Wednesday Words

So my husband dropped an F-bomb the other day. This isn't an unusual thing--after all, the man's Italian. I mean, if you've watched The Sopranos, you know. Fuhgeddaboudit. It's just another word.

Until your 23-month-old starts using it.

"F***!" He chortles gleefully at his Matchbox cars.
"F***!" He shouts at the woman behind us in the market (who stopped to admire "the cute little towhead".)
"F***!" He yells at the library.

"F***!" I mutter at my husband. "I hope you're satisfied."

So we put a cease-fire command on the F-bombs. The D's cleaned up their mouths. Which was good, because The Pickle spends time with his Aunt, Grandma and cousins. Lord knows, I didn't want him to teach the F-word to the twins. When he went to Auntie's for a sleepover, I was confident that he wouldn't be teaching his cousins any bad words.

Nope. He learned about God.

"Dee-sus Twihst!" He announced as I went into his room this morning. "I do da tinky poop!"

F***.

Tuesday Toddler Story

I'm trying to decipher my son's words. Most of them, I understand. An easy one is, "la-la-looooon!" for "balloon!". "Bing-et", of course, is "blanket". "Boo-bus" (my personal favorite) is "school bus".

I can't even try to write "fire engine" phoenetically. I think it's "wa-wa-ing-gon" but even that's generous. It's sort of a "be there, know it" kind of a word, the kind a caregiver translates by subtraction. "You want this? No? This? No? Oh. This? No...This? No? This?..." Fortunately, it doesn't happen often in my little guy's case. Most of his words sound relatively close to the actual one. Except for "pie"which meant "lollipop".

Anyhow, I'm thinking about one of my w.i.p.s. My hero is Mr. Wobbly on The Mr. Wobbly and Friends Show. (What? You haven't heard of it? It's the hottest show for the three and under set.) In my mind, it's a sort of Mr. Rogers/Bear in the Big Blue House (for those who remember it...it was a great show and I'm sorry it's not on, anymore)/Blue's Clue's kind of show. And Shane feels that he's an expert on early childhood behavior. Not only is he THE man, and THE puppet (Mr. Nuts, the squirrel) but--he has a PhD in early childhood education. So he's an expert.

Except, his experience with actual small children has been limited to research situations, a few three-month internships and a stint as a mall Santa as an undergrad. He's never actually spent more than a few hours at a time with a toddler so when he's snowed in for a week with a two-year-old...

Well, let's just say that Shane learns more than he bargained for.

I thought it would be fun to have my heroine, Dale, also snowed in, also without any experience with children--be able to understand everything the two-year-old says, while my Expert can't...get...a...word. Heh. What a humbling experience for him. My only problem is trying to figure out what is too much toddler-speak. Just because I'm immersed in it, and my characters can't escape it doesn't mean my readers will enjoy having to try to figure out what the kid is saying.

Unless Dale is the one the child speaks to--and it appears clear. Hmmm...What do you think? How would you have a toddler speak in a story? (Or would you just be smart and create a toddler-free story?) I'll have to think about it. Maybe while we're watching the same episode of Dippa da Dohg (Kipper the Dog) for the seventy-eighth time.

Let's Go To Prison

I took my husband to prison, this morning.

Today, is his first day of training at The Correctional Officer's Academy. A big change of career for Big B., who spent the past 15 years in sales of one sort or another. But the economy--and a need for the stability of a set salary and guaranteed overtime (vs. potential commission), as well as a long layoff--convinced B. it was time. He says he'd always had a secret dream of going into law enforcement of one form or another. And though, in RI, when you pass the requirements for the Corrections Officer Academy, you pass them for any law enforcement agency in RI, he decided this was the way to go.

For one thing, he wants to be a state employee. The cutoff for the State Police was age 36. B. just turned 39 last week. (Which is too bad--I'd love to see him in the Smokie hat and boots.) The local police force's Academy didn't start until next January and B's unemployment benefits (even extended) would run out before then. So--this was it. Corrections Officer.

I dropped him off at 6:30 and drove away, very careful not to look back or act at all associated with him. Not that it mattered. As I travelled the short side street in front of the Training building, cadets of both sexes, in identical blue sweatsuits, with identical grey jumpsuits and black duffel bags slung over their shoulders, jogged down the sidewalks. All of them had that look I remember from my childrens' first day of kindergarten. A bit anticipatory, a little scared, and complete confidence that this was the first day of the rest of their life.

Here's prayers and positive thoughts to the new Correctional Officers of the class of 2008-2009; do well, be safe, be strong. Let's go to prison!

Saturday Slush

Yesterday I went to my sister-in-law's to drop off my 23 month old. First, some background. She's got a pair of twins. They're two-and-a-half. She lives in a large raised ranch with a big yard. Okay. Got a picture in your head?

So I walk in, and I'm greeted by--shining floors. Dust-free surfaces. Stain-free surfaces. Her laundry (all she's got, and a small amount) is in the hamper, ready to be washed as soon as the babies go down for their naps. No dishes on the counter, no cobwebs in the corners. Toys are kept in two neat bins in the "play room", and they stay there. This is a clean house.

It really messed with my head. As soon as I got home and walked in the door, my husband asked, "What's with you? You're all mooshy-moosh."

Yeah, of course I am. My house is in chaos. There are dog-hair dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds rolling out from beneath the furniture. My daughter's room looks like an explosion in a clothing store; jeans lie twisted together like lovers among Halloween candy wrappers and birthday cards. There are toys in every room in the house.

Granted, I'm having a passive-aggressive war with my daughter, hoping she'll get sick of the mess and clean it up, because she's 11--old enough to clean her own room. And, I'm taking online classes for my Masters, so I'm reading and working. And, I have a part-time job. Oh, and there's that whole writing books thing that I'm constantly doing.

My sister-in-law has none of those things in her life. Her kids are small, she finished high school and called herself done with school forever, she doesn't have a job outside the house and she can't be bothered to read a book, never mind write one. So...we're two different people. Her clean house is all she's got. And I've got lots of other things to occupy myself besides my clean house. I mean...real writers don't vacuum, right?

My husband wishes I was a house-cleaning drone, I know. My children could USE a house-cleaning drone. And on days like yesterday (and today, to be honest), I feel depressed, because I'm not a house-cleaning drone.

Maybe...maybe it's time for a new project. Maybe I'll use the time I spend this week, brainlessly cleaning my house--to brainstorm.

Friday Fur Fact: I've been evicted

...from my favorite chair. Apparently, it's become The Place to Sit for Rosie.

She's not a small dog; she weighs about forty pounds. So when I sit on her (and that's what I have to do) she doesn't complain. In fact, she stays right where she is. This morning, she fell asleep with her nose pressed against my left shoulderblade and her hind paws tucked beneath my bottom.

But you know what Duffy says: She's a bitch.

I'm hoping this is just some form of doggie-power play. I'd really like to get my chair back.

Writing with Toddler

How does anyone write with a toddler in the house?

It's 7:55. My toddler got out of his crib at 6:30. He's already--pulled an entire stack of clean, folded laundry apart.

Dumped out a bowl of dog-water.

Thrown a box of 250 crayons on the dining room floor.

Pulled homework off the counter.

Scattered said homework into the dog water puddles on the kitchen floor.

Dripped water onto my laptop. (!)

Sat on the dog.

Put a blanket over his head and walked into the wall.

Pushed a nearly full bowl of cereal and milk (his brother's) off the table.

Played in the toilet.

Hugged my leg--and then bit me.

My aunt used to say, "Children are life's greatest joy...are you joyful, yet?"

I've had a request for one of my unfinished manuscripts. It's the story of a stubborn man, an emotionally challenged woman, and a two-year-old, trapped in a house during a blizzard. I told my editor I'm still in the research phase.

I think I'm in the recovering from research phase. I won't be done with recovery until the toddler turns...twenty-one.

It doesn't help that I pity my characters, Shane and Dale. They have no idea what's in store for them. They think kids are cute. I wonder if, after they escape from the house (and the two-year-old) if they'll ever have children of their own?

They might chose to raise puppies, instead.

Labor Day?

My kids have more days off than they have school. At least, it feels that way. They started school last Tuesday, and they already have today off.

Not that I mind, you understand. It's just that it makes life difficult. Like now, when my daughter came in and started talking about something as I started writing.

Writing with kids around is impossible. For one thing, they interrupt your train of thought. (Nothing's worst than a derailed train of thought.) For another--how in the world am I supposed to write romance when I've got kids in the background? My hero's just about to make a move on my heroine, when--wham!--Sponge Bob starts singing. Or, someone calls someone else an idiot. Or someone needs a cracker/cookie/sippy cup.

It just doesn't work.

So, I think they should change the name of this holiday from Labor Day to "I can't get a freaking thing done because the kids are home from school Day". Anyone else agree?

How's the Weight Loss going?

Managed to lose another 2.4 pounds this weekend; not exactly sure how this happened, but I'm not going to quibble. I also got my WW pedometer to work (I think), so I'm wearing it today and will post my Activity Points earned, tomorrow.

Bought lemons, limes and mint leaves to put into my water bottle in an effort to make it more enticing to drink. So far, the bottle sits on my mantel, untouched and unfilled (and fruitless) because...the kids are home today.

And the Number One son just asked me from some lunch. :p Think I'll make myself some low-point Progresso soup.

The gym closes at noon, today (no one's laboring there, either) so I can't go. Elliptical tomorrow. I think I'll go for a whole 20 minutes. Perhaps I won't die.