My 2-year-old does not understand TV.

You see, we don't have cable, or satellite, and so turning on the television and flipping through multiple channels is not really a concept my kids are familiar with, other than as a novelty at someone else's house. Don't think that we're one of those families where the kids spend all their time in educational, fulfilling activities, however. They still watch plenty of shows. They're just of the VHS and DVD variety. We also have a high-speed internet connection, and with a computer hooked up to our TV set, we can watch all kinds of shows via the internet.

But now, as of a few days ago, my husband rigged up an antenna so that we can now watch PBS again as well--the only channel that comes in. It's been quite awhile since we've had any broadcast TV at all--six months, maybe? And when you're only 2 years old, six months is like half your cognitive lifespan. Evie has no memory of broadcast television at all.

And frankly, she doesn't like it that much. Because when you're watching shows as broadcast by a network, there's a schedule. A lineup. Something pre-arranged by someone else that determines in which order you're going to watch your shows. And Evie does not like it when other people are in control.

So her TV watching goes a little something like this:

Me: "Evie, you can watch a show on the TV now. Should we see what's on?"

Evie: "Scooby-Doo! I want Scooby-Doo!"

Me: "Well, Scooby-Doo is not on this station."

Evie: "Scooby-Doo!"

Me: "No, there's no Scooby-Doo. But Clifford! Look, Clifford is on!"

Evie: "Clifford! Clifford! Yay!"

--30 minutes of peace while Evie is enraptured with Clifford--

Evie: "Again! I want Clifford again!"

Me: "Well, it's not a DVD, honey. You can't watch it again. It's over."

Evie: "Where go Clifford? It's all gone!"

Me: "Yes, it's all gone. Clifford isn't on right now."

Evie: "Why? Clifford? Where go Clifford?"

--Cue theme song of WordWorld--

Evie: "Noooo! I not like that one! Where go Clifford?"

And this is when she breaks down into tears because of the evil, evil television, that capricious box that gives her enjoyment and then cruelly snatches it away.

I think sometimes it's hard to be 2. You know life is rough when even the TV is out to get you.

Yesterday evening, just as we were sitting down to dinner, I looked out the big front window and saw two little girls walking down the sidewalk.

"Hey, Beth, isn't that Suzy Q from your class?" I said.

"Yes, it's Suzy Q and Sally too!" she said.

"And it looks like they're coming up to our front door," added Eric.

Beth flew to the front door and threw it open, beaming. I followed and heard the following heart-stopping words.

"Can Beth come over and play at my house?" little Suzy said with a grin.

* * *

Perhaps you're now saying to yourself, "Heart-stopping? What's heart-stopping about that? It's just a neighbor asking if a kid can come out and play. What could be more normal than that?"

Or, perhaps you are like me, a mama who tries to surpress her worry-wart tendencies but still can't help being a bit paranoid about her precious children.

Of course my child has played at other kids' houses before. And yes, I have left her alone at said friends' houses without me sitting there watching her every move. The difference between those situations and this one was that prior to that, these playdates were with friends I had personally selected for her. Either they are at the homes of my own personal friends; or, they have been with classmates whose parents I have gotten to know pretty well and whose homes I have visited. This was the first time that Beth was invited to a playdate that was not mother-initiated and previously-approved.

And so, I had a moment of pause. I have a smile-and-nod and chit-chat acquaintance with Suzy Q's mother and father. The girls were in the same kindergarten class last year so we saw each other every day at pick-up and drop-off. But, I have to admit, though I know which house is theirs, which car they drive, and would definitely say hi to them if we ran into each other at the grocery store...I can't actually remember either of the parents' names. I haven't been inside their home. Though they seem quite nice, I don't really know them.

And Beth is only 6. And she's so sweet and--I admit--probably has been pretty sheltered. Could I let her go off into the world (a whole two blocks away) without me?

* * *

As it turns out, I had an easy way out. A) We were just sitting down to dinner; and B) Beth had been at the pediatrician's office that afternoon with a nasty cough and was still sounding pretty bad that evening. I had two excuses to tell Suzy and Sally, "Sorry girls, Beth can't come over today. Maybe another time," and then shut the door and keep her safe at home around our familiar dinner table.

But what about when next time comes? Am I being paranoid to analyze this so much, or do other parents out there struggle with how much to let go and how much to hold on as well?

Overheard around my house this week:

Lucy and Beth, debating about the gender of one of their toys
Lucy: I thought this one was a girl, because of the pinkness and purpleness.
Beth: You know what? I saw a man wearing pink. A real live man.
Lucy: Really?
Beth: Yes. A pink shirt.
Lucy: Wow.

Girls, playing in their room
Beth: "Ooh, it's a bear outside! He wants to eat a baby!"
Lucy: "Oh no! he is breaking down the door! Let's hide under the covers, quick!"
Beth: "Oh, it's just DAD." *wild giggles all around*

Lucy, playing with a collection of toy food
Lucy: Mom, I know why it's called a hot dog.
Me: Why?
Lucy: Because it's hot, and it's a dog.
Me: You know they're not really made out of dog meat.
Lucy, looking unconvinced: Ooookay. But it's still a hot DOG. *Takes a big pretend bite of plastic hot dog, apparently while imagining to herself that she's eating some kind of actual canine* Hot DOG. My favorite.

Evie, coming up and tugging on my pant leg
Evie: Mama, I be a cat when I grow up. OK?
Me: Ok, sweetie. Sounds great.

Summer is dripping away into autumn, and I'm starting to feel a kinship to the squirrels, hoarding away food for the winter. I feel the urge to bake, to roast, to preserve. One day finds me with salsa simmering on the stovetop, bread dough rising on the counter, and cookies baking in the oven. Yesterday it was chicken broth, zucchini bread and French bread; today it's roasting butternut squash and gathering up what will probably be the last of the ripe tomatoes. My garden is drooping, the summer vegetables fading away in the cold and the rain.

What is it about the changing seasons that makes me want to huddle up, preserve, protect? On grey, chilly, days like today, I want to spend all my time in the kitchen, surrounded by warmth and good smells. I want to fill my family with all things sweet and spicy and delicious. I want to save up what I can of summer, before it's lost forever. I wan to pack it into jars and stuff my cupboards full. I want to nourish us all, body and soul.

I dye my hair.

This is not some big stunning revelation, since I've written about it before. It's just something you need to be aware of as the story I'm about to tell you unfolds. I'm not serene enough to accept my gray hairs as signs of wisdom and maturity and instead choose to camouflage them with chemical means. So. That's the first thing you need to know.

The second thing you need to know is that I'm cheap. That means that instead of paying money to have a professional dye my hair at the salon, I do it myself, at home, with stuff that comes in a little cardboard box.

So last night after the kids were in bed I decided to go ahead and open up that little cardboard box and let it do its stuff. I went into the bathroom and mixed the components into a thick gloppy substance, which start out as a light beige-ish color when you're first applying it to your hair. Then, you wait 25 minutes, during which time it darkens to a kind of horrifying purplish-black upon your head. Then you rinse it out and your hair is, supposedly, "Natural Medium Neutral Brown." Anyway, I've been doing this for a couple years now, so I whizzed through the mixing and application process without giving the purplish glop much thought at all. I decided that rather than sit in the chemical-smelling bathroom while waiting for the stuff to work its magic, I would wander out to the living room and check my email--with a towel draped around my shoulders, of course, to catch any wayward droplets.

I did that, the timer dinged, and I returned to the bathroom, only to be met by a horrible sight.

There, all over the stark-white tile floor, were dark purplish-black footprints. Everywhere. They went from the sink to the doorway to the hallway...quickly I looked at the soles of my feet. Then I looked out into the living room, where the footprints continued. Then I looked at the box, sitting on the counter, with the words "permanent dye" clearly written on the side. My worst suspicions were confirmed.

I had dropped a drop of dye glop onto the floor while still in its beigish stage, failed to notice it, stepped in it, then tracked it all over the house, where it darkened into to big purplish-black blotches.

Just seeing the purple all over my floor gave me flashbacks to the great Gentian Violet incident of '06. Except this time there was no 2-year-old around to blame the spill on. This was me, my fault, all me.

I grabbed a wet washcloth, took a deep breath, and started wiping.

And...thank the good Lord...it wiped right up. From the bathroom to the hallway to the living room I retraced my footsteps, and every single one of the blotches wiped clean away, right off the tile in the bathroom and the laminate wood flooring in the living room. The soles of my feet are still somewhat questionable-looking, but what do I care about the soles of my feet? The HOUSE is what I care about.

And considering how often our house is the scene of things like potty-training
accidents and vomit-fests and giant art projects involving paint and glitter, and now home beauty rituals gone awry, I'm just thanking my lucky stars over and over that we ended up buying a house that's 95% non-carpeted. It makes me wonder why carpet was ever *invented* for crying out loud.

Hear me now, makers of laminate flooring: you have won a satisfied customer forever. Because carpet may feel soft on your feet and be nice to lay down on. But *not* having to explain to your husband that you are responsible for tracking deep purple permanent-dye footprints all over the carpet? That's priceless.


*This post was not sponsored or in any way influenced by the marketing department of a laminate flooring company. I'm just really, truly grateful.

1. We can't afford that. (Translation: I don't feel like buying that for you.)

2. You need to leave Mommy alone so she can work. (does reading blogs and updating Facebook count as "work"?)

3. Coffee and soda are not OK for kids, but they are fine for grown-ups. (I know they're not good for grown-ups either, but they don't know that. Yet.)

4. Oh, were you calling me? I didn't hear you. (I heard you. I just didn't feel like answering right then).

5. I don't know what happened to the last cookie. Maybe Daddy ate it. (I know exactly what happened to it. And how many bites it took me.)

I'm typing this with one hand right now, and if I must speak, I'm keeping my voice super-quiet.

I don't want to wake the baby.

That's right. I have a new baby. His name is Charlie.

Meet Charlie.



The girls have wanted a kitty for a long time. And then a friend had a cat who had kittens, and she needed to find homes for them, and I knew the girls would like a cat so much...that's who this is all about, of course. The girls. I'm not a part of this. Oh, no. Not at all.

"You love Charlie. You love him," Eric says to me. "You are a cat lady! Totally a cat lady."

"I'm not a cat lady," I say, defensive. Everyone knows that "cat lady" means crazy, nutso, drinking tea out of mugs with slogans like "My cat is purr-fect" and wearing sweaters with little pawprints embroidered on them. "I just think he's really cute, that's all," I say.



I mean, there's just something really relaxing about having a little warm ball of fluff curled up on your lap. And when the kitty hops into a box, all furtive, like he's hiding--totally cute. And then he starts chasing his tail--how can you not find that adorable? It's a kitty in a box! Chasing his tail! Two kinds of cuteness.

Right now Charlie is stretched out to his full length, snoozing as though my lap is paradise itself. I kind of want to get up and go to the kitchen for a Diet Pepsi, but I just don't want to disturb him.

But I'm not a cat lady. Nope. Not at all.

I have so much more sympathy for my little sister now.

When I was growing up, I had iron-clad notions of what was fair and what was not. And I was certain that everything in life had to be FAIR. Including the ages that we were allowed to do something. If I had to wait until I was a certain age to do some highly-coveted activity, then it was only FAIR that my sister have to wait until she was the exact same age before she was allowed to do it too. If my parents decided she could handle said activity too and didn't make her wait, I was furious. Oh, the injustice!

Well, now that I'm a mom and I'm watching my youngest, forlornly left behind while her two older sisters do all kinds of things that she's too young for, I'm getting a whole new sense of how hard it must be to be the littlest. I'm thinking of enrolling her in all kinds of things a year or two earlier than her sisters did them, because I can see just how badly she wants to do them too.

Let's take swimming lessons, for instance. Neither of my other girls took swimming lessons until they were 4 years old. But, because Lucy is 4 now, that means that Evie was the only one left sitting on the sidelines this summer. The first day, she patiently watched and waited while they got in the pool with their respective swimming instructors and had a great time. The second day, she must have concluded that it was her turn. When I told her sisters to start getting their swimming suits on, that it was time to head to the pool, Evie clasped her hands in front of her chest, looked up at me with her big blue eyes, and said earnestly, "I can't WAIT to fwim!"

Gently, I told her that she would not be having swimming lessons that day. "But we can go to the pool a different time, when it's not during lessons," I said. "You can swim with mommy then!"

All the joy went out of her face. She scowled at me. "NO!" she said. "I fwim wiff a TEACHER!"

But she didn't. She had to wait, every day for two weeks, while her sisters took lessons and she didn't. We did take her to the pool on a different day, and she did get to swim, but I know it wasn't the same.

I've been worried about this day. The first day of school for my sweet second-born.

I took her to school this morning. I dropped her off. I even managed it without getting choked up at all, unlike last year. And then she was gone, and I had to wait at home for a whole six and a half hours before I could see her and begin pelting her with questions about just what it is the DO all day at that great and mysterious place they call First Grade. Luckily she was obligingly chatty and answered my many questions enthusiastically. Here is a rough approximation of what she had to say.

So what did you do today, kiddo?

I got to eat my lunch in the cafeteria, and I had a granola bar in my lunch and it was my favorite kind, cookies and cream. It had a lot of cream in it. I ate with Tabitha.

Is she the one who had the same shoes as you?

Yes, we have the exact same shoes! And also I ate with a new girl who never came to our school before.

That's good. I bet she was glad to have someone to eat with. What was her name?

Oh, I don't remember it.

You'll probably learn it eventually. Did you have enough food in your lunch?

Yes, I ate it all except my carrots. I still have them in my bag.

And did your thermos keep your milk cold enough?

Yes, the milk tasted GREAT.

What else did you do?

We had music class again, like last year, and the teacher said we are going to learn a new pattern dance this year.

A dance? Cool.

Yes. Also we are going to learn drums. And music from different countries. Like Irish harps.

Harps? Wow.

Yes, Irish harps, that's what she said. I would like to learn to play the harp. And maybe someday the flute.

Yeah, that would be neat. So was your teacher nice?

Yes, she was really nice. I wonder what dress she'll wear tomorrow. I liked her dress today. It was cute.

Did you have any lessons today? Like reading or math or science or anything?

No, not really. But I think we will have reading groups, because when she was writing on the board things to be excited about, I raised my hand and said reading groups, and she wrote reading groups on the board, and I don't think she would write it if we wouldn't have them.

Yeah, probably you will have them later. Just not the first day.

And you know what else she wrote to be excited about? Field trips! I am REALLY excited about field trips.

Field trips are really exciting. Did you do any art projects or anything?

Yes! We worked on making stars for if you get to be Star of the Day. If you're Star of the Day, you get to be line leader, and help out with ALL the classroom jobs. Anything the teacher needs help with, you do it. I really hope I get to be Star of the Day tomorrow! And I made my star golden, with blue hearts over the gold, but the blue still showed up pretty well. And I put my name in the middle with a heart around it, and my teacher said it was really cute. That's what she said, that it looked really cute!

That does sound cute.

And there is another ELIZABETH in my room!

Wow! You've never had another Elizabeth in your room before.

And the other Elizabeth has the exact same hair cut as me. Except hers is brown, but it's the exact same hair cut. And I gave her one of my bracelets that I had. Because I like to be kind sometimes. And now we both have one of the same bracelets. Oh! And we have THREE recesses now.

Cool. Who did you play with at recess?

I played with Tabitha. But it was raining, so we couldn't even go outside at all. We just did jump ropes in the gym.

Too bad.

And Mom? I made a new friend today.

Who's your new friend?

It's the other ELIZABETH! And Mom?

What, sweetie?

I think I'm really going to like first grade.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: we are lucky to live in Oregon. Because of the climate, the scenery--all the beauty that surrounds us in this state.

And, because of Ramona.

And Henry and Ribsy and Beezus and all the other characters that make Beverly Cleary's books real masterpieces of childhood fiction. The kids in Beverly Cleary's books remain realistic, relatable and funny even decades after they were first written. And--here's where the Oregon part comes in--many of them are set in Portland, in the neighborhood that Cleary herself lived in for many years. That means that Klickitat Street is real--and last week I took my kids to visit it.


There's no sign or anything. No plaque dedicating the street to Ramona. Although a neighbor did point out a house to me that was supposedly "Henry Huggins' house." I don't know how she knew that, considering Henry is a fictional character, but I went along with it. But just walking down the sidewalk and telling my kids that this was where Ramona lived, that that elementary school is the one she probably went to, was thrilling for them. And--I'll admit it--for me too. Introducing my kids to authors like Beverly Cleary and Laura Ingalls Wilder means that I get to re-experience my childhood favorites too. And that's one of the most pleasant parts of parenthood, isn't it? Watching your own joy in a good story or a fascinating game, magnified and reflected in your own child's face?

Grant Park nearby does have a collection of statues and plaques commemorating Cleary's characters.




We visited all of them. We took pictures.





I made them take pictures of me, because, as I've said, this trip was as much for my benefit as for theirs.






They played on the playground for awhile--Ramona's playground! And slid down the slide--Ramona's slide!

And then, true to Portland form, it started to rain, and we splashed back to the car, tiptoeing in Ramona's footsteps all the way.

I bet you thought you were done, didn't you? That yesterday's exhaustive post about my exhausting race would be the end of boring chatter about running, right? But sorry. I have one more post, not so much about Hood to Coast I guess, but about running in general. Then we'll let it go for awhile and move on to more interesting posts about poop and such.

So here's the thing about Hood to Coast: even when you think you're done. You're not. It is the race that never ends.

You're in a race with thousands of other people. You have teammates depending on you to make a good time, so that your overall team time isn't dragged down. You get out of the car, grab that baton from your teammate, and run your heart out for several miles.

Then you collapse all sweaty at the hand-off point, and your teammates congratulate you and you feel great. But then that feeling fades, because reality hits you: I'm not done.

Hood to Coast. It just keeps going on and on and on.

My first leg was great. It really was. (It was Leg 8, just in case you're a fellow Hood to Coaster and know which one that is). It was just at sunset on Friday. It was about four and a half miles long, all through country roads, up and down rolling hills. The weather was perfect. The road was pretty. I passed more people than I got passed by--and apparently the adrenaline of the race was making me fast, because I exceeded my expected time and finished feeling triumphant. But I wasn't done.

Instead of going home to relax and shower, like you normally do after a run, I sat all cramped in the back of our Mazda 5 (which does have six seats and therefore technically seats six people, but which I don't think was really designed for six full-size sweaty adults). My teammates finished their legs, one by one. Eventually everyone in our van had taken their turn, and we had a few hours before anyone in our van needed to run again, so we went to one of the designated sleeping areas. It was after midnight by now and absolutely frigid, so I put on every single piece of clothing that I had brought with me, including a hat and gloves, and Eric and I spread out our sleeping bags under the stars.

After what seemed like only a few minutes, during which I had troubled dreams about the race (I knew it was my turn to run but I couldn't *find* the starting line!) our team captain was shining a flashlight down on us. "Eric and Jen! Time to get up!" he said.

After an all-too-short wait while my teammate ran his leg, it was time for my second leg. This was the one I'd been dreading. Leg 20. 5.75 miles, almost all uphill (about 800 feet of elevation gain) and mostly on gravel roads. And I had to run it in the dark.

As I started off, my thought was that I had to at least keep running until the van carrying my teammates passed by, so they wouldn't witness me totally wimping out. I accomplished that. I was at the point where I had given myself mental permission to walk for awhile if I wanted to. But...I wasn't completely dead. I kept running. As the hill got steeper, my legs felt tired. But I kept going.

It was dark on the logging road. Just the sound of my feet crunching in the gravel, and the occasional footsteps of a fellow runner. The headlamp I was wearing illuminated just a few feet in front of me. On the horizon, when I could see it through the trees, there was just a smear of pink at the edge of the sky. Sometimes vans passed, and that was good for a moment, as their headlights illuminated the way ahead. Then they passed on by and I was left breathing in dust, my lamp shining into nothing but a cloudy gray haze.

The hill kept going. But so did I. And that was really the high point of the entire race for me. When I realized that this run was insanely challenging--but that I had the strength to meet the challenge. I could do it. That hill was killer, but I could beat it. I knew I could. At the end of the leg I had enough energy to sprint to the hand-off point feeling like the champion of the world.

But then...that's the thing about Hood to Coast. I wasn't done.

The day went on. My teammates ran, we rode around in the van, we got to a stopping point, Eric and I laid down in the grass and rested for awhile. It was about 2 o'clock in the blazing heat when I took off again.

I'd been feeling like my last leg, Leg 32, was going to be a piece of cake. It was my shortest one, just a little over four miles. It was supposed to be over "mostly flat" terrain. It was rated "moderate" but I couldn't see why. It sounded easy to me.

Of course that's because I was a total fool. Four miles on fresh legs after a good night of sleep *would* be a piece of cake. But that was not my situation. I was achey and cramped and exhausted.

The sun was hot. I was covered in sweat. My legs felt like they were barely moving at all. There were a lot more little hills than I thought there should have been for a "mostly flat" course. And when I was sure I was close to the hand-off point, a helpful bystander called out "You're exactly halfway there!"

I wanted to strangle him.

I felt like that leg would never end. Every bend in the road, every hill I came to, I would sure I would see the exhange point just around the next corner. But it never came.

Except that of course, finally it did. I made my final hand-off, hopped in the van, and I was done.

Except the thing about Hood to Coast, is that really I wasn't. The rest of my teammates had to run their final legs. Eventually, we all gathered on the beach as our last runner came across the sand, and we symbolically ran across the finish line together.



But then we still weren't really done. We had to fill out paperwork and get an official team photo taken and congratulate each other. Then we were all starving after two days of living on energy bars and water, so we stopped at McDonald's on our way home. Food of champions!

Then we had to drive one of our teammates back to Portland. It was after 9 p.m. when we finally hit the freeway. From there, it was just a straight shot down the freeway to our home.

Except we still weren't really done. Just as I got on I-5, I suddenly heard a strange bumpity-bump sound. "Is that something on the road?" someone asked. "Is that your transmission?" Then Eric woke up out of a sound sleep and correctly diagnosed the sound. "We have a flat tire," he said.

So, we pulled over at a gas station and all got out of the van and put the spare tire on the car. And then we had to drive the final 60 miles home going no faster than 50 so that the spare wouldn't explode. It was almost midnight when we got home. And thanked my parents profusely for staying so late with the kids. And took a much-needed hot shower.

And then, then, it was finally done.

You know how sometimes there's something that you're kind of alternately dreading and feeling excited about? Like part of you wants time to stop so that the event won't ever happen, and part of you wants time to speed up and so it will happen sooner? And both parts of you actually just want it to be over already so you can check it off your list and start bragging about how actually awesome it was?