T.S. was off by one

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

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

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

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

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

But still.  Two. Fucking. Weeks.

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

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

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

Poor little monkeys.

Getting through

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

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

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

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

Shitty times for their family.

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

It's hard.

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

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

And we just keep going.

Things to do in Denver when you're Jewish

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

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

"J!"  I whispered.

"What's up?"

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

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

Cross-pollenation

I started a new blog just for my fitness and coaching stuff.  I'm over there today (with challenges! and prizes!) so feel free to check it out.

My little monkey-bean

I was bouncing Josie on the bed the other day - holding her hands to help her achieve greater height - as she giggled and smiled at me and said, "again?" every time I stopped.  I can't really do it with Zeke anymore because he's getting so big.  But Josie is still such a peanut.  The right height for her age, but definitely on the skinny side -- she might have crossed the 20 lb. mark recently, placing her solidly in the 1st percentile for her age.  So it's easy for me to rough-house with her as she squeals with glee.

As we were playing and laughing, I was thinking back to my surprise and (mild) consternation when I was pregnant with her and learned that she was a girl.  How I was kind of hoping for a boy because I already had one and felt like I "got" little boys.  How I was nervous about her growing up to be an evil teenager. 

So stupid on my part (not the evil teenager part -- that will undoubtedly play itself out and I'll just have to deal). 

Because I love her little girly tendencies.  Her love of baby dolls, for example.  She has a couple of them at home, plus there's a box of them she plays with at school, and she walks around holding Baby or sitting with it and patting its back or using a towel or a cloth napkin to swaddle Baby and then rock it from side to side.  Sometimes she'll hand Baby off, and if you're the recipient, you had better hold Baby up to your shoulder and gently and soothingly pat her on the back like you're burping her, because if you hand her back to Josie without having done it right, Josie will hand her right back for you to try again.

And she's so sweet and happy and snuggly.  She loves to sit on my lap just so, holding Baby, while we read a book or watch Elmo.  She loves to play "chase" through the house, making the loop through the front hall to the dining room through the kitchen to the living room and back to the front hall. 

It's so much fun, and so gratifying, to see her with Zeke.  They adore each other.  They bathe together every night, splashing and giggling.  He shows her his books and they stand at the front window and look out while he explains what they're looking at.  They give each other hugs while they say, "awwww" and pat each other on the back. 

He's teaching her how to talk.  "Jo-Jo, say 'flower'!"  "Flaw!"  "Say 'window'!"  "Winnow"  He goes to her classroom every day at school to check up on her, see how she's doing and give her a kiss.

After having Zeke, I always thought, "little boys are the best.  They love their mothers.  They're hilarious and sweet and wonderful."

Now I look at Josie and think, "little girls are the best.  They love their mothers.  They're hilarious and sweet and wonderful."

Maybe I'm just blessed with great kids. 

Tradition!

I'm coming down from the high of Passover.  Maybe a little bit of a Manischewitz buzz.  A little overstuffed with brisket, haroset, horseradish, matzoh ball soup and way more coconut macaroons than I have any business eating.

It was lovely.  My cousins and their 1 year old came over, and my high school friend Kim came over, and a good time was had by all.

Passover is my favorite holiday.  I love the themes (Freedom!  Let my people go! Next year in Jerusalem!), the food, the family chaos, the telling of the story, the ceremony.  J loves it, too ("Baby, it's my favorite holiday since I became a Jew").

I love the fact that every year, we carry on a tradition that is being carried on all over the world, and that has been carried on for thousands of years.  And I love carrying on my own family traditions.

Using the china and silver that used to be my grandparents'.

The china I inherited from my grandparents, still meticulously packed with 35-year-old pieces of foam and paper towel protecting the plates, just as my grandfather always left them.

I'm third generation Royal Danish.

Using the kiddush cup and monogrammed napkins that I got for my wedding.

Using my grandmother's matzo ball recipe (the secret is seltzer water).

Enjoying the holiday with my children, who don't really get it yet, but they will, and they will carry on the traditions as well.

Zeke, of course, isn't wearing a shirt.  The Australian wine is a nod to J.

Traditions like this are a blessing.  A mitzvah.  They link us to each other and to a greater purpose.  On days like this, I am honored to be chosen.

Wishing you all a happy Passover, blessed Easter, happy spring.

Why my house is a shit-show

Yesterday, within a span of about half an hour, Zeke:

• tasted something I had offered him, decided he didn't like it, and "wiped" whatever it was (probably some sort of vegetable, I don't remember) off of his tongue by licking the couch;
• went off to the bathroom fully clothed but came back naked, having left his clothing next to the toilet;
• dumped his bucket of Mr. Potatohead parts all over the living room floor to play with them, only to abandon them when the next shiny thing caught his eye; and
• sprayed water all over the couch in an effort to "help me clean up."

Meanwhile, in approximately the same time span, Josie:

• ate half a cereal bar but crumbled the other half in her fists and threw the crumbs in the air;
• took off her diaper, played for awhile, peed on the floor and then used her hands to spread the pee around;
• took clean laundry that I had just folded out of the laundry basket and flung it around; and
• pulled pots and pans out of the cupboard and arranged them throughout the kitchen.

Everyone with kids tells me to cherish these early years because they fly by so quickly. 

That rapid passage of time doesn't seem like such a bad thing sometimes.

Will work for underpants

I'm putting the kids in the car to take them to school.  As I'm buckling Josie in, I'm saying to Zeke, "come on, sweetie, hop into your seat and I'll come and strap you in."

"Where are we going, Mama?"

"We're going to school and then I'm going to work."

"Why?"

Josie, who is in that stage of language acquisition in which she repeats everything she hears without necessarily knowing what it means, parrots, "why?  why?  why?"

"Why do I have to go to work?"

"Yeah.  Why, Mama?"

I think for a second.  "Well, you know what money is?  What we use to buy things at the grocery store?"

"Yes."

"The way you get money is to do something for someone, to do some work, and then they pay you for it and give you money.  So Daddy goes to work and he gets money for the work he does, and I go to work and I get money for the work I do, and then we take that money and we use it to pay for the things in our life, like our house, our cars..."

"And food?"

"Yep, food's a big one."

"And underpants."

"Exactly.  Underpants are very important."

"Yeah." 

He goes back to looking out the window and humming to himself, satisfied that he has covered the bases.

The Costa Rica fund

I've mentioned more than once my fondness for exercise programs like P90X and Insanity and TurboJam and a few others, all by a fitness company called Beachbody.

I started using them about 6 years ago in preparation for my wedding.  I was getting fitted for my gown and the seamstress told me that the dress was ever-so-slightly tight around the bodice, but that if I lost 5 pounds, I wouldn't need any alterations at all.

I had been doing home exercise programs since I was in college, but I was bored with my collection.  Then I saw an ad for P90X in Esquire magazine.  The program didn't promise any quick fixes or easy weight loss -- just great results if you were committed to working incredibly hard 6 days a week for 90 days.  I liked the no-bullshit approach and the money back guarantee, so I ordered it, figuring that if I didn't like it, I could return it and get my money back.

Long story short, I rocked my wedding dress, got into the best shape of my life, and became a devoted consumer of Beachbody products.  I've used 5 of their programs and then just started a 6th, TurboFire, this morning.  I've recommended the programs to friends and relatives, who have become similarly addicted.

Now I've drunk the Kool-Aid in full.

The company has a coaching program in which you can sign up to become a coach and a rep for the company's products.  I've been thinking about doing it for a while.  There are people I've read about it who have been able to turn their coaching gig into a full-time job that allows them to work for themselves and quit their day jobs.  I don't see myself doing that, but I would like to be able to help people get in shape and at the same time, maybe make a little bit of money that I can use as a vacation/rainy day fund.

So I signed up. 

I'm not going to give a hard sell, because the products basically sell themselves.  Here's my page -- it will link you to all the information you could need about the programs, products and coaching opportunities.  After a couple of days, I'll move this post to a separate page (linked at the top of the homepage), and I'll put some links on the sidebar.  Check it out.

What a fool believes, he sees, no wise man has the power to reason away...

As I said, I'm generally not creative enough to come up with worthy April Fool's gags.  Nor do I usually even remember it is April Fool's Day until it's too late to do anything about it.

So it's nice to be included in someone else's gag.

In this case, my high school friend Mark emailed me and asked if I would be willing to participate in a blogging gag flowing from last year's awesome punking of the New York Times.

But of course, I said.

So this time the gag was not on the Times, but rather on readers eager to see the Times taken again.  Eric Turkewitz,* a New York lawyer who writes a law blog, conceived of and executed the prank, involving a series of links promising a great punking story, but never delivering.  Click here for his deconstruction of the gag.  (For reals, this time.)

Happy April, all!

* Part of the gag was that I know Eric at all -- the story about meeting him in India way back when was made up.

Punk me once, shame on you. Punk me twice...

I've always been one to admire April Fool's Day from afar.  I was never able to come up with anything clever enough to make a worthy prank, plus usually by the time I actually remember it's April Fool's Day, I'm driving home from work and it's pretty much done.

An old friend of mine pulled a great one last year, however.  He's kind of the adventurous type - I met him when my parents were still living in India and he ended up there as part of a big round-the-world trip he took on a bit of a lark. 

Anyway, last year he planted this story on his law blog that he had been hired as the official White House Law Blogger. I have no idea if that position actually exists, but it would be kind of awesome if it did.  Anyway, he got a bunch of his blogger friends in on the gag -- they chipped in with their comments about how they confirmed it with anonymous sources in various places. The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal both got taken, but the NYT ran the story without checking. The WSJ got a denial from the White House before posting. The NYT, after pulling down the post, then went on to  include it in an editorial about new media.

So it was kind of a big deal.  And also very funny, and embarrassing for the NYT.

But I guess some people never learn.

Because a year to the day after being totally punked in an April Fool's prank, the NYT has once again fallen victim to their own sloppy practices.

Eric tells it better than I could:  http://www.newyorkpersonalinjuryattorneyblog.com/2011/04/nyt-gets-punked-again.html

Who knew the Gray Lady was run by such a bunch of punks?

At least we're not *total* failures

Today was our first parent-teacher conference for the kids.  I don't know why, but I was terrified.

Not about Josie, who is a total rock star in her class.  She's perfectly behaved, easy going, everybody loves her.

But I was a little worried about Zeke.

Not that I actually think there's anything wrong with Zeke.

He's just so... 3.

And if you've ever spent significant amounts of time around a 3 year old, you know that "annoying," "difficult," "infuriating" and "unpredictable" are words that come to mind when asked to describe them.

So are "adorable," "hilarious," "sweet" and "effervescent."

But quite often, the former qualities overwhelm the latter.

And Zeke is a lot like me -- not a huge joiner, not one to prefer a big noisy crowd when a quiet corner with a book is an option.  Except that I'm old enough to know when I need to suppress my own preferences and do as I'm told, whereas Zeke doesn't really have the maturity to have mastered that particular skill.

So I frequently get reports about how he doesn't always participate in group activities and likes to do his own thing.

Which is fine.  It's not like he gets grades.  And that's not a trait that bothers me.  But that observation is frequently presented to me as a "concern."

And then lately he's totally regressed when it comes to potty-training.  He's gone from having no accidents, like, ever, except when he was in a situation in which he truly couldn't get to the bathroom in time, to having 3 or 4 a day.  Nobody can figure out why.  When I ask him about it, he shrugs his shoulders.  We've had conversations about it, I've scolded him, I've threatened with the return of "baby diapers, because big boys don't poop in their pants."  Nothing works.  So now I'm trying bribery -- I bought a big bag of M&Ms -- every time he uses the potty, he gets one.  I don't know what else to do.

So, the parent-teacher conference.  J and I were nervous that we were going to get reports that our kid is woefully behind and that somehow it was all our fault.

Of course that didn't happen.  The teacher said she is concerned about the potty training thing, but that we'll work on it together, and it will right itself eventually.  Other than that, he's fine.  He's really smart.  He has the emotional maturity of a 3 1/2 year old.  Which he is.  And that's OK. 

We drove away relieved, not just that our kids are doing well, but that we weren't branded as parenting failures.

Until we drove from the preschool straight to McDonald's for dinner. 

Hey, nobody's perfect.

Mother [muhth-er] (noun) - a repository for the detritus of childhood

Yesterday I went and got a 90 minute massage.  It had been a few months since I had one and I had some Groupon deals in the bank, so J agreed to keep the kids for a few hours so I could get some time to myself.

It was in a funky little massage/accupuncture place up in Arvada.  Hip music was playing, the therapist was all be-tatted and pierced.  The walls were adorned with prints that looked like they were from Thailand.

I felt decidedly uncool in my ratty University of Virginia sweatshirt and jeans that I had used to wipe my hands after picking boogers out of Josie's nose. 

But hey, my money's good, so she led me back to the therapy room, asked me about my "problem areas," and then left so I could get undressed.

I emptied my pockets and took off my rings, disrobed and got under the sheet.

When the therapist came in a few minutes later, she wasn't able to stifle her guffaw.

Not because I tooted when she walked in or had left a bare cheek uncovered by the sheet.

No, she laughed because she caught a glimpse of the table where I had stashed my clothes and the contents of my pockets:

• 1 Android smartphone
• 1 pair dirty jeans
• 1 sweatshirt
• 1 long-sleeved t-shirt
• bra and panties discreetly tucked into fold of pants
• socks and sneakers
• 3 gold rings
• 1 toy car

I always thought I could be one of those cool moms that looked well put together. 

Not so much, as it turns out.

Friday frippery

Snow day! -- Tomorrow Zeke and I are off to ski, just the two of us.  J's got a bad back and can't snowboard without great discomfort, so there's no reason for him and Josie to schlep up to the mountains just to sit in the lodge.  So far, Zeke has only skied in ski school, so I'm a little nervous about taking him out by myself.  But we're going to play on the magic carpet (which he's used to), work on making wedges and controlling speed and maybe some mild turns, and if he's up to it, we'll get on the chair lift to try a bunny run.  I won't be able to do any serious skiing of my own, but last Saturday I got a lot of time on some super-steep black runs at Copper, so that will have to last me for a little while longer.

Hi, Mom! -- My mom has been out of the country on business, in Cambodia and Vietnam.  I'm used to talking to her every day, so it's always weird when she's away.  But when I check my statcounter, I see hits from Phnom Pehn and Ho Chi Minh City, so I know she's checking in on me.  Which makes me feel better.  Travel safe, Mama!  I miss you. 

Something's gotta give -- J and I were talking the other day about how we're constantly trying to stay on top of chores -- laundry, keeping the house clean, grocery shopping -- but constantly feel like we're falling behind because we just don't have enough free time to take care of everything.  We have a cleaning service that comes every 2 weeks, meaning that every 2 weeks, the house is clean until the kids have been home for an hour, at which point it's trashed again.  My office just instituted this flex time policy where people permitted to participate would do 9 days on and 1 day off, i.e., work 9 hours a day for 9 days, and then have every second Friday off.  I think I'm going to put in a request to go on that schedule, because Jesus, I could use the occasional day without the kids in tow.  Especially during ski season. 

Happy weekend, all!

An outburst of the soul

Weekday mornings are pretty mundane and repetitive.  I get up, exercise, have some breakfast and coffee, get the kids up, get them dressed, take them to school and head to work.

But there are wonderful little moments that fill me with tingles.  Like when I first open the door to Josie's room.  She's usually half awake, but still lying comfortably in her bed, sucking on her two middle fingers.  When she hears the door open, she pops her head up and gives me this impish grin.  She's got this hilarious mop of hair that sticks up all over the place in the morning, and these chubby cheeks, and big blue eyes that crinkle up when she smiles at me. 

So. Fucking. Cute.

I sing-song, "good mooooorning, sweetheart!"

She giggles and plops her head back down on her mattress for an impromptu game of peek-a-boo.  Then she stands up, holds out her arms for me to pick her up, and gives me a huge hug.

Every morning I get this gleeful reception from her.  It makes my whole day.

Zeke is similarly full of love, especially these days, with the unending stream of "I love you, Mama."  He's happy to see me, he's happy to see Josie. 

"Good morning, Jo-si-jo-jo-jo-beany-bean-bean!"

Constantly giving both of us hugs and kisses.

*sigh* 

They kill me with the cute.

Usually, when I drive them to school, I keep the radio down low and we talk.  But today when I turned on the car, the radio was already on.  Mumford & Sons' The Cave was playing.

After a couple of seconds, Zeke said, "I like this song, Mama."  So I turned it up.  "So do I, sweetie.  Let's listen to it."

In the rearview mirror, I could see him sort of bobbing his head with the beat as he looked out the window.  Josie started singing as well, imitating what she was hearing on the radio, but punctuating it with the occasional "E-I-E-I-O."

We drove along, listening to this cool song, each in our own little world that the music created for us.  And I was filled with a sudden burst of intense adoration for my children, and a hope that they would grow up to love and appreciate and maybe play music, as I do. 

And maybe I teared up, just a little.

It was another one of those moments.

Insert pithy quote about aging gracefully here

As I mentioned about a month ago, I'm back on the exercise wagon.

I tend to do that.  Go off and on, I mean.  And when I'm on it, I'm really disciplined and good. 

But then I'm not. 

So last year, in preparation for my Israel reunion, I did Insanity.  And it was -- wait for it -- insane.  Not particularly fun, but certainly an effective program.  And I lost many pounds and inches and went to the reunion in the dress I had been working to wear, and all was well.

Except that afterwards, we were moving and then I was changing jobs and then J had his hernia surgery and I just didn't have the mindset to stick with it.  So I ate what I wanted and didn't have much time to exercise, plus there were the daily offerings in the break room at work of leftover pie and "hey, taste this new recipe I made" and "there's extra Halloween chocolate, help yourselves!"

Now I've got another reunion coming up.  Celebrating 20 years since I graduated from college.

20 fucking years.  Holy shit.

And in the fall and winter since my last round of serious exercise discipline and dedication, my slack-ass-ness has resulted in an additional 6 pounds of chub on my 5'2" frame.  Not good.

So I'm back on the wagon.

I'm not sure what it says about me that I feel the need to pretty-up in preparation for seeing people that I haven't seen in 20 years -- I mean, really, who gives a shit?

But I do (give a shit, that is).  Call it vanity, call it clinging to the trappings of youth, call it superficial.

Guilty guilty guilty.

But I feel like if I don't show up bearing some resemblance to the little hottie I used to be, I have lost.  Or given up. 

I'm not prepared to give up yet.

Maybe for the 30th reunion, when I'm 51, I won't care.  But right now, I still do.

So 2 weeks ago, I started another program:  P90X and Weight Watchers.  That's another thing I tend to do -- programs.  I like the regimentation of having a schedule that tells me what I need to do on which day, for how long.  It gives me a sense of control.  Same with the points system on Weight Watchers.  I do well with structure. 

The first two weeks were predictably difficult and somewhat discouraging, because I didn't feel like I was seeing results right away.  I was getting used to the program, and all the resistance training was probably adding a little bit of muscle weight, so my weekly weigh-ins were not sources of joy.

But like an old steam engine, I feel like I'm slowly but surely gaining momentum.  My metabolism is picking up again and I''ve started dropping pounds.  My muscles are responding to the weight work and are regaining their definition.  My clothes are drooping a little bit.

I feel good.

And by June, I predict that I will feel great.

Obsession



What is it with this guy?

 Josie has discovered Elmo. 

Zeke went through a big Elmo kick when he was her age, but as crazy for the little red punk as he was, Josie's got him beat by a mile.  Every waking moment she wants to watch Elmo.  Or hold the Elmo doll.  Or do the hokey-pokey with the Hokey Pokey Elmo that she managed to wrangle from school by throwing an arched-back fit every time the mere suggestion that the doll might be taken away was made.

Sometimes it's all at the same time.

This morning as I was getting them ready for school, she insisted on doing the hokey-pokey with Hokey Pokey Elmo while holding the Elmo puppet while watching an episode of Elmo's World on TV. 

I caved only because I knew she was tired and cranky, the result of having been up every couple of hours,  crying and asking for Elmo.  I finally brought her into bed with me at 4 in the morning to try to sooth her and get her to sleep.  She sat up, pointed to the TV and said, "Elmo!"

"No, honey, we're not watching Elmo now.  It's time for night-night."

She slumped in my arms, utterly defeated, moaning, "no! no! no!"

So pitiful.

Finally, she rested her head against me, snuggled in, and went to sleep.

I'm not overly alarmed by this behavior -- I know it will pass -- but I'm having a hard time understanding it.  I don't remember ever forming attachments like this as a kid.  I didn't have a binky or fixate on a doll.  I was always very independent and almost disdainful of those kinds of displays, like they showed weakness or something.  My mom tells me that when I was about 2 there was a doll that I played with with some regularity, but one day it got lost.  She kept waiting for me to get upset or ask for it or something.  I never mentioned it and moved on.

I don't want to be a hardass.  But I kind of want Josie to sack up and not be such a patsy for Elmo.  I feel like it doesn't bode well for her future relationships, to be so overtly needy.

Or maybe I'm the one that needs to chill out and not view the situation so harshly.

What's on second

Zeke and I have this thing we do when we go to the park.  I push him on the swings and he sings "Old MacDonald," but instead of animals, on the farm there are light posts and dirt and various other inanimate objects that don't make noise.  And then we'll make up silly noises that the window or wagon or juicebox make.

Josie has started to sing Old MacDonald, and particularly likes repeating "E-I-E-I-O" over and over.  She started doing this in the car on the way to school this morning.  So I sang along with her, and then Zeke picked it up.

We went through cows and chickens and goats and sheep.

Then Zeke sang, "Old MacDonald had a farm.  E-I-E-I-O... And on that farm he had a what."

Me:  He had a what?

Zeke:  He had a what.

There was no question-like inflection in his voice, so I thought he was being funny with the song, as is our wont, and doing a "who's on first" kind of thing.

Me:  He had a what?

Zeke:  A what.

Me:  A what what?

Zeke:  A what.

Me:  What the what?

Zeke:  He had a WHAT!

Then he started to cry.  "What did he have, Mama?"

I realized he hadn't been playing and was waiting for me to fill in the blank, i.e., identify what Old MacDonald had.  And he thought I had been mocking him.

This is what happens when you establish a rep as a little smartass. 

And here's how to use that rep, pull the old switcheroo, and make Mama feel like a grade A asshole.

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.