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.