Telepathy

We live right in town, so we've sacrificed acreage for location, meaning our back yard is teeny.  But it does have a brick patio and a patch of dirt for the kids to play, plus we live within a stone's throw of about five different public parks and one public pool, so we're not hurting for places to run around.

When we first moved into the house, the back yard was a mess.  All overgrown ground cover and stumpy trees and raggedy looking bushes and weeds and vines and rocks.  My big strapping husband, bless him, spent the better part of late April and early May out back with a pick-axe and shovel, clearing away the debris and pulling out the yucky trees and shit until we had a smooth dirt patch that was ready for sod.  Then he went online and found a sod farm out in the middle of nowhere that sells Kentucky bluegrass sod for 25 cents a square foot, so we were able to sod the entire thing for about $80.  He and I did it on a Saturday and it took us about 45 minutes.

So now we have a nice little yard.  We're still working on getting some chairs and maybe a patio table, plus we need to finish the fence on the side where our douchebag neighbor lives (he started building a fence and never finished it), but it's got a big crabapple tree and we've planted some flowers and herbs and a tomato plant and the kids can play out there and it's all very pleasant.


That tree in the lower left corner is no longer there and all the crap on the right has been cleared out.  And I have no idea why J hung a swing 5 feet off the ground, because no way in hell will either of the children use it.

The other night J and I were sitting outside while Josie played and climbed on the slide and splashed in puddles ("hi, water!") (Zeke was inside futzing around with the iPad).  I was inspecting my tomato plant and was pleasantly surprised by the number of tomatoes that are sprouting, given that I have the brownest thumb on the planet and am an absolutely hopeless gardener.

J asked, "what are you going to make with all the tomatoes?"

"I don't know.  I guess I'll figure it out when they're ripe and I'll see what I feel like."

"You should make that soup."

"Oh, right, I know what you're talking about.  What's it called again?"

"Ceviche.  The one with the fish."

"No, you're thinking of the other soup."  The name escaped me.

"No, I'm not.  I'm thinking of ceviche."

"But you don't really make ceviche with tomatoes.  I mean, you can put tomatoes in it, but it's not the primary ingredient, at least not the recipes I've used.  It's citrus and peppers and onions.  You're thinking of the other one.  The cold soup with tomatoes."

"No, I'm definitely thinking of ceviche."

"Gazpacho!   That's it!  I couldn't think of the name.  You're thinking of gazpacho.  Gazpacho is the one that you make with tomatoes and peppers and stuff.  That's what you were thinking of."

"No, I was actually thinking of ceviche.  *You* were thinking of gazpacho."

Hmph.  He was totally thinking of gazpacho.  Which my pretty tomatoes will be perfect for.

Why I love my family

My dad is in Baghdad right now on business.  I think he and my mom are engaged in some business travel one-upmanship, because she's leaving today for Haiti.  It's like they're on some kind of perverse game show where the goal is to visit the shittiest country imaginable.

My dad wrote an email to the family:

Being in the Green Zone is like being in a medium security prison. Very depressing.  We are staying in a private security compound that makes the Bates Motel seem luxurious by comparison.  My room comes complete with body armor and a combat helmet.

Because we are all incorrigible smart-asses, this was the immediate response from Brother Number 1:

From what I have seen on tv the key to surviving prison is the following:

1) Soap on a rope
2) Buddy up with the biggest person there
3) Cigarettes are like cash, if you can control the cigarette market you can control the prison
4) Keep your head down and be safe.

My dad appreciated the advice.  His only lament was that he wasn't sure his body armor matched the outfits he had packed.

Sugar sugar, oh, honey honey

Remember, like, 2 years ago, when I was pregnant and turned out to have gestational diabetes, much to my surprise and chagrin?  And not only did I have GD, but it turned out I was crazy sensitive to just about everything that my body could possibly convert into glucose with any kind of speed, so I ended up spending the last part of my pregnancy essentially doing the induction phase of the Atkins diet, i.e., no bread, pasta, rice, milk or fruit. 

And then Josie was born and life got crazier and crazier and like an idiot, I never bothered to follow up on the whole diabetes thing to see if it went away once I had given birth.  I just figured that I maintained the diet while she was in utero more for her benefit than for mine, so once she was out in the world, who really cared, right?

I'm so stupid.

Because I've spent the last 2 years trying to work out and do Weight Watchers and get in shape, and while I had some success, I could never quite get over the hump, so to speak, and lose the last 10 pounds of belly fat that were clinging to my middle like the baby orangutan glomming onto its mother for dear life.  And I couldn't figure out why.  I had the discipline.  I had the tools.  But nothing that I had done in the past was working quite as well as it had before.

Then a friend of mine told me about how much success he had had on a "slow carb" diet, which is essentially a low glycemic index diet full of foods that don't cause blood sugars to spike.  And it got me to thinking about whether the body fat that I couldn't get rid of was the result of a diet that, while calorically appropriate, contained things like fruit and rice and milk -- foods that sent my blood sugar levels skyrocketing when I was pregnant.

So I tried the diet and promptly lost 7 or 8 pounds of belly fat in a span of about 3 weeks (just in time for my reunion). 

I had been thinking about getting a physical, because it's been awhile since I had one and I figured I might as well take advantage of my health benefits, which are really good.  So I went on Friday and got checked out.  And on just about every front, I'm in superb health -- my cholesterol is way down since the last time I checked it (I believe as a result of Shakeology), my blood pressure is so low that it's a wonder I'm alive, my weight is good, all is well. 

Except my blood sugar.

Did you know that there's a single blood test that can take a 3-month snapshot of your blood sugar levels?  Apparently it involves delving into the red blood cells at the molecular level or something like that.  I find that astounding.  Anyway, when I told her about my gestational diabetes, she said that it puts me at a higher risk for developing diabetes and that it's definitely something that we needed to look at, so she ordered this test.  And sure enough, while my 3-month levels weren't quite at the diabetic range, they were still pretty high. 

So no sugar, milk, bread, pasta, rice or fruit for me (though I'm allowed to cheat once a week).  It's kind of a drag. 

But at least know I know and can do something about it.

Helpless

Even though I know that the odds are in favor of it happening eventually, I am in total denial about the fact that one day, my parents will no longer be around.  I talk to my mother every day, often multiple times.  She is unquestionably my best friend.  The thought of something happening to her or to my dad makes me sick to my stomach.  I have a hard time processing the thought.

So it makes it hard to know how to help my husband.  His father is dying.

J came back from Australia having said his good-byes.  He said he was at peace with his dad and that he had said what he needed to say to him.

But really, there's no way it was that easy.  And in the back of his mind, there was a hope, a belief -- however unrealistic -- that maybe there was more time than there really is.

So we started talking about maybe going to Australia for a couple or three years.  J can make crazy money there, and I could get a job doing something, maybe working for an American law firm or something, and we could save money and get out of debt and spend Denis's last years with him.  He could get to know his grandchildren.  He's met Zeke only once and he's never met Josie at all.  It would provide J with some closure.  He could spend some time in his home and have precious time with his father.

But I don't think there's much time left.  Denis had a treatment that was sort of a last ditch effort.  It didn't work.  He can't walk unassisted anymore, the lesions on his brain are getting worse and his condition is deteriorating.  The doctors are going to try one last round of radiation, but if it doesn't work, that's it.

And honestly, I don't think it will.  And I think in his heart of hearts, J doesn't think so either.

If I were a betting woman, I would take odds that he's got maybe a month left.

I don't know what J wants to do if Denis dies.  If he still wants to go to Australia for a few years.  I don't have any particular desire to move again -- I feel like we're finally getting settled, my job is going really well, the kids are happy.  But if he really wants me to, if it's what he needs, I will.

He's just so sad.

"Nice punch, ya little bastard! Now let's go have cake."

I've always been amazed at the way guys can get in a fight, including one that involves the throwing of punches, and then shake hands and go have a beer minutes later.

Women do not do this.  We can resolve our differences, but it invariably involves tears and recriminations and self righteousness and martyrdom, and that will last for awhile before any resolution is reached. 

It certainly made living in a sorority house a barrel of laughs at least once a month, when all our cycles had synched.

Anyway, with guys, I guess it's just how they're hard-wired from birth.

Yesterday Zeke went to a friend's birthday party at a jumping castle establishment.  So there was much running around and bouncing and general rambunctiousness.

Also at this party was his friend Connor.  Connor is his "best buddy," as Zeke describes him.  They play together at school all the time.  When they greet each other in the mornings, they run towards each other as if they haven't seen each other in years and give each other a big bear hug.  It's hilarious and cute.

They also tend to get in trouble together from time to time.  And sometimes they bitch at each other like an old married couple. 

So yesterday, for whatever reason, Connor was in a mood and was being a bit of a douchebag to Zeke.  Kept pushing him and pushing him and pushing him.  And Connor is bigger than Zeke -- taller and a bit brawnier.

But I guess Zeke finally got to the point where he had had enough.  After being on the receiving end of one push too many, Zeke cocked his extended arm back as far as he could and swung it around in a classic haymaker punch, connecting right at the side of Connor's head.  Connor didn't see it coming and dropped like a ton of bricks.

An older lady who had witnessed the whole thing remarked, "wow, I didn't think the little one had it in him!"

Connor wasn't really hurt, just a bit taken aback.  And he tried to whine about how Zeke had hit him, but everyone had seen that Zeke had essentially been pushed to the breaking point and was just defending himself from being pushed down yet again, so J gave Zeke a half-hearted talking-to about how you're not supposed to hit your friends and left it at that.  And the kids were fine after that -- Connor and Zeke played nicely for the rest of the party and fun was had by all.

This morning when I dropped Zeke off at school, he and Connor ran towards each other and hugged and ran off to play with trucks.  So no hard feelings, I guess.

Typical guys.

Destroying childhood illusions, one at a time

So yesterday I revealed myself to be a Mean Mommy who tells her kids to piss off (not in those words) because they're constantly clammoring for maternal attention.

I can't seem to stop destroying their little worlds.

Zeke is totally into Dora the Explorer, and really likes learning new words in Spanish.  Sometimes he'll ask me how to say something in Spanish, and because my ability to speak Spanish is about on par with what a 3-year-old's vocabulary would be, I can usually accommodate.

Yesterday, he asked me how to say "wheel" in Spanish. 

I racked my brain, but I couldn't remember.  (It's "rueda," for those of you who are curious.)

"Sorry, honey, but I don't know.  I'll have to look it up for you."

He looked shocked.  "But Mama, you know everything."

I chuckled and shook my head.  "No, honey, I really don't.  I know lots of things, and I know how to find the answer to just about any question, but I don't know everything."

"Yes, you do!"

"No, sweetie, I don't.  I'm sorry but it's true."

He looked skeptical but didn't say any more.

A few minutes later he asked, "Mama, what's the Spanish word for 'key'?"

"Llave," I responded.

He nodded, reassured.  Just like that, all was right in his universe again.

The worst four letter word of all

I swear to God, if I hear a sweet little voice say "mama" to me one more time, I may lose what little is left of my mind.

From the time I get the kids up in the morning until I drop them at school, and then from the time I get home from work until we all go to bed, all I ever fucking hear is "mama" (or "mami" if it's coming from Josie).

"Mama?"

"Yes, honey."

"Mama, I want..."

"What?"

"Um.. I... Mama?"

"Yes, dear."

"Mama, can I... can I have..."

"What is it, sweetie?  What do you want?"

"Mama...mama...ummm...."

"Yes?"

"Mama..."

Sometimes I am able to resist the urge to scream "WHAT DO YOU WANT???  SPEAK!" at the top of my lungs. 

But not always.

And now Josie is going through a super-clingy phase.  All she wants is to be sitting on my lap, or hugging me, or for me to be carrying her.  Sometimes I can accommodate.  But it's hard to cook dinner while holding a toddler.  I generally need both hands to chop vegetables.

So last night, she stood at my feet, sobbing "Mami!  Maaaamiiii!" while I cooked and said, "sorry, honey, you're going to have to suck it up for a little while."

And then again this morning when I needed to put her down so I could pee.  Or get dressed.  Or eat something.

She's so pitiful.  And it makes me feel like such an asshole to say, "Josie, you need to get out of my face for a minute.  Away, please."

In her class, the kids are taught to say "away" to other kids who are bothering them or trying to take their toys or whatever, so I figured it would be something she could understand.

Well, she understood it, all right.  And promptly crumpled in a heap of tears and misery.

There's an older lady in my office that I was chatting with in the break room one day.  She asked how many kids I have and how old they are, and when I told her, she said, "oh, it must be hard leaving them every day to come to work."

She was a bit taken aback when I responded, "no, not really."

On days like today, that walk down the hall and out the door after I've delivered the children to their respective classrooms is incredibly liberating.  I can literally feel the stress leaving my body.  Because I know it will be at least 9 hours or so before someone starts tugging at my clothes and pleading, "mama!"

Grasping

                                  Rose Castorini: Cosmo, I just want you to know no matter what you do,

                                                                           you're gonna die, just like everybody else.

                                            Cosmo Castorini: Thank you, Rose.

                                                                                                                  ~ Moonstruck

As expected, the reunion was phenomenal.  I had an amazing, if exhausting, time catching up with old friends, having fun, dancing, staying out until 2:30 in the morning.  It was incredible to see people that I knew so well and spent so much time so many years ago, and to learn what they had been doing for 20 years.  They're so successful - doctors, lawyers, hedge fund managers, business owners, parents to beautiful and accomplished children.  It was impressive and a little bit awe-inspiring.
 
But mostly it was just fun.  It made me so happy.
 
Of course, being me, I can't get out of my own head and just enjoy myself.  I was all obsessed all weekend (and beyond) with thinking about memories.  The role memories play in making a person who they are.  Whether the loss of certain specific memories with the passage of times diminishes the impact of the experience being remembered.  Whether with the loss of certain memories, you lose parts of yourself.

Friday was a whirlwind.  I dropped the kids at daycare, went to the airport, caught my flight to DC, my dad picked me up, we went to my parents' house, I took one of my mom's cars, drove the 2 1/2 hours to Charlottesville, checked in at Alumni Hall, went to my hotel, checked into my room, changed my clothes and ran up the street to the big Class of '91 welcome dinner.  I immediately ran into a bunch of friends, with whom I ended up spending the bulk of the weekend, and we ate and drank and shmoozed and then went to hear a band and ran into some more people.  We ended up at the Corner at a bar that I have closed down probably a hundred times (at least).  After last call, a bunch of guys that I used to hang out with invited me back to their old fraternity house to drink and catch up some more, but it was already 2:30 in the morning and I was already a little drunk and a lot exhausted, so I went back to my hotel room and crashed.

The next morning, after grabbing some breakfast and hanging out and shooting the shit with some friends, I had some time to kill before meeting a group of sorority sisters for lunch.  So I went for a walk around Grounds.

I walked up past the Rotunda, in front of which my class's dinner had been held the night before. 


If you look closely, at the top of the stairs you can see the tables and chairs from the previous night's dinner.

I walked around the front and then cut in to walk on the Lawn. 

It was a beautiful day and a beautiful scene.  Many people had brought their families with them to the reunion, and there were kids running around and people chatting and picnicking and enjoying the day.  I continued across the Lawn and walked down inside the colonnade on the east side. 

Further down, I doubled back across the Lawn and walked past the amphitheater.


Setting up for that evening's dinner and band party.

I walked down Monroe Hill and then wound my way behind Newcombe Hall and up to the quad bounded by the libraries before heading past the chapel, back toward the Rotunda and down to the Corner again to meet my friends.

What a breathtakingly beautiful building.

As I walked, I was thinking, "I have walked this route hundreds and hundreds of times. Every day, multiple times, back and forth to class, to see friends, to parties."  I was also struck by the incredible beauty of the place -- the architecture, the greenery.  And as much as the place is such a huge part of me, it feels like I was there a million years ago.  Or yesterday.

As I passed the Rotunda, the chapel bells began to play the Good Ol' Song (the tune of Auld Lang Syne).  It was surreal.  Like having pieces of my DNA brought to the surface of my body.

I felt like the reunion, and really, my efforts to hold on to memories generally, was an exercise in rebuilding a wall.  As the years pass, little memory bits, like old pieces of brick or mortar, fall away, and we make concerted efforts to reconnect with old friends at reunions and through Facebook and whatnot as a way of finding those fallen pieces and putting them back in their place.  We try to hold on to those memories so tightly, as if by holding on to them, we can go back in time. Or stop aging.

But then the weekend ends and we go back to our lives.  The grey hairs and wrinkles keep appearing.

Toward the end of Saturday night, after laughing and having a great dinner and dancing to two bands, we headed back across the Lawn on our way to find a bar that was still open.  It was a beautiful warm night, with enough humidity to make the air feel soft and enveloping.

We saw a group of people streaking the Lawn, carrying on a time-honored tradition.  So that was awesome.  And then we saw the Rotunda itself, which was lit up and looking as beautiful as I've ever seen it.  My friend Bob grabbed my camera and told me to pose for a picture, and I was feeling so happy that I just threw my arms in the air and my head back and laughed.


The nametag doesn't really go with the dress.

That was my magical weekend. 

And then it was over. 

Another memory to try to hang on to for dear life.

As Churchill said, the only thing to do when you're going through hell is to keep going.

It's been a rough couple of week.  Hell, a rough month. 

J got home from Australia (after being detained in secondary security for an hour and a half, once again to be accused of procuring his green card through fraudulent means).  But the jet lag coming back is a million times harder than it is going.  So even with him home, I didn't get much of a reprieve because he was exhausted and drooling on the couch by 6:30 every night.

Then the jet lag passed, but the kids both got sick.  Josie hasn't slept in about 5 nights because of an ear infection, so I've spent my nights lying with her, trying to sooth her and keep her fever under control.

And there's some other stuff going on as well.  Stuff that I don't feel comfortable blogging about right now.  But it's eating at me.

The silver lining is that tomorrow I leave for another reunion.  Twenty years since graduating from UVa. 

I've lost 15 pounds since early March (I switched out P90X for TurboFire-- decided to try something new), so I will show up at the reunion looking the way I want to look.  So that's good.

I will be going alone.  So that's even better.

Gearing up for another weekend of sensory overload - reconnecting with old friends, visiting the old haunts, dancing to the old bands.  Then the wishing that I could hold onto that feeling a little longer before it slips through my fingers.

I could use more than a weekend away.  But it's a start.

Other things may change us, but we start and end with family

J called tonight, probably his last call before he gets on a plane to come home.

We exchanged how-are-yous, what-did-you-do-todays and all that.  He sounded relatively chipper.  He told me how the kids and I are getting custom-made Ugg boots (Josie's will be pink!), how he had a nice time seeing his sister, how the weather was good.

"And I got to spend some time with my dad."

"Well that's good.  How's he doing?"

"I went to the doctor with him yesterday.  He goes to the hospital for another treatment."

"Huh."

"Yeah, the doctors told me that this will most likely be the last time I see him before he dies."

He was so nonchalant about it.

I, on the other hand, burst into tears.

Apparently, his condition from this crazy-ass disease that only 60 people in the entire world are known to have, and only 3 adults, all of whom are on the verge of dying, is deteriorating.  He's developed lesions on his brain.  His mental acuity is getting worse.  His vision is worsening.  And all of these things have gotten much worse, quickly, in the last month.  The doctors only give him a slightly better than 50% chance of even surviving the treatment he's going through next week.

J said that he's sad, but that he's spent good time with his dad and has said everything he needs to say.  He's said good-bye.  He'll have no regrets about leaving anything unsaid.

But I feel so awful for him.  Awful not only at the prospect of losing a beloved parent, and at not having more time with him.  Awful because I can't even imagine what it must be like to go through this and then fly to the other side of the world, and not be there in the end.  It makes me feel guilty for pulling him away from his family, even though I know that I never forced him into anything -- he made his choice.

Still.  It just sucks so much.

Welcome to the world, baby girl

From the day she was born, Josie has been The Good Child.  The one who's mellow and easy and only fusses as a way of communicating hunger or tiredness.  She hasn't had tantrums or screaming fits.

Until now.

I know it's the age.  A combination of starting to assert independence and separation from others, and frustration with an inability to communicate as well as she wants to and feels she should be able to.  She is so, so close to truly functional, conversational speech.  But she's not there yet.  And it's pissing her off.

Over the past month or so, she has occasionally put herself into a strop over something she wanted but couldn't have.  I accommodate her wishes to the extent that is reasonable, but I'm not going to raise an asshole, so she doesn't get everything she wants.  And when that happens, she'll run and flop herself on the ground in front of me very dramatically, crying as if I had just run over her puppy.  I'll say something like, "I'm sorry you're upset, honey," and walk away.  So she'll get up, run over to me and flop herself on the ground in front of me again.

It's hard not to laugh.

Yesterday she had her first full-on tantrum at school.  Screaming, running around in circles and then throwing herself on the floor, throwing things, arching her back when people tried to console her or pick her up.  No one could figure out what was wrong and because it is so out of character for her, the teachers were very alarmed. 

I told them that once they had discerned that she wasn't hurt or in some kind of danger, to walk away and ignore her.

The time from birth to about 18 months, as hard as it is, is lovely in that you don't have to make any real efforts at discipline.  You establish schedules and limits and say "no" when you have to, but it's way too early for scoldings or time outs or any of that kind of thing -- the kids just don't have the cognitive or emotional capacity to understand or benefit from it.  Discipline is a pain in the ass -- it's no fun to fight with your kid or watch them be miserable while they're being punished.

But I fear the time has come for Miss Josephine.

Love given to you will evaporate like a puddle, unless you are open to absorb it.

The first week of Daddy being gone passed relatively smoothly.  I made a point of emphasizing to Zeke how I needed him to be a big boy and help me out with Josie and to generally be a good boy.  And the three of us seemed to be ever-vigilant about being patient and taking care of each other.

This week the bloom is off that rose and we're all just crabby.  I ask Zeke not to splash water out of the tub and he gives me a throat-fart* and a surly face.  Zeke tries to lean in to give Josie a kiss (and to be honest, he's got issues with personal space) and she pushes him away and says, "AWAY!"  Josie starts whining because she wants to watch Elmo, but I'm in the middle of cleaning toys off the floor and I snap, "oh, for God's sake, hold on!"

The weather has been weird.  It was warm for a couple of weeks, then last week a cold front moved in and it's been chilly and either raining or threatening rain.  When I went to pick up the kids from school, it looked like a storm was moving in, meaning we wouldn't be able to go to the park, so I just took them home.  We all had dinner, but then the bitchery ensued about who was going to get to watch Dora when the other wanted to watch Nemo, and then Josie ran towards the front door and started to cry when I wouldn't open it for her because I was in the middle of eating a plate of food.

I looked out the window, saw that the sun had poked out for a spell and said, "c'mon kids, put your clothes on [Zeke was naked, naturally], we're going to the park."

The elementary school down the road has a great playground that's open to the public.  Play areas with structures that increase in size and complexity, for different ages and levels of dexterity, surrounding a big open baseball field.  But the field was soaking wet from being watered.  Both kids immediately made a bee-line for it.

I started to yell, "watch out for the puddles! You'll get wet and make a mess!"  But then I stopped myself.  The kids were running back and forth in the puddles, soaking their shoes and their pants but giggling their little asses off and having a great time.

So their clothes got wet and dirty.  Really, who gives a shit?

I just sat and watched them have fun.  Zeke fell down in the mud at one point, but we all just laughed.  They ran around, they went on the slide, they played "chase."  And when it started getting colder and I told them it was time to head home and have a bath, they were happy to oblige.

There were no more fights the rest of the night.  Everyone was tired and happy.

Four more sleeps until Daddy gets home.

________________________
*A wordless, gutteral exclamation of irritation made from the back of the throat.

The distance is quite simply much too far for me to row, It seems farther than ever before

When I was a kid, we almost always lived overseas, so my grandparents (who lived in Michigan) were always far away from me.  We loved them and loved seeing them and they were a big part of our lives, but not because we got to see them often.  We visited them when we could and they visited us, but it wasn't a relationship built upon regular interaction.  The notion of parents and their grown children living in the same city was not the model that I was exposed to.

So when I grew up, I went where school and jobs and whimsy took me.  It never occurred to me to make a serious effort to stay physically close to my parents because I didn't see it as something that people did.  At least, not something that we did.  My brothers and I are as emotionally close as we could be to our parents, but none of us lives near them. 

When I was living on the East Coast and was making plenty of money and my folks were an hour and half away by plane, I didn't think much of it. 

But then we went to Hawaii and had a baby.  And Hawaii is so, so far away from the rest of my family.  And distance is made more so by young children, who are difficult and expensive to travel with.

Denver is so much closer.  But it's still far away.  And money is so much tighter, and two small children are such a pain in the ass to travel with.

It's making me sad.

My folks were in town this weekend to hang out and visit and also to help with the kids while J is gone.  It was so wonderful to have them here.  They're such amazing grandparents - totally engaged, fun, willing and able to go out and do things.  We went to the book store.  To Target.  To the park.  To the indoor pool.  They took Zeke to the science museum.  Hosted him at their hotel for sleepovers (two nights!). 

They left this morning, so they hung out at the house until late last night.  We ordered Thai food and watched baseball and my mom and Zeke played Angry Birds on her iPad. 

And then they had to leave.  Zeke was all ready to go with them to the hotel and was very upset to learn that he would have to sleep at home without Mimi and Papa.  And that Mimi and Papa were leaving and he wouldn't see them for a couple of months.

"Why do Mimi and Papa have to go away?  Why, Mama?"

Then a few minutes later, "where are they?  What are they doing right now??"

When he woke up this morning:  "Where are Mimi and Papa?  I want to see them."

I want my children to be able to see my parents whenever they want.  I want my parents to be able to see my children whenever they want.  I want to be able to see my parents whenever I want.

My heart feels heavy today.

Oh where have you been, my blue-eyed son, and where have you been, my darling young one?

I was having a bit of an existential crisis last night.  Looking at my life with a critical eye and wondering how I got to this point, miles from where I thought I would be at this age and this stage of my career, and not feeling particularly good about it. 

I started to cry and was sort of weepy throughout the night.  No doubt a combination of hormones and exhaustion and a little bit of loneliness, of feeling like the weight of keeping the family going is on my shoulders.  Wondering if I'm doing my children any good at all. 

Zeke saw that I was upset and said, "what's wrong, Mama?"  And I mumbled something about being a little sad and a little tired, all the while feeling more like an asshole for even subjecting the children to my moods in the first place.  They need me to be the solid, stable one.  It's not their responsibility to make me feel better.

Zeke's eyes were wide and concerned.  "It's OK, Mama.  Everything's going to be OK."  He rubbed my cheek and gave me a hug.

Later, after Josie had gone to bed, he and I were hanging out downstairs when a thunderstorm rolled in.  Super-loud thunder, crashing lightening and rain driven sideways by the wind.  Zeke was mesmerized.  When a particularly loud clap of thunder exploded, his jaw dropped and he said, "WOW!" in total wonderment.

"Let's go over to the window and watch it, Mama!"

So we went and sat by the front picture window that looks over the road.  "We need to wait for more thunder, Mama.  Sometimes it takes a little while.  But do you see the rain falling on the road there?  It's falling really hard!"

I looked down at him and marveled at how lucky I am to have this sweet, beautiful, sensitive boy in my life.  I put my arms around him and held him close.

"I love you, Mama."

"Oh, Zekey.  I love you, too.  So, so much.  You're the best boy in the world."

"Are you still sad?"

"No, honey, I'm OK.  You gave me great hugs and that made me feel better."

He patted my face and then turned to look outside again.  We sat like that in the dark living room, our arms wrapped around each other, looking out the window until the storm passed.

Mission accomplished

The first few days of J being gone were tough.  Especially Sunday, which was Mother's Day. 

A few weeks ago, Jon Stewart did a piece mocking the media's reaction to a J. Crew catalog that featured a mom having a nice moment with her 5 year old son, who happened to have his toes painted pink.  In response to the outcry about confusing gender roles and other bullshit like that, Jon made an excellent point:  "Do you know how long a weekend is with children??  Everybody gets bored.  You will do anything to fill the time.  'You want to paint your toenails, honey?  Sure, let's do it.'"

Truer words were never spoken.

So Sunday we got up and it was a beautiful day, so we went to the zoo.  Which is fun, but it involves me either pulling the kids around in the wagon or chasing them around when they decide to climb out of the wagon and sprint off in different directions.  But I managed to keep them in my line of sight, and for 3 hours we walked around and looked at the lions and giraffes and tigers and fish and elephants and hippos and gorillas.  We even got to see the baby orangutan, who is insanely cute.  And we rode the train.  And the carousel.  And Zeke used the potty 3 times.  By noon they were tired and starting to melt down, so I had the pleasure of pulling two crying children through the zoo on my way back to the parking lot, absorbing the looks of pity and "Jesus, I'm glad those aren't my kids" that you tend to get when your kids are acting their age in public.

The afternoon was spent napping and watching Dora, then we went to the park for a couple of hours to play. The thing about taking both of them to the park when I'm the only one watching them is that I have to go back and forth between the two of them because they can't do the same things.  And because Zeke is older and more physically able to play safely on the gym equipment, I tend to stick with Josie more.  She has J's attitude towards physical challenges -- bring 'em on, and the consequences be damned.  Leading to me standing next to Josie as she climbs all over equipment made for kids 3 times her size while Zeke sprints off to the other side of the playground by himself.  Then I get the nervous glances from the other parents, who are saying with their eyes, "aren't you going to go get him?  Aren't you going to hover over him every moment of his life?  WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU???"

I just smile and yell, "Zekey, don't go too far off!"  And we managed to make it out of the playground and to the ice cream store without anyone dead or maimed.

We had ice cream.  We went home and watched Nemo for the 70 billionth time.  The kids had a bath and splashed water all over the place.  I painted Zeke's toenails blue.  We read some books and went to bed.

I didn't get breakfast in bed.  I didn't get to leave and get a massage.

But I filled the time.

The Daily Show - Toemageddon 2011 - This Little Piggy Went to Hell
Tags: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

Mental blocks

I am a relatively intelligent person and a relatively organized one, at least in my head (you wouldn't know it from looking at my desk).  I remember things, for the most part.  I've got my shit together.

And yet. 

There are certain things about which I have incurable mental blocks. 

Where I put my keys, for example.  Every single time I look for my keys, I always have a moment of panic.  "Shit.  Did I put them in my briefcase?  Are they on my desk?  In my pocket?"

And because I have trained myself to put them in the same place every day (I occasionally mess up, but I'm pretty good now), I always find them. 

I need to figure out something similar with my computer.

Our computers at work are laptops that click into a mechanism that essentially turns them into desktops.  It links the hard drive up with a monitor and connects it to the office server and there's a separate keyboard and mouse.  But if I have to work from home, I can just detach the laptop and take it with me.  Easy peasy.

Except that I always forget to bring it back to work the next day.  And when I say always, I am not exaggerating.  I am currently batting .000.  0-fer-5, I think.

I had my computer with me in Phoenix this week, for checking emails and getting some work done (but mostly for watching The Daily Show in my hotel room, because the Hyatt does not subscribe to Comedy Central).  I left it in its little computer bag in the trunk of my car, thinking that I would just grab it when I headed to the bus after dropping the kids at school.  I must have had at least 5 conversations with myself about it.  "Don't forget!"  "I won't, I won't."

At least this morning I was only half-way to work when I remembered that I had forgotten.  All the other times, I was all the way in the building when I had to turn back.  So today, I got off the bus at the next stop, walked across the street, caught the bus going the other way, went home, grabbed the computer, walked back across the street, caught the next bus and came to work.  I was only 20 minutes late.

I guess it's progress?

Pros and cons

I'm in Phoenix now for a special education law conference.  Downtown Phoenix is generic and relatively free of charm.  It is warm, though, which is a nice change because it's been ridiculously cold in Denver lately.  I got a text from J this morning:  "It's snowing here." 

Fuck that.

Other benefits are that I get to sleep in a comfortable bed by myself without anyone climbing on me, kicking me or peeing on me during the night (Zeke tends to soak through his pull-ups at night -- I'm not saying that J and I are into golden showers).  I don't have to clean up after anyone, including myself.  Phoenix is in the Pacific time zone, meaning that I can get up at my normal time to work out (5:15 a.m.) and still get an extra hour of sleep. 

Of course, there are downsides.  My children make me tired, but I love them and miss them.  And they're still so little and rely on me for so much, including looking to me as an emotional anchor.  When I'm not around, they're a bit adrift.  They even shunned me when I was saying goodbye to them yesterday at the airport.  Josie burst into tears and pushed me away and when I went to give Zeke a hug and a kiss, he turned away from me. 

Ouch.

So as I write this, I'm enjoying free wireless in an outdoor bar as I nurse a glass of oatmeal stout.  It's very pleasant.  But I'll be happy to get back to my messy, noisy life, with children clamoring for my attention and showering me with love and slobbery kisses again.

T.S. was off by one

I know April is supposed to be the cruelest month, but for my kids (and somewhat for me and J), May is shaping up to be a doozy.

On Sunday, I leave for a 3 day legal conference in Arizona.  So J, who is normally out the door by 6:30 to go to work, will have to fuck up his schedule to get the kids up and off to school and get them in the afternoons and deal with dinner and bath and bed.  Which isn't so hard - hell, I did it for a year and a half when J was working in Vail, but still, it's exhausting.

And I think the kids will have a rough time of it -- they're very used to their routine:  Mommy in the morning, Daddy after school, and then both of us for the evening.  Josie does not like that routine upset, and I can't even prepare her by explaining that I'll be gone for a few days.  At least with Zeke, I can get him ready, and he's old enough to understand that just because I'm gone doesn't mean I won't be back.  So he'll deal.

Then, 3 days after I get back, J is leaving for Australia.  For two weeks.

He needs to go home.  He really does.  His dad has been really sick for years and J hasn't been back since he took Zeke almost 3 years ago.  I can't imagine not seeing my family or my homeland for that long.  So I begrudge him nothing with this trip.

But still.  Two. Fucking. Weeks.

Like I said, I've been there, done that (though never for 2 straight weeks), so I'll be OK.  My parents are coming to visit the middle week and I've enlisted friends and family to be available for a dinner or a playdate to keep the kids distracted. 

But I think it's going to be really, really hard on them.  I fully anticipate acting out, fussing, toilet training regression.  Ugh.

At least they'll have us for 2 full weeks after J gets back before I leave again for my college reunion.  Without them.

Poor little monkeys.

Getting through

I was emailing with Lisa yesterday about life.  She had written a post about how it feels like life is just a series of fighting the same fights, worrying the same worries, getting through it, most of "it" being not particularly fun or pleasant.  I felt like it described my life to a "t."

So much of it is just a slog, getting through chores, making sure everyone is fed and bathed and cared for, and then cleaning up the endless messes.  The endless dishes.  The endless laundry.  The endless bills that, right now, seem to exceed our ability to pay them.

And then last night I found out that one of my cousins had died (he's actually my mom's first cousin, so he's once-removed from me).  He was in his 80s and had been sick for a long time, but he had actually been doing really well, so it was a bit of a surprise.  He was one of the DC cousins (as opposed to the Michigan cousins), and he was always fun to talk to.  Quick with a dirty joke or an inappropriate remark, big sports fan, smart, and far kinder and more generous than he would ever let on.  He and Zeke even shared a birthday, so there was that little connection.  I will miss him.

And his son (my second cousin) has aggressive brain cancer and probably doesn't have much longer left.

Shitty times for their family.

And there's my brother, whose middle daughter needs a heart procedure sometime soon.  She was born with a heart condition and recently had a test that the doctors weren't thrilled with.  The procedure shouldn't be a big deal, but still.  It's their kid.  And it's only a year after almost losing one of their other kids.

It's hard.

As always, there are glimmers, points of light (geez, I never thought I'd be borrowing a phrase from former Pres. Bush (H.W., not W, obvs)).  My goofy-ass children bouncing around and hugging each other on the couch.  My sweet husband.  My fledgling Beachbody business (I started getting checks after the first week - not huge ones yet, but they're growing).  The roof over my head, care of a beautiful old house that will some day be really beautiful.  My health, and in particular, my shrinking waistline.  My generous parents and my wonderful friends and family.

Lisa and I didn't solve any of the world's problems with our email exchange, or even any of our own, most probably.  But as always, it's nice to connect with an old friend.  So there's that, too.

And we just keep going.

Things to do in Denver when you're Jewish

Yesterday morning the weather was kind of crappy and cold, so rather than look to outdoor outings to entertain the kids, we decided to go to the science museum (aka "the dinosaur museum"). It's really close to where we live and we have an annual membership, so it's a good "go to" when we're looking for something to do.  Zeke and Josie love to run around, looking at the dinosaur bones, the wildlife exhibits, the bugs.  It's fun and they learn things (Zeke knows the difference between a diplodocus, a stegosaurus and a pachycephalosaurus, for example).  Plus they have this great kids' center where there are tons of "hands on" projects for the monkeys to play with, dancing, demonstration, puzzles, games, etc.

I hadn't even thought about the fact that it was Easter, other than having my annual trade-off of tasteless Easter jokes with my dad when we called in the morning to say hi.  Not my holiday, yanno?  So we were pleasantly surprised at the lack of crowds - makes it easier to keep track of short people.  And then we started noticing...characteristics.  Like the abundance of men wearing yamulkes.  The kids named "Yael" and "Isaac" and "Abe."  The moms named "Chava" (hard "ch") and Rivka.  A few stray prayer shawl fringes hanging out of shirts.

"J!"  I whispered.

"What's up?"

"I think we're here with all the other Jews in town!"

He chuckled and nodded.  "I was thinking the same thing.  We Jews need to stick together, baby!"