Suburban Jungle Warfare

We have a small garden with a half dozen tomato plants and some basil, rosemary, and peppers. It's taken me two years to figure out just how to plant them, stake them, and prune them to keep them healthy. The first year, the garden was part of the back yard, so I had a steady stream of visitors to the garden, including rabbits, squirrels, birds, and children. Last year my dad built a fence, keeping out the children, and we placed a plastic mesh over the top to keep out the birds. We had to abandon the mesh because the plants grew up through the mesh, creating a mess. This year, I created an inner fence of chicken wire that keeps the rabbits out and placed a plastic owl that seems to keep the birds away, but I've yet to solve the squirrel problem. They ignore the owl, don't care about the chili powder I've dusted, and are undeterred by the deer-away I've sprayed.

I have to admit, I think I'm going a little insane. One problem with being a stay-at-home dad is I get to see what goes on in my garden during the day. This year we have a bumper crop of tomatoes but because of our wacky weather, they've yet to turn red. Often I'll walk by the kitchen window and see a squirrel perched on the fence, feasting on one of my tomatoes. I used to be a calm man. Not anymore. If I see something eating my vegetables, I stop whatever I'm doing and run out there like a madman, sprinting towards the varmint to scare him away. Megan thinks it's quite funny.

I recently asked my dad to bring over his pellet gun. Now if any readers out there think it's horrible to shoot little creatures (as I once did,) don't worry, the squirrels are perfectly safe with me looking down the scope. Plus, they have to be there at a time when the girls aren't there to see what I'm doing. I actually got a shot at one yesterday. He was sitting on the fence having lunch on my dime. I quietly stepped out the back door, aimed, and fired. He calmly looked over his shoulder as if to say, "I wonder what that was."

I ask you, would it be overkill to buy some sort of infrared motion detecting laser defense system for my garden? I know I could buy a lifetime of tomatoes from the store for what it would cost me, but that's not really the point, is it?

(I walked over and checked for squirrels at least ten times while writing this. I need to go get a job.)

How I spent my summer vacation, part 1

We just got back last night from a week near Charleston, South Carolina with Nana & Papa, Uncle Jim and Aunt Tracy, and, most importantly, their kids Davis and Elena. For an idea of what the week was like, I could just post this picture:

But I think I'll give a few more details... Click on any of the pictures for a larger view. Our condo was right on the beach, and we spent parts of each day on the beach or in the pool. Here's the view from the deck:


7 year old Davis was a champ. Here he was sharing his vacation with three squealing little girls and he acted like there was no place he'd rather be. Clara played too rough with Elena and Kate startled people by randomly shouting out things like, "DON'T EAT THE BEANS!" At dinner one night Kate couldn't get Elena's attention so she shouted down the table, "WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR, ELENA?" Elena responded with her calm Minnie-Mouse-on-helium voice, "Pink." Satisfied, Kate turned back to her dinner, "OK." Milk almost shot out of my nose.

Davis wasn't stuck with little girls the whole time. He got to spend a guy day with his dad, Papa, and uncle at the USS Yorktown, an aircraft carrier at Patriot's Point near Charleston. What a great antidote for pink princess-y girlie buffoonery. A frickin aircraft carrier!

Here's Kate and Jim just before we boarded a carriage to ride around historic Charleston. Kate's hair and make-up guy can be seen rushing off in the background.


Porches like these are called Piazzas. This particular one is called the Ice Cream Piazza because the couple that owned it used to invite orphans to come have ice cream every Sunday during the Depression.


After our tour, Kate was a bit tired at lunch:


One of our attempts to get them all together for a group picture:



And though Clara didn't quite make it in the picture, this one is my favorite:


After that picture, we failed in our efforts to keep the kids out of the surf, and soon enough they were sopping wet, rolling around together in the crashing waves. It was probably only about 15 minutes total but all four of them wished it would last forever, and I'm sure they'll remember it that long.

Childhood Rite-of-Passage

We knew the day would come, but we were not prepared.

No amount of parental warning can truly educate a child to the dangers surrounding them. Sometimes the little one has to actually experience the touch of something hot, to knock over that lamp onto themselves, or to get their heads stuck between the slats of the dining room chair to realize that maybe they should rethink doing something like that again. And perhaps the constant warnings from us parents to slow down or you'll fall, to be careful with your milk cup, to hold the bannister on the stairs, or to stay away from the edge of the pool turns us from rational bestowers of wisdom to the adults in Charlie Brown: "Mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa. MWA! MWA!" But it only takes one drop of the ice cream cone to realize that maybe you should hold it with two hands. Cry all you want about it - it's not like I didn't try to warn you.

Last night Clara did something that she may think twice about doing again. She stuck something up her nose.

About an hour past her bedtime, I heard a blood-curdling scream from upstairs, which could mean anything from her closet light wasn't on to she had lost a limb jumping from the top of her dresser. I was betting on the closet light. When I opened the door I saw her on her bed holding her nose.

Me: What's wrong?
Clara: My nose hurts!

Me: What happened?

Clara: There's something in there!

Me: Do you need to blow your nose?

Clara: No.

Me: Clara, did you put something in your nose?

Clara: Uh-huh.

Me: What did you put in your nose?

Clara: I can't know

I grabbed a flashlight and some tweezers but couldn't see anything up in there - and no, exploring the depths of my daughter's nostrils no longer seems even a little bit gross to me any more. I was convinced there wasn't anything in there, but I took Clara downstairs to get Megan's second opinion. She couldn't see anything either, but did find that one spot high on Clara's nose was quite tender. Clara blew her nose several time but nothing substantial came out.

Megan: Clara, did you really put something in your nose or is that just a story?

Clara: I really did.

Megan believed her but I wasn't convinced. We've always called her "an unreliable witness" and I didn't want to turn this into an ER visit unless we were sure. A bit more nose blowing revealed a little blood, and I was coming around to the idea that something was up there. As we stood there debating the options, Clara blew her nose one more time and something came out: a small plastic screw, which could have fallen out of a toy or a piece of furniture. It was a smaller one of these:

Megan: Oh sweetie, do you feel better?

Clara: Yeah!

Me: Now you never put anything in your nose, OK?

Mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa, mwa? - But maybe it hurt just enough to stop her from doing it again.

(No, that's not Clara's x-ray up there.)

Happy, Happy Weekend

After a weekend of visitors and celebrations, Clara and Kate have been happy to play quietly inside on this rainy morning. Five days of visitors and guests can tucker out little girls. My dad stayed for a couple of days and joined us and a dozen friends at the Webster Groves 4th of July parade, the height of Americana. I'm not sure what the girls enjoyed more, the parade or sharing their toys and pool with the other kids. Pictures below. Some of Megan's family, including her aunt who flew in from California, spent Saturday with us. Sunday and Monday were spent with my cousin Shauna, who came down from Chicago.

Stealthy Ninja Kid

Clara, almost 4, has free rein in our house and is responsible enough to play on her own in any part of the house, though she's most often found within three inches of me. There's only one time when she doesn't have complete freedom - when she's supposed to be asleep. It's during these times that this clumsy, overly loud little girl turns into the silent, creeping ninja kid. I may be wrong, but I'm starting to suspect that instead of sleeping, Clara is in her room having a tea party, in the guestroom pretending the read the books in there, on the third floor making castles with duplo blocks, or in the bathroom dancing in front of the mirror. Whatever she's doing, she's doing it silently.

This morning I woke to the slight sound of Clara's door closing, which isn't a big deal because she can use the bathroom on her own now. But over the next twenty minutes I heard Clara's door at least five times, but I never heard her. I have no idea what she was doing, and as long as I could keep sleeping and she didn't wake Kate, Clara could spin from the ceiling fan for all I cared.

Occasionally when Clara is supposed to be sleeping Megan or I will see an eye peek around the corner at us, but we never hear her coming. This afternoon, as both girls were supposed to be napping, I went into the kitchen to get a drink and was startled to see Clara standing there silently, like one of the children of the corn, but with an embarrassed smile.

Me: How long have you been there?
Clara: Ummm... 8
Me: 8?
Clara: Yeah, 8.
Me: OK.

Sneaky little rascal.

Just to give you an idea of how sneaky she can be, she's in the picture below (and no, she's not the smiley girl in the middle - that's Kate.) See if you can find her.


(click on the picture if you give up)

Crushing on my daughters, part 1

Megan's parents put together a family video last year that featured segments on all of their grandchildren. Kate's segment was set to a song that was perfect for her personality, and we've since renamed it "Kate's song." Megan was on a business trip in Spain this January and the song came on, causing more than a few tears from missing her daughters. I wasn't able to transfer that segment over to my computer so I just made a new movie, including some video.





I just started on my video of Clara, so stay tuned for part 2...

Can't Turn Away

Something happened when I had children, when I took on the responsibility of protecting little ones. My view of other children changed; my protectiveness extended to them as well. I used to look at other children and think about what fatherhood would be like, a detached curiosity. Now I look at them, especially those in danger or in pain, and where I once would have felt deeply for them, now I actually want to reach out and protect them. Even when I hear terrible stories about children from across the world, my reaction is physical, like a punch in the gut, which I never felt before having children.

This blog is pretty much a collection of silly stories, look-at-my-cute-kids pictures, and random parenting thoughts/essays. I'm grateful that my blog is that light-hearted because I have healthy children to write about. Recently I came across a dad whose blog hit me like a punch in the gut, because he writes about his daughter, who has leukemia. I tried to be objective and removed as I read about her, but this picture drew me in:

This is Serenity, a two year old girl who was recently diagnosed with leukemia. Her father has written about her struggle with the disease and the treatment from the first doctor visit to now. I came in on day 17, a low point for the father in this early part of her treatment. Earlier in the post is a picture of Serenity on the hospital bed, being a trooper, but by the picture above, she had clearly used up her patience and courage for the day. You can hear what dad is saying to her because it would be what you would say to her if you could. Since seeing that post, I haven't been able to turn away from this father's story. Serenity's dad set up a web page where visitors can sign a guest book and leave messages or donate money. This is what I wrote to him on his guest book:

Kids should not feel such pain, and we, their protectors, should not be powerless to stop it.

Following Serenity's story reminded me of a photojournalism essay that I came across last year about a Sacramento mother and her son, who fought a losing battle with cancer. The essay, which you can view here, tells the story better than words can. It is moving, uplifting, and heartbreaking - all at the same time. Each of the pictures has a caption, but I would suggest turning the captions on the second time through. I would warn you that viewing it could be an emotional experience, but if you were averse to that you probably wouldn't have read this far, anyway.

Hits you like a punch in the gut, doesn't it?

Blame Bill Cosby

My daughters, all of two and three years old, think it's the height of comedy to walk up to me, point at my face, and insult me. Really. I'm getting insulted by pre-schoolers, and I blame Bill Cosby.

The girls like to watch Little Bill, a cartoon that Bill Cosby created (and, coincidentally, my cousin Shauna animated for. Shauna was the talent behind those beautiful pictures of Clara and her toy trains last year.) In one particular episode, a new kid who likes to toss around insults comes to Little Bill's school. He walks up to Little Bill and says, "You're a peanut-head!" As an objective observer, I'd have to agree that Little Bill's head is shaped just like a peanut, but that's neither here nor there. Little Bill gets his feelings hurt and his dad shows him how to deal with mean kids.

It's a cute episode and can be very useful for little kids who are sensitive to what other kids say to or about them. But my girls seemed to miss all the positive stuff and zeroed in on how fun it seemed to insult someone. Clara will point and say, "You're a peanut!" to me, which I guess is supposed to be insulting, though Megan has always used it as a term of endearment with the girls: "Come on, Peanut. Hold my hand."

I didn't want to make a big deal about this phase because then she'd think it was even more cool to do it, but now that she's gotten Kate to do it they feed off each other. I definitely don't want them to do it to other kids.

Me: Hi sweeties!
Kate: You're a peanut!
Me: I'm a peanut? I thought I was your Daddy.
Clara: You're a poopy diaper!
Me: What?!?
Kate & Clara: You're a poopy diaper! You're a poopy diaper! (lots of laughter)
Me: Is it your bedtime yet?

Clara will take anything marginally inappropriate and turn it into an insult:

Clara: You're a bootie!
Me: You know what you are? You're beautiful.
Clara: You're a tooty-boy!
Me: Great.

So, thanks Bill Cosby.

Pink, Ponytails, and Princesses

It's hard not to smile, really, knowing now that our third child is going to be a girl. We found out yesterday and I've been getting a mixture of sympathy and looks that say, "Good luck, buddy!" People have asked Megan if I'm disappointed. In a way I am, but I find it impossible to be told that I'm going to have a baby girl and be disappointed at that. I have to resign myself to the fact that I'm not going to have a son, but that's not the fault of this little girl. Now that I have her, I'm not going to waste any energy wishing she were something else.

There's something comically karmic about this. When Megan and I first talked about having children, I warned her that our chances of having a girl were slim. Girls are (were) rare on the Bittle side of the family. I only had a brother. My father only had brothers. For three generations only two girls were born to Bittles, my cousin Danille and my niece Alex, and both were outnumbered in their own households with two brothers each. So we decided that we would keep having children until we got our girl or an entire offensive line, whichever came first. So much for that.

So much, too, for my no princess rule, which was followed about as much as my rule limiting the color pink. Evidently, anything non-pink makes the girls look like boys. So with resigning myself to being the only boy in this house (even our dog is a girl) I also resign myself to a lifetime of the color pink, of near ear splitting squeals, of frilly nightgowns, of purses and high heel shoes that go clip clop loudly on the hardwood floors, of hair clips and headbands, of doll houses, and a whole world of girl stuff that they've yet to discover.

Go ahead, laugh at the stay-at-home dad who was handed three girls to take care of. I'm just barely qualified to raise children, but three girls? You know those tiny rubber bands that girls use to make their ponytails? My fingers are too fat and too clumsy to handle those. This morning I handed Clara her shoes and she said, "Daddy, these don't match what I'm wearing." Most disturbing is their favorite toy at Nana's house: their cell phones.

I'm in trouble.

I found the picture up there and liked how the little one seemed to be approaching the other two as if to say, "Here I come!" Plus, the little one reminds me of Clara. As they are all looking away, it plays on the mystery of what the girls will look like at that age. It also reminds me of the O'Brien-Wilson girls, stair-stepped like that and beautiful.

I can't wait to meet her...

Ask STL Homeboy

From this week's mailbag:

Dear STL Homeboy,

My three year old daughter has discovered her singing voice and has been walking around the house singing pretty much non-stop for almost a month now. At first it was cute, but the truth is she has a terrible singing voice. I'm not going to sugar coat it - it's bad. Every time she starts to sing like she's Ariel from The Little Mermaid, I silently curse whoever introduced her to that movie. My husband is a stay-at-home dad and encourages her singing, saying things like, "she is exploring her voice" or "any interest in an art should be encouraged" or other touchy-feely nonsense. But there's a fine line between encouraging your child to something they're not good at and being that mother on American Idol who tells her daughter that the judges were wrong after the worst audition in history. I blame the mother for not telling the daughter that she wasn't a very good singer before embarrassing herself on national television. What do you think? Am I OK in asking my daughter not to sing?

Thank You,
STL Workgirl
______________________________________________________

Dear STL Workgirl,

OK, I know this is you, Megan. I agree that Clara's singing is for the most part excruciating and I understand that it drives you up the wall. Like you, I also want to throw The Little Mermaid into the river. But some of her other songs aren't that bad. What about the little speckled frogs song she learned from school? Her "take me out to the ballgame" isn't bad - she just kills it by singing it over and over. But if we start to tell her that she isn't very good at something she might have some self-esteem issues down the road, and that's just not something I want to risk. Besides, everyone starts out bad at something before they get better, right? If the singing gets so bad that you can't take it anymore, you could always try to distract her into coloring or playing with a puzzle. How about you carry around some earplugs in your pocket? If you think, however, that her singing is worse than this...


...then maybe you should tell her she's not a very good singer.

Your husband,
STL Homeboy

Baby Cosmo

Clara and Kate are now well aware that there's a baby brewing in Megan's belly. Last week we asked Clara what we should name the baby. She took a break from coloring for a second, looked up in thought, and said, "Cosmo." Then went back to coloring.

OK. Cosmo.

It could be worse. Mia Williams chose to call her little brother-to-be "doorknob." Dmitri and Cindy went with "Jack" instead. So, all things considered, Cosmo is just fine.

Last week I asked Clara if she wanted a little brother or a little sister. She said, "I want a little brother. I already have a little sister." Good point.

Kate is obsessed with Mommy's belly. She tries to look in Megan's belly button to see Cosmo. Some Kate quotes:
"Cosmo's in your belly, Mommy."
"Can I kiss him?"
"He has toys in there."
"I want to give him a hug."

When Megan is getting dressed in the morning, Kate comes up and pats Megan's belly like she is playing the belly drum. That's why Cosmo is flashing the "rock on" sign up there in the ultrasound. I have a feeling Kate is going to like being a big sister.

Disclosure: That's not really Cosmo up there. Cosmo's real gesture wasn't appropriate for a family blog.

Phantom Poop Syndrome

"I smell poop."

As a follow up to our discussion on Phantom Cry Syndrome, I present another unfortunate psychological byproduct of taking care of children: Phantom Poop Syndrome.

I really don't need to go into a lot of detail here. If you've spent enough time with babies the difference between a foul smelling room and a pleasant smelling room will slowly fade. Perhaps our sense of smell has retreated to its happy place, but soon enough we will have to literally stick our nose in horrible places to determine if the baby needs to be changed, something the house guests have known for the last five horrible minutes.

As an added joke on us, for some reason we start to smell poop when it's not there. We turn to our significant other, with whom we used to have intelligent conversations, and ask, "do you smell poop?" Even more cruel, we smell poop when the kids aren't even around. It's not a strong smell - if it were that meant that either we somehow got poop on our hands or clothes, or just drove past a mulch pile. It's very weak and very subtle, but just strong enough for us to dread having to change another dirty diaper.

Ah, the joys of parenting!

On a side note, when I started this blog I promised myself that I wouldn't write about poop. But children have a way of wearing down any resolve I have, and with a third on the way I'm liable to write about anything, so watch out.

New feature: on the left up there you'll see a button under "subscribe." That's for RSS readers like bloglines. For those unfamiliar with RSS (Really Simple syndication) feeds, it's a way to have your favorite blogs and sites updated automatically on your computer whenever a new post is published. Email me if you need help with it.

Phantom Cry Syndrome

Spend enough time taking care of children and it becomes an inescapable part of your psyche. It makes it way into your dreams in sometimes overt, sometimes subtle ways. Last month I dreamed that Clara was trying to get Kate to swim in a pond where a shark was swimming. I'm no psychoanalyst but I think such dreams show I have some pretty deep fears about the safety of my children. Even when your children are at school or you have a babysitter you are not free from what I have found is the most common form of parental paranoia: Phantom Cry Syndrome. Randomly, out of nowhere, you will hear your child's cry.

PCS can happen anywhere at any time. This afternoon it happened to me in my car, even though I knew I was alone. I heard my child's cry - it was barely there, as if on the very edge of my hearing - and I jerked my head towards the sound. The sound had passed and I was left to laugh at my own foolishness. The children were with the babysitter, you nimrod. As I continued driving I found the source of the sound: A driver had his window down and I could just hear his radio. But since I had no context for that slight sound the first time I heard it, my parental instincts kicked in and turned it into a child's cry.

I've experienced PCS in the gym, where the slight squeal of a nautilus machine moving on the other side of the room can sound like a cry. I've turned my head at the sound of car brakes, a high pitched laugh from afar, or just about any sound that is just loud enough and just the right timbre or pitch to approximate a cry. My mind will fill in the information that the cry is my own child's. It's not a rational response, but for parents who experience PCS it shows just how heavy the responsibility of protecting the little ones in our care weighs on us.

I just made PCS up. But the next time it happens to you, you'll know what to call it.

And Baby Makes Five

Yep, this November the Bittle household will grow by one more. We will be entering into that loud and chaotic land where two semi-responsible adults try to corral three little ones, each going in different directions.

Three kids. One dad.

Shrek: How did this happen?
Puss: Allow me to explain. You see, when a man has a certain feelings for a woman, powerful urge sweeps over him.
Shrek: I know how it happened! I just can't believe it.
Donkey: How does it happen?


Probably a more appropriate quote:

Brody: You're going to need a bigger boat.

Are we crazy? Certifiable. But while there are readers out there I'm sure who are glad they are not me at this moment, I'm not too worried about what's coming because I'm sure it will be both difficult and wonderful, both in ways I can't predict. Clara and Kate will be in school, and we'll bring in some help for me when I need a break. Besides, Clara will be four years old, plenty old enough to babysit.

I will say that women who have the luxury of a stay-at-home husband have it made. Women love babies, and if they can keep popping them out and then go to work, happily whistling "whistle while you work," then why not? To be fair, she's the one that has to go through all the bodily changes.

Since Megan and Michelle have had babies number one and two around the same time, Michelle sent Megan a pregnancy test last December to announce that Michelle was pregnant, warning Megan that she better check. About two months later, Michelle got Megan's reply in the mail, a positive pregnancy test. Shows you how competitive Megan is. Now, when the Bittles and the Etters go to dinner, we need a table for ten.

Michelle, the next time you get the urge to have another baby, buy a Playstation 3 instead. We could use one of those.

My Kind of Sports Hero

I'm a sports nut who raises daughters, so naturally I get asked if we are going to have another kid to, you know, try for a boy. People don't mean it to be sexist or to imply that girls can't play sports. I'm sure they figure I want to teach someone how to play football or how to properly scratch himself and then spit really far when he is up to bat in baseball. And unfortunately, there aren't as many female sports role models as there are male, for media or social or gender reasons that I'm not going to try to delve into here. Boys have thousands of male athletes to idolize; girls have a much smaller pool to pick from - and if you remove (as I would like Clara and Kate to) those female athletes who think they also need to pose in their skivvies to get attention, the list gets smaller. Where have you gone, Mia Hamm? Please don't get me wrong - the country is filled with girls who are quietly and anonymously accomplishing great things, and they are heroes themselves. But a new kind of sports hero emerged this weekend, and she is exactly the kind of female athlete I want my girls to look up to.

In the Great Northwest Atlantic Conference softball game between Western Oregon and Central Washington, two seniors who had played against each other for four years came together in what will be considered one of the greatest moments of sports(wo)manship. Western Oregon outfielder Sara Tucholsky had never hit a home run before, and was mired in a pretty bad slump. Central Washington first base(wo)man Mallory Holtman holds her school record for home runs, as well as just about every other offensive record. In the top of the second inning, with two runners on, Sara hit her first home run, putting Western Oregon ahead 3-0. Theoretically.

In her excitement over watching her ball clear the fence, Sara missed first base and had to come back to touch it. If this sounds like something only college softball players would do, check out Mark McGwire's 62nd home run. Somewhere in her stopping and coming back to touch first base, she crumbled to the ground, apparently injuring her knee. Coaches and trainers came to her aid but feared that helping her would erase her only home run. Umpires warned (with sympathy, I hope) that if any of Sara's coaches or teammates touched her, she would be out. They allowed that a pinch runner could come in, but the home run would be reduced to a 2 run single.

I know what you're probably thinking, and I thought the same thing when I saw this on Sportscenter last night: there's nothing more important than Sara's health - who cares about the damn home run! I'm sure that's what the coaches were thinking when their conference with the umpires was interrupted by Mallory Holtman, the other team's first baseman: "Excuse me, would it be OK if we carried her around and she touched each bag?"

I can only imagine the faces of the coaches, trainers, and umpires as they turned to look at Mallory. Really? Central Washington was trying to get into the playoffs, and a loss to Western Oregon would jeopardize that. The umpires agreed that she could be assisted by members of the other team, but did Mallory really want to help the other team score? Mallory Holtman said later, "She hit the ball over her fence. She's a senior; it's her last year. … I don't know, it's just one of those things I guess that maybe because compared to everyone on the field at the time, I had been playing longer and knew we could touch her, it was my idea first. But I think anyone who knew that we could touch her would have offered to do it, just because it's the right thing to do. She was obviously in agony."

So Mallory and Central Washington shortstop Liz Wallace lifted Sara and slowly moved her around the bases, stopping to allow her to touch each bag and complete her only home run. The crowds and ovations greeting the girls as they reached home were in part for Sara, in part for Mallory and Liz, but mostly for the state of athletics as a whole, where greatness can be achieved in a simple act of kindness, where a young woman can be remembered not just for the records she broke for her school but for the impact she made on young girls just by offering a hand when she was the only one who could.

If I lived in Washington, I would drive my girls over to Central Washington so they could meet her. I honestly would.

You can read more about the story here, but before you click on that, leave a comment below, even if it's just a "hi." That's a picture of Sara up there.

Update: I've added the ESPN interview video of Sara, Mallory, and Liz below. Thanks to Sara's Dad for leaving a comment below.

Bells and Whistles

You might notice some new stuff along the left side of the page. You see, yesterday I had a rare day where both kids were at school and it was cold as heck for late April so I wasn't stepping foot outside. Allergies are killing me this week - picture me typing with tissues sticking out of both nostrils, or even passed out on my keyboard. Thus, new bells and whistles for STL Homeboy.

Up there on the left is the logo and link for the St. Louis Bloggers Guild, a group I just joined that promotes and protects St. Louis bloggers in issues such as copyright. In fact, if you click on that link, you'll see some recent copyright issues involving Mamalogues, an excellent St. Louis blog that I check in on frequently. The people involved in the guild so far have been great, and I look forward to meeting many of them in person. Blogging can be an isolating experience at times and it's good to commiserate with some local bloggers.

Just under the guild link is the symbol for the Green Options media network. This particular link will take you to my green articles, which are published every Thursday. If you read an article, leave a quick comment, if only a quick "thanks for the information." We have a program to see how many people read them, but other readers can only judge traffic by the number of comments. The more comments, the more likely they are to join in on the conversation. The more active the community the more good information gets shared and the stronger the network (and the more I get paid for the work I do.)

Under the recent posts are links. I've added Michelle's link, Mom Without a Map. If you know Michelle make sure to stop by over there and say hi. They had a great time in Mexico, and here's a picture to prove it:


And with just a touch of terrible photoshopping, I can show what it would have been like if we had made the trip:


I'm still getting over my sunburn.

A ways down on the left are two added features: a "On the Night Table" pic and some "In Heavy Rotation" pics. I've resisted doing something like this in the past because I feared it would look self-indulgent, and really who cares what I'm reading or listening to? But studies of blog readers found that when readers see they have interests in common with the blogger the more likely they are become regular readers. If you are interested in them, mouse over the pics for the artist and title - the music pics should link to their amazon pages (not to promote amazon but to give more information on the album.)

The blogupp widget under the music pics is just a social networking tool for bloggers. If you mouse over it you can see another blogger's site and title. Someone else somewhere is showing mine.

Lastly, some of you outside of St. Louis may not have heard that we had an earthquake at 4:30 in the morning a couple of weeks ago. Actually, Illinois had an earthquake, which was felt at least a state away in each direction. You might think that as a Californian I wouldn't be affected by earthquakes, but now that I have kids and live in a house that is not earthquake proof, I shot up out of bed. We were close to getting the girls out of the house when I felt that the rumbles were subsiding. Clara opened her door and with big eyes said, "My bed was shaking!" The next day, she pointed to everything in her room: "My flowers were shaking. My lamp was shaking. My Chumley was shaking." Chumley is her bear. Clara calls it "the earthshake." There was an aftershock the next day, and St. Louisans have stepped up their talk of the inevitable big one that should hit any day now...

No Vacation for You!

So there we were, the four of us standing in the airport with our backpacks full of travel snacks and luggage full of sunscreen and swimsuits, ready to hit the beach in Mexico with our friends the Etters and the Walls. We had our tickets, our passports, and the girls' birth certificates. Some of you might know where this is heading...

We couldn't get on the plane. Starting January of this year, birth certificates are no longer accepted for children flying in and out of the country - they need their own passports. Toddlers. Need passports. I never would have thought to check on children's passports since as long as I've known a birth certificate has been sufficient. It's our fault we didn't know, but sheesh, passports for children? Really?

So we took the long drive back home while trying to scramble to find a way to get everyone down to Ixtapa, which is as south in Mexico as you can get. We tried to get an emergency passport but those aren't available on the weekends. We tried to get a flight on Monday or Tuesday but that particular flight is only available on Saturday. We thought about driving (since birth certificates are OK for driving or boating into the country - makes sense, right?) but then remembered that we're not lunatics. Then we thought about Megan flying the girls to south Texas where I would drive and pick them up to drive the rest of the way through Mexico, but then we realized again that we're not lunatics. And all these options would have cost us several thousand dollars more than we had already spent on the trip.

I measured the girls to see if they'd fit in our carry-on luggage.

Eventually we had to give up and accept the fact that we were not going to make our vacation. Kate didn't know what was going on, which was lucky, but Clara wanted to go to the beach with Andrew and Justin Etter. She understood that something was wrong because Megan was upset at the airport, so Clara crawled into her lap and comforted her. "Mommy cried because we forgot our papers."

We were all a bit sad this weekend. The more I thought about it, the more angry I got about the new child passport requirement. It boggles my mind that a toddler needs a passport. For "Homeland Security" reasons? Really?

I present the new targets of paranoia:



One of the reasons mentioned for the requirement is to curb child abduction, but evidently it's OK to abduct a child by car or boat. Even an infant needs a passport! This is what an infant passport looks like:


Can someone explain to me how this passport is supposed to stop a child abduction? First off, almost all child abductions are by a family member, who I'm sure would have just as much access to the child's passport as he or she has to the child. But in the (thankfully) super-rare instance that the abductor is not a family member, the holder of the passport above can abduct any 1-year-old child and use this passport. Do you honestly think an immigration official would say, "I'm sorry, Mr. Surnameredacted, your child does not look like the infant in this passport. This infant looks quite blobby and doesn't have nearly as much hair as your child does." And this passport will work until 2012!

Unbelievable.

/end rant

Helping by not helping

This morning, on the official first day of spring (meaning I pulled my flip-flops out of the closet,) I took the girls to Tilles Park and its acre-wide playground. They ate their muffies on a park bench while eying with jealousy the kids who were already playing on the swings. They stuffed the last bits in their mouths and jumped down, running with their mouths full toward the swings. After tiring me out there, they turned their attention to the playground monstrosity - three stories of ladders and slides. The third story is only accessible by a tall ladder that Kate has never attempted. She walked over and looked up the ladder. A mom who was standing there scooped up Kate and lifted her up onto the third story, which I really wish she hadn't done because I knew what would result. Kate now found herself placed higher than she had ever been with no clue how to get down. She started crying. If she had been able to get herself up there I don't think she would have been as scared. I had to climb up and get her down.

A little while later she made her way back to the ladder and asked me to help her up. Instead of doing what the mom did, I helped her move her hands and feet up the ladder to learn how to climb it herself. She flashed a proud smile when she reached the top and found the big slide to get herself down. She ran back to the ladder and asked for help again. I didn't help her. "Try to do it yourself." She didn't like that. She cried and jumped up and down asking for help. "You can do it." She threw herself on the ground crying.

Kate is stubborn and independent, but she gives up on things much too easily. One of her most common phrases at home is, "I can't do it," often before she's really tried. As the younger sibling who has a dad who comes to her rescue, she has started to rely on me to do things she finds difficult. I'm not OK with that. I'll lend a hand, but not as a substitute for her to do things herself.

So there she was having a mini tantrum on the playground. I said, "if you can't get up there yourself then maybe you're not ready to play up there." That did it. She looked up at me with anger in her eyes, stood up and went back to the ladder. She never looked back at me as she slowly placed one foot above the other, reaching her little hands up to the next bar. There was a moment near the top where her body started shaking and I had to stop myself from coming to her aid. She lifted her leg over onto the third floor and stood up. "I did it!" She held her arms up and I clapped for her.

For the next twenty minutes, Kate did nothing but climb the ladder and slide down the big slide over and over and over.

Overheard at the Bittle Household

Kate: Good morning, sissy.
Clara: Good morning, Kate.
Kate: I'm drinking milk.
Clara: It's raining. We can't play outside.
Kate: Oh.

Clara: Thank you for not slamming the door on my finger, Daddy.
Me: You're welcome.

Kate: Hi, Daddy.
Me: Hello, beautiful.
Kate: I'm not boo-ful.
Me: You're not?
Kate: No, I'm Kate!

Clara: (riding fast on her tricycle) ROCK AND ROLL!!!

Me: Who wants to watch Shrek?
Kate: ME!
Clara: ME! But I don't like the part I don't like.
Me: What part is that?
Clara: The part I don't like.
Me: OK... Why don't you like it?

Clara: It's scary.

Me: It is? Which part scares you?

Clara: The part I don't like.

Kate: Superhero to the rescue!

(picking Kate up at Kids Day Out)
Me: Pssst, Kate.
Kate: Daddy!
Me: Ready to go?
Kate: (turning back to the other kids) Bye, friends!

(at the dinner table:)

Clara: BUUUUUUURRRRP!!!!!
Me: Clara! What do you say?
Clara: Cowabunga!

Kate: (taking my hand) Come on, Daddy.
Me: Where are we going?
Kate: Grandma's house.
Me: Oh yeah? Where's Grandma's house?
Kate: Over here.
Me: I've been wanting to see Grandma.
Kate: Ta-da!
Me: Oh, is this Grandma's house? Where's Grandma?
Kate: (after thinking for a second) Sacramento.

Clara: Mommy, my tummy says I can't eat any more.
Megan: Oh, yeah? I was going to give you some ice cream.

Clara: Mommy, my tummy says it would like some ice cream.
Megan: I thought it might.

(last night, while walking side by side up the stairs:)

Clara: I love you, Kate.
Kate: I love you, sissy.

Edible Hugs

Actual conversations with Nana:

Nana: Would the girls like some scrambled eggs?
Me: Oh, thanks, but we ate before coming over.
Nana: How about some fruit?
Me: No, thank you.
Nana: Cereal?

I look over to Megan, who is smiling and shaking her head.

Nana: Toast?
Me: They're fine, really.
Nana: (Quieter) Pancakes?

I'm starting to understand why Nana loves to feed her grandchildren. Early on, after the girls graduated from bottles, the rice cereal phase was followed by the testing of solid foods, which was followed by the get-them-to-eat-vegetables phase. Feeding them was part of the work it takes to care for a child. But now that they're a little bit older, I can discover and create new meals for them, and I've found that feeding a child is just an extension of loving a child.

Nana: French toast?

Think about it: we have all these pa/ma-ternal instincts that place the health and safety of our child as our highest priority. Just about everything any parent does, from providing for his or her family financially to changing diapers, is an extension of those instincts. So when a parent puts some food together and offers it on a plate, and when that child sits down and quietly eats, maybe with one foot on the ground and the other knee on the chair like Clara does, it's as much a connection between parent and child as a hug, an edible one.

Nana: English muffins?

I know that it won't be long until activities and sports and work get in the way of having a nice, quiet meal with our kids, so I make sure to appreciate the connection now. In more than a few years, when the girls return home on their college spring break, they'll be comforted by my "who wants scrambled eggs?"

Nana: Donuts?
Me: You have donuts?
Nana: No, but you could go get some.