Hail To Purple, Hail To White

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:

Up All Night

My poor baby.

After the childcare plan collapse, I’ve been scrambling to find someplace for Mr. Baby to go every day. And I mean both that I’ve been scrambling for daily coverage and that the scramble happens anew every single day. This week, it’s been rare for me to know before 3pm where he’s going to be the next day. Fortunately, the only store-related credit I have remaining is with my former playgroup regulars, and St. Laura of Velasco has very kindly and lovingly taken up way more than a reasonable amount of slack as I flail about desperately trying to find a long-term solution to our babysitting needs.

In the meantime, my pleasant, easy-going baby is starting to show signs of cooperation fatigue. Our usually seamless morning drop-offs have become dramatic and teary, especially when those drop-offs involve leaving him with a total stranger in a totally strange, though fully licensed, location. I’ve had to return to the days of eating cold dinners, since nothing but me picking him up will calm his meal-time fits of separation anxiety. And our nights have regressed, with him up and nursing frequently, refusing to fall asleep without touching some part of me, flopping his half-awake body toward me and resting his head on my stomach, using me as a source of physical comfort in a way unseen since his newborn weeks.

And yes, okay, I realize that four days of somewhat unpredictable but generally familiar care isn’t going to cause permanent damage and it probably doesn’t explain every recent change in his behavior (there are pretty solid hints that he’s got more teeth coming in, plus he’s about three hours away from walking), but my guilt and stress and fear over not having the childcare issue resolved feeds into my every perception about his well-being. I just won’t feel like he’s okay until I find a place for him to be okay.

In the meantime, Miss M is taking kindergarten by storm, marching into her classroom every morning with barely a glance back in my direction. We’re struggling a little in the off-hours, as the early mornings and time-restricted lunches catch up with her, but she’s doing great while she’s there and I don’t have to think about it every minute of the day, so that’s the best I could hope for right now.

I'm So Far Out To Lunch

"So, how's the job going?"

Well, since you asked ...

The job is good. It's an adjustment to go from the autonomy of self-employment, but that adjustment is greatly eased by the check slipped into my top desk drawer every other week. My assignments are interesting and challenging and I get really useful and positive feedback on a regular basis, which can't always be said for either retail or motherhood. My team is very friendly and generous, and although we all seem to take an interest in each other's lives, we just haven't forged a personal connection - they noticed my tattoo, but not my new haircut. And the rest of the company is ... well, I can't really say. Not because it's bad, just because I don't really know anyone outside of the three other people in my department. Those other people seem nice, when they're talking to each other in the breakroom or having work-stalling conversations over the cube walls, but I tend to feel invisible when I'm moving in their midst. I know this is partly because a) I'm conversationally stunted and will never take the opportunity to jump into a discussion uninvited, even when the women down the row are saying that breastfeeding makes babies spoiled, and b) about 25% of our division has been hired in the last quarter and so there are a whole lot of newbies walking around. And then just to complicate social matters, my team was moved down a floor last week, so those people whose shoes I was just about to get brave enough to compliment are now an even more gaping distance away.

Some people would solve this issue by putting on a brave new-kid face and charging in, confident that their charms would win out. But I've been the new kid so many times that my instinct is to lay low and hope my greenness doesn't expose me to scorn or ridicule. And just like elementary school, the biggest struggle of the day is deciding where to eat. Since the idea of sitting alone and eating lunch in the breakroom turned my stomach, I did a quick Google Map search of the area and found a restaurant within walking distance from my office. "Restaurant" might be stretching it a bit, really, but tucked inside an office building in the Ridgeway Loop, with no outdoor signage or any indication that it's there (oh, I already loved its humility), is Lisa's Lunchbox.

When I walked in the first day, Lauren at the counter took my name as well as my order. Which seemed like a fairly standard, Starbucksy thing to do, but then I noticed that she was greeting everyone who came in by name. I got a pre-boxed turkey and swiss special for five bucks (home-made chess bar and chips included) and took it back to my cubicle. The chess bar alone brought me back the next day, and when I got to the front of the line, Lauren said, "It's SAM, right?" Why, yes, it is.

The food is great (I'm deeply fond of the ham and swiss panini, which they serve with a side of ranch dressing for dippin'), but what really draws me back (multiple times a week) is the atmosphere. Not the brightly lit, styrofoam cup ambiance, but the actual tone of the place. I sit alone reading a book, but I don't ever feel like I'm by myself. I listen to the gossip behind the counter and follow the conversations with other customers. I hear Lisa talking about the challenges of small business ownership and I feel like part of the same club. These t-shirt-clad thirtysomething women (Lisa and Lauren are joined by Laura - oh, the alliteration alone delights my writing heart) seem more like my people than the other business casual corporate types sitting around me.

If you come out east to have lunch with me, know that I will suggest Lisa's. And if you're anywhere near Ridegway without me, seek it out yourself. And then go back again, because the trip's even more worthwhile when the minute you walk in, they say, "Hey, cute haircut!"

Starfish And Coffee

There was so much build-up to Miss M’s first day of school that the actual event was fairly … well, anti-climactic, really. After worrying all summer and barely being able to sleep the night before (good thing I was up when the alarm went off at 5:30, because some tiny prankster with an affection for buttons and surprisingly distant reach had turned the volume aaaaall the way down), rushing around that morning getting supplies in order and barking last-minute commands to brush teeth and hair, the point of all the fuss was almost completely lost. Not that it wasn’t exciting to see her all dressed in her uniform, her new Hello Kitty backpack bumping the back of her knees as she walked up to school, but once we got through the throng of children anxiously bustling toward their various destinations, the drop-off was pretty easy. I’m sure it helped that we’d just been at the school for an orientation and tour, and that she saw familiar faces (human and canine) on the way in, and that Miss M had met her teacher and was immediately greeted by name, and especially that Connor was in the very same class in the very same room on the very same day. I’m sure it also helped that she’s been in a happy school environment for the last two and a half years, so even though this was a big new step, the idea of being away from her folks all day isn’t a huge source of trauma.

When I asked her about her day, I fully expected a contrary response, but instead she reported that it was “very, very good.” She said that she colored and did tests (“I got three wrong but about a hundred right.”) and played outside and allegedly watched a movie, although I’m not sure about that part. She made some claim about no one wanting to play with her during recess, which crushed my heart under the weight of playground rejection memories, but since she has a tendency to fabricate instances of suffering and victimization, I’m not immediately concerning myself with that issue. Especially since I can’t imagine that Connor left her sight.

Since they stagger kindergarten entry, yesterday was her only day of school this week, which gives both of us a chance to recoup and prepare for the new shift in routine. And double-check that Mr. Baby hasn’t changed the clock radio levels again.

One Year Ago

Thinking of Scott today.

Feels Like Home To Me

So about the time most of my extended family was gearing up to attend the annual Corn Capital Days street dance, I was listening to rockabilly in a Memphis tattoo parlor, having a symbol of my ancestral homeland stabbed into my skin.

I walked into the shop ten minutes early for my appointment (again), and I saw that my new design was already sitting up on the counter. And it ... wasn't what I expected (again). But this time, I paused. JS could tell I was not sure about it, and he graciously offered to come in on his day off if I wasn't happy. But the more I looked at it, the happier I was. It wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind, but it was really, really pretty, even just as a sketch on tracing paper. It captured the rosemaling detail (that my initial choice of artist said was "untattooable") so perfectly, and although the star shape wasn't as prominent as I'd envisioned, he'd modified my original idea to allow as much space for the pretty stuff without causing the design to wrap all the way around my arm. And as he stood patiently waiting for me to reject him again, I said, "Let's do it."

I then sat in the front waiting for JS to prep his station and for the sorority girls to get out of the bathroom for two damn minutes already. I was still debating whether or not to enact my emergency anti-anxiety plan when JS stepped out and said he was all set. So before you could say half-a-Xanax, I was whisked off to the back of the shop, trying not to shake visibly while JS ran the disposable Gillette over my forearm.

He'd reduced the original design by 75%, but when he pressed the stencil onto me, it still covered nearly the entire visible diameter of my lower arm. I hadn't really grasped until that moment that the part of your arm that shows when your elbow is bent is not the same part that shows when it's relaxed at your side. But the placement looked good and the size was just right, so I gave the thumbs up and climbed up onto the table, which suddenly reminded me more of a lethal injection restraint than a massage table.

And then, reminding myself that I'd delivered two babies without any pain relief, I offered up my arm and immediately began the same breathing technique I used through my labors. JS fired up the needle and got right to it.

The first sensation was strongly reminiscent of getting blood drawn, especially since it was right over my strongest vein. I tried to let go of that thought, though, and associate the constant buzzing with an insect flying near me or, better yet, a hummingbird. This, combined with much-appreciated conversational distraction, helped to keep the pain and anxiety factors down. Really, the most disconcerting thing about the first hour of work was having my hand fall so thoroughly asleep that I wasn't even able to identify where my fingers were. Because, of course, I wasn't looking at my arm. Oh, no no no. I've always been in the habit of averting my eyes when there's a needle being stuck into me, and this didn't seem like the time to break it. So I just had faith that things were progressing well and didn't take a peek at how it looked until we took our first break.

At that point, just the outline was done, but it already looked pretty great. I was trying to visualize how the color would work - both what it would look like and how it would feel to fill in all that space. Part of the reason I'd picked JS to do the work was because I really liked his use of color in the portfolio samples I'd seen, so I was pretty much just relying on his instincts to bring out the Nordic feel. The plan was to go with dark, drab colors with brighter highlights, but beyond that, I just left it up to him.

We got back to work, and the minutes started moving a little bit more slowly. I wasn't in pain, per se, but the aggravation of the constant poking, repeated wiping, and incessant watchful glare of the heroin-shooting goat in the Stryper t-shirt (featured in the painting directly in my line of sight) started to get to me. I made it pretty smoothly through the first hour and a quarter, but the last fifteen minutes were not much fun at all. It started to sting, not just where the needle was jabbing but across the entire area. Every time JS wiped away ink and A&D ointment, it felt like a dry washcloth across sunburn. But in the grand scheme of physical discomfort, it was pretty low in both duration and geographical involvement. Just when I was starting to think I'd rather not do this much longer, it was over. I sat up and took a good, long look.

My goal, over the last year and a half of tattoo planning, was to end up with a design that was both meaningful and inspiring, something that reminded me of where I've come from and would be something I'd want to look at every day in the future. And now, finally, there it was.

It was beautiful. It was home.

I was absolutely amazed by it. Looking at it felt like glimpsing a part of my body in a mirror that I'd never been able to see before - surprisingly unfamiliar but still me. It was lovely in its own right, but it also referenced the original art and concept so perfectly. That sounds a little arrogant, considering it's attached to me, but I can't take the credit. JS did a fantastic job. And he seemed pretty proud of it himself, along with grateful for the change of pace from Celtic tramp stamps.

And so, without further ado ... l'etoile du nord.





Thanks, Team, for helping me through it. And sorry, Dad.

I've Done Everything For You

Gaaaaaaah!

I was stymied, once again, in my Great Tattoo Quest by yet another tattooer with more talent than time management skills. I'm allegedly all set for Saturday, but the requests for pictures are already coming in, so I hope a few more shots of our beach cuteness will appease the masses ...

The Taste Of Ink

bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Hear that?

bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I think it's getting closer.

BZZZzzzzZZZZZzzzz

It's ... it's almost on me!

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Stay tuned ...

Back To Life, Back To Reality

Hey, here I am!

And just where have I been? Well, work, mostly. It seems that full-time corporate employment can really cut into your blogging (well, not for everyone). By the time I'm home and the kids are fed and bathed and bedded down for the night, I have about a 19-minute window before I collapse, and those 19 minutes are usually reserved for the news (aka Comedy Central between 10-11pm). Work is good and interesting and validating and I found a really good lunch place within walking distance of my office, but I'm still trying to figure out the whole balance thing. Mainly, how to balance the dozen boxes of Mothersville files and receipts and other stuff I didn't put into storage so that they don't collapse in an avalanche of thermal paper.

Of course, nearly two weeks of cubicle life can really drain a girl, so after 8.5 days of hard labor, I high-tailed it to the beach with the usual crew. Miss M and Mr. Baby had a fabulous time and I set a new personal record for amount of sand tolerated in my vicinity.

But now we're back, and the boxes are still here, and I've got 51.5 more days until I qualify for paid time off, so if anyone needs me, leave a message with Mr. Colbert.

Hope This Very Special Day Brings You Lots Of Joy

It's been quite a year, Mr. Baby.

Thankfully, the difficulty, intensity and pain you used to enter this world was not foreshadowing. There has been an ease and joy and familiarity to you since the very beginning. After we got through those first few days of constant, wary brow-furrowing at everything you encountered, anyway.

We've been through a lot since then, but you have remained the happiest, friendliest, baby-est baby I've ever seen. Even in your darkest mood, even in your greatest pain, you are rarely more than ten seconds from a smile. You've endured every change and transition with the same calm demeanor, which I try to tell myself is just a naturally unflappable temperament and not early signs of Nordic repression.

You are so open to the world it both buoys and breaks my heart. As your mother, I worry that your agreeable nature will someday lead you to be taken advantage of, but I also relish the fact that you may grow into a socially confident child and adult, which would be a pretty new phenomenon, genetically speaking. You already bring so much light to me and the people around you. I can feel the tension around me lift when I'm, say, standing in line at the grocery and the other customers catch your attention. Your eager smile and twinkling eyes seem to ensnare and soothe anyone within sight of you. Everyone who sees you thinks you're taken with them and that your delight is specifically directed, and I don't ever try to correct this impression. I don't want to diffuse the natural joy you bring to everyone you meet.

As a second child myself, I know I've already fallen behind in documenting your milestones and developmental highlights. But as the mother of two, I've also learned that the day you started crawling isn't as important as the memory of your tiny fingers unconsciously reaching for me in the middle of the night or the achingly soft dent on the back of your neck. Your first year has sped by so much more quickly than your sister's, and knowing this, I've clung more tightly to your babyhood rather than spending hours on end wishing it would please go faster.

Things are about to change in a very drastic way. We've spent every day of your life together up to this point, and now your days will be filled without me. I'm not sure I can accurately explain how painful that fact is to me, but "surgery without anesthesia" is the closest description I can muster. But I also know I'm lucky. Nearly every mother who comes into my store says how nice it must be to have my baby at work with me, and I know nothing can replace the time that we've been able to have together. I'm going to miss you madly, but it's some consolation knowing that's because of the bond we've formed over the last twelve months.

You're an amazing little man, Mr. Baby. You are strong and curious and quick to laugh. You are thoughtful and cautious and easily offended. You love to eat. You love to play outside. You love to eat what you find outside. You love nearly anyone, especially kids and babies. You don't like dogs and cats as much as you used to (sorry about letting you watch both the critters die). You haven't taken a step but you can climb all the way up a slide or rock wall or flight of stairs. You sleep on your belly with your butt in the air, the way Cha Cha says I used to do. Your sister absolutely thrills you. You say mama and dada and bye bye and, I think, car. Or cat. Or keys? You point and clap and mimic like a little blond monkey. You are, quite simply, delightful.

I wish I could promise to protect you from every struggle ahead, but that's not realistic. What I can promise is that you will have so much love surrounding you that that the falls will always be softened. I believe in you already, in the gifts you have to offer, and I can't wait to see them opened to the world.

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

Playin' With The Boys

photos by the newly Nikon-ed RJA

Planet Earth In The Palm Of Your Hand

Being a natural introvert, my favorite thing about journalistic writing is the interesting people I get an excuse to meet and talk with. I was a little sad when my interview time with Sarah Terry was over because it was such a pleasure getting to know her. I hope y'all will feel the same if you read my story on Sarah's eco-conscious household. I also make regular stops by her blog to see what amazing craftiness she's up to lately.

Fathers, Be Good To Your Daughters

The phrase "Just wait until your father gets home!" was never uttered in my household while my sister and I were children. And although this was partly because my mom was the Chief Disciplinary Officer in our home, it was also because there was not a one of us who believed that my dad would ever handle a situation with anger or even the most vague threat of violence. I can't ever remember a day of my life, in childhood or beyond, that I have been afraid of how my father would react to a given circumstance. A little dread at possibly disappointing him, sure, but never fear that I could lose his love or even his patience.

Which is not to say that my dad is a pushover or a milquetoasty man. For reasons I never understood, his demeanor seemed to intimidate most of my young friends, and he still makes most babies and children a little bit wary. I suspect that's because he treats everyone the same, whether they're fifty or five. He is calm, reserved, patient and a bit smart-alecky, which plays pretty well with grown-ups but can be a little weird to kids who are used to everyone playing big and goofy with them. But that temperament was a perfect fit to mine as a girl, when I was easily overwhelmed by loud noises and overt emotions. That's his genetic legacy to me just as surely as the dome nose, anxiety-prone digestive system and love of Fats Domino.

I hear a lot of mothers comment on the difference they see in how their fathers act around their grandchildren in comparison to how they remember being treated growing up. But when I see my dad around my children and my niece, the most frequent sensation I feel is nostalgia. With these little ones, and especially his granddaughters, he is the same quietly strong, loving force that held up my sister's first two-wheeler and optimistically coached my dismal basketball team. They also get the same half-octave-deeper, half-step-slower Dad Voice if they flagrantly disobey. (My sister can expertly mimic the exact tone of his one stern word: "Girrrls.") And they can bask in the same knowledge that, whatever they do, he will treat them with kindness, fairness and respect. And I hope that, like his daughters, his granddaughters will carry that expectation through their lives, with him and every man they meet.

Happy Father's Day, Pops. I love you.


Pops and "Scooter"


Pops and "Wildcat"


Pops and "Jack"

I Have Tried, In My Way, To Be Free

There has been a lot going on at SAM headquarters lately, and one of the biggest chunks of mental real estate has been occupied by my career options. As all nine of you know, I currently own and operate a small retail endeavor that has been striving to keep its head above water for the last five years now. When I took it on, a bit over three years ago, I had a lot of big ideas about what could be done to build on the mission and plans of its devoted founder. But as the years have gone on and life has brought its own variables into the mix, I've come up against some of the same challenges that moved Kristy to leave for the more stable, predictable and benefits-providing world of secure employment. In many ways, things look a lot like they did a year and a half ago when I first attempted to sell the place. There's so much I want to do with the store, so many things that I think could really help it succeed in both financial and community-oriented ways, but I still don't have the time, energy or resources to make those things happen.

And so, in the last month or two, I've been looking more seriously at job openings. In nearly five years of hunting, I've never had much luck finding anything in the Memphis area that could make any use at all of my specific skills (mainly: Googling and smartassery). But then, suddenly, I was practically swimming in them. And more useful yet, the resumes I was sending out were actually getting into the hands of real people. Real people who were calling and emailing me to set up interviews. I had more interviews in the last month than I did leading up to my college graduation (yet wore the same suits for all of them). And perhaps because I didn't have that desperate, earnest fervor of a near-graduate, they went a lot better. I was actually getting second interviews. I thought those were purely mythical!

Somewhere in the back of my head, I was aligning the fact that I had somewhat impulsively given 60-days notice to my store landlord with the sudden emergence of all these other job opportunities, but I hadn't consciously figured out how I was going to handle what happened next with the business. And as the weeks passed and the move-out date drew nearer, I was so embroiled in corporate psychological analysis and mock projects that I couldn't focus on how the store could be kept open. Plus, the self-doubting part of me always assumed the other opportunities would fall through and I'd have enough time to scramble together my next plan before my lease was up.

So imagine my surprise when, in the course of one week, I had two interviews (one a second) that both seemed very promising. And then, wedged in the middle of those, a call from a local ... let's say post-natal services provider who had heard the store may be closing and wanted to discuss the possibility of partnering to create a new type of resource center (keeping it a bit vague for now to protect her identity as well as her idea). And so that, combined with the increasingly serious discussions we've had about joining forces and realty with the midwives, made the possibility of an amazing new version of Mothersville seem very doable and very exciting.

So there I was, with two very strong, feasible job opportunities in front of me, as well as a brand-new and seemingly more profitable avenue for the store. There were intense pros and equally vivid cons with every situation. When I thought about taking one path over the others, I was continually pulled back by the alternatives. I can't remember ever being so torn about a decision. I couldn't sleep, I lost my appetite, my every waking thought was focused on determining the best choice for me and my family. It took up most of every conversation I had during that time, including my therapy session. My therapist said the answer would present itself. She's not usually one for platitudes, so I tried to believe her.

And then it happened. There wasn't a dramatic parting of clouds or a chorus of angels, but the fog of conflicting inner voices started to lift a little. As I envisioned every possible scenario, I kept coming back to the one that offered an opportunity to use my degree and strongest skills, and was willing to give me good money and benefits for it. Working in education was appealing, as was the flexibility of the schedule, but I knew it couldn't sustain me on its own. I'd have to count on a certain amount of freelance work, which is an oxymoronic situation. Sticking it out with the store felt good to my heart, but my head and gut said nuh-uh. My head even clarified a bit by saying, "You've done everything you can. You've run yourself ragged trying to make life easier for a lot of other moms. It's time to make your own life easier." (Always less profound, my gut just said, "Hey, does this look like an ulcer to you?")

I stayed up until nearly midnight on Sunday night working on the next phase of the education job's hiring process, just to be safe. And then the next morning, I got a call from the staffing manager at the company I'd been leaning toward.

And ... I let it go to voicemail.

I still wasn't quite ready. If you've read Slam (as 70% of you have, based on your GoodReads profiles), you may recall the part where Sam throws his mobile into the sea so as to wait just a little bit longer before finding out that his teen-age girlfriend is pregnant. Just to have one more day before his whole life changes. And that's what I needed to do. Although instead of throwing my cell phone into the ocean, I threw myself into a YMCA pool and spent the afternoon bobbing around with Mr. Baby. Enjoying the Monday off, enjoying the time with him, and making peace with the idea that our regular Mondays off were about to come to a close. We dried off, got dressed and I called the recruiter back. A voicemail/callback later, and I had an official job offer.

The feeling after I hung up was complicated. Excitement, fear, anxiety, pride. Overwhelmed by both the positive and negative aspects of the situation. I called my parents almost immediately, and hearing their enthusiastic response helped to tip the scales a little, just as long as I didn't watch Mr. Baby hyper-crawling around with a giant smile on his face and a thought bubble over his head saying, "Really? You're going to leave this all day?" But that's a weepy post for another time.

Point is, I made the decision. I have a job. I'm going back into the full-time, corporate work force. As, of all things, a professional writer. And I am, for the most part, very excited and optimistic about it. The to-do list that's now trailing away from my body and out the door behind me? Still a bit daunting. But the big, dark tunnel I've been stumbling my way through now has a fairly large circle of sunlight dead ahead. Shining, unexpectedly, from the east side of Poplar Ave.

Hundalasiliah!

I was just going to do a straight-forward Top 50, but a) that's a nearly impossible task in light of 30+ years of recording, and b) I can't resist an opportunity for at least a little exposition. And so, in honor of Mr. Nelson's 50th birthday, I present
Ten Top Fives About Prince Songs!

I. Five Partyingest Songs
5. Trust
4. D.M.S.R.
3. 1999
2. Housequake
1. Let's Go Crazy

II. Five Least Embarrassing Political and/or Spiritual Songs
5. Planet Earth
4. The Cross
3. 4 The Tears In Your Eyes
2. Pop Life
1. Sign O' The Times

III. Five Filthiest Songs (Darling Nikki barely makes the Top Ten, Mrs. Gore)
5. 319
4. Head
3. Sexy M.F.
2. Erotic City
1. Come

IV. Five Loveliest Songs
5. I Wish U Heaven
4. Still Would Stand All Time
3. Take Me With U
2. The Arms of Orion
1. Forever In My Life

V. Five Least Justifiably Popular Songs
5. Batdance
4. Diamonds and Pearls
3. The Most Beautiful Girl In The World
2. Cream ("Sh-boogie-bop?" Seriously?)
1. U Got The Look

VI. Five Saddest Songs
5. Condition Of The Heart
4. When U Were Mine
3. Purple Rain
2. Nothing Compares 2 U
1. Sometimes It Snows In April

VII. Five Kid-Friendliest Songs
5. Uh ...
4. Hm ...
3. Er ...
2. Um ...
1. Starfish and Coffee!

VIII. Five Sexiest Songs
5. When 2 R In Love
4. Superfunkycalifragisexy
3. Hot Thing
2. Anotherloverholenyohead
1. Adore

IX. Five Funniest Songs
5. Vicki Waiting (there's an entire joke!)
4. Glam Slam '91
3. Mr. Goodnight
2. Alphabet St.
1. Bob George

X. Five Songs I Cannot Control The Urge To Sing Along To, Down To Every Exclamatory Noise, Not Already Mentioned Above
5. Raspberry Beret
4. The 1 U Wanna C
3. Little Red Corvette
2. I Would Die 4 U/Baby I'm A Star (required to be played in succession)
1. I Could Never Take The Place Of Your Man

Happy birthday to a hometown hero and permanent musical companion. Every stage of my life has had Prince on the soundtrack.



The astute observer will notice that there are a number of albums not represented on this list. That's because those albums are either shamefully forgettable and/or were released during the post-Crystal Ball period when Prince and I were not on speaking terms. We worked it out, though.

I Come Back To The Place You Are

More commute-time radio musings ...

As I was heading in to work this morning, I caught the second half of "In Your Eyes," which is universally accepted as one of the best pop songs, ever (I'm not going to have any arguments from the Peanut Gallery, do you hear me, people?). Which got me to thinking about my own favorite songs, ever. And just as I started compiling it in my head, KT Tunstall's "Black Horse and a Cherry Tree" came on, and man, I love that song. Which made me realize that a list of my favorite songs, ever, would be really, really hard to create. I'd have to divide it by decade and sub-category and go all Rob Fleming about it to be truly accurate.

So I thought it might be easier to list my favorite albums ever; collections that were, back to front, completely pleasing to me. And I'd limit it to records I actually own or owned, just to narrow the field, because otherwise there'd be no hope of ever finishing this exercise. I mentally flipped through my parents' reel to reel tapes and our Columbia House vinyl selections, the cassette tapes I bought with my minimum wages in high school, and the CDs that first crossed my path in college and haven't released their hold on me yet, despite the onslaught of medium-less media. I made it to about 1983 (and the oft-ignored masterpiece of She's So Unusual) before my head started to hurt and I gave up on that idea, too.

But in all this musical contemplation, I began another, more focused list project that will take some time to complete. No more details on that right now, but look for it on, say, June 7th.

High School She Was That Girl

So in a random fit of Googling, I decided to look up the girls I remembered from high school with some degree of intimidation - because they were cooler or richer or artsier or existentialistier or grown-upper than I was at 15. The dark-eyeliners and the danceliners. The people I was too barricaded in my preppy, churchy, college-bound world to get to know, and the people I simply didn't care to. And the exercise was fascinating - sometimes surprising, sometimes totally validating. I discovered that the mysterious, insular girl who took the edgy photos of the artsy kids for the senior yearbook is now doing marketing and design for big corporate clients. I saw that the smart, sporty girl I always felt meek and mousy around had become a 10k-running attorney. And I learned that the girl I considered, rightfully or not, to have the worst "reputation" in our high school (no link, sorry) is getting her PhD in one of the most respected English Literature programs in the country.

Whether these girls turned out the way I expected them to or not, it was an eye-opening exercise, because whoever they became, they looked a lot like the women I know and value in my life today. It made me wish I could go back in time and get their future email addresses, just so I could write them now and say, "Hey, glad to see you're doing well." Because I am. Whether they were girls I envied or feared, I'm happy to see that my adolescent intimidation foretold the qualities that are contributing to their successes today.

Okay, maybe except for the Trojets.

Hangin' Tough

So I was driving home from work last night thinking, "Where have all the Huey Lewises gone?"

By which I meant, where are the silly pop bands that everyone listens to and secretly enjoys? Where are the grown men willing to wear bright clothing and mug in front of a band doing choreographed dance moves? Why does every single group on the radio (or satellite, whatever), especially those that are male-dominated, take themselves so damn seriously? The closest we seem to get are angsty young men singing about obnoxiously quirky girls with twee, antiquated names, and I've had about enough of all that.

And then I turned on The Today Show this morning and there they were, five adult men in fedoras, open vests and loose ties, footwork flawlessly synched up despite the New York springtime rain pouring down around them. And just as I was heralding this decade's ability to produce the new News, I realized that this blast of bubblegum was actually blowing in from the 90s. Upon closer inspection, I discerned that those five thirty-something guys were very familiar. As familiar, in fact, as my adolescent bedroom wall.

Yes, it was New Kids On The Block. And yes, my (probably former) friends, even though there was no one around to witness it, I'm going to confess that I actually felt a little flush when I recognized each slightly more filled-in face. Because I was, once upon a time, one of Those Girls. Well, maybe not one of Those Girls - I didn't own a pin-covered porkpie or cover my Keds with I <3 NKOTB or anything - but I did enthusiastically attend more than two concerts and I'm pretty sure I remember using my Donnie Wahlberg t-shirt as a pillowcase. I forced my parents to sit through repeated playings of every cassette whenever we were in the car (including the Christmas album I won by calling into KDWB and listing the Top Nine at Nine in under nine seconds), and I even vaguely recall making arguments as to their artistic merit (although that may have been the songwriting genius of Jack Wagner's third album I was defending, come to think of it).

I can recognize it now, the obvious marketing ploy laser-sighted at my demographic. I can plainly see how their sexy-but-safe personas were directed straight at the girls of my age, the pre-daters who believed that teenage love might be romantic, still oblivious to the realities of curfews, groundings and minimum wage. I think these are now called "tweens," but back then, we were just hyper little girls.

Older and debateably wiser, I can see the strings behind this latest incarnation's pop puppetry. I know when I'm being pandered. The record execs know that those little girls have grown up and had little girls of their own, and now they're trying to suck us all in at once. In the crowd outside Rockefeller Plaza, there were two generations - Those Girls and Those Women - mouthing every lyric and holding up neon-posterboard signs. But I'm pretty confident that I'm still not one of Them, because instead of the flush of excitement I felt as a pre-teen, the flush I felt today was one of maternal concern. I wanted them to hit their notes, I wanted them not to fall on the slick stage, I wanted Jon to pinken up and not look so much like he was going to hurl due to his crippling stage-fright (which he described on Oprah a couple years back).

And I sort of, just a little, wanted to hop on iTunes and buy the new single. Because although it wasn't the most poignant or well crafted song I've ever heard, it was upbeat and fun and didn't once mention a girl named after a Biblical character or British monarch.

The Walls Have Ears

Writing this one-handed and half-brained, as I'm balancing a baby on my lap who hasn't slept more than twenty minutes at a stretch in three days. I was blaming a particularly fierce bout of tooth-erupting, but after waking up with a 102-degree fever, fussing inconsolably and then throwing up all over me, I started to think something else might be up. Or maybe it didn't occur to me until the third time he threw up all over me. Regardless. I eventually pieced together that Mr. Baby was not his usual happy self.

Fortunately I was already up at 6:55, which is when our doctor's office starts taking appointments for the day. Although somehow, when I called at 7:02, she was already booked up for the day. So I made a 10:15 appointment with a doctor I'd never met and tried to get Miss M ready for school with a screaming baby on my hip. (I may start pinching Mr. Baby in the mornings, because the girl is much more agreeable when her brother is in distress.)

By the time we arrived at the office, the Tylenol and sweet potato puffs had kicked in and Mr. Baby was happily scaling the coffee table and playing peek-a-boo with the coat rack. I almost packed up and took his cheeky little grin home. But when he screamed himself purple while getting laid flat to be weighed and measured, I was pretty convinced that his ears were hurting him.

And sure enough, when our mysteriously accented new doctor came in and inspected his ears, she quickly pronounced that there was an infection on his left side. If he'd been my first baby, I might have asked more questions and pushed her as to whether it was likely viral or bacterial, but after three days and nights of no sleep and a constant soundtrack of "mmmeeeeewwwwwwmmmmmeeeemmmmmmamamamamamamaaaaa," I just took the amoxicillin prescription and thanked the nice (Italian? Brazilian?) doctor for her time.

So now Mr. Baby is about to start his first round of the pink stuff, a milestone that Miss M managed to hold off until well after her third birthday. I'm trying not to take it as a statement on my mothering and just accept the fact that Mr. Baby lives in a wider, more social and, yes, germier world than his sister did as an infant.

P.S. for the relatives - he's now 18lbs and 27"

More Than Words

We were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a pre-bedtime snack of hard-boiled eggs when Miss M looked up from her salt pit to ask me a question.

"Mom, what does ... 'crack up' mean?"

Now, for some reason, I just instinctively knew that wasn't the phrase she meant to ask me. But instead of going the easy route, I sought clarification.

"Do you mean 'break up,' honey?"

"Yeah, break up! What does break up mean?"

I tried too late to save myself by using a time-honored parental tactic.

"Where did you hear that, honey?"

"L, at school. He said he was going to break up with me."

No. No no no. We are ten years too early for this conversation. Another diversionary tactic.

"Big L or Little L?"

"Big L."

Hm. That didn't buy me much time. There's only one way to handle this now.

"I don't know what that means, honey."

She went back to eating her egg for a minute, then burst out in frustration.

"You don't know anything! You don't even know what a word means!"

And I didn't argue. Because I can read her a book and she'll think I'm brilliant again, but for a girl who wears her feelings on the outside of her body, it would take much longer to recover from a peer's insult. At four and a half years old, I'd rather her think I'm an idiot than feel rejected by a boy.


P.S. I hate you, Big L.

Journey To The Heaviside Layer

In memory of Decibel the cat, a feisty but loving companion.

She Blinded Me With Science

I know all six of you don't need me to link these every time, but just to make things easier for my mom, here's my latest CA piece.

I Want Candy

Okay, wait, hold on ...

When I was making up that pros/cons list about Memphis, no one informed me that I could get nine pounds of Everlasting Gobstoppers for under $20.

Now I have to rethink everything.

Memphis Looks Bad In The Morning

About a month ago, when my store was broken into, the windows of the house next door were busted out and a friend was robbed at gunpoint in his own home, all within the course of one week, I said that if one more criminal act invaded my world, I was going to lose it.

Anyone hear that cracking sound?

Last week, while I was at work, a man walked up to the shop next to mine. He looked my neighbor in the eye and pulled on her door with one hand, a gun at the ready in his other. Sadly but fortunately, she was cautioned by our past hold-ups and keeps her door locked. When he couldn't get in quickly and easily, the man fled.

The what-ifs, of course, are terrifying. What if he'd gotten inside? What if her store had been closed and he'd walked one door down? What if I'd been out getting my mail? What if we hadn't gotten that door buzzer installed?

But it doesn't even take the what-ifs to scare and anger me anymore. The plain facts are enough. An armed criminal was within feet of me and my baby. Again. And I just don't know how I can accept that anymore.

When I contacted our local business association to tell her what happened and suggest a cell phone-based system to alert neighbors, via text, when these acts occurred, the association president rattled off the three or four similar crimes within the past week or two. Which, frankly, I didn't find especially encouraging. But that's really all we Memphians have for each other right now: competing tales of crime, binding us together in a web of fear.

My bleeding heart tells me that I should be working to change this, somehow create a more equitable community that won't be a breeding ground for lawlessness. But I'm too busy trying to figure out how to get my kids safely out of the car and into the house without being hassled by the guys walking up my driveway claiming that they need bus fare. I want to think that I could be part of the solution, but the fact is I'm too overwhelmed by the problem to even consider it. And I don't think I'm alone in that. Asking the fed-up, freaked-out residents of Memphis to fix the crime situation is sort of like asking the citizens of New Orleans to climb off their roofs and shore up the levees. We are in a constant state of victimization, and we need outside aid.

I don't think we need eager church youth groups or celebrity sympathizers or anything, but just a little perspective would be useful. Community organizers from areas that have successfully pushed through these types of problems, or even representatives from cities that have never had to address these issues because their basic infrastructure prevented them from happening in the first place. I could perhaps stave off my desire to pack up and run to Olivia if a fleet of Minnesotans drove their Subarus down to give us some pointers on creating progressive public services and safe, successful schools. And, until that took effect, stood in front of my store to tell all potential ne'er-do-wells, "Doncha know there's more to life than a little bit of money?"

I have love for Memphis, probably a lot more than most lifers. I find beauty in the river and her delta. After nearly nine years here, I feel a tie with my non-native landscape, as if both the current and kudzu run through me now. The culture could hardly be more different than the one in which I was raised, but it is warm and welcoming and my other-ness is treated like a benefit rather than a threat. And for reasons no one seems quite able to explain, Memphis is a wellspring for artists who are, regardless of medium, moved to act as storytellers. And I love a good story. Sure, the cost of living and affordable housing and respectable salary rates are all appealing too, of course, but when I think of what makes me feel at home here, it's nothing that can be displayed on a calculator. There's just something here. It is not its easiness to rhyme that has made Memphis the most sung-about city in the world. And I love it.

But ... but. I'm not too naive to see that Memphis ain't really loving me back, and it's not just because she keeps pointing a gun in my general direction. My Yankee sinuses are in a state of chaos for half the year because of the abundance and foreignness of pollen. I can't stand to eat ribs without a knife and fork, subjecting me to ridicule and derision from even my dearest friends. And perhaps most disappointingly, the retail business I pour my heart and soul and varicose veins into can't turn a profit because the idea of nursing a baby disgusts about 87% of the population here.

So I'm constantly weighing the pros and cons of this city, and when the glare off a 9mm enters my peripheral vision, it's hard to see the pro column at all. I love Memphis, but I'm not going to be her bitch.

If I Had A Hammer

The blog has been suffering lately due to my efforts at breaking into the gritty world of Memphis journalism. Or sawdusty, anyway.

Building A Mystery

I just noticed that, when he's sleepy and sweaty, Mr. Baby smells like unfired clay.

Part-Time Model

Ways in which Mr's Baby's modeling career has been sidelined in the past month:

- face attacked by his best four-legged friend
- spinning head-first into large pieces of furniture while trying to stand unassisted
- inheriting his mother's highly visible reaction to mosquito bites
- tanning from the wrists down
- crawling out of bed
- mysterious nose injury involving a kitchen playset
- sitting too close to his mother while she was doing the New York Times Sunday crossword in fine-point Sharpie

But still ...


You know who

Don't Want To Dig The Dirt

I'm not scared of bugs. I don't really enjoy having them on my physical being or anything, but I won't shriek at a cockroach or do the oh-no-oh-no-a-bee dance. I'm generally the relocator of spiders whenever the need arises. I've helped numerous palmetto bugs find alternate accommodations. No big deal.

Rodents don't really get to me, either. Not the small ones, anyway. I find mice to be a bit of a nuisance and I'm not interested in sharing my pancake mix with them, but when Cha Cha kept seeing one scurrying through the kitchen, my only effort at trapping it was to throw some painters tape over the crack next to the dishwasher that it kept popping out of.

So I was thinking, in my general day to day life, that I was pretty brave about undomesticated critters. And then I was proven completely and totally wrong. Because, as it turns out, I have a raging, irrational and uncontrollable aversion to one particular creature, and this creature, just to really mess with me, keeps showing up when I'm most vulnerable.

I am afraid of slugs. And they keep getting into my shower!

Maybe "afraid" isn't the right word. It's more of a revulsion, a core-deep feeling of wrongness when I reach over for the Ivory and see those two tiny antennae waving at me. Now, obviously they aren't going to leap from the tile and attack me with their 57,000 slug teeth (shudder). It's just the very principle of their existence that bothers me. I was faced with an epic dilemma when I considered de-slugging the shower - I had to decide between sharing my daily routine with invertebrate visitors or actually touching them. It was a tough call, and it took me three days to get up the nerve and fortitude required to grab a wad of toilet paper and flush the little suckers (hey, I saw Flushed Away, they'll be fine down there as long as they don't mess with Le Frog).

I don't remember actually seeing a slug before moving to Memphis - the gastropods where I come from seem to prefer staying indoors, anatomically - so this isn't a lifelong fear. It's something that seems to have emerged fully formed on a day that I can still clearly remember. A night, actually. I stepped outside to feed the dog and felt something soft and slimy and cold and possibly demon-possessed slipping underfoot. It was so deeply and soul-penetratingly unpleasant that I can't look at them without recalling the sensation of suicidal slug between my toes.

"Yes, yes, SAM, all very fascinating, but why should we care?" the hypothetical readers exclaim. And so without further ado, I bring you ... Miss M's new favorite book.

U Got The Look

Okay, I have to admit it. I've been harboring a secret ambition, one so silly and superficial that I've been a little embarrassed to discuss it, but I trust that my loyal readers (hi, mom!) will be gentle with me. So ... I've been thinking about going into ... modeling.

No, no, not me, goofus! Baby modeling. It has recently occurred to me that, as the mother of the world's most baby-esque baby, I really should be capitalizing... er, sharing the beauty of Mr. Baby with the world. Or at least whoever pays really close attention to the kids in local pediatrician ads. It just seems wasteful to let his perfectly round head go unappreciated.

Of course, Mr. Baby is not my only gorgeous child. He is, however, the only one whose temperament is suited for professional image-making. He will go to anyone, smile for any reason and generally leaves an echo of "awwwws" in his wake. Miss M, however, has a tendency toward shyness around strangers, plus the pressure of having her picture taken often makes her act like she's being Tasered. So although her beauty is, quite unbiasedly, astounding, it is, quite sadly, unmarketable. At least until she's a grown-up model and it's considered perfectly acceptable to throw food and scream unintelligibly at the photographer.

But come on, seriously ...


(Staff photo)

The Second Hand Unwinds

You know that thing about a watched pot not boiling? I think the same may be true about a blogged baby. In the few weeks that I've been on hiatus (again), Mr. Baby has:

- popped out his first two teeth (bottom front)
- begun sitting up on his own with 93% reliability
- perfected a hyper-speed commando crawl
- branched out from breastmilk to dietary newcomers like sweet potato, bananas and his currently most beloved peas
- pulled himself to standing with minimal assistance

Miss M started walking at almost exactly eleven months, but I have a feeling Mr. Baby won't make it two more months without getting on his feet for good. Mostly because Miss M is moving plenty fast herself and he's going to need to come up with a more efficient escape method.

Let's Go Out Tonight Like It's Last Year

Despite my semi-retirement from the Memphis music scene, I couldn't resist partaking in at least a fringe element of this year's Folk Alliance conference. I missed all the official conference showcases, but I think I may have ended up at one of the best shows of the week regardless. I skipped out of cocktail hour early and walked into Otherlands last Friday night feeling strangely light, as if an 18-pound weight had been lifted from my arms (thanks, Sassy-Urfs!). After using the last of my agent credit to slide Steph and me in for free, I immediately bumped, quite literally, into Jimmy, a very patient semi-former client, and spent the rest of the evening running into my favorite folkies at every turn. The show itself was a collection of local and out-of-town FA conference attendees, hand-picked by Cory who did a highly impressive job of pulling talented and engaging musicians from the halls of the Marriott. The most talented and engaging, of course, being my former high school and college classmate, TAFKA John Mayer, currently performing as John Elliott/The Hereafter. He only played three songs, just like all the other guests, but his part in the show felt so much bigger because of his grotesquely overgrown awesomeness. I want to bust in two when I see him play, I'm so proud of him.

The evening came to a relatively early close for me (causing me to miss Blair and any of the secret guests still to come), but still, as one of my few babyless ventures out in the last eight months, it was a simply wonderful night.

Food, Glorious Food!

Not to flail at an already mortally wounded horse, but since it's been mentioned both in person and in print, I follow up my previous list with The Quite Brief List Of My Favorite Foods and Best Meals Ever.

1. a bowl of in-season Bing cherries
2. parmesan-and-mustard-encrusted pork chop at the original incarnation of Marena's
3. gnocchi in pesto at Bella Arte in Hot Springs, AR
3a. really, any form or nationality of dumpling, from pierogi to ravioli to shumai
4. bean and cheese burrito with the magical pseudo-mole sauce from Chi Chi's
5. banana pancakes with peanut butter syrup at Blue Plate Cafe
6. lamb shwarma with a side of hummus and extra pita, pretty much anywhere it's offered
7. chocolate chocolate chocolate
8. virtually any dessert not containing the words "flaky pastry crust" or "coffee"
9. a rare sirloin with spinach salad, au gratin potatoes (I know!) and buttered sourdough, ideally at my parents' table
10. Kristy's lasagna, delivered hot to my table when I was 11 months pregnant

Get Yourself An Egg And Beat It

Inspired by Sassy (because that's a nicer reason than saying she ripped off my idea in the first place), what follows is The List of Foods Normal People Eat But Which I Will Avoid If Given The Option and Would Happily Go The Rest Of My Life Without Eating.

1. any member of the squash family
2. baked, mashed or hash-browned potatoes
3. raw tomato, or any cooked chunk larger than a dime
4. saffron
5. bell peppers
6. jalapeno peppers
7. chili peppers
8. you get the idea
9. cucumbers
10. lettuce in condiment form
11. raw onion
12. cole slaw
13. mushrooms
14. whatever Sloppy Joes are made out of
15. tuna
16. and pretty much any other fish
17. whipped cream
18. anything "blackened" or in any way charred, deliberately or otherwise
19. pastry dough
20. celery
21. watermelon, cantaloupe, honeydew, etc.
22. capers
23. cocktail sauce

3 .. 2.. 1.. Contact!

It took almost seven months, but it finally happened. Miss M was all up in Mr. Baby's grill (as usual), being loud and aggressively "lovey" (as usual), and he was just sitting there placidly in his high chair (as usual), trying to digest a single grain of brown rice. Miss M translated "stop yelling at your brother" to mean "try making another really loud noise near your brother," and so she began singing.

"I'M GONNA GET YOU, YOU BETTER RUN, I'M GONNA GET YOU, HERE I ..."

THWACK!

No, that wasn't the sound of Miss M's head exploding from its own vibrations. It was Mr. Baby, wielding his ducky spoon and taking perfect aim at Miss M's cheekbone. Yes, the little man finally fought back. And he knew it, too. As Miss M sat screaming and crying tears of befuddlement, he just looked at her, raised his barely visible eyebrows and grinned his biggest gummy grin. And as the responsible, peace-loving parents, we waited until Miss M stomped off to her room to give him a high-five.

And I Still Miss Someone

I was at the post office the other day and saw two people greet each other across the parking lot with a half-wave and surprised smile of recognition. It made me realize that there's something I miss by living so far from where I grew up, beyond the closeness to family and friends. I miss those unexpected encounters with the past.

My history in Memphis begins eight and a half years ago. I was, at that point, pretty much a fully formed adult - married, employed, on the brink of home ownership. Aligning myself with the Memphis music scene proved that my youthful foolishness wasn't completely expired, but for the most part, the only differences between 1999-SAM and 2007-SAM are a mortgage and stretch marks.

When we were in Minnesota over the holidays, the first person I saw when we walked into church (the church where I took first communion and was confirmed, where I taught Sunday School and worked for the Youth Director) was Heather. Or as I considered her during high school, my romantic doppelganger. It seemed we were always interested in, or were being shown interest by, the same boys throughout our adolescence. From the felon to the missionary to the moody, introspective Lutheran, our dating lives kept jumping across each others' (with her generally showing greater success). I hadn't seen her in years, and then there she was, sporting a mom-bob very much like my own, chasing her toddler around the fellowship hall. We said happy hellos and made family introductions, then politely made our way into the sanctuary. Where I managed to sit for about ten minutes before Mr. Baby started making his Pagan leanings known. As we were bouncing around the narthex (yes, I'm going to use as many church architectural terms as possible in one post; kiss my flying buttress), Heather's husband came out with their daughter. It was sweetly pleasing to see that the girl who had dated some of the hottest yet surliest boys at WHS was married to a man who looked and acted like a kindly chemistry teacher.

I miss seeing those changes, seeing how the people who formed the earliest part of my life have turned out. And I miss being around people who knew me when I was in those formative years, people who saw every little triumph and ridiculous failure that made me who I am. Heather probably read the desperate letter I wrote to Moody Lutheran, and therefore knows a little bit about me that no one in Shelby County ever will. Those little bits of me are all over the Great Lakes states. Some days this blog is an excuse to pull a few of them together and hold them out in my hands to my current friends and say, "See? This is why." But as much as I miss those bursts from the past, I am nothing but grateful that they got me where I am right now.

Taking Care Of Business

Mr. Baby reached an exciting milestone yesterday: his first neighborhood business association meeting! We did our best to maintain a homey, crackled veneer of professionalism as he grabbed at the crab legs and baked brie during the pre-meeting social and I nursed him during the association officer election. He was an amusing prop during the member introductions ("I'm from Mothersville ... obviously."). But then it all went downhill when the grown-ups tried to have conversations that didn't involve him. The board president began explaining what the association had accomplished over the last year. "Mamamamama!" The festival chair detailed the highlights of the last event. "Mamamamamaaaaaaa!" Our city councilperson outlined the plans for our district. "MAMAMAMAMAMAAAAA! (pbbbbbbllllltt!)" His dwindling consciousness and increasing bowel activity were our cues to exit, so we slipped out as unobtrusively as possible, only braining three local business owners with my giant Mary Poppins diaper/laptop/saddle bag on our way.

Isn't it darling when they first grasp parliamentary procedure?

My True North

Alright, people, the time is nigh. The urge to do permanent, non-sun-related damage to my skin has become overwhelming. Plans are in the works for a Girls' Tattoo Night Out and I need to be prepared. The picture below is the closest I've found to the idea I have for my art, but after my unfortunate experience in Minnesota, I want to go in with my exact image in hand. So once again, our inspiration is The North Star. L'etoile du Nord, as it were. I like the organic, fluid elements of this star image, and the incorporation of the compass rose arms to clarify the directional element, but I would ideally like either a 9-point star or a 5-point with the 4 directional arms. So go to it, artsy types. Time's running out for you to make your mark on SAM.

For It Was Written In Numbers

Per request/demand, I've made some updates to my 100 Things. I'm resisting the urge to expand the list, not because I haven't been thinking of lots of fascinating new things about me, but because the minute I get in front of a keyboard, I forget all of them.

WW3 Is A Giant Ice Cream Cone

There are very few things I remember from my Intro to Psychology class - and, frankly, college in general, despite my teetotaling teenage lifestyle. I remember that my professor had two dachsunds, which he featured frequently in his pioneering use of PowerPoint. And one of the only Psychology-related facts I recall is from an experiment conducted using popcorn. While telling the subjects they were testing something else, they gave them popcorn buckets of various sizes. What they learned was that, the more popcorn someone was given, the more they ate. Even among those reporting the same starting level of hunger, the people who were given bigger buckets ended up eating greater amounts.

This experiment popped into my frontal lobe as we were breaking in the new Costco card this past weekend. As we piled four gallons of orange juice and two infant-sized bottles of syrup into the cart, it occurred to me that we were falling directly into the giant popcorn bucket. We tried to restrain ourselves and only buy the items we go through frequently, but there's no getting around the fact that, once you have a really large amount of something, you can't help but consume it more quickly. I'm using a giant glob of shampoo at a time, mostly because the 2-lb. bottle is so unwieldy I can barely hold it in one hand. We're doing laundry around the clock just to get the VW Beetle of a Tide box out of our traffic pattern. We seem to be putting Mexican cheese on everything we cook, just because the Wisconsin-sized bag is in the way of all other food in the fridge.

So even though I know we'll go through fourteen pounds of bacon, I'm plagued by the knowledge that we'll go through it even faster when it's just sitting there in front of us, flaunting its abundance of smoky porcine goodness. It just can't be helped. It's science. All I can hope to do is confine myself to the products we really need. Like that 40-gallon barrel of popcorn.

Hats Off To Thee

Reasons that, despite all the preceding, I'm not moving back to Minnesota:
1. slush
2. scraping ice off car windows
3. January-March
4. having to send my children to stand at a school bus stop in the dark among head-high snowdrifts and older boys who whitewash them with ice-packed snowballs
5. self-righteous tattoo artists who won't work on a nursing mother