Well, I wanted to stay away from talking again about the election, even though I compulsively wait for any kind of news to transpire at CNN or MSNBC instead of the Obama 0%, McCain 0%.

Surfing the net I found this :

A nudist group at the Caliente Resorts, in Pasco County, north of Tampa, has approached election officials about the idea of having a clothing optional voting site.

The supervisor of elections says he will not be considering new precincts before redistricting in 2010, even though nothing in state law would prohibit it.

I say it depends on how good looking the people who vote are - got to love Florida!

All this political talk is making my head spin. In fact, I think it may be giving me migraines. Everywhere I turn someone is talking about politics. To take a break from this frenzy, my husband and I decided to go see a silly movie and called our occasional baby sitter.

Before going out to see this movie, and before the baby-sitter arrived, we had a small disagreement. Honestly, I can’t remember why or how it started, probably me provoking him, or him doing something silly. Anyway, I told him that because of our discussion, it would be best not to go to the movies anymore, but instead go to a bookstore, where we could sit down, and read our respective books without talking.

He replied that maybe we should, and decided to go out for bit on his own. And so he left. This was completely out of character for my husband. I was in shock, but most certainly resolved not to go after him. Wasn’t I the woman, the damsel in distress, who needed to be chased?

Determined to stand my ground, for who knows which reason, I started getting the kids ready for bed. I nursed the baby, and when the baby sitter arrived, I myself got ready. I applied my make up on, and picked a nice outfit to wear, because no matter what, I was going out – even though I was still hoping that my husband would suddenly reappear.

I got my car keys and checked my phone – no calls from the Ninja hubby. I said my goodbyes and stepped outside. I started the minivan and felt really sad. I checked my phone again. Nothing. Should I call? No. Hold off as a matter of principle, no matter how silly.

I drove off unsure of where I would go, probably the bookstore. Right as I turned on the main road near our home, I saw from my rearview mirror a car that looked a lot like my husband’s. The man driving it had a funny shaped head, large shoulders and slightly pointy ears, much like my husband. It was, in fact, my husband.

He flashed his lights gesturing for something. I slowed down, and he moved to the left lane. He then turned on the lights inside the car, and held up a giant sign for me to see: I, Love, You! And he showed me a box of chocolate.

How romantic. My Ninja husband actually went outside after our insignificant disagreement and, did something lovely.

We pulled over to the side of the road; I got out of the car and ran to hug him. I felt so happy. We got into his car and, holding hands, drove to the movie theater where we were just so cute, if I may say so.

I felt so much in love with this giant and sweet man.

The movie wasn’t great, but it didn’t matter because we had a wonderful time enjoying each other’s company. That night we forgot our usual roles, a mother and wife with lots of children and responsibilities, a military man who has lots of missions ahead of him. We were just two people deeply in love.

I treasured that time dearly, and hope that no matter what goes on around us, deployments, elections, or the business of everyday living, we’ll remember to take time for each other. And of course to enjoy our favorite chocolate. And, yes, to vote for Obama.

My husband just told me that I cannot write anything that relates to him at all. Nothing. Nada. Niente. This could be a serious obstacle in my road to becoming a millionaire mediocre blogger.

He is actually forbidding me to write about his Ninjaness.

Can i actually write around him? Can I just erase him from my blog or my column?

Perhaps…..

As I was expressing this dilemma out loud, the Ninja happened to hear me and came up with the solution. A cast of rotating husbands characters.

First character Brad Pitt.  Tomorrow Brad and I go to the store to buy groceries.

MAN and woman entered Spencer’s Gifts in Florida Mall with a large bag. With a suave move, the MAN removes a Pipe Dreams Remote Controlled Waterproof Bullet Vibrator from its packaging and puts it in his bag. He then puts the box back on the shelf and leaves the store. An employee sees him, follows him out of the store and asks for the vibrator.

The man gives him the vibrator as well as a bottle of Wet Originals Gel Body Glide Lotion.

When a deputy makes contact with the man, he confirms that he stole the items. The merchant declines to prosecute.

Man who was involved in this incident lives in my neighborhood, very close to my home.

Does this have some deep cosmic meaning? Pipe Dreams Remote Controlled Waterproof Bullet Vibrator + my neighborhood +  Wet Originals Gel Body Glide Lotion = I dare not make connections.

I just received a call that my husband has turned into a UPS box. I have to run out the door to get my daughters to their gymnastic classes, but I’ll swing by to pick up the box shortly. I wonder if it’ll feet in the car.

I told him this morning that he appeared too rigid, to loosen up a little, but he shrugged it off as my usual pestering. But how did he transform?

For some reason his new box state reminds me that I am late paying some of my bills. I feel a little bad about that. Am I the only one who doesn’t have it together?

I’ll update more later.

I wake up agitated, but I don’t know why. There’s a nagging feeling in my stomach that today is going to suck. Big time. I am out of sorts, so I look around and focus on familiar surroundings. The laundry piled up on the dresser, the baby’s clothes on the changing station, the blue curtains in our bedroom.

I look at my daughter laying next to me, and I feel better - even though she is spitting up on the sheets I changed at 2:00am this morning. Her eyes wide, she smiles at me, probably not caring that my breath stinks, that my hair is sticking up in the front and back, and that I am going weigh myself like I do every morning — and that this number is going to determine my mood for the day. No, she doesn’t know any of this. She’s just looking up at me.

I tell ask my husband to help with the kids.

“Mi aiuti a preparare i bambini?” Wait, did I just say that in Italian? Nah.

“Mi aiuti a preparare i bambini?” Again, sounded like I said, help me get the kids ready, in Italian.

I guess I must have, because my husband is staring at me. But, I am thinking in English, as I have done for the last 16 years of my life. Here I am, thinking English thoughts, yet, more Italian words are coming out of my mouth. What’s going on? I am even thinking about that Barry White song, what’s going on…my thoughts are in English, the same compulsive ones I always have. Help me with the baby, what time do you get back? Can you take Anna to the gym? I’d better check my email, call my mom, diet, exercise and write, more, more, more.

But the words are Italian ones. My mouth is on automatic pilot. My husband thinks that I am doing it on purpose. He is now telling me to stop and get a grip because he has to change into his uniform Ninja outfit and travel to an undisclosed location.

I try to tell him that I can’t do anything about it, but he can’t understand a word I am saying.

I am pissed off irritated. I mean really? After so many years of speaking, thinking, blending into this language, it’s failing me? It has decided to turn its back on me? Today? No way.

Now my commas are all out of place on the sheet of paper and in my blog. There are commas everywhere. in English and in Italian - except that they are exactly the same symbol, but, still, out, of,,, place,,.

I understand my husband perfectly well, so my mental capacity is intact, but I can’t communicate - that’s all. He suggests that I call my mom or my sister, both psychologists in Italy - maybe, they, can, help,,.

Of course the line is busy. Even in my fiction the phone lines are busy, no call-waiting in Italy.

At this point, my children are up. Should I speak? What are they going to think about me? Their momma? Inadequate? incapable of speaking their mother tongue? Aha, I can hear my dad’s words, “You should have taught them to speak Italian!” Alas, I didn’t, and here I am.

“Bambini forza,” I say. My husband tells them that I am a bit confused this morning, but they don’t really care. They just want to, watch, Dora,,,,, and, Diego,,,. Here are the commas again.

How am I going to make it through the day? Will I need an interpreter? And how the heck can I find one in this town?

My husband has to leave. He is off, not too worried about my plight. My oldest daughter Luisa comes over. “It’s ok mommy. I understand what you are saying. Remember? You taught me Italian when I was little, so I kind of know what you are saying”

It’s true. She does understand me. I try a few sentences and she really does. I wait a few minutes without speaking or writing. The English words are back. I am speaking English again. I try talking, reading out loud, giving orders - turn off the TV, pick up the clothes, don’t throw food at each other. Yes, they are back. I write something down. The commas seem to be under control. But for how long?

I have to do something. I fold the laundry. In silence.

These days my routine, if I can even call it that, has drastically changed. In addition, to adjusting to my new baby (this is child No.6) I’m home-schooling the kids.

Did I just say that? I have to re-read the last sentence to make sure it’s actually happening. Oh, but wait, as I look around and notice that my house is in a permanent state of disarray I know without the shadow of a doubt that, yes, I am indeed home-schooling my offspring.

If you asked me a year ago whether I would ever home-school, I would have said never. But military living has a way of testing our ideas because everything is so unpredictable and sometimes we just have to adjust. And so this year home-schooling was the best option for our family.

I grew up in Italy where home-schooling doesn’t exist. So when I met families in the U.S. who home-schooled, I was interested and respectful but always thought, “Hey, it’s definitely not for me.” I couldn’t be a parent and teacher 24/7. That line of thinking ended when we decided that I was going to give it a try because of frequent PCS-ing, deployments, illnesses, our new baby, and my 5-year-old daughter’s 6:00 am gymnastics class.

Teaching my kids at home has been challenging and rewarding. Some days it’s a joy as I watch them learn or discover something new, or get excited about a small science experiment. Other days it seems that I’m constantly on their case to do work, or even to just clean up.

I’ve had to learn what patience really is and watch what I say. I certainly can’t blame poor language skills or bad manners on my kids’ classmates. Whether I’ll continue to home-school after this year is up in the air. I’m not opposed to public school, and sleep is a rare privilege these days when I write. But we all sacrifice something for our kids, and right now home-schooling was the right way to bring stability to my home.

Despite the fact that a part of me would really like to have more time for myself, I choose not to give up my time with my family. So, home-schooling and writing in my spare time are two things I have to balance. And, I hold my unfulfilled desires in me and embrace that I can’t have it all.

As a mother of six young children I have followed the controversy over autism and vaccines carefully, and I have several friends who speak convincingly about the supposed link between the two. This debate came into sharp focus when we adopted our son from Ethiopia two years ago, and immediately heard impassioned and competing arguments about what shots he absolutely should, or absolutely should not get. So I was immediately interested in Dr. Paul Offit’s book on the matter, Autism’s False Prophets.

Offit opens with a basic history of vaccines, writing in a way that is accessible for non-scientific folks like me. It’s a good reminder that we take for granted some of these protections nowadays. Indeed, I am part of the first generation of parents who did not grow up with the lurking threat of diseases like polio. For me, vaccines were always an unpleasant chore, whereas my parents saw vaccines with a good deal of reverence.

The author explains his own considerable expertise on the subject, and certainly establishes himself as an expert. I liked how Dr. Offit told us right off the bat that he gets lots of hate mail for his pro-vaccine views. This is an extremely emotional issue, and for a lot of people, the choice not to vaccinate has become a statement of a larger distrust against government and official institutions.

I am not a scientific person but Dr. Offit did a good job of talking in laymen terms, though the book certainly isn’t light reading. He describes how the issue came down to the MMR vaccine – measles, mumps and rubella – and especially the compound called Thimerosal, a preservative used in some vaccines.

Thimerosal is mercury based, and Dr. Offit explains how anecdotal reports, bolstered by a few studies, painted a picture of a dangerous link between Thimerosal and autism, and even suggested at a sort of medical cover-up. Then Dr. Offit sets about systematically explaining why these arguments are without merit. He discusses, for example, how the state of California banned Thimerosal in 2001, but saw no attendant change in rates of autism, and he describes how coincidence and emotion can work together to create a mistaken impression. It’s hard to listen to a parent of an autistic child tell you that her son developed symptoms just after receiving an MMR vaccine and not be suspicious. But Dr. Offit, while not denying the parents’ real distress, argues effectively that the two are unrelated.

There’s no doubt that the medical establishment has failed to own up to its own role in engendering public mistrust. Doctors often speak with frustration, and not a little condescension, about those average folks who choose rumor and wives tales over cold hard facts, but they forget how often average folks have seen cold hard facts reversed by doctors themselves, and how often they’ve seen statistically significant studies contradict each other.

So parents can be forgiven for thinking that not vaccinating their children is the more conservative route. But Autism’s False Prophets makes it clear that the great predominance of evidence suggests that there is no link between vaccines and autism, and that not vaccinating your child, far from being a conservative option, puts him or her at great risk. It’s hard, after all, to find a doctor who doesn’t vaccinate his kids, and this book makes a strong argument as to why.

Another great book brought to our attention by the The Parent Blogger Network!

Today I was interviewed on CNN - which I have to admit was exciting and fun. Three of my children were with me and they also got a kick out of it.

The reporter who interviewed me was nice and friendly. She commented on the fact that I have six children and seem young - which made me ego-happy - and told me that she doesn’t have any yet, though she is a bit older than me.  I am not revealing age.

I wanted to tell her that one part of me really wants to be a journalist on CNN (or any other station for that matter) - because that would have been very inappropriate and completely lame and unprofessional.

But, she kept looking at my children and I thought that maybe, just maybe, a part of her wanted to be in my position - ok a tiny part, the one that doesn’t deal with loads of dirty diapers and laundry and crazy chaos, but still a part of her.  And a part of me, a little part, probably the one that doesn’t deal with the stress and demands of broadcasting wanted to be in her position traveling, interviewing people, seeing the world.

These tiny parts are not big enough to give up our present life.

As my therapist would say, we hold these unfulfilled desires in us and embrace that some we win and some we lose.