What a difference a day makes

Apropos of nothing, I typed the title of this post and immediately started humming What a day for a daydream...  You know.  That old Lovin' Spoonful song.  Which a) makes me seriously old (though I wasn't alive when that song came out, but the fact that I know it at all is kind of sad), and b) is annoying, because the song is annoying.

But I'm feeling bouncy because things since yesterday have improved dramatically.  J managed to score a secret deal with his boss that he wouldn't have to go to Alamosa and can stay in Vail for the time being, at least for another month or two.  In which time maybe something will have opened up in Denver, or he might have found a job with another company altogether.

So technically, the dramatic improvement is that the status quo can be maintained.  But I'll take it.

And tonight we're going to look at the house that I totally want, and if I like it, I may make an offer on the spot.  We'll be living in remodelling hell for a while, but I don't even care.  I want this house.  I'm all tingly thinking about it.  And yes, I checked, I'm not sitting on my phone.

Also, I won a case today. 

Have I mentioned how much I fucking love winning?  As the wise Nuke LaLoosh said, "It's like, y'know, better'n losing??"

So all in all, today is better than yesterday, and tomorrow may be better still.

Bad things and good things and I'm not sure how much more of this mother-effin' craziness I can take but at least I'm leaving for vacation on Friday.

J and I have both felt like we're in a long, difficult stretch, in terms of the strain on our finances and the ages of our kids and stresses of work (mostly his) and how it just feels like life is piling on.  And has been for the past year.

The fact that he's been in Vail for over a year now, except for that 6 week stretch in Denver, after which his company totally dicked him over.

The fact that our Hawaii house is still upside down on the mortgage, and even with the rent we collect on it, we're still losing $1000 a month on it.

While we pay over $2000 a month in daycare.

And I'm home with the kids during the week while holding down a full-time job.  And J works long, exhausting hours, and tries to get home during the week when he can, and then on weekends.  So the kids don't see their daddy as much as they should, and the house is always in shambles, and we're always exhausted.

The Vail job is almost done, so we assumed that the guys still working up there -- the ones whose competence required them to fix the mistakes of the dipshits whose incompetence was rewarded with assignments in Denver -- would be transferred to jobs in Denver within a couple of weeks.

And there's this house in the neighborhood that's been on the market for months, and the price has been drastically reduced.  It's really pretty.  A cute Victorian built in 1896, right in the middle of a great block on a pretty street with shops and restaurants.  A nice little yard for the kids to play in.  Walking or biking distance to the office, or the best bookstore in Denver, or the park, or the pool.  Across the street from the coffee shop.  Two doors down from a hardware store and a grocery store and a post office and a diner.

It's seriously cheap.  It needs a lot of upgrades and renovation, but it's got great bones and the potential to be spectacular.  And J and I could do the bulk of the renovations, particularly with his construction know-how.

But we've got a lease on our rental house through February.  So we'd have to figure out how to swing all of that.

We could figure it out, though.  We think we really want this house.

But when J got to work this morning, he was informed that there are no jobs in Denver.  Instead, all of the competent guys who have been team players and have stayed in Vail to help the company finish the job, and finish it right, have been given the option of being transferred to a job in Alamosa -- which is 4 hours away, in the middle of fucking nowhere -- or be fired.  And they need to decide today.

So do we suck it up and deal with really shitty travel for another 5 months?  Do we collect unemployment for J and hope he can find a new job soon?  Do we take the Alamosa job and look for a new job in the nonexistent spare time we have, and then tell the company to piss off as soon as something comes up?

And somehow, at the same time, try to snap up this house, which I think is a rare opportunity to get into a fabulous neighborhood for a ridiculously small amount of money but a ridiculously large amount of work?

I believe this is called "paying dues."

Ask the young, they know everything!

Remember, as far as anyone knows, we're a nice, normal family.

                                                -  Homer Simpson

July 19th is a big day.  It is my brother Sam's birthday, my cousin Zara's birthday, my friend Susan's birthday, and my brother Josh's wedding anniversary.  Happy happy, all!

As I've said before, Sam is one of my favorite people in the world.  Of course I love him because he's my brother, but he's also funny, super-smart, creative, and interesting.  He was like that from the day he was born.  Always seeing things in a new way that nobody else thought of, coming up with random, intriguing stories.  When he was about 11 or so, he wrote this very dark mystery story about a detective in Anchorage, Alaska, investigating a murder after finding a severed hand in a field.  A) He's never been to Anchorage, so how totally random, and B) WTF??

Plus he has my ability to see a movie once or twice and then be able to recite most of the dialogue.  So frequently our conversations will take these bizarre detours when something reminds one of us of a quote from a movie, so we'll say the quote, and if there are other people around, they're all, what the fuck are you talking about?


But Sam and I, we don't miss a beat.  We'll know exactly what the other is talking about, we'll share a good chuckle, and then we'll continue with the conversation.

Lately, when Jason and I look at Zeke, we've remarked to each other how much he's starting to resemble Sam.  In particular, there's this hilarious photo that my dad took of Sam when he was about a year and a half old.  We were at the beach and the lifeguard was giving some safety demonstration.  Sam felt like standing with everyone else didn't give him enough of an appreciation of what was going on, so he went closer to get a better look.

There's something about Sam in that picture that just says "Zeke" to me.

Do you see it too?

Then at my reunion a few weeks ago, there were some AES yearbooks from my junior and senior years up for auction that a friend of mine bought.  We had a good time looking through them and signing them ("Best friends 4eva!  Have fun in college next year!").  I decided to look for pictures of my brothers, and found this picture of Sam:

Sam's the one on the right.  He's older than Zeke in this picture, but I look at it 

and see what Zeke will look like in a few years.

Jason and I both looked at it and said, "Holy shit, that's Zeke!!"

They're alike in other ways than just appearance.  

When Sam was about 5 or 6 and we were living in Israel, some friends came out for a visit.  It was the family of a girl I had been friends with in Virginia when I was in 4th and 5th grades.  Her parents had always let me call them by their first names, but Sam wasn't sure about this.  

So he asked the dad what he should call him.

"Do you want me to call you David?  Or Dr. L?  What should I call you?"

And Dr. L, being funny and sweet, said, "Sammy, you can call me anything you want, as long as you don't call me late for dinner."

Sam thought about it for a second, and being literal-minded, said, "OK, Penis Breath!"*  

Oy.  But also, hahahaha!

So while I'm on the verge of spraining my eyeballs from rolling them at all of the penis talk in my house these days, at least Zeke comes by it honestly.

________________________

*This was right after the summer that E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial came out.  Sam had seen it in the theaters and it made a big impression, particularly the line when Elliot calls his older brother "penis breath."  Also, hat-tip to my friend Susan L., who read the post about Zeke thinking milk made his penis strong and reminded me of this story about Sam.

This is why I'm not rich

Because I don't think up stupid shit like this:

Which I spent $9.99 on because I thought it would make a funny stocking-stuffer-type birthday present for Jason:

Happy Friday, everyone!

A conversation with an almost-3-year-old boy

(while drinking milk)

"Mmmm, Mama. I like milk."

"I like milk, too."

"Milk's good."

"Yep.  And it's good for you, too."

"Yeah."

"It makes your bones strong."

"It makes your bones strong?"

"Mmm hmm.  And your teeth, too."

"Yeah. ..... and it makes your penis strong, too!"

*sigh*  Seriously?  Already?

The University of Google

While I love having the universe of information at my fingertips, I know what a dangerous thing it can be.  I can't tell you how many special education planning meetings I've been in when the parents and their advocates show up with a pile of articles they'd downloaded about autism or the best ways to educate a student with dyslexia, plopped them in front of the teachers as if none of them had any training and experience, and proceeded with the meeting as if via the internet, they knew everything and the school district staff knew nothing.

I'm always tempted to ask them why the teachers bother going to school to get master's degrees in special education, if all they really needed to do was troll the internet and download a couple of articles.

But honestly, I know where they're coming from.  I'm guilty of it myself.

Last week, remember how I thought that Josie had an ear infection?  She spiked a fever on Tuesday morning, so I took her to the doctor, they thought her ear looked a little pink, and prescribed some antibiotics.

But I couldn't get the fever down for almost 4 days, which struck me as odd.  Zeke used to have ear infections as a baby, and he never got bad fevers, and certainly after a day or two on the medicine, he would be fine.  But Josie kept spiking these super-high fevers.  And the medicine tasted disgusting, so after 4 days she refused to swallow it, and when we tried to force it, she puked all over Jason (nice aim, honey!).

Her fever broke on Friday, and then Saturday she woke up with a rash all over her torso and neck.

We were all, what the fuck?, so I busted out the computer and started looking up her symptoms on WebMD and Mayoclinic.com and a couple of other sites.  Here's what I found on askdrsears.com:

WHAT DOES ROSEOLA LOOK LIKE?

This virus generally causes 3 days of high fever (often over 103). The fever then subsides, and the child breaks out in a flat or bumpy red rash, usually starting around the neck, back and chest, then spreading out. The rash lasts a few days to a couple weeks.

Dr. Sears Clue: Roseola is about the only virus in which the rash appears after the fever breaks.

Eureka!  Those were her symptoms exactly.  So I stopped making her take the medicine (it wasn't helping anyway, plus she had basically given us the finger on that course of action), gave her some lukewarm baths with corn starch to help with any itching, and let the virus run its course.  Which it did.  Another symptom is irritability, and she was a total crankypants for 3 days, but then yesterday she was finally back to her old chipper self.

Jason wanted to take her to the doctor, but the websites all said that for most rashes, and particularly roseola, there's nothing a doctor can do, so don't bother.  Who needs a doctor, with all their years of training and experience, right?

The magic of the internet has even worked on me, via this very blog.  A few months ago, a close friend of mine who is a regular reader sent me an email.  She had noticed that I had been writing quite a bit about being irritable and grouchy and stressed out, and posited that maybe it was the hormones being emitted by my IUD that were the problem.

And I thought, hey, maybe she's right.  Plus, during my pregnancy with Josie I had been on a different antidepressant than the ones I used to take, and was feeling generally like my meds needed some adjusting.  So, it took me a while, but I finally got organized and went to see a psychiatrist.  She put me back on my old medicine, adjusted the dosage to compensate for hormonal changes, and also gave me a new sleep medication that also functions as an antidepressant/antianxiety medication as well.

And you know what?  I feel great these days.  I'm sleeping, I'm not getting stressed out by the normal ins and outs of daily life, I'm nice to my husband and my kids.

I love the idea of my blog as a diagnostic tool.  God bless the internet.

Occam's razor - the simplest name is often the best

Saturday night was the monthly parent's night at the day care.  We don't pass them up unless we're out of town, because otherwise, it's hard to get motivated and organized to decide on something to do, find a sitter, etc.  With the monthly night at the day care in place, the child care is taken care of, and it sort of forces us to get off our asses, get out of the house and spend some grown-up time together.

We had thought about finding a place to go salsa dancing (our rumba skills acquired for the Atlanta wedding are beyond rusty), but the place that seems to be the happening latin dance club is apparently crazy crowded on Saturday nights, plus it's been hot and I didn't feel like spending a night getting jostled by a crowd and sweating my balls off, and last week totally kicked my ass and I was tired.  So we decided to just drop the kids off and walk up to Colfax Avenue and eat and drink wherever it struck our fancies.

We decided on Ethiopian food.  There was a great place in Decatur right near where we used to live that was a favorite, but there weren't any Ethiopian restaurants in Hawaii, so it had been years since we enjoyed that particular cuisine.

There's a little hole in the wall on Colfax that's little more than a cinder-block building painted yellow, red and green (the colors of the Ethiopian flag) and with minimal, primitive-looking signage on the front.  We had always seen it driving past, but quite frankly, it looked kind of scary, like a mob front or something.  So we hadn't gone there yet.

On Saturday we figured, what the hell, we'll walk in and if it looks bad, we'll just leave, no big deal.

Well, it was phenomenal.  Very simple decor, basic formica-topped tables, but the food was astoundingly delicious.

We ordered a combo platter that, according to the menu, is meant for at least 4 people.  Our waiter, a sweet-natured, slow-moving guy said, "Oooooh, that's too much food for you."

"You haven't seen him eat," I responded.

A little while later, he brought out a huge platter of food.  With a twinkle in his eye, he said to Jason, "I think this will defeat you!"

We (mostly Jason) finished the whole thing.  And we had a lovely time, chatting and enjoying the time to just sit and drink beer and hang out.

Oh, and the name of this wonderful establishment?

The Ethiopian Restaurant.

I kept giggling throughout dinner.  Jason asked me what was up, and I told him that the name reminded me of a funny story from high school.

I forget how it all came about, but senior year in New Delhi my friend Kristin and I were hired by an Indian businessman who owned a clothing manufacturing company.  Ostensibly, we were to give him the teenage girl's inside view on fashion, help him with design ideas, that sort of thing.  I suspect that it was just an excuse for him to hang out with Kris, who was (and is) a tall, gorgeous, leggy blonde.  But we went out to his factory a few times and talked to him and gave him some ideas, and in exchange I think he gave us some free clothes.

One time, I think in the car when we were on our way to the factory with him after his driver picked us up, he was talking about an idea he had for an event.  He wanted to know what we thought.

"We could have a bunch of models, maybe you two could participate, and you could demonstrate the new designs.  We could invite members of the press to come, members of the community, try to publicize the company's work."*

Kristin and I nodded.  "That would be great."

He seemed pleased at our reaction.  "Yes, it could be very exciting.  And I think we'll call it..."

We leaned forward in anticipation.

"...'Fashion Show.'"

Indeed, sahib, indeed.  A perfect name.

___________________
*For full effect, you have to imagine these words being spoken by a gentleman in a turban, with a heavy Indian accent.

Aussie word of the day: embracing the criminal ancestry

Today is Jason's birthday, so this post is for him.  Happy birthday, honey!

So technically, this isn't a true Aussie word of the day post because I'm not translating Aussie-speak or highlighting one of Jason's uniquely Australian expressions.

It's more of a marvel at how for American women, the Australian accent is apparently the ultimate impetus to cast one's morals and one's panties by the wayside.

For as long as I've known Jason, American women have thrown themselves at him shamelessly, even when they knew he was with me, even when they knew he was married with kids.

About six Novembers ago when we were dating, he had been in Australia and came back to the States to live with me again.  We met up at the airport in Atlanta and immediately got on a flight to New Hampshire to go spend Thanksgiving with my family.  We hadn't seen each other in 2 or 3 months and spent the flight cuddling and shmooping all over each other.  We were very obviously together.

But that didn't stop the cute 20-something flight attendant from falling all over herself to get him drinks and snacks, or from slipping him her phone number as we got off the plane.

Ladies working the grocery store checkout line get all giggly and school-girl-ish when he talks to them, even when they're obviously on the other side of 50.  One woman who was clearly a grandmother said, "honey, you better stop talking and get out of here before I fall in love with you."

He even had a lesbian ask him to donate sperm so she could have his child.

When women I meet find out I'm married to an Australian, they invariably start cooing and ask me if I just melt for the accent.

What's funny is that I really don't.  I love Australians, and I love Jason, but I actually find the accent kind of nasally and grating.  I don't even really hear it when he talks, except when he's playing it up for effect.

(Now if he were a Scot, oof, forget about it...*fans self*)

The attention he gets from other women doesn't bother me.  I'm not the jealous type, and I know he loves me and wouldn't cheat on me.  I find it funny, and the brazenness is a bit astounding, but I don't get upset.

Plus, his way of dealing with it is often hilarious.

There's a woman at his work who has been super nice to him and who asked him if he would do some wiring at her house.  He'll generally jump at the opportunity to do side-work as a way of earning some extra cash, so he told her he would.  Then a few days ago, she started bringing him smoothies and getting kind of flirty.

Mind you, she's in her 50s.  And she knows he's married and has children.  I told him that maybe she got optimistic when she heard his wife is older than he is.

Then she invited him to join him at her lake house, which is in another state.

Being Jason, he couldn't just say, thanks but no thanks, I doubt my wife would approve.

He had to add that he can't leave the state.

When she asked why not, he told her he's a registered sex offender.

She hasn't bothered him since.

Reprieve

I'm back at the office after two days at home with Josie, who has been suffering from an ear infection.  Zeke joined us at home yesterday morning when he was apparently incapable of functioning at school because he decided that he needed to join me in the middle of the night before when I was up trying to get Josie's fever down.  I haven't slept more than two hours at a time since Monday night, and I'm completely running on fumes.

Normally when the kids go to bed, I can sort of exhale, knowing that I can read for a little while and then sleep uninterrupted until morning.  But Josie's fever kept spiking and I guess the pain in her ear made it uncomfortable for her to lie down for long periods of time, so I've been constantly trying to figure out which combination of Tylenol, Motrin and cool washcloths would get her temperature down, and then holding her upright so she could sleep on my shoulder.

Mama's tired.

Last night at around 2 in the morning, I finally got her fever under control, and she went to sleep until around 7.  I lay there, half dozing and waiting for her to start crying again.

When she woke up with a cool forehead this morning, I whisked her and Zeke off to daycare and went to work.

It would be nice if I were independently wealthy and didn't have to work.  But truthfully, coming to the office is kind of a relief.  I can sit at my desk in my quiet office, play my music on iTunes, have a coffee and work without interruption.  No one's crying, no one's asking me for water or goldfish or birthday cake, no one needs me to change their diaper.

I don't know how stay-at-home moms do it.  Of course I love my children, and I love spending time with them.  Last night Zeke and I were in stitches as we ran around my bedroom, playing a game in which we ran across the room, jumped up and then fell on the floor giggling.

"Jump high and then fall on the floor, Mama!"

But daycare is a godsend, as far as I'm concerned.  I believe the kids derive enormous benefits from it - socialization, turn-taking, following instructions, sharing, a structured day that I probably wouldn't have the discipline to provide consistently.

I also believe I'm a much better mother, and a much happier person, for not spending every waking moment with them.

Dr. Laura wouldn't approve, I know.

But fuck her.

Toddler blasphemy, refrigerator magnets and giant dildos

I have a foul mouth.  I enjoy a good "motherfucker!" as much as the next person.  But if I had to clean up my act, I think the hardest expression to wipe from my repertoire would be "Jesus Christ."

It's definitely my epithet of choice.  Sometimes I use the full name, sometimes it's "Jesus H.", or some other variation thereof.  It's just habit.

I know it's offensive to some as violative of the commandment against taking the name of the deity in vain.  But a) he's not my deity, and b) I think that taking the name of God in vain means using God as an excuse to commit bad acts, not exclaiming "Jesus Christ!" when you stub your toe.  Personally, I think that God, if S/He exists, has bigger fish to fry than the harmless use of words.

Anyway.

Notwithstanding my enjoyment of enthusiastic cursing, I definitely draw the line at doing it in front of my children (or anyone else's, for that matter).  We don't even say "fart" in front of Zeke.  If you pass gas, you have "tooted."  And I try to limit my use of "Jesus Christ" in front of Zeke as well, though sometimes it slips out accidentally.  But I know he has heard it.

So today we were putting a sticker on the most recent prize chart, in which Zeke is rewarded for going to bed by 8:30 and for using the bathroom.  Seriously, I'm so fucking sick of changing two sets of diapers.

Holding the chart to the fridge are two magnets, a commemorative one of the Hawaiian royal family's crest that I got at the Iolani Palace, and one that a friend gave me off his fridge when I saw it at a party and instantly fell in love with it.

Zeke started playing with the magnets, at first just interested in lifting them off the fridge and then watching them get sucked back onto the metal door.  Then he looked at the Jesus magnet and said, "who's that, Mama?"

Uhhhhh.

I didn't know what else to say, so I just blurted, "It's Jesus."  Then I kind of braced myself for the inevitable questions to follow.

"Jesus?"

"Yes."

But amazingly, he didn't ask any follow-up questions, like "who is Jesus?" or something like that, which is a good thing because I honestly don't know what I would have said.

But Zeke never forgets a name or a face.  He remembers everyone and knows everyone's name.  He's like the Otter of his preschool class, only without the giant dildo or the seduction of Dean Wormer's wife.

So while he didn't immediately recognize the name, at some point, someone will utter it, either reverently or not, and Zeke will undoubtedly say, "oh, the man on Mama's fridge!"

In which case I imagine I will have some 'splainin' to do.

Back to reality

I can't turn off the buzzing in my brain.

Some of it is lack of sleep -- over the past 4 days, I've gotten an average of maybe 3 hours a night.  But some of it is this pervasive feeling of longing, of "wait wait no no no come back it can't be over yet."

Lisa put it very aptly, comparing it to coming down off a 3 day cocaine binge (possibly - I don't think either of us can speak from experience).

Jason and I flew out with the kids Friday afternoon.  With the exception of a mini-meltdown by Zeke as we were landing in Washington (he wanted to sit on Daddy's lap to watch the landing, rather than sit in his own seat with his seatbelt buckled), the travel went smoothly.  My parents picked us up, I changed into a nice shirt and some heels, put on some makeup, grabbed my mom's car keys, and headed to the reunion.

What followed was 3 days of sensory overload.  Feeling the synapses in my brain explode every time someone walked up to me and said, "WENDY!  OH MY GOD!  IT'S SO GREAT TO SEE YOU!"  At one point early Friday evening, my friend Greg said, "I'm feeling overstimulated, it's almost too much," and I knew exactly what he meant.

As expected, everyone looked beautiful, exactly the same, only more so.  We all fell into our old conversations, only with more laughter, more appreciation for each others' beauty and uniqueness.

There were even some typical high school shenanigans, when we went hunting around for one guy's hotel room when we heard he had three cases of booze in his room (the cash bar was exorbitant).  When we got there, his girlfriend basically told us to piss off and shut the door in our faces, leaving seven of us out in the hallway falling down with screaming laughter.

Friday night we closed down the hotel bar in the Gateway Marriott.  Saturday night we were there for last call at a rooftop bar in Adams Morgan.  We were all decked out with sparkly stick-on jewels that we wore like bindis.  Sunday we dragged our tired asses over to Lisa's for a barbecue (I couldn't stay, unfortunately).  All we wanted was to prolong that contact, that feeling of comfort and familiarity and love.

And then it was over.

I've been out of sorts ever since.  I miss my friends and that feeling of being with people who truly know me, even though they haven't seen me for 23 years.  I still can't sleep.

Nothing to do but start planning the next one.

They will always be young, they will always be beautiful.

I was looking at some pictures on Facebook the other day of some friends of friends from high school.  It was pictures from a guys' outing, nothing remarkable, just old friends hanging out.  As I was looking at a couple of the photos, which were taken at a distance, there were a couple of guys that I didn't recognize right away.  If I were forced to give a physical description of these unknowns, I would have had to honestly say that they looked like guys in their late 30s, early 40s, whose jobs required them to do a lot of sitting at desks.  A little thick through the middle, a little jowly, a little gray hair.

Then one of the following shots was a close-up, and I had an "a-ha" moment in which I recognized a guy I thought I didn't know.  And somehow, before my eyes, he looked 15 or 16 again -- the age at which I had known him in the past.

I am going to my high school reunion this weekend for the school I went to (and graduated from) in India.  I have seen three or four people from my class in the last few years -- a few of them live in Colorado, and I saw Lisa a year and a half ago when I was in DC for Thanksgiving, but except for a couple of get-togethers in the early 90s, I haven't seen most of the people I went to high school with since I graduated 23 years ago.  I have kept up with a number of them -- many scattered across the globe -- via Facebook and through this blog, but I will actually see them, in the flesh, tomorrow night for the first time in a long, long time.

I am beyond excited.  Seriously, every time I think about it, I get a little bit choked up.  These friends were such a huge part of my life, and I don't even think I realized how much I've missed seeing them and knowing what they are up to.  Who they married, the cool careers they're in, what their kids look like.

I have a hard time believing it's been 23 years since I graduated from high school.  I remember it so vividly, and my experiences living overseas still form such a huge part of who I am and how I see the world, even though it was over half my life ago.

From the pictures I've seen, we are, for the most part, a pretty well-preserved bunch.  Everyone looks more or less the same.  But even if they do have more gray hair, a little more paunch, whatever, in my head they will always be the beautiful, vibrant kids that I remember from all those years ago.  The ones in my picture albums and in my memories of dancing at the Gunghroo, white-water rafting in Rishikesh, camel trekking in the desert, chilling on the beach in Goa and Kerala and Mahabalipuram.  That's all I will see when I look at them and hang out with them over the weekend.

Senior skip day, Spring 1987 - we went to hang out at some old ruins outside of New Delhi, 
drank beer, played football and lounged in the sun

And yes, I've been doing my damndest to shed the baby chub and get down to my fighting weight again, but to the extent I haven't been entirely successful, I hope they will see me the same way.

Every picture tells a story, don't it?

Do you ever find yourself in a situation in which you kind of step outside of your own body and have a sense of a snapshot of the scene that you're in?  Like when the chaos reaches a critical mass, and the only way to deal with it is to mentally step back, as if you're not really there, but simply an impartial observer.

That happened to me this morning, when I was sitting in my underwear, with blood all over my shoulder and bra-strap, trying to console a hysterical baby while crying myself and at the same time, trying to not get too worked up so that the toddler wouldn't completely lose his mind as well.  

I actually got a decent night's sleep last night, even though I had Zeke pressed against me the whole time.  I let him sleep with me because Jason has been working overtime in Vail since Monday, and it was the easiest way to get Zeke to settle down and go to bed.  Plus he was so sweet about it.  "I sleep in your bed, Mama?  We can give hugs!  I love hugs!  I love you, Mama."

Seriously, how can I resist that?  It's like a shakedown, only with lethal cuteness rather than threats of broken kneecaps.  

So I woke up relatively refreshed, as both kids slept through the night without incident.  I heard Josie stirring at around 6:45, so I got up and she was all bubbly and happy to see me, and we went upstairs to have a bottle and watch last night's episode of The Daily Show, as is our routine.  Zeke woke up at around 7:30, and was also chipper and happy.  We hung out and had some breakfast and watched some Elmo, and then went downstairs to get dressed.  Everything was copacetic.

I put both children in the middle of my bed, where they usually bounce around and chatter at each other while I get myself ready for the day.  It's a big bed, so I don't worry about Josie being in the middle of it, and Zeke always keeps her giggling and occupied for a few minutes.  But today, she decided that her new-found ability to almost-crawl, i.e., pull herself around on her belly with alarming speed, was too irresistible, so I was in my closet with my back turned for about a minute when I heard a "thunk."  I turned around and saw Josie lying on her back on the floor -- she had apparently pulled herself over to the side of the bed, fallen down head-first, hit her nose on the bed frame, and then flipped over onto her back.  

I raced over and picked her up, where she shook silently for a couple of seconds and then let out a wail and completely lost her shit.  I held her to my shoulder and tried to comfort her, only to discover after a few minutes that she had a bloody nose and was bleeding all over me.  So I gently touched the bridge of her nose and determined that her nose wasn't broken, she just mushed up the cartilage at the tip.  But it hurt like a bitch, and she was scared out of her mind, crying and crying and crying on me.  

I felt so awful for her and so guilty about turning my back that I started crying.  Zeke looked at the two of us, saw my tears and said, "are you a little bit sad, Mama?"  Because the few times he's seen my cry, I've tried to reassure him that I'm OK, just a little bit sad.  He came over to both of us with a scared look on his face, and crawled into my lap and put his arms around us, kissed Josie and kissed me, trying to will everything to be OK.

He really is such a sweet boy.

And that was the point that I kind of mentally stepped back.  The picture keeps popping into my head, even hours later.  Me sitting there in my underwear, with blood on me, trying to console both children while having a hard time keeping it together myself.  Josie with the tip of her nose all purple and blood on her face, because every time I tried to wipe her off, she waved my hands away.  Zeke in his pajamas, diaper sagging, curled into my lap with his arms around us, afraid that his little world was crumbling.

Eventually, I managed to get it together.  Josie calmed down, stopped bleeding, and reluctantly let me clean off her face.  I found a clean t-shirt and some jeans, and figured that no one at the office gives a shit about what I wear anyway.  I got Zeke into a clean diaper and clean clothes.  We all sat for a bit in the living room and chilled.  Josie was in my lap, leaning against me, sucking on her fingers and doing the "huh-huh-huh" thing that kids do when they've been crying too long.  I got them off to school, and made it to work, where I've been somewhat productive (except for a little lunch-hour blogging).

But I'm still feeling shaken.  I can't get that pathetic picture out of my head.  I see my poor little girl, terrified and bloodied, and I start crying again.  I have a huge tolerance for physical pain, but my baby gets a bump on her nose and I'm a freaking basket case.  Pitiful.

I really need a vacation.  Or a drink.  Or both.

Home?

When I was in 11th grade, we moved to India in the middle of the school year.

A nightmare, right? Most people looking back on high school can think of nothing worse than being the new kid, let alone the new kid in the middle of the year after class schedules, team rosters, routines, and friendships have been established.

But that's the thing about growing up and moving around in Foreign Service or military households, and going to diplomatic schools. You have this whole ready-made community wherever you go, made of up people that live the same kind of life. So every few years, you uproot yourself and leave the people and places that are familiar, but you're plopped into a new, often exotic place with like-minded (usually), and like-experienced people to create a new life with.

So in addition to being interesting and exciting, it just wasn't that hard. The communities tended to be small, and people were coming and going all the time, and it was always intriguing to learn that someone new was going to be arriving. Will they be cool? Will they be funny? Will they be good at sports? Will they be smart? New people had built-in buzz around them, starting well before they arrived.

So when we got to India, everyone was expecting me, and waiting eagerly to meet me. The first day of school, I was invited out by a group of people to go have ice cream after school. That weekend, I was included in all the big party plans. Within a week and a half, I knew everyone, and felt completely comfortable and included, like I'd been there forever.

It's too bad moving experiences aren't always like that. Because making good friends in a new city when you're a grown-up (and I still have a hard time thinking of myself that way) is hard.

Of the big moves I've made since leaving school -- Atlanta, Hawaii, and Denver -- Hawaii was certainly the hardest. Jason and I moved there not knowing a soul. We met some kindred spirits, made efforts at connecting with people, and left with a handful of good friendships, but it was really difficult. I felt incredibly isolated most of the time I was there.

And now we're in Denver. It's been almost a year and a half, but it's been a difficult time, with Jason gone so much and money being tight and everything in my life feeling so turbulent and crazy. I have good friends and some family here, but I don't get to see them as much as I'd like because it's so hard to organize everyone's schedules. I still feel like the new kid, trying to make this place feel like home.

I frequently fantasize about time travel. Like, if I could go back in time and change this event or that event, how would my life be different. Or, if I could snap my fingers and have one wish granted, what would it be, and what would life be like afterwards.

Winning the lotto would obviously be nice. But sometimes I think I'd choose having a ready-made community, like living in a kibbutz or something, where I feel accepted and welcomed and like I fit in. Because I haven't felt that way in a long, long time, and I miss it.

All children, all the time

Jason is slammed with work until the Vail project, on the verge of completion, is finished. The bosses are panicking over missed inspection deadlines and generally acting like whiny, bitchy little girls, meaning the crews are working long hours and being threatened with firing if they don't stay until late late late. On Saturday they asked if the guys would be willing to work on Sunday for regular (i.e., non-overtime) pay in exchange for a day off on Friday. I think the request was half-hearted because they know Jason is married to a lawyer, and that he thus knew that the request is totally illegal. So the bosses weren't too miffed when, upon Jason's legal advice, the guys told the bosses to go piss up a rope. Which meant that at least Jason could come home Saturday night and also have Sunday off.

All of these late nights and working-on-the-weekend schedules means I'm on child-care duty all the fucking time. And I love my children like crazy, I really do. They're funny and sweet and generally well-behaved and a pleasure to spend time with. But they're still really little and require constant supervision. I can plop them in front of Dora the Explorer for maybe 15 minutes while I go shower, and pray to Saint Jude that Zeke won't stick a screwdriver in the DVD player while trying to "fix" it or that Josie won't find a stray piece of cereal bar under the couch that she will put in her mouth and choke on. But the rest of the time I'm with them, and they're on me. Strapped to me via the Snugli, sitting on my lap, lying on me, crawling on me, jumping on me. I don't want to be Mean Scary Mommy, but it seriously took all that I had, numerous times over the past few days, to not just scream in Zeke's face, "STOP TOUCHING ME!! GET OFF OF ME!!"

It's gotten to the point that Jason can forget about getting laid until the Vail job is over, because there's only so much human contact I can take. But he's too tired, in any event, so I don't think he even cares. Ah, the joys of the modern American marriage...

Bragging rights

As I've mentioned many times in the past, I grew up in a happy home. Accomplishments were lauded. Sunshine was blown up butts. My parents praised us and encouraged us and bragged on us. As in Lake Wobegon, we were all above-average.

This applies exponentially, of course, to the grandchildren.

Whatever my children do, it is a sign that they are geniuses, according to my parents. Last year when Zeke started counting and knew his alphabet and was figuring out various animal noises? Genius. Josie sitting up and rolling over? Genius.

For some reason, I find it so charming and endearing that my parents react this way, yet I can't quite embrace that attitude myself. Like it's bad form to talk too much about how smart your kids are. Plus as a special education lawyer, I'm so aware of the various disabilities that could befall children, so there's a superstitious part of me that doesn't want to go on and on about how super-smart and accomplished my children will be, because it's like tempting fate.

So one day when my parents were going on and on about how smart Zeke was, I remarked that he is undoubtedly intelligent, but probably not a genius, because so few people truly are, and that he most likely falls in the "high average" range.

I will never, ever live this down. My mother laughed uproariously at me. My father exclaimed, "High average? Did she say my grandson is high average?? He's brilliant! 'High average' -- pffft. Ridiculous!"

Zeke does have advanced verbal skills for his age -- he speaks very clearly, in complete, mostly grammatically correct sentences, with a huge vocabulary. And he knows and can recognize his letters, and knows which words start with which letters. He can count with one-to-one correspondence, and is learning the concept of very simple addition. So I have to admit that, by all appearances, he is a smart little cookie. But still, there's such a broad developmental range of skill acquisition in children, i.e., one kid could be counting at 2 and another at 3 1/2, and it's still all within the normal range.

Now when I talk on the phone with my mom or dad, they'll ask what the kids are up to, and what new things they are doing. And I'll tell them about the newest funny thing that Zeke said or did, and they'll snort at me and say, "high average, huh?" Then they'll crack up, laughing at me. This happens multiple times a week.

Josie has started chatting up a storm lately. She is particularly fond of the "ba-ba" and "da-da" syllables. And she does seem to say "da-da-da-da" over and over when she sees Jason.

I was telling this to my mom, and she said, "she says 'da-da' when she sees her daddy?? Wendy, that's very advanced."

"Yeah, it's pretty cute. But I don't know if she's really saying 'da-da' or if she's just repeating the syllable that is so predominant in her repertoire these days. Plus, she is 8 months old. It's not unusual for kids to be chattering at this age. Zeke certainly did."

"Well, I think she's obviously very smart."

"I guess."

I could hear her chuckling to herself. I knew what was coming.

"High average, right?"

*sigh*

Monday miscellany

• Vacaaaaatiioooooon! This morning at my office's monthly staff meeting, everyone giving their little department report was to also talk about any fun plans they had for the summer. So I talked about how I'm going to D.C. over 4th of July weekend to visit my parents and to go to the big all-class reunion for the school I went to (and graduated from) in New Delhi, India. I am so excited to see so many old friends, including Lisa, plus people I haven't seen in the 23 years since graduation. Plus my mom and dad rented a big house on the Outer Banks of North Carolina the last week of July, and Jason and I are taking the kids, along with my brothers and significant others and children. There will be surfing and suntans and grilling and at least one meal at Awful Arthur's. My family has been vacationing on the Outer Banks since I was 8, and I love the fact that we still all go there as a family. I've been really looking forward to both trips, but talking about it this morning made me almost cry with anticipation. I can't wait.
• Sleeeeeeeeep! For the past week I have been working like crazy on a big project at work. It's been really fun, litigation-y lawyering that I love, but the timing has been crappy because Jason has been out of town and there simply haven't been enough hours in the day to get everything done. So I've been working late at night and on furlough days and into the wee hours of the morning. And I'm fucking tired. But it's done now, so I can get some rest.
• Goooooooooooooool! The World Cup starts on Friday. I adore the World Cup. I've always liked soccer, but then I saw Argentina play Nigeria in the men's gold medal game of the 1996 Olympics, and it was seriously the best sporting event I've ever witnessed (and I've seen quite a few), so like turned to obsessive love. I'm trying to figure out a way to sneak the Fiddy out of the house and have it installed in my office for a month so I can watch all the games.

That is all. I'm off to deliver my brief, and then may stop for a margarita. Happy Monday, everyone.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster...

I like living in the city. Our neighborhood is full of cute bungalows and Victorians, tree-lined streets with sidewalks, parks and shops within easy walking distance, and neighbors that are uniformly cool and neighborly without being homogeneous. Gay, straight, black, white, families, singles, retirees, it runs the gamut. I dig it.

But we are also indisputably in an urban neighborhood. The liquor store up the street frequently has drunken homeless people sleeping on the sidewalk outside. There's a "lingerie" shop a few blocks away. About a month ago the cops knocked on my door to ask if I'd seen any suspicious types around, because a couple of guys were held up at gunpoint across the street from my house.

But I'll take that over the soul-crushing sameness of the suburbs.

Tonight we went to the "castle park," which is a playground on the west side of City Park, in the middle of Denver. It's a favorite of Zeke's because the jungle gym is huge, shaped like a castle with turrets and slides and funky walkways, plus swings and cool stuff to climb on. And there are kids from all walks of life, races, socio-economic strata, you name it. Which is great.

Except that based on the crowd tonight, I think the castle park has been taken over by the Latin Kings or something. All the parents were covered with tattoos and piercings and wearing t-shirts that looked suspiciously gang-like, with lots of black and gold lettering. The women were all squeezed into too-tight tank tops with their boobs spilling out and their neck tattoos well-displayed. A number of the guys had shaved heads with full skull tattoos.

Even the kids were decked out like little bangers. One kid, who couldn't have been more than 2, looked like he stepped out of a toddler production of West Side Story, complete with jeans with rolled cuffs, little baby Chucks, a tight t-shirt, and longish hair slicked back with gel. Another toddler had the low-riding shorts, a baggy t-shirt, and hair spiked up with plenty of gel.

Oy.

Zeke, in his little preppy polo-type shirt and his madras shorts, Josie in her little Hanna Andersson romper, and me in my basic Gap t-shirt and capris -- well, we stood out like sore Yuppie thumbs.

But, everyone got along, the kids played nicely, and foul language was kept to a minimum. So I looked the other way at one couple sitting in the middle of the playground popping each other's back zits. I mean, who hasn't done that, right? Live and let live.

And if any of the other parents even choose to strike up conversation with me, I guess I could mention that a great-great-uncle of mine was part of the Jewish mafia in Baltimore back in the 1800s. Everyone's got a little thug in their background.

Sucker

The house is quiet, for once, so I'm taking the time to sit and get some work done while everyone else sleeps. No TV, no radio, just me and my files and statute books.

Then I hear some indistinct chattering that sounds Zeke-like.

We have been working on going to bed "like a big boy." Meaning no fussing, no crying. For every night that he does it, he gets a sticker on his chart. For every three stickers, he gets a trip to the book store to pick out a new book. It's working well, or so I thought.

I poke my head around the wall from the kitchen to look down the stairs. He has turned on his bedside lamp, and I can hear him reading to himself.

I go down and stand in the door of his room. He's sitting on the floor looking at a book.

"What's going on, honey? You know it's bedtime."

He looks up, smiling broadly at me. "Hi, Mama!"

"Hi, sweetie. It's bedtime. Time to turn out the lights and go to sleep."

"Oh, but I need to read this book." His bright blue eyes are wide and innocent-looking, but he's totally playing me.

I walk over to him. "I know you want to read the book, but it's late and time to go to sleep."

He climbs into bed, taking his book with him. It's the farm board book.

"I need to sit and read, Mama. Do you want to sit and read with me?" He's got that adorable toddler pronunciation going, so it comes out, "do you want to sit and read wif me?"

I look at him. He's so insanely gorgeous, and so sweet. Lately Josie has been lighting up like the sun whenever Jason is around, but Zeke is mine. When we went up to the mountains this weekend, he was chilly in the brisk morning air when we went for a walk, so I gave him my bright magenta fleece pullover to wear. It hung down to his ankles like a cassock. We walked along the river, chatting and stopping to throw rocks and look at the guys fly-fishing in the water. All he wanted was to hang out with me and tell me about all of the things that he finds so fascinating.

I look at his hilarious feet, which are exactly like mine. My nice high arches, but also my ridiculous 4th and 5th toes that are stubby and curled in like little cheetos.

I look at the book, which we read the night before, and had a remarkably good time with. First we looked at the pictures of the animals and I explained the different names for mommies and babies -- nanny and kid for goats, mare and foal for horses, that kind of thing. When we got to the page with all the pictures of fruit, Zeke said, "let's have a snack." And he pretended to pick up a grape off the page and eat it. "Would you like a grape, Mama? They're good grapes!" So we had a snack of peaches, berries, potatoes, peas, and peppers. Then we counted. "Count the strawberries wif me, Mama! One, two, three..."

It won't always be like this. He'll grow out of his mommy stage and want to do everything by himself, or with Jason, or with his friends. He won't always want to snuggle and tell me about every aspect of his day.

"Mama, do you want to sit and read with me?"

I look at the clock. It's after 9 -- so totally past his bedtime. And then I climb into bed with him.

"Of course I do, sweetheart."

_______________________________

Zeke has already earned one trip to the bookstore, and has another one due to him tonight. Here's a clip from our last trip. You can see why it's so much fun to go with him.

Rescue me (again)

I need some Titty.

Oh, get your mind out of the gutter.  I'm talking, of course, about my hairdresser.

And yes, that's really her name.

I go to this funky little hair place on Colfax where the stylists sport the requisite hip adornments, from piercings to blue hair to baby doll dresses worn with Chuck Taylors and tights with holes in the knees.

But Titty is there.  Titty, who is remarkably normal looking,* and yet who oozes both hipness and tonsorial expertise.  Titty, who rescued my 'do after that last dumbass destroyed it (twice).

Titty, who, when I sit down in her chair, offers me a PBR (and I'm not unique -- all clients enjoy this benefit).

Her fix held up so well that it's been almost 6 months and only now am I thinking I need to go in for a trim, not because the layers haven't grown out proportionally, but because the pieces in the front are hanging in my face.  Titty is *that* good.

Funny story:  Dudley, a mutual friend of ours and Kathleen's was in town visiting a few months back.  His hair was getting a little bushy so Kathleen's husband made an appointment for him with Titty.  But Dudley was all worried that everyone was taking the piss out of him and setting him up for a huge practical joke in which he would go in, ask for "Titty" and promptly be run out of the store on a rail for his effrontery.  He was pleasantly surprised when Titty in fact existed, was a hottie, offered him a beer, and gave him a great haircut.

He, too, became a life-long fan of Titty.  And really, aren't we all?

______________________
*I have no idea if this is her given name (I tend to doubt it), but for whatever reason, I assumed Titty would be the name of an older lady (a bitty?) because no one in her 20s would take on such a moniker.  But Titty is indeed in her 20s, and totally adorable, and cool enough to carry it off.