The sweetest boy in the whole world

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When Josie was sick over the weekend, she ate nothing.  From Friday through the middle of Tuesday, I don't think she had more than 6 or 7 ounces of food, total.  And she's already so skinny.  She's 17 months old (today, in fact - happy 17 months, sweetie!), is in the 55th percentile for height (right where she should be), but is on the verge of dropping off the weight chart.

When she first got sick, she had been flirting with 20 pounds for a while.  She's now under 19 again.

not a happy girl.  at least her hair looks cute

Then on Tuesday afternoon, she suddenly got her appetite back.  She was scarfing everything in sight -- bananas, toast, cheerios.  We thought she was better better, but I guess she was only kinda better, because she had a rough day at school yesterday, which continued on to be a rough night at home.  Just cried and cried and cried, and there was nothing I could do to console her.  Eventually, after an hour or so, she just stopped crying and sat in my arms to read a book, and then went to bed without incident.

I was steeling myself to deal with getting Zeke ready for bed.  J gets up and leaves for work so early (3:30 in the morning to be precise) that by 8 at night, he's totally exhausted and barely functioning, so I generally have to deal with the bulk of the bedtime duties. 

And Zeke does not like going to bed.  He tends to get a burst of energy at around 7:30 or so, which means that hitting the designated 8:30 bedtime is a dicey proposition at best.

But I think sometimes he's as clued in to my moods as I am to his, because he just knew that last night was not the night to raise a fuss.  We went upstairs, brushed teeth, put on PJs, and he got into bed.

"Mama, will you snuggle with me for a little while?"

"Sure, honey, just for a few minutes."

I wrapped him in my arms.  He put his hand on my cheek and patted it.

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, sweet pea."

"You're the best mommy in the whole world!"

"Wow!  That's such a nice thing to say, thank you!"

"I like ants."

"Really?"

"Yes, some of them have polka-dots!"

"They do?  That's interesting."

He pats my face again.

"I'm patting your cheek, Mama."

"I know, honey.  That's very nice."

"You feel beautiful."

"Oh, my goodness."

"Maybe you could be a princess when you grow up."

*plotz*

Midweek musings

A bit of housekeeping: My friend Lisa gave me the idea to set up a Facebook page for the blog.  So click here to "like" the page and get posts in your news feed (and while you're at it, "like" Lisa's page, too).  Or click on the link in the sidebar to the right.  Or just keep reading and go about your day.  Whatever makes you happy.

Mini-Vacay!  I know I just said how much I love going to work.  And honestly, I really do.  I love the job, I love the people I work with.  When I sit down at my desk, I'm happy.

But the benefits don't suck either, including the time off I get when I need it.  And my mom and Emma are coming tomorrow to visit for the weekend.  So I need it.  Excited for mani-pedis, lunch, maybe a hike out at Red Rocks, and some much needed time with my mommy.


Another day, another reunion:  I've got yet another reunion coming up in June.  This time it'll be my 20th college reunion.  Which means yet another exercise/weight-loss ramp up.  A P90X/Insanity hybrid, plus Weight Watchers.  Ugh.  Josie, I love you to pieces, but you single-handedly managed to exponentially increase my body's desire to retain fat deposits around my midsection.  Aging sucks.

Boys will be boys:  Finally, Zeke's obsession with the swimsuit issue continues unabated.  He's sitting next to me on the couch leafing through the magazine.  "What's she doing, Mama?"  "Uh, she's lying in the sand getting her picture take."  "What's that, Mama?"  "That's water.  The lady is lying down in some water."  I honestly didn't think I'd have to deal with this for years and years.

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Freedom!

It's kind of sad that these days I look forward to being at work more than I look forward to weekends.

Well, sort of. 

If I could spend my weekends doing whatever I wanted, or doing nothing at my leisure, weekends would be awesome.  But these days, when I already get no down time to myself as it is (except for the random morning off to ski, but that hasn't happened in a while), weekends are just more time to clean up after short people* and argue with said short people about their need to take a nap or change one of the short people's diapers (the other is finally potty-trained).

And it's not that I don't love the short people.  I adore them.  They're hilarious and sweet.  I laugh even when they do things like come out of the bathroom announcing that they went pee not in the potty, but rather in the drain.  Problem is, we don't have a drain in the downstairs bathroom.  Only a heating vent. 

I know, it's gross.  But it's still funny. 

This past weekend, Short Person No. 2, i.e., Josie, developed some kind of stomach bug.  We were supposed to go skiing on Saturday with my cousins, but only made it to Idaho Springs before Little J started puking all over the car.  So we went home.

And I spent the entire 3-day weekend with her on me.  All.  The.  Time.  Because all she wanted was to be cuddled and held.  Which I understand -- she's a little peanut who wanted her mommy because she felt like shit.  But it meant that I was pretty much chained to the house for 3 days.

Plus, Zeke is going through a major Oedipal phase right now.  It's like he wants to consume me.  He's always on me, caressing me, kissing me, even licking me.  Which is made even creepier by the fact that he's (still) in the little boy stage when he likes to be naked if he's in the house.  I finally told him that if he wanted me to hold him or cuddle him, he needs to at least put on underpants.  Jeez.

So I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that I could not wait to come back to work.  To sit in my cube and work on my stuff without anyone touching me.  Or bothering me.  Or asking me for chocolate milk.  Or throwing up on me.

Yesterday Josie seemed to be doing better.  She was keeping down fluids and had even eaten a little bit.  She hadn't puked in a long time.  She slept well.  So I was all excited to drop the kids off at daycare and head off to work.

But then as we were getting ready to leave, she stood in the middle of the living room, coughed ominously, and then puked all over the rug.

I burst into tears.

But, I managed to keep it together, took Zeke to school, went to the store to get Pedialite and saltines and some other stuff we needed, and then took Josie home.  We colored for awhile, watched last night's episode of Hawaii 5-0 (such a guilty pleasure, that show), and then she went to sleep.  I cleaned the living room and did the dishes. 

And then, thankfully, Jcame home.  He was able to get off work early and knew I needed some relief, not just because I was fried, but because it's not fair that every time the kids get sick or have to stay home, it's my job that suffers. 

Tonight I will be working late.  The thought of it makes me so happy.
_____________________________
*TM my friend Elizabeth.

At least he's not taking it into the bathroom and locking the door

I grew up in a family of sports fans (myself among them).  We watched football, had season tickets to basketball and hockey, played baseball and softball and whatever else our various schools and communities were offering.  We played and followed the games.

So I've been reading Sports Illustrated all my life.  One of the first things I did when I got to college was to take advantage of the student discounts offered on magazine subscriptions. 

My choice?  Sports Illustrated.

So I'm well familiar with the annual swimsuit issue.  I can tell you who the various stars were throughout the years, when Christie Brinkley's reign gave way to those of Paulina Porizkova, Elle MacPherson, Vendala and Heidi.  How the issue used to be more interesting when it was a 7 to 10 page feature in the regular magazine, often with articles about sports in whatever locale the pictures were shot in.  Now that it's its own book, there are so many pictures that individual ones get lost in the shuffle.

But honestly, I'm a fan.  I've never found it offensive or gross.  The women are beautiful and healthy looking, the photography is usually far above the level of your average cheesecake calendar shoot.  I'm fascinated by the body painting.

And let's face it, who doesn't like boobies?

I've got a decent rack myself and I've always admired a good one on someone else.  They're pretty and bouncy and very appealing.  I totally get why men are into them, beyond the whole "they started life suckling at the tit and then spend the rest of their lives trying to return" theory.  They're fun!

The men in my family are unquestionably breast men.  My dad, my brothers, my grandfather.

And now, apparently, my son.

The other night Zeke was talking on the phone with my mom.  They were talking about the stickers he was playing with, what was on them (puppies and kittens, I think), how when she comes to visit next week, a trip to the sticker store will be on the agenda.

Then, in mid-sentence, Zeke spied the new SI swimsuit issue on the side table where the phone is, and went completely silent.  I could hear my mom saying, "hello?  Zeke?" as Zeke stared slack-jawed at the picture of Irina Shayk, all gorgeous and tan and with juicy mango boobies barely contained by her bikini top.

I took the phone from him, knowing that any further efforts at conversation with him would be useless.

Later he came up to me holding the magazine like it was the Holy Grail, an earnest look on his face.  "Mama, can I look at this?"

He sat on the couch and slowly leafed through the pages.  At one poing I heard him talking under his breath. 

Turns out he was counting boobies.  "One, two."  Next page.  "One, two."  And so on.

I'm telling myself it's a healthy supplement to his education.

Bringing Down the Hammer

 

Sometimes I think they've got the right idea in Catholic schools...

 As you might have noticed, I updated my reading list to include the Nanny 911 guidebook on how not to be a big pussy with your kids and make them behave without beating them senseless.  It's a great book -- full of very practical advice and information and tips and techniques that really work.

Not that I'm really a big pussy with my kids, but lately I've been so exhausted and feeling besieged by life that I've ignored irritating behavior because if I didn't ignore it, I would scream and then everyone would feel bad and cry, and the crying would give me a headache.  So Zeke has gotten away with going to bed later than he should and has demanded chocolate milk at every turn and I've given it to him because it was easier than not giving it to him, and he's just generally been acting kind of obnoxious.

Except when he's not.

That's the problem with 3-year-olds.  When they're on their game, they are seriously the cutest, sweetest, most charming people on the planet.  But when they're not, you want to throw them out the window and not look back.

There isn't much middle ground, unfortunately.

The past few days, Zeke has gotten less than stellar progress reports from school.  Not listening, not taking part in group activities, complaining of being tired, and generally acting like a little jerk.

And while I'm willing to endure a certain amount of bad behavior, I sure as hell don't want to be known around the daycare as the asshole parent who refuses to discipline her child, so last night I got out my trusty guidebook and then got to work. 

We now have a big chart on the refrigerator listing the house rules.  They are simple but broad -- listen and obey, use nice words, sleep in your own bed, no hitting/throwing, things like that.  We had a family meeting at which I explained the rules and the consequences for failing to follow them.

Zeke was informed that he would get no chocolate milk unless he came home today with a good report from the teachers.  He wasn't happy about it, but he dealt. 

And we had a good night.  Everyone sat nicely and ate dinner at the table.  We read books and then everyone went to sleep and stayed in their own beds.  "Please" and "thank you" rang throughout the house. 

We'll see how long it lasts.

Halfway there?

I'm 41 today. 

Which seems old.  I look back on past birthdays, when the prospect of being in my 40s seemed so remote.  Turning 21 with my college girlies and celebrating in Old Town Alexandria.  The surprise party my roomies threw for me when I turned 25.  The big party I threw when I turned 30, when I played the banjo and sang with my bluegrass buddies, and I drank too much so Cameron and Trey had to put me to bed.  They were thoughtful enough to blow out all the candles so the house wouldn't burn down. Turning 34 in Costa Rica with J (the UTI trip), when he organized a little party for me at the surf camp, and managed to find some lady in Tamarindo to make a cake. 

I've celebrated a lot of birthdays.

Honestly, I don't feel very old.  Physically I feel the same as always, strong and agile, but with an aching back.  But my back has ached since I was 14, so that's nothing new.  I can ski or hike or bike and I don't feel creaky the next day. 

I have to admit that mentally, I feel tired.  Life is exhausting these days.  Occasionally I get a few hours of alone time to recharge my batteries, but most days are spent careening from task to task, trying to keep my head above water.  Work is great, kids are great, all is well, but I need. more. time.  Time to clean, time to get organized, time to spend with my husband, time to spend individually with each kid, time to myself.

If my genetics hold up and I don't get hit by a bus or something, I still have plenty of years ahead of me.  My Grandma Anne is 93.  Ruth lived to be 87.  Leo lived to be 93.  My great-grandpa Julius lived to be 102.  Great-grandparents Alex and Sadie lived well into their 80s.  So I'm probably not even half-way done with my life yet. 

Which I guess is a good thing.  Life is hard, but it's better than the alternative, right?

I want to give a shout-out to my peeps who share my birthday.  First, my friend David (married to my good buddy Michele), is truly one of the most benevolent souls I know.  He also happens to possess a wonderfully dry and wicked sense of humor.  David, I wish you a happy birthday and a happy year -- here's hoping 2011 shapes up to be far, far better than 2010 was.  Love you.

My friend Nicole went to middle school and high school with me in Israel.  Have a wonderful day, Nicole, and I hope to see you again in the future, maybe at the next AIS reunion.

My friend Russ (whose birthday was yesterday, but I still count him as a birthday buddy) is a close friend from high school in India.  Here's to making another reunion happen this year in Costa Rica.  I volunteer free surf lessons from J for anyone who wants them. 

Zeke's teacher, Antoinette, also has a birthday today.  Have a wonderful day, Miss Anty, and thank you for taking such great care of my child.

And of course, my friend Kristin, who left us way too early.  RIP, my friend.

So, to everyone, have a great birthday, have a great year, and let's do our best to have a great life. 

Love to all.

The Valentine's Day Shakedown

I'm not a big Valentine's Day person.  I don't hate it or have anything in particular against it.  I'm just indifferent.  Partly because it's the day before my birthday, so my whole life it was just the day before a big day.  Partly because I'm not particularly romantic or sentimental.  J and I will say, "Oh, yeah! Happy Valentine's Day!" when we remember it, and then go about our day, just like any other.

But now both kids are in preschool.  And I'm telling you, the Mob could learn something from the way preschools are able to get parents to toe the line when it comes to bringing in treats for everyone in the class, having little cards "signed" by your kids (neither of whom writes yet, so who are we kidding here), participate in parties, etc. 

Only instead of the threat of broken kneecaps, they use guilt.  Because no one wants to be that one asshole parent who doesn't contribute.

As I was getting the kids dressed this morning, I suddenly realized it was Valentine's Day and that I had completely spaced on the fact that I was supposed to bring 24 signed Valentine's for the kids in Zeke's and Josie's classes, plus treats for the party.  (Attending the party itself was out of the question -- I have a job, which is why I pay almost 2 grand a month for daycare in the first place.)

When I dropped the kids off, I took Zeke into his classroom, where his teacher was busy putting together elaborate goodie bags for the children.  There was Valentine's stuff everywhere.  I was thankful that I had thought to throw on a red sweater, so I could fake looking the part.

"Hi, Ann.  I totally forgot about Valentine's Day.  I don't have any Valentines."

She gave me a withering look.  Robert DeNiro could totally play her in the movie scene when the enforcer is shaking down the babbo who's into him for 10 large.

"But I'm going to Safeway right now to pick some up.  Should I get other stuff as well?  Is there anything you need?"

I'm totally pathetic at this point.  She's got me by the proverbial balls.

"Well, sure, whatever you'd like to contribute..." she says, in a voice dripping with sugar.  Laced with arsenic.

"Oh, of course, of course!"

And off I scurry.

Dorkitude, Exhibit 4932, or, Why I Sometimes Feel Like I Shouldn't Be Allowed Out in Public

I'm not really one to listen to music via earbuds or headphones, at least not outside of an airplane.  I get so into the music that it pushes everything else in my head out of the way. 

Like at work, I might play music at an almost inaudible volume (so as not to disturb the fellow cube-dwellers) just to have it in the background.  But if I put in earbuds, I'll be too easily startled if someone approaches me (which I am anyway -- I get really focused when I work, so someone could creep up making virtually no sound and they'll still scare the shit out of me and cause me to jump out of my chair).  Plus I find it distracting.  So I generally don't do it.

But the other night when I was leaving work, it was a clear, pretty night, if a bit cold, and for whatever reason, I decided that I wanted to listen to some music while I waited for my bus.  Because it was after hours, I had a longer wait than usual.

So I put in Beethoven's Ode to Joy.  Not like it's so original to be a big fan of Ode to Joy, but it's one of my favorite pieces of music, so whatevs. I had been listening to it intermittently throughout the day, so I cued it up to start at the beginning of the 4th (and last) movement.

When I'm really, really into a piece of music, I instinctively close my eyes.  I do this when I sing, too.  Visual stimuli become almost overwhelmingly distracting.  But of course, I can't stand out on a street corner with my eyes closed (for one thing, I'd miss my bus), so from time to time I'll open them, and then without realizing it, close them again a little while later. 

The most famous part of Ode to Joy is the end, the big choral section that carries the musical theme to its huge, explosive conclusion. 

I love that part, but my favorite is the lead-up to the fireworks, which start at about 11 minutes into the 4th movement.*  It's like you're being pulled up a gorgeous mountain to the edge of a cliff, and being held there by strings of gossamer that are like a tease -- will they break?  will they hold up? will you fall? The view is so beautiful, and the feeling of being up so high and swaying on the edge is exquisite, almost orgasmic, because you feel like there's something big coming, but the getting there and the being there is so amazing as well.  And then, with a massive whooosh! the strings break and you do fall off the cliff, but instead of being scary, it's like falling into heaven. 

I'm sure you're all thinking at this point that I'm insane.  Who knows, maybe I am.

And maybe the workload and stress and crazyness and lack of sleep of the past week has made me emotional.  Because when the big chorus started -- the fall off the cliff -- I felt like my heart was going to burst and I started to cry (not hard, but still).  It was just so beautiful.

And that's how I ended up waiting for the bus in the middle of downtown Denver, with the crackheads and the drunks and the guys roaming around offering to sell discounted boxes of cigarettes, crying tears of joy and looking for all the world like a borderline narcoleptic.

I probably need to lay off the earbuds.

__________________________
* Click here for the entire symphony.  Click on "ninth4b" for the part I've been describing -- it's about 5 1/2 minutes in.  Enjoy.

Baby Fish Mouth is Sweeping the Nation

I never played with dolls as a little girl.  I had a Baby Alive once for about 20 minutes, but after the novelty of watching her poop fake baby food wore off, I amused myself by cutting up my socks to sew clothes for her.

So baby dolls as a toy for a little girl is something that doesn't really occur to me.  I don't have a problem with it.  I just don't really get it.

So color me surprised when Josie all of a sudden became totally obsessed with this doll in her classroom at school.  Like, sits and plays with it all day.  Calls it "Mimi" or "Bibi".  Won't let it go when J picks her up in the afternoon, so the school lets her takes it home.  She sits with it on the couch and gives it hugs and giggles.

Which is all very well and good and cute.  Except that this is what the doll looks like:

What the fuck?

survey services

Supercrazylife

The craziness of the beginning of last week continued unabated.

First it was supercrazycold and I lost two days of work because I had to stay home with the kids.  Two days of needed time to work on a huge project that's due next week.  But knowing what the weather report was, I was confident that I'd get to work the next day, and if I worked late Thursday and Friday and at least part of Saturday, I'd still be in OK shape to get a draft to my boss by the end of the day Monday (yesterday).

Then our pipes out in the laundry room froze Wednesday night and burst in the -15 degree air.  Poor J, who has been getting up at 3:30 to get to work on time at a job in Fort Collins, went downstairs to check on something and heard the water gushing all over the laundry and then down into the cellar below.

He found the shut-off valve for the house and I made an appointment for the next morning.  The plumber came and fixed everything and was out of the house by 10.  But that still killed my morning on Thursday.

I worked late Thursday night and felt like I had been really productive, making up for lost time.  I felt good about getting the bulk of the main section of the document finished if I worked late Friday night.

But when I went into work on Friday and opened up the document, all of Thursday's revisions -- a solid 9 1/2 hours' worth of work -- were gone.  Vanished into thin air.  Nowhere to be found.  I called our admin people, I called tech support, but it was no use.

I could have cried.  I wanted to.  But I didn't really feel like I had time.  So I sat down and rewrote what I had done the day before.  And then kept going until about 8:00, when my head was feeling fuzzy and I was losing my ability to think clearly.

So I went to catch my bus and went home.

The kids were still up when I got home.  There was a big love-fest when I walked in the door.  And then I realized how cold it was in the house.  There was no hot water, the furnace was blowing cold air, and the oven and stove didn't work.

Long story short, the owner of the house before us -- or, more accurately, his executor, since the owner is dead and we bought the house from the estate -- sat with us at closing and told us that he had switched all the utilities over to our name.  Except that he didn't do it, so all this time the power/gas company has been under the assumption that the house has been vacant.  And Friday night, in the middle of a major cold spell, was when they decided to shut off the gas.*

The representative I talked to set up a new account and told me that I could pay an extra $40 to get the service reconnected within 12 hours, but that it could literally be any time withing the next 12 hours from the time I called, which was 8:45 at night.  Like, even at 3 in the morning, if that was when my number came up. We had already decided we would stay the night in a hotel because I didn't want the kids to spend the night in the cold house, but the customer service guy assured me that the technician would call before he came.  

So we left the house at about 9:15 and checked into the Crown Plaza downtown.  I kept my phone glued to my hip, waiting for the gas company guy to come.  The kids were a little hyper and excited, but we finally got them to calm down and go to sleep.

But I was so paranoid about missing the call that I didn't sleep.  I tossed and turned and got in some cat-naps between 5 and 7.

We got up, ordered some breakfast and the kids had a bath.  I called the gas company to find out the status of our service call.

And was told by the lady I talked to that the 12-hour-emergency-reconnect service wasn't a service that was offered on the weekend.  I managed to keep my cool while still letting her know that the information she was giving me was totally inconsistent with the information I had previously received.  She said that it was possible that the guy could still make it out this weekend, after making any emergency calls that might come up.  But there was no way of checking the status.

"There isn't a dispatch number I can call or something?"

"No, ma'am."

"So you're telling me that once a service order is placed, it just falls into a black hole and there isn't anybody on the planet that you or I or anyone else can contact to determine its status?"

"That's right."

I called my cousin to ask if J and the kids could come and hang out for the day, because I needed to go to the office.  We packed up and went home.

To discover a note on our front door from the gas company, claiming they had missed us.  At 9 o'clock the night before.  When we were still home.

It's a miracle my head didn't explode.  Again I called the gas company, again I was given a different story by the rep.

"You know, you guys really need to get your stories straight.  This whole event has been frustrating enough, but the fact that every time I call I get information has made it much more difficult."

"Well, ma'am, it's a really big company.  We have a huge service area."

"What, so you're telling me that because you're a big company with a big service area, it's OK for the customer service reps to not know what they're talking about?"

He checked himself.  "No, you're right.  I'm sorry I said that."

"OK, good.  Now let's get this problem solved."

And it was within a couple of hours.  So I went to work and wrote for another 6 hours.  Then went home and cleaned and hung out with the kids.

The next day, we were having people over to watch the game (yay, Packers!). J had all kinds of electrical work to do for the bathroom renovation, so I tried to clean while looking after the kids.  Then we cooked.  Then we had friends over, which was great.  Then we collapsed.

I'm realizing how much easier things were when J was home, whether recovering from his surgery or when he was out of work.  It was about 4 months of having someone at home to take care of shit.  Now we're both constantly run ragged, exhausted, incapable of getting on top of life's tasks.  Things are fine, but man, I'm frazzled.

My mom and Emma are coming to visit at the end of the month.  I put in to take 2 days off of work to spend extra time with them, and to just relax a little bit.  I can't wait.

In the meantime, it's moments like this that get me through:

I swear on a stack of first edition Green Eggs and Ham that I did not stage this.

____________________________
*For unknown reasons, the power is still on, and the guy I talked to assured me that it won't be shut off over the weekend and that I can call the billing center this week and everything will be fine.  Yeah, I don't get it either.

Cold-bound

There are definite upsides and downsides to being married to a tradesman.

The upside is that he knows how to do shit.  Got a new dryer requiring a different kind of outlet on non-standard voltage?  J can run a wire from the circuit box, run it through pipe that conforms to code, and get the whole thing set up in about 45 minutes.  He knows how to use tools that scare me, like sawz-alls.  He can frame a bed headboard and teach me how to put up sheet-rock.

He's definitely a handy guy to have around.

The downside is that when he's gainfully employed -- which he now is, thank goodness -- he works in an industry that is notoriously shitty to its employees.

When I started my new job, I immediately started accruing paid leave at the rate of 14 hours per month, not to mention the state and federal holidays I already get off.  If something happens like I get sick or my kid gets sick or there's some emergency, my employers understand and I can deal with my life without worrying about getting fired.

When J started his new job, he was informed that he would accrue a paid week off each year after he had worked for a year (mighty white of them, I say). And it's basically understood that unless you or a close relative is on the verge of death, don't bother calling in sick unless you're no longer interested in having a job at all.

It infuriates me, but it's a job.  They've got us by the short hairs for sure.

Supercrazycold.  Photo by Andy Cross for The Denver Post.

The past two days it's been what Zeke and I have referred to as supercrazycold.  Yesterday the high was about 3 degrees, with a low of about -15, plus it snowed all day Monday, so everything iced up and got sketchy.  Schools closed, including the kids' preschool.

Of course, J had to report to work at 6 in the morning at a job up in Fort Collins, which is about an hour away (assuming decent conditions).

So I stayed home with the kids.  I was going to work from home anyway, but with the kids around, I couldn't get any work done.  So we played and went to Monkey Bizness and watched movies. I comforted myself with the fact that the roads were decent and even though it was scheduled to be supercrazycold today as well, conditions were OK for travel so the kids would be able to go to school and I'd be able to go to work today.

Then last night at about 9, our pipes out in the laundry room (which is essentially an uninsulated wooden porch with a washer and dryer) froze and burst, sending water everywhere, including into the cellar.  J managed to locate the main shut-off valve for the water and stop the flow of water and I called a plumber and scheduled an appointment for this morning.  And when I was up working at 2 in the morning, I checked my email and saw a message from the preschool director announcing that even though Denver Public Schools did not announce a closure for today, she was going to close today as well, "for the safety of our children and her staff."

While I'm certainly a fan of safety, the kids are in a heated building.  And they don't have to wait at cold bus stops because they are driven to school by their parents.  You'll have to forgive me if I didn't consider taking them to school to be putting them in any kind of risk.

So I'm a little annoyed today.  I'm tired of being the one whose schedule always has to accommodate every emergency, simply because I work for reasonable people.

But then I'm brought back to earth listening to Zeke flush the toilet and yell "Bye, Zekey's pee!" at his work product.  Or by Josie walking around saying "WOW!"  She just figured out how to say it and does it in a very exaggerated way that's hilarious.  It's nice having time with the kids.

But it will be in the mid-30s tomorrow.  School and work will definitely be open.

Thank God.

Dancing with the stars...and the moon...and the snowflakes

The past two weekends I have taken advantage of J's agreement that in exchange for my efforts during the year and a half he was in Vail, I can pick a morning each weekend to head up the mountains and ski. 

It's been kind of great.  The first time it was kind of overcast, so the light wasn't the greatest, but conditions were good and I had the supremely peaceful and exhilarating experience of being the first of the day to glide down a run and make fresh tracks, all alone.  Yesterday was even better, because I knew the mountain a little bit more and knew where to go and where not to, plus it was a gorgeous sunny day with bluebird skies and plenty of fresh powder. 

One of my favorite parts of the day is the drive up.  Which may sound odd, given that in order to beat the traffic and avoid turning a 1 1/2 hour drive into 2 or 3 hours, I leave at 6 a.m.  And that's not starting to load the car up at 6.  That's pulling out of the driveway at 6, when there's still at least an hour of darkness left. 

But it's beautiful darkness.  Quiet.  Clear, crisp air, with the moon and the stars looking bright and sparkly. 

And I've always liked driving at night.  There's a woman in my office who, before becoming a public interest lawyer, was a commercial long-haul trucker.  I don't know that I could do that for a living, but sometimes I can sort of see the appeal of doing a job that allows you so much alone time.  In college when we made the 20 hour trek from Charlottesville to Key West for spring break, I would take the graveyard shift, driving from 2 to 5 in the morning.  There's always wonderfully random talk radio on at that hour.  Or you can listen to old blues and just think.

A dark car is also a great place to have crazy intimate conversations.  I once drove home from law school with a guy that was from the same home town.  We left late and drove at night because he had a late class or something like that.  He was a friend, but we didn't know each other *that* well.  But sitting in the dark with someone without actually looking at them, while you watch the world go by, has a way of breaking down conversational walls.  The darkness takes on a velvety protective quality - and you end up telling all kinds of deep dark secrets.  Which we did.

The weekend morning trek up the mountain has the feeling of a pilgrimmage.  I head west and by the time I've hit the highway, I'm part of a community of other locals, awake at an insane hour, drinking coffee, carbo-loading on Pop-Tarts or breakfast burritos, skis strapped to the roof of the car.  I sometimes mentally pull back, like a movie camera, and in my head I can see the cars, white and red lights all in a line, heading west and up, to the snow. 

I drive along, marvelling at the beauty around me but also deep in my own head.  I admire the twinkly Christmas lights still up in Empire, which reminds me of Christmas morning, which makes me think of Zeke and Josie opening their presents, which makes me think of Zeke and Josie generally and how cute they are, which makes me think of Zeke's new skis and how cool it will be when he can head up the slopes with me and we can ski together, which makes me think of my cousin's kids who can already ski, which makes me think of my cousin and her husband who are currently on a trip in India, which reminds me of high school -- my brain skips around and skips around.  Until I'm jolted back by the sight of the sun rising over the mountains as I wend my way over Berthoud Pass.  The sky's blackness gives way to streaks of pink and white and orange, and that feeling of being ensconced in my own little coccoon dissipates. 

A half an hour later, I'm in the parking lot.  I open the car door to start putting on my ski pants and getting my gear together.  A blast of 5 degree air hits me in the face, and my day begins all over again.

Cool Tricks Converge

Zeke's newest Cool Trick (TM Yo Gabba Gabba!) is answering the phone.  He's pretty good at pushing the right button and saying "HELLOOOOO??" in his cute little voice and then handing the phone to me saying, "it's Mimi!" 

His other big Cool Trick is counting up to very high numbers. 

He counts everything.  Everything everything everything.  Cars we pass when we're going somewhere, chicken nuggets on his plate, animals in his picture books, toys in the bathtub.  Everything. 

Yesterday we got one of those automated phone calls from a company offering credit card services or something.  Zeke answered the phone.  J had been getting Josie dressed and got to Zeke (and the phone) in time to hear Zeke say enthusiastically, "oh, OK!"  and then press the number "1."  Apparently it was one of those, "if you are interested in becoming a customer, please press '1'" dealios.  Because, numbers!  His favorite thing in the world!  He kept pressing different numbers and then finally got bored and went to do a puzzle.

I'm just waiting for the paperwork to arrive letting me know that I've got a new line of credit on the house.

Misfit

Just before the elevator closes, he scoots on.  One of the building security guys.  We nod "hello." 

After a few floors of silence, he gives me a big grin and says, "This sure is Stock Show* weather, isn't it?"

I assume he's referring to the fact that it's fucking freezing outside.  But I have no idea why any particular kind of weather is better or worse for the Stock Show.  Though I guess if it were really hot, it would be kind of yucky and smelly and sweaty being around all of the livestock, but they hold it in Denver in January, making extreme heat unlikely.  Anyway.

I give him a strained smile, chuckle and say, "Right."

It's times like these that I seriously wonder if I suffer from some sort of personality disorder that makes me antisocial.  Because it never occurs to me to talk to strangers unless I have something productive to say, like, "your keys are about to fall out of your pocket" or "excuse me, is that seat taken?"  I have conversations in my head all the time, to the point that occasionally I'll start having them out loud without even realizing it, so I've never really needed small talk or chit chat to fill the silence of an elevator ride, because it's so noisy in my brain already. 

Plus I much prefer being alone to being with people.

Not that I don't like people.  I love my family and my friends and I enjoy spending time with them.  But I take enormous solace from quiet time by myself -- quiet time that I rarely get. 

As a nod to the fact that I took care of the kids by myself for the better part of a year and a half while J was in Vail, J has given me a pass to take time on the weekends to get out of the house whenever I want to (within reason).  So this Saturday morning, I'm going to get up early, drive to the mountains, go skiing for a few hours, and then come home in time to hang with the family and have some friends over for dinner.

J said, "why don't you call Suzanne or one of your other friends and see if they want to go?" 

I thought about it.  There are any number of friends I could call, or I could call my cousins. 

But honestly, the thought of a few hours on the slopes by myself, feeling the cold on my face and the burn in my muscles and the exhiliaration of speeding down a steep hill, without having to talk to anyone or worry about anyone else, is intoxicating.

I'll go it alone.
____________________________________
*The National Western Stock Show is in town.

I've become a statistic -- a cliche of our times.

Last week I had to call the bank that holds the mortgage on our Hawaii house and tell them that I couldn't pay.  Our tenants, who were supposed to be in there for 3 years, terminated a year early (they're active-duty military and have a legal right to terminate early if they get transferred, which they did).  This happened the same week J lost his job.

A financial tsunami, if you will. 

The Hawaii house is in good shape, but it could use some new carpeting and some repairs.  But the money isn't there right now.  Which makes getting a renter in more difficult.  But I don't want to put renters in the house only to have to ask them to leave when the bank forecloses.  And without some kind of loan modification, even if the house is rented, we can't afford the mortgage anymore because we can't get in rent what we pay in mortgage, and with J out of work, we can't afford the loss we were taking on it. 

A financial Catch-22, if you will.

It kind of sucks.  That house was going to be our retirement fund.  Or a place to retire.  Or something. 

But if the money isn't there, it isn't there. 

I'm obviously much more fortunate than many who have to make that call to the bank.  I have a roof over my head, a very reasonable mortgage on my house in Denver, a job, healthy children, etc.  If we lose the Hawaii house, it won't really affect my life much, except to ruin my credit for a time.  But we can survive that.

Oh, well.  I guess we'll see what happens.

Welcome to the Four Seasons. Please don't ever come back.

My dad's brother is in town with his wife (my aunt) and my cousin.  They're staying at the Four Seasons and emailed last week to see if we wanted to come to the hotel to meet them for brunch.  I try to avoid going to restaurants with my children, but I don't see my uncle very often and I haven't seen my aunt or cousin in decades (for reals -- the last time I saw my cousin I was 14), so I thought we'd brave it this time.

The outing started out well.  The kids looked cute and presentable in nice sweaters.  Josie had just woken up from a nap so she was energetic and happy.  It was lovely to catch up with my relatives.

But there's a reason I don't like going out to eat with my children.  They're just too young to sit still without getting restless and fussy.  Occasionally we'll grab dinner at the Greek diner down the block from our house, but we generally only have 20 minutes of good behavior from the kids before they start squirming and wanting to wander around and J and I end up shoveling the rest of our meals in our face while frantically motioning towards the waitress for the check.

At the Four Seasons, which was mercifully uncrowded for brunch/lunch, Zeke did really well.  I packed a bag full of coloring books and crayons and trucks for him to play with, plus the restaurant has cute little puzzles for kids and Zeke is on a big puzzle kick, so he sat quietly and colored and did his puzzle. 

But Josie was full of beans and just wanted to run around and look at everything.  First I followed her around as she ran around tables and looked at the sculptures and tried to find her way back into the kitchen.  Then Zeke wanted me to take him to the potty, so I took Zeke to the bathroom while J followed Josie around.

When Zeke and I got back from the bathroom, Josie was crying and she and J were surrounded by concerned-looking restaurant staff.  Apparently Josie made her way back to the swinging service doors leading into the kitchen and before J could grab her, a waiter carrying a tray of food kicked the door from the other side to open it and smashed her in the forehead, sending her airborne.  She had (and still has) a red welt extending from the top of her forehead to her left eyebrow and was totally freaking out.

We spent the next half hour assuring the nice people at the Four Seasons that we didn't need medical attention.  The restaurant manager came, multiple staff came to check on us, the poor waiter who kicked the door was completely distraught.  We assured them that we didn't blame them, that Josie would be fine, kids get into mischief and it's just life, blah blah. 

And once she calmed down, she resumed wanting to run around, which freaked everybody out to no end.

After brunch, we went up to my relatives' room to see their dogs.  They have little Yorkies that they travel with and we thought the kids would enjoy seeing the dogs.  And little 2 pound dogs wearing sweaters are not really my thing, but the dogs were very sweet, until Zeke got a little too much in the face of one of them and she nipped his hand.  So he started to cry.

We figured it would be best if we cut our losses and went home. 

Zeke ran ahead of us in the hall to the elevator because he wanted to push the buttons.  But he pushed the wrong button at first -- at the same level as the elevator call button, there's an emergency button that I guess you call if the elevators don't work and you aren't able to get down stairs or something. 

We told the people at the front desk about the error so they wouldn't think there was some emergency.  Then we went out and waited for the valet to bring our car.

That's when we heard the sirens.  Apparently, that little button that Zeke pushed isn't just an internal call button.  It summons the fire department.  As the fire trucks pulled up and at least 10 firemen ran into the building with axes and other fireman-y accoutrement, we kept our heads down and tried to act casual.  The valet brought the car, we threw the kids into it, jumped in and sped off, half expecting to look in the rear view mirror and see the entire structure collapse in our wake.

We'll be laying low for a while.

The rocking chair

My life is not peaceful these days.  I'm not saying it's bad or unpleasant, but it's not peaceful.  My daily schedule is jam-packed and I'm up early and getting everyone dressed and fed and organized and making daycare drop-offs and then coming back to catch the bus to work and then working and then coming home to wrangle everyone until bedtime.  It's exhausting.  It doesn't leave a lot of opportunity to reflect or appreciate or even just feel, in a conscious and deliberate way, the intensity of the love that I feel for my family (particularly when they're driving me nuts and annoying the shit out of me).

I feel like it's bad to admit that I'm not always feeling the love.  It's not that I don't always love them -- I absolutely do.  But the feeling doesn't really permeate every waking moment when I'm careening from task to task and just trying to keep my life from spinning completely out of control.

The moments when I experience the proverbial loving feeling tend to occur in a particular place.

Before Zeke was born and we were stocking up on baby gear, I, like a million other soon-to-be mommies, purchased a rocking chair.  This particular type is actually referred to as a "glider," because it doesn't so much rock back and forth on a fixed curved base so much as glide forwards and backwards on a hinge that attaches to a fixed flat base.  But I never use the term "glider" -- it's a rocking chair.

This is just a stock photo I found on Google, but this is essentially what my rocker looks like.

Because furniture in Hawaii is crazy-expensive to either buy locally or ship in from elsewhere, we got our rocker on the cheap.  I went to the crappy local K-Mart in Kapolei, which I hated but it was close and the only other reasonable option was the crappy local WalMart in Waipio, which I also hated.  In their baby section, they had a basic white glider (with ottoman) for $89.  The cushions were thin and covered with a flimsy blue fabric, but it did the job (and when I got tired of the cushions, I simply covered them with a sturdier fabric that I liked).  I figured, it's functional, it serves a specific purpose and I'll only have it for a few years until the kids get a little older, then I'll get rid of it.

But I can't imagine getting rid of it now.  It is where I have had, and continue to have, my most intensely loving, focused, peaceful moments with my children.  The moments when everything calms down and I can just be with them and care for them and tune out all the noise.  Rocking and singing Zeke to sleep as a baby.  Calming Zeke down last week when he had a huge day, didn't nap and completely lost his mind from exhaustion at around 7:00 at night.  I finally got him to stop crying by sitting with him in the rocking chair and singing him a soothing song, at which point he fell asleep with his head on my shoulder and was out for the night.

The other night Josie was having a rough time.  Her daycare is closed for the last two weeks of December and she had spent the day with a babysitter and her schedule was off.  She was fussy and teething and nothing could make her happy, and she worked herself into such a state that there was nothing to do but let her cry and work herself out of it.  I carried her into the guest room, left the lights off and started walking the floor with her as I sang "Goodnight Irene" and "Angel Band."

She finally stopped crying and let me cradle her while she sucked on her fingers.  After about 15 minutes I went back into her room and sat in the rocker with her.  I sang a little bit but then as she became calmer and her eyes drooped I just held her close.  We sat looking at each other listening to the sound of the humidifier and the rhythm of the rocker.  She reached her hand up and caressed my face as I whispered to her.  I thought about how beautiful and sweet she is.  I wondered what she would look like when she got older.  I felt my heart almost burst out of my chest with intense love for her.  I felt blessed.  Long after the point when I knew I could put her in bed and she'd put herself to sleep without a fight, I stayed with her, just sitting and rocking.  Finally, I put her in her crib and she rolled over and went to sleep.

The rocker is definitely looking worse for the wear these days.  The fabric that I covered it with about two years ago is looking dingy and the cushions are lumpy and saggy.  But I'll just recover it again, maybe get some new foam.

I'm keeping the rocker for a while.

In which I pitch up a softball and he hits it out of the park

We're sitting in our bed hanging out with Zeke before bedtime.  I'm reading to Zeke while J lies there and listens.  Zeke has had an awesome day -- great progress report at school, minimal fussing, happy and sweet and lovely to be around.  We're enjoying each others' company.

As we lie there snuggling and reading, J rips a series of outrageous farts.  With the first one, I give him a look, like, "seriously?"

With the second, I exclaim, "Jeeeeez, dude!"

"Oh, come on," he scoffs, as if to suggest that I'm somehow overreacting.

Without thinking for a second about the words coming out of my mouth, I respond, "Please!  Don't 'come on' me!"

His eyes widen, he bursts out laughing and without missing a beat yells, "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!"*


_____________________
*As we sit there laughing hysterically, Zeke is grinning and looking back and forth between us, unclear of what the joke is.  "What's funny, Mama?" "Oh, uhhhh ....... we're laughing because Daddy tooted."  He proceeds to lose his shit laughing as well.  God, I love that kid.

Haunted

We have a ghost in our house.

Mind you, I don't believe in ghosts.  I used to work with a woman who insisted her house was haunted and that her ghost would do weird things like rearrange her glassware in her cupboards during the night.  I would smile and nod, but I always felt like there had to be some non-ghost explanation for things that maybe she was overlooking.

But then we started hearing footsteps in the house at night, noises that were louder and more defined than just "old house settling" noises.  And we would get up and there would be no one there.  But J and I each heard the noises, without question.

Then one night, my white noise machine next to my bed suddenly turned itself on in the middle of the night.  It came on much louder than I ever play it.  When I tried to turn it off or turn the sound down, none of the buttons or knobs would respond. 

This has happened a few times now.

Things will go missing and we'll spend hours or days looking for them only to have them turn up in plain sight, in a place where neither J nor I could have possibly missed them.  Like my keys, for example.  I have a set of keys on a red rubber stretchy wrist-band.  The red band is very bright and distinctive, making it easy to spot in a bag or whereever.  When I come in the house, I always put the keys either on the bench by the front door or on a little hook under the cabinet in the kitchen. 

And then one morning, I couldn't find them anywhere.   I looked on every surface, on the key hooks, on the floor, in the sofa cushions, behind furniture, in every pocket of every bag and jacket and pair of pants.  They were nowhere to be found.  I looked for them for days.

Finally, last week I gave up looking and went to the hardware store and had new keys cut.

Two days ago when I came in the house, J said, "Hey, you found your keys." 

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The keys you lost, the ones on the red stretchy thingy.  You found them."

"No, I didn't."

"But they're hanging from the key hook in the kitchen."

"They are??"

I went and looked.  There they were, innocently dangling from the hook where I had looked for them a hundred times in the past week.  J swears he never found them or put them there, I know I certainly didn't and neither of the children can reach that high.  No one else has been in the house.

Two nights ago I put my driver's license and ATM card on the top of my dresser.  That night, my noise machine turned itself on again.  In the morning, the driver's license was on the floor on the opposite side of the room from the dresser, and my bank card is nowhere to be found. 

I think our ghost is not malevolent, just playful and mischievous.  I just hope he or she doesn't have a big shopping jones to satisfy before my card is returned to me.

Update

So, yeah. 

J went in on Friday and, as expected, was laid off.  Apparently, the guy who was such a dick about the whole workmans comp dealio is the one that he talked to.  J said he was super-nice about it, like they were best mates all of a sudden.  And told him that it's a "temporary" layoff, so that if they get some work in the next 30 days or whatever, he'll be the first one they call up.

Mighty white of them, I say.  Merry Christmas, motherfuckers.

In any event, as far as J starting his own business goes, no time like the present, right?