I’ve been on maternity leave for the past four months with my second child, and if I happen to be lucky enough to have a conversation with an adult, all I want to talk about are the cops, drug dealers and heroin addicts of West Baltimore.  And I have never actually been to West Baltimore. 

With no Presidential election to follow, the news too depressing to watch and nothing else happening in my life outside of breastfeeding, diaper changing and about a thousand loads of laundry, I find myself living vicariously through a bunch of people who don’t technically exist.  When my daughter was an infant, it was Tony, Carmela, Chrissy and Ade.  Now it’s McNulty, Bunk, Omar, and Snoop.  The economy being what it is, my husband and I are not that motivated to drop fifty bucks or more on babysitting, only to spend another fifty on dinner and a movie that’s going to come out on Netflix in a couple months anyway.  Instead (thanks to Netflix) we spend our evenings burning through DVD episodes of the HBO series The Wire.  

The result is that we have become so immersed in the lives of the characters on the show, we discuss them as if they are family:  How is Omar going to unload the package he stole from Prop Joe?  Will Bubbles ever get caught snitching? Who’ll survive the turf war between the Barksdale and Stanfield crews?  Aside from what is needed on our next Costco run, these are the topics that dominate our conversations.  Sometimes I even manage to combine the two, giving our Costco exchanges a Wire-esque spin:  “Yo - don’t get none of them off brand diapers. Those bitches leak. A-ight?”

But now I’m getting nervous.  We are on the fifth and final season – with about enough episodes to last through two or three more weekends, max. 

Then what?

Economy be damned – I suppose we really do need to start shelling out some babysitting money.  Enjoy a dinner without spit up or sippy cups, order a couple glasses of wine and have a conversation about something other than our son’s explosive bowel movements and the take down of drug kingpin Stringer Bell. 

In the meantime, I hear that Weeds is pretty good…

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

Labels: Costco, date night, diapers, Netflix, recession, Shannon Matus-Takaoka, Snoop, the Wire, Weeds, West Baltimore

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What on earth did I do with my time before my daughter was born? Did I suffer from narcolepsy or some sort of chronic fatigue disorder or something? Because I’m wondering how it is possible that I lived in my house two years prior to her birth and still did not manage to paint the dining room, organize my office, or finish putting my wedding photos into an album.

Because I had hours, I had days, I had whole weekends where changing diapers, cleaning up the high chair, washing boo boos, picking up toys and constantly spotting a very small and very reckless climber (she likes to stack things up and see how high she can get) were not mandatory activities.

Even if I take into account all those Saturday mornings when my husband and I slept in till the decadent hour of nine (or even ten!) a.m., or the Sundays wiled away sipping coffee on the back patio reading The New York Times, that still left a lot of space to get things accomplished. What was I thinking? I’ll bet I could have written a novel, found an agent and got it published.

We could be living off the royalties from the movie rights right now! (At least this is what I fantasize that I could have done with all that freedom I had pre-child.) Wouldn’t it be great if you could get credit for the time you didn’t use? Because let me tell you, I’d sure like to cash in some of those credits now…

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

Labels: dining out with kids, movies, novels, Shannon Matus-Takaoka, sleeping, The New York Times

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When it comes to the holidays, I tend to suffer from a kind of temporary split personality disorder.

There is the rational, sane part of me that knows that holidays are really about enjoying time with family and who cares if your cards don’t get mailed ‘till after the New Year and if those pine tree and candy cane shaped cookie cutters you bought with the intention of baking only wind up in your daughter’s Play-Doh bucket.

Then there is the other side that goes a bit mental even though she should know better -- the side that gets brainwashed by all the perfect holiday tableaux in the Pottery Barn Kids catalogs, and who secretly sneaks a peek inside Martha Stewart Living in the grocery line and comes away convinced that she should be carving out some time to make heartfelt homemade presents like mason jar snow globes or tea cup votive candles. . .

I had designated Saturday as our “find a tree” day and was kind of bummed out when my husband suggested that we go to Home Depot.

“Home Depot??”

I’d had visions of a cute photo of our little one cavorting in a twinkling Christmas tree lot that we could use for our holiday card this year and somehow the big box hardware store didn’t strike me as the kind of place that would have the right ambiance.

“Shan, those other places are such a rip-off,” my husband insisted. He’d had his heart set on Home Depot ever since our next-door neighbor told him that you could get a tree for $30 bucks. I reluctantly acquiesced, and as we pulled into the parking lot it began to rain. The ambiance was as I expected -- a bunch of tied up trees were piled on top of each other in a fenced in area of the parking lot, lying on their sides on the wet asphalt.

So much for getting that holiday photo, I thought. My daughter, Emi, on the other hand, seemed to have an entirely different opinion of the place. We’d just last week bought her a pair of rubber rain boots and this was her first foray into the wonderful world of puddles. Watching her jump and twirl and giggle, I pulled out the camera. As my husband waited in line with what turned out to be a near perfect seven-foot Noble Fir -- only thirty bucks! -- Emi and I ran around the adjacent plant nursery. I got a great shot of her leaping into a puddle in front a cascade of red and white flowers.

Next weekend, instead of baking cookies, maybe we will be making some cool Play-Doh candy canes and Christmas trees.

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

Labels: Christmas trees, Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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A lot of things in my life are riding on naps these days ― writing time just being one item on a long list that includes eating, showering, paying bills, returning phone calls, catching up on stuff that I didn’t finish at work, and organizing the morass that is my office.

When she is awake, my two-year old daughter, Emi, is like a jackrabbit on speed, which makes it next to impossible to get much done beyond folding half a load of laundry (this accomplishment is often canceled out by my failure to move whatever I’ve managed to fold out of reach) and maybe grocery shopping, if the list is short and the shopping cart strap heavy duty enough to keep a twenty-three pound Houdini safely in her seat.

The fact that this two-hour oasis of free* time has become so essential to my sense of having even the slightest bit of control over my life has made her recent nap strike all the more horrifying.

Last Sunday, after setting her loose in the park all morning with my friend’s two active young boys, I was certain that I could look forward to a nice, quiet afternoon while Emi rested and rejuvenated.

Instead, she spent 45 minutes using her crib mattress as a trampoline and then took off her diaper and peed on the sheets. I came in to find her completely naked, holding a sodden Pull-Up in her hands while commenting,” Holy crap, this is wet!”

So much for that shower.

After this scenario was repeated several times in the ensuing days, I called my mom for help. Which really wasn’t very helpful. She tells me, “Well, you stopped napping before you were 2.” I don’t know whether to believe this or not because, according to her, I was also fully potty trained and probably reading by this age as well.

“Maybe you should put her to bed later.” 

Labels: naps, Sesame Street, Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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I broke another of my steadfast “rules of parenting” this week. I took my two-year old out to eat at an “adult” restaurant – i.e., an establishment where sparkling water is served, all entrées (even the vegetarian option) are priced above twenty dollars, and there are items on the menu that include the addition of crème fraîche.

I generally try to avoid places like this if my daughter is coming along – as I am anxious to steer clear of the dirty looks of diners who have probably hired a babysitter in order to enjoy a relaxing and childless meal.

But it was well past dinner time, we had already found a parking space on Fourth Street in Berkeley, and we were getting a bit desperate after finding that the taco joint we had been planning on going to was closed.

I hesitated in the doorway of the only other culinary option available nearby. Eyeing the candles and long-stemmed wine goblets on the tables, I had visions of glass shattering on the floor and napkins in flames as Emi squirmed in my arms.

“Wanna go get breakfast!” (She says this when we are at any restaurant, at any time, because most of our meals out consist of breakfast at Bubba’s Diner.) “I hungry!” And since my husband on an empty stomach can get just as cranky as my child, I was outnumbered and we were going in.

The fact that they had highchairs did make me feel a little better. And although my daughter was reasonably well behaved during most of the meal (I’ve decided that stickers are one of the best inventions ever), I simply could not relax for fear of when the meltdown was going to occur.

I moved all the cutlery and wine glasses out of her reach. I talked to her about using her “inside” voice. I took her outside to run around on the sidewalk in between courses. I quickly scooped any food item that was accidentally dropped on the floor. In short, I was acting like more of a spazz than she was.

What have I learned from this experience?

1) Sometimes I really, really need to chill out.
2) Even so, with a child in tow, it is much easier to relax in an environment that includes a Mariachi band and plastic cups.
3) My daughter loves mashed potatoes with crème fraîche.

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

Labels: dining out with kids, Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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Did you catch the opening ceremonies for the Beijing Olympics?  They rocked!

And to think I hadn’t even been planning on tuning in.  Despite all the run up for the summer games, I haven’t honestly been paying much attention.  I’m not much of a sports fanatic, for one – plus I’m pretty pregnant right now, so I’ve got other things on my mind.  Like where exactly I’m going to fit a second kid in my one thousand, one hundred square foot, two bedroom, one-bath house. 

I’m in home improvement/nesting mode and have been riding my poor husband’s ass to clean junk out of the garage and rearrange the configuration of our home office so that it can double as a nursery.  I’m seriously considering hiring one of those closet organizer consultants.  But, my three and a half-year old daughter spotted a photo of the opening ceremony fireworks in the morning newspaper on Friday --  “Look Mom, FIREWORKS” – and she was so jazzed about the photo alone that I promised her we’d all hang out and watch the show that evening on TV. 

She proceeded to talk about it all day… 

Emi at ten a.m.: “Is it time for the Olympics yet?”

Me: “Not yet.”

Emi at noon:  “Is it time for the Olympics yet?”

Me:  “Not yet.”

Emi at three p.m.:  “Now?

Me:  “No.”

She pounced on my husband the minute he got home, “We’re going to watch the Olympics!  And there’s going to be fireworks!” 

Finally, bathed, fed, teeth brushed, in her PJs, she was literally jumping up and down with excitement as we tuned in to the actual event.  She pretended to do gymnastics like the girls that appeared in the pre-show athlete montage – diving into a sofa cushion after executing one of her “moves.”  She sailed around the living room as the thousands of Chinese dancers took to the floor, mimicking their elegant hand movements and gushing that they all looked like princesses.  She asked questions about everything.  When the fireworks did explode on the screen, Emi jumped in the air and yelled, “Those are the most TREMENDOUS fireworks I’ve ever seen!!!”

I don’t recall having this much fun watching the kick-off of the Olympics since the reign of Mary Lou Retton, when I was in the fifth grade.  This reminds me of one of the reasons, despite all the work and the sacrifice that raising kids can entail, that my child brings me so much joy:  I get to be a bit of a kid all over again through her eyes.  Because of her, I get giddy on Christmas Eve again. I stop to coo over baby ducks in a pond (so cute!) and fireworks are an occasion for an all-day build up of anticipation.  With dancing and twirling and jumping at the end. 

Tremendous!    

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

Labels: Olympics, Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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My daughter turns two tomorrow and I am alternately amazed at how fast and yet how slow our time together thus far has seemed.

Fast because ever since she was born, my life seems to flash by at the speed of light – wake up, get kid, dress kid, walk dog, feed kid, feed dog, work, shop, get kid, feed kid, bathe kid, read story, read another story, read the last story, put on nightlight, give hug, give kiss, get glass of water, make sure all stuffed animals are present, hug, kiss, say goodnight, repeat.

Slow because reading The Very Busy Spider three times in a row really makes it seem like a very looong story.

Fast because I am always running after someone who I’ve only managed to get one shoe on.

Slow because getting the second shoe on takes forever because she insists that “I do myself!”

Fast because I can go an entire day now without even noticing that I haven’t yet taken a shower (I work from home, so that’s not as bad as it sounds.)

Slow because you spend a LOT of time in the bathroom when you are helping your toddler use the potty. . .

“Are you done now?”

“No.”

“All done now?”

“No.”

“How about now?”

Slow, too, because a walk around the block turns into an hour-long adventure where trees are hugged, flowers are picked, rocks are collected, and mommy finally stops to enjoy the beautiful fall day and see the world through her daughter’s eyes – a world where ants are amazing and extra big fallen leaves are a huge find.

And, too, too fast because I want to hang on to every slobbery kiss and sticky hug before she doesn’t want to give them anymore, because I know I’ll never remember all the funny things she says, because someday, much sooner than I ever could have realized, I will long for the days when I had to read The Very Busy Spider three times in a row.

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

Labels: Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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Thrilled that we are finally approaching a national election where my party has a pretty good chance of getting a candidate into the White House, I’ve been following the Democratic Presidential Primaries with a near fanatical obsession.

As a result, I’ve been a little lax about the TV being on during “mommy hours,” which means my three-year-old has been consuming a fairly regular diet of CNN political coverage.

She also averages about ten questions a minute these days, so she’s now pretty well informed about the Clinton-Obama horse race. “Who’s that?” she asked me last week as we were watching the Super Tuesday results come in.

“That’s Barack Obama,” I tell her. “He’s running for President.”

“And who’s that?” she asks as CNN’s Wolf Blitzer switches to a graph detailing exit poll results for California. “That’s Hillary Clinton. She’s running for president, too.”

The girl definitely pays attention. This morning as we were walking to preschool together, we pass by a neighboring apartment building, a Clinton sign in one window and an Obama sign in the other. Emi recognizes the signs as having to do with the presidential election, as I also have an Obama one in my office and she has, of course, asked about it. “Hillary Clinton is running for President,” she reminds me. “And Barack Obama.”

“You got it,” I answer. But forgetting that she is only three and I don’t really need to make my pitch for either one, I add, “Mommy voted for Barack.”

We continue on our way for a few minutes, me on the lookout for Volkswagen Beetles. Keeping a running tally of how many we spot is how we generally pass the time on the way to school. But Emi wants to keep talking politics today.

“I’m for Hillary Clinton,” she tells me.

Well, I have to say, I am impressed and proud, even if she’s not supporting my candidate. You’ve got to love a young woman who thinks for herself.

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

Labels: Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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You know what annoys me?

Preschool pick ups that end up taking more than an hour.

My daughter’s preschool is five minutes from my house. Five minutes. But last night went like this -- I show up at school a little after five p.m. and my daughter spots me, all smiles, runs over for her usual hug.

And then the games begin.

She doesn’t want to put on her jacket even though it’s cold and rainy outside, and since I have decided that it is irresponsible to let her get her way all the time, we embark on a round of strenuous negotiations until she agrees to put it on.

The Writers Guild of America has nothing on her.

In return, I have been charged with finding the bead bracelet that she made in school last week and is now obsessed with, which is about two inches long and could be anywhere. Thankfully, it turns up after a relatively brief search -- after looking in her cubby and poking through the many boxes and shelves and buckets in the Ladybug room, she has remembered that it is actually in her coat pocket.

I grab all the artwork that needs to go home, her lunchbox, the bracelet, and pull out the school notices that have been folded into threes and placed in my “parent pocket.” We head out to the parking lot with our gear, and I have to wait to open the gate until she agrees to hold my hand, since that’s the rule.

More negotiations ensue. Once that’s settled, I open the car and she immediately hops into the front seat, announcing that she’s going to drive. Further negotiations reach an impasse. I pry her from the steering wheel, wrestle her into her car seat and breathe.

Ok. . . we are on our way home. We pull up in front of our house, I hop out, open the back door and see that she has stripped off her shoes and socks and thrown them on the floor. No matter, I will just carry her. I grab her lunchbox, the artwork, and… something is definitely missing. What is missing? My purse.

“Aw, shit.” I mutter, hoping immediately that she did not hear that, though I am sure she will now be sharing that sentiment with her classmates at school tomorrow.

We pull into the preschool parking lot, put on shoes and socks, return to the Ladybug room and find my purse on the floor. (What is it about motherhood that seems to trigger a kind of early dementia?) Arriving back at our house a little after six, I carry my barefoot daughter inside. (Her shoes and socks, ripped off in the car for the second time this evening will have to wait until tomorrow.)

Whew!

Ah, and we get to do it all over again in the morning. . .

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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So I’m sitting here in Starbucks trying to come up with a holiday-themed blog and I just noticed that an inspirational message on my coffee cup is advising me to pay the toll for the car behind me the next time I find myself in a position to “Pass the Cheer.”

In theory, I suppose this is sort of a nice idea, but I wonder what it says about me that I immediately find myself wondering ― let’s say I do in fact carry out this mission the next time I cross the Golden Gate Bridge ― that I might wind up wasting my holiday cheer on an asshole.

What if the person behind me just cut off three people on her way to the toll booth? Or suppose I see a Hummer in my rear-view mirror ― surely I shouldn’t allow my five bucks to support the wanton squandering of fossil fuels.

My cynicism seems like a sure sign that I am not yet in the holiday spirit. Or maybe I’m just adverse to manufactured “cheer.” The Starbucks cups, the piles of Pottery Barn and Dean & Deluca catalogs in my mailbox, the television ads depicting Christmas scenes where there’s always a delicate snow falling, a roaring fire and an entire family decked out in wooly sweaters can get kind of annoying.

But this doesn’t mean that I’m a Grinch. I do love it when my daughter sings “Deck the Halls” at the top of her lungs as we walk home from preschool. We take the longer way, down 4th Street in San Rafael, so we can stop at the big tree in the plaza and check out all the lights.

We talk about our upcoming trip to see Grandma and “Pap Pap” in Pittsburgh and the possibility that it might snow. When we get home, we watch A Charlie Brown Christmas ― her latest obsession ― while I boil water for pasta.

And every time Linus steps up on stage to explain the true meaning of Christmas, I’m a little girl again, curled up on our old striped sofa next to my brother, me in my flannel night gown and he in his red sleeper pajamas, my dad popping popcorn for us in the kitchen. Christmas was pretty great back then, and experiencing it through my three-year-old’s eyes, it’s pretty great all over again.

Still, I can’t help smiling at Lucy’s classic line ― “Everybody knows Christmas is a big commercial racket Charlie Brown. It’s run by a big Eastern syndicate.”

Or perhaps a Seattle syndicate. A little cynicism is healthy.

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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What on earth did I do with my time before my daughter was born? Did I suffer from narcolepsy or some sort of chronic fatigue disorder or something?

Because I’m wondering how it is possible that I lived in my house two years prior to her birth and still did not manage to paint the dining room, organize my office, or finish putting my wedding photos into an album.

Because I had hours, I had days, I had whole weekends where changing diapers, cleaning up the high chair, washing boo-boos, picking up toys, and constantly spotting a very small and very reckless climber (she likes to stack things up and see how high she can get) were not mandatory activities.

Even if I take into account all those Saturday mornings when my husband and I slept in 'till the decadent hour of nine (or even ten!) a.m., or the Sundays wiled away sipping coffee on the back patio reading The New York Times, that still left a lot of space to get things accomplished.

What was I thinking?

I’ll bet I could have written a novel, found an agent and got it published. We could be living off the royalties from the movie rights right now! (At least this is what I fantasize that I could have done with all that freedom I had pre-child.)

Wouldn’t it be great if you could get credit for the time you didn’t use? Because let me tell you, I’d sure like to cash in some of those credits now. . .

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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My daughter turns 2 tomorrow and I am alternately amazed at how fast and yet how slow our time together thus far has seemed.

Fast because ever since she was born, my life seems to flash by at the speed of light – wake up, get kid, dress kid, walk dog, feed kid, feed dog, work, shop, get kid, feed kid, bathe kid, read story, read another story, read the last story, put on nightlight, give hug, give kiss, get glass of water, make sure all stuffed animals are present, hug, kiss, say goodnight, repeat.

Slow because reading The Very Busy Spider three times in a row really makes it seem like a very looong story. Fast because I am always running after someone who I’ve only managed to get one shoe on. Slow because getting the second shoe on takes forever because she insists that “I do myself!” Fast because I can go an entire day now without even noticing that I haven’t yet taken a shower (I work from home, so that’s not as bad as it sounds.)

Slow because you spend a LOT of time in the bathroom when you are helping your toddler use the potty. . .“Are you done now?” “No.” “All done now?” “No.” “How about now?”

Slow, too, because a walk around the block turns into an hour-long adventure where trees are hugged, flowers are picked, rocks are collected, and mommy finally stops to enjoy the beautiful fall day and see the world through her daughter’s eyes – a world where ants are amazing and extra big fallen leaves are a huge find.

And, too, too fast because I want to hang on to every slobbery kiss and sticky hug before she doesn’t want to give them anymore, because I know I’ll never remember all the funny things she says, because someday, much sooner than I ever could have realized, I will long for the days when I had to read The Very Busy Spider three times in a row.

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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Hi. You might remember me. I used to blog here. Then, about a month ago, my daughter, Emi, started preschool.

Mistakenly, my instinct was to send her off for her first day in something cute, like this, when instead, what she really needed was this.

Eight doctor visits, several colds, one stomach flu and four prescriptions for a particularly nasty and antibiotic-resistant ear infection later, I must say that I have been both awed and alarmed by the germ-generating potential of the two- to five-year old set. Both she and I were looking forward to preschool, so these developments left us a little bit unnerved, to say the least. I envisioned her bringing home finger paintings and macaroni collages, instead she brought home viruses. I thought I’d be more efficient than ever as a result of the extra child-care coverage, instead I missed days of work and conducted countless conference calls during Sesame Street.

On the day I totally lost it, my feverish child and I had just returned home from another trip to the pediatric office, where the doctor on call told me to “get used to it,” and that some moms he knows have just ended up quitting their jobs rather than deal with their kids getting sick all the time in a group-care environment.

In my exhausted, sleep deprived state; what I heard was “It’s your fault that your kid is sick because you a) work and b) send her to a germ-infested preschool.” Because really, isn’t it absurd that a mother might need to earn money that helps pay the mortgage, or that she might think her child would enjoy playing with other kids, or, God forbid, that she might simply want a few hours a couple of times a week where she can shower alone and finish a cup of coffee before it goes cold?

Perhaps he didn’t really mean it quite that way, but I find it hard to believe that this same doctor would have told my husband a similar story about all the dads he meets who leave their jobs because their kids come down with too many colds. Thinking about this at least made me snap out of feeling sorry for myself and — if only out of sheer annoyance at his pessimistic attitude — vow to not let this germ thing break us.

Yes, being up all night, missing work and experiencing my daughter’s first projectile vomit was stressful, but we all did manage to get through without me having to quit my job, or her becoming a three-year-old preschool dropout.

Life continues on, I’m back to working during daylight hours and Emi has returned to school without a biohazard suit. She hasn’t sneezed, coughed, thrown up or broken out in hives in approximately two weeks. And though I’m sure there will inevitably be more colds, sore throats and conjunctivitis to come, in the meantime she’s made some new friends, learned about ladybugs and brought me home a brilliant multi-colored macaroni collage.

By Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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My daughter is really making me sound like an asshole lately. She’s 2 1/2-years old and her two favorite things to do are talk and imitate me, which is turning into a deadly combination. If you listen to her for five minutes, you’d think that all I ever do is 1) reprimand her for completely minor infractions, and 2) hover over her like a helicopter, anticipating near constant danger.

I eavesdropped on her playing with her baby recently and she was holding her and pointing to the glass picture frame on my bedroom dresser: “No, no no… Just look, okaaay? Don’t touch okaaaay?”

To her Elmo doll: “No jumping on the bed! Have to be careful!”

To her stuffed doggie: “No barking!”

And, as she carried on an entire, two-way conversation with herself in her alter-ego “mommy voice” (which is kind of sing-songy and fake-nice), I heard her say: “No Emi, you’ll scratch it, and then it won’t work. And we won’t be able to buy a new one "cause its espensive.” This, as she went ahead anyway and tried to shove two Baby Einstein DVDs into the player at the same time. . .

But what bothered me more than the potential damage to the DVD player was the depiction of “mommy” in that little scenario. Do I really sound like that? Because if I do, I must be really annoying. And although I do want to be a responsible mom, and make sure that my kid says “please” and “thank you” and knows not to run into the street, I also want to be the fun mom ― the mom who tells silly stories, who makes her kid crack up and doesn’t say NO all the time.

I know I say NO more than I ought to, more than I like to, but it just flies uncontrollably out of my mouth ― when she stands up in the grocery cart at Costco, when she puts both feet in the dog’s water bowl (with her new shoes on), when she grabs hold of the moisturizer that’s my one beauty product splurge and uses up about 2 “espensive” ounces in one go. If only the word NO! got her attention anyway ― it’s usually merely a signal for her to begin pretending that she hasn’t heard a single word I’ve just said. But she must hear me, because I get treated to replay all the time. . .

It’s not easy to break oneself of the NO habit, but I have been trying. The last time I caught Emi jumping on the bed, I hesitated a minute, thinking hard about how I should phrase some constructive criticism about the potential pitfalls involved. And just as I was about to open my mouth, she bounced back from the bed at a particularly precarious angle, sailed towards the sliding glass door, hit the wooden Venetian blinds, slid downwards with a rat-a-tat, and landed with a thump on the hardwood floor.

First off ― she was fine. I think the blinds kind of broke the fall. And I discovered a phrase that seems, in retrospect, a lot more effective and powerful than NO.

“I told you so…” (Though I don’t know if this makes me sound any less annoying.)

By Shannon Matus--Takaoka

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