So, I usually don't go HERE, but I have to say it...

Yesterday I informed an old friend I probably won't be able to make her wedding because I will likely be deployed to hurricane responses in October (history tells me with an active season like this one has been that it is very likely). In her defense she sent a "save the date" a year ago, but I am on a response team whose month is October, and there's not a lot I can do about it (this makes me very sad, and I will go if there's any way on earth I can). Her response was, "Maybe I should start by writing a letter to George W and tell him he screwed everything up for everyone." This statement kindof left me scratching my head. What I think that meant was that she believes the current economic crisis is Bush's fault since "so many other people can't come either". Or maybe she means the hurricane?

I hear a lot of name calling when my friends talk about George Bush. I hear a lot of name calling (ignorant, idiots, "Christian neandertals" (that was my favorite, btw), etc., etc.) when I hear people talk about supporters of George Bush, or Republicans, or Conservatives-whichever the case may be (remember the front of that British tabloid in 2004, "How could 49 million people be SO STUPID?"). I pretty much think a person can have quite high intellect and lean either direction, so I don't quite get all that. I would love to see people attack the issues, the decisions, and the actions with a little bit of informed political salvo. I don't love George Bush and I don't like a lot of his politics, but I don't think he is a red neck bible-thumping Yee-Haw hell bent on destroying the country. I think he loves the country, I think he is a spiritual man (good for him), and I think he lives by his convictions (for better or worse). And, you can pretty much guarantee morons don't make it to the White House. He's not an idiot, maybe an rigid idealist, but not stupid. It's very convenient to name call when you've got nothing else.

So, this brings me to my point. Laying the blame of this financial crisis at the feet of the Bush Administration is political myopia. This problem may have started a much longer time ago, thirty years or more, under Jimmy Carter with the passage of the Community Reinvestment Act (1977). This act essentially required lending institutions to "meet the needs of communities", and paved the way for relaxing income and credit requirements for the issuance of home loans. Under the Clinton Administration, more low and moderate income families owned homes than ever previously recorded and the trend toward risky lending became even more pronounced. Although the idea of allowing everyone to get loans, regardless of whether they qualify or can afford them, to own a home is altruistic to the highest degree, it is amazing (to me anyway) that anyone is surprised that when the practice extends into overinflated housing markets that the bubble will burst eventually.

In 2003, the Bush Administration, concerned about increasing financial risks, attempted to provide more federal oversite to Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, but it didn't fly. At the time, the congressional majority felt future planning was unnecessary, given the robustness of the financial sector. Barney Frank claimed this was unneeded because "These two entities -- Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac -- are not facing any kind of financial crisis, the more people exaggerate these problems, the more pressure there is on these companies, the less we will see in terms of affordable housing."

Then who is at fault here? The overinflated housing market caused by the stratospheric ascent of housing prices in the past two decades? The folks who took out loans they really probably couldn't afford? The "predatory lenders" who deliberately targeted lending toward low and middle income people, bending the rules for who qualifies, and who, for years were seeing record profits and bonuses for their execs (MILLIONs each)? The federal government (under FIVE different administrations) that did nothing to stop or try to oversee this dangerously swelling monster (even a little) because times were so good for the economy, and no one wanted to see it end by pulling in the reins a little?

At any rate, I almost think we are remiss to bail anyone out. I'm not interested in the government buying up that much debt using taxpayer money, even though the financial greed of these companies is only rivaled by the federal government's own desire to overlook looming risk, instead focusing on whatever it takes to continue facilitating a booming economy. Let's make no mistake. This bail out isn't for homeowners. That bail out already happened with a $300 billion dollar program to aid homeowners that will begin October 1st. This is politics at it's finest, folks. It would be interesting to see how this would be handled if this wasn't an election year.

Happier things!

Enough of politics. Since this is GILLIAN's blog, here are some things we've been up to lately:

Counting (4 and 5 are consistently skipped, for reasons unknown, and things get fuzzy after 10):


Eating apples like a monster:


Singing about Monkies. On beds:

Is my kid a jerk, or is she just TWO?

Nothing could be more timely than the article A shared with me, reproduced for your viewing pleasure, below. Because Gillian's willful stubbornness and heady sense of controlling the universe is getting worse. Much worse. I mostly feel like I have the only kid around that acts like a little monster. About everyone else's seemingly perfectly well-behaved kids, Sean says "you never know what goes around behind closed doors." This is an obvious attempt to make me feel like maybe everyone else's kid throw tantrums, pitches fits, and fights then every step of the way too. At least sometimes. It's just that, as far as I can tell, no one really seems to want to share the dark underbelly of parenting with eachother. Maybe because they feel it would somehow reflect poorly on their parenting skills if they admit that their kid has issues (or that they have issues with their kid, for that matter). Our issues for the past week (on almost THE DAY Gillian turned two) are like this: The other night, Gillian's bathwater was getting tepid and it wasn't exactly tropical around here and she needed to get out (she wasn't wild about the idea of ending her half hour of bathing her Elmo over and over with bar soap-but he was CLEAN already. JEEZ.). I was trying to dry Gillian with a towel (she didn't want to get dry) after her bath (that she didn't want to end) and she was screaming so hard and crying that she threw up. Can you imagine being that upset because you don't feel like getting dried off, and being subjected to such cruelty anyway?

She acts like more of an jerk with me than with Sean, most likely acting out because I am home less. I can't get her diapers on without holding her down while she shrieks in protest. If I don't play the way she wants to play, she throws things, and sometimes herself, on the ground and thrashes around. She whines incessantly. I think she says "Mama?" 10 million times a day. She gets upset when I refuse to carry her around the house (which I have refused to do for a good many months now). She might ignore me when I am sitting next to her while she plays, but if I get up to move, she gets very upset that I have the nerve to try to do something else besides avidly watching her play. She follows the cats around yelling at them until they hide under the bed. Today we have decided, after telling her "No Hitting" for the millionth time in our sternest voice and eye-to-eye contact (to no avail), that she will get 60 seconds of time out from now on when she hits (she enjoyed one of these today, as a matter of fact). During dinner she put her feet on the table, and as punishment we pushed her chair out of leg's reach, and then she stood precariously in her high chair, with that "Do you dare me?" face on. Sean told her to sit down. She howled, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!". Nice.

I have a feeling that her third year of life will aptly reflect the title "Terrible Twos", for excellent reason. She is often terrible, especially since she turned two. There. I said it. My daughter Gillian often acts like a Big Jerk, and I can't even think of anything to blame it on. That doesn't mean I don't love her, or that she is destined to be an awful person. It means that, while I have known I have a very spirited, willful, and stubborn child all along (yes, tagging along with with all that awesomeness), we are in for it.

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Is my kid a jerk, or is he just 2?

My son bullies me, insults his mother and once punched an old man in the nuts. I know it's probably just a phase. But what if it isn't?
By Christopher Noxon

Sept. 8, 2008 My son pooped on me this morning.

The pooping occurred at approximately 6 a.m. after the 2-year-old leaped into bed and suggested that he'd be most grateful if I got up, escorted him downstairs and turned on his favorite program, a quasi-educational cartoon about a bilingual girl and her pet monkey.
What he actually said was this: "Daddy, up! Dora show! Dora show now!"

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On most days, "Dora the Explorer" is good for a solid half-hour of pre-breakfast calm. But not today. Today Oscar motioned to his midsection and said he "hurt." Woefully misunderstanding the situation, I kissed him on the head and loosened his diaper. At which point he tore off the nappy and grabbed hold of my leg. And then he pooped on my foot. This may or may not have been an accident. Looking up at me in the messy slow-motion moments that followed, his expression could only be described as satisfied.

I have two things to say about this. First: It is truly remarkable how tolerant of bodily waste one becomes raising small children. Before I became a dad, the news that my everyday routine would include being defecated upon would have sent me diving for a home vasectomy kit. It is some measure of how far I've come (or how low I've sunk) that Oscar's outburst prompted little more than an exasperated moan as I backed away in search of industrial-grade cleaning supplies. All of which is well and good -- there's no point getting overly worked up or grossed out over something so ubiquitous to family life that we parents simply call it "number two."

The second thing I have to say is harder to reckon with. Because the truth is this mishap was entirely in keeping with the general climate of aggression, crankiness, impatience and determined messiness that has come to characterize Oscar's personality over the last year or so. He demands. He resists. He screeches.

We've reached the point where I find myself seriously pondering the question: Is my kid a dick, or is he just 2? Because you never know. As much as it goes against the current mode of progressive, project-management-style parenting, I take it for granted that some kids are trouble right out of the gate. They're the preschool gangsters and playground terrorists, flicking boogers and insults at those they've identified as too weak to fight back. Just as some kids are born sweet-tempered and naturally gentle, others arrive as thuggish as HMO claims adjusters.
But heaven forbid you ever speak this basic truth among parents. Acknowledging a child's dickishness is truly one of the last taboos of modern family life.

A child may have "behavioral issues" or "developmental challenges," but the basic character of a kid must never be called into question. It's always, "Cody must be tired," or "Dakota needs a snack" and never, "Wow, Taylor's kind of a prick."

The trouble, of course, is that it's exceedingly difficult to distinguish garden-variety assholery from the normal psychosis of toddlerhood.

Some naughtiness is entirely normal, I know. The pileup of parenting books on my bedside table assures me that kids between 13 and 36 months often experience "challenging developmental steps." They're testing limits, exploring their autonomy, learning to control their emotions.

One need look no further than the table of contents of the modern standard, "What to Expect: The Toddler Years," to get a quick and terrifying picture of how toddlers operate. Whole sections are devoted to "antisocial behavior," "caveperson language," "crankiness," "annoying habits picked up at play group," "jealousy," "biting," "wall art and other destructive drawing," "toothbrushing tantrums," "coat combat," "repeated 'no's'" and "impatience (now!)"

You'd never know it looking at him, but my son samples freely from the standard menu of misbehavior. In pictures he's doughy and sweet with a mop of blond hair, big blue eyes and an irresistible grin. He couldn't be cuter, really. Most of the time, especially when he's at play, in the bath or asleep, he is by any measure the most perfect creature ever to grace the earth. Then he whacks you on the head with a spoon, laughs like a banshee and tells his mother that her new earrings are ugly and stupid.

Much of this nastiness is standard-issue obstinacy, but it mostly takes the form of an obsession with control. Control and honor. It often feels like I'm living with an embittered and incontinent samurai who must enforce his will and save face at all costs. As such, he's ritualistic and rigid, demanding that I and not his mother unbuckle him from the minivan or that he receive one red and one purple Flintstones vitamin or that his diluted fruit juice go in the cup with the frog and not the one with the rabbit. Any deviation from the script is met with screams of protest and a flurry of little flailing fists.

We've tried discipline, distraction and even strict adherence to his demands, but the maddening fact is you never really know when he's going to go ballistic. At an airport security checkpoint recently, he blew up when we removed his shoes and then found a new, more extravagant pitch of tantrum when we tried to put them on again. Later at a Chinese restaurant, he dumped his noodles on the floor and then ran among the tables, licking the tops of the Hoisin sauce containers. At a family barbecue last week, he greeted an elderly relative with a swift punch to the nuts (mercifully, he aimed left).

I wish I could say I take all this in stride, but the fact is it bothers me more than I can say. I've heard people without kids complain that parents have a blind spot when it comes to their own kids, that otherwise reasonable adults are only too happy to gush over the preciousness of their progeny while their little darlings run riot like English football hooligans.

I seem to have the opposite problem; instead of glossing over my son's misdeeds (or, say, chalking them up to standard-issue tomfoolery), I latch on to them as terribly important signifiers of my kid's true identity. Far more troubling than the chaos or general untidiness of parenthood is the ongoing agony of distinguishing passing phases from the first signs of what sort of person your child is and will forevermore be.

Never mind that his days are spent gnawing on blocks and smearing mucus across his cheek. Somehow, I can't help feeling that he came in fully loaded, that his identity is complete and while he may get better at sharing his toys and using the potty, this is pretty much it. This is him. Behold my son, the dick.

No wonder so few parents are willing to acknowledge their own kids' misbehavior. Doing so not only insults your offspring, it inevitably leads to reflection. For if my kid is a red-hot pig, what does that make me?

And the truth is I'm very familiar indeed with many of the despicable aspects of my 2-year-old. I too am often overwhelmed by a desire to kick and scream and punch creepy old strangers in the nuts. Like my son, I'm often irrational, hate being told what to do and cranky when sleep-deprived. But, really, who isn't? Aren't we all, on some deep and rarely acknowledged level, temperamental toddlers? We're just better at hiding and managing it, thanks to helpful crutches like cocktails, reality TV and cardio boxing classes.

For now all I can hope is that my son finds some crutches sooner rather than later. He just turned 3, actually, graduating out of "terrible twos" and into a period rumored to be less traumatic and tumultuous. My two oldest kids are 6 and 8, and I like to think they've never been anything less than the sweet and mostly respectful darlings they are today. If I'm being entirely honest, however, I'm pretty sure I could recall a horror story or three.

None of which lessens today's trauma. Developmental misbehavior may be a normal part of growing up, but pooping on your dad? That's just wrong.

Toddler Property Laws

I received this list of Laws at Gillian's 2 year doc appt on Monday. It certainly applies to Gillian's world view at this moment. As a matter of fact, she is almost a caricature of a two year old, she's SO two. Belligerant, stubborn, opinionated...but we'll take the bad with the oodles of good. So, here goes:

TODDLER PROPERTY LAWS AT 24 MONTHS

1. If I like it- it's MINE
2. If it's in my hand- it's MINE
3. If I can take it- it's MINE
4. If I had it a little while ago- it's MINE
5. If it's mine it must never appear to be YOURS in any way
6. If I'm building or otherwise doing something- all the pieces are MINE
7. If it looks just like mine- it's MINE
8. If I saw it first- it's MINE
9. If you are playing with something and you put it down, it automatically becomes MINE
10. If it's broken or damaged in some way- it's YOURS!

SO BIG!

Today Gillian is two. I wanted to write some spiritually moving thing about her being two, to express some existential wisdom about this motherhood thing. But alas, I am too tired for all of that. Suffice it to say she has changed my world in the most fundamental way, mostly for the better. A few thoughts, though, because today is a very special day...to my girl. Happy Birthday.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
You came to me full of angels
Full of breath
To remind me how to gasp for life again

You stayed with me
Though treacherous and winding paths
Pushed us off course

You walk with me
And remind me the sublimity and tiny beauties to be found
In our slow journeys

You try me
And in those moments, pure electric passion-lightening, slashing the sky-
I love your spirit

You sing to me
And remind me to find my voice
After all this time

We dance together, you and I
Every day, moving, and living
Every day, deeper and redder
You have taken permanent residence in this secret space

It's all relative

More on the topic of toddlers putting things together...

Gillian truly enjoyed going to bed for most of her little life, without question, but lately she seems to want reassurance that everyone else is going to bed when she goes to bed. Otherwise we might be having entirely too much fun eating ice cream and cookies and dancing, while playing with her beloved Tinker Toys, without her (I am convinced she believes that is what is going on by the way she will occassionally protest bedtime). So, after books when I put her down, I sing our going to bed song and turn on her music, and then we go through a thorough list of who is (at that very moment) getting ready to hit the sack: "Mama go nite nite...Papa go nite nite...Nonni go nite nite...Gaga (Grandaddy) go nite nite...Anna go nite nite...Julie go nite nite...Monika go nite nite...Elliot go nite nite...Elmo go nite nite...Lamb go nite nite...burpy go nite nite...feet go nite nite...(until we get to) GILLY go nite nite! Nite-Nite Mama!".

The odd thing is when I indicate it is nap time or bed time, her reply is a sorrowful, "Gilly Happy..." and then she starts to whine some about how she doesn't want to go Nite Nite, etc., etc. I suppose this is her way of letting me know she is in a great place, is not tired, and since she is so content and full of joy, there is really no need for sleep....because, you know, SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK. (Sign me up. I am weak). After the initial protest, we are gold, and she dutifully rounds up her Burpies and gives Papa a Big Hug and kiss nite nite.

Her naps have dramatic endings, and she wakes up crying 90% of the time (??). I don't have a theory for what caused the shift from happy play to crying after waking up. Maybe she wants results faster and she learned if she acts as if she is experiencing excrutiating pain we are more likely to take her seriously. When I open the door, face stained with real tears (these outbursts are not just for fun anymore), she says "Gilly Happy..." unconvincingly, then (in case I didn't hear her the first time) "Mama!? GILLY HAPPY!!" much more so.

So, the word Happy denotes a few things, it seems, in her girl's life at the moment. Happy= true contentment, as in "I'm good, thanks for asking. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to [insert Very Busy acitivity]". Happy= "God, am I glad to see you. You left me in here, for, like, 33 seconds after I woke up, and I was getting worried you don't love me anymore". Happy = "You ARE happy, aren't you Mama? Why wouldn't you be? I mean, it's a glorious day, even though it's still pitch black out BECAUSE IT'S 5 AM. Heck, since we're all awake and don't have anything better to do, let's go watch the sunrise and go to the playground?!"

Kitties and Cats

Yesterday I was in the kitchen preparing lunch when I heard Gillian rifling through the cat food bowl. Shortly thereafter, I saw her striding back to the living room with Great Purpose, something in her hand. I curiously followed to find that she had settled up in the front sunroom with her current Favorite Stuffed Cat on Earth, "feeding" it a bowl of food fashioned out of a pacifier cap (it must not have made it into a box I packed up of her little baby things this past weekend). She had carefully selected FOUR pieces of cat food from the Real Cat Bowl to put in the cap, all of them hearts (she could have also selected the Xs or Os, but did not), and brought it up front to feed the kitty.

One of her "regular" chores is to feed our cats every night, which she loves. Oddly enough, she still calls cats "Meow-Meows" even though she calls them, like I showed her "Kitty-Kitty-Kitty!" when she feeds them. She also still exclaims "MEOW-MEOW!" when I show her a "C" for "cat" or a "K" for "Kitty" when we looks at letters in the bath.

I often find myself thinking toddlers are a perplexing bunch.