tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20626297469685243182024-03-12T21:00:19.071-04:00a mom amokparenting by hook or crookNicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comBlogger876125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-71036791129390554602018-10-29T14:21:00.004-04:002018-10-29T14:25:54.462-04:00Renew your faith in humanity, at the circus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love the circus. More, maybe, than most adults. I did, after all, spend a summer at circus school, in San Francisco, after my junior year and in college, I took a theater intensive in "post-modern clowning." So I may be biased, yet it's difficult for me to imagine someone not loving the circus, provided that person has a pulse.</div>
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Of all the circuses in all the world, the <a href="https://www.ticketmaster.com/Big-Apple-Circus-At-Lincoln-Center-tickets-New-York/venue/24621">Big Apple Circus</a> is my favorite. I've ben going there since I was a child, and for a number of years when my two older kids were little, I used to take them every year. Then my little one was born and with three young kids to care for, ambitious endeavors like days at the circus were temporarily suspended. It took me six years to get my mom-of-three sea legs, but finally, I decided to take all three kids to see the Big Apple Circus. </div>
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My older kids, who remembered the fun, were excited and piqued my little one, Terza's interest. She's never been but was sold after watching a few clips on Youtube and hearing the words, "cotton candy."</div>
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Then we got her under the big tent and her excitement blossomed into something bigger, something so big is it almost un-nameable. Because what do you call the emotion you experience when it feels like your head it going to pop off from shock and awe and anticipation? What do you call it when you are gasping, then laughing, then screaming at full volume in a tent full of people, <span style="font-size: 12pt;">"NO! NO! I CAN'T BELIEVE--OH MY GOD! THIS IS INCRED--ARE YOU SEEING THIS! SHE DID IT!"</span></div>
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That's what happened to Terza about two minutes into the overture. It's what happened to all of us. It's what always happens at the circus. This one was particularly exciting, I thought, with lots of fresh, modern, seen-here-for-the-first-time acts like horizontal juggling and a guy who clibed a free-standing ladder and a female ringmaster. </div>
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But this year, in addition to the thrill and wonder I always feel, I felt something else. <span style="font-size: 12pt;">There was a new ingredient in the mix of emotions I experienced. Maybe it's because, since the last time I went to the circus, about five years ago, the whole world has seemed to change. Maybe it's because every time I so much as glance at the headlines of newspapers, I can't help but feels like things are scarier, darker, increasingly demoralizing of late. Whatever the reason, at the circus this year, the amazement I felt had another function. It renewed my faith in humanity. Before my unbelieving eyes, in act after act, I saw something impossible become possible. That's powerful. That's hope-renewing. </span></div>
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When I saw the incredible Ammed Tuniziani let go on his trapeze bar and do four perfect somersaults before seamlessly catching the arms of another man waiting there, I thought, <i>The impossible is possible. </i></div>
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When I saw "Ironwoman" Virginia Tuells fold herself into a backbend, in heels, and support the weight of her husband <span style="font-size: 12pt;">as he rose to a perfect handstand on her concave stomach, I thought, </span><i style="background-color: transparent;">The impossible is possible. </i></div>
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When I saw the aerial artist Ekaterina Stepanova. hang by her feet off the feet of her partner Valeriy<span style="font-size: 12pt;">, who-knows how many feet in the air above my head, I thought, </span><i style="background-color: transparent;">The impossible is possible. </i></div>
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That's what the circus reminds me. That's why I go. </div>
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My kids go for the cotton candy. So if that's your thing, it works too. </div>
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The Big Apple Circus is in town til January 27 and you can get tickets <a href="http://at%20www.ticketmaster.com/">here</a>. You literally won't believe your eyes. In a a good way. Now, many things make you feel that way? </div>
Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-12956265591928898642015-07-23T12:22:00.000-04:002015-07-23T12:22:14.833-04:00Summer in the City and Vacation Envy<br />
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Is it me or are people vacationing more than they used to? When I was a kid,we spent a week at a beach somewhere and we were lucky, lucky dogs, super privileged to be able to do that. Maybe it's the Facebook effect -- other people' vacations are not just mentioned in passing ala 1982 but hyper-documented -- all the minutia photographed and shared -- with every photo fomenting toxic envy. Maybe it's the fact that I live in a fancier neighborhood than my parents did when I was a kid, so my neighbors rally are taking off for two months at a time. Whatever the reason, it feels like everyone i know is spending all summer frolicking in dazzling turquoise oceans or jumping into serene lakes or eating ice cream in front of the Eiffel Tower/ Leaning Tower/ London Tower. <br />
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All of which is to say, I am experiencing a higher-than-usual dose of vacation envy. It doesn't help that at the start of this week, Brooklyn was approximately five hundred degrees, in the shade. I started to understand why people in the 80s used to wear sweatbands. What a helpful accessory.<br />
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It is summer in the city and it is hot and muggy and all the not-hot, not-muggy places are so incredibly unthinkably, nauseatingly overcrowded - Pier 6, anyone? Feel like having a nervous collapse today?<br />
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All the non-hot, not-muggy places which are NOT crowded are expensive, too expensive, as in "If I could afford this, I'd be ON VACATION AND NOT IN THIS CITY"<br />
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It gets a girl cranky. Clearly.<br />
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And then yesterday evening, at about 6pm, we were waiting for David to get home from work at my grandmother's house -- she'd made spaghetti ala carbonara for dinner -- and I said to Seconda, "I'll take you to shoot some hoops." We're not a hoop-shooting or ball-batting or goal-getting sort, as you may have gleaned but she likes to dribble and it was a lovely evening so why not?<br />
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Ten seconds after she started dribbling, a little girl named Charity who we didn't know came i to the courts with her dad and stepmom. The dad introduced himself and asked if Seconda wanted someone to play with. She sure did. So Charity and Seconda played b ball (the onus falling on Charity to do so, Seconda being mainly clueless) and the dad was rebound guy (which is, apparently a thing one does). I leaned on the fence and talked to Charity's stepmom, and we watched the dad give them shooting tips and the girls give each other high fives and we talked about having kids and living in New York and not having kids and living in Atlanta. The breeze was perfect and the sound of the ball hitting the pavement was a delightful metronome not the migraine-inducing cacophany it usually is. Then my grandmother called and said: "YOU BETTA GET HERE RIGHT NOW 'CAUSE DA PASTA'S GETTIN' COLD!" and I laughed and said, "OK"<br />
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As we walked back to my grandmother's apartment, I looked at my beautiful golden-haired kid in the beautiful golden light and I thought, "Summer in the city really isn't so bad."<br />
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And the pasta was still hot.Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-3680454438744829172015-07-17T17:33:00.001-04:002015-07-17T17:33:22.862-04:00NOW I SEE YOU, now in paperback!<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMwogNqLnDOblIrm_GVUv1493SLhD3F73jaY0Yx45CmT7-3LVT8fPFIJ3uunqWRrUyivK5Kdzv2_LTTRZXD_A-i053wAB13gFykoxrttop-Q8XlpLVX_0c3sI_qvz4QJjdL0mkDSt6FuR/s1600/PB+high+res+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMwogNqLnDOblIrm_GVUv1493SLhD3F73jaY0Yx45CmT7-3LVT8fPFIJ3uunqWRrUyivK5Kdzv2_LTTRZXD_A-i053wAB13gFykoxrttop-Q8XlpLVX_0c3sI_qvz4QJjdL0mkDSt6FuR/s320/PB+high+res+cover.jpg" width="213" /></a>I have news! My memoir, <a href="http://www.nicolekear.com/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Now I See You</a>, is now available in paperback at <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/now-i-see-you-nicole-c-kear/1116824590?ean=9781250068613" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Now-I-See-You-Memoir/dp/1250068614/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=8-1&qid=1434248929" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781250068613" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Indie Bound</a> and your local independent bookstore -- it's everywhere!</div>
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"Huh," you are thinking. "Haven't I heard about this damn book like four hundred times already, so much so that I have wondering if I am being punished for something I did in a past lifetime? WHY IS SHE TELLING ME THIS?"</div>
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Well, there are several scenarios in which one might be interested in my paperback release. Here they are:</div>
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1. You haven't gotten your very own copy yet, which means now is the perfect time. Maybe you've been deterred by the ponderous weight of the hardcover, or maybe it didn't fit into your favorite purse which, let's face it, is a dealbreaker. Now you can enjoy the same self-deprecating, tragicomic goodness in a lighter version! Perfect for the subway, beach or underground bunker! </div>
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2. You already have a copy, but you have a good friend/ mother/ co-worker/ evil twin -- or all of above! -- that would enjoy the book as a gift. Studies show evil twins love Now I See You. </div>
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3. You're in a book club, or you know someone who is in a book club, or you overheard someone on the bus mentioning that they are in a book club. Now I See You is PERFECT for book clubs, proof of which is this<a href="http://www.nicolekear.com/book-clubs.html"> book club discussion guide</a>. Also, did you know I do Skype visits with book clubs? And that Now I See You was voted #1, nationwide, in Book Club Picks by IMadeThatUp.com? </div>
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4. You had a copy but you lent it your mother-in-law/ best friend/ dog and they kept it (or, in the case of the dog, ate it). And you want a copy on your bookshelf because that red! It's gorgeous! It pops! </div>
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5. You already have 10 copies clogging your shelf and frankly, they annoy you but you love me and my children and you fear they will not get a college education if you don't buy 10 more copies. </div>
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If any of these scenarios fit, go buy a copy and tell everyone you know on Facebook and Twitter to do the same. If none of these scenarios fit, forgive me for the intrusion. Close this window and forget this ever happened. We will never speak of it again. </div>
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If you are on the fence, maybe you'll be swayed by this praise in the press (because the press never lies, as everyone knows).<br /><br />“A frightening diagnosis is only start of the story…Now I See You is a funny, sassy, yet poignant story.”<br />--The New York Times<br /><br />“Hilariously inspiring…Kear’s book is a showstopper.”<br />--People<br /><br />“A young mother going blind is no laughing matter, except, incredibly so, it is in Nicole C. Kear’s courageous, relatable and, yes, truly funny Now I See You.”<br />--Family Circle<br /><br />“We’re here to tell you that Kear’s memoir, about finding out that she’s slowly going blind and what that means for the rest of her life, is one of 2014’s best books and one that will have you alternating between laughing and crying from page to page.”<br />--Parade<br /><br />"Nicole C. Kear's hilarious and poignant tale of her ever-dimming world sparkles with a winning wit and wisdom gained as much from seizing the day as from falling down."<br />“[Nicole’s] story is spunky and full of a zest for life that will open the eyes of readers to the little joys of the world. A tender memoir about love, life and going blind.”<br />--Kirkus Reviews </div>
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Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-81660418214438970232015-07-09T14:47:00.000-04:002015-07-09T14:47:12.874-04:00We matter<br />
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I'm on a John Green kick -- reading <i>Paper Towns </i>now, and just finished <i>An Abundance of Katherines.</i> As a memoirist, this passage, from the end of the book, absolutely slayed me. It's just brimming with the kind of hope a writer needs to keep writing:<br />
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"Maybe stories don't just make us matter to each other; maybe they are also the only way to the infinite mattering he'd been after for so long ... Telling it changes other people just the slightest little bit, just as living the story changes me -- an infinitesimal change -- and that infinitesimal change ripples outward, ever smaller but everlasting. I will get forgotten but the stories will last. And so we all matter, maybe less than a lot but always more than none."<br />
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--<i>An Abundance of Katherines,</i> John GreenNicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-32772999361375974592015-06-25T13:53:00.001-04:002015-06-25T13:53:46.649-04:00Best Bookstores in the World<br />
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Behold, <span style="color: #0000ee; text-decoration: underline;">The Best Bookstores in the World</span><br />
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(according to the Guardian, at least):<br />
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I've been to four of the ten and one of them -- The Strand -- is my all-time favorite. It was just about one year ago exactly that I did a reading there, when my memoir was released.<br />
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Basic takeaway of this article though is: I've got some traveling to do, I guess.<br />
<br />Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-83610474112014427022015-06-22T10:51:00.000-04:002015-06-22T10:53:22.802-04:00Babydoll names <br />
I have discovered that my toddler has a highly marketable skill, though only if the market in question is Ikea.<br />
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Terza can name Ikea furniture lines.<br />
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Now, I know full well that Ikea furniture has Swedish names, and most likely, the names are Swedish words that mean something in Swedish and, in that respect, she's got nothing. However, were Ikea to run out of Swedish words, and find themselves in need of words that just sound vaguely Swedish, or more to the point, Ikea-ish, my daughter will be just the one they are looking for.<br />
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Whenever we play with her dolls or animals or figures, and I ask what the name of the character is, she invariably begins with: "Cala." It used to be that all the character would bear the same name - Cala -- which made pretend play very confusing, a little like when I go to family functions of my best friend from high school who is Greek, because there are always 20 Georges.<br />
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But now that she's a bit older, she's diversified her name collection. It now includes:<br />
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Cala<br />
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Cali<br />
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Shippa<br />
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Skirti<br />
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Mongo<br />
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and Oliver.<br />
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(Ikea will just have to forgive her the last one. Nobody's perfect).Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-48855776184181829832015-06-02T22:38:00.000-04:002015-06-03T22:25:19.984-04:00Good news!<br />
I have <a href="http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/childrens/childrens-book-news/article/66679-rights-report-week-of-may-18-2015.html">some exciting news</a> that I am thrilled to share.<a href="http://us.macmillan.com/mackids"> Macmillan Kids' Imprint </a>will be publishing the first six books in a new series for children, written by me! The series is called <i>The Fix-It-Friends,</i> for kids in grades K-3 and it will be released in 2017. It<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"> stars an i</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">nventive, exuberant, totally unforgettable second-grader who leads a group that help other kids with social issues. My kids (aka test readers) give it two thumbs up and assure me it's funny. Here's a viideo about the newly-launched imprint, aptly named Imprint. featuring me and some other authors!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">So, save a spot on your kids' bookshelves, if you please . . . </span><br />
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Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-12985604207818709132015-05-21T08:53:00.002-04:002015-05-21T08:57:14.580-04:00 A poop is not a lion <br />
Terza is three, which is the age at which, I've noticed, children tend to develop a short-lived phobia of feces. Don't ask me why this happens. I know it has something to do with what they call "body integrity" which is also why, at about this age, they also develop a blood phobia. All of which is to say, I will definitely not be showing the kid any birth videos any time soon. Could you imagine what the implications of that would be on someone concerned about body integrity?<br />
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Because it's not my first time at the rodeo, I was prepared for the poop problem. When Terza has to go, I hang out with her in the bathroom and just chat with her and tell her stories so she does not have a full-on nervous breakdown about her imminent BM. While doing that a few days ago, I was reminding her of the fact that there's nothing to worry about. And she, in a moment of clarity and reason, agreed.<br />
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Then she expounded on the subject:<br />
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"A poop is not a lion or a tiger," she observed. "A poop can't eat you. So you don't have to be scared."<br />
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Exactly, my child. Exactly.Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-28337692808659371262015-05-15T11:58:00.002-04:002015-05-15T11:58:38.542-04:00Mourning Dove<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVBYVmgYBGHNRoWW8qw5UJGPzpSQ2Xpv8tS-EXjOkttWhArP2snL16awdOAKxTAnFZ2g6R2JwJQMBWBc0rBX7b0AOiY_hTY_TgHEiAaCc2yZg11E6kIwAsXq46xbOsFwfXy8l8sCRlMICv/s1600/mourning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVBYVmgYBGHNRoWW8qw5UJGPzpSQ2Xpv8tS-EXjOkttWhArP2snL16awdOAKxTAnFZ2g6R2JwJQMBWBc0rBX7b0AOiY_hTY_TgHEiAaCc2yZg11E6kIwAsXq46xbOsFwfXy8l8sCRlMICv/s1600/mourning.jpg" /></a>Seconda's learning about birds in school and had a homework assignment in which she had to write about the morning dove.<br />
<br />
She did it. But she spelled it "mourning dove."<br />
<br />
"I'm concerned about Seconda," I told David, "Why would she automatically opt for mourning instead of morning? That seems so bleak and macabre."<br />
<br />
"Are you sure that's not how it's spelled?" he asked me.<br />
<br />
"I mean, I doubt it. Birds sing in the morning. They wake you with their cheerful chirps. Birds are optimistic."<br />
<br />
And then I googled it and Seconda was totally right.<br />
<br />
Mourning dove.<br />
<br />
What kind of a doom-and-gloomer named that animal?<br />
<br />
I was relieved, though, for several reasons. A: My daughter's paying a decent amount of attention during Bird Study. B. One less piece of evidence that she is bleak and macabre. And C: I think I may be a genuine optimistic myself, to have assumed the dove would have a cheerful, hopeful name. Of course, I'm the most neurotic genuine optimistic that ever lived. But still . . .Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-34263791373937721752015-05-09T10:54:00.001-04:002015-05-09T10:54:33.393-04:00Deferring Housework; or why it took five days for me to vacuum birdseed in the middle of my living room <div>
<br /></div>
Terza spilled birdseed all over the living room floor on a recent Sunday afternoon. I swept it up as best as I could (of course I'm visually impaired so, you know, my best in the sweeping-up-birdseed department isn't great). We were half out the door when she spilled it. I knew there was birdseed scattered on the rug, but I didn't have time to deal with unearthing the vacuum and plugging it in and sucking up all the birdseed in order to restore the filthy carpet to just normal levels of filth. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'll do it later," I decided.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We didn't get back home until late that evening. We rushed to feed the kids and ourselves dinner. We clean up the rice Terza spilled, and the milk that Seconda spilled and a half dozen other minor messes I can't even recall because they are so routine I'm no longer even aware of dealing with them; I just go on auto-clean mode. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
David put Terza to bed, at which point I remembered the birdseed. I managed to pull the vacuum out of my bedroom and wheel it into the living room before I was called away by another child to take care of another crisis. Later that night, after the kids had gone to sleep, I saw the vacuum and remembered the birdseed again, but there was no way in hell I was going to risk waking the kids by running the vacuum. Did I say that emphatically enough? No. Fucking. Way. I'd rather sleep on the spilled birdseed than risk waking the kids. I'd rather eat it. So, I left the vacuum out, figuring I'd do it the next day. </div>
<div>
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<div>
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<div>
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<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieMR62I2DZ2zu0NfmpXHd0OpnRFfkaoM2ywhshUo-5wsM5comTYyEBQ_BNHxLfwKkmR64rjnCAQUas0-he7Lo076AnqIhPGdi07WqCMDizePJfKisEPuNfuUE_H54CN90Wrx0jMJcjQtie/s1600/vacuum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieMR62I2DZ2zu0NfmpXHd0OpnRFfkaoM2ywhshUo-5wsM5comTYyEBQ_BNHxLfwKkmR64rjnCAQUas0-he7Lo076AnqIhPGdi07WqCMDizePJfKisEPuNfuUE_H54CN90Wrx0jMJcjQtie/s1600/vacuum.jpg" /></a>Days passed. Work, school trips, allergist appointments, emergency tooth extraction appointments, work, meetings, sibling smackdowns, work, fevers, overdue bills, overdue library books, first holy sacraments, preschool show and tell, work, domestic civil wars, strep tests. Every night, once the kids had gone to sleep, and I'd done the dishes (or nagged David to), emptied the lunch boxes, prepped for the next day, returned pressing emails, and showered, I'd walk into the living room and see the vacuum still there. Waiting for its chance to shine. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Well, I"m not going to run the vacuum now," I thought,"not when my sanity hinges on all three kids staying asleep for a few hours."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So for five days, the vacuum remained in the living room and the birdseed got more and more embedded in the rug. On Friday, the kids and I got home at 5:30, leaving a few hours before bedtime, no homework, no pressing emails to return. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It's go-time," I said to the vacuum. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I plugged that baby in and I sucked that birdseed up, feeling buoyant with a dizzying sense of achievement.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I did it!!!" I thought. "I've met my goal! And, most importantly, I CAN CROSS THIS SHIT OFF FMY TO-DO LIST!!!!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's a sad state of affairs when it takes you five days to vacuum up birdseed -- and even then, you're amazed that you actually did it. Even then, it feels like a minor miracle that you were able to squeezz that five minute activity into your schedule. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let's hope no one ever spills a gallon of milk on the floor. We might still be wading in it two weeks later. </div>
Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-78464677923740587142015-05-04T09:32:00.003-04:002015-05-04T09:37:52.819-04:00Goblin, the game<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJMMzENRHPjkjyk5qkEbkEpcQmDX0UkRwPmoLMuAaoIGKpulwEtYdRqS1vpF5e9dC2bkEz5yIuFVfEllSNzZLo5SMDgY0vLA-NKl_Q_pTTKe50f_bbQUP6ScmX7-XMHevOxQ0tJI1g2c6Q/s1600/sel+and+v.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJMMzENRHPjkjyk5qkEbkEpcQmDX0UkRwPmoLMuAaoIGKpulwEtYdRqS1vpF5e9dC2bkEz5yIuFVfEllSNzZLo5SMDgY0vLA-NKl_Q_pTTKe50f_bbQUP6ScmX7-XMHevOxQ0tJI1g2c6Q/s320/sel+and+v.JPG" width="320" /></a>My daughters have devised a new game of pretend. It is called, simply, "Goblin."<br />
<br />
The game is simple. Terza, age 3, is a baby named Goblin. She is not, as I initially thought, a goblin baby. That would be absurd. Instead she is a human baby that has distinctly goblin-like characteristics, including growling, crawling on all fours and a generally aggressive disposition.<br />
<br />
Seconda is her owner. Which is to say, her master.<br />
<br />
You can see where this game is going. Seconda orders Terza around. Terza obeys. Terza is delighted. Second is delighted. I am mildly disturbed but they are amusing themselves so I say nothing. Seconda is a benevolent master, more maternal than anything else. She has a gentle scolding tone to her voice, but never issues a harsh rebuke.<br />
<br />
It's all, "Oh no no no, Goblin! You know better than to bite the table!"<br />
<br />
and, "Goblin, it's feeding time! What do you have to do if you want your bottle? That's right! Sit down."<br />
<br />
and, to me, "You'll have to excuse my baby Goblin. She likes to bite people."<br />
<br />
Goblin has no voice. The metaphor is not lost on me. Though I can't say Terza minds. Quite the opposite.<br />
<br />
The other day, Seconda gave herself a character upgrade. She put on her communion veil and her communion glove and shiny, brand-new silver party shoes ("are these <i>designer</i>?" she asked baffled me). Goblin also got an upgrade, though not as lavish. She hasn't received first holy communion, after all, so pickings are slim. Seconda pranced around the apartment, with Terza trailing right behind her, on all fours, barking and growling and looking positively elated.<br />
<br />
I find it's best not to think too deeply about the fucked-up power dynamics one sees played out in pretend play. After all, isn't that what pretend play is for? And isn't that was big sisterhood is all about? I remember my sister singing back-up for me in our two-girl band for our entire childhood. Did it traumatize her for life, and give her an inferiority complex? Well, probably. But, on the plus side. it also gave her grit galore.<br />
<br />Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-6540216871974908052015-04-27T10:54:00.002-04:002015-04-27T10:54:20.173-04:00Seven Indictments for Seven Brothers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfsIYL-HSZNeWajVp8tz6kmrcAqla1i9ZqGganiUJt2CXKWHnDgv06EAu4hpLz-0t5YR9qHN4JJk_MQ1Y93miNEdbXflFQu8WhJ9MEPgNTNNQe0LuZWPG5TqUYloaXA7KqziNXvDRg-kq/s1600/7+brides.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfsIYL-HSZNeWajVp8tz6kmrcAqla1i9ZqGganiUJt2CXKWHnDgv06EAu4hpLz-0t5YR9qHN4JJk_MQ1Y93miNEdbXflFQu8WhJ9MEPgNTNNQe0LuZWPG5TqUYloaXA7KqziNXvDRg-kq/s1600/7+brides.jpeg" /></a></div>
<br />
All five of us love Family Movie Night. The only trouble we tend to run into is choosing a Family Movie. Primo likes movies that are either too scary or too esoteric for the little kids. Seconda loves tween Disney flicks which Primo (and I) abhor. Terza's up for anything but loses interest after 10 minutes if it's not quite right for her, and by "loses interest" I mean she climbs on the furniture and yells menically or smacks her siblings in the head or throws Goldfish in the air like confetti.<br />
<br />
So imagine my delight when I thought of the perfect Family Movie: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Had I ever seen this movie? No, I had not. But I distinctly remember it being my little cousin's favorite movie when she was a kid and also, it was old, so how inappropriate could it be? There was sure to be no sex and no cursing. And once, I googled it and a Youtube clip popped up featuring the coolest gymnastics/ dance number ever. Perfect, I figured.<br />
<br />
And it was, for about the first hour. I mean, yes, it was dated, and the main character, Adam, treats his wife like a servant, and not like a human being, but that's something she takes issue with so it was a good talking point. But then, halfway through the movie, Adan started singing a strange song, about the rape of the Sabine women.<br />
<br />
"This is really weird," I commented to David. "Why is he singing this song about the Sabine women?"<br />
<br />
"Because that's basically the whole plot of the movie," he said.<br />
<br />
"What movie?" I asked. "This movie?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he answered. "Haven't you ever seen this movie before?"<br />
<br />
"No," I confessed. "Are you kidding me? These seven brothers are all about to kidnap their brides?"<br />
<br />
And - spoiler alert -- that is exactly what they do.<br />
<br />
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?<br />
<br />
It is a modern day Rape of the Sabines. That's what the WHOLE movie is about. And guess what? It works out GREAT for the guys. Their captives get Stockholm Syndrome and never want to leave. So they all get married in one big group ceremony, and the only reason the girls' dads agree to that is the girls convince the dads they've gotten knocked up and are, thus, ruined. Thankfully that plot point is packed into the last two minutes and is glossed over so we didn't have to explain the whole concept of a shotgun wedding to our eight-year-old daughter.<br />
<br />
"Why didn't you warn me that's what this whole movie is about?" I asked David,<br />
<br />
"Oh, it's fine," he said/ "The men suffer the consequences of their actions/"<br />
<br />
"Not really," I protested. "I mean, they sleep in the barn for, like, a month. And then the girls totally fall for them and they all get married. Whereas, really, they should all be incarcerated."<br />
<br />
Promo overhead me. He was laughing his ass off about how ridiculous the plot was.<br />
<br />
"They should call is Seven Trials for Seven Brothers," he laughed.<br />
<br />
Indeed.<br />
<br />Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-83926730610671490922015-04-22T09:51:00.000-04:002015-04-22T09:53:22.715-04:00Everyone's a parenting expert . . . <div class="tr_bq">
<br /></div>
<div class="tr_bq">
I have an information addiction. I self-medicate with research. I guess it's better than a lot of other addictions, and it comes in handy sometimes, but at other times, it's bothersome and problematic. The biggest problem I run into, especially insofar as parenting is concerned, is that always doing research before making decisions creates the illusion that there is one right answer that can be found if only you devote enough time and energy to unearthing it under piles of reading and statistics. This, of course, is total and complete bullshit. </div>
<div class="tr_bq">
<br /></div>
<div class="tr_bq">
Apparently, though, I'm not alone in my dependence. This fantastic Motherlode piece, <a href="http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/04/21/information-hungry-millennial-parents-making-it-hard-on-themselves/?emc=edit_tnt_20150422&nlid=44668969&tntemail0=y&_r=0">Information-Hungry Millenial Parents, Making It Hard on Themselves</a>, totally hits the nail on the head. Here's one of my favorite parts:</div>
<blockquote>
In the 1980s, when my mother raised me, it was perfectly acceptable to take your children to their annual pediatrician visit and defer to your doctor (or the older mothers in your neighborhood) about parenting dilemmas. Doctors had gone to medical school, after all, and other parents had experience. They were the experts. But I get the feeling that has changed.<br />
Of the 10.8 million households with millennial parents at the helm, nearly all of them are frequent Internet users. Liberal, socially conscious, interconnected and peer-reliant, my segment of the millennial generation (wealthy in education and confidence, if not in our paychecks) has unprecedented access to what was once privileged information, as well as the opinions of their peers. We’ve become the experts, and as a result, we’re hyper-aware, constantly questioning, defensive. Baby boomer helicopter parents have nothing on us.</blockquote>
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Is it lost on me that in discussing my information addiction on parenting issues, I just directed you to read an article about the issue? No, it is not lost on me. I just consider this Motherlode reading a kind of Methodone. Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-68466855077992144992015-04-20T09:14:00.002-04:002015-04-20T09:14:32.654-04:00When I grow up . . . <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LaNuW7fJ1u52KwcRGVqQuxEuBkqD_evgFZCIUQLImjD6al0IOzduOUU-fLBuudVyCxAPVSBMSbfnC1FKmCWJcRkyZ2uFyfZoF6ht_sk6hCdPmfjvXaJ5tWthhoZ9XcWqqdyomA2DLVll/s1600/tiger.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LaNuW7fJ1u52KwcRGVqQuxEuBkqD_evgFZCIUQLImjD6al0IOzduOUU-fLBuudVyCxAPVSBMSbfnC1FKmCWJcRkyZ2uFyfZoF6ht_sk6hCdPmfjvXaJ5tWthhoZ9XcWqqdyomA2DLVll/s1600/tiger.jpeg" /></a><br />
Terza is three. This, I have found, is the age at which girls who have big brothers try to pee standing up.<br />
<br />
The other day, I took her to use her potty and instead of sitting on it, she stood next to it, looking ambitious.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing?" I asked.<br />
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"I want to pee like Primo," she explained.<br />
<br />
Poor Primo. We took all the locks off the doors when we moved in, because the kids were little and we'd already lived through the "Seconda Locks Herself in the Laundry Room in Tennessee" incident. Now, of course, Primo's old enough to deserve some privacy, especially from his little sister who's prone to barging into bathrooms without so much as a how-do-you-do. Of course, because of Terza, we still prefer to have doors that can't lock. After all, we've already lived through the "Terza Locks Herself in the Bathroom at Brunch at Our Friend's House" incident and that was really no fun. So, as usual, a Sophie's choice.<br />
<br />
When Terza told me she had big plans to start peeing standing up, I told her, as I told Seconda at the same age, that girls pee sitting down because girls' bodies are different from boys' bodies and it just works better to sit down.<br />
<br />
So she sat. And she peed. And she mused.<br />
<br />
"When I grow up, I want to pee like a boy," she reflected.<br />
<br />
I was just beginning to worry about whether this was an indication that she might need gender reassignment surgery one day and if so, if that was covered by health insurance, and if not, was it smart to maybe start saving now, when she spoke again.<br />
<br />
"When I grow up, I want to be a tiger," she said.<br />
<br />
"Me too," I said.<br />
<br />
And then I stopped worrying, and started enjoying my kid instead.<br />
<br />Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-37249985318364568182015-04-17T11:12:00.004-04:002015-04-17T11:12:47.711-04:00Mom Parodies of Pop Songs <div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
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Seconda, who is now 8, has been bitten by the pop music bug. It's all about Taylor Swift and Katy Perry and Megan Trainor. The maddening thing about pop music is that it's so damn catchy; as if it weren't bad enough to be listen to "Shake It Off" on repeat play in the car for a half hour, I've got the damn song lodged in my brain for two days after.<br />
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But, on the upside, my recent education in contemporary pop has made me appreciate these hilarious mom parodies of pop songs, courtesy of Deva Dalporto, a mom of two kids (5 and 8) in San Francisco. Her videos can be found on the My Life Suckers channel on Youtube and it will make you laugh . . . Though, chances are, her lyrics will get lodged in your brain just as quickly as Taylor Swift's.<br />
<br />
If you like "Shake It Off" . . . <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q07uxoIX8hs#t=29">Knock it Off</a></span></u></b></div>
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"All About the Bass" . . . <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=viw3oJ2I0rw">I Just Need Some Space</a></span></u></b><br />
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Happy Friday!</div>
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Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-27295640759009980502015-04-01T06:30:00.000-04:002015-04-01T06:30:00.551-04:00Builds Character<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Few people are more quotable than Helen Keller. She was one smart lady and she knew how to take all that intelligence and distill it down into little, digestible kernels of wisdom. My favorite, though, is this one:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The reason I like it, besides the fact that is rings so true, is that it makes me feel hopeful for my children. After all, there is never ease and quiet in our home. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">They are going to have more character than they know what to do with. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-6260910269722126982015-03-28T12:57:00.000-04:002015-03-28T12:57:11.058-04:00A new (insane) perspective on sibling rivalry<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmIsgSDHJ4-fMhFWrtcFh-zBiIc6TTlkFUAlgewu-q8F-z9hhzyVMYHjSuGqzXxPDnXIoOMJtSzbWzAXR9rM3SrJ6JNso1y0y4DFNPWbsoOHsbHsTLU6kUEr2qe7B5yKqB0bxUvLw7slEl/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmIsgSDHJ4-fMhFWrtcFh-zBiIc6TTlkFUAlgewu-q8F-z9hhzyVMYHjSuGqzXxPDnXIoOMJtSzbWzAXR9rM3SrJ6JNso1y0y4DFNPWbsoOHsbHsTLU6kUEr2qe7B5yKqB0bxUvLw7slEl/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a>When I added another child to the family, I greatly multiplied the possibilities for sibling rivalry. If you were a math person, you could compute the exact number of permutations or combinations or whatever you call it. I am not a math person. I am a sandwich person.<br />
<br />
By my count, we've got the following combos on the rivalry menu:<br />
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Big Boy vs Big Girl aka The Original Combo (Primo vs. Seconda)<br />
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Biggest vs Smallest ( Primo vs Terza)<br />
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Girl vs Girl (Terza vs Seconda)<br />
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and then your more harry fare, the two against one deals:<br />
<br />
Bigs vs Small (Primo and Seconda vs Terza)<br />
<br />
and<br />
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Girls vs Boy (Seconda and Terza vs Primo)<br />
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So many options for sibling throw-downs! Which is great, because variety is the spice of life!<br />
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Despite the number of possibilities, though, there is one combo that is far more popular than the others, winning by a landslide. That's the Original.<br />
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I don't know whether it's the fact that Primo vs Seconda deal has been on the menu five years longer or the fact that Primo and Seconda are just such contradictory flavors that it makes for an incendiary melange, but whatever it is, the big kids arguing accounts for 90 percent of all sibling rivalry. Roughly. I'm no mathematician.<br />
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If you're feeling irritated by this seriously overused metaphor, that really wasn't that sound in the first place, consider this: by thinking of my children as sandwich fixings and their showdowns as sibling panini, it makes the chronically unbearable business of sibling rivalry so much more tolerable. Since I don't have anything useful to offer in the way of advice for you, fellow parents, about how you might address sibling rivalry, let me suggest this coping strategy then: imagine your children as lunch meat.<br />
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It's the least I can do.Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-63252783053955420512015-03-26T16:18:00.000-04:002015-03-26T16:18:07.960-04:00In Darkness and In Light <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWnORCJnOhZEHdqjb0d8_hFPqCTJamL4jGq0AG_bWSuZGQA6AjeUZ66HSh6WXZZgJF8oJ7dMK4mo67H8xk8srOm_Zm9uoiOeX0uPEmZHpNKxSLced6ngp7lUDJEwWwjMlKZziY7Lq4YqF/s1600/Modern+Love+Pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWnORCJnOhZEHdqjb0d8_hFPqCTJamL4jGq0AG_bWSuZGQA6AjeUZ66HSh6WXZZgJF8oJ7dMK4mo67H8xk8srOm_Zm9uoiOeX0uPEmZHpNKxSLced6ngp7lUDJEwWwjMlKZziY7Lq4YqF/s1600/Modern+Love+Pic.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a><br />
It has long been a dream of mine to share my story in the Modern Love section of the New York Times.<br />
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A few days ago, that dream came true. You can <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/03/22/style/together-always-in-darkness-and-in-light.html">read my story here.</a><br />
<br />
If you'er looking for another story about love and blindness -- a stunning one -- read this Modern Love by writer Ryan Knighton, author of the memoir <i>Cockeyed</i>: <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/02/fashion/02love.html?rref=collection%2Fcolumn%2Fmodern-love">Seeing The World Through My Wife's Eyes. </a>Prepare to weep!Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-57510345589206909382015-03-19T10:13:00.002-04:002015-03-19T10:13:28.174-04:00The Facetime Babysitter<br />
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You have to respond to a pressing email or get dinner in the ocean and your 3 year-old is running amok. What do you do to get 20 minutes to take care of business? You may just dial up Aunt Rita or Grandpa Mo and ask them to babysit -- through your cell phone.<br />
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According to The New York Times's Motherlode, <a href="http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/03/18/the-facetime-babysitter/">FaceTime Babysitters </a> are becoming more and more popular for short stints of time -- when parents are at home but need to get stuff done. It's not the worst idea is the world but it's probably not the best idea either.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">“The art of dealing with boredom or nonstimulation is an exquisite skill that children need to develop,” said Dr. Wendy Sue Swanson, a pediatrician in Seattle and member of the American Academy of Pediatrics’ Council on Communications and Media.</span> </blockquote>
Of course, this begs the question: if Grandpa Mo or Auntie Rita are really boring, is it OK?Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-60740848921992597412015-03-16T11:31:00.001-04:002015-03-16T11:31:44.093-04:00Opinions on parenting <span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">I used to have a lot of opinions on how parents should raise their kids. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Then I had children. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Little by little, year by year, my opinions grew weaker until they began to disappear altogether. They were replaced by opinions on how I should raise my own kids, whose needs I understand thoroughly, and who belong to a family, whose needs, talents and limitations are very clear to me. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">But the more kids I have and the longer I raise them, the fewer opinions I have about parenting in general. That's because I see the tremendous range of children out there and the tremendous range of families who are trying their absolute best to support those kids and love those kids and make those kids into great adults. I see how little I actually see of families inner workings, and I see how many of my assumptions over the years have been inaccurate. And having seen all this, I realize there can never be one right way to do something as complex as raise a happy, healthy, good human being. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Love your kids. Love yourself Laugh. Ask for help. Give some thought to your decisions about their care. Try to see the forest for the trees. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Those are my opinions. And if I didn't already believe every single parent I know was doing all of these things already, maybe I'd venture to offer them. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">The one opinion I have that I think parents need to hear is that </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">if you have a lot of opinions on child rearing, you should probably keep them to yourself.</span>Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-28784653696741636892015-03-12T14:19:00.000-04:002015-03-12T14:19:45.464-04:00Oh my gosh, the lights!<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Larry Hester, who has been totally blind for 33 years, recently saw New York City with restored sight, courtesy of a prosthetic retina.I read about him in <a href="http://www.people.com/article/larry-hester-bionic-eye-new-york-city">this story in People magazine</a> and it totally reduced me to tears. Especially this part:</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Oh my gosh, the lights," he says while squeezing his wife Jerry's hand on world-famous 42nd Street. "They're everywhere."</blockquote>
It's a terrifically inspiring story about hope and love and gratitude. Read it!<br />
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Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-46837983784644447312015-03-09T11:07:00.003-04:002015-07-21T14:37:34.872-04:00The Licking Phase of Toddlerhood<br />
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Kids go through many gross phases. They eat their boogers and scratch their butts and engage in all sorts of other similiarly distasteful habits frowned upon by medical professionals.<br />
<br />
Terza is going through one of my least favorite phases yet.<br />
<br />
The Licking phase.<br />
<br />
Not to be confused with the Mouthing phase, which happens much earlier, well under a year of age. I find the Mouthing phase gross, naturally, but I don't fault the kids for it; after all, at 8 months old, they can't talk or walk or do anything really, except put stuff in their mouths. If the choice was Suck On a Slipper or Do Absolurtely Nothing, I'd suck on the slipper every time.<br />
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No, the Licking phase comes much later, and is -- at least from what I've observed -- much more about testing limits and getting a reaction than actually exploring the world around them. I have far less patience for this phase since at nearly 3, Terza can do most of the things I can do. She can pick out her own outfit, put it on, look in a mirror, decide she doesn't like it and change again. That alone, could occupy you for the better part of a day. There's just no need to lick things.<br />
<br />
It wouldn't be so mortally revolting if Terza licked toys or plates or even clothes. The child licks surfaces. Walls. Counters. Floors. FLOORS.<br />
<br />
But because she's my third, I retain a decent amount of composure about it all. After all, I remember, clear as day, when Seconda at this age, was riding the R train and I caught her extending her tongue to the lick the subway pole. That instantly became my new benchmark for Grossest Things to Lick.<br />
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A few weeks ago, though, a new benchmark was created. Over winter break, we took the kids to a cheap hotel near the Philly airport, one with a swimming pool in which we could fritter away many long, cold hours. When we got to the hotel, it was pretty shabby, shabbier even than we expected. It was the sort of place you check for bedbugs twice. The chain lock on the hotel door was broken, probably the result of a drug deal gone awry. Half of the electrical outlets didn't work. I voted we go home - our home was just as dirty but at least it was our own dirt and it was free. But we couldn't get our money back and the children, David pointed out, were delighted. They didn't mind the squalor -- they never do. And there was a pool!<br />
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If the hotel room was dirty, you can imagine what the pool area was like. On the evening we arrived, I asked what time the pool closed and the woman at the front desk informed me it was closed early because there'd been an "incident" and it needed to be cleaned. I was tempted to ask which manner of bodily fluids we were talking about but I decided it was better not knowing.<br />
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So the next morning, when we headed down to the pool, I wished we'd brought full scuba gear and possibly a acquatic Hazmat suit. That the pool was packed with kids did not make it more appealing or less gross. My own kids blithely jumped into the pool which was approximately 20 degrees.<br />
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I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The pool was not only grimy but freezing and the hot tub . . . is there a nice way to say cess pool?<br />
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However, I am an intrepid woman and also, a strong believer in getting your money's worth, even if that will eventually require a long course of antibiotics. So I plunged into the hot tub tried to enjoy it.<br />
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I took Terza in the hot tub with me because she's too young to tolerate hypothermia. But after a few minutes she got bored, and climbed out of the hot tub, sitting on the edge with her feet in the water. If it was difficult to relax in the fungal hot tub, it was even harder to relax while watching my toddler walk around the slippery edge.<br />
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"Sit down," I told her. "You're going to fall."<br />
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So she did. Well, she didn't so much sit and drop down on all fours.<br />
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And then, as I watched, she lowered her head to the filthy puddle of water next to the hot-tub-cess-pool and stuck her tongue in it.<br />
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You know that slow-mo moment where you cry out in horror but it is too late because the damage is done? Yep, that about sums it up.<br />
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The good news is we got our money's worth. The bad news is, it's our money's worth of bacteria.<br />
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Can't wait for this phase to be over . . . Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-75856101439684124682015-03-03T17:07:00.000-05:002015-03-04T10:48:03.188-05:00This Grimm deep cut will give you nightmares<br />
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A few years ago, I picked up this amazing audiobook collection of Grimm's fairytales at my favorite bookstore ever, The Strand. I could listen to the hypnotic narration all freaking day -- it's all these female British vocal talent artists who make me feel like I am in an episode of Downton Abbey. So, really, the fact that they are saying anything of interest is all bonus.<br />
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But what they are reading is of great interest. Those Grimm brothers were totally screwed in the head. This is abundantly apparent in tales like Snow White (we don't even blink when the evil queen says "bring me her heart in a box" but just take a sec and consider how fucked up that is). But if you want to really hear the seriously screwed up shit, you need to get into lesser Grimm. You need to listen to the deep cuts. Like, say: <u>"<a href="http://www.bartleby.com/17/2/3.html">The Wolf and Seven Young Kids</a>"</u><br />
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Here's how it begins:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;">"There</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;"> was once upon a time an old goat who had seven little kids, and loved them with all the love of a mother for her children. One day she wanted to go into the forest and fetch some food. So she called all seven to her and said, “Dear children, I have to go into the forest, be on your guard against the wolf; if he comes in, he will devour you all—skin, hair and all. The wretch often disguises himself, but you will know him at once by his rough voice and his black feet.” The kids said, “Dear mother, we will take good care of ourselves; you may go away without any anxiety.” Then the old one bleated, and went on her way with an easy mind."</span></blockquote>
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OK, so first, I just have to say: the mom goes on her way with an easy mind? Really? A conniving, shapeshifting wolf is on the loose and she totally takes the kids' word for it that they've got this under control? Hmmmm. I'm all for free-range parenting, but dude, come on.<br />
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As you have probably predicted, the wolf comes immediately. Like, in the next sentence. Like, I'm surprised the mom didn't run into him on her way out. And he's like, "Little kids, let me come in, I'm your old mom." And they're like, "No way dude! You have that rough voice our mom told us about. And we are street smart kids. So get thee gone Satan." And he's like,"Drat! Back to the drawing board."<br />
<br />
But he's a conniving old thing so he goes and swallows a big chunk of chalk, which, as everyone known, makes your rough voice turn silky smooth. And it works, of course. So he comes back and goes, "Little kids, let me come in. I'm your dear old mom." And the kids are like, "Well, she does have that silky smooth mom voice. BUT we're street smart so let's check the paws." And bingo, they're black. So the kids say, "Nuh-uh. Forget it. Get thee gone Satan."<br />
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Now THIS part, I love. The wolf knows he needs to cover his black paws in dough because, DUH, what else do you do to trick defenseless young kids that you want to devour? But when he goes to the baker to get the dough necessary for this endeavor, the baker knows better.<br />
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"Now hold on one cotton-picking second. I know what you want that dough for and you can forget it," says the baker. And the wolf is like, "Oh yeah? Well, how about I just tear you limb from limb and eat your goddamn entrails?" And the baker is like, "Take all the dough you need there. Mr Wolf. Hope those kids go down easy."<br />
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The wolf goes back and this time, the kids let him in. After all, their mom just told them to look out for the rough voice and the black paws and they totally did and he's clear. So they let him in and he eats every one -- well, almost every one. The tiniest, and apparently smartest, kid, hides in the clock and seriously, what a good hiding place. Plus, after feasting on six kids, the wolf is kind of stuffed.<br />
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The wolf, who has gorged himself, goes to sleep. Then the mom comes back and she's like, "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED HERE? I THOUGHT I TOLD THEM ABOUT THE ROUGH VOICE AND THE BLACK PAWS!!!!!" Then her smart little one pops out of the clock (that one is going to need therapy forever) and he tells the mom what happened.<br />
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The mom finds the hideous wolf sleeping and she notices his belly is, well, moving. And she realizes its all her six children in there, who are STILL ALIVE, because the wolf, as wolves are wont to do in Grimm fairytales, gobbled them up whole. Hallejuia! <br />
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She knows just what to do. Apparently, she's read LIttle Red Riding Hood. Get the knife, slice the wolf open, and let those kids out. He's sleeping so, you know, it's all good. It's not like a little disembowelment will rouse an animal when he's napping.<br />
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HERE is where the story gets good (yes, I realize it's the very end but remember, good things come to those who wait). The mom gets all Kill Bill on us. Hell hath no fury like a mom whose six kids have been devoured by a wolf. She says, "Kids! I know you've suffered a terrible trauma but go get the biggest rocks you can find because your old mom has a plan!"<br />
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Then she puts the rocks in the wolf's belly in place of her children and -- Grimm brothers are sure to note -- she hustles because she doesn't want the old wolf to wake up, and she super fast sews him up.<br />
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The wolf wakes up and he is kind of thirsty so he walks over to the lake to get a drink and all the rocks in his guts knock together and he realizes something is amiss.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;">"Then cried he,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" style="background-color: white;"><tbody>
<tr><td> </td><td>What rumbles and tumbles</td></tr>
<tr><td></td><td>Against my poor bones?</td></tr>
<tr><td></td><td>I thought ’twas six kids,<br />
<table cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1"><tbody>
<tr><td>But it’s naught but big stones.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;">And when he got to the well and stooped over the water and was just about to drink, the heavy stones made him fall in and there was no help, but he had to drown miserably."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;">HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;">These Grimm brothers don't pull any punches. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;">The rocks in his guts slowly drowned him. Come on. That is some dark shit, even for the Grimms. It makes Snow White seem like a lovely little lullaby. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #000020;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #000020;">So, there you go. Sorry if I gave you hideous nightmares. but at least you didn't play that story on tape for your young children. </span><br />
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<br />Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-36196729739504330282015-02-24T10:12:00.000-05:002015-02-24T11:25:17.084-05:00Live from the Red Carpet . . . with a five year-oldWhen Primo was five, he and I broadcast Live! From the Red Carpet (or at least the red pillow on our couch). It was scintillating fashion coverage, his very first; you won't want to miss Primo's commentary on Penelope Cruz and Heather Graham and purple pocket squares. Now, prepare to fire up your time machine and go back five years to when my tween was just a tot (still full of ideas):<br />
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"This year marked Primo’s first time watching the Red Carpet for the Golden Globes on E! and it is official – I have a new viewing companion. Kid’s a natural when it comes to fashion commentating (just shows you what a child can get excited about when he gets to stay up late to do it). Ryan Seacrest, watch out. There’s a new pretty boy in town. He picks his nose on camera, digs unconventional couture and has no mercy for Fergie. Behold: Live from the Red Carpet! with my five year-old<br />
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<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/IGMOPEtAKL8&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param>
<param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param>
<embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/IGMOPEtAKL8&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />
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I should add that when we first turned on the TV and I explained to him that the point of the show was to look at what everyone was wearing and see if you liked it or not, he chastised me: "This is very vain, Mommy!" And I agreed one hundred percent and explained that that's precisely why we only did it twice a year. I told him it was like Halloween: you couldn't eat that much candy everyday but once or twice a year it was perfectly unobjectionable to glut yourself. After that, he abandoned any concerns about the frivolity of our enterprise and dug right in.<br />
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Here's the sum-up:</div>
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Best Dressed: Jay Manuel</div>
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Worst Dressed: Fergie</div>
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Best Umbrella: Mariah Carey</div>
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<o:p>Best Hat: Mickey Rourke</o:p></div>
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<o:p>Best Accent: Penelope Cruz</o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p>Other highlights include when I ragged on Elisabeth Moss’s poor choice of color, he agreed but he did stand behind her choice of straps (“they are SUPPOSED to hang off her shoulders like that, Mommy!). He and I both loved Christina Hendricks’ Christian Siriano gown and we both despised Julia Roberts’ exceedingly humdrum frock. Vintage Yves Saint Laurent, my foot! As Primo put it: ”Its not fancy AT ALL!!!!” Give us glamour, people! My own regret is he didn’t get to see Chloe Sevigny’s Valentino get stepped on and the actress show her slip, so to speak, when she went all apeshit on the poor fellow who couldn’t help my trip over her riot of ruffles. He would have loved that wardrobe malfunction. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p>And now, an exclusive for you a mom amok readers, is what Primo deems the ideal ensemble to wear to the Red Carpet:</div>
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Big black overalls</div>
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Purple patent leather shoes</div>
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A tuxedo jacket with jewels all over it</div>
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A top hat</div>
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Big golden earrings</div>
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and of course . . . </div>
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<o:p> </o:p>A purple bow tie</div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Zac Efron, take note. Primo is available for consultation, on an after-school basis."</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2062629746968524318.post-24874554810117183522015-02-20T09:14:00.002-05:002015-02-20T09:16:39.772-05:00When you plant an apple seed, you get a . . . <br />
<br />
Yesterday, I gave Terza an apple.<br />
<br />
A half hour later, she came to me with a very chagrined look on her face.<br />
<br />
"Mommy!" she said. "There is yucky stuff inside this apple!"<br />
<br />
By which she meant the core. Which she had never seen before. Because she is two years old.<br />
<br />
It was one of those moments where I was pierced suddenly by the revelation of how small she is, how unthinkably new. These moments always make me think several things at once:<br />
<br />
1. How amazing and magical to be discovering everything for the first time!<br />
2. Shit, she's so pristine. I can't possibly keep her like this. I'm going to screw her up.<br />
3. No wonder she has tantrums and throws things. She's two fucking years old.<br />
4. Kiss! Cuddle! Hug! Devour!<br />
<br />
Once that exhausting thought process was through, I replied to her:<br />
<br />
"Oh, look what you found! It's the apple seeds!"<br />
<br />
"Apple seeds?" she asked, dubiously.<br />
<br />
"Yes, and if we take them out and put them in soil and water them, do you know what will grow?"<br />
<br />
Her eyes got wide and her face wore that "Knowledge is slowly dawning on me! I got this! I got this!" expression.<br />
<br />
Then she shouted: "CARROTS!"<br />
<br />
Repeat thoughts 1-4.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Nicole Caccavo Kearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00896343677961757215noreply@blogger.com