Had an amazing dream Friday afternoon after I got off the phone with Rick Amato. I dreamed that there were two women, an older one and a younger one, there was a mother/daughter type of relationship between them though I don’t know if they were really mother and daughter. They had been living with two bad men, trapped with them, unable to get them out of their lives. Finally the police arrested them and the women were overjoyed because they were free of the men at last. But the other people in the town we lived in (which happened to be Wyoming) ostracized them. They wouldn’t even talk to the women because the bad men’s reputation was a stigma to them.

I walked up to them and embraced them. At that moment, a swat team with faces fully covered in some sort of futuristic gas mask thing, started repelling down from the above along with long black garbage bags being dropped from helicopters. They grabbed us and at first I thought we were in some kind of trouble but they were escorting us off the property so the house could be sprayed for insects and decontaminated. It wasn't safe to be around that house anymore, though I got the distinct impression that it was meant to get the women away from their previous lives of being trapped with bad men.

I invited the two women back to my house. I was nervous about what the neighbors would say but they had no where to go. My house was also covered in this circus tent of black garbage bags. I was surprised because I didn’t think there was anything wrong with my house. When I moved the flap aside to get to my front door, I also invited my next door neighbors in, Peter, Meagan, and the two girls. They didn't mind at all that these two women were with me. The kids rushed into the house and I was nervous that all the fumes from the fumigation hadn’t cleared yet since there was still a big trash bag over my house…but when I looked in my home, it had been completely remodeled!

The floors were all tile in richly gradient squares of granite. I walked through the split-level entrance of house to this sort of court yard in the back yard. Everything about this house said comfort and maybe not luxury like the rich and famous, but luxury to me! There was an elaborately shaped pool with Jacuzzi and “waterfall”. There pool was partially shaded by a faux roof (like what a car port might look like, except this was done in wood and bamboo with palm leaves for the roof). There was a walking out area from the house where a stone half circle contained a grill and a bar. Thenthere were twosteps down that lead to the multi tiered pool.

The children were chasing each other around the pool. My husband and sister were there along with her husband and son. I couldn’t believe this was my house. My husband gave me a big hug and told me that it was really our house. I had this overwhelming feeling of joy and love and not exactly euphoria but definitely bliss.

I know I haven’t been easy to live with the last few weeks. It was so scary for you when I went to the hospital. It was so scary for you to see all those people around me and all those tubes and wires hooked up to me. I’m sorry you had to see me like that.

I know my mommy patience has been non-existent lately. And I know you don’t understand anything about hormone levels, or post-partum blues, or even really understand that there was a baby in my belly that was going to be your little brother and now there’s not. So I know it scares you a little when I get angry at you for just doing the normal stuff you do…or cry because you won’t let me put on your shoes. I know you have been very confused and frustrated because of all this and I’m so sorry.

I just want you to remember one thing when you’re older, and telling your therapist about this time in your life. While we were at the park on 4th of July and I felt that initial explosion of pain…I suspected right away what had happened. Then, while we were in the car waiting for the rain to stop, I was pretty sure I knew what had happened. I knew I should have your daddy take me to the hospital right then and there. Instead, I made him take me to Grandma and Grandpas, and then promise that he would take you back to the park to watch the fireworks.

I especially didn’t want you to miss that experience. You have never missed a celebration from the time you were born, and now that you’re old enough to remember them, I did not want to take it away from you. I wanted you to see the sky bright with glowing sparkles. I wanted you to remember the smell of Legion popcorn and the sour sweet taste of 4-H lemonade.

Things are rough right now kiddo and I feel terrible about it. Two is hard enough without all this additional scary stuff…but hang in there. It’ll get better. I promise.

Life these days is a constant state of negotiations. Zander is definitely pushing his boundaries and asserting his independence. I try so hard to be one of those mothers that can focus their child and teach them the letters and how to scribble their name, but the reality is he has no time to sit still for me.

He's always busy, always doing something, exploring the world around him. Picking wild blackberries with Grandpa. Catching lightning bugs with Grandma. Painting pictures, "counting" his money, chasing after the cats, and narrating every thing he does. When I do try to intervene and focus his activity it could be his favorite thing in the world and he wont want to do it because I'm the one that suggested it.

I find myself bribing him, pleading, ordering, shouting, and time-outing until I'm blue in the face. He's such a good boy, but every single thing is a battle. He runs around in a diaper half the day because when I try to get him into clothes he has suddenly sprouted 8 more arms and legs and has become a boneless lump of wiggle and squirm.

He has using the potty for #1 down but he's still not convinced about #2...he'll do it right AFTER he's sat on the potty!
Even more distressing, I have to bear wrestle him to the ground and then sit on him to change his diaper. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep 30lbs of wiggle and squirm's business end up in the air long enough to clean it off and swaddle his tidbits and whatnots in a clean diaper? Here's an example of perfect toddler logic.

Z: Onna go potty!
M: You just went potty.
Z: Onna peep!
M: You just peeped.
Z: Onna peep more!
M: Do you have to poop?
Z: No! Onna peep!
M: No. You just went peep.
Z: Onna peep 2 more times, okay? Yep. 2 more times.
M: Do you mean you want to flush the toilet 2 more times?
Z: Noooo! Peep momma! Onna peep!!!
M: Let's go wash your hands.
Z: Onna peep en onna diaper!
M: Fine. Let's go get you a diaper.
Z: Onna wash hands?
M: Okay, I give in. Let's go wash your hands.
Z: Onna diaper first.
M: Fine. Here's a diaper, come here so I can put this on you.
Z: Noooooooo! (runs away squealing and naked into the guest room and shuts the door)

All is quiet in the house. The neighborhood is sound asleep. I stand on my front steps, holding the door open and looking at masterpieces. Mandalas in their own right, crafted by ten tiny hands in a tiny team effort. Flowers and frogs, and fish, and waves, and lightning, and barns, and clouds, and long red planets, and stars, and french fries all wrap me in color. The cat pads across the yard, through the flower garden, up the steps, and tramples over the drawings leaving little colored tracks on the untouched portions. I look again and think the only thing missing is an arm draped over my shoulder and a chest to lean against. With an intense feeling of connectedness, of tiny little love tendrils ensconcing me, and knowing completely that all is right and well in my small corner of the world, I close and lock the door, flip the yard light, and follow the meows to the kitchen.

It’s been a hell of a week. It started out with torrential down pours spoiling my yard work plans, then getting puked on by my two-year-old, followed by several days of cleaning up what said two-year-old has named “sphincter soup”. The cats are on a litter box protest because through a completely random incident involving Red Box and a movie I STILL haven’t returned, my husband went to VA for the week with my ATM card. I’ve been feeding them dog food for the last two days and they’ve been showing their appreciation for being rescued from the animal shelter and quite possible euthanization by leaving big steaming piles IN FRONT of their litter box. I suppose I could just suck it up and write a check…but wait…the ENTIRE box of checks has gone missing (last seen in the hands of Mr. Sphincter Soup).

Yesterday was sunny and beautiful and gorgeous. And I spent all afternoon with my son outside. We played hop-scotch and we watered the cedar bushes, and we picked beautiful flowers (See a boo-foh fower, mumma? See a fower?), and we drew pictures with sidewalk chalk. And then the landscapers showed up at my neighbor’s house and took out their cedar bushes. Huh, seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through landscapers to pull up a few bushes. And I looked at my cedar “shrubs” (which after two years of neglect are each roughly the size of a minivan) and I remembered all the nice little packages I have from Henry Fields just waiting to be planted in the ground. I bet I could pull those out. How hard could it be?

So, I pulled out the electric hedge trimmers and went to town. Let me just say that although electric hedge trimmers look like a little chain saw…it is not, in fact, a chain saw. And in round 1 of Melissa vs. the cedar shrubs, the shrubs won. Now, the front lawn is covered in tree shrapnel, I’m sweaty and gross, and the shrubs are not really looking any worse for wear. Time to regroup. I needed a saw.

I needed a saw but what I had was a multi-tool. Maybe if I went one branch at a time…it would still take me until Christmas to cut the darn things out and I’d still have the root problem to contend with. Round two of Melissa vs. the cedar shrubs goes to the shrubs.

What would I do if I were still living in the country? Well, for starters, any rural Iowan worth their salt would have a chainsaw. Since I am no longer a rural Iowan, and my hedge trimmers could never be mistaken for a chainsaw, I decided to hook a chain around the shrub and pull it out with my car. I’ve seen tree stumps pulled out of ground by tractors before. Surely a few overgrown cedar shrubs would pose no problem.

By the time I’d backed my car up on to the front lawn and hooked the neon orange ratchet straps around the base of the shrub (did I mention no chain either) and secured the other end to the frame of my car I’d gathered an audience. Great. Half my neighbors were on their front lawns gawking at the crazy lady in her husband’s tennis and welder’s gloves. Not wanting to look like a bigger ass than I already did, I go into the house to get a second opinion.

“Is Dad there?” I ask my mom.

“Nope,” she tells me in her Yooper accent, “He’s gone mushrooming with Jerry Andresen.”

“Damn.”

“What’s a matter?” and when I tell her the story, she says “Gees oh Pete, why don’t you just dig it out?” Dig it out? Right. Had she not seen these shrubs??? I have to be able to get to it first and right now the blood dripping down my arm and spiders in my hair is enough not to make me want to go anywhere near it with a shovel.

“Do you think the car thing will work?” I ask her.

“Worth a try.” She tells me, “But why don’t you wait until your husband is home, this is sort of a man’s job anyway.” Because I’m an independent woman who can handle things on her own and I am not going to admit defeat to a cedar shrub, that’s why! I thank her for her words of encouragement, go out and start up the car.

See, there’s a problem with that. The 1.8L of my adorable little girly Nissan Cube doesn’t quite have the same power of a ‘65 Farmall. It started to work. The shrub was coming up slowly but surely, teasing me, getting my hopes up. And then the wheels on my car began to spin. And no matter what angel I tried it from, the damn shrubs refused to be uprooted. The crowd of onlookers had grown since my conversation with my mother. None of them were offering a chain saw…or a ’65 farmall.

I turned off the engine, went out, inspected the damage. Roughly ¼ of the shrub had been pulled out of the ground, the rest held firm. With a sigh, I unhooked the ratchet strap. With what little dignity I had left, I gathered up the welding gloves, slipped my bare feet back into my husband’s size 12’s, put the car back into the drive and inspected the shallow ruts I’d left on my front lawn. Disappointed that the show was over, the neighbors went back to their yard work and lawn mowing and I thought about how embarrassing this was and that really, what good is having a husband if he can’t even pull out a few cedar shrubs for me. I decided to call my mom back.

“Epic fail.” I told her and hung up.


UPDATE: After a Redbull and a shower, I decided to try a different strategy using the ratchet straps and the car. Instead of taking the entire thing out at once, I decided to do it in pieces. You'll be thrilled to know, it worked like a charm. That baby popped out like grease from a skillet. First one of you smart alecks to tell me how I should have done it gets an uprooted cedar shrub and tire marks on your front lawn.

Getting from one to two was hard work. There was this whole business of learning how things work. Learning that feet can get you places and things have names. Learning that some things make you happy and some things make you sad. Learning that you have walking feet and running feet. You have an inside voice and an outside voice. There are so many amazing things you can do!


You know a lot more than five words now. You know too many words for me to count. And you know some words that amaze me! Like the word “terrorist”, when you pointed to the helicopter flying overhead. I don’t know where you learned that word and how you made the association with a helicopter, but it broke my heart. Then there are the funny words you know, that you use to name things. My favorite is still “breakfast flower and toes” for your first fried egg with toast.


Then there was the time we were looking at that beautiful and priceless temple rubbing from Angkor Watt that hangs above the dining room table. I remember thinking that when I was your age, I thought it was a picture from Disney’s “The Jungle Book”. And I would listen to the story on the record player and fall asleep and the picture would come to life. But you look at that picture and you see the elephants (“elepheee!”) and you see the wheels (“circle!”)…and then you look at the two women squatting down drinking from water skins in the middle of the picture and say “Pooping!!! Pooping!!!” and I can’t help but laugh.


I love that now you know who Santa is. I remember that while we were at the grocery store, you were throwing a tantrum and I told you to be good because I thought I saw Santa. Then, while we were in line, a bearded man wearing a red coat stood behind us and you breathed in amazement “Santa!” and were completely awestruck, even though you didn’t learn until a few days later why Santa was so special.


I love that the first thing that you colored that was a real thing with a name was with yellow chalk on our front steps and you told me that it was “French fries”. I love that you can draw squiggles and wiggles and French fries. I love that for a while there, all lights were “moon” and that even though it’s scientifically accurate, you still call the sun “day star” instead of sun. I love that white is “star” and red is “fire hot” and blue is “water” and yellow is “French fry” and brown is “poop”. What is a little more embarrassing is when we go to the grocery and you say “Mumma! Mr. Poop! Mr. Poop!” because you have noticed for the very first time that people can come in different colors.


I love that you want to know what everything is. I love that you even have a sense of humor about it. You asked a few months ago “Ussat? Ussat?” while pointing to a jungle book. “Hippopotamus.” I told you, and you looked at me in all your wisdom and skepticism and said, “Silly Mom! Ussat?” “It’s called a hippopotamus.” I told you again. You laughed, like it was the funniest joke you’d ever heard. “Silly Mom! Silly pot-um-puss!”


You love to read. You are perfectly content to nap with Teddy and Pizza (another teddy bear) and read them your books. You have had two favorite toys this year too. While Teddy has been a constant companion of yours since you were almost 6 months old, and Pizza more recent, I’m sorry to embarrass you by saying this…but you still love your purse. You love to put things in it and take them back out. You love to put mommy’s makeup brushes in the purse and a comb and for a little while you had 4 Q-tips. Now we’ve progressed to adding crayons. You didn’t even want to go out to dinner without your purse and you insisted on carrying it in looped over your elbow.


Also, you love to dance. You spent hours asking for “Eeeecey!” Beyonce’s “All the Single Ladies” is your favorite song. You can’t help but dance. You even practiced her moves, kicking your legs when she does, squatting down to the floor when she does…but for the most part, you just march around in circles.


On car rides, you sing. You sing these A-tonal songs with words you have made up that sound almost like real words. You love to sing. My favorite part of the car ride is if I sing a song and you join in with you own sweet little toddler tune.


Your best friend is still Grandpa. You sometimes wake up from a nap and ask to see Grandpa. You talk about him and talk to him. You share your treasures with him and snuggle with him a nd ride on the tractor with him. You like Grandma too. You like to show me pictures of people you know and name them. “Gumpa! Gumma! Logi! Chelle! Alec! Willy! Daddy!!!”


And you miss your daddy so much when he has to go away for work. But we’re very lucky. Some little boys have fathers that drive truck, or work on ships, or are doctors or in the military other professions that take them away from their families for very long periods of time. They get to see their daddy or mommy even less. But this is just the way it is right now, and although we all wish we could spend more time together, the time we do have is golden and priceless.


There are so many many things I would like to tell you! You are just like your mom and dad in so many respects. You are stubborn and creative and logical. You have endless curiosity! You love your kitties and your puppies even though, for the most part they are terrified of you (except Ernie who will tolerate you for about 30 seconds before he puts his paw on your face and warns you to back away or the claws will come out).


I have worries, like every mother, that there are some things I could be doing better. I want only the best things for you, and believe it or not, sometimes I’m not very good at being a mommy. I feel so bad if I have yelled at you when I could have simply redirected your activities. I feel terrible when we have our battles of will; when time-out is no longer about whatever infraction caused it in the first place, but your refusal to say you are sorry. It makes me sad for you when I have a migraine and Daddy is on the road so you spend half the day playing in your crib and the other half with a mommy who just wishes you could play quietly and not get into trouble.


I may not be the perfect mom, but I’m a good mom…And even though I don’t have infinite amounts of mommy patience, I do have infinite amounts of love for you. Your daddy and I both do. So happy birthday, my son, and good luck. I hear getting from two to three is even harder…but don’t worry, you don’t have to do it on your own. I’ll be here to help you and so will Daddy.

I am alone again in my dark room. It is not really a room, but seems more like the set of a stage with no ceiling just open air up to a multitude of stars. The room itself is industrial, cold and all the shades of brown and gray and black. There is a mechanical spider clicking away in the corner. Sometimes the spider sits in my head, casting black scribbles of web, trying to trap me, trying to ensnare me. Making my thoughts get stuck and turning them black and squiggly. But this time the spider is just clicking in the corner, banging up against the wall like a children’s wind up toy. Up above there are still the silent watchers, the raven winged angels. They watch me, they wait. They offer no comfort or solace. They circle above quietly waiting for something. I love them and hate them at the same time. There is a phone here. It’s one of the old fashioned wooden phones, one of the first. It doesn’t ring, but I pick it up anyway. There is nothing but static on the line.




Possibly a bit ambitious, since I will have to dig up all the hastas and ferns and transplant them, but I'm looking forward to reaping the rewards next year when everything has taken.


After being scared out of my ever loving mind watching Pontypool (a movie that took a page from the book Snow Crash where the zombie virus is spread by words), I sought the comfort of a nice, safe, good old fashioned, non-infections, no zombies here chat with my dear husband.


DH: Wasn't that a good movie?

Me: Yes, but I'm never sleeping again.

DH: Come on, it wasn't that bad.

Me: Have you read Memoirs of a Geisha? It's a really good book. You'd love it.

DH: Does it have zombies in it?

Me: Yes.

DH: But are they ninja zombies?

Me: Yes.

DH: You're lying to me aren't you?

Me: No, they're just at the end of the book.

DH: Then I'll just skip to the end of the book.

Me: It doesn't work like that, you have to read the whole thing or you won't understand.

DH: Do you have a simple sample? Just a simple sample? Simple sample...Simple sample...

Me: *face palm*


I'm on day 2 of crazy dreams! I'm not sure why I've been having all these super psycho dreams lately, except that perhaps it's because my son has been sleeping extra longer than usual so I've actually been getting a full nights rest for the first time since he was born! Well, here's last nights:


I was in a college dorm room where the sink kept dripping and leaving puddles on the floor. I was concerned that they would try to put carpet down and then it would milder and we’d all get sick. I had to do *something* don’t remember what anymore, but it caused me to go on this long journey.

There were weather issues on this journey and there were sand storms that made us (there was someone else randomly with me) get lost. We ran into a very large woman who offered to be our “guide”. We knew she was going to try to sell us as slaves and she was not to be trusted but we needed her help to get out of the desert.

She took us to a sort of villa where the staff was preparing a feast. My traveling companion and I went off exploring while our “guide” (the fat woman) was being pampered by the chef. I had a bad feeling about it, but went away rather than staying and watching. When I came back, I saw the fat woman’s legs were cut off at mid thigh but she didn’t seem to notice. She had been stuffed naked into a roasting pan and was ladling “gravy” into her mouth with both hands cooing about how delicious it was. It was actually her own blood. When I left with my traveling companion, she tipped herself out of the pan and on bloody stumps tried to chase after us.

As we wandered the desert again, we came to a valley where I saw a hiker. I knew if we followed him, he’d be able to get us home. He agreed to help, and I had to convince my companion that he was an “okay” guy. He led us up the side of a steep mountain that turned out to be a volcano. We had to travel along the rim to get to safety. On one side was a river of molten lava, sputtering and spitting as it flowed away. On the other side of us was a sheer drop.

Zander was with me now along with the traveling companion. I had to keep my 2 yr old son from certain death but he didn’t want to hold my hand or be carried, and when I would try to carry him, his struggles would throw me off balance and I would risk getting both of us killed. If I reached for his hand, he’d dart away careless of where he was running. I had to just watch him toddle along the path.

I guess we made it back safe and sound because we all wound up back at the dorm with the leaky pipe. Pretty crazy.

Today's crazy dream: I was wearing a multicolored pea coat (cirque de Collin Baker) and on a school bus in Thailand with Mom, sis, and my entire graduating HS class. We were allowed to stop and go our own way for several hours. Mom and Michelle came with me to play tourist. I didn’t speak Thai but apparently I spoke enough Japanese to get around.

Michelle started arguing with me telling me that I couldn’t speak Japanese and to stop pretending. No matter what proof she was presented with, she still wouldn’t believe me and continued to yell. Even as we entered a beautiful Buddhist temple (whose fountain of water flowing down steps with lilies and orchids floating on top still stick in my mind as being one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever “seen”) where people were meditating and I begged her to be quiet, she refused. People got upset with us and disgusted with our appalling behavior and I was embarrassed. Mom and Michelle told me I was being ridiculous for being embarrassed and then Mom yelled at me for arguing with my sister and causing a scene. Finally, it was time and we got back on the bus.

We got stuck in a traffic jam and everyone rushed to the windows to see what was causing such an uproar. The entire planet was under attack by giant vampire bats and everyone in Thailand was fleeing the city (which apparently bordered San Francisco and Galveston Texas). Huge bat people tried to peal off the top of the bus to "get us". While I was filming the bat attack, a smaller bat got in the bus and flew up my sleeve. After a heart pounding struggle, we managed to take the coat off and kill the chompy batty thing before it gnawed my arm to pieces.

There was a big argument on the bus over how to properly dispose of the batty body. Some insisted that this interstellar event was all just a big misunderstanding and we needed to dispose of the body with all the dignity and respect it deserved. That argument seemed to win, so we set about with an arts and crafts project of making crosses and epitaphs. Mine read “Dear bat, if you hadn’t tried to kill me, I wouldn’t have killed you. Hope you’re happy. The end.” It was toted as being inappropriate and disrespectful by my classmates. I gave them the finger and used it anyway.

I went to dispose of the bat’s body and was attacked by a pack of dogs. Luckily my classmates came to my rescue which actually kind of surprised me since the Giant bats were still trying to rip the top of the bus off like a sardine can and the smaller bats were swarming everywhere like a fleet of carriers during a Protos invasion (video game reference to my non-gamer friends). I distinctly remember thinking that if I were in their position, I would just leave my sorry ass and they were really dumb for risking everyone to help me. Yet I was relieved (if not grateful) that they came back to rescue me (after all, if they hadn’t insisted on the damn proper burial, I would never have been in that situation). They were actually debating going back to finish the disposal of the bat that I had killed when I was finally able to reason with them “F the dead bat! It was a stupid idea anyway! Get back on the Fing buss and let’s the the F out of Dodge!!!” (hrm…apparently post apocalyptic dreams make me use bad language).

So, we get back on the bus and make our way out of Thailand and into Texas. We’re marginally safer now. We discover that being bitten by one of the big vampire bat things turns you into a sort of Zombie slave that shares a collective conscious, so it’s really important not to be seen by any of the bats or bitten people. In other words, you mess with one bean, you get the whole burrito. We pick up a native American father and son. I was vastly disappointed when the father, who I suspected was supposed to fulfill the role of spiritual guide on our journey died at the first gas station we stopped at to refuel (incidentally, the gas station was run by the bridge troll for the Golden Gate bridge—doesn’t every bridge have a troll?). We knew we just needed to make it across the Golden Gate Bridge and we’d be fine. We were going to make a madcap run for it, and that’s about the time I woke up from the dulcet tones of my son screaming that he was “All done! All done! ALL DONE!!!!!” with bedtime.

The last couple of weeks with my son have been difficult. To say he’s mommy-centric would be an understatement. It seems like every activity needs to be done from my lap. When he’s playing on his own, he howls like a crazed wolf child and when it’s time for bed or naps, he shrieks like a banshee in death throws. I can’t do any activity without seeing his little outstretched arms saying “Up? Up?” and if I refuse, he dissolves into an apoplectic fit before my very eyes. 22 months is hell.

Coupled with each little scream and whimper is my unreasonable resentment that his father is out having fun. This isn’t really the case. He’s working 12 -14 hr days, unable to even get a reprieve during dinner (which seems to be a synonym for meeting when he’s in the field). But this is what my mind’s eye imagines…my husband getting his free first class upgrades, drinking vodka tonics with a flight attendant hanging off each arm captivated by his every word. He gets to his hotel where they know him by name and open up the pool just for him, even though it’s after hours. During dinner, it’s a feast of merlot and filet mignon while his co-workers toast his cleverness and slap him on the back. When the day is finally done, he goes back to the hotel, works out, relaxes, and calls his wife for a minute or two before going to sleep.

When he’s home, I still feel like a walking human jungle gym with my son pulling on my legs or hands and crawling all over me when I sit down for a few minutes. He’s thrilled to death that Daddy’s home, and so am I, and the good Lord knows my husband is supportive. Still, my little shoulder devil can’t help but interject between the lines...No, no, honey, let me make lunch (from behind the safety of a child gate). I’ll do the dishes (so I don’t have to deal with Mr. Cranky Pants). You just relax (and take care of our son while I’m busy doing fun things). Heaven forbid I should even think about taking a shower because Z will sit out side, banging on the bathroom door, bleating his little head off while Daddy is blissfully snoozing on the sofa.

Then today, I get a message from my husband. He has a present for me. It comes in a little blue box tied with a white satin bow. You know, come to think of it, my husband did spend an awful lot of time with Z last weekend. He took him to get his hair cut, took him to the playground, tossed him in the air, wrestled with him. And he did make me breakfast in bed last Sunday, and let me sleep in on Saturday. And, you know, when I got up Saturday morning, all the dishes that were in the sink from the night before (where I collapsed in a fit of exhaustion just from looking at them) were in the dishwasher getting clean. And, you know, he does text me several times throughout the day and call me every night, which has to be difficult on him since he works so hard and doesn’t have a lot of time while he’s in the field.

…I hope they’re taking good care of him at that hotel where he’s staying. I hope he’s getting enough to eat…Man, my husband works hard. I’ll make him all his favorite meals and snacks when he’s home this weekend. And what’s that sweetie? You want up? You want to snuggle with mommy? How sweet! It’s important to hold on to these moments while you can, they’ll be over all too soon, you know. What a precious and amazing family!


(This is still how I envision my family)




Zander woke up crying and asked to "Wok? Wok?" (rock in the glider). While snuggling with his "mankie" I sang him a lullaby. When it was over he took his thumb out of his mouth, touched my face, and very quietly started to sing some unintelligible toddler tune that was none the less the most beautiful song I've ever heard.

There is a spider that lives inside my head. He’s a mechanical thing of shiny surgical instruments and dull gray gunmetal. Each of his eight needle sharp legs is barbed with razor thorns instead of the fuzz of steel wool. He casts a black web where he treds across my brain, dredging up dark dreams and distorted visions. Each tiny little pinprick of its pointy little leg sinks into my frontal lobe and causes an explosion of pain while white and black flecks dance across eyes. He steps on this neuron then that and tricks my nostrils into thinking they’re filled with the odor of rotten oranges or feral cats. It can take days to snap free from his black web, the mechanical machination is elusive. There is a spider that lives inside my head. His name is Migraine.

Oh the drama of being almost two! The constant frustration and disappointment! My son has pretty much been screaming and crying since Sunday. Mostly, he’s frustrated because he can’t do what he wants to do. His motor skills need of fine tuning and he has suicidal toddler tendencies (like cat walking on the window ledge while I’m trying to shovel the drive) that send Mommy’s heart into palpitations while visions of the ER dance through her head. It’s been frustrating for all parties concerned.

As the week progressed, I went from being good mommy to a taxed mommy to a Dear God give me the patience to endure and keep my son alive and also a nice strong margarita mommy. It hasn’t helped that my son has been exposed to some new emotions this week that he’s previously been unable to express. Fear. I inadvertently scared the crap out of him when I took the car through the automated wash. He covered his eyes and made worried moaning noises the entire time making the 5 minute car wash seem like 5 hours.

Also, humiliation. It was not my intent. My intent was a simple time out for emptying his bath water one cup at a time onto the bathroom floor. I didn’t think it could possibly matter to him that he happened to be naked since that seems to be his preferred state these days. So he went in the time out chair completely in the buff. For two minutes (the duration of a time out) he screamed “Diaper! Diaper!” and covered his bottom with his hands. Now, in my defense, it would have taken two minutes to put a diaper on him and I was busy cleaning the water up off the floor, so I didn’t realize he was feeling embarrassed and vulnerable until the timer went off and I came to get him out of time out.

Now there have also been two nights in a row where he’s been up every hour with bad dreams, a tummy ache, a dirty diaper, a kitty hair on his finger, a little toe uncovered, his head too close to the top or bottom of the crib, wants a drink of water, wants a song, wants a story, his 5th chakra out of alignment, and his lay lines running parallel to his tantrum blocker. Yes, this is one frazzled mommy and one cranky little boy. One very cranky little boy who tries so hard to be good but temptation is just too much.

This morning, as he was practicing his high wire walk on the arm of a wing-back, I hollered at him to get down. Out of frustration he grabbed a glass, which is only accessable if he stands on the arm of the wing back and probably explains what he was doing there in the first place, and threw it to the ground. Of course it shattered into a million pieces and as my son scrambled to get down and make a run for it (from the loud noise as much as the trouble he was about to be in), I completely lost my temper. I yelled at him for putting himself in a dangerous situation, for the possibility that he could have fallen and broken a bone, I yelled at him for getting into things he wasn’t supposed to, I yelled at him for throwing things, I yelled at him for the glass breaking.

I must have been so scary with my pointy finger and my voice louder than I’d ever heard it. My poor son covered his eyes in fear and I realized that he was scared of me. It was a horrible feeling. He’s so tiny and little and vulnerable and he’s supposed to never ever be afraid of Mommy! Afraid of getting in trouble, yes, afraid of Mommy, absolutely not! I picked him up and hugged him and tried to make amends but the whole time I just kept thinking…do over…there should be a do over.



The waves, frozen in ripples, cascade in a white velvety blanket of twinkling stars. The moon reflects off the breaks like so many shimmering diamonds as we drive along the shore of Lake Michigan. The wind blows spray turned to snow in curtains across the frozen landscape while off in the distance a light house winks. Home, it says, memories. Each revolution of light brings up a host of kind faces, but one more than any other. One face, one smile, one golden memory from a life long past. And for one moment, as brief and glittering as the frozen spray, I am a child again with a smile I can hardly contain, practicing at being a woman.


We just got a potty chair for Z a week ago. He seemed to know right away what it was for. Today, my son came running to me pulling frantically at his pants and doing the tantrum dance. I thought, “Okay, I’ll play along, he wants to pretend to use his potty chair.” Because, really, he’s only a year and a half and we just put it out to get him used to it. So, even though it’s right next to the toilet and we explained what it was for, I sort of thought it would be a hiding place for his toys for the next few months.

You can imagine my surprise when I pulled off his pants and diaper and he ran like a bat out of hell straight for the potty chair streaming a fountain as he went. He sat himself down and squeezed out the last few drops into the potty chair. I was so impressed and happy for him I went to the kitchen to give him a jelly bean. My sweet little one thought I didn’t see his accomplishment, so he dragged the potty chair out to the kitchen to show me! I would have taken a picture if he weren’t half naked and trying to stick his finger in the chair and saying “See? See? See?”

As I type this, he’s so pleased with himself he’s running from room to room, arms flailing like a humming bird and squealing his little head off. I’ll admit it could be in part to the fist full of jelly beans he pulled out of the bag. I’ll trade a sugar crash with a potty trained boy any day. I wonder if this is the start of repeat behavior or if it’s a one time wonder. Regardless…What a good little boy!

Reflections on miscarriage.

Disclaimer: probably disturbing


Dark Thoughts…

She was about the size of a mouse. I knew what had happened immediately. For a several horror struck heartbeats I just stared at the wrongness of the situation. Then, in my mind, I thought she’s cold. She’s dying and she’s cold. This was wrong, of course. She was already dead. Weeks ago, the doctors told me when I went to the hospital, but it took my body time to give up hope. And in my mind I was alone in a dark empty room and the silent whisper of dark wings ripped her in baby form from my arms and I stood screaming her name over and over as the black winged angels carried her back up to heaven. I love you! I loved you! Tell her I love her! I scream after them, hating her dark escorts for stealing her away from me. All in my mind, of course. In my hands is a container in a box that is growing cold. And I want to hold on to it, and wrap my arms around it, careless of blood and tissue and gore. In my mind, I do this, arms and hands red with blood and staining my clothes as I cling to her. And then in my mind I’m alone again in the dark room with the raven tipped angels far, far above me and she is gone. Betrayer of hope, this body of mine, betrayer of miracles. Broken body. Flawed woman. Incomplete. Nonsense, I know. Still, I cannot seem to cry or scream or get mad. I want to. I need to. Everything is wrong and on its side.

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It is always the way; words will answer as long as it is only a person's neighbor who is in trouble, but when that person gets into trouble himself, it is time that the King rise up and do something.
- Personal Reflections of Joan of Arc

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