"You're my second best friend"

This afternoon I was on my regular afternoon walk with dog and baby, prancing through the neighborhood with my glossy hair a-swingin'.

Oh, did I forget to mention? To quote Missy Elliott, I got my hair did. And as much as a horrendous experience at the salon would make for a more interesting blog entry, I gotta admit that my girl Nancy at Regis rocked my color today. The experience was a bit of a whirlwind, notwithstanding that I was there for just over 3 hours, what with the talk of highlights and lowlights and lift and glazing and toning and "combining a degree 5 and degree 6 color."

And I'm all, the who with the what now? Seriously, that shit is confusing.

But I explained as clearly as I could what I wanted: keep the drama of the dark color as much as possible, but work in highlights and root touch-ups to a) camouflage the considerable areas of gray (Nancy was diplomatic in her efforts to refer to it as "silver," bless her heart, but I was like, I appreciate you trying to be nice, but don't bullshit a bullshitter, mmkay?); and b) give the color some dimension so that it doesn't appear to be a monolith of flat black-brown, but rather has some natural looking variation. And Nancy paid close attention, asked lots of questions, and gave me a head of hair that I luuuuurve. It's exactly what I wanted -- the color is like a gorgeous, rich bar of dark chocolate with flecks of gold and reddish brown.

So, yay!!

Anyway.

I was walking with Max and Zeke, as I do every afternoon. And everywhere I go, I see young kids. They're everywhere in the neighborhood, and it's really fun to see them playing and running around, because it makes me look forward to Zeke at that age, and how much fun it's going to be to teach him to ride a bike and look for worms after it rains and play on the jungle gym and all that.

There's this one group of boys that Jason and I see regularly. They're about 8 or so, and they're always outside playing with transformers or tooling around on their RipStiks and just generally being boys. They're adorable. And they absolutely love my dog Max. So when they see us rounding the corner, we hear a chorus of "YOU GUUUUUYS!!! It's MAAAAX!" And like Batman responding to his signal, children start pouring out of the surrounding houses and they converge on the dog, who is more than happy to sit his old, blind ass down and get petted by 10 different sets of small hands. When they're done, one kid says, all excited, "OK, guys, let's go play!"

I love it. I can't wait for Zeke to be one of those kids.

Today I took a different route on the walk, towards the park. Around the block from the house, there's a big park with a large grassy area where older kids play football and soccer or other games they make up (today they had taken pieces of what looked like a curved plastic fence and were trying to "surf" down a little grassy hill). Zeke is fascinated by other kids, so we walked by there so he could watch them play.

At one point, two boys who looked to be about 9 passed near us as they went to cross the street. They were deep in conversation. As they passed, one was saying to the other, "you're my second best friend." And the other kid nodded like a puppy and said, "oh, cool."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

Because if I'm honest with myself, if I'm looking forward to Zeke growing and learning and having fun, I also have to be prepared for him dealing with navigating his way through social situations and worrying about birthday party invitations and fitting in. Possibly having someone say to him, "well, I like you and all, but you're only my second best friend," and having him so eager to be accepted that he just eats that shit right up.

We've all been through it. It's just life. But all the same, my heart breaks for him knowing how some of it is going to be.

Frivolity

There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.
~P.G. Wodehouse

I've really been trying to be frugal and not spent money on crap lately. (In light of those efforts, some may question my decision to buy my husband a car for his birthday, but the car was so inexpensive and so much more fuel-efficient than what he was driving that we're already seeing the savings.)

Perhaps, then, someone can explain to me why I just made an appointment to get my hair professionally colored. Because this is not something I do.

My natural hair color is a very dark brown, almost black. In college, I colored it red because I always wanted to be auburn, but finally went back to my natural color when I was about 25. Around the same time, I started to get gray hairs creeping in around my temples and the crown of my head. Not alot, but enough to bother me, particularly because I was only in my mid-20s. Premature gray runs in my family, though, so it was to be expected. And hell, my youngest brother started getting gray hair in his teens, so I shouldn't complain.

Anyway, over the years, I maintained my black-brown color (Nice n' Easy # 121A, same as Julia Louis Dreyfus in those ads she used to do).

But lately, I'm noticing the grays showing up faster and faster between colors, and it's becoming hard to maintain. Plus, as I get older (ugh!), I'm starting to think that a softer color might be in order.

This is making me sad for two reasons.

First, I always loved my dark color. I get lots of compliments on how dramatic and striking it is. It's kind of become my trademark.

Second, I fucking hate hair salons. The one time I got my hair professionally colored (a stylist had talked me into it while cutting my hair), I went to Aveda and was there for almost 4 1/2 hours. When I expressed my frustration to the stylist, she lectured me about the time being necessary because I had been using "box color" on my hair. She said "box color" like I had been dousing my head in nuclear waste on a regular basis, and was so supercilious and obnoxious about it that I had a temper tantrum and yelled that after this experience, I was never going to use anything but box color again because it looked fine and only took a half an hour. "Who has time for this??" I yelled. I waved my arm around at the plethora of women seeming to have nothing else to do but sit around all day with foil on their heads, and said loudly, "don't any of these people have jobs?"

Not one of my finer moments.

Against my better judgment, I'm trying again. The lady that cuts my hair said she wouldn't recommend a full recoloring (which is what I got last time), because it could damage my hair and take too long. (Tell me about it.) She suggested a gradual application of highlights that could blend with the gray and lighten my hair without destroying it. So, that's what I'm going to try.

Fingers crossed that my hair comes out looking OK, and that I don't end up arrested or with a restraining order against me in the process.

So perfectly ordinary, but miraculous to me

Before I got pregnant with Zeke, I had a miscarriage. It wasn't devastating or soul crushing or anything like that. But it was incredibly disappointing, particularly because it happened right around Thanksgiving and we had been so excited about announcing it at the dinner table as the thing we were thankful for. It happened very early on -- about 6 weeks -- and caused by a common chromosomal abnormality resulting from the embryo splitting improperly or something like that. Meaning it was just one of those things, not the result of anything I did or any inherent problem I might have carrying a child to term or any problem I might have conceiving again. In fact, I had become pregnant with no trouble -- I went off the pill and two weeks later I was pregnant.

Michele told us to wait a month and then we could start trying again.

So we did, and once again, I got pregnant immediately, and this time everything was fine. Normal ultrasounds, solid fetal heartbeat, everything developed on schedule, I felt pretty good. All was well.

But I couldn't relax. The miscarriage was always in the back of my mind, and I was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. I have a couple of friends who loove being pregnant, but I think it's because they never had miscarriages. Because even though I had a relatively comfortable pregnancy, I just wanted to get it over with because I kept waiting for something bad to happen.

But of course, it didn't. Right on schedule, I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy. He had all ten fingers and toes, his eyes and ears worked, he ate, he pooped, he slept, he cried, just as he was supposed to.

But still, I worried.

Some of it is that I'm naturally an anxious person. Some of it is that I practice special education law, so all I deal with are cases involving kids who are autistic or cognitively impaired or learning disabled or blind or deaf or both.

So I was constantly keeping an eye on Zeke's developmental milestones. Is he smiling yet? Is he teething yet? When did he start rolling over? Does he appear to react to facial expressions? Are his gross and fine motor skills where they should be?

But of course, everything has been fine. With the exception of some ear infections and a couple of colds (which is totally normal), he's been healthy and happy and growing like a weed and doing everything he's supposed to.

In the past two weeks, Zeke has figured out how to crawl and how to pull himself up to a standing position. He now has 6 teeth, weighs almost 20 pounds, and is busting out of his 9-month-sized clothes because he's taller than average. He's developing this outrageous head of curly hair. He eats like a champ. He's always smiling and laughing. He chatters constantly, saying "mamamama" and "dadada" and "babababa" and "deedle-deedle" and a million other cute sounds.

And these are all normal, unremarkable achievements. Babies are born and they grow, just as they've been doing for thousands of years. But it's remarkable to me. I never cease to be amazed at this perfectly formed, perfectly functioning human being that I created.

The real keeper of all your secrets

I've been feeling a bit poorly the past couple of days. Zeke had a little virus about a week and a half ago involving intestinal problems, sinus issues and coughing, and he somehow managed to give Jason and me half of his disorders each -- meaning Jason got the intestinal stuff, and I've been coughing and sneezing and stuffed up.

Saturday evening all I wanted to eat was soup. I had a sandwich earlier in the day on the way back from Shark's Cove, and my throat was so sore that it was really painful to swallow even something as mild as egg salad.

So I went to the market and ended up going a little nuts.

I showed up at the checkout line with no less than 12 different kinds of soup. Matzo ball, lentil, split pea, tuscan bean, tomato basil, you name it. I loaded it all onto the belt and waited for the checkout lady to ring me up. She looked at my soup menagerie, gave me a puzzled look, shrugged, and told me my total.

It made me chuckle, and reminded me of all the times I showed up at a checkout line thinking to myself, "I'm basically broadcasting everything going on in my life with these purchases."

I mean, think about it. Buying condoms or KY or something? Checkout lady knows you're getting laid, or at least hoping to. Tampons? Laxatives? Diarrhea medicine? 'Nuff said. Your most intimate interactions aren't necessarily with your best friend or sibling or spouse. It's with the clerk at your local drugstore.

I once went to Safeway at 3 in the morning when I was 6 months pregnant with Zeke. Hemorrhoid cream and Pepcid AC. The checkout lady looked at me sympathetically and said, "Honey, I feel your pain."

When I was first pregnant, I was an obsessive pee-er on sticks. Meaning I was so incredulous that I was actually pregnant that I kept taking pregnancy test after pregnancy test just to assure myself that it was real. My friend Michele, who was my OB in Atlanta, told me that the record was held by one of her patients, who took 9 or 10 pregnancy tests.

"Pshaw," I said. "Child's play. I've got that beat by at least 5 or 6."

Because a couple of days before, I showed up at the checkout at my local CVS with over $50 worth of pregnancy test sticks. The guy looked at my purchases and said, "Whatever result you get, I hope it's what you want."

But the best story belongs to my friend Kathleen. Early in one of her pregnancies, before she was really sure, she went to the store and loaded up the conveyor belt with bags of frozen tater tots, frozen french fries, baking potatoes, and a pregnancy test.

The checkout lady ran potatoes, potatoes and more potatoes over the scanner. When she got to the pregnancy test, she looked at Kathleen and said, "I don't think you need this."

Residency has its privileges

This may seem obvious, but one of the nice things about living in Hawaii is not just that you've got beautiful beaches close by, but that going to the beach becomes an easy outing that doesn't require so much effort. Back on the mainland, when we went on family outings to the beach it was a huge ordeal requiring piles and piles of gear and hours and hours of commitment. Hours to get ready, hours to get there, hours to drag your shit from the car to your "spot" and get stuff set up, and then an obligation to stay for hours because the effort to get situated was so enormous.

But here, we can look outside at the breezy, sunny, 83 degree day, have no particularly pressing errands to run, and say, "hey, let's take Zeke up to Shark's Cove to swim in the tidal pools. But let's not stay too long, because I want to be home in time to go to a matinee." So Jason plays with Zeke for 5 minutes while I make an extra bottle or two, round up a couple of towels, and toss the chairs, umbrella and sunscreen in the trunk of the car. Zeke takes a nice nap in the car for half an hour, and when he wakes up bright and chirpy, we're here:

We walk about 50 feet from where the car is parked to set up under a palm tree. Zeke plays with some toys, and Jason enjoys the view:

We go for a swim:



After swimming, we relax in the shade while Zeke enjoys some naked baby time.
In a move guaranteed to result in years of therapy for him, we crack ourselves up staging a picture called "Zeke has crabs!!":

We chill out for about 45 minutes, and then go home with plenty of time to make a movie or go to the grocery store or nap or fix Jason's bike or watch crappy movies on HBO.

I know I bitch about Hawaii from time to time, but I'm not an idiot. Days like this obviously don't suck.

Now I know how Noriega felt

Since The Great Plant Massacre of 2008, a truce has taken effect between Next Door Neighbor and everyone else on the street. The form of this truce is that we don't talk to her and she doesn't talk to us. We also make an effort to stay off of the part of our lawn that's adjacent to hers, even though we don't have to.

But two things happened recently. First, she put her house up for sale. There was much rejoicing when the sign went up in her yard, though in this housing market, I'm not going to hold my breath waiting for the place to sell.

Second, she has fired a shot across the bow, so to speak, by playing loud music. Lots of Michael Jackson, Bobby McFerrin, Herbie Hancock, Donna Summer. Motown and disco. Not stuff that I mind much, but when it's blaring through my kid's walls as I'm trying to put him to sleep, it's kind of annoying.

But it usually didn't last too long, so we didn't make an issue of it, and the truce continued.

Then last night, a bunch of us were sitting out in front of our house, on The Part of the Lawn We Usually Avoid, Even Though We Don't Have To (see above). And truth be told, some of the lawn chairs might have been sitting on parts of the street in front of NDN's house, with even a stray leg actually touching her grass (gasp!).

It wasn't anything nefarious, just hanging out, having a few beers before dinnertime, getting caught up after a long week at work. I had my banjo out, but I wasn't really playing loudly, just quietly practicing some picking rolls and goofing around. I didn't even have my fingerpicks on, which are what makes the banjo loud. Anne asked if I could be persuaded to sing a song, so I sang a couple of verses from Will The Circle Be Unbroken, one of my all-time favorites. Zeke even joined in, pulling himself up on my chair and banging on the head of the banjo (the front of a banjo has a cover similar to a drum skin). He was actually keeping really good time. It was a lovely moment.

As I was playing, NDN came home. She pulled her car into her garage, closed the door, and went in the house.

We were then blasted with the dulcet tones of Peabo Bryson. It was kind of hilarious, and so absurd that we couldn't get mad. We just laughed. I picked up Zeke and we started to slow dance. Then Etta James's "At Last" came on, which Jason and I danced to at the Australia wedding, so we started singing along. I think NDN was annoyed that we were enjoying it, so she turned off Etta James and started playing Morris Day and the Time's "Jungle Love."

Big mistake. I love that song. So I started dancing with Zeke to that as well.

But dinnertime was upon us, Zeke was tired and ready for a bath, and we all had our evenings to attend to. So we said goodnight and went inside. Score 1 for NDN in the music wars.

I have to give her credit on her taste in music, though. I defy anyone to listen to "Jungle Love" and not have the urge to shake their booty just a little bit.

Success

It's always fun getting presents or doing something nice for Jason. He is so appreciative and excited, it's infectious.

Friday afternoon before Jason came home from work, I went to the drug store and bought a roll of red wrapping paper. I cut it into about 6 inch wide strips and used the strips to fashion a giant bow to put on top of his new car. I put the bow in the car along with a roll of scotch tape, and parked the car in our guest parking down the street.

Zeke woke up at about 1:30 in the morning coughing and crying, so I got up and gave him a bottle with his medicine in it. Once I got him back to sleep, I went and got the car and put it in our driveway, and taped the giant bow to the top. I wrapped up the keys and put them in a gift bag.

I then went back to bed and proceeded to have anxiety dreams that Jason hated the car and was mad at me for buying it. I'm such a freak.

Jason got up at about 5 and looked like he was getting ready to go for a surf. He went outside and was standing by the driver's door of the van, but hadn't seen the car because it was on the other side of the van, so his view of it was blocked.

I ran after him like a dork saying, "hey, hey, what are you doing, where are you going??"

He looked at my like I was insane and said, "I'm going surfing."

"But you can't leave yet!! I need to give you your birthday present."

More "you're kookoo" looks. "It's 5 in the morning. Can't it wait?"

"No no no no!! You'll see it! Come inside."

He looked confused but shrugged his shoulders and followed me back into the house.

I handed him the gift bag, and when he unwrapped the little bundle with the car keys inside, his eyes got wide and his mouth dropped open. "Whaaat??? Are you serious?"

I smiled. "Come on out and see your present."

My greatest regret about this whole incident is that I didn't think to grab my camera before running downstairs, because the look on his face was priceless. We walked around the van and there was his new car, all wrapped up in a bow. I think he was in a bit of shock. He kept saying, "no way!" and "I can't believe it!"

"Do you like it?" I asked.

"Are you kidding? Baby, I love it. This is the best birthday present anyone's ever given me."

The euphoria continued all weekend. We drove the new car to run errands and to go up to the North Shore for a barbecue with some friends, and he gushed the whole time. He gushed about the money he would save on gas, how comfortable he would be not commuting in the van, how he didn't have to drive home from work in his underwear to stay cool because he now has air conditioning. (And yes, he really does that. He wears boxer briefs, so it's not like he's parading around in tighty-whities, but it was always a bit jarring when he walked into the house every afternoon in his skivvies.)

Yesterday when we were driving home after a lovely day in the sun, he turned to me and said, "this is the best birthday I've ever had. I'm so happy. Thank you, sweetie."

I love it when a plan comes together.

Say it ain't so, Rajiv

A couple of weeks ago I had a phone consultation with a computer techie who identified himself as "Mark Smith." Based on his accent, I found this utterly preposterous. Mahesh Sattarjee, maybe, but not Mark Smith. Then last night, my Vonage system suddenly and inexplicably stopped working, so I called customer service to get someone to help me fix it. My consultant was incredibly helpful, patient, and thorough, and also spoke with a fairly heavy Indian accent (e.g., his "v"s were "w"s, so he kept telling me to unplug my Wonage dewice). He identified himself as "John."

I guess this is part of the backlash against Indian call centers -- I can't tell you how many people I've heard bitching about how they called to get help with their [fill in the blank] and got some goddamned fer'ner on the line who could barely speak English. Sometimes I'm able to resist the urge to point out that the goddamned fer'ner who barely speaks English likely has an advanced degree from some technical institute that would put most academic institutions in the Western world to shame, and notwithstanding the accent, speaks English at least as well as most Americans do.

I know I have an unfair advantage. I lived in India for a long time, and have no problem understanding Indian accents. I love India, continue to be fascinated by Indian literature and Indian mythology and culture, I follow Indian politics, and I'm psyched for the Indians who are able to take advantage of the country's economic and technological boom to get a good-paying job that allows them to live well and prosper. When I reach one of those call centers, my reaction isn't, "shit, I'm talking to someone in India," but rather, "cool! I'm talking to someone in India!!" I start chatting them up and asking them where they are and if the shopping is still good at Jan Path or if they've ever been to the Ghunghroo, the dance club in the basement of the Maurya Sheraton in New Delhi that my friends and I used to haunt in high school.

So it makes me sad that they feel the need to try to hide their ethnicity with anglicized names. I would so much rather talk to a Rahul or a Vikram than a Ralph or Vincent.

If he doesn't enjoy this present, I may just go to bed and not get up for a long, long time

This past day (and night) has been consumed with my efforts to get Jason a birthday present (his bday is Saturday) that will knock his socks off the way his birthday present to me was a doozie.

I'm getting him a car.

He currently drives an old, beat-up Ford E150 van that gets about 12 miles to the gallon. The job he's working on is in Waikiki, about 25 miles away, so with the price of gas as high as it is, the cost of his commute is kicking us in the ass. We've been talking about getting a more fuel efficient car, like a hybrid or something, but even though we wouldn't be spending as much on gas, hybrids aren't cheap, so the net difference would be an increased financial outlay rather than actual savings.

But then the other day I was thinking about it and decided to look at used cars that aren't hybrids but that get really great mileage, like a Honda Civic or a Toyota Corolla. I figured if I could find a really cheap one, we might be able to save some money. I went on Cars.com and found an 8 year old Civic hatchback with only about 50,000 miles on it (practically brand new for a Civic -- I drove a Civic hatchback for nine years, and would have driven it another nine if I hadn't totalled it) for an insanely low price -- like, $2000 below Blue Book value. I did the math and realized that even with a car payment plus the price of gas, we'd still be saving money over what Jason is currently having to spend on gas for the van, so I thought it would be a crazy cool birthday surprise for him.

I checked Carfax to see if there were any accidents or recalls in its history that accounted for the price, but the thing was clean. So I called the dealer and asked what the story was, and he said that the owner was moving back to the mainland and had to get rid of it, plus the dealer's lot had absolutely no room for extra inventory so they were pricing it to sell. I made an appointment to meet the dealer (who is over on the other side of the island) at 10 in the morning.

Thus setting up my day from hell.

10:15 a.m.: I get to the dealership, and my sales guy (Greg) is waiting for me. He's your typical cheesy, overenthusiastic car salesman, but whatever. He wasn't as bad as GoLes!, so I guess I should count my blessings. The car is as promised: clean, well-maintained, and inexpensive. We took it for a test drive and it drove perfectly. Deal. So we went inside to do the paperwork.

11:15 a.m.: At some point, someone will have to explain to me why it takes at least 3 hours to buy a car. And I don't mean the "figuring out which car you want and then test driving a bunch of them" part of buying a car. I mean the part where you're just signing forms after you've picked a car, agreed on a price, and been pre-approved for financing. Even after I had signed the papers, called my bank to the get financing set up and added the car to my insurance policy, I sat there waiting for an hour for the financial guy to get me checked out. I was so freaking hungry that I finally told the guys they had 5 minutes to work me in or I was leaving. Miraculously, I was in in 4 minutes.

1:10: We get everything settled, and then comes the question of how I'm going to get the car home. I had told Greg from the beginning that I didn't need the car immediately, but he kept insisting that he could get someone from the dealership to follow us to my house (I would drive my car, he would drive the new car, and someone else would follow) and then give him a ride back. Fine. But once we were ready to go, this "friend" somehow failed to materialize, so he asked if I could give him a ride back. I begrudgingly agreed, so we set off.

2:20: We've dropped my car at my house and are almost back at the dealership when my phone rings. It's Zeke's school, informing me that he had a fever and needs to be picked up. Great. I'm only 15 or 20 minutes from the school, except for the fact that I'm in the new car, which doesn't have a carseat in it. The daycare doesn't have any extras I could borrow, so I have to go all the way back to my house, switch cars, and go get Zeke. I park Jason's new car in our neighborhood's guest parking lot so he wouldn't see it, and made a mental note to remember to put the guest pass in the dashboard before going to bed. I still haven't eaten.

(For all of you drama enthusiasts out there, I just planted the gun in Act I that will go off in Act III.)

3:40: I get to the daycare. I put Zeke in the car and we go straight to the doctor's office. He has a virus -- coughing, fever, stuffy nose, upset stomach. The doctor prescribes cough medicine and recommends Tylenol and infant Benadryll. I buy a packet of almonds at the pharmacy. The almonds, plus a fruit smoothie in the morning, are the only things I've eaten all day. I'm totally exhausted.

5:30: Zeke and I finally get home. Jason is home.

6:00: We bathe Zeke and put him in his jammies. He's exhausted, rubbing his eyes, but having a really hard time settling down. We get him dosed up with his medicine, and I spend the next 2 hours walking the floors with him as he cries. Finally, he goes to sleep.

8:00: I sit down to finish a brief for work.

9:30: I finally collapse in my bed.

At 3:30 in the morning, I sat straight up in bed, my heart pounding.

I had forgotten to put the guest pass in the dash of Jason's new car. And without a guest pass after 2 a.m., they call the tow trucks. But I couldn't run out the door and check. Jason was stirring awake (he gets up to go to work at 4), so what the hell was I going to say when he asked where I was going? "Oh, the dog might need a walk in the middle of the night"?

So I wait until Jason leaves at about 4:20 in the morning, and then I sprint down the street to check on the new car.

It's been towed.

Imagine that scene in Ferris Bueller when Cameron realizes the mileage on his dad's Ferrari is way higher than it should be, and he screams and goes catatonic. That's what was happening in my head.

I had another crazy day today, getting hold of my neighbor to give me a ride to the towing place, schlepping Zeke around in the process because he's still sick and feverish. He barely napped and had a number of periods of discomfort in which he was incredibly fussy, so my nerves are shot, I'm still hungry because I was so busy with the baby that I didn't have time to eat much, and I've been up and working since Jason left at 4:20 because I needed to do some final revisions on the brief, but knew I wouldn't have time once Zeke was up. And I'm out $167 to the fucking towing place.

But on the bright side, in addition to losing a bunch of leftover baby weight over the past few days, Jason's car is now sitting in its little spot in the guest lot, patiently waiting for Saturday so that it can meet its new owner. And there's a pretty blue guest pass hanging from the rear view mirror.

Family resemblance

Though Zeke definitely has some of Jason's physical traits -- they have the same hair color, identical hands, and Zeke definitely has Jason's muscle-y legs -- people often tell me that they think he looks like me. I think it's the eyes, plus he gets certain facial expressions that are very similar to mine, particularly when he's concentrating on something.

Exhibit A:

(Top: my mom reading to me at about 12 months or so; below: me reading to Zeke last weekend)

Exhibit B:

(Top: me at 10 months, hanging out on my dad's motorcycle; bottom: Zeke at 6 months)

There's something very gratifying, but also very strange, about seeing yourself in your child. I often think, sure, he's got some of my physical traits, but is he going to have my personality traits? Will he inherit the clinical depression I inherited from my dad's side of the family? Will he be smart? Will he have my irrational fear of birds, or my aversion to bell peppers? Will he eat vegemite like his father?

On one hand, I know I should just stop worrying about it. He'll turn out how he turns out, and if his current personality is any indication, he'll be a charming, happy guy. But on the other hand, I can't stop thinking about it. I'm just so curious to find out what he'll be like.

Big foot, little foot

This is apropos of nothing, but I think this picture is funny so I thought I'd share. I was working all day Saturday, and during the late morning, Jason and Zeke took a long nap on our bed. My office is just off of our bedroom, so when I'm sitting at my desk, I look directly at the side of my bed. So as I spent hours writing deposition questions, this is what I was looking at.

I'm forced to become the mean mommy

As much as I love my husband, I've often said that being married to him is like being married to a puppy. I love puppies. They're fun and cute and playful and full of energy.

But sometimes they need a good swat on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

And I say this as a woman who has never subscribed to the "men are idiots who need to be told what to do for their own good" school of thought. I've never been a male-basher and I'm not interested in being in a relationship in which the dynamic is me telling him what to do.

Jason has all of these friends who are amazed that I "let" him go surfing with his buddies on the weekend, because they were never "allowed" by their wives to go out and have fun when their children were young babies. I've never understood this. Beyond consulting each other to make sure that there isn't a scheduling conflict or that the other won't be inconvenienced by baby care or dog care or the like, we don't ask each other's permission to do things. We share responsibility for keeping the house running and the baby fed and safe, and as a result, we each get to do our own thing every once in a while. He goes surfing with his buddies. I go play tennis or get a pedicure. It all works out.

But this past weekend, I had to hitch up my big-girl pants and lay down the hammer.

A few weeks ago, before he left for Australia, Jason went mountain biking. There's a trail up in the hills a few miles from where we live that's set up with jumps and ladder rides and other insane devices for people who have too little regard for their personal safety.

Jason is unquestionably one of those people. He plays hard. And as a result, he occasionally falls hard, and he's constantly coming home with injuries. When we lived in Atlanta, he regularly went mountain biking with a group of guys, and he routinely came home scraped or banged up because he had skidded off a big rock and cracked a bone in his arm or was doing wheelies in the parking lot and tipped backwards onto his ass. When he goes surfing, he frequently comes home with his feet and ankles cut up from smashing them on the reef. He's broken his pelvis landing badly on a jump while snowboarding.

So a few weeks ago, Jason goes up to this trail he's heard about and starts riding around and doing jumps and whatever.

(A ladder ride with a teeter totter. Meaning you start riding up with the rails on one level, and then when your weight passes the fulcrum, the entire structure tips down to join with another part of the ladder. You couldn't pay me enough money to ride my bike on this thing.)

One of the jumps had a landing that veered sharply to the right. Jason took it at high speed, apparently not realizing how hard the turn on the landing was. His bike managed to make the right turn. Unfortunately, he didn't. He went flying into the bushes and trees, hit his head so hard that it broke his helmet, and smashed up his left ankle.

(The offending jump)

When he came home, he was covered with mud and his ankle was swollen, but he didn't think it was broken because although it hurt, he could walk on it. The bruising and pain continued and didn't really subside much over the ensuing week or so.

In Australia, he was at the hospital with his dad and decided to get his ankle checked out. Turns out, it's broken. But did Jason get a cast or even wrap it? No, of course not!

When I asked him why he wasn't getting it cared for, his pat response was "aw, she'll be alright." (You have to imagine this with an Aussie accent to get the full effect. Translation: "No big deal. And casts are for pussies.")

After another week, he finally decided that his manhood wouldn't be too compromised by an ace bandage, so he wrapped his ankle. I considered it a small victory, but was careful not to gloat.

Then this past Friday, we were invited to a backyard barbecue for the 4th of July. There was grilling and watermelon and music and hanging out in camp chairs shooting the breeze and dogs chasing each other around.

And a trampoline.Jason, being Jason, couldn't resist getting up and jumping with the kids. He then had the temerity to be surprised when about 10 minutes after he stopped, his ankle started swelling up like a water balloon attached to a firehose.

We got him some ice packs and some Advil and sat him down with his leg elevated.

And then I had to say the words that I've never uttered in the course of my marriage, and that I hope I never have to utter again:

"Honey, you're grounded."

How I Learned to Start Living and Kick The Used To Blues

I've noticed lately that more and more, the phrase, "oh, I used to do that" seems to be popping out of my mouth.

"Wendy, is that a banjo? Do you play?"

"Yeah, kind of. I used to play alot. I actually used to be in a bluegrass band, if you can believe it. It's kind of funny, I used to hang out with this big group of musicians and they all called me Banjo Wendy. I didn't play for years, then I started playing again when I was pregnant with Zeke. But eventually then I got too big to hold the banjo comfortably, so I had to stop. I really need to start playing more often. My picking skills are so pitiful these days."

"I've been thinking about trying yoga. What do you think?"

"Oh, you'd love yoga. I used to do yoga all the time -- there was this great studio in Atlanta, near Georgia Tech, and I used to take ashtanga classes 2 or 3 times a week. I always felt spent but amazing afterwards. I should start again. We should go to a class together."

"Hey, I saw a tennis racket in your garage. Do you play?"

"Yeah, though it's been awhile. I used to play competitively in a league in Atlanta, but I haven't really played regularly since before I got knocked up. I need to start playing again."

"Wow, that's a beautiful bike!"

"Thanks! I actually haven't ridden in almost two years -- first I separated my shoulder, and then I got pregnant. But I used to ride all the time. My good friend Michelle and I used to do this great ride in southern Fulton County near the Atlanta airport on weekends. It was out in the country and we'd do 25 or 35 mile rides by these gorgeous farms with rolling hills and crowing roosters. I really miss those rides. I need to call Michelle."

Notice a pattern forming?

Apparently, I used to be a really active, interesting person who did all kinds of cool stuff. And now I'm this boring old mom who used to do all kinds of cool stuff, but let it all fall by the wayside.

But I've decided that I'm calling "bullshit" on myself. I'm only 38 years old. I'm in fantastic health. No way am I at a point where all I can do is look back on all the fun I used to have. Fuck that.

So two weeks ago, I started a weekly tennis game with my neighbor, Anne (who also used to play regularly). She's in the military and has access to great courts at one of the local bases, so we went and played a couple of sets. We were a little rusty, but after playing for a while our shots improved, and we had an amazing time.

In the middle of one game, she said, "we're not even done today and already I can't wait to play again next week."

I knew exactly how she felt. I love playing tennis. It's so much fun, and such a great way to spend time with a friend. Why had I stopped for so long? We played again this past Saturday, and again had a blast. Even after only one week, our play had definitely improved. We're going to look into getting a lesson with a pro to work on some of our rough spots, and we'll play again this Saturday. We're also going to try to catch a yoga class sometime this week.

Then yesterday, I got on my bike again.

I have this gorgeous racing bike that I bought for way too much money about 8 summers ago, when Lance was early in his string of Tour de France victories and the buzz around him and around the Tour was building to a frenzy. My buddy Michelle and I rode all the time together. The perfect Saturday: wake up early, meet at her house at 6 or 6:30, ride in the countryside for a few hours, and then chill out and read for the rest of the day on the porch.

I loved those rides. I love that bike.

That bike that's been sitting disassembled in a box in the garage since we arrived in Hawaii. And yes, I know I had an excuse, having been pregnant and all, but Zeke is 8 months old. He's been out of me almost as long as he was in me. Why did it take me so long to take the bike to the shop and have it put together? Why?

I have no idea. Because yesterday, I got on my bike, not having ridden in almost two years, and felt incredible. I went out and rode 20 miles without even realizing how far I was going. I saw parts of the island I've never seen, because even though they're practically a stone's throw from where I live, when I turn out of my neighborhood in the car, I always turned left instead of right.

But on a bike, you feel a certain freedom to go where you want, deviate from a planned route, and go exploring in a way you don't in a car -- certainly not with gas over $4 a gallon. So that road up that hill that looked like it had a pretty view? Check it out. That route that you suspected led to a gorgeous neighborhood right on the western edge of Pearl Harbor? See what's there.

So I go. I go as far as my lungs and legs will take me. And I feel incredibly alive.

Because I'm done with used to.

Bombarded

I've got so much shit going on right now, I can barely think about it all. I feel like there are fireworks going off in my head. I had other things I wanted to write about today, but I feel like I need to vent a little bit.

Jason got fired again, for the same reason as before: too many travelers on jobs while guys from the local union sit at home. What-fucking-ever. Not to betray my socialist roots, but I think it's bullshit. Jason's bosses love him -- he's the smartest, hardest working guy they've got -- and they've gone to bat for him to try to keep him on the job, explaining to the company that they'll lose money by getting rid of him and bringing back guys that are slower and dumber. But the union guys are putting the pressure on, so they had to can him. He's got prospects for other work, and he can collect unemployment, but it's still got my blood pressure up.

In the meantime, my boss and I are trying to work out an arrangement through which I would work for him on an hourly basis rather than being on salary. We started talking numbers, and his numbers are way low. He keeps talking about what the going rate is for contract attorneys. And I had to explain that traditional contract attorneys are people that big firms bring in to do document review or big discovery productions in monster cases. Their work is tedious and requires no real intellectual or analytical effort, and as a result, their pay is shit. I'm not that kind of lawyer, I don't do that kind of mindless work, and I won't work for shit.

He's not being a dick about it, and I know we'll be able to work something out, but it's making me anxious nonetheless.

Zeke and Jason are coming home tomorrow. Jason had an indiscretion from way before he met me on his record, and the customs guys tend to give him a hard time when he enters the country. We took care of all of the legal stuff before we even got engaged, and worked everything out so that he could get his green card after we got married. But they still detain him and search him and harass him. The last time Jason went to Australia, when he came back into the country, he was detained by border patrol guys once again, and they actually accused him of having a fake green card. As if they couldn't just look up his alien number and other information in their computer, and confirm in about 3 seconds that he is actually a legal resident of this country. But no. A little power in the hands of someone who doesn't wield much of it in other areas of his life can be very dangerous.

Anyway, now he's traveling with an infant, and I'm terrified that after flying all night, my baby is going to be detained so that a bunch of assholes can swing their dicks around and abuse my husband for no reason. My mother has made some calls and has been assured that there shouldn't be a problem, but I won't feel secure until I see them with my own eyes.

Home Alone

These past few days have shown me that I could easily become a recluse. With the exception of making idle chatter with the guy at the checkout counter at the grocery store, or explaining to the guy at the bike shop what needs to be fixed on Jason's bike, I have had no real face to face interaction with a human being since Jason and Zeke left. And while I miss my husband and my baby, I haven't really minded being so alone.

Don't get me wrong. I like people from a distance. I don't mind talking on the phone. I watch my news shows. Right now I've got Wimbledon on the TV as I type this. I read my blogs. I read my books. I'm interested in what other people do.

But I'm terrible at meaningless chit-chat. Most people I meet bore me. And, truth be told, I often feel uncomfortable in social situations, like I don't fit in or like people don't like me or think I'm weird (which I probably am). So it's easier to be by myself.

The strange thing is, I often really enjoy being out with friends. This weekend I'm playing tennis with Anne, my friend who's doing the cleanse with me, and I'm really looking forward to it. She's smart and fun to be with, and I love playing tennis, so it should be a grand outing. When it comes to my closest friends, like Kathleen or Michele or Elizabeth, I always love spending time with them, because I feel like I can be myself around them.

In the meantime, I don't mind being a hermit.

Speaking of the cleanse, I'm feeling great. I've been reading and learning about food and nutrition, and it's making me be much more thoughtful about eating. I'm off of red meat for good, I think. I'll probably eat chicken and fish sparingly. I'll eat whole grains and whole wheat pastas, but probably limit the amount of bread that I eat. I doubt I'll consume dairy the way I used to. And for sure, I'm done with sugar and caffeine.

The thing that I have noticed since I started the cleanse is that all of a sudden, I feel much calmer. The depression and anxiety that are an almost constant physical presence -- a flutter in my gut, a tightness in my chest -- are gone. And the reason I'm fairly sure it's the sugar is that yesterday, I had a piece of gluten-free rice bread toasted with some agave nectar on top. Agave nectar is touted as a great sugar substitute -- it's like honey, but sweeter and less viscous -- but unlike stevia, it has sucrose and fructose in it. And within minutes of eating it, I felt gross and kind of jittery.

It's only the first week, so I'll be really curious to see how I feel at the end of the three weeks. Based on how it's going so far, I'm optimistic. At the very least, I'm learning so much, it's really fun and interesting.

Excuse me for a moment while I get up on my soapbox. Ok, here goes...

The cleanse is going well. I'm having no trouble staying on track and I haven't really had any unmanageable cravings. Amazingly, I haven't been particularly hungry or had much appetite. I guess not having sugar or caffeine keeps me from having big hunger spikes. I've even lost a couple of pounds, much to my surprise. I haven't had a dramatic burst of energy yet, but I feel good and am actually enjoying the deliberation and care I'm putting into my food choices.

The biggest shock has been the discovery that gluten is in fucking everything. Here I was, cheerfully munching on my vegan Boca Burger and seasoning my stir-fry with soy sauce, only to have my friend Michele (a very smart doctor) inform me that both contain wheat gluten.

WTF? I thought gluten was just in bread and pasta and stuff like that. But no, it's in virtually every sauce and every type of processed food, even the ones that are good for you. For people that have actual gluten allergies, and aren't just temporarily cutting gluten out as part of a cleanse, finding stuff to eat must be a bitch.

I've been watching all of these shows lately (I think on Bravo, can't remember) about the epidemic of obesity and diabetes in this country. And I while I'm way too vain to ever allow myself to gain more than 5 pounds or so before the alarm bells start going off, I can see how people could eat what they think is a relatively normal diet, yet they pack on the pounds, little by little, until one day they look in the mirror or step on the scale and realize their health is in jeopardy and they need to lose a significant amount of weight. Everything has sugar in it. Everything has high fructose corn syrup in it. Everything has enriched flour and rice that has been stripped of all nutrients or fiber and is basically just junk. Everything has saturated fats. Portions are way too big. I look at those Pizza Hut ads for the "P'zone," which is basically a pizza folded over to make a calzone that, according to the ad, is over a pound of dough, cheese, meats and sauce, and I want to call Pizza Hut and yell at them. No human being should ever be eating that much food in one sitting.

And eating healthy is expensive. Fresh produce is pricey, especially these days. Good, unprocessed foods are much costlier, and more difficult to find, than less healthy stuff. A packet of ramen noodles is 20 cents, for God's sake. If you're short on money and looking to get full, you could do plenty worse. But you wouldn't be doing much for your body.

I'm not sure why I'm getting so worked up. I guess it just bums me out that we're bombarded with messages about how we need to eat better and exercise more, but there are many, many obstacles put in our way when it comes to actually doing it.

Adrift

I feel like I'm rattling around the house like a loose marble. Jason and Zeke left for Australia this morning, so I'm by myself for a week.

It feels very strange. My days are ordinarily so structured. I get up at around 5. Zeke wakes up at around 6:30. I take him and the dog for a stroll, then get Zeke dressed and take him to school. I get home at around 7:45, have some breakfast, and then settle in at my desk to do some work (or some blogging or some Scrabulous). I have something to eat at around 11:30. I take the dog for another walk. I do a little more work. I watch Countdown on MSNBC at 2 p.m. I do some cleaning. Jason gets home at around 4 and we head up to the daycare to pick up Zeke. We take the dog and the baby for another walk. We feed Zeke and take him outside to play with him for a little while. We give him a bath. We read stories, sing songs, and put him to bed. We have dinner, read or watch some TV, and go to sleep.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

For the next week, I don't have to wake up to feed anyone in the middle of the night, clean up after anyone else, cook for anyone else, bathe anyone else or do anyone else's laundry. I can go to the movies and not have to get a babysitter.

It sounds good in theory. I kept saying, "what am I going to do with myself all week while y'all are gone?" And Jason was all, "woooo, party!!" Like the minute he's out the door I'll be on the phone ordering some strippers with bottles of tequila tucked into their g-strings.

Um, have you met me, honey?

I'll probably spend the week by myself cleaning, painting and reading. I'll probably go surfing a couple of mornings. I'll sleep. I'll load up the top of my Netflix queue with all of the artsy movies Jason won't watch with me.

Which, again, sounds good in theory. But I love my husband and my baby. I love cleaning up the baby food that Zeke has catapulted off his spoon into my hair or onto the floor. I love singing him to sleep. I like watching crappy action movies with Jason while pretending to be disdainful of them. I love walking into Zeke's room first thing in the morning to find him clapping his hands and chattering to himself. When he sees me, he gives me this huge smile that makes me melt.

Time to myself is all well and good, but too much of it and I start to get a little crazy. Too much in my own head, which can be a scary place to be.

But it's only a week. I'll survive.

Now, where did I put that number for Chippendales.....

Easy cleansing

My neighbor, Anne, and I have decided to do the three week detoxing cleanse that Oprah did a little while back. It's a three week process where you cut all potential toxins and allergens from your diet. Supposedly, people who do this feel more energized and healthy, they lose weight, and they just generally feel great. Anne and I have both been feeling like we could eat healthier and improve our energy levels, so we're doing it together.

Oh, and don't get on my case about getting all Oprah-fied. I heard about it from Dooce, so no, I haven't drunk the Oprah Kool-Aid. Now please shut up so I can get back to figuring out how to live my best, regret-free life while reading lots of Maya Angelou and Toni Morrison books.

Anyway, for three weeks, we're cutting out all caffeine, alcohol, sugar, gluten and animal products. So no triple grande lattes for me, or bread or pasta or ice cream or yogurt or cheese or eggs or steak or chicken. Or beer. Or wine. Or apple pie. Or deviled eggs. The list is obviously quite long.

Anne and I were talking to Cindy about this the other day, and Cindy said that, for a number of reasons, she could never do a diet like that. That, in addition to depriving yourself of things you might like, it's too complicated and too difficult to adhere to. She went so far as to suggest that anyone who chooses to eat like that is obviously insane and couldn't possibly be happy. So, all you vegans out there, I guess it sucks to be you.

But the truth is, it's not that hard. I only drink one cup of coffee a day, and I don't drink sodas, so the caffeine won't be a big deal. I rarely drink alcohol -- maybe one beer a week, and I usually don't finish it -- so that part will be easy. I don't really have much of a sweet tooth. So it's cutting out the diary, meat and gluten that will pose a challenge.

Yesterday was my first day, and I had no trouble finding stuff to eat that was yummy and satisfying. Breakfast was oatmeal with raspberries and vanilla soy milk (which is delicious -- they've definitely improved the formula). Lunch was a Boca Burger and a spinach salad with vegan cheese, soy bacon and Italian dressing. Snack was an apple with almond butter, and dinner was stir-fry with broccoli, asparagus, tofu and brown rice, seasoned with garlic, chili oil and soy sauce. It was really good. And amazingly, Jason -- who is about as meat and potatoes as they come -- thought it was really good, too.

As I explained to Cindy, eating a new way isn't all that complicated. Unless you eat out at restaurants frequently -- which I don't -- the way you eat is dictated by a few simple steps:

1. Make a list.
2. Go to the store.
3. Buy stuff.
4. Go home and eat the stuff you bought.

Doing this cleanse isn't any different. The only real change is in the stuff I choose at the store. The rest is the same.

It's Day 2. I'm feeling fine. I'm not craving Oreos or a western omelette. I had a little caffeine headache yesterday, but nothing today. I'll keep y'all posted.

A plea to help preserve my sanity

Dear Pfizer:

Congratulations on your success with Viagra. Really, it's great. I remember when the product first came out over ten years ago, and how much buzz there was, particularly because of the windfall that was going to rain down on the heads of people that owned your stock. Kudos to all of them.

Since Viagra was introduced, it has unquestionably become a part of our national (and probably international) zeitgeist. It shows up in TV shows and movies. Late night chat show hosts make jokes about it. Insurance companies cover it for men who feel they need it. I guess I never realized that there was such an epidemic of "ED," but I'm certainly thrilled that the afflicted masses are once again happily tumescent (though not for more than 4 hours -- apparently that's bad).

My point is, it's out there, and everybody knows about it, and anybody who might feel the need for it knows where to go to get it.

Which brings me to my current request.

Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, please please please, take those horrible ads off my TV featuring groups of guys hanging out and enthusiastically jamming to a bastardized version of Elvis's "Viva Las Vegas." I often have political TV on in the background when I work, and I guess you're a big sponsor of MSNBC (and good for them, really), because multiple times a day, one of those ads comes on. And every time, I throw up in my mouth a little bit and have an overwhelming desire to stab my eyes and ears with stiff, hot pokers.

And it's not just because the adaptation of Elvis's song is a musical and lyrical abomination, or because the men are overwhelmingly creepy in their ebullience over their impending boners.

No, I'm mostly just embarrassed for the actors. Being a working actor -- a working stiff -- is tough. If you're hard up for work and looking for a steady gig, the royalties from a drug company ad are probably hard to pass up, even if it means making a monstrous ass of yourself and having that ass-iness broadcast from coast to coast for all to see. When I watch these guys, a part of me dies inside because I know that a part of them is dying inside as well.

I don't begrudge you your right to advertise, though given that your product is now to erectile dysfunction what Xerox is to photocopying, I'm not sure it's necessary. Hell, even ex-presidential candidates shill for you!! So I know there must be ways of getting the message out other than your "Viva Viagra" campaign (and seriously, I feel nauseated just typing those words). Levitra and Cialis have managed to developed advertising campaigns that don't make me want to commit hari kari (though I've never understood the point of Cialis's "admiring the pretty view from separate bathtubs" theme -- if you're going to have sex with someone, how do you do it from separate bathtubs? -- but I digress).

I don't mean to be overly rigid about this, but I must insist that you come up with a different campaign. But don't worry -- I have confidence that you can come up with something appropriate that's less vomit-inducing and less damaging to the self-esteem of all of those poor actors. You're Pfizer, after all! Of all the companies in the ED club, you're the leading member! You're solid, upstanding guys -- I know you can do it.

Thanks in advance. You'll be doing a massive service to me and everyone I know.

Love,
Wendy

Felicita

A woman I know (I'll call her Cindy) is between jobs and looking for something new. She's not sure what. The other day Cindy and I were chatting and I asked if she had ever considered going back to school.

She gave me the Survivorman face and sneered, "Why?"

I fumbled for an answer. "Well, what are you interested in? Maybe you could learn a new skill and pursue a new career."

"I'm not really interested in anything," she said.

Her response stunned me. If I were independently wealthy, I would, in between traveling around the world, volunteer part-time at Legal Aid and spend the rest of my life as a student. I'd take literature courses, political science courses, learn how to paint, learn how to work with wood, learn languages, go to culinary school. I can't imagine a more ideal existence. The thought of someone having no desire to learn anything new makes me sad.

I heard somewhere once that happiness is best defined as the pursuit of attainable goals. I googled it but didn't find anything that triggered any memories, so it's probably from a movie I saw. Anyway, that makes sense to me. I'm at my happiest when I'm learning something or trying something challenging or looking forward to something.

So I've decided to learn Italian.

I've been feeling kind of blah and stagnant lately, but my neighbor gave me a couple of Rosetta Stone discs with about 15 different languages on them. I love the way Italian sounds (plus I could follow Italian opera without the supertitles), so I started working my way through the lessons, about 45 minutes a day. I now know a bunch of nouns and verbs and adjectives, and can put rudimentary sentences together. I walk into Zeke's room in the morning and say, "buon giorno, bambino!" If I'm outside and I see a bird in the sky, I think to myself, "l'uccello sta volando."

I'm having a blast.

When I'm done with Italian, maybe I'll tackle French.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad

My parents met in when my dad was home in Detroit for a little while between assignments or between jobs or something like that. He asked his younger sister, who was friends with my mom, to fix him up on a date. He said he wanted someone cute and smart to hang out with, but that it wasn't going to be anything serious.

Their first date was a basketball game. One of the teams ran a pick-and-roll. My dad leaned over to my mom and said, "that's a pick and roll. That's when the team on offense--"

She cut him off. "I know what a pick and roll is."

And that was it for him. He was sunk.

They were married 41 years ago today. As far as I can tell, they are as happy together and have as much fun together as they ever did.

What I find remarkable isn't so much that their marriage has stayed strong for so long, but how young they were when they met and married. My mother was 22 and my dad was 24 when they got married.

That blows my mind.

When I was 22, I was in law school. I was mature enough to handle my life, but absolutely nowhere near ready to get married. When it came to men, I was an idiot at 22. I look at the guys that I was attracted to or dated or had crushes on back then, and there's no way any of them would have been right for me. I didn't get married until I was 35, and even though I'd like to have a little more time to have children, (by the time my mom was 35, she had 3 kids, the oldest of whom was 10), I'm glad I waited, because I simply wasn't ready before.

I think there are a couple of reasons my parents' relationship stayed so strong. My dad is a goofball, and my mom thinks he's hilarious. He tells the same jokes over and over, and she continues to laugh. They're also both really smart, and they have similar interests -- politics, books, art, travel. But they also both pursue separate interests - my mom goes to the opera with her best friend, reads mystery novels that my dad looks down his nose at, and can watch the same movies over and over. My dad likes to go on long solo bike rides, reads almost nothing but history books, and is obsessed with college sports.

When we've talked about it, my mom has pointed out that marriage is really a crap shoot. People change over time, and for every couple that weathers those changes and grows together, there's another that simply grows apart. Who they were when they met is vastly different from who they are years later.

I love Jason. But I'm a realist. I have no idea if we will still be together 40 years from now (assuming we're both alive). I'd like to think we will be, but you never know.

In any event, I feel lucky to have such a wonderful example of a strong marriage set for me. In addition to being great parents and great people, when I'm trying to figure out how to deal with a problem in my marriage, it's nice to have such a great couple as my mom and dad to look up to.

Lurrve

There's a great scene in Annie Hall in which Annie (Diane Keaton) asks Alvy (Woody Allen) if he loves her. Alvy explains that the word "love" is inadequate to describe what he feels for her, so he needs to make up new words to describe it. He "luffs" her. He "lurrves" her.

That's how I feel about Zeke.

Before having a child, I didn't really understand the depth of love I would feel for my child. I knew I would love him, but like Alvy, I feel like "love" is inadequate to describe the feeling. What I feel for him is so powerful that it has physical manifestations, like a flutter in my gut and my chest.

It's kind of like depression.

That may sound like a weird analogy, but when people who have never felt depressed ask me what it's like when I'm in the midst of a depressive downward spiral, I explain that it's not so much just thinking things that are sad or depressing. It's physical. It's a big heavy iron ball in my chest, weighing me down. Like I need to take deep breaths but can't because my soul feels so leaden.

This past weekend I was putting Zeke to sleep. We were sitting in the rocker and he was very drowsy, so I put him in his crib. He lay there for a second, and then started to clap his hands and kick his legs and laugh. I sat down in the rocker again, hoping he wouldn't realize I was still there, but wanting to see what he would do. He popped his head up over the crib bumper and yelled "hah!" when he saw me, then started giggling. It was so cute and funny that I cracked up. He put his head down so that his view of me was obscured, then popped up again and yelled "hah!" again, and immediately guffawed this awesome belly laugh. We did this for another few minutes, and then finally I gave him a kiss and left the room, and he settled down and went to sleep.

And thus was our first official game of "peek-a-boo." It was so funny and wonderful that I almost started to cry from the wave of love/lurrve/luff that flowed through me.

I think about when he grows up and wonder what he'll be like and what he'll be interested in and where he'll live. It'll probably be far away from me. It breaks my heart to think of not being able to see him whenever I want.

I don't know how my parents do it. And I feel guilty for being so far away from them.

Compromising

I originally started this blog as a way of keeping up with family and friends from far away (yes, I started it in Atlanta, but knowing that we would be going to Hawaii soon). It's evolved from being a newsletter of sorts to a diary of sorts. In addition to talking about the mundane details of my daily life, I've talked about depression and motherhood and gotten into emotional stuff.

The more I've written about what's going on with me personally, the more I've vowed not to self-censor. Only one time did I alter a post, and it was at the request of people that I love and for legitimate reasons. I was still able to get my point across, but without potentially enflaming an already flammable situation, so I didn't feel too compromised.

But as more and more people that know me in The Real World come to read this blog, the more I feel constrained to self-edit either to avoid unnecessary conflict or strife with people that might be the subjects of a particular post. It's a problem of my own making -- I freely talk about this site and invite people to read it. But as a result, I'm finding that if I want to talk about some of the heavy shit I'm going through, I either have to make it so vague as to render it incomprehensible to anyone but me, or simply create a new, completely anonymous account and start a different blog in which names and places might be changed to protect the guilty, but all other details can be discussed.

My life out here can be very lonely. I spend alot of time by myself, and I don't have any close girlfriends here that I can talk to. So this writing is kind of my therapy. And if I have to do it in a way that's constrained, in order to be sensitive to people's privacy -- including my own -- it kind of loses its value to me.

I haven't made a final decision as to what to do about it yet.

In the meantime, I guess I'll be vague.

An iconic movie from my teenage years is The Breakfast Club. So angsty, so Brat-Pack-y, so "oh, John Hughes feels my pain."

It's also got some really good acting, particularly by Ally Sheedy and Anthony Michael Hall.

There's a scene in which the kids are talking about how misunderstood and put upon they are by their parents, and Ally Sheedy's character -- the basket case -- is asked, "what do they do to you?"

And in one of the more perfect line deliveries I've ever seen, you can almost see her heart breaking as she responds, "they ignore me."

That line always killed me. Because as rough as it is to be overtly mistreated by people that are supposed to love you, it's even worse when they just act like you're not there.

Swim, baby

Zeke is turning out to be a total water baby. Jason and I are very excited about this because we both love the water and are strong swimmers. I learned how to swim when I was about 18 months old and I think Jason was around the same age when he learned. Our plan is to have Zeke on a surfboard as soon as he can stand up.

I've been taking him to the pool to get him comfortable in the water. The first time he seemed a little apprehensive, but I think it was because the water was a little cold for him -- he was only about 4 months old at the time and his body wasn't yet good at regulating its temperature. Once he hit 6 months he dug it, grinning and splashing the whole time.

The past few times I've taken him, he's draped his body over the crook of my arm (kind of like a human version of a swimming noodle) and as I pull him along, he flaps his arms and kicks his legs like he's swimming.

Because he's so little and so cute (I'm biased, but it's true), people tend to marvel at how comfortable he appears in the water. One lady asked me today, "does he take swimming lessons?"

I laughed and explained to her that he's only 7 months old, so no, he doesn't.

But inside, in spite of myself, I was puffed up with pride.

Pain management

My eye hurts.

Today is Kamehameha Day, a state holiday in Hawai'i. Jason was supposed to have the day off, but his boss decided to swap out having today off for Friday so the guys could have a 3 day weekend. But Zeke's school is closed today, so he's home.

So far we've gone for a walk with the dog, jumped in the exersaucer, had a yummy breakfast of bananas, mixed berries and rice cereal, practiced walking, gone to Lowe's to buy painting supplies, and played on the floor. While we were playing, I bent my head down towards Zeke just as he threw his hands up to touch my face, and one of his fingers, with sharp little nail fully engaged, went straight into my left eye.

When you're taking care of a baby, though, you can't react to pain they way you can when there's no baby around. If you yell or pull away sharply, the baby gets scared and cries. If you're holding the baby, you obviously can't drop him. So even though my eye felt like someone had stuck a needle in it, I gently put Zeke down and then spent the next 20 minutes with my eye tearing, trying to figure out if my cornea was scratched. I don't think it is, but it's still incredibly painful. But, there was a baby who needs my attention, so there was nothing to be done but suck it up and proceed with the day.

One time about a month ago, we were up at Shark's Cove, a reef up on the North Shore that's great for kids because it's a giant tidal pool that's calm and shallow. I was bouncing with Zeke in the water when I kneeled down and jammed my shin right on a sharp rock. It broke the skin and started to bleed. It hurt like a motherfucker, but I couldn't do anything but grit my teeth, wait for my stomach to unclench, and breathe through the pain. I wasn't going to scream in his ear. I obviously wasn't going to drop him in the water.

I've always had a high pain threshold. I ran a marathon with a herniated disc, for God's sake. I just never realized that motherhood would take that already high threshold to the next level.

On the bright side, if I'm ever captured by terrorists who try to torture me for state secrets, I'll be ready.

I may be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but that gift horse is zapping my mojo

My current job situation is seemingly ideal. I've been working for the same special education boutique law firm in Atlanta for 9 years. I love BossMan and he loves me. He respects my skills and my adoration of legal writing and appellate oral argument, and he lets me do it without making me do to much of the stuff I hate, like trials with unpredictable witnesses who give me stomachaches. BossMan is a smart, generous, sweet guy who has always been wonderful to me and whom I adore working with.

When Jason and I decided to try to move to Hawaii, being able to keep my job was essential because it let us move here with an income stream. And BossMan generously agreed to let me continue to work for him, essentially telecommuting to Atlanta from the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Working from home has not been without its challenges -- I miss having somewhere to go (other than to drop Zeke off at daycare) when I get up in the morning, and I miss the camaraderie of the office. Being at home all day with nobody to talk to can be lonely. But the flexibility is also nice. If I need to run an errand, I can run it. If I feel like going for a surf in the middle of the day, I can do it. Basically, as long as I get the work done in time, I can do it whenever I want, at my convenience. Not a bad arrangement.

"So what's the problem?" you ask.

Well, the problem is that since January, when I came back from maternity leave, I have had a hell of a time getting back into the loop. Many of the cases I was working on before Zeke was born are finished, meaning that in order to have work to do, I'm reliant on BossMan and the other lawyers in the office to include me on the newer cases. And they haven't been great about doing that. It's not personal, and I'm not mad. They're not trying to freeze me out. But for all of his strengths as a lawyer, BossMan is a terrible administrator, and he has a hard time focusing on people that aren't right in front of his face. So the lawyers in the office get overloaded with work, while I'm sitting out here at my desk with nothing to do. At any other firm, my dismal billable hours from the last two months would have gotten me unceremoniously fired, and rightly so.

A number of people have said to me, "Why is that bad? After all, you're still getting paid, right? Milk it! Enjoy the downtime!"

I can't. I like being busy, and I feel like an asshole when I'm not pulling my weight by maintaining my portion of the workload or, more fundamentally, justifying my salary. Because right now, BossMan is paying me alot of money to do nothing, and it makes me feel terribly guilty. Plus, it's boring. I've got mad lawyering skillz, and I like to use them.

And that combination of feeling like a dead weight to the law firm, and being bored out of my mind, is just bringing me down generally. I'm losing my motivation to stay active or organized in the rest of my life. The more I have to do, the more I tend to have my shit together in all facets of my life, and the converse is true as well.

Yesterday BossMan and I had a great conversation in which we agreed that he would try to delegate more work my way, but that I would also put feelers out into the job market to see what's out there. I asked him if it was time to call "time of death" on our arrangement and go our separate ways, and he said that the thought of it made him sick to his stomach and that he wasn't prepared to cut ties just yet. But realistically, he acknowledged that it wasn't a bad idea to at least see what the job market here is like. Maybe we'll be able to work out an arrangement where I can do something local on a part-time basis but still work for him on a contract basis.

I've sent out a bunch of cover letters and resumes and done some networking through some of the contacts I've made through the law school. I'm energized by having a plan of attack -- it just feels so much better knowing that I'm doing something productive. It would have been easy to just keep going the way I was going -- BossMan would never fire me -- but I can't do it and hold my head up.

Obama

Last night I listened to Obama's speech in Minneapolis and was brought to tears. Who would have thought that in my lifetime, a mere 40 years after the Civil Rights movement and the assassination of Martin Luther King, that a black man would be the presidential nominee of one of the major parties? That he would draw crowds at rallies that set records for attendance? That he would make a generation best known for its self-absorption and political apathy so excited about an election? It's wonderful and inspiring and exciting and extraordinary.

I would have voted for Hillary, albeit with far less enthusiasm. I agree with her stance on the issues that I care about and was initially in her camp, but I was quickly weary of the double-speak and back-peddling and propensity to stretch the truth more than just a little bit. The Bosnia sniper nonsense. The snide assertion that Obama wasn't a Muslim, "as far as she knew." The agreement that the Michigan and Florida primaries would not count, only to about-face and equate that same decision with the electoral turmoil in Zimbabwe. The ridiculous claim that she won the popular vote (as if the popular vote were relevant to the nomination process in any event), where her numbers were only accurate if you excluded caucus states and counted Michigan, where her opponent's name wasn't even on the ballot. The more her campaign continued, the more I was turned off by the quintessentially Clintonian sliminess of it all.

Nonetheless, she inspired passion in millions of people and ran a tough campaign. It would have been great to vote for a woman for president, particularly one as smart and talented as she is.

But I'm glad it's Obama. Let's take our country back.

I've earned it, dammit

Zeke is starting the teething process on his upper gums, and it's a doozy. He's once again drooling like a madman -- soaking through his shirt in half an hour -- and goes through periods of such intense pain that he screams inconsolably. Mostly this happens at night. He'll start to cry, clutching at the side of his face (and no, it's not an ear infection -- we checked), thrashing around and banging his head into my chest. All I can do is hold him and try to soothe him and give him as much Tylenol and Advil as I can get my hands on.

Last night Zeke had three episodes in which he screamed in pain for 45 minutes. Which means that I'm exhausted and emotionally drained.

In the meantime, I can't get the TV in my bedroom to work.

It's something of a cliche that a young child will futz with a remote control or push a couple of buttons on a cell phone and all of a sudden it's inoperable and the parent can't figure out how to fix it. I've always scoffed at the notion of something like that happening to me, because I'm actually really good with technology and appliances -- I can fix or program just about anything electronic. My mother routinely calls me to talk her through setting up a new cable system or figuring out how to get the subtitles off the DVD picture.

Yesterday while I worked on the computer, Zeke was playing on the middle of my bed and got hold of the TV remote. He pushed a couple of buttons and the picture disappeared. I have worked on it for an hour and I can't get it back.

The past few times we've been to Costco, Jason and I have drooled over the flat-screen TVs. We've got a huge one in the living room, but we could use a smaller one in our bedroom, because the one we have is enormous and unwieldy and ugly. I want a pretty one I can hang on the wall.

So I've decided that the solution to the problem with my upstairs TV is to simply buy a new one. Good work, son...