atomic mama

Congratulations, Senator Obama. I am so thrilled for you, and for my little daughter who will grow up with you in the White House. Thank you, thank you. Now go rock the world.

This is is kinda funny.

Until you remember that he’s running for president.

On a happy note, here’s a little sum’in from Mr. Angie. Just another reason to love that guy.

Thanks for the tip, KP.

A little bit about Sarah Palin:

freakishly anti-choice

pro capital-punishment

supports teaching of creationism in public schools

opposes same-sex marriage

supports oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

former oil and gas commissioner for the state of Alaska

bible-thumping, gun-toting, moose-eating narcissist

I’ll leave out the part about her extremely brief but meteoric rise from small-town-mayor to charismatic governor.

And folks are comparing this woman to Hillary?

Does the GOP really think that women are that stupid?

Don’t answer that.

She wants something sweet so I grab the dried mango from the pantry.

“You can have one piece, Lina. One piece.”

“Only one piece?”

“Yes. One.”

Lina looks at the piece of dried mango in her hand. Then she looks at me, smiling.

“But when I take this bite I have two pieces.”

So yeah, we went camping last weekend. Sun Lakes is about a four-hour drive from Seattle. A hot four-hour drive. By the time we got there, we were all ready to be out of the car for a while. We were not, however, ready to be out of the car and into the easy reach of the two humongous guard dogs that were lurking at the campsite next to the one we’d reserved. As Shane pulled into our site, I told him not to bother unpacking the car. There was no way in hell I was going to spend the weekend stressed about the safety of my kid.

Note: I am all for pit-bull rescue. I am against breed-specific bans. But I am not okay with testosterone-loaded, speed-boat-driving, cigarette-smoking pit-bull-using folks. I’m just not. I’ll trust my mama instincts on this one. I feel sorry for the dogs in these cases, but I don’t want them anywhere near my kid. Period.

So I marched straight to the campground office and got us a new campsite. No problemo. We were promptly moved to a lovely site near the golf course.

Yes, golf course. There was also mini-golf, paddle boats for rent, a water-balloon throwing course, and lots of cheap beer for sale. This was American camping, people. We’d decided that we needed at least one big, noisy camping trip this year, and this was it.

We were actually pretty happy on our little patch of heaven until a group of guys came in and basically took up the entire communal lawn space with their regulation-sized volleyball court. This was made even more irritating by the fact that they seemed to lack the physical skills necessary to actually play volleyball. They attempted to make up for said lack of skills by doing quite a lot of talking. And yelling. At one point, they were using the term “girl” in a very derisive manner (as in, “you suck, you girl.” It happened that Shane and Lina were around when this happened, and before I had time to start a fist fight with anyone, my fabulous husband said, “Hey! Don’t put girls down!” Or one of them will kick your lame asses without breaking a sweat, I said under my breath.

But we had fun, and Lina took part in her first real hike. I believe that the high point, for her, was going for a paddleboat ride. Or maybe this was just the high point for me. My sister and I used to rent paddleboats at the lakes near our childhood home, and I was reminded of how much fun we used to have. Shane and I also had fun jumping into the lake from the boat. Lina sat on her little perch between us, bundled up in her bright orange life preserver, happy as a clam. I believe she was also sucking on a lollipop during that time, which further increased her level of satisfaction with the overall situation. Seriously, I think the kid was in heaven.

The one quirk that emerged is that she’s afraid of bugs. Seattle isn’t a terribly buggy place, so she doesn’t interact with bugs on a daily basis like I did when I was a kid. Anyway, there were times she’d freak out a little when she encountered a bug. I just stayed calm and reminded her that the bug was probably afraid of her, too. We saw a magnificent (but dead) beetle near the restrooms one morning. It was probably two inches long. She didn’t want to be anywhere near the thing. I hope to eventually ease her fears a bit. Somehow.

Overall, it was another successful camping adventure. We’re off to Orcas Island to camp with some friends in a few weeks, which should be cool. Bugs and all.

I was blessed to hear these words from my kid:

“I love you, Mama. I love you a lot of times.”

Ahh. Three years old. Bring it.

A few weeks ago, while I was scouring the racks at Value Village, my mom (AKA Omie) was entertaining Lina so I could try on other people’s cast-offs. During this time of entertainment, books were found and books were read. By the time we were ready to pay for our finds, a “Junie B. Jones” chapter book had found its way into my cart. Lina dug it and it was 25 cents, so I bought it. I thought it was cool that she was interested in a book that didn’t really have pictures in it. (The JBJ books are for early readers… maybe first grade or something. I’m not sure.)

Naturally, Lina wanted me to read this book (the topic of which was “monsters under the bed” or something like that) during every free moment after that. She’d sit perfectly still and listen. I was amazed that she didn’t miss the pictures, didn’t need to look at the book. All she’s known are picture books. However, when I settle her in to tell her a long (cheesy, ad-lib) story, she is usually rapt.

Anyway. The book.

While I was psyched that I was reading my 3-year-old her first chapter book and she was loving it, I was simultaneously horrified by the book’s grammar. I’d correct things as I read them, which was awkward at times. It also felt a little dishonest. But I just could not read those words as written. I couldn’t. Apologies to any of you who like that incredibly popular series, but… damn. I just can’t see that kind of thing being good for kids. I guess I’m old.

So I picked up some E.B. White. We’re about halfway through Charlotte’s Web now, and Lina and I are both totally into it. Stuart Little is waiting in the wings, and I can’t wait to read her my favorite one, The Trumpet of the Swan. Holy crap. I read that book so many times. Maybe that’s why I have a special love for Montana to this day.

White’s words flow more naturally from my tongue, and it’s truly amazing to read Charlotte’s Web as an adult. I see Wilbur’s struggles, his fears, in a totally different light. Tonight as I was reading to her before bed it occurred to me that Charlotte is a Buddhist. (With the exception of her bloodthirsty tendencies). She encourages Wilbur to be present. To be aware. To dwell in neither the past nor the future. To know that everything will be okay.

As I ended the chapter, I took Charlotte’s advice. Burying my face in my daughter’s hair, all I could feel was gratitude for the fact that I get to be that kid’s mama. For my complex, challenging, brilliant and beautiful child. For the time I’m able to spend with her. And for the beautiful parts of my childhood that I’m able to touch again when I’m with her.

Amazing, this parenting thing. It just keeps getting better.

After many years of love and affection for sportbikes, the Atomic Mama has shifted gears. I guess this means I’m older, slower, louder, and more willing than ever to have my best friend kick your ass in a barfight.

I’m still getting to know the bike, but am charmed so far. And yes, she’s a girl. No doubt about it. She’s a 2007 Honda VT750C2. 500 pounds of liquid-cooled, shaft-driven loveliness. Yum.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet ‘Purdy.’

A few years ago I noticed a lump growing on the right side of my torso. I had it checked out, and my doc said to keep an eye on it and let her know if I witnessed any funny business. It remained about the same size, as well as relatively painless, until about two months ago, when I began feeling pain near the lump. So I dutifully went to the doctor (if you know me, you know that this was difficult for me to do), whereupon she promptly referred me to a surgeon to rid me of the lump once and for all.

My first visit with the surgeon was so friendly it was borderline creepy. He breezed in, patted the lump as if it were a little dog, and told me he’d “pop” it right out, no problem. It would be an outpatient, local anesthetic, bob’s-your-uncle type of procedure. He’d see me in a few weeks, on a Friday, when he did “lump and bump harvest.” Again, creepy, but whatever. I quizzed him thoroughly about the things I would and would not be able to do immediately following the surgery (lifting? stretching? swimming? handstands? boxing? bull-riding?) and he told me I could do whatever I wanted. Satisfied, I made the surgery appointment.

So the surgery was last Friday. I brought a book of short stories with me, picturing myself sitting on a chair with the vague notion that something was going on under my right arm. I imagined the surgeon saying “that’s it! We’re done!” and my responding with “already? I’m not even done with this story! Do you mind if I sit here and finish it?” Maybe there’d be a glass of sparkling water nearby. In my mind, it was going to be like a spa treatment.

In reality, it was like a surgery. There was no book-reading. No relaxing. No sparkling water. There was lying in a really awkward, uncomfortable position, while the surgeon complained about what a “stubborn little bugger” my tumor was as he tugged and pulled and scraped and cut. Apparently, it wasn’t as simple as he had predicted. My stubborn little bugger was unexpectedly attached to the muscle underneath it. Big. Bummer. Then once dude gets all the parts of the bugger out, he has the nerve to ask me, “do you want to see it?” I wanted to hit him, but I couldn’t.

45 minutes later, he sews me up. Once all sewn up, he sits back, looks at his handiwork and says, “I don’t like it.” Shit. So the stitches come out and then go back in until he’s satisfied. This is a dramatic process, and the thread seems very long as I see his hand go way up into the air with each stitch. I see this in my peripheral vision only because I am trying not to look at what’s happening, because I am trying not to think about what’s happening.

Finally, I’m done. The surgeon practically sprints from the room, and I stop the nurse as she’s on her way out, too. Can I get dressed? Do I have to do anything to the incision site? Her answers are yes and no, respectively. She tells me to have a nice day and skedaddles. I pull my clothes on and find my way into the waiting room, blinking rapidly. Really, there should be some kind of transition time built in to these things. Luckily, Shane had volunteered to come with me, and so he was there to steer me into the elevator and ask, “what happened?”

I’m feeling better now, though still sore. I wonder if the little bugger misses me. And in the bigger picture, I’m grateful that the lump was just an inconvenience, not the harbinger of bad news. Another day, another bullet dodged.