Every picture tells a story, don't it?

Do you ever find yourself in a situation in which you kind of step outside of your own body and have a sense of a snapshot of the scene that you're in?  Like when the chaos reaches a critical mass, and the only way to deal with it is to mentally step back, as if you're not really there, but simply an impartial observer.

That happened to me this morning, when I was sitting in my underwear, with blood all over my shoulder and bra-strap, trying to console a hysterical baby while crying myself and at the same time, trying to not get too worked up so that the toddler wouldn't completely lose his mind as well.  

I actually got a decent night's sleep last night, even though I had Zeke pressed against me the whole time.  I let him sleep with me because Jason has been working overtime in Vail since Monday, and it was the easiest way to get Zeke to settle down and go to bed.  Plus he was so sweet about it.  "I sleep in your bed, Mama?  We can give hugs!  I love hugs!  I love you, Mama."

Seriously, how can I resist that?  It's like a shakedown, only with lethal cuteness rather than threats of broken kneecaps.  

So I woke up relatively refreshed, as both kids slept through the night without incident.  I heard Josie stirring at around 6:45, so I got up and she was all bubbly and happy to see me, and we went upstairs to have a bottle and watch last night's episode of The Daily Show, as is our routine.  Zeke woke up at around 7:30, and was also chipper and happy.  We hung out and had some breakfast and watched some Elmo, and then went downstairs to get dressed.  Everything was copacetic.

I put both children in the middle of my bed, where they usually bounce around and chatter at each other while I get myself ready for the day.  It's a big bed, so I don't worry about Josie being in the middle of it, and Zeke always keeps her giggling and occupied for a few minutes.  But today, she decided that her new-found ability to almost-crawl, i.e., pull herself around on her belly with alarming speed, was too irresistible, so I was in my closet with my back turned for about a minute when I heard a "thunk."  I turned around and saw Josie lying on her back on the floor -- she had apparently pulled herself over to the side of the bed, fallen down head-first, hit her nose on the bed frame, and then flipped over onto her back.  

I raced over and picked her up, where she shook silently for a couple of seconds and then let out a wail and completely lost her shit.  I held her to my shoulder and tried to comfort her, only to discover after a few minutes that she had a bloody nose and was bleeding all over me.  So I gently touched the bridge of her nose and determined that her nose wasn't broken, she just mushed up the cartilage at the tip.  But it hurt like a bitch, and she was scared out of her mind, crying and crying and crying on me.  

I felt so awful for her and so guilty about turning my back that I started crying.  Zeke looked at the two of us, saw my tears and said, "are you a little bit sad, Mama?"  Because the few times he's seen my cry, I've tried to reassure him that I'm OK, just a little bit sad.  He came over to both of us with a scared look on his face, and crawled into my lap and put his arms around us, kissed Josie and kissed me, trying to will everything to be OK.

He really is such a sweet boy.

And that was the point that I kind of mentally stepped back.  The picture keeps popping into my head, even hours later.  Me sitting there in my underwear, with blood on me, trying to console both children while having a hard time keeping it together myself.  Josie with the tip of her nose all purple and blood on her face, because every time I tried to wipe her off, she waved my hands away.  Zeke in his pajamas, diaper sagging, curled into my lap with his arms around us, afraid that his little world was crumbling.

Eventually, I managed to get it together.  Josie calmed down, stopped bleeding, and reluctantly let me clean off her face.  I found a clean t-shirt and some jeans, and figured that no one at the office gives a shit about what I wear anyway.  I got Zeke into a clean diaper and clean clothes.  We all sat for a bit in the living room and chilled.  Josie was in my lap, leaning against me, sucking on her fingers and doing the "huh-huh-huh" thing that kids do when they've been crying too long.  I got them off to school, and made it to work, where I've been somewhat productive (except for a little lunch-hour blogging).

But I'm still feeling shaken.  I can't get that pathetic picture out of my head.  I see my poor little girl, terrified and bloodied, and I start crying again.  I have a huge tolerance for physical pain, but my baby gets a bump on her nose and I'm a freaking basket case.  Pitiful.

I really need a vacation.  Or a drink.  Or both.

Home?

When I was in 11th grade, we moved to India in the middle of the school year.

A nightmare, right? Most people looking back on high school can think of nothing worse than being the new kid, let alone the new kid in the middle of the year after class schedules, team rosters, routines, and friendships have been established.

But that's the thing about growing up and moving around in Foreign Service or military households, and going to diplomatic schools. You have this whole ready-made community wherever you go, made of up people that live the same kind of life. So every few years, you uproot yourself and leave the people and places that are familiar, but you're plopped into a new, often exotic place with like-minded (usually), and like-experienced people to create a new life with.

So in addition to being interesting and exciting, it just wasn't that hard. The communities tended to be small, and people were coming and going all the time, and it was always intriguing to learn that someone new was going to be arriving. Will they be cool? Will they be funny? Will they be good at sports? Will they be smart? New people had built-in buzz around them, starting well before they arrived.

So when we got to India, everyone was expecting me, and waiting eagerly to meet me. The first day of school, I was invited out by a group of people to go have ice cream after school. That weekend, I was included in all the big party plans. Within a week and a half, I knew everyone, and felt completely comfortable and included, like I'd been there forever.

It's too bad moving experiences aren't always like that. Because making good friends in a new city when you're a grown-up (and I still have a hard time thinking of myself that way) is hard.

Of the big moves I've made since leaving school -- Atlanta, Hawaii, and Denver -- Hawaii was certainly the hardest. Jason and I moved there not knowing a soul. We met some kindred spirits, made efforts at connecting with people, and left with a handful of good friendships, but it was really difficult. I felt incredibly isolated most of the time I was there.

And now we're in Denver. It's been almost a year and a half, but it's been a difficult time, with Jason gone so much and money being tight and everything in my life feeling so turbulent and crazy. I have good friends and some family here, but I don't get to see them as much as I'd like because it's so hard to organize everyone's schedules. I still feel like the new kid, trying to make this place feel like home.

I frequently fantasize about time travel. Like, if I could go back in time and change this event or that event, how would my life be different. Or, if I could snap my fingers and have one wish granted, what would it be, and what would life be like afterwards.

Winning the lotto would obviously be nice. But sometimes I think I'd choose having a ready-made community, like living in a kibbutz or something, where I feel accepted and welcomed and like I fit in. Because I haven't felt that way in a long, long time, and I miss it.

All children, all the time

Jason is slammed with work until the Vail project, on the verge of completion, is finished. The bosses are panicking over missed inspection deadlines and generally acting like whiny, bitchy little girls, meaning the crews are working long hours and being threatened with firing if they don't stay until late late late. On Saturday they asked if the guys would be willing to work on Sunday for regular (i.e., non-overtime) pay in exchange for a day off on Friday. I think the request was half-hearted because they know Jason is married to a lawyer, and that he thus knew that the request is totally illegal. So the bosses weren't too miffed when, upon Jason's legal advice, the guys told the bosses to go piss up a rope. Which meant that at least Jason could come home Saturday night and also have Sunday off.

All of these late nights and working-on-the-weekend schedules means I'm on child-care duty all the fucking time. And I love my children like crazy, I really do. They're funny and sweet and generally well-behaved and a pleasure to spend time with. But they're still really little and require constant supervision. I can plop them in front of Dora the Explorer for maybe 15 minutes while I go shower, and pray to Saint Jude that Zeke won't stick a screwdriver in the DVD player while trying to "fix" it or that Josie won't find a stray piece of cereal bar under the couch that she will put in her mouth and choke on. But the rest of the time I'm with them, and they're on me. Strapped to me via the Snugli, sitting on my lap, lying on me, crawling on me, jumping on me. I don't want to be Mean Scary Mommy, but it seriously took all that I had, numerous times over the past few days, to not just scream in Zeke's face, "STOP TOUCHING ME!! GET OFF OF ME!!"

It's gotten to the point that Jason can forget about getting laid until the Vail job is over, because there's only so much human contact I can take. But he's too tired, in any event, so I don't think he even cares. Ah, the joys of the modern American marriage...

Bragging rights

As I've mentioned many times in the past, I grew up in a happy home. Accomplishments were lauded. Sunshine was blown up butts. My parents praised us and encouraged us and bragged on us. As in Lake Wobegon, we were all above-average.

This applies exponentially, of course, to the grandchildren.

Whatever my children do, it is a sign that they are geniuses, according to my parents. Last year when Zeke started counting and knew his alphabet and was figuring out various animal noises? Genius. Josie sitting up and rolling over? Genius.

For some reason, I find it so charming and endearing that my parents react this way, yet I can't quite embrace that attitude myself. Like it's bad form to talk too much about how smart your kids are. Plus as a special education lawyer, I'm so aware of the various disabilities that could befall children, so there's a superstitious part of me that doesn't want to go on and on about how super-smart and accomplished my children will be, because it's like tempting fate.

So one day when my parents were going on and on about how smart Zeke was, I remarked that he is undoubtedly intelligent, but probably not a genius, because so few people truly are, and that he most likely falls in the "high average" range.

I will never, ever live this down. My mother laughed uproariously at me. My father exclaimed, "High average? Did she say my grandson is high average?? He's brilliant! 'High average' -- pffft. Ridiculous!"

Zeke does have advanced verbal skills for his age -- he speaks very clearly, in complete, mostly grammatically correct sentences, with a huge vocabulary. And he knows and can recognize his letters, and knows which words start with which letters. He can count with one-to-one correspondence, and is learning the concept of very simple addition. So I have to admit that, by all appearances, he is a smart little cookie. But still, there's such a broad developmental range of skill acquisition in children, i.e., one kid could be counting at 2 and another at 3 1/2, and it's still all within the normal range.

Now when I talk on the phone with my mom or dad, they'll ask what the kids are up to, and what new things they are doing. And I'll tell them about the newest funny thing that Zeke said or did, and they'll snort at me and say, "high average, huh?" Then they'll crack up, laughing at me. This happens multiple times a week.

Josie has started chatting up a storm lately. She is particularly fond of the "ba-ba" and "da-da" syllables. And she does seem to say "da-da-da-da" over and over when she sees Jason.

I was telling this to my mom, and she said, "she says 'da-da' when she sees her daddy?? Wendy, that's very advanced."

"Yeah, it's pretty cute. But I don't know if she's really saying 'da-da' or if she's just repeating the syllable that is so predominant in her repertoire these days. Plus, she is 8 months old. It's not unusual for kids to be chattering at this age. Zeke certainly did."

"Well, I think she's obviously very smart."

"I guess."

I could hear her chuckling to herself. I knew what was coming.

"High average, right?"

*sigh*

Monday miscellany

• Vacaaaaatiioooooon! This morning at my office's monthly staff meeting, everyone giving their little department report was to also talk about any fun plans they had for the summer. So I talked about how I'm going to D.C. over 4th of July weekend to visit my parents and to go to the big all-class reunion for the school I went to (and graduated from) in New Delhi, India. I am so excited to see so many old friends, including Lisa, plus people I haven't seen in the 23 years since graduation. Plus my mom and dad rented a big house on the Outer Banks of North Carolina the last week of July, and Jason and I are taking the kids, along with my brothers and significant others and children. There will be surfing and suntans and grilling and at least one meal at Awful Arthur's. My family has been vacationing on the Outer Banks since I was 8, and I love the fact that we still all go there as a family. I've been really looking forward to both trips, but talking about it this morning made me almost cry with anticipation. I can't wait.
• Sleeeeeeeeep! For the past week I have been working like crazy on a big project at work. It's been really fun, litigation-y lawyering that I love, but the timing has been crappy because Jason has been out of town and there simply haven't been enough hours in the day to get everything done. So I've been working late at night and on furlough days and into the wee hours of the morning. And I'm fucking tired. But it's done now, so I can get some rest.
• Goooooooooooooool! The World Cup starts on Friday. I adore the World Cup. I've always liked soccer, but then I saw Argentina play Nigeria in the men's gold medal game of the 1996 Olympics, and it was seriously the best sporting event I've ever witnessed (and I've seen quite a few), so like turned to obsessive love. I'm trying to figure out a way to sneak the Fiddy out of the house and have it installed in my office for a month so I can watch all the games.

That is all. I'm off to deliver my brief, and then may stop for a margarita. Happy Monday, everyone.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster...

I like living in the city. Our neighborhood is full of cute bungalows and Victorians, tree-lined streets with sidewalks, parks and shops within easy walking distance, and neighbors that are uniformly cool and neighborly without being homogeneous. Gay, straight, black, white, families, singles, retirees, it runs the gamut. I dig it.

But we are also indisputably in an urban neighborhood. The liquor store up the street frequently has drunken homeless people sleeping on the sidewalk outside. There's a "lingerie" shop a few blocks away. About a month ago the cops knocked on my door to ask if I'd seen any suspicious types around, because a couple of guys were held up at gunpoint across the street from my house.

But I'll take that over the soul-crushing sameness of the suburbs.

Tonight we went to the "castle park," which is a playground on the west side of City Park, in the middle of Denver. It's a favorite of Zeke's because the jungle gym is huge, shaped like a castle with turrets and slides and funky walkways, plus swings and cool stuff to climb on. And there are kids from all walks of life, races, socio-economic strata, you name it. Which is great.

Except that based on the crowd tonight, I think the castle park has been taken over by the Latin Kings or something. All the parents were covered with tattoos and piercings and wearing t-shirts that looked suspiciously gang-like, with lots of black and gold lettering. The women were all squeezed into too-tight tank tops with their boobs spilling out and their neck tattoos well-displayed. A number of the guys had shaved heads with full skull tattoos.

Even the kids were decked out like little bangers. One kid, who couldn't have been more than 2, looked like he stepped out of a toddler production of West Side Story, complete with jeans with rolled cuffs, little baby Chucks, a tight t-shirt, and longish hair slicked back with gel. Another toddler had the low-riding shorts, a baggy t-shirt, and hair spiked up with plenty of gel.

Oy.

Zeke, in his little preppy polo-type shirt and his madras shorts, Josie in her little Hanna Andersson romper, and me in my basic Gap t-shirt and capris -- well, we stood out like sore Yuppie thumbs.

But, everyone got along, the kids played nicely, and foul language was kept to a minimum. So I looked the other way at one couple sitting in the middle of the playground popping each other's back zits. I mean, who hasn't done that, right? Live and let live.

And if any of the other parents even choose to strike up conversation with me, I guess I could mention that a great-great-uncle of mine was part of the Jewish mafia in Baltimore back in the 1800s. Everyone's got a little thug in their background.

Sucker

The house is quiet, for once, so I'm taking the time to sit and get some work done while everyone else sleeps. No TV, no radio, just me and my files and statute books.

Then I hear some indistinct chattering that sounds Zeke-like.

We have been working on going to bed "like a big boy." Meaning no fussing, no crying. For every night that he does it, he gets a sticker on his chart. For every three stickers, he gets a trip to the book store to pick out a new book. It's working well, or so I thought.

I poke my head around the wall from the kitchen to look down the stairs. He has turned on his bedside lamp, and I can hear him reading to himself.

I go down and stand in the door of his room. He's sitting on the floor looking at a book.

"What's going on, honey? You know it's bedtime."

He looks up, smiling broadly at me. "Hi, Mama!"

"Hi, sweetie. It's bedtime. Time to turn out the lights and go to sleep."

"Oh, but I need to read this book." His bright blue eyes are wide and innocent-looking, but he's totally playing me.

I walk over to him. "I know you want to read the book, but it's late and time to go to sleep."

He climbs into bed, taking his book with him. It's the farm board book.

"I need to sit and read, Mama. Do you want to sit and read with me?" He's got that adorable toddler pronunciation going, so it comes out, "do you want to sit and read wif me?"

I look at him. He's so insanely gorgeous, and so sweet. Lately Josie has been lighting up like the sun whenever Jason is around, but Zeke is mine. When we went up to the mountains this weekend, he was chilly in the brisk morning air when we went for a walk, so I gave him my bright magenta fleece pullover to wear. It hung down to his ankles like a cassock. We walked along the river, chatting and stopping to throw rocks and look at the guys fly-fishing in the water. All he wanted was to hang out with me and tell me about all of the things that he finds so fascinating.

I look at his hilarious feet, which are exactly like mine. My nice high arches, but also my ridiculous 4th and 5th toes that are stubby and curled in like little cheetos.

I look at the book, which we read the night before, and had a remarkably good time with. First we looked at the pictures of the animals and I explained the different names for mommies and babies -- nanny and kid for goats, mare and foal for horses, that kind of thing. When we got to the page with all the pictures of fruit, Zeke said, "let's have a snack." And he pretended to pick up a grape off the page and eat it. "Would you like a grape, Mama? They're good grapes!" So we had a snack of peaches, berries, potatoes, peas, and peppers. Then we counted. "Count the strawberries wif me, Mama! One, two, three..."

It won't always be like this. He'll grow out of his mommy stage and want to do everything by himself, or with Jason, or with his friends. He won't always want to snuggle and tell me about every aspect of his day.

"Mama, do you want to sit and read with me?"

I look at the clock. It's after 9 -- so totally past his bedtime. And then I climb into bed with him.

"Of course I do, sweetheart."

_______________________________

Zeke has already earned one trip to the bookstore, and has another one due to him tonight. Here's a clip from our last trip. You can see why it's so much fun to go with him.

Rescue me (again)

I need some Titty.

Oh, get your mind out of the gutter.  I'm talking, of course, about my hairdresser.

And yes, that's really her name.

I go to this funky little hair place on Colfax where the stylists sport the requisite hip adornments, from piercings to blue hair to baby doll dresses worn with Chuck Taylors and tights with holes in the knees.

But Titty is there.  Titty, who is remarkably normal looking,* and yet who oozes both hipness and tonsorial expertise.  Titty, who rescued my 'do after that last dumbass destroyed it (twice).

Titty, who, when I sit down in her chair, offers me a PBR (and I'm not unique -- all clients enjoy this benefit).

Her fix held up so well that it's been almost 6 months and only now am I thinking I need to go in for a trim, not because the layers haven't grown out proportionally, but because the pieces in the front are hanging in my face.  Titty is *that* good.

Funny story:  Dudley, a mutual friend of ours and Kathleen's was in town visiting a few months back.  His hair was getting a little bushy so Kathleen's husband made an appointment for him with Titty.  But Dudley was all worried that everyone was taking the piss out of him and setting him up for a huge practical joke in which he would go in, ask for "Titty" and promptly be run out of the store on a rail for his effrontery.  He was pleasantly surprised when Titty in fact existed, was a hottie, offered him a beer, and gave him a great haircut.

He, too, became a life-long fan of Titty.  And really, aren't we all?

______________________
*I have no idea if this is her given name (I tend to doubt it), but for whatever reason, I assumed Titty would be the name of an older lady (a bitty?) because no one in her 20s would take on such a moniker.  But Titty is indeed in her 20s, and totally adorable, and cool enough to carry it off.

Naked justice

Zeke is going through a bit of a law and order phase.

I don't mean that he is spending his time watching hours of NBC's long running but recently cancelled police procedural drama.  Though if he were, he'd be coming by it honestly -- I was addicted to that show in the later stages of pregnancy with him and during maternity leave.

Rather, he appears to have internalized, with a vengeance, the lessons he has learned from being instructed/disciplined by Jason and me, and by his teachers at school -- no hitting, no pushing, etc., -- and from time-outs consist of sitting in a segregated place, being told why you're there, and being required to apologize afterwards.

I noticed it last week one night when he was sitting in the bathtub with his toys.  Apparently, the toy fish was acting up, because Zeke would take it and emphatically place it on the side of the tub.

"Fish, you're in time out.  Stay right there!"  His voice was stern and serious.

"There's no hitting your friends.  That's not nice.  Stay right there!"

It was like looking at myself in a carnival fun-house mirror.

"Now say you're sorry!"

Eventually, he decided the fish had been punished long enough, so he picked it up to put it back in the water.

And promptly whacked the fish against the snake.  Causing the fish to "earn" another time out.

This scenario repeated itself a number of times.  And has played out in every bath time since.

Then this past weekend, I took Zeke to the Ghetto McDonald's a couple of miles from our house to play at their Playland.  He happily munched his McNuggets and french fries, asked to be excused (!), and then trotted off to play.  I took advantage of the opportunity to read a Michael Connelly novel on my new Kindle, looking up every few minutes to make sure Zeke was OK.

He came over to me a bit later, a look of concern on his little face.

"What's up, honey?"

"Mama, that girl hit me."  He pointed to a little girl who looked to be about a year old.

"Well, sweetie, you're going to have to deal with it.  All you can do is tell her not to hit you and then try to stay away from her."

So he went over to her and said sternly, "Don't hit me!  No hitting!"

She didn't so much as glance in his direction, but he was satisfied.  He looked over at me expectantly.

"That's good, Zeke.  You handled that well.  Now go and have fun and play."

No one is exempt from these dictates.  Last night I was scolded for "pulling at him" when I put my banjo away and told him we weren't going to play with it any more.  He was furious and went over to the closet and tried to open the doors.

"Zeke, the banjo is put away for the night.  We're not playing with it any more tonight.  Get away from the closet."

When he didn't listen, I went over and put my hands under his armpits and gently pulled him away from the closet door.  This prompted more tears, followed by a lecture from him in which I had to gnaw off the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing while he glared at me, his thin chest heaving with fury, tears on his face, and told me not to pull at him.  I explained that I pulled him away from the closet because he didn't listen to me when I told him that we weren't going to play the banjo anymore, but he wasn't placated.

"You shouldn't pull me, Mama."

"OK, Zeke,"  I sighed.  "You're right.  It obviously hurt your feelings when I pulled you away from the closet, and I'm sorry.  I won't do that again.  You need to listen to me, though, when I tell you to do something."

"You need to say you're sorry."

I already did, you little turkey.  "I'm sorry, Zeke."  I bit my lips to keep from giggling.

But at least he was dressed.  The other night Jason, having just come back from Vail, was tired and frustrated trying to wrangle Zeke into his pajamas after a bath.  Zeke was running around being silly, but Jason just didn't have any patience for it.  Zeke tried to climb on him, but Jason shrugged him off.  Zeke was horribly offended and burst into tears.  He came running over to me where I was sitting on the couch.

"Mama, Daddy pushed me!  Daddy pushed me!"

I hugged him and stroked his hair.

"Mama, it's not nice!  It's not okay!" he sobbed.  "No pushing!"

"Zekey, you're going to have to talk to Daddy about it.  You need to tell him what you're telling me."

Jason was downstairs at the time, but was on his way back up when he was confronted by a little naked 2-year-old standing at the top of the stairs with his hands on his hips.

"Daddy, you shouldn't push me.  It's not nice.  It's not OK!"

I had walked over and was standing behind Zeke, and could see Jason's face start to twitch.  He was having a hard time not busting out laughing.  I gave him a look and mouthed "you can't laugh at him."  He nodded, took a breath to compose himself, and looked back towards Zeke.

Zeke repeated his admonitions.  "No pushing, Daddy."

"You're right, Zeke, I shouldn't have pushed you."  He blinked and pressed his lips together, doing his damndest to keep from guffawing.

"You need to say you're sorry, Daddy."

"I'm sorry, Zeke."

And they hugged it out.

I'm so glad Zeke is learning about following the rules, and is apparently very serious about the mores that govern the social compact.  But good gracious, it's hard to keep a straight face when you're being stared down by a naked pint-sized sheriff.

Can it at least pass quickly?

The other day I was talking to my brother Sam.  I was telling him about how after a month and a half of enjoying life with the family back in Denver, Jason is back working in Vail.

His company totally fucked him.  He agreed to go up there for two weeks only to finish up this part of the job that apparently no one else in the company could figure out how to do.  They said, fine, no problem, just two weeks and then you can go back to Denver.  So he went up there two weeks ago, finished what he needed to do in a week, stayed the extra week to be helpful and because he's a team player, and then found out Friday afternoon that they had staffed out the other job in Denver and were going to make him stay up in Vail until the job is finished.  And, of course, they refuse to be at all specific about long that's going to be.

I was livid when I found out, and have been alternately depressed and angry ever since.  It just makes life so much harder for everyone.  It's hard on me, it's hard on Jason, it's hard on the kids.  But, to quote Tony Soprano, whattayagonnado?

Suck it up, that's what.

So I was talking to Sam and telling him about this, and he was sympathetic and pissed off for us.

"But, whatever,"  I said.  "There's nothing to do but deal with it.  This too shall pass."

"True," he said.  "But why is it that we're constantly having to say that to ourselves?"

He's been dealing with some personal shit lately as well, and it's become his mantra.  "This too shall pass."

"I feel like I'm saying that constantly.  Like God's name should be "This Too Shall Pass."  'Hey, This Too Shall Pass, could I maybe get a month without having to invoke your name?'"

"I know," I said.  "We did this for 10 months, Jason finally came home, Emma had her accident, you've got shit going on, Josh has shit going on.  And right when it seems like things seem to be smoothing out, something else happens.  It's like the shit is endless."

"Yup."

"Yup."

We were both silent for a couple of seconds.

"But at some point, it'll be over.  This too shall pass."

"This too shall pass."

Rededication, regimentation and discipline

I never had weight problems growing up.  I was always skinny and athletic as a kid, then I got boobs and was curvy but always in shape.  Some of it is genetics and lifestyle -- everyone in my family exercises and I always played sports or went to the gym or did something -- and some of it is vanity.  I enjoyed being thin and liked the way it looked and felt, and liked the admiring glances from men (and some women) too much to ever let myself gain more than a few pounds.

Then I had two children 23 months apart.  And while I didn't gain huge amounts of weight with either kid, after Josie was born I felt mushy and flabby.  I looked gross in a bathing suit and hated the way clothes fit me.

So I started Weight Watchers in December.  I lost 17 pounds by early March, but then Emma's accident happened and Jason and I were dealing with some other shit and I got distracted.  I wasn't eating well or tracking my points consistently, I was snacking on comfort food, and I wasn't working out.

And it showed.  By the end of April, I had hit a plateau that I had been stuck on for a month and a half.  When I entered my weight on the Weight Watcher's website, I got the pitiful "thanks for playing" message instead of the "yay! way to go!" message.

So I decided that I'd had enough.

Though many of my friends think I'm this foot-loose and fancy-free type who's crazy and flies by the seat of her pants, I actually thrive on regimen and discipline.  That's why I like Weight Watchers -- tracking points appeals to the side of me that probably would have done well in the military.  Same with working out -- when I do really well, when I'm feeling super-fit, it's because I'm doing a program, training for a marathon or doing P90X (which I used to get in shape for my wedding) or something like that.

With two kids, a full-time job, and a husband that sometimes works out of town, I don't have the time for P90X right now -- the workouts are too long (the yoga workout is 90 minutes, and the others are all about an hour) and there simply aren't enough hours in the day.  Maybe when my kids are a little older and require less hands-on attention all the time, I can revisit that program (which I love), but not right now.

So instead I ordered a program that I saw on an infomercial (I'm a sucker for buying things off the teevee).  It's a combination of kickboxing and hip-hop dance set to funky music, with some strength training thrown in.  In addition to being incredibly fun, the workouts top out at about 45 minutes (plus there's a great 20 minute, high intensity workout for when I'm short on time).  I work 2 miles from home, so I can get home, get into my workout togs, do a video, get dressed, have some lunch, and get back to work in about an hour or so.

For the past three weeks, I've been working out 6 days a week and tracking my points religiously.  And the weight is dropping.  My muscle definition is coming back.  I've got abs again.  My clothes are hanging off me.

I'm addicted to the discipline, and I feel fucking awesome.

Hold me, touch me.* Or, on second thought, don't.

It's an interesting thing, how people born of the same parents and raised in the same household can be so totally and utterly different.  My dad and I were talking about this the other day and he observed, "I mean, jeez, could there be two people more different than you and [my middle brother] Josh??"

And I've seen it in my own children as well.  They look incredibly alike -- Josie is basically a daintier version of Zeke -- but their demeanor and countenance (at least as babies, I obviously can't comment on Josie's personality beyond the 7 1/2 months she's been alive) is quite divergent.  Whereas Zeke was and is more emotionally needy and sensitive, Josie is mellow and self-sufficient.

I've never had to sleep-train Josie, even for a night.  From the age of 2 months, I could just put her in her crib, turn on the musical mobile, give her a pat and leave the room, and she'd be asleep within a couple of minutes and sleep through the night.  Zeke still won't do that.  With much cajoling, reading of books, singing of songs, and lying down with him for a few minutes ("lie to me, Mama," he'll say when he wants me to lie in his bed with him - it never fails to crack me up), he'll go to sleep in his own bed.  But he'll invariably wake up crying about needing a clean diaper or wanting to come in my bed, and I'll soothe him and get him back to sleep, and then a few hours later he'll wander in and just crawl in next to me, wanting to snuggle.

Zeke is the one who would be happiest if he could somehow surgically attach himself to my body.  When he was a baby, he liked to take his bottle with the front of his body pressed up against mine, with his head in the crook of my arm.  If we're on the couch watching TV, he's all entwined in my arms and legs, or at least resting a hand or his head on me.  He wants to sit on my lap, snuggle with him in bed, and somehow be touching me as much as possible.  It's so sweet, and he's affectionate and lovely, but sometimes I feel a bit suffocated and have to tell him to get out of my face.

Josie is equally sweet, but far less clingy.  She doesn't like to face me when she takes a bottle, she prefers to sit facing out and lean her back against me.  She's always happy to see me, giving me a big smile and a squeal, but doesn't need to be on me all the time.  She likes to be held, but doesn't fuss if you put her down.

But, Josie is in full-on teething mode.  Her first little bottom tooth popped through over the weekend, and the other one is ready to blow at any minute, so she's in pain and constantly rubbing at her gums.  And last night, for the first time ever, Josie just wouldn't or couldn't put herself to sleep.  She was fed, she was medicated, her eyes were all red-rimmed with exhaustion, but she cried and cried whenever I put her down.  So I sat her in bed with me while I watched Lost, and rubbed her belly while she chewed on a teething ring.  She finally fell asleep at 8:30, an hour and a half past her normal bedtime.

Then at 2 in the morning, she woke up crying again.  I gave her a bottle, dosed it with Tylenol and Motrin, rubbed her gums with Orajel, and put her back in her bed.  Normally, she'd roll over and go to sleep.  Last night, all she wanted was to be touching me, so the minute I put her down she wailed.  I rocked her in the chair for an hour, and then finally just brought her back to bed with me.  As long as she was curled up against my arm or some other part of my body, she was fine.

Of course, Zeke woke up at 4, right after Jason left for Vail (he's back up there for a couple of weeks), and wanted to climb in with us and snuggle.

"Yeah, yeah," I sighed.  "May as well make it a party."

So I dozed, off and on (mostly off), the rest of the night, with two little leeches children pressed up on either side of me.  Both of whom snored.

I need Josie to be done with her teething soon so she can go back to old self.  I don't think I can handle two children who treat me like I'm the mother-ship and they're the barnacles.  

_______________________
*Fans of The Producers (the original movie with Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder, not the stupid remake) will recognize the "hold me, touch me" line.  Seriously one of the funniest scenes in one of the funniest movies ever.  I tried to find a clip on YouTube but I guess it's copyrighted.

Aussie Word of the Day: blasphemy edition

Australians tend to come up with highly descriptive expressions for their likes and dislikes.  They tend to be a bit vulgar, and also, somewhat ironically, to invoke the deity.

I've gotten used to it after living with Jason for 6 years, so I tend not to react much when I make him a favorite meal and he takes a bite and exclaims, "aw, baby!  It's like an angel pissed on my tonsils!"

In case you were confused, that means he likes it.

And again, I hear it so often, it usually doesn't faze me much.  But I'm not completely made of stone, people.

The other day when we went grocery shopping, Jason surreptitiously slipped a package of chocolate-chip cookie dough into the cart.  Later, when we were making dinner, he decided he needed a preprandial snack  and busted out the cookie dough.  I'm still doing WeightWatchers, so I limited myself to a single bite.  Jason offered some to his brother, Simon, who was unfamiliar with the practice of eating raw cookie dough.

"Aw, it's the best, mate."

"Yeah?" said Simon, quizzically.

"Definitely.  It's awesome.  It's what God's dog shit would taste like."

It's a good thing I wasn't drinking anything when he said that, or I would have done a total spit-take.

I still haven't been able to stop giggling when I think about it, or to get out of my head the image of a large bearded man in a white robe walking a dog that poops cookie dough.

Shhhhh...

What is a home without children?

Quiet.

                      - Henny Youngman   

I don't know what was going on on Saturday, but there was something in the air or in the water.  Neither of my children napped, and then both passed out hours before their normal bedtime and slept through the night.  Josie fell asleep at 4:15 in the afternoon.  Zeke followed at about 6:30.  

He had been playing hard all day, started to melt down, and said, "Mama, I need a nap."  I was dubious -- he has a tendency to get exhausted and then spring back to life after chilling out for half an hour.  Plus no one needs a toddler to get a couple of hours of sleep and then wake up all chirpy at 9 at night.  So I said, "why don't you just relax for a little while?  Would you like to sit in my bed and watch The Jungle Book?"  "Yes, please."

He was asleep within 5 minutes.

And that was it.

Jason and I kept checking in on them, waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for one of them to wake up full of energy, but it never happened.

I finished my book.  I made some dinner.  We cleaned the kitchen.  I put away some of Zeke's toys and books.  We watched a movie (Up in the Air, which we've had sitting on our TV stand for weeks but never quite had the opportunity to pop into the DVD player).  

The time do get some things done, without chasing after or entertaining children, was kind of nice.  But the quiet was unnerving.  It felt weird.

"Can you imagine life without the children anymore?" Jason asked.  He was as weirded out as I was.

And as much as I talk about the frequent need for time to myself, and of looking back with longing on my days of being single and childless...

the answer was unequivocally, "no."

Thursday miscellany

Feeling kind of disjointed and off today.  Could be any of the following:

• The nature of springtime in Denver, which is totally schizophrenic.  Yesterday it was 80 degrees and unbelievably beautiful - blue skies, balmy breeze.  When I woke up this morning, it was snowing.  Now it's just kind of drizzling and overcast.  A friend of mine quipped that Denver really doesn't experience spring -- it's more like winter and summer duking it out for a couple of months.  That is an astoundingly astute description of what April is like in this city.  

• I'm tired.  Josie is having an odd stretch.  It might be teething or a growth spurt (or both).  But she isn't sleeping or eating like she normally does and is a little bit fussy (which, by normal baby standards, isn't much, but it's so unlike her).  So I've been up the last three nights at 3 a.m. to give her a bottle.  At least Zeke is making up for it by being astoundingly cute and well-behaved.  He's sleeping in his own bed.  He's using the potty more and more.  He's having great days at school where he plays nicely with his friends.  He's happy and fun to be with.

• The fucking Capitals.  Grr.  Congratulations on being the first #1 seed to blow a 3-1 series lead in the history of the NHL playoffs, guys.  Jesus.

But there are things to be happy about as well.

• I started a new workout program a couple of weeks ago.  In addition to the workouts being really fun, I'm seeing results.  Meaning I won't be the chubby girl at the high school reunion who has to go on an on about how she's still trying to lose the baby weight (and yes, Sophie, it's looking like I'll be able to go -- yay!).  

• More importantly, Emma is going home from the rehab center tomorrow.  This is blowing my mind.  The accident was only 6 weeks ago.  She literally almost died.  Had she been hit an inch further over here or a centimeter further over there, she could have been dead or severely impaired for the rest of her life.  And she's only been doing hardcore rehab for a little over a week.  But in that time, she's gone from being in a wheelchair to walking with a cane to barely needing the cane at all anymore.  She's working really hard to regain the use of her right arm and hand, and she's doing astoundingly well.  She'll still need to continue with rehab for a while, but she doesn't need to do it on an in-patient basis. What a stud she is.

So, as you can see, I'm sort of all over the place today.

I get my kicks where I can

My Grandma Anne - my dad's mom - used to be a great artist.  She doesn't do any art anymore, but before she became physically infirm she was a terrific painter.  And she always had great taste - beautiful furniture, paintings, jewelry.

A few years ago when we were in Michigan for a family shindig for Leo's 90th birthday, she gave me this incredible gold necklace that was made up of links of dancing figures.  It's a beautiful and unique piece, a work of art, really.

As a true artist, my grandma loved the human form.  And if you look closely, you can see it well-displayed on the necklace.  When I wear it, I'm wearing a chain of naked people.  With little hand-shaped gold penises.

Quite impressive gold penises (that's a side shot below).

Dancing, flopping gold penises.

I invariably get compliments on how lovely the necklace is.  And I chuckle to myself and thing, "yes, especially if you're into jewelry porn."

Post-racial?

I saw a comedian do a bit a few years back -- I think it was Chris Rock -- about the racial stereotypes of Jews and Asians being smart and good at business.  His point was, what's so terrible about a stereotype like that?  Wouldn't it be great if someone saw a black person on the street and didn't think they were a criminal or from the 'hood, but rather automatically assumed that they were an intelligent business owner?

I thought of that this past weekend when I was waiting in line at the ticket office at Coors Field to swap out Friday's rain-check for tickets to Saturday's game.  Jason and his brother Simon were waiting off to the side with the kids, and Zeke was running around and going back and forth between Jason and me, being silly and playing and practicing saying "excuse me" as he barreled through the crowds.

At one point he came to me and held up his arms to be picked up, so I reached down and pulled him up onto my hip.  We stood there chatting for a minute.  Zeke was looking around and flirting with the people standing around us, as he is wont to do.

The ticket window we were in line for was being manned by a late-30-ish, thin, light-skinned African American guy.  As Zeke was scanning the crowd, he looked toward the ticket window and when he saw the guy behind the window, his eyes got really big.

"Mama!  Mama!  It's Obama!  Look, Mama!  Obama!"

I don't think the guy behind the window heard him (there were still a bunch of people ahead of us in line), but the people standing near us cracked up.

And I was thinking to myself, "does it make my kid a racist if he assumes that every light-skinned black man he sees is the President of the United States?"*

___________________________
*In his defense, he doesn't do this with darker-skinned black men, only men that actually do look like President Obama.

Four years ago today

Jason and I were legally married in Australia in December 2005, but we did a second wedding in Atlanta four years ago today (i.e., 5 months after the first one). We did the second one so that our families could each be able to participate in a wedding ceremony for us, because most of my family and friends couldn't afford to go to Oz for the first wedding, and most of Jason's family and friends couldn't come to the States for the second.*

The first wedding was fun, but a bit of a whirlwind, and I was naturally stressed out and a bit freaked out by the prospect of getting married. The second wedding was far less emotionally charged for me because I was already married, so it was just a chance to celebrate with my family and friends and bask in the Jewish wedding traditions that my tribe has been following for thousands of years. I tried to work in as many personal touches as I could think of.

My wonderful parents both walk me down the "aisle" to the huppah. I carried yellow roses, the same flowers my mother carried at her wedding.

We had a huppah at the Australia wedding, but we made it at the last minute out of some lumber and a piece of lace we bought at a fabric store. The huppah at the Atlanta wedding was made from a Jewish prayer shawl that had belonged to my great-grandfather Julius.

We stand under the huppah, as our rabbi-for-a-day, my friend Karen, leads the ceremony. She speaks Hebrew and recited all the Hebrew prayers and blessings for us

Also, we worked in all of the chief aspects of the Jewish wedding ceremony, including the recitation of the ketubah (marriage contract), the Kiddushin (blessings of betrothal over wine), and the Sheva Brachot (Seven Blessings), in Hebrew.

Signing the ketubah (marriage contract)

Reading our marital obligations (from the ketubah) to each other

Blessings over wine

I circled Jason 7 times when I entered the huppah, representing the building of the walls of our new world together (similar to the world being built in 7 days).

My friend Andrea read a portion of Walt Whitman's "Song of the Open Road," a nod to living a life of adventure, as Jason and I always try to do. Then Jason broke the glass, which represented (to us) not only the remembrance of the suffering of others, but also a breaking of ties with the past and the creation of a new family - we no longer belong just to our parents, but also now to each other.

Then we went to the reception hall, I changed into a dancing dress, and we enjoyed Southern cuisine (including fried green tomatoes - yum), danced to the music of a Cuban band, and enjoyed the time with our family and friends.

Jason and I took rhumba lessons to learn our first dance, which was to the song "Besame Mucho"

I teach Emma the basic mambo step, and she and I dance with Jason. She and I will dance together again, I'm sure of it.

My maternal grandparents (seated), Ruth and Leo, and the inspirations for Josie's middle name (Ruby Lee) - the lady standing behind them is their friend (and mine) Melba, one of my favorite people in the world. She is still alive, but her health is not great these days.**

The scene on the dance floor

We had cake. Our cake toppers were male and female surfers, of course.

It's been a crazy 4 years (well, 4 1/2, really). We've been from Atlanta to Hawaii to Denver, our financial fortunes have been up and down, and there have been times -- many times -- when I feel like I would give anything to be single and childless again. But the rituals and the ceremony of that day four years ago meant something, and still do. We are bound together forever now, not just by our children, but by the shared experiences of our life together and, without question, love for each other, for better or for worse.

_________________________________

*There were a few troupers who made it to both: My friends David and Michele and Malinda, and my parents, were at the Australia wedding. Jason's dad and grandmother were at the Atlanta wedding, and his step-brother Dean came over for it but had to fly back before the wedding date because his mother (Jason's ex-stepmother) died.

**Melba died about a week and a half after I wrote this post. She was a powerhouse of a woman and I will miss her dearly and admire her and strive to emulate her always.

Aussie Word of the Day: Let's call the whole thing off, or, my life as a Gershwin song

The Accent Wars are beginning in earnest.

You will recall that I recently was taken aback, and a bit freaked out, when Zeke used Jason's Aussie pronunciation of the word "weird," so that it sounded like "weeeeed." And his "dog" sounds like "doog" and "car" is "caaah."

Jason 3, Wendy 0.

But as I am the one who does most of the reading of stories to the monkeys, I'm starting to gain ground.

Zeke has this board book about life on the farm (and I love how it's called "My First Farm Board Book," as if there are sure to be other farm board books in one's future). It's got lots of pictures of everything from farm animals to tractors and tools to different kinds of produce. There's a whole page with pictures of lettuce and strawberries and apples and peppers and other fruits and veggies, in varying amounts, so that in addition to learning the names of the various foods, kids can work on their counting skills as well.

So from this book (because God knows he would never actually eat a vegetable*), Zeke has learned what a tomato is, and, more importantly, that the word is pronounced "to-MAY-toe."

The other night, Zeke was jumping around on the couch (naked, natch), when he spied his farm book on the shelf and decided he needed to read it RIGHT NOW. So he went and grabbed it and took it over to Jason, and they proceeded to go through the pictures, naming and counting and having a good time.

I was reading a magazine and not paying much attention (except to get a face-full of naked toddler ass when Zeke felt the need to crawl over me to go hug Jason's brother, who is visiting for a couple of weeks, before returning to Jason and the farm book). Then I heard this hilarious exchange:

Zeke: Daddy, what's that?

Jason: Those are to-MAH-toes.

Zeke: (laughing hysterically) Not to-MAH-toes! To-MAY-toes! They're to-MAY-toes, Daddy!

Jason: To-MAH-toes.

Zeke: TO-MAY-TOES! Hahahaha! Daddy's silly!

Indeed, son.  Indeed.  Come back from the Dark Side...

___________________

*Yeah, yeah, I know that tomatoes are technically fruits, but to Zeke, they are grouped with foods like broccoli and green beans, i.e., the kind he won't eat.

Don't call DFCS

We have a history in my family of enthusiastic and creative rough-housing. When Josh and I were really little (before Sam was born), we came up with increasingly violent games to play with my dad. We'd pile pillows against the wall at the head of his bed, and he would get in a crouched down position (with his head toward the pillows). We would sit on the small of his back, and then he would straighten his legs and send us flying into the pillows/wall. This was called Being The Machine, as in, "Daddy! Be The Machine! Be The Machine! Again, again!!" There was also The Helicopter, where he would get on all fours on the bed and we would climb on his back like he was a horse and then he would spin and buck around until we got thrown off. The Helicopter-Chair was another iteration.

But Jason has my childhood games beat by a mile. He has all kinds of insane stories about the stuff he and his brothers used to do, often involving careening down steep hills on skateboards with nail-studded pieces of wood dragging behind them to make sparks on the road -- that sort of thing. Suffice it to say that it's a miracle he made it to adulthood.

I am not a nervous mother and it doesn't bother me when Jason throws Zeke around like he was made of foam. There is much flipping on the couch and bouncing on the bed and throwing from one surface to another, and all the while Zeke screams with laughter and giggles and says "again! again!!"

Every once in a while, they come up with something that makes me wince and scrunch my eyes shut. Until I can't help but start laughing.

They've actually been doing the "kicking the beanbag while Zeke lies on top of it" trick for awhile. Last night they came up with a way of doing it so that Zeke flies from the beanbag to the couch. I find it utterly hilarious, in spite of myself.