Today five years ago I became mama to a ten pound cub. He is my biggest baby, and yet he was born hungry – he nursed for two full hours after he was born. He growled and hummed while he ate, so I called him my Bear.

He has always been my sensitive one. He didn’t like crackly, noisy toys as an infant, and still hates auditory chaos so much that he would rather sit through church than endure the brouhaha in the kid’s Sunday School room. Tones of voice, music volume, even Mr. MG’s ringtone are all very big deals to him.

He is emotionally wise beyond his years. He knew at three years old that he could punish you by withdrawing his affection if he didn’t get his way. (Not that it works on us, but it can be hard on the grandparents.) He can be passive aggressive, guilt trippy, and knows how to hold a grudge.

This was a year of growth. He shot up out of all his clothes and poked through all his shoes. He learned to read, began playing piano and reading music, and taught himself to write numbers and letters. How did he use this knowledge? To write angry letters to me and Mr. MG, of course. (“DADY AND MAMA YU WIL BEGONE SOON OK”) Little twerp.

He also struggled with the concept of death recently after watching Seargent York. “Mama, did they all die? Does everyone die? Will I die?” He desperately wanted answers and began to ask about God. We talked back and forth about Jesus. We discussed Heaven and grace. He accepted Christ a couple of days later and now worries about eternal security. He’s working through the same stuff some adults try not to think about.

He loves his baby sister.

Even when she’s pulling his hair.

And he has said goodbye to the Wiggles in favor of Buzz. (And Zurg, when he’s feeling impish.) I have to say, I’m glad he’s a normal, growing boy…but I will miss Greg and the gang.

Happy birthday, my Bear.

It does not matter one bit that I have the most wonderful dentist in the world, I still hate to go. It’s not so bad if I keep up with the twice-a-year appointments (what could go wrong in six months I ask you?) but since I was preggo and then juggling a newborn and a deployment, it got put off. And then…well…I was busy, okay?

A few weeks ago, I noticed that it hurt when I chewed on one side. Okay, I rationalized, this is a sign that I need to chew on the other side. Problem solved.

Funny, though. The problem didn’t go away. Pretty soon it hurt when it touched cold, too.

Visions of root canals danced in my head!

How could it be? I don’t eat nearly the candy I used to. (My kids are getting old enough to notice what I’m eating. Guess it’s time to clean up my act.) I brush. I use fluoride floss and rinse every night. And didn’t I read somewhere that cheese has good bacteria that fight cavities?

I had to do deep breathing exercises just to call the office.

Today when I went in I got the full workup because it had been a couple of years (!) since I had darkened their door. And the hygienist was so amazing and hardly hooked around in there at all.

The good news: NO cavities! Yay, me!

The bad news: I’ve got a cracked molar. Sigh.

So for mother’s day, guess what I get?

I get a crown. Queen Mama, empress of the dental frontier. Ruler of Nitrousonia.

Every time, I am so torn.

Grow out the gray? Keep going with the henna?

One one hand, I love gray hair. Mine is coming in a fine silver, and I am proud of every one of them. Not only is the color beautiful (chrome, dude!) but it stands for progress in life. I want to live up to the connotations it implies. I want to be wise, not just a wise-acre.

But! The red is lovely. It makes me look less tired, less mousy than the plain brown. Maybe a bit younger. Younger isn’t too bad, is it? My ID even says “auburn.” I don’t want to go against my ID. (And before you ask: yes, I’m even truthful about my weight. I am a dork like that.) It’s a splash of brightness, but not as bright as the blue or green from years ago. The Bear would not stand for those.

The henna smells, well, organic. Kind of like a barn stall.

The brown doesn’t really drive me crazy. But it’s funny how I want to chop it all of when I don’t color it.

In the end, the henna won. Hopefully I can be wise and copper at once.

I didn’t sell the Amby hammock and buy CS3, afterall. I bought a new 50mm f/1.4D lens instead.

When I got my camera, I got it with an 18-135 lens. I have really enjoyed it for the versatility, not to mention the sneakiness a zoom lens provides. And it’s great that it makes getting close very easy. But dang, that puppy’s big. It’s big, it’s pretty heavy, and it kind of scares the baby.

Now the 50 is here. I have to retrain myself to move closer, since I can’t use the zoom to do it for me. But oh, how it captures the light. The feel of it is so lovely and nice to work with. The shallow depth of field is fantastic. And though Moo may look very serious, at least she isn’t scared by the howitzer pointed at her.

For once, I really have no words. Imagine that.

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I love fruitcake. Not the dry, odd-tasting kind from Walmart but the spicy, dark, moist, booze-laden variety that can only be made at home.

In fact, I never touched the stuff until I got a wild hair one Christmas and decided to make it from scratch. And because I never to anything unless I do it too much, I made a double batch. Two gigantic angel-food cake pans filled to the brim. One very tired KitchenAid. A couple of big honkin’ bottles of Brandy. Bingo! It was love.

Just last night I sat down to eat a slice (not from those original cakes, you wiseacre) and thought what a shame it is that we in the U.S. save it for Christmas. We should have it every weekend!

But wait!

What would happen if we all loved fruitcake as much as we loved weekends?

People who normally eat only healthy, lowfat food but indulge at teatime would be known as Fruitcake Warriors.

Giada’s Fruitcake Getaways would feature cosy British locales. And Giada would round out to a nice size 14.

On PBS, Fruitcake Explorer would get to the bottom of just what are all those chunks, anyhow?

On film we could have the double feature of Fruitcake at Bernie’s (“A pair of losers try to pretend that their murdered employer is really alive after he is killed by a falling fruitcake.”) and The Lost Fruitcake (A gripping drama about the dangers of eating over-soaked cake.) Guess what they have at the snack bar. Yup.

Japanese Fruitcake: you’re not pregnant, you’re just tubby from all the calories.

Vampire Fruitcake. They’re a little bit reggae, a little bit punk, a little bit hungry.

 Sing it with me: “Everybody’s workin’ for the fruitcake!”

Woo-hoo!

I think I’m going to lose my mind. How can it be possible that I love cooking, but I can’t figure out what I’m going to put on the table tonight?

Let’s start at the top, and narrow it down to what my possibilities are. So we begin with… everything. Curry. Cheeseburgers. Enchiladas. Casseroles. Stir fry. Pizza. Ostrich steak. Okay, not really that last one.

Actually, that last one is just fine by Mr. MG, who is an omnivore. The man likes just about anything no matter how weird. During his Naval globetrotting he has eaten – and liked – balut, various goat and pig parts, and a lot of stuff he can’t identify to this day. (He passed on the kangaroo in Australia, though.) The one thing he won’t eat is cilantro, which is sad because I adore it. I have tried sneaking it in things but he can taste it five minutes before it passes his lips. So no cilantro, unless it’s added after his portion is dished up.

 The rest of us are vegetarians-plus-fish. Yup, it’s a strange family dynamic, but it works for us. I don’t have a beef (har, har) with Mr. MG’s eating preferences as long as he cooks it for himself, and he doesn’t have a problem with mine as long as I knock it off with putting cilantro in everything. So our pool of supper possibilities is everything minus cilantro and anything with feet. Okay, no snakes either.

But! The Bear is violently allergic to fish. He will paint the walls with it after only a couple of bites. Also, anything with avocado or eggs genuinely gives the boy the willies. Now we are down to: Everything, minus any animal, minus cilantro, minus avocado and eggs. Fine.

Then we get to Moo. When she finally gets to potty train, a whole new world of food will open up to her. But until the days of flaming diaper rash are history, we have to say goodbye to tomatoes, citrus, anything spicier than catsup, and now the new irritant – dairy! The poor baby has had to give up her beloved cups of milk and her cheese sticks. Since she still breastfeeds, I have had to drop acidic and spicy foods, too, although I haven’t had to drop dairy yet. Please, God…

What’re we at, now? Everything, minus animals, minus cilantro, minus eggs, avocado, tomatoes, citrus, anything spicy, and the biggie – minus cheese, milk, cream, yogurt, or any of that ilk. That eliminates almost everything on the list of possibilities I began with.

I’ve already made stir fry twice this week. Scratch that.

Looks like bread and water for the lot of us.

This is the new phone that MamaGeph got.

This is the old phone with the SIM card removed that was replaced by the new phone that MamaGeph got.

This is the boy who brought two squad cars to our house after repeatedly calling emergency services for two days after he was given the old phone with the SIM card removed that was replaced by the new phone that MamaGeph got.

His little voice from the back of the van: “Mama, I just love my chocolate sucker.”

“I’m glad, Bear.”

“It’s really good.”

“I bet it is. It smells really chocolate-y, even way up here.”

“Yup.”

Long pause.

“I’m glad it’s not a poop sucker. I would not like that.”