clinic, with a feverish child asleep on my lap, so they could tell me he has an ear infection and give me a prescription for an antibiotic. I could have told you that and saved everyone the trouble.

I was the last one to fall victim to the initial virus, and am the only one not yet in round two. Knock on something will ya?

Things Beethoven Did Not Write

I may have mentioned that I play (and not terribly well) for a local orchestra. This season, I signed on to be the orchestra librarian as well. This means that, among other duties, I am responsible for unmarking music. I get to go through everyone's part after the concert and erase all the little things they've put in the margins to help them remember how to play their part.

My husband was helping me erase the other night and asked,

Why don't they just play it as it was written?

Good question. I answered that just as a scriptwriter cannot possibly include every nuance of human behavior and speech in his script (nor would we want him to), neither can, nor should, a composer script out every fine detail of the music. Music has tools that allow a composer to be more specific than perhaps a scriptwriter can be, nonetheless, there is still a little room for artistic collaboration and interpretation. And of course emphasis and clarification.

And further, as became obvious as I was cleaning the Beethoven parts, Beethoven did not have the colorful range of musical terminology we employ in this day and age.

Now, I consider myself quite fluent in Italian and this has come in very handy in understanding musical terminology. It does not however, help me very much in understanding some of the notes I recently erased. Here is but a sampling of the personal touches added by musicians in this little orchestra:

A violinist reminding himself to play at the tip of his bow might write: Tip
An extra enthusiastic violinist my also write: Tippy-Tip or the more heartfelt Tip-o-rama.

There is also the obvious: No Sleeping Here!

The particularly descriptive: BLASTING!!!

Or, so you don't forget, you might scrawl in 1-inch letters across the top of the piece, the handy reminder:

DYNAMICS ARE EVERYTHING!!!

Perhaps you want to scare yourself into paying attention. You could pencil in: BOO!!

If the notes on the page are not sufficient, you can add: Yes, we can play here.

Being a violinist, I don't have much understanding of how a woodwind instrument is played, but apparently a handy reminder is: Tongue!

To get your point across to yourself, you can always opt for short, yet descriptive words such as HUGE! or BOOM!!

Or, if you respond better to such things, vulgarity is apparently an option: F***ING LOUD!!! . . . and here I always thought ff meant fortissimo.

And lest we forget that all musicians, even the trumpets, need occasional positive encouragement, one can always make a musical record of nice things the conductor has said:

10-28 9:36 pm "Brass, that was Good!"

And my personal favorite, simply because I have no idea what it means, let alone how to say it in Italian:

Release the Penguins.

Yes, please do.

Tap Shoes

This is for those of you who have read (or memorized in our case) If You Give a Pig a Pancake . . .

Today as we were getting ready to leave I asked Elliot which shoes he wanted to wear. In all seriousness he replies:

My Old Tap Shoes.

Pauses for effect, then giggles. If I had the patience required to be a baby-booker or scrap-booker, this would be one for the baby book--baby's first humorous literary reference.

I love that my boys, long before learning to read, have discovered the magic of books. I love that they memorize them word for word and can "read" them to me. I love story time--even though I admit, I have been fooled by the promise of "just one more" and "this is the last one" and caved to the piteous "pweese Mom! I tan't read da words" more times than I remember. I even love that, despite the late hours they sometimes keep, they both love to lay in bed at night, pouring over book after book. I love that Ethan is being awakened to the higher magic of books as he learns to read and now devours every letter and word in sight--like a hungry man sitting down to a feast after hours of smelling dinner cooking. I love that library day rivals any number of other outings (and it's free!). I love my boys, and I love books.

Guns 'n Chromosomes

My grandmother once saw my mother snuggling and kissing her baby boy and commented:

You're going to make a kissy-boy out of him.

I declare that this world is in dire need of more kissy-boys. You know what I mean don't you? Boys who grow into men who kiss their wife and their children. Men who aren't ashamed to cry or to cuddle their babies.

But, you may ask in horror, what if he likes playing with dolls? Or grows up to be . . . you know?

I'm here to say that I have strong evidence that nature plays an overpowering role in these things. It is my job as a mother of boys to tamper that three-headed-macho-monster a bit. I have a couple of babydolls that I keep in my boys' toy box. I'm happy to find them playing with them on occasion. When I was pregnant with Elliot, I encouraged Ethan to hold and rock the baby doll. I've tried very hard not to shame or discourage "girly" interests such as when Ethan's favorite color was pink, or when they want to play with my jewelry.

And though we haven't outlawed toy guns, I do try to avoid having them in the house and discourage violent pretend play. And though we don't discourage sports play and Matt does occasionally watch a game, we certainly aren't sport fanatics in our household. Let's just say the macho threshold is very low around here.

All this withstanding, my boys both know how to distinguish a skid steer loader from a front loader and an excavator from a backhoe. Why? Because they're naturally interested. We own The Little Mermaid and they both enjoy using their Fairy toothpaste, but by and far, the winning movies in this household all revolve around heavy equipment.

Imagine my surprise the other night when we came in and the boys asked to leave the lights off. They began commando crawling around the house with headlamps and flashlights. A little bit later I noticed they both had ball point pens clipped to their clothing.

What are those? I asked.

Those are our guns! Ethan happily replied.

We're dookin' for bad duys in da dark. Elliot chimed in.

And they ran off making shooting noises at shadows lurking in dark hallways.

I smiled and put them to bed and they both asked to sleep with their guns. The next morning Elliot comes to me bright-eyed.

Good morning sunshine! I say.

Where are my duns?! He asks with concern.

I'm not overly disturbed by this. Boys by nature are definitely boys. I doing my darndest though to make sure we end up with a couple of kissy-boys--even if they're dun-toting kissy boys.