March 28, 2007

Blast From The Past: Potty-Training Nomad-Style

Discouraging potty humor rather than dealing with potty training is our primary focus now, and my memories of teaching Finn to use the toilet are vague.

Not so with the twins. I don’t remember when it started, but one morning we woke to find the duo in their cribs naked from the belly button down. They became obsessed with tearing off their diapers, mostly at night. I quickly tired of vacuuming cotton fill from the floors after Drew and Porter ripped off the Pampers and dissected them before hurling them across the room.

That’s when Bill and I began securing the diapers with strips of duct tape while the twins looked at us reproachfully. It was clear we were robbing them of one of their cherished activities, second only to rearranging the condiments in the refrigerator.

The duct tape worked, and Bill and I congratulated ourselves. I was especially pleased because of all the vacuuming time I was saving. As with all child-related successes, we celebrated too soon.

The duo’s next milestone was learning to escape from their cribs. Porter, always a gifted climber, perfected this skill several weeks before Drew, but his brother’s lack of dexterity was no problem. Porter simply pushed a chair next to Drew’s crib. Once Drew had gingerly negotiated the railing, he could slither onto the chair and then the floor. They were free!

From then on, Drew and Porter began escaping nightly, despite our attempts to keep them in their beds. Noiselessly they’d toss their pillows, blankets and stuffed animals onto the floor, climb out of the cribs, gather their belongings, and roam the house until they spotted a more inviting spot to slumber, at which point they would set up camp and fall asleep. Each night Bill and I would make sure all the doors that led outside were securely locked. Every morning we’d search the house for our youngest boys. They’d be under the computer desk one morning, curled up by the refrigerator the next.

One night I woke up and heard excited babbling and a strange snipping sound. Bleary-eyed, I went into the twins’ bathroom. Porter was working with his craft scissors, sawing at the duct tape around his waist. Drew had located real scissors, and had almost freed himself from his constraining diaper, though it had cost him dearly. His fingers were mottled with tiny cuts and there were smears of blood on his waistband.

After a hasty conference, Bill and I decided that if the boys were vehemently anti-diaper, we’d respect their wishes. Urine on the floor was preferable to sending the twins to school with cut up hands and trying to explain that to their teachers.

From then on, we put them to bed bare-bottomed and hoped for the best. Drew and Porter continued their nightly sojourns around the house, and we continued our morning twin locater service. I added a new routine to the morning, in which I walked around the house barefoot, sniffing, waiting to locate puddles by feel or by smell.

My investigations were in vain. My feet remained dry, and my nose picked up plenty of foul odors, but urine was not among them. After a week, we concluded that the boys were either stopping by the toilet to pee during their nomadic travels, or had learned to stay dry through the night.

Potty-training nomad-style was perfect for our family, but I wouldn’t recommend it for those who don’t want to face bare asses before coffee.

March 25, 2007

No Class

We were seated in first class on our flight from Atlanta to Newark on our way to Portugal.  The boys were ecstatic and I took (undeserved) credit for the situation because I had spent a lot of time chatting up the Delta agent as we both tried to make sure that our family and our bags would end up in Lisbon.

From then on the boys were convinced that all it would take to escape the confines of coach class was a smile and a wink from me, and when we checked in at the Lisbon airport yesterday they hollered, “Get us seats in first class, Mom!  We want to sit in first class!”

I just might have been able to do it, too.  The Portuguese loved the boys’ light hair, and the whole family was reasonably clean, or at least we weren’t smelling overtly like clams.  Finn’s snarl had temporarily disappeared, I’d put on a swipe of lipstick and Bill was his usual hot self.  Drew and Porter happened to be wearing matching pants, and were walking through the airport and reading at the same time, looking like studious little princes.  I imagined that someone could have mistaken us for a cultured European family returning to London after a Lisbon sojourn.  I smiled with pride as I presented our passports at the airline counter.

The ticketing and check-in process was lengthy, and I had a number of documents to keep track of.   As I looked for a missing ticket, the agent began to frown and look at the baggage scales where our suitcases were.  The twins were standing on top of the suitcases engaged in what I can only describe as redneck repartee:

Drew: Guess what?

Porter: What?

Drew: Chicken butt!

(manic giggles)

I looked behind me; Finn was staring into space with his mouth hanging open, listening to his iPod.  Bill was leaning against a column surrounded by all the boys’ backpacks, reading 1776, oblivious to his offspring’s antics.  (This should be interpreted as unequivocal praise for the book.  Bill has little patience for long books or poultry jokes.)
Meanwhile, the guys continued.

Porter: Okay, now my turn.  Guess who.
Drew: Who?
Porter: Chicken poo!

Drew laughed so hard his face got red and he started coughing.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the agent. “Perdao,” I said, while I swatted the twins off the baggage and sent them back to Bill.

We sat at the very back of the plane.

March 20, 2007

Letter From Lisbon

We’re in Lisbon, Portugal, and so far I’ve learned a lot of Portuguese, which is a combination of many languages so you can pretty much use all your French, Italian and Spanish and make yourself understood. It has actually been harder to learn to use the European keyboard on the computer here and this is the first day I have been able to form written contractions.

We were supposed to arrive Saturday but the snow in Newark nixed that plan. Lemonade out of lemons, of course, so we drove to Atlanta and toured the Coke factory and tasted forty kinds of drinks Coke sells around the world. All I have to say about that is that I am very sorry, Italy, for the bitter aperitif known as Beverly. I thought root beer was bad.

The Glamore family finally arrived in Portugal Monday. As always, our vacation has centered on food thus far. We ate lunch at a “snack bar” called Cafe Tigelinha where we managed to order and devour salmon and veal. After naps for the three oldest, showers for all and a quick tour of the neighborhood (the Baixa), we went to the expensive but yummy Solar dos Presuntos.

Twinsanity reached their limit energy-wise as soon as we were seated but woke to ravage a football sized spider crab, slept again at the table, then woke once more to gorge themselves on shrimp and lobster rice and cod fritters. At one point so many flakes of crab were flying about as legs were cracked and crab forks were used to excavate the tiniest morsels of meat that it looked like a small blizzard around our table. I’ve not yet had time to wash the sweaters and shirts we were wearing and I’m amazed we were able to navigate about town today without a pack of cats following hungrily behind us.

Although we were without cats, we were saddled with Finn’s attitude, which grows heavier by the day. Why have none of you mothers of boys told me that the line about boys being harder when they’re younger because of all the stitches, but easier when the hormones kick in, was a load of crap? I’ll be the brave one and tell it like it is– the penis doesn’t make anything easier except waiting on your boys to go to the bathroom.

Sulkiness aside, we had a marvelous day. We took the #15 bus to Belem (pronounced, for no apparent reason, “Ber lang”) and toured the Coach Museum (stage coaches, not Knute Rockne and Bear Bryant) and ate the famous pastries of Belem which are essentially creme brulee in a pie crust.

We also saw the Monastery dos Jeronimos where Vasco da Gama is buried. Drew thought we were going to see his actual bones,and was crestfallen when the marble tomb had no peephole where he could catch a glimpse of femur. We glanced at the Monument to the Discoveries (this was at the height of Finn’s mood) and proceeded to the Tower of Belem which was right on the water and had narrow spiral stairs up to the very top. Drew and Porter were thrilled with the Tower and had to be dragged out of it when it closed.

The Portuguese are extremely friendly and almost forward when it comes to the boys. A couple of people have stopped them to take their pictures, citing their blonde hair as especially beguiling. One older man paused on the street to zip Porter’s jacket higher–it’s much colder and windier than we had expected– and Porter was so shocked he stood still and submitted without complaint.

I have high hopes that Finn will return to his non-sulky self tomorrow, and that our exploration of the castle in the Alfama area will be exciting. We’ve also vowed not to leave without tasting barnacles, and we’ve seen them featured in a couple of restaurant windows. I’m going to google the proper procedure for eating them (as with crawfish, you must pinch off a certain body part and pull the meat from a particular orifice) so we’ll be prepared when the barnacles and the Glamores meet up.

March 16, 2007

Thong Gone Wrong

My fortieth birthday got lost in all the hoopla about the Writer’s Conference, the stuffed rat squirrel, and my discovery that I’d inadvertently bought Finn sexually suggestive body wash.

It may have been unnoticed here, but it was fabulously acknowledged in real life. Bill threw a party, all my best friends were invited, and I was feted in a lovely manner. Although Bill had specified “no gifts” on the invitation, several people did bring small presents, including our orthodontist, Dr. H. I was happy to see a present from him, as I assume that means he regards me as a source of everlasting revenue, and not an overburdened mother who tries to squeeze too much orthodontia into too little time.
I grew up with his wife and finally persuaded her to come to Jazzercise where we grapevine together several mornings a week, and I suspect she was the brains behind this particular celebratory item.

Aunt Lulu was in town for the party, and the next day we were cooking dinner and opening presents while the bulgogi marinated. I got to the H’s box, which was tiny, opened it and pulled out a wad of tissue paper. I had just enough time to lift out a small piece of cotton and say,”Oh look! It’s a thong!” when we heard a scream from the backyard where the boys were jumping on the trampoline. I put the thong down and wearily got up to investigate.

Finn stomped inside, and said moodily, “I only pulled his hair really gently. Like, it wouldn’t have hurt a girl. I don’t know why he has to be such a baby about everything.”

Finn was followed by Porter, who came sobbing up the steps holding the side of his head, and wailing, “He almost pulled all my hair out by the ends! He always pulls my hair!”

Drew followed, oblivious to the others. “Do you have anything that needs chopping?” he asked when he saw that dinner was in progress.

I sent Finn and Porter to their rooms, asked Drew to chop scallions, and Aunt Lulu and I poured some wine, started the rice,then played with the baby.

I called the boys to wash their hands and set the table for dinner, and Porter whizzed in, laughing hysterically. He had my thong on his head like a hat. As soon as Drew and Finn saw him, they started yelling and screaming and ran to the dining room and got more underwear out of my basket and put it on their heads. All three marched around the kitchen singing, “We got panties on our heads! We got panties on our heads!”

Aunt Lulu was horrified. Her beautiful five month old hasn’t started fondling his penis yet, or picking his nose, and here she was watching the Ladies Underwear Parade like a vision of a future she didn’t want to experience.

“Guys, no one wears ladies underwear in this house except me,” I said. “Not on your head, not on your privates, not anywhere. Drew and Finn, take the underwear off your heads and put it back in my basket!” I yelled.

“Don’t you want them to put it in the dirty clothes since it’s been on their heads?” Aunt Lulu asked, wrinkling her nose.

“She’s right, take the panties to the dirty clothes!” I commanded.

When Aunt Lulu went to her room to change the baby’s diaper, I dashed into the laundry room and retrieved my panties and deposited them into my basket of clean clothes. I mean, the boys wash their hair every night, and it’s not like I’m drowning in clean underwear.

Porter had disappeared while I was dealing with his brothers, but he’d left some evidence behind. When I got ready to serve up the plates, I saw his panda bear, Bamboo, sitting on the counter. Evidently she’s forty, AND STILL HOT!

March 12, 2007

Schickel Insults Blogs; Melee Ensues

The last thing I expected to report from the Writing Today conference was that I was lured into a public SMACKDOWN over the value of blogs and blogging by Richard Schickel, film critic for Time magazine and author of many movie-related books.

Mr. Schickel gave the keynote speech during Friday’s lunch. There was a moment of silence during the invocation before his speech, and I prayed the words I customarily pray before I give a presentation because I was scheduled to talk in the afternoon session. I asked God to guide me in my choice of words, for wisdom and self-restraint, and then I prayed that God provide anything else I needed that I’d forgotten to specifically request. That’s my spiritual-legal catchall phrase I tack on just before the Amen which provides an extra dollop of comfort.

Thus armed with the Holy Spirit, I sat back as Mr. Schickel was introduced.

I was gobbling up both my rice pilaf and his words because I’ve been reading and enjoying his movie reviews since grade school. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but when we were growing up Aunt Su and I occasionally resorted to slaps and hair-pulling in our zeal to seize the Time magazine from each other on Tuesday afternoons. We didn’t grow up to be nearly as geeky as you might think given that anecdote.
Richard Schickel began by emphasizing the importance of writing every day, without compromising yourself, and trusting your instincts when you write. This is all extremely valuable advice, and it’s a poor reflection on me that I regularly ignore all of it. I didn’t write yesterday, for example, because Porter threw up on the good sofa and the cleaning cut into my computer time.

Upon reflection, I may have sacrificed my values when I cooked a batch of pancakes and used one to illustrate a story about my tiny bosoms.

If I’d trusted my instincts, I never would have published the story about the time Drew got caught cheating at school, because so many readers wrote in criticizing the way Bill and I had handled it. While I’m usually tough, it was hard not to be affected by such strong words. (That post was published on iVillage, which kept the comments, but feel free to review the column and condemn us. My skin is thicker now.)

I agreed with everything Mr. Schickel was saying although blood, vomit and my exhibitionist tendencies sometimes prevent me from following his good example.

Schickel mentioned that his daughter has published a book, which he described as a “momoir.”

And then suddenly, he veered off course and said that blogging is for idiots. That no one reads a blog except your mother and maybe your cousin, and that it’s stupid to write without getting paid for it. If I heard him correctly, he described blogs as the “near beer” of the writing world.

At first I thought I had misheard him, but then I noticed everyone looking at me. I was already well-known as “the blogger.”
Mr. Schickel finished speaking, asked for questions, and I waved my hand wildly and stood. I was damn glad I had already prayed for wisdom, as I certainly had not prepared to speak to two hundred people in a serious manner.

I addressed Mr. Schickel, but my remarks were primarily directed at the audience, which included bloggers and the conference organizers, who had determined that blogging was important enough to warrant a session during a writing conference. I could tell that Schickel wasn’t the sort of man who was going to be swayed by anything I had to say.

I said that I agreed with most of what he had said, but that he was mistaken in his belief that there are no talented, serious writers on the internet. There are thousands of blogs, but those that succeed do so based on content– the writing. He cut me off by saying that a critic’s job is to criticize, and then announced that he doesn’t read blogs.

A critic may be allowed to criticize, but I’d be compromising myself if I panned books in my Book Reviews without reading them first.

Apparently my remarks garnered applause, but I was so upset by the attitude of a man I’ve revered for so long that I didn’t hear it. I was listening to the Bangles sing “Hero Takes A Fall” in my head.

My session went well, although my audience was made up of people who blog and people who, like Mr. Schickel, have never read a blog, and unlike Mr. Schickel, want to learn about a new form of expression. It was difficult to tailor a class to such varying degrees of expertise, rather like holding a golf clinic and having Tiger Woods and me as your two students.

Later that night I met the charming Gay Talese, who had obviously spoken to Mr. Schickel, as they have been friends for years. We shook hands, and he said slyly, “I understand that you are trouble.”

We briefly bonded over a love of gin and happily, he didn’t challenge me to a smackdown or even a game of tiddlywinks, so I was able to admire his smartly tailored suit, his unexpected yet perfect tie, and his two-toned shoes which would have looked pimpish on anyone with less panache.

The rest of the weekend I was bombarded with supportive comments about the brouhaha. No one seemed to know why Mr. Schickel had made the remark, as there was no reason for him to speak of blogging at all. Perhaps he was busy and hadn’t read the program in advance of his speech. Maybe he was tired. Things could be going on at home. Everyone has off days.

I did a little research today on the book Mr. Schickel’s daughter has published. You’re Not The Boss Of Me: Adventures Of A Modern Mom by Erika Schickel just came out, and ironically, it’s going on a blog tour this week. I thought it worth my time to read several reviews and it looks fun and racy, the sort of book that many of my readers might enjoy.

I encourage you to check it out. I’m a firm believer that the sins of the father should not detrimentally affect his offspring. I’m not always able to prevent that from happening.

Overall my first writing conference was a marvelous experience. Next time, though, when I pack my legal pad and pen, I’ll throw my boxing gloves in my bag, too.

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(Here’s one account of the story, and evidence that the story is making its way around the blogosphere. Mr. Schickel was NOT wearing the unusual hat depicted in the second link, by the way.)