Flush with happiness

Automatic toilets are the bane of my public existence.

I have three little boys in various stages of independence. One thing that they do not vary on, however, is their fear of automatic toilets. What a tragedy! Here is the epitome of cleanliness-- someone to flush for you-- and they avoid it like the plague. If you were in the stall next to mine, you'd think I was torturing them:

"Please, please, just go potty."

"No, mom, NOOOOOO! It's too loud! It's TOO LOUD!"

"Here, I'll cover your ears for you. Now go."

"The light is flashing... there it goes! It's gonna flush! IT'S GONNA FLUSH! AAAAHHH!!"

Next comes the shrieking and the stomping. That would be my eight-year-old. Now, my five-year-old doesn't bother to shriek. He simply throws all his weight against mine and drives me backward, out of the stall, and pins me against the opposite wall. Who knew that a little guy with pants around his ankles could move an amazon woman.

My five-year-old-- we'll call him S-- is autistic, and tends to anthropomorphize items, especially appliances. Toilets apparently fall into this category. I've always wondered how he classifies automatic toilets in that brain of his, besides the "avoid at all costs" category. Once he is informed that I expect him to use a public toilet, his first question is, "Is it audomadic?" This, of course, means that I have to investigate and report. He will immediately reject any automatic toilet and his bladder will turn to steel. It's disturbing but admirable at the same time.

Several days ago we took the D.C. Metro into the city for the Christmas tree lighting at Union Station. Riding the Metro is the penultimate of existence for my boys, so this was heaven. We missed the lighting ceremony, but it didn't matter! We got to ride the Metro! We had a lovely visit and ate some delicious pizza.

On our way out of the station, we made a potty stop. I cringed at the idea that we might be doing the toilet dance. But lo and behold, the people at Union Station are traditionalists. No automatic toilets to be found. I was thrilled, the boys were thrilled, and we had a successful stop.

S was so glad to have been spared the agony of automation. As we walked away from the restroom, he turned and ran back to the doorway. He threw his arms wide, exclaiming, "I love you, bathroom!" and hugged the doorframe tightly.

I think we'll be going back to visit that restroom-- er, I mean, Union Station.

No Thanks for the Giving

I'd like to bring to light a conspiracy that no one has uncovered. It is that of the disappearing Thanksgiving holiday. Interestingly enough, the Jewish people have two types of holidays: major and minor. The major ones, as you can imagine, involve buying gifts and preparing food and lots of hoopla. The minor ones merely get a passing notice. Thanksgiving is rapidly devolving into a minor holiday in this country, which I consider a great loss.

If Thanksgiving disappears over the course of time, who will celebrate it? The Native Americans? Right. 'Cause it marks such a happy time in the history of their people. Ah--maybe that's it? Why Thanksgiving is a non-holiday? Because it's no longer politically correct?

Why do retailers skip so egregiously over the holiday? Maybe it's the lack of choices in decorations. What would retailers hang up in their windows to attract customers? Turkey feathers? And the cornucopias-- oh, the carnage! Imagine a full cornucopia hung decorously over the front door of a store. The cord breaks... the cornucopia teeters and out pours the contents... customers are beaned in the head with corn and squash and millions of acorns. Now that would make headlines.

Not to mention the limited musical selection. Shoppers would be inundated with songs about food, no matter what store they were at. And all those songs would have one word in the oft-repeated chorus: "Gobble, gobble!" Customers would lose their marbles en masse.

On second thought, maybe we'll leave the holiday as it is. A time to hang with the family or friends, spend a lot of time baking pies, and eat way too much food. Now THAT is a truly American pastime.

Rocky Horror Twilight Show

I would like to propose a new movie rating system. This new system will address the decibel level of the audience. It can be in addition to the current rating system-- I don't care. Just slap a warning on any upcoming doozies. Because thanks to the new Twilight movie, I am now deaf in both ears and my brain.

Yes, I read the books. Yes, I enjoyed them like a twinkie (thanks to the hilarious cleolinda for that fabulous analogy.) And yes, I told a few of my friends about the books. I even got to meet the author (briefly!) at a book signing and find out that she is an everyday mom like me. Except she's a bazillionaire with millions of books in print. That's okay, I won't hold it against her.

I read in one of my screenwriting magazines that the female scribe for this movie was handed the job right before the Hollywood money-hungry writer's strike. That meant that she had FIVE weeks to write the stupid thing. Oh, man. I almost returned my ticket right then. But I didn't.

I saw the trailer online and got a little excited. Then I saw one on t.v. and noticed that all the quoted praise across the bottom of the screen only mentioned the Twilight phenomenon in general. NOTHING about the quality of the movie. Oh, man. I should have paid attention. But I didn't.

I waited in line on opening night and tried to shrink my 6'2" self down to a prepubescent size so I would blend in, but I couldn't.

Instead I sat with my friends, half of whom had not read the book, and waited for the movie to start. We could taste the anticipation in the air. Pheromones and Junior Mints. It was like sitting in a room full of cats with ADD.

Then came the screaming. Not out of fear, or horror, or disgust. It was simply because the actors were first appearing onscreen. No, wait! That was just the title sequence! This audience was wound so tight I was sure the theater was going to disintegrate before they could rest their greedy little eyes on the male lead.

And so it went. The audience members knew the book by heart. And since the movie was faithful to the book, the viewers knew what was coming next (so much for suspense.) First twittering, then giggling, then a near-silent scream opening up to a full-throated screech in unison. Oh, my brain. My brain! I wanted the actors to die -- or anything-- so I didn't have to put up with this assault on my eardrums! The squealing was sending me into reverse puberty!

All complaints about permanent hearing damage aside, it was entertaining to be there. The audience participation was nearly on par with Rocky Horror viewers, minus the fishnets and flying toast. I laughed quite often, albeit at the wrong places. The dialogue and special effects were so bad that I think the director was going for camp rather than anything else. Though it may have been lost on the audience's youth-- I don't think they know what camp is.

Time to find myself a pair of hearing aids. I'm getting too old for this.

Forget Diplomacy

I inherited a tendency to avoid conflict at all costs from my mother. So when I chose to study diplomacy via International Relations in college, it was a tad ironic. Diplomacy involves lots of back-and-forth. Diplomats also try not to use threats because it stalls the process.

I suppose that I can mark the start of my journey away from conflict avoidance with my entry into high school basketball. Someone would clock me in the head or knock me to the floor and I would fight back by playing harder. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "Ooooh, she's so tough! She played harder!" But you must realize that it was a big step for me.

Flash forward to last week. Our water heater's life ended with an epic failure. It was way past its prime; still, what did we do to deserve the flood? We shut off the water to the unit. More water. We shut off the water to the house. More water. It was frightening to see how fast it poured out and we could do NOTHING to stop it.

I called our home warranty company and explained to them just how major our situation was. Their question, "Is there property damage?" Yes!!! Our carpet is swimming! Please help! It was eight o'clock at night. They promised to get a contractor out to the house. Two hours later I called back. "Oh, no one has contacted you yet?" No!!! We are still bailing out our basement WITH BUCKETS! Please help! Two hours later I called again. "We will try to get a third contractor on your claim." Gee, thanks. I wondered just what I would have to say to convince them that our situation was an EMERGENCY!!! I was tempted to take a drink of water and gurgle into the phone, "We're drowning!" We waited, all night, for them to call us back.

In the meantime, we had to set our alarm clock for every forty five minutes. The husband and I took turns getting up, emptying the bucket, and sucking the water off the hard floor and out of the carpet. It was like having a newborn again. Frequent nighttime wakings, out-of-control liquid emissions. We were exhausted.

The next morning I took my urchins to the bus. When I arrived home, I plunked down with the phone and was determined not to get up again until I had results. Here is my conversation, once the agent on the line knew of my situation:

"I really don't know how I can emphasize to you how desperate our situation is. This is BAD. We are WET. I am EXHAUSTED. And nothing is happening on your end."

"Let me see if I can find an available contractor for you.... (long pause) Ma'am? I apologize, but the only contractor we can find is not available until tomorrow."

Twenty-four more hours of this? You've got to be kidding. Alright. The gloves are off. You've knocked me on my on butt and thumped my head in the process.

"This is not acceptable. I cannot wait that long, and more of my property will be damaged while I wait! I am going to call my OWN contractor and bill it to YOU!" Wow, what a threat. So much for diplomacy.

Apparently, that was all I needed to say. They had a plumber on the way ten minutes later.

Birthday

Dear T,

My last letter to you was lighthearted and fun. I don't want you to take this one less seriously because of it. Today you are eight. I have traveled to foreign countries and had great adventures and taken on various names in foreign languages. But nothing compares to what you symbolize.

Celebrating my oldest child's birthday is a funny thing. It marks the advent of motherhood. It makes me feel older. It reminds me of how far I've come. And it makes me stand back and realize that yes, indeed, you are no longer my baby. Somehow my brain continues to superimpose that baby face of yours onto your current features. When I step back and your eight year old face comes into focus, it is startling.

I don't think anyone is truly prepared to become a parent. And if your friends who are already parents are worth their salt, they won't really tell you what it's like. The emotional highs go higher, and the lows go lower. You realize that humans can actually survive on little-to-no sleep for long periods of time, though mental stability might go out the window. You wonder just how the human race perpetuates itself when so much work goes into a singular, tiny creature.

I distinctly remember one night. It was late and I was up feeding you. I was struggling with post-partum depression but I still had moments of true joy. As I cradled your tiny body against my shoulder, I worked on getting that elusive burp that always brought about your great contentment. I mulled over how physically close you were to my heart and how much I truly loved you. And at that moment, I just wanted to wrap my body around yours and keep you there, always, in this tiny form, forever. I knew it wasn't possible, so I cried.

But I am okay with it now. You are no longer an appendage of mine. You leave my side every day to go to school, and someone else watches over you. You come home safely and back into my arms, however briefly, before you head off into one of your adventures with toys or friends. You still have that cute little nose and deep, black eyes that fascinate me. But I no longer cuddle your tiny head against the curve of my neck and feel your downy newborn hair. I miss it, yet I welcome the future.

You are my daily reminder of the start of my greatest adventure of all.

Just kidding

For the purpose of keeping my children off the radar, I shall call my seven-year-old "T".

Dear T,

We have been telling you for seven years that your birthday is on November 14th. What silly jokers we are! Yes, I realize that we were there for that eventful birth. And no, we are not old enough to be losing our marbles. But we have to admit that we've just been pulling your leg.

This has nothing to do with the fact that the economy has gone down the drain. Or that mommy's job is slow at the moment. Or the fact that the dryer choked and we had to have it fixed. Or that the dishwasher leaked into the basement and had to be replaced. Or that our water heater has exploded and is now draining onto the utility room floor.

No, we are just forgetful, loving parents who would like to correct their mistakes and tell you that you were in fact born... on... April 10. Yes, that's it! In five months we will celebrate your birthday with a huge party and lots of presents and plenty of sugar. I know, I know. We shouldn't have been joking all this time. But we love you all the same. Happy Birthday! Here's your lollipop.

Now, can you help me bail some of this water out from under the water heater?

(For those of you who worry, don't. Should the rain let up, "T" and several friends will be on a miniature golf course this Saturday to celebrate his eighth year on this planet. If the rain continues, we'll invade the local movie theater for "Madagascar 2", which I'm sure will provide plenty of blog fodder.)

Amazon Utopia

I am a very tall person. And my dimensions are not typical-- very long arms and legs, broad shoulders, big feet, not much meat to me. I've got the dimensions of a model but not the megawatt face or abysmal dietary habits. Before I continue, let me just remind you, the grass is always greener.

Clothing is hard to come by. Maternity clothing was even harder to come by, but that ship has sailed. I celebrate when I find a single item of clothing that fits me, truly fits me. Add on top of that the fact that due to my faith I choose to keep my shoulders, stomach, and thighs covered. This leaves me with a very small sample of clothing to choose from. I can't just walk into the mall and shop for clothes. It doesn't work that way.

Instead I have one mail-order catalog that I can look through once a quarter from a company called Long Elegant Legs. They have cute stuff sometimes but the quality is hit-and-miss. Frankly, I'm just glad to find a t-shirt that I can wear, so I bite the bullet and accept that the clothes probably won't last as long as I'd like.

Enter my next-door-neighbor. She introduces me to a store called Tall Girl. This is a real store. In a mall. That I can go visit. And try on the clothes. Wa-hoo! I had to go see this marvel for myself, so I made the pilgrimage to the closest store in Tysons Corner, VA. I was beside myself with anticipation.

When I walked in, angels sang the Hallelujah Chorus. No one checked my I.D. at the door to see if I was a certifiable Tall Girl, but it was obvious that I fit in. Every woman there was an Amazon like me. I nodded regally to a few of them, acknowledging the sisterhood we shared. Then I got to work.

The racks were taller to accommodate longer pants. There were dresses, coats, skirts, jeans-- all the normal stuff but in my size! I could barely contain my glee as I explored the store's offerings. A few times I even got a little misty-eyed at the prospect of coming back each season. A winter coat that will go down to my wrists! Pajamas that keep my ankles warm! This was my Valhalla, my Utopia. The streets of heaven will be lined with 36" inseam pants!

Thank you, Tall Girl, for acknowledging my existence and my need to wear clothes.