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Moo is insisting on potty training. (Mostly that means asking to go at convenient times like, say, the middle of IKEA on a Saturday.) Her hair is still curly, but her roots are darkening, trading gold for ash. She talks and chats. Yesterday she handed me an empty cup and spoon and said, “Here, Mama. I made yogret and juice for you!” And every day is a day to put on  a pretty dress and tights and run to twirl in front of the mirror. I want to stay here. It’s too soon for her to be a big girl. I think I will cover my eyes and pretend it’s not inevitable.

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My cuddly little Bear has become a full fledged weapon-wielding, Star Wars-obsessed, shouting, careening boy. At any time of day he can be found in full costume, dagger in hand, set to flatten evildoers or moonlight as a sinister bad guy. (They get better outfits, he says defensively.) Yet, when he’s not busy blasting me, he will wrap himself around my middle and declare, “I have the love sickness again!” He calls me his sweetie pie. Someday he will discover that there are other maidens to defend and real quests to pursue far from home. I’m not, I’m so  not ready for that. Is it possible to slow him down just a little?

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Waves of adolescence are washing over the Princess. She is stuck somewhere between still wanting to ride in the cart at the grocery store and wanting to drive the car as far away from me as she can get. One day she is in tears and yelling over math, then the next she insists on buying me candy with her allowance because, “You deserve it, Mama.” But she is truly hilarious. I love that she is finally old enough to be snarky but still holds my hand as we cross the parking lot. I love the snuggling and the confiding tone she shares with me. I want to savor this time before she starts down the road to womanhood in earnest, never to return.

Is there a corner to hide in or a big enough piece of furniture to conceal my kids from time? If we are all very quiet and still, perhaps he will pass us by untouched.

But he has candy and toys and promises for us all. And he whispers in my ear…

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Oh, Man.

Man, oh, man.

You have got to, got to be kidding me.

When one of my hard drives decided to convulse and die over Christmas break, it meant reinstalling every program I had once the new drives were in. Boring, yes, but no big deal.

Until I tried loading Photoshop Elements 5. Not only is it not equipped for RAW files (the patch I installed disappeared in the crash), it was totally unprepared to reload my library. Whenever I tried to reconnect the thousands of photos. So I got a free trial of Elements 7 and, lo, there was much rejoicing. At least for the thirty days that I got to spend with it.  The newest version really is nice. So I started looking around to buy it.

I made my way over to AcademicSuperstore.com so that I could drool over Photoshop CS4 price compare Elements. Academic Superstore is a website that gives deep, deep discounts to students and faculty of K-12 and higher education schools. AND they accept homeschoolers! I have spent a lot of time there, pining for the full version of Photoshop. But even at $700 off, it was a lot.

But as I browsed and wished, I found out that Adobe is selling the big kahuna for even cheaper to college students through the end of February. And guess what I am? The fact that I have to deal with algebra that makes my brain bleed says that I am a student of higher learning. CS4 for a fifth of its usual asking price.

“It’s going to be impossible to live with you until you get it. Go ahead.” said Mr. MG.

!

Of course, I have no idea how to use it when it gets here. It’ll be a little like giving a second grade kid the keys to a Maserati. But mercy, it’s going to be fun to put my foot on the gas.

Is there anything better than toddler singing? I don’t think so. Nowhere else in life will you find expression displayed so unabashedly and without a shred of self-awareness. I can be up to my eyeballs in busy, totally out of patience, and ready to fish slap anyone who gets in my way, and yet I am stopped in my tracks when Moo gets started.

Along with the usual Itsy-Bitsy Spider and Ring Around the Rosies, here is her current hit list:

• The Discovery Channel’s Boom De Yadda song. Sometimes she gets stuck and just sings two lines over and over at high volume followed by fifty repetitions of the title/chorus.  All the way through the commissary. Sometimes she makes up her own lyrics. “I love my shirt. I love Ojanna. I love the monkeys. I love Egyptian kings. Boom-ee-hadda, boom-ee-hadda…”
• Gershwin’s “They Can’t Take That Away From Me.” Really, the title sums up the entire worldview of a two year old.
• “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” She just sings and bops along, and her brother backs her up with a quiet, “Doot-doot. Doot-doot. Doot-doot.”
• “Georgia’s Song” by the Wiggles. There is nothing I could type about her singing this song to me that will not sound sappy and cliché. It is a tiny precious present tied up in the pink bow of her mouth. It makes me feel all squishy just thinking about it.

Added to all that, her crazy, whirling, running dance and I am entertained for the day. What errands?

So much of childhood is waiting until you are old enough. Because whatever the grownups are doing that you aren’t allowed to do yet, it must be fun, right? It must be super awesome and exciting, or else the adults – who seem omnipotent and are obviously allowed to do anything they want – wouldn’t do it.

Then you grow up and most of the adult world is pretty lame. Driving? Eh. No set bedtime? Eh. And if you eat cookies whenever you want, like you swore at age ten that you would, you get to eh eh eh your tukas on the treadmill. And that  is not the cool experience you thought it would be, either.

When I was growing up, the entire extended family gathered together at my Grandad’s house for Christmas. And every year in the evening I witnessed an alluring, mysterious tradition as the women gathered in the kitchen to clean up after the feast while the men commandeered the kids’ toys and gadgets. As the women talked and washed and laughed mugs of hot buttered rum were passed around. From the outside looking in, it seemed so warm and close, awash in female camaraderie and surreptitious hooch. I wanted very badly to be part of that. And by the time I was old enough the family had gone through a lot of changes and new traditions came to fill in the spaces where old ones used to be.

Now the gathering is at my in-laws’ place, and we and my folks and various strays gather to celebrate. As the women clean up and the men assemble the kids’ toys and gadgets, I break out a bottle of champagne to pass around the kitchen. And lo, there is much rejoicing.

Then last year I developed a nasty allergy to wine. I know. Words fail me.

Since there would be no bubby, I broke out the family HBR recipe and gave it a go. Mmmm. Isn’t it nice when something you wanted so badly as a kid turns out just as wonderful when you are finally able to take part? The only women around were my mom and me, but it was just as cozy and close as it seemed when I was a kid too young to be part of it and could only watch from the doorway. Now it was my kitchen (and my mess) and my mugs.

The reason I bring it up now in February is that the recipe makes a TON of batter. And I have found that it is not just for Christmas evening. It is perfect for the nasty, cold, clammy, brutish evenings of late winter when you are shivering and it is dark out and there are no merry holidays to look forward to.

Make a batch. It will thaw your shivers.

GrannyLyn’s Hot Buttered Rum

1 qt. Vanilla Ice Cream
1 lb. Butter (no margerine, please)
1 lb. Box of brown sugar
1 Jigger rum
Boiling water

Blend ice cream, butter, and brown sugar in a blender, mixer, or food processor. Place in an air tight container and freeze. When ready to use, place 2 or 3 tablespoons of batter in a mug. Add one jigger of rum and fill with boiling water. Stir and serve.

Do not give a stack of crackers to your toddler at lunch if said toddler has a cough due to cold. Not if you value a clean dining room. Yes, the whole room.

I’m just sayin’.

If you want a small, modern-day equivalent of a Greek tragedy, try handing a five year old a two bushel basket full of clean laundry. Oh, the weeping! The wailing! The sackcloth and ashes!

Not my problem, I tell him. Boys who put off folding their laundry for three weeks not only have a lot of catching up to do, they also get to spend the next  three weeks looking as if they fell out of the dumpster they slept in. Because mama don’t iron your procrastination.

I hate folding laundry. I would rather scrub the toilet – heck, I’d rather scrub the toilets at the bus station – than fold laundry. Not only is it tedious and boring and borderline pointless, but I can’t believe I survived college, the Clinton era, and childbirth times three with no drugs, just to sort out five different sizes of socks. Which is why people in this house learn to fold their own clothes at the dawn of their existence. Also put them away. And don’t try to wad ‘em up, child, because I will  be checking your work.

Someday, somewhere, their roommates and spouses will thank me. But for today, it’s all over but the whining.