Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be Ariel

In recent weeks, Shawn Joaquin and I have started a new tradition - a picnic on the bed with a great movie. It's never too soon to start his love of movies; when he was less than a year old he went to the movies with me to see "Control Room", "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" and "The Saddest Music in the World", the most bizarre Fellini wannabe movie made. His interest in Al Jazeera was piqued by Control Room, his inner existentialist awakened by Eternal Sunshine, and his desire to avoid student art films aroused by The Saddest Music.

Now that he's no longer immune to the caustic language, on-screen sex and the violence of my favorite dark and independent films, we stick to old classics like Dumbo, which I am now convinced was animated by some fantastically stoned or otherwise high artists. K. Paige gives it 5 stars out of five - go check it out.

Last week we viewed The Little Mermaid, a movie I remember loving when it came out and enjoying at a theatre on Fillmore Street in the city...all the children singing along, all the little girls rapt and hoping to someday BE Ariel, LOOK like Ariel. Watching it with Shawn Joaquin, I realized this: Ariel has Issues.

Ariel is only sixteen, and makes a deal with Ursula the sea witch to become human for three days to win her prince over. Ursula tells her that if she does this, win or lose, she will never see her family again. Without hesitation, Ariel signs her soul and her singing voice over to the witch to see if she can get a little sumpin' sumpin' from the prince in three days or less. Even Shawn Joaquin was surprised enough to shout "WHY SHE DO THAT?"

It's weird watching a film you once loved through the eyes of your child — you realize just how messed up it is, and how now every Disney female lead looks exactly the same...just a change of eye color, skin and hair, and they're all Daphne from Scooby Doo. And there's some odd Japanese-monster-film synching happening between the animated character and their dialogue - THE ANIMATORS DON'T EVEN TRY ANYMORE. It's just sad. And clear that they need to go back to those heroin-inspired moments that brought us Fantasia and Dumbo.

Now Ariel and Cinderella and Mulan and every other Disney-Aryan-Princess-Under-It-All are banned from our house, though Shawn Joaquin asks hopefully and gravely every day "When Ariel coming back? Where she go? I want to wedding her."

Not a chance pal. Not a chance.

Ear wax and other joys

Love is....

...wiping runny poo off your child's legs and back at 2am while singing Bingo to keep them from freaking and you from vomiting.

...rising pre-dawn to lie down with your child and make each and every animal on their bed speak to him with a distinct voice, accent, gender and possible sexual orientation.

...watching "Put Down the Ducky" for the 17th time and feigning the same amusement you experienced the first time you saw Martina Navritalova sing "put down the ducky."

...diving on the remote to keep him from discovering Pure Evil: Barney.

...holding your child to your chest and rocking her even though you know there is an excellent chance that she is about to vomit Annie's Organic Mac'n'Cheese on your Michael Kohrs pants that make your ass look OH SO GOOD or even your favorite ratty fat pants, without which you'd be nearly suicidal at least once a month for three days.

...delicately dipping deep into your child's ear with your pinky to remove the most disgusting, fat pearl of red ear wax ever seen In The Whole History of the Earth because you once heard a rumor about a kid who was brain damaged by a Q-tip wielded by her mother. And you're concerned it might have been YOUR mother.

He's a little bit country

Shawn Joaquin has always been a deep kid, from his "where does the rain go" questions to his love of the lyrics of any Annie Lennox song and his ability to smell sunshine and tell me it makes him feel happy. Therefore it came as no surprise to me that when mommy hits the wall, he's more than happy to watch Project Runway, Rachel Ray and ice skating. (I draw the line at ice dancing, which even I consider too creepy and something that should only be enjoyed by deeply tortured souls with drawn-on brows.) I'm not proud of the fact that TV was verboten, outside of the World Series (minus the commercials) until he was three, and now I'm letting him learn from bitchy designers and people in lycra. But I'm tired, damnit, and sometimes the old Big Bird is not going to Chill Mama Out.

The other night I may have crossed the line. Some late night a few weeks ago I had happened across Nashville Star and was so enamored of two of its singers (and the fact that it kicks American Idol's Coke-tattooed ass) that I started DVRing it. I watch it secretly, like my special version of porn, and go to bed later with the songs of the Mandrel Sisters and Merle Haggard drifting across my REM sleep. Tonight I couldn't handle the exuberant rat-a-tat-tat of Rachel Ray's ill-placed laughter and there was no ice skating to be found, so I decided that we could watch 15 minutes of Nashville Star. In doing so, I have created a boy who now loves both kinds of music: country AND western.

As Zach Hacker's song came to a close, Shawn Joaquin yelled "MORE SINGING! MORE THAT MAN SINGING!" As we moved through the four remaining contestants, as each one finished he'd yell "MORE SINGING! I LOVE THAT SONG! IT'S MY FAVORITE SONG!"

As we headed downstairs letter, he asked "what that kind of music?" I told him it was country western, and that we'd hear more tomorrow. He put a sleepy head on my shoulder and said, "That's the best music in the whole world. It's my favorite music." With his recent gift for mimicry, it's only a matter of time before he climbs into bed one night and says with a woeful sigh, "It's hard to kiss the lips at night that chew your ass out all day long."

Yee haw.

Good advice

Our Saturday morning exchange:

"Mama, don't work now. I don't want you to work."

"I don't want to work, but I have to.
What do you think I should do when I'm finished?"

"Dance around and sing like a coyote. Like this."
[Demonstration follows.]

Sign me up.

I love you too

Since my first day with Shawn Joaquin, I have told him repeatedly, dozens or even hundreds of times every day that I love him. Te amo, mi amor. Mama loves you. Who do I love the most in this world? YOU. He has always replied with an emphatic “yeah-yeah” and a vigorous nod and gone back to chewing on his blanket, carefully arranging his cars, wrestling with his rubber snake or knocking back his milk. The words “I love you” were apparently going to be saved up for a very special occasion.

Last night as I tucked him, I was absolutely overwhelmed with exhaustion from my workweek. I arranged his animals all around him in their exact order, as required and detailed nightly, put the jaguar on its proper place on the windowsill (“I WANT HIM TO WATCH ME ALL NIGHT WITH HIS EYES”), put the small elephant back on the high shelf (“THE ELEPHANT NEEDS TO WATCH ME TOO. WHERE ARE HIS EYES? HIS EYES NEED TO LOOK AT ME”), put the cup of water on the table next to his bed, put on the RIGHT second blanket, turned the car lamp nightlight JUST SO, allowing him to see the headlights, let the roman blinds down, closed the closet door, turned on the train sounds and did the myriad of other little things apparently required for a good night’s sleep in the monkey bed.

After meeting all of the little Napolean’s demands, I closed the door and started down the hall, ready to collapse on the sofa with the remote in hand and the phone ringer turned off. A wail followed me — and inescapable cry that could not be ignored in hopes that it would die down. I went back into his room where he was crying almost inconsolably. “YOU DIDN’T DO IT! YOU DIDN’T DO IT! YOU DIDN’T DO IT!” I looked around the room at all of the things in their places, checked the closet door and adjusted the volume on the train sound machine. After much hiccupping and snorting and mucus flow, he was settled down and I was ready to go again. I leaned down once more to say goodnight and he grabbed my neck and held me fiercely. Before I could say a word, he said with a depth of emotion that only a soulful three-year old could manage “I love you too, Mama.” In that knee-weakening moment, I realized the thing that I didn’t do was say “I love you” before turning out the light. So with the depth of emotion that only a mother hearing “I love you too” for the first time could manage, I choked out “Te amo, mi amor. Te amo.” It was all I could not to lie down with him and reiterate all the promises I hold in my heart for him — to protect him always, to love him always, to be there for him today and tomorrow and for every day that my heart beats.

That moment encapsulated why I am a mother, and why he is the best damn thing I have ever done with my life.

Come ON, people

We received new pictures of Madelena this morning, along with the news that we're still in "limbo" in the Guatemalan review process. "Limbo" being code for "we have no f'ing idea what's happening, no one will tell us a thing, have a nice day." In the meantime, I bludgeoned a hard-boiled egg after being unable to peel it. I was so enraged by the churlishness of this egg that I had to whack it several times with a coffee mug — the egg splatter was quite spectacular, and would draw the interest of the most avid CSI fan.

This is what happens when Type-A optimists realize that a) they're not in control and b) someone is robbing them, robbing them BLIND of their optimism.

We've talked about me going to Guatemala to live and work this summer, taking Shawn Joaquin with me. I have these idealized notions of living in our little casita (behind the locked gates and with high speed internet access, of course), Madelena in my arms, Shawn Joaquin off at the preschool down the street, perfecting his Spanish and making new friends, and a loving niñera to help me with both of them while I worked during the day. The reality of it would be spending warm evenings swathed in mosquito netting, getting knocked off my dial-up connection repeatedly while missing work deadlines and spending hours trying to reach Gregg on his cell phone while he enjoyed those luxuries I once took for granted - pizza delivery, late night dog walks and HBO-as-valium.

Shawn Joaquin asked me why I'm sad. I told him I was missing Madelena. He hugged me, patted me, and then proceeded to tell me to get him some milk NOW, with a straw, and not to forget the side of almonds. And to stop talking about Madelena.

"Don't talk about Madelena. Talk about Shawn Joaquin. I FUNNY."

I think he's on to something.

At least it's not teen spirit

"What my blanket smell like, Mama?"

"I don't know - what does it smell like?"

"I think maybe....it smells like....Lake Tahoe."

"What does Lake Tahoe smell like?"

"Feet."

My name is Paige, and I'm a slacker parent

We went up to Tahoe this weekend with one of Shawn Joaquin's favorite people, Amalie, and her mothers. I was really looking forward to the weekend, since this family is only one of a handful that we could not only see spending three full days with but could actually look forward to seeing for three full days. We have similar parenting styles, including the belief (unlike my sister) that Coke in sippy cup with a Cheeto chaser is no way to calm a child.

On our first night, the kids played a game which involved jumping on shapes, colors and printed pictures as an electronic MC called them out. As Amalie jumped and twirled on cue to each call, Shawn Joaquin giggled, fell down, and in his own way professed his complete lack of knowledge or interest in colors or shapes beyond two or three of the basics, which were still quite often interchangeable. ("That thing is blue like mud.") I chalked this up to Amalie being a girl and thus naturally more advanced.

Later that night, the kids watched "The Letter Factory", from which Amalie had already learned all of her alphabet sounds and recognized every letter. As we watched, her mother handed her illustrated cards with the letters that corresponded to the letter on the screen. This was no hyper mom pushing her child with flashcards, but a loving and involved mom serving her daughter's true desire to learn all of her letters and start reading War and Peace and perhaps writing her own Great American Novel before the age of five. My son sat watching with his mouth agape, occasionally deeply probing his ear with his index finger. And I, not having flashcards, focused instead on How I Am Failing My Child and Other Things That Will Mess Him Up, Mess Him Up But Good.

The next three days were filled with moments just like that, as I questioned the hours I spend at work instead of on the floor with him, the time I spend watching Law and Order instead of thinking of the next great thing to interest him and pique his love of learning. How we spend our time running errands or watching Rachel Ray after dinner because I can't read the Penguin and the Pea for the 12th time since sunset. And then it hit me - I am a slacker parent. Shawn Joaquin's lack of interest or knowledge of shapes and color and letters isn't a gender thing - it just may be ME.

On the drive home, after Shawn Joaquin had viewed "The Letter Factory" multiple times over the weekend, I decided to change my Slacker, Slacker Ways.

"Shawn Joaquin, what sound does the letter 'A' make?"

"Mama, this is my ANGRY face."

"I see that. Now, what sound does the letter 'A' make?"

"NO TALKING. No talking about LETTERS. Mama SHOULD NOT TALK. DADDY SHOULD NOT TALK. WEEEEEEE SHOULD NOT TALK."

"Shawn Joaquin —"

"— I AM ONLY GOING TO TALK ABOUT THE THING THAT IS RED LIKE A FIRE ENGINE."

With that, he silently put his blanket over his head, sat back in his car seat, and proceeded to play with the thing that is red and IS a fire engine in the quiet dark of his private, blanketed world.

And I learned that while my son does not care to discuss what sound the letter "A" makes, he has the will and the wisdom to ride for 45 minutes with his head under his blanket to avoid Mama's latest spasm of guilt over parenting. And to quote Martha Stewart, that's a good thing.

I will have fun, damnit

This is what we look like the night before we go on vacation.

Gotta go pack the car now in a manner that will make the Beverly Hillbillies look like light travelers, leaving just enough room between the bags to shove a small child, a large man, and a woman determined to snowboard again before the phrase "don't break a hip" goes from a humorous jab to a sincere plea.

Back on Tuesday with tales from Tahoe.

My uterus hurts

Sex in a house with a three-year old who knows how to open doors is always a tricky thing. To keep him in place at night, we put one of those spinny things on his door, which just frustrates the crap out of him. So instead of possibly walking in on us, he's able to cause almost instant Mood Death by wailing into the baby monitor "HEP ME! SOMEONE HEP ME PEEEESE!"

Unlike Shawn Joaquin, I've come up with my own mood killers for those times when I'm Just Too Damn Tired.

"My uterus hurts."

"I ate a lot tonight. I don't want to vomit on you at the wrong moment."

"Why are you poking me?"

"Put that away before you hurt yourself."

"Is that precancerous? Let's take a look at that in the light."

All of these lines began as true statements, but have evolved into a handy little arsenal. The next time you're feeling just Not Quite Into It, try one of these lines. They work equally well for both genders, though straight women (completely unused to rejection by the usually ready-and-willing male) will spend a great deal of time examining their bodies afterward if some of these lines are directed at them — locked in the bathroom naked with both a hand mirror and the full-length mirror, having flashbacks to their first shower in the girls gym in junior high or to the unflattering, cellulite-illuminating lighting in the Mervyn's dressing room or worse yet, that time they saw themselves reflected in a store window and thought "whose ass is THAT?" before they realized it was their own — all sure to induce total body image failure that can last days and days at a time. So men, if you try this be sure that you're really damn tired and don't want to have sex for a very, very, very long time.

Who am I kidding - no men are that tired.

No shoes, no shame

I work from home now.

This has both its advantages and disadvantages.

Advantages: No politics, no shoes, no make up, no annoying coworkers that can't be smacked down with the close of an IM window, no constant stream of chocolate and cookies and baked goods from anorexically thin coworkers who "just like to bake for others." No body odors that I am not myself responsible for, no crappy fluorescent lighting, no interruptions due to coworker's sudden client/coworker/spouse/reality show character crisis. No closed door conversations, no whispering, no averted eyes as you arrive in the same clothes as the day before, with a dearth of makeup (other than your smudged mascara) and a slightly overwhelming scent of body-spray-in-lieu-of-shower. No shared bathrooms with those embarrassing moments of silence after the deafening explosion from the stall next door. No dress code, no one to impress with anything other than your mind. And yet...

Disadvantages: No one to concept with other than the dog, who is just FRIED after that last campaign and frankly, kind of sucked on that one. No one to distract you when you can't bear another moment of staring at the screen as your mind slips and slides on its own juices, stumbling for a concept somewhere, anywhere. A sudden comfort with no human contact, driving you to anger when you realize that no, you can't just email the dentist for an appointment but but must actually SPEAK TO A HUMAN who will inevitably require some form of small talk. No place to go for lunch except the kitchen, where whoever is in charge of procurement really needs to be fired, given the lack of originality in the offerings. How many days can sesame sticks and string cheese be passed off as "a meal"? The constant lure of mid-afternoon television, where you convince yourself that concepts and strategies can be found amidst the makeovers, house flips and vampire slayings. The siren's song of the king sized bed on a gray day, when god knows that no one can work or think anyway, so what's a little nap between calls? The sad realization that you have not worn make up or shoes or even nice underwear and fitted clothing in more than a week and that everytime you walk by a mirror you are startled into thinking "JAYSUS, who's the hell is that?" before you recognize this aging and sallow vision of yourself. Your only face-to-face conversations are with a mentally absent husband and an English-challenged nanny and a three year old, the latter believing that you're pretty damn cool but could you just get the hell out of the way of his Sesame Street view or get him some godddamn milk with a straw, PLEASE.

Welcome to my office. Shoes, shirts and service are all optional.



[Previously posted in 2006 - but damnit, I like it]

My child is not an an-ni-maaal

Valentine's Day has come and gone, and with it the extreme mood swings that make any other day look like Zen meditation moments. After a virtual love fest at preschool that included decorating cookies and handing out Valentines to nearly 20 party-hyped three-year-olds in various states of disarray and mucus discharge, it was time to head home. My head was pounding with a heat-and-shriek-induced migraine, but my heart was so full of joy and love after watching all those little bundles of Id-minus-Super-Ego throw themselves into the arms of their classmates with abandon and often destructive force. Shawn Joaquin's delight over the tattoos, stickers and glitter-covered cards was only surpassed by his new love of Ariel, featured on one of his sticky little Valentine cards and his pink cupcake. The frosting on his nose was merely a sign to other kids that yeah, he'd gotten some, and he'd loved every minute of it.

After a sugar-induced coma for Shawn Joaquin and a Zomig-induced healing for me, we headed to á Cote for dinner with Gregg. As I tried to break through the front door crowd, a couple in front of me was loudly discussing how inappropriate it was to bring children to such a nice restaurant and on Valentine's night, no less — all said while staring at my son and husband. Gregg and Shawn Joaquin were already in the dining area and I made my way over to them, accidentally and sharply elbowing the disagreeable man in the back to ensure that he saw me. GAME ON, mister.

With no lack of trepidation, I sat down at our centrally located table. My competitive nature and motherly pride had me ready to give in to any whim to avoid a shout of "NOT THAT FOOD! NOT THAT WAY! NOOOOOOOO!"

I'm happy to say that Shawn Joaquin was beautifully behaved during dinner — from his parpardelle and Croque Monsieur to the cup of steamed milk he enjoyed while we had our coffee. He enjoyed the short rib sugo, the picholines, the beet risotto and the crisp polenta served with arugula and gorgonzola. We all held hands, opened gifts and cards, and had our own private love fest in the candlelight. As we rose to leave after 2 hours, it was all I could do not to thrust my child's angelic face in that of the complaining rat bastard from earlier and say, "In your FACE, mister!". Thankfully I was interrupted by the couple at the table next to us, who asked us if we were proud of our son and his exceptional behavior.

What could I say? I am proud of my son for his exceptional restaurant manners, which began with a 3-hour meal at Olivetto's at 7 months and has extended to this day. But I'm proud of him always - when he questions me about everything, when he demands that I leave his area, when he asks me why I'm sad or happy or laughing, or announces loudly and publicly from the check out line that tinkling in the toilet is FUNNY. So all I could say was yes, and that this was the best Valentine's night I've ever had.

Why Valentine's Day is not just about romantic love

Today is sunny and clear. My son is happy. My husband is hot. I'm going to spend my lunchtime decorating cookies with a bunch of three-year-old artists. What's not to love about Valentine's Day?

Don't look in my bottom

Shawn Joaquin has become, as we who hate to love Ron Burgundy like to say, locked in a glass case of emotion. He's like a really short, very drunk little man whose wife just left him. He vacillates between utter joy and destructive despondency, testing out his new freedom and then being utterly crushed to find it's not as great as he thought it would be.

"I WANNA WALK UP BY MYSELF! NO HELPING!
[pause]
"HELP ME NOW! HELP ME NOOOOOWWWWW!"

This morning I got into bed with him and as he told me about last night's Hole in the Wall dream, he suddenly stopped and demanded I rub his back. This is code for I WANT ALL OF YOUR ATTENTION AND DON'T EVEN LOOK UP AT THE MONKEY ON THE BOOKSHELF OR I WILL BITE YOU. I OWN YOUR ASS. I began to rub his back while he told me about how the cow talked just like Grandad. About the skunk that was hiding in the tree and I found him. How the childrens [sic] that were playing in the carts again. And suddenly, mid-story, my touch was no more wanted than a syphilitic hooker's touch is desired by a sober man.

"NOT THAT WAY! THAT'S NOT THE WAY TO TOUCH ME! DON'T LOOK IN MY BOTTOM!"

These are the moments you're sure that CPS will come crashing in through the window, dropped in on rope ladders by a hovering helicopter — the neighbors have alerted them to not only the screams but the very clear LANGUAGE CHOICES that show CLEAR ABUSE. It's all I can do not to clamp my hand over his mouth and duck behind the furniture. This "look in my bottom" thing first appeared in a very quiet waiting room, where a long forgotten rectal temperature check was suddenly construed and clearly, loudly proclaimed as "remember when you looked in my bottom and gave me an ouchie and stuck that thing in me? I didn't like that very much." Why can't I have one of those kids who just comment on other people's fat guts or moles or bad breath? You can just look chagrined and move on, knowing you'll never have to see them or their fat gut again. But NO, I am "outted" in a medical waiting room where IT'S THEIR JOB TO REPORT THESE THINGS.

Later he told the doctor that he didn't like it when SHE looked in his bottom (as she listened to his heart), and the fact that she laughed and said "I hear ya, kid" led me to believe that perhaps my child was not the first to say something like this, and CPS would not be heading over to meet us at the exit door. I relaxed and did my best to enjoy the next five minutes of yelling, "Don't touch that! THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SHOULD DO!!!" since it was directed at someone other than me for once.

By the time we hit the elevator, I was so chillaxed I had forgotten about the whole incident. Until he asked to be picked up, grabbed my face, and said in a loud voice that carried the full three feet to the man standing next to us: "Mom, you're not supposed to touch my bottom. That's MY area."

Here we go again.

Keep the crazy to yourself

Yesterday I met a friend for coffee, someone I've known for years. He knew me when - when I was not a mom, when I showed up for the White Trash Bowling Bash in my cut offs and white t-shirt and black bra (with a pack of never-to-be-smoked Kools in the strap), when I had a staff of 14 in an agency of 70 and was being paged every 10 minutes throughout the day, when my biggest responsibility outside of work was feeding and walking my pets, when I had no bedtime on weekend night's because I had no early morning baby monitor wake-up call, and he was even there the night I danced on the bar at my Studio 54-themed party in platform shoes and a satin tube top. I worked very hard at my job, spent 60 hours a week obsessing about it and the rest of my waking hours escaping from it by snowboarding, doing yoga, hiking, shopping, exploring, painting, writing, gardening and seeing movies in Really Big Theaters, all alone in the dark and loving every minute of it.

He too was fairly free, in a long-term relationship but professionally untethered, trying to determine his future and not sure what it would hold or what he'd like it to hold.

We've both moved past those days of amorphous futures and into the arms of our respective spouses, and children are now part of the picture for both of us. I have my son, and he and his wife are expecting their first child in April. And we're supposedly Grown Up.

I was thrilled to get out of the house and talk face-to-face with another Grown Up. I spend so much of my day, and often days on end, in my darkened office at home. My only in-person conversations are with a 3-year old and an English-as-a-second-language babysitter (who the hell am I kidding - we have a nanny; liberal guilt precludes me from using that term) and my crazy dog, who has grown weary of my monologues. My husband is not an early-morning talker, and by the time he gets home at night he's often fresh out of words. So here was my chance - someone who I knew I could make laugh, who made me laugh, and with whom I now shared these Very Grown Up Assets - spouse, real job and children.

I was a blathering idiot.

My enthusiasm over live conversation led me down many wayward paths, including complaining about a mom at our school, racism, the best parenting magazine, my son's dreams, which bouncy seat is the best and the bashing of cities in which my friend might work or live in the near future. This is not what I came here to talk about. This is not what he came here to talk about it. I realized I was out of control, and had visions of my bipolar sister in her manic moments and thought AH, THAT'S WHAT IT FEELS LIKE.

Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was the sugary lemon bar. But I'm pretty sure it's too much time spent alone. As I drove home, I vowed to get more often and ensure that my craziness only comes out in little bits, preferably with strangers, rather than in a cannon blast with people I hope to see again.

I'm off to share the crazy now with the people at Peet's. Wish me luck.

We don't like cameras

The baby is in the trash can

Shawn Joaquin has started telling me his dreams in the morning, and today told me that in his dream (which happened in The Hole in the Wall Above His Bed, where all his dreams take place) a clown was putting babies in trash cans for their mommies and daddies...or their two mommies...as he clarified...who would find them and be really happy to have their new baby. I wasn't sure whether to be proud of his Families Come In All Sizes perspective or to be horrified about the image of babies in trash cans, and wonder if he'd been reading some tabloid or surfing the net again.

In the end I decided to just roll with it, since this all came from a kid who also told me he likes Rachel Ray because she's very clean and shiny and always wants to know what a store sells and who buys it and where are the people and who turned the lights off. He's just a creative thinker. And an excellent partner for Who's On First.

I'm glad my son is a thinker and doesn't often have to be scraped off the ceiling. We spend more time talking about what the cat may be thinking about, where ghosts go when we can't see them, why people play tennis, if moose can really talk, whether Dumbo is a heffalump or an elephant, what owls eat, what an okapi says, if Kimberly will ever get to come to his house, what we're going to do next and where we've been. And every long monologue ends with a brief pause, and then "that was a great story, Mom. I'm going to tell it again."

And every time, I'm more than willing to listen.