The Gift

As anyone who knows me knows, my family growing up was a model of stability and happiness. My parents have an incredible relationship and were always happy together (and they still are). And they were amazing with my brothers and me. They treated us with kindness and respect, were reasonable and fair in administering discipline, were always involved in our lives, and generally made us feel secure and loved. Mine was the house that other friends tended to gravitate towards, because my parents were so cool. I had plenty of friends that didn't get along with their parents very well, and frequently I would come home late from after-school activities and find a friend of mine in the kitchen helping my mom with dinner. Even as an adult, I have friends that joke about trying to get adopted by my parents so they can bask in the warmth of the family sun. My mother's standard line is that any and all are welcome, as long as she doesn't have to pay for any more weddings or college educations.

On the other hand, Jason's upbringing wasn't the greatest, to say the least. His parents split up when he was about 4 months old, and he had a horribly abusive stepfather that he lived with for a long time and then a less abusive but not very nice stepmother, and finally he said, "fuck this" and left home when he was about 15. He was convinced that he would never get married or have children, and didn't really see any benefit to either situation.

Before we got engaged, we split up for a time because Jason freaked out about marriage and children. He was convinced that he would be a horrible father and revert to the tactics that were employed on him, and that he didn't know how to be part of a family. He felt that if we stayed together, he would ruin my life.

I was mindful of the statistics showing that people who are abused tend to be abusers, but having seen how Jason escaped his predicament, having observed him with my nieces and with the children of our friends, and knowing that his upbringing left him with a massive fear of confrontation (rather than an inclination to seek it out), I just knew in my gut that he would be fine. I told him that being aware of his fears was huge, and that if at any time he felt like he was having trouble, we would deal with it. Whatever he needed from me -- going to therapy, seeking any kind of help -- I was willing to do.

Having Zeke has been a revelation for him. He didn't think he would feel the intense feelings of love and happiness that come with having a child, but he has. And it has made him feel a security, a sense of comfort and love and emotional well-being, from being part of a family -- a feeling that I don't think he's ever experienced or that he ever thought he would be able to enjoy. And of course, he is an amazing father. Zeke adores him and lights up whenever he sees his daddy. Jason is gentle and patient and playful and sweet. I think his skills as a parent have surprised him as well.

Yesterday we were driving home from picking Zeke up at school, and I was talking to Zeke and telling him how much his daddy and I love him. Jason said, "you've made us a family, little man. It's great to be part of a family."

I just about plotzed.

I know how to do happy families. I've done it my whole life, and it comes easily. This family that we've created is miraculous in its own right. But to be able to contribute to someone else experiencing this feeling of love and security for the first time -- it's the greatest thing I could bestow on my husband, or that he could bestow on me.

Is it a blanket, or is it a dance floor?

We are a couple of goofy-ass mofos, that's for sure. And every time I watch Zeke "do" the worm, I lose it all over again.

What a 5-month-old's art projects look like

I absolutely adore Zeke's school. The teachers are all warm and wonderful and he spends his day engaged in play that is all geared toward achieving developmental goals. So he has fun, and in the process, has learned to hold his own bottle, is rolling over and pushing himself around on his stomach in a way that indicates crawling is not far off (God help me), can grasp toys, can grasp his spoon and almost feed himself, is learning rudimentary signs for "milk" and "drink" and "food" and "more." It's so cool.

And they send home art projects, which never fail to completely crack me up. Sometimes the kids actually do the "art," i.e., they fingerpaint. But other times, the teachers make stuff that can only be for the sole purpose of giving the parents something to put on the fridge.

Here are Zeke's Easter projects. When I saw the one with the yellow feathers, I laughed so hard that people were coming in from other parts of the school to see if I needed medical assistance.

The Ten

My 10 "Excellent" nominees, in no particular order:

1.    Lemon Gloria 

2.    PoliTits

3.    Good American Wife

4.    Striped Socks and Skinny Jeans

5.    I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet A Wino

6.    Stuff White People Like

7.    *moosie*

8.    Lawyerish

9.    The Wonder Keeping the Stars Apart

10.    The Slightly Disorganized Mind

Vail was awesome, and I'm not leaving Zeke again for a long, long time

Hi, everyone! I'm back. I missed you. Here's how my weekend went...

By the end of Thursday night, I was marveling at the lengths people will go to in order to go skiing. I took the red-eye from Honolulu to San Francisco on Wednesday night, got into San Fran at 5:45 in the morning Thursday, and then took a flight to Denver that arrived at about noon. Kathleen picked me up at the airport and we headed straight to my cousin's house because I hadn't seen them in two years and couldn't very well blow through Denver, where they live, without stopping to say hello. We had lunch and visited for a couple of hours and then went back to Kathleen's, where we loaded up the car and waited for Michele and David, who had flown in from Atlanta that morning with their three kids. They had to stop in and see David's sister and get the keys to the mountain house, so they rolled up in their big-ass Suburban at around 5 or so. We finished loading up both cars and hit the road, just as a snowstorm started to hit the mountains -- right in our path. The weather was so bad that the authorities were closing the mountain passes. We were lucky in that we managed to make it through before the routes were cut off behind us, but not so lucky that the drive wasn't a nice, hairy, white-knuckled experience (particularly for Rich and David, our trusty chauffeurs), complete with hungry children, crying children, inquisitive children, and tired adults.

But, we finally made it to Vail and the house was gorgeous (though lacking cell service, meaning I couldn't get online the entire time -- very frightening for an internet addict like me). It was a log cabin on a river right in front of the mountains, with a massive fire place and insanely comfy beds. We were well stocked with food and, most importantly, alcohol.

Our cozy fireplace

The view out the back door

The skiing on Friday was decent, but it took us awhile to get out the door and get organized, especially getting the 5 children situated in either ski school or day care, so it was late by the time we hit the slopes. Plus the light was bad -- very flat, making it difficult to see the snow. It was the Friday of spring break, meaning it was crowded. Add that to the fact that it took us awhile to get our ski legs under us, and it made for a relatively fun (it's hard not to have fun skiing) but exhausting day.

Saturday, however, was sublime. It was seriously as great a day of skiing as I've ever had. The morning scramble to get the kids delivered to their respective destinations was a million times easier and more efficient, so we were on the mountain by 10 in the morning, and amazingly, we practically had the entire place to ourselves. I guess Saturday was a travel day for most people, so the lift lines were short. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the winds were mild, the light was good, and we took run after run of wide open, smooth slopes. So, so, so much fun.

the view from the top of the slopes

I did miss my boys. But I talked to Jason every day and they were fine. Jason managed to hear Zeke when he needed to get up at night (I think he slept on the floor of Zeke's room), and they visited friends and went to the beach and watched rugby and had a grand time together. Which is wonderful for both of them.

A little too wonderful.

Because when they picked me up at the airport, I made a beeline for Zeke, and was holding him and giving him kisses when he completely lost his shit. Not just normal "waaah" crying, but hysterical, panicked, "get me away from this terrifying lady" crying, accompanied by squirming and reaching for Jason. The kind of crying that was making people look over and wonder what kind of abuse I was inflicting on this poor child.

He recovered, and when I gave him a bath and put him to bed, he was his normal, smiley self. But it took him a little while to remember who I was, which was very disconcerting. So he's stuck with me for a while...

Letting go

Tonight I'm leaving for Colorado without my husband or my baby. I haven't been away from either of them since Zeke was born, and I'm having a difficult time accepting the fact that Jason is perfectly competent to take care of both of them and that they will be fine without me.

I am spending today doing everything I can think of to make Jason's life easier over the next four days. As I type this, I've got a pot roast and a lasagna cooking, and later I'll make a batch of puttanesca sauce so that he'll have plenty of food at his fingertips and won't have to worry about cooking. I've folded all of the laundry, shampoo'd the rugs, taken the cars to have their oil changed, and made a comprehensive list of phone numbers, insurance IDs, doctors, and bank PINs.

And now I need to get over it. Jason will be fine. Zeke will be fine. The only one I'm not sure about is me.

Condiments

Australia is a wonderful country. Its people are friendly, funny, and unpretentious. It's a place with wonderful cuisine -- incredible wines, wonderful local produce, dairy and meats. Eating there is a treat.

Which makes it all the more baffling that Australians feel compelled to slather condiments over every fucking thing they eat.

Jason's sauces of choice are Sriracha chili sauce, Worcestershire sauce and ketchup (or, as he calls it, "toh-mah-to sauuuce," pronounced like "source," only without the "r"). He puts them on sandwiches, chicken dishes, pizza, eggs, steak, stews, rice and beans, you name it. Sometimes he uses just one or two, sometimes all three in combination.

It drives me crazy.

"Why?" you ask. "It seems like an insignificant thing to get fussed about."

True, it does seem insignificant. And I am a relatively laid-back person. To each his own and all that.

Except for the fact that I really like to cook, and I put a huge amount of effort into my dishes, making seasonings and sauces that are a delicate combination of ingredients. And if you give it a taste and decide that it needs a little more salt or pepper, that's fine. But if you slather it with chili sauce, it's only going to taste like chili sauce no matter what, so all of my work has been for naught.

Last night I made chicken piccata, one of my favorite dishes. The chicken part is relatively simple, but the sauce is a combination of chicken broth, lemon juice, capers, butter and parsley that's just scrumptious.

When Jason got home from work, we started to sit down to dinner, but not before he went to the fridge and got out his bottle of chili sauce.

I lost it. "Goddammit, I swear if you put a drop of that shit on this food, I will take it away and serve you nothing but Spam from now on. What's the point of going to all of this trouble cooking if it's all going to taste like fucking chili sauce?"

His eyes got really big. "I was going to taste it first without the chili."

"I don't care. It's such an overpowering flavor that I could have served you a plate of dog food and it would taste the same."

He got up and put the chili sauce away. He sat down and ate the piccata.

"This is delicious."

"Thank you. I'm glad you like it."

When he finished what was on his plate, he asked in a small voice, "is it OK if I have a couple of chicken cutlets without the piccata sauce so I can put chili on it?"

"Yes."

Marriage is all about compromise. And condiments, if you're married to an Aussie.

Another romantic exchange

The room is very dark.

"Good night, sweetie."

"WHAT?!?" he exclaims, as if I'd just told him to stick his pillow up his mud-button.

"Um, good night? What did you think I said? Jesus. You just said, 'what' as if to say, 'how dare you, you saucy wench??'"

We both start to giggle.

I move over to try to find his mouth to kiss him goodnight, but as I said, it's very dark. I accidentally stick my nose in his eye and then I move in to kiss him, but he's laughing, and as my lips touch his, he kind of guffaws and blows a raspberry right into my mouth. The shock of it makes me snap my head back and smash it on the wall.

"Ow! Holy crap, you just spit into my mouth!"

"Well, it had some toothpaste remnants, so it'll do you good."

Now we're both wheezing with laughter. I try again to kiss him goodnight, but every time I get close we both bust out laughing all over again.

Finally, I give up.

"Ah, fuck it. Good night, babe. Love you."

"Love you too."

I really thought I'd have at least a few more months before it started...

Tonight Zeke spent his entire bath with his hand on his balls, grinning from ear to ear the whole time. *sigh*

The Muse

Most other lawyers find this hard to believe, but I love legal writing, particularly big briefs that analyze the whole case, pick apart all of the evidence, and present the big picture for the court. It's like a puzzle. It's incredibly satisfying to be struggling to respond to an argument the other side makes, and then suddenly you find that smoking gun, that document or that piece of testimony they've overlooked, that blows their theory out the water. Or a way to explain the law to the court in a way that makes it obvious that the other side is full of shit. It's a huge rush for me.

I'm very competitive by nature, and that level of competitiveness is fueled by the type of law practice I'm in. Special education litigation is, for obvious reasons, emotionally charged. I can't imagine how difficult it would be to have a disabled child. Parents and their lawyers tend to vilify the school side and their lawyers (I have been personally sued by a parent/attorney who felt that in representing my school district client, I was deliberately discriminating against her child), so their pleadings tend to be full of accusations about how evil and heartless the school districts and their counsel are. As if we sit around thinking of new and creative ways to screw poor little crippled children out of the educational services they're entitled to, as we cackle wildly and rub our hands with glee. Throw in the stress inherent in litigation, and you've got yourself a nice stew of contentiousness.

Earlier this week I was suffering from writer's block. I've been working on a big brief in a big case for work, and even though I knew exactly what the brief needed to say, I got mentally locked up. I couldn't decide how to organize the thing, whether to focus on one argument or another, and how to incorporate another part of the case that isn't the point of the brief but needs to be mentioned all the same.

It happens from time to time. My role in my firm is The Writer -- I do all of the appellate briefing and most of the trial briefing as well. And on bigger briefs that take a long time, sometimes I'll get so into it that I'm too close. I just need to step away for half a day or so and whatever it was that was confounding me resolves itself. And then The Muse is with me again.

The Muse is what makes lawyering fun. The Muse takes me effortlessly from argument to argument, helps me find just the right way to phrase things, to emphasize law and evidence, and to make it all accessible to a judge who will never understand special education law (which is complicated and difficult) as well as I do.

In typical fashion, the other side's pleadings in the case I'm working on have been full of vitriol and hyperbole, if not much substance. I knew exactly how to respond on the merits, but I was having trouble with the organization.

But then yesterday the smoke cleared, the Muse appeared, and all of a sudden I was rolling. The organizational issues resolved themselves with ease. New ways of demonstrating the inanity of the other side's arguments were popping into my brain almost faster than I could process them. I finished the brief, feeling fired up and ready to do battle.

Which is the one problem with The Muse. She appears when you need her, but then she doesn't leave. I'm still feeling fired up and ready to battle, wanting to write write write... but I'm done.

I guess I'll clean my office.

A dilemma

In a move that can only be described as "dickish" (and that's a generous characterization), Jason's foreman informed him that if he takes next Thursday off to go to Colorado (which he would have to do, obviously, since it would be impossible for him to go to work and be in Colorado), then there's a decent chance he'd get fired. Apparently, his company is laying guys off these days and looking for anything to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak, in terms of making the decision. So he can't take the trip, which sucks.

The question becomes, should I go, and if so, should I take Zeke?

In favor of going with Zeke are:

1. I really want to take the trip, and I'd miss him terribly if I were away from him for 4 days.
2. It would be easier for me to take care of him because I'll be with a houseful of other adults, so I'd have help, whereas Jason would have him by himself for 4 days, which is alot of work.
3. He'll get to meet his cousins. But of course, he doesn't know what a "cousin" is, so I'm not sure if that's such a bonus for him, especially since he won't remember it. Maybe the benefit is to me, in that I get to show off my gorgeous baby to my cousins.

In favor of leaving Zeke with Jason are:

1. He's still battling his ear infection, and while it's likely to clear up by then, flying with him and then taking him to altitude could easily exacerbate whatever is going on in his little head. Having a sick baby sucks. Having to travel with a sick baby is exponentially worse.
2. I could actually sleep for more than 2 hours at a time.
3. Jason would get some quality time with his boy.
4. I would save the cost of daycare at Vail (required if I'm going to ski - and I am), which is insanely expensive.
5. I wouldn't have to deal with the hassle of flying with an infant (as much as I happen to love said infant), healthy or not.
6. Did I mention the sleep?

In favor of not taking the trip at all is that we can just bank the tickets and use them together as a family at some later point.

I'm leaning against that last one.

Oh, the things I have to teach him...

Last night during his bath, Zeke was playing with one of his rubber duckies. And by "playing," I mean he was trying to chew on it, which is pretty much how he plays with anything these days, be it a toy, his clothes, his hands, my hands, whatever. Teething is definitely coming hurling down the pike. (Speaking of, I had the creepiest dream that he all of a sudden had these tiny little sharp pointy teeth, not only in his mouth, but coming out of other parts of his body as well. Ew.)

Anyway, he was having trouble because this particular rubber duckie is too big for him to chew on easily. So I switched it out for a smaller rubber duckie, one that is small enough to chew on comfortably but not so small that he could stuff the entire thing in his mouth and choke.

He immediately stuffed the duck's head in his mouth and bit down.

I said, "that's right, Zekey, bite the duck's head off! Pretend you're Ozzy Osbourne!" Then I made a growling noise.

Zeke just looked at me blankly. I guess he didn't get the reference.

Swan Lake Acrobatics

This was posted over at Andrew Sullivan's Daily Dish. One of the most astounding things I've ever seen -- I felt compelled to post it here.

It's a good thing I like puppies

Yesterday we downloaded Skype so that we can talk to our international friends and relatives cheaply and easily. After picking Zeke up at school, we stopped at Walmart to get a headset. We also decided to go whole hog and get a webcam so we could do video chats. It's so 21st century -- I fucking love technology.

Later that night, Jason came into my office while I was installing the various software programs. I could tell that his first thought on seeing the accoutrements was "oooh! toys!!"

First he put on the headset and started pretending he was Mission Control for the space shuttle, then a soldier in battle directing his troops, then a football coach calling plays. He even used a pair of Zeke's socks to throw a challenge flag for an imaginary bad call he didn't like. Once the webcam was up and running and there was a picture of us on the computer screen, he started doing the "descending an escalator" trick, then making funny faces at the camera, then moving back and forth behind me as if he were walking through a crowd of people.

Sometimes I feel like I'm married to a puppy.

Transplants

In the last year, two of my best friends and I, all independently of each other, up and moved to new, unfamiliar places.

My friend Elizabeth recently got engaged, got married and moved from Atlanta to Norway with her new husband, all in the span of 8 weeks. Kathleen and her family moved from Atlanta to Denver last year. And obviously, I'm in Hawaii.

Elizabeth just got to Norway, so let's give her a chance to see how she feels. In the meantime, she started a new blog to chronicle her adventures, so check out Striped Socks and Skinny Jeans and make her feel welcome.

Kathleen and I are having a hard time. Not that we go through our days moping and crying -- at least, most days I don't. As I've said, the activities and interactions of daily living foster a certain unavoidable level of engagement with the world, and that's a good thing.

But we miss having girlfriends around. Yes, we love our husbands and children, but there's something about having a posse of women to bitch with, drink wine or margaritas with, engage in bawdy talk with, that's just so comforting, gratifying and fulfilling. (And truthfully, I think when we say we miss having girlfriends around, what we're really saying is we miss having each other around -- we fantasize about eventually having each of our families occupy half of a really nice duplex, while she and I established a special education boutique law practice together. Seriously, it could happen. Anyway.)

I really thought I would be better at this. After all, I spent my entire childhood moving around from one country to the next -- elementary school in Venezuela, middle school and high school in Israel, finishing high school in India -- and I loved it. It was mostly easy and fun. But of course, I was entering established diplomatic communities that were relatively self-contained, and I was in school, so there was a whole ready-made peer group.

I knew that coming here, knowing no one, it would not be like that. But I didn't really understand how difficult it would be, and how isolated I would feel, especially just having had a baby. It's so much harder to make close friends as an adult, and outside of some structured setting like school or work. I spend lots of time alone. It doesn't bother me most of the time, but sometimes I realize where I am physically - out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean - and I feel very lonely. I hate that it takes some serious coin and long, pain-in-the-ass plane rides for my family to see my son. Or for me to see my nieces or cousins or grandparents. Or to see our friends. Or to travel anywhere (except another Hawaiian island). At least if I were on the mainland, I'd be able to get to people relatively easily and cheaply.

But, this is the deal Jason and I made, and truthfully, I see my family a hell of alot more than he sees his, so I shouldn't complain. And it's not like our lives are terrible by any means. We do live in a beautiful place that allows us to surf and hike and be outside all the time, and we are slowly meeting people and making new friends and feeling more at home.

In the meantime, next week we're going to Colorado to ski with Kathleen and her family and David and Michele and their brood. And the month after that, I'm taking Zeke back east to see his great-grandparents and then his uncles and aunts and cousins and grandparents. And after that Jason's mom and grandpa are coming for a visit. A healthy dose of family and friends.

Still, there are times when I look around and think, "how did I get here? what am I doing?" I don't always know the answer. But there's nowhere to go but forward. Watching Zeke grow. My teaching gig at the law school. Improving my long-boarding skills, and maybe learning how to ride a short board.

And keeping my eye on the prize -- that duplex next door to Kathleen.

Good Mommy

It's an ear infection. Last night Zeke couldn't lie down to sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time without crying in pain, so finally I gave in at around 1:30 in the morning and just sat in the chair holding him so that he could sleep upright. Then this morning he was nice and feverish, so I got him in to see the doctor, who confirmed that he's got infection in both ears. He's now on his third round of antibiotics in about a month and a half. The doc complimented me for seeing the signs and bringing him in right away, so he'll be fine by the time we go to Colorado (*knocks wood*).

There are few things more pitiful or more exhausting than dealing with a sick baby. They're too little to know what's wrong with them and why they feel so yucky, which is sad. And they're too little to stick in their beds with cartoons on and a pile of coloring books and instructions to drink their juice and get some sleep. Meaning I spent the day sitting on the couch holding him, with a damp washcloth cooling his forehead, while he alternately slept and whimpered in my arms. Mommy's tired.

He's now been asleep in his bed for about half an hour. Fingers crossed, but I have a feeling that it's going to be another long night...

Bad mommy?

This morning Zeke woke up with a nose full of green snot. This is distressing not only because I don't want my little monkey to be sick, but also because we're leaving for Colorado in just under 2 weeks, and I don't want to take him on a plane and have him at altitude for 5 days if he's got sinus issues. Because sinus issues in babies generally lead to ear issues, and flying with an ear infection sucks ass. In fact, if he developed an ear infection, I wouldn't take the trip.

I sprayed some saline up his nose and sucked the boogers out with one of those baby snot-sucking bulbs. I took his temperature -- 99.5. Not great, but not terrible -- still less than a degree over normal. So I gave him some infant tylenol and took him to school.

Then I went surfing.

Kathleen called this a "veteran parenting move," i.e., I'm no longer a hysterical newbie who panics at the first sign of illness. Or it might be a euphemism for "you're an unfeeling asshole, going surfing while your kid is at school feeling like dog-shit."

A list

Last night we watched Zodiac, a decidedly mediocre movie that I ordered from Netflix because I'd heard decent things about it and because it's got a really good cast, particularly Robert Downey, Jr. It got me to thinking about all of the less-than-stellar movies I'd watched and enjoyed, notwithstanding their mediocrity, because of actors or actresses I love and would watch in anything.

The actors I would pay to watch even if they were just reading the phone book:

• Russell Crowe -- he may be a grumpy asshole (and quite frankly, I kind of doubt it, I just think he's gotten a bad rap), but he's always compelling. Completely dedicated to his craft, makes great choices.
  
• Robert Downey, Jr. -- crazy-talented, picks interesting roles, and as good a dramatic actor as he is, he's got incredible comic timing
• Clive Owen -- has more screen presence that it should be legal for one person to possess
  
• Ewan MacGregor -- always interesting to watch. No matter what he's doing, you can't take your eyes off him. Especially if he's naked. :)
• Ryan Gosling -- intense, makes acting look effortless, huge range

The actors I wouldn't pay to watch even if the movie won the "Greatest Film in the History of the Universe" Award and resulted in a cure for both cancer and AIDS:

• Tom Cruise -- creepy creepy creepy. Whatever he's doing on screen, I just don't buy it.
  
• Mel Gibson -- creepy anti-semitic drunken asshole. And not a good actor. And not all that good looking, either. And did I mention he creeps me out?
  
• Robin Williams in a comedic role -- I think he's good in dramatic stuff (e.g., Good Will Hunting), but shit like Patch Adams and all of that other goofbally crap makes me vomit. He's not funny. His frenetic comedic style makes me want to lie down in a dark room with a damp washcloth over my eyes.
  
• Billy Crystal in a movie in which he takes his shirt off -- which is most of them. Dude, your bald chest is creepy. Just stop it.
  

Surfus Interruptus

"Hey, baby, how's your day looking? Want to meet me for a surf before we go pick up the boy?"

"Sure, that sounds great. I'll meet you at White Plains at 3:40."

"OK, see you then. Love you. Bye."

We meet at the beach. He walks over to my car and from my vantage point, it looks like he's getting something out of the trunk. I get out, toss my purse in the trunk of my car, and then walk over to the van to help him take the boards out. I lock my car, then I put my keys in the back of the van.

He says, "go ahead, I'm going to wax my board, I'll meet you out there."

I head for the beach. A few minutes later he joins me. We check out the water, figure out where the good waves are breaking and where the rip tide is (so we know to avoid it), and start paddling out. It's a bit windy and the water is choppy, but we each catch a couple of decent waves.

Half an hour later, we head in so we can go home, put on dry clothes, and head up to Zeke's school. We're happy as clams. La la la.

"Do you have your key?" he asks me.

I feel a flush of panic. "No, my keys are in your van. Where's your key?"

"In the trunk of your car."

"You're bullshitting me."

"I swear I'm not."

Fuuuuuck. And just like that, the surf buzz, she is dead.

Bonding over Kris Kristofferson

I've always had a pretty good singing voice, and have used it in everything from school choruses to talent shows to a bluegrass band that I was in for a couple of years. I always harbored a secret fantasy that I could make money singing, but it doesn't look like that's going to come to pass.

But as satisfying as I imagine it would be to be a professional singer, I'm finding I'm getting just as much satisfaction from the fact that my baby boy loves my voice.

Mondays and Wednesdays Jason has school after work, so he doesn't get home until after Zeke goes to bed. So those are our special mommy-baby nights.

Tonight we went for a walk in the stroller (and for the first time, Zekey rode in the front sitting up like a big boy, rather than in the car seat attachment), and we enjoyed the balmy weather and the pretty sunset. He discovered that he looooooves pears, and he practically sucked down the mashed pears and rice cereal I fed him, smiling and gurgling the whole time. We had a marvelous time during his bath, as he splashed and grinned and laughed when I squirted him with the ducky toy. He got a nice lotion massage before putting on his jammies, and then we settled into the rocker to go to sleep.

He was lying in my arms sucking on his bottle, eyes at half-mast, and I started to sing to him. A lullaby from U2's Unforgettable Fire album, then a couple of bluegrass gospel standards (Angel Band and Drifting Too Far From the Shore), and then Me and Bobby McGee. When I've sung it on stage, I've done the Janis Joplin cover version, but it's too frenetic for bedtime, so when I sing it to Zeke, I do the original Kris Kristofferson version, which is much slower and more melancholy.

When I got to the chorus, Zeke looked up at me and suddenly gave me this huge grin and made a happy little squeal. I couldn't help but smile back, but I kept singing, so we sat there gazing at each other as I finished the song, and he cooed and smiled and gave me the most adoring look. After a minute or so, he sighed deeply, buried his face in my chest, and closed his eyes to go to sleep. I felt so loving and content, I could have rocked him and gazed at his beautiful face all night.

Kathleen once said that as much as you're blown away by your love for your child, what really blows you away is how much they love you. I've seen it in the way Zeke looks at Jason sometimes -- Jason will talk to him and Zeke will reach up and touch Jason's face and smile and make these sweet noises.

And he smiles at me and responds to me all the time, but when we had that little moment tonight, I felt like I could really see all of the love he had for me in his eyes and his smile, and it made me just about melt.

Jason feels the baby love

Naches from kinder

Last night we went to a party at the home of our friends Janet and Sean, the couple we met at the Passover seder when we first moved here last year. Sean is in the Army and just got promoted to "full bird" colonel, and he and his wife threw a big bash at their house celebrating it. It was a blast, we met some really cool people, we had many drinks (Zeke had a babysitter so we got to throw down a little bit), we swam in the pool, we ate yummy food.

And we heard about Sean doing one of the coolest, nicest things for his dad.

Sean's dad, Robert, just turned 86. He served during World War II in the Naval Construction Brigade (the "SeaBees"), and received a medal commemorating his service in the Asia-Pacific theater. But the problem was, he never actually got the physical medal. It was just noted on his discharge papers.

Sean found out about this, and secretly arranged to have the actual medal prepared for his dad, along with a commendation from the President. Plus, when the guys from the SeaBees found out, they were so excited that they had a beautiful wooden plaque made for Robert out of Hawaiian koa wood.

At the promotion ceremony, Sean received his honors and got up to say a few words. After thanking his family, friends, etc., he ordered Petty Officer 3rd Class Robert ______ to present himself. His dad was understandably confused, but finally went up and stood before Sean. At which point, the belated medal was (finally) presented, the full commendation from the President read aloud, and the commemorative plaque presented by the SeaBees.

And of course, Sean's mom was plotzing with joy and his dad was chuffed beyond belief and everyone said it was one of the coolest, most memorable things they had ever witnessed.

At the party last night, Jason and I talked to Sean's parents, and they couldn't have been happier. They showed off the medal and the plaque (which was gorgeous), and seemed like they were about to burst with joy. It was just so wonderful, and it made me feel all goopy and warm knowing that their son had made them so proud and also that he had made them feel so loved.

In Yiddish, the term "naches from kinder" refers to the immense joy parents receive when their children do something to make them proud. Sean, my friend, you are a source of naches.*

Well done, Colonel.

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*The "ch" in naches is pronounced as a gutteral "h", like the noise you make when you're clearing your throat.

Thank God for my crazy brain, and for all of you

The truth is, I don't live a very exciting life.

So many people are all, "oooh, you live in Hawaii! Whee! Paradise blah blee bloo."

But it's not like I spend my days hiking through the jungle admiring waterfalls and vistas like the cast of Lost.

In fact, because I work from home, my exposure to the outside world is pretty limited. Yes, I'm in Hawaii, but I spend most of my time sitting in my normal suburban house working on a computer and occasionally getting up to eat, exercise or do laundry or dishes. Twice a day I drive up the road to drop Zeke off at school and pick him up, and occasionally I'll detour to the drug store or grocery store for provisions. But I spend alot of time by myself in my office, so to an alien observing me from Planet Xorcam, my existence is kind of boring.

But I don't feel that way, thank God -- at least not most of the time.

Because I've got my phone, so I can talk to my family or my friends and keep up with what they're doing.

And I've got my imagination, so I can perseverate on why I had the most amazingly complex dream last night involving riding on the space shuttle with The Connells, a band I have not listened to or thought about since I was at UVa., while they played me a belated birthday serenade. And yes, I second your "WTF??"

And most of all, I've got the internet, so I can read the news and stay current on my blogger friends and feel like I'm out in the world, rather than on a tiny island in the middle of the fucking Pacific Ocean. Even sitting alone in my little office, I feel like I have a little community I'm a part of, that keeps up with me and checks up on me when I'm down, and that engages me in something other than my own humdrum life.


Bless you all. You keep me sane. Sort of.

Impulse control

I am not a big shopper. At least not for clothes. I hate malls, department stores, boutiques. For the most part, if I can't buy it online, I feel like I must not really need it.

But I love love love drugstores. And places like Target and WalMart. Target in particular, but Hawaii doesn't have one (I'm counting down to next March when one opens about 2 miles from my house -- whee!!), so WalMart has to suffice.

Kathleen and I used to joke that we were incapable of going to Target without spending $100. It didn't matter if we were going in only intending to buy a new pen. Somehow, that pen turned into new underwear and an Isaac Mizrahi purse and some laundry detergent and ink for the printer and some cute shoes that we had to have.

This morning after dropping Zeke off at school, I went to WalMart to buy toilet paper. I left with toilet paper, plus a new wireless router, a new phone for the house, a USB storage drive, and a sponge for the kitchen sink.

At least the router is tax deductible.

Amateur hour

For the first time in my life, I went out surfing by myself today during my lunch hour. It was very intimidating -- the whole time I felt like a total poseur. The fact that I drove into the beach parking lot with my board strapped to the top of a red Mercedes sedan, rather than a crappy Dodge Dart or a pickup truck, didn't help. I got some funny looks from the guys with the bleached out hair who looked like someone had called and asked for surfers from Central Casting.

The waves were decent -- there's a bit of a south swell -- but they were breaking a long, long way out, so I was paddling forever to catch anything. It was easier to stay and catch some of the inside waves, so that's what I did. And I was out for about 25 minutes, caught a couple of good ones, caught a couple of mediocre ones, and took a couple of dives. But I did it, and without humiliating myself.

Everyone is congratulating me and telling me how brave it was for me to just contact the law school out of the blue and propose a new course and get it on the curriculum. But I felt much braver heading out to a local break -- White Plains is not a tourist beach at all -- and holding my own among the big boys.

Another tribute

It's been a crazy and wonderful week. The house on the North Shore was amazing, huge and spacious and perfect for an enormous group with a passel of munchkins, right across from Chun's Reef, a break that is more intimidating than the baby waves I get at my local beach on the south shore, but not so huge that I couldn't catch a ride from time to time.

And speaking of, I'm officially surfing again. Jason and I have been every day for the past 5 or 6, and it's been so great. Yesterday we went out in the morning (my mom hung out with Zeke) and even though there was a huge crowd, it seemed like most of the people were just sitting on their boards because they weren't properly positioned to catch any waves. Without any help from Jason, I caught about 7 or 8 waves on my own, and was figuring out how to turn into the wave and walk the board. It's a long paddle out to the waves, though, so after about 45 minutes I was exhausted, plus all the paddling was making my shoulder ache where I separated it. But it was a sweet morning in the water, and so fun to be out with Jason.

In other news, my education law course got approved by the law school. So it looks like I'm going to be a law professor. So exciting, but also completely surreal.

We're back at home now, and I'm missing everyone like crazy. The nice thing is, Jason and Zeke and I are going to Denver next month to see Kathleen and her crew to do some skiing. I'm still all a-glow from seeing everyone, and overwhelmed at the fact that they flew out all this way to see me and spend time with me. So it's time for a tribute:

Mindy and Chris: Flew out from Atlanta with two small kids and stayed for two weeks. Mindy kept the house in clean laundry. Chris kept us in yummy food with his cooking. They both did well surfing -- Mindy got up on her very first try and rode a wave in to the shore. Chris did a "dawn raid" with J and me to a surf break on the west side and cheerfully rode in a beach chair in the back of Jason's noisy cargo van. Gave Jason an insanely generous gift card to a North Shore surf shop -- enough to get him a new board. 5 Organic Veggie Burgers.

Michele: Flew out from Atlanta with a 4 week old baby, and could only stay for 3 days. Was cheerful and wonderful in spite of an appalling lack of sleep. Spoiled us with her amazing vodka pasta. 5 Gulfstream V Jets.

Grayson: Overcame his nervousness (perfectly natural, given that he's only 3 years old) to get onto a surfboard and let Jason push him (gently) into waves. 5 Boogie Boards.

Kathleen and Addie: Flew from Denver to Atlanta to Honolulu in a short time, made me smile constantly with their cheer and sweetness. Kathleen fed her surf jones and got up on the board a bunch of times, including one ride that qualified as "wave of the day." Brought Zeke a bunch of great toys for the Jewish Holidays (all of them), including a stuffed Hannukah menorah and a Jewish holiday puzzle. Addie made a beautiful piece of art with paper, tape and stickers that is now adorning our fridge. She also entertained us with a hula dance in her new hula girl outfit. 5 Princess Crowns.

Mom: In addition to giving birth to me and being the greatest mom ever, she flew out to see me for my birthday, bought us groceries, cleaned up after us, watched Zeke so we could get time in the water, and generally was the wonderful sweetheart she always is. 5 Perfect Tans.

And last, but certainly not least....

Jason: Spent the entire last year organizing the week for me. Did all of it to make me happy, knowing how much I miss my friends. Cheered me on in the surf, giving me useful pointers and celebrating when I did well. Generally behaved like a mensch and a sweetheart, as he always does. I love you, babe. 5,000 Perfect Waves.

The Village

In this beach house, we've got two couples, two moms traveling without their husbands, a grandmother, and five children -- a 4 week old, a 4 month old, a 10 month old, a 3 year old and a 4 year old. The kids keep us busy, but when one of the parents needs a break, there is someone on hand to pick up the slack, and everyone is able to get time in the water or time on the surfboard or time in the sun or enough naps or whatever they need. We take turns cooking dinner and cleaning up and watching the kids in the water. We talk about buying a huge house somewhere, in which each family has their own wing for privacy yet there are common areas for eating and playing, and we are only half kidding. Because this kibbutz-style life is seriously the way to go.

Back in the saddle

We're up at the beach house on the North Shore. It's huge and across the street from a wave called Chun's Reef. The beach is wide and has big areas shaded by trees, so it's great for sitting with the kids.

And it's got killer waves.

I haven't surfed since February of 2005, when Jason and I were in Hawaii so I could take the bar exam. By the time we got here last year, I was already pregnant, and since Zeke was born I've been either trying to get back into shape or too intimidated by the prospect of trying to shlep the baby down onto the beach. Plus, since it's been so long since I've surfed, I really wanted my first few times back out to be with Jason, and it was obviously impossible for us both to get out into the water and leave the baby to fend for himself.

So today Mindy and Chris and Jason and I took the monkeys to the beach, and Zeke fell asleep, so Jason decided it was time to get me out in the water. We got on our boards and started paddling out. At first my arms were tired, but then I got into the swing of it and we made our way into the lineup. The first two waves I tried to catch were busts. The first one I had, but I froze up and lost my muscle memory of how to pop-up. The second was big, and I had it, but I psyched myself out and jumped off because I was scared.

Jason could tell my head was getting in the way of catching a wave, so he told me to follow him to a particular point, made me turn around, said, "start paddling" and pushed me into the wave. And all of a sudden I remembered what to do. I pushed with both hands, pulled up my knees and suddenly I was standing on the board, riding the wave. It was a nice, smooth wave, and I even managed to make a couple turns and walk the board a little bit. When the wave petered out, I raised my arms in the air, yelled "woohoo!" and jumped off.

Holy crap, it was so much fun. I can't believe it's been three years, and I can't wait to get out there again. I know I've been kind of bitching and moaning about Hawaii lately, but all of a sudden the prospect of being able to strap my board to the roof of my car and head down to the beach to catch a couple of waves during lunchtime is incredibly appealing. What an awesome way to break up the work day.

Baby love

Today is my birthday. Every year on my birthday, my mother calls and tells me the story of the day I was born (or more accurately, the days leading up to my birth plus the day I was born). It's the best tradition ever. I could recite the story for her at this point, but it's so much fun to pick up the phone and have her say, "do you want to hear about the day you were born?"

"Yes!"

"Ok, well, the night before Valentine's Day we went to a big dance, and your father and I danced so much because I was hoping it would encourage you to be born the next day. I was so excited! Anyway..." and she recites the whole story, and tells me that from the day I was born, she loved me like crazy and always had so much fun with me.

This year, obviously, is the first time that I've listened to the story as a mother myself, and it gave me such different perspective. When she called, it was about 6:30 in the morning Hawaii time, and Jason was getting Zeke dressed and ready for school. When he came in and brought me the phone, he had Zeke in his arms, and when Zeke saw me and heard my voice, he gave me this enormous smile. And he has the best, best smile. He's got this gorgeous dimple and when he smiles he opens his mouth really wide and just looks like he wants to shout for sheer joy. It's wonderful.

So for the first time, I felt like I truly understood the joy my mother had with me as a baby, and it gave me a burst of love both for her and for Zeke that practically made my chest explode. Like I was finally experiencing motherhood the way it was supposed to be experienced.

Because nobody ever tells you this before you have a baby, but the initial couple of weeks (even months) after giving birth can be grueling and difficult, and sometimes it's hard to feel that rush of baby love that you feel like you're supposed to have. I heard all of these stories about moms who give birth and the first time they hold their child, they feel this instant rush of intense love for their baby.

But I didn't feel that when Zeke was first born, and I felt horrible about it. I was too exhausted and in pain and just worn out, mentally and physically, by the whole experience.

Don't get me wrong -- I loved him because he was my child and I felt protective of him and enjoyed holding him and snuggling with him. But for the first two months -- and in particular, the first four weeks -- I felt completely shell-shocked. My hormones were going crazy, so I cried at the drop of a hat, my body felt weird and mushy after being pregnant for so long, I was depressed because I really wanted to breastfeed but wasn't able to produce enough milk, I was completely exhausted all the time, and I was mentally on edge because there was this tiny helpless person that needed me for everything and I felt like I didn't know what the fuck I was supposed to do with him half the time. Plus he wasn't really reacting yet to our faces or our voices, so it was hard to feel like he really knew us or felt any connection to us.

But then, slowly, Jason and I both became more competent with the baby care, and Zeke started to settle into more regular patterns of eating and sleeping, and it became easier.

And then he smiled at us for the first time when he was about 2 1/2 months old, and we fell in love with him all over again. A different kind of love than we had felt before -- this love felt truer and unique to Zeke himself, because we were getting to know him not just as this blob that we were taking care of, but as an individual with a budding personality. Soon he was seeking out our faces when he heard our voices, and enjoying bathtime (and pre-bath time), and giving us huge toothless grins when we sing to him or make funny faces or even peek into the crib in the morning when it's time to get up. We spend time with him and marvel at what a wonder he is and how much we adore him.

The other day, Jason and I picked Zeke up from daycare together, and Jason sat in the back seat with him while I drove home. Jason made a funny face or noise or something, and Zeke laughed. A full, "hahaha" real laugh. Jason burst into tears, it made him so happy.

So now I understand that crazy, wonderful baby love that parents experience. And it's just the best birthday present ever.

A romantic Valentine's Day exchange

I'm sitting with Zeke in the rocker, trying to get him to go to sleep. He's been up past his bedtime and is overtired and a little fussy, so I'm trying to soothe him and get him to settle down. He finally starts to relax -- he's working on a bottle and his left hand is massaging the top of my left breast, just under my shirt collar.

Suddenly, I hear steps like someone (presumably Jason) is running, a loud crash, an "ooof," and then groaning.

I don't want to jolt Zeke out of his reverie, so I whisper loudly, "Honey? Are you OK?"

More groaning.

I continue rocking in the chair. Jason is apparently nursing some kind of wound on the stairs, but he hasn't said, "call 911," so I stay with Zeke. Finally, I hear Jason stumble up. It's dark in the hallway and in Zeke's room, so I can only see his silhouette as he limps in to sit with me while the baby goes to sleep.

"Did you bump something?"

"Grrhnn." He grunts in assent, and then starts lowering himself onto the floor. He also starts to chuckle, because for reasons I will never comprehend, his reaction to extreme pain is to laugh.

"Honey, before you sit down, could you hand me Zeke's blanket from the crib?"

Jason leans over until he is on all fours, resting on his forearms, head down, continuing to laugh in pain. This goes on for a couple of minutes. I still don't have Zeke's blanket.

In the gentle sing-songy voice I use for bedtime, I say, "Zekey, could you tell Daddy to stop being such a pussy and hand me your blanket?" I'm starting to laugh a little bit at this point, but I'm keeping it under control. Jason starts doing that silent shaking thing when he's laughing so hard that he can't even produce sound.

Zeke starts to fuss because what was once a soft, still, comfortable place to rest is starting to move as I am beginning to have difficulty controlling my shaking. I shush him and pull myself together, and he calms down again.

Still no blanket.

A minute later, I say, "Boy, Zekey, Daddy's really being a soft-cock, isn't he?"

Jason starts to wheeze with laughter, but manages to reach into the crib and hand me the blanket. He then collapses on the floor.

"What did you do?" I ask.

"I think I broke my toe. I was running to come up here and slammed my foot on the edge of the stairs."

"I'm sorry, babe."

We stay like that for a minute or two. I snuggle Zeke, who is close to being asleep. Jason lies on the floor, waiting for the pain to subside.

Finally he decides to go put some ice on it.

"Good night, Zekers. Daddy's going to go fan the sand out of his vagina now."

And we both totally lose our shit. I burst out with a laugh about 6 inches from Zeke's ear, who starts awake and begins to cry again, plus I'm shaking uncontrollably, so he's understandably pissed. Jason is standing up but bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees, because that's the only way he can avoid falling over.

By the time we all calm down, I think we've all three peed in our pants a little bit.

Jason finally limps out to get some ice.

"Feel better, honey! Love you!"

"Love you too, baby. Happy Valentine's Day."

Sign of the times?

Lately I've noticed the topic of a person's star sign coming up frequently in conversations I've had or overheard. "I have a tendency to do X," "Oh, well, that makes sense because you're a Scorpio" -- that sort of thing. It all goes right over my head. I don't know anything about astrology and though I have no problem with other people putting stock in it, I'm not sure I buy the notion that I have much in common with the other 1/12 of the world's population that was also born whenever Aquarius is (late January to late February?), other than we have birthdays close together. I'm not saying it's impossible, I'm just saying that with my extremely left-dominant brain, I don't really get it.

The benefit of all of this astrology talk is that I get a good chuckle because it reminds me of one of my favorite bits from Monty Python's Life of Brian. At the very beginning of the movie, the three wise men are in a manger in Bethlehem, thinking they are blessing Jesus, but they've actually stumbled into the wrong manger and are blessing Brian, a random baby.

Brian's mother learns they are astrologers and asks, "well then, what star sign is he?"

"Capricorn."

"Capricorn, eh? What are they like?"

"He is the son of God, our Messiah! The King of the Jews!"

"And that's Capricorn, is it?"

"No, no, that's just him."

"Oh, I was going to say, otherwise there'd be a lot of them."

Hee!

So, what are Aquarians like? Is it possible that 1/12 of the world population is as moody, demanding, self-doubting and bossy as I am? All I have to say to that is, "oy."

In development: the ball cozy

About 3 years ago for New Year's Eve (it was before Jason and I were married, so it must have been New Year's of 2005), we rented a big house on a lake in the mountains of western North Carolina with 3 other couples and all their kids and dogs. We went for walks, took the canoe out on the lake, rough-housed with the kids, watched movies, and played cards and drank bourbon after the kids were asleep. Lots and lots of bourbon, and lots and lots of cards (I think we were playing Hearts).

At some point, Jason, who has a colorful way with words, mentioned to someone that they might want to think about sticking their cards up their mud-button. And yes, it means exactly what you think it means. Kathleen practically did a spit-take, she was laughing so hard, and "mud-button" became the word of the weekend. Someone who was being a dick while playing cards got extra "mud-button" points. We vowed to come up with a way to add "mud-button" to the Oxford English Dictionary. Could it be a verb as well as a noun? We were determined to make it work.

This week and next, a bunch of my friends and their children are coming to Hawaii (or are already here) for my birthday. My mom's coming, too, which will be great, because she hasn't seen Zeke since he was born. Jason rented a huge house on the North Shore, and we'll take the kids surfing and build sand castles and just relax and have fun.

And last night, I think we came up with the new word of the week -- this year's "mud-button" if you will.

When my mom was stationed in Papua New Guinea, I went to visit her and I brought back presents for some of my friends. As a joke, a couple of the guys got penis gourds. Last night, Jason and Chris and I were sitting around after dinner gabbing, and we were talking about my PNG trip. Chris mentioned the penis gourd, but he couldn't remember what it was called, so he kept calling it a "ball cozy." Which just about killed me. I kept thinking of a smaller, testicle-sized version of a tea cozy and I couldn't stop giggling.

And of course, "ball cozy" kept working it's way into the conversation. How useful they would be while hiking or doing athletic activities, particularly in the cold, what the TV infomercial selling them would be like, and the variety of colors they could come in.

I may actually knit some this week as party favors, if I can figure out a pattern. (Or I could cheat and cut up a hacky-sack and put a drawstring on it). And if the guys don't like it, I'll tell them they can stick it right up their mud-buttons.

For the first time in my life, I feel old. And boring.

Yesterday I walked by a mirror in the house, got a look at myself, and was horrified. Not because I had spinach in my teeth or because my ass looked fat or anything like that. But because I appeared to myself to be the epitome of a suburban housewife type. Striped t-shirt, khaki shorts, boring bobbed hairstyle, flip-flops.

Ugh.

When did this happen? I used to have some style. I had gorgeous suits that I wore to work and a pretty slammin' shoe collection and cool clothes that I wore out with my friends, and I looked somewhat hip some of the time.

But when we moved to Hawaii, I knew I would have no need for suits so I sold them or gave them away, and did the same with most of my shoes and my winter clothes. Then I got pregnant, so all I wore was maternity clothes, usually tank tops and baggy pants. After the baby I never really went shopping except to buy t-shirts in bulk at WalMart or KMart.

And so here I am. I feel like I look so boring and conventional. And old. But it's hard to justify going out and buying cool clothes, because I don't have anywhere to wear them anyway -- all I ever do is go from home to daycare to the grocery store to back home again. Plus Zeke has an ear infection and isn't sleeping again and I'm so tired and I feel like I have no time to clean the house or get my work done or just read a book or do anything but stumble from one chore to the next, completely delirious with exhaustion. I feel like the "before" picture -- the "what not to do" picture -- from a Ladies Home Journal article on The Modern Mom Trying To Do It All.

Ugh.

I know a secret. Finally.

Perhaps the one area in which my husband and I aren't entirely compatible is our attitude towards surprises. I hate them, he loves them. I seek out spoilers about my favorite TV shows, because it doesn't ruin the watching experience for me if I already know what happens. (Though I was unspoiled when Janice shot Richie Aprile in the second to last episode of Season 2 of The Sopranos, and the shock of it was fucking awesome.) I will sometimes peek at the end of a novel to see what happens, because I just want to see where it's going and if it's worth my effort to continue reading. It doesn't dampen my enjoyment of the book at all.

I have many friends and relatives who chose not to find out the sex of their baby during pregnancy, because they wanted to be surprised. I don't understand this at all. What's so great about being surprised? To me, knowing something in advance not only allows you to enjoy the thing when it happening, but also to enjoy the anticipation of it, so you're basically doubling your pleasure. Like the Doublemint Gum TM version of life.

These issues have all come up in the context of Jason's birthday present for me, namely arranging for a number of my close friends from Atlanta to come to Hawaii, and renting a big beach house up on the North Shore for everyone to stay in. I guess the idea was that he would come up with some excuse to get in the car, like we were going out for dinner or something, and we would pull up at the house and everyone would be out on the deck and I would plotz from excitement. Jason ended up having to spill the beans because one of our friends is getting married the day after my birthday and I was seriously contemplating flying back to Atlanta for the weekend to be with her, as distasteful as an 11 hour flight with about 36 hours' turnaround sounded.

But, it turns out, he was still holding out on me.

Because of the craziness of peoples' schedules -- one couple was trying to sell their house and couldn't do anything until they did, another just had a baby about 4 weeks ago, another was about to get married, etc. -- I was told that only one family could make it. But Jason kept hinting that I would be getting another surprise, and I just had a feeling that it would be that my best friend Kathleen would be able to come, even if she couldn't come with her husband and kids.

And then I found out that my suspicions were right. And now Michele (she of the Gulfstream V rating) may come out as well with her new baby. And not only does Jason not know that I know, but I don't think he knows about Michele because she just decided to try to come out, like, yesterday.

Part of me thinks I should just let Jason have his fun and think I'm in the dark. But part of me wants to emphasize to him how much more fun it's been for me over the past week or so knowing that other people would be able to make it and looking forward to seeing them. To me, that millisecond of shock and joy that the surprise would have caused is nothing compared to the joy of knowing my friends will be here and anticipating how much fun we're going to have.

What should I do?



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*Jason doesn't read this blog, so there's no risk that he'll find out about this by virtue of this post.

The Survivorman Face

I have no poker face. If I'm happy, it shows, if I'm upset, it shows, and if I'm disdainful, it really shows.

Jason refers to it as my Survivorman face. Survivorman is a show on the Discovery Channel made by this guy who's an expert in outdoor survival, so on the show he plops himself out in the middle of the Arctic tundra or the Amazon rainforest or the Sahara desert or whereever and has to survive on scorpions and toe lint for a week. The conceit of the show is that he films the show himself without a camera crew, so he lugs all the cameras around and sets up shots himself, and spends lots of time babbling to the camera while he's out there alone in the wilderness.

Jason introduced me to this show a few years ago, and while I certainly respect the guy's skills, I always found his incessant chatter annoying (somehow, Bear Grylls of Man vs. Wild manages to do it without annoying me, but maybe because he's smoking hot). Without being conscious of it, I would spend the majority of the show with a look on my face that came to be known as the Survivorman face.

The Survivorman face is basically an exaggerated "who farted?" face. Brow furrowed, eyes slightly narrowed, nose and upper lip pulled up, mouth slightly open. It's a look that I spend much time and effort hiding. In court, for example, it is the height of bad form to react to something your opponent says with eye rolls, heavy sighs, or open looks of disdain. It's rude and unprofessional, the sign of a rookie. So when I'm in court, I keep my face absolutely neutral. The most I will allow myself is a slight eyebrow raise from time to time, kind of like a pressure valve to keep my head from exploding right off my shoulders.

But it takes enormous effort to maintain that facial calm, and in my everyday life, I have more trouble disguising it when someone does something that betrays them as a complete chowderhead.

Which makes dealing with my next-door neighbor difficult.

Did you ever meet someone and discover that every single thing about them irritated you? That's my next-door neighbor. She's a busybody who's always complaining and seeing conspiracies against her everywhere. Plus, if the sun is down, she walks around the neighborhood all bundled up in a ski parka and hat, even though the lowest it gets here is about 75 degrees. She even asked if she could have one of Zeke's newborn-size onesies so her stupid little yippy dog could wear it. Everything she does bugs the living shit out of me.

I knew we were in trouble the first time we met and she introduced herself. She has this crazy name that her parents made up and that means nothing, but her parents apparently told her is a biblical name. It isn't. So of course when she told me her name and said it was from the Bible, I thought about it and immediately the Survivorman face appeared. Jason elbowed me and I made it go away.

Within days after we moved into our house, NDN started bugging us about the trees in our yard. According to her, our trees are too tall and violate the condo rules. She has been writing letters to the condo association for over a year, and they have been ignoring her. Our sellers did not disclose any possible violations of the condo rules, so my position is and has been that it's not my problem -- if someone wants to remove the trees, fine, but I ain't paying for it.

One night NDN showed up on our doorstep with a big stack of copies of the letters she had been sending to the condo board for the past year, and copies of the condo rules she claims we have violated. I opened the door, saw who it was, and immediately forced my face into my neutral "court" expression.

"Hi. I just wanted to give you copies of these letters so you would know what's going on."

"Oh, OK. Thanks."

"You can see that this newsletter highlights the fact that trees in your yard can't be over 15 feet tall, or over the roofline. I tried dealing with the previous owners but they ignored me, and the condo board hasn't done anything about it either, but your trees clearly violate the rules."

"Hmmmm." Deep breath.

"I know it wasn't disclosed to you and you didn't know anything about it, so it really shouldn't be your problem."

"That's right, it isn't." Stay neutral, stay neutral.

"Oh, and also, there's a board meeting tomorrow that I think you should go to. There's a proposal to put in a gate at the entrance to the neighborhood, but I know for a fact that the company that has bid on the job to build the gate has one of the board members in his pocket and is giving him kickbacks. You should vote against it."

Slight eyebrow raise. "Is that right? How do you know this?"

"I have a source on the board."

"Really? Who?"

"I can't tell you."

"Hmm," I keep my voice silken. "Well, that makes it hard to assess their reliability, doesn't it?"

"Oh, they're reliable, I can promise you that. Anyway, I just wanted to give you these letters."

"Well, I sure appreciate that." Sometimes having spent half my life in the South comes in handy. "You take care now."

A few weeks later I ran into the property manager. When he realized where I lived, he said, "oh, you live next door to the crazy lady. Don't worry about your trees, they're fine. I'm sending her a letter tonight telling her that her complaints aren't valid." We haven't heard from her about the trees since.

Then last night, the doorbell rang. I opened it, and NDN was standing there, all rugged up in her parka and scarf. It was almost 80 degrees outside. Survivorman face started to creep up, but I caught it in time.

"Hi, can I help you?"

"Hi, Wendy. Do you smell something? I think something died in your backyard."

I sniffed the air.

"No, I don't smell anything. Jason, do you smell anything?"

Jason went out into the back yard and took a whiff. "Nope, I don't smell anything."

"Well, when I was walking on my walkway, which is next to your yard, I smelled something that smelled like a dead animal."

"Hmm. I don't smell anything and neither does Jason."

"Yeah, also, I was washing my car and one of the kids across the street came over to me and said he smelled something funny."

Neutral face, Wendy.

"I don't smell anything and neither does Jason."

"It smells like something died."

"I don't smell anything and neither does Jason."

"It smells like it's coming from your back yard."

The facade is beginning to crack. I'm trying really hard to keep it together.

"I don't smell anything and neither does Jason. I don't know what else to tell you."

When I went back in the house, Jason took one look at me and burst out laughing.

"Hello, Survivorman!"

Cue the Twilight Zone music...

The day I wrote the post about Imposter Syndrome, this article appeared in the New York Times. Weird.

Imposter Syndrome

Do you ever feel like you do all of this grownup stuff that some people find very important and impressive, but really you're just winging it and full of shit, and eventually the world will figure it out? I feel that way most of the time. I could be arguing a case before a panel of judges at the United States Court of Appeals, slamming one of their questions out of the park, and I still feel like I look and sound like a teenager and that any minute, someone's going to ask me for my credentials and send me back to study hall.

It's called Imposter Syndrome, and I think alot of people experience it. My mother, who is a career Foreign Service diplomat and has served as a U.S. ambassador to foreign countries, confessed to me once that she feels that way, too. When she was an ambassador, people were constantly coming to her asking for advice and instructions and policy recommendations, and she knew the answers but said she frequently felt like she was flying by the seat of her pants and that she was convinced others would soon be on to her.

So far, I've managed to fool everyone.

I'm developing this education law course to teach at the law school at the University of Hawaii. I was looking for a way to get out into the legal community and make some local contacts, because working from home can be very lonely and isolating. So I went onto the law school's website and checked out their course offerings, and discovered they don't have an education law course. I have practiced special education law exclusively for 9 years, and know a bit about education law generally in addition to special education law specifically, so I wrote to the academic dean of the law school and offered to develop and teach a course for them. She took me up on it. It would be a new course that has to be approved by the curriculum committee, so the dean told me to write up the course proposal, pick out a textbook and develop a syllabus, and she would present it to the committee next week.

Today I sat down and wrote out the proposal. It took me a few hours. I researched textbooks and found one that was highly rated and that includes discussion of newer topics in the field. I developed a description for the course catalogue and a justification for the law school to expend resources on a course like this. I planned out a week-by-week syllabus for a semester.

The dean loves it. And I feel like a little kid playing "school."

Whither willpower?

Lately I have been having a wicked craving for cake. Or pastry. Mostly cake. I've been able to resist, for the most part. Until yesterday, when I was driving to Zeke's school to pick him up, stopped for gas because the light came on, and threw a pack of Twinkies in with the bottle of water and pack of gum when I was paying.

A fucking pack of Twinkies. And it was a 3-pack -- there was a bonus Twinkie in there for my snarfing pleasure. Whee!

I haven't had Twinkies, like, ever. My mother didn't allow us to eat crap like that when I was a kid (we were a "no sugar cereal" household), and I seriously cannot remember ever making the decision to pull a package of them off the shelf and hand over cash so I could consume them. I know I have tasted them before -- probably one of my elementary school friends with lenient parents let me have a bite -- but actually going out and buying them? I have no recollection of that.

Within a half-mile of the gas station, all 3 Twinkies were history.

"But wait," you say. "Haven't you been making a huge effort to eat well and doing a hard-core exercise program in an effort to lose that last 15 pounds of baby weight?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. Thank you for reminding me."

"So what happened?" you ask.

Well, that's a good question. I don't really have food issues -- I don't eat when I'm depressed or anything like that. The opposite, in fact. The more stressed I am, the more my appetite abandons me. And I generally have enormous willpower when it comes to diet and exercise. Give me a structured program, a calendar and a food scale and I will stick to it within an inch of its life. I'm almost addicted to the discipline of it. But I guess trying to stick to a difficult program when I haven't really slept in 3 months and everyone in my household is sick was just too much. I got a cold, I got tired, I got lazy, and I got my period. A grand slam of motivation killers.

But I'm back today with a vengeance. The good thing about eating crap like Twinkies is that within 24 hours I feel like a disgusting pudge, and any desire to eat junk food flies out the window. All I want to do is have a protein shake and lift weights. Zeke is sleeping longer at a stretch (shit, I feel like I'm jinxing myself by admitting it), my cold is gone, and I'm feeling motivated again. Which is good, because I've got a ton of stuff to do and I can't afford to be a bum. I need to write that education law syllabus for the law school today. I need to mail off my Hawaii tax return. I need to mail our Australian relatives a bunch of presents that were supposed to be Christmas presents but I guess will have to be Valentine's or Lincoln's Birthday gifts. And somewhere in all of that, I will find time to work out.

Wish me luck.

Chabon on Obama

This is not a political blog. Though I am extremely interested in politics and obviously have opinions about what's going on in the election, there are so many others that write about it far, far more adroitly than I could possibly hope to, that I just leave it to them.

But on this Super Tuesday Eve, I feel compelled to provide this link to an essay about Barack Obama, written by Michael Chabon, my favorite author and a man whose brilliance with the written word is humbling and awe-inspiring.

Let's fix this mess we're in. Get out and vote tomorrow.

Baby smack talk

In the last week, Zeke has all of a sudden started talking. I don't mean actual intelligible speech, but he has discovered that he has a voice and can make noise if he chooses to. And he chooses to. Yesterday we were hanging out watching the game (*sniff*) and Zeke was chilling out in Jason's lap, adding his own commentary. "Heeaahooo." "Hmmnnneee." It's outrageously cute.

Jason wondered aloud, "What do you think he's saying? Maybe he's trying to tell us something."

"Maybe. Maybe he's trying to talk some smack to us."

"Hnnoooo," said Zeke.

Jason translated: "You call that a bottle? It smells like you mixed that bottle in your ass!"

"Mhoooaaa," Zeke added.

"Who taught you how to put outfits together? Do you really think this onesie goes with these pants?!? I look like a moron!"

Zeke smiled broadly. "Hmheeo."

I think we're on to him.

Who are you?

Dear Internets,

I've been writing this blog for over a year and a half. At first it was just a way to stay in touch with friends, so I got, like, 5 hits a day, but over time my readership has (slightly) expanded and when I check my stats lately (and I do, I'll admit) I'm noticing some regulars whose IP addresses I don't recognize. And I find it fascinating that there are people out there who know all of this stuff about me and check up on my daily comings and goings, but I have no idea who they are.

So I was wondering if y'all could do me a favor. If you're reading this, could you leave a comment and say hello and let me know something about you. I don't need names and serial numbers, if you don't want to leave them. Just a note so I can have a little glimpse of who's out there.

Can't wait to hear from you,
Love, Wendy