One year

I was sitting at my desk at work when I got the call.  I think it was around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, Denver time.  It was my dad.

"Emma's been in an accident.  She was hit by a car."

"WHAT?  Is she OK?"  My heart started to race.

"It's very serious.  She's being medevac'ed to Mass. General right now."

I began to cry.  "Is she going to die?"

"I don't know, honey.  It's moment-to-moment.  Everyone's one their way to the hospital.  As soon as I or someone else has any information, we'll let you know.  I love you, sweetheart."

I think I asked how it happened.  I remember some coworkers coming in to comfort me, because I was sobbing.  I remember driving home and thinking, even though I am not remotely religious, "please, God, please.  Don't let her die." 

I remember the next few days being a blur of tears and terror and trying to get news, any news.  My heart feeling like it was breaking not only for my beautiful niece, but also for my brother and sister-in-law, who were holding up remarkably well, considering.

At first, the big question was whether she was going to make it at all.  Then we knew she was going to live, but the question was, how?  Would she ever speak again?  Walk again?  Would she have cognitive function?  Would she be able to live independently?  Would she be the same, or as close to her old self as possible?

Miraculously, the answer to all of these questions was "yes."

It has been a year since that awful day.  And in that year, not only has Emma come back to us, beautiful and funny and strong and sweet, but we have all felt the power of having not only family and close friends, but acquaintances, and sometimes people who weren't even acquaintances, offer up help and support.

While Josh and Lori were spending months with Emma at the hospital in Boston and then at the rehab facility she was in for a few weeks, my parents were up there almost weekly to look after Emma's sisters and provide whatever help they could provide.  I went up for a weekend to do what I could.  Our brother Sam did the same.  Lori's parents and siblings pitched in.  Neighbors organized a food rotation, so every night for weeks and weeks, the family had dinners ready for them.  People who lived in the neighborhood, but whom Josh and Lori had never met or talked to, would stop by to drop off a meal.  Friends sent gas cards to help with the expense of driving back and forth to Boston.  She was on prayer lists all over the country, for every religious denomination.

Josh set up a "care page" on the Mass. General website (he still updates it from time to time) where he and Lori posted updates and pictures.  In the months following the accident, the page was inundated with comments from a far-ranging group of people. 

The comments and expressions of love, support and concern from family and friends was obviously appreciated, but not unexpected. 

What was incredible, what blew everyone away, was the daily visits and messages from people in their town who hadn't met them but had heard about the accident.  Or friends of mine from college, law school, and beyond, who didn't know Emma, but had heard me brag about her and who wanted to send their love.  Friends and bandmates of my brother Sam.  Friends and colleagues of my parents. 

In the year since the accident, 593 different visitors have logged in to the care page, leaving over 2000 messages.  I find that so extraordinary.  It moves me to tears.

The other day Josh wrote an post about how the year has affected him.  Obviously, to say that it's been difficult would be a ridiculous understatement.  But he was sending a message of love, and I'll let him tell it: 

One of the most important things that I have learned is how to love and open one's heart to accept love and kindness, how to be true to one's self as much as possible. Trust me, it is not easy to do in this day and age. People at times, me included, can get filled with thoughts of jealously, bitterness, pettiness, the list could go on and on. With the opening of my heart, talking to friends, family and strangers, I was able to begin this journey of growth. I was able to come to terms with the accident in a better way, accept reality, push away as much as possible the ugliness that can creep into one's life. As I said, not easy but worth it.

Where am I going with all this, not sure. I try to smile more, accept people for who they are, love my wife and kids as much as possible every day.

Amen, brother.

It's such a cliche, but life is so short.  And so fragile. 

So go out and live.  Let go of the bullshit.  See the world.  Try something new and scary.  Have fun.  Be kind.  Take care of yourself and the people you love.  It's the most important thing. 

The only thing.


Emma at the park with us a few weeks ago. 

Keeping the romance alive

We've gotten into a nice routine in the afternoons.  The weather has been so glorious -- upper 60s to mid 70s -- that J picks the kids up in the afternoon and takes them straight to the park.  I get home, exercise if I didn't manage to do it before work, and then get dinner ready.  J brings the kids home at about 6, dinner's ready and on the table by 6:30, and we have some nice family time.

Yesterday I did a weights workout that didn't cause me to break too much of a sweat, plus I knew that I would be doing a hard cardio workout this morning that would require a shower afterwards, so I cleaned up by running a washcloth over my face and pits (face first, natch). 

By the time J came home with the monkeys, the table was set and dinner was ready.  When I heard the car pull up, I went outside to meet them.

When J saw me, his eyes lit up, he gave me a kiss, and he said, with great enthusiasm, "that's my girl! All barefoot and sexy." 

There were some people walking by on the sidewalk, and he looked at them and did a, "eh? eh?  check out what I got!  That's what I'm talking about, baby!" 

They laughed.  I rolled my eyes and chuckled under my breath.

Oh, and the outfit that sparked his ardor?

A ratty white wifebeater, replete with grease spots from the burgers I had been preparing.  A ratty black sports bra underneath.  A pair of workout shorts that fit kind of like men's boxer briefs, only they're so old and abused by my wearing then when I was pregnant that the waistband is all stretched out.  And an knee-length apron decorated with pictures of herbs and flowers.  Hair in a scraggly ponytail, lop-sided from when I was lying on my back to do ab work.  A smudge of mascara under one eye.

Hot hot hot is how I roll.

Clearly, he needs to get out more.

Can't I just give her my dog-eared copy of Are You There God, It's Me Margaret? and be done with it?

I'm on all these email lists from baby/parenting websites, leftover from when I was naive enough to believe that message boards populated by equally clueless first-time parents would be of any value.  I'm too lazy to click on "unsubscribe," so I'm bombarded daily with 80 bazillion emails about my toddler's developmental milestones and "5 ways your baby's crib can kill her!"  Plus I get lots of product offers for diapers and whatever.

Then today I got this from Mamapedia, which is kind of like Groupon for parents:

First of all, my daughter isn't even 18 months old, so thanks, Dot Girl, but I'm good for a while.

Second of all, What. The. Fuck.

When I got my first period, my mom and I weren't even on the same continent (we were living in Israel and I was in the States for the summer, so my friend's mom had the pleasure of dealing with me when it happened).  And it wasn't a big deal.  I had read my Judy Blume books so I knew what was going on, and it was fine and not even remotely emotionally charged or traumatic or anything.  My "practical kit" was a box of sanitary pads.  No "facilitation of healthy communication" was required.  I called my mom and told her the news, and she said something about growing up, and that was that.

Seriously, is this a thing?  Is this what people do now?  Is every single event in life now the subject of a marketing strategy?

No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow.

One of the things that I'm really enjoying about living in Denver is the weather.  Yes, it can be a little crazy at times with the what-the-fuck?-there's-a-blizzard-in-April? and the supercrazycold and the 70 degrees one day and 40 and windy the next, but for the most part, it's not bad at all, even in the winter.  While the East Coast has been getting socked over the past few months with wave after wave of snow and blizzards and ice storms and whatever else, it's been OK here. 

And now it's about to get really good. 

Spring is getting ready to spring, so in addition to being able to head west and up to ski on the weekends, we can stay in town and go from park to park to park on the weekends. 

Saturday, J and Zeke went to one park at 10 in the morning and then walked a mile and a half to another park to be met by Josie and me (she had been napping), where we played played played to the point of exhaustion and then all took the bus home together.

Yesterday we skied in the morning and then came home and met my friend Kim out at Confluence Park in downtown Denver.  The kids giggled and ran and Zeke rode his Skuut and they threw rocks and sand in the river and had a blast in the late afternoon sunshine. 

Then home for dinner, bath and a good night's sleep.

All the activity and outside time is putting everyone in a good mood.  Josie's boil is healing and she's comfortable and healthy.  Zeke tells me he loves me every 5 minutes.  J and I are having a good time with our kids.

There's a lot of scary, awful shit going on in the world.  Sometimes it's hard not to get bogged down in the bad news and uncertainty that seems to persist on a global scale.

But life is to be lived, so that's what we try to do.

The downside of regaining "hottie" status

I'm fortunate to be married to a man who has an awesome physique.  He's a surfer and a biker and an all-around great athlete, and it shows.

Generally.

After his hernia surgery, he couldn't do much but sit around and watch TV and eat.  And in the process, he put on a little bit of weight (and understandably so). 

It drove him crazy.  So as soon as he got the all-clear from the doctor, he started exercising again, and decided to do a round of P90X. 

The one benefit of starting work at 5 in the morning is that he gets off at 1:30 in the afternoon, and thus has time to work out for an hour when he gets home.  And he's been incredibly diligent, coming home every day and doing the workouts.

He's in the home stretch now, only a few more weeks to go, and he looks awesome.  He's lost a bunch of weight and has his abs back.  Rrowr.

Recently he was walking out to his car after work.  He's redoing wiring or whatever for a big grocery store, so he was walking out through a crowded parking lot.  His hands were full of tools and what-not and he had his tool belt on.

Which is heavy.  As he was walking, it was pushing down on his pants, which are loose because he's so much thinner now.

Because his hands were laden with big heavy things, he tried to wiggle and arch and reposition himself. 

But to no avail. 

Leaving him in the middle of a King Soopers parking lot with his tool belt and his pants around his ankles.  There were quite a few cheers and claps from the onlookers.

As he was telling me the story, I thought, thank goodness he was wearing underwear.  Also, lucky King Soopers shoppers.

I tried to come up with something clever about a boil on the ass of humanity, but I got nothin'

First it was the ear infections.  One after the other, each treated with a different antibiotic -- amoxicillin, cefdinir, zythromax -- nothing worked.  Josie still had persistent pus in her ears that wouldn't go away.  The doctor tried one more round of a different antibiotic and told me that I had to bring her back in two weeks to check her ears.  If they still were infected, we'd have to try other remedies, like shots or tubes. 

So she did her course of medication, seemed to get better, but then her nose started running again, which always seems to be a sign of another (or the same) infection.  So I made the appointment with the pediatrician, fully expecting that her ears were still fucked up.

Amazingly, they weren't.  She had a runny nose, but her ears were free of infected-looking pus.

Now the problem was that all the antibiotics had given her a raging yeast infection.

So I whipped up a batch of magic butt (or in this case, vajayjay) paste,* including an extra batch for her teachers to use at school, and slathered it on with every diaper change.

I was changing her diaper after a few days and noticed that the yeast infection seemed to be healing.  Victory!  But then as I was putting paste on her, I felt a hard lump on the inside of her right butt cheek.

The Passover plagues

She has a massive, painful boil, right near her anus.  Which makes it difficult to sit without leaning to one side and difficult to be wiped off during a diaper change without intense pain.  Plus, if it comes to a head and bursts, it could lead to more dangerous infection if it comes in contact with poop.

Poor monkey.  I feel horrible for her, though she's a tough little girl -- she doesn't really fuss and has weathered the recent spate of one-malady-after-another with remarkable aplomb.  I, on the other hand, am a wreck.  I'm good at taking care of sick kids, but I become horribly agitated and nervous when one of my kids has an injury or an illness.  Along with any prescription the doctor gives, I should ask for some Ativan for myself.

So I've got a call in to the pediatrician for advice, and I'm letting her sit in a hot bath and run around naked, and I try to position her on the couch to watch Elmo so that she leans to one side.  And I guess there's not much to do but wait it out.

And hope that as the boil heals, we don't get beset by locusts or cattle disease or something similar.  Passover is just around the corner, after all.  You never know.

_______________________________
*Magic Butt/Vaj paste recipe (handed down to me by my friend Karen):
1 part zinc based diaper cream
1 part lotrimin (anti-fungal) cream
1 part hydrocortisone cream

Spread liberally on affected area.  Marvel at the speed with which affected area gets better.

Reminiscing and rambling

I was talking to some coworkers last week and the topic of conversation turned to childhood. Specifically, the question asked was, "what was the most difficult thing you had to deal with as a kid?"

My childhood was the best of anyone I was talking to, by far. Everyone else had suffered from parents who were alcoholics, who had abandoned them, who were divorced, whom they never saw because they were poor and the parents worked multiple jobs.

It was a serious eye opener. I've always been aware of how fortunate my brothers and I were growing up, with parents that were together and happy and supportive of us and each other. We got to live all over the world and see incredible places and things. We got a top-notch education not just through our experiences, but because we lived in countries where the diplomatic schools were superb (Israel and India in particular). 

When it was my "turn" to talk, it was hard to come up with something that didn't sound petty.  The best I could do was that all of the moving around left me without a strong sense of place.  There isn't really anywhere in the world that truly feels like home to me, because I had so many homes.

I was born in Cyprus, a half a world away from where I am now.  For most people, the place where they were born is someplace familiar.  But I haven't been back to Cyprus since we left when I was 2. 

Same with Venezuela.  I have vivid memories of the house we lived in, our yard, the mango tree, the wall behind the house where my parents let Josh and me paint with watercolors.  I could draw the interior layout of the house if you asked me to.  I remember the park and the barrio down the road.  I remember my school.  One day I was dicking around on Google maps and was able to find the house we lived in.

But I haven't been there since I was 6 years old.

Same with Israel and India.  Those were majorly formative years for me -- middle school and high school, first kisses and boyfriends and going through puberty and seeing truly incredible parts of the world.  Those places are a part of me.  I could give you directions around Tel Aviv or New Delhi, draw a map of my schools and my neighborhoods and where we hung out.  But I haven't been back to Israel since we left in 1984, and I haven't been back to India since Christmas break my first year of college (New Year's of 1989).

Most people I know have a hometown.  Somewhere they can return to (if they don't still live there) where they can sort of return to childhood, see the people and places they grew up with, feel a sense of home where they can recharge their batteries. 

I wouldn't change the way I grew up for anything.  But as I wrote yesterday (can you tell I'm doing a lot of reminiscing?), the wonderful friendships and experiences I've had are so disparate in time and place that sometimes it feels hard to hold on to them.

So I think.  And I go to reunions.  And I try to preserve memories by writing.

Are you far away from the people and places you grew up with?  Do you want to go back, or are you glad for the distance?  Should I just quit my mawkish ramblings and be grateful for my quasi-Rockwellian upbringing?

Why I'm jealous of Marilu Henner

Sunday was a wonderful day of skiing and reconnecting with an old friend that I hadn't seen in 10 years.  Eleanor and I were close friends and sorority sisters at UVa., and we've kept in touch via Christmas cards and Facebook and word of mouth, but we haven't seen each other much.  So when I found out (via Facebook, natch) that she and her family were going to be vacationing in Breckenridge for the week, I jumped at the chance to go and hang out with her for a little while (and get some skiing in, of course). 

I got to say hello to her husband, Robert, and meet her beautiful daughters, but then Robert took the girls so that El and I could have the morning to catch up, just the two of us.

It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is to slip back into conversations and coexistence with people that you've known really well, have been really close with, and who have been with you through formative periods in your life (like college).  And social media obviously helps.  I haven't seen Eleanor in forever, but I keep up with her daily via Facebook and Twitter, so I've seen the pictures of her kids and know what sports they do and I have a general sense of what's going on in her life.  She can say the same for me.  So we might do a little bit of catching up, of filling in the blanks, but mostly we fall back into just talking -- about life, about how we feel about where we are, about our mutual friends.  It's the same conversation we always had.

Of course, there were certain things that she remembered that I didn't, and things that I remembered that she didn't, and it was fun to bring back things that had been otherwise tucked away in the recesses of my brain, probably never to be retrieved.

You're probably saying to yourself about now, "yeah, yeah, that's really nice, but what the hell does Marilu Henner have to do with any of this?"

Salvador Dali's Persistence of Memory



Marilu Henner is one of 6 known people in the world with the ability to recall, in vivid detail, every single day of her life (the clinical term is Superior Autobiographical Memory).  If you say a random date -- April 7, 1989, whatever -- she can tell you what day of the week it was, what she did that day, who she saw, and whatever else she can remember about it.  When she hears a date, she describes her brain's function as being similar to a DVD -- the day cues up and she sees it as if it were all happening again.  She can look at a pair of shoes and immediately remember the exact date she wore them last, what happened that day, etc.

Now, I have a decent memory for history and dates -- I even do exercises to try to cultivate and improve my ability to recollect -- but it's obviously nothing like that.  And I often lament the loss of certain memories because in losing the memories, I've essentially lost the experiences.  I've done so many cool things in my life, visited so many amazing places, met and known so many incredible people, and I feel like by not being able to remember all of them, it's like they didn't really happen.  I crave the ability to bring it all back, to carry all of those memories with me.  It makes me feel closer to my friends and family.  Friends like Eleanor, who is so wonderful and whose company I enjoy so much.

It makes me feel more alive.

Proof positive that he's not adopted

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When I went to pick up Emma and my mom at the airport last week, I took Zeke with me.  I wasn't originally intending to because I was going to go through security to meet Emma at the gate, and who needs a toddler in that scenario?  But J had been sick and puking and then sleeping all day, so rather than leave him with both kids while he was feeling like total dog shit, I lightened his burden a little bit by leaving him with the easy kid who cheerfully lies down and goes to sleep at 7:30 on the dot after giving her Elmo doll a hug and chirping "night-night, Mommy!"

And I love having one-on-one time with Zeke.  He's so smart and fun to talk to.  And he tends to be much better behaved when Josie isn't around competing with him for attention.

So we got our escort passes and went to the potty and then made it through security and rode the train and went to the potty and successfully jumped off the escalator and rode the moving sidewalk.  He was a little bit shy when he first saw Emma, but then we sat down to have something to drink while we waited for my mom's plane and he became his normal chatty self.  He met a friend, a 4-year-old named Zach who was with his grandma waiting for his mom's plane, so Zeke and Zach had a grand time jumping around and making funny faces and saying things like "booty tooty chaka looty" and then cracking up like it was the greatest joke ever told in the history of jokes.

My mom's flight arrived, there were big hugs and kisses all around, we got the luggage and settled into the car for the ride home.

My mom sat in the back seat with Zeke.  He talked about school and his friends and going to the zoo and his desire to have a birthday party on Sunday.  So we decided we'd make a cake and blow out candles to celebrate everybody's unbirthday.

It was silent in the car for a minute or so.  Then Zeke leaned over and whispered to my mom.

"Mimi!"

"Yes, sweetheart?" she whispered back.

"The quiet ones are always the stinkiest," he responded.

She cracked up.  "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Yes, Mimi.  I tooted quietly."

It occurred to me to make a crack that he's just like his father and comes by it honestly, coming from a long line of tooters.  But I kept my mouth shut, realizing that he gets it from my side of the family as much as J's.

Bitchfest

We had a lovely visit with my mom and Emma (who is doing fabulously well, by the way).  Josie recovered from her stomach bug (from which she suffered while also having the miserable experience of cutting 4 molars at once) and was (and is) back to her normal, chipper self, running around all happy and saying new words all the time and eating everything in sight every minute of the day.  Not that I blame her, considering that she essentially went 4 1/2 days without eating.  But it's seriously hilarious now -- she's still a peanut but now she's got this ridiculous belly that sticks out.

Reminds me of her uncle Sam:

This is my brother Sam, aged 2, checking out a safety demonstraton on the beach in North Carolina. 
Josie's belly is even more pronounced than this, if you can believe it.

Anyway, she's doing great. 

But then on the second day of Mom's and Emma's visit, we were standing in the pizza place getting ready to order a pie to take home when Zeke suddenly threw up.  I got him outside.  He threw up again.  We went home.

He was sick for the next 5 days.  Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, exhaustion, and general punkiness.  Which, given his current level of 3-year-old (im)maturity, made him whiny and emotional in addition to his default state of annoying and defiant (when he's not being really sweet).

So I had a nice time hanging out with my mom and my niece, and we got out of the house and did some cool stuff, but we couldn't have the Denver cousins over for dinner because nobody wanted to get Zeke's cooties, and Zeke was exhausted and emotional regardless of what we did, so we always had to be prepared to just pick up and go home if he started to melt down.

And he just wanted to be on me.  "Mama, sleep with me."  "Mama, snuggle with me."  "Mama, I want to sit on your lap."  "Mama, I don't want you to drive.  I want you to sit with me in the car."

Whee!  Motherhood is fun!

Honestly, I feel like I've been living in a state of siege since we moved to Denver.  Just one shitty thing after another (with the exception of Josie being born).  Husband working out of town, husband sick or injured, dog dying, grandfather dying, niece severely injured, moving, losing the Hawaii house, husband unemployed, burst pipes, sick kids, blah blah blah. 

The minute one thing clears up, another thing starts. 

Yes, J recovered fine from his hernia surgery, and yes, he's gainfully employed now, but his work schedule is so fucked up that I still never see him and still never feel like I have any help with the kids.  I have great friends and family in town, but every time we have plans to do something, a short person starts vomiting and we're quarantined.

I'm exhausted.  I'm emotionally drained.  I'm resentful.  I'm lonely.

Life is hard.  Being a grown-up is hard.  I guess I just assumed that there were be more moments of light, more moments of peace, than I'm currently able to enjoy.  Because right now, it pretty much sucks, and I'm not seeing any respite any time soon.

The sweetest boy in the whole world

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

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

not a happy girl.  at least her hair looks cute

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, sweet pea."

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

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

"I like ants."

"Really?"

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

"They do?  That's interesting."

He pats my face again.

"I'm patting your cheek, Mama."

"I know, honey.  That's very nice."

"You feel beautiful."

"Oh, my goodness."

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

*plotz*

Midweek musings

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

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


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

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

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Freedom!

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

Well, sort of. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I burst into tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My choice?  Sports Illustrated.

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

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

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

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

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

And now, apparently, my son.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bringing Down the Hammer

 

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

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

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

Except when he's not.

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

There isn't much middle ground, unfortunately.

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

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

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

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

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

We'll see how long it lasts.

Halfway there?

I'm 41 today. 

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

I've celebrated a lot of birthdays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love to all.

The Valentine's Day Shakedown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, of course, of course!"

And off I scurry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I probably need to lay off the earbuds.

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

Baby Fish Mouth is Sweeping the Nation

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

survey services

Supercrazylife

The craziness of the beginning of last week continued unabated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I went to catch my bus and went home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, ma'am."

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

"That's right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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