Just a few weeks ago, I was having on about how Boolie, who turned 3 in August, is not potty trained and still uses a pacifier. I wasn’t going to push those issues at the time, because her brothers had just gone back to school and she was going through a rough time. Still, you get to thinking Christ, maybe she WILL start kindergarten in diapers.

For the past 7 years, Ben and I have had at least one kid in diapers, often two. Hell, Sam didn’t toilet train until a couple of months before Boolie was born, so we were in danger for a while of having three in diapers. We’re more than ready to have diapers gone from our lives forever: the expense, the stinkiness, the disposal issues. We’ve been saying for a couple of years now that when Boolie finally toilet trains, we’re going to buy a bottle of good champagne and have a proper celebration.

Well, I think we’ve cracked her code. She didn’t want to go to the toilet because she was afraid of falling in. We solved this issue with a toilet seat insert (with Disney princesses on it!) purchased at Target yesterday afternoon, and she’s been happily using the toilet since then. She even brings a book with her so she can read while sitting on the pot, like everyone else in the family. We’re not out of the woods yet, but her diaper days are numbered. (I’m secretly hoping she’ll train within the next few days, because we have about 10 Pampers left and I hate to buy another box if she’s not going to use them.) We even let her pick out a packet of panties, with the promise that she can start wearing them once she stays dry regularly.

So there is light at the end of the tunnel. And then what? Yesterday she went all day without her deedee. She wanted it when she was falling asleep, but she spent the entire day with no pacifier plugged into her mouth. The kid has, it seems, decided to grow up overnight. Isn’t that always the way? Erika, my oldest, got her first period the day she was asked on her first date. (I almost had a coronary.)

Dear Atlantic Ocean,

My California state parks and beaches annual pass arrived today by Fed Ex, so we went to the beach at 5 p.m. after picking up Boolie from day care. I stood with Sam in the breakers as the sun went down and explained to him all about the undertow and “reading” the waves. He got stung by a jellyfish. I got that amazing serene feeling that comes from just watching the ocean. The water didn’t feel so cold anymore.

When I was a kid, my life’s ambition was to someday live at the beach. Every year I yearned for our annual week at Long Beach Island and the days spent in the surf and sand. When did I lose track of that? I’ve lived by the beach for 25 years, but it wasn’t until the past week that I remembered why I love it so. My kids are much better served by playing in the sand and water than they are by playing video games or watching SpongeBob, and you never saw a better homework motivator. We can’t go to the beach tonight unless Sam does his homework right now, because it’s due tomorrow. I never saw a guy attack his homework with such gusto.

So, Atlantic Ocean, I don’t know when I will see you again. The Pacific will always seem like making do to me, but I’m relishing the peculiar joy of having my hair, car and clothes forever dusted with sand and my nose always rosy from slight sunburn. Finally I’m having a good time in the Pacific. But I swear I am closing my eyes and thinking of you.

In general, I’ve spent the past 25 years resenting the Pacific Ocean for not being the Atlantic Ocean. Oh, they’ve got the ocean sunset thing, but the Pacific Ocean at Huntington Beach, in summer, is at least a full five degrees colder than the Atlantic at Long Beach Island. And I rather liked those Atlantic sunrises. Have you ever gone swimming in the Atlantic in August at low tide, just after sunrise? I can’t recommend it highly enough. The only time the Pacific is bearable without a wetsuit is during an El Niño, when suddenly it’s like bath water.

So I haven’t been to the California beaches very much over the years. I kayak, and that’s best done away from the open ocean; I’m not an extreme sports kind of girl. But I got to feeling guilty that Boolie, at age three, had never been to the beach. Not once. So yesterday we packed up the family and went to the Huntington State Beach.

The parking is criminally expensive; a day pass is $10. But we paid it, unloaded the kids, and took the long trek down the unusually wide swath of sand that finally leads to the water’s edge.

The kids went apeshit with joy. Sam and Matt waded in the waves. Sam, fishily, wouldn’t come out unless threatened. Matt was knocked down by a wave, took a face-plant in the sand, and lost his nerve. Instead, he chased seagulls and played in a sand fort above the tide line with Boolie. Ben doled out the sunscreen. Boolie frolicked in just her diaper and tracked sand all over the beach blanket. It was a family day in the sun straight out of a Coppertone ad.

At sunset, we returned with hoodies and a mini-cooler with Cokes and a surreptitious beer in an unmarked container. (No alcohol in California state parks, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.) We watched the sun sink into the Pacific while Sam, his pants rolled above his knees, waded through the gentle waves of low tide while Matt and Boolie again terrorized the seagulls. We all had an awesome Sunday. I still think the Pacific sucks, but next time Ben’s bringing his boogie board and I’m bringing my short wetsuit.

So cool was our family beach excursion that I put in an Internet order for an annual pass to all the California state parks and beaches. We’ll be able to drop in for an hour at sunset or after school whenever we feel like it, from next weekend till next September. The kids will sleep like angels from that particular exhaustion only a day at the beach can produce, and I will bite my tongue and try not to make unflattering comparisons of the Pacific to the Atlantic. Because whether I like it or not, home is where your ass is. And I can’t deny the sunsets are spectacular.

Now that Sam is in second grade, his load of homework has increased considerably from what it was last year. He used to have a small packet of homework sent home every Wednesday, with the completed packet due the following Tuesday. Inevitably, we ended up doing it all on Monday night. When you have a first grader, his homework is yours as much as it is his. Maybe more yours. Most of the work, for me, is prodding Sam into getting it done.

This year, he has homework every night Monday through Thursday. The biggest element of his workload is his weekly spelling assignment: to write 10 sentences of at least seven words, each sentence using one of his spelling words for that week. He is actually better about doing the sentences than I expected him to be. But he does them the Sam way. Samples:

I saw a weird, strange floating apple in the room.

Don’t poke your brother with a stick.

It’s fun every Wednesday night to see what he comes up with. Tonight is sentence night, and I can’t wait to see what he will dream up.

You can’t make up shit like this. Purchased today at our local Asian market:

In Britain in the ’70s and ’80s, there was a wildly popular TV commercial (or, strictly speaking, advert) for R. White’s Lemonade featuring the Secret Lemonade Drinker, a guy who crept downstairs to drink lemonade in the dead of night. See it here:

Secret Lemonade Drinker

Did you know? The jingle, which to me was an immediate earworm, was sung by Ross MacManus — Elvis Costello’s father. The backing vocals were sung by a teenage Elvis Costello, not yet famous and known simply as Declan MacManus.

There are those who say Elvis Costello got his early look from Buddy Holly, but it’s plain to me that he was in fact channeling the Secret Lemonade Drinker.

I’m not going to get into the Sarah Palin issue in general; I mean, I get into it almost every day, but I am so tired of the election and the endless discussion and the jibes and the sniping. I would almost accept a McCain win if it meant that I could finally stop hearing about it. I said almost.

I was up late last night watching CNN and Fox News, which is my personal vice, and I just can’t get past that woman’s hair. What exactly is she doing? What is she trying to say?  I have to say I prefer it to Hillary Clinton’s hair helmet; Sarah Palin’s hair looks more like my hair. She has bangs. Her hair actually moves in a good breeze. (Then again, I’m not running for anything.) But I find Sarah’s hair distracting when she speaks, and instead of listening to what she’s saying, I end up pondering her hair.

What’s that rumpy bumpy bit on the back? Is that a butterfly clip I see back there, or just a rat’s nest? This is the person who wishes to be, as they say, a heartbeat away from the Presidency. I’m not at all sure Sarah, or her hair, is up to the job.

Apart from taking a look at the issues, I have a purely instinctive way of assessing Presidential candidates: I take a good hard look at them, physically, and think Could I see this person running my country? John Kerry looked like Frankenstein, and I was wary of him. Apparently America was too, despite the general sinking sense about W that was prevalent at that time. And last night, I was gazing sleepily at John McCain’s jowls and Sarah Palin’s hair and thinking No, this is not right. There are, of course, myriad political issues behind my assessment. I will leave it to other bloggers to dissect these; I’ve neither the time nor the inclination. But I know one thing, and that is that hair like Sarah Palin’s should not be at the head of our nation.

Another comedy gold news item from the Orange County Register:

Dick’s Sporting Goods Bought Out Chick’s Sporting Goods

The “chicks with dicks” jokes just write themselves. Hee.

This week I went to have some more x-rays to further investigate my bad back at the local hospital in Newport Beach, Hoag Memorial Hospital Presbyterian. And dudes? This place is plush.

First: Location, location, location. Hoag is perched atop a bluff on Pacific Coast Highway, meaning that half the rooms overlook the Pacific Ocean. Julia was born there, and I grunted out that baby with a sea view. My dad died of cancer there, but at least one of the last things he saw was the ocean instead of some urban rooftop.

Second: Complimentary valet parking, baby. Both the E.R. entrance and the main entrance are manned by a staff of extremely professional parking attendants. I don’t mean the sort of parking attendants who grunt at you, scratch their asses and pee on your tires while you’re not looking. No, I mean the sort of valets who greet you “Welcome to Hoag!” and ask your name, then as they take away your car, “Thank you, Mrs. Crumpacker! Enjoy your stay!” What is this, a hospital or the Four Seasons Hotel?

Third: Greeter/guides at various posts throughout the hospital. There is a greeter just inside the front doors who will sunnily guide you to the reception desks (which are smack in front of your face anyway), then actually flush out an intake clerk for you, so you won’t have to stand in line. Once you’ve checked in and begin making your way to Radiology, there are other greeter/guides along the way. If you look the least bit like you don’t know where you’re going, they will solicitously inquire whether they can help you find your destination.

Fourth: Starbucks, baby. There are at least four Starbucks kiosks located inside and outside the hospital. Probably there are more I haven’t discovered yet. Care for a latte with your lumbar spine study? Hoag can give you that.

Fifth: Friendly techs. When your name is called, your radiology tech cheerfully approaches you with a “Hi, Mrs. Crumpacker, I’m Lauren. I’ll be your radiology technician today.”

Hoag is freakin’ awesome. It’s a first-class hospital with the air of a good hotel. Every time I go there, I’m impressed anew by the accommodations. Medical treatment and diagnostics are no fun, really, but if I’ve gotta do them, I’m glad I get to do them at Hoag.