From the Cheap Seats

Perspective

2011-04-06T08:20:00.005-04:00

I've been away for awhile. I have been so ambivalent of time as of late that I didn't even realize months had gone by since I last posted. Months . . . lifetimes, really.

Ear infections, Autism assessments, illnesses, periods of self-reflection, speech therapy, dirty floors, bad hair days, preschool, unshaved legs, occupational therapy . . . life.

They say the mark of a true writer is someone who writes everyday. Anywhere. Anytime. Thank goodness I never made that claim. I love to write. Sometimes. It can be cathartic. Cleansing. Freeing. But sometimes it is like picking at a scab that is not quite yet healed underneath.

Did you hear about the parents who were both diagnosed with cancer within 9 days of one another? I watched their story on the news today. Read the article. Visited the blog.

Then I remembered. This place, it isn't about JUST the writing. It isn't about just the telling of the mundane and not-so-mundane aspects of our lives. This place . . . it is full of people who have provided love, support, and encouragement to virtual strangers. It is a place where we meet, where we wrap ourselves around the stories, where tears fall in silent rooms dimly lit by the glow of a computer screen. It is the place where we make promises to be better, to do better, to go beyond what we know and who we are to do for someone else. Someone, often, we have never, ever met and may never meet.

There are reasons why I stepped away from blogging. From this place. But they are not nearly as important as the reasons I wish to come back. Outside of the dizzying number of well wishes from my blogging friends on a birthday I don't necessarily feel like celebrating, I realized I was missing something. And, I wanted it back.

Read this story if you haven't already. Nathan and Elisa are now part of a family of infinite members. A family that I am forever grateful to know.

See you soon.

I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to post about P-O-O

2010-11-30T22:51:00.004-05:00

But here's the deal. I really don't care . . .

***

JR is fairly well potty trained. The only challenge we've come to face is the "poopy" parts. While he has no trouble announcing its impending arrival, "POO POO coming!" and then hightailing it to the toilet, he does have some relational issues.

He has trouble . . . letting go.

***
"Mama, poo poo coming!" I race behind him as he scrambles toward the bathroom, pulling down his pants as he runs. He tosses the McQueen (CARS) toilet seat on the toilet and springs (and I do mean SPRINGS) on top, shifting his legs beneath him, tucking his boy parts beneath the pee protector.

Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Red face. Squeeze.

Plop.

"Mama, I did it!" Hands go in the air. I cheer as if I have just been notified that I am indeed a finalist for the Nobel Prize in potty training. This is my job. I do it well. I scream, whistle, hug and give what has become known as our finale--the double fist pump.

"Mama, look!" He peers into the toilet, admiring his handiwork.

"Yup, you did good little man! You have one big one and one tiny one." I support his curiosity. This is what good mothers do.

"Mama, oh, is so-eee cute!" He grins at me, indicating his belief in the aesthetic value of the smaller poop.

"Yeah, it kinda is," I say supportively. "OK, buddy, time to flush." I don't want to rush a good thing, but I fear this quality time has run its course.

We spend a few more moments in admiration. I'm fading fast. I remind him it is time to flush, wash hands, go play. His eyes narrow and he begins the whine. I try again. He laments, again. I can't take a poo dirge. I simply can't.

"Hey, JR, let's tell the poo poo bye and that will see it soon, OK?" The promise that they will meet again has worked. He reaches for the handle and slowly flushes.

"See you soon, poo poo!" He waves. It waves back in a swirl and disappears.

***THE NEXT DAY***

"Mama! Poo poo coming." And here we go.

Grunt. Squirm. Red face. Plop.

He jumps off the toilet in dramatic fashion, performing a sort of half spin as he faces the toilet, head bent down.

"Poo poo, you came back!" He turns to face me, perhaps realizing that I am a mother who keeps her promises. I lift my shoulders with pride. This is what good mothers do, you know.

"Oh, poo poo" he rejoices. Yes, indeed it came back.

My son can hardly contain his excitement while relishing in his good fortune.

"Yes, JR, it sure did." I make mental doodles in my head.

"Is sooooo--eeee cute!" And here we go again.

Superhero

2010-10-26T23:07:00.005-04:00

I have had many jobs in my life. I remember making "floor shakes" when I worked at a fruit juice stand while in high school. We would pour the pitchers full of sticky, fruity concoctions onto the already sticky, dirty floor and then slide around like blind ice skating Olympians, drunk Olympians with a penchant for Orange Julius.

I loved that job. I mostly loved that every single time I had to make a chocolate banana shake that I ALWAYS made way too much. Oddly, I was not about to waste such a precious mixture (yet, I had no trouble dumping it on the floor at the end of the night for pure entertainment purposes). No judgment please . . . thank you.

I made Subway sandwiches (I was an expert bread cutter--I cut the bread like hull of a boat where the top of the bread fit like a Tupperware lid minus the burp). I taught water aerobics to senior citizens. Cranky, opinionated, invigorated--it didn't matter. It was a "Rump Shakerpalooza" and a hell of thrill to watch. As a side note, it was one of the only times in my life I wasn't self-conscious in a bathing suit. I have to admit getting a few cat calls from the over-60 set was a thrill.

Customer service, retail, teaching, technology. I have been to job hell and back. I have worked for nothing and done nearly nothing for a lot of something. I've had bosses who bossed, bosses who leered, bosses who went crazy and did things to Post It Notes that to this day I still have a hard time talking about.

Jobs. Lots of 'em. Too many . . .

Yet, the job that I loved the most. The job that I would do all over again from day one. The job that paid absolutely nothing.

Motherhood. Well, yes . . . that, too.

Sister.

I loved being a sister (even if I didn't know it then). I love it more now. Being the eldest I had an advantage that extended beyond height (that advantage is long gone as I am the "runt" of the family). I had experience, knowledge, and a driver's license.

I remember hoisting up toddlers and preschoolers on my feet and launching them onto the couch. They would slide to the floor in fits of giggles while begging for more. I lugged the three of them to the beach, piled them in my car, chased them in the backyard, and checked on each and every one of them at night, to make sure they were breathing. To make sure they were still there. We fought. Big fights. Lots of tears. Lots of wounding words. I'd give a limb to relive those moments and make them pretty, sweet, a moment a unicorn would hang a rainbow on.

But I can't. All I can do is be thankful for the moments we shared that made me look like a superhero. Yes, I said it. I loved that they saw me that way. Before they knew any better.

JR calls his little sister, Baby A, Angel. It is a name that will stick for the purposes of this blog. I love that he calls her that, even if he is just mimicking me. I love that he leans in for kisses while she hums and pushes her puckered-lipped face forward. They meet and it is magic.

I swell. They swell. He sighs, "Oh, Baby Angel" and she nuzzles her head under his chin.

He loves her. She loves him. He's her Superman.

Then he nearly chokes her as he pulls her away from the train table and the impressive track design he has so diligently been working on. She screams as she uses her head as a weapon against him, pounding it against his chest.

Sibling love. What a beautifully painful thing.

So they probably will try to kill each other on more than one occasion. I know he will profess his disdain for her and she will swear she is not related to him. I know he will probably pull her hair (when it finally grows in) and she will more than likely tattle on him for every single little thing. Hero worship will become a thing of the past.

I know it's coming. I've seen the previews.

But I know that no matter what, they will be there for each other. I hope that in the midst of teaching them love, respect, and self-defense, that I'll be able to foster a friendship that will last forever or at least until my funeral.

I'm not a superhero anymore. My siblings are all grown up. They are smart, strong, independent. They are funny, creative, talented. They can leap tall buildings . . .

You know, I just realized something. I may not be a superhero . . . but how cool is it that now I have three of my very own?

Very cool, indeed.

I Love You . . . But

2010-07-23T08:52:00.006-04:00

BlogHer dumped me.

I can't say I blame them. I hadn't blogged in weeks. Months. (That's cool. I made .49 as per my recent BlogHer check--now I feel guilty that some tree had to suffer for my meager earnings. Great.)

A friend of mine had a baby a week or so ago.
I didn't even know she was pregnant.

I've missed a few appointments.
It's no wonder since I don't even remember making them.

I can be in the middle of a conversation and fall asleep.
Well, what do I expect on only a few hours of sleep?

I have no idea what I look like with make up and hairspray.
But I know exactly what I look like in sweat pants and t-shirts.

My purse has a Buzz Lightyear, a Blue's Clue paw print, and a mini Doc from CARS in it.
I have no idea where my lip gloss went.

"Date Night" involves a movie never watched and a fancy dinner at the Taco Bell.
We usually never get through the movie--sleep is a rare commodity.

I type this as my nearly three-year old climbs on me and points to my tepid coffee and says "So hot!"). I tickle him and her races off preparing for the morning chase. Which means I'm going to have to run . . . again. And again . . .

Time is a rare commodity . . . yet oddly, sometimes it lingers longer than it should in the spaces between bath and bedtime.

Are you ready for the great revelation?

Motherhood is hard.

I get it.

It took a little time, a little distance from the hormonally fueled honeymoon of being a new mom, with my shiny, squeaky things and inflated ideas of perfection. Oh, and I suppose having ANOTHER child provides some clarity as well.

(My nearly three-year old has confiscated a box of "Crunchies" and is now . . . he poured the entire box on his pancake plate. I consider it a victory in that it is ALL on the plate. SCORE!)

I've come a long way from videotaping my living room and posting the elaborate toy "stations" we would go through as the day progressed. I've come a long way from the posts with ethereal photos in the park of a pale-faced, doe-eyed child looking lovingly into the camera. I've come a long way from the rhyming, witty posts about the lack of sleep, ending in a couplet of sweet understanding and love.

A long way . . .

Motherhood is hard. Perhaps "Whiskey in My Sippy Cup" was a clue. I just thought is was a cute blog name. Yeah, I had no idea it was a survival technique. Not that I've tried it . . . yet.

* * *

Jennifer Senior wrote in NEW YORK MAGAZINE about parenting. It wasn't your typical article about the joys of motherhood and the trials and tribulations that end in profound revelations doused in love. Nope.

It was about why parenting sucks--"Why Parents Hate Parenting." (a blog post dedicated to this article is brewing as I write this . . . )

A few years ago I would have scoffed at such a topic. Today, I get it. I love parenting, right? Sure I do. Do I hate parenting? Yes. Some days I do. But the constant is this--I absolutely love my children. Even if I cringe as I peel a Dum Dum out of my hair, change a poop explosion that has spilled out into areas unknown, chase after a toddler as he runs like an Olympian into the parking lot, tend to "business" while my infant eats toilet paper and the toddler "decorates" the bathroom with said paper while "blessing" it with the toilet brush. Yeah. I love them.

I feel like a late arrival to a party where all the games have been played, the wine bottles have been emptied and the party goers sit slouched on tired couches recalling the days of misspent youth. Mommy bloggers have been blogging about their exploits since the blog was first birthed (pun weakly intended). I remember thinking, "Perhaps it will be different for me."

No. It hasn't been.

And for that, I am thankful and desperate, trying to remember why I've abandoned this blog, the blog world.

Oh, yeah. The whole time and sleep thing.

And, while there is not enough blog space for me to thoroughly explore another topic, I think too much. I don't think I have that luxury anymore and quite frankly, it is a luxury I don't need, I never needed. I would ruminate over a blog post until I killed the topic with critical thoughts and misdirected misconceptions. Really, I obliterated perfectly good ideas, worrying about how it sounded, driving myself crazy with fear that it might not be good enough. I was drenched in self-doubt and while drowning, I let go of the story and it let go of me.

Just write, just tell it like it is, with all the raw details, cliches and misspellings you want. So you're no Hemingway. Who cares if what you say is trite or far from profound. It's like blood . . . everyone has it running through their veins, but the difference is that it courses through your body. Your words. Your blood.

Perhaps you'll want to read what I write. If you do, so be it. If you don't, so be it.

I miss this. I do.

And I'm not ready to walk away . . .

I Tried Not to Make a Scene

2010-03-07T14:46:00.002-05:00

Let's just not mention how it has been over a month since I last posted. Agreed?

Great.

Moving on.

JR is in this art class. Well, it really isn't so much an art class as it is a big room with activities set up in stations. Outside of the very loose circle time at the end of the class period, there is very little structure. It is perfect for JR.

The very first day we went to class was a nightmare. While the little girls sat at tables and pressed their tiny hands into clay or happily twirled a paint brush, my guy ran around the room as if his head were on fire. He begged nearly every person in the room to help him escape the evil of a room filled with crayons, puppets, and puzzles. Let's be perfectly honest, some of those puppets can be scary.

He hung on ankles, pleaded with his sad blue eyes, and yanked with all his two-year-old might. He wanted OUT.

The first day was spent trying desperately to get him to stay, to try, to hang in there just one more moment.

He went over to the sensory table (a sand/water table filled with beans), filled his hands with beans, and let them fall through his fingers. The sensation was calming. Unfortunately, the mother standing nearby with her daughter didn't think it was so calming. She abruptly pulled her daughter away. "Let's go play somewhere else for now." For now.

For now.

I get it. I got it. I do. My child isn't exactly gentle. But, he was not out-of-control or violent. JR is just a little more robust in his play. He's a boy. He's a sensory kid. He's a toddler.

Her obvious disdain for our play was felt by me but largely ignored by my son. I'm thankful that he didn't notice the little girl being pulled away by her mother.

Flash forward to Wednesday.

JR has calmed immensely. He's in a playgroup that should help him with transitions and "proper" social interactions. They get that he is a sensory kid and they work that into how they interact with him. I love that. He needs that and so do I.

JR's behavior has improved in art class as well. He is calmer, more engaged in activities, and seems to enjoy socializing with other children (and inanimate objects--whatever works!).

Unfortunately, the mother from day one is still not convinced.

At the sensory table, JR and the little girl stood. JR raked his fingers the length of the table, she watched him intently as he looked up and caught her eye. They were calm, clearly engaged and maybe even enjoying one another.

Until mom came. "Let's go play somewhere else, for now."

She did not just say that again? I made an effort at eye contact with her, hoping my mom-to-mom gaze would speak volumes.

It didn't work. Off she went, little girl in tow. JR standing alone at the table.

Again, he seemed unfazed. I, however, was not.

Inside a fire was ignited. How dare she! Couldn't she at least make it a little less obvious? I know moving to the circle of other mothers to discuss exercise videos and vacation spots was clearly more important than letting her daughter socialize with the class pariah, but come on! Because it is my hope to keep this a family friendly blog, I will withhold the unpleasant (horrific) thoughts that filled my head and the poisonous words that clung to my tongue.

I've been there. I've been rejected. Neglected. I've been ignored. While in my youth these rebuffs would have sent me reeling, as I've grown older they barely register. I don't care. I will not force anyone to like me, to befriend me. Being fairly level-headed, I don't get worked up by much.

But JR. It is a wholly different. This is my child. He is innocent. He is sweet. He is funny. He is smart. He is just a little different.

A little.

I am pained to realize that one day he may realize those differences. But even if those differences no longer matter, I pray he will never, ever be the kind of person who lacks compassion, understanding, acceptance.

I want him to see beyond the differences of others, to embrace them, maybe even celebrate them. My greatest hope is that he is one who reaches out instead of turning around and walking away.

Filed under things they never tell you when you become a mother

2010-01-20T21:02:00.008-05:00

I cried today. I felt the tears well up, drowning my vision in what ifs and what could have beens and a healthy dose of you were not enoughs.

He sat before me, alternately working his pen across the page and looking up at me, the mother. He told a story, an anecdote meant to comfort me, while his eyes darted to my son writhing in my husband's arms, my son in the grips of an unexplained urge to bolt. Our daughter lie on the table, clad in a diaper and a drool-filled grin. Patient. Waiting.

I'm sad. When I looked in his tiny eyes nearly 2 1/2 years ago vivid images of a laughing toddler, a boy curled up with a sleeping puppy, a young man proudly walking across a stage, a father cradling his child took up residence in my mind. My boy. My son. Those images are nothing but hazy reminders that I am not in control. That sometimes life renders you powerless.

The doctor gave us our referral. JR will soon be in therapy for a disorder I'm still trying to wrap my brain around. While I take comfort in a checklist of symptoms, I find I have more questions than I do answers--the questions are tiny voices echoing in my ears--"Is this my fault?" "Has my history inked itself upon your present, your future?" "How will I fix you?"

* * *

This is it. I gorged myself on optimism. This will work! Fresh lies pushed the nagging truths to the shadowy recesses of my brain. I will make this work. My conviction wallowed in fatigue, as did my body. I knew this was going to suck. Hope was nothing but a sucker punch.

He ran around the room. I introduced myself to the other mothers, pulling suckers out of my bag and watching as JR climbed the stairs, peered through the windows of a plastic house, and happily greeted the pretty girl who has become his best friend.

An unstructured art class. For toddlers. This was what JR needed. I just plunked down a small fortune to make it true. I tried preschool. Fail. I tried a gymnastics class. Fail. Playdates. Fail (mostly). This had to work.

***

He's such an awesome kid. He's charming. Engaging. He's learning new words and phrases nearly every single day. Do you know he can identify every letter of the alphabet? Maybe it's no big deal, but to me it is simply genius. He is so bright. But . . . he never, ever stops. Never. He lives by the credo- "Why walk when you can run?" His energy level is astounding, infectious, exhausting. But only at home, in a world carefully constructed by me, his mother, or in a world where there exist no walls, no hands pulling him back, no voices telling him NO, does he truly thrive.

***

The unstructured art class was my undoing. I was THAT mother of THAT child. With an infant in one arm, I raced after him as he headed for the door, the big room, the staircase. The other children crowded the easel, the bean table, the train set. Their parents sat with them, taking in the look of gleeful wonder that gilded their toddlers' faces.

Except for mine. He screamed. He writhed. He dropped to the floor. He wanted out. And so did I.

"Do you want me to take her while you handle him," her voice was kind, masking the pity she felt for me. I handed my baby girl to another mother, a stranger, so I could stop my son from running out of the room, up the stairs, and out onto the street.

We sat on the floor in the outside hall. I pulled him to me, willing him to be like the other children. Willing him to just stop.

"If he can't do it, that's OK," the teacher said to me in a hushed, yet supportive tone. I heard only, "Please don't come back, ever." I'm sure that's not what she meant. Actually, I'm not all that sure.

We left early, both of us empty and a little lost. I was too tired to be mortified. Too afraid to be angry. It didn't work and I had no idea how to fix it.

***

My daughter is six months old and today was her six-month check up. While I wanted so much to immerse myself in her growth, in her amazing development, I was lost in a haze of self-doubt, of worry, and of an undeniable fear for my son. I raced through the questions about my daughter, who gurgled and grinned her way through her exam. My hand rested on her soft belly, her fleshy legs kicking excitedly at my touch. But my focus was on the small piece of paper I had in front of me--a penciled in checklist of all the ways my baby boy was broken stared back at me.

Broken.

I know every child is different. Evey child has his or her unique challenges. I don't seek platitudes or even heartfelt words of support and encouragement. I simply seek a soft place to land. For now. I want time to inhale and exhale. I want a few more minutes, hours, days to look at my son and not think therapy, disorder, referral, special, delayed . . . broken. I just want to look at him and feel the weight of his perfection one more time.

Truth. I'm broken. Yet I need no salve. No tape. No glue. No bandages. No glaring faces with a notepad and wire rimmed glasses. No labeled bottles filled with pills. No bottles filled with booze (not yet, anyway).

I just need to dry these stupid tears, yank up my mom jeans, and push on. Right? Because that's what we do. That's what I must do.

Because right now . . . he's alive. He's happy. He's healthy. And he's gonna be OK. Broken or not.

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
-Coldplay "Fix You"

How to Rip Off a Label

2010-01-06T19:50:00.001-05:00

"I don't get it," I turn the pages and desperately try to understand the fascination with a green room, a rabbit and a painting of a cow jumping over the moon. Toy house. Mittens. Socks. And that old lady "whispering hush."

My husband shrugged. He didn't get it either. Why was this book beloved by so many? What was the big deal? There wasn't much of a plot and the character development was awfully flimsy.

Although I didn't know it then, I would be delivering a 5 lb. baby boy in a matter of days. It would be only then that I would get it.

***
"She's a daydreamer. It is hard to get her to focus." My mom nodded at what she already knew.

"I know. She's always been like this. She gets lost in her own little world." My mother had no idea the weight of her words.

We left the meeting with a label and a referral for services. I was now "special." I had a label and "it" had a name. ADD.

My mom refused the drugs, claiming that I would eventually grow out of it as if it were last year's woolly winter coat. Although I don't know if I grew out of the condition or if I just learned to manage it, I never grew out of that label. While over time the label no longer existed in my records, it wrapped itself around everything I tried to do. It became my crutch, my excuse, my reason to begrudgingly welcome failure. ADD--my chaperone to mediocrity.

***

"What are you thinking?" I watched her as she followed JR around the room. She'd tilt her head, sigh, scribble in her notebook, and then finally, she looked to me. What the hell was she thinking?

"Well, I'm just taking note of the things he is and isn't doing, you know, what's right and wrong for a two-year old." The sound of her voice was like a needle working its way through the back of my neck. I cringed. She was the developmental specialist assigned to our case. Since JR was a month early we qualified for special services. Although I didn't think we really needed them, I was eager for any help, any guidance that I could get. I was focused on speech--the extra help would be a bonus. But the look on her face, the haughty tone in her voice. What was she talking about?

JR was born a month early. Totally healthy except for having to endure time under a lighted blanket. He hit every milestone. No delays. I never expected him to be a genius, to play a concerto at 3 , recite the periodic table at 5, enter college at 10. I just wanted him to be where he was supposed to be, whether he got there early, late . . . didn't matter. I just wanted him to get there.

His speech was my biggest concern. While he was a physical dynamo, his verbal skills consisted of short grunts and my personal favorites, high pitched, groans and whines. I got it. He had better things to do than speak. He wanted to run, to jump, to make an attempt to land in the ER before 3.

"What are you thinking when you watch him? I only ask because you have a look of concern on your face." I prompted her to respond. I leaned in closer and searched her expression.

"Autism," she replied. And with that, the oxygen was sucked out of the room.

***
He doesn't have autism. I'm 99% sure. The doctor was 100% certain, shaking his head as I told him of the events leading to his "diagnosis."

Regardless, we live in a world of labels. What will be his label, I wonder? What word will bind his hands and cause him to second guess his ideas, his dreams, his abilities?

***

A wise friend once asked me, "What would you do if he did have autism?"

My mind was a swirling vortex of bubbled questionnaires, meetings around tables with "experts" scrawling notes, laborious hours of therapy, and the countless fears that he may never belong.

What would I do?

Love him. Intensely. Unconditionally. No matter what.

***
JR wraps his legs around my body, his head rests on my shoulder as I lean back into the chair and open the book.

GOODNIGHT MOON.

"Moon!" JR shouts.

"Yes, baby. MOON!"

"Goodnight comb and goodnight brush."

"Mush!" he shouts.

I squeeze him tightly in my arms.

"Yes, baby. Goodnight mush."

I hold him in my arms, gently rubbing the arch in his back. His words silence the nagging fears and doubts--in him, in me.

The labels fade into an imperceptible whisper.

"Goodnight noises everywhere."

Getting It

2009-12-10T00:23:00.004-05:00

Atop a wobbly stool I sit, one knee tucked under the counter, fingers stumbling across keys.

This is my escape. If I had the fortitude to do so, I would climb in and nestle against the steady hum of hard parts and slick wires.

I get it.

I do. Today my son and I debated the heroic traits of a cowboy and an astronaut. Maybe debate is too strong a word. He ran around the house with my old Woody doll (though my husband prefers "action figure") while calling him Buzz. I corrected him. A few times. I say debate. Call it what you will.

My daughter sang an aria. Her voice carried through the house, over the "Buzz" and the whir of the dishwasher. She punctuated her aria with shouts of agony attributed to two tiny buds forming on her tender pink gums. I spent an hour rubbing her gums while humming "You are my sunshine" and listening to Elmo drone on about going to the doctor.

I did brush my teeth. Granted it was after a lunch of stale crackers and celery sticks, brushed they are. My bicuspids do not keep time (though my incisors are rather annoyed at my tardiness from time to time).

The rhythm of my life is filled with the constant beat of fulfilling wants and needs. None of which are my own.

I'm OK with that.

***

I don't hate Facebook. Not really. It is like a sad little friend longing for attention. How can you hate the pitiful soul that wears too much blush and thinks stirrups are in? She spouts pithy statements about her life because in truth she longs for depth. She stares at the sink full of bowls of crusted oatmeal and mystery food, at the floor covered in Thanksgiving grime, the TV screen filled with purple dinosaurs and talking one-eyed monsters. She turns to the pulsing screen and faded keys for consolation when all she gets is a nod and a grunt from the fleshy figure that walks through the door mumbling about "me time."

Her fancy cookies, trips to Paris, and brilliant children are the flesh and bone of her existence. Facebook (Twitter, blogging . . . ) gives it life.

I get it. I do.

We all do what we must. Who am I to judge? Who am I to roll my eyes at photos of grinning children over a plate of iced gingerbread cookies with the Eifel Tower as the backdrop?

So maybe I'll roll my eyes a little. Just a little. And then I'll come up with my very own pithy statement.

***

Today I cut out little felt circles. I placed them on a larger piece of felt, stacking them atop one another to fashion a snowman. "What you do, mama?"JR asked.

"I'm making a snowman for you." I held up the pieces for him to inspect. He palmed them, feeling their softness between his palm and forefinger.

"It is a snowman, JR. We'll make real snowmen when the snow falls from the sky." The curious tilt of his head tells me he gets it. Images of snowsuits, sleds, and me and JR making snow angels crowd my thoughts.

"Mama?"

"Yes, baby?" I am filled with anticipation.

He drops the small felt circles to the floor.

"Buzz." He picks up Woody and pulls his string. "There's a snake in my boots!"

"Honey, that's Woody." I gently correct him.

"Buzz."

I pick up the circles and wonder how hard it would be to make a felt Woody. Or Buzz.

***

I lure him into the kitchen with the promise of strawberries and marshmallows. I toss marshmallows up and catch them in my mouth. He thinks it is the most amazing thing he's ever seen (his laughter is evidence). His little sister sits in her bouncer, amused at the squeals of her big brother. Their whoops and giggles fill the room. In only a few moments I find that I can "trip" and "fall" and JR is in near hysterics. His little sister can barely contain her glee. Larry. Curly. Moe. I'm all three to the delight of my children.

Walt Whitman once mused, "I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing."

I get it.

I do.

I totally do.

Caught Up

2009-11-19T01:41:00.005-05:00

Blank screen.

I have no idea what to write. Not a single clue.

Yet, my mind is filled with rambling thoughts, words willing themselves from keyboard strokes to the virtual page.

I hate when that happens.

I had a goal. I wanted to write a little every day. I thought my blog would hold me accountable to that promise.

It didn't. I got caught up.

Baby A is growing so fast. She used to fit between hip and knee, propped up with her head tilted as if listening to secrets instead of my sing song whispers in her ear.

JR is speaking to me. He was silent for so long and now he is all, "Mama, mama, mama." I cover myself with the warm cloak of motherhood with each mumbled syllable.

I find myself feeling heavy with frustration. I want so desperately to soak in my baby girl, to observe each twitch of bowed lips and shift of her slate blue eyes. I want to translate her melodic coos and chirps. Sometimes, I just want to hold her, to feel her heft against my chest or her soft frame curled within mine.

But he calls me. He needs me. I want to sit with him, watch him trace his fingers over the page, willing the words to come and bring the story to life. I want to guide him as he creates masterpieces of crayon, chalk and paint. I want to take his hands in mine and twirl him until we fall into a dizzy pile, legs entwined, locked in a loose embrace.

And then there is me. Mama.

Laura.

I used to know exactly who I was, what I wanted. I was passionate about so many things. I was fueled by an internal drive to succeed--to do something big, to be someone important.

I feel myself fading into motherhood and it is right where I want to be. I am big to them, I am important to them. I am enough as I am. There are things I want, but for now they can wait.

But so much will not.

She will grow out of the gentle curve of my body and leap out of my arms, never to return again.

When will the last day be? When will I last feel your squishy little body resting in my arms? I know there will be a last day . . .

I know his calls will one day be for someone else. The woman he needs will no longer be me. I get it. I do . . .

Do you need me? If you do, I'm here.

No, mama. I'm can do it.

That day will come.

It's OK. I want those days to come, to see my babies grow. To see them become independent, strong people of purpose.

But for now, I just want to hold them in my arms, feel their sweet breaths against my ear as we talk about how I love them "through and through." I want to stay caught up for as long as I possibly can . . . for as long as they'll let me.

Reason #354 on why Facebook Sucks

2009-11-06T14:45:00.008-05:00

Click. Scroll. Click.

Nice. Swell. Awesome.

Today I have even more proof as to why I am the world's worst mother.

Flippin' Facebook. Oh, how I hate thee.

"Just took the kids to the apple orchard! The kids absolutely loved it! We're making homemade applesauce this afternoon and then we'll bundle up on the couch and tell stories about how much we love apples! What a glorious day!"

"Tanner's teacher told me how special Tanner is and that he incredibly advanced for his age. We are looking to have him tested for MENSA membership. We just adore our little one-year old. Wish us luck!"

"Just got back from a Safari in Africa. The children were ecstatic. We have some amazing photographs that were taken by a National Geographic photo journalist. He's thinking that our family would make a wonderful cover! Can you imagine? We just wanted to give the children the opportunity to actually SEE African animals and now we are going to be on the cover of a magazine! I'll let you know when so you can all pick up a copy.Maybe the children and I will fashion homemade frames out of bamboo for you to put the picture in. Wow, I am so full of ideas!"

"I just finished making 12 costumes for Ashley's dance troupe! I even weaved the cotton with my loom. It's so lovely. Later I'll be making a hearty vegetable soup (from veggies picked from our cooperative) that we'll deliver to our local soup shelter later this afternoon. All this and it is barely noon! I'm not even tired yet. Bring on the day!"*

Really?

Seriously?

I get it. You're perfect. You have an awesome life. You have a busy life (really? 'cause I totally think some of you are lying or at the very least, exaggerating. If not, then you are bragging and that just sucks). But, do you really need to tell all 6,543 of your friends?

It has gotten so mind-numbingly bad that I'm back to wishing for more posts like this:

"Just picked a splinter out of my big toe. It was big. Ouch."

"Ate Wheaties for breakfast. Going to shower now."

"Anyone know any home remedies for hemorrhoids?"

I'm not perfect. I'm nowhere near a supermom. I wouldn't know the first thing about African Safaris -- but WE do look at animals in books. Occasionally, I'll follow JR around and growl. That's as safari as we get in these parts. JR is nowhere near being MENSA material. He bangs his head against the wall for fun and his best friend is a tiny toy car named Lightening McQueen.

Once, a long, long time ago, I lived in a bubble. It was a glorious bubble free from Facebook and mom's groups. It was a bubble that had me believing that I was OK. I was actually pretty darned great. JR and I colored, played with Playdoh, I chased him and tickled him silly, we watched Sesame Street together (I am an expert at imitating Cookie Monster--and eating like him, too), I read to him, and we'd dance and spin in the living room until we were dizzy. Sometimes we did absolutely nothing but sit on the couch where I would hoist him up on my knees and make up songs.

Damn, I was good.

I don't doubt that I'm a good mom now. Trust me, this isn't a whiny post where I am desperately searching for words of support and encouragement.

BUT, I can't like, Facebook can make it tough (so can blogs and Twitter if we really want to get down to it). There are super amazing freakishly perfect people out there . . . let me tell ya.

As for the rest of us, we're just . . . we're just, here. Trying our best. Day after day.
"I just brushed my teeth (it's noon). I'm hoping I'll be able to take a shower sometime today--or at least before my PJs start walking on their own. JR just smeared finger paints . . . oh, no, that would be a Sharpie, on the walls. Baby A is grunting something extraordinary in her diaper. And, I'm pretty sure my washer is dead. Yay me."

That's more like it . . . yup. Sure is.

*So, none of the above post were actually on Facebook, but you get the point. And quite frankly, some of the posts are even worse.

Survival Mode: Act III

2009-11-05T03:05:00.011-05:00

I grab fistfuls of damp grass, mud crusts underneath my fingernails.

Not wanted. Discarded. Dead.

I want to scream, to sob, but I'm suffocating. I stand among the ancient headstones trying to figure out how to breathe.

***
"I just think we need to take a break." He disentangles his fingers from mine, my hands drop to my sides. Defeated.

"Why?" My voice shakes. His answer won't make a difference.

I stare at my feet. They don't move. I don't breathe.

"You know I love you, right?" His eyes search mine. His finger lifts my chin so that my eyes meet his, but I squeeze them shut. I can't look at him. I'm humiliated. Embarrassed. Lost.

"God. You are beautiful." I'm giddy. "Every time we go through a yellow light, I get to kiss you." I turn to look at him, at this boy who makes me burn with longing. So this is what it feels like? This is love? Lust? Whatever. He wants me. I search for a green light and lift my foot off the accelerator.

I finally inhale. I'm only eighteen. The lanky boy with the sand colored hair is my first boyfriend. I have no clue what I'm doing. How do you act when someone tells you they don't want you anymore? There are no instruction manuals on how to survive this.

"I'll call you later," he says. He heads for the door, leaving me on my bed, my chin resting on my knees. No words. No manual. Am I supposed to cry? Would that be better than dying?

Frantic thoughts course through me, pushing out logic, flirting with insanity . . . i love you so much. please don't leave me. you are the only one i'll ever love. why don't you want me anymore? didn't I do enough to make you happy? what is wrong with me? am I ugly? stupid? your mom loves me. i braided your sister's hair and went to your brother's wedding. what about this ring? i don't know what to do? please . . .

"If he truly loves you, he'll come back." They sit in circles offering up words meant to shake the sadness from my bones. But the hurt runs through the marrow, clinging stubbornly to my insides.

"I'm just not ready. Can we wait a little longer?" Although uncertain, my words fall like bricks. He leans back into his chair, defeated. His smile fades as he turns his attention from me to nothing. I wonder if he still thinks I'm pretty.

I'm desperate to purge. I cut up his picture. I burn the program from Otello, the Othello opera he took me too only months before. We had front row seats. I pledged my love to Shakespeare. Later that night, I pledged my love to him. I smell him. I taste him. I see him every time I close my eyes. I dare not dream. I can't breathe when I dream.

"One day I'm going to marry you." He slips the band on my finger. The tiny stone still manages to catch the light. My thoughts drown out the lectures of the day. I'm too busy scrawling my name with his in my notebook.

I call his phone. I hang up before he answers. I listen to his voice mail messages. Replay. "I love you. See you at lunch." Replay. "I love you. See you at lunch." Replay. I wonder where he is now that he isn't with me.

My middle parts turn soft. My pain feeds on food and rarely surrenders to sleep. I sit on my bed in three-day old t-shirt and shorts eating soup noodles, granola bars, and Tootsie Rolls I stole from my roommate's secret stash. A rule-follower to a fault, I chug a beer when I couldn't sleep. The next night, I chug another. My roommate finally thinks I'm cool.

"Tell me your dreams." No one has ever asked me that before. Our feet tangle in the cool of the grass. His fingers pluck at the strings of his guitar as he puts my dreams to music. An empty clearing in an old cemetery becomes our Eden. I stare at him and swear that I see everything.

"She's not even pretty," says my friend. She tries to distract me to no avail. I watch him take the girl's hand in his while they walk across the courtyard, his guitar slung over his shoulder. I try desperately to catch his eye. I need him to see me, to tell me that she doesn't mean anything, to tell me that her dreams don't make music. He never looks my way. I can't breathe.

My hand moves over the passenger seat in my car. I remember him there. I hear him profess his love. I see the ring. I see a yellow light. He loved me once. But no more. I can't see past the ache. The loss etches its reminders in my flesh, wrapping me in a foreign desperation.

I drive. My foot pushes on the accelerator. I see flashes of him in my mind--his face, the cemetery, his guitar, yellow lights, my hand in his. They are cold reminders of what I no longer have. I try to piece together what I did. What I didn't do. I can't make sense of it. How does someone just stop loving you?

I drift left of center.

* * *

"I need to see you." His voice is familiar, the desperation is not. It's been three years since I last saw him. After letting me go and pulling me back in, one cool summer evening I finally said goodbye. Suddenly, my goodbye seems transparent and weak.

I agree to talk. We meet for dinner which turns out to be a setting for two at his apartment. Nervous, empty conversation over spoonfuls of spaghetti. This is what we've become.

And I feel nothing. No hurt. No pain. Nothing.

He tells me about his job, school, his goals. I nod. I'm impressed and proud. Nothing else lingers. I don't want to be with him. I watch his lips move, but I can't listen. I'm preoccupied with trying to understand why I ever thought the loss of him meant the loss of me.

I have no answer.

"I want you back." Wow. The four words every dumped girl dreams of hearing. He holds my hand, rubbing the soft square of my palm. "I need you." His hand reaches to my face, tracing the outline of my lips and bravely descending down my neck. This is all so familiar. Too familiar.

I sit forward in my seat and gently take his hands in mine.

"But I don't want you. I don't need you. Not anymore."

And suddenly, just like that, I can breathe.

Why not?

2009-11-03T23:59:00.001-05:00

I'm going for it. I'm going to attempt to write a blog post every single day in the month of November.

You know, I had a brilliant blog post written.

Then I realized it was nearly 3 AM (I started it before midnight, swear) and it just wasn't so brilliant anymore.

More like the opposite.

See you tomorrow.

Vanilla

2009-11-02T23:47:00.007-05:00

Narcissist. How dare you think of yourself so much. Stop reflecting. These thoughts, they are cumbersome.

I've always thought of myself as vanilla bean (all natural, of course) with caramel swirl and chunks of oddly shaped fudge. Some days I would even top myself with tiny pastel colored marshmallows. I didn't think I was just vanilla. But, just vanilla I may very well be.

Cruising the Internets, I try on posts for size. I shake them out and dig between their lines. Wondering. Do I fit? Does it fit? I read posts on disorders, loss, heartache, revelation, anger, and how to get the poo in the potty. I read about days too long and lives too short. I read about blossoming affairs, too much booze, sexless marriages, and hurdling victimization. I read abstract poetry that bleeds and pleads on the page. I read words that creep up the bony edges of your spine and whisper tauntingly in your ear, "You are not enough."

I cringe at the thought. I bend under the weight of my insecurities.

I remember my first year teaching high school. Roomless, I pushed around a cart, peering over the tower of files while navigating the perilous halls of the ancient school where dirt covered windows cast long shadows and perilous doubts. I even had a horn on my cart. The students ate me alive; they greedily gnawed on my fear and devoured my pride. Knowing there was very little to eat, I let them.

"Fake it until you make it," I told myself. You are only at year one. What shit-laced advice to give oneself. I didn't want to fake it, but I desperately needed to make it, bills to pay and all. I smiled with full teeth. I laughed with my whole aching body. I showed not one ounce of weakness and sucked back frustrated tears. They only saw what I showed them--my flesh stayed hidden, my bones buried. The smile was a simple yet perfect act of defiance.

I push through this blog, these posts. Am I writing down the bones of my history? Am I reflecting on my fragile present and the lives I have birthed ? Am I picking at half-healed scabs, hoping the salve of written words will heal? If so, like the clinician evaluating his patient, you should all be taking notes. Copious notes. On imaginary paper.

The truth. I can't fake it. I can't exist in spaces that aren't mine, even while I long for comfort in the soft folds of experience. My own story only occupies the periphery of where I am. I peck at it with my words, I pull at it with phrases drenched in longing. Longing to be more than the sum of another's history. My history was never about me. I was merely the observer in waiting.

But the words, won't they shape the stories, the fictions and truths you ache to tell? Will they? Or, will they fall flat and tumble across the page, exposed and empty? Gentle words, how can I place such a burden on you to provide shape to my existence?

I tell my stories against the grain of other people's histories. I tremble with the realization that maybe I have not lived. Maybe I have buried my truths for fear that they will break, will bleed, or even worse, fade against the backdrop of stories too vanilla to tell.

You cannot be what you are not. You cannot write what you do not know.

Yet this is it, this is what I have. I cling to it, the writing. It is my oxygen and I have been breathless far too long.

I don't know yet what I am. I don't know yet what I know. But, I know those words, no matter how clumsy and forced they may be at times. I know they are me. Vanilla? Maybe.

For now.

Survival Mode: Act II

2009-11-01T23:59:00.003-05:00

I dip my head in just enough--a modern Ophelia with no agenda. The world around me turns into echoes of twisted apologies. I close my eyes and focus on the stillness, the quiet that wraps around my body. The weight of the water provides asylum from all I don't want to know, from all I long to forget.

* * *

"Shhhh . . . " I found my voice pleading with the three faces before me. They angled their small bodies behind mine as I reached for the door knob, cold and hard in my hand.

Movement in the back room. I am not distracted. It is their fear that calms me.

"Hi!" I greet the man at the front door. My cheery disposition betrays the calm rage working its way up my spine, twining around my shoulders.

My eyes meet his. He looks down at his worn shoes, smoothing his gray pants as he hands me a small slip of paper. A folded reminder that we have no money. Now, no water.

"So, you're turning off our water? Right now?" I ask him. My baby sister works her way in front of me, curiosity beckons her. He looks down at the small girl, barely a child, much more a baby, and nods.

"Can you give me five minutes?" I plead with him in a low voice, masking my words from the ears below. They need baths. We need water. To cook.

"I'll give you 20. I have a few other houses to visit. I'll shut yours off last." He bites his lip, his head shakes with knowing. I suck in my breath. He has no idea what he's given me. Twenty minutes might as well be hours, days. Halfway down the walk, he turns his head to face the tiny faces that follow him. I turn away, refusing all offers of pity.

"Is he gone?" my mother asks, emerging from her hiding place in the back room.

I nod. I am 15 years old.

"We're going to take a bath." I guide them down the hall.

I let the water fall over their tiny frames as I work a soapy rag over their bodies. We stand in a stream of water, washing off the remains of the day. I know there is no water left for me.

There is no quiet, no stillness.

The bodies bounce excitedly past me, dragging their damp towels behind.

This is my asylum.

Survival Mode: Act I

2009-10-26T12:36:00.005-04:00

Her smile was tight and her hands gripped the wheel while a weak "Bye, I'll see you in a few hours" squeaked from her lips. Few. Too long.

My babysitter let the screen door shut before I had the chance to enter. The morning news blared from her TV set, the smell of stale cigarettes and bacon grease filled the small living room.

"Take off you shoes. Damn it, don't you kids ever remember?" she barked. She hid away in the kitchen, behind her newspaper and a cold cup of coffee. Across the living room her daughter, two years older than me with a body of curves and bulges that belied her eight years, was curled up on the burnt orange couch. The thrown. Her thrown. Her half-cocked sneer and arched brow were a bellwether. I shifted into survival mode.

I made my way to the other side of the living room to sit. To wait. The daughter flipped through stations, stopping only to watch my expression. I knew not to react. If I showed even the slightest bit of interest she would quickly change the channel. I remember once grinning wildly at an old episode of Gunsmoke. She flipped the channel and then let out a dramatic laugh of pleasure. I hated Gunsmoke. I was thankful that the sneering girl parked on the burnt orange couch was not too smart.

It swam in a congealed lumpy brown liquid. I pushed it around on my plate, hoping that it would either disappear or jump off my plate and run away before I had to take a bite. "You'd better eat every single bite," my babysitter let the words fall slowly, each a twisted reminder that she was in charge. So I ate. Every. Bite.

"That's mine," her daughter would stare me down, grabbing whatever it was I had in my hands, hers or not. I handed it over. There were too many battles in one day I had to fight, this was not one of them. I remember finding a knotted chain on the sidewalk while we walked to school. She jerked it from my hands, "It's mine!" Twisted. Knotted. Broken. Yes, I thought, it is yours.

"What is that?" My mom squinted at me as I pulled at my hair. She reached across the seat and found the soft pink mass that was lodged among the strands of long black hair.

"Gum? Why did you put gum in your hair?" I had no response, my teeth came down on my lip until I tasted blood. She worked for hours trying to free my hair from what was once a harmless piece of Bubblicious. Finally, she pulled out the scissors.

"Oh my God. You look like a little boy," squealed my babysitter, her short stubby fingers working their way through my hair. With cool satisfaction, a slow grin crept upon her daughter's face.

"You owe me a piece of gum," she whispered.

Tucking my shoeless feet under me, I silently nodded and counted down the hours. Only a few more to go. Just a few . . .

Survival mode.

Powerless

2009-10-10T00:00:00.000-04:00

"Mama! Mama" JR's small hands pushed against my arms. He stared up at me with a mix of fear and worry. I was breathless and my grip on him was unrelenting. I couldn't let go of him. I could barely move. My mind had returned to a nightmare only hours earlier.

I had awoken to feed my daughter. She was peacefully tucked at my breast as I fell back asleep. In what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, I awoke to see her peering up at me, her arms working their way out of her wrap as if she were trying to reach for me, perhaps to comfort me. My body was tight, my heartbeat echoed in my ears.

I had a nightmare. I can't even bear to write the hazy images that are seared into my brain. I'm still trying to understand how such images entered my mind, invaded my dreams, and turned a rainy early morning into a bruising nightmare.

I can't protect you, can I? I'm sitting in front of JR watching his tiny fingers work the wheels of Lightening McQueen. He loves CARS. He pushes the little red car across the hardwood, an excited squeal escapes his lips. My shoulders tense.

His happiness protected by me. His body protected by me.

Little A's breath is warm against my neck. I feel the heft of her body resting against mine. She is so peaceful, so calm. I rest her on my knees, lean forward, and brush my cheek against her's. A lopsided grin forms on her face.

Her happiness protected by me. Her body protected by me.

But what if I can't? What if something happens? Illness. Accident. Or something far worse.

In my nightmare, I watched him hover over their tiny bodies. JR had curled his small frame around his sister, attempting to shield her. Unaware of the danger, Little A's legs kicked and her hands waved above her head. He knew I was powerless. My babies were his bounty. And I could do nothing.

From the warmth of my womb they came, but into the cold world they will go. For now they are safely curled in the niche of my body and under the ABC quilt in the room next to mine. But I won't always be there, no matter how much I want to, no matter how much I try. I don't think I have that kind of faith. And hope at times eludes me.

I've squeezed my eyes shut a thousand times today, willing the images to go away, praying that GOODNIGHT MOON, the fingerprint painting drying on the counter, the Cheerios under the couch, a single pink sock on the floor will distract me, remind me.

I don't feel like supermom right now. I feel frightened. I feel powerless.

My Child is NOT a Designer Handbag

2009-09-22T12:47:00.007-04:00

Here's the deal . . . the number of play dates you schedule, the vast array of classes your kid attends, the brand name sewn in the back of his t-shirt, the "latest and greatest" toy you just purchased does not equal your ability, talent, or quality as a mother.

Playing dress up, rolling around on the floor, singing silly songs (that make absolutely no sense but would most certainly have Dr. Suess laughing and clapping while nodding his head in approval), putting together puzzles, jumping in the leaves, running around in the rain . . . makes them happy, makes them laugh, makes them smarter in ways we will never know . . . and it makes them look at you and say, "I love you, mom."

THAT should be enough.

But if you want to continue to brag about classes and playdates, designer clothes and the bajillion dollars you just spent at some toy boutique, be my guest. I'll be busy making mud pies.

I have no issues with classes and play dates . . . none at all. Big fan. But the "look at me and all I do as a mother" schtick gets old really, really quick. They are children, not a stinkin' Gucci bag.

OK. I'm done.

My Yearbook

2009-08-22T15:07:00.009-04:00

I always felt them coming. I would be shuffling lunch bags and textbooks around in my locker while the heavy buzz of conversation echoed through the halls. Lockers slamming, feet hitting the floor, and forced laughter accompanied the strained faces of students rushing through the day. High school. A foundation for social learning that often crumbled under my feet.

But they never seemed to rush. They never seemed to try too hard. The sisters. The twins-- identical but yet completely different. Star was constantly animated and bursting with unrestrained energy. Angel was thoughtful, the rock her sister perched upon. They floated through the halls. Huddled together, they swapped secrets and we felt special because they always seemed to let us in on them.

Though they weren't conventional beauties and they didn't posses the edgy cool of the high school jet set, they were popular.

They were the kind of popular you didn't envy because you actually liked them and they liked you in return. They were genuinely nice in a place where nice usually got you nowhere. There were no, "Wow, I love your outfit," or "Hey, how are you?" only to snarl and roll their eyes as you walked away.

We weren't really friends. Then again, my life motto of "thriving in anonymity" didn't really lend itself to making a multitude of friends. That didn't stop me from observing them and sometimes wishing they were triplets and I was the third.

Facebook.

Some of you know I finally broke down and joined. I must confess that soon after I spent one very long night perusing profiles. A kid I used to babysit for. My old college roommate. The girl I detested in high school--the one I used to sit behind in Geometry and fantasize about tying her long stringy White Rain-smelling hair to the back of her chair--with double knots. The quiet drummer from English who penned song lyrics, skipped Steinbeck, and frequently starred in my adolescent dreams.

Profile after profile had me reliving my childhood, my teen years, my college years. And then I saw it. Her profile.

"I am now raising my two nephews after the passing of my sister Star from stage IV breast cancer. It has been a long and hard road for us all this last year, but we are surviving."

The twins had lost their Star.

I pushed myself back in my chair in disbelief. We had lost students over the years--but Star's death didn't seem real.

Breast cancer? She was so young. We are all so young. The cliche wore heavy on my shoulders, for who am I to stake a claim to youth?

But none of that matters, does it.

"Can you believe she's gone?" I typed furiously to one of the only friends I have kept in touch with since high school--one of my best friends.

The same disbelief washed over her. She immediately contacted Angel, Star's sister, and expressed her condolences.

"I have stage IV breast cancer," replied Angel. "I'm so worried about these boys."

Angel. Cancer.

But I still see them in the halls, their easy conversation and laughter trailing behind them. I see Star bent over her sister's desk, hands moving through the air as she acted out her latest adventure. Angel pushing up her glasses as she balanced her lunch tray. The sisters, arms wrapped around each other, grinning and posing all over my yearbook.

My memories of high school seemed forever untouched. Our youth was as eternal as the images in my yearbook. The promises of what was to come were so alive, so vibrant, so real.

Is thirty or so years long enough to live? I don't think so . . . but, such is life. Fleeting as it is, like the echoes in those old halls. What will Star's sons, Angel's nephews come to believe?

Between then and now, life went on just as the inked up pages of my yearbook had begun to yellow and fade.

For now, I'm going back to that hallway, to remember those sisters who were so full of life, so full of promise, so full of untouched tomorrows . . . if even for a little while.

Two

2009-08-11T00:44:00.006-04:00

How did we get from this . . .

to this?

I have no idea. All I know is that it has been one crazy ride that I'd do all over again in a heartbeat.

Happy Birthday JR.

Thank you for teaching me how to breath . . .

and so much more.

Stabs at Coherency

2009-07-30T00:26:00.004-04:00

Averaging about 3 hours of sleep a night (and day--does a 10 minute snooze during Sesame Street count?) I realize that trying to compose a coherent blog post is . . . what is the word? Oh, yeah. Impossible (you should know it took three times to spell that right).

Let's just spill it . . .

Rainn Wilson. Funny. I don't even watch The Office. He was on Conan and his wit gave me weak knees. I found him rather sexy in a geek-love sort of way.

Baby still has no blog name. What she does have is a favorite sleeping position. On me, one arm tucked up under my armpit, her head wedged up under my chin, her body curled up on my chest. Best accessory I've ever owned.

Pajamas. I have no idea how to get out of them. Showers elude me. You can fake clean hair with baby powder.

Baby girl dreams. My sister-in-law once said that she thinks babies dream of breasts. Every time I see baby girl's eyes flutter I imagine she sees all sorts of boobs--all shapes and sizes. Some sporting wings and flying around performing air acrobatics. Others basking in the sun. A few swimming in pools of milk. It makes me laugh.

I wish I could wear a Onesie.

No. I don't. Neither do you.

I get to change the diaper of a toddler and the diaper of a newborn. I've never experienced such joy. Heard in our household last week:

Dad (shouts from JR's room--upstairs): OMG, L, you gotta see this. I see corn, raisins, and I have no idea. D-A-M-N. Massive stinkage.

Mom (me--shouting from the living room): Um, T. Sorta busy. I got stringy seedy stuff down here. Excellent shade of mustard yellow.

Dad: Man, if this is our idea of fun on a Friday night, I can't wait for Saturday!

Mom (reaching for another wipe and shoving a diaper under a tiny puckered butt): Neither can I. *sigh*

A mom from my mom's group brought a meal that contained a homemade cheesecake. I ate the entire thing. I told her I shared it with my husband. I lied.

JR has finally realized that baby girl is here to stay. He seems OK with that.

And so do I.

It Happened One Morning

2009-07-15T21:14:00.009-04:00

I pulled back my shoulders and tucked my head down as I tilted my pelvis forward. I turned slightly and pushed myself up as I tucked one leg beneath the other. I squeezed my legs together and thought the happiest of thoughts. I turned around, pulled the IV around me, tucked both legs under, butt in the air and rested on my elbows.

Nope. Nothing worked. I push the button. "I need to pee." Unplug. Pull. Waddle. Flush.

Back in bed. I looked across the room to see the husband peacefully resting on the couch. I grit my teeth.

Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Her heartbeat, strong and quick, plays in the background. I watch the monitor as yet another contraction closes in.

Ouch. Er. OUCH.

OK. There was more to it than that, but I was only dilated to 1 cm. The good stuff was yet to come. Expletives didn't fly, but I'm certain I may have cast a voodoo curse on a clueless nursing student.

To think, all this started after a seemingly innocuous lunch at Bob Evans. A Wildfire Chicken Salad and a nagging little sister (a simple twinge and she'd ask, "Did you lose your mucous plug?" "Did your water break?" "Is my niece coming yet?" She badgered the poor baby right out of me.

Only hours later there I was, wrapped in lovely paisley hospital gown, awaiting the arrival of my daughter--three weeks early.

The birth went smoothly. Quickly. Hazily. And no, not from drugs but from the warp speed in which I went from a nearly unnoticed 1 cm to staring at my daughter's face. I'll skip all the in-between. Let's just say I became all that I never wanted to be. I screamed. I bruised (don't worry, he's healing nicely), I said "I HAVE TO PUSH" at the top of my lungs and "I AM BREATHING!!! STOP TELLING ME TO BREATHE!" even louder. It was chaotic. It was loud. It was crazy.

Until she came. And then, all was quiet.

My daughter. Wow.

I have a daughter.

She's no longer the kicks, prods, and pokes in my belly. She's no longer the packaged flowered Onsies sitting in a yet-to-be-decorated room. She's no longer just "baby girl."

She's not just a dream of what might be.

She's real. She's here.

Dark hair. Tiny rosebud lips. And eyes that drink in the world and more.

I'm a walking cliche. I'm mushy. I'm in awe. And I make no apologies for being madly in love. A little girl and my now BIG boy.

I'm blessed. I'm happy. I'm full. And yeah, it feels good.

And even if I no longer have an excuse for loading up on Slurpees and super-sized chocolate malts, I have a feeling that I'll survive.

Precious. Not even a day old. Baby girl was born at 6:45 AM on Tuesday July 7 (week 37).

Moments after seeing his new baby sister for the first time. Not quite sure what to make of her just yet. Though when we brought her home, she received two kisses from her eager big brother. We'll see how long the love lasts . . .

Casualties of Self-Doubt

2009-06-29T22:33:00.002-04:00

I was hunched over, my hands on my knees and my breath escaping in small bursts. I looked up and watched her as she continued on. She was like a machine, her arms and legs moving forward in a silent rhythm.

"She's an elite runner, you know," he said. His gruff voice forced me up. I held the heaving breaths and busied my shaking hands by brushing the snow from my sweatshirt. The pains in my side subsided, pushed out by an undefinable shame.

I wasn't good enough.

I was a runner in grade school and high school. Running drove me, it fed a need I never quite understood. I had such a passion for the feel of sweat dripping down my back, the heaving of my chest, the tightness in my legs. I felt alive. And when I crossed a finish line, taking the #1 stick or reaching for the first place ribbon, I was alive. I was most definitely good enough.

College was different. I wasn't the superstar runner. I was a struggling freshman who had no idea what she was doing. Who packed on extra weight, got a first boyfriend, lost her first boyfriend all while navigating the campus as a socially awkward entity waiting for a clue.

But that's just an excuse. The truth--I simply wasn't good enough.

"Some people are just born to run," my coach continued as the snow began to drift across the track. "You'll be a good running partner for her. Once you get into shape, " he added smugly, mercilessly. My eyes followed her as she ran passed us, the snow politely parting for each footfall.

It was one of our very first practices of the season. My coach had already lost faith in me. I had lost faith in myself. Suddenly, I didn't want to run anymore.

But I did. I ran because I had to. I ran because he said I wasn't good enough. I ran because I had to show him that I was.

Every day I ran. Before practice. After practice. Weekends. I pushed my body until it begged for a reprieve--and even then, I pushed harder. There was little doubt that I was improving. But coach never noticed. He was working with the elite runners. And when his eyes did drift over in my direction, I knew what he was thinking, "Why does she even bother?" Some days, I wondered the same thing.

Short of drinking a raw egg, I was Rocky. Theme songs bumped around in my head, forcing me to push my aching body just one more mile. Just. One. More.

Trying hard now
it's so hard now
trying hard now

Getting strong now
won't be long now
getting strong now

Our first meet. I had only one race--200 M. The "elite" runner had the favored first lane while I occupied the last lane of the staggered start. I would be in the lead for only a few moments before the crowd of runners would overtake me.

Pop. The gun goes off as I push my foot forcefully from the starting block. I can't see any of the runners, but I hear their heavy breaths and quick steps in a rush behind me. As we make the turn we are all in a straight line headed for the finish.

I am behind.

But only for a moment.

I surge ahead and pick off a runner at a time. One. Two . . . Five. Six.

I'm in first place as I cross the finish line.

I win.

I remember what this felt like. The rush. The release. The pats on my back. The congratulatory sentiments. I remember . . .

And I feel nothing. Nothing.

I see him make his way across the field. He's pumping his fist in the air and shouting, "Where in the hell did that come from?" He grips my shoulders with both hands and looks at me for the first time.

I want so desperately to smile, to take it all in. But I can't. I don't. I look across the lanes to the "elite" runner. She's hunched over, her hands on her knees . . .

My fingers slowly touched the cool dull metal of my spikes as I placed them in the Nike box; the medals I had won during the season spread out on the bottom. It was a good season. I pushed my spike key into the front of my shoe and tucked the laces inside. I shoved the box under my bed and walked away.

I had proved myself to someone who didn't believe in me. To someone who barely gave me a chance. I proved that I had a talent, that I was good enough.

I was an after school special on how tenacity, drive and determination could mean success.

I hated those specials. They tried too hard and I resented them for it. I resented those who claimed that because of my coach, his doubt, he pushed me and I was better for it. Better? Maybe a better runner, a stronger athlete, but a better person? No. Not better.

The reality, my reality--I was done running. Running had become a casualty of my own self-doubt. While my body forced itself across the finish line race after race, the rest of me grew angry and distant. It was no longer about the running.

Having doubts is natural and in some cases, necessary--I get it, I accept it. But there comes a time when the heaviness of such doubts lingers longer than it should, when the cacophony of voices questioning your value, your abilities fails to hush--especially when it is about something you love, a passion you believe shapes and defines who you are. Especially if he or she who doubts you is a member of your family, a lover, a friend.

"Am I really good at this?" you wonder. "Can I do this?" you ask yourself.

No. You know that is what they think, what they believe they know. They don't believe in you, no matter what they say, no matter how beautiful the words scratched upon the page--they are merely creations posing as truths.

Trying hard now
it's so hard now
trying hard now

Getting strong now
won't be long now
getting strong now

You'll find your place at the starting line again and prepare to prove them wrong.

And, in the end, you'll make room for yet another box under your bed.

A little melancholy, perhaps. Or maybe my sudden rush into self-reflection has something to do with cleaning out a closet--and a room that looked as if the regurgitated remains of my childhood had taken up residence.

He Came Back

2009-06-22T02:07:00.001-04:00

The back of the mini van was packed--suitcases, towels, pool toys, shoes, snacks. We happily made ourselves comfortable in our seats, backed out of the drive and excitedly headed from dreary Ohio to the sun, the heat and ocean breezes of lovely Florida.

I had dreams.

I had visions.

I had expectations . . .

JR would skip through the sand, smiling, giggling and picking up shells as he ran toward the water. I would scoop him up and we would twirl in the cool sand and splash in the surf.

We would go to the aquarium where JR would look in amazement at the sea life as it floated effortlessly in reflective tanks. He would point and I, in my abundant wisdom, would name off every single animal he gestured toward. He would look at me with admiration, thinking how amazing his mama was (he would have no idea that I was simply reading from the fish chart above the tank).

At the pool, in the home we were renting, JR would tentatively approach the edge of the sparkling pool of water while his father and I watched as he grew increasingly brave with each dip of his toes. Finally, he would jump in the pool, we would place him in his floaty and leisurely float around, relaxing as the shadows made their way over the water.

Dreams. Visions. Expectations.

I'm not saying that none of that happened.

It did.

Kind of.

But not really. Not exactly.

See, no one can really prepare you for your first vacation with an active toddler. No one can really tell you what it will be like to chase after a toddler, a full diaper hanging down to his knees, as he runs down the beach while you clutch your nearly 8-month pregnant belly and run after him (it is more like 7 months, but I was 3 lbs. heavier and much rounder than when I delivered JR--so I'm still trying to figure out how to navigate this cumbersome pregnant vessel. By the way, I am 8 lbs. heavier as of today. ).

No one can tell you what it will be like to change a toddler who has found that stuffing sand into his swim trunks and Little Swimmer is SO MUCH FUN! Oh, and of course a shell or two (hundred) for added fun!

You can't be prepared for a toddler meltdown when you are soaked with sweat, covered in sand, lugging an umbrella, chairs, towels, shoes, bags nearly a quarter of a mile through HOT sand back to the car. The looks of sympathy from beach goers does nothing. "Help me, damn it!" you scream silently as you paste a tight smile on your face. "This is how people crack," you think as your evil glare falls upon an innocent, peaceful family having fun, stuffing their sand-free sandwiches in their mouths and giggling at their sweet toddler who sits idly playing in the sand.

No one can explain that an aquarium to a toddler is more like a floating feast. NO, thankfully he didn't try to eat the fish racing through the tank (he wasn't tall enough to reach in) . . . he tried to eat the skeletal models that sat on top of the tanks. Yummy. Crunchy.The heavy stares from the employees did nothing to me. I didn't even wince, for they have no idea.

Speaking of eating. We tried everything. But, the manual (that we never received) probably doesn't say a thing about how toddlers take finicky eating to a whole new level when in a new place with a bunch of new distractions (we know, should have been commonsense, but we tossed that out the window when we crossed over the GA/FL border). But I'll be damned if the seagulls didn't eat well. Too well, if you ask me.

Instead, JR stuffed fistfuls of sand in his mouth. Fistfuls. And, strawberries, raisins and a slew of other dropped foods covered in sand--into his mouth.

We tried to stop him. We did. But . . . he's very fast. And, there is a LOT of sand.

So as not to seem like a big-belly malcontent, the entire trip was not one fraught with misery. There were lovely moments on the beach where JR would climb up on the chair, wrap his legs around me and bury his face into my neck. It was pure bliss . . . until he realized that climbing over mommy and her huge belly was quite fun, especially with his sandpaper swim shoes rubbing against my legs, over and over and over. While he climbed, his sister kicked. And kicked. And squirmed. He squirmed. It was excruciating bliss. But I was destined to steal some blissful moment even if it meant PAIN.

Decked out in my rather cute tie-dyed maternity swimsuit, I was feeling pretty good that first day at the beach. I was invigorated by the sun, the heat, the ocean breeze. I looked at the ocean as a metaphor for all the adventures we were going to have. I buried my feet in the sand and leaned back to take in the sites of the families that wandered the beach, splashed in the waves. I watched as JR played in the sand and his daddy leaned back in the seat next to me.

Perfection.

And then . . . POOF!

The last day at the beach had me bemoaning personal space issues--turning my once happy and light demeanor into one that leaned on the edges of misanthropy. I raged about my inability to get up from a seated position without rolling to my side, into the sand, first. Personal grooming turned into an Olympic event for me--I mean, how do women do it? I have no idea what is even down there anymore. I can't see anything beyond my navel.

And, I HATE SAND! HATE IT. At first I said, "Oh look, I'm exfoliating" as I found sand on nearly every inch of my body. By the end, I cursed every single granule. And shells, especially when they get stuck in your backside or nether regions--SUCK! Former homes of now deceased sea creatures no longer thrill me. "Oh, look. A beautiful little pink and purple shell," I would say as I would gently pick it up and place it into the bucket. By the end, I was, "#$%&* SHELLS!" as I would pluck them from between my toes and flick them into the sand.

Oh, and there were other pregnancy related issues that I suffered through--and because I like and respect you, I will spare you the details. You may thank me later. Ah, but all was not lost. I did discover the benefits of a built in serving tray. Pregnancy bonus #236.

Couple all that with THE TODDLER and you get more fun than anyone should ever be allowed to have in one beach vacation. The mixture of heat, sand, sun and crazy toddler had the husband and I fully entrenched in survival mode. After the "flinging poop" moment that the hubs had to endure while changing JR in the dark beach bathroom (he said it was like a small, smelly corner of hell) we finally gave in--humor would be our only form of sustenance if we were to survive. We talked about tying tubes, vasectomies, therapy, medications, the therapeutic benefits of liquor, lots of liquor.

JR's father and I tapped into our sense of humor. We had to . . . by day three (of our 11-day trip) we had nothing left. As we headed out to the beach on that third day, JR went running along the banks. His father looked lovingly toward me as he spoke, "You know, they say that if you love something, you should set it free . . . " We both looked ahead as JR ran and ran and ran.

We looked at each other and didn't even try to stifle our laughs. It was either that or falling in the sand in a fit of tears.

JR, way ahead of his downtrodden parents, turned around, saw us, hunched backed, baggy-eyed, yet still smiling and laughing. And with that . . . he came back.

And oddly . . . I'd do it all again.

To My Sister-in-Law

2009-06-18T23:48:00.000-04:00

You found this blog, didn't you? You found RJ's (my little sister) Twitter account and you tracked me down via my year-old-pic of JR that I use as my profile pic (or something like that). Regardless, there is no doubt that you're here.

I must confess. I feel a little naked. Or, at the very least, scantily clad in a see-through nighty (so attractive on a nearly 8-month pregnant woman) and footie socks. Yes, I have told a couple REAL LIFE people about this space, but otherwise, I remain heavily cloaked in the shaky promise of anonymity.

It isn't that I am trying to hide from you, from anyone. Well, maybe it is . . . it is just that sometimes in this space I say things, do things that might prompt questions, concerns, fits of utter hilarity, thoughts that maybe I need therapy. Deep and constant therapy.

Then again. I play it safe. I let thoughts linger on the precipice, teetering between the abstract and the concrete. I am fiercely protective . . . even though very few know who I am.

You should see the posts I have in draft.

I have written about our family history, no doubt stories you've heard from the perspective of my little brother, your husband, the father to my niece (that still seems so weird--my little brother, a father, a husband, about to hit a major milestone b-day--strange, surreal).

Writing has slowly become my therapy. My way to sort out the mix of histories and make sense of them all. Where did I, we, come from? How did we get here? How did we grow from the family that "couldn't afford a Happy Meal" to a family that has defied our trailer park destiny? How did we navigate the choppy parental waters, filled with our mother's predatory past and our father's disconnection--how did we do it and still thrive?

How did my brother find you? You, him? How did I end up with someone who was surely promised to someone else--a cultured, wealthy woman from a good family, no doubt? How did RJ and Cat (little and baby sisters, respectively) end up confident, ambitious, absolutely amazing when they were never supposed to leave the broken down yellow house on the street lined with rusted cars and hints of futures that were never meant to be?

How did we get here?

I sit in your cozy living room and watch as our children play together. The way Little L touches JR's head, looking at him as if he is the most fascinating creature she has ever seen. How JR watches, enraptured, as she spins her little body around to the heavy beat of music that fills the room. I look at you, at my brother and I feel full.

Even when we slam phones, scream expletives, shake our fists, spit out insults (volitility was our sustenance for so long, we can't help but sometimes ache for its comfort, its familiarity), I know that what resides in us is peace. We know we are loved. We know that know matter what we will be there for one another.

I will be there for you. No matter what. And though tender words laced with tearful emotions have never passed between us, I think you'd be there for me . . . no matter what.

This is my space. This is where I share stories about JR, your nephew, our life, both past and present, my thoughts about anything, everything. I release, I purge, I laugh, I share, I ache, I reach out with these posts. Some of them suck. Some of them don't. Some of them are funny. A lot of them are not.

But, they are as me as I can be. And for now, that's enough.

So, that said . . . welcome to my space.

By the way, what does my little brother want for his birthday?

Oh, and one more teeny, tiny thing . . . if my mom ever asks you about me and my blog, your answer should be, "Blog? What blog? Does L have a blog?" K?

Love,
L

The REAL Reality

2009-06-02T02:39:00.002-04:00

I have so much to say on this topic. Then again, I got nothin' new. I mean, what more can be said?

Sitting on the old worn couch, in my MIL's house, in the middle of a struggling burb, in the heart of MI and paging through the Sunday paper, I came across a few perfectly written lines from this article "Jon and Kate Plus *=A Waste of Time" by sports columnist/cultural commentator/bestselling author Mitch Albom.

"I may empathize with these people [Jon and Kate, Adam Lambert, Susan Boyle], but I don't feel sorry for them. No one put a gun to their heads. Once you turn your life over to the cameras, you move into a Bizzaro World of attention. You are -- whether you realize it or not -- getting what you wanted.The same can't be said of laid-off autoworkers, young widowed mothers, abandoned children or unable-to-find-a-job graduates. They live in the real world. And you'll excuse me if that reality renders the reality TV world pathetic."

Will I stop watching reality TV (I confess I am not a Jon & Kate watcher, but it isn't all that hard to find out what's going on)? Who knows. I mean, it is escapism at its best. But, the whining, crying, "poor me," "boo hoo, my life is so hard" does not really make my heart melt or my soul move.

If anything, it just makes me cringe as that sour tasting burning sensation crawls up from the back of my throat.

For now, I'll just continue to collect pennies while figuring out which bodily organ I can live without (if necessary) while assessing all my belongings for potential eBay bids.

I know. Sounds like fun, eh?

Maybe I'll just go to the park with JR where the real world is pretty darned perfect. I mean, who needs reality TV when you got an old swing, a patch of grass and a toddler who is ready to run?

Rough Drafts

2009-05-22T14:11:00.006-04:00

Pages and pages of colorful construction paper covered my small square desk. My hands worked the scissors through the paper as I contemplated my cover art.

"Can I use your stapler?" I had asked my teacher.

"Tape?"

"Glue?"

My requests were met with her sweet tea-stained smile and a nod.

She got me. At one time, she probably was me.

While all the other children sat hunched-back at their desks, composing their stories, I was done.

I had crafted what I knew to be a Pulitzer Prize winning piece of epic proportions--which was why I was getting a jump start and working on my cover art.

And no, cover art design was not part of the assignment. But, I was clearly an overachiever. The words had been effortless. I didn't speak much in class, but my words always found a home on the page. I felt the hot glare of students as I bounded around the room looking for art supplies.

It felt good.

Numbers may have abandoned me (as made evident by my pencil jabs and scribblings on math worksheets), but words were forever my friends.

Several nights ago I sat in the big "leather" chair opposite the computer screen. I stared at it, pleading for inspiration. My hands reached for the keys and pulled back.

Crumbs.

Well, someone needs to clean that up!

So I did. For nearly an hour I cleaned my keyboard and computer desk, reorganized my bookshelf and vacuumed the office.

I sat down once again. The screen saver was mesmerizing.

I got nothing, I muttered to myself. But, I forced myself to put something down. Anything. Three words. And a title. DRAFT.

And off to bed I went.

Where are my words? Where did they go?

Though at times I fancy myself a writer (or writer wannabe), I don't own that title. But, I do still own my desire to capture my life in words. Yet, they escape me over and over. The few that remain end up in the darkness of a draft, waiting to be plucked from a sad oblivion where they can become another bone in the body of a story.

Poor words. They float with purpose in my head, yet as they ready themselves to pour out onto the page, they become lost, directionless and seemingly resentful.

I watch as JR moves across the floor with excitable precision. His eyes dart from me to his father. I can tell he is yanking and pulling at an idea in his head. His growing curiosity. His uncanny problem-solving (diaper=sling--I kid, but you know it'll happen). His ever-increasing power over his weary parents. I want to write about it.

She never stops moving. Unlike her brother, who barely lifted a foot while safely ensconced in my belly, she uses my insides to conduct what I can only assume is fetal aerobics or maybe kickboxing. The other night I sang to her. Her movements slowed. Either she had locked her hands over her ears or she was lulled by my voice. I choose to believe the latter. Either way, I wanted to write about it.

The final day of my mom's group commenced with a large group of hormonal SAH mommies congregating in a church hall. Food, red carpet, an awards show. And tears. So many tears I had to stifle a laugh from the overwhelming sound of sobs and snotty sniffles. I bit the insides of my mouth, desperate to belong. No tears. Nothing. I thought of lost kittens and the ending of La Bamba. Nothing. So desperate was I not to let the growing giggle escape, that in the end I grabbed a tissue and dramatically blotted my tearless face. I wanted so much to write about that.

“Every writer I know has trouble writing.” Yeah, Mr. Heller, that doesn't help me.

Early on I used to just write. I didn't care about how the word looked on the page. It didn't have to wear Versace, drive a BMW or even have a very big bank account. It just had to say something. I vomited, cried, spit and pooped on pages all the time--heart, soul, guts--mashed on the page. Bodily fluids produced where my brain could not.

And that was OK.

Over time I found a way to let my brain in on the party. It was a good thing. Instead of a bunch of crazy kids running the show with their cliched adjectives, broken beer bottles, twisted phrasing and the drunk kid no one knows, there was some order, some logic, creativity with a purpose.

In the last few years, hitting hard the last few months, my brain has kicked out the kids all together (only inviting them back when it needs a beer and a laugh).

In other words. I think too much.

Way too much.

What will JR thinks when he reads this? What if my mom finally figures out the ON button and stumbles upon my blog? What if I reread this later and realize that I'm completely dillusional about my mothering, writing, humanity? What if . . .

So, I wait until I am near exhaustion to write--usually around the 2 AM hour. My brain is tired and weak. The party kids enter the house--unafraid, unencumbered, ready to dance.

And that's when I let go.

I think too much. And while I do the stories become smaller and smaller. The ideas that once blossomed into something to behold disappear as if never there. The moments that cling, waiting for a chance to spread wings, fly and dive onto the page, fall, slowly, peacefully, with not a word of farewell.

Sad. But so true.

I should write about this.

And this is how a DRAFT found the light and warmth of the page . . .

I demanded that my brain finally share the stage and a thousand and one stories, ideas and moments stumbled in. Ready. Willing. Letting go.

Amazing how words can breathe when you let them--how when you just accept them for what they are that they can do just about anything.

Are they always pretty? No. Are they always perfect? No way. Will they always be a contender for a Pulizter? Only in the mind of a deliusional grade schooler. Will they always be true? When you let them . . . yes.

And that's what matters most.

And if by chance my mom finds the ON button and crashes the party . . . HI! Oh, and don't bother with the archives. That's just old stuff you don't ever need to read. I swear.

He's Got Skills

2009-05-12T10:58:00.008-04:00

Oh, does he . . .

JR, my ever-adventurous toddler, is now 21 months old. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around that. I mean the concept nearly escapes me as much as my ever-increasing waistline escapes all comprehension (please, not one comment on the shakes/Slurpees/kid cereals).

Yesterday we picked up a brilliant "toy" that is sure to provide extensive opportunities for JR's educational enrichment (AKA, give mommy a chance to spend some quality time in the bathroom alone . . . ).

Last night, we (as in DADDY) put it together . . . a SAND AND WATER CART (NO, this is not a review for Step 2 . . . I'm not so sure they'd be all over this idea)!

Of course, I couldn't wait to use it. We have the sand. We have the water. However, I wanted to use it RIGHT NOW--at 8 PM at night.

We used rice (this brilliant idea, as was the idea to purchase said table, was my friend AG's--brilliant, I tell you!). JR thanks you, AG . . .

We commenced with the rice. Spoons, measuring cups, bowls . . . you name it. He ignored every single thing. Instead, he plowed into the rice with both hands and showed us his skills.

Throwing (as far and high as he could--relishing in the feel of the rice as it fell on his head).
Pouring (it all over the TEXTURED BERBER--don't be jealous of my brilliance in choosing suitable locations for the rice-capades, please).
Spin-tossing (need I even explain?)
Stuffing (in places we can't even begin to explain or describe--you'll thank me later).
Flinging (he actually discovered this one just a few minutes ago--can you say RICE CATAPULT?).
Swishing/sweeping (with his hands, arms, other body parts . . . oh, that poor rice, those poor body parts).

It took me over an hour to clean it up.

And, I'm going to admit . . . it was all worth it. Even though I will find rice grains around the house until he turns 18, totally worth it. Even though I had to stifle my urge to race for the vacuum, totally worth it. Even though I dreamed of being attacked by creeping, crawling rice grains last night, totally worth it.

So worth it that I did it again this morning. I even opened a new bag of rice (please no comments on the wasting of rice--I swear I will donate a bag or ten to the food bank with every single one I use . . . oh, and here, you can too!).

Rather than explain our rice-ventures, why not show you?

*I apologize if you need to tilt you head dramatically to the side when watching or if you get dizzy while trying to follow my exceptional filming abilities. I totally missed the whole film making class in toddler school.

You know, something most definitely happens when you have a toddler running around. You don't go running for the paper towels or the broom as much as you go running for the camera. And, you don't shake your head in annoyance over a mess as much as you smile and nod in pride, feeling the swell of ridiculous, overpowering love and cuteness. You turn into one big messy emotional mush.

But I'll be darned if it isn't worth it. Every single grain . . .

Yes, we enjoyed the rice-capades quite a bit . . .

now where's my vacuum?

And Then She Left

2009-05-08T01:26:00.006-04:00

My back rested against cool porcelain as my eyes shifted from her blush-covered cheeks to the quick flick of the wand in her hand. She leaned into the mirror, tilted her head and pursed her lips seeing the beckoning teen vixen of not so many years ago.

I envied her. Her easy beauty contrasted the awkward angles of my face, the thickness of my limbs. The golden locks of hair that curled around her ears and traveled down her back were unlike the dark and heavy stands that hung like a Gothic drape over my eyes. My gap-toothed smile was nothing like hers. She could freeze a man in place with her seductive curling lip. Broken as she was, her beauty gave her refuge. Her beauty, warm and welcoming to him, left us cold. Empty. Lost.

As a little girl I would sit on the fuzzy-covered toilet seat and watch her spread colors on her cheeks, her lips, her eyes. I would mimic the faces she made in the mirror, wishing that one day our reflections would match. She would glance at me, arching a brow while pulling heated rollers from her hair. Was she wishing the same?

"I'm leaving." Her words banged in my ears. I should try to understand. I'm not a child anymore. I should be supportive. I should . . . I should . . .

But instead I was the awkward little girl made of sharp edges clashing with soft parts, wishing for a spread of pink across my cheeks, the turn of a wand before my eyes, the easy beauty that made life seem so . . . perfect.

But perfect never was. Looking in the mirror the reflection stares back. Broken.

And then she left.

My mother left.

*I had to leave this post as it was in the early morning hours when I spit it upon the page. I couldn't believe I posted a stinging memory such as this so close to Mother's Day--a day of celebration. But earlier in the week I was left standing, shuffling through cards with tin foiled and glittered exclamations of a mother's greatness and it left me with a furrowed brow and a heavy gut. Here's the rest of the story . . .

Her mother left her in the scattered dust of four spinning old whitewall tires. Her mother left her staring into a future that held no sweetly sung lullabies, no tea parties with flowered pots and pretend guests. Her mother left the tiny girl with soft curls and barefoot feet with promises that she never intended to fulfill.

Tiny, broken and lost she clung to scattered memories of the woman who birthed her, the woman who said she loved her, the woman who found something better. She clung to the empty words that her mother, clutching a beaten suitcase in one hand and keys in the other, whispered in her ear. The little girl knew no truth existed there. She knew this woman would never draw her into her arms, bury her face into the sweaty curls that wrapped around her neck and tell her she would never leave her.

My mother, so little, so lost, yet so full of hope, watched as her own mother stumbled into an old Chevy, slammed the door behind her and pulled away.

The once abandoned little girl was now a woman with children of her own. And there I was, her nearly grown daughter who watched her as she covered imperfections and made silent promises to the reflection in the mirror. My mother would find her happiness. She would not be lost anymore.

Even if meant she had to let us go.

And she did. For a time. We were never the same, the young woman tripping into adulthood, the barely teenage boy full of angst, the little girl with scribbled dreams, the baby with a lifetime ahead of her. We were never the same when she kissed us with rose-stained lips, the heady scent of her perfume trailing behind her.

She's not really leaving, is she? My little sister's eyes questioned me as the tears began to form, blurring the blue of her eyes.

"Yes. She is." I said loudly, with no words. I knew she had to go. I knew she felt she had to go. And I knew that one day she'd realize what she left behind.

Broken as she was, as she is . . . the love I have for her finds a way to fill the gaps.

I often think of her, that little girl left alone in a trail of dust, her hands reaching to her eyes to push aside the dirty tears she didn't understand. I want so much to hold her . . . tell her that one day she'll have all the love she'll ever need.

Tiny. Broken. Mine. Mama.

WW: I Love Him . . .

2009-05-06T00:00:00.001-04:00

Photo: Courtesy of sweet AG's mommy . . .

Do I need to say more?

Surviving Inadequacies

2009-05-03T15:55:00.005-04:00

She threw her hair over her shoulder, gave me a shrug and mouthed "It is so hot," while dramatically fanning herself and rushing back into the kitchen to fetch more pancakes. She never came to say hello. She didn't bother. Why should she with so many more important things to do?

There I sat, in a tiny booth meant for two. Me, my growing belly, my husband and JR. Well, in truth JR was off running up and down the aisle ways with the love of his life. My eyes narrowed as she returned from the kitchen, balancing plates and engaging in an easy banter with patrons. "You're growing a life," I repeated to myself. "You're raising your son," echoed in my head.

She's a teacher. The head of the English department of which I was once an integral member. She has given up her Saturday to volunteer her rather limited time to run tables for a pancake breakfast fundraiser. The restaurant was filled with teachers I once joked and laughed with while mingling in the mail room. There were students I once sat with, hovering over essays and open literature books discussing themes, plots and characterization.

But now, there I was, eating one pancake after another while my eyes darted from table to table, reliving the time when I was someone everyone knew. When I had my own voice mail box. When I had a creamy colored notepad with a name, mine, and title embossed on the bottom. When I had a room to call my own (granted there were no windows and it had a serious pest problem--it was still mine).

I have been a stay-at-home-mom (I don't even like the way it sounds. The tiny needling meanings that slink around the letters do nothing but make my lip curl) for well over a year . . . going on two.

Is my story done? I am often wondering if this is my final chapter.

I have no regrets . . . do I? Never, ever do I regret that tiny voice that calls for me late in the night, only to soften to a moan the moment my hand begins to rub the gentle curve of his back. Never do I regret the slow swell and swoop of my belly as I contemplate fabric choices for a room yet unfinished. No. No regrets there . . . none, whatsoever.

Yet, there is a part of me--she sits, small and wishing, hoping for more. Scrape-kneed, fingering the fraying hem on her shorts and smoothing the stained fabric on her daisy-embellished shirt.

She always wanted more, but never thought she should. So she hoped instead.

Maybe some days I have regrets for her. For all she wanted to do, for all she never did. For stories left unwritten. She was not the smartest. She was not . . . no, there is no SHE.

We're talking about me.

I do sometimes wonder about what I haven't done. What I didn't finish. Where I didn't go. I wear my inadequacies like a wool coat, weighed down with the heavy snow of winter. I shrug it off from time to time, especially when the sound of JRs giggles fill a room or when I fold the knitted purple sweater for a baby girl yet-to-be.

I am reminded of what I have done. Where I have gone. What will never be finished . . . but in a good way. In a you will always matter and what you do will always make a difference way.

This is not as easy as the words beg it to be. I wish it were . . . I wish these feelings of inadequacy could easily be washed away with giggles, knitted sweaters, photos drenched in sepia, artwork hanging on doors, tiny booties tossing in a dryer, the scatter of letters on the front of the fridge.

But it isn't.

I am left to think about all those filled notebooks of "Where will I be in 5, 10, 20 years." I think about the poetry filled with schoolgirl dreams . . . rock star? Artist? Writer? Doctor? The faded To Do lists I recovered from a journal I don't even remember keeping--yet, there was a day when the entries, the poetry, the lists just stopped. Did the story end? My story . . . our stories?

These stories of mothers, of women, there they are. Like hallowed bones they lay, splayed open like empty pages, waiting for the guts to fill them up, the skin to pull them together. Those inadequacies, those fears that gray the white, they can be more. I tell myself that they can, that they will. I don't have a choice but to believe it. To hope for it.

While part of me will always be surviving these inadequacies--the other part of me, lets it all go, knowing that my story is not yet finished. And that his tiny voice, her tiny wiggles are mere reminders of the pages I have yet to fill.

Slurpee B*tch

2009-04-28T01:26:00.001-04:00

I have these cravings, you see. They have nothing to do with pickles, peanut butter or even midnight runs for some obscure ice cream flavor.

My first craving (and yes, I am eating a bowl of Multigrain Cheerios right now) is cereal. It is more of an obsession. Lucky Charms, Post Raisin Bran (yes, it must be Post), Apple Jacks, oh, and sweet, sweet Cap'n Crunch (with Berries--I simply don't get it without the berries. Seriously, why bother?). A cereal aisle is my personal Disney World.

Chocolate MALTS are my other vice. And no, a chocolate milkshake will simply not due. Quite frankly, any form of thick chocolaty goodness without extra malt is a travesty. A sneer and a flip to my taste buds.

And then there is my intensely snooty love for fruit. I have been known to eat an entire watermelon in one sitting. We won't discuss the after effects of said gluttony--it wouldn't be suitable for this family-friendly blog. While I will eat nearly any type of fruit, I will say that I am a total fruit snob. Grapes must be plump and firm. Bananas bruise free and the perfect shade of yellow (with a hint of green). Apples must be near perfect--any flaw at all and I am certain it will be one of those mealy apples that isn't suitable for anything except maybe a second-rate applesauce. And my berries. Oh, sweet berries. If I'm going to spend $567,987 on you, then you'd better be perfect. That's all I can say . . .

Cereal, malts and fruit. That's what I crave. However, I would give them all up to a train full of naked nuns if I were offered a . . .

Slurpee.

Cherry, preferably.

I see a 7-11 and I darn near break down into a fit of convulsions. The husband doesn't even bother asking. He simply pulls in and retrieves my said drug of choice. Bless him . . .

This brings me to only a few days ago.

I was at a popular big box store where you can purchase a meal for an entire family (pizza, pretzel, Slurpee-wannabe) for under $10 at the store cafe. Seriously, I've had several "date nights" at the big box store so I would know.

JR and I were on our own, making our way toward the exit, when I spotted the Slurpee-wannabe machine. I knew it was there, I just tried to ignore it. But, I failed. Instead, my heavy feet headed in the direction of the counter, dollar clutched in my palm. Within minutes I had my Slurpee-wannabe in hand. Well, JR had it in hand.

The Slurpee-wannabe is served in a cup that is about the size of JR's upper body. While I was packing away the receipt and organizing the cart, I set the Slurpee-wannabe between his legs. He had the straw in his mouth in less than 2 seconds, happily sucking away.

A nearby cashier commented about how cute it was. I quickly responded in a way that let her know I do not give my toddler a gallon jug of red, icy sugar water every day, but an occasional sip I feel is fine. She didn't care what I said, she just thought it was cute watching him try to drink from a cup that was twice the size of his head.

A few more patrons walked buy and all were amused with the tiny toddler with the huge cup sitting between his legs.

Except for one lady.

Now, be forewarned. There was a good chance I was hormonal, overly sensitive or just plain irritated.

"My, look at that. That cup is bigger than he is!" she exclaimed loudly.

I looked up, preparing to remove the straw from toddler's mouth and move toward the exit. I smiled at her and nodded in agreement.

"What is he drinking?" she asked.

"It is an icy drink--it is actually mine, but he loves to steal a sip or two." So he'd been sucking on it for a few minutes, she didn't need to know that.

"Oh," came her arched-eyebrow response. "You know," she continued, "when my babies were young, I would dilute all of their sweet drinks with water. I refused to give them such sugary drinks." Oh, thank you wise one.

My jaw clenched. I take criticism pretty well. I have fairly tough skin. I am open to accepting advice. But, for some reason, I felt a brewing frustration . I mean, she didn't know me, my son, my situation.

Listen, ma'am. I have been with Mr. No-Naps for the day, ALL day. He is showing his most wonderful toddler side by refusing to do . . . well, everything and anything. My house is a mess, I'm feeling a zillion weeks pregnant, I didn't make dinner and I have no clean underwear. Why, because this 2 and a half foot little human is the center of my existence (at least at this moment). We play chase, Play Doh, paint, color, go to the park, sing songs, dance, work on our alphabet and study pre-calculus. And so you know, I barely give him juice at all. He usually drinks water or milk. When I do give him juice I dilute it. Just because my toddler is sitting in a cart, in a big box store with a Slurpee-wannabe tucked between his legs and a straw as long as his body in his mouth does not make me a bad mother. So, while I appreciate your exemplary parenting skills, I'd appreciate if you just kept your comments to yourself.

Breathe.

But, I didn't say any of that.

Instead, I looked at JR, happily sucking down my 100 ounce Slurpee-wannabe and then focused my gaze on her.

"Well," I began, a smile pasted on my serene face, "good for you."

And that's all I said. With that, I turned away and headed for the door.

You know, had I just gone to 7-11 then maybe none of this would have happened. That's what I get for going all generic.

I got home, still a bit twisted from my experience. More twisted that it bothered me at all than by what she said.

In rather dramatic fashion, I reenacted the story for my husband. "You can just call me the Slurpee Bitch," I gleefully bragged (even though the bulk of the conversation never happened.)

"Um, actually," he said, clearing his throat, "wouldn't it be more accurate to say the Slurpee-wannabe Bitch?"

Oh yeah, he did.

And with that, I poured myself an extra serving of Lucky Charms and marched into the living room to watch some mind-numbing reality TV.

Damn, Slurpee . . .

wannabe.

Red Paint, Patsy and a Dream

2009-04-18T00:00:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I wonder why my mind goes where it goes--why it chooses to linger on thoughts I had believed were long since abandoned, memories long since forgotten.

I see a splash of red paint and I am instantly transported back to the darkened corridor of ramshackle housing, the smell of paint, the chattering of well-intentioned teenagers believing anything, anyone could change. Naively believing that a coat of paint could fill stomachs, erase pain, cure long-battled addictions, raise the dead. There would never be enough coats.

A week later the mission group returned to Cabrini Green only to find the newly painted walls streaked with angry red expletives. What did we expect? A crew of angels welcoming us with pastries and fresh fruit? Doors slammed and heads shook. Stupid kids.

We painted again. And again. Until we finally figured out that we would never be able to cover the red. Or raise the dead.

"Worry, why do I let myself worry, wondrin, what in the world did I do," Pasty croons on the radio. In a rare moment, I am alone. It is just this past weekend that I am driving to meet my sisters for lunch as the song plays from a crackling oldies AM station. But as Patsy sings, I am back in my mother's kitchen. Her back turned, she faces the sink as my eyes focus on the back of her legs, the gentle shift from one foot to the other as Patsy Cline fills the room in my mother's voice. I sit, towel in hand. Waiting.

Old songs always pull me back into the kitchen, my feet firmly planted on peeling linoleum, my hands holding a chipped A & P "collectible" (free with purchase) plate, rubbing a damp towel on its surface. I'm always there. Waiting.

"And I'm crazy for lovin' you."

Last night, I was in bed. I was desperate to find a soft place for my expanding belly to rest. Left side. Right side. Propped up. Hugging a pillow between my legs. Being spooned. Spooning.

Nothing worked. She must have had something on her mind. She didn't want to sleep last night.

Before the sun drifted atop the trees and seeped through my thin shades, I drifted off into a desperate sleep.

"You're beautiful," came his muffled words as his steamy breath curled around my ear and his hands pulled back loose strands of my hair.

He spoke words I craved. His words shaped me that night. Made me think that maybe I was, even for a moment. After all, he would know. He was a man. A real flesh and blood man, with stubble covering his face, a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and a driver's license in a wallet. What more did you need?

His lips barely touched mine. His fingers gently tapping the bottom of my chin and then tracing the curve of my neck. He knew what to do. He knew where to go. He pulled me closer to him, lifting me over the armrest and into his lap. I closed my eyes and pretended to know what I was doing.

I was afraid if I breathed that he might disappear.

I shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here.

But he was. I was. Nothing else mattered. Except that my foot was wedged between the seat and the gear shift. My foot throbbed. But at that moment it could have come off, ran away with my other foot and I wouldn't have cared.

My A-cups, my pimply skin, my unruly hair--this body was so hungry. For what, it didn't know. Yet.

However, he knew. He had fed before. Many, many times. I was one of many special girls. I was about to become really special . . .

"I can give you . . . " his voice trailed off as his hands began to move. Slowly. Knowing. Expecting.

Invading. I opened my eyes. My imagination darkened. Reality became the old sentry.

My eyes narrowed. My throat, dry. My voice, caught.

"Let go, little girl." Did he speak it? Did I? I didn't know.

My shoulders lifted, my back arched. Blood. My lip. I was biting it.

I'm afraid.

"I don't think I should . . . " the words came in a small voice, weak, confused and pleading.

"No, you should. It will feel . . . " said the man to the little girl.

No.

No.

Not. Yet.

I open my eyes. I push the pillow aside and kick down the covers as my hazy gaze follows the shadows moving on the ceiling. It is morning. I'm in my bed. Not in an battered Chevy.

I am calm, though my breath comes quick and heavy. It is a dream that won't go away. It will stay, waiting, whispering like the memory that it is.

My hands move over my belly.

No. Baby girl. No.

Not yet.

For now, she is safe.

For now.

Sometimes I wonder why my mind goes where it goes . . . and then, I hear the squeal of my baby boy as he calls for his mama and I feel the gentle swell of my belly.

And I know exactly why.

Cake in Excess

2009-04-06T23:24:00.012-04:00

Yesterday I lingered in front of the mirror a little longer than usual. I stared at the wide open pores, the deepening lines that trail down from my nose to the outer edges of my thinning lips, the worry lines forming in between my brows. There are flyaway grays that I can no longer count and will not bother to pull. I am only a step or two away from a twisted bun, rolled stockings and bifocals.

I stepped back. Slowly. Away from the mirror. Why do we do this to ourselves?

My hands are looking more and more like my mother's. I used to look at my hands and think they didn't look any different than when I was a teenager. They were soft, creamy and begging to be held. Now, I see gray-blue veins and dry patches. My nails are short, uneven. But, thankfully, the coat of hair that has covered my arms since I was young is still there. Furry is a sign of youth, right? So lucky . . .

I remember when I was barely out of toddler-hood and my mom took me to a neighbor girl's birthday party. I had finally stopped stripping down to my underwear and streaking the neighborhood, so my mom felt that just maybe I might be ready to socialize in a more formal setting.

I loved being naked, nearly naked. I was fearless when I was naked.

We didn't have any money for presents, at least not really good presents (Silly Putty and those plastic rings with decals from the drugstore weren't even within our budget). Construction paper, scissors and a slew of broken crayons were all I needed for a real gift. "Homemade is so much better," my mother lied. Sometimes, I would even use glue and a few of nature's cast offs I found in the yard. I saved the pine cones and lilac sprigs for really special friends.

I didn't get parties (I still don't get parties--something about forced socialization makes my spine want to roll up and hide in my nether regions). But, I did get games. Games and cake.

Games were for winning. Cake was for scarfing.

Apple bobbing. I win. I might have to drink half the tub, but I would win.

Pin the tail on the donkey. One confident stick.

Tag. Please. Don't insult me. Keep in mind that I ran around the neighborhood naked. I called it training.

Pinata. Nice try.

Blowing out birthday candles. I knew I could always do it better. One breath. And it didn't even have to be a big breath. I was that good.

Cake. Biggest piece. "She's so tiny, where does she put it?" the adults would whisper. I would puff up with pride and an infusion of glucose.

The kids were in awe of me--the scrawny kid with scabbed knees, a faded t-shirt and lace-less shoes.

Nothing phased me.

JR carefully, methodically picked at the sprinkles on the cake, careful not to come in contact with the blue butter cream frosting.

"It's sweet! You'll like it," I spooned the frosting and lifted it to his mouth. He turned his head away and sneered as if to say, "You can't make me."

This evening JR and I shared a small white and butter cream cake snagged from the bakery of an infamous super mart. I missed my cake. Yesterday.

When I turned another year older (DO NOT wish me a happy your-getting-older-and-there-is-nothing-you-can-do-about-it day, AKA BIRTHday. I've moved on.)

What I miss most. Not creaseless skin. Not my gray-less long dark hair. Not the halcyon days of my blissful youth (insert sarcastic sigh here). Nope.

I miss that donkey. I miss running nearly naked (Wonder Woman Underoos--so fitting). I miss stuffing fistfuls of cake in my mouth, puffing out my cheeks and running to make sure I didn't miss taking the first swing at that pinata.

But then, I look at him, smearing the blue frosting around on his plate. Licking his fingers while simultaneously arching his back, demanding to be released from the confines of his booster.

And then he runs. I chase with a damp towel. He's faster than me (his sister-in-utero slows me down).

He's faster than me.

And then I see it . . . tag, pinatas, donkeys, cake in excess. He's going to be fearless . . . he IS fearless. Watching him while twirling my graying hair and pushing my glasses up on my nose . . . This is going to be very, very cool.

But this time, I'm totally springing for the Silly Putty (and a gallon of Oil of Olay).

Swelling in Dim Lighting

2009-03-26T15:30:00.000-04:00

I was standing in only a bra and underwear, in a 3x3 dingy beige, dimly lit room, staring at the mirror, but practicing visualization avoidance techniques. I don't need to see this, I whispered to myself. I listened as the sales lady and my friend discussed my sizes. My friend, in muffled tones, "Hey, you think you need a bigger size?"

Sales lady in loud, ear-cringing, hair-pulling squeak, "Words. Words. Words." I don't know what she was saying. I was too busy cringing and pulling my hair.

I stared at my chest. The bulging mountainous shapes protruding out of the bra that I swear should easily be containing these bad girls. The thought of moving into the double alphabet was not something a formerly B/C girl wanted to consider. That might mean a whole new lifestyle . . . cooler clothes, better friends . . . I might have to eat clams and drink French wine . . .

The bra failed me. Unless I was all for resting my chin on my chest, this would not work. I had created the perfect hiding place for Cheerios or, say, a wrench. I slowly opened the door. My friend squeezed her face through the opening. I asked as I stood straight, shoulders raised trying to diminish their size, "What do you think? Do you think I need a bigger size?" Without a word, she turned around.

"Ma'am. We're gonna need a bigger size," her voice was barely above a whisper. Bless her for not advertising my increasing size to the world. Bless her . . .

"We don't carry a DD," the sales woman shouted. SHOUTED.

I know. I should be beaming with pride. But, when every other bra you try on fits like a rubber band around your chest, when you are staring at legs that look like they are about to fall off due to lack of circulation (I really wish some things remained a secret, VICTORIA!) because your thighs have doubled in size and are raw with being too well acquainted with one another, when your arms look like the offspring of your thighs, when a constellation has taken residence on your face and when you are forced to contend with unruly hair with a bad attitude and a personal vendetta--well that leaves you feeling quite . . . unsexy, uncute, and a slightly psychotic (and oddly, hungry).

Where was the glow when I was pregnant with JR? Wait, that was sweat mixed with oil from my overproducing glands. Damn . . .

"We have an E," the sales lady mercilessly continues.

I'm not prone to being embarrassed. Nope. Not at all. But when the girl in the next changing room looks like a teen pageant winner and her husband/boyfriend shares genes with Brad Pitt and when she has to wear a fake belly to try on pregnancy clothes (she seriously will never look pregnant. She'll just appear to have a zit on her belly--I just know it) you just don't get all that excited about increasing bewbage or having it announced to the world (mall, same difference). I swear I heard Teen Barbie and Brad giggle (probably not, but it makes me feel better if I can have a good reason to hate them).

I stuffed them (the bewbs, not Barbie and Brad) back into the stretched out, snagged, sad excuse for a brassiere and headed out. I'd had enough torture for one day.

About a dozen bras, countless maternity clothes (we won't discuss why for some reason I can't fit into my clothes from just two years ago. . . I'm very sensitive and there is not enough chocolate to soothe my pain . . . ) and one obnoxious sales lady later . . . I was done.

So . . . we went to eat. Me, the bewbs deserving of their own zip code, and my friend.

Thought for the day: I wonder if I could claim them as dependents on my taxes?

Leave ME Alone! i can take care of myself . . .

2009-03-25T11:13:00.010-04:00

I was an accident-prone kid. If there was anything within a mile radius that could pose as a danger to me--we were destined to meet.

Rest stop. A half dozen kids piling out of an old van, making their way through the grass, over the hills and down a ditch to try and get to the rest room first. I was first. Barefoot. Shirtless (we won't discuss that right now) and making sure I beat every single kid.

Glass. In foot. My mom and a couple of the kids ran to me. I screamed for them to LEAVE ME ALONE. I held my foot and sucked back the tears. My mom stood a safe distance away, watching me tend to my wounds as I pursed my lips and glared at her.

A dozen stitches later I was fine. And now, looking back, what was I thinking? What was my mother thinking? Barefoot. Public restroom? Shivers surge up my spine. Ew.

Bed jumping. A few years later I was with my cousin. We were jumping back and forth from his bed to his brother's. Then, we had an idea. What if we jumped from the bed, to the dresser, to the other bed? BRILLIANT.

Less than a few minutes later, I sat on the bed holding my head. My cousin pulled my hands from my head and fell back. I leaned down and told him it was OK. He turned his head from me, peering from the corner of his eye as he told me to go to the mirror. I did. Blood streamed down my face, framing my eyes, cheeks and dripping off my chin. My aunt and uncle ran into the room after hearing the screams. Not mine. My wussie cousin's. They approached me.

I screamed at them to LEAVE ME ALONE and held my hands in front of me, closing my eyes and willing the gash on my head to close up.

A dozen or so stitches later, I was fine.

Track meet. I was racing across the field to make the final call of my race. POW. Very large shot putter nailed me. I fell flat. On a row of hurdles. Coaches and athletes gathered around me. The coach motioning for the trainer.

I'M FINE. I screamed at them (by this time I was older and felt screaming "I'M FINE" was a lot nicer than "LEAVE ME ALONE!"). I rubbed the blood off my knee. Gash. Great. My side hurt and I couldn't move the fingers on my left (or was it right?) hand. I had a race to get to.

I jumped up. Ran my race. Lost. But boy did I look great doing it. Limping over the finish line, clutching my side and gritting my teeth so hard I couldn't feel my jaw.

I was an idiot. Cracked rib. Sprained fingers. And a knee that STILL is in desperate need of an overhaul.

And, as my coach greeted me as I crossed the line, I stammered through my gritted teeth, "I'M FINE!"

Since then, I have had unfortunate encounters with knives, a car trunk hood, dogs (I like them, they didn't like me), other people (black eye, he looked worse when it was over), cement walls (I swear, I didn't see it), steps (I saw them, they just decided to move at the last minute).

Regardless, I dealt with them all the same way. LEAVE ME ALONE. That goes for when I'm sick, too. LET ME TAKE CARE OF IT. I hated people babying me (I won't lie, labor was a slightly different story).

This all brings us to yesterday.

Yesterday evening we headed to a local city park (not much of a city and really, not much of a park--but that is for a different post). There were kids crawling all over the playground equipment. They were slide SURFING, swinging from the polls, jumping on one another and tackling each other to the ground, racing around as if they were the only ones on the playground (new walkers beware!). My nerves were screaming in agony. Chaos would never, ever describe the scene on the playground. Mass casualty waiting to happen would be more appropriate.

JR loved it. Of course . . .

Earlier in the day a friend and I had been talking about how trips to the park were now ridden with anxiety. The way JR and his little friend played on the equipment was enough to have me reaching for blood pressure pills I do not own. He had no fear. While I was happy to see he had a bravery gene, it didn't stop me sucking in breath and biting my lips while readying myself to catch him as he free fell from the top of the jungle gym.

But later. It was like we had entered a war zone. The only thing missing, firearms (I think . . . ).

Puny JR (and just about every other toddler) was nothing but a potential casualty. Time to get his tough on.

After watching him precariously navigate the jungle gym (AKA DEATH TRAP), he went over to the little maze of tiny houses, doors and windows that was perfect for a little guy his size.

It was peaceful over there amongst the soft wood chips and weather-stained plastic pieces. The big kids stayed swaying, swinging, and performing other gymnastic routines on the other side of the playground. Save for a few other toddlers, we were it. I was cool with it, but JR's gaze kept shifting to the chaos to our right.

And then, they came. In droves. Kids bigger than me (minus my awesome swelling belly, of course) came rushing through the tiny maze. Toddlers stood frozen as they were rocked and shocked from the intrusion. Parents rushed to the maze, searching for their toddlers.

JR stood in the middle of it all.

And then, it happened. He was flattened, on his belly, face buried in wood chips. I rushed to him, my heart falling to my feet. The big kids stopped as a linebacker father cursed at them to FREEZE! Several parents started toward JR who was already making his way back to his feet.

"NO!" he screamed at me as I bent down in front of him. I took a step back, evaluating. Another mom stepped toward him (I'm thinking she was ready to swoop him in her arms--I knew better, he's never been one for kissy, kissy my boo boo).

"NO!" he shouted at her as he held both of his hands up. By this time the crowd was dispersing and the big kids ran off to parts unknown.

"JR, can mommy help you?" I asked as I made an attempt to brush the dirt and wood chips from his cheeks. I swear that he spit dirt and chips from the side of his mouth, sorta like Clint Eastwood did, cringe and squint, in one of his early westerns. It was . . . odd. Tough, though. I liked it.

"NO!" he shouted once more. And with that, he ran. And ran. And ran.

No hugs. No tears. (No bumps, bruises, cuts or breaks . . . ).

All I got was a defiant "NO!" from that sweet face, those angelic little bowed lips. "NO!"

Geesh. I wonder where he gets that from?

No idea . . .

***

I am desperate to rant about the "parents" who didn't bother watching their kids. I became that mom yesterday, the one who is pulling a kid off of another kid, the mom who is telling kids to stop climbing ON TOP of the tunnel that is suspended in the AIR. The mom who is asking kids not to KICK other kids in the face even when they tell me "WE'RE JUST HAVING FUN, LADY" accompanied by the EYE ROLL. The mom who catches some other person's kid as he hangs from the poll, his grip threatening to fail him. The one who glares around at the parents lounging on the benches, enjoying a cigarette and a chatting with friends.

Yeah, I became that mom. And you know what, I don't even care if they label me the "crazy, freak mom." Sticks and stones, ya know . . .

I know many of you have been there . . . and now, I totally get it.

***
EDITED: I have to give a shout out to Tranny at Tranny Head Rawks. She wrote a post about coddling kids and playgrounds that'll have you laughing, nodding and sayin' "Hell, yeah" when you're through .

Walking Away

2009-03-24T01:00:00.003-04:00

You know, your hair will always do "that thing." Don't bother even trying to smooth it out.

I feel the hard bristles of my brush press against my tender scalp. Harder. And harder still. I hold the brush under the tap and run in through my hair in one more meager attempt to smooth the twisted and knotted pieces. The pieces that remind me I will never have the hair I see in glossy spreads in magazines I really shouldn't read (my fragile ego begs me, pleads with me not to).

I turn on the faucet, cup my hands underneath the flowing water and angrily splash it on my hair. I forcefully pat my hair down into flat, lifeless piles. The kids at school would expect nothing less.

And I walk away.

You aren't that smart. You've worked on it long enough. Give up.

My pencil taps on the book while I suck on my finger, readying to bite the nail that never was. I pray for some whisper of an answer to appear. But nothing does. My mind stops. Freezes as my empty stare falls on the calculator I have no idea how to use.

Calculus. It it nothing but jumbled letters, numbers and lines on a page. I squeeze my eyes shut. I try again. Again. And once more to no avail. I got nothing . . .

My fists tighten, I ball up the blank paper in my hands and throw it to the floor. I push the book and calculator across the table and wait to hear them both fall hard to the floor, bent and broken.

And I walk away.

Really? You think he actually likes you? Why would he ever like you?

I can see him from across the large hall in the center court of the mall. His crooked smile, the way he shuffles his feet and shrugs one shoulder when he talks. He can't see me. But I see him. Everything he does. I hear everything he says. He wouldn't know me if he stepped on me.

I get it. I know it. But I just want that moment, one simple exchange. If I could just get him to see me . . .

That would be stupid.

I don't make any attempt to get his attention. I just go back to making drinks at the fruit juice stand that sits squarely in the court. Without warning, there he is--standing only a few feet from me. I smooth my apron, conscious of the orange pulp and slimy banana smeared on the front. I push my hair behind my ears and tip my hat down just enough.

"Hi," he smiles as he says this. Half shrug. He leans across the counter. He stares and waits.

Don't get any ideas. He's just being nice.

"Hi," I say. My chest filling with small shiny pebbles of hope.

He just wants a drink, stupid girl. This isn't about you.

And I walk away.

One day he's going to hate you. You're going to screw this all up and he's going to hate you.

I swing him in my arms and bring him gently to the ground. He jumps from one sockless foot to the other in time with the music. "Spin, spin, spin," I shout to him.

He spins as his eyes try desperately to stay focused on me. His heavy laughter rises and falls as I pull him to me, lift him in the air and we spin together.

His hands reach around my neck and his cheek presses against mine. The music stops but we do not.

He's just a baby now. But wait. He'll have you figured out in no time.

This time I smile. No walking away. Not anymore. My eyes focus on him. His eyes, the tiny lashes and deep sea blue that peaks from beneath.

I lift him up as he reaches down for my face, cupping my cheeks in his hands. The music streams around us, the beat catching our feet.

Her words have echoed in my head long enough. It is time for her to just . . .

walk away.

* * *

My own voice. I could be so cruel with the inner dialogue. I tortured myself with an endless barrage of criticisms. I still do, sometimes . . . don't I?

I wasn't good enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough.

I was never ENOUGH. Yet. All along. I was just enough. Go figure.

I just had to shut her up long enough to figure it out. And I am STILL figuring it out . . .

I am my own worst enemy. For so long, I was the one who snatched victory out of my own hands, tossing it to the ground and then stomping on it for added drama.

I could spend thousands for a therapist to tell me the why and how. But I just want her gone. I can probably take a stab at the why and how anyway. But therapy? Why bother?

I just know I hate the bitch who whispers in my ear. Which is why I've told her (and I have to tell her again from time to time, since she is like an unwanted relative with nowhere to go who insists on mooching my Thin Mints and Swedish Fish) to get lost. Take a hike. F*@% OFF.

I'm curious. Am I the only one who stares in the mirror from time to time, reasoning with the face that stares back? Telling her that she'll be OK? Telling her to have faith?

Telling her . . .

NOT to walk away?

***
Edited at 10:45 AM: I started writing this post in the early morning hours. For some reason, it is when I become drenched in reflection. I'm blaming the hormones, the all-cereal diet, the inescapable reality of motherhood and taking stock of where you've been, where you are and where you just might be headed. What a freakin' crazy ride . . .

Eyes Like Mine

2009-03-17T00:00:00.002-04:00

* May 2007 *

The bell rang and within moments the sound of scooting desks, broken chatter and hallway traffic filled the room. Lunch.

I could see her approach my desk as I shuffled homework papers around into various nonsensical piles. Organized chaos at its best.

"Mrs. L? Can I talk to you about something?" I remember how this piece of hair would hang in her eyes, how she would nervously pull it back over and over again. I wanted so much to give her a clip or something to make it stop falling. It distracted me.

But this time, it didn't. I just wanted to reach out and pull the piece back for her. Do something for her. I had no idea why.

She sat down in the over sized office chair, the one I confiscated from the Dumpster and tried to upholster with frayed denim scraps. The one that smelled of hairy wet dog when the first hint of summer entered the room. But the students loved that chair. Loved how it would rock back, the headrest practically touching the floor, and then lurch forward without warning. They fed on the rush of near death by office chair, I supposed.

I took a seat in the tiny chair with foam padding and scratched plastic arms. We sat for a moment in silence in the small space between my two mismatched desks, piles of paper and the planning that I would never get to that day or the next.

Our knees touched as she leaned forward to whisper her secret.

"So, I'm going to have a baby," she bit back her lips as her eyes peeked through her lashes. Cautious. Hopeful.

Why was she telling me? The students and I, we got along. We had established mutual respect. But, I was not their BFF, their mother, their counselor. I was not the warm and fuzzy teacher with cute drawings and tiny squeak toys on my desk (OK, I was, but it was because they made me laugh). I wasn't the one who hugged to comfort, gently touched hands in encouragement or patted heads in recognition.

"My mom knows. And, I'm keeping it" she said. I hoped she didn't hear the escaping sigh as it limped from my chest. She wasn't looking to me to make decisions for her. This talk had nothing to do with who knows what or what to do with the little life inside her.

She was 16. Her hair fell to her shoulders, hiding the tiny tears in the seam of her t-shirt. Her hands, motionless, rested in her lap. I pictured those hands as that of a child, flawless, chubby. Fat crayons. White paper. Dreams filled with color. Dreams left unfulfilled.

She didn't look at me, but I could see her chin tighten, tiny little dimples awaiting a cry.

I did something I never do. I reached for her, my hands resting on hers.

"How did this happen?" I asked her, not realizing the absurdity of such a question.

A smile curled around her cheek. Crooked. Knowing. "Well, Mrs. L, " she looked at my swollen belly, "I think you know."

Oh, yeah. A halfhearted attempt to suppress a giggle. Screw it . . . my brain cells decided to take leave and wander off the premises. Excellent timing.

"I don't want her to be like me." And there it was. The sobs came fast. She buried her head in my shoulder, her tears wetting my maternity top. Me, soaking in a cruel not-yet-realized irony.

In only moments, between heaving breaths, she let her fears form a puddle in her hands. Her mother had her at 15, never finished school, never married, never held down a job, had no clue what to do with her baby daughter. And now, the daughter, seeing her future in her mother's history. Her hands, tight-fisted, rested on the top of her tiny belly.

"My grandmother. My mother. Me. We're so messed up, Mrs. L. So messed up." I closed my eyes, images of my own mother. My own grandmother. The histories that collided with regret and guilt. The histories that shaped my life.

I understood. The baby boy in my own belly moved. A reminder.

"You are not your mother. You are not your grandmother. You are you." Silly little platitudes, as if sewn on a cloth and framed on a wall or written in pink on a cue card.

She deserved more than this. I closed my mouth and leaned back in my seat. She didn't need words of wisdom. She just needed . . .

"A girl. You are having a baby girl," I said simply with a hint of a smile and a tilt of the head.

"Yes," she smiled and her fists relaxed as she smoothed the t-shirt, following the rounded curve to her lap.

I was not trained for this. No classes. No workshops. No . . .

"You'll love her. With everything you have, you will love her. History doesn't have to be repeated." I reached out again, cradling her hands in mine. She spoke in whispers, sharing stories of her past, the fears that wrestled away her youth, the hopes she had for the tiny heart that beat near her own. I sat. Silent. Listening. Blinking back tears.

I knew the challenges that awaited her, as did she. She didn't need a lecture. She didn't need advice. She just needed me to listen.

She was giving birth to a baby. A baby girl. A baby girl whose future she saw resting within histories that were not her own. Would this baby girl travel down the same path as her mother? Her grandmother and so many of the women before her?

Would she have a chance?

"You will love her . . . "

More tears and more whispers passed between us before she said goodbye. I had only a few minutes left for lunch. But I wasn't hungry. Instead, I leaned back in the denim-patched chair and thought about the baby boy readying himself for the world. My own history, the biting memories, the tender scars, crept in, clouding my reverie. But I pushed back.

I closed my eyes and thought of the future, my hand finding comfort in the warmth of the life that moved beneath it.

* March 2009 *

My foot tapped, rhythmless. I sucked in air as I checked my phone again. What time is it?

What day is it?

My fists clenched. Unclenched. I begged my body to relax. Pleaded with it.

"You're having a girl." I smiled when she said the words even though I knew exactly what she was going to say. Her little body wiggled in fuzzy lines and curves on the screen. A girl.

A mother knows.

I'm going to have a girl. A baby girl.

JR and his daddy had already headed to the car (celebratory donuts in order), carrying the news with them. I was left, waiting. A doctor to see, an exam to be performed, a heartbeat to hear.

I was alone in a room full of expectant moms. The chatter was deafening. Joy bounced around the room (aided by the energy of anticipation and a healthy dose of fear).

I'm so happy.

But I can't breath. The smile, fading.

The endless questions, the brazen fears, the unruly angst paraded around in my mind, assaulting any small shred of excitement that dared to dwell.

I don't want to wonder if she'll have my frailties. I don't want to wonder if the mistakes of the past will rest with her. I don't want the histories of my mother, my grandmother to be her legacy.

I can hear the loud cacophony of support ringing in my ears . . . Words of encouragement. Words of love. "You'll be OK." "Everything will be fine." "You'll be a great mom!" But these are thoughts that were destined to be mine. I pushed them back for far too long.

But right now, I just want to wonder if she'll be a lover of words. If she'll get lost in her daydreams. If she'll pull apart her Oreo and lick the frosting. If she will paint her toes pink or red. If she'll have her father's lips. If her giggle will sound like JR's. If she'll have eyes like mine.

That's all I want to think about.

That . . . and how I will love her. With everything I have.

I'm OUT

2009-03-11T00:00:00.000-04:00

I'm not . . . but did I get your attention?

I'm in. I'm here. But, things are changing. I'm going to be out of commission starting tomorrow and into the weekend. My blog will go private, but it will ONLY be temporary.

No big deal. I just need to do a little housekeeping. You know, wash dishes, do the laundry, dust.

All the stuff I love. Intensely.

That said. I'll be hopping around, catching up, getting reacquainted (a girl can't clean all day, can she?).

Until then . . . take care.

Direct all your burning questions to laskigal AT gmail DOT com.

PSF: The Thin Mint Mooch

2009-03-07T16:00:00.000-05:00

Yes, I am posting a PhotoStory Friday on Saturday. I have my reasons . . .

* * *

The sun . . . it was out. A light wind rustled the trees (the promise of a bud or two dancing in the wind). J and I peeked through the slats on the deck, staring at the deer that had gathered at the foot of the hill behind our house. I wasn't sure if he saw them or not, as they still blended in with the matted brown background, hints of green springing up around them.

We pulled out the bubbles. He laughed as he tried to catch them, then looked up at me as if to say, "Seriously, why should I exhaust myself if you are just going to continue to blow more?" He parked himself right in front of me. Raising his hand to catch them before they even had a chance to savor freedom. I hope he won't become the spoiler of fun. The kid who cocks a suspicious eyebrow as the magician pulls a quarter from behind an ear or detaches a thumb.

I sometimes like being clueless, in awe, enraptured. This is where J may be more like his engineer father . . . but I digress.

The phone rang and I stepped just inside the sliding glass doors off the deck. Within what seemed to be seconds J let out a scream. I had just hung up the phone and turned to see him rushing inside and swatting at his hands.

I knew what had happened in an instant.

They had been hibernating. The beasts. They had been locked in crevices deep in the ground, cracks in the siding. But, the warmth has prodded them awake. There was not the slightest hint of them only moments before. But now. They had attacked my son.

In only an instant I went from a calm, even-tempered, patient, relaxed individual to a raging lunatic with nothing but insecticide on my mind.

Wasp. You. Are. DEAD. Don't even try hiding.

Within only seconds I grabbed an icepack, planted it on J's hand and hunted down the attacker and reduced him to a smear on the bottom of my shoe.

I returned my attention to J who sat rigid in my arms, tears running down his cheeks, screams continuing to come out of his rounded mouth. He looked up at me as if he barely recognized me. Had the murder of the insidious bug done damage to my innocent child?

No.

It was me.

I was still screaming. Ranting. Spewing odd expletives ("flippin' fudge buckets") while damning every flying creature with a stinger to a life roasting in hell fires.

I'd lost it.

J started sucking in breath as I tried to calm him. He wiped at his nose, snot smearing across his face as it mixed with his tears. I hugged him and told him it would all be okay that mommy was right here.

He cried harder.

The next few minutes had me examining every square inch of him. Checking for even a hint of a stinger or where a stinger may have at one time been. I was frantically on the phone to my pediatrician (lunch time), the ER (bring him in), my mother (take him to the ER--"Iwilljumpinmycarthisinstantandtravel300milestocomfortmypoorgrandson"--yeah, that's just what I needed), my husband (voice mail--we won't even go into the message I left . . . not suitable for even an average audience), a friend with a toddler (not home--how dare she?!).

By this time J was calming down. I was no longer screaming. There was a baking soda paste on his hands and his head was resting on my shoulder. Freak mommy stopped freaking out. (I need to add something here. I screamed for at least 5 minutes--as did poor J. I would have thought it would have brought at least a neighbor to my door, maybe even the police. I was so thankful that my screams didn't. But thinking about it later, I am wondering if by chance I am ever attacked by some crazed serial killer if my neighbors will bother coming to my rescue. I'm beginning to wonder . . . ).

A call back. The pediatrician. She was calm. She even laughed as she said, "Those first stings are usually way worse for mom than for baby."

Really?

I had no idea.

For the next hour we sat on the couch. Where I allowed him to mooch Thin Mints while he watched Elmo. Yes, we don't often watch TV, nor do we eat while watching TV (I mean, that's what I'm going to tell him), and we don't mooch mommy's Thin Mints.

But somehow, at that moment, he could have whatever he wanted . . . and with that, psycho mommy took a really deep breath.

* * *

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

PSF: On some days . . .

2009-02-27T22:00:00.000-05:00

On some days, I have no idea how blessed I am . . .

Early in the morning I hear this tiny little voice, suggestions of words. It beckons me.

I pick him up and cradle him in my arms. "You know one day he'll be too big for this?"

Yes. I know.

We head downstairs where I find our spot on the well-worn couch. He rolls out of my arms onto the cushion while I gather up the quilt and bring it over to the couch. He scrambles for my lap and tucks his head under my chin as I pull up the quilt, creating the perfect cocoon.

We stay that way for close to an hour. Just cuddling.

"You know he won't always cuddle with you, right?"

Yes. I know.

I grab a perfectly ripened banana and begin pulling at the peel. I hear the little patter of feet come behind me and feel him wrap his arms around my legs. He starts to sing, "Lado lado lado." I have no idea what this song is, but he sings with such gusto that I can't help but clap and cheer for each note that passes from his lips. He grins and nods his head, his body shakes in excitement. I can't even fathom the simple joy this boy feels. His hand stretches out for the banana. "Nanananana." I screech. That was definitely a word. I heard it. HE SAID BANANA! I scoop him up and spin around. He throws his head back as he rubs his banana-sticky fingers in my hair. My heaven.

"One day he won't need the cheering section anymore."

Yes. I know.

I busy myself in the kitchen as the afternoon approaches. Loading the dishwasher, folding laundry, cleaning off counter tops. It amazes me that one mother and her child can destroy a house like we do. But every afternoon it looks the same. Sweet chaos.

A small truck races across the floor. WOOSH! Followed by its "driver," the little car skids to stop a few inches from my feet.

He runs over. Grabbing my legs he looks up at me. Those eyes. Blue. Innocent. Perfect. Those eyes that love me . . .

"He won't always look at you that way, you know?"

Yes, I know.

I drop the towel in the sink. I forget about the laundry. The dishes. The messy counter.

I turn around and I chase my son. His laughter filling the air . . .

My heaven.

* * *

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

A Good Thing

2009-02-25T00:00:00.000-05:00

I have to be honest. My husband is awesome. I feel like I should go on some sort of "why my husband is a pain" rant. But, I can't (I can't say the same for him, however).

A few hours ago he cleaned up after dinner, dusted (I know, shocker), vacuumed, did 3 loads of laundry and get this . . . he was on his hands and knees washing the floor.

How lucky am I? I mean, this guy accomplishes more in an hour than I do all day. Sure, I have Mr. Destructo to watch, play with, feed and of course NURTURE. But seriously, how is it that I can't finish one load of whites? Wash a few breakfast dishes? Sweep a floor covered in dried Play Doh, Cheerios (I talk about Cheerios way too much on my blog . . . not as much as Swedish Fish, though), crumbs, UIO (unidentified icky objects) and such?

I mean, on a good day I'm lucky to get a shower.

But Super Hubby swoops in and he's faster than a speeding blob of vomit when it comes to getting this house to look a little less Romper and a little more Room. Pretty damn amazing. I hesitate to tell him this . . . I fear that I will hear in return that if I just "keep up with it throughout the day" I can be as good as he. He's never, ever said this . . . but I know it lingers on his tongue. Besides, if we start to talk about it then that might mean he'll . . . expect more of me.

As I sit here thinking of how lucky I am, I can't help but smile. I should probably tell him how grateful I am for all he does, for the loving way in which he cares for his family.

I lean against the door frame staring down in admiration at my wonderful husband. Swish, swish. His hands move in unison as he wipes remnants of our day off the old oak floors.

He looks up at me, as if he anticipates evidence of my love and appreciation to fall from my lips.

He gets up, hands on knees, tilts his head, the hint of a smile on his face, "Yes?" he asks in a knowing tone.

"You missed a spot," I reply.

I mean, why ruin a good thing?

For Misty

2009-02-22T21:14:00.004-05:00

There is a blogger I know. She is full of warmth, honesty and a love so profound that it inspires you to grab onto your children and never, ever let them go.

Her strength was what first drew me in. She had such heavy burdens to bear yet she never wavered in her faith (and if she did, she never let it show), she drew strength from the love of her family and the kindness of her friends.

Even more inspiring . . . she gave it all back three-fold.

I ask that you pray for Misty, that you think of her family during this time . . . for in a matter of months Misty will be delivering her dear son, Isaac . . . and then she will bid him farewell.

I have no more words.

Except to say, my heart is with you Misty . . .

Walking the cow

2009-02-19T00:00:00.002-05:00

This post sat in-draft. It begged me to be freed. It was born from a manic state of swirling chaos that had gripped my shoulders and shook me dry.

I relent. There is no poetry. No depth. No guarded history. Just a day in the life of being constantly in-draft . . .

* * *

The other day I was on this cleaning kick. I scrubbed the sink. I cleaned every inch of my counter tops. I was even able to remove the jelly that had hardened weeks ago (I had placed an old trivet over it thinking I'd get to it later). I mopped. I vacuumed (this word ticks me off because it always takes me three times to spell it correctly). I dusted, and I mean REALLY dusted--base boards, chair rails, ceiling fans (found a few dozen bugs lounging--dead--up there). And get this. I cleaned out my junk drawer (OK, one of my MANY junk drawers, but a junk drawer nonetheless). I seriously should have taken a picture . . . I tossed coupons that expired in 2006. A raffle ticket from 2004. Buttons to non-existent clothing. A bunch of old tissues--don't ask. Underwear magnets (yes, I had magnets in the shape of underwear--don't ask about that either). A little plastic bag that I thought was the stump of J's umbilical cord, but was indeed only an old raisin. I think. I was so damned productive that I awarded myself a gold star.

But here's the deal. That's all I was able to do.

I had this freaky laser-like focus on getting the house clean (this is a rare focus as I am usually surrounded by Legos, Little People, blocks, cars, mix-matched Tupperware . . . ). But, during my Mrs. Clean adventure I ignored nearly everything else. I never got out of my PJs. I ignored phone calls. I didn't even bother to make dinner. I'm pretty sure I forgot to go pee. Yeah. It wasn't good. Oh, don't worry about J. Apparently, he was enthralled and thoroughly entertained watching me buzz around like the busy bee from his storybook ("Buzz, buzz" said Bee, "I'm too busy today . . . ").

I have a confession. I suck at multitasking. My dad used to tell me that I did everything with blinders on. He was right. I do. Give me more than one thing to do and something is bound to suffer. "Walk the dog and go get milk." OK. Chances are I'll walk a cow (no, we didn't have a cow--see the problem?) and go get dog food. My brain just doesn't work well when it is overloaded . . . with more than one thing, one instruction, one option (oh, dear Lord, don't even get me started on menus).

You know what's funny? During job interviews I always state with confidence that I am an excellent multi-tasker. I don't necessarily lie. I just think of myself in a parallel universe.

The worst thing about being a single-tasker . . . distraction. This is why I rely on those blinders. I'm making dinner. Oooohh. Twitter. I'm writing a to do list. What a pretty pen. I'm brushing my hair. I think I'll go through all my make-up. I'm just getting out of the shower. The shower needs a full scrubbing. And the sinks. And the toilet. I need to make a phone call. Geesh, the phone needs to be sanitized. So do the doorknobs, light switches, cupboard hardware . . . I just need to run in and get milk. There are a bazillion cereals in the cereal aisle and I need cereal with my milk--thus, the 3 hour grocery shopping excursion.

I envy those moms that clearly are excellent multi-taskers. They are balancing a baby on one hip, nursing the other while giving an online lecture on the subatomic particles to an advanced physics class all while texting on a Blackberry. Yeah. That's not me. I admit it. I'm coming clean. Trust me, this is NOT my way of trying to look all cool and laid back with my flawed, yet embraceable and endearing mommy persona.

The fact is, I'd love to be a master multi-tasker. I can only imagine how productive I could be. How focused I would be. How centered. How Zen. And after I would wake, shower and dress, I'd prepare a nutritious breakfast. Clean the kitchen. Then make a list. Go to the store. Buy milk and Wow . . . this maze on the back of the Cap'n Crunch box is kinda hard. Damn it. Now, what were we talking about?

* * *
Added after reading some of your comments: There is something so comforting about NOT being alone in this . . . I can see it now. A whole big nekkid bunch of us all walking cows at the grocery store. Excellent . . .

PSF: My Little Dude

2009-02-13T11:00:00.001-05:00

A mere 18 months ago I peered into a set of dark eyes surrounded by wrinkles and peach fuzz.

Last night I peered into a set of deep blue eyes surrounded by smooth creamy skin smeared with a mixture of chocolate cake, frosting and banana (Yes, I look for any excuse to make cupcakes).

What a beautiful face. What a huge mess . . .

Although I see glimpses of that newborn baby that I cradled in my arms, today I see more the boy he is slowly turning out to be. I am full of all sorts of bittersweet amazement.

I have a toddler now. A TODDLER.

And nothing can truly prepare you for living with a toddler. Well, except two months alone in the Amazon jungle with the constant chatter of monkeys, the jabs and pokes of the greenery, the rough terrain of the near-untouched land, the never ending fear of the unknown, and the constant desire to dry off or to take a shower (with soap). That might give you an idea . . . MIGHT.

And all that said, I so completely and utterly dig this little dude. Here is just a sampling of why . . .

1. His hugs. Man can this kid hug! He comes running, full force, throwing his arms around you and burying his head in your shoulder. He hugs with his entire body. He's like a warm coat you just don't want to take off.

2. His laugh. His giggles are still that of a baby. They are light and airy and coated in sweetness. Until you do something silly. Like reenact an episode of The Three Stooges. He is enamored with ridiculousness. If you drop something, he laughs. You stumble, he laughs. You fall, he cracks up with this deep giggle that resonates from his belly and curls up in your ears. I'd fall all day long to hear that laugh. ALL DAY.

3. His words. OK. Although I talk to J all day long, we read, we sing, we play . . . he's not much of a talker. Of the English language, that is. He jabbers all day long. But either I am not well versed in "baby" or he is literally speaking another language. But let me tell you, when a perfectly formed word springs from those lips, it is like someone dropped gold in my lap. Lots and lots of gold. In the matter of the last couple days it is like a switch has turned on and I am hearing more and more words. Up. Down. Car. WOOF. Dog. Cat. An expletive I swear I never taught him . . . (I think he's trying to say "funny duck"--at least I hope that's what he's trying to say).

4. His brains. He is taking after his dad. No doubt. He's been sorting shapes for months. He stacks blocks, building towers as tall as he is only to knock them down. He pulls things a part and puts them back together. He can sort his Legos into color piles and like items into bins. Brilliance in action, I say (and if this is totally normal for his age, don't tell me. He still tries to eat weird and gross things off the ground so I need something to hold onto).

5. His heart. Several months ago we found that if we put our hands over our eyes and "cry" he will come running, remove your hands and check to see if you are OK. Once he sees your eyes he moves in for a comforting hug. He hears crying, whether a baby at the mall or a woman on TV and a look of concern creeps across his face. YET, when he cries he just shakes it off. My little tough guy with a heart.

and here are a few other fun facts . . .

6. He clearly possesses the skills to one day work in covert ops. From sneaking sips of his dad's Mountain Dew and emptying a box of cereal (that used to be up high on the counter) to tearing apart a roll of toilet paper and ripping open all the mail (that was in a drawer in the desk), he knows what he wants, performs reconnaissance and then goes for it. He's got skills.

7. He loves chocolate. Dang it. My competition.

8. He develops infatuations with strange items. One minute it is a small Elmo finger puppet (normal) and the next it is an emptied bottle of travel-sized hand sanitizer. I don't get it.

9. I'm pretty sure he's made the decision to become a vegetarian. Either that or the mass/distance ratio of the flight plan of a piece of meat is more interesting then actually eating it.

10. He is FAST. I was a record-setter in high school track. I competed (and won a lot) at the college level. I've been running nearly my entire life. I am FAST. Or. I WAS fast. This kid is can have me heaving in a matter of seconds. And the minute those little feet touch ground . . . watch out!

And finally . . . I love this face. This face that belongs to the boy that cracks me up, makes me smile, swells my heart, brings tears to my eyes, fills my heart with fear and worry, but most of all . . . makes it all worth it.

Only 18 months. I can't imagine 18 years, yet I know we'll be here in no time.

Love. This. Face.

* * *

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Just a little . . .

2009-02-05T00:00:00.000-05:00

R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Please.

Apparently, I am a mommy blogger.

A blogger.

NOT, necessarily, a writer.

Really? I'm not?

I have always hesitated to use that word to describe myself. Writer. I have a degree in English. Does that make me a writer? I've been paid to write (not much, but more than a few dollars). Does that make me a writer? My 5th grade teacher said I was "Awesome" and gave me lots of gold stars. Does that make me a writer?

I write, but does that make me a writer?

I write about my past, the histories that have become threaded into the frayed fabric that is my life.

I write about this whole mom gig. I'm not sure if anyone ever picks up on my fears, but they are there, preening beneath my words.

I write about silly things, like my desperate attempt to yank a toy out of its plastic prison or about having a rather intense competitive spirit.

Sometimes, I write through tears. Wiping them away while I forge ahead with an idea, a hope, a dream.

Sometimes, I write through laughter. Gagging on my Lucky Charms as I shake my head and pound the keyboard in a fit of hilarity (trust me, you own the laughter more than I do).

I don't know.

Maybe I am a writer.

There are some that will disagree. There are some that will say that I am nothing but a talentless hack. A wanna-be. A bored mom desperate to fill nap times. A lonely (young--yes, let's say YOUNG, shall we?) woman with nothing better to do.

Fine. Say it. Believe it. Maybe I am it.

But I'll be damned if I'll let someone else tell me I'm NOT a writer. That as a blogger I am "less than."

The blog is the vehicle by which we share our lives, our stories and ourselves. We do it with words. Words that pound the virtual page with conviction. With emotion. With power. Unlike the dusty journals that sit at our nightstand or the memoir that we are building one document at a time, the blog is our testament. To a life lived and a life shared.

A writer need not have a fancy degree. A writer does not need to bend the phrase like Shakespeare or Hemingway. A writer does not need to brandish the title like an ill-crafted weapon. A writer does not ever feel the need to tell someone else that they are NOT a writer.

A true writer writes with passion, celebrating the words and relishing in the story. A true writer embraces community and encourages expression. From profound revelations and satirical observations to heartfelt anecdotes to stunning images of unspoken words . . . a true writer . . . just writes. With zeal. With honesty. With humor. With hope . . .

Yes. YOU are a writer. Claim it. And don't let anyone tell you any different.

The mother, with tear-stained cheeks and trembling fingers, writes about losing her child. She reaches out and we reach for her. Holding her up and drying her tears.

The father, with awe and humor, shares the stories of his young son as he catches glimpses of the man he will one day become.

The young woman who is reborn within the words that she scatters along the page--reclaiming her independence, her youth, her life from an unkind history.

The new mom who courageously raises her baby boy while trudging through classes and hoping for her husband's safe return from overseas writes of her life with an edgy wit as profound depth ripples just beneath the surface.

We are out there. Don't be distracted by our cute headers. The photos of our babies. The silly stories we tell. There is a hell of a lot more to us. Just read . . . if you dare.

We are out there. We are writing. And we are getting really, really good.

And the only thing we ask . . . just give us a little respect.

Because you can never truly know the power of the blog . . . of the power of the writer who writes it.

* * *

Please visit Don Mills Diva for more inspiring Write on! Respect the blog posts.

Smashing Butterflies

2009-01-29T00:00:00.000-05:00

Her hair was long, hanging to the middle of her back in shiny soft waves. She often thought it was romantic the way her hair would cascade down the front of her bare chest, creating the mythical image of a princess waiting in an ethereal forest for her prince.

The romance continued as she lay on her canopied bed, closed her eyes and tuned in to the velvety voice of the DJ as he relayed promises of love from one listener to another. She lost herself in the music as Phil Collins begged for just one more night, as Whitney gave all her love and Air Supply ran out of love.

She hungered for romance. For the starry-eyed wonder that inhabited the faces of her friends. For the swirling butterflies, the racing heartbeat, the unicorns jumping over rainbows. She wanted it all . . . even the heartbreak. Yes, she'd take the heartbreak.

But instead she stood. Along the wall. Pulling her hair behind her. In front. Behind. Smoothing her skirt. Sniffing her wrists. Smiling coyly, hoping to catch his eye. Any eye.

No eyes. No catch.

The song ended. The couples broke apart and Kool and the Gang filled the air. She wrestled with her thoughts.

Am I ugly? Do I smell? Is my skirt too short? Too long? Is it my hair . . . she questioned everything. Something must be wrong.

Another slow song and she slowly headed toward the wall as one by one her friends were grabbed by pimply-faced boys with not-so-hidden agendas.

The wall.

She dreamed about the butterflies that she longed to feel bump into each other as she spread a coat of Cherry Chapstick across her lips, knowing that he'd like the taste.

But the wall was her only partner.

She thought about the butterflies. About taking them by their mocking little wings and smashing them against the wall. Watching them drop . . . one by one. Like stinging tears from swollen eyes.

The song ended. She threw her hair back as she headed toward the benches.

Head up high, she repeated to herself.

She hiked up her skirt out of defiance and yanked off her skates. Before pushing open the big metal door, she looked back. At the wall.

And she thought about the butterflies. For one last time.

PSF: Just live. Just play. Just be happy.

2009-01-23T16:24:00.007-05:00

They were way too big. My mom's heels. But she slipped on an extra pair of socks and jammed her chubby toes into the wedge heels anyway. She shuffled across the linoleum, relishing in the clackity-clack sound. She sounded like a grown up. The sticky cheeks betrayed her. My little sister was barely out of toddler-hood when she realized the distinct advantages of adulthood. Height.

I'm certain my dad suffered from a rather intense form of OCD. He could walk into any room and spot a tiny piece of lint, a crumb or a hair. With laser-like focus, he would home in on the offending piece of debris and dispose of it. We were all amazed. My brother most of all. When my dad pulled out the vacuum, my brother would follow close behind with the popcorn push toy. He wanted to be a big man, like his daddy. Push. Pop. Push.

I remember my mom grabbing at the backpack I had slung over my shoulder. "What do you need this for?" she demanded. I was going skating, as in roller skating. My big-banged, electric blue-mascaraed, off-the-shoulder sweater secured at her waist with a pleather belt with a buckle as-big as-your-face wearin' friend was going with me. "It's just stuff, mom," I replied with the I'm-too-cool-for-this requisite teenage eye-roll. In a matter of mere seconds she pulled from the bag a mini-skirt (not mine), an off-the-shoulder-t-shirt (oddly, my mom's) and a mix-matched collection of Bonnie Bell. Busted. I was desperate to add a decade to my 14 years. I wanted someone to peel me away from the wall during the couples skate when some sappy Richard Marx song was sure to be playing. Now I didn't have a chance.

High heels. A "vacuum." Cheap make-up and a top made "for a hussy" (my mom's words). Desperate attempts to grab a piece of adulthood.

I never though I'd see the signs of such a pursuit in my plucky little 17-month-old . . . let's just take a look at the last few days, shall we?

He wants to be able to hang out in empty rooms by himself, just like a big boy. Closing the door is a sure sign of "I need my privacy." In only a few seconds, this poked out. Clearly, he misses me.

He's had enough of Velcro sneakers covered in Sesame Street characters. Or, he's just trying to show off his shoe-tying skills. With his mouth. Impressive.

Daddy left his CAFFEINATED DIET pop/cola/soda on the floor. J decided to help himself. I have no idea how much he sucked down . . . I just know it was a longer night than usual.

J decided that mama blowing his nose just, well, blew. So, he decided to practice. With an entire box of tissue. I knew he was being entirely too quiet (I mean, how much noise does tissue make?!?!).

J is all about making his own nutritional choices. There are at least a dozen or more on the floor (mixed with the crusty cheese bits, veggie "chicken" patty crumbs and who the heck knows what).

J is rather distressed over not being able to beat daddy's high score in electronic Yahtzee. And he wants the world to know . . .

Little man, this is your mommy. Stop it. Stop it right now. I know you want to grow up. I get it. I was once there myself. But for now, don't worry about bills, winning or losing, fat/calories, zits, impressing anyone, getting a job, doing homework, cleaning your room, finding a college, settling on a career, minding your manners (for now, even shoving your finger in your nose is still kinda cute. For now.), finding "the one," losing "the one," nose and back hair, bald spots . . . just don't worry. Not now. You have your entire life for all that nonsense.

Until then . . . take advantage of having someone else bathe, feed and dress you (you might not experience this again for about 80 years or so, and it won't be as fun). Let daddy hoist you on his shoulders and spin you around while he sings the greatest hits from the Bee Gees. Play hide 'n seek and giggle until your chubby belly hurts (or until your breakfast spills out onto the carpet). Let your mommy grab you and hug and kiss you until you can barely take it. Let us tuck you in at night, read you stories and tell you about all the amazing things you can do, will do, if you want. Let us carry the burden of worry, of fear. We will come in, rub your back, feel your soft breaths and bend down to whisper our love for you.

For now, little man . . .

Just live. Just play. Just be happy.

* * *

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Her Hands

2009-01-18T13:00:00.003-05:00

I could hear her. I knew she was crying. She wasn't shy about her tears. She let them flow in sadness, anger, frustration. Her eyes were often full and reflective pools of shadowy emotions.

Her tears rarely touched me. There were just so many. A currency I could afford to waste. Yes. It was cold, heartless even. But I felt my icy retreat was one fraught with purpose.

But I knew that these tears were not meant to twist my emotions or force an action. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"I can't remember her hands," she stared down at her own, flipping them over. Palms up. Palms down.

I sat down on the bed next to her and took her hands in mine. "Mom, they looked like your hands." She looked up at me. Her eyes heavy from the burden of countless tears.

How long had my mother's mom been dead? How long had my own mother been refusing to live?

I wrapped my arms around her, remembering the scent of her hair (Clairol), the softness of her skin (old school Oil of Olay). I forgot the angry exchanges, the bitter emotions my heart had been bound in for so long.

I remembered the way her voice would carry into the cramped living room. Patsy Cline songs emerging from my mother's mouth as she dried dishes while her bare feet danced around on the tattered linoleum of our 60's style kitchen. I forgot the words of anger that spewed like venom from her lips and thought about the hurt that fueled her words.

My grip on the past loosened.

I remembered the way she would grasp my hair in her hands, gently pulling back loose strands with each stroke of the brush. She loved my hair. I loved her hands. I forgot about seeing her hands clenched in anger, ready to pound her fists in the histories that denied her peace.

I remembered the way her eyes would crinkle and her mouth would curl as joy overtook her. Her body would shake with happiness and pride as she drank in her children. She relished over who we were, who we would one day be. She was not shy about sharing her treasure with the world, much to our wary embarrassment. I forgot about her drowning in sorrow. Drenched in grief, she turned away from us. Walked . . . no, ran away from us. Maybe she was just trying to save herself.

And that's when I let go. The past, the hurt, the anger, the memories that left undeniable scars . . . all of it. Slipping through my fingers.

My mother carries the weight of memories from her own childhood that no one should have to bear. Yet, she held onto the joy, the love, the brief moments of perfection that the ornery woman with flaming red hair possessed. She loved her mother. In spite of it all.

Her hands. My grandmother's hands.

When I am home with my mother, I stare at her hands. I embrace them with my eyes, tracing each line and wrapping countless memories around each finger. I won't forget. Because now I know. It is about holding on . . . and letting go.

Being Able to Jump

2009-01-14T22:23:00.006-05:00

Grasping at the last bite of pancake, he pressed it between his fingers and tossed it behind him.

"I'm so sorry," I repeated to the couple sitting behind us. The man reminded me of Norman Mailer, but happier. He smiled, shrugged and said, "He's got a great arm!" Love this man.

Clearly J was done. I had spent what seemed like seconds eating my own meal while simultaneously grabbing straws from his pudgy little hands before he poked his eye out (I am becoming a mother, aren't I?), picked up soggy Cheerios and the mushy pancake strewn all over the table, apologized to our breakfast companions (they sorta asked for it since I told them I was perfectly fine eating alone with J, but they insisted) for the sneeze that no doubt christened their food with bits of milk and syrup, and trying desperately to keep J from styling his hair with maple gook.

I was exhausted. And that was just the eating, which was only half the fun. Getting out of the restaurant was an adventure, which is an understatement. With my hands gripping a jacket, purse, diaper bag, the bill, the tip, my little Crusoe decided to take off. Running, screaming (I swear there was a mocking "ha, ha, you can't catch me" undertone) he befriended every restaurant patron who would even dare glance his way. My little charmer. Me, smile, apologize, smile, apologize. There were a few times when I nearly had him in my grasp, but he was fueled by the laughter and "Oh, isn't he cute" comments that filtered through the air making his escape was inevitable.

He was performing.

And loving every moment of it.

Even though my little celebubaby showed his complete and utter dissatisfaction as I hoisted him on my hip and made my way quickly to the exit (being caught between two exiting customers gave me my chance), I felt a very weak sense of satisfaction.

Because I will admit. As much as I never want to be the mother with the out-of-control toddler, the one that causes chaos and distress to others (in other words, the toddler that draws often unreasonable ire from others and forces the mama to bear her claws), I love being the mother of a toddler who can't help but be happy. Who can't help but relish in the joy and attention of others.

Maybe because I have never been that way. Maybe because my "thriving in anonymity" philosophy is so challenged by his "HEY! Look at me!" personality. He commands attention without seeming to need it. It is so effortless. Stepping out behind him, I sometimes have to take a deep breath . . . and just jump. He makes me feel like there is nothing in the world better than just jumping.

I'd like to think that I have a realistic view of my little guy. That I don't think he's a perfect little genius, a prodigy who is extraordinary in every little way.

But I do think he is extraordinary. He is my perfect fit. I most definitely was nothing more than a bunch of mix-matched puzzle pieces sitting in the clearance rack before he came along.

Before him, before the mushy pancake, the constant chaos and the overwhelming exhaustion, I was OK. But now, I guess I just feel like I make sense. And being able to jump . . . well, that's an added bonus.

The Zen of Toy Extraction

2009-01-07T23:55:00.005-05:00

Seriously, how many twist ties, plastic bolts, tape pieces and cardboard parts are needed to package a toy? I just spent the last hour freeing a half dozen smiling large-wheeled cars from their box.

A dozen ties, a half dozen plastic bolts. Hmmm. Choking hazard. Methinks . . . yes. But that doesn't seem to stop 'em.

The cars are for a toddler. The packaging is meant as torture for an unsuspecting parent who wants to desperately push cars around on the worn Berber, dodging the broken and beaten Goldfish, the discarded wooden blocks . . . with her son.

Damn toy company. Seriously, where do they think the cars are going? There's no threat of escape, trust me. I needed scissors, a small screwdriver, bolt cutters (at least I thought I did) and a lot of muscle (I've been workin' out, ya know) to pry those cars out of the box! Dare I mention the moment when the box "accidentallty" flew across the room and hit the back wall behind the couch?

"What was that?!" T yelled from upstairs.

"What?!?" I responded knowing full well that he was referring to the huge crash he just heard from the living room.

I hear him make his way down the stairs. I scramble for the bent up box, find my place next to the screwdriver just as he comes into the room.

"The crash I just heard. That sound. What was it?" He's not stupid. He knows how I am. He knows that me along with scissors, a screwdriver and a box (we won't even discuss the fate of boxes that include more than one page of directions) usually involves the shouting of unique expletives ("fudge buckets"--don't ask) and ends with something being being thrown, stepped on, kicked. One day I'll have to tell you about the shoe rack I attempted to put together. Stupid shoe rack.

"Maybe it was J?" Sure, blame the sleeping baby. Coward.

I look up at him but he is already gone.

"It was probably the wind," he says as he makes his way back upstairs. Phew. Maybe he . . .
"Um, but if by chance you decide to put together his race track, could you please just wait and let me do it. I don't think the drywall can take it."

Damn.

* * *
Some of you have e-mailed wondering where I've been. Well, you see. I (as in J) received quite a few things over the holidays. That came in boxes. With directions. And, well, let's just say I've been spending a lot of time at Home Depot picking up spackling paste. A girl likes to be prepared.

Code for Keep Believing

2009-01-01T00:00:00.008-05:00

Grab Keep Believing Fund badge

Leaking Pumpkins and Candy Canes

2008-12-30T16:00:00.006-05:00

We just returned from our pilgrimage to Michigan. At 3 AM.

To visit family and friends. To give gifts. To open gifts (and yes, to even return that one gift that elicited the "What in the heck were they thinking?" response). To unintentionally take part in family histrionics. To intentionally remove self from family drama only to get sucked back in. To keep my belly full and top button unbuttoned (and let's be honest, the zipper didin't have a chance). To popping Tums and drinking ginger ale. To drive. And drive. And drive. And drive in a car packed with too many things that beep, bleep, bong, and bang (and not being able to shut even one of them off). To say silent prayers that the sleeping baby remained in said state for the 6+ hour drive. To say not-so-silent prayers that the car top carrier would remain atop the fully loaded car . . . and that we would not be chasing after my underwear on the toll way.

To come home only to find the pumpkin I bought before Halloween sitting on the front porch . . . melting, leaking its guts and draining its noisome fluids across the cement. Lovely.

I know. I asked for it.

The good news . . . I spent a week with him . . .

Watching him giggle. Watching him hold onto his grandmas and seeing them turn into mush at the slightest grin (man, is he good . . . ). Watching him open presents (read: run around the room totally oblivious to the present-opening and more interested in grabbing cameras, picking up tinsel and swiping candy canes from the tree).

I simply soaked him in. His musical sighs as he slept in the crib next to us (the room so cramped I could practically feel his breath). The way he pulled at my lips as I tried to sing Christmas carols. His infatuation with the candy cane after he felt the taste of peppermint on his tongue for the first time. His energy, the way his feet would never stop, his hands constantly exploring and his eyes searching for the next adventure. Exhaustingly wonderful.

Although there are therapists that need to be contacted (after spending a week with the family). A treadmill that will be cringing when it sees me coming. Overstuffed suitcases to be unpacked. Complicated toys to be assembled. Abandoned rooms to be cleaned. A bundle of food to be purchased (oh, my poor fridge and the things I left behind). A leaking pumpkin to be disposed of.

I'd do it again.

And again.

Why not?

I love them.

They love me. (shockingly)

And J . . . well, that silly little boy is a sucker for a candy cane and a grandma.

Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. Here is to a prosperous New Year.

PSF: Snow Angel

2008-12-18T23:39:00.007-05:00

The ticker crawled across the screen. Local schools canceled. Bleary-eyed, I switched the channel to see the forecast.

Not a lot of snow. But maybe just enough. My eyes shifted down, to the little orange jeep that made its way over my belly and down my leg. I giggled as J headed down to my feet with the tiny vehicle. A tiny grin slowly spread across his face. Clearly he wasn't tiring of the "mom track."

I wonder if he knew what I had planned for him today?

9:46 AM

We started with the boots. The Parenting 101 manual did not specify time and effort it takes to put on a pair of boots.

No one told me that a squirming toddler is absolutely no help.

10:15 AM

Seriously. Why do they even bother with thumbs in mittens?

10:27 AM

Why in the heck am I looking for the matching hat?

10: 39 AM

He took off a boot. %$*&@

10: 44 AM

He's dressed. My turn. Clearly didn't think ahead. Can't afford another boot to be pulled off. Will go outside in PJs and heavy coat and rain boots. Good enough.

10:45 AM

We have made contact with snow.

10:45:05 AM

Face has made contact with snow.

11:50 AM

After several attempts to coax reluctant toddler back into the house, I finally succeed. Of course he was crying, dragging his bootless feet, holding onto the railing as he came "willingly" into the house.

I'm thinking our venture was a success. Even if I ended up with toe-sicles, it was worth every second.

Icy blue eyes. Puffy-cheeked grin. And a body full of bliss. My very own snow angel.

Totally worth it.

* * *

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

* * *

I can't let you all go without wishing a funny (serious belly laughs, people), sweet (though she may deny it), ridiculously generous (though she'll probably deny that, too) blogging buddy a VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY. You know, 29 never looked so good (again).

We're Those Parents

2008-12-16T23:04:00.007-05:00

The moment I set J down, his little feet moved with unrestrained anticipation toward the noise in the back of the house. He tumbled over a few shoes, rolled, found his footing and was off again.

As T and I took off our coats, removed our shoes and prepared to join the party, we heard it--a cacophony of oohs and aahs and "He's so cute?" and "What a doll." A grin creeped across my face as I silently agreed.

In a mater of only a few minutes J had found a group of comely teenage girls hiding out in the basement, away from the "old people" that had gathered upstairs (they swore on their Ipods that they didn't mean me). J was in heaven. With a sly little grin and a wink (I swear, there was a wink) the girls broke away from the action on the television screen. They were J groupies in a matter of moments.

J found a group of women entrenched in a rather intense discussion. As he approached he let out a cringe-worthy scream (a new talent he can't help but to show off) to announce his arrival. I quickly apologized, but they abruptly ended their conversation as they greeted their happy little intruder. After flirting with the ladies, J moved on to spread a little joy.

No doubt, he was a hit.

About an hour later we pulled up to party #2.

The wine and cheese party. The party where the cheap sparkling wine and box of Hershey candies I bought would be accepted with barely concealed disdain, or so I was informed. I left both at home, where they would certainly be more appreciated.

Hmmm. Wonder how they'd feel about a two-foot unexpected guest? (Yes, we are without a babysitter . . . in case you were wondering. The background checks were just too pricey).

The moment J walked in his head came in contact with the corner of a table. He melted in tears until the jingle of a reindeer wine charm (aka, choking hazard) reached his ears, distracting him from the pain. The guests were pleasant as they greeted the couple who deigned to bring a toddler to a classy holiday get together. I was confident that J's charm would win them over.

He climbed on laps. Dipped cookies in wine. Stole wine charms off glasses. Used expensive cheese as building blocks. Although I would have enjoyed huddling in a corner with a glass of one of the expensive whites and a plate of shrimp, I was too busy protecting the speakers, blocking J from the stairs and removing hazardous objects from his curious (and quick) fingers.

It was exhausting. Yet, each party goer was enthralled with my little man. They commented on his cheery disposition and his obvious intelligence as he maneuvered around the tables gathering, stacking and grabbing. Both T and I beamed with pride.

He was a hit. Again.

As we gathered our gloves, hats and coats and prepared to leave, the guests enthusiastically wished us well. We left the party, both thrilled with how successful the evening was.

After replaying the evening's events, it hit us. The realization forced us into a reflective silence as T drove toward home.

"We're those parents, aren't we?" I asked T.

"Yeah." He responded, the pride dissipating from his voice. "You know, they probably all breathed a sigh of relief when we left." I couldn't disagree.

I thought J was a hit, but they were simply being polite. I don't doubt that those teenage girls fell in love a little bit. But the party serving wines older than me, yeah, who were we kidding?

It's like dining at an expensive restaurant. The waiter serves you your entree and just as you are about to bite into your filet a tiny head pops up from the behind the seat. A tiny head belonging to a pixie-faced little girl who wants nothing more than to entertain you with a never-ending game of Peek-a-Boo. You sigh, hoping that she will abandon her game-playing or that her parents will turn her around so that you can eat in peace.

But she doesn't. And her parents are under the mistaken impression that you are enjoying the interaction.

You're just being polite.

They are clueless, enchanted and blinded by their child's irresistability factor.

Yup.

We're those parents.

No doubt our egos were bruised with the newfound realization. But as we pulled the patchwork quilt up under J's tiny chin, bent over to kiss his plump cheeks and stroked the soft tufts of hair, we realized something.

We didn't care.

So what. Poopy diapers. Screaming tantrums. Pulling of hair. Taking (and hiding) of keys. The fact that every room in my house is Romper Room. I mean, I have a right to be clueless some of the time, right? I have an obligation to get totally lost in my undeniable pride and adoration for that little guy. That's my job.

We appreciate the politeness. Truly we do. And we'll try to keep J's charm in check as he tries to engage you with a quick game of Giggle and Hide while you attempt to consume your meal. But, in the world of toddlerhood, there are few guarantees.

Those parents.

Yup.

That's us.

Things that Sparkle Part II

2008-12-10T23:47:00.012-05:00

Remember my last post?

I wrote this e-mail to a friend and realized that it would make the perfect follow-up blog post . . .

What I needed was something for these platforms I have above my closets in the foyer. The only decoration I've had up there for the last 8 years . . . massive dust bunnies peppered with random dead bugs. It's sad.

So, I went to the store to find some pre-made decorations and they were really pricey! I was thinking I might be willing to spend $20-$30, but I found nothing that wouldn't require a major overhaul to NOT look cheesy. I'm simply not that gifted . . .

I found some cheap grapevine
trees ($9x2), decorated them with ribbon from Big Lots ($3), berry garland from the craft store ($3.50x2) and gold berry garland from the dollar store ($1x4). I spent about $30 for two trees! And you know, once I let go of being Martha (not that I really strive for that--but that darned woman does set the bar, or should I say jingle stick?!) I had fun just playing around while watching this really lame Christmas movie.

I know I am no Martha. And I'm totally OK with that. Not only that, I'm thinking that from a distance, these tiny trees aren't all that bad.

If I can do it . . .

*First, I know I need a new camera. I'm saving up! In the first photo, the lights are off for one of the trees so you can see that detail. That, and the builders neglected to put a switch for the plug on that side, thus we have to use a ladder to plug it in (I did figure out we could use a timer!). Also, the chandelier is very dusty, those are not "shadows" as I would love to tell you they are. And, yes, that is a basketball hoop on the closet door. Don't ask. I don't . . .

Things That Sparkle

2008-12-08T11:51:00.006-05:00

I peaked over and I could still see her. My eyes followed her fingers as she examined the tiny leaves, berries and shimmery ribbon that adorned the festive decoration. She pushed up the tiny glasses that sat perched on her nose as she held the ornament up to the light.

What was she looking for? What could possibly merit this kind of scrutiny?

I had no idea. I quickly returned the dozens of the same festive decoration to their bins. Clearly, I was not qualified to be here. My shoulders slumped in resignation.

But I could not give up. I could not relinquish my dream of being a master of homemade festive decor without at least giving it one last shot.

I quickly made another pass down the floral aisle, patiently waiting for inspiration to smack me in the head with an idea that would make even The Martha green with envy.

I passed rows and rows of beads, ribbons, baskets and wreaths waiting to be trimmed by the knowing and articulate hands of a professional. Miniature trees, plain and ordinary, would soon be magnificent displays of holiday charm.

I started to get excited as tiny seeds of an idea began to form . . .

That's when I saw THEM. Two women. They joyfully bantered as they dramatically discussed their plans for a foam cone, some moss and a basket full pine cones and bows. I listened intently as they pilfered through the basket. Everything looked the same to me, but clearly each item held such a distinct difference that in my creative ignorance I failed to notice. I didn't get it. I had no vision.

I'm an idiot. A Martha wannabe without an ounce of talent.

As the critical gaze of one woman (the one with the snowman sweater and matching snowflake earrings--probably all handmade) fell to me, I quickly pretended to talk to J about the pretty angels that hung from the ceiling. At least I think they were angels.

I suddenly became self conscious of my attire (sweatshirt and jeans), my empty basket (save the empty raisin box) and the obvious fact that I did not belong amongst this crowd of crafting geniuses.

I knew I had to get the heck outta there. And fast . . . before the very last flake of my illusionary creativity melted like a sad, pitiful old snowman in the sun (you're lovin' my seasonal metaphors, aren't you?).

I gave my very best shot.

I failed.

Off to the dollar store where I was sure to find some decals for the windows and a few cheesy baskets I could fill with some fake fruit. Maybe I'd spray paint them with gold paint. Woo. Hoo.

As I made my way to toward the exit, I noticed something. Something that filled my heart with an ever-increasing comfort. And joy.

There were other women slowly perusing the aisles and tucked amongst the grapevine wreathes, that had an all too familiar look in their eyes. They tried to hide it, pulling out foam circles, empty pots and berry garland.

They were clueless.

Just like me.

Their eyes shifted as a Martha would begin her casual, yet craftily confident stroll down the aisle. I saw the women pull their shoulders back as if to say, "I belong here, even if I have no idea what I'm doing. So, push on, Martha."

OK. So maybe I was imagining all of this.

But it didn't matter.

I was inspired.

I took a big breath, refilled J's Cheerio's cup, and headed back into the fray.

Ribbons, berries, strange things that sparkle . . . here I come.

Mama. Me? Wow . . .

2008-11-26T01:00:00.001-05:00

I've been wound up in my thoughts. Seems the only way to break free is to unravel with words.

J is going to be 16 months in December. For nearly 16 months I've been a mom. Mother. Mommy. Mama. Ma. Me . . . crazy.

It isn't that it hasn't hit me. Like a Boppy filled with a ton of Legos . . . it hits me. Every day. I guess today was different, yet it was just like every other day.

Everyday I wake up and have this whole other person relying on me. I have to go and get him from his crib. I have to change his diaper . . . or else. I have to carry him down a flight of stairs.

I make his breakfast. I get him dressed. I brush his teeth, which you'd believe by his reaction is the removal of a limb with butter knife. I blow on his round little belly. I tickle his tiny feet (and even pull the lint out from between his toes). I wipe his nose and even dig a little if there's a horrid booger making it a little cumbersome to breath.

I save him from danger (which usually means saving him from himself) as he balances on three precariously stacked toys. I fish his Little People out of the vents (along with all sorts of things--apparently veggie cheese molds in a very odd way), reach for toys that are out of grasp while he pounds his hands and grunts for attention, not yet finding the words, "Mama, help."

I wipe away his tears when he cries and cradle him in my arms all the while whispering, "It's alright baby. Mama's right here."

I grab all sorts of off things from him, always wondering how he found them and why he finds them so fascinating--socks, twist ties, banana peel, gum wrapper, coffee filter (and yes, much of this will make its way to the vent if I'm not quick enough).

I watch as learns a little more every day. How the tentative steps of yesterday are now the confident strides of today. He's running. Jumping. "Talking" more and more each day. I love watching the little light go on in his head, the glimmer in his eyes with each new discovery, and the wide grin that spreads across his face when he realizes, "Wow. I did it! I don't know exactly what I did or how, but I know that it must be pretty cool since my mom has tears in her eyes and is clapping and jumping up and down like a dork!" Yeah. That look.

That brings me to today. What was so different? We did the same things. We played. We ate. We, or I, changed diapers. We got dressed.

Today it was just J and me. Daddy is off rolling balls down alleys. Just a few moments ago J was sitting at the table eagerly eating the rice and veggies I had set before him. We are practicing using a spoon. He was trying out all three of his spoons and clearly showed a preference for the deep spoon with the fat blue handle with raised dark blue stars.

As he slowly guided the spoon to his mouth, I got lost in watching the little grains of rice fall to the table.

What did I do before this? The question banged around in my head like pins after a strike (yeah, a bowling metaphor, and ode to J's daddy).

Seriously. What did I do? I came home from work. I threw my bag on the kitchen table. I ate a snack. Plopped in front of the TV, grabbing a stack of papers to grade.

T and I said our hellos like roomies still hungover from last Friday's party. During the work week he knew to stay clear. If I wasn't grading until the early hours of the morning I was planning. Overplanning, to be honest. Damn overachieving perfectionist with a slightly unhealthy dose of OCD. How could he stand her?

I couldn't.

I was wrapped up in my job as a teacher of other people's children. I carved out time to read, but only on rare occasions (like a holiday or three-day weekend). I chatted with family and friends. Hung out with my husband. Save for the occasional trips, parties and visits to MI to see family, we were pretty much homebodies. I watched movies, seldom TV shows. I tried to sleep.

To be honest. I squeezed my life in between the grading and planning. And it was a tight fit.

But. I was happy. Even if no matter what I did the grading, the planning, the teaching always loomed heavy on me. I lived my job. I thrived on it. It was my oxygen. I was always thinking of what papers I had to grade. What activities I had to plan. How would I get it all done? When would I get it all done?

In the end. I always DID get it all done. Yet, there were always sacrifices.

Always . . .

That life is over.

It has been for nearly 16 months.

I sing songs now. "Head, shoulders, knees and toes . . . " I color (read: try to prevent J from EATING crayons--it's a learning process). I change diapers while singing my Barry White version of Old MacDonald (anything to keep him from squirming). I make tiny little waffles in the morning and then sit with my son while we giggle all through breakfast at the tiny waffle squares. We dance to the "kidz only" music station, spinning around until we are both dizzy.

I don't grade advanced placement essays anymore. I watch a toddler carefully balance rice on his spoon.

I don't plan grammar or literature lessons anymore. Instead, I pull out the crayons, stack blocks and play hide 'n seek.

I talk to my husband, sharing stories of our son while we laugh at the craziness that is now our life. We stay up late at night, reading. Talking. And, just being together without the heavy burden of my job creating distance between us.

I guess it all hit me today. This new life. I think when this new baby enters your life that you still believe in the back of your mind that your old life will return. That it is merely filed away while you live someone else's existence.

Today I realized that this is my life. And, I'm pretty sure I'm better for it. I've slowed down. Way down. I cherish my son. My family. I totally dig the simple things in ways I never did before (Did you know that if you listen really carefully you can hear snow hit the ground?) . I don't freak out (and boy could I freak out!). I'm patient. I listen. I take time to think instead of rushing to speak (most of the time). I am empathetic to a fault. I'm still and dork who does her share of very lame things. And, my life is far from perfect.

But. I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe one day I'll return to teaching with a whole new perspective. Maybe by then I'll just get IT.

Until then . . . Mama. Me? Wow.

I have to go now. J just walked by with the actual VENT COVER in his hands. Here we go . . .

PSF: Distractions

2008-11-21T12:15:00.007-05:00

I haven't been around. This I know . . . a week since my last post. Has it already been that long? Yes. The date tells me this is true.

So, where have I been?

Not lounging. Not eating the proverbial bon bons (who does that, anyway?). Not even indulging in lackluster sitcoms with forced funnies. Nope.

Yes. I've been answering to my wee tow-headed dictator. Apparently, the more mobile a toddler becomes, the more bone-weary you become.

He's climbing. Jumping. Running. Putting things where they do not belong (only to have me searching feverishly for whatever is his new obsession: my keys, the telephone, my cellphone --which I found in the vent when I called it and heard the distinctive ring . . . the vent. Not the toilet. Score one for mom!).

Stuff found in vents year-to-date: socks, banana peel (what?), multitude of toys, a vent cover (from another vent), crackers, a Cheeto (OMG, how did that get there?!? I only feed my child healthy and nutritious foods made from the highest quality ingredients! You believe me, right?)

I thought all this activity would be good for something. Say, for earning a decent age score on the Wii we just purchased (because going on an actual date in the foreseeable future is . . .well, unforeseeable and we need some after 8 pm entertainment). I'm 83.

83.

At least I have something to shoot for . . . like, 80.

Quite honestly, my mii having no arms or legs is disturbing.

It so happens that being 83 coincides with me wearing my elastic only-pair-that-will-fit-and-not-show-off-my-plumpy-parts-mom-jeans for three days in a row.(This in turn coincides with my increased consumption of chocolate biscotti, chocolate milk, and really tiny chocolate cheesecakes--I'm in training for the holidays.). The jeans are in the washer, don't worry. But, don't ask what I'm wearing now . . . this is a family-friendly blog.

Mom's ever-expanding waistline: 1 point
Mom's self-esteem: 0 points
Mom's solution: cut chocolate in smaller pieces

Yesterday my bumper had a little run in with an old Chevy being driven by a kid who was very busy dipping his fries in his ketchup. Yup. Dipping fries in ketchup.

Survivors: Two teenagers, a mom (wearing trusty mom-jeans) and blissfully unaware baby boy.
Casualties: old Chevy (totaled), my bumper, a few fries and two chicken sandwiches (RIP).
Him: No insurance.
Me: $1000 deductible

What this means for Christmas: Homemade Sock Puppets!

Alright. Enough distractions . . . I'm sure I have a mess that awaits clean up somewhere in this house. Chances are, it'll be something like this . . .

Mommy loves when J rearranges the office. He's so helpful . . . I'd better check the vents.

* * *

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

PSF: In Awe . . .

2008-11-14T09:54:00.009-05:00

I am in awe of my son.

Awe.

He is brilliant. Of that I am certain.

Not because he can recite the alphabet or do complex mathematical equations.

Which he can't do . . . yet.

I didn’t say he was a genius or a prodigy.

He’s just brilliant.

He is not a slave to the ticking clock or the cycle of the sun and moon . . .

He simply lives each day to its fullest.

Leaves do not merely clutter the lawn and clog the gutters . . .

They are amazing creations of texture and color. In his hands they are an example of nature’s delicate balance of life and death.

Obstacles are not obstacles . . .

They are adventures waiting to happen. They are undiscovered places that invite exploration.

He has no idea what calories are . . .

He just embraces the blissful swirl of sweetness that wraps around his tongue.

To him, falling is not failure . . .

It is an opportunity to succeed. A step today, a mountain tomorrow.

With determined steps he sets out on the path set before him . . .

But he dares not ignore the opportunity on the roads less traveled.

Sadness and tears may be unavoidable . . .

But their visit only makes joy that much sweeter.

Only 15 months and you have taught me so much.
I'm in awe . . .

* * *

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

No Ma'am!

2008-11-12T12:00:00.003-05:00

Tousling my hair. Puckering my lips. Admiring my make up. Checking out how great my round little bottom looked in my Guess jeans.

Yeah, I had moments.

Guys would wink (they may have had something in their eyes, but go with me on this one, k?). Their hellos disguised suggestions of something more. Their eyes loosely hid lustful thoughts as their gaze traced the curves of my body.

I would smile, clearly pleased with myself (trust me, this was a rarity, but a rarity I embraced wholeheartedly).

How could I not?

A twenty-something hot chick.

Like I said. I had my moments.

And then there was yesterday.

A little mascara (I still remember how to wield a wand) and smidgen of lip gloss. A spritz or two through my very sensible mom do (I begged my stylist for a non-mom mom do . . . I guess that meant to give me a style that wavers between 80s talk show host and CSPAN economist). I slipped on my jeans (grateful for the extra elastic around the waste). Pulled on a body hugging long-sleeved top and sweater. Slipped on my comfy, yet very trendy, shoes. I packed J in the car and off we went. No former Guess-jeans hotty, but good enough.

We visited the hubs at a very hip and happening place.

The bowling alley.

As I followed my little adventurer through the maze of racks, chairs, tables and bowling bags, my eyes firmly fixed on his little legs, I nearly stumbled into a young boy.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said. I cringed as I laughed at our near collision. No worries. Though, that ma'am thing . . . whatever. He's barely a teen. His parents have taught him well.

J, my slightly bruised ego and I were off again.

My throat parched, I was in desperate need of some fluids. As I saw those golden arches, the one place with the perfect mix of Coke syrup and carbonation, I knew I had to stop.

As I pulled up to pay for my drink (YES, I said NO to "would you like anything else with that" I swear), the young man at window 1 replied, "Thank you, ma'am" as he handed me my change. Ugh. Really?

Young man at window 2 handed me my food and a "Have a good evening, ma'am." Seriously. Why can't they just leave off the last part? I mean, "thank you" and "have a good evening," is plenty. My mood deflating, I knew it was desperate that I go for some therapy.

So, J and I headed to Kohl's where I proceeded to scour the clearance racks. I headed to the checkout with my finds.

I saw a man at the first check-out. There was only one person in his line.

I saw an older woman at the next check-out. There were about four in her line.

What a dilemma.

I checked with my ego.

It whimpered.

I headed to the line being manned by one of my own kind. I wasn't taking any chances.

She greeted J with a barrage of compliments as we moved up to the counter.

I grinned. I sighed. Much, much better.

I looked into her knowing eyes.

She gets it, I thought to myself.

I swiped my debit card, signed my name and grabbed my bag . . .

She bid farewell to J and to me she said in her sweet sing-song voice, "Have a good night, ma'am."

Kill. Me. Now.

*I clearly know I live in denial of the fact that I am a ma'am. But I like denial. It is warm, pretty and they serve really, really good food and free Bellinis. Oh, and all the mirrors make me look like a supermodel. And that's pretty cool . . .

Little Corners

2008-11-07T10:44:00.004-05:00

His little whimpers nudged me from my sleep. Although in another room, I swear I could hear his soft breaths as they hit his sheets.

Silence. He found sleep . . .

My meager attempts at finding comfort were fruitless. Those little cries were unlike his usual pleas. There was pain in those cries. The soft edges of the sing-song requests for mommy were not to be found.

As I slowly made my way to his room, avoiding the grunts and moans of the floorboards, I peered in. He was still. Peaceful. Silent.

But I was not. Dark and crushing images suddenly flooded my mind. Images I dare not share with you for fear that giving them voice will make them real.

Teething. Overtired. A nightmare. Just not himself. Perfectly normal, acceptable reasons why J is not my happy, smiley, good-natured boy. Makes perfect sense.

But yet my mind won't stop.

He awoke this morning in a fit of tears. His face did not light up upon seeing me enter his room. The tears only came at a faster pace. I reached for him and he grabbed at me. Pulling my face to his, he wrapped his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist. His little fingers grasping at the collar of my shirt as his rigid body shook in my arms.

He was afraid.

I was afraid.

He calmed after a moment and his head slumped against my shoulder. We lay on the sofa in the living room. His body relaxed against mine. I moved my hands up and down his back as I felt the comforting rhythm of his heart beat against my chest.

As I watched the soft fluffs of his hair move with each exhale of my measured breaths, my eyes filled with tears. And I'm not sure I know why.

J was scared. His fear surged like bullets through my body, piercing my heart and ripping through my brain.

I don't scare easily. My past has taught me to expect the worst. To embrace it. I have little doubt that my brief encounter with fear will be fleeting. But I am never ill-prepared for its return.

Joy is fickle, indiscriminate as to where it stakes its claim. When joy claims a little corner of my life, I watch it with a raised eyebrow and knowing smirk on my face, waiting for it to take off and laugh as it leaves me . . . alone. Joy and fear. Fear and joy. Constant conflict. Regular bedfellows.

Pessimistic?

Maybe.

But, I refuse to take anything or anyone for granted. I refuse to not say I love you . . . I care about you . . . I celebrate this moment . . . simple moments . . . peaceful moments . . . the not-so-perfect moments. Why? Because you are here. With me.

Because in an instant, life can change. Joy can rush in leaving you breathless and a moment later rush out leaving you with nothing.

J is sleeping. I hear his sighs, his deep breaths, the little hum of peaceful slumber.

For now, peace.

Joy. Stuck in that little corner. Not going anywhere.

I won't let it.

Only time will tell . . .

2008-11-05T00:00:00.000-05:00

Heads will bow. Tears will fall. Shouts will be heard.

Speeches will be made. Hearts will swell. Hearts will break.

But eventually . . .

The lights will dim.

The music will fade.

Everyone will go home.

They will go about their lives. Wondering. Wishing. Praying. Hoping.

Will lessons be learned? Will the venom of the past be replaced by the elixir of hope?

Will promises made become inspirational reality or will they become squandered fiction?

Only time will tell . . .

Regardless of where your loyalties lie, November 4, 2008 is a day that will be forever etched in America's history.

"We will get there," he says.

I hope we will. I pray we will.

Only time will tell . . .

PSF: As Darkness Falls . . .

2008-10-30T18:00:00.001-04:00

A prom queen, an old hag, a dead president.

Chewy cream-filled caramels, Tootsie Rolls, Sweet Tarts.

Foreboding music, hanging bones, a smirking pumpkin.

Running to each house. Stumbling up the steps, knocking on the door and breathlessly forcing out "Trick or treat!" Impatient, you dance side to side as your check out your stash. "Is that a penny?" you ask yourself as you spot the copper coin among the sugary treasures. "Cheap," you mutter under your breath as the door swings open.

Your smile is automatic. You have blocks of houses to get to, no time for small talk.

You run through the leaves, completely dismissing the sidewalks (good manners be gone!). House to house. Tumbling over limbs. Leaping over tombstones.

You can't stop. You must not stop. You will succeed!

Your body grows weary as the hands on the clock announce the end of the day. But you still spot porch lights in the distance. Onward you go.

Until. You can go . . . no more.

The weight of your pillowcase has forced you to slow. You peak in at the little pieces of wrapped goodness. "Will this carry me until Christmas?" you ask yourself. You know it is an improbability, but you have hope.

As the hour strikes midnight, with Salem's Lot (or is it the Exorcist?) playing in the background, the tired ghost hanging from the staircase, you sit at the kitchen table. You take your bag and empty it . . . the candy spreads across the table.

A treasure.

Mom reaches for the Heath Bars. Dad reaches for the Snickers. Their eyes sparkle as they unwrap their prizes.

You sit back and smile, hands behind your head. You prop your feet on the chair and soak in the sweet greatness that is you.

And in the wee corner of your mind you start to plan. For next year. Maybe a map? A bigger pillow case? A wagon! My three little siblings . . . my minions . . . (cue evil cackling laugh).

He has no idea what he is in for.

* * *

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

It's Just a Sign

2008-10-28T00:00:00.001-04:00

Random crumbs, a few dead bugs (or lint, hard to tell), a rogue Cheerio (or ten) filled the dustpan. I sighed.

Let the cleaning begin.

I bent on my knees and scrubbed the floor. Still in my pajamas at 3:00 in the afternoon, I rearranged the cabinets in the kitchen (I resisted the urge to alphabetize my cans).

I arranged every one of J's outfits in his closet. I organized them by size and type. And then by color (I know some of you completely understand this obsessive need. If so, then I feel for you.).

I reluctantly packed away his summer clothes and the ones his tiny frame had finally outgrown. No tears will fall . . . no tears will fall. OK. Maybe one tear.

I emptied out our junk room (in the basement) and turned it into yet another playroom for J (along with the kitchen, bathroom, our room . . . ). I got caught a few times, paging through an old yearbook, a journal with doodles and misplaced memories. The hours limped by as I took out box after box, readying them for the trash. Often, I would stand before a box, staring. Wondering if I was ready to let go. (Yes, I kept my R&B CDs, my McDonald's Happy Meal toy collection and my MJ memorabilia).

In the office (the embodiment of my constant battle with OCD and procrastination), I hid a bunch of stuff I had no idea what to do with in a shoe boxes and then stuffed them under my bed. I'll deal with it later. Or not. Maybe I'll just decorate the boxes and call them cute storage containers. That's an idea . . .

My body is growing weary from scrubbing, sorting, lifting (and hiding). J wants to play. I want to play. No park today. I look outside to see the wind whip up the leaves. I hear them brush against the house, swirling around and bidding farewell.

And then I see it.

The words mock me. My indecision. My fear.

FOR SALE

I look down at J, pushing his car around on the hardwood.

The hardwood. Each groove and scuff a plea to not forget.

Where he first crawled.

Where he took his first steps.

And so it begins . . .

* * * *
The lovely Rachel from A Southern Fairytale is hosting a BIG giveaway in support of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Please head on over and ENTER today!

The Placenta Story

2008-10-22T23:30:00.010-04:00

I still remember the day that I held a big silver bowl, my mother's placenta floating inside.

I was 11.

It was gross. A deep red, slimy, veiny mass. Swish. Swirl. In the bowl. The bowl . . . I vaguely remember eating popcorn from that bowl on family movie nights. Maybe I didn't. Gosh, I hope not . . . Swish. Swirl.

* * *

After babies one, two and three, my mother went on a "getting in touch with nature" kick. The kind of kick that had her nixing our spam burgers and fried bologna sandwiches. The kind that had my mother talking about "peace" and "being one with nature." The kind of kick that had my mother joining the ranks of La Leche League . . . the militant division. Boobs being their weapon of choice.

My mother decided that it would serve her best to have what would be her last baby in the same place where she was conceived (at 11 I knew what conceived meant, I was just in denial about how it actually worked . . . this is a good thing. I was a worrier.). A home birth plan was set in motion.

I had no idea what this meant. No idea . . .

The days leading up to my sister's birth were torturous. OK. I have no idea what they were like. I don't remember. But, I can't imagine them being pleasant when we had a bunch of breastfeeding moms, with babies in tow, milling about our house as if it were a subway during rush hour.

The memories of the day my mother finally did give birth are stored in my head in a series of snapshots. My mother having her feet rubbed by one of the mothers, her baby tugging at her sleeves. A dozen or so other mothers sitting in the living room, drinking tea while simultaneously feeding one baby and disciplining another. Every room in our spacious 800 square foot house was filled with people. Some I knew, some I think were just there for the free drinks (served in boob mugs, I might add). It was a boob fest . . . where was my dad? Hiding. No doubt.

The night dragged on. My mom was in her bed, in ready position, my sister desperately clinging to her insides. I gave up waiting. I needed to sleep. I went to my room only to find a half dozen babies slumbering on my tiny twin canopy bed. I was desperate and made an attempt to scoot one of the toddlers aside, happy to squeeze in anywhere.

The valuable piece of real estate I found was . . . wet. Pee.

The couch. Occupied by breastfeeding mums. My brother and sister's bunk bed. Taken by more babies.

No more beds . . .

My closet. The place where I was certain could lead to Narnia if only I went in deep enough. I laid a few blankets in the bottom, curled up in the fetal position, and fell right to sleep.

I heard my name. Shouts. My mom? Was she calling me? I felt a hand reach back into the closet and tug at my shirt.

"The baby is coming," alerted the voice.

I stumbled into my mother's room. She was surrounded by a sea of eager faces, peering, searching, invading . . . Even their kids came to watch, a few sitting in the front row munching on snacks, donning 3D glasses (OK, that part isn't true, but it really was a chaotic scene, that much I remember).

I stood near the foot of the bed. Pain and joy tugged at my mother's face, clearly engaged in a war I did not quite understand. The midwives beckoned me to come closer, "Do you want to touch your baby sister's head?" Why was it so important that I touch it while it was in THERE? I mean, she was coming out, right? I'll touch her later, thanks.

There was a cacophony of grunts and screams with the low hum of normal, every day conversation in the background. My mom was clearly in extreme agony and these women were planning their meals for next Sunday. OK, so maybe not their meals, but while I was freaking out (HELLO, I was 11), these women were so calm it was almost surreal.

Push. Grunt. Scream.

Out came the baby (there was a little more to it, but you get the idea).

"Do you want to cut the cord?" Where the heck was my dad?

They wrapped my sister and put her on my mother's chest. I stood there. Wow. I'm so not doing that, ever (I distinctly remember thinking that).

I was yanked from my reverie by a bowl being thrust in my hands. And in a matter of moments said bowl was filled with a placenta. I felt my eyes bulge, pleading with the sockets to let them go. What was going on? Was this part of the baby? Did it still need this?

I watched the placenta jiggle in the bowl. Swish. Swirl. The baby in my mother's arms had just made a traumatic journey, yet she didn't cry. Me, I wanted to bawl.

Someone took the placenta from me. We never saw each other again. And in its place I was handed a plump, 11 pound baby with a squishy face and a head full of wispy hairs.

In that moment all was quiet. I could feel her breath. I could smell her. I could hear her little gulps and gurgles. Even as I type this I can still feel her heavy in my arms. I walked her around our modest little home. I showed her the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room. It took all of ten seconds to show my little sister the home where she would live for over 20 years.

I wish those 20 years would have given her more. More peace. More true happiness. More kept promises.

Our house was filled that early morning on April 12th. Women. Children (one of whom PEED in my bed). Chaos at its best. . . but by the late afternoon all was quiet. The baby girl rested in my arms.

She was safe. For now. Happy. For now.

My baby sister just signed papers to purchase her very own home. She'll be leaving the home where we all grew up in a matter of weeks, a month or so at the most.

She's all grow up. My baby sister.

I won't forget seeing her for the first time, holding her, giving her a tour of her home.

And of course, we'll always have the placenta story . . . and that is one I'll never forget.

Swish.

Swirl.

*Quick disclaimer to La Leche Leaguers. I am a breastfeeding mom with absolutely nothing against La Leche League (these women were pretty darned cool . . . only a few were a little nutty and nutty is perfectly OK). I was 11 and I was kinda freaked out by the sheer number of exposed breasts in one location and of course, there was that placenta thing, too . . .

Hate Me, Love Me

2008-10-17T02:00:00.008-04:00

I remember climbing up onto the vanity in our cramped yellow bathroom. I was small enough to put my feet in the sink while I balanced the rest of my tiny frame onto its sides.

I would stare in the mirror, questioning the reflection before me. Who are you? I would ask, believing that one day she'd respond.

I examined every part of that face. The pronounced Armenian nose, the German blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the pale skin, the gap between my two front teeth, the scar on my forehead and another that would dance upon my cheek whenever I would laugh.

I hated that face. My face.

I was not beautiful. I never would be . . . I wasn't the smartest, coolest or the most talented either.

And, I didn't care. Not yet, anyway. I didn't know enough to care what people thought of me. I blindly went about my life in my scruffy clothes, ratty shoes and unkempt hair. I sang from my gut. I yelled out answers and didn't care if they were wrong. I hopped and twirled and danced down the streets (in the mall, the grocery store, the park). I would fall to the floor in fits of laughter (sometimes for no reason at all). I was living as loudly as I could, drinking in every drop of life. Not caring . . . not knowing.

But sometimes knowledge comes at a price . . . the euphoric innocence of youth. My voice was silenced, my hands rested firmly in my lap (even if I was sure I knew the answer), the dancing stopped and seldom did laughter escape from my lips. I did this . . . to myself. Believing I could just fade away.

As a young girl, not yet stumbling into adolescence, my carefully crafted facade began to give way to tiny cracks from each "well-meaning" comment and criticism . . . my face, my body, my brains, my abilities. I wasn't smart enough. Pretty enough. Good enough.

The words came from others . . . and sometimes the words were unspoken. The stares. The whispers. Last picked. Overlooked. Left out.

I spent the better part of my youth trying to prove myself. Trying to prove that I was good enough . . . worthy enough. I became the person they thought I was, the person they wanted me to be. I cowered under criticism. I said YES when I meant NO. I soothed feelings in spite of my own. I gave up. I gave in. I compromised and never gained a thing.

And then something happened. I went back to that girl, sitting on the vanity, her feet in the sink, examining her every feature, her icy blue eyes filled with self-loathing

and I shook her . . . awake.

I made her abandon the cloak of the past--the histories that were not hers to bear.

I am not the same as I was a decade ago, a year ago . . . even yesterday. And, I doubt I'll be the same tomorrow. That's fine with me . . .

My face is a constellation of flaws, there are bags under my eyes and my hair declares war on me every day. I have a quirky personality (and often a lame sense of humor to match). I say things that might make you cringe or even cry. I'm smart, but I have to work at it . . . nothing comes easy. Nothing. I get frustrated, irritated, annoyed, and plain old ANGRY, but I try to keep it all in check. I cry too much and sometimes, not enough. I'm a pessimistic optimist who expects the worst but hopes for the best.

You may hate me for what I say, what I believe in, for the car I drive or for how I part my hair.

You may love me for my unabashed honesty, my self-deprecating humor, my patient and calm demeanor (my incredible humility).

Whatever your choice, this is it. This is who I am and who I will be. Hate me . . . love me.

I no longer make apologies for who I am, what I do or what I believe.

I can't let that little girl down. I can't ever let her think that she doesn't matter or that she won't just fade away . . . because if I do . . .

I'll let him down. . .

and that just can't happen.

On Fear

2008-10-11T23:00:00.003-04:00

The trip was quiet. I glanced back to see J with his head tilted to the side, his hand still clutching the little red truck he brought on the trip with him. As I reached back to smooth his hair (in truth, to check to see if he was breathing. I know, it is morbid, but sometimes the most peaceful expressions usher in a storm of dark thoughts).

Wanting to stretch our legs, we pulled into a rest area. The sky was clear, the trees just beginning to show signs of fall, and the air was the perfect jeans and t-shirt temperature.

We gently tickled the sleeping baby awake. I know. Who does that? Apparently, we do. Crazy, no doubt.

He woke with a grin. Squinting his eyes as the sun stretched across his face. He knew freedom was imminent. We unstrapped him from his seat and walked him over to a large grassy area (which I found oddly beautiful for a simple roadside rest area).

The moment his feet touched ground, he was off.

We attempted to contain our laughter as he would take several steps and then stop. Look back, checking to make sure his fan club was still paying attention. Grin. And then on the move again.

He giggled as he waved his arms around, balancing himself as he deftly avoided tripping over unseen leaves, branches and even blades of grass. Oh, the precarious walk of a toddler.

I watched as he would walk onto the path and then off and on again. Clearly he was relishing in his newfound freedom. His growing confidence came to life in the thoughtful smile on his face.

I called to him, beckoning him to follow me, to come to me. But he wouldn't. This time he didn't even look back. He looked ahead. On the path . . . then off.

As his father walked toward him, J giggled and ran ahead. Off the path . . .

I stayed behind. The dark thoughts invading my mind again. I looked ahead at my son as I steeled myself against an unspoken fear.

He walked away from me. Today, I can run after him, scoop him up in my arms and carry him to safety. Tomorrow I will have to let him go . . . he will have to navigate the world on his own.

I fear accidents and illness. I fear strangers who only mean him harm. I fear fate and nature. I fear not being there . . . waiting. Watching. Protecting.

I know. My fear is not logical nor is it practical. But, the day I found out I would become a mother logic and practicality became afterthoughts.

I knew what I was getting into the moment I saw that flutter on the screen. The moment I heard the heartbeat. The moment I felt him move beneath my hand.

I knew . . . and thus, I fear.

But, my hope for him, for the world he lives in outweighs my fear. A fear that has no permanent residence in my life; its visits fleeting.

J comes running to me, wrapping his arms around my leg and then lifting them up to me. I reach down and pull him up. He rests his head on my shoulder as my arms stretch around his little body.

We walk together, J and his mommy and daddy, to the car.

Fear will not grip me.

Deep breath.

Fear will not grip me.

A strange new reality. Motherhood.

One I will never relinquish.

***********
Great news! Veronica of Sleepless Nights is back home and doing well!

Undone

2008-10-08T01:00:00.001-04:00

There is dried banana on the chair in the dining room.

It's crusty.

The laundry is scattered on the floor in the living room.

I didn't put it there. He did.

The dishes are reminding me of Everest, piled high in the sink, insurmountable.

I need to buy toilet paper.

We're running out . . .

I'm thinking about getting out of my pajamas. Thinking about it. Maybe I'm thinking too hard.

The floors are, well. I'm not so sure I can even discuss the floors as they are now under new management--the ubiquitous Cheerio. And the toys that have no desire to be put away.

So much undone.

But, I've blown bubbles on his belly. I've danced in the middle of a toy-strewn room with his little body tucked close to mine. I've sang songs loud and out of tune while hopping through the halls, his quick little feet and breathless laughter trailing behind me. I've ignored the "To Do List" while making tiny houses out of Cheerios, bananas and cheese. I've fallen asleep amid the chaos of all left undone . . . his head resting on my shoulder, his hand wrapped around my neck, and his banana breath on my cheek.

So much . . . done.

The Red Shoes

2008-10-05T00:00:00.004-04:00

As our usual practice, my mother and I had a long talk on the phone. I always tell myself we'll only spend twenty minutes talking. But, it never turns out that way, no matter how hard I try.

Our conversations are the anti-therapy therapy. You feel oddly fulfilled by the words exchanged, but in the end you are wondering what the heck just happened. The trail of circles left behind is a constant reminder that you've said so much, yet you've said nothing at all.

Still, speaking with my mother always triggers something from my past. Whether I want to remember or not, I'm usually forced to wrestle with the images, at least for a little while . . .

* * *

This street was the kind of street you would drive down without looking around. The houses, tiny nondescript squares with a patch of grass in the front, all looked the same.

Almost.

Some homes had window boxes filled with flowers, plastic deer centered perfectly on the lawn and a path of smooth stones with messages that guided visitors to the front door.

Other homes had peeling paint, broken gutters and bent aluminum mini blinds peeking out of a window or two. Dirty toys littered the front patchy brown lawn and an old car sat as a permanent fixture in the drive.

It was a clear case of the have and have nots.

Except, all the occupants of these homes, the families, their children, were have nots. Some just had more hope.

This is where I grew up.

Back then I never realized we were a have not.

I remember watching my mother pay for groceries with special "coupons." I remember the brown cardboard box that held our cheese (which made the best grilled cheese sandwiches, by the way). I remember the whispers exchanged between my parents, the tearful pleas on the phone with family. I remember answering doors and calls with the requisite "My mom and dad aren't home," while they quietly waited in a back bedroom. But, none of it meant anything to me. I just didn't get it.

I didn't know we were poor. Until the third grade.

My mom enrolled me in a private Christian school. I was a scholarship kid. I didn't know that, either. A few days before school started we were to meet with the principal. I remember walking into his office. His secretary reached across her desk, shook my mother's hand and then peered down at me. She shook her head. A nearly imperceptible shake, but I do remember it. My smile faded into a puzzled frown.

I was wearing the wrong clothes. I was a little dirty. My mother was young. Her heavy White Shoulders perfume, red lipstick and bosom hugging v-neck spoke volumes.

This woman had our number. We didn't belong there.

Of course, I didn't know that either. Not until later.

Not until the red shoes.

Playground. Two weeks later.

The day I finally figured it all out. . .

The honeymoon of the first days of school had faded into regular routines. It was the end of the week. I only remember because it was library day; the day we were marched down the hallway to the tiny room with seemingly endless shelves of books. Only two weeks in and Library Friday was my favorite day.

After lunch, we headed outside to the playground. I sat on the steps and pulled out one of my books.

"Why do you always wear those red shoes?" a small voice asked. I'll never remember her name. I won't remember because the weight of her question pushed my eyes to the ground--to the red shoes.

My faded red canvas shoes. I had worn them every single day since the first day of school.

"They are my favorite shoes," I retorted. The response came so quick I was left wondering if it was even me who spoke it.

My mom bought them at a garage sale at the beginning of summer.

They were my only shoes.

I looked up and looked around. For the first time. I saw the haves.

The leather shoes with shiny buckles and thick soles. The ironed collared shirts and pleated pants. The perfectly coiffed hair and gemstone jewelry.

For the first time I noticed my pants (hand me downs from my cousin--a boy my age), my shirt (garage sale), my hair (pulled haphazardly into a pony tail).

I couldn't stop looking around, drinking in each image and choking on the painful knowledge of who I was . . . of who I wasn't.

The bliss of ignorance had come to an end.

* * *

I don't like red shoes. I am totally cool with garage sales. And I still hanker for grilled (government) cheese sandwiches. And I had to add "Canvas" to the title because

Scents of Self

2008-10-01T22:00:00.009-04:00

The leaves swirl upon the ground, crunching beneath my feet and scraping across the pavement. The bittersweet sound means bidding farewell to to the warmth of summer while welcoming the cool winds of fall.

Vibrant gold mixed with rich ruby red leaves are beginning to dot the skyline that surrounds the mill. The cider mill. A visit that serves to usher in fall. J's very first visit.

This past weekend we had our very own adventure. J wasn't too sure what to make of the crowds of people, the sounds of chatter and laughter, the aroma of apples and dewy leaves . . . he simply sat back and soaked it all in while his mama got lost in her memories.

I was only in first grade when I first visited the cider mill. Although time has left my memories a bit clouded, my subsequent visits throughout my childhood have etched the cider and cinnamon-laden experiences in my mind.

The collection of colorful leaves acts as a canopy, filtering out the light and casting a ethereal glow on the ground. The sounds of laughter dancing through the air. My fingers sticky from real caramel.

But, it is the sweet scent of apples that truly pulls me back. I am a child all over again. Enthusiasm courses through me as a smile creeps across my face. I see the plump red fruit in my hands. I hear the joyful crunch. I taste the sweetness.

Yes, images, sounds, textures all add to the verisimilitude of my memories. But, it is the scent that captures and pulls me into them, letting me live once more in their essence.

Sausage Gravy . . . I can see her reaching over the stove to retrieve the well-done sausage patties. She crumbles them, places them into an ancient iron skillet that must be older than she. She drops a tablespoon (or was it a cup?) of lard into the pan and I can hear the sizzling sound wrapping around my ears. I watch as she moves in the kitchen, her ample size betrays the finesse with which she dances around the tiny room. She looks back at me and beckons me to come over. I follow as I watch the back of her flowered house coat make its way around the corner of the stove. She pulls up a chair and she hands me a bowl of flour. She scoops it up with her hands and drops it into the skillet. She motions for me to do the same. Milk. Stir. Scrape. More milk. Stir. The aroma of sausage gravy moves throughout the house, filling every tiny room, waking every slumbering body.

I am ravenous. She senses this and pulls a warm biscuit from the basket and dips it into the skillet. Her eyes tell me that this will be our secret. And it was . . .

My aunt has been gone for years, but when that rich aroma begins to waft around me, I am back in the kitchen, examining the patterns of her house coat, watching her flitter about the kitchen, tasting gravy-dipped biscuits and loving every moment of it.

* * *

Cool Water . . . Slowly, with caution in every step, I make my way down each aisle. Shadowy clouds crawl across the skies above the Windy City. With the storm approaching, I am eager to catch the train and head back to the dorms. I begin looking for my friends and find them hovering over a magazine, giggling and sharing silent stories. I don't care to join them. Not today. I return to the aisles, walking without intent, letting my fingers linger on the items as I pass. Who goes to a drugstore on a Friday night? A lame brokenhearted college student, of course. But, I am on the road to recovery, so says my magazine-hovering friends. I am "finding my way back."

Sure.

I turn the corner and spot a young couple standing at the cosmetics counter. For a brief moment my heart cracks. Deep breath. A couple. I was once a couple. BUT, I am a lonely young woman. NO, scratch that. I am a woman who is confident in her alone-ness.

Right.

I move on . . .

But then, it happens. I am assaulted by a scent the shakes me to my core. In an instant I am there. His arms, wrapped around me. His lips slowly finding the curves of my neck. My hands working through his hair. His caress forces me to catch my breath . . . and let it go as he pulls me into an embrace. My face rests against his, finding a tender comfort on his shoulder. Breathing him in . . .

I am already out of the store. Heaving. Looking out at the city lights wondering when and how the pain will finally leave. A mere spritz of a cologne and a young couple proceeded to crack open my chest and let the million tiny pieces of my heart fall to the ground.

The Cool Water rushed over me . . . and left me. Left me . . .

* * *

Baby lotion . . . If you close your eyes, you can see how baby lotion smells. Before J, baby lotion looked like rainbows and Sweet Tarts. Don't ask me why. It just did.

It was a like a poem with a perfect rhyme. The filling in a jelly donut. A clear puddle after a spring rain. A puppy rolling to its belly, begging for a rub. The final note of the perfect concerto.

But the moment I held J in my arms, the images changed.

Belly buttons. Soft cheeks. Chubby thighs. Big blue eyes. Velvety tufts of hair. The "oooo" sound he makes when I pull his small body to mine.

Baby lotion can bring my knees, my heart grateful for my gift. Make me squeal with delight when I see his little wobbly figure make its way toward me, hands in the air and laughter escaping off his tongue.

Baby lotion makes me remember who I am. Who I've become. And even where I may go . . .

* * *
Believe it or not, I have a whole other paragraph dedicated to the power of scratch-n-sniff stickers, but I will save that one for another time. You may thank me later . . .

Our senses. Our scents . . . amazing. Tell me . . . what about your scents?

Share, please.

PhotoStory Friday: Fashionably Lame

2008-09-26T00:00:00.005-04:00

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

* * *

I've discussed my lack of fashion sense on a few occasions.

I was serious.

I wasn't kidding.

But, I was being slightly dishonest.

You see, I used to be quite the stylish young lass (yes, I used lass in a sentence and the year is 2008). I was what many would term "fashion forward."

And.

I have evidence.

Exhibit A:
I rocked this outfit from head to toe, did I not? Even my red and rainbow striped bag is hip . . . and would be on the arm of celebrity divas of today, I have no doubt. Notice my over-sized buckle, the "fur" lined boots, the knitted cap. And of course, my model smirk. And my entire ensemble is set off nicely by the multi-colored carpeting adorning the stairs and the nicotine-stained walls.

Gorgeous.

Exhibit B:
First, I must make special note of Fluffy. He is so special he had a post all his own.

My hair has always been the bane of my existence. I have been lost in a sea of bad hair days with a few decent hair days thrown in to prevent me from taking a razor to my scalp. Ode to the hair gods . . .

This was clearly one of my shining moments. I mean, I'm a 10! There are some people who have no idea what I am talking about and rather than feel old and decrepit, I am just going to enlighten you . . .

The resemblance is simply uncanny, isn't it?
*if you squint really, really hard . . . *

* * *
"I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn't itch." ~Gilda Radner

Amen.

"If most of us are ashamed of shabby clothes and shoddy furniture, let us be more ashamed of shabby ideas and shoddy philosophies.... It would be a sad situation if the wrapper were better than the meat wrapped inside it." ~Albert Einstein

Sing it, Al!

Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society. ~Mark Twain

Hmmm . . .

And I leave you with that.

The Mantra of the Fearless

2008-09-24T02:00:00.002-04:00

Memories of me . . .

The toddler, clad in nothing but a cloth diaper, is spinning circles in the middle of the yard. There is neither a hint of worry nor fear in her deep blue eyes. Her wide two-toothed grin only reveals the promise of what is yet to come.

A girl, her long black hair cascading around her, is running . . . pulling at the air above her and yanking it down. Other children stare and laugh as they huddle close to watch the strange girl whirl her body around the playground. She wants desperately to fly. Undaunted, she thinks nothing of the true weight of her old yard sale shoes on her feet or the torn and stained dress that she wears. She has a sky to conquer and a universe to explore.

The young woman is alone with her thoughts, whispers of her dreams still hang heavy in the air. She looks lost, but is not yet defeated. She is melancholy, but resolutely sanguine. She appears youthful, but within her eyes there is wisdom.

And the slow and steady beat of time goes on . . .

Trips never taken. Roads not traveled. Decisions never made. Doors not opened.

The fearless faded away. The "I can do anything" was replaced with a cool pragmatism beset with self-doubt. The "I can conquer the world" was replaced with the gentle shake of a head and the slow curling of a patronizing smile. The "I can be whatever I want" was replaced by the limits of class and reality of vacant bank accounts.

She learned to be content. She learned to just be. And life was good.

Until. She learned to be fearless. Again. Which comes much easier once you've realized you've been tasked with caring for another human being . . . nurturing their soul, building their path, unlocking their mind, and comforting their heart.

And also changing a diaper, balancing a checkbook, baking a cake and painting your nails all at the same time (which in no way can I actually do, but example is for effect).

You made her fearless . . . you gave her no choice.

She will not let another dream fade away, another goal go unreached, another door slam shut.

Never again. Like the bold toddler, the adventurous girl and the brave young woman she will reach up, reach out, and be fearless.

Fearless because of you.

Fearless, for you . . .

Making History

2008-09-22T00:00:00.003-04:00

I remember fighting with my siblings. The fights weren't knock down drag out brawls (at least not always--very seldom was blood involved), but they were most definitely hefty squabbles. Name-calling. Yup. A little LOUD conversation. Certainly. The whiny blame and shame game. Oh yeah. Did we run to the 'rents and beg that something horrible be done to the other sibling (dismemberment) as punishment for the horrific crime committed against us (changing the TV station and hiding the remote). You betcha.

But eventually the whining, yelling, ranting, bickering, screaming, blaming and intense display of emotion subsided. Apologies were exchanged (sometimes in the form of a simple nod and the handing over of an ice pack). And nearly everything else could be glued or mended back together in some way . . .

There were a few tears (the ones that accompany the constant stream of boogers and big gulps of air). There was comfort food (hello! Swedish Fish and chocolate chip mint ice cream). There was the ceremonial sharing of a precious/lovey/Fluffy.

All was right with the world.

Which brings me to . . . the elections. Wait. Stop. Stay . . . I promise that this is a very non-political, political post. Oh, and it's short.

You know, watching the election coverage, whether it be on an unbiased news network (I know, doesn't exist, but play along, k?) or on SNL (which was pretty funny, can't lie), the relationship between the candidates reminds me a bit of back home. The name calling. The bickering. The blaming. The whining. The bloodletting.

It can be frustrating. Even for this eternal optimist.

Hopefully, in the end the two candidates (dare I say, parties?) will come together. Apologies will be exchanged. Tears will fall. History will be made . . .

And that is cool.

Ice packs . . . Swedish Fish . . . and all.

PhotoStory Friday: My Affliction

2008-09-19T01:04:00.036-04:00

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

* * *

That face. The way you crinkle your nose as the wind brushes along your face. The way you look at me, your eyes peering up through your tiny soft lashes. Your bow-shaped lips slowly part and I see the sweet beginnings of a smile. Your eyes widen and the swirling pools of color spring to life.

I could drowned in those eyes.

Those hands. One moment they flail around, moving the air, reaching for the sun. Simple things become jewels of wonderment in those hands. With each curious touch, your hands reveal the magic of first knowledge.

I admire those hands.

That body. You crawl walk, run and I watch as the soft slopes of your limbs move to the rhythm of a soundless song. Your boundless energy is infectious as the world becomes your playground.

I crave your freedom.

Your laugh dances its way to my ears and a smile slowly creeps across my face. I feel my heart thump mercifully in my chest, fighting the emotion to no avail.

Who are you, sweet baby? For you are not mine.

I'm in awe of children that are not mine. It is my affliction.

This child . . .

is the baby, enveloped by the tranquil sounds of nature, slumbering in the stroller at the park.

is the doe-eyed girl who trades giggles with her mother over a simple picnic lunch.

is the anxious tow-headed boy who is eager to please his father as they toss a ball between them.

is the toddler who is figuring out the limitless capabilities of her body as she stumbles her way across the floor.

You are the cause of my affliction, sweet baby J . . .

I have a love for you that knows no bounds . . .

In your eyes I see hope.
In your face I see curiosity.
In your body I see determination.
In your hands I see discovery.

And now, I see it in every child . . .

Before J came into my life I admired children from afar. I relished in their innocence. I was touched by their unblemished spirit. I was inspired by their open minds and forgiving souls.

But now with J in my life, each time I see a child my heart swells and my seams break open. Be it in a store, a park, at an event, or anywhere, I am instantly engaged. "What is your teddy bear's name?" "Is red your favorite color." "Wow, you are such a good walker, little man!"," I'll bet your mommy made that for you," "What would you like to be when you grow up?"

They are happy to answer my questions, to lean in close when I speak to them. They laugh when I make a silly face. They give me their broadest smiles and biggest belly laughs.

I can't help but wonder what happened to me . . .

Have I been drugged?

Am I part of an alien experiment?

Am I going crazy? (please let it be aliens!)

But I know the answer.

I'm now a mother . . . I still find it hard to believe. The moment Baby J came to be I was afflicted.

And although I know that the minute I see the screaming-crying-temper-tantrum-throwing-back-talk-talking-eye-rolling-kinda kid . . . I may have a change of heart.

But until then . . .

I will never go looking for a cure . . .

* * *

The Post About How Good I Look in a Swimsuit

2008-09-16T00:00:00.001-04:00

I have successfully avoided having to wear a swimsuit all summer. I figured that after giving birth to J I'd have plenty of time to indulge my post-pregnancy body with a few fat stores.

Outside of the bewb area, my body returned to its pre-pregnancy weight and general shape in a few (read: several) months.

I was looking pretty decent . . . in clothes. I eyed the drawer with my pre-pregnancy swimsuites with dread. For I knew the truth. Things had shifted. Things had softened. Things had become . . . jiggly (and not the good Girl's Gone W*ld jiggly either).

But, I didn't have to wear a suit. There was no swimming this summer.

Until last week.

I pulled out all my swim suits in anticipation for J's first swim class.

No. Never. Gonna. Happen. I sucked in and held my breath. I contorted my body in very unnatural ways just to TRY to look decent in the suit. Nope. The dream was dead . . .

I even tried on the maternity suit. Nope. Totally cute on a pregnant chick, but sad and pathetic on a not pregnant chick.

We went on a mission. To the mall! Mr. Husband, J, and me.

Have you ever been to the mall when it is POST swimsuit season and all that is left are the remnants? Mixmatched tops and bottoms along with one-piece (nightmare patterned) suits were relegated to the back "clearance" corners of nearly every store.

Mr. Husband tried to help.

He pulled out stuff like this top . . .

and this bottom . . .

You know, God bless him for thinking I could actually wear stuff like this . . . ever. But, um, his fashion sense is well, horrible. And, given the slim pickings, it was getting rough.

This kept up for hours. HOURS. But how do you tell the hubs that while you are grateful for his help, he just isn't helping? You send him to go get a pretzel. Avoidance rocks.

I finally did find something. At the last minute.

Standard suit w/ a duo use as a tarp. 99% off. Great deal. It fit. All the jiggly stuff was strapped down. The chubby stuff that leaked out the sides would most definitely not be an issue. I was going to be surrounded by other moms! Who cares, right?

I was good to go.

The first class was great. J and I were the ONLY ones for the infant swim class. But I wasn't worried. I was amongst 70 and 80 year-old women (who stayed behind after finishing their arthritis swim) and one fifteen-year-old female lifeguard. No one cared what I looked like. They all zeroed in on J and I was just his shadow.

But the sweet little lifeguard informed me that she'd be heading back to school and a new guard would be taking over the lessons. What?

The old ladies all chimed in and described him. "Oh, he's so cute!" "He'll give you and J the best one-on-one attention!" Huh? What? "He's tall and got that long hair . . . oooh, Agnes, isn't he dreamy?" OK, I added the last part, but you get the drift.

Panic set in. You know, in ANY other setting (and I do mean ANY), I am completely cool with my appearance. I'm fully aware I'm no Giselle. I'm OK with that. But something happens to me the minute I know I'll be EXPOSED. Suddenly I am transported back to my early teen years. My girlfriends gobbing on oil as they arched their backs to show off their teeny bikinis. Me in a one-piece with an extra large t-shirt on. Hot guys paraded past us, ogling my hot friends. I was invisible to them and I was perfectly happy with that. I had HUGE thighs of which I was horribly self-conscious. I was a runner. A sprinter. I had lots of muscle. Big muscle. But big muscle was not in. I was not in. And again, wrapped up in my extra large Def Leopard t-shirt made the lack of attention perfectly OK with me.

What would have happened had one of the hot beach dudes talked to me, you ask? I would have dug a whole in the sand and climbed in. Even my invisiblity cloak (Def Leopard t-shirt) would not have been able to save me. Something about ME + swimsuit simply does not go well with me interacting like a normal human being with cute members of the opposit sex. A sad reality.

But I was about to be exposed. And not in a situation where I could just mix in with throngs of swimsuit-wearing ladies.

I prayed that other mothers/babies would join the group before the next class. I hoped that the fifteen-year-old lifeguard would realize that school was overrated and get back to lifeguarding. I wished that there was a magic pill to give me the confidence I needed to face my demons (AKA cute lifeguard).

Today was the day that me, in my "mom" swimsuit would face her demon. I held my head up high as J and I entered the pool area. I was ready. I could do this.

The ladies greeted J with a cacophony of hellos.

It was just J and me . . . again. No other babies. No other mommies. My eyes darted to the lifeguard stand. No one was there.

I quickly unwrapped my towel and J and I headed into the pool.

As J splashes in the water I hear a deep male voice behind me. I start sweating. OK, maybe not sweating, I mean, I'm in a pool. But seriously, the panic starts to set in. I slowly turn around and find

not this
but this

Garth jumped in the pool. J giggled. Garth blew bubbles. J giggled.

Mama sighed.

And all was right with the world.

* * *

Don't forget to enter the BOOK GIVEAWAY!

Photo Story Friday: The Winds of Change Part II

2008-09-12T18:00:00.005-04:00

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

* * *

This is where I live now . . .

The view from my back deck.

This was a shot I just took on Tuesday morning at the park.

The cows grazing right next to my house (see the electrified fence?). We've only seen one escape and make its way through our backyard. You know, they run much faster than you'd think.

View of regular visitors to our backyard.

J at the park with the river as the backdrop.

I love where we live. There is no traffic. There are no crowds. The crime rate is low. Chances are you'll see someone you know each and every time you head out to town (both good and bad, I know). Nature is all around--deer, wild turkey, ducks, geese, wild birds, various farm animals, we even live near a llama farm.

Mr. Husband and I grew up just outside of Detroit. We were used to having houses right on top of one another, battling a steady stream of traffic wherever we go, hearing and in some cases witnessing crime on a regular basis. Our only dealings with wildlife typically were the small furry variety known as domestic canines and felines and the occasional squirrel. That's it.

No comparison, huh?

Well, you're right.

Sort of.

You see, in the beginning it was easy to live in this small town. I enjoyed it (as made evident by my article that darn near pimped small town living). But, there are limitations, challenges, issues, if I may, that have come to light even more so since giving birth to J . . .

1. We have only one mall (within 75+ miles). I know, I know. Big deal. And being that I'm not a huge shopper, this normally wouldn't be a big deal. But, now that I have J, we are limited as to where we can peruse come the winter months. I mean, you can only stare at the same few dozen stores for so long (Oh, and our Steve and Barry's is closing . . . ).

2. We don't have many dining establishments. Let's put it this way. Outback is considered ethnic cuisine, Panera is fine dining, and "buffet" exists in about 1 out of every 2 restaurant names.

3. The lack of entertainment. The only places to go out at night are to B-dubs (Buffalo Wild Wings) and some skeezy bar. There is a community playhouse and one movie theater (well, two, but the other one barely counts) sans stadium seating (yes, I'm a seating snob). We have a cute downtown area in one of the nearby cities. There are cobblestone streets, adorable shops, great sightseeing. Unfortunately, come 4 PM, it rolls up the streets and snuffs out the lights. 4 PM.

4. Now, we could stay in our house all day long. There are plenty of toys, games, books and other forms of entertainment right here. Since I don't want the risk of being named "Hermit Mommy" (you just know someone has this blog title) and not providing J with the necessary social skills to make him a contributing member of society, I believe it behooves us to go out and socialize.

5. The only problem? Outside of the one mall, the park and that new outdoor play area where we were the only visitors (and we were the only visitors today as well!), there just isn't much to do. No museums (does an oil and gas museum count?), science centers (well, maybe the banks of the Ohio. That's definitely a few science experiements waiting to happen), or zoos (well, unless you consider the farms or my attic). I know. I know. We make our own fun. I get that. We do that. But, you can't discount the value of sharing the fun with other children. And yes, AFF, you raise a valid point about the happy avoidance of germs, but dang. Kid needs to build up his immunity, right???

6. The mice. Yes, we've had mice. And calling them field mice does not make them any more welcome. Not just one or two. Not just three or four. Try DOZENS. They took up residence in our attic. At first I was all, "We can't kill them!" (say in an annoyingly shrill voice for full effect). I forced my husband to buy live traps when we spotted the first ONE. We're pretty sure that when he went to empty the traps in a field that they just hike it back to Hotel Laskigal. About six DOZEN mice transports later, I nary shed a tear when one accidentally froze in the mouse cube while we were gone on a family emergency. I still remember the "tink, tink, tink" it made as my sadistic husband rocked in around in the cube. A mouse cube. How fitting.

7. The snake(s). I know. You'd think that having snakes would make the mice go away. Well. Let's just say this. They are. Now. But, before we realized how beneficial they are, we were too busy being freaked out finding a six foot snake skin in the ATTIC. I slept like a baby (my best trait) while Mr. Husband stayed awake night after night envisioning our attic as a scene from a B- horror flick.

What does this mean?

It means that our time is nearly up here in Smalltownruralville. Almost. Mr. Husband put in his request for a transfer. Meetings are in the works. Phone calls are being made. E-mails are being sent. We have ideas as to where we want to be. We would like more culture, arts, diversity, opportunities . . . for J. It'll happen. We just need to be patient.

But. All this being said, I can't lie.

When we go, I'll shed more than a few tears.

This is where I came into my own. Where the clouds of self-doubt were replaced with rays of confidence. Where the soft corners of my marriage became solid. And, where my existence made sense in a whole different way . . .

J's homecoming. And the reason this home, our home, will always be beautiful to me.

Stay tuned for WofC Part III . . .

***
There is still time to enter the giveaway! Click here to win a signed copy of Midwife of the Blue Ridge and other prizes (coming directly from the author!).

Wordless Wednesday: All By Myself

2008-09-09T23:52:00.006-04:00

. . . and loving every minute of it.

After yesterday's pool adventure where we were the only students in infant swim class . . . we decided to venture out again. An indoor play center! I had no idea this existed until last week. We don't have very much out here for young children to do so finding this was like finding a gold mine with actual gold.

I was so excited.

When we arrived, we found . . . no babies. No children. No adults (save the woman who worked the counter). Part of me was bummed since I am eager for J to get to know other kids his age. But, the other part of me was thrilled. We had the entire place to ourselves.

And J went crazy! What an awesome day . . .

* * *
Hey, guess what? I'm hosting a contest over at my review blog. Go check it out HERE!

A Swimingly Perfect Day

2008-09-08T22:00:00.001-04:00

*OK, this is a ridiculously long post (lots of spaces, though). A stream of consciousness post. I pledge to go on a word diet in the very near future . . .

You know, whatever your belief system is, you gotta believe that there is a higher power up there. Sometimes he/she answers your prayers/pleas and sometimes he/she, heck, let's just call the higher power HP, k?

Anyway, HP is out there workin' it all out for you. Sometimes life works in your favor and sometimes it doesn't. But, you know HP is out there . . . all the time. Watching. Working. And wondering what the heck you're doing.

Sometimes, HP likes to play with you, mess with you . . . just a little.

Here's the scenario:

I signed up J for swim classes last Friday. No, I'm trying to turn J into the next Phelps, but if it happens, well then, cool . . .

The classes started this morning. I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. Outside of the tub and sprinkler, J hasn't had a major experience with water. Do I need a life jacket, floaties, a vest? I forgot to ask. It's the weekend. The office is closed. And me, what do I do? I have only one swimsuit (that fits) and it is a maternity suit. The bottoms now sag down to my knees (sadly, the top is actually snug). I know, you think I should just change out the bottoms. Can't. The suit is a ONE piece that looks like a two-piece.

Not only have I been desperate to find a suit in a town with exactly 14 suits left (all mismatch and made for the body of a hot fourteen-year-old model), but now I have to figure out what a kid needs for a swim class. OMG.

I need a moment.

Friday afternoon. Mr. Husband and I head to the one and only mall in the area. I peruse the racks. He peruses the racks. Um, CLOTHING racks. Gawsh.

He pulls out several suits. I take the suits away from him and tell him to go fetch a pretzel with J. He leaves. Happily.

After trying on a dozen suits, I give up. Maternity suit here I come . . .

But, just as I leave the store I spy a suit on a rack near the exit. A black suit. Sorta sporty. I try it on. It fits. 75% off. I can't describe what is does for my figure, but let's just say that outside of eighty-year-old men, I won't be getting many stares.

Moving on . . .

On Sunday, Carrie and I headed to about a dozen stores. To find an infant swim vest. Again. This is a SMALL town.

We were digging, begging, calling trying to locate just ONE infant swim vest. After hours and hours of searching we find a package for the perfect vest. No vest. Oh, HP, you mock me . . . No vest in the end, but we did find a suit with at tube built in. Whatever . . . it floats.

This morning starts out perfectly. "J, guess what? You get to go swimming in a big, big pool today!" He beams. I beam. I'm super mommy!

We start to get ready. I shower. Put on my new suit. Pack our bags.

I can't find my keys.

J starts crying.

I go to comfort him.

WHACK.

"FUDGE BUCKETS!!!" I'm pretty sure I broke my toe.

I pick him up and get ready to put him in the car. Oh, dear HP, what the heck is in your diaper, J?

Change J (oh, if only it were that easy). Pack him in the car. Grab ice for toe. Look for keys.

20 minutes later.

We are so gonna be late.

It hits me. I have a crappy suit, a baby with no gear, a broken toe, lost keys, and not a clue as to what I am doing. And, I'm gonna be late.

I get grumpy. Really grumpy. Ready to scream. There they are. The keys. In J's dump truck. Of course! Where else would they be?

Twenty minutes later we finally make it to the pool house. Great, no parking. This is so not meant to be.

But, with great resolve I am determined to make it now. J will swim if it kills me.

I park a couple blocks away. I grab the bag, the baby, the tube suit and . . .

No stroller. I have THREE strollers but not even one in my car.

J can walk, but unless I want to get there in time for next week's lesson, I have to carry him.

I hoist him up on my hip and all the stuff on the other. I am a spectacle. I have no pictures, but I am certain the group of college guys standing at the corner do.

We make it in the pool. I know I will be late. I know the other mothers will stare. I know it will be a disaster.

I stumble through the door. J barely clinging to me as I drop the pile of stuff on the floor and wipe the sweaty hair from my eyes.

It is empty.

Well, except for the three elderly ladies finishing up their senior water aerobics.

Are you kidding me??? "Am I in the right place?" I ask. One lady responds, "Well, unless there is another pool in here, then my guess is right." Oooh. She's a smarty pants. I like her.

"Where are all the other babies? The mothers? I thought I was late!" I stare around the pool room.

"You're it!" exclaims the very young instructor coming up behind me.

What . . . I'm it? "I couldn't find a vest for my son."

"That's OK. We have a bunch here!" Huh?

It was me, a sweet little lifeguard/trainer, and three elderly ladies (who later turned into J's fan club).

HP. You just loved foolin' with me, didn't you? You loved watching me freak out for no reason. That perfect smile on J's face as he floated in the water, kicking his feet, paddling his arms . . . oh, you mock me, HP.

A perfect hour. A baby so happy that I forgot what I looked like. I forgot about the fruitless and ultimately pointless search for a vest. I didn't care about my toe. And carrying J and all that stuff two blocks. So totally worth it . . .

I have no pictures becaues I forgot my camera. And, my cell phone. Well. Apparently it isn't waterproof.

Next week. I promise.