On a morning walk, I was wearing my iPod and groovin’ out to Melissa Etheridge. She’s always good for a "life-in-transition" phase. For those times when something - or someone - gave you the old raspberry (so to speak). Anyway, I was on to a great tune called Brave and Crazy. Unless you are not of the human persuasion, one has to "rock-out" to this tune. And, so I was.

I wasn’t singing so loudly as to attract stray dogs, but it was clear to anyone within view, I was "rocking-out." As I approached home, I always remember our guinea pigs (they’re in the news a lot lately!) because there are these large fields of grass I pass to get to my house. I try to pick some - the little buggers love it.

Melissa was getting to the point (if you know what I mean), and I began, well, I began a little dance with the grass. I pulled, and picked, gather the stalks when in the corner of my eye I noticed a walker by. And not just anyone, but my neighbor. What could I do? I was completely busted and there was no way to return to a manner of nonchalant woman who just moved in next door. Since I was in it deep, I decided I might as well go the whole nine yards and wiggle the grass in the air: Happy to see you! This young man barely nodded -as not to embarrass either one of us. I marched on to the tune playing in my ears and a fist-full of greens in my hand.

We were relieved to know that the current rodents were satisfied with the
decision to purchase iPod instead of hamsters.

(If we could only get them to clean their own cages.)

Coco asked me about the book I was reading called Expensive People.*

Oh, she said, It must be a book about selling people.

That’s about right. I said

Do they sell big people or kids?

Both.

How long do they keep them?

Until they’re 18 and then it starts all over again.

How do they steal them?

They take them home when they are born and keep them there.

Robbers.

Robbers.

*For the record, Expensive People was written by Joyce Carol Oates in 1968. The narrator is a boy who “explodes.” We follow the young boy as he tells the tale of the love he has for his mother, and yes father, but how these two messed up people living in organized, opulent suburbia steal the soul of their child with their addictions, lies, and ignorance. Nothing gets by kids.

My daughter receives an allowance every week. I wrestled on the right amount and came up with $2 a week. This allowance has raised the bar in my
parenting/her childhood. Now, when she wants something I get to say:

Well, you certainly can buy that. Do you have
enough money for it?

It’s a monumental moment; as exciting as when she could buckle that
seat belt and go on sleep-overs.

The connection to the source of where exactly money comes from is a great source of
discontent in our lives. My money - my control - it actually doesn’t just "appear" in
mommy’s wallet. Avocados grow on trees, not cash.

When she decided she wanted a hamster because Hamster Monster Chase was the best game ever in gym class, I quickly defferred her want to her own pocket book.

We looked at hamsters (have you seen the testicles on these little bitty males??!!); we priced cages; then there’s the monthly food budget; tumbling balls (they must exercise you know);
and those little chips you throw on the bottom of their cages. Adds up.

Coco has managed to save about half of the hamster capital investment. This morning, she declared she wanted an iPod.

Quick to see my opportunity to tip the scales away from a eating, pooping, smelly rodent to a small piece of electrical equipment, I said:

Well, might have enough saved for an iPod or at least half. Geez…but that’s your hamster money.

Her reply was swift:

I think my guinea pigs are cute. I don’t want a hamster anymore.

Deal done.

My daughter bowls me over, again and again.

She and I went to the beach this weekend, just the girls because I needed a break and we hadn’t spent any time together, alone, in a long time. The weather was perfect. We found ourselves on this odd schedule of up at 5:30 a.m. and then eating lunch at 10:30 a.m.; dinner at 4. We zonked by about 7 p.m. The sea was calm; the beaches empty; the warmth not sufficating.

One thing was wrong, we just couldn’t get over missing out little guy, Addison. Bringing this little guy anywhere is tons of work. And, the break was worth it and I didn’t pine so much as to miss out on the beauty and tranquility around me.

But, it was just so quite. We never took down his little plastic pool which hung sadly 1/2 inflated on the patio.

My daughter missed him so much, it really surprised me. She took his picture off the shelf and said we had to have it with us the whole time. Several times she broke into tears. I was so touched by her love for her brother. The two of them are such a pair, I think siblings are more influence on us than we realize. I can’t imagine traveling again without, but realize it is a necessary part of my sanity - his extra needs do get overwhelming.

My daughter insisted we get home early so she could see Addy. We did. And when we got home, she left me to all the unpacking and spun up the stairs to find him. After five minutes she left to go play with her friend. Kids.

Funny thing……News came out today that breastfeeding mothers do not get "smarter" kids. I’ve already been told my son, who has Down Syndrome, will be challenged/mentally retarded/disabled/differently abled. So, now I’ve completely screwed him over by breastfeeding.

I was hoping I’d done something right. For, there’s my daughter over there, bouncing, dancing, almost beating me at chess, clever, insightful, empathetic…..but, she’s out of luck too. I breast fed her for 4 and 1/2 years!

I am reading this book by this incredible human being, Temple Grandin. She was the first to write a book about what life is like from her point of view. She is an assistant professor at Colorado State University. How many people said she was challenged/mentally retarded/disabled/differently abled? As I read her book, I saw so much of myself. My anxieties, inabilities to talk in numbing social situations, aversion to crowds, love of solitude, inability to ever really get applied physics or linear algebra - never led to a diagnosis of challenged/mentally retarded/disabled/differently able or autistic. I was often just called "not that good in science/math/English.

Temple Grandin hooked on to a few key things: a few smart mentors and a mother who wouldn’t accept labels. These teachers in Temple’s life understood that she approached the world in a different way and helped her to channel her thinking in those directions. Hmmmm…..sounds like a reasonably smart way to approach intelligence. Wait! Wait! Don’t tell me! There IS actually other theories and models to measure intelligence. This guy, Howard Gardner, came up with the idea that maybe all of us approach learning in a different way. He broke it down to eight different types of intelligence: verbal/linguistic, musical, naturalist, kinetic, visual/spatial, interpersonal, intrapersonal and logical/mathematic, which most of today’s intelligence standards are measured by.

So, unless we fit into the logical model, we have a hard time learning in the regular world. Those that hook on to a mentor, cheers! - for they may have found a way to their destiny. I struggled for years to fit into "their" world. Finally, I broke free. At times, I am more unsure of myself than ever, but that’s because I have to make my own model, I can’t follow "their" way. Scary, but freeing.

My son will approach the world in a way different than I do, but then so does my daughter. It’s our job as parents to help them figure out their way. My son already understands two different languages (and babbles in both); he’s healed three major medical problems without ever going to a doctor; and he has a whole gaggle of people that adore him and run circles around him. Now, who’s calling who a dummy?

I’ve got a great idea. I am going to invest in a big, inflatable chicken. Park it behind a mall; charge money to toddlers and desperate parents who just want their little pumpkin to have a bouncing good time. When I order this thing, I have to be sure there are giant slides running down the front of the bird so that these tykes can slide at will. Picnics tables will adorn the grounds and I’ll make a darned handsome profit.

Well go figure.

It’s already been done.

Kikiriki!

Addison loves the car. He’s the complete opposite of my daughter who usually threw up or threw a fit when she got strapped in. If Addison just gets a glimpse of our car, he starts scooting across the floor in delight. He stops occassionally to slap his hand on his knee and giggle in delight.

If I am running a little late or need just a second to gather keys, phone, money, bottle, diapers before we leave (for even the smallest of trips), I can safely put Addison in the car and he happily chats away while kicking his feet up and down and anticipating whatever journey we are going to take. If I am not taking Addison in the car, we have to sneak out the side door or he starts to cry when he sees the car pull away, which breaks everybody’s heart.

My daughter now loves the car, but once and awhile will throw up, just for old time’s sake. I’ve found one of the easiest ways to entertain the kids on a Saturday night is to load them up in the car, throw on the rain coats, and slurp down some Italian Ice at the cafe down the street (Costa Rica is growing up in gourmet!).

It just takes so little to please a kid, and me for that matter, most of all it is about feeling safe and knowing exploration is welcome; discovery is paramount; and raspberry ice a must.