Always Remember That

So tonight, while waiting for a pizza, I picked up a brochure on blood donation. I tried to donate blood, once, back in college, but the nurse took one look at my veins and sent me away unstuck. Apparently I have very small veins and it would take very long time to eke a pint out of me. (Yes, this strikes me as odd too, and really, of all things about me to be small, what good does it do me to have small veins? Small bones would be great, a small nose would be divine, but small veins? That's just pointless.) But according to this pamphlet I read tonight, I couldn't donate blood even if I had veins the size of the Nile, because I lived in the UK for three months in 1993. And thus I'm at an increased chance of having the seeds of mad cow disease in my blood. I was previously at peace at my inability to donate blood, but now I'm just incensed that I can't. I wonder if there's an appeal process. I wonder if I can tell them (whoever makes up "them") that se...

Sentences by Mallory: A pris can sel stuf. (A price can sell stuff) A hart can luv. Manie can sel stuf. (Money can sell stuff) Toes can do stuf. You can do etrefyg. (everything) Frogs can et flies. Bees can steg you. (sting) Latie bugs can flie. Phoebe has developed the habit of asking how to spell words, but she never believes the answers she gets. "Mommy, how you spell bath?" she'll ask. "B-A-T-H," I'll say. "No," she'll say, "it's called D-H-R-E-F-Y-F." One wonders why she bothers to ask.

Mallory was very concerned when she learned that Phoebe was getting shots today (at a very late 2-year-check-up). "Poor Phoebe," she said mournfully when we woke up this morning. "Poor little Phoebe," she said again when we loaded up to go to the doctor's. "Oh Phoebe," she said, when Phoebe expressed excitement as we pulled into the doctor's parking lot. "She just doesn't know what she's getting, does she, Mommy?" Mallory hovered attentively while the nurse checked Phoebe's blood pressure and her hearing and pricked her finger. "Is that blood ?" she asked the nurse in a tone of outrage. "You're worried about your sister, aren't you?" the nurse replied. When the actual shot was administered, Mallory cringed and covered her eyes, and then helped me calm Phoebe down by rubbing her back as the victim cried on my lap. I was reflecting that it was so sweet, so nice to see such an obvious display of love a...

I was explaining to Mallory the other night that we'll be electing a new president soon, and then told her who my particular favorite was. She was intrigued by his name and kept asking me to pronounce it; then she asked if the other people who wanted to be president were "bad guys." I said, "Yes! They're evil, evil I tell you!" No, I actually said, "No, they're not bad guys, and one is actually a woman, they just have ideas that I disagree with." Last night the phone rang and Mallory ran to answer it. She listened for a minute and then her eyes got really wide. "Mommy, you gotta hear this!" she said, bringing me the receiver. I listened; it was a robo-call from my candidate, in his own voice, encouraging me to vote in our upcoming primary. "Do you know who that was?" I asked Mallory. "It was Rocko Bama !" she said excitedly. Close enough. And, just to drive home the point that my daughter is no master of elocution,...

So I have a cold, and haven't been sleeping that well, and last night while I was not sleeping, for some reason I started a tally in my head of the Worst Moments of My Life, which I will share with you now, not including the precise moment in time at which I was composing this list, which was one of the Worst because I absolutely could not breathe and my throat was sore and my lips were cracked and my face felt like it was about to explode from the sinus pressure. So here you go: 1. Seventh Grade. One day, whilst wearing my pink corduroy pants, the unexpected happened and I was totally unprepared. This has probably happened to every seventh grade girl since the beginning of time, and soon after they realize why every purse ever sold has that hidden zipper pocket. Luckily, I was also wearing a long sweater-tunic thing, so I don't think anyone realized my distress, but man was that ever a long, long day. 2. Spring, 1991. Breaking up with my high school sweetheart. I knew it was ...

I saw a this bumper sticker the other day: Don't change the way you look. Change the way you see. It was timely, that particular sticker, because I've been kind of wrestling with my reaction to something that really is none of my business anyway, something I can't really get into that much on the one-in-a-trillion chance that the person I'm talking about reads this. Short, vague version is that some people we know are doing something that, although well-intentioned and kind-hearted for sure, also seems risky and, well, considering the resources and personalities and possible complications involved, a little nuts. Chris and I have had long conversations about how crazy this is and how it will never work and how it will adversely affect many of the players involved and how it's something we would never, ever, even for a minute consider doing. But that's the thing, isn't it -- it sounds crazy to me . It sounds like a bad idea to me . I think it's sheer lun...

Mallory announced before bedtime that, before school today when no one was looking, she kissed her boyfriend on the lips. She had the gleam in her eye that usually signals Giant Fib, but I took the hard line nonetheless. "That's not appropriate," I said. "You could get in big trouble if you get caught. No kissing at school." "No kissing, period," Chris added. "What does 'period' mean?" Mallory asked. "It means, no kissing at all. You're too young for that," Chris said. "When will I be old enough?" our daughter asked. "When I'm sixteen?" "No...when you're thirty," Chris said. " Thirty ? Are you kidding me?" "Thirty. And even then, you have to ask our permission first. If we don't like the guy, you won't be allowed." Mallory thought about that for a minute. Then she said, "How old do I have to be before I can kiss someone without asking you first?"...

I'm sure somewhere in the vast universe which is the Disney corporation, there is a tally board which records the number of preschool girls who have been snared by the great Princess Marketing Machine...in any case, that number just increased by one Phoebe. Our house is a veritable treasure trove of Princess Stuff ("Look at this stuff, isn't it neat? Wouldn't you think my collection's complete?" sings Ariel, not-so-subliminally planting the message that princesses have lots of little things!) -- dolls big and small, tshirts, toothbrushes (which Phoebe calls her Sleeping Beauty Brush-Teeth), cups, spoons, diapers, Playdoh, markers, sleeping bags, and so forth. It can all be a bit overwhelming. "I want to play with Ariel number four!" Phoebe told me yesterday. "Um, okay," I said, and I handed her the Ariel Barbie doll. "That's not number four!" Phoebe wailed. I offered the Ariel Polly Pocket figure. "Noooo!" Finally I ...

Monday night I opened up Mallory's lunch box and saw that, of the ham sandwich, orange slices, and pudding cup I had packed that morning, she had taken only one bite of the sandwich. "Mallory, why didn't you eat your lunch today?" I asked. "Um, I didn't have time," she said. "Why didn't you have time?" "Lunch was really short today," she explained. Tuesday night I opened up Mallory's lunch box and saw that she had eaten one bite of sandwich and all the pudding. That night Mallory also had a stomachache. "Did you have a stomachache at lunch too? Is that why you didn't eat?" I asked. "No, I didn't eat because I was talking to my friends and ran out of time," she said. "I think I have a stomachache because I only ate my pudding. And then I had ice cream at Mama and Papa's house after school." Ah. The next morning I packed only a sandwich and an orange, no pudding, and also told Papa that ...