Happy New Year!

A short post here, I promise. After all, I need to get ready for our big New Year's Eve celebration -- a "family fun night" at our health club. (My, how parenthood changes things.)

But to start the new year off right, I wanted to link to a couple of fun blogs that gave me a sometimes rather embarrassing view of ... myself. You've probably heard of "Stuff White People Like," which a friend sent me a link to many months ago. (If you click on that link, be sure to then click on the full list of Stuff White People Like.) It was so funny I kept reading and reading, nearly missing my yoga class (No. 15 on the list) and at one point almost snorting out my coffee (No. 1). This was shortly after my breakfast of organic foods (No. 6). I had recently finished a book by David Sedaris (No. 25). And, of course, I voted for Barack Obama (No. 8). If you know me at all, and read this list, you will see that I'm so white, I'm practically translucent. Which explains why such a large chunk of my summertime paychecks goes to sunscreen.

The whole "Stuff White People Like" theme has become something of a franchise, which now includes "Stuff Journalists Like." It has a depressingly familiar theme -- the list includes low pay (makes us feel noble), working holidays (makes us feel superior to the lazy masses) and even layoffs (which have the eventual result of getting us into jobs with higher pay and holidays off). It also includes a number of items in common with "Stuff White People Like," but on the journalists' list, Obama is, appropriately, No. 44. It even includes "year in review" stories, which you're no doubt sick of by now. But there is an explanation for them. You'll just have to read it for yourself.

I like these sites enough that I'm adding them to my meager little blogroll. So anytime you need a laugh at the expense of white people or journalists, you can just come here!

"We don't want another Oswald!"

For those of us of a certain age, that phrase, yelled by a hysterical radio newsman amidst the chaos of Robert Kennedy's shooting, will always conjure up sad memories of two brothers dying way too soon, when they still had so much to give to our country.

In our household, that phrase now means something completely different. On the cable station Noggin, there is an old Nick program (for any parents out there, I'm sure you have those cable station numbers memorized!) about a blue octopus who always wears a black derby and lives in "Big City." He shares his apartment with a dachshund named Weenie who wears a hot dog bun as a coat. His closest friend is a penguin who always has to read the daily paper, can never deviate from what he has planned for that day and will never try new foods. (No, his name is not Sarah, although she should demand some sort of royalty from the creators.) There are many other characters on the show, among them:

A flower who roller skates everywhere who would best be described as ditsy

A pair of eggs who speak with English accents

A snowman who is the local ice cream man

"Madam Butterfly" and her baby daughter, Katrina (a caterpillar) who runs the local diner

A rabbit who seems to own and work in every store in town

and "Pongo," a friendly dragon

Elijah has become addicted to this program, and because our cable provider has DVR as part of its service, we have recorded almost every episode. To aid us in finding what Elijah wants to watch, I have listed days and show titles on a cheat sheet for reference. So when little guy asks to see the "Chasing the Ice Cream Truck" episode, I can get it for him without going through 30 different shows, and all the trauma that may bring.

The connection of all this to the title quote of this posting? The octopus' name is OSWALD, and after a morning of watching two or three of these shows (each containing two stories) the quote I mentioned earlier takes on a completely different meaning in our home, and becomes Sarah's and my mantra. Yet I really can't complain because now, whenever I hear the name Oswald, my only thought will be of the sweet character below (drawing by Elijah).

A beautiful mind

For those who wonder how the brain of a child on the autism spectrum functions, I believe Elijah has given a classic example. In between drawing basketball goals and numerous buildings and coloring butterflies, he wrote down random words that were going through his head, all with the speed of a reporter on deadline:

With all this going on in his mind, along with memorizing countless songs and entire scripts from TV programs, is it any wonder he can't remember to pick up his toys when he's done with them? Or that just Daddy making excuses for his "little guy"? I know where Sarah comes down in that discussion!

Yes, it's still Jeff and Sarah!

We're getting ready to jump into 2009 with some minor changes to our blog, including the title. (The address remains the same.)

Using our first names was so uncreative it was pathetic. I'm not saying that the solution you see above is brilliant -- especially since this template won't let me uppercase what I want to uppercase (a painful thing for a copy editor). But our new title certainly describes our approaches to life, particularly parenting: I'm the mom who doesn't go for organized youth sports, time-outs, baking, arts and crafts or entire days spent entertaining my offspring and driving him from activity to activity. I actually think boredom is GOOD for kids. Trust me, this puts me WAY OUT into odd territory.

And Jeff is, hands-down, the world's most even-tempered dad.

Perhaps I'll get around to making this site more splashy as the year goes on. At the very least, I plan to add quite a few links to sites Jeff and I like (some blogs, some not), as well as more photos. Improving my Web design and editing skills is my personal goal for 2009, not to mention my only chance for professional survival.

We had a fun little Christmas at our house, and it turns out that Santa came through with the basketball goal request -- in his own way. More on that later.

It's Top 10 time!

Well, it's actually two Top 5 lists. I'm trying to update this blog more often but am too lazy to do those long posts all the time (you can thank me now!)

Top 5 things I hate about winter:
5. All that yucky mud and salt and dirt covering my car and eating away at the undercarriage.
4. No flowers, leaves or green grass in sight. For month after month after month.
3. Leaving my desk exhausted at midnight, going outside and finding that a 20-minute ice-scraping job awaits before I can start the half-hour drive home.
2. That sinking feeling as I try to start the car in subzero temperatures, with my (painfully frozen) fingers crossed in hopes that the engine will, indeed, eventually come to life. And then trying to coax the frozen steering wheel to turn and the stick shift to shift.
1. That blast of cold air whistling through the crack between the door and the frame and chilling the entire downstairs because when last I thought about weatherstripping, it was when I happened to notice, on a 103-degree day in July, that it was all peeling off. Must get that fixed before winter, I told myself.


Top 5 things I love about winter:
5. Watching big, beautiful snowflakes transform the world into a quiet, pristine and glittering landscape that no Hallmark card can even begin to replicate.
4. Bundling up with Elijah, layer after natural-fiber layer, so we can go out to the backyard to make snow angels and sled down the hill.
3. Snow ice cream!
2. Curling up with a good book or a glass of wine (or both!) in front of a roaring fireplace on a cold, dark night. Might even have a few freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies, while I'm being indulgent.
1. Dreaming of a white Christmas -- and watching that dream come true with my little boy!

If Hanukah Harry falls in the forest and nobody is there, will he still say, "Oy Vey"?

For those of you who think that we have had too many crises this past year (Iraq, financial meltdown, unemployment creeping into everyone's life, Bristol Palin's future mother-in- law busted for operating a meth lab) there is one more that every Jewish parent faces this time of year....the dreaded "December Dilemma".

This is the problem of explaining to our child why instead of having a festive tree, singing spiritual songs, waiting up all night to catch a glimpse of Santa and having a gaudy light display in front of our house, we instead light cheap wax candles, eat chocolate money and wonder why two of the biggest selling Christmas albums of all time are by Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond.

Of course in our home, this really isn't a problem. I have seen photos of me as a child with our family gathered around a "Hanukah bush" and heard stories from my parents of my brother, sister and myself sitting on Santa's lap. Furthermore, because of my spouse's love of Christmas, a decorated tree has been part of our home for many years (as has a lit menorah and mezuzah), which fortunately has not led to my being asked to leave the Temple during Yom Kippur services.

But the real reason this is not a problem in our home is that Elijah doesn't care what the occasion is as long as he gets presents and chocolate-chip cookie dough or Hanukah gelt (chocolate money). For the last few years he has shown some (but not a lot) of interest in lighting the menorah, only because he knew chocolate was part of the equation. And Christmas had even less significance to him, as no chocolate was involved.

This year, things are different. Elijah really wanted to help decorate the tree and has been talking about Santa Claus and what he wants him to bring for Christmas (as an earlier post noted, basketball goals were high on the list). He also has been reading "Blue's Clues Hanukah Party" every day (for the record, Blue is not Jewish -- the party is at his friend Orange Kitty's house), so it really does feel like a holiday season around the house.

However, some confusion has crept into this festive time. Elijah has wanted a book he saw at Barnes and Noble, so we told him to ask Santa for it, which he did the following day. (Our health club had a Santa this past weekend). Unfortunately, he couldn't comprehend the idea that Christmas was still a few days away, so Santa couldn't bring him the book till then. This did not sit well with our impatient son. Then we realized that the first night of Hanukah was upon us and we could give him the book, which we did, bringing a wide smile to his face.

Did you follow that? We told Elijah to ask Santa for a gift, that he then received on the first night of Hanukah. This cosmic shift in the religious world that took place could only be described as monumental. Alas, our literal little lad knows the truth all too well. As soon as he asked Santa for the book he wanted he turned to me and said, "Daddy and Elijah to go to Barnes and Noble and get Lots of Dots" (the book in question). So much for the Santa mystique.

Still, it is great to see him excited about the holidays, and the happiness he exudes for both Hanukah and Christmas truly brings joy to our world.

You can't always get what you want

It's that time of year again, when the newspapers (Ooops! I meant Web sites! Everyone knows newspapers are, as Jon Stewart says, "Black and white and totally over.") are filled with tales of families struggling with how to tell children that Santa might not be able to make a visit this year.

As a mother, these stories tug at my heartstrings (yes, despite my cynicism in many areas of life, I do have heartstrings capable of being tugged). And this year, of course, there are more such stories than usual. But sometimes, those stories aren't quite as sad as they seem at first glance.

Take our house, for example. In a miracle that makes the Chanukah oil thing look like child's play, it turns out that both Jeff and I still have jobs, at least for the time being. So Santa will indeed be visiting this year (how about THAT for a multicultural paragraph? If only I could figure out a way to work in references to Kwanzaa, Diwili and Ramadan ...).

However, like many children who are far less fortunate than him, Elijah will NOT be getting the gifts dearest to his heart. This is not because Santa is being Scrooge-y this year, but because Elijah's requests for the Jolly Old Elf are -- how shall I put this? -- absurd.

There was a time, as recently as a year ago, when I thought Elijah would never understand the Santa concept. Kids with autism are very literal and generally do not have great imaginations, so abstract concepts are lost on them. Whether it's God or the Tooth Fairy or Santa, if they can't see it, it doesn't exist. So after about three or four years of trying to get Elijah excited about Christmas and reindeer and gifts and such, I had pretty much given up.

You've probably guessed the flaw in my thinking: Of COURSE you can see Santa! He's right here, in the newspaper ad (I mean, on the Web), on television, at the mall, etc. And finally, Elijah has taken notice:

"Santa can bring a basketball goal!"

I groan, having long ago grown weary of his obsession with basketball goals. It began when he was barely a year old, and it took us six months to figure out that "ba-ba cone" meant "basketball goal." By age 3, he had counted the 22 (he was an unusually early counter) basketball goals on driveways between our house and preschool. By 4, he was drawing pictures of them day in and day out. Even pictures of other subjects nearly always included a basketball goal (that's it right there, weaving its way up between the two figures on the right):




And by 5, he was pointing out the various styles and colors of backboards, nets, poles, brackets and countless accessories that I never knew existed.

Mind you, he does not play basketball. Has no interest whatsoever in it (or any other sport). He'll watch basketball on TV, but only because he's waiting for those glorious closeups of the ball going into (his heart flutters!) THE GOAL!

So his request to Santa was not altogether unexpected. Of course, he already has several of the coveted objects -- two of the little door-hanging kind that he has dragged around the house (even to bed) until they've fallen apart, plus a plastic adjustable outdoor one.

But is this enough? No! My little boy, who I never thought would "get" Christmas or Santa, wants more (after all, what is Santa really about, if not... "more"?). At last count we were up to "Santa can bring EIGHT basketball goals! Santa can bring eight BIG basketball goals! Black and red ones! And brown." And, lest I try to pull the "where would Santa get them?" routine: "Santa can get them at Target!"

This is the problem with kids who think literally. That elf-staffed toy factory at the North Pole doesn't seize their imaginations nearly to the extent that Target does. Or Dick's Sporting Goods, where great big black-and-red basketball goals can be had for a mere $500 each.

So I explain to Elijah that no, Santa is not going to bring $4,000 worth of basketball goals to a little boy who flatly refuses to play basketball. Undauted, he writes the following:

So, here we are, a week before Christmas, a pile of toys in an upstairs closet waiting to be wrapped, with the probability of a very disappointed little boy on Christmas morning. As I have attempted to explain to Jeff, this is one of those Important Life Lessons that his generation knows as the lyrics to a Rolling Stones song.

Meanwhile, I try to remember the lesson in those lyrics when I think back to Elijah's comment after I explained the situation involving the cost of EIGHT basketball goals:

"Mom and Dad need to get some MONEY!"

Mom, the Ultimate Party Pooper

Let me start out by saying that I have never claimed to be a fun person.

I'm not terribly energetic, for one thing, and I have never been particularly spontaneous. For example, if you decide you'd like to meet me for lunch (not that you would), you can't just call and say, "Hey, Sarah, how about lunch today?" That would totally freak me out, because it is NOT ON MY CALENDAR FOR TODAY. And if things are not on my calendar, I tend to hyperventilate when someone suggests them. Most days of my calendar are filled out weeks in advance, so if you would like to have lunch sometime in January, by all means send me an e-mail as soon as possible! I would love to pencil you in. (Yes, my calendar is actually on paper, not on a BlackBerry or iPhone. I can barely figure out how to update this blog, so give me a break here!)

The only truly out-of-character spontaneity I have ever experienced -- and this is a big one -- was a spur-of-the moment, four-hour middle-of-the-night road trip to Memphis, Tenn., in October 1993. One of my traveling companions who's been at this blogging thing much longer than I have wrote a better description of it than I ever could, and he just posted a comment with the news that it is right here.

Anyway, this is all a very long-winded way to say that I am not one of those fun moms you read about in magazines and newspapers (often in the police blotter, I might add). I have certain ideas about the way any given day should unfold, and those ideas include sitting together as a family at the dinner table.

Until recently, I was under the impression that the two males who share my household were on board with this. But since my shift to part-time work, which puts me at home three entire evenings a week -- and all in a row, no less! -- it has become increasingly clear that eating dinner at the kitchen table, or even in the kitchen, has not been the standard operating procedure these past few years. They were able to pull it together enough to put on the act for Mom two nights a week, but it all fell apart when the act was required for three full nights.

Although he's a kid of few words, Elijah can communicate quite a bit with those few words.

"Mom should go to work!" he declared one night at the dinner table shortly after my schedule change. He's repeated this request, with increasing desperation, week after week. Clearly, things are much more fun when Mom is at work, which pretty much confirms the suspicion I've had the past five years that when I'm away, the inmate runs the asylum.

To Jeff's credit, the inmate does actually eat more nutritious foods when he is not forced to endure the indignity of sitting at a table. Jeff literally follows him around the house with a bowl of broccoli, or carrots, or chicken (but never all three at once -- they might TOUCH, and therefore contaminate one another). He puts food into Elijah's mouth, just like spoon-feeding a baby, while they watch TV, dance to YouTube videos, draw or play with TinkerToys. Enormous meals are consumed in this manner, night after night.

By contrast, meals with Mom the Merciless generally involve all courses being placed on the same plate at the same time (leading to countless cross-contamination possibilities) and plopped down in front of him at the table, along with the appropriate utensils.

That's it. No music. No dancing. No toys or crayons or videos. No promises of post-dinner ice cream as a bargaining chip to encourage broccoli consumption. And, perhaps worst of all, no games involving bodily noises.

So the whining begins, and eventually Jeff takes over while I resign myself to another evening of irrelevance. I finish my dinner, then try to keep myself busy while the two of them wander through the house completing Elijah's dinner. After a rollicking YouTube video dance jam at what I consider ear-splitting decibel levels, it's bath and bedtime, which Elijah does allow me to be involved in, but only if Jeff reads him his final bedtime story.

One of these days, I'll share the grisly story of his birth, and perhaps he'll appreciate me just a bit more.

But just to be on the safe side, I'll give him big bowl of ice cream, too.

Time in a bottle

I'm sure he meant well.

After all, he was only trying to save me some money. Still, when the teenage boy at the checkout counter offers you the senior discount, "if you happen to be 55 or older, ma'am," well, it can really ruin a 42-year-old's day.

Granted, the roots have been looking a little gray lately. My kind husband was thoughtful enough to point that out recently, at which point I was thoughtful enough to point out to him that the reason I hadn't visited the salon was to save money. And this was BEFORE he managed to smash his car into not one, but TWO stationary objects in the span of one week.

I briefly considered actually having the damage repaired. Then I found out that said repairs would cost at least $2,000. Our insurance deductible is $500, and who knows what a claim would do to our premiums? Getting the gray out of those roots is a bit over $100, including the haircut. A bargain by comparison.

So guess who has to keep driving around in a banged-up car? Hint: Not me.

So now the gray has been brought under control, but I'm still stewing a bit over that checkout-line conversation.

Granted, there was more going on than the gray hair. It was past midnight, for one thing, and I was exhausted from a long night at work. So there was that dark-circles-under-the-eyes thing going on.

Plus, I was limping, as I have been for months now because of a knee injury I got by taking classes I wasn't in shape for at our nearby Very Large Upscale Health Club. Memberships there are not cheap -- and neither is the physical therapy and medical treatment I started getting for that knee, once I finally admitted that it wasn't going to heal on its own and perhaps needed professional attention.

That brought on yet another age-related comment that I could have done without. One of the physicians, at the end of my fourth visit for evaluation of this problem, informed me that 10 years ago, she would have simply recommended a program of specific exercises to strengthen the supporting muscles of me knee. But now, injections were the first line of treatment.

I took this to mean that a miracle drug had developed in the past 10 years, which would now work in tandem with physical therapy to speed healing. Then she added, "after all, this knee is now 42, not 32."

Oh.

I really don't know why such things annoy me so much. You'd think I'd have started getting used to this soon after Elijah's birth. He was just a few months old, and I was still having residual ligament pain from his birth, the first time someone asked Jeff and I if we were "the proud parents or the proud grandparents."

Ouch. There's a new kind of pain!

I eventually was able to laugh that one off, since I had been with Jeff at the time. And he is -- let's just be blunt here -- a baby boomer. Obviously, there are no spring chickens left among THAT demographic.

But the next time it happened, it was just me with Elijah, in a checkout line (what IS it about checkout people? Aren't they taught MANNERS?).

"Your grandson is such a cutie!" the store employee beamed. Elijah wasn't even a year old at that point, which means I was still 37. I told myself that Mr. Overly Friendly Checkout Guy must have thought I was one of those REALLY young grandparents. Yes, that's it! Like on "Oprah," where I once saw a show featuring a woman who became a grandmother at the ripe old age of 28. (No, that's not a typo.)

But then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of a display case, and I must admit, I could have done better that day. The baggy clothes, the hair, the aforementioned dark circles under the sleep-deprived eyes -- everything about me screamed "old."

Even more frightening, I was on my way to drop Elijah off with Jeff and head downtown to work, looking like something out of Night of the Living Dead. Real professional.

So, now that I might actually have to face being in the job market again (I'm still employed, but it's a tenuous employment at best), I have resolved to somehow look younger. Got the hair thing taken care of. I could stand to lose a few pounds, and I perhaps should try to project a little more pep.

Pep is really not my thing, but I'm determined to give it a try. Maybe I can buy it in a bottle.

I'll use my senior discount.

Death by a thousand cuts

Anybody need a copy editor?

You're probably shaking your head right now, thinking, What exactly is a copy editor, and why would I need one? I have spellcheck!

Well, if you're one of the countless people who, as you are placing the order for your Christmas cards this year, find yourself merrily typing an apostrophe in your surname, as in "Happy Holidays from the Smith's," then you indeed need a copy editor. I'm not even going to get into the geeky grammatical explanation of why that apostrophe is Just. Plain. Wrong. You'll have to trust me on this one.

The reason I'm wondering whether anyone needs a copy editor is simple: Today is yet another Layoff Day at my newspaper. (Layoff days, in my world, are sort of like wars. Once they become a recurring event, they get uppercase, proper noun treatment.)

So here I sit, wondering whether I have dodged the ax yet again. (This would be the fourth time this year, for those of you keeping track at home.) I'm cautiously optimistic, based on the fact that the e-mail announcing this round of bloodshed was sent at 12:32 p.m. and stated that nearly all affected employees already had been informed. It is now 3:50 p.m. -- no one has called, and an e-mail exchange with my immediate supervisor (who may or may not actually know) seems to indicate that I am safe once again.

As usual, the best source of information is the blogosphere (now THERE'S a sentence I never thought I'd write!). Local media gossip blogs, which have been amazingly accurate through round after round of these layoffs, have posted a list of those who have been let go. Some of the names were expected, some are stunning, some are sad (Would YOU lay off an employee who had worked nights, weekends and holidays for you for several decades and whose wife has recently been diagnosed with cancer? Well, then, you are not cut out for management!).

So here I sit, waiting and wondering and possibly sealing my eventual fate with sentences like those at the end of the paragraph above. If you're one of my bosses, trust me when I say that I'm NOT talking about you personally. I'm talking about the whole corporate machinery that builds up people and products and services, then cannibalizes itself in a desperate attempt to undo the damage wrought by macroeconomic forces and its own bad decisions.

Then gives its top executives multimillion-dollar golden parachutes.

You and I are both victims. But at least for now (4 p.m. Central, and the phone is still silent!), my name is not on the list. I hope yours isn't, either.

.....and Through it All, He Did it His Way.......

As we've mentioned in previous posts, Elijah is quite an artist. His teachers often praise his ability to draw and his fine motor skills. When he is coloring one of his beloved butterfly outlines he is meticulous to make sure nothing is outside the lines and each color combination is either new or has a meaning. (He used red, blue and yellow to represent Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum from Alice in Wonderland).

This is an example of Elijah's work when he had free time at school. His "Shapes" has become one of his favorites, being dragged from room to room in our house.

His fascination with street signs is evident through our home, but this group includes, on the bottom right hand sign, a "no parking" attachment done freehand that I couldn't recreate even with a stencil.

But unfortunately along with his artistic ability comes an artistic temperament. Like any great artist, Elijah wants to create, not be TOLD what to draw. At a recent parent-teacher conference we were shown a variety of projects Elijah had done in school. Below is a sample of an art project he had no interest in, coloring in pumpkins. (There were a couple of these "efforts" shared with us.)

I'd much rather have this response from our little artist when things don't go right than taking a knife to his ear!

The dangling conversation

I never thought of eavesdropping as a sport. Then I met Jeff.

Those of you who know my dear husband know that he has an almost obsessive interest in human nature. He is a devoted people-watcher, which means that public settings of all kinds fascinate him. Within minutes of arriving at any location that involves a crowd, he zeros in on whomever he has determined has the most drama-filled life.

How does he know, you ask? He doesn't, of course, but that doesn't stop him from concocting a story, right on the spot. All it takes is a few snippets of conversation and a quick analysis of clothing, hairstyle, makeup and the telltale signs of cosmetic "enhancement," and he's off and running.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting there with my nose stuck in a book, magazine or newspaper, trying to ignore his obvious breach of public etiquette. I've always thought it terribly rude to people-watch, and ruder still to listen in on the conversations of strangers.

But one day recently, I found myself listening to half of a cell phone conversation. All I can say is ...... I've been missing a lot of drama in life!

I was at the park with Elijah because, knowing that winter will descend upon us soon, we simply couldn't stay inside on a beautiful 70-degree late-October day. (The trees have just recently turned the most brilliant shades of orange, red, purple and yellow that I've ever seen, and the sheer beauty of all that color against a deep blue sky is enough to draw even a die-hard indoors person like me out into the fresh air.)

So there we were, Elijah scrambling over the play equipment and me sitting on a bench cursing the fact that I had forgotten to bring a book, when I happened to overhear a thirtysomething woman on the phone. She was talking to a relative, apparently a sibling, about arranging a family Thanksgiving get-together in Chicago. Then she let it slip:

"All I can say is, with the economy the way it is, thank God that Mom pays for the airline tickets."

This was followed by a long silence. Then.... "Well, uh, yeah. Ever since college."

A really long silence...... "Are you still there?"

At that point she was moving away from me, and I missed out on the next few minutes of conversation -- making me understand for the first time the frustration that Jeff gets when a juicy discussion moves out of hearing range. She stayed on the phone, though, and by the time she circled back around to where I was sitting, the topic had moved on. But there was an unmistakable tenseness in her words, and she laughed just a little too loudly at several points. By the time the conversation ended, she was clearly feeling uncomfortable, and I can't blame her. So was I!

So, Jeff, next time we're out in public and you're spying while I'm reading, clue me in! Eavesdropping just might turn out to be the one sport I'm good at.

The kin folk said, "Jeff, move away from there...."

They said California is the place I ought to be....

Ever since I moved out to the heartland in 1992, my parents have thought (hoped) that I'd move back to the "Golden State." When I got divorced, they just knew I'd be heading back soon.
Sixteen years later, their feelings might finally be changing. After their visit here this month, they not only understand why we like living here, but more importantly, that this is the environment that will allow Elijah to grow and thrive.

The visit didn't start out great. My mom got motion sickness on the train (yes, they took the train here) and injured her hand as well. When I picked them up at the train station, my mom was queasy, and her hand looked like a purple claw. I insisted that she go to the emergency room, which led to their first surprise.

My parents love watching TV. One of their favorite shows is "ER," and I know they didn't expect to see George Clooney when I took them to a nearby hospital, but they thought there would be blood and trauma situations lined up to the door. Instead, it was quiet, clean, quick and efficient, which eased some of my parents' worries.

Once we took care of my mom, we came back to the house, and Elijah really enjoyed seeing them. In fact, later in the day when some pain pills my mom had taken caused her to doze off, Elijah got right in her face and said, "WAKE UP GRANDMA!"

Since they had been here before, the visit didn't really involve that much sightseeing. They did go to a children's farmstead (an area with all kinds of attractions including farm animals, a pond for fishing, a gorgeous butterfly garden and a turn-of-the-century schoolhouse) , which really is an amazing place considering it is in the heart of one of the richest counties in the nation -- and is totally free. The weather cooperated, and they seemed to enjoy themselves. What was more important was that Elijah got to know his grandparents from California and saw them in his environment, which made him more comfortable.

My parents got to see his school (and the fact that there are more peer models, therapists and instructors in his class than special-needs students) with its large library and large grassy areas (remember, I grew up with blacktop playgrounds that had rubber mats). They also attended one of his "sponsored" (i.e. free to us) speech therapy sessions at the university that he has been getting over the past couple of years. These sessions are among the reasons we believe one of his speech problems -- pronoun reversal -- has improved dramatically.

But most importantly, they watched him create and draw, laugh and demand (usually tickles and Oreo cookies) and jump all over the place. They got to see him as the little boy he is, who, despite some quirkiness, loved being with his family (grandparents included) and interacting with them (on his terms, of course!).

The day my parents left coincided with our neighborhood's annual block party. There was delicious BBQ, clowns making balloon animals and, most importantly to Elijah, a moonwalk he would not get out of, even with lots of other kids inside. (Another milestone -- in the past, he could not stay in a moonwalk if there was more than one other child inside.) It seemed the perfect coda for the symphony of not only why we live here, but why the lifestyle suits us so well. Could Elijah get all the services in Los Angeles that he has here? Maybe, but I don't think they would be as good, and I know they wouldn't be as cheap (free!). Would the faster pace of life in L.A. pass Elijah by, leaving in its wake some moment when growth and chances of development are lost? I don't know. But I can honestly say that this is the best place for us, and after this last visit, my parents will agree.

And to show how important grandma and grandpa had become in his mind, Elijah insisted on placing two of his most prized possessions on the bed in the guest bedroom. As he told me the day after my parents had left, "Woody and Jessie are sleeping just like grandpa and grandma" and he hasn't moved them since that night.

One last point: Mom, at nine o'clock at night, when there are twenty cars on the major road to get from our house to downtown, that is not traffic. I hesitate to ask how long your trip from the train station to the Valley took during rush hour. In fact, have you gotten home yet?

Rocket Man

My apologies to NPR.

Several years ago (as in, pre-Elijah), I was listening to Talk of the Nation, where the topic was brain differences between boys and girls. Though I was not a parent, even I could see that, yes, they certainly did seem to be quite different creatures. (I realize this is a matter of great controversy, mainly because some people seem to think there's something inherently sexist in pointing out these differences. To those people, all I can say is -- get a life.)

I don't remember much of the program, but one comment by a child development researcher did stick in my brain: "Boys have an innate need to move objects through space."

This sounded so ludicrous that I nearly snorted out my latte. (Back when gas was $2 a gallon and lattes could be had for a mere $2.50, Starbucks was a big part of my life.) Other than laughing over it, though, I didn't really think much about it.

Then I had a boy.

So now it can be said: NPR was right, and I was wrong.

If you happen to be the mother of a young male of the species, you might well have made the same mistake I did: Repeatedly buying toys that sound fun to YOU, a former little girl, without stopping to think that your intended gift recipient isn't just from Mars -- he's probably from another galaxy altogether. (The whole Mars-Venus thing might apply to men and women, but certainly not to boys and girls. Mars and Venus are much too close to each other for this metaphor to work with 5-year-olds.)

Anyway, I eventually came to the realization that games, puzzles, books and such really don't hold much appeal to someone whose idea of torture is sitting quietly and, heaven forbid, taking turns in a socially cooperative atmosphere. I began to notice that when we visited the homes of friends with little boys, Elijah was absolutely overjoyed to be in the presence of projectile toys that could be launched through the air like rockets, particularly if that air happened to be indoors, increasing the likelihood of something being hit. It was all I could do to drag him back home to a house filled with quiet, introspective toys intended to develop his "creativity and problem-solving skills." (Yes, that's directly off the box. Several boxes, actually. I think there exists somewhere a random toy-marketing phrase generator, and this is one of its most common outputs.)

This "innate need to move objects through space" actually goes a long way toward explaining the typical male's fascination with sports, a fascination that frankly baffles me. I'd rather watch paint dry than sit and watch a game of any kind. (At least if I were watching paint dry, that would mean that we were making home improvements.)

So for our little male's most recent birthday, I finally caved in and bought -- as cheaply as I could manage -- a toy involving things flying through the air. I kid you not when I say that this gift, which I spent all of $5 on at Target, produced more excitement per penny than perhaps anything he's ever received (granted, he doesn't get electronic things like GameBoys and XBoxes and Wiis, so that may be a factor here). It was nothing more than a bunch of long, skinny balloons and a pump-style inflator. When the balloons are inflated and then released, they go zooming around and around and up and down until they're deflated, which usually takes about 10 seconds. But wow! Is that ever an exhilarating 10 seconds! And as a value-added feature, they also make disgusting human-body noises as they go zipping around! How cool is THAT???!!

I would love to post photos here of the joy on the faces of the 5 boys (including the guest of honor) as they leaped around the backyard at the party, chasing the balloons
that were repeatedly inflated by increasingly tired but devoted dads, while we moms all sat around drinking wine. (This is my idea of what a birthday party should be. Not just because we moms deserve a drink, but because in an era filled with birthday party "activities" like inflatable moonwalks, arts and crafts, clowns, balloon artists, scavenger hunts and pony rides, I'm the anti-Mom. One child at this party actually came up and asked me, "When are we going to do the activities?" I pointed to all the toys spread across the lawn and said, "See those toys? See that yard? There's your activities! Now go be active!")

Where was I? Oh, yes, the photos. It turns out that the excitement level was such that even the "kids and pets" setting on our features-laden digital camera -- specifically designed for subjects that refuse to be still for a second -- couldn't focus fast enough to get any good shots. So you'll just have to take my word for it. These low-tech, cheap and simple balloons were a HIT.

You're probably beginning to wonder what the point of this story is. It's basically to illustrate that, based on an incident that happened just yesterday, I STILL have not learned my lesson about the differences between boys and girls.

Elijah and I needed to make a stop at the grocery store on the way home from the gym. Grocery shopping with him is never a pleasant task, mostly because there are way too many potential projectiles in these stores. Just think about the produce section alone!

Anyway, we had just stepped inside when I spotted a mother and daughter beginning their shopping. The little girl couldn't have been more than 3, so I figured that, if he were having a really good day, 5-year-old Elijah MIGHT be almost as mature as her. He was climbing all over the cart, demanding to be pushed while he found increasingly dangerous ways to hang off the front, edges and sides of the thing while simultaneously begging for Oreos and ice cream.

The little girl, meanwhile, was proudly pushing one of those miniature carts designed to start children on their path to consumerhood at an early age. Wow, I thought. Perhaps if I get one for Elijah, he will stop hanging off this cart and I can get some shopping done.

I really don't know what I was thinking. I can only say that I had just worked out, and my blood sugar was perhaps a bit low, influencing my powers of reasoning. I got the little cart, gave it to Elijah and instantly unleashed a force of potential devastation on the entire store. After all, here was the ultimate projectile -- it had four wheels, would roll for a really long way really fast if you gave it a hard push, and there were all sorts of incredibly cool things to run into. Displays full of glass jars! Towering stacks of peaches! A big shelf full of freshly baked bread!

Needless to say, the entire experiment lasted less than three minutes. Thankfully, nothing got broken or severely damaged, but in those three minutes, Elijah managed to ram the cart into three display cases, partly dismantle it while trying to determine what exactly was holding the sides together, knock it over onto himself while trying to propel himself down an aisle as he stood on the lower bar while gripping the handlebar, and nearly fall out of it after he climbed into the center of it and bent over, hands firmly on a wall, preparing to push himself as hard as he could across the produce section.

So, once the "Mommy's little helper" cart was returned, more or less in one piece, to the cart stacks, I proceeded through the store in our usual manner, constantly telling Elijah to slow down, put that back, pick those things up off the floor and please quiet down about the Oreos and ice cream. As usual, the most stressful part of our journey occurred in the frozen foods aisle, where he opened each display case door and drew pictures in the fog that forms on the inside. This is by far his favorite grocery store pastime. He could literally spend all day drawing pictures in frozen-food display case fog.

On several occasions, we crossed paths with Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes. She was primly prancing behind her mother, carefully pushing her little cart, which was filled with (I swear I am not making this up) fresh produce and organic snack foods. I tried to point her out to Elijah, saying things like "Look at that cute little girl! I'll bet she's just 3 years old! Look at how nicely she's helping her mommy! And I'll bet she's going to eat every one of those vegetables when she gets home!"

He wasn't buying it. And, truthfully, neither was I. But it is my duty to try to channel my action-loving little boy's energy into civilized behavior, so I gave it my best shot.

Truthfully, though, I've come to appreciate his love for projectiles over primness. He is a boy, after all, and I think way too many people want little boys to be like little girls (see also: Ritalin, Concerta, Aderall, etc.).

I don't know when my little rocket man will calm down enough to make grocery shopping a pleasant experience.

But I think it's gonna be a long, long time.

We won!

OK, so it's not Powerball. It's not the Oscars. It's not even a penny slot win at one of our local casinos. But still .... I won something!

I must give credit to Jeff, though, since he's the one who insisted we enter a photo contest sponsored by a studio where we got some artsy black-and-white portraits done when Elijah was a baby. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Jeff NEVER turns down an opportunity to enter a contest. I usually just roll my eyes and go on about my day, which is what I did this time while he searched diligently through the hundreds of photos we've taken this year (no pre-2008 photos allowed!) to find an entry. I think the theme was travel or vacations or something along those lines, and as luck would have it, we actually took a vacation this year! Fat chance that'll be happening again anytime soon, thanks to a constellation of economic ill luck that has befallen us along with much of the rest of America (thanks, subprime mortgage lenders!)

Anyway, he decided on the following photo, which honestly has a few "issues" but apparently caught the judges' eyes anyway:



It was taken on the Celebrity Millennium cruise ship last winter, when we escaped subzero Midwestern temperatures for a week in the sunny Caribbean. It's supposedly the original "Love" sculpture that has been copied in many forms over the years. (You've no doubt seen it on paperweights, posters, coffee mugs, etc.)

Our prize is an "instructional lunch" with the photographers at the studio, which hopefully will result in my being able to take more photos that I'm proud enough of to post here. Since I work with professional photographers on a daily basis, my standards tend to be a bit on the high side (quite honestly, I could tear apart this photo -- the crop on the right is awful, it's not a true silhouette, it should have been taken in black and white, and on and on....).

But who cares? It turns out there IS such a thing as a free lunch! And ever since those subprime mortgage snakes ruined our economy, we'll take any free lunch we can get!

Especially if I can get some usable tips on taking professional-quality photographs on a decidedly unprofessional-quality camera. All I want is a little depth of field. "Flat" photos, with background matter in focus, drive me crazy. (As of the date of this posting, the photo you see at the top of this page is a perfect example of this. Honestly -- is it even possible to look at it and not be distracted by all that lettering in the background? It's just awful! Please note that I was NOT the photographer.)

So, once again, Jeff's mania for entering contests has borne fruit. Thank God it's not another set of Springsteen tickets!

The magic word

"Mommy, I want something to eat."

It's a pretty basic sentence, probably spoken millions of times all over the world on any given day. So you might think it's odd that I'm writing an entire posting (and probably a long one) on how exciting it is for me to hear that sentence.

The magic is in the second word.

Yes, I know that the traditional "magic" word is "please." But if you happen to have much knowledge of autism, you know that "please" is easy to teach to these kids. It's one of those rote, memorized words that, quite frankly, those of us who are raising such kids would love to hear less of.

Whereas a pronoun -- such as "I" -- used correctly is not far short of a miracle.

Like many autistic kids, Elijah has a number of speech/language problems, the most frustrating of which is pronoun reversal. It's exactly what it sounds like: He calls himself "you" and other people "me." (A bit of unsolicited advice to anyone out there with an infant or young toddler: If, when your child begins speaking, he or she does this, don't laugh it off as something cute. Get that child evaluated for autism IMMEDIATELY. Trust me on this.)

The reason for this particular disability is actually very simple and has to do with the way people with autism learn language. Unlike the rest of us, who learn what individual words mean and how to arrange those words in various ways to form sentences, autistic kids learn language in chunks, often entire sentences at a time. It's called gestalt processing, and it makes for quite a few challenges in communication. For instance, when Elijah asks for milk, here's what he's been saying for the past eight or 10 months:

"You want vitamins in red and silver milk."

Actually, since he doesn't perceive these as separate words, it's more like "Youwantvitaminsinredandsilvermilk." He picked up this phrase one morning when either Jeff or I was pouring his milk into a red and silver sport bottle (his only acceptable vessel for the consumption of milk) and added a couple of liquid vitamin drops to it. That particular phrase was uttered in the form of a question posed to him, and it seared itself into his brain as what has to be said when he wants milk. This phenomenon is called echolalia. Once he gets a phrase in his head, he repeats it exactly the same way every time the situation comes up again, with identical intonation, pitch and syllable stress markers. In other words, he doesn't understand that phrases and sentences are made up of individual words that can be rearranged and spoken in a different tone to give different meanings.

And heaven help anyone who tries to explain that, despite what the boneheaded Mommy or Daddy said, the milk really isn't red and silver. The sport bottle is. The milk is white. See? Look right here! MILK IS WHITE!

This is especially frustrating when you consider that the kid started reading before age 2. (Another bit of unsolicited advice to parents of infants and toddlers: If your child begins reading before age 2 and is absolutely obsessed with letters and numbers, get him or her evaluated for, yes, autism. No, we didn't know either that these things are considered major red flags. If you don't believe me, go to Google right this second and type in "hyperlexia.") You'd think that any child who could read could clearly see that words are individual units that can be used in different ways. I've even tried writing each word of his many echolalic phrases on a separate flash card, then rearranging them to give him a visual representation of how language works. He'll have none of it.

This brings me to the pronoun reversal. Since Elijah has always heard people call him "you" while referring to themselves as "me," it only makes sense to him that he should call himself what other people call him. And there is no way to explain pronouns to someone who just doesn't get it, because you have to use so many actual pronouns in the process: "Elijah, when I talk to you, I call you 'you,' but when you talk about you, you should call yourself 'I.' And I call myself 'me,' but you can't call me 'me,' because when you say 'me,' it means YOU!"

Yeah, right.

So our attempts to correct this over the years have involved making him say the right words during what inevitably turns out to be a painful conversation like the following:

Elijah: "You want to sit on my lap."

Me: "Honey, please try to say that the right way."

Elijah: "I want to sit on my lap!"

Me: "That's almost right! Try again"

Elijah: "You want to sit on my lap."

And so on. The problem is, even when he gets it right, he doesn't really "get it." He's just parroting back an answer he was fed in an earlier coaching session. For instance, when he says something like "You want to go outside," I often say, "WHO wants to go outside?" His brain clicks on the fact that when I ask "who," I want him to say "I," which he is happy to do, even though calling himself "I" makes no sense whatsoever to him. But he'll do it just to humor Mommy so he can go outside. Which is fine, until the subject changes entirely:

Me: "Elijah, who sat next to you at circle time today?"

Elijah: "I sat next to me at circle time today!"

After all, "I" is the correct answer to questions beginning with "who," right?

It's all enough to make me want to ..... oh, I don't know, go sit at the computer and write a painfully long blog post about it.

But my reason for writing this is not to wallow in despair about my child's language disability. It's to CELEBRATE, because in the past two weeks we have made a major breakthrough in the pronoun struggle!

Don't ask me how or why. It could be something his therapist at preschool is doing. It could be the computer game he plays at his therapy sessions at the university that is specifically designed to address pronoun problems. It could just be the magic of turning 5 years and 3 months old. Or it could be the cumulative effect of three years of near-constant nagging (um, I mean, at-home therapy).

But whatever the reason, he suddenly seems to get it, at least when it involves simple sentences with just one first-person pronoun and one second-person pronoun. He's calling himself "I" or "me." He's calling other people "you."

He still slips fairly frequently, especially if he's tired or really excited, but the difference is huge. Just two weeks ago, his pronoun accuracy rate in a 45-minute therapy session at the university was just 20 percent. Last week, it was 80 percent. And the progress appears to be holding.

Of course, this is just one language battle, not the war. We have many battles to fight, including several more involving pronouns. Try a pronoun-laden sentence like this out for size:

I want YOU to take ME to the park so WE can play with THEM.

Think I'm gonna be hearing that from Elijah anytime soon? Not a chance. There's also not much of a chance that we'll be hearing correct gender pronouns soon -- Elijah can't fathom why some people are called "he" and others are called "she." The head of the university's speech/language department recently told me about a teenage boy she worked with who still doesn't get it. I don't even want to consider that possibility, so I just choose not to think about it!

Actually, I have reason to believe he will get the whole gender thing. This is based on a rather humorous conversation a few months ago that began with Elijah dashing into the bathroom just as I was stepping out of the shower. As one of those conservative mothers who began covering up when he was about 2, I was a little taken aback, but not nearly as taken aback as he was!

In the interest of good taste (as well as to preserve the dignity of both parties involved), I will not repeat our conversation verbatim here, but I will say that Elijah used anatomically correct terms to grill me about what he perceived as my anatomical INcorrectness. And I'll also say that he was quite worried about Mommy's well-being ("What happened to it? Did it got broke???!!!!)

It was hysterical, and actually I was quite proud of him, given that until he was about 4 1/2, he didn't have the language skills to ask even the simplest of questions. (My last bit of unsolicited advice to parents of infants and toddlers: When they go through that phase of asking "Why?" all the time, be grateful. Many of us have children who may never be able to ask why something is the way it is.)

So we are making progress. And if you happen to see me in line at the checkout counter, happily buying Hershey's bar just because my little boy said, "I want chocolate!", think twice before you jump to conclusions. A scene that, to you, looks like an overindulgent parent catering to the whims of a demanding child might actually represent a major developmental breakthrough for that child.

Remember, you don't know the back story.

Palin in comparison

Those of you who know me know I'm not a terribly political person. I leave that to Jeff, who thrives on politics -- be it local, state or national -- the way the rest of us thrive on things like food and water and oxygen (and, in my case, caffeine).

But every once in a while, I come across a political essay or op-ed piece that I feel compelled to share. This is such a piece. It's by Sam Harris, whom you either love or hate (and I love him!). The third page, in which he discusses the baffling attitude so many Americans have toward "elitism" in politics, is well worth your time, regardless of how you feel about his views on other matters.

Please read it, and give it careful consideration before casting your vote in November.

Another Mommy moment

So there I was, hovering about while the appliance repair guy dismantled our washing machine, when I had one of those heart-tugging moments that makes me wonder how I ever got a reputation for being a cynic. (Well, actually I know how I got this reputation, but bear with me here.)

I should probably mention that this particular appliance repair guy was the very stereotype of the breed, complete with heavy tool belt, way-too-droopy jeans and virtually no skills in the way of small talk. Even his name screamed "handyman." It was Ralph, who never did tell me his last name and was clearly the kind of guy who, if I'd asked, would have said, "Just Ralph."

As Just Ralph was quietly going about his business of figuring out why our washer's water flow was so slow that it took six hours (yes, SIX) to do a single load of laundry, I spotted a relic of Elijah's babyhood that had been hidden beneath the washer since 2003. It was a tiny sock, so little I can't believe that it ever covered even a newborn's foot.

"Oooooooh, looooook!" I squealed, visibly startling Just Ralph. "It's a sock from when my little boy was a baby!"

To say that Just Ralph didn't get it would be an understatement. "Uh, yeah, it's a baby sock," he said, clearly fumbling about for words that would calm the obviously unstable woman whose home he was in. "You, uh, gonna to keep it?"

I came to my senses and said no, not wanting to alarm him further. A hundred moments from those early months of Elijah's life flashed through my head, some pleasant, some not, but all worth remembering. And when Just Ralph finally presented his bill (and a fully repaired washing machine), I was more than happy to write that check. Normally I grumble quietly to myself every time I pay the exorbitant fees charged by handyman types, but this time, I somehow had a better sense of perspective.

And, finally, a washing machine that kicks ass!

The answer is blowing in the wind

A couple of weeks ago we met up with some friends and their kids at a Red Robin Restaurant. For those of you unfamiliar with that chain, it is not linen tablecloths and candlelight dining, but a kid friendly place with lots of energy and balloons. (I will never forget the time Sarah, Elijah and I went there for dinner and there was a couple at the next table sipping wine and trying to have an intimate date.....at a Red Robin!!!! I 'm guessing they were there that night because Chuckie Cheese was too crowded.) After our meal, Elijah got a green balloon that he held tightly in his hand until we went to visit someone. As we approached their house, he lost his grip on the string and it was bye-bye balloon. The trauma of watching his balloon disappear into the sky made our visit short, and not very sweet. Weeks later he still looks up at the sky (or inside a building) and asks, "where is the green balloon?" I mention this because of another experience with an airborne object this past weekend.

True confession time. Even Charlie Brown is a better kite flier than me. Getting a kite caught in a tree would be an accomplishment for me as it would mean at least I got it up in the air. This, however, is not a new talent.

Years ago a friend and I got a free kite from the local grocery store and excitedly rode our bikes to the local park to watch our new toy soar. (I told you it was years ago!) After carefully arranging the two balsa sticks into a "T", we attached the kite and added a wonderful tail, torn from a sheet from my bed. We then spent the better part of that day trying to get the damn thing to fly. After numerous crash dives, the balsa sticks broke and we attempted to tie them together using pieces of cloth torn from our tail. This of course only weighed down our kite more, but it did elicit sympathy from passing adults. Finally, as twilight came we gave up and dejectedly went home.

Undeterred, we actually went out and bought a "box" kite the next day, knowing it was the equipment, not the pilots, that was the problem. Alas, the result was the same as our box became a parallelogram after numerous bounces on the baseball diamond. (It never occurred to either of us that a little bit of wind might be of some aid, thus a career in meteorology was not in our future.)

I bring this up because this past weekend Elijah, inspired by a Pooh video featuring Piglet up in the air on a kite, found a Chinese kite we had in the closet and ran through the house throwing it up in air trying to make it fly. (and having no more success than I had over forty years ago). Because of Hurricane Ike, we were having strong gusts go through our area, so Elijah and I took our kite to the field by his school to see if we could be the reincarnation of the Wright Brothers (whose maiden flight took place many years ago this week).

I am proud to report we had the "right stuff". Of course kites these days are made so ANYONE can fly one, and we proved that. With a gust of wind in his face Elijah threw the kite up in the air and it soared. In fact, I had never gotten a kite that high in the air before, so Elijah and I were both delighted. As it disappeared up in the blue sky, Elijah asked if he could hold the string. He did a great job, up until the point he decided to see how high the kite went if it wasn't held back by someone. Luckily, on the way to the ozone, our kite found a tree so I was able to retrieve and save it for another windy day. As we were leaving Elijah looked up at the sky and said, "the green balloon is up there". I was ecstatic. Not only because he had comprehended the fate of his beloved green balloon and put it into context, but, because of a large pine tree, it was only his balloon and not our kite whose demise he was discussing.

School days

It has occurred to me that I have neglected to inform those of you who are interested in such things (granted, this is relatively few of you) how Elijah's school year is going.

It's going quite well, particularly since we switched him from the afternoon class to the morning class.

Normally, the morning preschool classes are the biggest. But for some reason, this year's crop of parents mostly wanted their children in afternoon classes, so the school tried to oblige to the extent practical. I'll admit to being one of those whiny parents who really, really did not want to drag myself out of bed early enough to get my child fed, dressed, toothbrushed and out the door in time for the morning session. This was partly because at the time we registered, I was at work until well past midnight, all the way downtown, five nights a week. There was a bit of a more selfish motive, too -- the ice rink where I skate only has public sessions in the afternoons, and trust me when I say that taking Elijah along for a skating session is not the most productive way to spend time or money.

But after observing the classroom situation when I dropped him off every afternoon, I decided to switch him to mornings. The afternoon class had 12 kids, and while about half of them were typically developing "peer models," some of the others had fairly severe special needs and quite clearly required a great deal of individual attention from the teacher, paras and therapists. Plus, it was a noisy bunch, and Elijah is most assuredly NOT a noisy kid.

So I asked the teacher if she would like me to switch him to mornings, and she practically dropped to her knees in gratitude. It turns out that there were only seven kids in the morning class, and of those, just one was a special-needs kid. So, with the addition of Elijah, that makes for a classroom with just two special-needs kids and six -- count 'em, six! -- peer models. And they are a very quiet group, much more suited to Elijah's personality.

You almost can't beat this level of individual attention in a public school setting. When you count the teacher, two paras, a rotating speech-language pathologist and a rotating occupational therapist, there are certain days of the week in which the morning class has a nearly 1-1 ratio of students to teachers. Not a bad deal, especially considering that it's all free! (At least it is for us -- the parents of the peer models have to pay.)

Still, though, Elijah is less than forthcoming about what his day consists of. If it weren't for the information sheets that are sent home with him each day, I'd have no idea what he did for those three hours every morning. His language skills just aren't there yet.

I do know that today he served as Helper of the Day, which apparently involves things like assisting with the calendar, holding the flag for the Pledge of Allegiance (which he is just learning for the first time and loves to recite) and leading the line when the class goes to other parts of the building and out to recess.

These jobs, his teacher assures me, are "very important leadership positions." (I'm beginning to suspect that she was part of John McCain's vice presidential search team.)

So, in a nutshell, the school year is going great. And with his love of the Pledge of Allegiance and his experience in "leadership," our little boy may one day be a presidential contender. In fact, if I can't work up any more enthusiasm for either of our current contenders, I might just put him down as a write-in candidate this year.

Anyone care to start a petition drive?

Artist in Residence

I've mentioned before that we live with a budding young artist. Since he's an only child, I really don't have anyone to compare him with developmentally, so I was a little skeptical when people who saw his drawings and handwriting, starting when he was 3, gushed over how advanced his fine-motor skills are and what a good eye for detail he had.

Then I saw his classmates' work on the walls at preschool and thought, well, yes, he is a bit advanced.

I'm still not sure he's the next Picasso, but since my duty as a mom is to proudly tout my child's achievements, I thought I'd post a few of his drawings here. Like I said in an earlier post, he is not a nature lover; therefore, these drawings are not replete with verdant landscapes. Think strip malls. Corporate logos. Cars and trucks. Basketball goals. And, of course, traffic signs -- some of which, if taken to heart, would cause chaos on the roadways of our nation ("Right lane MUST turn left" comes to mind.)

Here are a few of my favorites from the last six to eight months (from age 4 1/2 to a couple of months past his fifth birthday):


No, it wasn't anyone's birthday in particular. But why not have a festive greeting ready, just in case?


This one is a reproduction (isn't that a nicer word than "plagiarism"?) of the cover of one of his favorite books, which features a little boy who always manages to get into trouble. Elijah really seems to identify with poor, beleaguered David.


This is Jesse, from the "Toy Story" movies. He also draws a sharp-looking Prospector and an elaborate sheriff's office.


I don't really know what the story is behind this one. But he loves to draw happy houses!


I'm also clueless about this one. But I'm all for anything that involves a delivery of gifts!



His fascination with basketball goals, along with the pattern of the stitching on the balls themselves (as well as the pattern of all the lines on the court) is, thankfully, beginning to fade. His therapists have always referred to it as a "perseverative interest," which is therapy-speak for "autistic kid's obsession." (We preferred to think of it as "persistence"!)



No explanation needed.


Elijah is a big lover of hotels -- as long as we remain people of modest means and stay in non-suite places like this, where the beds are perfectly spaced for leaping back and forth.


Unlike me, Elijah is a big fan of live music. This is his rendering of a band that Jeff took him to see at a Fourth of July celebration at our city park. (Yes, that's a keyboard there on the left).



Mommy's coffee got spilled on this one. Please note that Mommy was NOT the one who spilled it.


This was inspired by the oh-so-cheesy YouTube video of the '60s song "Everywhere a Sign," or whatever it's called. You know, the one about how long-haired freaky people need not apply. (Can you tell I'm not a flower child?)


Last but not least, we have the world's happiest fish. This one has earned a place of honor on my computer at work for several reasons. At least we now have something smiling around that place.

I have more of these to impose on you at a later date (including some very happy butterflies), but I think I've probably pushed the limits on everyone's little-kid-drawing tolerance for now. And besides, I need to straighten up the house. Because for every one of the 10 or so drawings he completes every day, there are at least five or six false starts, each of which is tossed aside in disgust by our little perfectionist. If you do the math and then consider that several days often elapse between my housecleaning sweeps, you can just imagine the state of the house right now.

I try not to think about the toll his paper use is taking on the majestic old-growth forests of the Pacific Northwest. If any hard-core environmentalists are reading this, you'll just have to accept my apologies. But at least we keep the paper-recycling workers of the world gainfully employed.

Buyout blues

Things are fairly grim around the office these days. As you may recall, my company is in the process of significant downsizing -- again. Our departmental meeting last week consisted of exactly what we knew it would (which is good, considering that about half of us could barely hear the proceedings because our ears were still ringing from the Springsteen show the night before).

According to the official announcement, the "majority of" employees are being offered buyouts. Apparently "majority of" means every full-time employee who has been with the company for at least one year. Given our very low turnover rate, that's a hell of a majority. Somewhere upward of 90 percent, according to the office grapevine (which, by the way, has a pretty impressive record of accuracy. We're journalists, after all!)

The hope, we are told, is that enough people will participate in the "voluntary separation program" that there will be no need for an "involuntary separation program." And we all know how ludicrous THAT hope is.

As luck would have it, this announcement, along with the accompanying stacks and stacks of ominous-looking manila envelopes, each bearing the name of an "eligible" employee, landed with a thud on the very day that my status shifted to part-time.

That means there is no decision for me to make. Now that I'm part-time, I'm not being offered a voluntary separation. And I have no control over the possibility of an involuntary one.

So I just proceed as normal, while all around me, talk turns to the merits of the various buyout options and the mysteries of job-hunting in the year 2008, such as as: Do people still actually use paper resumes? Or resumes at all? Do online applications ever really get reviewed? Do employers prefer to see a full-blown Web site detailing every accomplishment you've had, as well as links to any reference to you anywhere on the Web, not to mention all your favorite blogs and other sites? Let's hope not, because if the dreaded "involuntary separation" comes my way, the closest thing I have to a Web site is this. Heaven help us all if my career options are shaped by what's written here!

In any case, it's an interesting time. When you're in the situation we're in, all the normal rules of professional caution pretty much go out the window. I've seen people engaged in heated arguments with people who are several levels above them in the hierarchy. No one seems audit their own conversations regarding plans to leave, and everyone who is looking for work feels pretty free to let the boss know about it. Unless, of course, you have reason to believe that your boss is closing in on an interview for the same job you're angling for.

But there IS a bright side: I have finally reached the point where I can get up and walk out at the end of my shift without the slightest bit of guilt for things left undone (a very handy approach, considering that I now work one short shift a week in which I leave four hours before everyone around me does). After all, my reason for switching to part-time was to get more sleep and to stop sacrificing my health. There's simply no point anymore in giving up so much of myself to an industry that has nothing to give back.

For those of you who really couldn't care less about my professional tribulations, I apologize for going on for so long. (But why are you still reading, anyway?) And for those of you who really are just interested in how Elijah's doing (Hi, grandparents!), he's doing just fine. And he's turning into quite an impressive little artist. Jeff has scanned some of his drawings into the computer, so I'll be posting them within the next couple of days.

Right now, I think we're off to the park. We're fortunate to live in a city that has a great number of free outdoor performances of the symphony, ballet, etc., in the summer and early fall. It's part of an outreach effort to introduce the arts to the great unwashed masses (like us). And as a mom, it is my duty to make sure Elijah experiences such things. (Jeff and I long ago worked out a list of parenting responsibilities in which he is in charge of sports and rock-n-roll, and I am in charge of classical music and the performing arts.)

So it's time to stop thinking about work, stop thinking about resumes and stop thinking about all the things on my to-do list. We're off to Ballet in the Park, where we'll be in a beautiful rose garden surrounded by elegant fountains and enormous trees. A good break for the soul.

Thanks for checking in!

Well she did grow up near Branson...Maybe that explains it

When Sarah set up this site, and eventually gave me the password to post, one thing we both vowed not to do was have a back and forth between us on any subject matter. If there is anything more boring than watching a couple bicker (notice how James Carville and Mary Matalin's tiring act has worn thin) it's reading them do it on a blog. But in a post yesterday she went too far and I could not look at myself in the mirror if I didn't respond.


SHE HATED A BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN CONCERT!!!!!!!!


While you're at it, why not despise motherhood and apple pie as well? The man gave us everything he had while playing for THREE hours. He played songs from every album he ever recorded with the E Street Band, took requests (even having Max Weinberg sing a song) and did it with so much joy and energy you felt like you were at the party at "Mary's Place."

Well apparently that wasn't good enough for Sarah. Was the mix too loud and a little muddy? Perhaps, but this was a rock and roll concert, not a chamber music recital. Did he sing everyone's favorite song? If you're not a lifelong fan of "The Boss" (and even if you are) there are going to be some unfamiliar songs as he has compiled a huge catalog over the last 30 years, but that's what you get at a Springsteen concert. IT WAS A GREAT SHOW. The only downside for me (outside of knowing my wife was wandering around the arena cursing me underneath her breath) was seeing Clarence Clemons moving around the stage like a 67-year-old man, while the rest of the band acted as if they had turned back the clock.

As for Sarah and myself, I currently am brushing up on my Italian, grand jetes and salchows because as penitence for the transgression of bringing her to this incredible concert, I have been informed that I must accompany my wife to an opera, ballet and figure skating show.

It could have been much worse. For awhile she was insisting that we take Elijah to the circus, even though he has no interest in animals and I can't stand clowns. So instead of ten midgets in greasepaint cramming into a VW bug, I'll be watching Sasha Cohen glide across the ice.

And, most importantly, I got to see Bruce sing Rosalita live one more time.

Not afraid to badmouth the Boss

So, last night I attended my first indoor rock concert in 13 years -- the final night of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band's Magic tour.

According to my newspaper's rock critic, whose review you can read here, the Boss "played nearly 30 songs and delivered many moments of joy and transcendence, including an encore for the ages."

This is why I am not a rock critic.

I like Springsteen, I really do. His music was a big part of the soundtrack for my high school and college years, although I must admit I sort of lost track of his career for several years until I married Jeff, who, like about half of the male baby boomer population of America, is a walking Springsteen encyclopedia. Over the 12 years of our marriage, I have become (not always voluntarily) re-acquainted with the Boss, so I was actually kind of looking forward to this concert.

Let me apologize right here to the three co-workers whose schedules were upended -- including one who came in on his day off -- so that I could attend this concert on a night I was supposed to be at work.

I hated it. Hated, hated HATED IT.

For starters, it got under way nearly an hour and a half late, on a Sunday night at that. Note to Bruce's manager and Kansas City's Sprint Center: Many people actually have real jobs that require them to be somewhere fairly early on Monday mornings. The acoustics at the less-than-year-old, supposedly state-of-the-art venue were atrocious. Second note to Bruce's manager and the Sprint Center: Many people actually have relatively acute hearing and don't particularly care for the eardrum-splitting pain that accompanied last night's "moments of joy and transcendence."

To save my ears and my sanity, I was reduced to roaming the concourses for much of the three-hour show, while Jeff and his baby-boomer cohorts (all of whose hearing was destroyed somewhere between Woodstock and We are the World) screamed and stomped and sang their hearts out.

You may not be aware of this, but a lot of drama takes place in the concourses of arenas during concerts. I witnessed at least one tearful breakup, one medical emergency and countless pitched disputes involving couples who apparently disagreed on the merits of attending a Springsteen show. Plus, I ran into a co-worker and spent 45 minutes or so getting caught up on industry-related gossip, so it was not a total loss (although, as an aside, I'm afraid my industry IS a total loss).

I even took a stroll outside the building for a while -- an excursion that was apparently so unprecedented that it took three arena security staffers to OK my exit with a promise that I show my ticket at the exact same door, to the exact same person, when I wanted to return. They simply couldn't understand why I wanted to leave, unless it was to smoke, so they tried to point me toward the gated-in area where the puffing pariahs were corralled. (I was reminded of an old Far Side cartoon in which a family is visiting the zoo and looking at an exhibit of shirtless, tattooed, overweight people puffing away on cigarettes in their cage. The sign on the cage: "Riff-raff.")

My little stroll brings me to another note to the Springsteen road crew and managers: Do you really need to have all seven of your motorcoach buses idling outside the concert venues for hour after hour while the show goes on, spewing greenhouse gases and pollutants into the atmosphere? Didn't I read somewhere that Bruce, who is rumored to be the opening act for Barack Obama at this week's Democratic convention, is concerned about environmental issues? Perhaps I was just hallucinating.

Lest you think I am a square, sheltered, overly sensitive middle-aged suburban mom who just can't handle a fun night out (well, OK, that's exactly what I am, but that's not the point here), please read some of the comments posted on the review I linked to above. I am far from the only one upset about last night's experience. And Jeff reported to me at 7 a.m. this morning (when my ears will still ringing), that one of our local Web sites for moms also was abuzz with some pretty unpleasant comments about the whole situation. (And no, I have no idea why Jeff reads our local mom site, at 7 a.m., no less.)

In looking back on it, I'm really not sure what annoyed me more: The late start, the horrible sound, or the money we ended up shelling out for the experience. You may recall from an earlier post that Jeff won the tickets, but once you calculate the nearly $100 we spent on baby-sitting ($12 an hour is what our sitter charges) and the money I will be docked on my paycheck for taking a vacation day that I haven't technically earned yet (my shift to part-time hours is the culprit here), it was a very expensive evening at a time when our financial situation is not the greatest.

I have to admit, though, that the one thing that bothers me most is simply this: Why did I wake up this morning feeling like I'd been run over by a truck, while Bruce Springsteen -- who, let's face it, is almost old enough to be my father -- apparently feels ecstatically good up there on stage night after night, city after city, all over the world, expending more energy in one concert that I do in any given six-month span??! How is this possible?

Maybe I just answered my own question -- I need to expend more energy. I'll never have what Bruce has in that department, but it probably wouldn't hurt me to hit the gym more than twice a week and walk Elijah to school more often.

Because if an aging rock-n-roller can leave me flat-out exhausted after a concert that I only halfway attended, something's wrong.

So thanks, Bruce. My eardrums may still be quiviring, but the rest of me is going to be better for this experience. It'll be Magic.