Tate's Earth-Shattering First Week at Pre-K

Tate has turned 4(!) and started pre-k. His first week was pretty Earth-shattering. And by Earth-shattering I mean during circle time he took a decent-sized globe and chucked it across the classroom, where it made a loud noise and broke, the teacher tells me. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Immediately after, he was unapologetic and told her he did it on purpose. When the teacher filled me in on these antics I apologized profusely and asked where I could buy a replacement globe. The teacher said she'd had it forever and wasn't sure. Perhaps his motivation was outrage that her globe still depicted Germany as two countries and the USSR as one. (Although I didn't get close enough to the shards of the globe of shame  to see for sure.) 

And if there are ever any national secrets that need to be kept, I recommend telling a preschooler. His lips are sealed when it comes to giving me any tidbits about what he has done during the day. I scan his little body for signs. Some days I'm lucky and there are clues. Yellow paint under his fingernails...ooh, he painted today! But mostly he has 2.75 hours a day now that he doesn't have to share with me. And that's how it should be, right? He's becoming more independent. But I'm pathetic and have even started grilling his little preschool classmates to see what they can tell me happened that day (they also reveal nothing). And what he does tell me is almost never related to what he's learned.


Me: Hi, honey! What did you do in school today?
Tate: I had a bad gas.
Me: Um...did you say excuse me?

Me: Hi, honey, What did you do in school today?
Tate: (Mumble mumble) I had a cigarette. (Or as he calls it, a "snickerette.")
Me: !?!????????!!!!????

As near as I can tell they were out at recess and a smoker walked by and threw down a cigarette. As far as I know it was outside the perimeter of the playground and no one touched or smoked it, but only Tate and his tight-lipped little cronies know for sure.

Suburb #2: WILMETTE

In the midst of our worst Chicago winter ever we were so beaten down we gave up on our suburb search completely and caved and signed a lease for another year. But that was a good thing, since now we (I) have even more time to obsess about where to move.

We happened to have a rental car one weekend, so we hit the North Shore suburb of Wilmette on the way back from a weekend at Timber Ridge Lodge & Waterpark (holy crap...more about that crazy later). So I didn't know much about Wilmette. A family I know just moved there last summer, but that's about it. When we first rolled into town my eyes lit up. Oooh! Quaint houses! Near the lake! Not crazy far from the city and served by the Metra and el! Low crime and good schools! Then we realized we were in eastern Wilmette. Western Wilmette, where we can afford to live, has all of those thing, except delete "close to the lake" and add "close to strip malls and the expressway." And delete "quaint houses" and add "the worst of mid-century architecture."

Ok, maybe I'm being a little overly dramatic (as usual), but we soon discovered that the houses in our price range were pretty outdated with not much in the way of curb appeal, and I'm someone actually who can deal with a little wood paneling here and there (we'll pretend we're on "Madmen!") or pink bathroom tub/sink/toilet (it's not outdated, it's retro!), but for $400,000? And there are some kinds of exterior ugly that just can't be fixed.

Once we adjusted our expectations we started to appreciate the charm of the area overall. But one of my main concerns was about high school. Kids in Wilmette (along with other North Shore neighborhoods) go to the much-buzzed-about New Trier High School in Winnetka (a town often confused with Wilmette because it is on the North Shore and starts with a "W," but even more wealthy). I don't care about the whole "keeping up with the Joneses" business, but how would it be for Tate going to school with kids from such wealthy families? Would he get teased a lot? Or have access to way better drugs? And yes, I realize that worrying about my kid being one of the "poor" kids in a super rich safe area is ridiculous and insulting to all the people who grow up in far, far worse situations. But I've seen "Pretty in Pink," people, and that didn't look like fun.

Not long after our trip to Wilmette I was at dinner with a friend and she mentioned that one of her friends moved to western Wilmette recently. Her friend found out after she moved there that people from western Wilmette are referred to (by some) as Willbillies. Argh, at least I would know what to prepare Tate for in high school. I also consulted Urban Dictionary and found out that western Wilmette is also referred to as the "Wilmetto." Nice. So Wilmette is still on our short list as I try to suss out, among other things, whether I can see myself as a North Shore Elly May. Who am I kidding--at my age I'd be Granny.

Suburb #1: ELMHURST, the porn search capital of the United States

When we started exploring the suburbs online for a potential move we didn't have much to go on. But our search ended up going in two directions: west (Dupage county, stereotypically labeled "conservative") and north (John Hughes movie territory, apparently also conservative).

We decided to begin our search westward, mostly because we are just priced out of a lot of the northern 'burbs. I'd search in our price range and seriously, NO homes would show up for sale. So after cutting a lot of the western burbs for various reasons (too far, not much of a downtown, WAY too conservative), we stumbled upon this video about Elmhurst.

It looks awesome, right? Close to Chicago, cute downtown, great schools, super long bike path, some affordable and diverse housing options. Plus we are friends with at least one family who live out there. They are great, and their daughter is almost old enough to babysit Tater. But then I noticed a You Tube comment about Elmhurst being the porn search capital of the U.S., so I checked it out. Sure enough, according to this Huffington Post article it is. Maybe the suburbs wouldn't be so boring after all. I can spend my downtime speculating which of my neighbors are huge pervs. Or who knows, maybe I'd develop an affinity for smutty Google searches. It does sound more interesting than other suburban hobbies like scrapbooking and stamping.

I'm having an emotional affair

It's true. I'm cheating on Chicago. When I first moved here from Michigan nearly 20 years ago it was love at first sight--the people, the architecture, the energy. I remember standing in Union Station staring in awe. It was so majestic, and just so urban.

Now two decades and one kid later the bloom is off the rose, and I've started to sneak around and (shhh) explore moving to the suburbs. Nothing has happened, I swear. I have mostly just been checking things out online. And once I went  in person. I swear it was just once. OK, maybe twice.

My prior experience with Chicago 'burbs has been pretty limited. I have visited a friend here and there. I once met a guy from the 'burbs at a Halloween party. I kissed him on the roof of my apartment building because he looked like a young Matlock. (My best defense of this is to say nothing.) In the days leading up to our first actual date he regaled me on the phone with stories about suburban antics involving his stolen garbage cans. Or maybe it was just the lids? My friends nicknamed him Olive Garden. This did not bode well for our budding romance.

Would you burn your diaries?

After my grandmother died a couple of years ago I realized how much stuff we leave behind and how hard it is for our loved ones to deal with it all. And my grandmother was actually someone who made it easy. My grandfather had been a post-depression-era hoarder. He knew what it was like to go without things, so he kept as many things as he could in his basement, attic, and garage. You know, in case of some post-apocalyptic scenario in which back issues of "National Geographic" from 1977 could suddenly be used as currency.

So after he died my grandma got rid of a ton of stuff. Then when she moved to assisted living she got rid of a little more. And then when she sold her house even more, and so on. But we were still left with random things like rulers. She had three rulers. I didn't need one, yet it made me so sad to get rid of them. I want to make sure Tate has as few of those decisions to make someday, so I try to keep things pretty purged as I go.

And that brings me to my diaries.

Blurred lines: how to make yourself crazy trying to sew striped curtains that kind of remind you of Robin Thicke's suit at the VMAs

Our place desperately needed curtains, both from an aesthetic perspective and because I can feel actual gusts of wind blowing through our less-than-stellar windows on cold days. I knew I wanted striped ones, but these from Crate and Barrel are nearly $100 a panel (!), and since I need six to eight panels that just wasn't going to happen.

So I got some tips from the good people on Pinterest, and looky what I made:

Details below the break.

Grab some popcorn and a Snuggie, it's Hallmark holiday movie time!

Remember that craptastic holiday movie I meant to write for the Hallmark channel last year? Well neither did I, but if I had written it why couldn't have it been this one? A young woman tries to escape a childhood spent working on her family's Christmas tree farm only to be forced to return to the biz when she loses her job. Of course, this makes her a little "fir crazy." Ba-da-bum. I am guessing the dude pictured above and kissing also play into the story. Ah, holiday magic.

Are you middle-aged?

Recently we had friends over for dinner and I was describing someone no one else in the room knew. I said "He's kind of middle-aged...you know, around my age." One of my friends laughed and said that I wasn't middle-aged. Which was reassuring, but was he right? If you look at average life expectancy I'm over halfway there. So I searched the 'net and found this British article that helped me figure it out for sure.

How I Unintentionally Marsha Brady-d My Son

Do you remember this episode of the Brady bunch? Marsha is a freshman, and in her rush to do high school right and fit in she signs up for every single club. She ends up overextended, stressed out, and doing a lot of stuff she really didn't want to do.

Well, I inadvertently did the same this to Tate this fall. A lot of his other 3-year-old friends started preschool, but he didn't seem totally ready back at application time, wasn't potty trained, plus did you know preschool in Chicago costs like a bazillion dollars? So with the words of warning from other mothers echoing in my ears---he'd be behind if he doesn't start preschool at 3! what about socialization?--I overscheduled the hell out of him.

And now a Pinterest-inspired project that didn't cause me to lose my mind

When we first moved into this place this is what our kitchen wall looked like:

We would offer to repaint it back to this color when we leave, but I'm not sure if Benjamin Moore still carries or can color-match Kind-of-Peestained-Looking White.

If you don't have a bad neighbor it might be because you ARE the bad neighbor...

Photo via williampaid.com

Are you a good neighbor? Everyone likes to  think they are, right? In fact, I would pretty much have always answered "yes" to this question, but looking back I'm pretty sure our condo neighbors didn't appreciate when, as newlyweds, Brad and I would regularly come home tipsy at 2 a.m. and engage in a good hour of living room karaoke (and no, that isn't a euphemism....we really did come home late and night and belt out a few off-key sets). The duet of  "Islands in the Stream" was a crowd-pleaser, I'm sure. But other than that I thought we were good neighbors, until we had two sets of downstairs neighbors move out of our two-flat in the last nine months.

See Your Folks

Have you heard of seeyourfolks.com? You go to the site, enter a few snippets of information about your parents ages and how often you see them, and it lets you know how many more times you'll see them before they die. Wahhh!  I still don't know the answer since I never pressed enter because I really can't handle seeing the result. But based on Tate seeing us with a frequency of "every day" (presumably forever, but that jibes well with my plan to move into his dorm room), he will see Brad and me over 12,000 more times. Not bad, considering we are older parents.

Many glasses of wine were killed to make this rug (or, how to make an upcycled braided t-shirt rug that takes a boatload of time and costs more than buying a ready-made one)

This project literally drove me to drink.

Quick and Easy Dinner #1: Tortellini with Black Beans and Tomatoes

In the pre-Tate days if we wanted a quick and easy weeknight meal we'd order Thai and call it a night. In the pre-Brad days (meaning I had no witnesses) I'd often come home from work exhausted and have a nice big bagel (or two) or a bowl of cereal for dinner. But now that we have Tate and we're trying to eat better, save money by not ordering takeout, blah blah blah, no matter how tired or busy we are I feel compelled to give him something a little more nutritious than a piece of toast for dinner (at least most nights). So here is one of my super-fast favorites.

You need:

frozen or refrigerated tortellini
1 can of black beans, rinsed
cherry or grape tomatoes, diced
parmesan cheese, grated
butter (or olive oil)

Prepare the tortellini as directed on the package. Add black beans, tomatoes, cheese, and butter. Voila, dinner is served!

I'll be back later with an update on what we've been up to lately. Hint: it involves a lot of half-finished Pinterest projects for our new place.

And now back to Tater

So while I've been ranting about other life events, my baby turned into a toddler and then a 2.5-year-old little boy. Today he took a shower for the first time by himself. Supervised, of course, but how did this happen? His speech has jumped right into sentences, colors, counting to ten (one, two, three, four, five, eightnineten). He even does a Sesame Street Count laugh at the end...AH ha ha. He knows a few shapes and an occasional letter. My favorite of his color words are yellow (yeddow) and purple (purtle). Adorable. Tate still has a ball obsession. We like to talk about ball, play ball, read books with balls in them, draw pictures of balls... Brad is taking him to a park district basketball class on Saturdays. We missed a lot of the session since we were out of town, but he got to go back today and was over the moon. Next session is T ball, which I know he is going to love.

Welcome to the suburbs: it smells like (liquid) ass here

Ok, so normally I am not a big bathroom humor person. Those scatological scenes in the movies that have the rest of the theater rolling on the floor? I'm usually inwardly cringing and waiting for them to be over. I'm pretty sure the reason people get divorced involves a) going to the bathroom in front of each other and b) something called Dutch ovens, so Brad and I do all we can to pretend neither one of us even goes to the bathroom. Ever. But when a friend suggested checking out the reviews for "Liquid Ass" on Amazon for a good laugh, I figured why not. And by why not I mean because I've been stuck in the far suburbs (of Detroit? of Ann Arbor? who knows) in the dead of winter by myself for almost two weeks with a toddler and no cable.

The phone rings in the middle of the night

For a brief period many years ago a late-night phone call was a good thing. I lived near two popular 4 a.m. bars, and it generally meant drunken friends were attempting to rouse me from my futon to join in their shenanigans. But those days are long gone. A week ago Friday movers had taken the bulk of our stuff. Brad and I were exhausted (I'm not sure why...it's not like WE carried all of our crap up two flights of stairs) and sleeping uncomfortably on a leaky Areobed. When the phone rang at 2 a.m. for the the first time I thought it was the alarm clock. But that didn't make sense because it was still dark out. Then it rang again, and again. By the time I found the phone I knew something was wrong. The caller ID was from my sister's place, and my mind was racing. Was it my nephew? He had been sick earlier in the day and his symptoms had seemed worse than your average bug. Was it my Dad? (My parents were in AZ visiting my sister.) Oh God, was it my sister? I hit redial and when I heard my sister's voice my mind was still racing, trying to figure things out (ok, the Bad Thing didn't happen to my sister, since she was talking...so then who?). She told me they thought my Dad was having a stroke and he was headed to the hospital in an ambulance. You know when someone tells you to sit down before they tell you bad news? Now I know why...I actually felt the ground being pulled out from under me. I never expected this. He is only 71 (and now that I'm getting older 71 really does seem young). He has high blood pressure, but doesn't drink, smoke, isn't overweight. I mean, aren't everyone's parents on blood pressure medication these days? With his family history I had always worried more about heart attacks. This just seemed so out of the blue. As Mary Schmich said in her 1997 commencement address column: "Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday." So true.

It was hours and even days before we got more answers, but my Dad did have a stroke. The neurologist said that despite being on blood pressure medication his blood pressure was "too high for too long." (Here's my PSA, if you know someone with uncontrolled high blood pressure nag the hell out of them until they get to the doctor to find meds that work. There are seriously like 20 different kinds, and sometimes it is just a matter of finding the right combo.) The good news is they caught it very early and got him help. My Mom knew the signs and called 911 right away. The other good news is that he started to improve rapidly. Initially he had problems with his speech and couldn't feel one of his hands. But that is all coming back (at first I couldn't understand him much on the phone, which was heartbreaking, but by Sunday he sounded like himself, just tired). He helped my sister come up limericks to try to infuse some humor into being confined to his bed at first (something about a man from Nantucket having to poop in a bucket), so I know his sense of humor is intact.

 He was in the hospital for almost a week, and is spending another week in rehab. After that he'll go to my sister's place and do outpatient rehab if needed. I came to their place in Michigan, partly to keep an eye on the house and cat (who doesn't really like people and mostly hides from us), partly because we needed a place to go while some lead paint issues get resolved with our new place. And it is just weird to be here without him. I never realized how much we all relied on my Dad to do stuff until he wasn't here. The power went out our first night here. Dad would have started the generator, and we all would have slept soundly and toasty warm. But for the 12 hours the power was down Brad and I (and even the neighbor) couldn't even figure out how to get the wonky garage door open to even get the generator, so things got pretty nippy. Fortunately, my Dad gathers and chops his own firewood and we were able to start a fire and keep ourselves from getting hypothermia. And I've wanted to have a fire every other night I've been here. but I'm hesitant to use any more of the firewood since I don't know when (or worst case scenario, if?) he'll have the strength to go back to chopping wood and I don't want to use up his supply. In the past I would have burned through firewood with reckless abandon. Dad will just chop more, right? I feel like I've had to grow up a little over this past week. It was humbling to realize that sometimes part of me is still a selfish teenager who acts like it is someone else's job to take care of things around here.

The crappy thing about strokes is that once you have one you are much more likely to have another within the next 5 years (that is what happened to my Mom's mom).  But I'm hoping with the right medical care my Dad will have decades of wood chopping, golf ball collecting, trash rummaging, arrowhead hunting, and fishing ahead of him. And maybe even a daughter who appreciates him a little more.

It does not suck to be Brad

Today Tate told me I had "wadoo hair," which in Tatespeak means wet hair. I had to tell him that no, it wasn't wet. Just very, very dirty since I no longer have time to shower with all of this moving business going on. And then I begged Brad to watch Tate so I could get a shower. After that he got a call from a friend's hair salon because they were doing a photo shoot and wanted him to come down and get photos taken while he got his hair cut. So Brad not only got to have a free haircut and clean hair, he also got to have someone else wash it. Harumph. And that's all I have the energy to write since I've been having moving-stress-related insomnia. Fortunately, my friend Mt. Prospect Beth loaned me the first two seasons of Monk on DVD so I'm going to go watch those and try to get some sleep. It's a jungle out there.

ETA: Brad failed to mention the manicure until I saw this photo. I'm pretty sure that would have sent me over the edge.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

What makes this time of year so wonderful? Is it time with friends and family, or people reaching deep into their pockets to find a little extra something to give back to those less fortunate? Twinkley lights, Christmas carols, or bright-eyed children who still believe in magic? No, what makes this the most wonderful time of the year is hours and hours of utterly craptastic holiday movies on TV. There are tons of them on the Hallmark Channel, ABC Family Channel, and lots of other channels that you probably don't watch unless, like me, you are a connoisseur of truly terrible television. Most of these movies walk the fine line between so crappy I can't watch them and so crappy I can't stop watching. My first of the season, "Love at the Thanksgiving Day Parade," fell into the latter category.

Quick plot summary. Our heroine is a Chicago Thanksgiving parade coordinator. She's a long-time parade-loving purist who reluctantly falls for a consultant who has come to evaluate the city's parade spending. She wears quirky Mad Men-era garb, which we later find out is because she lost both of her parents and her mom's clothes were given away. She's hoping that by buying vintage she'll somehow end up scoring something of her mom's. Except she looks about 20something, so if her mom really died when she was little those clothes would have most likely been straight out of the 80's. But I'm guess a pair of skintight Jordache jeans and a Camp Beverly Hills t-shirt wouldn't have been nearly as charming. Anyway, at the beginning of the movie she is involved in a long-distance relationship with a marine biologist who doesn't appreciate her, and she has a deep, dark secret. She hasn't told him she's, gasp, afraid of boats! So so much for his plans for her to travel around the world with him while he examines otters, or whatever it was. After their breakup she gets drunk, like throwing-up-I-hope-I-didn't-do-anything-stupid-that-I-don't-remember drunk, from one glass of champagne. Fan-freaking-tastic. I can't remember what happens much after that (maybe I was drunk) except Parade Consultant Guy decides that even though it makes sense for the city of Chicago to start charging admission for the parade it goes against the spirit of the event so he recommends that it remain free to the public. He ends up dressing up as the parade's Santa and declaring his love for Quirky Vintage Parade Coordinator Girl. And scene. The best part of this was that it inspired us to go the parade for the first time, and it really was magical.

Good god, I so need to write one of these movies. Maybe it'll help us pay our mortgage, since after 13 showings we still have no renter. The only person we've turned down was a woman with three 50-lb dogs. I counted that as about six toddlers and said no way.
Anyway, back to the movies. I really do think I could write one of these. Much like romance novels, it really comes down to a simple formula.

Your hero(ine) is:
a. a young, perpetually single woman who doesn't believe in love
b. a single mom with a young child who has lost faith in Santa
c. a widower who no longer finds joy in the holiday season
d. orphans

who encounter(s):
a. a penny-pinching scrooge who wants to shut down the parade/town's landmark something-or-other
b. a lost elf who can't find her way back to the North Pole
c. a childless couple who long for children of their own
d. Tori Spelling

After they:
a. save the store
b. deliver presents to underprivileged kids before the clock strikes midnight
c. bring a soldier home on a last-minute holiday leave
d. survive being stranded in a Christmas Eve blizzard

they all live happily ever after.

Casting includes:
a. Beloved 80's TV moms (think Meredith Baxter)
b. That dude who played Randy on "Monk"
c. Melissa Joan Hart
d. Lots of other people you have never heard of

Look for my movie at 3 a.m. on a TV near you next Thanksgiving.

And P.S., if you have not seen Melissa Joan Hart and Mario Lopez in "Holiday in Handcuffs" you are totally missing out.

Things are going to the dogs around here.

We never heard back from great dane guy after I sent him the super-awesome video tour I made of our condo. But we had six showings this weekend, and the only guy to ask for an application so far has a pit bull. Our realtor has seemingly been advertising on muchmaligneddogbreeds.com. Next up, German shepherd!

On a lighter note, the web analytics indicate that at least one person found my blog by searching "middle aged bikini." I think I've found my niche! And a way to make the extra cash I'll need if we have to lower the rent to find a taker for this place. I'll have to go check to see if middleagedbikini.com is already taken and figure out how to monetize it. It beats selling your underpants on the Internet. One of the guys from our volleyball team who does web stuff I don't understand had a previously-worn-panty-seller as a client. I tried to sell Brad on the idea as my money-making stay-at-home mom gig. I wouldn't have to do laundry (just drop 'em in the mail!), I'd always have cute new underwear, and I could probably even write my underpants off as a business expense. Whenever I try to discuss ideas like this Brad just gives me a look that indicates that a) he's not taking me seriously and b) he's wondering how he ended up married to such a nut job. BTW, Happy anniversary, honey!

One of these days I'll get back to updates about Tater. He is sweet, wonderful, and crazy these days. He's not super keen on us dragging all of his toys down the hall every other day to hide them for showings, but he's hanging in there.