There is one phrase in our house that has single-handedly (if phrases can be said to have hands) made the largest contribution to domestic harmony in our house, particularly at mealtimes.  Our meals usually take place at an island in the kitchen, on barstools.  Bean sits next to the window, my husband sits next to him, and I sit across the table, next to the stove. (A handy design, which means that I can provide more servings to everyone without actually getting up.  Theoretically.)  The dogs, when they aren't wrestling like lunatics, wait patiently for stray bits of food dropped to the floor.  Bean rarely disappoints them.  Prior to our discovery of this magical phrase, every scrap dropped on the floor elicited an extended howl of displeasure if a dog picked it up before I got to it.  Even knowing that he wasn't going to be able to eat whatever was dropped couldn't stop Bean from freaking out every time the dog grabbed it off the floor.  We tried to teach Bean that if he persisted in holding his food under the table or waving it around the dogs were bound to eat some of it, with very little success. 

Then, we heard it.  We can't remember where, or I'd write the author a special word of thanks.  (It was probably a commentary on NPR.)   But no matter, now it's a mantra every time something falls to the floor.   No more howls, no more jumping off the stool and racing to get a crumb before a dog eats it.  It's amazing.  Bean will actually recite it himself when he drops something, and grin with satisfaction.

And the phrase?  "If it's on the floor or on its way, it's the dogs', and that's okay!" 

I have decided to take a stab at historical fiction, which is sort of "chick lit," although it doesn't fit the definition of "classic" chick lit (who knew there was one?).  Classic chick lit is apparently epitomized by "Bridget Jones' Diary," which I found rather annoying.  I have been reading chick lit, classic and otherwise, for years, as it makes a terrific escape from everyday life.   It's also very funny, much of the time.  I used to be embarrassed by my reading selections, thinking that as an educated woman I should be reading weightier tomes, but as Cathy Yardley says in the above book: "For those writers who take offense at reviewers and critics who call Chick Lit "fluffy," "frothy," or "dumb" and who want to counter by making Chick Lit novels literary heavyweights, I have only one piece of advice: switch to decaf.  Seriously.  As Chick Lit authors, we'll have messages, themes, insights, of course.  But our primary job is to entertain.  We're not finding the cure to cancer here."  A 40-something suburban working mom needs entertainment, so I don't feel guilty any more.  I do, however, refuse to read novels with a bare-chested Fabio on the cover.  Even I have my standards.

At the moment I am reading several different books at once, including "What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew," which has a stupid title but is a fascinating book.  I am also reading two different historical novels, for "research" purposes.   My husband is unaccountably enthusiastic about this latest project of mine, probably because he knows it will amuse me if nothing else, and an amused me is always more fun than a bitchy, whiny me.  It might, in a perfect world, even allow me to make some money and quit my job.  Of course, I am acutely aware that we do not live in a perfect world, so I'm not holding my breath on that score.   Still, what are we without dreams (pipe though they may be)?

Parenting, as many of us know, is an endless parade of firsts - first kick, first smile, first tooth (first tooth knocked out on a bridge), first word, first day of school, yadda yadda.  Yesterday was Bean's first bike.  We had gone to our sushi bar on Friday night, and decided to stop at the bike shop next door.  Previously uninterested in bikes, he had seen his classmates riding bikes at his teacher's house on Weds. night, so he was ready.   

Bean was enamored of a girl's pastel blue bike with daisies all over it, but fortunately for his parents' masculinity issues, they also had a macho red boy's bike that they said they'd put together for us and we could come back the next day.  After listening to Bean say repeatedly the next morning that he wanted to go to the bike store, we went back, and the red bike was still in pieces.  While they put the red one together,  Bean rode the blue one a few times, then saw the bells on the walls.  Very cool bells, including ones in crazy colors that you just twist to ring.  Which Bean proceeded to do, over and over again.  Fortunately the bike was ready, and Bean was hooked.  He rode it around the store a few times, decreed that its plain black bell was preferable to the cool twisty ones, and we went home.  

Bean loves this bike.  He's still getting the hang of the fact that when you push back on the pedals, the bike stops, but otherwise he's doing well.  My husband, who's always felt a distinct third in the favorite standings - behind me and the dog - was extremely pleased to discover that riding bikes is something that Bean really wants to do with Dad.   I watched the two of them head down the street, Bean perched on the bike wearing his Dalmatian bike helmet (complete with pink tongue and floppy black ears), Dad walking behind.  It was one of those teary-eyed parenting moments, and definitely a notable first.