Help me

Ever since my youngest was an infant (okay, it wasn't that long ago) I've used a Sleep Sack. I love these things. They're endorsed by the people who fight Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). Loose blankets around a baby's face have been associated with SIDS. In one terrible post-partum freak out, I googled SIDS and read absolutely heart wrenching stories from people who have lost their kids that way. I went out and bought a few of these sacks like they were manna from Heaven. Anything that would keep my baby safe from that bogey man was welcome.

When Lil'T turned 1 1/2 years old, she got too big for even the largest Sleep Sack. Then Halo, the company who makes these wearable blankets, psychically felt my angst. They realized how we mothers and fathers had come to make the Sleep Sack an essential part of our night routines and we were loathe to get rid of them. They designed the Sleep Sack for toddlers. I ordered 3 of them, and now I've discovered that they make them in 4T/5T size, so we'll be okay for a few more years.

When she was very little, Lil'T could not express her displeasure at being exiled nightly to her crib. Sure, she cried or fussed, but like magic, within minutes of her back lying on the crib mattress, she would fall asleep. Now that she's 2, she's very verbal. After her bath, she'll happily pick out her own sleeper, but the second she sees that Sleep Sack, she objects mightily.

"Don't want it!" She'll shake her head and run for the arms of any adult who isn't carrying the dreaded Sleep Sack. My mother has decided that because Lil'T's love for her father is so boundless, he can wrap her up in it nightly. This only works for a short time, because my husband is such a soft touch, it kills him to have her fuss. Then the task usually falls to me.

The other night, I was at a meeting for the Christmas Pageant, so it was just Mom & my hubby with the baby. I didn't actually witness this scene, but I hope I'll do it justice.

My husband had retrieved the Sleep Sack and put it over his shoulder before he went into the living room to fetch Lil'T. When she saw the Sleep Sack, she knew instantly what was about to happen. Her fears were confirmed when my husband picked her up and said, "Tell Lola good-night."

Instead, she reached out her little pudgy hands towards my mother and begged, "Mom! Help! Mom!" It was desperate, futile, but at the same time, pretty funny.

The kids don't understand "bum-bye"

My mother called out to my kids -- "Eh, stop jumping on the bed, bum-bye you katonk your head."

This is a sentence that I grew up with. And you know what, I distinctly remember jumping on my parents' bed while both of them were out of the room because I knew that I would get that warning yelled at me. I also knew that I had jumped on their bed countless times without katonking my head. I knew what I was doing. And yet, I remember the day that I did fall. And I wish I could say that I remember my mother coming in and hugging me and kissing my boo-boo away. All I really can remember is her saying, "See. I tole you that you would katonk your head."

I figure that most people can relate to this sentence, even if I didn't explain what katonk or bum-bye means. But I suppose that I might translate a little.

I don't know if "katonk" is meant to be an onomatopoeia but I think it must be. I don't even know if it has its roots in Tagalog, Ilocano, Hawaiian, Japanese, Chinese, Portugese, or just plain old pidgin English -- but I always took it to be the sound of my head hitting the floor. It also can be used as an active verb. As in the sentence, "I'm gonna katonk your head if you don't knock it off." Or the one that was often heard around my house growing up, "I'm gonna katonk your heads together if you don't knock it off." So it might also be the sound of two heads being knocked together by an irate mother. I don't know what that sounds like, really. I don't think she ever hit our heads together, but if she did, she knocked them together so hard that I don't remember.

"Bum-bye" is the word I think probably needs more explanation. My father said that it was the corruption of the phrase, "by and by," which does seem to ring true to me. I mean, who ever says that? There is an old Hawaiian song that suggested, "bum-bye, bum-bye, means 'later on' okay..." I think that was not completely accurate. Sure I've heard it used that way as in, "First we go Sam's Club, bum-bye we go Longs."

But in the context of how it was used all my life, I think the more accurate translation is, "a possible consequence may be..." Just look at the sentence my mother shouted at my kids today. "(Hey), stop jumping on the bed, (a possible consequence may be) you (loudly hitting your)head (on the floor)."

The reason I wrote this explanation was because there is a little bit of a culture shock going on here between my mother and my kids. We all speak English here. My mother has lived in this country for 50 years and is a proud citizen of the USA. Having spent those 50 years in Hawaii, where the English language got mixed in with dozens of other languages, some of the English that she speaks is a little different from here.

My dad used to always tell about when he joined the Army and got stationed in Arkansas. After his commanding officer had spoken to him, the CO turned to a friend of my dad's and asked, "What language is he speaking?" My dad's pidgin accent was so strong, you could barely hear the English in the Pidgin English. And my mom probably has spent most of her life learning her English from that man. But my dad's time in the service cleaned up his accent really well. He could always turn it on and off like a spigot.

When my mom scolded my kids today, I didn't even think that what she said needed explanation. I understood it to my core. That was until my husband piped up and said, "The kids don't understand 'bum-bye.'" That was an eye-opener. I kind of think I only channel my Waipahu roots when I'm really irate or PMSing. It is then that the tita buried deep inside me erupts out of my mouth.

A stern warning. "Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

Or if Tita Tess were to say it, "Eh, knock it off! Bum-bye I katonk your head."

And so it begins...

I know that is an ominous title for a post, but I think it is an ominous day. A box arrived this morning. I knew to expect it. My brother, Dwight, had told me that he'd ordered my daughters' Christmas presents early just to be sure they'd get here in plenty of time.

It seemed like a perfectly innocuous box. Nothing special about it. But I'm sure my daughters would disagree. The baby, Lil' T, was present when I unleashed the beast from its brown cardboard confines. She was sworn to secrecy, and since most of her words are unintelligible to humans aside from her parents and grandmother, even if she tries to tell the secret, she'll not be understood. Inside the box was an American Girl doll.

The doll is Ivy, a Chinese American girl. Her best friend is Julie, and their story takes place in the 1970's. Heck, these girls could have been my classmates! Dwight bought the Ivy starter set which includes the book, and the Chinese New Year outfit. These items are for my older girl. The baby gets to have a matching clothing set for her hand-me-down Chinese baby doll.

My older daughter received that baby doll 5 years ago from our dear friend Sharon, who had invited us over for a pre-Christmas gift exchange for our families. It was the last holiday season we were with my father. He came with us for the gift exchange and my #2 child was only 18 months old at the time. She was not speaking a whole lot, but she sure knew how to make her preferences known. Her big brother did a lot of the speaking for her, interpreting her grunts and gestures pretty well. So well, in fact, that our daughter didn't really start speaking in earnest until our son went to Kindergarten. The little princess had a few dislikes then, a big one being inanimate objects that moved of their own accord.

Once we were in a hospital waiting room where they had an activity table set up for kids. It was one of those deals where you use magnets on the bottom of the table to move the toys on the inside of the table. Princess saw the toys move and started screaming because they seemed to do it on their own. Darling husband asked me to do it again just to see, and sure enough, Princess screamed like somebody was killing her. I guess DH thought it was funny.

Anyway, back to the gift exchange. Princess was initially enamored with the baby doll. It was a pretty little thing, complete with its own baby bear. But disaster happened when she laid the doll down. The doll *gasp* closed its eyes. This prompted a treasured moment shared with my father and me. We were watching Princess as she enjoyed her new doll but when that doll betrayed her by moving its eyes on its own accord, it brought on a flash of anger from Princess. She picked up the doll and as best as she could, tried to bite its head off. I don't mean figuratively; she tried to put her teeth into the doll's scalp. Dad and I were so taken aback by this display of toddler angst, we busted up laughing. Needless to say, Princess didn't like that doll, not one bit, but thankfully, I held on to it. Lil' T loves the doll despite the fact that it has those eyes that close on their own.

Here's what's bad about the whole American Girl phenomenon. It is a perfect storm. They've got videos, books, dolls and best of all CLOTHES. There isn't just one kind of doll, (stupid Barbie, you really blew that one) but dozens of different dolls. Each doll has its own book of historical fiction or some present day adventures, so parents think of the books as educational. All the stories are about empowering girls. Each book is just one more opportunity for your daughter to become enraptured by a doll that she just needs. A doll that has different outfits. A doll that has matching outfits for your daughter. These American Girl dolls are in my house and waiting to explode all over me on Christmas morning.

I know that it is what Princess told her Uncle Dwight she wanted for Christmas. I know it isn't his fault that he fell into the trap. But I will fault him for bringing me down into the trap with him. Damn.

Permission granted

It is a hard thing to go to school with so many people who look like infants. The students at the community college I'm attending all look impossibly young. There was the moment that I realized just how old I was when one of my classmates asked me if I have a MySpace account. Are you kidding? But at least I'm not so old that I don't know what MySpace is. I even was able to look up her MySpace account (and no, I'm not going to hyperlink it for you) but it made me feel impossibly old. Plus, consider I did just have a birthday last week.

I never thought that I would be one of those people who would freak out about getting older. But that was just because I wasn't getting *that* old yet. In 2 years, I'm turning 40. My hubby hits that milestone this year. I remember being excited to turn 15 because I could get my drivers permit. All you get when you turn 40 is a baseline mammogram. Woo hoo. And what other great things do I get to look forward to? Colonoscopies? Hot flashes? I can hardly wait.

Anyway, enough about that. I have to tell you about a moment I had while walking to class this morning. I was carrying my old UW thermal coffee mug I got back in my youth. I had filled it with coffee and was walking up to my class. I was in my own little world remembering carrying coffee in that very same mug to dozens of classes my first time through. Walking towards me was one of those very young men I told you about earlier. I took a quick sip of coffee and I don't know how it happened, but a little bit went down the wrong pipe.

It is amazing the kind of thought processes that can go through your mind when something like this happens. I mean, it all takes place within a matter of seconds.

1. I need to cough, but I have a mouth full of coffee. If I don't open my mouth, the coffee will go out my nose. Not an option. It must come out through the mouth.

2. I could cough, but I don't want it to go all over my clothes or my stuff. Must move them out of the way. Check.

3. Let 'er rip!

So what happened was that I coughed and had one of those perfectly timed comedic moments in a sitcom where a character takes a sip of some beverage, is told something outrageous, and sprays said beverage all over the room.

But the best part was that I wasn't alone. There was this 20 something year old kid walking towards me, remember? The look on his face was priceless.

I mean, consider what must have been going through his brain at that moment? He was about 12 yards away from me when I did my impression of a fountain from the Home Depot Garden Center.

'That chick looks as old as my mom. She just spewed her coffee. What's the cool thing to do? I mean it is funny, but if I were to laugh at my mom when she did that, she'd slap me upside the head. What if I just don't make eye contact? I can just pretend that I didn't see it. Nothing happened. Yes, that's the best plan of action. Poker face engaged. No eye contact. No eye contact.'

I could tell he wanted to laugh. He tried so hard not to make eye contact with me, but by this point, I had already checked that I hadn't spit all over my clothes and was laughing at myself. I was totally astonished that I could spray so well. So when he got up to me I said to him, "You have my permission to laugh." Awkwardness faded and he flashed me a grin. I don't know if I made his day but he sure made mine.


I'll get over this "getting older," stuff pretty soon. I just had a birthday, after all, so the wound is a little fresh. Mom's doing her part to keep me young. She insists I take my vitamins -- but now instead of Flinstones, it's Centrum Silver & Calcium.

My learning curve

When I was 17, I left Hawaii and went to University of Washington for school. I had come from a very good, albeit small, all girl Catholic school in Kaimuki, HI. I had graduated 4th in my class and felt like I was a brainiac. That all changed when I was faced with attending classes with 300+ other braniacs and trying hard to be on the good side of the curve. I was quite simply *gasp* average amongst the rest of them.

I hadn't preregistered for my classes before I got to school so I was faced with trying to register on the first day of class. It was a crazy system, way before registration by computers or even by phone. Phone registration came the following year for me. I think about it now, and realize that it was the dark ages. So, I had to go to a class that I was interested in, hope the professor would be accepting students, and rush him/her at the end of class like some crazed fan hoping for an autograph.

That first day of classes, I decided to try to get into anything, but hoped that it would be after 9am. I kind of hoped that I would be able to sleep in every day. That would have been nice. But to give myself the best possible chance, I decided to start auditioning classes at 8, just in case.

I had walked into Philosophy 100 with very low expectations. I didn't really want to take the class, but maybe the prof would sign my card and hopefully the classes after this ludicrously early class would let me in and I could just tear up the first autograph collected. That was my plan, Stan. But I didn't consider the possibility of being swept off my feet. Weird to think of it that way, now.

I strategically sat near the front of the class so I could run up right after it ended. Dr. Ronald Moore walked in looking like the quintessential philosophy professor. He had a stack of papers and journals under one arm, wore a sports coat and tie, and a full beard. He was heavyset but tall and had this effusive energy about him. He started talking and I was mesmerized.

You know, it has been 20 years since that first class and I've had dozens of professors ever since. I cannot remember the names of any of them except for Dr. Moore. He made such a lasting impression on me.

For the first time, I was learning about philosophy without the veil of religion. 13 years of parochial school will do that for you. But aside from that, he made it all very reachable -- these concepts and theories, all so very within my grasp. His classes were kinetic, the air palpably energized, they were thrilling. I enjoyed them so much that I signed my little freshman butt up for the only other class he was teaching to undergraduates, a 400 level class on the Philosophy of Art.

What you need to know is that I don't know jack about art. Seriously. Sure, I listened to music and even went to the Honolulu Academy of Art when I was in high school. But aside from that, I never gave it much thought. Really, I had that poster up on my dorm room wall of Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville, Paris, 1950 just like every other freshman girl. And if I remember correctly, I cut up pictures out of the Fall 1987 Esprit catalog and pasted them up on the walls. That was art to me back then. I'm a little more than embarrassed to admit all of that. But I signed up for that class because I loved going to his lectures.

So I suppose you're wondering why I'm writing about this at all.

A couple of evenings ago, Dr. Moore delivered a lecture at my local library. He spoke about Art & Aesthetics on trial in America. Pretty cerebral stuff, huh? But I went. And I still don't know jack about art. I did manage to go to the Seattle Art Museum a couple of times since high school -- seriously, only twice. But I did it of my own accord and not as part of a school group. I even got to see the Van Gogh exhibit.

The trouble with not knowing anything about the subject being discussed is that you're always playing catch up, and true to form, Dr. Moore was speaking a mile a minute, punctuated with little observations and asides. I did remember to look up a website he talked about. That was cool. We've got a lot more in common than I had previously thought.

But before the lecture even started, my dear friend Sharon insisted that I talk to him. And I don't know where it comes from, the nervousness that I feel around him. It was like that when I was 17 and the same now that I'm 38. I recognized him immediately. He had aged, but heck, I sure don't look 17 any more. He's got a few more gray hair, but he's still got that same booming voice, that same energy, and that same rapid fire wit. Anyway, when I refused to get my nerve up to talk to him, Sharon spoke up instead and asked, "Do you recognize her?" He looked up and I could tell he couldn't pick me out of a crowd of 2. It has been 20 years, after all. And I was one of 300 in my class in the first place. Please, it would have been a miracle if he recognized me. And I was far more timid then than I am now, and I still didn't have the nerve to talk to him.

I did manage to squeak out who I was and that I had taken his classes a couple of decades ago. I even shook his hand. You'd have been proud of me. And like I had done all those years ago, when he started talking, I rode it like a surfer rides a wave. I just tried to keep my feet under me and not fall off. It was awesome. I shook his hand again after it was all done. I told him that he was just as I remembered and thanked him for the lecture. I think that made him smile.

Afterwards, I was flying high. And I couldn't figure out why. Freshman year, after I left the last class, turned in my final exam for Philosopy of Art, I remember just feeling very sad. I would never have him as my teacher again. But thanks to my local library I got to hear him speak again. That was great.

I kept asking Sharon & my mom what they thought of the lecture. They both said they enjoyed it. They both said that Dr. Moore was impressive and knowledgeable. But I could tell they weren't star struck like I was. Mom thinks that maybe he made such an impression because his was the first college lecture I attended. That my feelings about him were wrapped up in the excitement of the first day of college life. Maybe she's right. But I remember rejoicing when he won the Distinguished Professor award while I was still a student there. I knew he deserved it so I'm sure there is more to it. Maybe it is just that great teachers are always remembered and always ignite something in their students. I still don't have a handle on it. But I'm glad that I got to see him again. I'm glad that he gave me a few more things to think about before the next time.

I can't wait until then. Maybe I'll even manage to work myself up to a conversation. I'd better take a class in art appreciation.