Ravin's Ramblings

A Well Adjusted Child

2011-06-11T11:09:00.001-07:00

Reading BabyCenter.com's milestones for 3-year-olds makes me feel like an awesome mother. There is particular emphasis on being mindful of what your kids see or hear and to watch for signs of working out those things through play. My son pretends to talk to the Mayor on the phone, or practices being a pastor, he pretends to be an astronaut; he pretends to be a doctor. He practices having parties and plays at mowing the lawn.

Hurray, he's well adjusted! Even though this may seem like a no-brainer, there are certain times as a parent when you're just sure you're screwing it all up. When, for example, your child has gone through 5 pairs of glasses in 1 year you finally give in and tell him that if he doesn't wear his glasses he may have to have surgery on his eyes and that means the doctor is going to take a very sharp knife and cut into his eyeball and if he doesn't want that to happen he'd better start wearing his glasses instead of hiding them or breaking them. Or, just off the top of my head, you've had enough of his shenanigans and tell him that you're going to put him up for sale on BlackMarketBaby.com where some South American land owner will buy him and send him to be a slave in the gem mines of Brazil where he won’t be allowed to have a blankie and Santa can't visit because there's no snow in Brazil.

Trust me, when these threats were made, there was conviction behind them. These were no idle threats. These ultimatums were delivered with all the force and vehemence of a good old fashioned fire and brimstone sermon. There was red faced, fist pounding authority behind them. The kind that when you look back after your blood pressure has dropped to an acceptable level, you think...man...I wonder how many years in therapy that one is going to cost me...It’s nice to have the opposite feeling from time to time. To read a little parenting article and think to yourself, I'm doing alright.

Today I am Three, Tomorrow I will be Catholic

2011-05-03T20:53:00.000-07:00

I was in the backyard pushing Zander on the swing while Chris was doing Chris things with a hatchet and trees. I start talking to Chris when I hear a very stern voice.

Z: Mumma! Sssh! You can't talk! Church is about to start!

Some time passes when I answer a question from Chris.

Z: Mumma!!! Be quiet! The guy gonna get up there and start talkin'! You don't talk when he talks!

Some more time passes and again, Chris and I attempt to talk.

Z: Mumma!!!!! Hush your mouth! Its time to sing now!

Zander begins to sing "This Little Light of Mine" and I join in.

Z: MUMMA!!!!!!! You repeat after me! This is a very important song! You be quiet and listen!!!

Done with the yardwork for now, Chris joins us at the swings.

Z: Today, I three years old. Tomorrow I will be Cath-uh-lick

Chris: You don't have nearly enough guilt to be Catholic

Z: Mom! Dad! Be QUIET! I have important things to say! I. AM. The Center. Of. The World.

Three. Where did that come from?

2011-04-11T09:57:00.000-07:00

Three. Amazing. When did we get here, kid? When did you go from being my sweet little baby to my sweet little boy? Part of me gasps with relief…The rest of me wants to hold on to you with everything in me and say “Stop! Slow down! Don’t grow up quite so fast!” But growing up you are. You went from knowing words to telling me stories and singing me songs. You amaze me every single day.

You are so funny! You had your father and I in stitches last weekend when you stomped down the stairs like a giant saying “Fe, fi, fo, fum, I smell a puppy’s bum!” You tell jokes now too. Sometimes they’re incredibly inappropriate, yet you still crack me up. We taught you anatomy this year because you were so completely curious about the differences between boys and girls. It was either that or let you continue to reason things out on your own and come to the wrong conclusions (like bras were special mommy pockets—your term-- for storing things like crayons, and a really great place to warm up hands that have come in from the cold).

The fact that boys and girls have different tid-bits and what-nots blew your mind. How could this be? And is it EVERY girl or just some of them? And not only that, but pets have boy parts and girl parts too! You had to tell everyone who came through the front door that puppy had nipples and a gina. And even though you knew that daddy has boy parts, not girl parts, when he tripped over the baby gate and hurt himself you made your first naughty joke, “You OK, Daddy? You hurt your gina?” and while Chris and I were still trying to figure out if you knew what you were saying, you slid off your rocking chair laughing so at your own joke.

Yes, boy parts and girl parts have had a big impact on you this year. In terms of drawing, you didn’t really progress beyond squiggles, wiggles, and French fries until you were almost three. Then one day, you came down from a nap, plunked yourself on the floor in the office, drew a picture and said “Look, Daddy, a monster with tall legs!” And amazingly enough, it was a monster, complete with circles for eyes and a straight line for a mouth, and long legs. Your dad and I were amazed since you’d never drawn anything like it before and asked you to draw another one. You politely refused and said “I’m going to draw this instead.”

When you were done drawing, you showed us your picture. “Is that a monster?” we asked, a little disappointed that it looked nothing like the first picture, but none the less ready to dole out the praise. “Nope, it’s a lil boy poopin…see his pink part?” And it was a remarkably accurate drawing of the male anatomy. I gave your father a pleading look not to laugh, and he managed to hold it together until after you left the room. He was very proud of you. Although I was also suitably impressed, I had visions of explaining to you that some things we should save to draw at home and not in church. Why would that be an issue? Well, some of the things I’ve had to say in church this year include “Yee-haw, honey (not Ji’had)” or “Ocean, Z, it’s Oh-SHIN.” And my favorite “Truck, honey…with a T. Ttttuuurrrrrrrrr-uck.”

Speaking of church…this whole religion thing has been kind of difficult for you to grasp. We go to church and we sing songs. That’s fun, right? Then this guy stands up there and talks, and that’s kind of boring, and also the best time to get mom’s attention since I’m not busy singing. But then Christmas rolls around…and there’s this magic guy who can apparently spy on you to know if you’ve been naughty or nice…kinda like Jesus… and well, we sing songs about him too…and you’ve seen him, a couple of times, actually, at the mall, at the grocery store, at the unit where Daddy drills. I mean, you can’t really miss him, he’s there in a big red suit…and then Christmas day rolls around and he left you these AWESOME gifts! Is it any wonder that when the sirens go off and you say “Say a prayer, mumma, say a prayer so that those little guys don’t gunna get hurt.” And I do, and I end it with “in Jesus name we pray.” Your reaction is an immediate and enthusiastic fit because I’m praying to the worng deity…again… “Nooo! Ask SANTA! Not Jesus, ask SAAAAAAANNNNNNNTTTAAAAAA!”

I think you’ve finally given up chiming in “And Santa” at the end of bedtime prayers. You also gave up your crib and most of your afternoon naps. This has made things difficult between us sometimes. You see, you still really need a nap, you just don’t want to take one. As a result, you will go from happy to apoplectic toddler sized tantrum-seizures in less than ten seconds. I’m still trying to figure out how to cope with those.

You used to crawl into bed with me every morning when you woke up. Now, you stop at my bedroom door long enough to close it (in a way that you think is quiet and sneaky because, honestly, I’m just pretending to be asleep because I love watching you try out your different stealth tactics). You trundle down the hall and spend a few moments unsupervised…a prospect that terrifies everyone who knows you.

Unsupervised is not a state you should be in right now. One memorable occasion when I thought you were playing quietly upstairs in your bedroom, you were actually dismantling the vacuum cleaner just to see how it worked. I have learned that it takes you less than 10 minutes to create an Alice in Wonderland pile of throw pillows, toys, and couch cushions to make your way over the baby gate to the kitchen where you can monkey climb up the pull out drawers to the counter and put DVDs in the toaster to watch them melt. Watching fire safety videos only seems to be effective for about a week.

You’ve “cooked” breakfast for the cats which included dish soap in their water dish and flour in their food bowl. You cannot pass a dishwasher without pushing the start button in much the same way you cannot be out in public without wanting to use every bathroom…several times…just to make sure it works the same as. “See, it has a drain, mumma. There’s a toilet and a sink, mumma. Will the roll-it paper (toilet paper) go down the drain? Will that toilet get broken?”

Ah, yes…the amount of things you have flushed down the toilet to see what will flush and what will not has kept me on my toes all year. Cardboard, toilet paper, bottle caps, and shampoo all flush. Shampoo is the most fun because it will suds up. Rubber duckies will not flush. But, while mom is in the shower, you can climb into the kitchen, steal the soup ladel, then make chicken soup in the toilet using rubber ducks and shampoo. You will line your rubber ducks up, tell them they are in time out for peeping in the bathtub (going potty), then ask them which one is going to make chicken soup. You play so well by yourself and with other children.

You have a surprising amount of friends for a child who doesn’t go to daycare. There were 11 children at your birthday party and we had three of your friends that weren’t even able to make it. The part that your father and I get a kick out of is that every single girl you spend time with is blonde! Even Grandpa has noticed that you gravitate toward the toe-heads.

Grandpa is still one of your best friends. And I am so thankful for the time you’ve been able to spend with him. A year ago at this time…well, things seemed far less certain. It’s been nothing short of a miracle that has kept him in our lives. You are so lucky to be able to go on tractor rides with Grandpa and help make cakes with Grandma. I will never forget that overwhelming joy and gratitude I felt watching you catch lightning bugs in jelly jars with Grandma and picking wild blackberries with Grandpa last summer. You and Grandpa walk all around the yard checking on the status of things. Wild mulberries and blackberries growing at the edge of the property line. Pumpkins growing in the garden. Flowers, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, sweet corn, Grandpa and Grandma have shown you the miracle of how things grow from the soil and then feed our bodies so we can grow big and strong.

This year, you have your own garden. It’s a little corner of Grandpa’s, but you’ve already planted radishes in it. You helped transplant the tomatoes into bigger pots, and the sunflowers too. You’re not the most delicate yet, but you are far less ham-fisted than you were last year. You have so much love for all things, plants, animals, music, books. You would still rather be read to than watch TV. I could go on for fifty more pages recounting all the amazing things you’ve done. Instead, I’ll end here with a list of your favorites.

Song: You call it the Big Bang song. The rest of us call it “In the Hall of the Mountain King” from Peer Gynt. You will listen to it as many times as I will play it for you and still cry when after 30 minutes I’ve had enough and play something else.

Book: Fox in Socks by Dr. Seuss. I’m glad you like it, but I hope you find a new book to like soon because both your father and I have a terrible time reading that book.

Game: You like to “cook” with your play kitchen. You like to play musical instruments. You have empty paper towel rolls and candle holders that you have made into your trumpets. You have a recorder that was possible the worst decision I could have made since it causes me no end of ear splitting headaches, but you call it your flute or your whistle and you love it. You have turned many pots and storage containers into drums and beat on them with wooden spoons, but Auntie Michelle finally bought you a real one (bless her) and you love it. And your klanger-banger that you’ve had since you were six months old (piano/xylophone).

Activity: You much prefer gymnastics over church and playground. I think specifically, the trampoline.

Food: Dora or Scooby snacks. You don’t really have a favorite meal. You’ve been known to ask for spinach salads and yogurt for dinner as well as hot dogs and macaroni. You try most foods and you like most foods unless they have a funny texture. You’re not a fan of shrimp and you’re not a fan of squash soup. So far, those are the only two foods you will not eat.

Movie: Toy Story 3. When you first got your glasses, that movie came out in 3D. I took you to the theater to show you that everybody wears glasses and it’s really cool. You went on to break 4 pairs of glasses, once completely beyond repair, and lost two pairs entirely. The number of money and time we’ve spent at the optometrist’s this year is probably enough to cover one semester of college. Remember that when you spend your tuition money on beer instead. Also Harry Potter. You love harry Potter almost as much as “Light Buzz Year” and Woody.

You’re really starting to get this human thing figured out. You’ve moved from not quite a baby, yet not quite a child, into a full blown little boy. You’re a real little person now. You express your emotions, your fears, your wishes. You show love and compassion along with mischief and curiosity. I can’t wait to see what Three will bring.

Introduction

2011-03-01T09:38:00.000-08:00

Abby pushed a stray lock of thick black hair behind her ear. The rest stayed securely in its pony tail. She looked out of almond shaped eyes from under a heavy fringe of bangs at the place she would call home for the next four weeks. The Zoeng Wing of Luna City had a pleasant mezzanine gallery from which to view two of the other six wings of the complex and the entire southern expanse of Maria Tranquillitas. Most important to Abby, as she made her way through the crowd of gawkers, workers, scientists, and tourists, to the front of the gallery, was that in exactly two minutes she would see her very first earthrise.

The view out the massive floor to ceiling transparent wall showed the Arthur Annex and the Kapur Wing extended at sixty degrees like giant white tubular arms ending in bubbled domes of reflected gold. Abby never let the significance of a moment pass and to her, the archaic and efficient architecture looked welcoming; outstretched as if to embrace the Earth, or the future, or progress, or maybe all three of these. Well, at least Zoeng Corporation’s version of them. Also viewable, though not as close was an entirely different looking building. One whose graceful spire and delicate seashell fractals made Luna City look clumsy and overbearing by comparison.

Independent of any corporate conglomerates or government pacts, the pristinely elegant spire of St. Ignas Monastic Retreat’s cathedral Prima de Luna, jutted out of the rock face a kilometer or so away from the complex. Abby could just make out the words Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam gleaming a bronze that would never tarnish in the sunlight and arched around what looked like a large stained glass window. It looked like a stained glass window if you only glanced at it, but upon closer inspection you could see the fluidity and organic motion of the solar winds ionizing on the surface of the entrance. Unlike Luna City’s brute force method of keeping its population safe behind layers of protective tiles and plates, Prima de Luna employed the more modern magnetic shields that were unavailable at the time of Lunar City’s construction. The result was stunning. Like God’s breath fogging up glass church doors, creating its own celestial aurora. Off over the horizon, a half sphere of marbled blue and white and brown was just resting over the tip of the cathedral.

Earthrise didn’t happen like a sunrise back home. The moon rotated at a much slower rate than the earth and therefore always kept one side facing home. A constant vigil, watching ice ages, the come and go of dinosaurs, the rise and fall of empires, and humanity spring forth on tiny flickering candles they called rockets. It cared not whether you were on time for work or who was elected to office. It was here, where it had always been in humanities memory, still relatively pristine even as the creeping fingers of progress clawed their way across the surface.

There was no magnificent fiery ball peeking up over the horizon slowly climbing higher in the sky. For all it appeared from Abby’s perspective, the moon stood still while the Earth spun like a gigantic slow top. Earthrise was the slow crawl of the terminator as the earth moved during it’s natural rotation…and this was the first time she would watch the sun’s light creep over her home from the other side.

Abby’s fingers curled around the guard rail as she tamped down a little crescendo of excitement. She was here, watching the earthrise. Watching earthrise! She made it. Incomprehensible that she should be here, yet here she definitely was, gazing at things she’d only seen in documentaries. For the first time in her life, she was off Terra Firma and staring back at it.

Dream a Little Dream

2010-10-26T01:16:00.000-07:00

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.

To My Sweet Son

2010-07-25T21:33:00.000-07:00

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 4^th 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.

Change of Pace

2010-06-25T00:24:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-05-17T23:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Live to Fight Another Day or Melissa vs. The Cedar Shrubs

2010-04-28T13:19:00.000-07:00

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.

And now you are two...

2010-04-11T00:09:00.000-07:00

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.

Midnight Musings

2010-04-06T23:08:00.001-07:00

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.

Spring Planning - Front Garden

2010-03-30T00:26:00.000-07:00

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.

Pontypool

2010-02-28T21:19:00.000-08:00

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*

Analyze That

2010-02-24T09:17:00.001-08:00

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.

Analyze This

2010-02-23T07:37:00.000-08:00

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.

A Blue Box

2010-02-18T09:52:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-02-16T21:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Ode to a Spider

2010-02-13T11:18:00.000-08:00

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.

Do over...

2010-02-12T08:35:00.001-08:00

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 5^th 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.

Once Upon a Frozen Lake

2010-02-10T20:23:00.000-08:00

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.

And Life Goes On

2010-01-13T16:18:00.000-08:00

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!

Dark Thoughts

2010-01-04T22:15:00.000-08:00

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.

And so it begins...

2009-12-04T09:35:00.000-08:00

From the moment my son got up this morning I suspected it was going to be one of “those” days. It started with hysterics before I was even up for the day. He was in his crib and something just wasn’t right. A blanket in the wrong spot? A hair in his eye? His fifth chakra out of alignment? Your guess is as good as mine. Whatever it was, he was inconsolable.

Then it progressed to his straws. I gave him a hand full of straws yesterday to play with. Straws are interesting, right? We he thought those were the best toys EVER! Unfortunately, Kitty thought the same thing. Every time my obsessive compulsive son tried to arrange them just perfectly, that naughty tee-tat would walk over and swipe them helter-skelter all over the floor, chasing after them like a deranged berserker who is sharp and pointy on 5 of his six sides.

I listened to my son try to reason with Kitty, “Tee tat saw (straw)? Tee tat saw?” then tell Kitty to go away “Up two! Up two! Up two!” in the military style of parenting we employ to get him to march away from the mischief. When Kitty didn’t go away he started to get frustrated, “No, no no!” and when that didn’t work, “One, two, tee!” Yes, my son tried to put the cat in time out. And when that still didn’t work, he presented himself to me in uncontrollable sobs over the injustice of it all.

Then there was the button incident. Who can resist light up buttons. Especially when they make the TV go off and on? After two ear-splitting time outs, I warned him that the next time he plays with the cable box, it was going to be a spanking. Well, after a few minutes of innocent play he wandered over to the cable box and just stood there, looking at me, to see what I would do.

“Zander,” I told him, “We’ve had this discussion already.” And he slowly reached out his hand and just rested it next to the cable box, but not actually touching it and RAISED HIS EYEBROWS AT ME! That’s right, he gave me “the look”. I know it was the look because it’s the same look I give him when he’s about to get into trouble! He was issuing me a challenge!

First, all those interactions with the cat. Then, the raised eyebrows? My child has not only learned my discipline techniques, he’s ADPOTED them! There was something so chilling in that moment it’s hard to put into words. My precious little snowflake is deliberately trying to manipulate the world around him using psychological warfare. He’s like Stewie from The Family Guy! When did this happen? What kind of battles are headed my way? But mostly, do I look as scary when I’m giving him “the look”?

To Seek out New Life and New Civilizations...in the Refrigerator

2009-12-02T23:18:00.000-08:00

Ranking activities by fondness, cleaning out the refrigerator is right up there with oh, say, getting a rectal exam. I don’t know why this chore is such a pain in my ass, but I absolutely hate this part of the Domestic Goddess lifestyle I have recently adopted. When I married my husband, I think that was actually in our vows. I don’t do dishes by hand, and I don’t clean the fridge. Because. And ever.

Well, until recently, I’ve had a get out of jail free pass. I could hide behind any number of convenient excuses. I worked a million hours a week. I’m busy recovering from giving birth to your heir. Since I’m never home, all that stuff in the refrigerator is yours so I shouldn’t have to clean it. Wait, you expect me to put my husband through college, pay the mortgage, car payments, Net Flix, cheese of the month club, AND do housework? You’ve go to be kidding.

So I’ve been a little bit spoiled and a bit of a princess when it comes to chores. But let’s face it; there are so many reasons to procrastinate.

-Someone might want that 3 table spoons of mac and cheese.

-I’ll probably finish those left overs before they go bad…maybe.

-Its called SOUR cream for a reason.

-Its icky.

-Exactly how many types and colors of mold can you grow?

-If I clean it now, it’ll just sit in the trash all week and make my house smell.

-Good gawd, have you seen my refrigerator?

Well, I suppose there are worse things than having to come down out of my princess tower , don my pink rubber gloves, slide the gas mask on over the tiara, and slip into a chem suit. I can’t think of any, but I’m sure there are. And before someone decides to leave a big steaming pile in my Wheaties, let me just say that this is really a rhetorical statement.

Well, I did it. And it was just as awful as I thought it would be. Jebus, I hate cleaning the fridge. First thing tomorrow I’m going to buy a lotto ticket so when I win I can hire a maid to do it for me. Now that would be one heck of a Christmas gift. See ya next month, leftovers and expired foods, I wish I could say it’s been fun.

Farewell Indian Summer

2009-11-22T22:39:00.000-08:00

Zander and I did yard work today for what I hope is the last time this year. He cried when I threw out the Jack-o-Lanterns that turned into a gelatinous pile of pumpkin goo. He stomped through leaves when there were too few for him to tunnel through. He flung himself gleefully into the shallow pile and then got upset with me when he landed with a thunk on the hard ground. I understand his frustration. We had some great times this fall. I’m sad to see such a wonderful season go, but I’m excited for the holiday season too.

We also went to the enchanted forest at Menard’s. I think Grandma and Grandpa are going to have to come with us for the pure enjoyment of watching him. He was so wide-eyed over all the decorated Christmas trees and lights. He kept repeating “Wowwwww!” and “Yaaaaaaay” in tones that ranged from excited to hushed. When we wheeled past the musical light display, he started getting down with his bad self right there in the cart, arms grooving to the music. He didn’t even struggle to get out of the cart like he usually does. I can’t wait for Christmas.

Toddler Activities

2009-11-16T16:16:00.000-08:00

Well, my MIL is coming tonight and Z and I have taken to the task of miscellaneous getting ready and making the guest room sparkle. He has a "bucket" of cleaning supplies like rubber gloves, sponges, dust rags, and a water bottle. He's "helping". It's fun watching him help clean. Earlier he emptied the trash bag just so he could sweep everything into a pile then relocate the pile to the living room where he could sweep it up again. But man, sometimes he just cries and cries in a world class fit of baby melt down. It's some unknown frustration and it drives me friggin nuts! Seriously, kid, what's your problem? You want my dust rag instead of your dust rag even though it's the EXACT SAME THING? You found a quarter and now the world is going to end? A piece of invisible something stuck to your finger-hand-nose-foot? A solitary kitty hair is on your shirt? The lay lines not running parallel to your tantrum stopper??? Why, why, WHY are you having an apoplectic fit???

In other related randomness, I found a site of fantastic Thanksgiving printables that will surely be lots of fun.

Those Clouds are Heavy, You Dig?

2009-10-31T11:58:00.000-07:00

Many of you are aware of the recent robbery that took place where my family lost most of our precious heirlooms. I am grief stricken and heart broken for our families collective loss. But even before I was given the sage advice to try to look for silver linings, bitter sweet though they may be, they started to emerge.

A box of photos were discovered that no one had seen before. They were my grandmother's photos. She had labeled, boxed, and stored them away so well no one found them even after she passed away in 1997...until now. They are photos of a precious little boy who has been loved and missed.

Even as we are enduring this terrible process of grieving for objects that represented 300 years of family history, and dealing with police, and talking with insurance representatives, there has been not so much of a silver lining, but something to which we can cling. Going through the photos. Although the process and necessity for the task is sad, it also brings back many bright and happy memories.

Memories of me, as a little girl, sitting around the kitchen table down at the farm with my parents, my uncle, and my grandma being told about how the women survived when the men went west during the Gold Rush. Or the story about a Great Uncle who hid in a river under the reeds hiding from Indians but was shot in the cheek and had to cover his cheek when he ate so the food wouldn't come out...or a Great Aunt who was tending her garden when a chain gang went past her house and she heard one prisoner say he would give anything for one of those sweet tomatoes...so she left a few sitting on the fence post for him...and the next time they went past, there was an elegantly carved stone coffee pot stand left on her fence post.

It's not necessary to have symbols of a family history. Memories are just as warm. Though, it sure would be nice to have them back. The little things, like the buffalo horns that have a story behind them, or the little leather pouch that is filled with what to an uneducated eye probably just looks like dirt. All those little irreplaceable symbols to which you can look, and remember, and draw comfort, and feel the blood of 300 years of previous generations coursing through your veins.

My most precious possession, besides my wedding ring, is a little charm that my mother gave me on a silver necklace. It's a charm of a thimble. Back when I was in college, it seemed like my world was coming to an end. My grandmother passed away, my sister nearly died in a car accident, my cousin was kidnapped in Russia (wow, it just struck me how unlikely it is that two children from the same family would be kidnapped, an alarming trend) and all of this happened in a 12 month period.

I did what most college students who lacked the proper coping skills and life experience would do in a similar situation. I broke up with my boyfriend, drank excessively, and listened to a lot of music. Among the artists I binged on that year was a Jazz musician by the name of Kurt Elling. I liked him so much I even gave a copy of the CD to my dad for Father's Day. Well, my mom, being far more observant and intelligent than I gave her credit for at the age of 18, took note of my situation. I was inconsolable. Nobody understood, they just didn't get it, if they did, their world would come to a grinding halt like mine had. Knowing words wouldn't help, and knowing legendary arguments would ensue if she tried on any level to spend time or relate to me, she gave me my space. And a gift.

The gift was a little silver thimble on a little chain with a little card that said "I love you." This somewhat cryptic gift made me break down in tears. It wasn't a Peter Pan reference. She was telling me to put my faith in God. She was telling me that she cared. See, her gift was inspired by one of the songs on that Kurt Elling CD. So when I go to the farm next, and see for my own eyes the devastation of home invasion, instead of looking for whats left...I think I'll look for my grandma's sewing kit and a little silver thimble.

THOSE CLOUDS ARE HEAVY, YOU DIG?

Music by Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond

Lyric by Kurt Elling

Originally titled "Audrey" from the 1954 recording Brubeck Time

Based on the short story, How the Thimble Came to be God, by R.M. Rilke

Once upon a time a cloud (a little cloud)

gathered her friends together and began to say, aloud,

"Friends, we can't find God. Isn't it odd?"

And they all agreed it was very odd, indeed,

to blow about the sky like a brainless seed.

"Something's really gone awry when older clouds oversimplify

when they say that it's just another day.

It's imperative we be somewhat more truly demonstrative

in becoming provocative.

Our parents neglect God, it's true - all their world is askew.

They go about bickering and scheme of possessing things

as though they own us, too, and own all that we do.

Yet they can't understand

just how foolish it is to build a house on sinking sand.

And when we cry

they say, "Oh my!

You'll grow out of it soon

and start singing a grown-up tune.'"

So the clouds made a vow,

since the grown-ups had lost God, somehow.

They would pick something out that would keep them aware

that they could take with them anywhere (like a lock of hair, or a pear)

- not an animal, or too big.

So the little ones looked about and up and down and in and out

and came up with a list:

They had a feather, erasers and string

pen knives and pencils and pieces of things

that they found in their pockets to spare

(and which they began to compare).

But the shiniest object (when looking them over) the thimble was brightest

and so they decided the thimble was rightest

for taking along and for knowing God was staying long and in their every day.

They knew where to find

their peace of mind

playing a game of tag or 'fame'

they simply had to call out the thimble's name.

Then, one day, the smallest

cloud took a big fall and

dropped the thimble from her hand.

And God turned to sand.

Just then, a wise old woman cloud happened along

and she asked the little cloud, "What's wrong?"

And the little cloud replied, "God's gone."

But the older cloud knew right away,

so she said to the little one, "Here's your thimble. I found it today."

Dear Back Alley Neighbor...

2009-10-29T05:48:00.000-07:00

I wish we could have met under different circumstances. I am so sorry last week and the week before, you had to get out in the pouring rain to move my garbage can from where the pick up men and wind clearly conspired to place it directly behind your garage door. The additional 30 seconds in your morning routine no doubt caused hair frizz for the entire day. Please stop glaring, I am sorry. I would have moved it myself as soon as the garbage men came except that well...it was pouring down rain. Oh, and if you don’t stop giving me the stink eye…the next time I catch your precious little snow flake (whose ADD and authority defiance issues are legendary in our neighborhood) playing on my son’s swing set, I’m giving her an espresso and a puppy. Now…How ‘bout you come in for coffee and pumpkin bread?

A Different Day

2009-10-09T15:56:00.000-07:00

Sweetheart, I love you so very much and I really wish today had gone differently. I wish you hadn’t woken up with your foot caught between the rails of your crib. That really must have been unpleasant and a little painful. I’m sorry that kitty scratched you when you so lovingly flung yourself onto him in a show of affection. I really think it was the fist fulls of fur you latched on to that upset him more than the hug. I’m also sorry you face planted into the kitchen floor when you dove off the arm of the sofa and over the baby gate in a display of suicidal toddler tendencies. And I feel truly terrible that you cut your foot on the glass that broke during your jail breaking excursion into the kitchen.

I understand how a day like today can cause such strong emotions. But honestly, that was really only like 10 minutes out of the entire day, and I’m pretty sure it does not warrant a full day of screams, cries, and world class tantrums. And even if it did, my dear, I was only blessed with a specific amount of mommy sympathy and no matter how much I wish it was endless, it’s about to run out. So, my love, I guess what I’m trying to say is…if I hear one more cry-for-no-good-reason, I’m going to send Blankie to live in the diamond mines of South Africa. Got it?

Zander's in the Baby Gap Contest

2009-10-02T11:02:00.001-07:00

Well, I entered Zander in the Baby Gap contest. I think it would be really nice if he won. I believe he deserves to win because I'm sure he's the cutest kid EVER! However, I am not going to hold my breath since he was a late entry and there are other kiddos with votes in the thousands. That doesn't mean I'm not going to do my best to promote him!

You can vote every day for him every day. If he wins, he gets a professional Gap photo shoot, a $1000 gift card for Baby Gap or Gap Kids, and a vacation for 2 to see the Lion King in Vegas or New York. Honestly, I'm more thrilled about the gift card than any of the other prises, although the professional photo shoot would be pretty cool as would the free vacation!

Please vote for him here.

Getting it all out...

2009-09-13T23:43:00.000-07:00

Tuesday morning a 50 year old mystery was solved. With the help of some strangers from Colorado, the support of my sister, and a report from the National Transportation Board of Safety, I learned that the brother I had never met passed away in 1993. He was one year younger than I am now when he died. Life is not fair and sometimes it is down right cruel.

Tuesday afternoon, I had the horrible task of telling my terminally ill father the news. I would have given anything not to have to tell him but he was going to find out if I told him or not. I wanted him to hear from a family member instead of a stranger or God forbid, reading it on the CNN ticker (I will not go in to why that was a legitimate fear). It is the worst thing in the world to rob a man of hope. We were all so sure this story would have a happy ending.

For the first time in my life, I find myself having serious faith questions. I never wavered when my father was diagnosed with mantle cell lymphoma. I never wavered when I nearly died after my son was born. I never wavered when my sister nearly died in a car accident or even when my husband went to war. This event, though…it’s too cruel.

Why is it that this cannot have a happy ending? My father held on to hope for nearly 50 years that he would find my brother, who was just a little boy when he was stolen from him. He kept his faith. He never faltered. We searched for years. Thousands have been spent trying to track him down. It is adding insult to injury knowing that in addition to everything else, we were most likely scammed. That parasites just saw an opportunity to make a buck. Why did my father not learn of this before now? Why was he never informed?

At first, I only felt how it affected my father. But now that I’ve had some time to think and absorb, there is a definite hole in my life. A void where there had always been hope and purpose, and now there is no reason to keep looking, no hope of meeting my brother, of seeing he and my father reunited, of ever even buying him a beer. I don’t understand how I can mourn the loss of someone I’ve never met, but I am. It’s there, this empty space where my brother was once out there and alive somewhere, and now he’s not.

I find my faith somehow…lacking when it comes to this situation. I’ve been curious on what other people believe. After a few glasses of wine last nigh, I probed my friends somewhat relentlessly on their experiences with the afterlife. Did they believe in ghosts, did they believe in reincarnation (apart from the Christian beliefs), did they think that you might get the opportunity to do it all over again. Would it be possible that somewhere out there, my brother is still hanging around, waiting to send a message to my father, or coming back in the form of a newborn babe.

I find that I want the bible to have gotten it wrong, that we don’t have to wait until we die to be reunited with our loved ones. That there is still a possibility for this story to have a happy ending. I suppose if I were Catholic, I would feel guilty over this. But God and I are tight. He knows I need some time. And I know my Dad’s happy ending went to someone else.

There is divine irony in this terrible story. When I was 16 years old, two years after I stole my first glimpse into a shoebox that was the remains of this other life my father had before my sister and I were born, I decided I was going to look for my brother. There was this new thing out there, called the internet, and maybe I could use it to locate him. So I enlisted the help of my best friend, Jon, and he brought me a list of everyone by that name in the United States and their addresses and phone numbers. I contacted all of them. One was the same age, and many other similarities. They were both C. Brian and went by Brian. Instead of sharing my brother’s birthday, he shared the day but the month was one month earlier. He also had not seen his father since he was five. Unfortunately, the more we talked, the more we learned we were not actually related. His father’s name was Edward and his mother’s name was totally different.

Crestfallen that he was not my long lost brother, but still feeling a sort of shared camaraderie with him, I did what I would want someone to do for my own brother in that situation. With my friend Jon’s help at procuring the information, a list of all of the Edwards in the US that shared the same name as his father and their contact information, I sent it to the other Brian. I included a note that wished him luck. I never heard from him again.

However, a year and a half later, I got a Christmas card from his mother. She included a letter and a photo. The other Brian had been reunited with his father. Their happy reunion occurred a few months before his father’s death. I always thought that story was proof of God’s divine intervention. A butterfly flaps it’s wings in the Amazon and the result is a dying man gets to be reunited with his son before he passes over. Now I’m just filled with the question of why. Why does the other Brian have a happy ending but my Brian does not?

If only I had more courage. If only I’d started my search a few years earlier, maybe I would have found something. If only...If, if, if….why, why, why?

Kittens and Kiddos

2009-09-11T23:24:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, we had this one old momma farm cat that would go around stealing all the other momma’s kittens. Even at the age of 6 I thought this was curious behavior. She likes having a dozen kittens from several litters crawling all over her? Apparently she did because she would purr so loudly when she was with them and she would smile (yes, cats smile).

Tonight I had my nephew, who is six months younger than my son. He's having his first overnight. My heart mealted like warm butter dripping down fresh out of the oven bread as I watched the two play together. We had a wonderful time tonight. We ate messy meals and gave sticky hugs. We did all the things you're not supposed to do, like blow bubbles in our chocolate milk and play with rubber balls in the house. I loved loved loved the sound of children’s giggles filling up this empty house.

It made me realize something. My sister better watch out—I think I’m about to steal her kiddo.

(Bathtime Buddies)

Combining Everything

2009-09-10T22:34:00.001-07:00

The following are old blog entries from a source I don’t keep anymore. Mostly they are the baby momma drama I experienced during my son's first year of life. In no way do I expect you to read through this. I just wanted to have everything in one space. Bear with me :)

March 18, 2008 - Bed Rest

Well, my maternity leave started today. And that makes me irritated. I wanted to work up until I had the baby but the doctor put me on bed rest. Apparently my body is "experiencing trauma" which sounds worse than I think it is. See, the baby is taking up a lot of space and hasn’t dropped yet, so he’s pushing on all my internal organs and ribs…the nice thing is that my body is producing this little chemical which makes everything really flexible s

o nothing breaks…but also means I feel like my ribs are inside out and shaped like chicken wings.

I know, it sounds silly. People go to work with rib pain all the time. I tried it on Monday. Well, the thing is, the pain grows increasingly worse with sitting. This is problematic because I sit at a desk most of the day…except when I have to go to meetings or deliver print samples, then I have to walk around…this is also problematic because the rib pain is made worse by these things. We’re not talking small pain here, we’re talking pain that makes you scream (which doesn’t help because it just hurts more and scares the puppy, plus it makes your co-workers uncomfortable, so I don’t recommend it). The doctor can’t give me anything for it. So here I am, three weeks from my due date and starting maternity leave.

You can understand why I’m a little frowny faced, I’m sure. See, you only get so much paid time for maternity leave…even though state law says I get up to 12 weeks, it’s not all paid. I don’t know about you, but I cannot afford to go without a paycheck. The more time I have to take off before this little guy comes, the less time I’ll have to spend with him once he’s finally here! Hence the irritation.

And it’s not like "vacation" because I can’t "do" anything. I tried to shampoo the carpet the other day and was laid up the rest of the night from it. And the carpet shampooer is motorized! It’s not like I was lifting or pushing anything heavy! Grrr. I’m done being pregnant. My husband gets to carry the next one.

April 1, 2008 - Nesting (not an April Fool)

So I always thought "nesting" referred to just getting the nursery ready for the baby. Well that’s been done for a while. I think I was wrong. I was struck down by what I can only describe as an unnatural and urgent need to clean today. I was looking around the house today (which was mostly organized by my standards) thinking, MY GOD! I can’t bring a baby home from the hospital to this germ infested, dust ridden, plague harboring infestation of filth!

This was crazy woman cleaning. So strong was this urge I begged my mom to come down and help me because I was completely overwhelmed by everything that just NEEDED to get done. After I was done with the usual vaccuuming and washing up, I felt like things weren’t organized

enough. So I organized the DVD collection by genra and then alphabetical order...but I couldn’t stop there! I had to organize my scrap booking things, and my sewing things, and my home office things..and take a level to the pictures hanging on the wall and afix velcro to the back of the frame and then to the wall so they would stay straight!

This is not normal! It was girls gone wild with cleaning supplies! Polishing the furniture cleaning. Washing the candle holders and scrubbing down the walls with bleach and water cleaning! I even deep cleaned the baseboards, windows, and doors! Dear GOD, I’ve developed an OCD! Even as I type this I’m thinking about things I forgot to clean and I’m wondering if I’ll be too exhausted to continue cleaning if I run to the store at 11pm to pick up some pledge for electronics! SOMEONE

HELP ME!!!

April 15, 2008 - Zander's Story

Friday April 11, around 8:00 in the morning I was enjoying a nice cup of coffee when my water broke. Quite calm, I let my husband know we were not going to the hospital until I had showered and put on makeup. By the time we got to the hospital my contractions had started but they weren't very regular. The doctor decided at 1pm to give me pitocin.

I would just like to say here and now to anyone out there if you EVER hear the word pitocin

mentioned, ask for the epidural first! The pitocin made me have continuous contractions, no break in between, and stronger than Mother Nature's version. I waited until I was 7cm and it was about 7pm before I got epidural. I'd like to say it's because I'm a rock star, but the truth of the matter is the anesthesiologist was just that busy (I was 4th on her list). If she had been any later getting to the room, I would have been out of luck! I would also like to advise that if you're EVER offered an epidural, DON'T SAY NO! You know it's bad when your delivery doctor is ordering up more pain meds that you didn't even ask for just to get you through until the anesthesiologist arrives.

15 minutes after the epidural kicked in I was at 10 cm and ready to go...I have a feeling I was past the 7cm cut off when the doctor got there to administer the epidural but she just felt so bad for me she gave it to me anyway. Well, it didn't take very many attempts of me pushing before

the doctor told me to stop because something was wrong. Zander's heart rate dropped after each contraction and didn't come back up. The doctor decided to do an emergency c-section.

I wouldn't have been scared, except they sounded scared. Then the room filled up with nurses and other doctors and five people were talking to me at once and no one would tell me that Zander was going to be okay and I started to get very cold and shake and cry. Everyone was so busy no one except Chris even noticed.

Chris stayed with me the entire time except for a few minutes when they were prepping me in the OR. He held my hand through the entire surgery and I felt them pull the baby out, push on me and things inside of me shifting, but I was not in any pain. I remember the doctor telling me

his umbilical chord was wrapped around his neck twice.

I heard Zander scream and scream and I remember feeling guilty because I thought I should have a maternal instinct to comfort him but all I thought was that it didn't matter what happened to me next because he was screaming so that meant he was okay. It wasn't depression or drama or maternal instinct or sense of accomplishment, just a very strange and detached acceptance.

Chris told me later that they asked me if I wanted to see Zander and I told them no because I was shaking too badly. I remember shaking, but not any of the rest. Chris told me I was shaking so badly in my upper body he was worried I was having a seizure. I remember that Chris told

the nurse he didn't want to see the baby until I had seen him. I also remember the nurses being surprised and getting more nurses to come watch because Zander lifted his head up and rolled over on his side from his belly. I guess it's not normal for newborns to be able to do that. Well, my ribs could have told them how many summersaults he does during the day!

When all was said and done he was officially born at 9:25 p.m. on 4/11/08. He weighed 7lbs 13oz and was 20.5" long. He is the most beautiful boy and a little miracle in every way. His father and I are ridiculously proud!

April 24, 2008

A short but necessary update for everyone who has wondered if I dropped off the planet. After returning home from the hospital April 14, I was readmitted April 16 with the same type of "rib pain" that had caused me to take maternity leave earlier than I wanted. A day and a half after I was admitted and provided the best narcotics on tap to control the pain, the doctors did an exploratory surgery. The surgery was a last resort because they could not come up with a diagnosis.

They removed my appendix, part of my colon, and numerous adhesions that were a result of an unusual condition called Peritonititis caused by an allergic reaction to amniotic fluid. The worst part of the entire ordeal was being away from Zander. But, nine days later I am back at home

with my little guy and very exhausted. I am so happy to finally be here at home and so grateful for the help of the Grandmas. Neither Zander, Chris, or I could have survived this without your continued support.

April 29, 2008 - God Bless Friends

I am truly blessed with amazing friends. Thank you all so much for all the yummy dinners and cookies you made for us along with the well wishes and emails! The meals were especially a big help. Those first few days out of the hospital it was all I could do to take care of myself so those meals were a HUGE help! My mom has been staying with Chris and I and I know she

appreciated not having to cook for me in addition to helping out with the baby! Also a huge thank you to my mother-in-law who stayed with Chris and the baby the entire time I was in the hospital. Your help is so much appreciated! I don't tell you this often enough, but you're all amazing and your kindness is very much appreciated!!!

May 7, 2008 - Hospital Gift Certificate???

So yeah. This morning I had lab work and a CT scan at the hospital. It sucked. The CT scan was with and without contrast, which meant I needed an IV and they were going to inject me with a radioactive dye that hurts so bad you would rather gnaw off your arm than go through that

experience again. Now, there isn't an unbruised vein left in my body. I already knew how much fun the "contrast" was from my previous stay in the hospital, but when I learned I would not be able to feed the baby for the next 24 hrs (a sensitive subject for this momma) I did what any postpartum woman who has been poked, prodded, cut up, and torn asunder would do. I cried. I had a little postpartum meltdown right there in the CT room.

Well, the radiologist must have felt really bad for me because he gave me a hospital gift certificate (I know, right?)! I was all "Hospital...Gift certificate?" *blink blink* and he was like "You can use it for any of our services." He was very enthusiastic about it and acting like I should be super happy...Which kind of had the opposite affect he was looking for because I started crying again. In my mind I was picturing Bob Barker saying "Rob, tell her what she just won!"

with the response in typical game show announcer voice "You've just won $25 off your next CT scan and cafeteria meal!" I seriously questioned the credibility of the hospital. I thanked him anyway, because he seemed to think he was helping, and I left (he was clearly happy to be rid of the ungrateful crazy lady).

In the elevator I actually read the gift certificate. Turns out the hospital has a woman's center...and in this woman's center is a spa...and this spa has services like facials assages. Score!

...poor radiologist...

May 22, 2008 - Baby Momma Drama Update

Well, I had a check up. Things I am officially allowed to do…Lift Zander (but only Zander). This is good because I've been lifting him and carrying him around for some time. I am officially allowed to eat whatever I want. Yay for me because I've been daydreaming about Mondo's Grilled Salmon BLT (without the bacon) for a while now. I am also officially allowed to walk for 10 minutes 3 – 4 times a day. This will be a slight change from my recent habit of thinking I'm better than I really am, going out to run errands, then spending the rest of the day on heavy narcotics because apparently I wasn't as healed as I thought I was. ...But...My FAVORITE thing I'm allowed to do now is take a bath! It's been MONTHS since I had an honest to God soak in the tub with bubbles and bath bombs and candles and relaxing music and I can't wait until I pick up my stuff from Lush!

Things I'm not allowed to do…Lift anything over 10 lbs (except Zander). Walk up steps. Go back to work until further notice. Drive while on pain meds. Throw up (which isn't easy when you have to change some of Zander's blow outs), develop a hernia, or become constipated (these make me chuckle even though I know there would be serious medical ramifications). Finally, I'm not allowed to nurse anymore…I can't say this surprised me in all honesty. Still, I am surprised by the mix of emotions, guilt, relief, and (quite irrationally) incompetence. I know he'll be fine on formula. Obviously he'll be fine, after all he made it the entire time I was in the hospital on formula...And when you're recovering from being cut open five time, having bits and pieces of your body torn out of you, and having your baby pulled from inside your abdomen your body needs good stuff to recover, unfortunately all the good stuff was going into the milk...good for

baby, bad for mommy. I hope this means I'll recover more rapidly now.

It's hard to believe that it's been one month since my brush with death. I think I should be more recovered than I am. Maybe if I stop over doing things and stick to the doctor's plan it will help. But the doctor's plan is so darn...boring! I have a secret suspicion that the bubble baths will help the most. In fact, I think it would be a FABULOUS idea to spend my economic stimulus check on a jet tub. I'm only looking out for the global economy here…It's probably even my patriotic duty. The President wants me to have a jet tub and who am I to argue?

June 9, 2008 - Baby/Momma Milestones

Child wellbeing comes first. This new daycare Chris and I found will need to have a trial run. If it doesn't work out, I'll need some time to find another daycare. So, today Zander has his first day away from me. I haven't decided if he'll go there for a couple of hours every day this week (read nap time for me) or two or three full days.

Yesterday, just the possibility of having some time to myself made me want to giggle with the deep knowledge that I am probably doing something delightfully wrong (like eating chocolate). This morning, however, was a completely different story. I bawled like a baby and am riddled with feelings of guilt for abandoning my child to the care complete strangers for an entire day! What's worse, when I pick him up this afternoon, it will be to bring him to get his two-month

vaccines! He'll be so happy to see me and then I will betray him by bringing him to his torturer so he can be afflicted with mercury-free physical pain. No wonder he giggles and smiles every time he sees his dad. He's happy to be rescued from me! I'd better start looking for a good therapist now. Clearly this kid is going to need it.

June 10, 2008 Armed and Dangerous

Torturers have known for centuries the best way to induce psychosis is through interrupted sleep patterns (ironic for new mothers, no?) and thus bend the will of their enemy to their own devices. You see…such sleep deprivation is like taking a rag of ether over the face of your little

shoulder angel and tucking him soundly into bed (glad he's able to get some sleep!).

My husband already considers me armed and dangerous because I've had nothing but time and memorized credit card numbers on my hands since March...Well, in my latest moment of late night baby feeding brilliance, I almost bought Aqua Globes from an infomercial. Never worry about over watering again? Go up to two weeks between watering? This is exactly what I need to end my secret shame and (at last) turn my black thumb green! They're absolutely right, I do need this! I need this right now!

Just as I was picking up the phone to place an order that little, clever, rational shoulder angel woke and said..."Wait, put the phone down...you don't even own a houseplant...."

June 12, 2008 - Road Trip in an Ark

My friend Valerie called me today. She's going to be passing through town next week on her way to a wedding in the U.P.. Better yet, if her travel plans and Zander's batism permit, there is a possibility Zander and I may accompany her to those white sand beachesand clear blue waters. I'm excited about prospect seeing old friends, favorite aunts, and in-laws…not to mention taking Zander to the beach for the first time!

I discovered most inconveniently today that every bridge in town has been closed for what

they're calling the 500 Year Flood. Our home is fine…even if it does now contain an indoor pool in the weight room. Once again, we lucked out with falling just shy of the emergency evacuation zone.

The last three weeks, living here has been, I imagine, comparable to going through a Blitzkrieg. Emergency sirens have been going off almost nightly, some times multiple times a day. We've suffered first from straight winds (winds over 50 mph—ours were at 70 mph but just south of us they were measuring at 100 mph) then tornados and most recently with evacuation notices due to flooding. At one point in time, probably only the second time in my life I've ever been scared by a tornado, they actually interrupted the emergency broadcast which was politely telling everyone to seek shelter immediately for a more urgent emergency broadcast. The more urgent

emergency broadcast pretty much said get the f--- down in your basements right the f--- now! That would have been when the EF-5 went through just north of us.

For my Yooper friends who may be unaccustomed to tornados, the rank means friggin' huge—total destruction. There is no classification higer. The estimated wind speed was over 250 mph. The tornado itself was 1.2 miles wide and had a destruction path of 42 miles. It decimated a town to the northwest of here called Parkersberg. Look closely at this picture and notice how the bark has been completely stripped from the trees by the dust and dirt moving over 250 mph through tornado...like a 1.2 mile wide sand blaster. I honestly do not know how anyone managed to survive that event. .

And finally, the earthquake that occurred in Iowa. The epicenter originated in IL, but had over a 250 mi radius. I was in the hospital at the time recovering from my untimely abdominal surgery. The nurses thought I was delirious because I kept asking them to move the fan since it was shaking the bed. They assured me it was no where near touching my bed. Turned out, to everyone's surprise, it was an earthquake.

If this is not a sign of an impending apocalypse, I don't know what is! Honestly, these communities cannot handle much more of Mother Nature physically or economically. I believe my friend Sarah put it best when she said 2008 has been a year to simply endure and then celebrate it's ending.

July 10, 2008 - Quick Update

Sorry for the long silence, this will be a quick update...My father is finished with his chemo for the time being. Thank you for all your prayers on the matter, please keep them up. I am now an official Auntie. My sister-in-law had a beautiful baby girl yesterday morning. My friend Ben is back in the states after a year long deployment to Kosovo and returns to his family tomorrow. I had a wonderful visit over my birthday from my friend Val who now lives in CO, not to mention probably the best birthday ever...my husband took me to the spa, followed by shopping, lunch, and a surprise birthday party! I had my gallbladder taken out yesterday, which I hope will end the trips to the ER. So really, I have a lot for which to be thankful. Again, thank you everyone for your prayers and please keep them coming. I very much appreciate and love you all!

July 28, 2008 - Baby Firsts

I sing to my son all the time. Mostly I sing while he's eating, to try to coax him into a nap. I can't help it. It's what I do. Last night, for the very first time, he looked at me when I sang, his big blue eyes sparkling. He looked at me as if it were the first time he'd realized I was singing and it was just for him…and gave me one of his big toothless grins, and I think it meant "Mama, you're singing!"

August 14, 2008 - My Cup Runneth Over

Diagnosed at stage 4, Dad's cancer is in remission.

Halleluja!

November 15, 2008 - Stress Drama Blah Blah Blah

Let's see…what drama to add to my already drama filled year? Oh, how 'bout my six month old getting influenza A? But no, that's not enough, let's have mommy and baby also get in a car accident on 380 during rush hour…Oh wait, we're still not done! Surprise, your sister is in the hospital. I know you wanted to go visit but darn, the entire household came down with gastroenteritis and it's highly infectious (This was in October. I actually wound up back in the hospital ER with that and my newly healed incisions couldn't handle it. It actually caused a hernia which they were able to detect the following March when I wound up in the hospital in CA with the same thing)! And to top it all off??? DH's got some great job offers…the only problem is

they're traveling positions and the family doesn't get to go with.

December 11, 2008 - Nostalgia

I was reading back through my pre-baby days...it's so hard to imagine life without the little crumb crusher right now. I found this little gem about my husband and wanted to share.

March 27th, 2008...

The nursery is all ready. With such generous gifts we received from the baby shower combined with my husband's thoughtfulness we have everything we need. Chris really was instrumental in getting the nursery put together. He took my registry with him to the PX last time he was there and went down the list.

Crib. His wife wanted a crib. So in efficient Chris logic, he found the crib with the highest safety rating, most features, and best price. It doesn't look a thing like the crib on the registry, but it is a very sturdy and practical crib. Rug. His wife wanted a rug. The one on the registry was this puny little 4x4 bright colored thing that didn't cover any space at all, wouldn't protect the hardwood floors in the nursery (clearly that's the only reason one would put a rug down) and certainly wouldn't keep the little guy's feet from getting cold when he started crawling and walking. On top of all that, it was expensive (because it was a combination play mat / area rug that had it's own little streetscape)! So after looking around for something that wouldn't "clash"

with the royal blue walls of the nursery, he found himself a 12x12 industrial gray Army issue area rug, not only is it practical and won't show smashed in crayon or play dough but it was cost effective too! We will surely get many more years out of it than we would have the little 4x4 rug on the registry. A few of the other items on the registry went the same way.

Hours later, he came home, grinning like a Cheshire cat over what a great job he's done at this "dad thing". He got almost every piece of furniture on the registry. He presented me with each treasure one by one, making a big deal of going over all the features on each one and how they compared to the others at the PX. He put so much effort into this it was really infections. Pretty soon I was smiling like a Cheshire cat right along with him. He was so clearly enthusiastic about

the entire experience that I couldn't help but be pleased and excited for him.

January 9, 2009 - A Big Day

Zander learned to clap today! He spent a good portion of the evening clapping and giggling. What a little cutie pie!!

I also received software training today. Just one more little step and I will be all set up to work from home. I will be doing the legal billing for a law office. Yay! I'm contributing to the family income again! It may not be what I was making at Pearson, but I get to work from home and set

my own hours.

February 17, 2009 - Parallel Dimensions and Toilets

My son’s recently started the habit of putting things in other things. A tennis ball in the dog food, Cheerios in the jack-in-the-box, or fingers in well…anything really. Today he discovered the toilet. There were moments of long silence followed by uproarious laughter (which is usually my first clue that he’s probably getting into trouble) and then a splash splash splash followed by a heart stopping moment of OMG I didn’t close the baby gate!!!

He found the puppy’s Kong and was trying to submerge it in the toilet…except it magically defies gravity and keeps popping up to the surface! The dog was huddled near the bathtub with a forlorn whine at each of his giggles.

I had to explain to my son there is a gateway to a parallel dimension in the toilet that sucks everything down into a land made only of green peas and doctor visits and the things that go there never EVER return? The look on his face looked very similar to this

The Answer to the Question

2009-09-08T19:59:00.001-07:00

The answer to the question is not always what you want to hear. And sometimes you wonder whether you were better off not knowing at all. Good bye my brother. You will continue to be in my prayers every night for the rest of this life and beyond.

The Perfect Weekend

2009-09-07T10:21:00.000-07:00

Chris came home around 1am Thursday morning, adding an extra two days to his normal visit. Z woke up to the sound of our voices and instantly insisted on greeting him. We listened for about ten minutes as he tried to negotiate with the dog. "All done?" he would say, jumping up and down in his crib. "Puh-y, wan get down?" Finally, he heard our laughter, realized we could hear him and his pleadings turned into crib shakes and screams.

His normal mommy-centric behavior curbed with Daddy home meant I could do things that I wanted to do and not have to worry about how toddler friendly they were. We're talking anything I wanted! I felt like I'd just won the lotto! Golden opportunities lay before me with endless possibilities. So, when Chris took Z to the park for a little father/son time...I took a nap, went grocery shopping, and had a bubble bath. Oh, I also had a beer. I am such a rebel!

We went down to the farm for a bonfire. It was an amazing day. Z followed Chris around all day like his shadow, except when he was announcing "Bye-bye!" and wandering off to climb up the grain elevator or play in the patch of nettles and poison ivy. Friends and family joined us. The paintball never quite got off the ground because everyone was too busy sitting around talking and catching up. But the 4 wheeler rides were a big hit with the kids. Especially splashing through the creek and hitting bumps that sent them airborne for a nanosecond, rear ends off the bike, arms cluched in a choke hold around Rob, the driver.

When Rob returned, he held out his arms and said he'd trade me. I looked at my little carameled apple sticky faced boy and thought you've got to be kidding! But he wasn't, he took Z, and let his little grabby paws tangle up his beard and hair and gave me a few quick lessons on where the brakes and gas were on the quad bike. I nearly cackled as I drove away, thinking I could be in Tiajuanna sipping on margaritas and no one would know where to look for me!

There was a bonfire. We touched off a 10 ft tall pile of brush that we had been collecting all spring and summer. We roasted brats and hot dogs and made s'mores. We crunched on apples and carrots and celery. We sipped on 7up and coke and beer and we told stories from 150 years ago about the lights that used to follow the horses through the timber. Spencer, a sage 7 yr old, announced that the lights were a gateway to the other side, and we all agreed that this was probably correct. Or maybe just swamp gas.

My mother is never happier than when she's feeding people and my Dad is never happier than when people are sitting around talking and telling jokes. There was plenty of both this weekend. All in all, it was a perfect Labor Day weekend.

(the moon through the clouds at the farm)

Open and Closed

2009-08-27T14:18:00.000-07:00

Today I spent about two hours with my son practicing the concept of open and closed. I didn’t set out with a lesson plan and a syllabus. Once my son discovered the old makeup I was throwing away I did what any mother would do and turned it into a learning opportunity. I took the shiny black compact from his tiny little hands, flipped the lid and said “Open.” He was fascinated that there was something in there that he couldn’t see before. Then I snapped it shut and said “Closed.” Predictably, this caused a miniature meltdown until the lid flipped up and I again said “Open.”

From the powder compact, we moved on to the bottle of lotion. From the lotion, we went to the jack in the box. I could tell he’d gotten the hang of this concept because he brought me several toys that could be opened or closed in different ways including a book and a sippy cup. All afternoon we played, my son teetering on the edge of toddler hysteria because open is clearly much more fun than closed.

Then he brought me a new bag of diapers. “Oh-peh.” He tells me as he starts removing a diaper. “No, no.” I told him, “Once this is opened it cannot be closed again.” I proceed to try and explain in toddler terms why it’s a physical impossibility to cram a full pack of diapers back in the bag once they’ve been pulled out. “Oh-PEH!” He insists and nonplused by my explanation, he pulls the diaper all the way out. “Fine.” I agree, “Open.” And I sit and watch in parental fascination as he pulls the diapers out one by one until the bag was empty.

Then he tried to put them back. “Ohs.” He says, trying unsuccessfully to shove a diaper through the narrow plastic opening in the bag. “OHS!!!” He shouts at me as yet another diaper doesn’t fit through the hole. I toss my hands in the air in a universal gesture of hell-if-I-know. He repeats the gesture, dropping bag and diapers and disintegrating into a world class tantrum of floor thrashing, kicking, and screaming incoherently. I realize the only way to fix this is a baby-reboot.

On the way up the stairs, son in arms, I think of a different conversation, one I’d had earlier in the summer. How bad is she? I wanted to know. She’s saving the bath water. I’m told. What? I am shocked and can think of nothing else to say. And she thinks the neighbors are spying on her. I hear this but I cannot believe it. I need to see her to make sure she’s fine. But when I’m there, in her living room, I barely recognize the woman in front of me and it’s clear that she’s not fine. I’d like for you to leave. She tells me and in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability she adds, I just can’t handle it right now. And she gets up and goes into her bedroom and shuts the door. I look to her husband for guidance. Should I stay or leave? What would be better? And I see his eyes turn misty. My heart shatters into a million pieces for this man who is watching his wife slip away from his reach. This woman who one year ago nursed me back to health, lifted my son for me each and every time when I couldn’t, helped feed and care for us until I was recovered, and without whom I don’t know what I would have done. This dear, dear woman who seemed so sure and so strong…

I tucked my wailing son into bed and went back to the disaster area he created in my living room. I sighed heavily and sat down, thinking again of her as I looked out at the mess. Then...One by one...I began the impossible task of trying to fit all the diapers back in the bag.

How about that...I'm being published!

2009-08-17T19:22:00.000-07:00

(California Academy of Sciences Living Rooftop)

Hi Melissa,

I am delighted to let you know that your submitted photo has been selected for inclusion in the newly released eighth edition of our Schmap San Francisco Guide:

California Academy of Sciences
www.schmap.com/sanfrancisco/all_shopping/p=379527/i=379527_11.jpg

If you use an iPhone or iPod touch, then this same link will take you directly to your photo in the iPhone version of our guide. On a desktop computer, you can still see exactly how your photo is displayed and credited in the iPhone version of our guide at:

California Academy of Sciences
www.schmap.com/?m=iphone#uid=sanfrancisco&sid=all_shopping&p=379527&i=379527_11

Finally, if you have a blog, you might also like to check out the customizable widgetized version of our Schmap San Francisco Guide, complete with your published photo:

www.schmap.com/guidewidgets/p=21180955N02/c=SL2001807

Thanks so much for letting us include your photo - please enjoy the guide!

Best regards,

Emma Williams,
Managing Editor, Schmap Guides
www.schmap.me/emmaj.williams

To everything there is a season...

2009-08-04T00:13:00.000-07:00

I’ve said it before, but I really have been so very blessed. So many mothers have to work 40+ hrs a week. So many daughters don’t get to spend so much time with their family when their father is recovering from cancer. I have been so very lucky to have these extra moments and I owe this all to my husband. I knew when I started out on this adventure that it probably wouldn’t last. Such blessings don’t come without a price. I have been, for some time now, waiting for the other shoe to drop and a few weeks ago it did.

Without getting into the nitty-gritty, today I made the decision that my husband has probably been waiting six months for me to make. I told him to find us someplace nice to live in California. I hope and pray and take a leap of faith that we’re making the right decision…that things will be fine here at home while we go off and live our lives. I pray that things will be as they are now or better when we return in five years.

I’m over the tears now of looking at homes half the size of mine with gravel or concrete for back yards. I’ve even resigned myself to the fact that we may have to look at town homes or condos. That wouldn’t be so bad, a play park for the kid next to the swimming pool. I could live with that.

I have had one hell of a time creating beautiful memories these last six months. Drinking coffee with my friend Hiromi in San Francisco. Sipping on champagne and eating crepes for breakfast at my father-in-law’s in the Selkirks. Hiking with my mother up to the top of Sugar Loaf Mountain. Watching my father give my son his first tractor ride. Picking gladiolas with my family in the hot summer sun. Watching the children and the garden grow. I can’t wait to see what dreams will become memories. But for the love of God please let me have a back yard with grass!

(Zander's 1st tractor ride with Grandpa)

(relaxing on the porch swing after a day of canning)

(the home I'm reluctant to leave behind)

(the backyard extends past the swings to the garden shed)

(the living room)

(the nursery - 1 of 4 bedrooms)

(the kitchen)

(more of the kitchen)

Update: After I posted this, I went to bed. I opened the bible and prayed for guidance. The very first verse my fingers fell upon was this -

"Who are you, Lord?" Saul asked. "I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting," he replied. "Now get up and go into the city and you will be told what you must do." ~Acts 9(5:6)

Weddings, weddings, oh my gawd weddings!

2009-08-02T22:11:00.000-07:00

I will attend more weddings in the next three months than I have in my life. Let me tell you, this is causing me no small amount of anxiety! Mostly because I will likely see people I haven’t seen in a decade or more. You don’t understand, these are people who have been very important influences in my life! These are people with whom secrets were shared, souls were poured out, and eternal bonds of companionship were formed! There’s Miss Dances on Tables (she and I go waaaaaaay back), there’s Mrs. My Life is Perfect (who has her own line of exercise videos, three children – all natural births – and a PhD thank you very much), we can’t forget Mr. I’ll Always Love You (yeah, it was a bad break up, he cried and I yelled at him for crying), and last but not least Mr. You Lied (and I still haven’t forgotten how he was arrested for soliciting an undercover officer).

Firstly, if I could even find a table I felt was sturdy enough to support my, ahem, womanly curves, I’m pretty sure taking off my bra under my T-shirt and flinging it onto the moose head would be something akin to a bad horror movie. I can see it all too clearly…and in slow motion…myself after tee many martoonies flailing about with Miss Dances on Tables. We’re having a good time, my eye makeup is smudged from the tears of laughter from those “remember when” stories and I’m squinting at my husband in what is supposed to be a sexy bedroom eyes gaze, but it really just looks like I can’t read the happy hour menu. She talks me into going for broke, and in a moment of disastrous decision making, I take off my bra, which would be the kind of white support monstrosity you would expect VW to engineer instead of the barely there VS number one would expect to see. I fling it in a pathetic display of girlish playfulness toward the wall. It goes hurtling end over end toward the moose, people duck out of the way; they scream in terror as one cup completely suffocates the moose head, blinding him from the sight of me still seizuring away to the music, winking at my husband (who is hiding under a table), and completely oblivious to the horror that has ensued.

Mrs. My Life is Perfect then saunters up to me in her 5” stilettos with a patronizing smirk on her face, “Darling, it’s been so good to see you!” she tells me as she hands me her business card, “Call me in the morning, I have a business proposal for you.” I would smile, thinking how cool it was to see her again, and only after I began nursing the hangover the next day would I realize she was calling me fat.

Mr. I’ll Always Love You would join me out on the deck while I cooled off. He’d strike up a conversation that would end with “It was really good seeing you again.” Translation: I don’t know what I ever saw in you. Meanwhile I’m having another display of horrible decision making abilities and contemplating actually thanking Mr. You Lied to Me because, after all, I did start dating my incredible husband immediately after we broke up…but I can’t seem to find him to tell him because he’s sitting at the bar, avoiding the awkward introduction, and quietly thanking his lucky stars for that one crazy night in Tijuana!

Okay, okay, fine. I’m being overly dramatic. Honestly, I’m not that girl anymore (or rarely), so why would I expect them to be the same? I haven’t even over indulged in about a decade (well, in public anyway) so there’s zero chance of any of that coming to pass…But seriously, would it be too inappropriate to hire a stunt double with a PhD in Western Literature and is an aerobics instructor on the side to masquerade as me for the next three months? She can even drive the RX7!

(then)

(now)

Thirty Years of Blessings

2009-06-27T21:50:00.001-07:00

Thirty, huh? I contemplate my impending decrepit state fast approaching in the next few minutes. I think back on other milestone birthdays. 10, I had an ice cream cake with a little mint green clad clown on the top. I can remember being little and making the 20 mile drive with my mother to the bakery in Maquoketa where I would stare at a wall of delightful confections and pick out one that wasn’t too expensive or too plain. I loved birthday cakes that came from the bakery. Those were extra special because not every birthday cake did. Not when money needed to be spent on more important things.

13, I had fallen asleep on the floor of my sister’s pink bedroom and sometime in the night had been relocated to my own bed. I was so sure when I woke in the morning I would look like a teenager. My thin, stringy, fly away hair would have turned into a beautiful mane of silken tresses. My scrawny, colt-like limbs would be transformed overnight into the beginnings of womanly curves. When I awoke the next morning I sprang from bed and dashed to the mirror to take my first excited glance. To my disappointment nothing much had changed about my appearance except for a few pillow wrinkles and some bed head.

By the time I turned 16, I knew not to expect dramatic changes overnight. But still, I held on to the hope that age 16 would turn my unremarkable face into that of a great beauty. This had been a magic number as long as I could remember. At 16 I was allowed to have a boyfriend, I was allowed to date and not just go out in gaggles of awkward teenage peers. I was allowed to drive. I was allowed to experience freedoms I had not previously known. Much to my chagrin; that same unremarkable face I’d had at 14 remained until I was about 18 years of age. And that exciting love life I’d been promised…well, I quickly learned that there wasn’t much difference between being alone with an awkward teenage boy or being out in a gaggle of awkward teenage girls and boys. That in fact, sometimes the gaggle was much preferred.

Then there was 18. Jaded by non-instantaneous arrival of breasts for my 13^th birthday, and the stunningly average face that still stared back from my reflection I didn’t really have high hopes for 18. I do remember awaking with a quiet sense of satisfaction. I was an adult. My best friend and I celebrated by getting tattoos. I don’t remember if we’d spent long hours planning it or if it had been a whim. But I do remember her shaking and holding my hand, knuckles white, as the needle skidded over her hip bone and at that moment deciding I was not nearly as brave as she. I got mine on my ankle instead.

21? I don’t remember much about my 21^st birthday. I have a few fuzzy memories of outlandish dancing, groping my best friend on a dare, and my sister, the supposed DD, driving down the wrong side of the street and having to jump the median. I don’t remember particularly looking forward to 21 though. Perhaps I did when I was 19, but by the time I turned 21, I didn’t really find going out drinking all that fun anymore.

25 was hard. That was half way to 50. I remember telling my sister (and believing it) that there was nothing to look forward to after 25 until you turned 60. My insurance rates went down at 25. And I remember looking at pictures of me when I was 21 and thinking (and believing) that youth was wasted on the young. I’d never approved of my body, or thought of myself as particularly attractive. I was a fool. I only lacked self confidence.

Now, in just a few minutes I will be 30. One foot in the grave, really. Oh, I don’t mind much. I don’t honestly think my breasts will shrivel up and fall off at the stroke of midnight or that my face will crack into a million wrinkles (even though my younger friends assure me of this certainty). My best friend from back home asked me if I thought I would cry. I don’t think I will. It would be different if I weren’t so happy with where I am right now. Luckily, I am blessed. I have a wonderful husband, an amazing son, and more family than I know what to do with. I have accomplished a lot in terms of career, family, and religion. I’m quite satisfied with my life. So tomorrow, when I wake up…I don’t think I’ll look for signs of decrepitude. Instead, I think I’ll be productive, and take my son for a walk to the park, and go visit my family, and thank God for thirty years of blessings.

Happy First Day of Summer

2009-06-20T22:53:00.001-07:00

(I rode an elephant today. What'd you do???)

A Love Like This...

2009-06-18T00:11:00.000-07:00

“Congrats Mom!” I chimed into the phone, “How long have you been married? Thirty-four years? Thirty-five?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I haven’t had my coffee yet.” She tells me in annoyance, “Wayne, how long have we been married?”

“How old is Melissa?” I hear him yell in the background.

“What?!?” My mother yells back, “It’s our anniversary, not her birthday!”

“How old is she?” He hollers again; this time he sounds annoyed. From the sounds creaking I can tell he's sitting in his chair in the parlor.

“Thirty!” She shouts.

“Twenty-nine!” I correct indignantly.

“Close enough.” My mother scolds.

“Wheeeell let’s see…” my father drawls out, “That makes it we’ve been married twenty-eight years!”

“Wayne!” I hear my mother’s scandalized tones followed by my father’s mischievous cackle.

Then I hear his voice fading in song, presumably as he fleas my mother's admonishing gaze, “Oh when I was single my pockets would jingle. I’ll never be single again…”

A Lot of Change in a Year...

2009-06-12T22:45:00.000-07:00

Less than a year ago I was a Project Manager on a multi-million dollar contract. I oversaw the creation, duplication, and distribution of 750 different media and 13.5 million pieces of printed documentation. I would travel 2000 miles in one week, walking into locations I’d never been before and wielding all the confidence and authority that came with my pre-motherhood position.

Now, my job is to make my son smile, and to teach him about the world. And apparently to make jam. I’m still learning how to be this paragon of motherhood. But sixteen cans of homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam and one son sticky with strawberries from head to toe later…I just might be getting the hang of it. I don’t need VP recognition for this job. The enthusiastic clapping of my son’s sticky palms is satisfaction enough.

(toast and jam is the best)

A Letter to My Son

2009-06-05T23:36:00.000-07:00

My dearest Zander,

You are one and how much I love you! I love you all the way from the top of your head to the bottom of your toes, which just happens to be from the crook of my arm to my knees. You cannot imagine the fierceness with which I love you. You began as an extension of me and gradually grew apart and seperated into your own little person. Now I look upon your face and my heart warms, swelling with pride.

You are one and you are the very best of your Daddy and I. Your dad wanted so much for you to have my eyes, and you have them along with the dimple on my chin. You have your father’s smile right down to the tiny gap in his front teeth. You have your father’s cheeks and strong jaw line. Already so many family members and total strangers have remarked at what a good looking man you will become, so evident even at a year old.

You are one and you smile and dance throughout the day. Every day, you explore the house and backyard as though you’ve never seen them before and you endlessly jabber to the kitty or the doggie. You squeal with excitement as you watch the world out the window. You love to watch the dogs walk by or the squirrels scamper and play. You love for me to sing to you when we ride in the car and when I stop you ask for more and even sing along with me. Every emotion you feel shows on your face from confusion to concentration or glee to distress.

You are one and when you are upset, you present yourself to me and fling yourself backward upon the carpet in a half suicidal baby meltdown, yet I can easily persuade you that all is fine in the world. A kiss and cuddle do the trick most of the time though some times a song is needed. If it was a particularly enthusiastic display I may have to resort to graham crackers and milk, but you love to smile more than you like to cry. So, it never takes much to make you sing again and dance. And I am breathless with delight watching you transition from baby drama to bubbling over with joy.

You are one and you are so sweet and caring. You share your bottle with your cousin just to comfort him when he cries. If the bottle doesn’t work, you’ll even share your blankie. You wander up to me many times throughout the day to give me a hug and to receive one in return. You cannot let the morning pass without giving a hug and a pat to the doggie or your Teddy or your Blankie. You show us all you love us in a million tiny ways.

You are one and your favorite pastime is to make us laugh and smile. Whether it’s Daddy or Grandma and Grandpa, you delight in our laughter as much as we delight in yours. You’ll babble a funny story or make funny noises to get my reaction and interaction. You’ll dance the way your daddy taught you for your own delight, but when I applaud, you clap too and laugh and dance again with more enthusiasm. Even when you throw your food on the floor just to see if I’ll pick it up for you, you do it to share your curiosity and joy and don’t understand why it doesn’t bring the same reaction from Momma.

It won’t always be this simple between us. I will no doubt embarrass you when you get older and you will eventually grow up and not need me as much (my heart breaks at the thought). But for now, you are one and you stretch from the crook of my arm to my knees. And I will hold on to you. And I will tell you about all the things you could become later because right now you are my little one. So, my future president, rock star, band geek, quarterback, chess club guy, I will hold you and sing to you as we rock. On the outside, I will love you from the crook of my arm all the way to my knees. On the inside, I will love you with all my heart and soul. And I will hang on to this moment forever.

All my love, always!

Love,

Momma

If Baby Babbles Were English

2009-05-22T22:06:00.000-07:00

(This is my RAAAWRRR face)

I tried to share in the magic of Fourth of July sparklers with my son. Our conversation, if baby babbles were English, went something like this -

Me: Look Zander! This is called a sparkler! And we're going to stick it in the ground a safe distance away and light it!

Z: That's nice. Put me down.

Me: Here we go! Are you ready???

Z: Ooo a pine cone!

Me: Isn't it pretty sweetie?

Z: I have a pine cone.

Me: Now it's time for the glow worm! Isn't that amazing?

Z: (patting my leg and holding a nature object up to me) Mom, have you seen my pine cone?

Me: Maybe you'll be more interested in the whistling sparkler. Let's try that one.

Z: (in a sing-song voice) pine-cone-pine-cone-pine-cone...

Me: (puts whistling sparkler in the ground and lights it)

Z: Holy SHIT Mom!!! What the hell was that??? Pick me up! Pick me up! Pick me uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup!

(Zander and the Pine Cone)

Baby, Where Did You Go?

2009-04-07T09:35:00.000-07:00

My son’s first birthday is coming up and I find myself wondering where the year has gone. A year ago at this time he was a part of me, just an extension of myself, my sweet little parasite. Then I was hacked into like a ripe watermelon and torn asunder all so he could make his debut into this world. Hearing his first cry and watching him lift his head in those first few moments of welcome to the rest of your life; I knew any discomfort I faced was worth it.

Sometime in the last year, I’m not really sure when, he grew. He went from being an extension of me to his own little individual. He babbles away constantly repeating the only five words he knows. Last Wednesday he took his first few steps. And today, my little child prodigy learned the clean up game. He does everything with such enthusiasm! All I had to do was step away for a few minutes and when I returned my living room was in shambles. Coffee cup spilled on the floor, Play Station pulled out of the entertainment center, and…I have a lint roller???

But how can you get mad when he has such a look of concentration practicing so hard what you taught him to do! I looked around at my disheveled living room and looked at his sweet face and thought another one wouldn’t be so bad.

Concentrating so hard!

Notice the lint roller, controller, his PANTS

and maybe room for a coffee cup!

A Matter of Faith

2009-03-26T20:29:00.000-07:00

And to keep me from being too elated by the abundance of revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan, to harass me, to keep me from being too elated. Three times I besought the Lord about this, that it should leave me; but he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." I will all the more gladly boast of my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities; for when I am weak, then I am strong.

– Corinthians 12 : 7 – 10

A little over a year ago I had a career, not just a job, but something I really saw myself doing for the rest of my life. My husband only had a year left before he graduated, and once he found a job, with our combined incomes, we would be debt free and living the American Dream in a matter of a few years. I was six months pregnant with a little boy and my sister had just learned she and her husband were also expecting. Our parents, who have no other grandchildren, were elated. My mother started planning for the March baby shower back in October. And at my Father’s 70^th birthday party (where my sister announced the good news) he proudly accepted congratulations from his friends and made plans for future fishing trips with grandsons.

Then, in the midst of all this euphoria, things started to go wrong. My company was underbid for the contract I was working on. Suddenly there were six managers all applying for the same few positions trying to keep their jobs. I was six months pregnant and working 60-70 hours a week, trying to keep my income. My husband was having a really tough time in school and the pressure was double for meeting his graduation date because now we had a child on the way. Then we got the news that made my heart stop.

My father, the strong one, the fearless one, the unshakable one, had been diagnosed with stage 4 mantle cell lymphoma. While I was busy worrying about my job and my husband and his education, and while I was blissfully happy and completely petrified about the birth of my child, and while I was otherwise occupied with my own life, a persistent and deadly cancer had invaded father’s body. And what did I do? The only thing I could think might help. I prayed. I clung to my faith with ferocity I had never known. And what did God do? He appeared to be silent.

And then it happened. My son was born. And his birth, though an unplanned C-section, he was completely healthy with ten fingers, ten toes, and the most perfect little face you have ever seen. For three wonderful days the world stopped and the only thing I knew was beautiful boy, loving husband, and amazing family. Then it was time to go home from the hospital.

I started to suspect that something wasn’t quite right. I started feeling a pain that was acutely sharp and would make me cry out, and then just as quick as it was there it would be gone. It started to happen more frequently and last for longer periods of time. I asked the nurse about it when she came for the well child visit and she smiled at me in an indulgent manner and told me with great patience that I did just have a baby.

But within a matter of hours, from the time the nurse left to the time my husband returned home from school the pain had gone from infrequent to intolerable. I couldn’t move without screaming and when I wasn’t screaming it wasn’t because there was no pain, it was because the screaming only made the pain hurt more. The trip to the hospital was worse than a nightmare and once I was there no one could figure out what was wrong with me and the strongest pain medication they had was only strong enough to dull the pain if I were completely still. I remember thinking that I would rather give birth to triplets than experience this pain, and I begged for the pain to go away, for the nurses to do something, for the doctors to make it stop.

I had been in the hospital for over 24 hrs and all the tests showed there was nothing wrong with me. I had a nurse that withheld pain medication without the doctor’s knowledge for God only knows why, but I can understand why people beg for death. It was during that time that I thought this might really be it. The end. I might die. And then I remembered something. In all of the heart pounding pain and agonized screams when my mind should have been filled with nothing but the moment, I remembered a bible verse I’d read before I was pregnant.

Now…this wasn’t just a random bible verse. This was like that song that kept popping up on the radio whenever you turned on your car and hours later someone would be whistling the tune at work, and then when you got home and turned on the TV, the reporter would make some bad pun using the same lyrics from the song. This bible verse was everywhere. And at the time it really freaked me out. I remember calling my mother and asking her about it. “Mom”, I complained, “I keep asking God for guidance dealing with a particularly difficult situation at work, but instead I keep getting references to First Samuel! How is holding a baby in my arms a year from now going to solve any of my problems! If anything, a baby would just make things worse!”

But lying in that hospital bed, half wishing for death, half wondering if it was on it’s way, I knew. I was going to live. God was going to take care of me. God had told me that previous June that a year from now I would be holding a baby in my arms and it was only April, so I was going to live!

And the doctors did surgery, though they didn’t know what they were looking for. And after that surgery while I was recovering, my right lung partially collapsed, and I had internal bleeding, and I came down with pneumonia and a blood infection, and my hemoglobin dropped to 7, and the nurses weren’t sure I was going to live. But something incredible happened.

Each time something went wrong and I would find myself lying on an operating table in a room filled with white light. I would be surrounded by divine doctors and nurses. Each time something went wrong, the doctor would nod to a nurse and the heavenly nurse would touch the spot on my body that was going wrong and my lung would be working again. And the bleeding would have stopped. And whatever had been going wrong was suddenly working properly again.

The doctors were surprised when they got the pathology report back. It turns out it is extremely rare but entirely possible to be allergic to amniotic fluid. When I had my c-section amniotic fluid got into my peritoneal cavity and caused a massive allergic reaction. All of my organs to swell up and then healed together in one big mess. Three surgeries, nine incisions, and one year later I was holding my son in my arms, just as God had promised. And for a time, all felt right in my world.

Then came the day I shaved my father’s head. It was mostly bald anyway with a few spots of wild fluff making him look more like a cancer victim than I’d ever seen him. His clothes were too big. His once broad shoulders looked lost in the droopy polo shirt he wore and the pants made a ruffle around his waste where the belt cinched them in. I was devastated watching black and silver strands of hope collect in my bathroom sink. And again I turned to God.

While previously silent, this time he had something to say. And that something, like his earlier message to me, was persistent and it wouldn’t go away. And God’s message was Christ’s power is made perfect in our suffering. And I thought back to my time in the hospital and knew this to be true. And I prayed, night and day, and I believed, and I had faith, and my entire family had faith. And we all prayed, and people we didn’t even know prayed.

Then in December, my father rang the bell at the clinic, announcing to all those waiting that he was a survivor. That his spleen, which had weighed 12 lbs at the time of diagnosis was now back to normal proportions. That bell said that my father no longer needed chemo. That with God’s help, he beat it.

All the blessings God has given us this last year have been incredible. I’ve learned a thing or two. I’ve learned that God reveals himself in his time. I’ve also learned to trust in the Lord, he has a plan and even if it doesn’t match my plan, his is better. But I’ve learned that no matter the situation, no matter the hardship, you must have faith.

May 31, 2008: My Biggest Fan and Hero

2008-11-02T08:06:00.000-08:00

Oh, Dad! I inhaled when he removed his Air Force cap. Tufts of silver and black hair fluffed up in patches on his head while the rest was bald. I looked at him, I mean really looked at him for the first time since he started chemotherapy. He’d lost weight. Which was probably good since his spleen weighed 12 lbs at the time of his diagnosis. His arms, so strong just a few months ago, appeared now to have too much skin to cover their sinewy length. His broad shoulders, which once paraded a little me like a princess up the steps to be tucked into bed were now slumped, no longer able to fill out the polo shirt that covered them. His pants were too big too. The belt made the top of the khaki’s ruffle around his tucked in polo and the bagginess of them made him look more Cirque than Chic. But it was the hair that broke my heart.

“It was falling out anyway so I tried to shave it off myself.” My father admitted, “But I didn’t do a very good job of it.” And he smiled embarrassed, this act endeared him to me more than any I love you could have done at that moment.

“Do you want me to fix it for you?” I asked him, dropping my purse and car keys on the dinning room table and already walking toward the hall closet for the clippers.

“If you don’t have anything better to do…” And I didn’t.

“The doctor said the tumor is shrinking.” He told me. He was now seated on the edge of the bathtub, head poised over the sink.

“That’s great news!” I smiled, allowing my heart to relax a little as I oiled up the clippers “So you and mom will be going to Texas next winter after all?”

“I’m not going to get better.” He told me, reaching out and placing a hand on my shoulder. “The doctors said they could remove it and it could be back in a year.” Our eyes locked and we were both quiet for a time.

“Well, that sucks.” I finally said. My voice held all the same emotion as if he just announced it was going to be expensive to repair the car. He nodded then leaned his head over the sink. I took longer than I needed to shaving his head. I watched as silver and black threads of hope collected in the basin.

“All done?” He asked when I finally turned off the clippers. His tone said nothing unusual here, just getting a haircut from my daughter.

“Done.” I responded by rote. He didn’t even look in the mirror; he just ran his hand over his scalp and walked out of the bathroom. I turned the water on in the sink without thinking and a heartbeat later wondered why it didn't occur to me to save a lock of hair. I took my time cleaning up the clippers and putting them away.

When I came out I smiled up at him and appraised my work. “Looks good.” I told him. Nope…nothing unusual here, Dad.

“Yeah?” He didn’t really ask, but I nodded anyway. “Good.”

August 18, 2007: Somewhere on a Volcano

2008-11-02T07:52:00.000-08:00

Imagine this scenario. You're sipping on your coffee enjoying the peace and tranquility of the last fleeting moments of summer. You're out in the wilderness, away from the craziness of traditional consumer driven civilization. You're actually feeling pretty satisfied and morally superior because you've just finished washing your dishes, laundry, and hair with the same bottle of good old Dr. Bronner's (you had an ecological conscience after all before it was easy to be Green). Your iPod is pumping Instant Karma directly into your ears. You're rocking out to the "Working Class Hero" and thinking blasphemously that it might actually be better than the original.

You're thinking that surely this is the pinnacle of existence when your thoughts are interrupted by the high pitched enthusiastic squee of your name. You look up and in disbelief see familiar faces walking toward you. These are the last people you would expect to run into camping on a volcano…and not just because they're about two thousand miles

from where you left them.

"Huh?" Is all you can manage…you haven't finished your coffee yet, so no one can really expect your higher brain functions to be operating.

"It's so good to see you!! What are you doing here??? What have you been up to lately???" they want to know. And this is irritating because they're genuine in their curiosity and well wishes, and you know you can only disappoint them with your lackluster weekend.

"Uh…I went into Seattle last weekend. How 'bout you?" you answer honestly.

"Oh," and she whips out her digital camera to show you pictures, "We just got back from Darfur." Darfur, huh? Figures. Couldn't be something like Starbucks. No. Friggin' Darfur. You glance down at your iPod no longer feeling morally superior and comtemplate telling them you bought the CD, then realize that would just sound lame.. So…how do you respond to easing the human suffering of thousands?

"Um…I got a Krispy Kreme while I was in town."

July 5, 2007: Darwinism has Failed

2008-11-02T07:29:00.000-08:00

My home town is a tiny little German community quite literally in the middle of nowhere. The grocery store doesn't take credit cards; you can charge on family name alone. The little café has two kinds of salad, potato and macaroni. The sign coming into town says "Willkomen" and it is as big an insult to be called a hunyuck as it is a redneck

I tell you this to give you an introduction to the general mindset of the community. I had the misfortune of sitting next to a couple of these above mentioned hunyucks during my hometown Independence Day celebration. Now, because these men had the "right name" (small towners will know what this means), there were no consequences to the actions I am about to describe.

After the annual fried chicken dinner is over, there's not really much to do at the fairgrounds beside listen to the polka band and the "talent" show until it gets dark. These inebriated men, sitting about five feet away from me, decided to take it upon themselves to give a little pre-show. From time to time, they would take a stick of dynamite, light it, and throw it off away from the crowd where it would explode like a mortar causing furrowed brows and evil eyes from women hovering protectively over their children. Most shocking to me is the lack of response from the crowd patrolling police! C'mon people, this is a public park and there are children here. You can't have kids with bottle black jacks (those are dangerous), but let's let the men play with dynamite! I digress...

I cannot help but overhear them talking. As I mentioned, they were drunk so they had no control over the volume of their voice. They are telling some friends about there escapades from the night before. They had gotten their hands on some Vietnam era smoke bombs. The red and green kind used to send signals by soldiers. How they got their hands on these is a mystery. It is entirely possible they picked them up at a garage sale from some dear woman who had been using them as Christmas tree ornaments for the last fifty years.

Regardless, the story they recounted is such: We been throwin' em at folks all night. The red smoke id clear and we'd throw a green one. Folks'd cheer and we'd do it all over 'gain. Well, we got t'hold of this funny lookin' one that didn't say if it were red er green. We decided "what t'hell" pulled the pin and tossed it out t'where we threw the others. (He paused to give a long drawn out belly rumbling belch while I held my breath thinking that if he'd thrown a live grenade, surely it would have been on the news.) Well…It didn't go off like we s'pected… (Another drunken burp)…All of a sudden this yellow smoke started pouring out over the crowd. People was coughing, people was getting sick all over each other, and then comes this kid on a four wheeler, drove right through the middle of it and wrecked, fallin' out the seat…(by this point the man was near tears he was laughing so hard)…It was teargas in at grenade! We teargassed 'em! (At this, his drunken friend joined in the uproarious laughter)

Most horrifying of this entire experience was these men had already reproduced! Their wives were standing, listening, and shaking their heads. The one cradling a baby rolls her eyes; the message seems to convey "Boys will be boys." I couldn't believe it! Honestly, a man drops his iPod in the toilet of an airplane and is detained by homeland security for hours but a couple of good ol' boys teargas a crowd of innocent spectators and no questions are asked??? I really hope this was all just a tall tale he was telling his buddy!

So what's the moral of this story? If you find your self taking a wrong turn off I-80 and start to hear dueling banjos or the oompah of polka music turn yourself around, get back on the interstate and keep driving. Darwinism has failed.

December 26, 2006: Meet the Family

2008-11-02T07:10:00.001-08:00

Christmas with my family is a lengthy event that actually begins about a month before hand. It begins with my mother, sister, and I gathering in mom's spacious farm house kitchen. The walls are painted butter yellow and the red and white checkered curtains accent her Kitchen-Americana hot pads and cutting boards. We gather there to begin the holiday baking. We start with the most annoying Christmas cookie ever devised. Klugens.

A klugen, it is a small, dark, crunchy German cookie that tastes and smells like black licorice. I say it is the most annoying cookie to bake for a couple of reasons, if the dough isn't the right temperature they won't turn out properly. The recipe (which cannot be halved, quartered, or otherwise reduced—woe on you if you should attempt such folly) makes about 600 cookies. For the first two reasons, it takes roughly a month to bake Klugens. But mostly these are the annoying cookies to make because the recipe is in German.

This wouldn't be a problem if I spoke or read German, but that skill left our family several generations back. It is now up to my father, who picked up a few fragments of the language while he was in the military, to translate this generations-old recipe. He takes painstaking measures to assist us…not painstaking for him, but for us.

He will lumber into the kitchen with his cane, hook a chair back with the end and slide it to the counter next to the coffee pot. He is perfectly situated to be completely in the way, and heaven forbid we should request he take up residence elsewhere. We need him, after all. Zucker, that means Sugar. Really, couldn't you figure that out on your own??? Give me a harder one. Don't you girls have this recipe memorized yet??? I've asked my mother on several occasions why we don't just write it down. Her response is to the point as she stares over the rims of her bifocals at my father. When your father no longer translates the klugens, we no longer have to make them. So we continue; my father te-heing in the corner over his own import to this endeavor while my mother and I add ingredients and beat the dough until our arms burn with fatigue.

Next comes Christmas shopping. My father has only recently discovered the convenience of shopping online, which cuts down on the number of shopping experiences we have with Dad. He usually meets either my sister or I (never both at the same time because all you kids ever do is bicker) at the mall. We walk into the Sears automotive department (because that's where the best parking is, according to my father) and he swings his cane wildly from side to side pointing out particular items and nearly cloths-lining small children. He cackles at my admonishments and tells me that they shouldn't get in the way.

Christmas shopping with my mother and sister, on the other hand, is equally as painful. We meet at the fountain in the middle, because we are all busy women with many presents to buy and we are serious about this business. I am on a mission: Get in, get the gifts I have already written on my list, and get it over with in as little time as possible. Unfortunately my mother and sister don't subscribe to the same battle plan.

They shop in a sensory extravaganza where you move through the store at the pace of two millimeters a minutes. My mother, a short blueberry shaped woman in her wool overcoat exclaims every few minutes at the good deals or unique merchandise. My sister, who is worse than my mother, has to touch everything. It doesn't matter if you quickly thumbed through that rack looking for that cashmere scarf you have on your list, you may have missed something and it is her God-given right to point out the error in your ways.

She will yell your name across the store, like a pet owner calling a dog and you have no choice then, because she will continue to yell your name growing louder and more annoyed at your lack of obedience. You have to stop, go back to where she is (usually about five feet from the entrance as she shops at a snail pace) touch the merchandise, feel the texture, smell it, and oooh and aaah over her good taste. If she doesn't think you've admired it thoroughly enough, she will bombard you with cornucopia of questions. Isn't it pretty? Don't you think Aunt Cleo would love this? Do you think this will match that white shirt I wore on Thanksgiving? Four days after you have entered the mall, you might be allowed to move on to the next store.

Finally, all the preparation for Christmas is over. The only thing left to do is gather the entire family for the feast. My sister and I, with our husbands in tow, head to Mom and Dad's Christmas Eve. My mother has recently become a little bit like the Queen Mum where church is concerned. She starts worrying early morning about the evening service. When most other mothers are baking copious amounts of homemade bread or straightening garland on the tree, mine is leaving roughly three messages an hour on my cell phone. She is wanting to know if I'm on my way yet, did my battery die because I'm not answering, am I out of reception because I'm close to getting there and reminding me, near panic stricken, that we only have two and a half hours to get to the church fifteen minutes away.

She says it is because the church fills up so fast and she doesn't like the metal chairs. I suspect it is because she wants to show us off. For years it was just my mom, sister, and I attending Christmas Eve service. We sat quietly in the folding chairs at the back or crammed into a pew with another family so large they have spilled over to take up three and a half pews. Now, since my sister and I are both married, it's get there early and sit right up in the front. Our family takes up an entire pew and not comfortably…being squished together is a badge honor my mother wears with pride.

With service over, we head home for a Christmas Eve feast. A feast that does not include any of the baking we have been doing for weeks on end, as the cookies are for Christmas. This is a small meal, by tomorrow's comparisons. My father complains about not being allowed to eat any of the cookies, set out for admiration. My mother explains by rote that he will spoil his appetite.

My mother has also started doing something strange at dinner. Whenever my sister, our husbands, Mom and Dad are all gathered for dinner, Mom says the blessing and then begins to cry. Mom's contradictory emotional display is an uncomfortable moment for all of us. We make jokes and tell her it's okay that she didn't make gravy, or blame each other for making Mom cry. She laughs, excuses herself and is back in a flash with some brown-and-serves fresh from the oven.

After the last dish is hand washed and put back in the china hutch, its present opening time. Opening a gift is on Christmas Eve is a tradition that goes back to when my sister and I were little and it was too hard to be good and wait until Christmas day to open your gifts. We were allowed one or two presents the night before. This year, mom was more excited then the rest of us. She grew impatient at our lack of enthusiasm and grabbed her pile of gifts, took them to the other room, and started opening them without the usual crowd participation, which outraged and amused us all at the same time.

The next day, it's a fight for who gets to use the one and only bathroom at my parent's house, and how long they've been in there, and when are we going to open the rest of our gifts? It is always an ordeal to get my father to open his gifts. He pretends not to be interested in them. It's a spectacle where we have to coax, encourage, and bribe him to open his presents and an even bigger ordeal to get him to hold it up to the camera without covering his face. There is nothing like a little family togetherness to make a bunch of adults act like children.

We skip breakfast and pile in to our cars to drive even further out of town, skipping lunch too, to spend the holiday with Dad's sister and her family. She is the oldest woman in our family now, and a sort of unofficial matriarch. What she says the family is doing is what the family does. The kind of woman that, if she were church-going, that would call you up and say I didn't see you Sunday morning, are you feeling well? And you would lie and say you were not and then be ashamed to the bone for being too hung over to attend service.

We arrive mid-afternoon, famished to near faintness. The house (which has two kitchens) smells of a million warm and wonderful things to eat. None of these things are we allowed to touch. There is a certain order to everything. You can't eat now or you will spoil your appetite. Didn't I mention earlier that our entire family starts cooking for this very event about a month prior? So you salivate over sugar cookies you can only look at and smell baked ham that will not be ready for a few more hours.

When the feast is finally prepared; something deeply primal takes control over your body. It is possible to practice self restraint just long enough to walk around the buffet and grab a sampling of the ten million dishes, the ham and the duck, the dilled carrots, the mashed potatoes (with gravy this time) and the seventy five types of holiday bread. Unfortunately, by the time you sit down at the table (my husband and I it is still the kids table because there are no more kids in our family—but this sometimes gets me out of doing dishes so I don't mind) you ravenously eat yourself into a food coma. At this juncture, there is a loss of roughly one hundred IQ points because all blood has been diverted from the brain to help in assisting a now happy digestive tract.

This is the culmination of the holiday, the grand finale. Even opening more presents after this doesn't compare to the actual event of good food and good wine. This is where the memories are shared and the stories are told. This is where photos are passed around the table after the forks and knives are still. This is where women with Q-Tip hair styles stand misty eyed behind the lenses of their Kodak. These are the events that make Christmas really Christmas. I hope yours was as wonderful and quirky as mine.