Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Baby Love
Miss M rolled over for the first time when we were visiting my family for Christmas. I don't remember much about that hazy newborn time, but I do recall that the three and a half months between her birth and that milestone seemed to take fooooreeeeverrrrr.
Mr. Baby turned four months old yesterday. About two weeks ago, he did his first rollover, in the sufficiently impressed company of his Auntie K and The Commander. And the first thing I thought was, "Holy crap, already?" The time has gone so much faster this go around. We thought our lives were hectic with one new baby, but now with two children, a business to run, an actual social circle and all of our various other activities and commitments, the days are flying by and this happy little baby-man is just chilling out for the ride. I can't do anything but shake my head sometimes, so amazed that he is as laid-back and content and easy as he is. He goes anywhere, sleeps anywhere, nurses anywhere, and smiles all the dang time. I sometimes have to remind myself not to squeeze his little guts out because he is just so incredibly huggable and sweet.
In other milestone news, he's gotten very vocal and is happy to comment throughout an entire episode of The Office. He's fallen asleep completely on his own (and without us even suggesting it) twice in the last week. If we set him up in the corner of the couch, he sits himself up independently and looks around like, "Who're you calling a baby?" And he's much, much better in the car. He has also discovered the true and abiding joy of thumbsucking, which is already making our days better and our nights smoother. I'm trying to remind myself every day to enjoy this time, this fun-but-still-entirely-portable stage of his life, before it flies by, too.
Mr. Baby turned four months old yesterday. About two weeks ago, he did his first rollover, in the sufficiently impressed company of his Auntie K and The Commander. And the first thing I thought was, "Holy crap, already?" The time has gone so much faster this go around. We thought our lives were hectic with one new baby, but now with two children, a business to run, an actual social circle and all of our various other activities and commitments, the days are flying by and this happy little baby-man is just chilling out for the ride. I can't do anything but shake my head sometimes, so amazed that he is as laid-back and content and easy as he is. He goes anywhere, sleeps anywhere, nurses anywhere, and smiles all the dang time. I sometimes have to remind myself not to squeeze his little guts out because he is just so incredibly huggable and sweet.
In other milestone news, he's gotten very vocal and is happy to comment throughout an entire episode of The Office. He's fallen asleep completely on his own (and without us even suggesting it) twice in the last week. If we set him up in the corner of the couch, he sits himself up independently and looks around like, "Who're you calling a baby?" And he's much, much better in the car. He has also discovered the true and abiding joy of thumbsucking, which is already making our days better and our nights smoother. I'm trying to remind myself every day to enjoy this time, this fun-but-still-entirely-portable stage of his life, before it flies by, too.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Now Is The Hour Of Quitting
Well, it's been a good run, but I think it's time for me to hang it up. I just don't have the free time I once did, and something, finally, has to give.
No, I'm not giving up the blog. Or the store. Or, of course, the whole mothering thing. But that leaves only one expendable occupation. Yes, dear reader, Secret Agent Mom is an agent no more, secretly or otherwise. As I explained in the email to my currently neglected clients, the whole running-two-businesses-while-raising-two-children thing wasn't working out quite as smoothly as I expected. I think the breaking point was when I realized that, after working either at or for the store all day, then settling both kids to bed at night, I was still feeling like I had things to do. A lot of things to do. Route planning and phone calls and emails and press pack mailings and website updating. I just couldn't ever catch up, and my genetic inability to admit I was having trouble made me suck it up and keep making promises that I couldn't keep without the discovery of at least three wormholes in the space-time continuum.
And so, with some regret but mostly relief, I'm letting this ball drop. I'll miss the regular contact with my musician friends, as well as the in-show shout-outs (should I ever be able to go to a show again), but I know they all understand. I'll still be clinging to some fragment of my former cool by continuing my work with CB's website and merchandise sales, although with the full acknowledgment that Webslinger doesn't have quite the same credibility or intimidation factor as Agent. But that's okay. I'm still a mom, and that's about as credible and intimidating as it gets.
No, I'm not giving up the blog. Or the store. Or, of course, the whole mothering thing. But that leaves only one expendable occupation. Yes, dear reader, Secret Agent Mom is an agent no more, secretly or otherwise. As I explained in the email to my currently neglected clients, the whole running-two-businesses-while-raising-two-children thing wasn't working out quite as smoothly as I expected. I think the breaking point was when I realized that, after working either at or for the store all day, then settling both kids to bed at night, I was still feeling like I had things to do. A lot of things to do. Route planning and phone calls and emails and press pack mailings and website updating. I just couldn't ever catch up, and my genetic inability to admit I was having trouble made me suck it up and keep making promises that I couldn't keep without the discovery of at least three wormholes in the space-time continuum.
And so, with some regret but mostly relief, I'm letting this ball drop. I'll miss the regular contact with my musician friends, as well as the in-show shout-outs (should I ever be able to go to a show again), but I know they all understand. I'll still be clinging to some fragment of my former cool by continuing my work with CB's website and merchandise sales, although with the full acknowledgment that Webslinger doesn't have quite the same credibility or intimidation factor as Agent. But that's okay. I'm still a mom, and that's about as credible and intimidating as it gets.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
And The Skies Are Not Cloudy All Day
In the interest of safety, I don't like to mention The Admiral's trips out of town until after he returns, but by then, I usually forget all the solo parenting anecdotes I've been storing up the whole time. His most recent adventure away was to attend our good friend's wedding to a bona fide cowgirl at a ranch in Colorado, where members of the wedding party actually helped to construct the ceremony, from building the platform where vows would be exchanged to baling hay for guest seating.
Things weren't quite as exciting here at the homestead, although we did receive a surprise visit from Cha Cha and Pops. It was so very helpful to have them here, doing pre-school pick-up duty and getting to the random household tasks that we never seem to find the time to do (our back security door has never gleamed so brightly before). They left Friday morning, though, leaving the three of us with a full day and a half to fend for ourselves.
Which was, as usual, where Castilo Urf came in. Due largely to my ability to look pathetic and helpless after 3 hours with both children, Kristy and RJA took us in, once again, and eased the remainder of our week with food, cocktails and the usual lively conversation. I'd like to think it's my vibrant, loquacious personality that makes me a welcome guest at the Castilo, but the fact is, the doors are always open to any friend, whether in need or just in between errands. As much as they kid about the overcrowding, they've made the home that everyone feels comfortable in. I hope they know how much we all appreciate their kindness, hospitality and, of course, non-stop supply of cheese pizza.
(Happy Birthday, Kristy!)
Things weren't quite as exciting here at the homestead, although we did receive a surprise visit from Cha Cha and Pops. It was so very helpful to have them here, doing pre-school pick-up duty and getting to the random household tasks that we never seem to find the time to do (our back security door has never gleamed so brightly before). They left Friday morning, though, leaving the three of us with a full day and a half to fend for ourselves.
Which was, as usual, where Castilo Urf came in. Due largely to my ability to look pathetic and helpless after 3 hours with both children, Kristy and RJA took us in, once again, and eased the remainder of our week with food, cocktails and the usual lively conversation. I'd like to think it's my vibrant, loquacious personality that makes me a welcome guest at the Castilo, but the fact is, the doors are always open to any friend, whether in need or just in between errands. As much as they kid about the overcrowding, they've made the home that everyone feels comfortable in. I hope they know how much we all appreciate their kindness, hospitality and, of course, non-stop supply of cheese pizza.
(Happy Birthday, Kristy!)
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Party Like It's Yo Birthday
There's nothing really remarkable about turning 31. Except, I guess, for the realization that you're a full decade past the giddy thrill of the 21st birthday. What was most remarkable about this latest anniversary was what it lacked - namely, the company of my youngest child. Thanks to a very selfless aunt and uncle, The Admiral and I were able to join my fellow Libras (and a couple hangers-on) for an actual dinner out and a post-meal sojourn to flout our parental responsibility at the local watering hole (see Fig. A). With only one stop at home in between to get the sleep-resistant baby to bed.
It was, quite simply, delightful. Three months is a long time to go without a night of (relative) freedom. I remember that my first night out after having Miss M was a two hour dash with my sister (aforementioned aunt), and I was stressed out pretty much the entire time. But with more parenting experience and a pint of Dos Equis in me, even the fact that Mr. Baby had never taken a bottle wasn't getting to me. With good friends, good food and a jukebox considerately loaded with Prince's greatest hits, there was really no way not to enjoy the evening. And coming home to see Auntie K calmly feeding Mr. Baby his first indirect dosage of breastmilk made it that much better, because I walked in the house and immediately felt like we may, someday, possibly, get to do it again.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Exciting And New
The final part of Miss M's bedtime routine, after the toothbrushing, toilet-using, bathing, and book-reading, is her bedtime story. On an easy night, we can get away with a standard; she's generally fond of Little Red Riding Hood and The Three Little Pigs (sometimes in their original form and sometimes combined into one mega-story). But other nights, she wants an original work following very specific guidelines. Coming up with freehand fiction at the end of a long day can be a challenge, especially when she throws in random requests like "the one about the fly-bird." The other night, though, she said, "Tell me the one about the commercial people" and that set The Admiral's creative wheels spinning. He then regaled her with a classic tale of a poor mountaineer who came across a magical liquid in the woods. Black gold. Texas tea, as it were.
I can't believe it took us this long to incorporate classic TV shows into bedtime. Last night, I told a story combining The Love Boat with Fantasy Island, and Miss M found it riveting. I took some creative license - the Pacific Princess was an actual princess, for one - but it was still a ratings winner.
I can't believe it took us this long to incorporate classic TV shows into bedtime. Last night, I told a story combining The Love Boat with Fantasy Island, and Miss M found it riveting. I took some creative license - the Pacific Princess was an actual princess, for one - but it was still a ratings winner.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Summer In The City
Stealing collectively from a variety of my most-read blogs, I now present ...
Things I Meant To Do This Summer But Didn't:
1. Go to the drive-in
2. Take Mr. Baby to his first baseball game
3. Get a tattoo (officially postponed until my next trip to Minnesota)
4. Extract myself from at least one of my businesses
5. Keep my car clean
6. Choose all winning Powerball numbers at least once
7. Use the massage gift certificates I got as shower gifts
8. Figure out my hair
But whatever. I had a baby.
Things I Meant To Do This Summer But Didn't:
1. Go to the drive-in
2. Take Mr. Baby to his first baseball game
3. Get a tattoo (officially postponed until my next trip to Minnesota)
4. Extract myself from at least one of my businesses
5. Keep my car clean
6. Choose all winning Powerball numbers at least once
7. Use the massage gift certificates I got as shower gifts
8. Figure out my hair
But whatever. I had a baby.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Love, Angel, Music, Baby
Mr. Baby strode by another milestone this weekend. No, he's not rolling over or reciting Pi in Spanish. Not this week, anyway. He is, however, now a seasoned veteran of the Memphis live music scene. This past Saturday night, I put him in his slackerest onesie and hauled him out to Otherlands to enjoy an evening of arty folk rock with my friend and fellow high school/college alum John Elliott, his lovely and talented touring companion Raina Rose and my newly re-established client, Jamie Randolph.
If enjoyment of a show can be measured by how soundly one sleeps through it, then Mr. Baby had a fantastic time. As did I, what with it being my first post-partum attendance and the closest thing I've had to a purely self-centered social evening in a very long time. And making an effortless switch from Big Mama to Hot Mama, I think Sassy Molassy enjoyed herself as well, although I'm going to stop taking her on dates if she continues to ditch me after a couple beers to go get musicians' phone numbers.
If enjoyment of a show can be measured by how soundly one sleeps through it, then Mr. Baby had a fantastic time. As did I, what with it being my first post-partum attendance and the closest thing I've had to a purely self-centered social evening in a very long time. And making an effortless switch from Big Mama to Hot Mama, I think Sassy Molassy enjoyed herself as well, although I'm going to stop taking her on dates if she continues to ditch me after a couple beers to go get musicians' phone numbers.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
There's Got To Be A Better Way
Urf! has been trying to watch The War this week, and I've been trying not to watch it. I turned it on by accident one night, just as it was starting, and saw the big "graphic depictions of violence ahead" warning. That was pretty much all I needed to see.
It wasn't queasiness or my already firmly established pacifism that made me change the channel, though. It was my dad. Any war images set in the 20th century drive my thoughts to the unpleasant place where my imagination holds a 22-year-old Minnesota boy in jungle-dank fatigues. Seeing photographs or, worse yet, film from WWI, WWII, Korea and of course Vietnam forces me to think about the things he saw himself and the trauma he suffered because of it.
Not that he talked about it, of course. Being both a Norwegian and the son of a WWII veteran, it was natural that he kept the details to himself. Even as a child, however, I knew that his reasons for suppressing discussion of his war experience went much deeper. It wasn't hereditary reticence that caused him to take cover if a late-night phone call startled him awake.
Something about the familial disaster of the past month spurred a sudden outburst, though. As we were gathered together in grief, he shared a story about his last week in-country that he'd never breathed a word of before that night. It was a surprisingly light-hearted anecdote, but it couldn't help but reinforce the knowledge that the vast majority of those 52 weeks would remain unknown to anyone else. Because there was really no way to describe them.
Ken Burns is attempting to dissolve that cloud of mystery, at least for the second World War, but I think I prefer being on the other side of the fog. There's no reason for a daughter to be able to picture so clearly a field of fallen soldiers, the faces of desperate civilians, or the actual second-by-second death of a friend, not while knowing that those same images were burned into her father's brain before he had bought his first car. Burns has said (is actually saying on Letterman right this minute) that the greatest thing about documentary film-making is meeting the people, but knowing my dad as well as I do, there are some things we still don't need to talk about.
It wasn't queasiness or my already firmly established pacifism that made me change the channel, though. It was my dad. Any war images set in the 20th century drive my thoughts to the unpleasant place where my imagination holds a 22-year-old Minnesota boy in jungle-dank fatigues. Seeing photographs or, worse yet, film from WWI, WWII, Korea and of course Vietnam forces me to think about the things he saw himself and the trauma he suffered because of it.
Not that he talked about it, of course. Being both a Norwegian and the son of a WWII veteran, it was natural that he kept the details to himself. Even as a child, however, I knew that his reasons for suppressing discussion of his war experience went much deeper. It wasn't hereditary reticence that caused him to take cover if a late-night phone call startled him awake.
Something about the familial disaster of the past month spurred a sudden outburst, though. As we were gathered together in grief, he shared a story about his last week in-country that he'd never breathed a word of before that night. It was a surprisingly light-hearted anecdote, but it couldn't help but reinforce the knowledge that the vast majority of those 52 weeks would remain unknown to anyone else. Because there was really no way to describe them.
Ken Burns is attempting to dissolve that cloud of mystery, at least for the second World War, but I think I prefer being on the other side of the fog. There's no reason for a daughter to be able to picture so clearly a field of fallen soldiers, the faces of desperate civilians, or the actual second-by-second death of a friend, not while knowing that those same images were burned into her father's brain before he had bought his first car. Burns has said (is actually saying on Letterman right this minute) that the greatest thing about documentary film-making is meeting the people, but knowing my dad as well as I do, there are some things we still don't need to talk about.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Hey Baby Hey Baby Hey
Oh, yeah, right, the baby!
In case anyone was going through infant withdrawal, a quick update. As Mr. Baby sneaks up on three whole months old, he's entering that magical state where his personality is emerging but his inconvenience has stayed at its regular, low-grade state. I'm holding my breath, waiting for the post-fourth-trimester wake-up that even the calmest babies seem to go through, but in the meantime, I'm truly enjoying his laid-back, super-smiley self.
As far as milestones, they've been more geographic than developmental. He took his first journey through the air this month, and of the two of us, handled it better than his travel partner. He was an angel during our trip north, chilling out on the flight up (despite my own meltdown when we missed our first plane) and managing to stay calm during a 45-minute ground delay on the way home while I was trying to figure out how to nurse him without elbowing the special double-issue of People out of my neighbor's hands. Even his car behavior is getting better. On any given trip, there's a solid 30% chance that he won't scream his ever-loving head off the entire time. Although I have a feeling that after a weekend of 45- to 90-minute car rides with an utterly inconsolable infant, Cha Cha and Pops won't be gambling on that statistic anytime soon.
In case anyone was going through infant withdrawal, a quick update. As Mr. Baby sneaks up on three whole months old, he's entering that magical state where his personality is emerging but his inconvenience has stayed at its regular, low-grade state. I'm holding my breath, waiting for the post-fourth-trimester wake-up that even the calmest babies seem to go through, but in the meantime, I'm truly enjoying his laid-back, super-smiley self.
As far as milestones, they've been more geographic than developmental. He took his first journey through the air this month, and of the two of us, handled it better than his travel partner. He was an angel during our trip north, chilling out on the flight up (despite my own meltdown when we missed our first plane) and managing to stay calm during a 45-minute ground delay on the way home while I was trying to figure out how to nurse him without elbowing the special double-issue of People out of my neighbor's hands. Even his car behavior is getting better. On any given trip, there's a solid 30% chance that he won't scream his ever-loving head off the entire time. Although I have a feeling that after a weekend of 45- to 90-minute car rides with an utterly inconsolable infant, Cha Cha and Pops won't be gambling on that statistic anytime soon.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Same Old Stupid Boy
I was walking into Bookstar with Mr. Baby the other evening, to pick out a surgery-distraction gift for Miss M, when I heard a polite voice behind me.
"Ma'am? Excuse me, ma'am?"
I turned and saw a youngish person that I'd previously noticed at Petco with two friends. I'd looked kindly at the group, thinking how hard it must be to be transgendered in Memphis. And now this sweet-voiced twentysomething was right behind me and looking directly at Mr. Baby.
"How old is your baby?"
"He's twelve weeks."
I gave my usual humble smile, preparing for the inevitable praise that generally follows any acknowledgment of Mr. Baby. Instead, I heard ...
"I just wanted to tell you ... I know you don't know me, but I wanted to say ... I have a friend who carried her little girl in one of those ... canvas sacks? And her baby got dehydrated from sitting on her legs like that. I'm not saying you're doing something wrong, but ... I just wanted to tell you. She got really sick."
I was so shocked by the ridiculousness that I just stood there with a polite but quizzical raise of my eyebrows. As I was walking back to the car, though, I could hear in my head, clear as anything, the righteously astonished voice of Sassy Molassy saying, "Who wouldn't notice that their baby was dehydrated? And it would take an idiot to think that it was caused by the way she was sitting. And it would take an even bigger idiot to get in someone else's face about it."
Sidenote: When I got home and opened the Disney Princess Dress-Up Activity Storybook (shush, it was for my sick kid) and saw that the Colorforms-esque dresses designed to go over each princess were actually somewhat translucent, allowing an obscured but still obvious view of their princessy underthings, I heard a distinctly different voice in my head, and I'm pretty sure it was RJA's.
"Ma'am? Excuse me, ma'am?"
I turned and saw a youngish person that I'd previously noticed at Petco with two friends. I'd looked kindly at the group, thinking how hard it must be to be transgendered in Memphis. And now this sweet-voiced twentysomething was right behind me and looking directly at Mr. Baby.
"How old is your baby?"
"He's twelve weeks."
I gave my usual humble smile, preparing for the inevitable praise that generally follows any acknowledgment of Mr. Baby. Instead, I heard ...
"I just wanted to tell you ... I know you don't know me, but I wanted to say ... I have a friend who carried her little girl in one of those ... canvas sacks? And her baby got dehydrated from sitting on her legs like that. I'm not saying you're doing something wrong, but ... I just wanted to tell you. She got really sick."
I was so shocked by the ridiculousness that I just stood there with a polite but quizzical raise of my eyebrows. As I was walking back to the car, though, I could hear in my head, clear as anything, the righteously astonished voice of Sassy Molassy saying, "Who wouldn't notice that their baby was dehydrated? And it would take an idiot to think that it was caused by the way she was sitting. And it would take an even bigger idiot to get in someone else's face about it."
Sidenote: When I got home and opened the Disney Princess Dress-Up Activity Storybook (shush, it was for my sick kid) and saw that the Colorforms-esque dresses designed to go over each princess were actually somewhat translucent, allowing an obscured but still obvious view of their princessy underthings, I heard a distinctly different voice in my head, and I'm pretty sure it was RJA's.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Your Pale Blue Eyes
I promise we'll get back to our regularly scheduled snarky SAM soon, but first we'll conclude the synopsis of our Two Weeks Of Drama.
Miss M finally succumbed to the scalpel today, after nearly two years of eye-patching and frequent visits with our friendly neighborhood opthamologist. We came to accept that her left eye just wasn't going to strengthen up on its own and something permanent needed to be done before her vision was affected. It wasn't a way we ever longed to spend a Thursday morning, but it went as well as we could have possibly hoped.
With everything else going on, I'd sort of pushed this particular soul-bruiser to the back of my mind, but there was no getting around the phone calls from the pre-op nurse and anesthesiologist yesterday or the alarm going off at 6:00 this morning. We arrived at the surgery center at 7:30am, armed with the pajama bottoms, blanket and extra lovey (in M's case, a folding feather fan, because I guess looking like an 1880's madam makes her feel secure). A very Grisham-esque medical professional of some unknown title (is there such a thing as a 60-year-old male nurse?) came out right away and tried to warm M up with the booming, cartoony persona that she never really appreciates. He got up to take her back into the check-in area and asked which one of us would be going with her. The Admiral and I looked at each other with barely concealed panic. The pre-op nurse had said we could all stay with her, including her infant sibling, but Murse Oxford seemed to be balking at Mr. Baby's attendance. I wanted to protest but was afraid I'd tear up in front of Miss M (it's been happening a lot lately), so I just said I'd stay with the baby and would see her soon.
While I was trying to figure out how to talk my way back to my child, The Admiral was guiding her through the check-in process. According to him, this went pretty smoothly, with the staff pulling out special pediatric tricks like blowing bubbles and having her reach out to catch them so she'd be distracted while they checked her vitals. The only problem was when they wanted her to change into the cute little hospital gown. As anyone in the waiting area could attest to, she resisted this procedure as if she were being asked to put on a straight-jacket. Made of glass shards and fireants. They finally got the gown on, but she refused the modesty-enhancing pajama bottoms and the non-skid slipper-socks.
This is how she was looking - post-tantrum and half-naked - when I was finally brought back into a conference room for a pre-op chat with Dr. H. I know he really wanted us to have questions, and I desperately wanted to show my parental responsibility by having some, but after three phone calls with surgical staff the day before, I really couldn't think of anything I still needed to know. We got our post-surgical instructions and were ushered into the main waiting room where the time passed surprisingly quickly thanks to the piles of toys and Nurse T's perfectly timed loading of The Little Mermaid video.
M was still telling us that she had no intention of going anywhere without us when the anesthesiologist and her nurse came out for a final briefing. I thought this was just another little conference but it ended with them asking us to follow them out into the fabled Bunny Room, a little narthex outside the surgical area absolutely stocked with brand-new toys. Miss M was given a chance to pick one, and after realizing how overwhelmed she was by her choices, I pointed her towards the familiar Play-Doh logo. Thus distracted (these people are brilliant!), Nurse J gently took her out of The Admiral's arms and let her push the big button to open the automatic doors leading to the unknown. She turned back and waved and said good-bye without a single note of distress in her voice.
Her parents weren't quite as carefree. We headed back to the non-Disneyfied waiting zone and tried to keep our minds on other things. Mr. Baby made this easier with his between-nap fussing and diaper-filling. I was actually kneeling over his changing pad in the bathroom when I heard Dr. H's voice in the hall outside. When I got back outside, The Admiral informed me that the surgery was over (all of 20 minutes after she went in), she'd done great, and that they'd come get us when she started waking up. Dr. H said this would be in about five minutes, but having paid attention to all those details from the anesthesia professionals, I knew it would be more like 20-30.
Sure enough, an hour after our initial separation, we were called back into the recovery area. She was still 93% unconscious, a tiny little oxygen mask blowing into her face. All hair-matted and blanket-bundled, it was a pretty pitiful sight. We sat next to her bed and waited for her to come around completely, which was signaled by her trying desperately to climb out of the bed and onto The Admiral's lap. This effort was stymied by her IV tubing, and I had a moment of queasiness as I remembered the tale of my sister's midnight battle with an IV stand that involved the unsupervised removal of an inserted needle and resulted in my lifelong fear of intravenous ports. Nurse C came over quickly, though, and helped get her out of bed and cuddled into The Admiral's lap. While Mr. Baby and I rocked in the chair beside them, we spent the next half-hour trying to get Miss M fully awake and distracted away from her efforts to rub her eyeball completely out of the socket. Other than being a bit bloodshot and having one pupil all blown so she bore an admirable resemblance to David Bowie, she was already looking much better. After she got down some ice chips and half a popsicle, we were ready to leave the medical bubble and move on to the home-based recuperation.
And now, after an afternoon on the couch followed by a rigorous walk to her bedroom, she's crashed out on crushed Tylenol. As hard as it was to see her in discomfort today, the grogginess was sort of a pleasant change from her usual mania. Tomorrow's going to be a whole new adventure, as she'll likely be feeling like her old self, which exists in direct violation of most post-op instructions. In M's world, a day without excessive activity hardly counts as a day at all.
Miss M finally succumbed to the scalpel today, after nearly two years of eye-patching and frequent visits with our friendly neighborhood opthamologist. We came to accept that her left eye just wasn't going to strengthen up on its own and something permanent needed to be done before her vision was affected. It wasn't a way we ever longed to spend a Thursday morning, but it went as well as we could have possibly hoped.
With everything else going on, I'd sort of pushed this particular soul-bruiser to the back of my mind, but there was no getting around the phone calls from the pre-op nurse and anesthesiologist yesterday or the alarm going off at 6:00 this morning. We arrived at the surgery center at 7:30am, armed with the pajama bottoms, blanket and extra lovey (in M's case, a folding feather fan, because I guess looking like an 1880's madam makes her feel secure). A very Grisham-esque medical professional of some unknown title (is there such a thing as a 60-year-old male nurse?) came out right away and tried to warm M up with the booming, cartoony persona that she never really appreciates. He got up to take her back into the check-in area and asked which one of us would be going with her. The Admiral and I looked at each other with barely concealed panic. The pre-op nurse had said we could all stay with her, including her infant sibling, but Murse Oxford seemed to be balking at Mr. Baby's attendance. I wanted to protest but was afraid I'd tear up in front of Miss M (it's been happening a lot lately), so I just said I'd stay with the baby and would see her soon.
While I was trying to figure out how to talk my way back to my child, The Admiral was guiding her through the check-in process. According to him, this went pretty smoothly, with the staff pulling out special pediatric tricks like blowing bubbles and having her reach out to catch them so she'd be distracted while they checked her vitals. The only problem was when they wanted her to change into the cute little hospital gown. As anyone in the waiting area could attest to, she resisted this procedure as if she were being asked to put on a straight-jacket. Made of glass shards and fireants. They finally got the gown on, but she refused the modesty-enhancing pajama bottoms and the non-skid slipper-socks.
This is how she was looking - post-tantrum and half-naked - when I was finally brought back into a conference room for a pre-op chat with Dr. H. I know he really wanted us to have questions, and I desperately wanted to show my parental responsibility by having some, but after three phone calls with surgical staff the day before, I really couldn't think of anything I still needed to know. We got our post-surgical instructions and were ushered into the main waiting room where the time passed surprisingly quickly thanks to the piles of toys and Nurse T's perfectly timed loading of The Little Mermaid video.
M was still telling us that she had no intention of going anywhere without us when the anesthesiologist and her nurse came out for a final briefing. I thought this was just another little conference but it ended with them asking us to follow them out into the fabled Bunny Room, a little narthex outside the surgical area absolutely stocked with brand-new toys. Miss M was given a chance to pick one, and after realizing how overwhelmed she was by her choices, I pointed her towards the familiar Play-Doh logo. Thus distracted (these people are brilliant!), Nurse J gently took her out of The Admiral's arms and let her push the big button to open the automatic doors leading to the unknown. She turned back and waved and said good-bye without a single note of distress in her voice.
Her parents weren't quite as carefree. We headed back to the non-Disneyfied waiting zone and tried to keep our minds on other things. Mr. Baby made this easier with his between-nap fussing and diaper-filling. I was actually kneeling over his changing pad in the bathroom when I heard Dr. H's voice in the hall outside. When I got back outside, The Admiral informed me that the surgery was over (all of 20 minutes after she went in), she'd done great, and that they'd come get us when she started waking up. Dr. H said this would be in about five minutes, but having paid attention to all those details from the anesthesia professionals, I knew it would be more like 20-30.
Sure enough, an hour after our initial separation, we were called back into the recovery area. She was still 93% unconscious, a tiny little oxygen mask blowing into her face. All hair-matted and blanket-bundled, it was a pretty pitiful sight. We sat next to her bed and waited for her to come around completely, which was signaled by her trying desperately to climb out of the bed and onto The Admiral's lap. This effort was stymied by her IV tubing, and I had a moment of queasiness as I remembered the tale of my sister's midnight battle with an IV stand that involved the unsupervised removal of an inserted needle and resulted in my lifelong fear of intravenous ports. Nurse C came over quickly, though, and helped get her out of bed and cuddled into The Admiral's lap. While Mr. Baby and I rocked in the chair beside them, we spent the next half-hour trying to get Miss M fully awake and distracted away from her efforts to rub her eyeball completely out of the socket. Other than being a bit bloodshot and having one pupil all blown so she bore an admirable resemblance to David Bowie, she was already looking much better. After she got down some ice chips and half a popsicle, we were ready to leave the medical bubble and move on to the home-based recuperation.
And now, after an afternoon on the couch followed by a rigorous walk to her bedroom, she's crashed out on crushed Tylenol. As hard as it was to see her in discomfort today, the grogginess was sort of a pleasant change from her usual mania. Tomorrow's going to be a whole new adventure, as she'll likely be feeling like her old self, which exists in direct violation of most post-op instructions. In M's world, a day without excessive activity hardly counts as a day at all.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
To Brighten Up Even Your Darkest Nights
Something happened when I got back from Minnesota, something I don't recall happening after any previous trip. After years of traveling away from Memphis, I was, for perhaps the first time, welcomed home.
Those in my household have always noticed my absences (usually, anyway) and seemed grateful for my returns, of course, but after this last, unexpected, nerve-fraying visit to the north, my friends put their collective arms out in sympathy and support. With just simple words like "welcome home" and "glad you're back," they gave me a handrail back to my normal, daily life and the many happinesses within it.
They also reminded me, knowingly or not, about the crucial place friends have in the lives of parents, and parents of young children in particular. Sure, I wish I had the easy babysitting access and travel-free holidays of my cohorts with local family, but if I had to choose between living a mile from my folks and having the close-knit group of friends that occupy practically every day of our week, I'd have to go with my peers. As we raise our kids together, we've been witnesses to the personal triumphs and disasters each of us continuously encounters. We've seen each other at our best and, quite a bit more often in my case, at our weakest, meanest, and most brittle.
I have similar bonds with my family, but they've had my entire lifetime to get accustomed to my quirks (and, let's face it, me to theirs - you can untuck that t-shirt now, Dad). It's not like me to let anyone get within hugging distance unless I've known them for at least a decade, yet most of the people I consider my dearest friends only crossed my path within the last few years. Now I can't imagine how I ever got along without them. As eager as I was to leave town to go mourn with my family, I was just as excited to get back here to regroup with my friends. It's not where I was born, but this is where I've made my home, and these people are the family I've chosen.
Those in my household have always noticed my absences (usually, anyway) and seemed grateful for my returns, of course, but after this last, unexpected, nerve-fraying visit to the north, my friends put their collective arms out in sympathy and support. With just simple words like "welcome home" and "glad you're back," they gave me a handrail back to my normal, daily life and the many happinesses within it.
They also reminded me, knowingly or not, about the crucial place friends have in the lives of parents, and parents of young children in particular. Sure, I wish I had the easy babysitting access and travel-free holidays of my cohorts with local family, but if I had to choose between living a mile from my folks and having the close-knit group of friends that occupy practically every day of our week, I'd have to go with my peers. As we raise our kids together, we've been witnesses to the personal triumphs and disasters each of us continuously encounters. We've seen each other at our best and, quite a bit more often in my case, at our weakest, meanest, and most brittle.
I have similar bonds with my family, but they've had my entire lifetime to get accustomed to my quirks (and, let's face it, me to theirs - you can untuck that t-shirt now, Dad). It's not like me to let anyone get within hugging distance unless I've known them for at least a decade, yet most of the people I consider my dearest friends only crossed my path within the last few years. Now I can't imagine how I ever got along without them. As eager as I was to leave town to go mourn with my family, I was just as excited to get back here to regroup with my friends. It's not where I was born, but this is where I've made my home, and these people are the family I've chosen.
Monday, September 17, 2007
I Hope You Had The Time Of Your Life
I'm torn between the impulse to document the heartbreak of this past week and the acute knowledge that no words can really explain the full spectrum of emotions, from horror to hilarity, that fill up the spaces of a true family tragedy.
My cousin TR was born six months after me, 80 miles away. Our whole lives were like that, in a way - very close, but not close enough. My family moved away from Minnesota when I was a baby, and from then on we only saw each other during our yearly pilgrimage back to the homeland or during their very rare trips out east. But then we came back, and our holidays and summer vacations intertwined again. We had run around my parents' small hometown pretending to be twins when we were younger, but being adolescents, we of course shifted into a cooler, more distant relationship. We never detached, though. Partly because my grandmother was just as likely to send me a news clipping about TR's most recent athletic feats as an inspirational Dear Abby, I always knew what was going on in TR's life, and based on the strength of our pre-WWW familial internet, I'm guessing he was pretty aware of mine. As we went off to college and crept up into adulthood, however, we got closer again. We went from mocking each others' first girlfriend/boyfriend to attending each others' weddings. We made extra trips around the holidays so that my sister and I could spend time with him and his brother. We got to know each other as grown-ups, and we got to be not just family but friends. With the recent birth of his first baby, we had all the more in common, and we were looking forward to bringing together the next generation when we were all back home for Christmas.
My family, nuclear and extended, is wrapped around the core of my being, and I have never had an event that shook that core as suddenly and violently as the phone call from my sister telling me that TR had died. There was no immediate explanation, which seemed both fitting and insane. If there was no way to understand it, how could we possibly accept it? If we didn't know what happened, maybe it didn't.
The next few days were a conflict between my regular daily life and the overpowering desire to get the hell out of here and go be with my family. I shrugged off an indecent amount of responsibility to my business and finally caught a plane to Minnesota on Thursday morning, arriving just a few hours before the reviewal service. Or what anyone less Protestant would call a wake, but that term seems to indicate a level of celebration that us grieving Midwesterners couldn't quite muster. We don't celebrate the life lost, we comfort those left behind with buttered ham sandwiches and an almost sinful assemblage of home-made bars.
And there were so, so many left behind. I've been to far too many of these things in my life, but I've never seen a line extend all the way through a church sanctuary and out into the hall. I've also never seen a pastor start crying during his devotional moment with the family, and I felt a strong urge to have him un-ordained for it. We already had a room full of weeping Lutherans; the professional was supposed to keep it together.
No one could blame him, though. He barely even knew TR, but he knew his parents - my godparents, one of them Miss M's namesake - and all it took was one look at their sweet, stoic faces crumpled in grief to break the resolve of the most Nordic. Which is to say, the rest of my family. From the moment I arrived in the homeland until the minute Pops helped me load my diaper bag onto the airport security X-ray, someone in my family was crying. Crying so much that, at least in my case, the act itself caused physical pain - a bloody nose, an upset stomach, actual bruising in one eye. That's not us, that's not what we do, but there was no way around it. How do you not cry when you see the body of a vibrant, healthy 30-year-old lying in front of his wife and baby? How do you keep it together when hearing a younger brother eulogize a man who was clearly his best friend? Even if you didn't know these people, you would weep for them. Knowing them as we did, there was nothing else we could do. And we shared that feeling with the hundreds of friends and relatives who packed into my grandmother's former high school auditorium to remember a very brief but very powerful life.
I expected the weekend of services and family gatherings to be nothing but somber, but there was a surprising amount of humor, too. Not light-heartedness, exactly - our hearts were too badly broken to be light - but the stress of the event forced us to find release wherever we could, from tipsy Trivial Pursuit matches to a highly unexpected Captain Ron quote-off. These less serious moments weren't a testimony to our coping skills but rather a reminder of TR's essential nature. He was a happy young man. Funny, sweet, charming and bright in every sense of the word.
These moments were also a reminder that the reason families come together during times like this is to provide Trivial Pursuit partners and movie quote opponents. For as long as I was in Memphis, I was a solitary mourner, but once I got to Minnesota, we were one big, catastrophe-addled unit, using each other to lean on and gathering enough strength among our numbers to begin healing.
Because of that strength, this family will get through this. But because of TR, we will never be the same.
My cousin TR was born six months after me, 80 miles away. Our whole lives were like that, in a way - very close, but not close enough. My family moved away from Minnesota when I was a baby, and from then on we only saw each other during our yearly pilgrimage back to the homeland or during their very rare trips out east. But then we came back, and our holidays and summer vacations intertwined again. We had run around my parents' small hometown pretending to be twins when we were younger, but being adolescents, we of course shifted into a cooler, more distant relationship. We never detached, though. Partly because my grandmother was just as likely to send me a news clipping about TR's most recent athletic feats as an inspirational Dear Abby, I always knew what was going on in TR's life, and based on the strength of our pre-WWW familial internet, I'm guessing he was pretty aware of mine. As we went off to college and crept up into adulthood, however, we got closer again. We went from mocking each others' first girlfriend/boyfriend to attending each others' weddings. We made extra trips around the holidays so that my sister and I could spend time with him and his brother. We got to know each other as grown-ups, and we got to be not just family but friends. With the recent birth of his first baby, we had all the more in common, and we were looking forward to bringing together the next generation when we were all back home for Christmas.
My family, nuclear and extended, is wrapped around the core of my being, and I have never had an event that shook that core as suddenly and violently as the phone call from my sister telling me that TR had died. There was no immediate explanation, which seemed both fitting and insane. If there was no way to understand it, how could we possibly accept it? If we didn't know what happened, maybe it didn't.
The next few days were a conflict between my regular daily life and the overpowering desire to get the hell out of here and go be with my family. I shrugged off an indecent amount of responsibility to my business and finally caught a plane to Minnesota on Thursday morning, arriving just a few hours before the reviewal service. Or what anyone less Protestant would call a wake, but that term seems to indicate a level of celebration that us grieving Midwesterners couldn't quite muster. We don't celebrate the life lost, we comfort those left behind with buttered ham sandwiches and an almost sinful assemblage of home-made bars.
And there were so, so many left behind. I've been to far too many of these things in my life, but I've never seen a line extend all the way through a church sanctuary and out into the hall. I've also never seen a pastor start crying during his devotional moment with the family, and I felt a strong urge to have him un-ordained for it. We already had a room full of weeping Lutherans; the professional was supposed to keep it together.
No one could blame him, though. He barely even knew TR, but he knew his parents - my godparents, one of them Miss M's namesake - and all it took was one look at their sweet, stoic faces crumpled in grief to break the resolve of the most Nordic. Which is to say, the rest of my family. From the moment I arrived in the homeland until the minute Pops helped me load my diaper bag onto the airport security X-ray, someone in my family was crying. Crying so much that, at least in my case, the act itself caused physical pain - a bloody nose, an upset stomach, actual bruising in one eye. That's not us, that's not what we do, but there was no way around it. How do you not cry when you see the body of a vibrant, healthy 30-year-old lying in front of his wife and baby? How do you keep it together when hearing a younger brother eulogize a man who was clearly his best friend? Even if you didn't know these people, you would weep for them. Knowing them as we did, there was nothing else we could do. And we shared that feeling with the hundreds of friends and relatives who packed into my grandmother's former high school auditorium to remember a very brief but very powerful life.
I expected the weekend of services and family gatherings to be nothing but somber, but there was a surprising amount of humor, too. Not light-heartedness, exactly - our hearts were too badly broken to be light - but the stress of the event forced us to find release wherever we could, from tipsy Trivial Pursuit matches to a highly unexpected Captain Ron quote-off. These less serious moments weren't a testimony to our coping skills but rather a reminder of TR's essential nature. He was a happy young man. Funny, sweet, charming and bright in every sense of the word.
These moments were also a reminder that the reason families come together during times like this is to provide Trivial Pursuit partners and movie quote opponents. For as long as I was in Memphis, I was a solitary mourner, but once I got to Minnesota, we were one big, catastrophe-addled unit, using each other to lean on and gathering enough strength among our numbers to begin healing.
Because of that strength, this family will get through this. But because of TR, we will never be the same.
Monday, September 10, 2007
You Say It's Your Birthday
I can only hope that, from the other side of the wide angle lens of childhood, Miss M won't distinctly recall her fourth birthday as woefully inadequate. Hopefully that will just be my memory, another log on the ever-burning pyre of maternal guilt.
I blame Wednesdays. Wednesday is no reasonable day to have a birthday. It sneaks up in the middle of the week. Monday comes and you think there's so much time left to plan, Tuesday slips away too fast, and then there you are, running out of work on Wednesday night in hopes of getting home in time to supervise the opening of three hours' worth of presents piled up in the living room. The cake and gifts were all Miss M really expected, but I still felt that our scrambling approach to her big day was a pretty weak excuse for a celebration. But no matter, I thought, we'd make it up at her party.
Oh, crap, the party! As of Saturday morning, there was no theme, no decorations, no games, no plan at all. I spent the day wracking my brain and finally McGyvered up some decent ideas. Just before I hit Party City for all the needed gear, I checked the forecast. My entire outdoor-based plan was instantly foiled. Tired, hot, and Rocked'n'Romped out, I went to bed Saturday night with no clear vision as to how we were going to entertain the dozen children about to breach our defenses.
The promised rain was already coming down when I got up and headed to the grocery store at 8:00 Sunday morning. I felt strangely invigorated by the challenge of pulling off a party this close to the last minute, though, and I woke up enough to conjure up a menu that I hoped would, for once, please our small guests as much as the tall ones. I got back home and The Admiral and I set to work preparing the house for the coming onslaught. We were alternatingly cleaning, cooking, and requesting that Miss M please return her new stuff to her room, and after a Twister-offering text from Kristy, I started to feel like we'd actually be able to pull this off.
And then the phone rang. I don't think I want to discuss what that call from my sister was about, not yet, but it put an instant pall on the day's festivities. I tried not to let on to Miss M that anything was going on, and I think I pulled together enough Norseness to keep our adult guests from detecting anything, but I couldn't help feeling like the party ended before it even began.
The show went on, of course. There's no stopping the train of a pre-schooler's birthday party. The children ran happily amok and the adults enjoyed each other's laid-back company, as well as a pleasing variety of Coca Cola-based food products. Based on the contented exhaustion with which Miss M fell into bed last night, she had a full, happy day, and I hope that's how she remembers it. It will stick in my memory for other reasons, while at the same time standing on its own as the marking of another year filled with both sorrow and incredible joy.
I blame Wednesdays. Wednesday is no reasonable day to have a birthday. It sneaks up in the middle of the week. Monday comes and you think there's so much time left to plan, Tuesday slips away too fast, and then there you are, running out of work on Wednesday night in hopes of getting home in time to supervise the opening of three hours' worth of presents piled up in the living room. The cake and gifts were all Miss M really expected, but I still felt that our scrambling approach to her big day was a pretty weak excuse for a celebration. But no matter, I thought, we'd make it up at her party.
Oh, crap, the party! As of Saturday morning, there was no theme, no decorations, no games, no plan at all. I spent the day wracking my brain and finally McGyvered up some decent ideas. Just before I hit Party City for all the needed gear, I checked the forecast. My entire outdoor-based plan was instantly foiled. Tired, hot, and Rocked'n'Romped out, I went to bed Saturday night with no clear vision as to how we were going to entertain the dozen children about to breach our defenses.
The promised rain was already coming down when I got up and headed to the grocery store at 8:00 Sunday morning. I felt strangely invigorated by the challenge of pulling off a party this close to the last minute, though, and I woke up enough to conjure up a menu that I hoped would, for once, please our small guests as much as the tall ones. I got back home and The Admiral and I set to work preparing the house for the coming onslaught. We were alternatingly cleaning, cooking, and requesting that Miss M please return her new stuff to her room, and after a Twister-offering text from Kristy, I started to feel like we'd actually be able to pull this off.
And then the phone rang. I don't think I want to discuss what that call from my sister was about, not yet, but it put an instant pall on the day's festivities. I tried not to let on to Miss M that anything was going on, and I think I pulled together enough Norseness to keep our adult guests from detecting anything, but I couldn't help feeling like the party ended before it even began.
The show went on, of course. There's no stopping the train of a pre-schooler's birthday party. The children ran happily amok and the adults enjoyed each other's laid-back company, as well as a pleasing variety of Coca Cola-based food products. Based on the contented exhaustion with which Miss M fell into bed last night, she had a full, happy day, and I hope that's how she remembers it. It will stick in my memory for other reasons, while at the same time standing on its own as the marking of another year filled with both sorrow and incredible joy.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Trust In Me When I Say ...
I've been so woefully lacking in posts about the actual agent part of being a secret agent mom lately that I thought I could at least try to make it up by posting some of my basic beliefs about music: 
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
In Stitches Dug Out In Half
So I got this mysterious package yesterday. Plain DVD case, inside it a solid white DVD with nothing on it but the hand-written words "You Rock." It took approximately 1.4 seconds for me to stick it into The Admiral's PowerMac, whereupon I was face to face with ... my face.
I'm not supposed to say exactly what this is or where it came from, but anyone curious enough to peruse the November archives might get a pretty good idea. All I can say is that I'm really grateful to have a chance to actually see what was going on up there. Laugh away! But you know, in a good way.
I'm not supposed to say exactly what this is or where it came from, but anyone curious enough to peruse the November archives might get a pretty good idea. All I can say is that I'm really grateful to have a chance to actually see what was going on up there. Laugh away! But you know, in a good way.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Hey Shona
It has recently come to our attention that The Admiral is famous.
Not so much because he has a video on YouTube, but because, as of this writing, 827 people have bothered to look at it. And only 34 or so of those are The Admiral.
For the record, this video was taken at a campground in central Illinois, so don't be confused by the woman speaking Thai in the background. The mbira The Admiral is playing was one of his very first carpentry projects - before constructing the giant stereo cabinet, before disassembling and reassembling an upright piano, before The Boat - built while he was in graduate school. Doesn't seem like much to work on, but each of those keys is made from a piano wire hammered flat. Hammer one time too many? Note's bad. Start over. This was apparently a very long, tedious process, which is why it gets a place in the Admiral Project Hall of Fame. And why I'm very glad we didn't start dating until he was finished with it.
It's really pretty, though. And the spirits it conjures make babies sleep.
Not so much because he has a video on YouTube, but because, as of this writing, 827 people have bothered to look at it. And only 34 or so of those are The Admiral.
For the record, this video was taken at a campground in central Illinois, so don't be confused by the woman speaking Thai in the background. The mbira The Admiral is playing was one of his very first carpentry projects - before constructing the giant stereo cabinet, before disassembling and reassembling an upright piano, before The Boat - built while he was in graduate school. Doesn't seem like much to work on, but each of those keys is made from a piano wire hammered flat. Hammer one time too many? Note's bad. Start over. This was apparently a very long, tedious process, which is why it gets a place in the Admiral Project Hall of Fame. And why I'm very glad we didn't start dating until he was finished with it.
It's really pretty, though. And the spirits it conjures make babies sleep.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Destiny Will Arrive
Okay, I think I've got a little time to mention this before I'm summoned to tucking-in duty, so here we go.
I counted back and it's been right around forty weeks since I originally mentioned my need/desire to sell Mothersville. I wasn't really eager to let the store go, but I just couldn't figure out a way to stick with it, especially with another child on the way. Several possible options came and went since then, but as of just a few weeks ago, I really didn't know what was going to happen when the lease expired at the end of August. But looking back, it seems quite fitting that it took this long for a solution to my retail dilemma to present itself.
Which brings us to right about now, when I am so pleased and excited to announce that the super-lovely and uber-talented Melissa Anderson Sweazy has bravely stepped to the helm as the newest co-owner of Mothersville. A Memphis native graciously returned to us by the City of Angels, Melissa brings a Southerner's wit and charm curled up around a left coast artistic sensibility, and best of all, a deep and true desire to help out the new mamas of Memphis. She, babydoll Harlow, and the clearly game Caleb are fairly new to the Memphis parenting scene, but are eagerly throwing themselves at the mercy of Midtown. Give a hand, y'all!
I admit, I was a little hesitant to get back into a partnered situation, not sure if I could give up the thrills of dictatorship. But it quickly became clear that we shared a passion for Mothersville, as well as sharing several other passions (e.g. Prince, Mini Coopers, Xanadu). And it's taken a little time, but I think I can even overlook her grotesque flaws (i.e. publishing a book, having a super-sleeper baby, sharing the same general oxygen as George Clooney). I mean, hey, nobody's perfect, right? What really matters is that we both believe in Mothersville, both want to keep providing support to Memphis moms, both have faith that the tide of natural parenting will eventually flow to the midsouth. And of course, both appreciate the wonder that is Olivia Newton-John disco-roller-skating with Gene Kelly.
I counted back and it's been right around forty weeks since I originally mentioned my need/desire to sell Mothersville. I wasn't really eager to let the store go, but I just couldn't figure out a way to stick with it, especially with another child on the way. Several possible options came and went since then, but as of just a few weeks ago, I really didn't know what was going to happen when the lease expired at the end of August. But looking back, it seems quite fitting that it took this long for a solution to my retail dilemma to present itself.
Which brings us to right about now, when I am so pleased and excited to announce that the super-lovely and uber-talented Melissa Anderson Sweazy has bravely stepped to the helm as the newest co-owner of Mothersville. A Memphis native graciously returned to us by the City of Angels, Melissa brings a Southerner's wit and charm curled up around a left coast artistic sensibility, and best of all, a deep and true desire to help out the new mamas of Memphis. She, babydoll Harlow, and the clearly game Caleb are fairly new to the Memphis parenting scene, but are eagerly throwing themselves at the mercy of Midtown. Give a hand, y'all!
I admit, I was a little hesitant to get back into a partnered situation, not sure if I could give up the thrills of dictatorship. But it quickly became clear that we shared a passion for Mothersville, as well as sharing several other passions (e.g. Prince, Mini Coopers, Xanadu). And it's taken a little time, but I think I can even overlook her grotesque flaws (i.e. publishing a book, having a super-sleeper baby, sharing the same general oxygen as George Clooney). I mean, hey, nobody's perfect, right? What really matters is that we both believe in Mothersville, both want to keep providing support to Memphis moms, both have faith that the tide of natural parenting will eventually flow to the midsouth. And of course, both appreciate the wonder that is Olivia Newton-John disco-roller-skating with Gene Kelly.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Tag Team Back Again
I've been blog-tagged! Which apparently means I'm supposed to post eight little-known facts about myself. Now that my entire family is reading this blog, however, along with my spouse and friends, it's harder and harder to think up facts that are still little-known. But here's my effort to toss out a list that is at least 50% surprising to any one reader.
1. Aside from negligible traffic infractions, I've never done anything illegal.
2. I wrote a letter a week for two years.
3. I often sleep with my right foot tucked up against the inside of my left knee, like a horizontal flamingo.
4. The first album I bought with my own (okay, Grandma's) money was Jack Wagner, All I Need, purchased at the Ben Franklin drugstore in Olivia, MN.
5. I sold my first car on eBay (for more than retail) and negotiated for my next one over the phone (for less than retail). This doesn't sound that surprising unless the reader knows about my crippling phone-phobia.
6. I don't get nervous about public speaking as long as I'm working off a script.
7. I can sing the jingle for Pac-Man Cereal. (But no, I won't.)
8. I've only had my heart broken once. The breaker is currently serving 16 years for aggravated kidnapping and probably more for an unsuccessful escape.
1. Aside from negligible traffic infractions, I've never done anything illegal.
2. I wrote a letter a week for two years.
3. I often sleep with my right foot tucked up against the inside of my left knee, like a horizontal flamingo.
4. The first album I bought with my own (okay, Grandma's) money was Jack Wagner, All I Need, purchased at the Ben Franklin drugstore in Olivia, MN.
5. I sold my first car on eBay (for more than retail) and negotiated for my next one over the phone (for less than retail). This doesn't sound that surprising unless the reader knows about my crippling phone-phobia.
6. I don't get nervous about public speaking as long as I'm working off a script.
7. I can sing the jingle for Pac-Man Cereal. (But no, I won't.)
8. I've only had my heart broken once. The breaker is currently serving 16 years for aggravated kidnapping and probably more for an unsuccessful escape.
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