Christmas Bit Me

There is no denying the sorry state of my un-merry spirit this year. My hum-bugedness is palpable and thus far no onslaught of jingle-jingle festive song and seasonal pleasantries have succeeded in shaking me out of it. Christmas bit me this year - and I have yet to recover.

I am the first person to don a Santa hat, pump the Bing Crosby and crank the yule tide cheer up to pre-Thanksgiving obnoxious. This year was no different, and yet - I am neither holy nor jolly. Instead I'm sitting typing with sagging shoulders and a visible grimace with a bandage firmly wrapped around my middle finger to secure the injury Christmas so cruely inflicted.

I can trace it back to Saturday morning when our little family unit traversed to the local Christmas tree farm as per our holiday tradition. We elected to cut down our own tree rather than buy a pre-cut one this year - which we construed as an adventure. And it was. Though slightly more akin to a Griswold family hijinx than to a holiday season Hallmark special as we were envisioning. So we traipsed into the field, saw in hand, and lo and behold by the grace of God was a single but near blinding ray of light splaying through the trees and falling on it - our Christmas tree. So brilliant was this light that it was almost impossible not to believe that God, Himself, had elected this tree to shine brightly in our family room. So it was to my shock and horror that somewhere between unearthing this tree and depositing it back at our car that I realized I had, in fact, been bitten by Christmas. On the finger. My middle finger... (*Spoiler Alert* Some exaggerations may follow)...where the nail was split down the middle leaving my hand bloody and, now, bandaged and arguably appearing claw-like and generally sad.

Flash forward to Sunday afternoon as the family attempts to string holiday lights across the apex of the garage and down the path to our front door (disfigured claw and all). Whilst my husband struggles to attach the lights to the roof I, ever so gracefully, manage to crunch my fat foot over one of the sweet little Christmas bulbs and it explodes in over-dramatic "POP!" all over the gravel driveway. Que my son cheering and applauding Mommy's mistake. It'd been three days now and he still can't set foot on the driveway without exclaiming "MOMMY'S TAKE! MOMMY'S TAKE!" while gesturing wildly between the ground and the garage. Yes - the entire holiday lights effort was seemingly thwarted by my lead footed mistake. Because, you know, if you break one bulb the entire string doesn't work. Similiarly, if you break one bulb some unseen power will smite you for apparently defiling Christmas. Following the POP! heard round the world all the lights refused to go up on the garage and, oh yeah, I managed to snap off one of the fluffy snowflake lights from its peg while trying to stake it into the ground. I am officially the world's worst Christmas light decorator. Our entire neighborhood is a-glow with Christmas spirit. Our house is marked by a half string of functional Christmas lights on the garage followed by a trail of defeat embodied by an unopened package of Christmas lights left in the driveway, a ladder propped against the house, instructions to the snowflake peg lights and the dismantled plastic snowflakes themselves - a veritable graveyard of Christmas cheer - leading up to our front door (where the lighted garland I put around the door, too, refused to light this year..because it hates me).

The collective exasperation of giving up on the Christmas lights was bookended by our son, overtired and not willing to give up his station next to his beloved lawn mower while he watched his father and I fail at decorating the house and calling out my mistakes...over and over...refusing to nap. Instead, he insisted on screaming himself hoarse from his crib into his bedside monitor (I believe this was because he sensed my weakness). The thing about toddlers, I've come to determine, is that allowing them to forego their nap quickly results in a vortex of all things good being sucked into a black hole of unending tantrums and maternal desperation. So, for the moment, I was letting him scream in the vain hope that he would settle and get some much needed sleep - and all would be right in the world if only for a moment. My husband determines that this would be a good time to erect our Christmas tree (which had been stationed overnight in the garage) in our family room so we could surprise our son after his nap. Murphy's law being what it is (or perhaps just stemming from the afliction of being bitten by Christmas) the tree would not go up straight. Standing back and regarding our tree, cocked ever so ridiculously to the right, I watched the life drain from my husband's eyes and replace itself with the anger, frustration and wicked fed-upedness lit with the energy of a thousand suns. I love my husband dearly and for that reason I will not delve into the subject matter of the tyrade that followed (and, equally, because I shared every sentiment of that rage-fueled monologue) but suffice it to say it had much to do with a lamenting of why things can feel so damn hard at times. Why is work so hard? Why does our son fight so hard? Why does it feel as though there's no time for anything (let alone time to stand still or think for one abbreviated second)? Why does it feel as though I can't do a single thing right? Why can't an Ivy league graduate figure out how to string a set of bloody Christmas lights? AND WHY DID CHRISTMAS BITE MY DAMN FINGER??!!!! That is the particular moment I'm tagging as the point of no return. At least, it's the point I'm not sure I've returned from - and it happened days ago. It's not that I don't recognize how incredibly fortunate I and my family are - in a time of year when people want for even the most basic of living essentials. Where people are sick. Where people are separated from their families and loved ones by time, space, tragedy and war. I know all of these things. And still there is a part of me - a sad and frazzled part - that feels entirely defeated. I have been convinced (or convinced myself) that there isn't a single thing that I can do with particular expertise whether it be my job, parenting, keeping a clean house, being a good wife or preparing a piece of toast. I feel like a disaster. And I am so consumed by that thought that I have wrapped myself in a shroud of it. A swaddle of dark, dank thoughts so thick and oppressive that I have seemingly forgotten my way out of it.

Every day I try to re-set and adjust my expectations and push through. I try to allocate my time. I try to forgive myself of the things where I fall short. At work I often feel as though I'm a tourist in a foreign country where all of my colleagues are fluent in the local language and I know how to ask where to sleep, where the bathroom is and for a beer. And while the basics will sustain you for a short period there inevitably comes a time where people expect you to do more than sleep, shit and drink. I feel as though I've hit that point and my lack of conversational ability in this foreign country is making me feel like an idiot and like deportation is imminent. It's a bad place to be - and it makes me sick most days.

I watch my son try to figure his way through things. How to insert puzzle pieces into the correct holes. How to connect legos. How to assemble things. And I watch him, at times, reach a level of frustration that devolves him into a trembling, screaming mess - I know he gets that lack of patience from me. I know it, in particular right now, because there is a vibrating, mess of a child inside me right now - desperate for someone to come along and help me to put my puzzle together. Work tasks here in the round hole, Family over there in the square hole. I've been here before - and I know that there just isn't a person in the world who can pull back that dark shroud but me. It's a lesson I don't want my son to know for a long, long time. Because right now I can still sit next to him and build that tower. And turn keys and press buttons and make all of those niggling frustrations disipate. Because I can help him learn how to do those things. Because I can try to teach him patience - in allowing time and effort to master skills - and in forgiving oneself when it takes time and effort to master them. Somehow that level of patience becomes much harder to achieve in adulthood - and when the gravity of one's job and one's family unit are dependent upon the success of mastering those tasks efficiently and expertly.

Patience. Something we could've used when tackling those Christmas lights. And, I suppose, something I could really use some of at the moment. Because if my spirit were a display of festive lights - right now it'd look a hell of a lot like our front yard. So, at the moment, I'm going to try to untangle the unruly ball of blinking depression wound up inside of me and hang it up right. The lights aren't going to be perfect. Because parts of me are burned out. Parts droop. Parts are flaking and off-color. But the sentiment is still the same.

Things will never be perfect. I'm not sure I'd like them if they were. Life is full of Mommy's mistakes - as I'm sure my son will happily point out to me as we go. I don't know how to navigate these inherent errors right now - how to be ok with my shortcomings absent becoming a full time mother or a full time attorney. Neither seems like the lit path. Sadly, it doesn't seem often that a ray of light parts the trees and shows you the way in life like it revealed our little Christmas tree.  But this is the time of year for giving. For forgiveness. For joy and thankfulness for the people and things you have in your life. Maybe my little injury isn't rooted in malicious evergreen trees at all - maybe Christmas bit me to wake me the hell up so I'd take a look around and see past everyone else, past all the perfectly decorated yards, experience co-workers and expert Moms and pay attention to what's really important in my life. To be thankful for who I am. And patient with who I'm not. To believe in myself and in possibility - to embrace the imperfections - and to create the light that takes you the first step out of the darkness. To find a way to go from Bah-Humbug to

...God bless us...every one.

Separation Infatuation

When I was little I used to wonder if the entire world ceased to exist save for the moments that I was present in it. If the moment I left a room it evaporated. If people would go dormant in my absence like powered-off droids if I wasn't there to engage them. I think this is the epitome of self-centered. When I was six I thought the world literally did revolve around me. Silly, yes, except I'm fairly certain that this ego centric view of the universe has been passed genetically to my toddler.

Our pediatrician has asked us repeatedly about "separation anxiety". It was a milestone our kiddo never hit. Sure, he's shy when an inquisitive stranger smiles at him (generally resulting in sly smile and burying of little face into my leg). Sure, he's going through an epic "Mommy" phase which is equal parts adorable and impossible. But when it's time to part ways my son has mostly come to accept the reality that we have lives beyond one another. Or, more rightly, that he has a life beyond me and I sit in a closet all day gathering dust until it's time for me to pick him up again.

When C was six months old I went back to work full time and he started up at daycare - a wonderful family run program that incorporates a pre-school curriculum into daily activities and has really come to be a second home to all of us. Rewind two weeks before I was scheduled to head back to the office and young C to the classroom, however, and you would find a panic stricken mother who couldn't get her baby to nap without at least forty-five minutes of vigorous, swaddled rocking and who couldn't get her baby to eat from a bottle. So, unless I was able to find a way to medically detach myself from my boobs and staple C into his swaddle there were going to be some hefty changes a foot. And in the nearly six months that C and I had known each other we had come to the mutual understanding that we both suffered greatly when hungry, sleep deprived, or confronted with change. Hooray!  Lo and behold, though, that the transition to daycare did not bring forth the end of the world. Nothing fell from the sky. The world continued to turn. Honestly, I think we were both a little surprised. Suddenly, the bottle was an acceptable medium for dinner and sleep training brought forth oodles of much needed hours of sleep for all involved.  It was a good change for both of us. I knew it. And C knew it. And he never once cried when I dropped him there at the end of the day.

In effect that should be a good little parable. But, of course, it left me wondering if I had in some way failed him. Why wasn't he clinging to me with wild abandon begging me not to leave him? Doesn't he need me anymore? Truth? He does need me. A whole lot. And the drama free drop offs? A sign that he's a happy, well adjusted and confident little world explorer. Still, it's at least a smidge heartbreaking every time he gives me a little kiss and yells "BYE BYE MOMMY!!" as he's running off to join the other children each morning. He's two. I didn't think I'd have to see that kind of gleeful departure until he was eighteen.

Since that time our little guy has made new friends, developed his own keen interets and expanded his little world exponentially - something I don't think I managed to do until college. In the instances when C gets up in the morning and I've already left the house, he looks at G and asks: "Mommy work?" He knows where I am. He knows what it means (to some extent at least - that could still mean gathering dust in the closet next to his old jumperoo). And most importantly - he knows that I'll be back.

His vocabulary is sprouting new seeds every day - surprising the hell out of G and I every time he shoots off a new word or phrase. And, of course, being the true only child - all things belong to him. Nouns. Verbs. Adjectives. He is possessive of all of them. "My mow-mow!"(lawn mower); "My night-night!"(sleep); "My toot!"(farts - he's not just accountable for them, he's damn proud of them) and, newly added to the list, "My wiggle!"(the group the Wiggles. Somebody better inform their representation - they now legally, physically and metaphorically and otherwise belong to my child).

I also happen to think that someone explained the concept of parenting to him incorrectly. I am not now, nor have I ever been, or in any way resemble a genie in a lamp. For some reason my son seems to think that if he claps his hands that you magically materialize at which time he can make unfettered demands. "Bob - on!" (aka - put on Bob the Builder. This news stuff is crap and Daddy, the Cubs still suck.)  "Daddy - mow-mow! Mommy weep!" (aka - Daddy, go mow the lawn as it amuses me endlessly. Mommy....make yourself useful and clean up the mess I made all over the kitchen floor) "Mickey - eat/march/run/deet!" (aka - you're lower on the food chain than I am dog and we both know it. So eat, march, run and sit at my command lest you want me to prod you repeatedly with my jabby finger or run you over with my fisher price lawn mower. Here's some scraps for your trouble).

Yes - my son is not lacking for confidence or independence. When he isn't busying himself with barking orders he's germanating new and exciting ways to confound G and I. Current favorite activity? Reading the "C" books (the many volumes of photo albums all starring - C! Not so interested in the ones before he was born). Current favorite word? "Park". As in "lets go to the". Last week G and I were cleverly referring to the "Parents Guide to Outsmarting Your Toddler" by spelling everything in front of C. I said, "G - it's supposed to be sunny tomorrow, that may mean it's nice enough for the P-A-R-K." C looked at us and exclaimed "PARK!" That constituted one of those moments where you realize how grossly you've underestimated your children. G and I exchanged glances and therein came to an unspoken agreement that we'd raised an evil genius - a spelling prodigy. With trembling trepidation we repeated the question over and over..."C, what does P-A-R-K spell?" "PARK PARK PARK!" It wasn't until some time later that I thought to ask..."C, what does B-A-B-Y spell?" "PARK!" "What does D-O-G spell?" "PARK" "What does D-A-D-D-Y spell?" "PARK PARK PARK" And with that we were once again wrapped in a warm blanket of reassurance that (for the time being) we were not on the verge of being surpassed in power and/or intelligence by our two year old. Of course, he may just be on to us and feigning ignorance...only time will tell.

He's definitely his own person - and I love that about him. For the first many months of his life G and I would contemplate which parts of him were derived from parts of he or I. My ears, your nose. My feet, your eyes. My laugh...your insatiable desire for mischief and destruction. It's only recently occured to me that so much of C is just that - him. His sense of humor. His dance moves. His imagination (what other kid out there has a stuffed seal named "kitty", a push wagon named "doggie", a penguin named "duck" and a family of stuffed bears all named "Nunny". Blue Nunny. Red Nunny. Baby Nunny. Oh, and Nunny Too.) He always engages us in his world of play - excited to share with us all of his wonderful creations and scenarios. And while he might skip away when it's time to part ways for the day, eager to learn and explore and grow, he always comes running for me when I pick him up. He never wants to leave us, necessarily - but his world goes on for the short times that we do. And when we're at home again, he sits in my lap and we begin my favorite time of day - when he recounts to me all of the amazing things he encountered in those parted hours with the excitement and wonder that Dorothy had upon her return from Oz. And he hugs me. And there's no place like home...no place like home...

1+1 = ?

There are days that I pause long enough to wonder what weight I'm capable of carrying. I've been told that God does not give people more than they can handle - and while I wish I could say that the lion's share of the time I feel as though I can take on the world I think the truer reality is that I spend quite a bit of time considering how close I might be to that line and to the buckling of the legs of my life.

I've caught myself gazing out my office window several times this afternoon. Funny - I don't know that I ever believed I'd have an office with a window. Certainly not one that overlooked Elliot Bay and the Olympics. Ah, the weight of a window. A transparent pane of glass that symbolizes, in part, where I am now in my career. It provides a new perspective - and also gives me some indication on how far down I could potentially fall. Some days this window is a scary thing. In school it was easier to achieve a single A than to string them together into a consistent 4.0 average. Now, perhaps it's easier to be awarded a promotion - and a window - than it is to consistently prove that you deserve both. Somehow, when there was seemingly less to lose with respect to my career, there was also a feeling of relief. If I screw this up something else will come along. I can stay home - with my children - as some part of me always wanted. Now - now there are days where I let my trepidation overwhelm me. Days where I fear that I can't 'have it all.' That I can't have this job and be the mother and wife that I want to be, ultimately. What do I do with that? I don't think there's an answer necessarily.

What brings even further gravity to the 'have it all' argument is the thought of bringing another little someone into the equation. There is no question that we have our hands full as it is - between two very full time jobs and one very precocious toddler. There's also no denying that the mother part of me is orbiting towards the desire for one more member to complete our loving family. People make much more difficult situations happen. I know this. People with little to no means have much larger families. People with more strenuous jobs still support their families. But can I? Does God think that I can handle it? Do I think I can? I waver on that determination most days. I think there was a not so quiet part of me that debated what kind of mother I'd be to one baby, let alone two. It's the not knowing - it's the great uncertainty - parenthood for the first time. But once G and I made the decision to enter into the unknown world we did so with gusto and excitement and hands firmly intertwined. I have a faith, a quiet confidence, that I will be re-visited by that same conviction when we do finally make that decision. It's just that...it's a little less unknown now. I now know what it's like to be sleep deprived for huge amounts of time strung together like a bitter cloth of woven frailities and exhaustion. I know what it's like to fight and pick and bicker with the man you love over things so small that they're imperceptible to the 'outside world' because you are so removed from yourself out of the deep sadness of feeling as though you are failing your crying child. Of forgetting what life is like outside of sweatpants. Of the fear - the persistent fear - that something is wrong with your child because he isn't compliantly developing according to the pediatrician's say-so chart of milestones. Of the worry shaken through you when the baby monitor goes off in the middle of the night and you stir desperately out of the sleep you weren't even allowing yourself to fall into because you're afraid he'll stop breathing. And yet - with all of that now a part of my internal fabric, I still so much want to go back there. Go back to that land of Never-Nod. Perhaps a little wiser. Definitely looking older. I want to go back there in spite of all of the fear and the fighting and the exhaustion and the worry. Because the good outweighs the bad in such vast numbers that I'm unable to recount it all here. Because family really is paramount to me. I don't know what my life will look like come baby number two. But it'd sure be nice to consider it all while looking out this window across an expanse of water - while the sun slips down the late afternoon sky. I suppose it doesn't matter where you see that sun rise or set when it all comes down to it. I guess I'd gladly trade the window for a family to watch that sun with - through any window. And in knowing that - maybe there really isn't that much to fear after all.

My Worried Mind

How fast time flies. Case in point? It's been two months since I last posted - where did those two months go? It's amazing how time can seemingly slip into the same vortex socks fall victim to deep within the Narnian complexity of the dryer. At any rate, that time can be fairly summed up as follows: work, hideous toddler stomach flu, emergency room visit (x2!), vacation (phew!), second birthday, promotion, niggling toddler cold, date night, arrival of fall (hooray for fall! you sweep in with your cooler air and longer nights and cover me in your sweet, sweet weather goodness).  

And that's life. What was once punctuated by new school years is now a firm and consistent path where the chapters seem less defined. When do I get issued my official "You're a Grown Up Now" diploma to hang on the wall? Like a lot of things it just sort of happened (right?) At the office I'm often privvy to the weekend post-mortem conversations which for many are a re-telling of various exciting adventures and rendezvous which are such a gross departure from my own stories that I'm not even sure it's the same language. I literally devolved into spastic hysteria and a series of high fives after receiving word from daycare that baby C used the potty for the first time with the same enthusiasm as others devote to spring break hook ups. Conversely, my idea of a high class meal generally involves anything without bibs or physically wiping another dining attendee down after the meal whereas I sense that others focus a bit more on the traditional eight plate dinner parties and the opening of hip restaurants. What's that sound? It's me getting old. And lame. And loving it.

I'm learning to embrace my lameness. I'm also making an effort to not take it all too seriously - I generally spectacularly fail at this task. Especially in this new role at work where I'm fairly certain I'm going to fall short of expectation, get fired or, I don't know, pushed out a window at any given moment. None of these are pleasant ideas that reside in the neurotic folds of my brain that flare up any time I scooch out of my comfort zone. And given that I'm currently somewhere about five time zones to the left of my comfort zone that means I'm in a state of perpetual worry. Not a pretty sight. In spite of all that I'm working to understand work and home and their ability to each occupy a seat on the see-saw without bullying one or the other off the playground. And in those moments where I get that feeling that I'm playing dress-up in someone else's office I call up some recent memory of amazing little kiddo and try to put the worry to bed in knowing that there are bigger things out there that carry greater weight. C's biggest worries are that he may never see Elmo (or, "MELMO!!" as he is lovingly referred to in our house) again after the dramatic close of Elmo's World. That Daddy may never cut ("MOW-MOW!") the lawn again (our grass has never been so short - our toddler insists its cut every other day so that he may applaud as G traipses around the backyard with that sensational piece of machinery) or, of course, that he wont be able to play outside ("SIDE!") as often as he'd like. Our worries are different but no less important than one or the other - just a different stage of life. I remember my worries as a teenager and sort of scoff at them now (What if so-and-so doesn't like me? What will I wear to the dance? What if I don't get an A in Biology?). I'm always going to have worries that change with time and circumstance. And at no time will they seem less grave until I have enough perspective to realize how momentous the ones I currently have are compared to those that have long since evaporated. Some day I'll look back on myself and shake my head at the time I wasted sitting at my desk - afraid of what others thought of me. Especially when one of my biggest goals as a parent is to teach C that he needs to be himself.

I think one of my biggest worries these days is that time really is going too fast. Nothing I can do about that - except maybe to push back from my desk, even for a moment, and just realize that I enjoy what I'm doing. I enjoy the people I work with. I enjoy what I do every single day and I really am doing the best that I can at it. And if I disappoint - I get back up and try again. And if I get fired - I get up and try again. And if I get pushed out a window? I wave my arms like crazy and try to fly - cuz there ain't no getting up from that. :)  And at the end of the day I can smike...because most of all, I enjoy the home I return to each night.

Ding Dong - Life's at the Door

I remember the days when life would lazily knock at the door and wait patiently for you to answer. More recently, life doesn't even bother to ring the bell a hundred times over - it bursts in with Eddie Haskell expectance and assumes it's staying for dinner. For the most part I'm okay with that (not that I've got much of a say in the matter). It's just that those unexpected visits can as easily symbolize unfettered disaster as as they can welcome surprise. Fortunately, we've had a few instances of the latter recently - which have been so wonderful, in fact, that I've woken up more than once in the last couple of weeks certain that it had all been a dream. As of late it would seem that all my pandering about being Mom, Esq. has come to fruition - I've been recognized at work in a way that I never have before and, in many ways, was begin to suspect I never would. It's a life changing move up in the world for me - which of course promises all kinds of change (hooray! I deal with change with such grace and poise!). It's an amazing feeling - to be recognized. Particularly when there are days I hardly recognize myself anymore - who IS that tired looking girl with the wrinkles, dark under-eye circles and unidentified goo on her shirt? Particularly when I often picture myself as the blind statue of justice...perilously trying to balance work and life and fitness and appearance and marriage and motherhood and sanity. Except my blindfold would be a Winnie the Pooh wash cloth and I'd be dressed in yoga pants and an oversized sweatshit. Hawt. But there you have it - life burst in and all is changed.

That's the thing about life - it pops in now and then but is always marching along. C continues to grow and grow and flex those needling muscles of sweet independence (more commonly recognized as ear shattering tantrums). The other day he spiralled into a doozy as I left daycare. I'm fairly certain that (apart from being mercilessly judged by C's daycare provider) as I slowly backed out the door and towards my car that I morphed into Wile E. Coyote, realized that I was in fact standing two feet over the cliff side on nothing but air, held up a YIPES! sign and spontaneously fell to my splatted, dust-poofed doom below. Life goes on.

And as life goes on, C continues to surprise us. Funny though, amid the myriad of new words that have materialized in C's voculary, I have a few new favorites:

Guy and Guy: Guy is allocated to the little construction worker that sits in his favorite Tonka truck. Life comes to a screetching hault in the event that Guy is missing (which can be quite troublesome given that he's only about an inch short with an inexplicably over sized torso to his nearly non-existent legs - when he goes missing he could be anywhere. Last time I found him was wedged way under the crib towards the wall. Forget needle in a haystack. The saying "like finding Guy in our house" is far, far more accurate. Guy (pronounced Gee) is C's stuffed gorilla. Guy LaFleur. For some reason he's French Canadian. Nighttime revolves around the presence of Guy and Guy.

Choo-Choo: Our love affair for Thomas the train has commenced. My child, who has never once shown an interest in his clothes, now adamently refuses to part from his beloved Thomas jammies each morning and insists on them each night. This struggle sounds like the arrival of the saddest train in the world:

"No, C, we need to take off our Thomas jammies and put on our daytime clothes if we're going to go outside."

"Choooooo-Chooooooo...MO CHOOOOO-CHOOOOOO!"

Boo: Translation: Book. Our son is a reading machine...which I highly encourage. Small exception: the seventy seventh round of Brown Bear Brown Bear What Do You See? does start to become somewhat tedious. We tried to rectify the situation by introducing the other books in the Bear series. This only resulted in the insistance on all four books before bed followed by a lively rendition of MO BOOOOOOO!! (more books).

Pee-pee: Used as both a noun and a verb - a testament to efficiency! Most recently used as the subject and sole lyrics to a song while walking around the house: "Pee pee!  Pee pee pee pee pee pee! Peeeeeeee peeeeee...." 

Bobby: This one is perhaps my favorite. Daycare has introduced a new face into the little crowd: a four month old baby. C has taken to his new friend with great care and interest and now affectionately calls this little one (and all infants) Bobby (translation: Baby). I happened to meet the new baby this morning and was overcome by his adorable chubby cheekedness. I felt that twinge of new mommyhood - and I couldn't deny it. Actually, I've been feeling it more and more in the last several months - and, of course, just to egg on the twinge everyone in the city seems to be pregnant. Maternal amnesia is a wonderful and very necessary thing. G keeps asking C if he wants to be a big brother ("Yeah, yeah, yeah!") and if he'd like a little brother or sister ("Yeah! Bobby!"). It's a funny thing, but I suspect that life may just burst on in one of these days and grant that wish.

Life's here. And it's hungry for seconds.

The Unsung Hero

In the wake of new parenthood it's often easy to completely overlook things in your life that used to be staples of security and of sanity. Things that used to be fundamental can at once seem frivolous. Large pieces of you can suddenly be eclipsed by the arrival of baby - which is, in part, why G and I refer to our lives as BC and AC. Because life really does seem to be divided into Before Child and After Child. And I was ready and willing to trade in 2am bar crawls for 2am feedings and forego sleep, submit to the Wiggles and read Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See until the words are surely scripted on the backs of my eyelids. I was prepared to submit my entire prior life to whatever new world we were entering for the promise of a family. But then I realized that "we" did not only refer to G and I. Because "we" already were a family. And that although we were all marching into unknown territory - one of us did not enter into this pact voluntarily.

Logistically, Moo was a gift. Metaphorically, though, he was a miracle. He saved me - and without him, there may never have been a family at all. He was given to me in the summer before my second year of law school. I hadn't taken care of so much as a goldfish without parental supervision my entire life - so a puppy was a substantial step up. I knew the moment I laid eyes on that wriggly little face that I was smitten for life - and I have been. We were (and still are) inseparable. In spite of our indivisibility, G made me promise that Moo would sleep in his crate in the room across from ours. That was the condition he had imposed on us - and one that both the pup and I begrudgingly agreed to abide by. Of course, Moo couldn't live up to his end of the bargain. Only moments after putting him on his comfy bed inside his crate and retreating to the next room it began - a sound that should come from no living thing. A sound so heinous that it's heinousness can not even be described - except to say that it was heinously heinous and would forever be the most heinous of all things heinous. And it continued. Unrelenting. All night. By early morning's light, G rose out of bed. He looked down at me and our eyes met. We had laid awake, unmoving, all night, but hadn't spoken. He bowed his head and disappeared out of the room. When he returned it was only to lay Moo down on the pillow next to mine where the two of us slept the most gorgeous sleep for the next many hours.

He is a farting, snorting, snuffling, curly tailed, convex bellied cherub - and he has dragged me from the depths of depression back into the world. He has taken up residence on my lap and remained there, unfettered, through long nights of tears, through endless hours of pouring over text books, through triumph and failure. Many failures. He has slept on our bed - often still on our pillows, nestled ever so gracefully above our heads (all fifty five pounds of chunk), traveled with us across the border, across the country (four times!), seen us through new jobs, new homes, new states - new lives. He is my miracle. He is my first baby. But, of course, first implies that there is a subsequent baby.

Moo interpreted change from the moment G and I celebrated the blue line on the stick. Like the excitement induced by pulling out a suitcase ("We're going somewhere?! Hooray! Where are we going??!!") our bulldog seemed to know without knowing that big changes were afoot. This suspicion only grew with the arrival of nursery furniture into a room that had otherwise been empty - and exclusively belonging to Moo. And then, of course, the belly. Already asserting his dominance, the larger Baby C grew the further my belly expanded until there was nearly no more room for Moo to laze across my lap. My lap had been his station - his spot of security - since those summer puppy days. It's strange to say but it's like we could both sense it - the sudden shift - that no matter how hard we tried to push the thought away, Moo and I both knew that his position in life, both literal and figurative, was changing. Despite the gradual disappearance of the lap, though, Moo did his best to help me cope with the pregnancy. He sat by me during my terrible bouts with morning all friggin' day sickness, waddled beside me as we walked and was generally content to flop on the couch and loaf with me - our distented bellies majestically heaving in the August heat. I'm pretty sure he even gained sympathy weight. So there we were, both of us swollen and snoring in the thick of the night when my water broke. Things changed some after that.

Moo was left to sleep alone that night - the first time in a very long time...if ever. G came home twice after the baby was born to feed and walk him and give him lots of love (and, hopefully, a manly pep talk on the road ahead). The third time G returned home he had me in tow - and I had a strange something nestled in my arms. I was proud and protective of the little something. G encouraged a slow and careful introduction of our two boys and, while I abided, I knew instinctively that our dog would be both gentle and understanding. Moo regarded him with interest, sniffing snarfling at his foot. And then I saw it - as Moo watched over C's wriggly little face he became smitten for life. Or, if not smitten, at least devoted. In the days and nights that followed Moo was my loyal shadow. He sat with me through long nights of tears (both mine and C's), endless hours of pouring over this new little life, through triumph and failure. And he was ever gentle with this new addition. And ever mindful. He slept dutifully by the bassinet while baby slept. By my feet while I fed C. By the chair while we rocked. He sat apart from me - supportive, and loving, and present. This beautiful dog - who for five years would affectionately bulldoze his way over any obstacle and onto my lap - would sit quietly by in silent understanding that something else now occupied my lap. Something precious. We both knew that his place has shifted - that the lap was now reserved for someone else - and it saddens me still that we've lost that tenderness.

It's been nearly two years since C arrived - and in that two years C has grown from squishy, fragile, screaming infant to bouncing, animated, screaming little boy. Moo takes the good with the bad and, at the ripe old age of seven, has even become a little stoic. Now my boys are true brothers. Both drool some, eat food off the floor, throw their momentum around with wreckless abandon, enjoy a good nap, occassionally poop on the floor - and are unbelievably sweet for mama. Moo dutifully takes his lumps. He gets poked in the eye and ridden like a raging bull. The more mobile C became the fewer places Moo had to retreat. Now, it seems, no place is safe from tiny hands that pull and jab. C does adore his doggie - but my boy, who inexplicably demands neatness (between G and I a neatness gene just doesn't exist - so he must have gotten it from his Nana), often yells at and tattles on poor Moo. "SSSHhhhhhhhriiiiieeeeeek" (he's drooling on the floor - do you see that? Drops of goo!), "Noo Dooooooo!" (he's pilfered my stuffed animal! it will never feel the same after this!), "EEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeekkk!" (he has the audacity to sit in my spot!), "NNNnnaaaaaahhhhhoooo!" (he's sniffing my hand that is precariously holding this slice of cheese directly in front of his nose!). We pat our poor berated pup and tell him he's a good boy - and remind him that Colonol Shriek yells at us too ("Lint, Mom. Lint. On your sweater. Didn't we talk about this yesterday?!" or "Your hair is wet, Mom. Wet. You know I hate creepy wet hair!") Of course, the older C gets the more good Moo can derive from their relationship. Like table scraps - a whole mess of table scraps. And copious crackers and cheese slices ("one for you, one for me, one for you...I want the one you had back. Let me pry it out of your sloppy toothful bulldog gob and EAT IT!"). And my favorite - hugs and kisses. Moo just sits very still and hopes it all ends quickly as C lavishes him with squeezes and smooches - but somewhere inside I'm sure he appreciates the mooshy sentiment. Moo is present at every wake up, meal, nap, bathtime, book and bedtime. He is very much a part of the family.

These days, I share my lap. Moo has made his way back some but I still wonder (even though C spends less time occupying his old spot and more time exploring the world) if he doesn't really feel that it belongs to him anymore. I try to convince him otherwise, but he still hasn't made it all the way back. I'm always elated when, without coaxing, he creeps over - my sweet galumph, and deposits his heft where I love and remember it most. Where we are closest with one another. Where I stroke his fur and scratch his ears. Where he looks up at me and licks my face. Where his thick neck is ripest for hugs and when, just holding each other there, I can hear him whisper to me "It's okay, I'm here."

Moo didn't ask for baby C. He didn't ask for any of the upheaval. And he didn't ask to be displaced. But, in life AC, he has handled this new world with grace, dignity and doting love. I can only hope that one day he'll make it back to the lap - and that one day soon there will be another little lap to rest his head in, and he will be welcomed in with sweet little hands to scratch his ears. And that Moo will one day look back on his life and know how much he was loved - and that he was never forgotten or left behind with the addition of another - that there was just more love. More hugs. And more stray food.

No, Moo didn't ask for any of this. He only asked for one thing: that the baby would sleep in his crate, in the room across from ours. And, for now, that's where C sleeps - sweetly in his crate crib in the room across the hall - so, thus far, it's a promise unbroken.

The THUNK heard round the world

I was dropping C off at daycare last week and having a nice chat with his daycare provider when she (I assume jokingly, but subsequent events now have me wondering) that we need to start outfitting our little guy with a helmet. And face mask. I laughed and nodded. Sure! Don't all toddlers need those? Yep - I laughed and nodded and watched as C, gazing over his shoulder and up at us with his beautiful smiling face, ran smack into a wall. Some days I think he's just one Acme rocket short of a Wile E. Coyote pratfall.

He seems to have entered into an age of invincibility. Where he harbors no fear of heights, of falling, of cars or of dogs (even when attempting to ride them or when gouging them - ever so lovingly - in their unsuspecting eyes). He even seems to be overcoming his phobia of ceiling fans and steam (though wet hair remains questionable). Yes, my son the warrior is growing up and is ready and eager to take on the world. So what happened next really shouldn't have been a surprise to me at all.

My parents had the ability to sense that I was doing something wrong before any disobedient thought had even entered my mind. I don't know if it's an inherited gift or if, perhaps, all parents have some semblance of a sixth sense but on Sunday, as I put C down for his nap, I took a step back and knew without knowing that the wheels in his head were spinning in a devious direction. That feeling, coupled with what I can only imagine is an inate need that children experience to visit emergency rooms during the course of long weekends, should have given me pause. Instead, I kissed my son on the head and left the room. No more than a few moments later, I heard it...

THUNK!

G and I exchanged worried glances in the split instance it took us both to acknowledge the sound and sprint down the hall and into C's room. G burst in first but over his shoulder I spied the discombobulated little body of my sweet boy. He was already wailing, red faced with big plum fat tears dripping down his cheeks. I scooped him up in my arms and began to simultaneously comfort and examine him for (what I was sure at the time would be) portruding bones or signs of paralysis. I wrapped my arms around him like protective bubble wrap and vowed to never let him touch anything but pillows, feathers and declawed kittens for the rest of his life.

So, his first attempt to flee the crib ended poorly. Andy Dufresne he is not (though I'll be sure to take note if he pins up a Rita Hayworth poster any time soon). After the great escape G and I spent the next hour a) discovering that there was yet a lower crib setting and b) arguing and wrestling the crib into submission lowering the crib to said setting. If his mattress gets any lower, C will be sleeping in the basement. 

C had never attempted to scale the crib railings before this weekend and (in light of his tragic tumble) has yet to try again since. I am tempted to pad the floor with teddy bears and trampolines in the event that he manages to scramble out. I figure if he's got the will he'll find a way. Where the top rail before came up to his shoulders now comes up to his chin - that's only a few more inches of toddler gusto between confinement and sweet freedom. I have watched this child smack into more than one wall in his life - a fall from his crib, however traumatizing for all, is unlikely to deter him from a follow-up effort in the near future. Hence, the toddler rail.

While I wish we could put a railed roof over the crib (you say "cage", I say "cube of safety"), I think I have to accept the fact that my little Houdini will find a way out - and that he's growing up. Gone are the days where I can plunk my happy babe down in his crib and he wouldn't so much as roll over. So we've ordered a toddler rail - a rail about a half of the height of the one he has now...with a gaping hole at one end. A door. An exit. Permission to leave the crib at his discretion. I shudder at the thought. I'm already having visions of finding him curled up sleeping in the closet or swinging by the window drapes. I ask myself what the harm would be in keeping him sequestered in his safe little crib for a little while longer (like, until college). I guess that this is just another indication that I have to keep learning to let him go - if only an inch at a time. He's gaining independence all the time - word by word, step by step. Until those words turn into little sentences and those walking steps speed into a run. I know I need to celebrate these moments as accomplishments - and to realize that not recognizing these developments and his growth is setting us all up for a metaphorical tumble. It isn't easy, the letting go. I cry each time I pack away clothes that he no longer fits into. My heart hurts a little each time he lets go of my hand to try something new on his own. This time last year he was barely crawling - and now he's running, and climbing, and dancing...and falling. Falling, it seems, is as much part of the story as the successful step. And I know that there may come a time that he stops glancing over his shoulder to make sure I'm watching - and I cheer inside knowing that it's because he trusts I'll be running somewhere behind.

Mother's Day

Mother's Day was always a holiday that belonged to somebody else. It was for my mother - exclusively. So even now that, nearly two years in to baby C's beautiful life, I should be a Mother's Day expert it continues to feel like a borrowed sentiment. Truth be told I've celebrated Mother's Day as the center ring attraction a grand total of four times. Two actual and two "sham" celebrations. Because I suppose I shouldn't count the Mother's Day a couple of months prior to C's arrival (though I still contend that it was well deserved) and of course the Mother's Day I bartered from my husband (which I earned! after six months of sleepless nights).

That was netted one looong wakeful night, back when C was sleeping in twenty minute intervals, that as we finally began drifting off to dreamland we heard the rumblings of our baby once again. At that moment I was completely submitted to exhaustion. I was quite literally sucked dry. Frazzled and frayed. And the circles beneathe my eyes were so pronounced that I looked as though I'd picked a fight with a pack of angry moms at BabiesRUs. And lost. G on the other hand looked pretty well kept. He'd been surviving on a few solid hours of a sleep a night and traveled off into the mystical world outside - somewhere far beyond the land of Spit-Up, through the deep forest of blood curdling screams and passed the kingdom of Boogers and Blow Outs. A land far, far away. There was never a moment that I regretted motherhood - but there were a few that I really missed the outside world (which I began to construe as a fantasy place where the streets were paved with pillows and everyone napped the day away). The months leading up to that fateful night were filled with a lovely little ailment called colic. To my knowledge the term 'colic' by itself bears no true medical significance. It functions as an umbrella for anything that makes a baby cry for hours and hours on end. For so many straight hours that a new unit of time needs to be invented to properly document it. For no perceptable reason. At the highest, most desperate conceivably decibal. Forever and ever and ever or until twelve weeks. Whichever comes last. I remember calling the pediatrician's office, tearful and defeated as a mother. Completely devastated that I could not use my maternal magic to divine what it was that my child needed. That I couldn't fix it. That the crying continued - crying that at first sounded like his pain and then, gradually, my failure. The doctor assured me not to worry, that it was common, and this it would likely subside by the time he was twelve weeks old. At that point I lost consciousness. He was only THREE WEEKS OLD. I had no idea how to make it to twelve weeks. It was an impossible distance measured only in tears. And heartbreak. And infinite oodles of time. There were days that the time passed like an ocean of honey consumed one droplet at a time. Rocking and coddling and swishing and swooshing and swinging and singing and...what time is it? 1am. And cooing and shushing and humming and dancing and...what time is it? 3am.

In those days I had two goals. Get through the night. And get through the day. Once the first rays of sun appeared on the horizon I would feel some sense of relief - we had made it together, alive, and evaded the monsters hunkering in the darkness. Once the sun began to set again I would be simultaneously overcome with a feeling of ease (G was coming home) and also with dread (the night was setting in). There were long, lonely hours between C and I where he would seem panicked, the contortions in his face seemingly asking "WAAAAAHHHhh  Whhhhy? Why did I get stuck with this person? She clearly doesn't know what she's doing!  She hadn't even changed a diaper before I got here! And she's been wearing the same pajamas for four daaaaaayyyyyss!" G would be sleeping, gearing up for the next day of work. And that was fair and our deal and totally meritted - but still very hard. But somehow, in spite of it all, time found a way to go on. And somewhere in that time C and I began to work out 'arrangements'. Arrangements like: If you start to smile, Mommy will smile! (It totally worked! Trying to elicit that chubby little grin had me doing esctatic backflips!), If you let Mommy watch crappy tv with the volume down, you can eat for hours! (I'm sad to admit that on a couple of those long nights I watched some pretty entertaining soft core porn - kudos to the people who come up with titles like The Devil Wears Nada and Cleavagefield. And no - I didn't let C watch.) Eventually, I think we realized we were in this together. And then on Thanksgiving - exactly twelve weeks from the day he was born - the crying stopped. C looked up at me and I swear it was as though a thick, velvet curtain had lifted from that child's eyes. He was alive in the world and there was so much to discover. In many ways, and I know this sounds strange, it was as though C was born that day.

It was C and my "arrangements" that inspired me to turn the table on a sleepy G. Completely fatigued we lay there for several minutes trying to implore the other to take mercy and tend to the baby. Finally, I rolled over and conceded. "I'll get up - for a price." G paused. "I'm listening." "I'll get up - if you give me Father's Day." "DONE!" And so ends the story of how I blackmailed persuaded my husband into have two Mother's Days last year.

It was on Mother's Day last year, at just over nine months old, C had his last breast milk bottle. It was a miracle to me in a number of ways, not the least of which being that he had rejected the bottle for six months. SIX MONTHS. That's six months of nothing but boob. Once we figured that bottle thing out? Sweet merciful Heaven - the liberation! And it was literally only days before I headed back to work. It was as though my stubborn little baby accepted that it would very soon be bottle or hungry belly. And it really cut back on G's argument as to why he couldn't get up in the middle of the night - now we were both working, and we were both able to feed him. It felt like a luxurious victory. Still, as I sat there on the couch with him on that morning last May, there were big, fat tears falling from my cheeks. I had formed such a bond with C from breastfeeding. And some days it felt like the only thing I could do right by him. The only time he seemed truly happy, satisfied and satiated. The only time we had a moment of peace. And of quiet. Sadly, work and pumping and I were a losing equation. My body had ostensibly resigned from that duty - and after a great deal of tears, guilt and consideration - I accepted it. It was just another small end in a very long and wonderful story. But there was such a bittersweetness to that end happening on a day that had evolved from belonging to my own Mother, to belong to me as well. There was a significance there that I did, and will always, appreciate.

A year later and I'm watching Baby C grow into a boy - and I love that boy more than I ever thought one could love. Further than there are miles to measure. And though it's easy to reflect back on those hard times - it's even easier to remember the good. The first smiles. The cuddles. The cooes and giggles. The big eyes that look at you with love and sleepily close with trust. There is nothing better or more rewarding or that fills me up so completely. Thank you little C, for being just who you are. And thank you, G, for your consideration, your tenderness, your appreciation - and for giving me something so spectacular to celebrate. I couldn't ask for anything more - even if I only get one day this year :)

True Grit

One of the first things I discovered upon becoming a mother was that there was a notable and disappointing absence of a parenting roadmap. Not even my GPS, that can expertly detect all grocery stores in a thirty mile radius, can navigate me down this path. Nobody can really tell you what parenting is going to be like - no accumulation of horror stories, advice or guidance offered by any pro-moms out there can give you any perspective on parenthood any more true, relatable or relevant to you than it would be to impart to someone who has never tasted alcohol that Grappa tastes like burning. My only solid resource has been to reflect on my own parents - to take what worked for them and apply it to my life, my own 'motherliness' and to learn from the scattered mistakes of our past. Yes, Mum and Dad, I love you terribly - but nobody's perfect. And I have a pretty good handle on parental imperfections. Case in point: When C was four months old I was intent on sanitizing anything that had the remote possibility of coming in contact with his body. So one night, in a sleep deprived stupor, I sanitized a slew of his toys using our microwave bottle sanitizer. Just so happened that one of those toys had a plastic face. And metal parts. That started a FIRE IN THE MICROWAVE. Goes to show you that even the best of intentions can burn your house down. Our house stank like plastic death for weeks.

 

Over the past twenty some months I've found myself unwittingly recycling Mom-isms from my own childhood. It's funny - especially since I spent the better part of my adolescence thinking I knew better. I didn't. And although I live a hundred light years away from my dear Mum and Dad - I know that there is still a bedroom made up of all the trappings of my highschool years. I know there's always a ready ear on the end of the phone. There is always a strong shoulder to lean on and a convincing sentiment that I am strong enough to survive anything. And that whatever my current tribulation is - that it too will pass. Strength is something that my parents have always had - in spades. I just wish that they didn't have such frequent occassions to exercise that fortitude.

 

I won't divulge too much about current circumstances. Suffice it to say that both of my parents are unquestionably tough - and are no strangers to sickness. I started this blog going down a bit of a dark path - because, honestly, the path has lost much of it's light recently. But - upon further consideration - I thought it might be a better excercise to revisit some of the funnier, sunnier and sweeter memories I have of my parents in brighter days past. Because I retain faith that those days will return - that the way won't be quite so deep and dark to walk - and that we'll all be retelling these stories, and more, years and years from now. Where baby C will appreciate them. And be part of them (and be rightfully embarrased by his old fogey parents, and Nana and Granda. Because every kid deserves to be mortified by his elders as a defining right of passage).

 

So here's a sampling of the memories that I carry with me in my pocket - things that give me a smile and a laugh on days like this where the silver linings are running thin:

 

1. When I was in college I traveled from NYC to Jersey to watch my Dad coach his softball team in a multi-state showcase tournament. While there I came down with some kind of killer virus which confined me to my hotel room in a pile of sheets, tissues and self-pity. My Dad insisted that he go to the nearest pharmacy to get me something to help me feel better - when he returned, he handed me a box of children's cough syrup. I looked up at him skeptically. He looked at me, beaming with parental pride, and told me "I remembered you like the one with the purple bear on the box."

 

2. When I was six or seven my parents and I were staying in a cottage on a remote lake when my Mom came down with a hideous pain in her side. We rushed her to the nearest "hospital" (I put hospital in quotes because I think it was a triage center attached to a Piggly Wiggly) at least seventy five miles from the nearest town where a medical degree was not bestowed by a prize won in cereal box or community center raffle. We were informed that Mom had to have her gullbladder removed. As she lay there in bed, I contemplated the impending surgery. "Mom? Are they going to put you to sleep?" My Mom, despite all the pain, collapsed into a fit of laughter. Wiping a tear from his eye my Dad managed to tell me that, no, they weren't going to euthenize Mom like they did Hammy, my pet Hamster.

 

3. Speaking of Hammy: I was about five when my beloved hamster fell ill. My father and I rushed him to the nearest vet. After examining him, the vet emerged from the back room and knelt down to my eye level. He laid a hand on my shoulder and sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, but we're going to have to put Hammy to sleep." I considered this. After a moment I looked up at the vet with big eyes and asked "When is he going to wake up?" My Dad explained that at that moment his heart swelled to the size of a bloated watermelon. My Mom is lucky that Dad didn't immediately run to the pet store and bring home twelve hamsters. We only got one. Hammy II.

 

4. As part of my first Communion each child in my first grade class had to speak with the Priest of our church and confess all of their sins. I have no recollection of this event. But my parents do. The way they re-tell it, when it was my time to confess, I happily obliged and skipped off in my pretty and pure white dress to meet the Priest. As the church was under construction at the time they sat us behind a makeshift partition about five feet tall and sitting about a foot above the floor. We were perched on plastic bucket seats where I sat there, kicking my feet back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth.....and back and forth...my parents watched this intently while the rest of the parents waitedin line with their children. While most kids were in there for a minute or two I had been in there for A HALF AN HOUR!  The longer I was there the more humiliated my parents became - wondering what in the world I would have done that was so evil, so wicked as to merit A HALF AN HOUR of confessing with the Priest. After nothing short of an uncomfortable eternity I emerged from behind the partition, raised my arms wide and declared in my loudest voice so everyone could hear "I AM FREE OF SIN!!!!!"  My parents haven't trusted me since - and it explains why they hired that exorcist.

 

5. G and I have made it a bit of a tradition to 'cottage' with my folks every now and then. My father has always gone to great lengths to use the deep dark wilderness and his status as an ecsentric father-in-law to scare the be-jesus out of my husband at every well placed opportunity. My favorite incident happened after G and I had been dating for a few years (otherwise, he would have been jusitifed in running for the hills). My Dad and I arrived at the cottage we'd rented a few hours before G and noticed something odd lying in the field adjacent to the house. It was a paint ball dummy that, dressed in cargo pants, red stained t-shirt and blue bandana, appeared so real that we actually had to hover over it in the tall grass for a while to ensure ourselves that he was, in fact, made of plastic.  When G arrived some time later my father took great pains in relaying a grave story to us both about how the owner of the cottage had called and asked us to "keep an eye out for his teenage son who was apparently depressed and had run away from home several days before" (morbid, right?) So, sure enough, later that evening Dad is standing at the kitchen window surveying the field when he says "Hey, do you guys see that?" G approached the window and, though the blowing grass, spied what looked like a very, very convincing body laid strewn across the dirt. The three of us set out to investigate - G with a shovel in hand and my father with a video camera (why oh why my husband didn't think to question why we wanted to memorex this moment I have no idea). We're within ten feet of the dummy now and G is holding me back with his free arm (you know, the one not wielding a garden shovel). He insisted I stay back (clearly this was only safe for then men-folk). So I watched with perverse amusement as the two of them inched up on the dummy. I watched as G raised the shovel over his head, muscles flexed and ready to strike. And I watched as he leaned in closer, perplexed, eyeing the unmoving body until he mustered the courage to extend his foot out to tap it and...

"AAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHhhhhh!!!!"

At the sound of the bellowing shout G jumped about five feet in the air before falling into a four letter fueled rant about our prank. Was it juvenile? Sure. Was it more than a little bit sick? Definitely. But I think that was the moment my parents truly fell in love with G. Because they had watched him shield me from "danger". And because he was the kind of guy that was willing to such lengths to protect me that he would beat an already dead guy to death with a shovel. :)

Sure, my family is a little bit nuts. But whose family isn't? And besides that - sometimes it's the crazy moments that reveal just how much you love someone, and how much you're loved. I don't wish a complicated life on anyone - or a life that demands constant strength or perserverence. But what I will say is that through the complications my mother and father have taught me how to be strong and how to assume a position that demands the greatest degree of courage and grit. They have taught me how to be a mother.

You, me & a bucket of chicken

If there's a secret to marriage I'm pretty sure it's finding someone who can make your life feel like a twelve year old's perpetual slumber party. Complete with inside jokes, games of truth or dare, bad karaoke, horribly bad tv, toilet humor and lots and lots...and lots of laughter. Under the covers late into the night delirious laughter. Some people feed their passions for each other with lust and romance and sex appeal - we use fart jokes, celebrity gossip and, now, our general fondness for and fascination with the third party in our relationship. And I wouldn't want it any other way.

It's been nearly ten years since we made eyes at each other across a crowded room. And by 'room' I mean 'dive bar' complete with peanuts on the floor and Cash on the jukebox. Several shots of Jager later and I was smitten. Jager - because I put the ass in class, baby. I don't know that any love story is particularly traditional - ours consisted of late nights, darts, Famous Rays and sunflowers. It was all very easy and fun and rife with laughter - until it wasn't. The night after G took my hands in his in a New York City bowling alley and told me I was "the one" I came down with the worst case of stomach flu I've had in my life. In. My. Life. I sincerely thought death was a possibility. I threw up things I couldn't even understand not the least of which was what, to this day, I believe was my mother's 1986 Oldsmobile. I remember lying on the floor of my sorority bathroom and finally conceding that I needed to go to the hospital but not being able to muster the strength to walk the five blocks to the emergency room. But I could crawl to the phone. G was there only minutes later and he carried me - carried me - in my dirty sweatpants, puke-in-the-hair splendor, the five blocks to the door of St. Luke's. He sat with me the entire time. Held my hand. And made me laugh. That's the thing about love - anybody can make it great when life is easy and put together and wrapped up in a pretty bow. It's the times when you're at your level worst - the disgusting reality of life, the man behind the curtain, that weeds the men from the boys. That's not the last time we've seen each other in the grandeur of our ugly truths - and though the coveted 'mystery' may have flat lined some time ago in our relationship there hasn't been a single instant that I've questioned our place together. And, in my mind, aint nobody luckier than I am.

But life isn't perfect (what fun would that be?). For all our times of marital bliss we've had some pretty good fights. Scratch that - we've had some spectacular throw downs. One in particular - involving an icy road and a bucket of chicken - resides in infamy as being perhaps the greatest matrimonial spat of all time. All time.

I'll set the scene: It's late December somewhere outside of Bozeman, Montana. We've been driving for give or take 16 hours - for the third day in a row - trying to make it back from Toronto to Seattle. We're straining to stay ahead of a snowstorm that has closed I-90 stranding countless numbers of drivers - the road is a skating rink of black ice and drifting snow - G is white knuckled on the wheel, we're both sleep deprived, stressed and haven't spoken in a good two hours.

The lights of the city emerge on the horizon like little white beacons of blessed hope and, fearing for our lives, we decide to find a motel and call it a night. Of course, neither of us has eaten for a good 12 hours so we're starving and intent on finding whatever is open...after midnight...by the highway...in Bozeman, Montana. Answer? KFC. The Coronal is just getting ready to close the doors for the night when two road weary travelers enter, point to the nearest bucket of chicken, and collapse into red plastic seats as though they were tall glasses of water after walking bruised and barefoot through an unending desert. The girl behind the counter, visually pissed to have to serve two more customers when she had been preparing to cash out for the night, begins the painstaking slo-o-o-w process of bucketing piece after piece of sweet breaded heat lamped goodness - all the while hacking - like full on she could have the black plague or be distributing a lung amongst our chicken hacking - into said food. With each phlegm rattling cough G and I are tensing our collective muscles until she bestows the diseased vessel of chicken to us along with two cokes and a grimace. G pays and we retreat back to the car - the scene of the last 16 hours of mounting tension - when it happens. I have the two cokes carefully balanced on my lap, I turn to fasten my seat belt when G thrusts the bucket at me. In my awkward juggling to receive the chicken I spill the drinks sending ice cold soda down my legs.

Given that this is a story about chicken, let's replace any questionable words with "cluck."

The tension, which we have until this point captured and contained, was now emanating from our bodies in balls of white hot fury. The thrusting of the chicken being the catalyst of wrath resulted in my exclamation of  "WHAT THE [cluck] are you DOING?? Can't you see I'm already juggling the [clucking] drinks? Use your [clucking] head!" Which then becomes "WHAT THE [cluck] am I doing??! I've been [clucking] driving for the last 72 [clucking] hours while you [cluck] with the [clucking] radio! Why don't you try to do something useful and HOLD THE [CLUCKING] chicken!"

This is not well received.

Essentially we continue exchanging [clucking] obscenities at each other the entire two minute drive from the parking lot of the KFC to the scariest motel on the planet. This is a building so dilapidated that I question whether it is safe for human occupancy. There are boards in the windows, graffiti on the walls and what I suspect was an evil monkey in one of the windows. It is so cold outside that upon exiting the car our breath doesn't come in plumes -  it freezes into ice spears suitable for killing one's spouse. So we stand outside the scariest motel on the planet, in the bitter cold, exchanging violent ice spears until he begins walking away and hits me with: "I'm getting my own room. You can walk home for all I care."

Now, this is an illogical statement coming from a man who is beyond the brink of insanity at this point. I should have recognized that the statement was crazy, foundless and said in anger. I should have taken a deep breath, apologized and attempted to smooth things over after what had unquestionably been a long, exhausting day for us both. I should have done that. But I didn't.

What I did do was nothing short of lose my freaking mind. And in my blind rage I do the one thing that I know will hurt him the most. I don't try to attack him with words. Or my fists. I don't even try to run him over with the car. I throw the chicken. And it all happens in slow motion.

"AAAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHH!" I cock both arms back over my head and heave forth and towards him with all of my strength. The bucket leaves my hands and begins to soar through the night air...

"NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" G watches helplessly as the bucket begins its inevitable downward trajectory. He reaches toward it but he's too late - though I'd thrown it at his head, he had been too far away. The chicken misses him and instead hits the icy pavement with an impressive thud. BOOM! It hits so hard that chickens the world over feel it. The bucket skids a foot or more across the ice before it comes to a final halt.

And there it is. Chicken...everywhere. G collapses to the ground, feverishly recovering the breasts, drumsticks and wings strewn across the asphalt, placing them back in the container with haste and with care. In mid motion he stops - and he looks at me. This is a look I will remember because it is the same look I imagine he would give me if I drown a bag full of kittens. It is the worst look he has ever given me. It is so bad, that as he storms inside the motel, bucket tucked firmly under his arm, I remain standing in the parking lot debating freezing to death in the car. I am outside so long that I am certain my eyeballs have frozen solid. Then I realize he still has the keys.

I reluctantly make my way to our room and open the door.

I find him in his underwear fanatically eating the entire contents of the bucket. The. whole. thing. Every piece of diseased, snow crusted chicken leaving only their bony carcases. At that moment the entire fight seemed to burst into a million pieces. I have never laughed so hard in my entire life. I laughed until my eyes thawed with hot tears. I laughed until he was laughing too.

There is not a day that goes by that this man does not make me laugh (intentionally or not). Even in the midst of the worst of things. There have been successes - and monumental failures. Weight lost and gained. And gained. We've moved away from everything familiar and clear across the country. Weathered death. And celebrated birth.  Through it all I've been in the company of my best friend.

It's funny that it's through all the small, mundane quiet moments that love truly emanates. Not so much through those grand romantic gestures - though, hey, those are great too. It's in the glasses of water retrieved in the middle of the night because I had been coughing. In locking the front door whenever he leaves, even when I'm still inside, just to keep me safe. In the nicknames. And the kisses. In the driving cross country to make it to my parents house just in time for Christmas. And all the way back. In a blizzard. It's in the silly songs and dances. It's in taping Barney so we can watch it over. And over. And over again. And it's in the face of our baby - because he looks just like his father. The very best father. A father that carried his son in his arms to the emergency room in the middle of the night, and sat with him, and made him laugh. Through the worst of it. Just like he'd carried me.

No - we aren't perfect. And I don't think I want to be - love is in the imperfections. And I [clucking] love our imperfect family.

Somersaults

My son did a somersault last night and I exploded into a blathering mess as though he'd just cured cancer. I was filled with amazement and parental pride - my son, a gymnastic prodigy. G dove into a heated Google search: "When do children learn to somersault?" Answer: Around the age of four. In our heads? Twenty-five. Yeah - our son is one gifted somersaulter. Aint nobody flipping over like our boy. We high fived. We cried. We held a parade. And then he rolled over again - directly and almost strategically - right off his rocking chair and into his dresser. Calamity ensued.

My take on parenthood, thus far, is directly tied to this little set of events. One moment good, one moment screaming mess. I figure if I'm batting somewhere around .300 I'm doing alright. For every three somersaults, there are seven ouchies. For every three weeks of clear noses there are (at least seemingly) seven weeks of hacking, phlegmy, no good very bad viruses. (*side note* Our pediatrician told us that in his first few years C may have 6-10 colds lasting 7-10 days a piece. That's like....six zillion days a year. How have I not constructed a bubble around this child??) Sure, the good times are easy to revel in and remember. The so dang cute giggles. The hug-a-bug hugs. Bedtime kisses, lazy Sundays and sunny park days. It's when you catch yourself in the middle of a bad moment, when you're in the middle of toddler warfare having unknowingly pulled the pin on the tantrum grenade, and you are overcome with the feeling of "yes, this is my unrecognizable, untidy life - and I so, so love it" that you find the strength to go on and embrace the goodness of parenting. I don't presume that anyone's finding bliss amidst the bad time chaos (at least, I haven't). But I have been able to find the humor, the love and the humanity in it. That's more than I've been able to do in like instances in the past where my modus operandi has been to curl up and die. Maybe becoming a mother just shook it the hell out of me. Maybe parenthood just gave me a lot more practice. Let's take, for example, a recent 'no good' moment which transpired in the middle of a crowded restaurant as my wailing child hurdled his utensils to the floor and, as his shrieking began to resemble the sound of a small farm animal caught in a barbed wire fence, someone - I won't name names (*ahem* HUSBAND) - takes the liberty of telling me that THIS WAS MY FAULT. So, what was initially just a typical child meltdown has devolved into DEFCON 1: spousal war is imminent. I swept C out of the restaurant leaving a wake of angry glances back over my shoulder.

As an aside, the presumed reason that THIS WAS MY FAULT stemmed from the sippy cup that was negligently left in the car. I had forgotten to stash it back into the diaper bag after C had put it down and we were therefore left sippy cupless upon entering the restaurant. In the first ten seconds after we sat down I was attempting to let C drink from my water class when a good portion of the contents went icily spilling down his shirt. I literally sprinted out of the restaurant, into the atrium, up three sets of stairs, across a pedestrian overpass, through a mall, into an elevator, across a parking garage to our car...and back...only to discover upon my return, that even after bestowing the sippy cup, which, breathless, I surrendered like the holy grail of baby drinking chalices, that it would do no good. It was too late. Aggravation had escalated and the rest is history.

So, there I was, sitting in an empty vestibule outside the restaurant holding C in my arms where his sobbing is now reverberating off of the walls. He's crying, I'm crying. I'm thinking I'm the worst mother, no other parents go through this, my child is uniquely wicked and was born wicked because he is his father's son and his father is an evil, evil man who has never packed the diaper bag - ever! Raaahh!!! It's at this point that I'm approached by the manager of the restaurant. C has quieted, his tears soaking my shoulder, and he listens as I apologize for the disturbance and for clearly being the world's worst parent. She smiles at me and puts a hand on my arm. "I understand. I'm a mother too. You have as much right as anyone to be here." God bless this woman. There's not a snowball's chance in hell that I'm dragging this child back in there, who is clearly "done" (the word "done" takes on a whole new meaning with the onset of parenthood) and needs to go home. I thank her, wipe away my tears, and approach the entry, sure that I would see my husband emerge with the food 'to-go' so we could head home and put this behind us (this has been the third instance that morning where our best laid plans have, let's say, gone awry). But my darling husband is not packing our things. He is not sweeping across the restaurant, diaper bag, sippy cup, jackets and food in tow. He is sitting there. Eating. EATING!  Raaaaaahhhh!! 

With a few carefully chosen hand gestures I indicate that we might be better suited to begin the long trek home and, in fear of his survival, G concedes. I watch him begin to begrudgingly gather our things and stand there feeling the weight of my angry, exhausted baby boy against me. And I am struck by the odd sensation of happiness. Happiness at the feeling of this soft, chubby cheek against my neck. Happiness because I know, in spite of the collective mishaps of the day and in spite of the irritable look G is flashing me as he slogs our stuff towards us and inches ever further from the teriyaki ribs he was so looking forward to, that we are going to get in the car, look at each other and find a way to laugh things off (either that or he is going to have a teriyaki rib embedded in his ear). Sure enough, the bad moment subsided. Now - I know that this isn't a truly terrible moment. There are much worse things than a two year old's snit and a ruined meal. Things like Cancer. Divorce. Abuse. Things that I've seen touch my family, my husband's family, and people that I have loved in my life. But even in the din and the disorder of every day family life it isn't difficult to get buried - to be lost in the bad moments where dinner is burning, the children are screaming, work is calling and there are miles to go before you sleep.

Parenthood, I think, is a daily miracle - and a daily achievement. It's hard. And rewarding. And funny. And full of surprises. None of those sentiments are novel - but they're true nonetheless. I may have traded in my quiet, romantic restaurants for now. Maybe forever. But I get something so much better in return. I get somersaults.

Little things

There's a big part of me that wants to sit here and recount our past weekend which, in a nutshell, was a testament to the validity of Murphy's Law. To sum up: Waiting + lines + no Barney + toddler + more waiting = tantrum hurricane. I'd like to talk about that - mainly because that's my life. Squarely kiddocentric. Recent events, however, have given me pause to lament my latest standoff with my hostile tot. In part because, regardless of how relevant my anecdotes are to me, today it all feels a tiny bit misplaced. Bin Laden's death has an overarching implication and significance - more so than any other death I've ever really given deference to in my lifetime - and it's in instances like these that I have to stand and allow the importance of it all to settle. The dirt and debris from all of this are still heavy in the air. It's been nearly ten years since September 2001. I was still, in large part, just a kid then. The kid that I was finds it easy to exhume the happenings of that particular day in fine details - down to the brush stroke. The mother in me wants to believe that this death will in some way prevent the incidence of future deaths - and to whitewash any possiblity of a similar memory from the mind of my child.

All that time ago I was a college sophomore living in New York (*translation* self-important, impervious and painfully naive).  That morning I learned of death through the smell of it in the scent of fire, of sulfur, of burning tires, of metal of ash and cinder over the Manhattan sky.  My early morning Shakespeare class spilled out and onto South Lawn, a small number of bodies who all at once appeared frozen and staring into their cell phones. Staring, but saying nothing. It wasn't until several minutes later that I saw the post-it note affixed to the door of my American history class: ‘Planes hit WTC. Towers down. Class Cancelled’.  It made no sense to me until I saw the footage - repeated over, repeated endlessly in the blinking and rampant flashing of every tv and computer screen leaked from every apartment. The island closed down and into itself.  The bridges and tunnels were sealed and secured.  Phone lines spewed only busy signals. The towers went down, one by one, into rubble and cloud and in the midst of alarms and wailing, somehow everything was silence.  Silence with bursts of noise and disorder as though someone was spinning a loud radio down the dial, skipping past station and static alike.

I think back on it now like somewhat of a dream. I remember being there - I remember the events of the day, the crying, the wailing of alarms and the unreal blending of commotion and silence. It took hours to get in touch with my parents. I was somewhere into my sixth or seventh hour of event playback when my Mother told me: "You are a part of history now. You are living it. This is living history." Up until that moment it had been a meal of information too large and too rich and to repugnant to ingest. Maybe it still is, even now. But it took her saying that to shake me awake - to realize the ramifications of what was happening. No one was safe anymore, if we had ever been. I unceremoniously hung up my super hero cape and submitted to no longer being invincible. In the days and months following we all exchanged stories. We were all touched by what had happened - we all lost people. I know a survivor who watched from the second tower as bodies began to jump from the first after having been told via loud speaker to remain at their desks - and not to panic.

I don't know what the death of Bin Laden will ultimately mean to the future of the United States or to al Qaeda. I don't know if in recent years he was merely a figure head or at worst a catalyst. Today I'd like to appreciate the American victory and to thank all of the soldiers and the families of the fallen - for sacrificing for families like mine (with children that know nothing of war) that are made all the more secure by their courage, dignity and perseverence. It's because of you that I can wax on about these things that seem by comparison to be quite little - little hands, little feet and little nights with little sleep.

Thou Shalt have "Yah!"

The Heavens opened up this week. The clouds parted over our house, God smiled down and said "Thou shalt have 'Yah!'" And it was good.

And lo and behold our little negative nancy has (at least temporarily) disgarded 'Naaaahhhooooh' in favor of 'Yah!' and all was once again right in the universe. What was once only elicited by cupcakes has gradually picked up speed like a rolling rock of positivity and is now doled out for any old thing - whether it's solicited or not. Whether it's a yes or no question or not. "Would you like to take a bath?" "Yah!" "Would you like to read a book?" "Yah!" "It's raining outside." "Yah!" "Donald Trump is a raving nut bar and if he's elected President I'm moving to Canada." "Yah!" "Would you like to watch Barney?" "Yaaaaaaaahhhhh!" (Yes, I'll even tolerate Barney, that gelatinous mass of syrup and sunshine, to hear him say it).

Having my little monkey see the glass as half full lately has been nothing short of spectacular. I've found myself eagerly scrambling on the optimism bandwagon - no easy feat - and wanting to embody much of the enthusiasm I've seen in C. I'll give the little guy credit - he doesn't half ass anything. If he's happy, he's happy all the way (excitement is inclusive of, but not limited to, squealing, dancing, spinning, giggling, "dancing" and general merriment). If he's angry - well let's just say that I'm genuinely surprised that this child has not yet managed to open up a fiery crack in the earth. If there was an Oscar award for temper tantrums - C would not be happy just to be nominated. C is winning that Oscar and thanking himself, all the little people that helped him on the way to temper tantrum, who live in the city of temper tantrum, of which he is the mayor. This morning I asked C if he enjoyed his trip to the zoo this past weekend. His answer? "Yah!" Which is a monumental lie as the only thing he could possibly remember about the zoo was his epic throw down in the middle of the "Trail of the Vines" orangutang exhibit and the bench which he refused to move from thereafter. It was one of those episodes that was so egregious that G and I just stood there collecting snide 'stink eye' from the various passers-by like it was going out of style. What kid doesn't like the zoo? Turns out - ours. And let me tell you - it's not a good sign when all of the other families, the ones with the caravan of three or four whining, screaming, snot dribbling, sticky kids dripping off of them, are looking at you like they're one itchy dialing finger away from calling Child Protective Services.

As evidence that our child is not perpetually angry, see Exhibit A (pre-tantrum at Zoo):

And Exhibit B (post-tantrum at Zoo):

G and I have put our heads together on this tantrum issue. We've brainstormed creative solutions. I've done research. I've actually returned to our dear friend Dr. Google and searched for C's "symptoms" - you know, whining, aggression, lack of co-operation and the like - somehow expecting that this was stemming from some kind of medical condition like an ear infection or the flu and that some good old fashioned antibiotics and an exorcist would solve the problem. I kid you not that I was actually surprised that my search produced about a million hits all titled "The Terrible Two's". So surprised in fact that I made a point of sending the link to one of the million articles to G. And then we shared in our joint surprise. Other people go through this and survive??! We were not alone in our plight. Our child is not possessed. All is not lost! But my relief quickly degraded. Hold on, does this mean we've got an entire year of these episodes coming our way? I read a little more. As it happens we don't have an entire year of 'terrible two' behavior coming our way. We have, like, two or three. Yippee.

Still, this round of terrible twodom has seemingly dissipated for now. The zoo ordeal really only lasted about twenty minutes. It plodded along from general unrest and bellyaching until it hit stride right around complete body wailing. I had heard that walking a safe distance away from your tantruming toddler can help - but soon learned that walking away is impossible when the tantruming toddler is attached to your leg like a rabid koala. What did I learn from this experience? The grave importance of snacks. A few crackers later and it was over. So help me I am going to be a walking pantry from now on if that will prevent a single one of these incidents in the future. In fact, the very next day we were in church for Easter service (which came to pass despite my overarching fear that due to the prior day's events my child might sizzle as he walked through the door) and he was as good as gold. He was angelic. He was so good that the rest of the families relegated to the "crying room" (a sound proof room for parents and children to take part in the service without disrupting the congregation) were dispensing looks of awe and admiration and "isn't he so cute?" and "you ought to be nominated for parents of the year!" And the difference? Snacks.

Our little angel:

So I've taken this appreciation of the value of snacks coupled with the want to exemplify more of that enthusiasm I so respect in C and decided to throw myself into a new hobby: cooking. I've racked up a bevy of new healthy recipes so I can have great snacks and meals on-hand. G seemed a bit skeptical when I came home with armloads of groceries earlier this week - but what could have been disaster turned out to be an excellent pesto dish that C ploughed through (C is a lot of things but a picky easter is not one of them!). So good on you C - you've got your Mum looking squarely on the bright side (which will hopefully not be the bright side of an exploding stove - I haven't had the best luck with cooking). I've got a new interest, a stocked fridge and a pack of new dishes to try - to which I say: "Yah!"