Secret Agent Mom

Days of Auld Lang Syne

2011-01-01T10:19:00.001-08:00

Psst, if you're looking for SAM, I'm now blogging over at Memphisotan. I hope you'll all join me over there. Happy new year!

Reading Time With Pickle

2010-12-29T18:17:00.000-08:00

I got back to reading this year. After more than half a decade of caring for very small children, I finally worked out a compromise between maternal duties and literary pleasure. (I was going to remark on no longer having any children in diapers, but frankly, that hasn't been especially helpful in this regard.) The list below is what I got through in 2010, in as thorough detail as Goodreads and I could manage.

Manhood for Amateurs, Michael Chabon
American Wife, Curtis Sittenfeld
Water for Elephants, Sara Gruen
Sh*t My Dad Says, Justin Halpern
Dry, Augusten Burroughs
I Am Charlotte Simmons, Tom Wolfe
Wishful Drinking, Carrie Fisher
Tales of the City, Armistead Maupin
The Giant's House: A Romance, Elizabeth McCracken
Case Histories, Kate Atkinson
The Elegance of the Hedgehog, Muriel Barbery
The Night Listener, Armistead Maupin
The Last American Man, Elizabeth Gilbert
Sorrow Floats, Tim Sandlin
Forever, Pete Hamill
Le Divorce, Diane Johnson
Mrs. Darcy and the Blue-Eyed Stranger, Lee Smith
This Is Where I Leave You, Jonathan Tropper
Everything Changes, Jonathan Tropper
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, Mary Ann Shaffer
Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee, Charles J. Shields
The Help, Kathryn Stockett
Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk: A Modern Bestiary, David Sedaris
On Writing, Stephen King
Little Bee, Chris Cleave
Juliet, Naked, Nick Hornby
Werewolves in Their Youth, Michael Chabon
Sarah's Key, Tatiana de Rosnay
No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, Alexander McCall Smith (most likely; I'm halfway through)

I'm excited for next year's book list to be even longer ... unless I'm too busy writing my own.

O Night Divine

2010-12-20T22:19:00.000-08:00

My perception of Christmas has changed since I had a child. I don’t mean in regard to the stress and bustle and increased costs, but my perception of the Christmas story itself. Since I became a mother, I’ve been unable to consider the historical circumstances of Jesus’ birth without letting my thoughts linger on Mary’s story.

I imagine a heavily pregnant young woman – a child, to our modern eyes – traveling on the back of a donkey for ninety miles. It’s a trip that would take days, perhaps even a week or more. I imagine the pain, the swelling, the heat (most historians agree that it was probably not actually winter), the unpredictable swings of hunger and thirst, all experienced on the back of a lumpy, itchy animal. And when the trip finally ended, and her body surely ached for a soft place to lie down and rest, there was nowhere for her to go. The only shelter available was made for livestock. I can’t help thinking that, as well as being stinky and uncomfortable, this option was especially insulting to a young woman already suffering the social stigma of being unmarried and pregnant.

And then, the worst happens. Away from family and caregivers, and perhaps surrounded by said livestock, she goes into labor. There’s no description of her experience in the famous telling by St. Luke, no actual birth story from the world’s most famous birth (somehow I doubt an account by St. Lucille would skip over this part). Although I would probably guess that teenage girls were more familiar with birth in Caesar’s day than ours, I have to believe she was still scared and feeling very alone. This is just assumption, of course, but as something of a minor expert in first-time mothers, I’ve seen a level of universality in this area. No matter the age or race or economic background, every new mother is terrified of what birth will be like, and I have yet to meet one who had any idea what she was going to do afterward. If those fears persist in our comfortable, sanitized, nurse-assisted world, how much more powerful must they have been in a young woman giving birth alone in a barn?

But that, I guess, is another assumption. Perhaps she did have help – a village midwife called out by the guilt-ridden inn-keeper, maybe. And despite all the pageant-driven ideas about that night, I’ve never read anything that actually says there were animals around, or that the stable was in use for that purpose at the time. I know birth wasn’t the fetishized ritual it is in today’s middle-class society, and I’ve heard plenty of historic anecdotes about farm laborers squatting down to birth in the middle of a field.

But still. An unwed girl in a strange town, laboring in a dark, dirty place. Far from family, criticized for her circumstances, and not even a bed to lie in when it was all over.

“O Holy Night” is my very favorite Christmas song, partly because, intentionally or not, I feel it captures both the joy and the frightening unknown of birth. If you replace the word “world” with “mother,” it could describe any woman, at any time, seeing her child for the first time.

Long lay the world
In sin and error pining,
Till He appeared
And the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope,
The weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks
A new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees,
O hear the angel voices!
O night divine,
O night when Christ was born!

Whoever you believe that baby was – a savior, a teacher, a random Jewish boy – the power of Mary’s story holds true. And for me, this season is about the hope and awe inspired by that young mother bravely bringing her son into the world.

With Every Christmas Card I Write

2010-12-15T22:23:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends, Family, and Various Googlers,

It’s Christmas card time again, which for me means taking the time to sit down, reflect over the last year, and feel guilty that I don’t have the street addresses of anyone besides my parents. I so like the idea of sending out cards, but it’s been years since I mustered the time, energy and mailing supplies to do so. I say this not so much as an apology as a plea: if you are among the few valiant luddites who still put an actual stamp on an actual card and drop it in an actual U.S. postal service mailbox, please, please don’t take me off your list. I love getting Christmas cards. Whether you live across the country or in the next ZIP code over, it makes me happy to see your name on an envelope. I like seeing the card you chose to represent your good wishes. I even enjoy reading your year-end summary letter. I think it’s a lovely tradition, and I hope that the dwindling numbers in my card display rack are due to my semi-recent move and not a major drop in holiday correspondents.

With best wishes to you this season and throughout the new year,

The Secret Agent Mom family

I Can See For Miles

2010-10-31T13:00:00.000-07:00

I did it!

Official time: 36:54, which works out to a pace of 11:54 a mile. Which isn’t the best of my training times, but is still faster than I could run a mile during the Presidential Physical Fitness Test when I was fourteen years old, so I consider that a victory in a number of ways.

The race itself was pretty overwhelming. After finding a spot in the far reaches of our second-choice shuttle parking lot, Team Cha Cha decided on an impromptu warm-up walk to the Start line. As we got closer to the course, we could hear music blaring and (mostly female) voices cheering and whooping as the emcee announced that over 19,000 people had registered for the race. I thought the start line didn’t look that crowded, and then realized we were on the wrong side of it; the sea of people flowed down Farmington Rd, ending somewhere far beyond where the street curved out of sight. Team Cha Cha hurried to wriggle into the mass of people, who were all pretty patient with our last-minute cutting-in. We only had a few minutes to adjust our various techie devices before the starting gun fired. I think it fired, anyway. I just felt the throng move, and I moved along with it.

The first quarter-mile or so was a little chaotic, as the real runners tried to break free from the pack and the rest of us constructed a loose pecking order based on speed. Team Cha Cha clustered together for a few minutes until we all found our own rhythm. I fell in with Elizabeth and Shannon, and although I didn’t have the wind to keep up with their conversation, I managed to stay on their pace. I wasn’t sure what to expect at 8:30 in the morning, but there were dozens of houses decorated in support of the race and yard after yard of cheering spectators. Between the race fans, wacky runner costumes, and my enthusiastic teammates, I didn’t even notice the time or distance until we saw the two-mile marker and then blazed right by it.

The race organizers are a little cruel, putting a long, menacing hill right at the end of the course, but I made it past that last hurdle and, had there been a bit more room, would have sprinted to the finish line. It was the longest run I’d completed and I expected to be winded, but instead I felt like I could turn around and do it all over again. It felt so good to have made it so far, not just in the race, but throughout the six weeks before. When I began my training, I struggled to run for a full minute, and there I was, more than three miles of road behind me. I’d been afraid that the huge crowd and varying paces would result in an isolated finish, but RJA and Coach Kristy were along the sidelines of the last stretch and watched as I crossed the line beside two of my teammates.

Of course, the question everyone asked as we ate our celebratory pancake breakfast was, “Are you going to keep running?” And the answer that seemed to shock everyone was, “No, probably not.” I have a friendlier relationship with running than when I started this process, but I still wouldn’t call myself a runner. I begrudgingly respect that it’s cheap and easy, but it’s not an activity I especially enjoy. And moreover, it’s about to become quite impractical, what with the clocks going backwards, the temperatures dropping, and a gym membership non-existent. I don’t like it enough to have it be something I work that hard for.

Which was really the whole point of this endeavor. I put myself through something that was foreign, challenging, and even a little painful for the sole purpose of drawing attention to an issue that is exponentially more foreign, challenging and painful than anything I’ve experienced. And with all credit to the generous impulses of those who followed along, I seem to have done that. Team Cha Cha has raised over $1100* to support breast cancer research and education. It’s hard to explain why I’d just quit running after six weeks of hard work, but to me, those weeks weren’t about becoming a runner. They were about becoming a fundraiser. I didn’t run for me, I ran for a cure for breast cancer. And I hope we’re a few steps closer.

Team Cha Cha!
Back row: Melissa Wolowicz, Toby Long, Richard Alley
Middle row: Liz Schenck Phillips, SAM, Elizabeth Alley, Stacey Greenberg
Front row: Colleen Couch-Smith, Shannon Dixon, (S. A.,) Ashley Harper

*Fundraising for the Midsouth Race for the Cure continues until November 15, 2010. You can still make a donation to Team Cha Cha by visiting: http://race.raceforthecurememphis.org/goto/teamchacha

Friends To Know And Ways To Grow

2010-10-27T20:37:00.000-07:00

When I graduated college with a degree in English Literature, I told myself that I was done analyzing fiction for the rest of my life. As much as I’d enjoyed my studies, I felt that, ultimately, it was a bunch of theoretical blathering. Who were we, a group of barely-not-children, to decide what an author’s work meant or symbolized? I was drawn to studying literature because it was a field with no wrong answers (and a minimal math requirement), but when I got through with it, I felt that interpretation wasn’t close enough to knowledge. In other words, I knew I was clearly not cut out for grad school.

I kept reading, of course; novels from the trade paperback shelves and various memoirs, mostly. My ban on analysis, however, held tight. (Much like my college-borne ban on completing a work of original fiction.) I discovered amazing new authors like Michael Chabon and Lee Smith, added new titles to my list of all-time favorites, but never did I discuss anything but the most technical details of what I’d read. I couldn’t even bring myself to write reviews on Goodreads.com.

And yet, when Kristy and I were recently invited into two different book clubs within the span of a week (as RJA writes about today), I readily said yes to both. I’m always happy to have an excuse to read, of course, and the promise of a night out of the house sweetened the deal. But I really had no idea if I would have anything to say, or a desire to say anything, about our required reading.

Imagine my surprise when the first book club night arrived and I in fact had a hard time shutting up. It was like a dormant geyser of deconstructionism burst from my head. Not usually the most talkative in any crowd, I think I stunned the groupers who knew me well, and probably made a blustery impression on those who didn’t. I, of course, blamed the wine.

I assumed I’d be more constrained at the next meeting, which, other than Kristy, consisted of neighborhood women I didn’t know at all. Also, I had a Sprite. And yet, when we got into discussion about the book (Kathryn Stockett’s The Help), I couldn’t stop myself. I was drawing connections, discussing motivations, and occasionally disputing the author’s decision to write the book at all. But I will happily say, it wasn’t all about me. The conversation was lively and smart, and I was struck by the sheer pleasure of being among peers and talking for two hours about something other than our jobs or kids. Even if it meant talking about make-believe people’s jobs and kids.

Thinking critically about novels again has made me reflect on my education and the teachers and professors who taught me how to truly read. Their names still stick with me – Professors Appel, Waid, Payne, Epstein, Eprile, and my dear Ms. Jewell – and I think of them collectively as my original book club. I appreciate them even more now than I did while furiously copying their wisdom into my class notes. I wish I could invite them all over to the house to share what they’re reading these days. And, of course, a nice glass of wine.

That Silver Necklace

2010-10-19T22:08:00.000-07:00

I’m sure that most people fall into their interests and hobbies naturally. They live their lives and are drawn toward the activities they enjoy more than others. But what happens when your life is primarily occupied by work and children? It was with this slightly pathetic realization that I went on an active search for a pastime, a search that became especially focused after I decided that I was on a break from all non-blog writing.

I rejected almost every idea that came to me, for one reason or another – too messy, too expensive, too structured, too far away, too dependent on having the merest semblance of a design aesthetic– before I remembered that I’ve always wanted to take a jewelry-making class. My initial hunt for local classes was unsuccessful, though, so I started doing research to see how much I might be able to pick up on my own. Looking through online instructions, I was only slightly overwhelmed, which is the best I can hope for when facing a totally new concept. After three hours in various stores, staring down pliers and beads and findings with a very patient three-year-old, I decided to buy a very basic starter kit from Amazon and a couple tools that weren’t included in the set. The total investment was about $35, which I justified as the cost of replacing one of the necklaces I’d lost in our burglary.

The first night I took out my supplies, I made three pairs of earrings and two bracelets. They were very basic, and quite unintentionally rustic, but there was a marked improvement from one piece to the next. Unlike when I attempted knitting or crochet, which was just one inconsistent mess after the other. Also distinct from my efforts in the fabric arts, jewelry was much easier to understand. There were patterns and instructions for techniques, but for the most part, I could just look at a picture and figure out how to make it. Which was perfect for someone who always got a little nauseous reading instructions like:

Slip st in first ch-1 space; ch 2, * hdc, hdc in same space; [2 hdc in next space] twice; [2 dc, ch 1 for end space, 2 dc] in end space; [2 hdc in next space] 3 times; [hdc, ch 1 for side space, hdc] in next space; repeat from *; slip st in top of ch-2.

It’s also a hobby perfectly suited to my particular defining traits: cheapness, lazy perfectionism, and curiously small monkey fingers. The only thing that concerns me a little is how quickly I picked it up; it feels more like a party trick than an actual skill. But it’s a party trick that ends with new accessories, so, really, who cares?

She's All That

2010-10-04T22:18:00.000-07:00

Further evidence that my daughter is the living embodiment of a teen movie. In this case, one where the gawky girl gets the makeover and suddenly becomes gorgeous.

Before:

After:

Running Down A Dream

2010-09-28T21:43:00.000-07:00

I don’t want to bore you both to tears by turning this into a fitness blog, but I thought I should give a little update about how my training is going. I’m loosely following the Couch-to-5k program, but with only six weeks to get through a nine-week regimen, I’ve had to adapt it a little. There are 27 training days in that program, and I had a total of 45 days between my decision to run and Race for the Cure. So I figured that if I skipped ahead one day each week, I could squeeze in 18 runs and cover most of the training intervals, and still maintain a Mon-Wed-Fri routine.

And so far, that’s actually been working pretty well. When I made this grand plan, however, I wasn’t expecting that the temperatures would remain in the 90s for two more weeks. And I didn’t anticipate that staph infection that made my legs feel rotten from the inside out and put me on a course of antibiotics so strong that I went to the doctor to make sure they weren’t going to peel my skin off. But through all that, I only got off-schedule one day, and I made it up within the week.

The intervals started off fairly easily – week one was 60 seconds running, 90 seconds walking, and week two was 90 seconds running, two minutes walking, each totaling 20 minutes. But still, running through my hilly neighborhood in 95-100 degree heat was an intense introduction to the program. And, it turns out, a helpful one. I was nervous about week three’s three-minute runs, but with the temperature below 80, I felt like I could fly.

On the gear side, I’m pretty low-tech. I bought a decent pair of shoes a year or so ago, but beyond that, I don’t own any official athletic wear. No wicking fabrics or performance apparel. I’ll probably have to invest a little when the weather cools off even more, because that one long-sleeve t-shirt I own isn’t going to get cleaned three times a week. I have been bringing my fancy new phone with me, though, and I love it (despite having to knot the armband carrier in order to get it to fit around my scrawny arm). I created a station on Pandora that’s all 80s girl bands and fast-paced dance songs, and I tune that in along with the My Tracks app that traces my route and speed. Then I pull up the Couch-to-5k app that notifies me when each interval is up. Loudly. I’m sure it’s entertaining for passers-by to see me suddenly startle and then take off running.

I wasn’t sure how my feelings about running would change once I committed to doing it regularly, and I still don’t really know. I wouldn’t say I love it, but I don’t hate it as much as I did. I don’t feel like I get a runner’s high (probably because I’m not running all that much, really), but it does give me a sense of accomplishment to go farther and faster than I ever have before. I like looking at the map and seeing that I’ve already gone 4/5ths of a 5k without even realizing it. I’m hoping that, by the end of October, I’ll be in a place where I’m thinking more about the race than about the run.

Speaking of, there are two more days to register for the Midsouth Race for the Cure at a discounted rate. You can sign up individually, or join your friendly neighborhood bloggers (currently Stacey, Shannon, E, and RJA) on Team Cha Cha. Or you can just support the cause by donating through our team site. Join us however you can.

Running To The Future

2010-09-14T21:55:00.000-07:00

At 7:00 pm on August 29, 1996, I was at a Mexican restaurant in Tucson, Arizona. I remember the relentless desert light forcing its way through the windows as the sun began to set, the line of rustic wooden chairs around the long table, the chunky glass stemware. I unconsciously absorbed every detail around me before I got up to use the payphone and call home. I don’t remember exactly what my mom said when she picked up on the other end, but I can’t ever forget the message: her biopsy results showed that the lump in her breast was cancer.

The moment I received that news was a turning point. On top of the fear and uncertainty about what would happen to my mother, in the back of my mind was the knowledge that my own chance of developing breast cancer had doubled. In an instant, I slid right from “no risk” to “high risk.”

Not that there was much time to think about all that. Within the next two weeks, my mother was scheduled for surgery – a full mastectomy and trans-flap reconstruction. “Invasive” doesn’t even begin to describe the extent of that operation. After a week in hospital, under a heavy gel-filled heat blanket to fight infection, she went home still connected to drainage tubes, her entire torso swollen and stitched. I had never seen her, or anyone, in so much pain.

She was strong and feisty and determined to get through it, but she was, of course, terrified. We all were. But testing of her lymph nodes showed that the cancer hadn’t spread, and although we all had our nightmare scenarios, there was no reason to think that she wouldn’t make a full recovery. That October, she began chemotherapy, which left her sick and exhausted, and then began taking the drug Tamoxifen, which at the time was just beginning to be used to treat early-stage breast cancer and has since been approved as preventative treatment for women in high-risk categories.

As the diagnosis moved further behind her, and every subsequent doctor’s appointment showed that she was still cancer-free, the terror subsided somewhat, softening into mild dread with occasional mammogram-related moments of panic. After five years, she was considered in remission, and after ten, could officially call herself a survivor. She will remain vigilant, but there’s every reason to hope that her battle is over.

As I approach 35*, however, I feel that mine is just beginning. I was initially told to have my first mammogram at that age, although the recommendation for first-generationers has since gone up to 40. With my own troubled hormone history, I’m not sure I’ll hold out that long.

And then there’s my daughter. Her paternal grandmother is a breast cancer survivor as well, so her genetic odds are even worse than my own. The idea that she may someday have to go through what my mother endured is completely unacceptable to me.

With all this in mind, I resolved that I wouldn’t let this year’s Race for the Cure slip by me. I’ve participated with my mother in the Minneapolis event, and I know that it’s more than just a 5k. The community of survivors, their families, and all those racing in memoriam creates an overwhelming feeling of hope, strength, and support. And, it must be said, sorrow. The “In Memory Of” race placards are worn by men, women, and children of all ages; at my last race, I saw “In Memory of Mommy” tagged on a stroller. But that’s the point of the race as well. Those in grief find comfort, and others find inspiration and motivation to end the destruction caused by the disease.

Thinking on my own reasons for being in the Race, I began to feel that just showing up and ambling through five kilometers wouldn’t be enough. Although every donation matters, the registration fee felt like a drop in a bucket that I want to see filled, and quick. So I decided that I would not just do the Race for the Cure, I would run the Race for the Cure.

Yes, run. Yes, me.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “I’d pay to see that!” And that’s the point. For the next six weeks, I’ll be collecting donations as I embark on a stepped-up version of the Couch-to-5k training program. As I’ve mentioned here before, I am not a runner, so setting this goal and making this effort will hopefully inspire some of you to make your own effort for this cause.

Feeling inspired already? Head over to my personal fundraising page to make a donation.

I’d also love for any and all of you to join me, either in the Memphis race or in your own hometown. Even if breast cancer has not touched your life, you never know when that turning point may occur. It will occur to someone, somewhere, every single day.

Until there’s a cure.

-------------
*Next year, Mom, not this one.

They Don't Care Where They Kick

2010-08-23T22:32:00.000-07:00

This month marks the close of my eleventh year as a Memphian. To celebrate, someone kicked in my door and stole thousands of dollars worth of property from my home.

I thought it would be fun if that actually turned out to be my 11th criminal victimization since moving here, but turns out, it’s only about the 7th or 8th. But good effort, jackholes!

As you may have surmised, I’m in the anger phase right now. I know it seems superficial, but the stages of grief do seem somewhat appropriate here, for although it was only material possessions that were lost, they carried with them a lot of emotional value. Among the stolen items were my high school class ring, the earrings my parents gave me on my 16th birthday, and most of the jewelry I inherited from my grandmother. I know memories can exist without physical tokens (yes, I’ve watched my share of Hoarders), but those small pieces of my past served as happy reminders whenever I wore or even came across them. And now they’re gone.

Also stolen was my laptop, and I have to tell you, the idea of someone having that piece of hardware is more unsettling to me than the fact that they dug through every hiding place in the house looking for drugs and guns. It’s like having someone take your entire family’s birth certificates, Social Security cards, bank statements, and checkbook, plus all your home movies and photo albums. It’s an intensely personal chunk of plastic, and the unease of having it in the wrong hands is far more upsetting than the loss of the machine itself.

I also lost a lot of writing, and, in bad news, possibly my entire iTunes library.

But if there’s anything I’m known for, it’s making the best of a bad situation. Oh wait, no, that’s TV’s Kelly Ripa. Anyway, I’d still like to take this opportunity to help y’all (i.e. other Memphians) avoid this type of scenario by taking a few preventive steps:

Back up your computer. Right now. NOW. And then keep doing it regularly, ideally through an off-site service like Mozy.com (which allowed the more disaster-prepared resident of my house to share his data rather than lose it all outright).
If you’re not a home-owner, invest in renter’s insurance. You’re gonna need it. Seriously.
Write down the serial numbers of all your electronics and keep them in a safe place. The police actually do send this info to pawn shops and I know of at least one iPod recovered this way.
Password-protect everything.
Consider laptop recovery software (laptop lo-jack) that can trace a stolen machine through GPS.

Oh, and:

Don’t like or attach sentimental value to anything you own, because sooner or later, some crackhead is going to take it away from you.

Brutal Youth

2010-08-14T05:25:00.000-07:00

Somewhere along a path strewn with New Yorkers, Netflix envelopes, and gin, the husband of a dear friend became a dear friend of mine. In honor of his big birthday, and because it’s really hard to find a card that isn’t dumb, I present:

Forty Things About RJA

Does the Sunday New York Times crossword in Sharpie
Likes spice cake the best
Deeply enjoys jazz without being one of those jazz people
Makes a mean chicken curry
Would rather be on the beach right now, ideally on the Amalfi coast
Or in New York
Doesn’t care to fly
Can’t get used to contact lenses
Disposes of all intellectualism when a Jason Statham movie is on
Doesn’t refer to his years in Catholic school as an insurmountable emotional handicap
Hates Project Runway, but pays stealthy attention to Design Star
Would love to sit in with The More Brothers
Overpronates
Prefers to write longhand, in pencil, on legal pads
Is quite fond of reptiles
Can’t clean a bathroom. Just constitutionally can’t
Feels a little pained that Elvis Costello, Nick Hornby, and Richard Russo never show up at cocktail hour
Is not much on the Oxford comma
Is an excellent interviewer and a terrible answerer
Sees no need to state the obvious
Doesn’t force his opinion
Answers only to his full first name
Takes his rum with lots of lime and his gin & tonic with hardly any
Has no time for musicals
Sings along with the radio
Could go for a sandwich right now
Still drives like a professional driver
Does an unsettling Don Draper impression
Is so patient
Picked an interesting career for himself and then made it happen. Twice.
Is more Rolling Stones than Beatles
Has secret caches of athletic ability
Would defend his family to the death
Giggles
Doesn't like roller coasters
Just wants to see what part of The Godfather this is.
Loves the physical presence of books
Keeps a bottle of Gulf Coast sand behind his desk
Only watches fake sports that are over within a month
Has shown no outward signs of being freaked about 40

It's been a pleasure getting to know how your four decades have shaped you. Happy, happy birthday, RJA!

Heart Of My Country

2010-08-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

We’re in the buffer zone this week. Miss M has started back at school, but Mr. Baby (and every other student in Memphis) is still home until mid-month, so I’m easing into the fall routine with only one child to get ready and dropped-off in the morning. It’s so easy I can hardly take it. We’ve been ready and in the car so early, and so completely unencumbered by traffic, that one day I got her to school before the doors even opened. I know this will all come to a (literal) screeching halt when I have to drag her little brother out of bed to join us, and then crawl our way through the students and parents heading to the six other campuses along our route, but for now, I’m enjoying this gentle beginning.

We especially needed a smooth start after the fun but exhausting trek north for Corn Capital Days. Our flight to Minnesota was diverted due to severe storms that landed at the airport at the exact time we were supposed to, adding an extra two hours (and one-hour 10pm nap) to our trip. The next few days brought swimming, horseback riding, golf cart hijacking, playground roaming, sweet corn gobbling, parade watching, and candy chasing, with the kids and their cousins moving in a loud but generally peaceful pack while the adults enjoyed the time to catch up and relax. As it does each year, the reasons why my parents drove us 40 hours round-trip every summer growing up became even clearer to my sister and me. The small town safety and 2:1 ratio of grandparents to parents granted those of us in the middle generation otherwise impossible spans of child-freedom.

Perhaps the most exciting element of the trip, however, was Mr. Baby’s own freedom. Last year, he was terrified of everything: flying, dogs, horses, sirens. But this year, he sat in the window seat without a problem, pet every dog he saw, groomed and rode Cha Cha’s horse, and ran out into the street to grab candy from a blaring fire engine. My pride in him about split my heart. I hope he takes that same confidence and bravery into his new preschool classroom this year. And maybe our smooth mornings won’t have to come to an end after all.

She Loves The Cocktail Bell

2010-07-11T22:36:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of people living in my house. Nine, in fact, when we’re operating at full capacity. So it seems strange to say that one living in such a busy place could ever feel a need for human interaction. There are humans everywhere. The young humans, however, outnumber the old ones at a rate of two to one. Because of this ratio, the adults are constantly in a world focused downward. The small people demand attention to their various activities and trails of debris, down there near floor level. When we do get a free moment, we tend to savor it quietly, engrossed in a book or doofing around online. Of course we speak to each other, but most conversations are interrupted by an urgent demand to find a toy or break up a squabble over a toy or apply a Band-Aid (usually in that order).

It was with a similar backdrop, several years ago, that RJA first introduced the concept of Cocktail Hour to our small social sphere. Originally intended as a brief, after-work stop-off for grown-ups heading to various activities on a Friday night, we quickly realized that cocktail hour was in fact the only activity that most of us parents had planned for a Friday night. The “hour” was purely conceptual, as most of us would stay as long as our hosts would have us. And, of course, our children. The founding principle of cocktail hour was that the kids would entertain themselves while the adults had some much-needed social time. And the amazing thing is that it almost always works. Aside from some category-five bedroom messes, kids ranging a decade in ages are able to play together without any major disasters.

Over the years, there’s been a core group of attendees, but also an ever-growing, ever-fluctuating cadre of friends looking for the same company that we crave. Some are married, some are single, some are even childless. At this point, what ties us all together on a Friday evening is closer to what created the original cocktail hour concept of the mid-century on which we jokingly based our own: human connection in an increasingly technical age. We spend so much of our time looking down – whether it’s at our kids or our iPhones – and not nearly enough time looking our friends in the eyes, talking about our lives in detail longer than a status message, hearing them literally laugh at loud.

After The Boys Of Summer Have Gone

2010-07-08T22:09:00.000-07:00

Somehow, while I was checking the Ann Taylor Loft sale page for clearance capris or reapplying industrial-strength bug spray, most of the summer slipped away. There are now three weeks left until Miss M starts her next school year as, of all things, a second-grader, thus ending my seasonal reprieve from lunch-packing and hour-long morning commutes. This summer has flown by even faster than usual. I got back from the beach, and then ten very quiet days afterward, the kids got back from beach part deux. We celebrated Mr. Baby’s birthday, and less than a week later, my parents were in town for the 4th of July. We enjoyed a great holiday weekend, highlighted by a baseball game featuring fireworks, a walk-off homerun, and paratroopers – quite possibly the most American three hours in history - and then suddenly, it was mid-July.

I’d like to think I can linger over the next few weeks, but they promise to be just as fleeting. I have personal writing deadlines to meet and a week without the kids at home, which are each individually the fastest ways to make hours pass and combined may tear a hole in the space-time continuum. Our summer will officially close the last weekend of the month with a trek to the ancestral homeland for Corn Capitol Days. Growing up, this trip was always the beginning-of-the-end of summer, but thanks to an insanely aggressive school calendar, our return flight will be on Miss M’s last day of vacation.

Fortunately, Miss M is much more excited about starting a new grade than she was a year ago, and Mr. Baby will be returning to the same daycare, which should make the transition a lot easier on all of us. Well, on them, anyway. During the summer, the full-on responsibility portion of my day shrinks from twelve hours to eight, and I cherish those four extra hours of relative freedom. I’m still not quite ready for the 5:50 a.m. alarm or the 5:15 p.m. pick-ups, and the resulting exhaustion that seeps over into the rest of my time. As a child, I thought parents were immune to this annual dread (and maybe as a full-time at-home mom, my mother was), but now I know that the groans heard when the back-to-school banner goes up at Target aren’t all coming from the peanut gallery.

Three Is The Magic Number

2010-06-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

Three. Three years old! How is that possible?

Well, I know how it’s possible. Time moves at oppositional speeds during babyhood: the days are so slow, and the months fly by. I look back at pictures from a year or two ago and barely recognize the baby I see, even when you’re wearing the same clothes as now. That time seems both far-distant and just-a-minute-ago.

Because here you are now, my little boy. You’re still a size I can easily pick up and carry around, your body still curls into mine like a nursling’s, but your personality gets bigger and bigger every day. You have your typical pre-schooler stubbornness, no doubt, but it’s balanced by sweetness and silliness. Your default opinion of people is “Love!”, which makes me all the happier that you are constantly surrounded by those you adore. And those you are quickly adored by, because it’s basically impossible to resist your goofy charm.

People always say nice things about small children, and a mother knows not to believe the hype, but when you hear the same things over and over again, it’s hard not to take it as truth. And what every person who meets you says is, “He’s such a joy!” This is something I’ve always felt, and it’s so fulfilling to see that trait let loose on the world around you. As someone who enjoys being around people but never feels quite natural at it, I admire your social ease and know it will serve you well.

Although your baby days weren’t especially difficult, relatively speaking, I don’t regret that they’re passing. I’m too excited to see what comes next, to see the boy you grow into. The idea of having a son as fun as you are, but without the diapers to change or bites of dinner to coax, is thrilling. I look so forward to knowing you as you become the funny, kind, thoughtful young man you’re obviously destined to be.

Happy birthday, son. I love you so much.

Sunset At The Shoreline

2010-06-16T21:57:00.000-07:00

As you may have heard around the interwebs, the SAM-Sassy-Urf!-Chockleyblog caravan of fun recently pulled into the white sand beaches of the Florida panhandle. Yes, white. For now, at least. We all expected the enjoyment of our trip to be cut short by tar balls and beach closings, but fortunately for us (and the coastline), the only petroleum we encountered during the week was in the form of Happy Meal toys.

We’ve made these multi-family trips for several years now, and although our cottage itself left some things to be desired (like about 500 more square feet and some quality time with Peter Walsh), the actual beach was the loveliest we’ve visited. Gorgeous emerald water, soft white sand, and, ironically, our first view entirely free of oil rigs. Tidal pools for the littlest ones to play in, and a bay full of hermit crabs that fascinated the older kids. And no jellyfish!

The water itself was pretty rough for most of the week, with the lifeguards flying yellow and even red flags at times. Miss M was eager to swim, but not thrilled by the waves and riptides, so she wanted me with her as much as possible. Which was in direct conflict with Mr. Baby, who wanted to be with me yet didn’t want the water anywhere beyond his ankles (and for one entire day, didn’t want to go on the beach at all). It wasn’t until our very last day that the surf was calm enough for us all to float together, and neither child wanted to get out of the water all day. Knowing they were about to spend the next ten days vacationing without me, I was grateful to have that long stretch where their desires were peacefully aligned, even if it meant getting pruney.

By the end of the week, we were already scoping out a nearby rental house and making plans to return next summer. Whether we’ll be coming in swimsuits or waders, we’ll just have to wait and see.

The Photo Albums:

RJA's

Chip's

Tell Me Something Good

2010-05-26T20:30:00.000-07:00

I’m hitching up to the Fantasy To-Do List bandwagon, as challenged/inspired by Mary Allison at The Makeshift Revolution. The task:

“the purpose of a fantasy to-do list is to start thinking beyond all of the many obligations that abound long enough to envision what life might look like with a few little added refrains of fun. items on these lists have a strange way of slipping out of the hypothetical world and into our real lives!”

So with both total fantasy and optimistic goal-setting in mind, here we go …

• Attend the Iowa Writers’ Workshop
• Publish a book
• Take an annual two-week vacation in an open-air suite in Fiji
• Attend a Prince show at Paisley Park
• Publish another book
• Perform a stand-up show filmed for an HBO special
• Spend long enough in a small, European coastal village to be welcomed as a resident
• Publish another book
• Win the National Book Award
• Or the PEN/Faulkner
• Live without debt
• Change minds
• Sell out a tour of solo acoustic shows
• Swim every week
• Be Oscar-nominated for Best Original Screenplay
• Have (access to) a horse and enough space to ride it at a full run
• Take my family to visit all the places I grew up
• Learn my full genealogy
• Speak at my alma mater’s commencement
• Write a memoir worth reading

In The Air Tonight

2010-05-24T22:24:00.000-07:00

I try to steer clear of giving anything that might sound like parenting advice, but I feel that, for the benefit of humanity and my fragile ego, I should share what was probably one of my most dramatic successes as a mother.

A couple months ago, Miss M – who, I will remind you, is 6-years-old - started having some issues about going to bed. She’s never been a great sleeper by any definition, but after three years of being nursed to sleep, and another year of being accompanied until unconsciousness, she’d gotten into a solid, year-plus habit of going to sleep on her own. But suddenly, our usual routine of book-lights-off-story-snuggle wasn’t enough, and she was growing clingier and needier by the night.

Bedtime itself was longer and more difficult, and then, out of nowhere, she woke up in the middle of the night and called out for me. Twice. In the same night. That was more than she’d woken up in the previous year. The next night, it happened again, and I spoke to her about ways she could calm herself down and get back to sleep.

After a few nights of reportedly normal bedtime behavior at her dad’s house, I figured we were out of the woods. But no, the woods were actually all around us, and filled with those really mean trees from The Wizard of Oz. Our usual bedtime routine, normally about 20-30 minutes, stretched into an hour and a half of stalling tactics. She said her stomach hurt. She said she had to pee. She said she had to tell me … something. When I finally told her I had to go and get her exhausted brother to bed, Sassy took my place at her bedside and she eventually settled down.

For four hours.

At the strike of midnight, she was hollering at the top of her lungs, “MAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAA!” I ran to her and checked for bleeding or armed intruders, but no, the only problem was that she was awake. And, according to her, would never be able to fall asleep. Ever. The steadily worsening nights just proved that point to her; she's the kind of kid who will say “I will never …” until the very moment she can say, “I just did.” She continued arguing this point, at various volumes, for the next two hours. I really can’t even convey the intensity of it without using excessive caps and exclamation points and embedded sound files of my head exploding. She was a tornado of illogical arguments and irrational needs, and if you got close enough to engage with her, she’d suck you entirely in. Despite being utterly exhausted and barely able to keep her eyes open, the slightest move to step away from her bed would result in her bolting upright and starting the entire debate all over again. At 2 a.m., when I moved her to the living room, the spot farthest from any other sleeping person in our 9-passenger house, she was finally able to calm down and fall asleep.

In the clear light of the next day, we had a calm and lucid discussion about the inappropriateness of her behavior. We talked about her long history of being a good sleeper and how she needed to remind herself of all the nights she went to sleep just fine. She took it all in stride, and approached bedtime with a renewed sense of confidence.

And then the lights went out.

I could go into deep detail about the subsequent two weeks, but they were basically all a variation on the night described above. Except worse, because as the nights went on, so did the efforts to discourage her behavior through punishment. But no matter how long she was grounded to her room or how many times she wrote, “I can go to sleep and stay asleep,” her 2 a.m. mantra was the same. And it went something like: “I CAN’T SLEEP I NEED YOU I CAN’T SLEEP I WANT TO SLEEP ON THE COUCH I CAN’T SLEEP I DON’T CARE IF I’M GROUNDED I CAN’T SLEEP WAIT I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING!”

Again. And again. And again and again and again.

I was, as you may expect, exhausted and frustrated beyond measure. I felt like a zombie during the day and, well, one of those really, really angry zombies during the night. Nothing was working and I had no idea what to do and this was our new routine for the rest of our lives.

In consulting with the more experienced parents in my household for possible solutions, however, a brilliant new possibility was suggested: rewards.

As a child raised almost exclusively through the power of feared parental disappointment, it never occurred to me that some kids may need to see more concrete benefits for good behavior, but I gave it a whirl. I made up a calendar, and told Miss M that for every night she went to bed quietly and stayed quiet all night (see how I never used the word “sleep?”), she would get a sticker. And when she had five stickers in a row, she could get $5 to spend at Target. If she held out for ten nights, she’d get $10, and so on in 5-night increments.

And it worked! That very first night, she caught herself in mid-whimper and let me leave her room without a fuss. With the condition that I leave her door open and come back to check on her in half an hour (“How high do I have to count?” “Nine-hundred, dear.”). Easy enough.

And, okay, I hedged my bets a little. I got us a bottle if Hyland’s Calms Forte for Kids, a homeopathic sleep aid, and gave her four doses before bed (the recommendation is up to eight). I’ve used multiple Hyland’s products, from teething tablets to colic tablets to our much-treasured boo-boo stick (Bumps & Bruises ointment), so both Miss M and I had some faith that it would help.

Since then, it's like we entered a parallel universe. Miss M has handily reached the first $5 point, and is now saving all the way up to $20, which we agreed would be the end of the chart system. We’ve talked about how the chart is just a symbol, and that the real rewards are the things that happen naturally when you do the right thing: she feels better during the day, she gets in less trouble because she’s not tired and cranky, I have more energy to play with her, etc. We reduced the Calms dosages until they disappeared entirely. When I tell her it's time for me to go, she says, "Okay, good night, mama." And most importantly, she’s created a new frame of reference she can look back on if she starts to doubt herself again.

And the next time I'm in the midst of a parenting quagmire I can't see how I'll ever get out of, I can remind myself that I just did.

Let's Get Physical

2010-05-09T21:22:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, I embarked on my first genuine effort to get in shape. After a lifetime of picky eating and speedy metabolism, including five years of pregnancy and breastfeeding, I hit my mid-thirties, a desk job, and weaning all at the same time. As each season passed, so did my ability to fit into the previous year’s pants. I’m not that skinny girl who’s going to complain about being fat, but the truth is that I have a freakishly small frame, and I can carry a lot of extra weight without looking heavy. And I just kept carrying more. With a beach trip looming and Jillian Michael’s 30 Day Shred DVD on sale at Amazon, the timing seemed perfect to finally take some care of my body, instead of just seeing what it could take.

I’ve had bursts of exercising before, but nothing ever really stuck. Classes were too expensive and hard to get to; walking was too dependent on the weather; workout DVDs took too long. What appealed to me most about The Shred, aside from the $9 price, was the 20-minute length. I figured that twenty minutes was a reasonable amount of time to expect my kids to entertain themselves (or Sassy and RJA to entertain them), and they’d probably even be fascinated enough by the colors my face was turning to watch me for that long. And sure enough, as I fought my way through the first of the three progressive workouts, they’d dash in and out of the room, doing jumping jacks beside me and laughing at my squats.

And frankly, it helped. The distraction of their constant barrage of questions helped me to focus on something other than the white-hot fire threatening to spontaneously combust my quadriceps. I could have used it during the rest of the day, as well, to help me forget that I couldn’t get into a sitting position without assistance.

The Shred promises a twenty-pound weight loss in 30 days. I didn’t need to lose twenty pounds, but I’ll admit that I was a little surprised when my 7-day weigh-in showed that I’d gained 1.5. After a few days of meal-tracking, however, I realized I was taking in a lot more calories than I thought, generally in seemingly innocuous items like bread and pasta. Not wanting to waste the grueling work I was doing, I started paying more attention to my diet. Not dieting, mind you, but giving a second thought to what, when, and how much I was eating. By the end of two weeks, my weight was still the same, but the muscles I’d been fighting so hard to locate were no longer buried under a layer of refined flour.

The pain dissipated, but then I moved up to Level 2. The higher impact exercises did my already-stressed limbs in, and after three days, I was forced to rest a very sore iliotibial band. I was scared that being out of my new routine would make me slide right back into my sedentary ways, but then a funny thing happened. I actually wanted to be active. I walked, I did low-impact cardio, I did yoga, and then in a few days, I went back to The Shred, this time alternating the workout with other activities. Four weeks from the day I first met Jillian, I ventured into the Level 3 workout. I finished the three circuits exhausted and pushed to my limit, but thrilled with the knowledge that, just a month ago, I’d never have made it past the first three minutes.

I haven’t gotten on a scale in a while, and I don’t really care what one might tell me. I can feel that my body is stronger, and see the results in everything from my posture to my pant size. I don’t know if The Shred will remain part of my long-term routine, but it’s gotten me off to a great start, and I’m much more motivated to keep the shape I have now than I was to reach the ambiguous goal of getting a better one.

Chapter Two: I Think I Fell In Love With You

2010-05-05T22:42:00.000-07:00

I’m hesitant to put one list after another, but I figure I can consider it inspired by Elizabeth instead of just blatantly copying her gig. She just posted her 25 favorite novels* of all time, which made me think how weird it is that I, as an English major and professional writer, might have a hard time doing the same. And sure enough, when I looked at my list of 5-star books on Goodreads, most of the titles were pictures books from my childhood. I love books, but how many books have I looooved? Turns out, about fifteen.

1. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain (1885)
2. My Ántonia, by Willa Cather (1918)
3. In Our Time, by Ernest Hemingway (1925)
4. The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925)
5. To Kill A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee (1960)
6. The Outsiders, by S. E. Hinton (1967)
7. Slaughterhouse 5, by Kurt Vonnegut (1969)
8. The Princess Bride, by William Goldman (1973)
9. Bluebeard, by Kurt Vonnegut (1987)
10. Fair and Tender Ladies, by Lee Smith (1988)
11. A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving (1989)
12. High Fidelity, by Nick Hornby (1995)
13. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon (2000)
14. Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides (2002)
15. Between the Bridge and the River, by Craig Ferguson (2006)

*I’m an avid memoir/travel/non-fiction reader, but for some reason, those selections seem inappropriate for this list. Suffice to say that this blog would likely not exist were it not for influences like Bill Bryson, Sarah Vowell, and David Sedaris.

Easy As 1, 2, 3

2010-04-26T22:04:00.000-07:00

One of the downsides of Facebook is that the constant ability to instantly transcribe brief, random thoughts into words has taken a major cut out of my blog fodder. Things that once would have been elaborated into several paragraphs are compressed into a single summary statement (e.g., “SAM only becomes a more cautious driver when assaulted by loud noises, so your honking really doesn’t help”). And like many Facebookers, I spend my days narcissistically converting every thought, action, opinion and pithy insight into status-friendly phrases. In the course of doing this, I often come up with general statements that really aren’t that relevant to the moment at hand, or just sound plain self-absorbed. Which got me to thinking, hey! Isn’t it about time for a new 100 Things About SAM? SAM thinks it is.

1. I am the very definition of an ISFJ.
2. I got my first car when I was 26.
3. I could eat an entire loaf of warm sourdough bread with butter, regardless of size.
4. I hate drinking water.
5. I get migraines triggered by flying, extreme weather changes, hormones, and red wine.
6. I long planned to name my first son Samuel Clemens.
7. I do my best to make my kids laugh before I get them out of bed in the morning.
8. I have not yet let go of the hope that I will someday end up at an impromptu 11pm concert at Paisley Park.
9. My favorite artificial flavor is red.
10. My first response to being stressed out is to want to take a long drive around the lake.
11. I once won a letter-writing contest to have heyday-era Pauly Shore tape his show at my house for a week, but MTV revoked it when they found out I was 12.
12. I generally drive no more than 5 miles per hour over the speed limit. Maybe 7 on the highway.
13. I’m still mad at everyone involved in the making of What Dreams May Come for making me cry like that in public.
14. I don’t get angry until the third time.
15. I have more country knowledge than the average city girl.
16. I have Raynaud’s disease.
17. I’ve always had the desire to be a teacher and the knowledge that I’d be terrible at it.
18. I’m not afraid of heights, but I will not voluntarily leap off of them.
19. I wish I knew more about plants.
20. I had a pet goldfish named Hot Lips Houlihan.
21. I have practice/pretend conversations in my head that are half-expressed on my face.
22. My dream job involves the porch of an old Victorian house, a sundress, and a laptop.
23. I have martyr tendencies.
24. I’m usually reading at least two books at once, and often three or more.
25. I still buy CDs.
26. I’m highly sensitive to caffeine.
27. I want to be Emmylou Harris when I grow up.
28. I am tormented by my total lack of natural musical ability.
29. I’ve never used a lighter and can’t remember the last time I struck a match.
30. In the last three years, I’ve lost three people dear to me who were 29-33 years old.
31. When told to go to my “happy place,” the first place that comes to mind is my bed.
32. I flew alone for the first time when I was ten.
33. I have a hard time not assuming the worst.
34. I have a poor sense of spatial relation.
35. I only dabbled in team sports, but I took dance classes for five years.
36. I expect to eventually have some form of cancer.
37. I’ve never worked in the food industry.
38. I was told by an acting professor that I have “very expressive eyebrows.”
39. I’ve never touched an illegal substance, smoked a cigarette, or engaged in underage drinking.
40. My college regrets are not the same as your college regrets. Unless you’re Dooce.
41. I don’t enjoy Monopoly.
42. I am a mosquito magnet.
43. It troubles me that working full-time makes me less involved in my kids’ daily lives than my mother was in mine.
44. I don’t plan to ever watch another horror movie.
45. I could really go for a gyro right now.
46. I’m not good at telling pre-written jokes.
47. I’m a decent tipper.
48. I thought my stuffed animals were capable of independent thought until I was at least nine years old.
49. I’m reluctant to medicate.
50. I appreciate good design, but can’t create it.
51. We don’t have enough time for me to explain my job.
52. I spent a combined total of 50 months breastfeeding.
53. I’d still be in therapy if it weren’t for the co-pays.
54. The closest thing I have to a hobby is finding amazing bargains online, putting them in my virtual bag, and then never buying them.
55. I am sometimes awed to speechlessness by my children’s beauty.
56. I don’t really care for whipped cream.
57. I moved five times across three states before I was ten.
58. I moved 400 miles from home when I was 17.
59. I get so embarrassed by other people’s public displays that tears come to my eyes.
60. I’ve never ordered anything for myself at Taco Bell other than a bean burrito (no onion).
61. Given the option, I’d wear a dress every day.
62. You don’t want to be behind me if I have to make a left turn against traffic.
63. I can still recall the theme songs of an unsettling number of obscure ‘80s sitcoms.
64. Most of my friends are closer in age to my big sister than to me.
65. My shyness is often mistaken for aloofness.
66. I’ve seen psychometricians in action.
67. My drink is gin and tonic with bitters and lots of lime.
68. My years of retail work pay off when I’m folding laundry.
69. Hearing multiple electronified sounds (TV, stereo, computer) at the same time makes me feel like I’m going insane.
70. I’m not good at parties.
71. I have above-average willpower.
72. It thrills me that my daughter looks forward to going to Minnesota as much as I did when I was her age.
73. I’m a strong swimmer.
74. I’ve lived in Memphis over ten years, but know better than to say I’m from here.
75. I support my children being taught to say “Yes, ma’am.”
76. I believe in the benefits of homeopathy.
77. I own every one of the twelve albums released by Chris Isaak and have attended six of his live shows.
78. I can’t devote an ounce of fandom to someone I don’t find funny. Exception: Springsteen.
79. I’ve ground my molars just about flat.
80. I let my tea sit until it’s nearly cold.
81. I’m highly sensitive to, and resentful of, being treated like a child.
82. Forget-me-nots always remind me of our mailbox in Pittsburgh.
83. As an eighth grader, I could quote the Dadaist Manifesto.
84. I can’t stand looking at a Word document at anything other than its natural, 100% zoom level - no more, no less.
85. I’m sentimentally attached to my first e-mail address.
86. The only fish I’ve ever enjoyed was a parmesan-crusted mahi mahi at Tsunami.
87. I frequently have the desire to ride a horse.
88. The first thing I remember writing was a book about a hobo.
89. I’m currently in the best shape of my adult life.
90. I was nearly passed over for my current job because my personality test results (accurately) indicated that I am freakishly reserved.
91. I do eventually warm up. Usually within 1-5 years.
92. I’m indifferent to clowns, really.
93. 38% of my monthly take-home pay goes toward paying off my closed business’s debts.
94. My favorite Memphis Zoo residents are the elephants.
95. My balance is skewed to the left.
96. I’m best at chores that require one tool or fewer.
97. I spent one school year in a class consisting entirely of gifted children.
98. I stopped keeping a diary when I was 22.
99. I attend the Church of CBS Sunday Morning.
100. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

Laughing, Running, Jumping, Playing

2010-03-31T22:26:00.000-07:00

In his column this week, RJA talks about how his kids constantly ask if they’re going somewhere. It’s a phenomenon I’ve observed firsthand, both with his kids and my own. And while I agree with his idea of making the family-friendly attractions of Memphis more financially friendly, I think there’s another issue at play here.

At play. Get it? See what I did there? Well, not yet you don’t. Just wait.

If you’re between the ages of 30 and 112, think back on your childhood. More specifically, call to mind your free time, your evenings and weekends, your long summer days and stunted winter afternoons. Where were you? What were you doing? If you’re like me, you were running around with a pack of other kids, roaming neighborhoods, riding bikes, playing complicated variations of tag. If the weather was bad, you were in someone’s basement or rec room, rollerskating on unfinished floors, thinking up exciting new ways to melt G.I. Joe figures, choreographing complex routines to the songs of Purple Rain (What? No? Just me? Liar.).

Now, if you have kids, or know kids, think about what they’re doing after school, or how they’re spending their weekends. Chances are, your seven-year-old isn’t wandering alone through the woods behind your neighborhood. And I’m willing to bet that there’s no ten-kid game of Ghost in the Graveyard going on across multiple yards on your street. If there are two unrelated children in the same area, it’s safe to assume that the situation was planned, approved, and supervised by at least 50% of the involved parents.

It would be easy to blame overprotective parents for this shift - Michael Chabon does as much in his own lament for the lost wilderness of childhood (if I cite it, I'm not plagiarizing it!) - but I think there are multiple factors involved. Our neighborhoods really are less safe than they once were, not just due to crime, but also suburban sprawl, reduced green spaces, and 16-year-olds on cell phones. Plus our kids are taught from preschool to be wary of strangers, which is a good policy when it involves dudes in windowless vans, but not as useful when it comes to their own peers.

And, and … okay, yes, some of it is the parents. I can’t imagine letting my 6-year-old spend an entire afternoon building a tree fort in a construction lot with no one over the age of ten in attendance (although I did) any more than my parents would have let me play on an active train trestle (like they did). I think it’s natural to retroactively panic about the risks we took as children and swear never to let our own kids take those chances, but I’m afraid we’ve reached the generational nadir of acceptable childhood danger.

So I feel sympathetic when the kids start asking what we’re going to do, where we’re going to go, because I know their desire to go out into the world is normal, but their ability to do so on their own has been so greatly limited. Even if you can get them to bike off down the block by themselves, as Chabon wrote (far more artfully), they’re unlikely to see another kid while they’re out there.

The conundrum is that any adult intervention to change this dynamic is just one more way of meddling in their world, when what we all need to do is just step off. It may already be too late, though. The die is cast.

But what with the pendulum swinging and nature abhorring a vacuum and whatnot, we can at least be comforted in knowing that our kids will someday see their own childhoods as dangerously sheltered and will raise their own offspring in the other extreme. We might as well sit back and enjoy the regulated rambunctiousness now, because we’ll be spending our golden years dragging our grandchildren off of train trestles.

Three Minute Rule

2010-03-24T17:14:00.000-07:00

As anyone keeping up with this blog has probably observed, I'm a slow writer. It can take me hours to put 200 words on a page, and so my posts are typically few and far between. As for writing of any greater length, that's almost non-existent. In the last year, I've produced little more than a file full of story ideas and about a page and a half of a novel. Now, it's probably not a total coincidence that my personal writing has slowed down at the same time my actual career as a writer has flourished. I actually spend eight hours a day writing for my job, and can produce pages of highly technical documentation with one solid morning's effort. And I'm very happy with that, of course. I feel very lucky that I make a living doing something I'm both educated and naturally inclined to do. But I've also been wanting to build my confidence and practical skills as a creative writer - a fiction writer, specifically.

So when the other two writers in my house decided to participate in NPR's latest Three Minute Fiction contest, I thought ... well, I thought, "nah." But then I did it anyway. I wouldn't say it's the best thing I've ever written, but it's certainly one of the most concise. The 600-word limit forced me to put the exposition truck in park and just get on with it. The challenge of the contest was to write a story based on a photograph they provided, and so with no further ado, here they both are ...

Interview

I nearly knocked over the old man. He was trying to squeeze into the bookstore’s crowded entryway, his overstuffed messenger bag knocking against the racks of free magazines. I thought I could get by, but my own bag caught on the strap of his, and as I moved forward, he lost his footing. He tried to catch himself by grabbing the community bulletin board, and as I cleared the doorway, I heard tearing paper and the pik-pik-pik of thumbtacks hitting the tile.

I threw a breathless apology over my shoulder, but I don’t think he heard. I felt like he was staring at me, maybe even shouting at me, through the store window as I tried to hail a cab. I nervously squawked “Taxi!” several times before a maroon Crown Victoria stopped at my feet.

“Columbus and Randolph. Please.” The driver was a solid woman with hair like a cloud of rusted steel wool; it moved en masse when she nodded and said, “Sure thing, hon.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to refocus. This interview had been arranged at the last minute by a friend of a friend of my father’s, and I assumed favors had been called in. I didn’t even know what the company was, but I’d been given a first name and phone number and told to show up exactly at 1:00.

I rode without speaking while a distant dispatcher’s voice crackled over the cab’s radio, demanding locations and impatiently reminding drivers of pick-ups. I could only see one side of my face in the rear-view mirror, the short hairs around my ears quivering in the full blast of the cab’s heat vents. It looked like I'd left most of my lip gloss on my coffee cup, but re-applying in a moving car seemed dangerous, especially at the speeds she was going. The waves breaking in my stomach reached higher crests at every turn.

I’d been at the bookstore longer than I’d planned. My grandmother sent me a birthday card with a crisp $50 bill inside, and I’d just stopped in to break the bill so I could splurge on a cab ride. I could have easily taken the el and walked from Wabash, but the temperature was unseasonably cold and my only coat was a campus-friendly down parka. Hard to look professional while puffy, I thought. The coffee line was interminable, though. When I finally got my order, I drank it in three hurried gulps and rushed from the store. I didn’t even see that old man until we were practically conjoined.

The driver came to a double-parked stop in front of an 80-story building. I wiped my palms on my skirt as I entered the lobby. An ornate gold clock on the wall read 12:58. A woman with a headset gazed at me from behind an enormous granite bunker of a reception desk.

“Where may I direct you?”

“Oh, I … just … just one minute.” I dug my hand into my briefcase. I’d written the interviewer’s contact information down on my roommate’s copy of the Sun-Times. I’d made sure it was still tucked into the side pocket of my bag as I got up to order coffee. I’d touched it like a talisman as I threw out my empty cup.

And then, I realized, I’d seen it out of the corner of my eye, being waved by an old man calling to me from the other side of the bookstore window.

Mama, Don't Take My Kodachrome

2010-03-10T18:55:00.000-08:00

Miss M was the Star of the Week in her classroom last week. An honor, to be sure, but also one with a burden: she was supposed to bring in a picture of herself for the Star poster. An actual, physical, three-dimensional picture. As I read that request, it occurred to me that it has been months, if not years, since I have produced a hard-copy photograph of either of my children. All of their memories are locked away in digital form. Which doesn’t bother them at all, of course. They’re happy that the longest they have to wait to see a picture is the time it takes for them to run to the other side of the camera. There are no multi-day waits for processing, no delayed thrill of opening the sticky-sealed envelope to see what 24 treasures are inside. I feel some nostalgia over that, but really, it’s a technological advance I have no qualms about, either. More pictures get taken, more moments are recorded, and for someone with a memory as bad as mine, more of our past remains accessible in the future.

But as I printed a grainy black-and-white picture (we were out of color ink) for Miss M to take to school, I did wish that I spent a little more time and money to make those pictures a part of my everyday surroundings. I have a plethora of talented photographer friends and more amazing photos of my family than I can count, but the only pictures on my desk are Miss M’s pre-school Mother’s Day card, a home-printed photo pulled off a CD (also forced to be grayscale), and my niece’s birth announcement (made on Shutterfly.com).

I don’t care if my kids never drive up to a Fotomat, but I do want them to know the pleasure in pulling out a photo album and flipping through their own personal stories, even those stories that pre-date their existence. I can clearly envision the album in my parents’ house that contains pictures from my dad’s time in Vietnam. The weight of that book across my knees was significant, and the solidity alone lent itself to reverence. I looked through it many times as a child, always quietly and carefully, knowing that many of the details from the year it documented would only be revealed to me through those pictures. It’s hard to imagine that a Flickr stream would have quite the same effect.

So this morning, as I got Mr. Baby into his button-down and special-occasion sweater in preparation for pre-school spring picture day, I made a mental promise to both of us that I’d transform more of our virtual memories into tangible artifacts. And when the box from Shutterfly eventually arrives, I’ll let the kids open it and ooh over what’s inside.

Come On Get Happy

2010-02-25T23:12:00.000-08:00

Sarah Jane, by way of Sarah Jane, suggested the sharing of ten simple things that make me (us, you, etc.) happy right now. Seemed like an especially good exercise after the extended wearing of the crabby pants around here lately, so here we go:

Sarah’s hand-writing reminding me of notes passed in junior high
Opening the sunroof
Leftover ravioli and pork chops and chicken enchilada casserole for lunch (not at the same time)
Watching the birds in our courtyard
Planning a summer vacation
My kids’ excellent choices in car music (Rosemary Clooney, “Mambo Italiano;” Lucinda Williams, “Honey Bee;” Prince, “Starfish and Coffee,” aka, The Alarm Clock Song)
House Hunters International
Leaving work while there’s still daylight
Vitamin B12
The quiet time after the kids are in bed

Sarah passed the challenge/opportunity on to ten more bloggers, so Kristy, RJA, Stacey, Shannon, Chockleys, Elizabeth, Katherine, Kim, Carma, and Melissa (and anyone else out there; I wasn't technically asked to do this), I'd love to see your lists, too. It's been a hard winter, let's all make some happy.

Put The Lime In The Coconut

2010-02-21T22:32:00.000-08:00

Well, don’t I feel silly.

The good news is, after four hours of drinking baking-soda-and-snot-flavored Crystal Light, eight hours in gastro-intestinal misery, at least one kitchen breakdown, and over $600 in uninsured costs, my doctor determined that I do not, in fact, have any sign of Crohn’s Disease.

And yes, that is good news. But all that other stuff that came before it? Well, they’re sort of killing the buzz of not having a chronic illness. Also diminishing the delight is that there is still no official answer at all regarding what in blazes was/is wrong with me in the first place. All the progressive testing - bloodwork, ultrasound, CAT scan, colonoscopy – got me right back in the exact same place I started. I can accept that the first problems I had may have just been a virus, or even an unusually dramatic flare-up of the IBS I self-diagnosed at the age of 12. But what about the lump? There was a lump. Let’s not talk too much about where, but suffice to say, it was a real pain in the butt. And it was there. Unequivocally. And it hurt. Badly. And yet, that x-ray they took of my entire torso showed no sign of it, and the tiny camera rooting around my guts didn’t catch sight of it, so I couldn’t even get official confirmation of what seemed to be my one observable, undeniable symptom.

So now, instead of relieved, I just feel embarrassed and a little crazy. It shames me to have spent so much time and energy and money and worry and sympathy on something that remains completely intangible, and therefore could just as easily be a figment of my powerful psychosomatic imagination. Who’s to say? I’m also just plain angry, a feeling stoked when my doctor answered the question, “What did they see on the CAT scan that made them think it was Crohn’s?” with a very dismissive, “Well, how about … they read the film wrong?”

I’m lucky. I know that I am. It is good news. But it’s going to take me a little more time to get the bitter taste of Tri-Lyte and $500 deductibles out of my mouth. And I have a feeling I’ll never use baking soda toothpaste again.

Everybody Look What's Goin Down

2010-02-13T09:49:00.000-08:00

The blog silence around here probably leaves one to assume two things: either I have nothing going on worth writing about, or I've got too much going on to stop and write. Okay, maybe three: I'm just too lazy and winter-malaise-ridden to hit the New Post button and start typing. The reality, as it turns out, is a combination of the last two. It's been a busy month in a lot of ways. Instead of a post-holiday calm, we were hit wth random snow days and illnesses and a full-blown case of The Twos. I've been so busy gearing up for Mr. Baby to hit The Dreaded Threes in six months that I forgot that two-year-olds are fully capable of earning their terrible rep. A lot of it is independence and separation issues that I can understand and empathize with. But then, there's The Noise. The high-pitched, incomprehensible string of syllables that indicates he wants something ... something ... what, this? How about this? No? Can you show me? Just point, son. Arch your back in the proper direction or something. Anything. Just stop. making. that. sound! Gaaaaah!

Phew. Anyway.

Miss M also had a string of less-than-stellar conduct reports from school (her teacher provides thorough and unintentionally amusing details, such as "After hearing a talk about appropriate uses for hand sanitizer, Miss M put some in her mouth."), but she seems to have come through her adjustment period and has been showing increased calm, restraint, and focus. Or maybe it just seems so in comparison to the blonde dervish with the new penchant for dumping out whatever bottle he can reach in the bathroom.

Aside from the kids' ongoing floor show, I've been keeping myself busy with a suddenly successful effort to sell the remaining store inventory, so a lot of my evenings are filled by label printing and envelope stuffing and feedback-leaving.

The most pressing thing on my mind, however, has been something I haven't been quite sure how to write about, or whether I should write about it at all. I guess I've been waiting until I have something definite to say, but I've decided that the process of getting there is relevant, too, so I might as well go ahead.

Since the holidays, I've had a series of of annoying medical issues that have brought me to multiple gastroenterologists, phlebotomists, and radiologists. After a month of prodding, poking, and X-raying, I finally seem to be getting close to a diagnosis. And while that's a goal I've been eager to reach, the specifics are dampening my enthusiasm. According to the doctor who reviewed my CAT scan, I have results that are "consistent with Crohn's disease." For those unfamiliar, Crohn's is a chronic illness under the broad heading of inflammatory bowel diseases. It causes ulcerations in various parts of the digestive system, depending on the type, and results in myriad unpleasant symptoms and complications. And even though it came up on the list of possible causes every single time I put one of my random problems into the WebMD Symptom Checker, I always disregarded the possibility because it just seemed too serious, too severe, and too ... permanent. Even though I've had symptoms for 20 years, it's hard to imagine that I have an illness that will be with me the rest of my life.

Crohn's is a tricky thing to diagnose, so on top of the bloodwork and CAT scan, I will also be going in for a colonoscopy and biopsy* this week. Having already experienced the joys of sigmoidoscopy (after an episode that should have been a Crohn's red flag to any GI doc, but apparently was not), I know that the procedure itself is not a big deal. But the preparation for it is something that sort of makes me want to weep in self-pity. (Which possibly I have. Maybe. Shut up.) Not just because of having to do it now, but knowing that, if Crohn's is confirmed, this will be part of my medical maintenance from now on.

I know there are far worse things to endure, but it just ... well, it just bums me out. I was looking to 2010 as a time of relief from the store-related financial stress, and now here I am starting it off with a big health cloud over my head. And increasingly ominous medical bills to boot. I know that having a word put on a problem I already have doesn't change how it affects me right now, but I'm a planner, a predictor, a classic ISFJ crepe-hanger, and reading that 75% of Crohn's patients have at least one surgery related to the disease, and that having it for more than 10 years is linked to a significant increase in colon cancer, makes me mourn in advance for the vibrant, active, freakishly-youthful retiree I planned to be. And yes, I understand how depressing and pessmistic that is, but if I'm honest about what's in my head right now, that's what is. This word changes my plans, and that's something I've never handled easily.

I know I'll get through it. Hell, it might not even be an issue a week from now, when I've got a clearer set of test results to go on. But right now, I'm in a place between uncertainty and fear, and those are my two least favorite places to be.

* The biopsy is to test the intestinal tissue for the markers of Crohn's, not because they suspect anything scarier. Breathe, Mom.

January Is The Month That Cares

2010-01-13T21:14:00.000-08:00

Looky here, Memphis. This was not our arrangement. I offered you my life, livelihood, and first-and-second born children, and in return, you promised that the average January high would be 48.6 degrees. That’s almost 49, which is practically 50. Where I come from, that’s shorts weather.

So what have you been trying to pull, with the snow and the ice and the mothertrucking windchill? The only windchill I should feel in Memphis is the goosebump-raising blast of air conditioning as I walk into Macy’s in July. Nowhere in our agreement was it specified that I’d require a hat while driving, and you certainly didn’t include any verbiage about my car sliding uncontrollably into gaggles of children. I’ve navigated the winter streets of Minnesota and Chicago and never had a life-threatening incident with black ice. I did not sign up to have one in front of a Memphis grade school!

I know times are hard for everyone right now, and there’s a lot of thermostat-lowering going on, but let’s be reasonable here. I can’t just put on a sweater and soldier on. Because sweaters make me look lumpy, and if I wanted to look lumpy, I’d be waddling around up north in a down parka. And, blog forbid, socks. You never told me I’d have to wear socks! These boots weren’t made for snow-walking, and this scarf is purely decorative.

So let’s get one thing straight. If I’m going to put up with the crime and corruption and questionable hairstyle decisions you surround me with, you’re going to live up to your end of the bargain and allow me to endure those indignities in comfort. Got it?

I’m sorry, what’s that you say? High today of 51? Predicted high tomorrow of 57? Oh, darlin. I just can’t stay mad at you.

Days of Auld Lang Syne

2009-12-30T07:12:00.000-08:00

Well, Interwebs, it’s been quite a year.

About this time last year, I took the Holmes and Rahe stress test, and received a score of 349, which indicated an 80% likelihood of developing stress-related illness. This year - after a move, an IRS audit, and a divorce - my score still managed to go down to 217, with only a pitiful 50% chance of stressing myself sick. So hey, progress!

My goal for next year is to slide right down to the low-risk numbers, and I’d say I’ve got a good shot at it. Because if you take out the major catastrophes, it’s been a good year, and I only expect the next one to be better. Unlike December of 2008, I know where I’m going to be living in two months, I know where my kids will be in school next fall, and I know that I’m at least 98% done with the fallout from my failed business. Even more importantly, I know I have loyal, loving friends and family who will support me and my children through whatever comes next, just as they did during the past twelve months. It hasn’t been an easy year, but thanks to that support, it’s been much more manageable than anyone would assume. Exhibit A? Not a single sick day taken on my own behalf. Well, maybe one. But still.

I know there are still challenges ahead, both predictable and completely unforeseen. But the advantage of surviving a litany of personal disasters is that even the dark twists down the road don’t seem so scary. Maybe they would be if I knew I had to travel alone, but I don’t.

Thanks, y’all. Happy new year.

Let Your Heart Be Light

2009-12-15T19:36:00.000-08:00

For the 14^th or so year in a row, I didn’t quite get it together to send out Christmas cards. I can’t quite bring myself to send out a mass e-mail (although I really don’t find it offensive and in fact admire the eco-friendliness of it, plus how it spares me the guilt of eventually throwing out pictures of your kids), so in lieu of all that pretty cardstock and personalized messages, I bring you …

The 2009 SAM Christmas Letter

Ho ho ho, y'all, and happy holiday greetings from Memphis! East Memphis, to be exact. After almost a decade as a proud Midtowner, and, I'm sure coincidentally, 5-time crime victim, I began 2009 with a cross-town move to the pastoral acres of the east. In February, the SAM household (SAM, Miss M and Mr. Baby) moved into a huge 1970s compound with the Sassy-Urf! family (R, K, C, JP, S and GK) and formed one giant acronym conglomerate. Adjustments to the new arrangement were smoother than anyone could have hoped, owing mostly to the fact that we already spent most of our time together but in a much, much smaller space.

Speaking of small, Mr. Baby is the only member of the family still wearing the same size jeans from a year ago. What he lacks in size, however, he makes up for in smarts, adorability, and pure goofiness. He's currently thriving in pre-pre-pre-K, making friends, charming teachers, and singing most of the alphabet in almost the right order.

Fortunately, big sister Miss M is always at the ready to assist him in matters academic and otherwise. The girl finished kindergarten with finesse and made a wonderfully smooth transition to first grade at a whole new school, thanks both to her genuine love of learning and her wonderful teachers at both campuses. She's thrilled to be reading on her own, and has also discovered the joy of having longer books read aloud. We're currently working through the Little House series, and I can't wait to blow her mind by taking her to Laura Ingalls' old Minnesota homestead next summer.

And my year? Well, you made it to this page, so there's a good shot you've been reading the sporadic updates through the year, and if not ... well, I'll try to keep it brief. I've continued my tenure as a fully-employed professional writer, working with people so nice I'm reluctant to go into detail about them or they'll think I'm just sucking up because they found my blog (hey, guys!). I've tried to balance out the more stressful uses of my free time (e.g. gathering tax-related documents, visiting with lawyers) with completely relaxing-but-not-especially-documentable uses (e.g. reading, seeing how long I can stay in bed before I feel guilty about it). Most of my time off from work was spent with one sick child or the other, but we did manage to make a trip to the ancestral homeland for Corn Capitol Days, and are about to return to the frozen north for Christmas.

I hope that, if you've visited this blog this year, you've found something entertaining or interesting or at least worth your time. I thank you for reading and for letting me share these parts of my life with you.

To me, the spirit of Christmas is love and wonder and joy, and exists for everyone, of all beliefs, to embody and enjoy. I wish you that spirit during this season, as I wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

My Mama Told Me

2009-11-18T17:53:00.000-08:00

Very true things my mother has taught me:

You should always have something in your closet that you can wear to a funeral, because that’s a terrible time to have to shop.
You won’t stop feeling sick until you take a shower, put on real clothes and walk around some.
Cottage cheese in lasagna is an unforgivable sin.
Clean sheets are one of life’s greatest simple pleasures.
It’s never too late to love something you were once terrified of.

In Chevron Formation

2009-11-12T07:12:00.000-08:00

The advantage of being a blog slacker is that, eventually, other people will cover most of the stuff you’ve missed. And so it’s not really necessary to tell you any more about the gorgeous November Rock-n-Romp, because it’s been so aptly detailed here. And with such great photo documentation and a lovely post by Stacey, plus RJA’s column, there’s really not much more to say about Ravioli Day 2009. And everything I just said right here? Well, Stephanie already beat me to it. The only other thing I can think of to discuss is just how impossibly beautiful the fall weather has been lately, and even with that, I think a picture is worth more than my 1,000 puny words.

(Click it to see full desktop-background-worthy size)

We'll Have A Jubilee Down In Memphis

2009-10-14T22:36:00.000-07:00

In the last few sparingly documented months, a milestone silently passed. No, no, not the birth of my new niece Madeleine (heck, that was all over Facebook, anyway). This landmark was a much more bittersweet occasion. I’m speaking, of course, of the close of my first decade as a Memphian. I recently realized I have spent ten years as a resident of the city of Memphis, county of Shelby, state of Tennessee, US of formerly confederated A.

I feel like I should have something insightful or wise to say about that, but really, I’m just baffled. It still boggles my mind that a girl who grew up around lakes and loons is now at home with magnolias and mockingbirds. But have I become a belle in this epoch? No, definitely not. I still feel like I trip over my thick Midwestern tongue whenever I’m around Southerners, and Southern women in particular. There’s an ease and grace and openness that I don’t think I’ll ever master, no matter how well I integrate “y’all” and “ma’am” into my vocabulary.

Memphis is its own particular breed of Southern, of course. It’s the loveable ne’er-do-well, the kid brother who keeps swearing to pay you back that ten bucks he owes you from 2002. (When he took it out of your car. With a hammer.) And also the stage-frightened protégé, the reclusive genius, filled with so much talent but terrified to do anything with it. It’s a big city with seriously small-town self-esteem. Over the last ten years, I’ve grown fond of its foibles and exhausted by its drama. I’ve been its champion and its victim. And I’ve worked hard to raise two native residents who can see their hometown for both its joys and sorrows.

When I was up north (the generic term Memphians use to describe anywhere above the Mason-Dixon, whether it’s Northeast or Midwest) this past weekend, I realized what a homeland limbo I’m in now. Friends from high school marveled at my Southern accent, a cashier at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport asked where in the upper Midwest I was from, and the DeSoto county resident sitting next to me on the plane said I obviously hadn’t lived in Memphis that long. And it’s not just my phonemes that are hard to place. I have Southernized, to a degree. My manners have softened, my pace has slowed, and I’ve learned to make a mean pitcher of sweet tea. But you can’t take the Minnesotan out of the girl, either. Just being in the airport and seeing St. Olaf sweatshirts made my heart ache a little. As we took off from the Lindbergh Terminal, that Mississippian asked me what that big city was over on the horizon, and my voice caught a little as I said Minneapolis. Because in that one word is many others: Wayzata, Minnetonka, Olivia. Guthrie, Walker, Calhoun. Sister. Parents.

And then, two hours later, I landed. I walked out into a perfect Memphis autumn day, and into the hugs of my children and friends. I spent the afternoon playing in my yard, lounging in my house, and hearing stories of what I’d missed. And I had missed it. The pull I felt toward the color-shifting birch trees of Minnesota was, bizarrely but truly, just as strong toward the Dixie Queen on Airways. They may not be comparable in beauty, but they are both vivid markers of their place. And for the past ten years, this place has been my home.

Postscript: it occurred to me this morning that ten years is longer than I've lived, consecutively, in any one place throughout my entire life, and about matches the collective time I've lived in Minnesota. Which explains why it's not unlikely for me to utter the phrase, "Y'all want some pop?"

Why Don't You Write Me?

2009-09-17T20:38:00.000-07:00

I'm way behind in both blogging and general daily duties, so I'm going to brazenly rip off Elizabeth (who I think may have subliminally ripped off Craig Ferguson, which is always cool by me) and catch up through the power of the open letter.

Dear Shelby County Business Tax Office Employees,
Look, I know you have a pretty miserable job, what with irate taxpayers in your faces all day. But isn't there a better way to conduct business than to have everyone stand at the same counter, shouting their personal financial issues through the office?

Dear Andy Wise,
You may want to investigate the HVAC system at the Shelby County Business Tax office, because they seem to be pumping in some sort of airborne depressant that makes otherwise stoic taxpayers burst into tears within five minutes of entry.

Dear TN Department of Revenue Tax Enforcement Officers W***** and N*******,
Y'all are very sweet and efficient and professional. You make releasing a payroll garnishment a pleasure.

Dear Rain,
Enough. Seriously.

Dear Sickness,
Would it be too much to ask that you make a decision? We could live with stomach flu, or sudden, brief bursts of fever, or the loitering weeks-long sinus issues, but all of the above is a bit much to handle. Let's focus here.

Dear Dad,
I'm sorry I suck and never call. Thankfully, it looks like your 10-months-pregnant daughter picked up the slack during your week in the hospital and ongoing post-surgical recovery. It's cool, I understand about the will.

Love,
SAM

Happy, Happy Birthday, Baby

2009-09-04T07:53:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what it is about six years old, but it seems so much more grown-up than five. Five is kindergarten, learning the alphabet in the correct order and counting to 100. Six is first grade, spelling tests and math flash cards. It’s the leap from child to kid.

Miss M turns six years old tomorrow, and although it’s expected to say that I’m startled by that fact, it seems just exactly right to me. In many ways, she’s always seemed that age – precocious and overly aware of the world occupied by bigger girls. She grew so naturally into the fully verbal version of herself that it’s sometimes hard for me to grasp that the pre-verbal baby was really the same being. Her first years were hard, it has to be said. She was not an easy, laid-back baby, and I eagerly anticipated the movement through the frustrating periods when all she wanted was to walk and talk and couldn’t get her body to cooperate. I don’t miss her as a baby. I am so happy she is in this place now.

And, for the most part, she is, too. She loves school and the independence it offers her. She is gaining confidence every day, in academic as well as social arenas. When we visited Minnesota over the summer, my mother marveled at the formerly-withdrawn little girl who nonchalantly joined in a game with children she’d never seen before. She’s curious about the world around her and enthusiastic about her place in it. It’s a joy to watch her grow into such a smart, strong kid.

She relishes the things she can do and understand now, and I’m grateful for the freedom it gives us both. But sometimes, out of nowhere, she’ll wrap her arms around my waist and rest her head against my stomach, tears starting to well in her eyes. When I ask her if something’s wrong, she says, “I just love you so much.” In these moments, we both remember that she is still my baby girl.

Happy birthday, Miss M. I love you so much.

Girl, Put Your Records On

2009-09-02T06:55:00.000-07:00

I started out with the plan to make a Top Five Favorite Songs Ever, but then I thought of a 6th ... and then a 7th ... and then I started listing them chronologically. So what we now end up with is:

My Personal Top Five Songs From Each Of The Past Five Decades:

1960s
"Don't Think Twice (It's Alright)," Bob Dylan
"Can't Take My Eyes Off of You," Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons
"In My Life," The Beatles
"God Only Knows," The Beach Boys
"Try a Little Tenderness," Otis Redding

1970s
"Oh Girl," The Chi-Lites
"Something So Right," Paul Simon
"Thunder Road," Bruce Springsteen
"American Girl," Tom Petty
"Tom Traubert's Blues (Four Sheets to the Wind in Copenhagen)," Tom Waits

1980s
"Jessie's Girl," Rick Springfield
"I Could Never Take The Place of Your Man," Prince
"With or Without You," U2
"(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding," Elvis Costello
"You Are The Everything," R.E.M

1990s
"One," U2
"Hallelujah," Jeff Buckley
"Forever Blue," Chris Isaak
"Road to Ensenada," Lyle Lovett
"The Way," Fastball

2000s
"When The Deal Goes Down," Bob Dylan
"Million Faces"/"Loving You," (tie) Paolo Nutini
"Put Your Records On," Corrine Bailey Rae
"Dance With Me," Old 97s

I know there are glaring errors and omissions (where's the Bowie?), but unless I make this a Top 100, or 1000, I'm going to miss some of the songs I really love. But I keep coming back to the fact that these are the songs that define me, for better or worse. Although, obviously, the decades I discovered them don't necessarily correspond with the dates of their releases.

Deride if you must (yes, yes, I said Fastball), but I'd much rather see your own lists. Try it, it's fun!

There's One For You, Nineteen For Me

2009-08-13T22:08:00.000-07:00

Probably the only thing more boring than doing your taxes is reading about someone else’s tax issues, but I feel the need to write something about it before I go all Falling Down.

Sometime this last spring – late April, I think? – I received a very intimidating letter from the IRS. It informed me that my business tax return from 2007 was under review and could I please get together my documents and meet with an agent to discuss. Which seemed sort of benign at first, until I realized, “Wait … documents … agent … this is an audit!” But I complied, of course. I took two days off of work so that I could sit in my house and answer questions and provide records for a business that did nothing but lose money for five years. And closed in 2008.

At the end of those two days, I was told that I would be given a report by July 20. “It’ll probably be before then,” the agent said, “but I’ll give it that much time, just in case.” So the weeks went by and I kept waiting for another ominous envelope. And waiting. And waiting. July 20th came and went, and then on July 22, the day before I left for vacation, I got a call from the auditor saying she was going to need some additional information about my personal return, but would send out the business report and I’d have 30 days to get her the other info she needed. She gave me the gist of what I had to come up with, so when I got a thick document request in the mail, I didn’t pore over it. In fact, I didn’t even open it. But I did set about culling my credit card websites for 2-year-old statements (thank you, Chase, for the easy access to archived statements, and suck it, Bank of America, for wanting to charge me $5 each). But I wasn’t in any real hurry, since I hadn’t even gotten the report yet, and figured I had a couple more weeks at least. The auditor was calling a couple times a week with updates, but since they were just informational, I was letting the calls go to voicemail.

And then, on Tuesday, there was a message asking if we could move our Thursday meeting from my house to her office. Wait, wha? What Thursday meeting? I scrambled to get that thick envelope opened, and sure enough, there on the bottom of the second page was a date and time for her to go over the new paperwork. I didn’t think I could get everything she needed in the next 48 hours, so I called back and asked to reschedule, and mentioned that going downtown to her office was going to require me to take half a day off of work. Her schedule was full for the next month, however, and the appointment was going to take three hours regardless, so rather than drag it out any more, I quickly requested Thursday afternoon off and, two days later, hauled my computer and ten pounds of files to the IRS Service Center.

The next three hours were about what I expected. I was shuffled from a gray waiting room to a gray “Interview” room and then proceeded to look over spreadsheets and bank statements, answering questions and explaining my English major accounting process. As the details unfolded, we discovered that I’d made some small errors, but when totaled up, they basically canceled each other out. A little under here, a little over there – came out just the same in the end. There was no malicious intent or devious effort to conceal income. I doofed it up a little, but nothing major.

Which, really, just makes me more upset about the whole thing. If they had spent all this time uncovering some egregious error, I would be stressed about coming up with the money, but at least I’d feel like they had used all of this time to someone’s benefit. But as it is, I have burned more than 10% of my vacation time, not to mention hours of research, document-gathering and sleeplessness, and the IRS has spent at least 30 woman-hours to find out that … we’re square. It’s maddening. It’s absurd. It’s enough to make me dig out statements from 2006 so I can prove that they actually owe me money. Because, by gum, if they can’t make all of this hassle worth their time, I’m sure as heckfire going to make it worth mine.

Apropos Of Nothin

2009-08-13T07:43:00.000-07:00

My Top Five Most Hated Songs, in order:

1. "Kokomo," The (alleged) Beach Boys
2. "Deacon Blues," Steely Dan
3. "Red Red Wine," UB40 (I have no quarrel with you, Neil Diamond)
4. "River of Dreams," Billy Joel
5. "All I Wanna Do," Sheryl Crow

I have nothing to say about song quality or lack thereof. I simply hate them all.

And now they're all in my head. Gah!

You Are So Lucky On Your First Day

2009-08-04T21:50:00.000-07:00

So while we were still grabbing clean clothes out of our vacation suitcases, it was already time to start up the new fall routine. For the second year in a row, Miss M is at a brand new school and Mr. Baby is starting at a brand new daycare, so the anxiety level was at a peak. Well, mine was, anyway. After a summer of worry and occasional tears, Miss M had recently come to terms with the start of first grade and the move to a new school, and even seemed excited about it. Mr. Baby was blissfully unaware of the changes afoot, although he had shown great enthusiasm for the playground at “new sool!”

Still not entirely sure how I was going to get all three of us ready for the day before 7:15, I had planned to drop the baby off first, thinking this would make it easier to navigate the elementary school crowds later, plus provide me with Miss M’s help to haul in the nap mat, bedding, change of clothes and diapers required by the daycare. About five minutes before I’d intended to leave, however, I realized this plan wasn’t feasible, so I called an audible and reversed the drop-off procedure. I wasn’t sure how much time it would take to get M to her room, so I gave us a wide window.

Turns out, dropping off a child who just two weeks ago was weeping about starting first grade was much easier than anticipated. Parking and crossing an un-crossing-guarded street with two little ones was the hardest part of the process. Once we got to M’s room, she was all confidence, or at least bravery. She gave me a kiss goodbye and walked off without complaint. She hugged her teacher hello and entered her classroom with her head held up, although once inside, she seemed a little less sure of what to do. I had to leave before her look of determined fear-conquering broke my heart in half.

Mr. Baby’s drop-off, unfortunately, was heart-breaking in other ways. Once we got to his school, he put on his little backpack and marched all the way into his classroom without a care in the world. It was pretty much the most adorable thing that has ever happened on Earth, except for maybe the sneezing baby panda. But then he realized I was leaving. And oh, did he have cares. His cares were audible all the way out into the parking lot. I know he’s an agreeable child, and I knew he would recover and most likely have a good day, but it was still a very rough start. He didn’t seem so much sad as … betrayed. Like, he knew all about this school thing, but no one told him he had to go without any of his people.

The pick-up report was that he had in fact calmed down quickly and been a model of citizenship throughout the day, but the next morning, he was much warier as we approached the doors. I’ve been through this process several times now, and I know, logically, that it’s going to be better before I know it, but man, that just does not make these first weeks any easier.

On the plus side, Miss M had a great first day and has remained eager and positive about her new school and class. She’s being tested and assessed and will be placed in her permanent classroom at the end of the week, so I’m hoping that she’s just as happy about where she ends up as she is about where she is now.

It's A Long Way Home For The Summer

2009-08-02T19:40:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, the start of August meant we were in the homestretch of summer. There were still a few weeks left to enjoy long evenings, late bedtimes, and Facts of Life re-runs. No school I ever attended began before Labor Day. But for my kids, and all kids in Memphis, August is the very end of the line. By Labor Day weekend, they’ve been closed up in their classrooms for a month. So it was with particular pleasure that, during the last weekend of July, I scooped up the children and skedaddled out of town for the most traditional of our family’s summer activities: Corn Capital Days.

As a child, I spent all year looking forward to the two weeks we spent in my parents’ hometown of Olivia, MN. We lived in Pittsburgh during my formative years, and we would load up the car (usually a Jeep Wagoneer, although there was one memorable Summer of Fuego), with our sleeping bags, books, cooler and games, and hit the road for a non-stop, 21-hour trip across the upper Midwest. It sounds like an interminable misery, but it actually wasn’t so bad, and the promise of freedom - of Gramma’s house, of small town streets, of 9pm sunsets - made it all worthwhile.

This year was the first time in Mr. Baby’s life, and the first time since Miss M’s toddlerhood, that we were able to make the pilgrimage to Olivia for this event. (Mr. Baby had actually been to Olivia twice before, under much sadder circumstances.) We were spared the road trip aspect by Pops’ very generous gift of frequent flyer miles, shrinking the travel time from 15 hours to two, but air-traveling alone with two small children in post-9/11 airports, I think I still got a glimpse of the tension my dad used to feel when driving unfamiliar Chicago roads at rush hour. We made it without major incident, though, and after a day to recoup in the suburban buffer zone, we made the last leg of our trek down highway 212, to the seat of Renville County.

Things may change over the years, but the feel of a small town is hard to mess with. Even with the high school knocked down from three storeys to one, the shiny new playground equipment in the parks, and the tragic loss of the Ben Franklin general store from the anchoring corner of downtown, Olivia still looks, feels, sounds and smells like Olivia. The streets still come to a dead stop at the edge of town, flanked by endless seas of corn and soybeans. The summer evenings still come on with air cooled by the moisture rising from the fields. The hours are marked by St. Aloysius’ bells, although the coo of mourning doves is just as reliable for indicating that it’s suppertime. And the smell of earth and growth, dusty roads and damp furrows, diesel tractor engines and truck beds full of sweet corn, make up an olfactory environment that has remained constant throughout my life, and I suspect for generations before me.

Speaking of those generations, the other great joy of our yearly trips to Olivia was the chance to see relatives that were otherwise out of reach. In Pittsburgh, we were a family of four, with no other family for 1000 miles. But in Minnesota, we were surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins of all degrees. My father alone has 64 FIRST cousins, many of whom still lived near the house he grew up in. The house my grandfather built with his own hands, his wife and four sons living in the basement while he finished the floor above.

I didn’t take the kids to Olivia expecting them to instantly warm to or appreciate the extended family that had traveled from all over the country to be there at the same time - 31 in total, not counting the hyper-extended family I probably passed in the street without even knowing it. I just wanted them to see the faces and learn the names, and I held some hope that the next time we came to visit, they might be a little less shy. So I was astonished when, within an hour of our arrival, Miss M had thrown off her bashful guise and was running from pool to playground with her cousins, chasing after great-aunts and –uncles she hadn’t seen in years, and doing it all without a glance in my direction. She was instantly comfortable in a way I have never before witnessed. It seemed like she just naturally knew that this was her place and these were her people.

I caught glimpses of her as she finished off her cob at the corn feed, or chased after the candy tossed at the Grand Parade, or zipped off with her uncles in the golf cart, and those glimpses looked so familiar it was startling. At the end of the day, I would track her down in whatever lap she ended up in, and she would tell me she was ready to go to bed. After my sense of reality recovered from that statement, I would tuck her into the rollaway in the basement, a large, dark room with a formica bar and stone fireplace hearth that provided countless hours of childhood entertainment for my sister and me. Both nights there, she went to sleep without a word of complaint, so exhausted and content she didn’t even have anything contrary to say about sleeping in a windowless cellar.

Unfortunately, Mr. Baby had a little anxiety that kept him from fully enjoying the trip – namely, his body-shaking terror over coming in proximity with a dog – but I think that’s something he’ll outgrow by next year. In the meantime, I’m still fulfilled by the knowledge that I can share part of my childhood with my children, as well as provide the same connection to our roots that has been the grounding force throughout my life.

The Summer's Out Of Reach

2009-07-22T08:10:00.000-07:00

These bizarrely cool summer days have made me want to be outside even more than usual. “More than … what?,” I can hear echoing from Memphis to Minnesota, but the reality is, I like the outdoors. I do. I like hiking and biking and swimming in natural bodies of water. I like trees and flowers and birds and fuzzy little woodland creatures. I like the idea of getting outside the house and exploring my own environment. The problem is, my mental appreciation of nature is at odds with my physical tolerance for it.

For starters, I’m allergic to outside. I have spring hay fever, fall hay fever, and intermittent spells of summer hay fever. I’m of northern European stock, and not genetically pre-disposed for year-round pollen. Worse than what reacts with my system, however, is what is attracted to my system. I am a mosquito magnet. There are people who are barely noticed by bugs, there are people who have a normal adversarial relationship with them, and then there are those of us who cannot step outside between March and November without being swarmed. If I sit on my porch for one minute, I will go back inside with no less than half a dozen fresh bites. In one DEET-soaked evening on the patio, I racked up 30 new welts, including five on my face and more than ten on my fully-clothed back. I try to suffer through it for the sake of enjoying my yard, but histamines will only be ignored so long.

The mosquitoes have a harder time getting me when I’m moving, but exercising, and especially exercising outdoors in the summer, is tough for me. Not because I’m averse to activity or too delicate to sweat, but because I actually cannot sweat. I don’t suffer from complete hydrosis, but the strange truth is, my face doesn’t sweat. At all. I could work out for an hour and there wouldn’t be a drop of perspiration on my brow. Instead, there would just be an oily sheen over my bright red face as I staggered around like a drunk arctic puffin. I actually switched to a deodorant that doesn’t contain anti-perspirant after realizing that being able to use at least one portion of my body’s natural cooling system enables me to spend a longer period in the heat without feeling like I’m going to keel over.

In tragic irony, swimsuit season is my least active time of year, as all the forces of nature push me indoors. So I’m enjoying this respite while I can – taking meals outside, walking every evening - knowing that in a matter of days, my truce with the outdoors will end.

Fate Sat Behind The Wheel

2009-07-01T15:02:00.000-07:00

There's a small piece of glass embedded in my right arm, just above the joint of my elbow. It's a shard of car window, pushed into my skin when our Pathfinder was struck on the driver's side, a compact sedan hitting with such force that the SUV flipped completely over and landed back on its wheels. My half-open window shattered when the passenger door tipped into the street, bits of glass and Madison Avenue burying themselves in the arm that was still braced against the window frame when the horizon went vertical.

My daughter, nearly three years old then, was also in the car, strapped into the middle of the backseat. I didn't hear her make a noise when we went over, but as soon as the car stopped moving, she began shrieking to get out. I skittered over the center console to get to her. I don't remember opening the door, but somehow we got out. I can still feel the late afternoon August sun in my eyes as I stood holding her on the sidewalk, looking her over for injuries, trying to determine whose blood was whose. I clutched her to me and the full fear hit me at once. I peed right out the leg of my shorts. I barely noticed and didn't care.

The day leading up until the accident had been eventful, a mix of highs and lows. We had been to the lake, kayaking and swimming. Even though the child's energy and attitude were flagging, we decided to end the day with a trip to Baskin-Robbins. We were a block out of the parking lot when the woman in the white Taurus ran the red light. By the time I registered the sound of her brakes squealing, the impact had already occurred.

An ambulance came and the EMTs tracked the baby and me down in the Zinnie's bathroom, where we were trying to use duct tape to remove glass from our skin and clothes. They insisted on taking us to the emergency room, because they simply couldn't believe that anyone could survive that type of crash without a major injury. But after four hours sharing a bed in a very dark, curtained-off exam room in the corner of Methodist Central, we were checked out and cleared to go. When I asked about the chunk of glass they hadn't been able to irrigate from my arm, the nurse said, "Don't worry, it'll work itself out in time."

When I think of the day leading up to the accident, even the good moments are tainted by the ending. Every second led directly to that instant of disaster.

Nearly three years later, the glass is still there. I don't feel it all the time, but sometimes it aches out of nowhere, and it stings like a fresh wound if I bump it against something. Maybe it will still find its way out of me, I don't know. Maybe one day my skin will thin and soften and it will escape. Or maybe, as some morbidly suggested, it will burrow until it finds a vein and enters my bloodstream, threatening to block my heart completely. But most likely, it will stay where it is, the edges smoothing over time, less painful through the years but still reminding me of the collision, always warning me to be watchful.

When I see the scar or touch the bump beneath it, my stomach does a slight flip, a partial re-enactment. I feel like I'm right back in that out-of-control car, waiting for the spinning to stop so I can get my child to safety.

You Say It's Your Birthday

2009-06-26T08:00:00.000-07:00

Two years old, Mr. Baby. Your nickname is more fitting by the day, as you toddle between the boundaries of infancy and boyhood.

At this time last year, I was in a panic, facing our first major separation as I re-entered the corporate world. Twelve months later, I still miss you every day, but it’s a comfort to see how smoothly you move among those who love and care for you. I’ve been so lucky to have the help and effort of people who adore you, and whom you adore back: the amazing Mama KT and absolutely indispensable Kristy and RJA. Whenever I see you after time apart, you light up and run to me, but you do not dissolve in tears of frustration or relief. I know you love me, I know you need me, but I also know you’re perfectly happy when I’m gone. It’s a little bittersweet, but it’s the very best I could ask for.

My memories of your second year of life span such a wide range. You went from crawling, nursing, essentially unintelligible, and near-bald to running, juice-glass-navigating, sentence-speaking and near-bald. You have grown so much (well, developmentally, anyway) and shown more and more of the boy bursting to get out of your tiny body. You can already hold your own in a house full of older kids, none of whom can help but be charmed by your happy, silly nature. You are worshipped by your big sister, even when her displays of reverence wander into the overbearing.

So many things have changed for us over the past year, and not every transition has been seamless, but through it all, you have remained my joyful, funny, sweet little boy. We’ve got more changes coming up, with the biggest being your entry into an official pre-school, but I feel confident promising you that things are, in general, settling down for us. Allegedly “terrible” twos or not, I’m looking forward to the year ahead as a time for our family to find peace. Thankfully, you already seem to know where it’s kept.

Happy birthday, my wondrous boy. I love you so much.

What A Way To Make A Livin'

2009-06-15T16:25:00.000-07:00

Okay, it was a few months ago, but I've just figured out how to get the pictures online, so I am now so very pleased to present the results of my grand cubicle makeover.

When I went from working in my own store to working in a high-walled cube, it was a tough adjustment. I spent my first weeks on the job envisioning how I wanted to change things, and I bought art, fabric and accessories to bring that vision to reality. Now, I'm not especially crafty, nor particularly abundant in free time, so it took a while to put all those pieces together. The biggest part of the job was measuring for, cutting, and hemming all of the fabric. I used a heat-fused fabric tape, and it took foooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeevvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrr, even with Kristy taking lengthy turns with the iron. If I ever do this again, I will buy a sewing machine at the outset.

And so, with no further ado ...

Before:

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand ... after!

If you want all the technical details, I used a chocolate microfiber on the cube walls, kept in place by silver-headed upholstery tacks. (This is not the best method, but it's working for now.) The design on the file cabinets is a wall decal from AllPosters.com; it's multiple pieces and can be configured in any way I want (and is, at least in theory, non-damaging to surfaces; I still haven't pressed them really, really hard into the cabinets).

I wanted things to look cohesive without being themey, and I didn't want to clash with the office's other decor, so I settled on sort of a retro-natural feel. The kind of watercolory image on the left side is a canvas-mounted print of Minnehaha Creek, a tributary of the Mississippi that runs right behind my parents' house. I used a drywall hook to secure this to the cube wall. The silver-framed picture on the right is a vintage postcard-style print of Northwestern University (pre-arch), featuring University Hall, home of the English Department.

I have to say, I really had no idea what a huge reaction these changes would generate. For several weeks afterward, people from all over the company, secretaries to VPs, stopped by to say how much they liked it. I'm still not quite done with it (those black wire mesh desk accessories have to go!), but even as it is, it feels so good. I spend more waking hours at that desk than anywhere else, and it was really important to me not to hate, or even feel nothing about, my surroundings. I needed to make it a comfortable, appealing place to be. I would enthusiastically encourage anyone in a mass-produced work environment to do the same.

Just Take Those Old Records Off The Shelf

2009-06-11T14:22:00.001-07:00

I’m trying to get over the stabs of pain caused by my children being away for the next ten days by thinking of ways to enjoy this solo time. So far I’ve come up with:

1. Reading
2. Watching movies
3. Sleeping soundly all night
4. Not having to set an example with my diet (read: Cool Ranch Doritos for dinner)
5. Yoga
6. Reading
7. Going to (free!) shows (yay Shell season!)
8. Naps
9. Reading
10. Maybe even working on a fiction contest entry

Any other suggestions?

Don't Grumble, Give A Whistle

2009-06-03T14:07:00.000-07:00

I wouldn’t say I’m addicted to tumult. Far from it, actually. I have always lived in a way designed, very deliberately, to avoid major conflicts, serious disasters and just general everyday havoc. I like peace. I prefer calm. And, up until the last year or so, I have always considered myself very capable of handling the stresses that did come my way in an easygoing, big-picture-viewing sort of way.

But then, well, there were just too many. You know that list of the most stressful life events – stuff like death, divorce, moving, new baby, job loss, new job, and financial calamities? Well, that pretty much sums up my last 18 months. And somewhere during that period, my ability to cope slid down into the negative numbers. From then on, everything bothered me. Everything stressed me. Everything that happened was viewed with … what’s the opposite of rose-colored glasses? Blue? Brown? Opaque? Whatever, it was those. So although I wasn’t voluntarily clinging to every negative event in my life, I often saw my days as just one crappy thing after the other. Not every day, mind you, but a lot of them. Too many.

On Monday of this week, I logged onto my credit card’s online account interface. On the very front page, I was informed in big bold letters that the card issuer had run out of money and therefore canceled all accounts. Now, this would be a simple inconvenience to most people, but for me, it was pretty disastrous. When I closed the store, I rolled all of my credit cards into a repayment plan, which rendered them non-usable. The plan also required that I not open any new accounts during the repayment period. No problem, I thought, since I kept one card out of the plan and would have it available for large purchases or emergencies. Guess which account just got closed? Yup. That’s the one. I have about 40 more repayments to go, so that news rendered me cash-only until 2013. Pretty ungreat.

On Tuesday of this week, I received an email saying a PayPal payment had been mysteriously denied by my bank, and upon investigation of that fact, I discovered that the Tennessee Department of Revenue had slapped a lien on my checking account for late payment of sales tax. And yes, that’s my fault. But, but … I had contacted them two weeks prior to arrange a payment plan and they never got back to me. And I forgot about it for awhile, because I was busy being audited by the IRS. I managed to get a tax enforcement agent on the phone and worked out a plan that will unfreeze my account, yet will require every spare cent I can scrape up and probably cancel any hopes I had of taking a vacation this summer. Or fall. Or … ever.

So that sucked. It all sucked. It really, really sucked.

And then I was making dinner – Taco Tuesday - and we were short on tortillas. I figured if we rationed very carefully, the kids could all get full on hard tacos. I took the taco shells out of the box and every single one of them was broken. Every one. And I looked at those stupid broken taco shells and I cried.

Like I said, I’m not hooked on all this stress, but at that moment, I felt like I hit rock-bottom in the way that forces addicts to see that enough is enough and this shit has got to change. When a 14th generation Minnesotan is crying over broken taco shells, it has gone too far.

Hence the past tense about my bad attitude. Okay, it’s been less than 24 hours, but I feel like a sweeping change has come over me. I’m tried of being upset about everything. Just bone-tired of it. Without even consciously trying, I’ve suddenly started seeing things in a more positive way (Hey, at least I’m not paying 35% interest on that credit card anymore!), and now that I’ve begun, I like the feel of it. The disasters have come and the disasters will go. There is still plenty of good stuff, and the rest of it will just have to get handled the best way I know how. That’s the outlook I’ve had for most of my life, and I want it back. I want to be me again, instead of the quivering ball of stress that’s been wearing my clothes for the last year.

So here I go.

If You Take A Walk I'll Tax Your Feet

2009-05-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

So, what’s an IRS audit like, you ask? Well, it’s not all fun and games and pastries and making out, no matter what Will Ferrell and Maggie Gyllenhaaaaal would have you believe. In reality, it’s a lot more like having a very polite but unwelcome guest camped out in your office for two days. Or in my case, since my business is long-gone, in my dining room.

On the first day of the audit, there were actually two agents involved. One appeared to be supervising the other, which made me a little worried about what was going to happen when the supervision was lifted. The first two hours of the process were an interview that covered the details of my business management and financial record-keeping. We went over three years of tax returns and I was asked specific questions about how and why I got to each number reported. In several instances, the number on the form didn’t match the number printed out from my own books, so I was really at a loss to explain the difference. On the plus side, the numbers were mis-reported in a way that was unfavorable to me, so at least it didn’t look like I was fudging for my own benefit. Well, except for that big missing entry for the end of 2007 inventory total that falsely inflated my losses by thousands of dollars. But that was an accident! Or software error, or something! I swear! (I'll be talking to TurboTax about that soon.)

I also tried to use the interview to mention the hardships that surrounded and infiltrated my ownership of the store. I talked about the armed robberies, the break-in, the real estate debacle, as well as my own personal tribulations over the last couple years. When I finished, one of the agents said, “And now you get audited!” I chuckled ruefully and said, “Well, it seems a fitting end.” It seemed like they were sympathetic, but I know they’re all trained to be super-nice now, so it’s hard to tell for sure.

After the interview, the agents spent the day poring over my returns and all the paperwork associated with them. In a fit of unfounded confidence, I offered to provide the year’s cash register journals, a daily record that backed up the sales numbers I’d entered in Excel. And then … I couldn’t find them. Or worse, I could only find some of them. After May 2007, they were just … gone. Could I perhaps interest you in May 2006? No? Okay, I’ll … keep looking.

I tried to distract myself with other things, but I couldn’t help listening to the agents discuss every single little element. I heard them in a long discussion about my initial contribution to the partnership, which basically went like a point/counterpoint about whether or not the very foundation of the business and my stake in it was legally sound. So that was relaxing. I tried not to seem eavesdroppy, but if things seemed questionable and I had additional information to offer, I would bust in and offer it. But they were also unshy about bringing random pieces of paper to me and asking me to explain what was on them. Often repeatedly.

After eight hours, they went on their way. I spent the evening trying to figure out where I could have possibly put all those cash register journals and stressing about all the incongruous and missing information that had come to light during the day. And also, repeating one of their interview questions over and over in my head: why had I decided to file my business taxes myself?

The next morning, only one agent returned. This made the process a lot quieter, what with the lack of chit-chat and consultation, but it also seemed more stressful and official. There were a lot more questions, too, but unfortunately, not many answers. No, I could not explain why there was a difference in the inventory expenses I had on record and the amount on the return. No, I didn’t know why the same $203 in supplies appeared twice on my return. And no, I really and truly didn’t have a double-entry accounting system. My triumphant discovery of the missing cash register journals (14 months’ worth jammed into the “Current Month” folder in my file cabinet, of course) didn’t seem to impress her the way I’d hoped, either.

I didn’t imagine how my tiny little business could take as long to review as a larger corporation, but the second day dragged on well into the afternoon. It was 2:00 before she packed up all her files and peripherals and told me she would send me her report … by the end of July. What I may end up owing, or being owed (that’s the spirit!), will remain a mystery until then. The only thing she could tell me with some level of confidence was that I’d have to re-file an amended version of my 2008 return, to avoid another audit.

It’s always nice to have something to look forward to.

Reminds Me Of Childhood Memories

2009-05-27T14:44:00.001-07:00

One of the more pleasantly surprising aspects of parenthood is the occasional reminder of the power of nature over nurture. The other morning, I asked Miss M what she wanted for breakfast, and she said oatmeal. But then she specified, “Apple cinnamon oatmeal, and not too … like, wet.” Now, I don’t think I’ve ever made this for her before, and I don’t recall her ever seeing me eat it. So it therefore seems striking that her favorite flavor, and preferred thickness, would be the exact same as mine.

Of course, there can be less pleasant reminders. At dinner the other night, I looked over to see that she had taken her Sister Schubert roll (or tea roll, as my people know them) and mashed it up into a doughy ball. Just like I used to do. I was torn between scolding her and telling her that it’s even better if you bite off all the crusty part first.

Cry For Help

2009-05-18T12:06:00.000-07:00

I could easily write an entire new post, even longer than the first, about all my audit-related stress, but instead I'm going to try to think of other things. Like gorgeous May days, outdoorsy children, and the upcoming end of 5:50am wake-ups. And with all those pleasant late-spring things comes a question: what do you people eat? Our crew of nine is approaching the season of playing until dark, so we need food that is fast, simple, and will be considered edible by at least 60% of us. And yes, I think most people realize that Kristy does most of the cooking around our house, but things that can also be made by the, uh, culinarily challenged (stop laughing, Mom) are especially appreciated.

Easy, huh? But wait, before you pipe up, let me lay down the guidelines for this group:

R - no squash, bias against beans in the legume family (white, navy, pinto, etc.)
K - no mayo, no combining fruit and meat
A - no peppers, no mushrooms
C - no sauce
JP - nothing that isn't cheese pizza
S - nothing mixed together
M - no chicken. or beef. or pork.
GK - whatever, but she's only going to eat one part of it
Mr. B - no tomatoes (actual allergy, not just persnicketiness; he'd actually eat nothing but tomatoes if I let him)

Okay, whaddya got?

Declare The Pennies On Your Eyes

2009-05-06T10:06:00.000-07:00

Oh, hey. Hi. How are you? Good, good. Me? Well, it’s been kind of a rough couple weeks. Got this letter from the IRS about my 2007 return. Seems they’d like me to take 10% of my vacation time so I can be “interviewed” about my business practices and take a look at my books from two years ago. Yes, the books from the business that closed. Because it lost so much money. That’s the one. At least the organizational effort of pulling together all my files and receipts and ledgers will give me a chance to dig out all the outstanding forms sent by various local business authorities and finally get around to officially informing them of my store’s demise. Maybe then they’ll stop sending me a $19 bill for the sign every year – oh wait, they know I’m closed, and they keep billing me anyway because the letters are still affixed to the empty storefront. That seems worth the administrative effort, doesn’t it?

What kills me is that the audit isn’t even about my reported losses or anything that potentially controversial. It’s some minor clerical stuff that is apparently wired to trigger red flags if improperly or inadequately described. Thanks, TurboTax! Way to tell me that was optional! I don’t begrudge the auditor for doing her job, but I have to admit, I hope she feels a little silly when she sees all the year’s info laid out in front of her. Especially when she gets to the part where I reported a loss from armed robbery, and I can casually mention, “Oh, yeah, that was from when I got held up. When I was pregnant.” A robbery that occurred, by the way, because all I did 98% of the time was sit alone in that store waiting for a customer. The guy who cleared my cash register had been wandering in there for ten minutes before demanding the money. He could have hung out another hour and there still wouldn’t have been a witness.

After I called the auditor and she described the process, she mailed out a list of documents that she’d like to review. I got it, read it, and then flipped it over for the part requesting unicorn whiskers and fairy snot, because I’d be just as likely to have those handy as the paperwork she’s expecting. I already told her that the business is closed, and that I had been the primary, and often only, employee, but I guess it’s going to take looking at my meager spreadsheets and register tape reports for her to fully comprehend the tiny scope of the operation.

In the meantime, I’m going to continue hearing the constant mental white noise of small business ownership stress, the noise I hoped would stop when I closed the doors last June but which keeps buzzing out of envelopes with official seals on the front.

So, um, what else is new?

Sugar Tongue

2009-04-23T07:57:00.000-07:00

Mr. Baby has made an exciting new addition to his vocabulary of self-expression: spitting. Not the loogie-hawking kind, thankfully, but the raspberry-blowing variety. It's slightly more comical than the former, but alas, also much wetter. Currently, the only words he knows that express displeasure are "No!" and "Stop!," which I guess didn't give him enough range of feeling. Zerberts, however, allow him to say anything from, "I fully maintain that it is my turn with the ball," to "I can't believe you tried to pass off a sippy cup of water when I so clearly requested JOOOOOOCE."

He's so fond of this new phrase of frustration that it is on the tip of his tongue, so to speak, day and night. This morning, still asleep, I could hear him calling, "Dop! Dop! Pbbbbbllllllt!" I don't know what wrong was befalling him in his dreams, but he was clearly handling it in the best way he knows how: with saliva. It's not a bad strategy, really. I'm sure I could vent a lot of my daily frustrations with some nice, calming horse-lips. But I think tech support would get mad when they had to keep replacing my keyboard.

So Beautiful And Yet So Full Of Sad

2009-04-21T10:16:00.000-07:00

I'm having trouble determining who exactly declared this to be Blog Week in support of the MOTHERS Act, a bill which would provide new mothers with post-partum depression screening and education and increase funding for PPD research, but whatever the source, I'm happy to participate. I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on the legislation, but if online updates can be trusted, this bill has received approval from the House but is currently stalled in the Senate.

What I will pretend to be at least a little expert on, however, is the devastating lack of support or understanding of mothers suffering from PPD. Through my work at Mothersville, I frequently encountered new moms who were in the grip of an unbroken sadness and/or anxiety, unable to enjoy their baby or new motherhood because of the intensity of their feelings of guilt, inadequacy, fear or just plain despair.

When I wrote about the topic a few years ago, I learned that PPD affects an estimated 10-15% of new mothers - more than pre-eclampsia, gestational diabetes or Downs syndrome, which we are almost all screened for. I suspect the actual number is even higher than studies suggest, because mothers are so very good at putting on a brave face and hiding the true depth of their depression. Such was the case with Jenny Gibbs, a high school classmate of mine whose tragic story inspired her family and friends to create Jenny's Light, a PPD advocacy and education group. No one can ever say what might have happened if Jenny had found a group such as the one that now bears her name, but hopefully there are thousands of other mothers who will benefit from it.

My own struggle with post-partum depression was not as desperate, but it was a very dark and trying period of my motherhood, and I still look back and wonder why no one asked me - really asked me - how I was doing. I remember sitting in my OB's office, shuffled between nurses and medical students, answering every question about my recovery except that one. I mean, I'm sure there was the standard, "And how are we?" but no one asked, "Are you feeling down at all? Are you worried about how you're bonding with the baby? Have you had any thoughts of harming yourself?" Simply saying these words out loud to new moms would show them that they aren't alone, they aren't the only person to react to the "joy" of parenthood this way, and that validation alone would go a long way toward dispelling the shame of acknowledging PPD. I was lucky to have Mothersville as a place where I could be around other mamas and see that the reality of new motherhood wasn't all we had been promised, but the vast majority of first-time, and even experienced, moms feel overwhelmingly isolated in our modern, fend-for-yourself society. We're the daughters of feminists, raised to believe we can do anything we want to do; it's against our very nature to seek help at one of the points in our lives we need it the most.

So anyway, back to the MOTHERS Act. If you're the type to jump on these types of things, here are some actions you can take:

1. Contact your senator today or e-mail with your request for their support for S 324, The Melanie Blocker Stokes MOTHERS Act

2. E-mail susanstonelcsw@aol.com to give your permission to be listed in the state by state constituent petition which will be presented to U.S. Senators the week of MOTHERS Day.

The health of our babies is directly tied to the health of our mothers, and taking one step toward better post-partum care benefits our entire society. Let's get walking.

The Shadows Of The Night

2009-04-14T08:43:00.000-07:00

Oh, son. What fresh hell is this? Just when I thought we were over the weaning hump, and had gotten into a really good bedtime routine (who knew a child under four could just lie down and settle into sleep without a complex series of interventions and negotiations? Clearly not your sister.), you have begun this horrible new habit of waking up three hours after going to bed. And then screaming. Inconsolably. For 20 to 30 minutes. In. My. Ear. But then suddenly stopping, for no perceptible reason, and sleeping soundly for another three hours. And then starting all over.

I thought maybe you were hungry, so I tried cramming you full of food before bed, but to no avail. I wondered if it might be molars coming in, but the rest of your day is happy and seemingly pain-free. I thought there might be some other physical problem - an upset stomach, an uncomfortable diaper, maybe even an ear infection - but there are really no symptoms of these issues or any indication that you're actually in pain. The one night I took you to the kitchen in a desperate search for a miracle cure, you grabbed a cup from the fridge and instantly stopped trying to wiggle out of my arms. You took a drink, curled up against me, and were half-asleep by the time we got back to the bedroom. It seemed as if you had nursed back to sleep, but with a Playtex substitute.

Which brings me to our other issue: your breastfeeding regression. We were doing great for a few weeks, and now you're suddenly asking to nurse again. And that's your least aggressive form of request - sometimes I'll wake up in the middle of the night to your arm trying to wedge through the neck hole of my t-shirt. My weekly Babycenter e-mails say you're right on target for regression, so congrats on being punctual. But that's about enough now, okay? It breaks my heart to have to tell you no, it's all gone, and I thought we were past that part and could just enjoy the exciting new world of constantly searching for sippy cup valves.

So here we are, with you up and crying several times a night and your waking hours spent obsessing over the boob. It's like having a newborn again. It would seem that the two might at least go together, and that keeping a milk cup near the bed would solve both problems at once, but the next time I tried to settle you with a midnight beverage, you threw the cup at my head.

Based on the fact that your wake-ups come at regular intervals, seem to have no connection to external forces, and are so violently irrational, I'm starting to suspect you might be having night terrors. Which is a very troubling diagnosis, because there's really nothing that can be done about it. Other than Dr. Sears' recommended treatment, which involves waking you up before the expected freak-out and keeping you up for five minutes. For a week straight. Because what I really want to be doing at midnight is going through the bedtime routine again, but this time with a freshly-napped baby. I guess if things keep going like this, I'll give it a shot, but right now, I go to bed every night with the naïve hope that, somehow, this time, everything will be okay and we'll both get a good night's sleep.

Yeah, I know, you're not the only one acting like they're new at this.

Touch My Cape

2009-04-09T09:26:00.000-07:00

Speaking of the girl, I've noticed an exciting new phenomenon with her lately. No, not her failed attempt at forging a signature on a less-than-stellar conduct report. This one is more in the realm of good than evil. It's good versus evil, actually, After two years of wanting to play nothing but "sisters" and "babies," she is now running around the yard like a spy on the run and building rock forts for her and her superhero cohorts.

This shift in her fantasy play brings her to a much more relatable place for me. I know I played my fair share of "school" and my room was a Barbie shrine, but when I think back on the hours spent building treehouses and and defending forts and crafting robots out of appliance boxes, it's those less stereotypically feminine adventures that stand out as the most fun and formative of my childhood. I can't say it was all internally motivated, since I almost always had a male best friend who leaned more toward Star Wars than Strawberry Shortcake. But even when I was playing Little House on the Prairie with my sister and girlfriends, it involved tromping into the woods, making shelters, and chasing off invisible wolves.

So it was with delight, pride and nostalgia that I watched Miss M and her fellows dismantling the rock retaining wall at our local park in order to create a secret lair for their international surveillance operation. I don't expect that she has given up on more "girly" pursuits, and I'm not saying she should, but it warms my heart to see her breaking through the Disney Princess indoctrination and envisioning herself as a daredevil rather than a damsel in distress.

Thank You Mom

2009-04-03T11:01:00.000-07:00

When I found out I was pregnant with a girl, I have to admit I felt a little panicked. I grew up in a household that was 75% female, and this was the root of my concern. Not because we hadn't all gotten along, but because we were so freakishly functional I had no idea how to handle anything that deviated from that unnatural norm. I feared I didn't have the magical power my mother held that enabled her to raise two daughters who both ended up such ridiculously well-behaved geeks. What would I do if I had a girl whose teen-age rebellion involved something a little more unruly than joining a religion that forbade sex, drugs, tobacco and Starbucks? What if she went through that normal stage of hating/being embarrassed by/fundamentally rejecting me instead of bringing all her friends home to hang out and occasionally cook for me? I struggled with friendships with adolescent girls when I was an adolescent girl. How was I possibly going to identify with a normal one, thirty years later?

In the time since then, I have asked my mom, repeatedly, how she pulled it off, but apparently whatever deity she made her deal with swore her to silence. She just says a bunch of stuff about how lucky she was to get smart kids, and be able to give them good opportunities, and some muttery stuff about it not all being sunshine and roses and something about a call from the Evanston police department. But I know she deserves much more credit than that. It's not an accident that her daughters are strong, confident women who believe they have the potential to do anything they put their minds to. It isn't coincidence that we both succeeded in school and in our professional lives. It's not pure luck that we have happy, healthy kids of our own. She had a part in all of those things, from the abstract advice to pursue the best education possible to the concrete act of bringing us food while we held our newborn babies.

When I try to analyze why I was such a "good" kid, the biggest reason I can think of was that I couldn't stand the idea of letting either of my parents down. I still don’t know the secret to get my own kids to give my expectations that much weight, but I know that the best chance I have as a mother is to follow the amazing example I was given.

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.

She Blinded Me With Science

2009-03-31T10:42:00.000-07:00

I was going to write a follow-up post to my last one, detailing some of the perks that have come from weaning, but I got too distracted by this article by Hanna Rosin. Now obviously, just calling something "The Case Against Breastfeeding" is designed to raise both hackles and cheers from respective ends of the breastfeeding-support continuum (let's put La Leche League on one side of that and Nestle on the other). The author's actual intent, however, is to discuss the pressure put on mothers to breastfeed, the sense of guilt they can receive if they don't, and the, in her opinion, overstated benefits of breastmilk.

As the mother of three children (all breastfed, she happens to mention), Rosin is fully entitled to discuss the first two things, but after following the links to her cited sources, I think her refuting of the benefits of breastfeeding is its own overstatement. The fact that breastmilk is inherently better than formula is so obvious that I can't wrap my head around any arguments to the contrary. It takes a lab to prove that a naturally occurring substance, the one that kept the human race alive for our entire existence on the planet up to the last century or so, is superior to something made in a factory from the dried compounds of who-knows-what? Are there ongoing studies comparing orange juice with Tang?

Why do we only buy this argument when it comes to baby food? I don't know anyone who chooses to drink reconstituted dried milk, even though it would be much more "convenient" to keep milk in non-perishable cans in the pantry rather than constantly having to buy it, refrigerate it, worry about the expiration date, stock up on it before looming weather disasters, etc. The fact is, the inconvenience of breastfeeding is what has been overstated. It has been framed as the high-maintenance alternative to formula, instead of the biologically-implicated norm.

So let's just be honest about it, without judging anyone for their choices. Science can't duplicate nature. Not perfectly. Can it come close enough to grow happy, healthy babies? Why yes, yes it certainly can. Especially when they have an entire arsenal of other environmental advantages.

Which brings me to my biggest annoyance with this piece. The author talks about the guilt and even shame that is directed at mothers who cannot or choose not to breastfeed. She references the skinny-jeaned mom-iosos who huddle together at toddler parks and look askance at anyone pulling a powder-filled bottle from their designer diaper bag. Now, I wish nothing but solidarity among all mothers, and I don't discount the isolation that comes from feeling unsupported in your parenting decisions, but when I read about these milk-cliques, I couldn't help thinking, "If this is what breastfeeding propaganda has wrought, so be it."

While the trendy Brooklyn moms are discussing which baby monitors have the smallest carbon footprint, the moms in my neck of the woods are being told by their pediatricians that their 1-day-old babies are starving and need formula because their milk hasn't come in yet. And those are the tiny fraction who even bother to try breastfeeding. The percentage of Memphis mothers exclusively breastfeeding at six months is 9%, half of the national average. And, in what seems hardly coincidental, Memphis has the worst infant mortality rate in the country (which, as a nation, isn't so hot itself). I'm sorry if the PSA with the bull-riding pregnant woman makes a formula-feeding mother feel bad, I really am. I have issues with the execution of that campaign. But if it encourages the overarching public feeling that breastfeeding is worth the hassle every contrary force has declared it to be, and some babies end up healthier for it, then I can live with that.

The one point Rosin makes, maybe accidentally, that I did agree with is that nursing can be presented as the be-all, end-all of parenting, that the decision to nurse overrides all others and takes precedence over every other aspect of the parent-child bond. I think that's true, and it's not always a good thing. I've known mothers who probably would have benefited from some education in ways to balance breastfeeding with the rest of their lives, including the right ways to occasionally alternate with formula that wouldn't be detrimental to their milk supply and nursing relationship. The all-or-nothing ideal can be very overwhelming, and a more realistic approach may have broader appeal and efficacy. Of course, so could giving moms a $35 manual breastpump at the hospital instead of a bag full of formula samples.

The lead-in to this article is, "In certain overachieving circles, breast-feeding is no longer a choice—it’s a no-exceptions requirement ..." Well, most of us don't live in those overachieving circles. In my work, I constantly met women who were the only ones in their family or social group who were nursing. And I told them all, just wait, the trends eventually drift down here from the coasts (including the northern one), and you'll be just like everyone else. It's disheartening to learn that the trend-setters are already chafing under the mammary mantle, and I fear the pendulum will be pointed toward backlash before those of us here in the barely-achieving circles have even seen an upswing.

Resolve The Weakness In Me

2009-03-30T09:18:00.000-07:00

There's that old homophone joke, "Seven days without [insert beer, sex, barbecue, etc.] makes one week." (Like weak. Get it? Ha.) Well, from my observation, seven days without nursing makes one weak, tired, unstable, and hurty.

I didn't consciously choose last Sunday as my last official day of nursing Mr. Baby. I always thought it would be easiest to begin the full weaning after he'd been away from me a couple days, but then every time we were reunited, I couldn't stand to refuse his pleas and begin our time together with him crying and distressed. Also, although he's been going to bed at night without nursing for a couple months, I seem to be the only person in Memphis who can't get him to nap without it. So as his naptime approached last Sunday, I lay down with him and nursed for, it turns out, the second to last time ever.

I didn't make particular note of his pre-pre-bedtime nursing, although I do remember that we were sitting in Miss M's bed, doing her book-and-story routine. He didn't latch for long, distracted by a board book that looked both entertaining and delicious. I didn't mark the moment as it happened, because I still hadn't fully formed the plan to stop nursing entirely. After Miss M was bedded down, he went to sleep fairly easily and slept through a decent majority of the night, like he had been recently.

Our Monday morning was its normal flurry of activity, with Mr. Baby maintaining a good mood throughout. He reportedly had a good day as well, so when I got home from work that evening, I decided just to try and see how long I could distract him from nursing. I was fully prepared to cave if the need arose, but since we just had a couple hours before bedtime, I thought I might be able to keep him active (and eating) long enough to get through it. And I was. He asked to nurse numerous times, and began to fuss at me when I refused, but I just kept saying, "Nursie's all gone" and found something else to do (or eat) as quickly as I could.

Going one full day without nursing (while still in the same house) provided some momentum for going the next day. If I went back, it was a much bigger reset of the clock, so even when his requests got more frustrated and my body begged for some relief, I kept gently insisting that the milk was gone. And then taking him outside, or going for a walk, or gathering up a pile of books to read. During those days, there was no sitting and relaxing on the couch, or anywhere that he was used to nursing. The minute he saw me in one of those places, he would clamor to get into position. So I stayed on my feet nearly the entire time we were awake and together.

The times we were asleep and together weren't going so peacefully, either. After a few weeks of decent sleeping, Mr. Baby regressed to his pre-nightweaned, restless self. He'd not only wake up and cry, but he began climbing out of bed and trying to escape the room, making it much less likely that he'd settle himself back down. If he stayed in bed, he'd flop on top of me, inadvertently banging his head and knees against my very tender torso.

Speaking of which, and with the forewarning of TMI, my boobs were hurting like hell. So badly that, as I felt milk leaking for the first night in ages, I expected to look down and see blood seeping through the front of my nightgown. We'd cut down to 1-2 feedings a day the week before, followed by a couple days apart, so I really thought my supply would be dwindling. But the factory refused to shut down, and trying to go as long as possible between pumpings resulted in huge, painful knots that felt like gum balls (the tree kind) trying to poke out from under my skin. Even when Mr. Baby wasn't actively yelling at night, his constant desire to put his weight on my body kept me awake and in tears of my own. This sleeplessness and pain, combined with the hormonal cocktail of weaning-plus-ten-day-period (I warned you about the TMI, people), made me … well, let's just say I wasn't my usual cheerful self.

Still, we both made it through Wednesday and Thursday. He took a lot of walks, ate a lot of yogurt, and went to bed as early as I thought could possibly work. I'm rarely eager to spend extended periods away from him, but last week, the Friday-Saturday break was much needed. Despite my repeated excuse that the milk was all gone, I was still producing a piddling but pain-inducing amount.

I was nervous about our reunion on Sunday afternoon. I knew he'd be getting sleepy, which would make him more sensitive. I also had no idea how I was going to get him to nap. It was a very pleasant surprise when he didn't say "Nursie!" within the first few minutes of seeing me, but it wasn't much longer until his sleepiness stirred up ingrained habits. I tried laying down with him, but after a few minutes of hollering, I decided to try walking him to sleep. As we walked out into the sunny afternoon, I felt grateful for the accidentally good timing of spring weaning and the ability to stroller up in times of crisis. He was asleep within minutes.

His nap was brief, but he played happily the rest of the day. Something went weird around dinnertime, though, and he refused most of his meal. He went straight to his bath and then bed, where he went to sleep easily but then fussed and clung restlessly to me the rest of the night, threatening to wake up for good at 5:40am when I generally sneak out of bed to make Miss M's lunch and get her ready for school. He'd already added 6:45am to his repertoire last week, instead of snoozing until 7:45, throwing off the entire household's morning routine. I lay there desperately using my maternal mind meld to urge him to just stay asleep so I could deal with Miss M two-handed. And this time, it worked. So that, I guess, is progress. A miserable night but a manageable morning.

I wouldn't have endeavored to wean if I didn't think we'd both end up the better for it, but for my own sanity and maybe that of anyone reading this who is in the same place, I wanted to write down the reality. It's the breaking of a powerful connection, and the physical and emotional consequences are hard on both sides. It's only been one week, though, and I'm hoping to get stronger soon.

Scarecrow And Fungus

2009-03-27T13:45:00.000-07:00

As I was sitting out on the back patio, enjoying my book and the cool, fresh evening air, K wondered aloud what those orange blobs on the cedar tree were. Being the expert botanist that I am, I said, "I thought they were, like, the cones or something." Being an actual botany expert, K replied that, no, cedar cones are a normal brown color. So we went in for a closer look. Upon inspection, the blobs turned out to be dark brown pods with orange tendrils growing from them. Again, with my expansive tree knowledge, I suggested that they were seed pods. K suppressed a sigh and said, no, look how they surround the limbs, it's like some sort of tumor.

She said the word "tumor" just as my fingers touched the orange outgrowth. I don't know if it was the word or the surpassingly creepy, wet-rubbery feel of the alleged plant life, but a bone-deep chill ran throughout my body and, even now, I can't think about it without feeling bile rise in the back of my throat. I tried to go back and read, but I could see those (shudder) tumors dangling overhead - okay, overhead and 20 yards away - and I couldn't concentrate on my book.

Thankfully, the trauma was brief. I'd completely forgotten about the diseased cedar when K popped up online this morning to inform me that she'd discovered that the growth on the tree was actually a fungus called "Cedar-Apple Rust." Great. Fungus. Even grosser. Although this name does not do it justice. It should be called something like "Necrotic Sponge-Filth of Evil."

I'm not sure I can ever spend time in the backyard without imagining those squishy little fungus-fingers reaching toward me. It just may be the most disgusting thing found in nature. I suspect it may actually be why the last owners moved.

Just look. I dare you.

Running With The Devil

2009-03-26T14:02:00.001-07:00

When I left for my walk last night (yes, I've actually kept it up), the weather was a bit cooler than I expected, and I thought, hm, maybe I'll pick up the pace a little. Maybe I'll even … what's the word? Oh, yes … run! With the springy weather, I'd seen people running all over the neighborhood (sidenote: I often see runners when I'm driving around during my lunch hour. Who are these people jogging carefree through tony streets in the middle of the day? They can't all be freelance writers.) It didn't look that hard. I've run before, when I had to. So as I got to the top of the first hill and rounded the first corner, I struck out toward the next block with my heels up.

I was winded before I even hit the straight-away.

Apparently, all those muscles I was using to regularly walk a brisk 2-miler had no use for this slight modification in my stride. Or more accurately, my lungs did not want any part of it. The stitch in my side could have held The Hulk's shirt seams together. After maybe 30 yards, I slowed back down to a walk. And slowed. And slowed. I'd expected to go in intervals of running/walking, but I didn't realize how much slower my walking would be after my brief bursts of speed (for lack of a more honest word).

Once I recovered the ability to inhale painlessly, I set a destination goal. I made sure to do this while I was still walking and before I re-awakened the voice in my head yelling, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING AND WHY?" I picked a point half a block down and started running again. After about ten sidewalk squares, I understood why runners always have that look on their faces. I made it to my goal, but then staggered off my usual course, hoping to make it home with as few additional steps as possible. As I short-cut through the middle school grounds, I flashed back to the unit in junior high gym when we had to run a mile through the cold, muddy, goose-mined ballfields for the Presidential Fitness test and I promised myself I would never, ever run again. (I'm sorry, 13-year-old SAM. At least I wasn't in pleated shorts. Although, on another sidenote, I do now fully understand the importance of athletically-oriented foundation garments. There are both tragic and comic consequences to running in a thong.)

As I neared home, I reminded myself that I had experienced the full pain of childbirth, which involved great physical suffering for hours and hours on end. How could I do that and not manage to run for three minutes straight? So as I headed downhill toward the house, I started up again. I passed five mailboxes before I realized, hey, nobody's giving me a baby for this!

Now, I understand that it takes time to build up aerobic fitness, and I'm fully willing to accept that this is an area I could work on. But as I lay in bed last night, with my muscles content yet my knee joints hollering for the first time in my entire life, I felt validated in my life-long belief that running is for escape purposes only. Or for chasing babies away from suspiciously scheduled joggers.

Sad Clown

2009-03-21T19:14:00.000-07:00

The Many Faces of Mr. Baby

(by RJA)

Shift Of Emphasis

2009-03-20T07:49:00.001-07:00

Words that these silly Southerners say with the stress on the first syllable:

umbrella

insurance

I Put My New Shoes On

2009-03-19T08:58:00.000-07:00

I was angry when I left work yesterday. It doesn't matter why, I just was. (To paraphrase a cinematic classic, it's taken me months of therapy just to admit that I get angry.) I didn't have the words or the wherewithal to fix it, though, so I didn't know what to do other than stomp around and seethe, like I'd heard angry people were supposed to (I'm still new at this). But then as I was pulling up to the house, I saw my other therapist parked at the curb in his big brown truck. What can brown do for me? Apparently, deliver my Zappos.com order three days earlier than expected. And just exactly in time.

I'd been at the shiny new Target the day before and took the bike I'd been ogling for a test-sit. I then spent a chunk of the afternoon brooding that I couldn't afford it and lamenting my almost-post-breastfeeding shape-shifting. For the first time in my recorded history, I had an urge to exercise, but I didn't have the means to do it. Just put on your sneakers and go walk, you say? Good thinking, but I didn't have those either. (Not unless you counted the $14.99 Rocket Dog quasi-tennies I got at Delia's five years ago, which, having tried to walk middling distances in them, I didn't.) So, with the giddy thrill of online shopping tempered by the begrudging acceptance of financial responsibility, I ordered a sale-priced pair of Sauconys, the first athletic shoes to enter my wardrobe since the girls' size-5 Nikes I bought when I worked in the Children's Shoes department of Dayton's. (The Minnesotans get this time reference, but for everyone else, that's 1995.) (Sidenote to any women whose feet are smaller than an 8: you can fit into the top sizes of "girls'" shoes, and they're a lot cheaper.)

Anyway, back to present-day Memphis … or yesterday Memphis. It was gorgeous. Sunny and breezy and warm and lovely. And I was none of those things. I'd felt sick the night before - a fun new sick, different than the previous few days, that kept me up and in pain instead of asleep, totally wasting Mr. Baby's wonderful 12-straight-hours unconscious - and had seriously considered staying home from work when I was still woozy and sweaty in the morning. But I went anyway, and every aggravation of the day weighed even heavier when bounced against my constant mental refrain: "I'm not even supposed to be here today."

So fast forward, or rewind, back to the beginning there. I got home and I was pissy. But then I saw the UPS truck and knew that my shoes had magically arrived at the moment I needed them most. I put them on immediately, confirmed that they weren't drawing blood when I took a step, and out I went.

The evening was stunning. Perfect light, perfect temperature. I set off walking with no idea of where I was headed, just the solitary goal of moving until I felt better. I didn't know how much road that might take. I didn't know how much road I could take. I crested the first hill and noted how I'd barely registered the incline. When I had biked the same street days before, I was sucking wind before I got to the top. The lightness of my lungs was validating. My bike muscles may be puny, but my legs are made to walk fast and far.

I kept walking. The shoes felt great. Who knew that properly designed footwear could make such a difference? My feet looked ridiculously large in them, but no matter. The neighborhood is still new to me, so I took a turn down the only side-street I was familiar with. The yards and sidewalks were buzzing with other people out enjoying the weather. I tried to be polite and neighborly when I passed. But I was still angry.

I got to the end of my known territory and I kept going. I didn't know how far I'd gone or how long I'd been walking, but the rabid lemur was still clawing in my chest, so I just kept walking.

I was heading toward the main thoroughfare that would eventually lead me home when I saw a small wrought-iron sign with an enchanting neighborhood name. I wish I could say what it was without telling the whole Interweb where I walk alone in the evenings, or could make up something equally appealing, but just believe me when I say it was the antithesis of all the contemporary pseudo-pastoral subdivision names like "Pheasant Ridge." I had no choice but to turn and walk through it.

As I passed by the green yards and low-slung 1950s homes, my pace stayed brisk but my mind slowed down. I started observing my bucolic surroundings instead of kicking more dust at the tornado in my head. I began mentally narrating the scenery. I breathed. By the time I was noting the similarity between this little corner of my world and the small town where my parents grew up, I realized the anger was quiet. I tried to stir it back up, just to see, but I couldn't. No matter how I poked at it, it just laid there looking silly.

This change occurred at almost the precise moment I hit the home-stretch. I walked by a brand-new development, its street name an uninspiring combination of the two adjacent streets, showing a lack of imagination carefully reproduced by the architecture inside. I made that joke up right then. It made me feel even better. I walked up my driveway and thought, if I'd had the time, I could do that whole loop all over again. I felt strong and healthy and clear. The anger was gone. I'd walked it off.

Epilogue: I Google-mapped it this morning, and apparently I accidentally designed a walking route that is exactly two miles long.

Post-Script: Bonus points for catching the two movie references, and super-double-points for getting the poetry homage.

Come Together Right Now

2009-03-17T11:27:00.001-07:00

It's always hard to know how to come back from a big blog pause (blause?). Too much has gone on to just do a quick re-cap, but it seems weird to just jump into another topic without accounting for my whereabouts. There really haven't been that many big events in the last couple weeks, but all the little ones have bonded together and multiplied into a giant time-sucking void.

My main goal this month has been to re-establish a presence for Mothersville, with the related sub-goal of clearing out the boxes and boxes of brand-new unsold merchandise still taking up space in our storage room and, I'll admit, making a little final-business-tax-return money to boot. To this end, I've created a Facebook group for Mothersville, which will hopefully give all of our old regulars and supporters a place to gather, meet/reconnect with each other, and share news of interest to the community. This was my solution to never getting around to creating forums on the Mothersville website, and it's great because the Facebook web expands much further than I could have cast on my own. There are moms from all over the world joining the group. So if you aren't yet on Facebook, or haven't found us over there, I highly recommend doing both.

On the sales side, I am re-re-opening the online store at Mothersville.com. The second "re-" is because our hosting plan expired and paying for another year would have been counter-productive to the whole venture, so things are temporarily on hold while I transfer domains and upload files and such. But once it's up and running, look out! Everything I have left will be sold at deeply discounted prices and with free shipping to anywhere in the US of A. This includes nursing bras, pump parts and accessories, and even some slings. I know wallets are pinched tight these days, but if you're going to buy this stuff anyway, why not get it for the best price you can?

(Too desperate? Oh well. Those TN Dept. of Revenue envelopes aren't going to fill themselves.)

When I Come Around And Warm Your New House

2009-03-02T09:12:00.000-08:00

Not to swing into full-time listiness (I can't compete with the master .. er, mistress?), but in the interest of somewhat-frequent updating, and in honor of one month of residence, I now bring you ...

Weird/Interesting/Bothersome/Pleasing Things I Have Noticed About the New House:

The tile in my bathroom looks just like my dorm bathroom's.
The doors want to be either completely open or closed - there is no ajar.
It is beyond the reach of this universe's laws of physics to keep the kitchen floor looking clean.
My bedroom maintains a temperature 10-15 degrees below the rest of the house.
The hardwood floors are remarkably unsqueaky.
Half of the 419 light switches don't do anything.
It is nearly soundproof when the doors are shut, but a giant acoustic reflector when they are open. Like "whisper on this side of the house and it will bounce down the hallway and be perfectly audible from the opposite corner."
The courtyard has its own weather system.
The combination of couches and Internet give the office as much gravitational pull as the living room.
It can fit 50 people without seeming at all uncomfortable!

Speaking of, thank you to everyone who came to the housewarming. Maybe it seems odd to warm a house we're renting for, possibly, no more than 12 months, but one of the biggest draws of this home was knowing we'd have the space and amenities to gather our friends together, and we hope to do so as often as possible. If you're reading this and weren't there, we missed you! (Unless you're a freaky web-stalker or something, of course.)

Spoke Too Soon

2009-02-26T07:10:00.000-08:00

Total sleep regression last night. I guess the kid wants to make sure I still know who's boss.

Cool As The Deep Blue Ocean

2009-02-25T10:38:00.000-08:00

I've had a lot of support and quite a few questions about how the weaning process is going with Mr. Baby, so I wanted to post an update. As of today, we have had two milk-free, tantrumless nights in a row. He has slept from about 8:45pm to 6am, and although he's still waking up a little during those hours, he is able to get himself back to sleep without throwing a big fit. I'm nervous to officially state it, but it does appear that a new era is dawning, one in which we both get the sleep we need and our relationship isn't marred by middle-of-the-night power struggles.

It may appear from my previous post on the topic that this all occurred in the last week or so, but the road to this point began months ago. It started in the fall, when I first tried removing nursing-to-sleep from our nightly routine. The first step was small, just moving our last feeding of the evening from the bed to the beanbag three feet away from the bed. I'd nurse him while I read Miss M her pre-bed book, and he soon began to associate reading time with his evening snack. But, thanks in large part to the nap routine established at Mama KT's, he would eagerly crawl into bed with his sister and lie down on his pillow, tell me nigh-nigh and pull up the covers. Which was all a big act, of course - he'd still ask to nurse, and goof around, and crawl on top of me in order to fall asleep, but within a week or so, he got pretty accustomed to falling asleep without food in his mouth.

Now, falling asleep while still playful and happy and full of dinner is different from getting back to sleep in the middle of the night, all cranky and hungry and confused. Or so Mr. Baby made sure I understood when he would wake up three hours after going to bed. At that point, I'd bring him to bed with me (or, on rare nights, pick him up when he staggered into my room) and nurse as needed through the rest of the night.

And that worked, more or less, for awhile. He got some practice going to sleep on his own (relatively), but we still avoided major midnight meltdowns that would disrupt the entire household's rest. But then, as seems to happen with many toddlers between 12-18 months old, his night-nursing started to become more frequent and ferocious instead of less. I knew there were a number of factors involved - molars coming in, huge motor milestones, general winter malaise - so I tolerated it as long as I could. I'd get to the point of feeling I couldn't stand it anymore, and go a night or two listening to him scream in my arms, but then a new tooth would start poking through his gums or he'd get a phlegmy cough that woke him up all night and I'd think, well, I can't do it now. Knowing that a move and possible (although thankfully avoided) daycare change were also imminent, I put up with the disrupted nights in the interest of keeping as much consistency in his routine as I could.

And then, as detailed in the post before last, I just couldn't anymore. The all-night nursing was becoming all-day nursing as well, and it seemed like our every moment together was focused on when he could feed next. So, knowing that he had a couple nights away from me on the horizon, I began last week resolved to cut him loose, with the first step being night-weaning.

Sunday was our last normal evening, but then on Monday night, I greeted his first wake-up with nothing but my arms and a firmly in-place sweatshirt. Mr. Baby thought that was a huge load of crap, and made sure I knew it. He screamed and hit and kicked at me, hollering the whole time for "nursie." After about half an hour, it occurred to me that we'd be having a houseguest the next night, and although the kids manage to sleep through these tantrums, I couldn't expect an unseasoned, childless adult to ignore them. And so, in frustration and fatigue, I gave up and pulled him to me. He calmed down instantly. I sobbed.

The next night, our impending houseguest a no-show, I steeled my will and prepared to go into bedtime battle with a loving but firm commitment to our mutual good. And this time, I went in with supplies. His appetite miraculously returned, I fed that baby about to bursting, all evening long. He went to bed with little fanfare, and when he did wake up a few hours later, his fury over being denied the boob was fairly low-key. He'd flop around and fuss and pull at me, but all in all, he seemed to accept that he should probably just go back to sleep. Wednesday and Thursday went pretty much the same way, with some fits slightly louder than others, but in general, a begrudging acceptance that the all-night diner was closed.

So after that fairly well-tolerated start, I was thinking we'd be in great shape the following Sunday night, with two completely nurse-free days and nights behind him. Because, clearly, I'm an idiot. I didn't factor in that he'd also spent two completely mom-free days and nights, and so his need to be close to me was only going to be the stronger, just as it always is after those breaks. I did nurse him during the day, since it wasn't interfering with his regular eating and we needed the catch-up time. But Sunday night was, simply put, a misery. I wouldn't even say he was crying. He was bleating. He would sit up on his knees, close his eyes, and wail, "AAAAAHHHHHH! AAAAAAHHHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!" It was heartbreaking, but, somehow, not as bad as if he were producing tears. I recently read a night-weaning essay/instruction guide by Dr. Jay Gordon, and in it he said:

Now, he will tell you that he is angry and intensely dislikes this new routine. I believe him. He will also try to tell you that he's scared. I believe he's angry, but a baby who's had hundreds of nights in a row of cuddling is not scared of falling asleep with your hand on his back and your voice in his ear. Angry, yes. Scared, no, not really.

And that's how it felt. Mr. Baby was definitely not a fan of the plan, but he wasn't hurting or frightened by it. I was right there with him, holding him and talking to him, giving him back his sippy cup and ducking out of the way before he clocked me with it. And so although I spent a collective two hours, over the course of four wake-ups, with him yelling at top voice in my ear, I stayed committed to our goal.
I was exhausted and miserable the next day, and dreading the night ahead. I felt just on the verge of bailing the operation, but wasn't willing to give up the week of hard work behind us. On the plus side, Mr. Baby was tired from his rough night and went to bed willingly and peacefully. He had four baby dolls piled up in his arms and, with his one free finger outstretched, requested "joooos." I gave him his cup and, within moments, he was out.

And out.

And out.

When I startled awake and looked at the clock at 4am, my first feeling was, of course, panic. I checked to make sure he was breathing, which, of course, woke him up. But it was 4am! In the morning! And he wasn't screaming at me! What he was doing was cooing, "Maamaa?" and climbing onto my chest to fall quickly back to sleep.

If we weren't done with middle-of-the-night feedings, I would have eaten him up.

I warily assumed that night was an anomaly, brought on by the exhaustion from the night before, but Monday went in basically the same pattern (except with me smart enough not to wake him up). And so, after 7 nights of struggle, I'm feeling fairly confident in announcing that we have successfully night-weaned, and even more important than that, begun a routine of solid night-time sleep. After five years of interrupted nights (and 1500 words of description), I can't even begin to tell you how good it feels.

Wanna Hear Some Happy Baby Talk

2009-02-20T14:45:00.000-08:00

This is meant to be informational and for posterity rather than just braggy, but I read recently that creatures Mr. Baby's age should have a vocabulary anywhere between 10-50 words, and that made me think, hm, he knows at least 50, maybe more. So I figured I'd count up all the ones I could think of. Not just the stuff he can monkey back at me, but the words he comes up with on his own. These are the first 80ish that I came up with:

airplane
all done
apple
banana
bath
belly
bird
bite
book
box
bubbles
butt
bye
car
cat
chair
cheese
cookie
couch
cracker
daddy
diaper
dog
ears
eat
eyes
go
gone
grape
hat
head
hi
horse
hug
jacket
JP
juice
K.
kiss
light
lunchbox
mama
Mama KT
me
mine
Miss M
Miss S
monkey
mouth
no!
nose
nurse
off
on
open
pants
pee
please
poop
potty
R.
shampoo
shirt
shoes
sister
sit
sock
stop
tickle
tree
uh oh
up
walk
want
water
yes
yogurt

I Am Milk, I Am Red Hot Kitchen

2009-02-17T09:45:00.000-08:00

Look, son, we've got to talk. And this is going to involve more than the names of facial features and types of fruit, so I need you to pay careful attention.

This thing you're doing right now, the refusing to eat real food in my presence? It's not good, honey. In fact, it's really quite frustrating. I know there's a lot going on right now, with the moving and the teething and the injection of five vaccines at once. I know that, as your mama, I am your safe harbor and font of never-ending comfort in times of uncertainty and pain. But the font, my love, is about to run dry.

Trust me, this realization is even more painful for me than it is (or will be) for you. I expected weaning to be a gradual process, like it was for your sister. First dropping night-time feedings, which would lead to better sleep and a generally better mood during the day, making it easier to cut down those sessions as well. But so far, the only time we've consistently cut out is getting-into-bed, and that only works out because we've usually just nursed through Miss M's bedtime book, story and song. Even the getting-ready-for-school feeding that we got rid of months ago has crept back into the routine lately. So instead of a gentle tapering, we've actually been amping back up to circa-first-birthday levels. And, I have to admit, it's making us both miserable.

The moment you see me, you want to nurse. The moment I sit down, you want to nurse. The moment I place food in front of you, you want to throw it on the floor. And then nurse. And that doesn't even begin to cover night-time, when your pitiful dinner-eating leads to all-night hunger and thus, all-night nursing. It's like you're a little milk junkie, incapable of thinking about anything but your next fix. You scream, "Nursie! Nursie! Nursie!" in my ear. You pull at my clothes. You cry and fuss and whine and flail, and will do so for an hour if your need is not met.

But only, apparently, when I'm around. By all outside reports, you are a happy, playful, well-nourished child. For everyone else, you eat like a champ, play and explore on your own, and are a general delight. I know that it's very common for toddlers to save up all their angst for mom, but in this case, it's hard to ignore the biggest factor that's making our shared time difficult. When you see me, you don't notice the cuddling arms or soothing voice or any other maternal offering. Instead, you see a woman in a cow suit, and you are focused like a laser on the udders.

And so, my baby boy, after twenty months, the milk truck is about to stop making deliveries. It is so much more bitter than sweet for me (the reasons above are sufficient; I won't trouble a one-year-old with the associated aesthetic nosedive I'm about to undergo), but I really don't know what else to do. I want you to be happy and healthy, and I want our time together to be the best that it can be. This is going to suck (no pun intended), but I've finally come to accept that things are going to be a lot better on the other side.

I'm sorry, baby. I love you so much.

Post Script: In a stunning display of empathy, Mr. Baby spent all of last night eating. And eating. And eating. Maybe it was the Tylenol given half an hour before dinner, or maybe he just knew I'd had enough, but he filled his belly about to bursting and then peacefully went to bed, barely deigning to nurse beforehand. Knowing that he was at least physically fulfilled made it easier to deal with his night wakings without succumbing to nursing. He went all night without feeding, and more importantly, without totally melting down. Fingers crossed for a new precedent ...

Takin' Care Of Business

2009-02-16T08:36:00.000-08:00

The concept of our new living arrangement has raised a lot of questions. Well, one question, mostly: "Do you think you'll all get along okay?" The veiled, deeper question being, "How are two households going to meld without a lot of strife and frustration and seething resentment over whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher? And how many kids is that, again?"

I guess I have no direct answer to that (surprise!), because I don't expect a seamless, stress-free fusion. But I also think it's pretty pessimistic to assume that a group of reasonable adults can't work through whatever issues may arise from a new situation. I've been living with roommates, many of them practically strangers at the outset, since I moved 400 miles from home at 17-years-old. I can hope that, in fifteen years of sharing living space, I've even improved a little in the core concepts of domestic harmony. So far, I have yet to engage in a stereo war with any of the children, and I shared the abundance of my rice cooker with K, even though she insisted on making it meal-like by putting taco sauce and cheese and meat on it instead of just dashing on soy sauce and a couple pineapple chunks.

Of course, since the initial query is generally coming from other mothers/wives, the even deeper question is, "We all know Mama is the boss, so who's running the show when there are two women/mothers in the house?" And the very diplomatic, equanimity-minded answer to that is, "Der. K." Okay, maybe that's not entirely true, but if we were handing out executive titles, she would likely garner CEO for her swift, decisive action and facile networking. She is the company visionary, always keeping the big picture in mind. R, then, would be the household Chief Operations Officer, coordinating and managing the daily activities and making multiple complex tasks run smoothly in parallel. And me? Well, probably some combination of Chief Financial Officer, Chief Information (as in IT) Officer, and my favorite, Chief Compliance Officer. Wikipedia says, "Generally, a CCO is in charge of overseeing and managing compliance issues within an organization, ensuring … the company and its employees are complying with internal policies and procedures." In other words, the goody-goody. Bingo! And of course, we all serve at the mercy of our Board of Directors, a six-person team of tyrannical, and rather short, trustees who call our every decision into question. And question. And question.

And then we have days like yesterday, when we're all put in our proper places as janitorial staff. To celebrate the end of our first week in our new home, our plumbing decided to send us a present. The back-up and overflow of our pipes coordinated nicely with the onset of GK's violent stomach virus. By noon on Sunday, every towel in the house was either catching vomit or keeping sewage at bay, and every adult in the house was engaged in one or both of those endeavors. They say there's no "I" in "team," although the lesser known but even truer aphorism is, there's no "Uh, I'm busy" in "poop coming up through the bathtub drain."

So can we all get along okay? After a day like that, it's hard to see how we couldn't. I'm sure that any one or two of us could have survived it without the other(s), but I think we're all grateful that we didn't have to. Living together might make us a company, but cleaning up each other's co-mingled waste? Now it's a family business.

Our House, In The Middle Of Our Street

2009-02-03T13:29:00.001-08:00

Oh, hey, there you are!

Or here I am, in case you were looking.

It's been a frenzy of activity around Secret Agent Mom headquarters lately, with more going on than I can even begin to detail. Or fully care to, really. The biggest news, however, is that SAM HQ itself has relocated. I've packed up the crossover sedan, thrown out the club clothes, and headed east to the relative safety of the almost-suburbs.

I never expected to leave Midtown, and I certainly didn't foresee living in a 1971 ranch-style further east than Whole Foods and Target, but when I started haunting Craigslist six months ago, I couldn't help noticing the ad that detailed a huge house on a huge lot for a not-so-huge rent. Granted, it was more room than I needed, but it was just the right size for, say, my people plus a family of six. Especially a family of six currently living in a 1200 sq. ft. home that was poised to bust a joist as soon as the Puberty Fairy arrived.

With two thirds pessimism and one third blind faith, we kept an eye on the house listing as it reappeared week after week, all through the fall. As the year drew to a close and my move became more imminent, I got in touch with the owner and plead the case for renting her home to two good, decent families whose credit reports happened to be tainted by the red ink stain of small business ownership. And at nearly the very last minute, she decided we were worthy.

There's something to be said for expecting the worst, because the thrill of being proven wrong is just that much greater. I spent the days after our lease approval feeling positively floaty, even with all the arrangements that needed to be made and made fast. The landlord's sister let us come by with the kids and let them survey the empty house, and the joy in their faces as they ran through room after room (after room after room) mirrored my own excitement. After such a long period of stress and uncertainty, I finally knew I was home.

(This atrium is in the center of the house, accessible by doors on all four sides. It is one of my very favorite things about the house - it's already served as a perfect baby play yard, and I envision many cups of tea, stacks of books, and broadcasts of Prairie Home Companion being enjoyed within it.)

Let The Snow Swallow The Streets Whole

2009-01-28T06:21:00.003-08:00

Well, this is just ridiculous. The fact that the city of Memphis cancels schools at the slightest chill is annoying enough, but at least let us parents bank on that. Don't make us get up, check the news, take a shower, make lunches, check the news again, wake up both kids, feed them breakfast, dress them and THEN find out that schools are closed. Especially not after the mama has spent the last five nights in sleepless, teething-induced misery. Having to deal with taking a day off work is aggravating, but if the closings had been announced an hour earlier, I could at least still be guiltily cozied up in bed, with two happy, sleeping children. Instead, I'm up and showered, wasting lipgloss, listening to the constant drone of electronic toys and bickering kids, looking in despair at the increasingly disorganized pile of stuff that needs to get packed up to move in the next two days.

Sigh. Sorry. We now return you to your SAM-post-free two weeks already in progress ...

I'm Not Okay.

2009-01-15T14:04:00.000-08:00

I've confused the boy. Whenever he falls or bumps or pinches or otherwise injures himself, I say, "You okay?" So now he's associated "okay" with being hurt or in pain. Which means that when he wakes up in the middle of the night with aching gums, or trips over his still-too-big 9-month-old pants, or is getting bashed repeatedly by his big sister, he flinchingly whines, "Ooookayyy, ooookayyy."

You Come In On Your Own

2009-01-08T10:12:00.000-08:00

Fair warning, this is a post about my children's bathroom habits. The squeamish, childless, and just about everyone else will probably want to just go back to Facebook …

Mr. Baby is, as has been frequently documented, a mimic. More than any other baby I've seen, he will watch and repeat everything he witnesses, immediately and often very accurately. Because of this, I've actually been a little reluctant to have him around the bathroom, because I didn't have much of a desire to stand around with an anti-bacterial wipe, waiting for him to finish climbing on and off the toilet. But lately, he's been showing a lot of awareness not just of the obvious outward routine of going to the bathroom, but of his own physical process as well. He tells me when he's wet, he tells me when he feels like he needs to poop, and he tells me when the deed is done, often with a great deal of angst until the diaper situation is corrected.

Now, I've never been lured by the idea of early potty training, but I learned a difficult lesson with my first child. Miss M showed similar signs of waste awareness when she was the exact same age, and at the time I thought, "18 months is too little! She can't possibly be ready. She's just curious about the big, loud, water-filled appliance." And so I let it go. And then, a year later, when she seemed mature enough and I was about over washing diapers, she was not intrigued by the concept of bathroom independence. At all. The toilet was too cold, too high, too loud. She liked her princess pull-ups too much. She was, in general, an obstinate two-and-a-half-year-old, so really, it was a pretty useless time to try to get her to do anything. Per my grandmother's advice, I waited until summer (and dress season) to try again, but she didn't make the full transition until well into the fall, past her third birthday, and that was mostly thanks to her Montessori teacher and a lot of helpful peer pressure.

In between then and now, I've seen some under-twos embrace the potty (metaphorically … I hope) with ease. So in the last couple weeks, when Mr. Baby has staggered up to me, hands on his diaper tabs, saying, "Potty! Pee! Potty!" I've (mostly) taken the opportunity to sit him on the john. At that point, he sits happily for three seconds, then reaches out and says, "Paper?" I give him a square, he balls it up and throws it in the water, I give him a "Good try!" and we're done.

But then, last night, I noticed a new level of … concentration. (Look, I warned you people.) And as I was reaching for the TP, I even heard sounds of effort. I stood very still, tried not to scare Mr. Baby as I focused on his furrowed brow, and then … splashdown! Twice! I don't know which one of us looked prouder, but we both spent a good two minutes smiling and cheering and high-fiving. I think it took a year of cajoling before Miss M hit that milestone, so even if it was a fluke, having Mr. Baby successfully complete the process is a big step. Especially because after he does something one time, it's pretty much ingrained in his system.

Now, I'm still not canceling the monthly 7th Generation Chlorine-Free Diaper subscription (yes, I'm a cloth diaper drop-out), especially since my 18-month-old still needs his size-12mo pants rolled up at both the top and bottom. He's so tiny it's hard to imagine how long it will be before he can actually get himself balanced on a normal can, let alone stand in front of one. So while I'm not discouraging him when he makes the requests, I'm not bringing it up, either. Life is too short to spend half of every Target trip hovered over a public toilet.

If You're Happy And You Know It

2009-01-06T06:34:00.000-08:00

A lady on the radio this morning said that blogging makes you happier.

It's exciting for me to realize that I'm friends with the Happiest Person In The World.

The Sound Of The Words We've Both Fallen Under

2008-12-31T06:40:00.000-08:00

I know, I know, look out, it's a blogging spree. A big part of the reason I hadn't posted in so long was that I was afraid, even in edited (ha!) print, that I would somehow ruin the surprise of my surprise trip to Minnesota. Then I was in Minnesota, and too busy eating venison sausage to post. But lots of stuff got crammed up into my brain during that time, so step aside while I continue to clear it out ...

So, after Uncle Buckbuck picked me up from the airport in the midst of Christmas Blizzard '08 and we completed our discussion of the Results-Oriented Workplace model currently in use at the Best Buy corporate headquarters (which we pass on the way from the airport to the ancestral estate), Mr. Baby started to make something resembling a fussy noise for the first time in our eight hours of travel (seriously; I wanted to buy him the entire wire bin of rubber balls at Target for being so good). To appease him, I turned on the radio and immediately dialed up my old friend 97.1, better known locally as Cities 97.

The rest of the ride was spent in conversational silence as I absorbed the radio station. Every song that came on gave me that "Ooh! I love this song!" chill, and I felt a nostalgic ache for those airwaves. Despite my iPod and glovebox full of CDs, I tend to be a radio listener. And although I love WEVL and my morning dose of Drake and Zeke, there isn't a Memphis station that compares to Cities 97 as far as matching my own musical tastes so closely. Where else am I going to hear Del Amitri, Landon Pigg and Corrine Bailey Rae in the course of 15 minutes?

Which got me to thinking ... is Cities 97 that great or did they somehow get their hooks into me in adolescence and form me into the alt-folkie I am today? I was listening to the station while I was wrapping Christmas presents and a new song caught my attention. When I went online to look it up, I saw the info for the 20th anniversary Cities Sampler, and realized, yes, they did this to me. I found 97.1 in high school, so when other 15-year-olds were listening to Dead Milkmen and Violent Femmes, I was getting my BoDeans on.

As anyone forced to listen to music at my house already knows, the Cities Sampler is an annual compilation released by the station. It includes rare, live, and generally acoustic versions of songs from the past year (or so). In the early days, the tracks were pulled from all over the country, but as the station has gained prominence (and, sigh, been Clear Channeled), most of the recordings are from their own in-studio performances and include everyone from obscure local bands to huge national acts (and some who've gone from the former to the latter). All of the money raised by the CD's sales go to local charities, and because of the licensing agreements they form to avoid paying all the profits back in royalties, only a limited number of the albums are released, and once they're gone, they're gone.

I own nine of the samplers, but they've gotten tougher and tougher to acquire and my parents don't always make it to Target on release day to get a copy. I'd been thinking of trying to grab one while I was up north, but apparently all 35,000 copies of this year's volume sold out in an hour. And although it's a little show-offy in its number of big mainstream adult-contemporaries (Matchbox 20? Seriously?), it also has Paolo and Ingrid and Lowen & Navarro's half-Spanish version of "We Belong" that always makes me tear up (and that I currently only have in cassette form). So if any of you Twin Citians happen to have gotten an extra copy, even if it, er, looks like a recordable CD and contains no artwork, I promise I'll donate $20 to Target House if you send it to me. Or $25 if you take off Jason Mraz first.

Give Me The Food

2008-12-30T06:41:00.001-08:00

Wonderful Things I Ate In Minnesota That Are Native, Or At Least Not Readily Available In Memphis:
1. Nut Goodies
2. Bruegger's Bagels
3. Old Dutch Puffcorn (caramel corn-ized)
4. Byerly's Wild Rice soup
5. Frankie's pizza

Wonderful Things I Missed Eating By Not Leaving The House More Often:
1. Eddington's soup and breadsticks
2. Caribou Coffee's chai
3. Grand Ole Creamery waffle cone
4. Leeann Chin's cream cheese puffs
5. Rhubarb wine (not sure of its wonderfulness, but really wanting to try it)

It's A Marshmallow World

2008-12-29T08:55:00.000-08:00

So ... where were we?

I was quite far away, actually. After a surprisingly successful December store/yard sale, Mr. Baby and I bundled up and headed north to surprise Cha Cha and Pops for their 40th anniversary. This involved various lies and nefarious deeds, most of them performed by my allegedly legit big sister, culminating in the cancellation of their romantic hotel weekend in downtown Minneapolis in exchange for a completely unexpected party with two dozen friends and family and a week with their littlest grandbabies. It seemed like a fair trade, at least until Pops had to come out of diaper-changing retirement during my last-minute, pre-Christmas mall run.

It was a very nice visit to the homeland. And also very cold. Very, very cold. Mr. Baby and I spent an extra two hours at the Memphis airport waiting for our plane to de-ice and emerge from the tundra, and landed amid a dark, snowy, gusty, bitterly cold landscape that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Fortunately, I really had no reason to leave the cozy, well-insulated ancestral estate (except for the aforementioned visit to Ridgedale and an unabashedly dorky yet very sweet reunion with my former church youth group peeps), so the windchill of -30 degrees was really just a useful tool for showing up my southern friends, huddled against the barely-below-freezing temps in their drafty bungalows.

After a week ensconced indoors with two toddlers, however, the origin of the term "cabin fever" was clearly evident. Those babies wanted to run around, and the grown-ups wanted to set them loose, but there just wasn't anywhere for a wee California girl and a tiny Tennessee boy to be free. So the second and third generations packed back up and headed to our warmer homes for another year. Or, for some of us, at least until the job and housing markets align (note to Auntie K: look into a house with a heated dog/child run).

Old Friends 4 Sale

2008-12-05T06:49:00.000-08:00

Well, the time has come:

The Final, FINAL Mothersville Sale
Saturday, Dec. 13
9am-4pm

This yard-sale-style clearance will feature all of the remaining inventory (including maternity and lots of nursing bras) as well as store fixtures, furniture, equipment, etc.

Anyone interested in purchasing any of these items in a lot should please contact me in advance of the sale. Everything you might need to open a small retail business is available: clothing racks, wall grids, cash register, credit card processor, and even a giant box of thermal receipt paper.

And of course, if there is still someone out there considering the option of taking the Mothersville torch and carrying it forward, this is your very last chance to scoop up the whole business in one convenient, PODS-sized package.

Spread the word!

Over The River And Thru The Wood

2008-11-27T18:28:00.000-08:00

Since leaving the home of my family of birth, my Thanksgiving tradition has been to eschew tradition. Knowing that they are still up there, enjoying family and food and the warm, unforced comfort that only occurs among people who share genes, has made it impossible for me to consider attempts at A Traditional Thanksgiving to be anything but pointless and, frankly, too painful.

This year, already challenging in its own ways, I decided to leave the house altogether and take the children for Thanksgiving dim sum. Miss M loves few things more than steamed dumplings, and I felt confident that if Mr. Baby didn't enjoy his meal, he'd at least entertain anyone else in the vicinity with his cuteness. (I know that's what every parent taking their child out in public thinks, but seriously, have you seen my boy?)

To be on the safe side, though, I planned to go during a non-rush, which translated into a 3:30 dinner. Miss M asked if we were having lunch. When I said, "No, you had an egg sandwich for lunch, this is dinner," she replied, "Then why is it light out?" Not only light, but desolate. We walked into the restaurant and the only other people eating were the staff, gathered around a large circular table and clearly not expecting to have to interrupt their meal.

Our waitress - the only waitress we've ever had there - was a little less polite than usual. She rolled out the dim sum cart, and after I'd picked a few things, talked me into ordering an entree as well. But then she brought out more little plates of goodness and I immediately regretted the additional order.

Chinese pop music was blaring over the CNN feed of the terrorist attacks in India. Mr. Baby was transfixed by both. I managed to get Miss M to eat two scallop dumplings, a shrimp dumpling and one bite of a pork dumpling before she completely lost interest in the whole adventure. Mr. Baby ate about half a pork dumpling before trying to stage dive out of the high chair. The entree still hadn't arrived. I was already stuffed and trying to keep Mr. Baby from erasing the specials off the white board by the front door. I tried in vain to get Miss M to eat the bacon-wrapped shrimp or fried shrimp balls, both of which were salty, fatty goodness that any kid would have liked.

When my noodle plate finally arrived (hey, look, more shrimp!), I'd lost control of both kids. They were wandering the restaurant (still empty of other patrons) while I tried to force a few more bites of food into my mouth. I gave up on it pretty quickly, asking the waitress for a to-go box for food I never intend to eat again as well as the remaining dim sum. I had my debit card poised for action and we were all in our coats and standing table-side when she returned with my receipt. When we got back in the car, I checked the clock. Our Thanksgiving feast had been $40 and 42 minutes long.

Feeling that my Thanksgrinchiness needed to be cranked down a notch, I turned left instead of right and took the kids downtown for a sunset walk by the river. Getting M out of the house definitely improved both of our moods, and Mr. Baby was a tranquil companion despite the full diaper I mistakenly attributed to parking too close to a city garbage can. Tom Lee Park was busier than I've seen it outside of MusicFest, with families of all sizes, configurations and nationalities taking a post-dinner constitutional by the Mississippi. I would have walked all the way to Mud Island if the daylight and M's legs weren't both giving out. Hell, I would have walked to Louisiana.

But, alas, our unexpectedly holidayish moment had to end. We closed the evening at home, with popcorn, Charlie Brown, and Miss M informing me that, due to my refusal to get her a third helping of yogurt-covered pretzels, she wasn't so thankful for me after all.

Have To Catch An Early Train

2008-11-24T06:45:00.000-08:00

It was such a wonderful plan.

When Mr. Baby woke up and required nursing ten seconds after I turned off the back-up alarm, I lay in bed thinking how good it would be to just stay there. Not even just the usual good of avoiding the return to the Monday schedule, but of actual physical benefit to all of us. Mr. Baby and I both got a second attack of the dreaded stomach bug over the weekend, and Miss M spent the last few nights perfecting a throaty, barking cough that can be heard from across the house. And so I thought it would be reasonable and even useful for us to take a day to rest, to build up our strength rather than exhausting all our resources before 7am. The rain was thrumming hard against the window. The idea of putting on heels and walking two children through the downpour made my chest hurt almost as much as my stomach. We could just stay there. We could sleep in, eat a leisurely breakfast, and see what fresh hell Rachael Ray was wearing. But just as I was mentally making the phone calls to my office, Mr. Baby's daycare, Miss M's school and aftercare, I had a rare moment of maternal responsibility. A nagging thought made me get out of bed and search for Miss M's school calendar. I knew that they were celebrating their fundraising successes this week, but I didn't know when. So I sneaked away from Mr. Baby and went to check the homework folder that I'd ignored all weekend. And there, right in front, was a little quarter-page note:

"Miss M can be out of uniform on Monday, Nov. 24 for her class's Mega Party!"

Sigh.

Not just a party day, but a non-uniform day. All of my tidy sick-day justifications melted away. None of us were in top form, but there wasn't anything wrong that was worse than making her miss a big, fun, special day.

So I got up. I showered, I made lunches, I spent 20 minutes trying to get Miss M to pick something both coordinating and season-appropriate to wear (and saying many thankful prayers for the city school's uniform policy).

And of course, when I tried to get Miss M all psyched up for the big day, she just looked at me like I was crazy. She seemed to know nothing about a party and clearly thought I was misinformed about the whole concept. She didn't even buy the note-in-the-folder story. So obviously, I could have just kept her home and let her enjoy a restful day with Spongebob and Drake Bell and she never would have known the difference. But instead, she went to school, Mr. Baby went to daycare, and I went to work with my soggy heels and crampy stomach.

I was there approximately one hour when the phone rang. Mama KT was calling to let me know what Mr. Baby was running a fever over 101 and had exploded all over himself. I needed to come get him on the double. So I fired off a "good morning and goodbye" instant message to my boss and reversed my commute. When I got to Mr. Baby, he was passed out on the couch in borrowed jammies, looking about as puny as could be. Mama KT made it pretty clear that she didn't expect to see him until after Thanksgiving, so it looks like my solace in saving one vacation day to use over the holidays has turned into the full sacrifice of two days.

So let this be a lesson to you, kids. The next time you feel like you shouldn't get out of bed on a Monday morning, just stay there. The universe will conspire against you until you give in.

Your Feet Are Going to Be On The Ground

2008-11-20T08:41:00.001-08:00

Fair warning, this is a purely obligatory catch-up post. I really have nothing on my mind that is dying for cyber-expression, but I hate seeing the blog languish for more than a week, so here we go.

I had a sudden realization in the last week that Miss M has seemed more in control of herself. A phase that seemed to emerge, ironically, after a ten-day fit of inexplicable itching that caused her to dig bloody divots out of her skin. But ever since then, she has seemed more aware of her moods, her behavior, and the general movement of her limbs. Not always, of course. No need to start checking her closet for pods just yet. But she has been better able to express herself and her feelings, and I think that's going a long way toward easing the between-pre-school-and-big-school conflicts she's been working through.

Mr. Baby is, very happily, a little man on the move. He is so thrilled to be walking that sometimes the mere act of standing up and taking a step makes him grin. His whole demeanor is more relaxed and content, and he is so much more independent than just a week ago. During the daytime, anyway. Our attempts to nightwean have been stymied by what appears to be another round of teething - he still has four more baby teeth due, and I think they're planning to come for Christmas. He's gotten pretty consistent about lying down to sleep without nursing, but when he wakes up hurting and screaming at 3am, a mama can only be so tough.

We've reached another one of those mini-milestones, as well: tear-free daycare drop-offs. I've never had a doubt that Mr. Baby was happy at Mama KT's (see pic in previous post), but his pathetic wails when I left him there always sent me off to work with a knot in my stomach. But in the last week, those dramatic displays have all but disappeared, and it's so nice to be able to have the last image I see of him be his calm smile and backwards wave, rather than his angry, tear-streaked face.

That wave is generally accompanied by a "bah-bah," which is just one of the numerous words he has very recently added to his vocabulary. He has always been a mimic, and now that he understands the word-as-label concept, he is delighted to be repeating the correct names of things. Recent additions to his repertoire (previously consisting only of hi, cat, mama, and shoes) include daddy, sister, socks, nurse, banana, apple, juice, eat, oatmeal, thank you, and variations on numerous first names.

And there's the update. What, you expected a nice pithy wrap-up on a guilt-induced post?

Sleep All Day

2008-11-11T11:54:00.000-08:00

How is it he can sleep like this during the day, but when I so much as request that he spend his nights not directly on top of my throat, he cries like I have stabbed his soul with a hot, rusty poker?

Walking On Sunshine

2008-11-07T09:47:00.001-08:00

Just four days before my mentally imposed deadline to begin serious worry, Mr. Baby pulled himself up to standing and walked across the room. Just like that. Just like we suspected he could all this time. I knew he'd been practicing at daycare, and he's slipped in a couple surreptitious steps over the last week or two, but this was the first time I saw him just get up and walk away. Seeing him from that distance, on his own two feet, was a huge relief and a minor heartbreak. I know people say to be wary of mobility, but in this case, I'm just so happy that he has independent movement again. He was such a content baby when he was crawling and able to go where he wanted to go. But then once he started walking with assistance, he was so completely over crawling that his only acceptable form of locomotion involved an adult's pinky finger and bent lower back. And lately, only my pinky would do.

And so yes, mostly relief as I saw that fuzzy little head from the back, those tiny feet making assured contact, that gravity-focusing belly correcting his balance. But of course, I also felt the pangs of panic and sentimentality that strike at every milestone, the sudden awareness that this time is gone and the next will be sweeping past even more quickly. I was so elated to see him upright, but also had the desire to scoop him up in my arms and tell him, "Okay, but you're still my baby."

We celebrated this newfound skill and independence by continuing this week's other goal: night-weaning. It felt like a cruel reward, really. "Nice job, kid, now you're on your own!" And he accepted it with all the grace of, well, a petulant toddler. I consider myself patient and able to withstand discomfort for a longer than average amount of time, but even I was about to cave in to his three-hour marathon of full force screams. The only thing that prevented my collapse was the constant reminder that a couple nights of crying (safely in my arms, with all other comforts attempted) is worth the reprieve from weeks on end of sleepless nurse-a-thon nights. So I withstood the hollering, and the writhing, and the sippy cups thrown at my head, and finally, begrudgingly, he fell asleep. And stayed that way until dawn, when he nursed, got up, and walked into his next big day.

What's The Rush, Let's Take The One

2008-10-28T06:26:00.000-07:00

Things That Annoy Or Depress Me On The Way To Work
1. The little girl who is always still walking to school 5 minutes after the bell has rung
2. Sudden and unpredictable 15-car back-ups at a stop sign that has no traffic 85% of the time
3. Street names that are repetitive (Wild Oaks, Winter Oaks, River Oaks), fake British (Redfearn), pompous (Even Mist), or just illogical (Lake Tide)
4. Old men waiting for the bus in the rain
5. Kemp Conrad

Things That Make Me Happy On The Way To Work
1. 112-year-old men jogging
2. Drake and Zeke talking to or about writers
3. Being ahead of schedule
4. Tracks 2, 6, 9 and 13
5. The increasing proximity to hot tea and Gmail

Money Changes Everything

2008-10-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

This isn't generally a political blog, but I just have to say one thing. Barack Obama is going to be the next president of the United States, and here's how I know.

My drive to work takes me through the very well-heeled suburbs of Memphis, where the rich folks with no silly idealistic notions about giving back to the city have ensconced themselves behind ornamental wrought iron. It's an area that, during the last two elections, has demonstrated nothing but support for our current administration. But this year? This year, there's something new out here. It is small but not at all silent. It is the Obama/Biden yard sign, and it is everywhere.

Sure, there are still McCain signs around, but not nearly as many as I'd expect in what's usually a conservative stronghold. I'm not saying Obama will win Tennessee, but the signs point to a shift that I think is nationwide. The fact that there are any Obama signs at all shows that the people you'd think would be okay with the status quo, the people who should be least affected by the literal and figurative climate changes, have had enough. And when the rich people want change, change is going to happen.

Of course, there are also numerous signs supporting John Willingham's ambiguous run for unnamed office, so it may be that the rich people have just gone crazy.

Postscript: I am informed that the area where I work is technically in the city and not the suburbs, but I think that's hooey. Maybe the ZIP code officially belongs to Memphis, but when you're 12 miles from downtown, you aren't In The City anymore. My parents live 12 miles from downtown Minneapolis, and you have to pass through three distinct suburbs to get there. Ridiculously sprawling city boundaries do not an urban area make.

#36

2008-10-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

I can remember the first time I walked into Mothersville and was greeted warmly and ebulliently by the sling-wearing mama behind the counter. In the 5+ years since then, I've had the privilege of getting to know that amazing woman and counting her among my best friends. And so in honor of her birthday, I present:
36 Things I've Learned About Kristy

1. Her atheism does not preclude superstitious gestures at railroad crossings, yellow lights, and lamp posts.
2. She does not wear gold jewelry, ever.
3. She can eat the spiciest foods, but crusty bread is her mouth's kryptonite.
4. She is probably planning something very ambitious right now.
5. Any bristlings toward authority and structure are trumped by the passion she has for her work and her students.
6. If her kids could be safely and happily transplanted for a week, she would be on an outbound international flight within the hour.
7. She is averse to nicknames.
8. She would kick ass at any cooking-based reality program that requires quickly coordinating and preparing a meal for a small army of people.
9. She does not suffer fools gladly, and flakes even less so.
10. She has yenta'd a lasting marriage between the "Simply ..." line of juices and vodka.
11. She is not afraid of confrontation and can disagree without holding a grudge.
12. She is not afraid of anything that can't kill her or her loved ones.
13. She knows way more about Days of Our Lives than you'd expect.
14. Her tendency to think in complete, correct, witty sentences allows her to write her column in about 14 minutes.
15. Her only outward signs of drunkenness are conversational repetition and throwing up.
16. She offers advice humbly, even when she knows something up, down and sideways.
17. She loves giving unexpected gifts.
18. She gains no joy from the suspense of keeping something a surprise.
19. She considers ice cream an acceptable dinner, but sandwiches not.
20. She doesn't like the stereo cranked up.
21. She is quick to apologize.
22. She loves her some Oxford comma.
23. She is highly squeamish about the gastrointestinal functions of humans over age ten.
24. She doesn't want to hear about how that thing causes cancer.
25. She can name nearly every plant, tree or flower she sees.
26. She remembers almost everything.
27. She really, really does not want another dog. Ever. Really.
28. Given the option, her shoes will be off.
29. She can be as deeply absorbed in young adult pop fiction as medieval literature, and vice versa.
30. She protects herself from the evening news and other sources of unnecessary negativity.
31. Her smile can fill an entire room, and the absence of it can suck all the air out.
32. She actually likes break-out groups and will happily volunteer to speak for the team.
33. She finds baking to be too constrictive.
34. Her dedication to her family is immeasurable and unwavering.
35. She is highly skeptical of compliments about her appearance.
36. She is stunning.

Happy Birthday!

Hail To Purple, Hail To White

2008-10-17T13:20:00.000-07:00

My ten-year college reunion weekend begins today. And, as is probably apparent by now, I’m not there.

When I first started getting notices about the reunion, I immediately tossed them aside, thinking “I won’t know anyone, no one will know me, it’s too far to travel for an awkward evening out.” But as the date has approached, I’ve found myself surprisingly nostalgic about Northwestern and wishing, just a little, that I could go back to pay a visit.

I wouldn’t call my college years “typical.” I was a teenage convert to Mormonism, so my religious practice created a wall between me and the normal university experience, be it Big Ten or Top Ten (of which NU was, ahem, both). Although living in a dorm where other residents were observing Ramadan and Passover, it didn’t feel quite as oppressive or bizarre as one might assume. I missed out on some things I think I would have enjoyed, but I also had a good excuse to avoid things that would’ve just annoyed me, too. Regrets, I have a few … but I don’t have a criminal record, so I guess it’s a wash. In all, I really enjoyed the educational experience, I have fond memories of my work experience, and I’ve just accepted the fact that four years is too short a time for me to forge a lasting social experience.

I’ve always thought about reunions being a chance to reconnect with people, which is mostly why I wasn’t originally very interested in attending mine. I’m sure I had a lot of great classmates, but I didn’t take the opportunity to know very many of them. The few names that do spring to mind when I think about my years at Northwestern are mostly people that I worked with or went to church with, and most of them weren’t in my actual graduating class anyway. And the ones that were - well, that's what Facebook is for, right?

But as I’ve been bombarded by e-mails and glossy brochures about the reunion, I’ve also realized that there’s a reason that reunions and homecoming are always linked. That school was my home for four years, a home I entered, essentially alone, at 17-years-old. I was lucky to have my sister on the other side of campus my first year, but she was the only family within 400 miles. Other than the seven members of my high school class who also ventured to Evanston, the remaining 7000 or so faces were unfamiliar.

Within months, however, the campus and town were as known to me as anywhere I’d ever lived. Living on foot brought every detail closer, and I knew the streets and shortcuts better than the city I’d just left with a year-old driver’s license. It’s a beautiful campus and was, at the time, a quiet, charming, lakeshore town (an inexplicable hunger for condos and chain stores has apparently hit the town planners in recent years). Even in the times that I didn’t feel completely at ease with my place in the student body, I felt comfortable in my surroundings.

During every change of season, I think about how it felt to walk to class – in the crisp, riotously-colored fall with the smell of drying leaves thick as smoke; in the frigid, lake-blown winter when trying to move faster only increased the burn in your ears and the likelihood of falling on the ever-icy sidewalk between south campus and Tech; in the soft, spongy spring with crocuses trying desperately to push through the slushy mud.

I wouldn’t say the 21-year-old who fought to stay awake during Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s commencement address was a fully formed adult, but I did grow up at Northwestern. I learned how to navigate public transportation, order Mongolian barbecue, and manage a staff of highly unpredictable music majors. I worked very, very hard and earned a degree that has opened doors to me ever since. As a writer, having Northwestern on my resume has attracted attention I wouldn’t have otherwise received. I didn’t have the rowdy, reckless, best-years-of-my-life kind of college experience people usually celebrate at their reunions, but it was a good time, a meaningful time, and a time I will never forget.

No Sleep Til Brooklyn

2008-10-14T07:06:00.000-07:00

Hey, Mr. Baby? I ran across this Wikipedia entry I thought you might be interested in. I'd read it to you, but a week of stocking your all-night milk buffet has rendered me unable to move my eyes in a steady fashion, let alone comprehend the finer points of Internet medical research.

Sleep Deprivation
Generally, lack of sleep may result in:
* aching muscles
* blurred vision
* clinical depression
* colorblindness
* daytime drowsiness and naps, excessive daytime sleepiness (EDS)
* loss of apetite
* decreased mental activity and concentration
* depersonalization/derealization
* weakened immune system
* dizziness
* dark circles under the eyes
* fainting
* general confusion
* hallucinations (visual and auditory)
* hand tremors
* headache
* hyperactivity
* hypertension
* impatience
* irritability
* lucid dreaming (once sleep resumes)
* memory lapses or loss
* nausea
* nystagmus (rapid involuntary rhythmic eye movement)
* psychosis-like symptoms
* sleep paralysis (while awake)
* pallor
* constipation
* slowed reaction time
* slurred and/or nonsensical speech
* sore throat
* stuffy nose
* weight loss or gain
* severe yawning
* delirium
* symptoms similar to alcoholic intoxication

I'm Taking What They're Giving

2008-10-09T07:17:00.000-07:00

Facebook status messages that would appear on my profile if I stayed logged in throughout my workday (instead of just at lunch. And breaks. Don’t you judge me!):

SAM has been up for three hours but is just now starting her day.

SAM is waiting patiently for the Earl Grey to make her functional.

SAM is observing the Cubicle Law that says you only say “bless you” to sneezing people in the same aisle.

SAM is plotting a way to make friends with the Recruiting team because they always seem to be having a good time and frequently disparage Sarah Palin.

SAM is going to Lisa’s Lunchbox. (Der.)

SAM is pleased to discover that “Ice Breakers Pomegranate Lemon-Aid Mints” contain no actual mint.

SAM is frustrated that the only items recycled by her office are soda can pull tabs.

SAM is probably not impressing anyone by sitting with her foot under her, but it’s the only way to make a rolling desk chair agree with the after-effects of two back labors.

SAM is on her 3:30 tiny vanilla crème cookie break.

SAM is attempting to ignore her neighbor’s 3:35 Afrin-spray break.

SAM is putting her tattoo-covering cardigan on before meeting with upper management.

SAM is very, very sleepy.

SAM feels guilty about leaving at 4:45 to get her baby, even though she gets here before everyone else.

SAM can't remember where she parked. Again.

On Guard

2008-10-08T08:27:00.000-07:00

My morning commute takes me to or near five schools, and I can’t help but observe the various forms in which crossing guards appear. And now so can you. Lucky!

The City K-8: Miss M’s school has two guards working the busy intersection during rush hour. I think of them as Good Cop and Crazy Cop. Crazy Cop is the first person we encounter in the mornings and I can hear her whistle thweeting from three blocks away, along with her distinctive Macy Gray voice. She chats up everyone at the corner, whether they understand her random observations or not. Her partner, Good Cop, is less social, but has a friendly, calm presence and always goes out of her way to help me and Mr. Baby across the street even when there aren’t any schoolkids going our way. These two must have one of the toughest guard gigs in the city, but they handle it smoothly, even when dealing with the idiots who try to dump their kids out of their minivans in the middle of Memphis morning traffic.

The City Junior High: I guess older kids don’t need as much direction, or this school just has the laziest crossing guard ever. She sits in her car until a sufficient number of kids has gathered, and then she sloooowly pulls her Stop sign out of the trunk and saunters into the intersection. Most of the kids are already across by the time she’s in place.

The City Parochial School: I very rarely see any children needing help to get through this fairly quiet corner, but when they do, they are greeted by Dorothy Dandridge in an orange vest. Maybe it’s the sun pouring directly into my eyes as I drive east, but there’s something strangely angelic about this guard. I never notice her entering the intersection until she’s in the middle of it. It’s like she floats.

The Suburban Boys School: The only male crossing guard I encounter is an energetic presence who actually deals more with vehicle traffic than pedestrians. His job seems mostly to be about making sure Escalades get in and out of the parking lot safely. To counter this anti-social assignment, perhaps, he smiles and waves and says good morning to drivers once he releases them from his forced stop.

The Suburban Elementary: This crossing guard is so listless and schlumpy and seemingly useless that it almost makes me want to hit her with my car just to see the expression – any expression – on her face. She never uses her whistle or gives cars any warning; she just ambles out into the street in a way that makes me think she could be leaving a trail of slime behind her, limply holds up her Stop sign for the shortest period possible, and then shuffles back to the sidewalk. There are no traffic lights in the area, so you’d think she’d put a little more effort into keeping speeding vehicles at bay, but I guess that would get in the way of her crippling apathy.

Behind Blue Eyes

2008-10-01T14:40:00.000-07:00

Miss M has been making regular visits to Dr. Fred since she was just over two years old. We’d noticed that her left eye didn’t always seem in alignment with her right, and even though we could never get that phenomenon to recur in a doctor’s office, our family practitioner referred us to a pediatric ophthalmologist. Dr. Fred couldn’t get her eye to drift on cue, either, but he said one of the most logical and reassuring things a doctor can say: “You’re the mother, so you know better than anyone.” He had us come back in six months, and at that point, Miss M’s occasionally lazy eye was threatening to become downright slothful. The vision in that eye had weakened and the muscle control was dramatically worse (contrary to what you’d expect, strabismus is actually caused by a muscle pulling too tightly rather than the opposite). So at that point, we began a treatment plan that involved patching her good eye to strengthen her weaker one, with the routine ranging from two to eight hours a day. Things would be better for awhile, and then when we’d ease off the patching, they’d worsen again. After two years of this, including a month of having Miss M spend every waking hour with one eye covered only to have the dramatic improvement begin to regress six months later, we decided that the only permanent solution was surgery. It wasn’t easy to send a four-year-old under the knife, but knowing we’d ended our battles over The Patch made things a little easier.

That surgery was a year ago, and every follow-up visit since then has shown that it was a great success. So when Miss M had a regular check-up with Dr. Fred this week, I figured it would just be a routine visit. It was a total surprise, then, when the appointment ended with a prescription for glasses and … siiiiiiiiigh … four hours a day of patching. Turns out that left eye just hasn’t completely gotten with the program, and to keep it from returning to its old wandering ways, it needs to be both corrected (what the glasses are for) and strengthened (what the patch is for).

After determining that I wouldn’t let her get the thick, dark blue, cats-eye frames that made her look like a tiny Mad Men extra, Miss M lost all interest in the prospect of getting a new facial accessory. She hated everything she tried on, she hated me for putting them on her, and she hated that she had to have them in the first place. And that’s the treatment option that doesn’t involve adhering a giant Band-Aid to her eyelid. Oh, this is going to be fun.

I have to admit, though, that my feelings about having a glasses-wearing daughter are mixed. Part of me – the part that donned specs at age 9 – is crushed by the awareness that there is a social stigma involved. It’s an outward sign of physical weakness and a dividing line drawn between her and her peers. She’s already noticed that no one else in her class wears them, and whether or not 5-year-old understand why, there’s always an assumption that someone with problem eyes has other physical shortcomings. The kid in glasses – and especially the girl in glasses - never gets picked first for the kickball team. I feel that my adult self is still very largely informed by the image of myself that was created during my adolescence, and that image was shaped by the perception that I was quiet, studious and unathletic. By the time I got contacts in high school, it was too late. The mold was set.

On the other hand, as the mother of a preternaturally beautiful daughter, I have to admit that I’m a little relieved that there will be some small barrier between her gorgeousness and the world. It’s nice to think that she may be taken a little more seriously than if her saucer-sized, seafoam eyes were out there unshielded. Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses? Great! More time for homework! (Although the current slathering after Fey/Palin, depending on your leanings, seems to be close to dispelling that myth.)

Mostly, though, I just want her vision to be clear and strong, so if this is what it takes, so be it. How the world sees her isn’t nearly as important as how well she can see the world.

Step Two: There's So Much We Can Do

2008-09-23T20:15:00.001-07:00

And did I mention how well he takes direction?

Last night, after a day spent hurling out a stomach virus, Mr. Baby got up on his dehydrated little legs and took his first independent steps. He actually looked like he'd done it before and sort of seemed embarrassed to have been caught looking so adept at it. And then he refused to do it again.

Another milestone passed at hyper-speed.

Gimme Three Steps

2008-09-20T21:08:00.000-07:00

You're adorable, Mr. Baby. No one's denying that. But next week? You turn fifteen months old. I don't want to, you know, pressure you or anything, but a lot of fifteen-month-olds can walk. Not all of them, of course. But, um ... a lot of them. A majority, I'd say. And the ones who can't tend to have mothers who can't help but wonder if there's some developmental abnormality causing their kid to be on the far side of the normal spectrum, even though that's what the spectrum is for.

I'm trying not to worry, let alone panic. I know you have some amazing physical skills that some pre-schoolers are still mastering. And I know that you inherited my cautiousness; I've never seen a baby so aware of his surroundings and the requirements to travel safely within them. If you put your foot out and don't touch something solid, you stay put. So, I just wanted to let you know, in case it hasn't been proven to you yet, that the ground isn't going anywhere. It's going to be right there every time you reach for it, at least until college. Which I can't promise will be true about my lower back.

The Way We Were

2008-09-19T10:16:00.000-07:00

A while back, I posted about the sense of loss I felt about being so geographically distant from the places I grew up. My Memphis friends rarely see a week go by that they don’t run into an old teacher or fellow Girl Scout or the stoner-turned-Republican from high school. Being a creature of habit and a fan of familiarity, moving as often as I have in my life has been very disruptive in frequent short-term ways, but it’s also created a long-term chasm between my past and present.

And then I found the wormhole through that chasm: Facebook. I knew it was for me the minute I saw it. A social utility? There is not a tool I need more!

I quickly connected with all my local friends, and then plundered the rolls of my high school and college classes. At that point, my Facebook friend list looked pretty much like my current email address book. But then I got to wondering … what would happen if I entered the graduating classes of the schools I would have attended if the twists of my father’s career path hadn’t dragged us across the Midwest and back?

With just a little bit of fibbing, I slid into the virtual hallways of my Michigan non-alma-mater, the high school I’d have eventually reached if I’d stayed in the nascent freaky-gifted program I was in during our one year in the wilds of Plymouth, MI. Thanks to the fact that I still have that class’s attendance roll memorized, I was able to spot the few other survivors; they even had a reunion page running. I also located my former next-door neighbor, a close friend during that year who completely vanished from my radar after I made my first solo plane trip to visit her the summer after 4th grade.

And then I cranked the Way Back Machine all the way to my educational beginnings. I hypothetically joined the graduating class of our Pittsburgh school district, where I lived between the ages of 3-to-8-years-old. I scrolled through a few pages before seeing any familiar names and had almost given up when I stumbled across a former neighbor and frequent playmate. When she responded to my friend request (which included a note in case she didn’t recall the sturdy little blonde girl who moved out of the neighborhood in 1985), she said that whenever she busted out the Strawberry Shortcake dolls with her daughters, it reminded her of playing at my house. I’m still awaiting confirmation from someone who I’m 90% sure was one of my closest childhood friends, which would officially make her my first Facebook classmate ever: we went to pre-school together.

Unlike MySpace, all of the personal pages on Facebook are private by default, so you can’t see anyone’s current information (other than name, possibly location, and sometimes a tiny picture) unless you knock on their virtual door and ask them to let you in. I guess this is where the social part comes in, and it’s the part that’s the most stressful for me. I know exactly whose friendship I requested, and I have a mental list of the people who chose not to offer it. In that way, it’s a little more like high school (and junior high) than I’d like. But for the most part, people are welcoming and friendly and indulgent of my nostalgic basking. It’s not quite the same as running across your old Mathlete teammate at Target, but at least I don’t have to worry about how my hair looks.

One Moment In Time

2008-09-15T07:32:00.001-07:00

After a full week of sleepless, nurse-a-thon nights, Mr. Baby finally had a calm evening, only waking up twice (that I remember) overnight and exhibiting a rare respect for my personal space. And instead of jolting awake at 6:30 and cry-crawling around the house while I try desperately to get the three of us ready in the morning, he slept until it was time to take Miss M to school. And then he gently and happily woke up, smiling and talking while I changed his diaper and put him in warmer clothes for the 57-degree walk to school. He was his usual content, drowsy self during our morning walk, but as I took him back out of the stroller and got ready to drop him into his carseat for the ride to Mama KT’s, I noticed something was different. His body had a weight and concentration. He wasn’t wiggling or trying to look around for the nearest small animal. He was melted into me, his arms around my neck, his autumn-cool cheek against mine.

He was hugging me.

I stood there in the street, the car door open, and hugged him back. I knew he’d cry when I put him down. I knew he’d cry when I dropped him off. I held his soft, sleepy body as long as I could, because I knew that moment of peace and comfort would be the best thing in my day.

I Want To Take You Out To The Fair

2008-09-08T10:43:00.000-07:00

So instead of our usual backyard party, I decided to go all out and take Miss M and her two best buds, C and S, to the Delta Fair for her birthday. I thought this was a brilliant idea, especially since there was a free circus on-site. We'd get in for the nominal admission fee and have a relatively inexpensive day of fun and fair-time frolic. As it turns out, my math was a little off. But fortunately, so was theirs.

The Delta Fair, By The Numbers

Fee for that "plentiful, safe parking" they advertised on the radio: $5.00
Yards parking lot was from fair entrance: 600
Admission for one adult and three five-year-olds: $23
Extra change incorrectly returned: $1
Seats available inside circus tent: 0
Feet we sat from the Globe of Death: 2
Number of hoops The Amazing Pamela hula'd at once: 10
Number of minutes between The Amazing Pamela's hula hoop act and The Amazing Pamela's trapeze act: 1.5
Total number of performers involved in The Vazquez Circus, counting the emcee: 4
Percentage of animals in the Petting Zoo that were not goats: 7
Cost of three small cups of wheat chaff to feed Petting Zoo animals: $3
Seconds it took for C to be robbed of his entire cup of wheat chaff by an especially aggressive goat: 12
Midway ride tickets purchased: 20 for $20
Average price per kiddie ride: 3 tickets
Tickets spared by carnies wrongly assuming we had wristbands: 12
Tickets wasted because Miss M would not ride anything without her mom: 2
Cost of first small Sno Cone: $2
Price paid for first small Sno Cone: $0
Minutes I contemplated going back to pay for Sno Cone after I realized I hadn't been charged for it: 0
Cost of two bottled waters: $6
Degree burn suffered by brushing against white-hot turkey leg booth while purchasing bottled waters: 2nd
Times the children lost the pieces of paper with my cell phone number that I stuck into their socks: 5
Cell phone pictures I took of each child in case we got separated and Missing Child posters were required: 1
Cash remaining in my pocket when I realized I hadn't fed anyone anything other than water and sugared food coloring: $4
Seconds I considered letting C get something out of the vending machine instead of eating fair food: 17
Times S asked to play a midway game: 17
Cost of letting three coordination-impaired children sit down at a midway game: $9
Seconds until all three children lost said midway game: 15
Surprisingly reasonable price for a large order of decent nachos: $3
Food and/or beverage items I bought for children but consumed the majority of: 4
Yards we walked out of our way so I could get a fried Snickers before leaving: 60

You Are My Sunshine

2008-09-05T08:27:00.000-07:00

My Miss M.

Five. Five! A kindergartener. A little girl. Not, in any way, a baby.

But it’s still hard for me to think about your birthday without remembering your actual day of birth, and the exhaustion and exhilaration of that long night’s journey into day. I remember the fear and the thrill, the confusion and the triumph, the pain and the delicious end of it. I remember reaching out to you, taking you out of your bed and pulling you into my own, where you slept in a warm flanneled bundle like you were still part of my own body.

When I see pictures from later in your first months, my memory is fuzzier. It’s harder to recall each stage of your growing up because you are, at any given moment, completely yourself at that exact time. You are so you. I admire and cherish your presence, the openness of your heart and the certainty of your perspective. Even when that certainty openly conflicts with reality or my own preferences, I respect that you are strong-minded and confident. I couldn’t ask for better qualities in a daughter, especially when they are joined with your sense of fairness and empathy. Senses that sometimes manifest in unpredictable ways these days, but that I know will be refined and strengthened as you grow.

Our bond can tense and slack several times within a day, or even within an hour, but I want you to know, today and every day, that I am always holding on to my end. Usually breathlessly, either from trying to keep up with you or just because I’m agog at your beauty and brains, but always tightly.

Happy birthday, my peanut, my dear heart, my best girl. I love you so much.

Welcome To A Special Place

2008-09-01T19:57:00.001-07:00

Well, we made it. Week One of Mr. Baby's official first daycare experience is over, and we all survived intact. And in deep gratitude that we didn't get kicked out after I was 45 minutes late picking him up on his very first day. Of course that would be when the cataclysmic hurricane-leftover rains would flood the entire route between my office and midtown. Not "hm, maybe I should move into the higher lane" flooding, but "holy crap, another police cruiser blocking the road!" flooding. We were so very lucky that Mama KT - the trusted provider for many friends and neighbors - was able to take Mr. Baby in at the very last minute and already I felt like I'd blown her confidence. I know she wouldn't have held me to it, but I sent along a check for the center's dollar-a-minute late fee along with Mr. Baby's application, just because I needed to save some face and try to demonstrate that I wasn't That Mom.

Anyway, back to the baby. He had a great week, really. He only napped about half an hour the first day, but was taking 2+ hour naps by Day 2. (I've thus far resisted the urge to ask how in the heck she made that happen, since he tends to be on a 90-minute timer at home.) Every morning was a heart-breaking, ripped-from-my-arms nightmare scenario, but what with him being my second child (and fundamentally more adaptable than my first), I knew he'd be fine once the door was closed. Mama KT even said I was welcome to circle the block and come peek in the windows to be sure. I like a childcare provider who understands a mother's ~~neuroses~~ needs.

He starts back up again on Tuesday after a long weekend of feverish (in all senses) around-the-clock nursing, with four - count 'em, four - teeth cutting through his gums and two more puffily on the brink. I believe Mama KT's reports that he has a good time during the day, but it's hard when he saves up all his pain and frustration for me. I'm very glad he's happy there, because it makes me feel a little bit better about being so relieved to have a break from the eight different kinds of angry coming out of him lately. I miss my happy baby, but it's nice to know someone else is getting to hang out with him.

It's A Rich Man's Game

2008-08-24T21:04:00.000-07:00

Until I get time to post about the merciful solution to my childcare disaster, I present ...

Things I Want In My Cubicle: Part 1

Decals for the beige cabinets:

Pretty wall hook to compensate for not having a cube-closet anymore:

Twin Peaks-esque lighting: