Momnesia

As part of getting ready for bed, Emmie took her clothes to the laundry room (or, the laundry coffin, as I like to think of it, because every time I walk in there, I feel like I've been buried alive). She came back with a worried expression.

"What's up, Little Gaga?"

"Um, why ders a ghost in da laundry room, and wuss he doeend in der?"

"What?"

"Ders a ghost in da laundry room. Wuss he doeend?"

"There's no ghost in the laundry room, sweetie. I think you're still freaked out by the spooky stuff at the Halloween store."

She nodded, eyes wide. "Da zombies dat crawled were da coolest - but also da skeeriest!"

"But we know they're not real."

"No, dey're jus' stories dat we tell."

"Right."

"But, mama? Why do we tell dem?"

"Because they're fun to hear. Aren't they exciting?"

"Yeah! But... sometimes dey skeer me."

"Well, then we won't tell them when you feel scared."

"Danks, mama."

"Okay. Time for bed."

"But what about da ghost in da laundry room?"

"Honey, there's no ghost in the laundry room."

"But I saw'd it!"

"Okay, I'll lie down with you until you fall asleep."

"Danks, mom. You da best mama in da world."

"You're the best Doodle in the world."

After she was asleep, I puttered around the house doing small chores, and stopped to throw some clothes in the laundry basket. That's when I saw it:

Emmie has developed a new thing about eating. She wants to take a few bites and then put the food in the fridge "for later." She really just doesn't want to eat very much. Scott and I are of differing minds about this. He wants her to eat. I say she'll eat when she's hungry - and in the meantime, we'll supplement with a multi-vitamin.

Last night, he cooked a lovely dinner. And because I was late getting home, I missed a classic exchange. Emmie ate a little and then said she was full.

"No, eat your food," Scott said.

"But... I'm all fuuuulll!" she whined.

"Come on, you only had a few bites."

"Das all I wanned," she said.

"Emmie, eat your dinner."

"But Mom lets me put it in da fridge for later," she said.

"Emmie!" he was getting exasperated - and no doubt; she will argue with the furniture. "Just eat! There are starving children in China!"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Ders not starving children in China! Dey have rice, an' Chinese food, an' Chinese bread!"

And at that, she flounced off, leaving Scott's jaw to pick itself up off the floor.

I fumbled around this morning, panicked and blind, for a good 10 minutes. One of the rare side effects of the medication I was taking is temporary loss of vision.

But when I got to the bathroom and flipped on the light, the problem was solved. Because I looked in the mirror and realized that these are NOT my glasses. Doh!

Emmie and I look up videos online whenever she has questions about something and I can't explain it very well. Like while I was in the hospital, and tried to explain to her what was going on with my body, I finally had to resort to looking up photos of spinal taps and MRIs online - but not videos. First, I don't want her to mimic them while "playing doctor," and second, I am showing her these things to make her feel better, not to freak her out more.

So she's gotten into the habit of asking for them when she has a question. Of course, sometimes I have questions about her questions...

"Mom, can we look for a biddeo on grabbiddy? I wanna know if iss a big ibbissible hand dat grabs you so you don't fly off da erff."

"Um... do you mean 'gravity?'"

"YETH!!!"

And she's really into videos about how the body functions, but I have to be careful about the search terms I use. Not all videos are PG. Yeesh.

"Mama? Can we look up how da heart mates da blood go froo da body?"

"Sure."

"An' den can we go to da dahtor so I can lithen to my heart beep?"

"You mean 'beat?'"

"Das wut I said, 'beep!'"

She also likes to look at animals and pranks. But today she wanted something more mundane. She asked a question without answer.

"Mama? Can we watch a biddeo on how da shoelaces come untied when I'm not looking? Cause ebbrytime I tie dem, later, I look down, and dey come untied!"

I heard a lot of griping on Facebook about who was named Metro's Best this year - mostly from people masquerading as interested third parties, but who had ties to people with "dogs in the fight," so to speak. Workers for companies who lost, freelancers and friends of the owners of "competing" local media, that kind of thing. In other words, welcome to middle school.

Despite their obvious sour grapes, I agreed with some of their complaints. For example, I don't really see why Metro's Best New Local Restaurant has to be Cheddar's, when there are so many other new local restaurants. Shishkabob on North Belair Road, Frog Hollow and The Place on Broad Street, Rooster's Beak on 10th Street... that's all I can think of right now. I can't tell you why Cheddar's shouldn't have won, because I've never eaten there; ditto the category's second runner-up, Carolina Ale House. Generally speaking, Scott and I like the atmosphere at locally owned restaurants - not to mention the food.

There were other categories where I didn't agree with the winners chosen, but that happens every year. When I worked at the Spirit, we heard it from readers and advertisers when Outback was voted best steak, for example. We heard it from elected officials every time Austin Rhodes was nominated for anything. If it was a local place that won a category, we were "too trendy." If it was a chain, we were "bull$#!t sellouts."

I guess it was harder for people to call themselves bull$#!t sellouts. Because the votes were what counted. Three times as many people vote in the Metro's Best awards every year as in any other "best of" attempt in the CSRA. That's not propaganda. That's just the numbers. And those people who vote chose those places to win.

Why?

Well, that's a good question. First of all, it was a write-in ballot this year. That means that one thing mattered more than anything else: top of mind awareness. If people couldn't pull your business's name out of their brains within a few seconds, they weren't going to type it in. For example, there's a new steakhouse on Broad St. Don't ask me the name of it. I have no idea. And I bet no one voted for them.

That, my friends, is an Epic Marketing FAIL.

If no one knows who you are, how can you spread the "word of mouth" marketing that everyone around here loves to praise? "It's the best kind there is!" they say. Well, yes. And by that, they usually mean it's free. But, no matter what you mean, how are you going to get it? By not having people walk in your door? Well, you're doing just great. See you in the unemployment line next year.

One business representative crowed that their business didn't advertise so that it wouldn't attract the kind of people who would vote for Cheddars. Here's a hint: That business didn't win anything in Metro's Best. It's a great place, so why didn't it win? It certainly couldn't be the business representative's pretentious attitude, so please see the explanation above. In short, "the kind of people who would vote for Cheddars" could be giving you their money. But they're not.

I'm not saying that you should advertise - although you can't do worse than the empty tables staring you in the wallet every night. And advertising works, when you know how to hit your target demographics (creativity, get the numbers, and don't be ashamed to use an agency if you can't do it yourself). I'm saying you should market. And "word of mouth" marketing will only work when you have something buzzworthy for people to talk about. So what's buzzworthy about your business? Can you think of something exciting that you're doing?

I can't.

I'll tell you what Cheddar's is doing - besides choosing a high-traffic location with parking. Cheddar's is offering what mom-and-pop diners used to offer: quick, friendly service with hearty meals at a reasonable price - at least, that's the buzz I'm hearing - and it's close to shopping and the movie theater. So, really, Cheddar's is about convenience, affordability - and it's new! "Dey got one in Columbia, so dat means we're a big city now! Urhurh!"

I'll tell you what would be buzzworthy about a restaurant in this market: X restaurant is offering a full menu of healthy options - beyond salads and sandwiches - with a calorie count beside each item. Or Y eatery is now serving a pan-Asian noodle/rice bowl selection at a cozy corner shop with inside, outside and counter seating. Or Z restaurant is now serving a doughnut burger. (Have you heard about these things?! I want one. Unfortunately, X restaurant says it has 1 bazillion calories.)

New, different and - in this market - affordable: That's what will get your precious "word of mouth" marketing going. But don't skimp on the service. That's important, too.

And as for Metro's Best? I guess you can blame the newspaper for who won, what with them actually counting the votes, and all. You can listen to moles and sketchy salespeople who say that makes them "disloyal" to downtown (only one part of their readership) or that it means they've sold out. Whatever makes you feel better about yourself. But the real people you should blame is your customers because they gave their votes to someone else.

Ask yourself why they did.

An adorable little girl, about four years old, holds up a green plastic margarita glass in a clearance bin and yells: "Mama! I really want this cup!"

Her mother is checking out, but glances over. "Looks like it will tip over, sweetie."

The girl looks at the cup and then back at her mother: "But it's just like yours!"

This soup takes less than 30 minutes to make, and is low fat, low carb, low calorie - but high flavor!


Greek chicken soup

4 chicken breasts, whole
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 quart chicken broth
1/2 cup instant rice, uncooked
Olive oil
1/2 tsp oregano
1/2 tsp thyme
Bunch baby spinach, coarsely torn
Lemon juice, about 1/4 cup

In stock pot, cook chopped onion until translucent. Add chicken, broth, rice, oregano and thyme. Bring to a boil, cover and reduce heat to medium. Cook, covered, for 5-8 minutes, until chicken is done.

With tongs, remove chicken and shred or coarsely chop. Set aside. Pour broth into food processor or blender (might have to work in two batches). Pulse until smooth and creamy.

Pour chicken and broth back into pot. Return to heat, and add spinach. Add lemon juice to taste. Cook until spinach is just wilted, serve immediately.

* Substitutions - can use any cut of chicken you like; try swiss chard, kale, or other winter green in place of spinach; consider white wine or sherry in place of lemon juice.

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"Mom?" Em asked after Kelli spent a particularly long time annoying her. "Can you fire Aunt Kelli?"

"Oh, yes. Kelli, you're fired."

"Yeah, Aunt Kelli. Don' cry to death."

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We're working on homework, and Emmie is identifying photos of words that begin with the same sound as "cat."

"Car!" she cries, excited to find her first one.

"Very good," I say. "Now find all the ones that start with the same sound and color them in, and put an 'x' over the ones that don't start with the same sound."

"Okay," she says. "Panda.... no."

She puts an x.

"Corn - yes!"

She colors it in.

"Socks - no."

She puts an x, and moves on to a crappy mimeograph of a computer.

"Hmm. Peeyooter, no."

She puts an x.

(sigh) I really have to discourage the baby talk.

The month of October used to be my favorite month. The weather is awesome. Baseball playoffs. Oktoberfest and camping in Helen. Halloween. But lately, I've been thinking I should choose a new favorite month.

• Two years ago, my husband was released from University Hospital on Oct. 9 after a month-long battle with TTP.
• One year ago, my daughter was attacked on Oct. 9 by our neighbor's idiot pit bull, but treated at the awesome MCG Children's Medical Center.
• This year, I spent five days in the hospital at MCG with a severe migraine and unexplained swelling of my brain, then bedridden with a "spinal headache" as the result of a lumbar puncture, before being released on Oct. 9.

I'm not sure if these events have been gifts - after all, everyone has been healthy again by Oct. 10 - or warnings. But I'm going to move my birthday to a new date. I will be taking suggestions. But my mother will have final say. It's only fair.

And next year, Scott, Emerson, and I will be out of town during the week leading up to my former birthday. But we'll remain in the U.S., Canada, or Western Europe. Because it seems we should be somewhere with access to excellent health care.

I don't think I want to know what it says about me that the second most searched-for term - behind momnesia - for which people look when they come across my blog is "dog braces."

My daughter is - like me - easily distractable. So the only way I have found that I can get her bootie dressed and ready for school on time in the mornings is... to race her. This has given rise to Many Insane Hair Days for me.

This morning, she was being unusually mouthy.

"MOOOMM!!" she shrieked, just a millisecond away from tears. "I can't get my SHOES on! An den I gon' be slow, and den you gon' WIN! An den I beed da LOSER!"

I lift my head from where I am blow-drying my hair upside-down in the vain, futile hope that I might trick it into not sucking today. She has on her shirt - backwards - and her jeans. But the shoes are a problem.

"Oh, reeaaaally?" I mimic a scheming villain. "Soooo, you want me to HELP you, so that I will LOSE? Hmmmm..."

She grins, continues to struggle with the shoes. I finish drying my hair, flip my head back, get dizzy and almost fall back into the shower.

She laughs hysterically.

"Oh, is that funny?" I grab the cardboard box of tissues and bonk myself repeatedly in the head. "How about that?"

She collapses on the floor, belly laughing. "Mama! Stop!"

"I'm not really hurting myself."

"No, you smasheend da box."

Thanks. Concern duly noted. I brush my hair while she straightens her shirt, then she looks down at her feet. Crud. She gives a big, limp-armed shoulder twitch and starts in again. "Mamaaaaaaa...! If you don' help me, I can't get my shoes on!"

I'm wriggling into my tights, and I only have two hands. Plus, the screeching is really starting to get on my nerves: "Seriously, Doodle, I'm going to smash myself in the head with the tissue box again, just because it's more fun than listening to you whine."

She glares at me.

"Will you chill out? Have I ever let you leave the house without shoes?"

"No..."

"That's not going to change this morning. Give me a sec and then I'll help you."

She relaxes, obviously relieved. "Danks, mama. But... mama, if you don' help me, I'm not goeen ta win."

"Mwahahahaha!" I laugh, evilly. "You have uncovered my plan!"

She stops keening and gives me A Look: "It dudden't madder, mama. Eben if you win, you still goeend be a loser."

Oh, snap.

"That's okay. Even if I lose, I'm still going to have all the awesome. See me? Repository of awesomeness. Right here. Check it out." I do a little dance. It is the awesome dance. El Baile de Awesome. Or so I tell myself.

She resists for a moment, but then begins to giggle and joins me. We dance the Dance of Awesome until we are breathless from laughing. And now running late. Dangit.

"Come on, Little Gaga. Let's get your shoes on and your hair combed."

"Okay, mama. But mama?"

"Yeah?"

"When I growed up, I wanna be awesome jus' like you."

 "Baby, you already are."

Editor to staffer: "That's the fourth obit you've sent me today. Are you on a murderous rampage?"

Emmie and I are playing "school." She has devised a brutal test of how well I understand my numbers. I think I'm rocking it, until we get to end.

"Das good, mama!" she puts a check beside every answer.

"Yeah, I got kindergarten down," I reply, flexing my (imaginary) biceps.

"No," she shakes her head with a serious expression.

"No?"

"NO."

"Okay..."

"We hafta do more."

"More what?"

"More testes."

(choke. sputter.)

"More what?!"

"Testes," she answers.

"Testes?!"

"Dis!" she points to her chalkboard. "Dis fing we jus' do! Iss a test! But we hafta do more testes, mama."

"Oh, okay. What are you testing for?"

"You brain. How much do it know about numbers."

"Well, not much. But I can tell you about some vocabulary we should probably discuss."

"What did he say about the car?" A.R. asked me after I hung up the phone.

"That wasn't a conversation about our car repairs. That was a conversation about our marriage," I laughed.

And it kind of was. All of the unspoken things that went into the conversation - which, on the surface, were about struts, strut mounts, and CV joints - were about our relationship. For her, it must have been like watching a Bertrand Blier film without subtitles.

(Update: Alice Wynn tells me that the Bertrand Blier reference was pretentious as hell. I argue that it's not. We cannot agree. So in place of Bertrand Blier, you can imagine any director who concentrates on male-female relationships. We couldn't think of anyone except Woody Allen. but he doesn't count, because all Woody Allen films are really about Woody Allen. Except now I remember Pedro Almodovar. Is that still a pretentious reference, Alice? Is Blier pretentious because he's French, or because he's European?)

Lots of things in life are an unspoken negotiation. But negotiations in relationships are entirely different - because some kind of conflict is inevitable due to the fact that so much of what occurs is actually inside the minds and hearts of the people involved.

One might say, "Dishes are done," just to let one's partner know that task has been checked off the list. One's partner might hear "I did the dishes because you wouldn't," or "I did the dishes, now you do the laundry." Another partner might hear, "Dishes are done," and think "Big deal; I cut the grass." Those statements might not be part of the spoken conversation, but they're still present within the negotiations.

In this conversation, while I desired one course of action to ensure things were done correctly, he desired another course of action to avoid conflict, increase overall efficiency and save money. Both courses of action had benefits. But he was more aggravated by the situation than I expected. So, as a compromise, I asked for a separate, smaller, additional action, to which he agreed. Negotiations complete.

But what he was thinking? I may never know. It may have been, "What does she know about car repairs?!" It may have been, "Please do not make me deal with these people again." It might have been, "I don't give a flying crap about the car. I'd rather just buy a new one." Speculation does no good because even if I know the thoughts, the inflection, intention and accompanying imagery can never be known. Neither does he know what went on in my mind while we talked about it - nor should he.

Ah, relationships. You think it's a dialogue. But it's an ensemble cast.

A.R. and I meet at the microwave. She pulls out her leftovers as I'm putting my lunch in to warm.

"Whatcha eating?" she asks.

"Potato."

She looks down and wrinkles her nose: "What's wrong with it?"

"It's a potato from Wendy's. It's inherently wrong."

I feel guilty buying antique books. Let's face it: There are preservation issues that I can't even begin to address. But I love them. The feel of old vellum. The smell of dust and time. The knowledge that someone's hands held the book in the same way mine do, and that the owner of those hands may have been equally affected by the words within.

My daughter is washing the front bay windows, unasked, and totally naked. I just thought you - and the neighbors driving by - might like to know what's up with the ragamuffin in our living room.

I ordered two books as gifts for our sixth wedding anniversary. I ordered Scott a copy of the Jewish scriptures carried by the soldiers in World War II. There's a forward by President Roosevelt, and an inscription. He collects WWII militaria, and while there are more valuable pieces to be found, I like to buy him unique items. I ordered myself an antique copy of "The Prophet," by Kahlil Gibran. Gibran is considered to be the third mostly widely read poet, behind Shakespeare and Lao-Tzu. I even knew a guy in college whose parents had named him Gibran.

Gibran - the poet, not the college student - was a sort of Renaissance man, studying art with August Rodin, studying the politics of the Middle East (he was Lebanese, after all) and working on his writing, always. But he has surprising ties to Georgia: His good friend and benefactress, Mary Haskell, donated her personal collection of nearly 100 original works of his art to the Telfair Museum of Art in Savannah. I'll see it the next time I'm able to visit the town.

The book I ordered turned out to be not the edition that was advertised - the book was first published in 1923, and the copy being sold was purported to be a 1926 edition. I'm irritated, yet it is still a nicely weathered 60-year-old tome.

But even as I read it, I remember a quote from the writer after whom we named our daughter. Ralph Waldo Emerson (and I fully recognize the irony of quoting this particular statement from "Self-Reliance"): "A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty."

While my daughter dances, naked, to the Bollywood song she's trying to sing while cleaning the windows, I turn to the chapter on children. You'll recognize your own thoughts and convictions in this, I'm sure. But it's nice to have some sympathy from Recognized Deep Thinkers.

On Children
by Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

I walked through the darkened house with a cup of lemonade. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an eerie green glow.

Paging Agent Mulder. Is the truth in my living room?

"Hey, Scott, what's this green thing?" I call, doing the wife thing where, even as I ask, I'm already investigating.

A white plastic rectangle is plugged into a wall outlet. Scott shuffles in as I pull it out, examine it, and break into giggles.

"That's an air freshener," he says.

I wave it as I laugh: "No-ho, it's not!"

"What is it?"

"It's a power adapter for a USB outlet," I laugh.

"But... It glows," he says, helplessly.

I just laugh harder.

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We've had a few disturbing incidents over the last week at our house; nothing to get excited about, but they highlighted a few of the reasons that we've been paying so much attention to the two children we previously discussed.

As is often the case with neglected children, 12 and 6 (which is how I will refer to the two children, since I don't want to use their names) have some mild but noticeable attachment issues.

A range of emotional problems present in children who come from homes where their needs are ignored or inadequately filled. Depression, anxiety, indiscriminate attachment, and over-reaction to perceived rejection are all very common. Also, because neglected children are not included in social interactions, they often display behaviors generally perceived as inappropriate or rude.

12 reacts to the younger children with anger when they do something annoying. He will sometimes yell at them for petty reasons, such as stepping in front of our television when he's trying to watch. Granted, they do this a lot. And it is annoying. But yelling does not work. But that's the kind of thing older kids do with younger kids. However, 12 hurt my feelings this weekend when he rejected my vegetables. Petty, right? But there it was. My feelings, over his manners.

We picked up a boat-load of Wild Wings Cafe on Friday, with a gift certificate Scott had earned from work he did for The Metro Spirit: wings, nuggets, barbecue. I made corn and beans and toast at home to accompany it. When 12 finished his protein and carbs, he asked for more. Like any mom, I told him that if he was still hungry, there were perfectly good vegetables on his plate that needed to be eaten.

He took a bite of the corn. "NO FLAVOR!" he yelled. "NO FLAVOR!" and dumped the plate into trash can.

Obviously, I was ill. I hadn't even had a chance to eat. It was 8 p.m., and I was still feeding children and husbands and cleaning and I did not need to hear about my corn not having any flavor from someone who is a guest in my home. Angrily, I took a bite of the corn. Crap. He was right. I don't know how I managed to mess up frozen corn, but I did.

I took a deep breath. 12 and 6 haven't received the kind of social training that Emerson has. They don't know what's appropriate and what is not. Worse still, since their parents live on welfare, they really don't know how to appreciate what is worked for, instead of just getting what is presented to them by the government.

"Let it go," I told myself. "Find a way to get the message across later."

Then, on Saturday, I piled Emmie and the boys into the car to go to bargain hunt, and then go to the library. We made it to a yard sale, where we scored some $5 Game Boys, and then to the house of a woman who was selling a treasure trove of new-with-tags clothing. No kids are perfect every day, and  they were atrocious. They couldn't get along, and the attitude was off the charts. I was taking some new medicine for the ear/sinus infection, and it was beating the crap out of me. So we turned around and went home. It didn't get better at home, and Scott sent the boys home to take a break.

A few hours and a nap later, Emmie and I got back in the car to get the books to the library before closing. 6 appeared out of nowhere and knocked on the passenger's side window.

"Where you going?" he asked.

"We're going to return these books to the library," I said.

"Can I come?"

"Not today, sweetheart. You and Em weren't getting along, and I think you guys need a little break from each other. We'll do something together later."

He burst into tears. Neglected children often over-react to perceived rejection, so I got out of the car and hugged him. I explained that it was just for a little while, and that it didn't mean that we didn't like him or care about him. He was inconsolable, repeatedly smashing his backpack into the ground.

"6, stop that, and look at me. We will be back shortly, and you can come over and play for a little while then. But this behavior is not acceptable. Take a deep breath, sweetheart, and try to calm down," I said. But he pulled away and threw his backpack again.

I asked Emerson to walk 6 to his back door and give him a hug, to make him feel better. She tried, but he wouldn't go. He stood at the fence and cried harder.

I called Scott to tell him that 6 was outside, losing his mind. He said he'd be out in a second. So I got Emmie back in the car and told 6 we'd be back in a little while. I started to pull the car out of the driveway. But after I'd taken my foot off the brake - yet before I could touch the accelerator, thank god - he launched himself down the hill in front of my car.

I can't tell you how close I came to running over him. I don't even want to think about it. Because at the moment he did that, my eyes were trained on the rear view mirror at Emerson putting on her seat belt in the back seat.

I screamed, slammed on the brakes, threw the car into park and launched myself over the hood. He lay on the ground, still crying, not even a half-inch away from my tires. I ascertained that he was not injured, and then gave him a very stern lecture. But I couldn't let him think those kinds of actions would get him what he wanted. So I picked up 6 and his backpack, and moved him to the grass.

I pulled out of the driveway as he cried. Scott was with him momentarily.

"I'm sorry about that, Emerson," I said, shakily. "I was very scared. 6 made a terrible choice because he was very upset."

She looked at me with a seriousness beyond anything a 5-year-old should know. Her eyebrows scrunched, her mouth turned down, and she said softly, "I fink he wan-ned to die."

"I think he wanted attention, sweetie. And I think he didn't know how else to get it," I said. "It was a very dangerous choice that he made."

Was it the right way to handle it? Hell, I don't know. At that moment, all I could think of was that Emerson didn't need to see that behavior - although she obviously knew it was wrong - and that giving in would just make it worse. Scott was right behind me to get him under control. I think when in conflict, first remove conflicting objects; then deal with remaining drama through reason and restraint.

These two children need some serious help. And I don't know that I'm qualified to give it to them.

It's difficult to hear 12 talk about the move, because he won't be going with them to Apple Valley. He'll be moving in with his uncle. He's happy, he told me, because "my uncle will let me play his Playstation, and he'll let me eat whenever I get hungry."

He may still be sleeping on someone's couch, as he is now, but he'll at least have food. Will he have supervision? Medical care? Dental care? Homework assistance? I don't know. But he doesn't get them now, either.

And it's difficult to hear 6 talk about the move, because I don't know if there will be a neighbor around to watch him when his mother doesn't get home until 7:30 p.m. on a school day. Those days here, he comes over to our house. He doesn't have a house key. And his mother never tells him - or us - that she'll be late. One day, it was 95 degrees outside. After four hours in that kind of heat with no fluids, a 5-year-old (as he was, then) could have died from heat exhaustion. But Scott - who works from home - was always there to let him in and to make sure he had supervision.

Oh, god, what will happen to him over there? Will there be a kindly grandmother at home who can watch over him when she sees him wandering around the yard unattended? Will this new roommate of his mother's assist in caring for him and the newborn? Will the increased government benefits be enough to cover all three of them? Will his mother have any time for him once the newborn comes along? Where are these children's fathers, anyway? And what the hell is wrong with people?

Please, someone give me some advice. Because I just don't know what to do.

"Boomboomboom!" Emerson and 6 shout. "Boomboomboom!"

They are running through the house with clothes hangers for guns.

"Whoa, whoa," I say. "Why are we shooting? We don't play shooting games."

"No, no, we bamming da zombies," Emmie explains.

"Yeah, they gonna take over but we got them!" 6 says.

"Oh, you're shooting zombies?" I ask.

They nod.

"Carry on, then."

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