tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58994993771001274472024-02-20T11:01:11.970-05:00Elbows off the TableFamily Life Through Rosemary-Colored Glasses ...Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-77422500401043895692013-05-12T00:54:00.002-04:002013-05-12T01:09:38.255-04:00Irises, reduxYou are probably not as interested in irises as I am. In fact, I'm not all that interested in them. Outside of the fact that they are pretty. And some varieties smell rather nice. And they remind me of my grandmother.<br />
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Actually, that's a lot of stuff that makes it sound like I am totally interested in irises.<br />
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There are other things far, far more important. My little family, for one. My work. Friends. Neighbors. Reading Harry Potter with my 7-year-old (who wants me to call him Jay now). Taking the kids to their sports and concerts and play dates. Heading out for a play date or two of my own.<br />
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But I like to garden. I like it so much that I manage to play in the garden about once every six months. Which means that in the 8 years I've lived in this one spot, I have played in my garden perhaps 16 times. Total.<br />
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And not once have I played with my irises.<br />
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Though I did accidentally spray a few with weed killer last year. That was not pretty. <br />
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I should play with them, though. They need moving, badly, out of the shade and into the sun. Which I may have mentioned last year, in the penultimate blog post before my rather long break.<br />
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I haven't moved them. And yet, somehow, they are defying the odds. They have budded. And in another week, maybe 2, they will bloom.<br />
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In the past year, while I have been not moving my irises, Peabo turned 14. He grew 4 inches, and given that he's suddenly gotten just a little bit rounder, I'm betting we're in for a killer growth spurt this summer. He started high school, and then started again in a place that makes him so happy he comes home smiling, even on a bad day. He is also learning the best lesson I can teach him: to identify what he needs to feel <a href="https://www.facebook.com/autismdiscussionpage" target="_blank">safe, accepted and competent</a>, and to advocate for it appropriately. He reads voraciously, when he's not playing video games or listening to podcasts about them. He wants to be a journalist - a video game journalist, of course - and he's starting to figure out what he needs to do to get there. I find this to be pretty darn cool.<br />
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My diva turned 11. She no longer feels the term "veggie girl" applies, and given that she's abandoned broccoli florets and will eat only the stems, she is probably right. She's also leaving elementary school for middle school in another month. And the middle school she's going to is phenomenal. An arts school that will let her explore her inner writer, actor, musician and artist. My girl can sing. Have I mentioned that? She can sing. Beautifully. She can write, too. She writes songs, her own form of poetry. And she writes stories. She is creative and athletic and still impresses me daily with her willingness to jump in head first and try something new.<br />
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And Jay, my redhead, is now 7. He is tall and wiry and still redheaded, though the color has faded just another shade closer to brown. He's figured out that his eyes look green when he wears a green shirt. He now likes to wear green shirts. He tried 2 new sports and realized that neither one is soccer. So we're signing him up for more soccer. He does all his homework without prompting, can spell like a maniac, and absolutely loves math. Loves it. To the point where he asked me recently if he could please go to a middle school that specializes in math, and did I think he was going to get into a good college? He's in 2nd grade. Clearly he is a planner. <br />
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In the past year we have also acquired a puppy, a smallish fellow named Figglebob Lloyd, or Flloyd for short. He can chew through even the super-tough black Kong toys and is generally smarter than everyone else in the house. We're trying to make him stupid so we can train him properly.<br />
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So there you have it. Peabo is smiling. My diva is exploring. Jay is planning. And Flloyd is creating just enough chaos to keep things interesting. <br />
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And my irises are blooming again. Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-46113563945830841462012-07-02T03:06:00.000-04:002012-07-04T03:21:24.945-04:00DerechoIf you haven't been hiding under a rock, you've heard of the massive line of storms that swept the Eastern US, starting somewhere near Chicago and speeding across the country through Virginia, DC, and Maryland, leaving downed trees and devastation in its wake.<br />
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Our humble abode lay right in its path, along with those of our neighbors and countless friends. </div>
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It was a pretty wide path.<br />
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From inside the storm, it really didn't seem that bad. The storm was short, no more than an hour. So short, in fact, that Peabo - the only kid at home Friday night - slept right through it. It was blowy. <span style="background-color: white;">Big wind, very little rain (because rain is apparently not in our vernacular this summer).</span><span style="background-color: white;"> Our power flickered on and off about 20 times, and then it came back and stayed on. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">And I really thought that was it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">When we woke up, I made a quick survey of the yard . Lots of downed branches and debris, but nothing too serious. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Then I booted up the computer. My daughter's swim meet had been canceled. The neighborhood July 4 beach party, too. Most of my neighbors were without power, with the exception of my block, which is the only part of the neighborhood where the power lines are buried.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Which does make one think that perhaps - just perhaps - we should bury more power lines. Protect that infrastructure, right?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">It's not often that I'm in a position to help folks. So I talked Peabo into walking the neighborhood with me and seeing what we could do. And that's when we saw how bad the damage really was.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">A few steps from our house, a tree down on top of a car. Around the corner, power lines in the street, brought down when a large tree fell across the road. Two blocks were roped off to keep people safe. Around another corner, a tree down on a neighbor's house. Near the beach (we live by a river and there's a nice little beach), another tree had hit a transformer. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Trees and branches and debris everywhere. Traffic lights and gas stations and grocery stores without power.</span></div>
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Our community rallied. Neighbors helping neighbors, offering their refrigerators and air conditioners and chain saws and time. The July 4 picnic moved from the beach to the home of our community association president, who had electricity and a pool and a willingness to open his doors to provide respite to his neighbors who were working hard to clean up the damage. </div>
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Peabo and I did our part. We went down to the beach and picked up branches and cleaned up the recycling, which had blown from one side of the beach to the other.</div>
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When we got home we had another surprise. I found a shingle in my yard. Just one, but it was enough to send me and my recently acquired, very tall au pair to check the attic. I borrowed his height because I am too short to open the attic on my own. In the 7 years I've lived here, I've never once seen its insides. </div>
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The second he moved the trap door, we could see it. Sunlight streaming through a visible, sizable hole right at the peak of my roof. <span style="background-color: white;">Multiple shingles had blown off the ridge vent. The hole was long and narrow, and there was no way a bucket under it was going to keep that attic dry. And, given the damage to our small community, and to the much greater community beyond ours, no way I'd get a claim adjustor - let alone a roofer - out to fix it any time soon.</span></div>
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So I turned to my neighbors. Mostly for a ladder, so we could get into the attic, give the bucket a try, and make sure the damage wasn't worse than what we could see. They lent me a step ladder, and my tall au pair braved the 120-degree attic to give it the all clear. Then my neighbors went one step further. They pulled out the really tall ladder and climbed up to the roof. They assessed the damage. They sent me out for supplies. And then, because more rain was due that night, they climbed back up, and they fixed it. </div>
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I remember the blizzard, and the blizzard, and the blizzard - yes, three of them - that hit in early 2010. And the <a href="http://rosemarycoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2010/02/three-hairy-fairies.html">three hairy fairies</a> who helped me dig out. And <a href="http://rosemarycoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/08/when-mother-nature-is-out-to-get-you.html">the earthquake that hit last fall</a>, when all of us on the block rushed outside, first for safety, then to check in and make sure everyone was safe. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We've had more than our share of natural calamities of late. But it's those times that show you how good people really are. How they help when they can. The power of pulling together.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">The power of the village.</span></div>
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I'm grateful to be a part of mine. And grateful, too, that my next-door neighbor and his son-in-law know so very much about roofs. </div>
</div>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-37835854732702214742012-05-18T03:18:00.001-04:002012-05-18T03:19:41.420-04:00IrisesMy irises aren't blooming.<br />
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I have dozens upon dozens of irises in a great big patch in my front yard. I love irises, usually, though I'm not overly fond of these. They're brown, not purple. <br />
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Brown flowers. Really. I mean, who plants brown flowers?<br />
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But still. They're meant to bloom. <br />
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Not this year, though. <br />
<br />
My little family has had a bit of a challenging year so far. My kids especially. It's a private kind of challenging, and one that demands a lot of my time. So I'm not blogging. I'm not doing much, honestly, outside of getting through each day as best I can, making the occasional grocery run, and doing everything I can to let my kids know I am absolutely, completely, 100% here for them. <br />
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Love 'em to bits.<br />
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My irises aren't blooming. I'm going to try a little TLC, and maybe move them from their shady spot into the sun. My friend Margaret tells me that irises love the sun.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-18045454277795149752012-03-04T03:04:00.003-05:002012-03-04T03:34:43.175-05:00The spice of lifeA little over a year ago, my redhead was "invited" - in quotes because it wasn't exactly a request - to participate in his class's Poetry Day. He had to find a poem, memorize it, and then recite it in front of a classroom full of children and parents.<br />
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So he found a poem from his favorite book: Sandra Boynton's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Snoozers-Bedtime-Stories-Lively-Little/dp/0689817746/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1330846979&sr=1-1">Snoozers</a>.<br />
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<i><b>The Big Yawn</b></i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>A pteranodon</i><br />
<i>Will show off its yawn</i><br />
<i>Anytime you request it.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Both you and your chair</i><br />
<i>Could fit inside there.</i><br />
<i>Though I wouldn't suggest it.</i><br />
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He recited it over and over and over again, until he could recite it in his sleep.<br />
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In his sleep. Bedtime poem. Get it? Ha ha.<br />
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And because this is how these things go, Poetry Day was scheduled on a day when I had to be away on business. And his dad couldn't go. So our amazing Belgian au pair filled in and went in my stead.<br />
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And this is what happened.<br />
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The teacher called on the redhead. He stood up in front of the class - all his friends, and his teacher, and his friends' parents. And then he turned bright red and demanded that everyone leave. The teacher said no, they had to stay, but maybe everyone could close their eyes. He said okay. So the whole classroom full of people closed their eyes. He recited his poem.<br />
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And then he burst into tears.<br />
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Because I wasn't there. And because he has stage fright, in a big big way.<br />
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In first grade there's no Poetry Day. But there is a Variety Show. Entirely voluntary. My diva, a born show-woman, has been in the Variety Show each of the past three years. So the redhead knows all about it. He had no interest in performing, though. Not until we got an email from a good friend of mine, the mom of another redhead in my redhead's class, suggesting the boys perform together with another friend. I told my little guy, and he got all excited. Why? Because they were going to "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=65uNCLBTje0">Do the Mario</a>." Literally. Two boys in Mario costumes, one in a Luigi costume, dancing for 45 seconds. In front of well over 100 loving parents, grandparents and siblings. In a spotlight, no less.<br />
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I figured he'd panic. I figured he'd cry. I figured he'd run off the stage in fear.<br />
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He didn't. He totally rocked it. He rocked it right through the dress rehearsal and two nights of performances. He rocked it in front of his brother, his mother, two of his au pairs, and the 100s of theatergoers assembled in the audience.<br />
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He's still a little <a href="http://rosemarycoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2009/12/dont-let-zombies-drive-bus.html">afraid of zombies</a>. And a lot afraid of the dark, though if you tell him I said that, I'll totally deny it. But he's not afraid of getting on stage and pretending to be <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mario">an Italian plumber in a mustache</a>. <br />
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Dance your heart out, kid. You make your mama proud.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-88730687433852882832012-01-14T03:38:00.002-05:002012-01-14T03:41:31.218-05:00Baby, you're a fireworkMy baby girl - which I probably shouldn't call her anymore because she's nearly as tall as I am - has been struggling a bit of late. She's going to be an official tween at the end of this month, because that's what happens when you hit the double digits, and that means she's running headlong into self-esteem trauma prime time. Which sucks for her. And it sucks for me, too. Mostly because it breaks my heart to see my smart, strong, brave, beautiful girl think she is anything less than everything.<br />
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And yet she does.<br />
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Last weekend, she and I took a rare evening together, just the two of us, with absolutely no brothers allowed. We went to the annual Girl Scout sock hop. It's our third year at this mother-daughter dance fest. Lots of elementary aged girls and their moms in poodle skirts, rolled up jeans, and high ponytails.<br />
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This year my diva wanted to be a 1950s style tomboy, because she's a tomboy in real life, so she went for the jeans and loafers look. And then she asked for my pearls, as she has every year. A little touch of girl in her tomboy get-up.<br />
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She was nervous heading in, which is what pre-pubescence does to a girl. I was, too. Not because I'm pre-pubescent (thank goodness for that), but because I'm not always very comfortable with the girl stuff. I was never a tomboy, but once I hit puberty I just stopped getting the girl thing. It's like everyone else was speaking a language I didn't understand. And while I did eventually learn the language, I'm definitely not a native speaker.<br />
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But once we got there, she was good. She ran off with her friends for line dancing and root beer floats and giggly conversation. <br />
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The evening flew by, and finally the deejay played his last song, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QGJuMBdaqIw&ob=av2e">Katy Perry's "Firework."</a> Every girl at the hop ran into the room, crowding in front of the stage. And they erupted in song, fists in the air, singing out with the passion of youth and the total understanding that who they are is more than good enough.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>You just gotta ignite the light and let it shine</i><br />
<i>Just own the night like the Fourth of July</i><br />
<i>'Cause baby you're a firework</i><br />
<i>Come on show 'em what you're worth</i><br />
<i>Make 'em go oh, oh, oh</i><br />
<i>As you shoot across the sky</i></blockquote>This room full of girls, each of them as smart and strong and brave and beautiful as my diva, was shouting their worth out proudly to the world. <br />
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It was a moment, just a moment, of watching my diva know for herself that she can do anything, be anything, be everything. A moment of joy and confidence and reveling in the power of being a girl.<br />
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It's in there, all that strength and poise and power. And when she's ready, she'll share it with the world.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-5831782383614922202011-12-29T02:07:00.000-05:002011-12-29T02:07:36.466-05:00Love and the art of being lateMy kids tease me mercilessly for my utter lack of timeliness. I am late for everything. Which is a problem if you're a kid going to basketball practice. Or to chorus. Or, well, anywhere.<br />
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When you add that little personality quirk to a major holiday like, oh, say, Christmas, with its very many opportunities to be late, it becomes a nightmare of 2 a.m. cookie baking, crazy Christmas Eve day shopping sprints, and overnight wrapping marathons. It's expensive and exhausting.<br />
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And it didn't happen this year.<br />
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I don't know if it was the impetus of my latest new au pair heading home mid-month, and taking all my childcare with her, or if it was my sister very nearly begging off Christmas because of the never-ending holiday chaos at my house. But something snapped. And suddenly I was on time.<br />
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I finished my shopping a full 10 days before Christmas. And snagged some pretty awesome sales, too.<br />
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I had the cookies mixed and baked for my diva's holiday party three days early.<br />
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And the wrapping was done on the eve of Christmas Eve. Still an overnight marathon, but it meant I slept - mostly - on Christmas Eve proper. Which made for a much more friendly mom when the kids woke me up before dawn on Christmas Day.<br />
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I was still late for a handful of Christmasy things, some of them important. Like Peabo's school holiday party. Though I can legitimately blame that on the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inlays_and_onlays">onlay</a> that broke the day before (mind you, I <i>was </i>on time to the dentist). Of my three, Peabo is - not surprisingly - the one with the least ability to manage the whole "late mom" thing. He always knows what time it is and is constantly adjusting our clocks. Schedules matter to him. They matter a lot. So does being on time.<br />
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But, as I told him between gentle apologies, love means taking someone as they come, faults and all. Even if that someone never really knows what time it is.<br />
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Love. Forgiveness. Understanding. Isn't that what Christmas is all about?<br />
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Though being on time does help.<br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">Whaddya know? Post number 37! Only 20 more to go before the end of the year ... </span>Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-67173968534000506482011-12-29T00:13:00.001-05:002011-12-29T00:14:48.309-05:0021 postsThe last two New Year's ... New Year'ses? New Years? Eh. The last two Eves (see, that works), I've put together a "done list" that talks about the things that got done in the year preceding. It's meant to provide a sense of accomplishment in the face of a daunting, multi-year, to-do list.<br />
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Each year my done list includes the number of blog posts I've published. And in case you haven't kept track along with me (and can't see the little archive that appears on the right side of this page), I published 57 posts each in 2009 and 2010. Some kind of weird record in consistency that I promise was not at all planned.<br />
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Not this year. This year, I published a scant 35 posts. Until this one goes up. Then it will be 36.<br />
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Which is 21 short. And entirely lame.<br />
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It's not that I wasn't doing other, deeply legitimate things. I was. Managing my kids, who've had a bit of a rough year. Managing yet another au pair transition, because our lovely, as yet tattoo-free German missed her family and decided to go home 7 months early. Managing work, and one of the biggest projects of my career. And managing my health and my house and my finances. <br />
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You know. Living.<br />
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I heard on the radio today - which I was listening to in the morning, so you can't really trust what I'm about to tell you - but I heard that if you want to keep your New Year's resolutions, you need to make just one. And you need to forgive yourself and start over if you break it. Which is kind of like how the whole diet/fitness/health thing works. So you'd think I'd be familiar.<br />
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And maybe this will be my resolution. To find my bloggy inspiration again. Because I miss the writing. <br />
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I miss it a lot.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-77402462178163223092011-11-06T01:48:00.002-04:002011-11-07T10:27:58.696-05:00I Can FlyYesterday was the last official day of soccer. Not that there's been much soccer this season. Between the hurricane, the flooding, and the freak October snowstorm, we've had enough weird weather on the East Coast to make a case for global climate change all on our own. Which means a lot of canceled soccer games.<br />
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So today, post-season playoffs began for Peabo. Which was interesting, because my redhead is sick. He's been sick since Friday, running a fever that got slightly higher on Saturday, and slightly lower on Sunday. But we all wanted to go to the game. The weather was mostly warm and very sunny, so I bundled up the redhead and snuggled him up on my lap.<br />
<br />
The playoffs were a bit weird. There are five teams in the league. So the 2 and 5 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then the 3 and 4 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then, after a 30-minute wait, the winners played each other in another 30-minute game. The winner of *that* game goes on to play the number 1 seed next weekend for the championship.<br />
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Peabo's team - the 3 seed - won the whole playoff shebang. On penalty kicks after their second 30-minute game ended in a 0-0 tie.<br />
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If you do all that minute math, it adds up to 90 minutes plus penalty kicks. Which meant we were there long enough for a 6-year-old bladder to need a bit of relief.<br />
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So my redhead, feeling the joy of being outside and in something other than pajamas, challenged me to a footrace to the port-o-potties. Except, when we got there, we found them defaced with bad words. Bad words he could read. So he wouldn't use them.<br />
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The local middle school, on the very far side of the very large, multi-field field, was open. So I suggested we head up there to find restrooms. Another footrace ensued. He did his business, and then raced me once again back to our seats.<br />
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Which means I ran.<br />
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In fact, I ran quite far. For me, anyway. <br />
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I hate running. Hate it like the chore that it is. I've always felt like I was slogging through pudding just trying to get one foot in front of the other. I am slow and ungainly. Running is totally not my thing.<br />
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Except today it was. I ran with my redhead, and I felt fast. I felt like I flew across that field. I even beat him, which sounds ridiculous - I mean he's 6 - but he's a fast 6, and I'm a very slow 45.<br />
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And, amazingly, I wasn't breathless. Not even a little. If you'd talked to me right then, you'd never have known I'd run anywhere.<br />
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It was awesome.<br />
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The last time I tried to run, I was red and flushed and, yes, breathless, and I very nearly passed out. I also injured my hip so badly I could barely walk and spent 6 months in pain and 6 weeks on a daily regimen of ibuprofen.<br />
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The last time I tried to run, I weighed 56 lbs more than I weigh today. <br />
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I did not feel like I could fly.<br />
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Today, I ran. And I flew. <br />
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I like being <a href="http://rosemarycoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/10/big-get-healthy-part-deux.html">an after</a>. <br />
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(Not that I'm going to go run a marathon or anything. I'll leave that to folks like my friend Anne at <a href="http://momanddadtrackstars.blogspot.com/">Mom & Dad Track Stars</a>, who just finished the Marine Corps Marathon and did not throw up. Kudos, Anne!)Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-26299385580858118602011-10-26T04:50:00.000-04:002011-10-26T04:50:49.565-04:00No timeIf I had time to blog ... which I don't ... I'd tell you about my son, Peabo. He somehow became a teenager overnight on me, complete with stinky teenaged feet and a compelling need to use (moderately) foul language around his mother.<br />
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That last part? Totally won't fly.<br />
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He wanted total world domination for his birthday. Again. He got this cool book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rule-World-Shortcuts-Total-Domination/dp/1591748496/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1319617973&sr=8-1">Rule the World: 119 Shortcuts to Total World Domination</a> from his grandparents. Now he's well on his way.<br />
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I'd tell you about the cupcakes I made for his party: Martha Stewart's mint-filled brownie cupcakes. Not one of the kids liked them, except for my diva, but she likes brussels sprouts, so you never know with her. I'm still transitioning from the Big Get Healthy to the Big Stay Healthy, so I couldn't even try them. I was smart enough to bring a back-up cake to the party, though. Talk about over-prepared - I mean, who brings a back-up dessert to a birthday party? But at least all those brownie cupcake haters had something sweet and sugary to chase down their pizza and popcorn. <br />
<br />
I also made Peabo cinnamon buns from scratch, and the world's most chocolatey brownies, also from scratch. My first ever from-scratch brownies. And homemade mac & cheese with chicken and ham and broccoli. It tickled me pink that my Peabo, who used to eat nothing but chicken nuggets and frozen pizzas, wanted a slew of homemade birthday treats. Needless to say, I made him everything he asked for.<br />
<br />
If I had time to blog ... again, I don't ... I'd tell you about how the crazy dog is no longer satisfied with barking at my beautiful children but is also herding them and occasionally nipping at them, and twice left little bitty tooth bruises on my Peabo's thigh. This, after all my researching and training and learning to use a clicker and pretending I don't mind having stinky, oogy fingers from treating my dog with cut up hot dogs and chicken. We're now down to the last option, the one where I call the rescue group and suggest that we may not be the right family for this beautiful dog. They are investigating. But I think the upshot of it is, perhaps, that kids with loud voices and spectrummy tantrums do not work and play well with border collie. We are stressing him out.<br />
<br />
We'll see how it goes.<br />
<br />
If I had time, I'd tell you about the afghan I started knitting, with fat circular needles in a rich purple and olive. It's for a friend. I think she doesn't read the blog, but if she does, well, dear, it's NOT for you! (It is, but we'll keep that between the rest of us.) I made up the colorwork myself - the pattern was for a solid - and it's blending beautifully. Except that not having time to blog means I have no time to knit, either, so I probably won't finish it until 2015. If I'm lucky.<br />
<br />
I don't have time, though, to tell you about it. Instead you get little snippets that are not particularly well thought out.<br />
<br />
Better than not blogging at all. Right? <br />
<br />
And now I'm going to bed.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-28243696643587894932011-10-07T18:57:00.000-04:002011-10-07T18:57:27.383-04:00The Big Get Healthy, part deuxAs of today, I'm an "after."<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYJoE0kh-jlqcqtojUXBAayIck8JtQzG9275LoGqgv8ZySlJCuylGPQ6ZeTqpqSEfULx7FF2nikrQAAgNMzIBRVUEuZLfsgNGIAIivhOPpvCiLBZ_w8gPo13tG-YFJeiixERo12gIqyPv/s1600/before.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYJoE0kh-jlqcqtojUXBAayIck8JtQzG9275LoGqgv8ZySlJCuylGPQ6ZeTqpqSEfULx7FF2nikrQAAgNMzIBRVUEuZLfsgNGIAIivhOPpvCiLBZ_w8gPo13tG-YFJeiixERo12gIqyPv/s200/before.jpg" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before, with my diva, <br />
at Christmas time</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
21 weeks ago I was a "before." I hated looking at pictures of myself because I didn't recognize the woman I saw. I could no longer zip my size 14 jeans, mostly because I needed 16s and couldn't bring myself to buy them. I was obese and sedentary. I wasn't sleeping. And even a little bit of stress sent me diving into a carton of mint chocolate chip. <br />
<br />
I couldn't live that way anymore. Because of the pictures and the clothes and the bad example I knew I was setting for my kids. And because it wasn't me. So I called my longtime friend, <a href="http://feelfabnow.tsfl.com/">Rhoda Waiss</a>, now a health coach with <a href="http://feelfabnow.tsfl.com/">Take Shape for Life</a>. And I asked her for help.<br />
<br />
That's exactly what she did. She helped.<br />
<br />
A week later I started my <a href="http://rosemarycoloredglasses.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Big%20Get%20Healthy">Big Get Healthy</a>.<br />
<br />
It's a journey, and it's not over. Maintenance is a lifetime commitment.<br />
<br />
But this stage is over.<br />
<br />
Because today, I'm an "after."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqcjZ6HTlU8gjFPVX8Z9Zgk03xi4DBfN1-1tFV3SbxTef0xxZGZ5Tu0vCbcabI3cICAVwMoS9xL2z6TUafKtqpL7NNOFDbNY4Xjux3dwjUWtvbml91jiU512LWV0llGAIaqh-fv_vipvDS/s1600/after.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqcjZ6HTlU8gjFPVX8Z9Zgk03xi4DBfN1-1tFV3SbxTef0xxZGZ5Tu0vCbcabI3cICAVwMoS9xL2z6TUafKtqpL7NNOFDbNY4Xjux3dwjUWtvbml91jiU512LWV0llGAIaqh-fv_vipvDS/s1600/after.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After ... I'll get a <br />
better picture, promise!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Today, I wear a size 4. Well, sometimes a 6, but just as often it's a 4. I wear jeans without lycra, and I can button them too. I can fit into my prom dress, which I know because today I tried it on. And it zipped, or, well, it would have if the zipper weren't broken because it's spent the last few years in my daughter's costume box. But I could clutch the edges together comfortably. And that's around a waist that has grown around 3 very large babies. <br />
<br />
Today, I move. I take the crazy dog for a nice, long walk nearly every day. I avoid elevators and take the stairs whenever I can find them. I lift hand weights during conference calls and do sit-ups when I watch TV. I park far away from where I want to go ... and then promptly lose my car. But just think of the calories I burn hunting for it!<br />
<br />
Today, when I get stressed ... well, I stop sleeping, as always. You can't be all healthy all the time. But I don't turn to food. I make an herbal tea and vent on Facebook.<br />
<br />
I've lost 51 pounds.<br />
<br />
And I'm happy. Because the woman in the mirror is the woman I expect to see. A little tired, maybe, with her fair share of crow's feet and a sprinkling of gray hair hidden artfully by highlights. She's 45, after all.<br />
<br />
But she's me. And I'm happy she's back.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-15989808780339950192011-09-29T08:09:00.001-04:002011-09-29T08:09:00.844-04:00Directionally ChallengedI do lost. I do it brilliantly. It is, in point of fact, one of my greatest skills.<br />
<br />
My sister has complained that after living in and around a certain major metropolitan area since, oh, say, the day I was born, I probably ought to know where its neighborhoods lie and how they connect to each other.<br />
<br />
I do not. I get lost. Even in the city of my birth.<br />
<br />
And gee, that's fun. <br />
<br />
On Saturday I dragged my two youngest kids to the biggest mall in our area. A great big outlet style mall. Big, big parking lot. So big, in fact, that it features valet parking at three different entrances.<br />
<br />
I know my own deficiencies. So whenever I go anywhere - work, the grocery store, the colossal mall with 87 movie theaters - I park in the same place. Always. I pick one favorite row. I know where it is. I walk down it until I find my car.<br />
<br />
Brilliant, right? It works every time.<br />
<br />
Unless, of course, said mall has decided to do massive construction on its parking lots. Hence the valet parking. Because there is no parking. None.<br />
<br />
I don't pay to park at the mall. There's a sort of ridiculousness in paying to park when you're paying to shop. So we avoided the valet and, after driving around for 15 minutes, lucked into a little, hard-to-find space as someone else was leaving it. The space was not in my row. It was in the unfamiliar hinterlands. I made a mental note that the car would not be where I expected it to be. I studied landmarks. I asked my kids to help. Then we bravely left our little car to fend for itself.<br />
<br />
In the mall, I dropped insane amounts of money on child-sized fall clothes. I'm not sure why my kids keep growing out of stuff. Possibly it's because they're kids. Oh, but I found a pair of dress pants I could wear to work, to replace all the ones I don't have anymore. And they were a size 4. 4! I'm not even kidding. <br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
I got a text at that point to come pick up my oldest from his playdate. So we trucked back around the mall loaded down with our big bags of stuff, exited ... and spent 40 minutes trolling the parking lot for our red minivan that looks just like every other red minivan in this part of the world. Ours wasn't there. I pressed my panic button. No answering honk. I pressed it again. And again and again and again. Still no honk.<br />
<br />
So we went back in the mall. Where we realized we'd come out the wrong door.<br />
<br />
When we went out the right door, we found the car, right where we left it. So we got in it and drove straight home.<br />
<br />
Or we would have. Except I got lost doing that too. <br />
<br />
That'll teach me to leave the GPS at home.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-87076838475412311682011-09-23T23:38:00.026-04:002011-09-24T11:44:36.568-04:00Wrap Me In HappyI found myself in my basement earlier this week. It doesn't happen often, because my basement is scary as hell. My ex-husband collected pretty much every collectible thing ever made, and he left all that collectible detritus behind him when he moved out. Now there are mazes of old boxes and the empty wrappers of baseball cards everywhere. It's a rodents paradise.<br />
<br />
I don't have rodents, of course. I mean, who the hell knows, really, rodents are squirrely little things. But since my basement is also full of mousetraps, I seriously doubt it. <br />
<br />
So I was down there, climbing over the tipping towers of crap in search of Peabo's old size 7s to pass down to my redhead, when I ran into a treasure trove of clothes. My clothes. My old, teeny, tiny, I used to be a skinny person clothes. <br />
<br />
Skinny for me predates Peabo, which means this stuff is really, really, colossally old. Like, 14 years or better. And I should have gotten rid of it a long time ago. But some stuff you just can't part with.<br />
<br />
Like the first interview suit I ever bought, back when I was in grad school.<br />
<br />
The only bridesmaid's dress I had that I ever considered wearing again. Except that I squeezed into it pretty much that just that one day before I grew right out of it. <br />
<br />
An old, blue sheath dress that once fit me like a glove. I don't remember where I wore it, but I remember I felt fabulous in it. And that was apparently reason enough to keep it forever.<br />
<br />
The slim-waisted, full cut white skirt my mom bought me for my birthday the summer after eighth grade.<br />
<br />
The nearly backless, slit-up-to-here revenge dress I wore to my 10-year high school reunion, where I knew I'd run into my very recent ex. I'm pretty sure he didn't notice, and actually it wasn't really that racy, because when you get right down to it I'm just not that flashy. Or revengy. But it gave me the courage to walk into the room, and that's all I needed that night.<br />
<br />
And a whole slew of what we'll call vintage Victoria's Secret - that is, some very pretty bras that I retired when I was pregnant with Peabo and never fit back into. They all have real wire underwires. Can you imagine? Real wire. <br />
<br />
It all fits. Even the skirt my mom bought me when I was 14. Granted, it's snug. But it buttons. And I can sit down in it. And it still fans out beautifully when I spin around. Which I most definitely did when I tried it on.<br />
<br />
That's what happens when you lose 47 pounds. You fit into not just your skinny clothes, but your very skinny clothes.<br />
<br />
Most of this stuff is ridiculously dated. I'm talking giant shoulder pads and pocket hankies here, folks. But it fits. And while I may never, ever wear it, I put every bit of it back into my now empty closet.<br />
<br />
Right next to the size 14s I can't bear to part with.<br />
<br />
The black and white dress I bought at the Loft on the one and only shopping trip I've ever made with both my sisters together.<br />
<br />
The dark orange shirt with 3/4 sleeves that I bought for my very first post-divorce date. <br />
<br />
The soft gray sweater that made me smile every single time I put it on, mostly because someone once told me I looked pretty in it.<br />
<br />
The form-fitting blue dress I wore on a very special Christmas date with my fella. I still remember walking home, warm and happy, in tall black pumps that left soft prints in the snow that had fallen ever-so-gently while we were at dinner. It's a great dress.<br />
<br />
My closet is empty now, but for this handful of outdated or oversized memories. I've shrunk right out of pretty much every single thing I own.<br />
<br />
I miss my clothes. I don't miss the extra weight, of course. And I don't want to fit back into that stuff again. But I miss my clothes. I miss the memories, and the feeling you get from wearing something that wraps you in happy. <br />
<br />
Time to make some new happy. Which would be a lot more fun if I didn't have to go shopping to do it.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-9948838683213207172011-08-30T01:01:00.007-04:002011-08-30T01:33:20.757-04:00When Mother Nature Is Out to Get YouLast week, we started school. Which has led to some musings. Random musings.<br />
<br />
First, math.<br />
<br />
Do you remember 8th grade algebra? I do. Loved my teacher, Mrs. Vaughn, who taught me to enjoy math and take some pride in an ability to do it well. I still can't add long columns of numbers, and I'll never know my multiplication tables by heart. But at one point I could do both well enough that I managed a whole year of algebra with a cheap-ass calculator. Peabo and his generation, however, are apparently so mathematically challenged that their 8th grade algebra class requires the firm plunking down of $140. For a calculator.<br />
<br />
A calculator that comes with a USB cord and 20 pre-installed apps. It's like an iPod, only, you know, not.<br />
<br />
Actually, I could have bought him an iPod at that price. It has a calculator built in. And for a measly $4.99 you can get Angry Birds, too.<br />
<br />
That thing does make graphs, though. For my fine-motor challenged Peabo, that's a plus. (Note: math pun. Ha ha.)<br />
<br />
Second, the first day of school. Which should maybe be first, not second, except that we bought the calculator first. Or rather, hemorrhaged money in the direction of the local office store.<br />
<br />
Our first day of school was rather interesting because after the full backpacks and the big breakfast and the cheery pictures of the kids, there was the earthquake. Because we live on the East Coast, and earthquakes are a fact of life out here.<br />
<br />
Except they're NOT. Not ever. So my kids spent their first day of school diving under their desks and then sat outside for two hours getting sunburned for the sake of safety.<br />
<br />
For which I am grateful.<br />
<br />
My redhead's assessment of his first day of first grade? "The best part was when the earth started shaking! That was awesome! Can we do it again?"<br />
<br />
Oh, please no.<br />
<br />
But that wasn't enough. Because into the chaos of tracking down med forms and prescriptions and picking up last-minute supplies for the middle schooler, we also added a hurricane.<br />
<br />
Yeah, that was fun. We spent hours stocking up on non-perishable food and water in case the power went out (oddly enough, ours didn't - I say oddly because pretty much the whole rest of the world around our one little block is still dark). And then I dragged all the deck furniture inside and stowed my trash cans and pulled my basketball hoop down so it wouldn't blow over.<br />
<br />
My kids freaked out. My au pair freaked out. They asked me about flooding and thunder and wind. They stayed up late and panicked. And that's with me firmly NOT telling them there might be tornadoes. Aren't I a good mom?<br />
<br />
Of course, I knew there might be tornadoes, so I didn't sleep a wink. My basement is uninhabitable, so I put my kids in a room that was safe from falling trees and spent the night listening to the radio for tornado warnings.<br />
<br />
Brilliant recipe for a cranky weekend. Stressed out, sleep-deprived kids combined with physically exhausted, sleep-deprived mom. Fun fun.<br />
<br />
And then they stayed home from school. Because although our area was spared the floods that hit farther north, so many trees are down, so many homes and businesses are without power, that school's been canceled for two days now. Likely with more to come.<br />
<br />
After the chaos of a vacation that bumped headlong into the back-to-school weekend frenzy of shopping and haircuts and more shopping, school should have been a break. It should have gotten us back to the routine. And we love that routine. I love it. My kids love it. My aspie especially loves it. Even my new au pair loves it.<br />
<br />
So far, no routine. Only natural disasters. And a $140 calculator. <br />
<br />
Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-67192880861830425032011-08-26T23:50:00.000-04:002011-08-30T00:26:30.064-04:00PamperingThis is what pampering looks like.<br />
<br />
It looks like being met at the airport with a great big giant hug and a loving tolerance of your inclination to walk into walls when you're heavily dosed with Xanax. (I also walk into walls when I'm not dosed with Xanax, but we don't need to mention that.)<br />
<br />
It looks like being cozily tucked into bed under a downy, huggy comforter to sleep it off. <br />
<br />
It looks like being whisked away to a gorgeous resort at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge. A room with a stunning view of the city and its bridge and its bay, a cozy gas fireplace, and little thoughtful gifts that make a woman's heart sing.<br />
<br />
And golf carts. They had golf carts, and they'd drive you places in them. That was kinda cool.<br />
<br />
It looks trips to museums and gardens and sips of tea, movie dates and dinner dates, and a snuggle in front of the TV.<br />
<br />
It looks kinda awesome, is what it looks like. I don't get many days off - the single parent lifestyle is a wee bit constrained. But when I do, well, it's really lovely to have someone to share them with, and who will spoil me rotten while he does.<br />
<br />
Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-30706345946162329342011-08-08T23:11:00.040-04:002011-08-09T10:20:43.756-04:0033 PoundsOkay, so now my blog looks like something designed by a perky tweenager with a sherbet fixation. Sheesh. <br />
<br />
That's not my topic of the day, however. This is. <br />
<br />
You know that <a href="http://rosemarycoloredglasses.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Big%20Get%20Healthy">Big Get Healthy</a> thing I've been doing? Well, at this point, I've lost 33 pounds.<br />
<br />
Pausing now for dramatic effect.<br />
<br />
That's 33 pounds. 33 pounds that took my Body Mass Index from obese into the very top end of "healthy" for my height. 33 pounds that finally, for the first time in a decade, have me weighing less than my driver's license says I do. <br />
<br />
33 pounds that have shrunk me right out of my entire wardrobe.<br />
<br />
Given that I'm not finished yet - seriously, I've got about 18 pounds to go, and YES that's a healthy weight. But given that 18 pounds is a whole other clothing size, I don't want to invest in much right now. The thing is, when your pants are falling off and even your unmentionables have become unmentionably large - because after your third child you just gave up and kept all those oh so comfy maternity bikinis - you realize you need to go shopping.<br />
<br />
My reward for passing that driver's license landmark was that I got to buy new unmentionables from a certain world-famous, colossally expensive and slightly snooty lingerie store. Mostly because the last time I was there I stood in the dressing room and cried because nothing fit and I looked horribly ugly. And so I left, vowing never to return.<br />
<br />
On the way there, though, I got distracted by Ann Taylor. Which is easy to do. I love their stuff. And it's the end of season clearance. And I found a really pretty purple dress, a silky fancy thing that I could wear, maybe, to my sister's wedding next summer. I was holding a 10. And then an 8. And then a 10. And then the saleswoman asked me if I needed help.<br />
<br />
"Um ... I've lost a lot of weight recently and I don't know what size I am anymore."<br />
<br />
"Oh, honey," she said, looking me over. "You want the small."<br />
<br />
So I took the 8. And a size 8 skirt. Two small tops. And a really stunning knit wrap dress that would have looked horrifyingly awful on me 3 months ago. Also an 8.<br />
<br />
I tried on the wrap dress first. Fit like a glove. Made curvy things curvy. Made the middle all slender and sleek. It fit. It fit beautifully.<br />
<br />
And I cried.<br />
<br />
And then I tried on the purple dress. In an 8. And it was too big. Too. Big. <br />
<br />
I know they make sizes bigger today than they used to. But still. This body hasn't seen an 8 since 1994, when I was between boyfriends, working out 4-5 days a week, and flirting outrageously with the fella I'm dating now (oddly enough), who steadfastly refused to ask me out like I wanted him to (for a lot of very good, very gentlemanly reasons).<br />
<br />
And it's never, ever, ever seen a 6. <br />
<br />
So I cried. Because 12 weeks ago I could no longer button my size 14 jeans. And I didn't want to go up another size. 12 weeks ago, I'd crossed that invisible line between overweight and obese. And I didn't want to get any bigger.<br />
<br />
But it's not just about being thinner. It's about being happier. Healthier. More active. Less stressed. Sleeping better.<br />
<br />
It's about setting an example for my kids of what a healthy life looks like. And being there for them when they teach those lessons to their own kids.<br />
<br />
Those wonderful ladies at Ann Taylor? They sold my teary self that full-price wrap dress that I didn't need. With a 30% friends and family discount because, they said, I deserved a celebration.<br />
<br />
I really hope it fits when I'm finished.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<i>I'm not doing this solo. I've been lucky enough to work with health coach <a href="mailto:feelfabnow@yahoo.com">Rhoda Waiss</a>, a long-time friend who works with Take Shape for Life. She's got a web site of her own at <a href="http://feelfabnow.com/">feelfabnow.com</a>. This isn't a sponsored endorsement. 'Cause it's not like anyone would pay me to blog. Certainly not with this ridiculous cotton candy design, anyway. And yes, I'll be changing it very, very soon. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-89843895990496842752011-08-02T23:13:00.000-04:002011-08-03T01:30:28.838-04:00Now We Are 6It's been so long since I blogged that I barely remembered my password. Well, it's been two weeks. Not really that long. Which just goes to show you how bad my short-term memory is.<br />
<br />
And because I seem completely unable to hold onto a train of thought for longer than 30 seconds, this is going to be a bit of a random ramble.<br />
<br />
Here goes. <br />
<ul><li>We are on our 4th au pair in 4 months. I swear I'm not that bad a host mom. Really. </li>
<li>In April we said farewell to our beloved Belgian au pair, who was with us 18 months and left as she was meant to. Then came the manny, who, well, just did not work out and left us at the end of that month. In June, we welcomed our beloved, formerly purple-haired German, whom we loved and who loved us. But a family emergency called her home, oh, about two weeks ago (oddly, that would be the last time I blogged). So, on Sunday, we welcomed a young German whose hair has never been purple. She is sweet and sincere, albeit utterly fried today. I think we are wearing her out.</li>
<li>Yesterday, my redhead hugged her. I can't remember the last time he hugged an au pair who hadn't already been here for at least 3 months. He is not a kid who touches. He hasn't let me kiss him since he was 2, and I'm his mother, for crying out loud. </li>
<li>He did kiss me today, though. On the arm. He never does that.</li>
<li>He did not, however, let me kiss him. I asked. </li>
<li>When our formerly purple-haired German had to fly home, I called my former mother-in-law in the wee hours of the morning and left a message that said, very quietly, "help." She was in her car even before I woke up the next morning. She stayed for 3 days, bonded with the grandkids, spoiled them rotten, and gave me a big giant helping hand. She rocks.</li>
<li>Then we went to the beach for a whole week with an awesome mom friend and her son, one of Peabo's best buds. The kids watched lots of TV, played lots of video games, discovered the joys of hand-dipped donuts and spent hours in the ocean. It was awesome. And that's despite the constant bickering my kids subjected us to. They gave Peabo's only-child friend a lesson in sibling rivalry I am certain he will never, ever forget. I'm so very proud.</li>
<li>There was no internet at the beach. Which means I got lots of sleep. And I finished <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Middlemarch-Barnes-Noble-Classics-George/dp/1593080239/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1312345541&sr=1-3">Middlemarch</a></i>. I'm not sure how I got through as many courses on 19th Century novels as I did without once reading George Eliot. She rocks too, you know.</li>
<li>I also read <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Harry-Potter-Sorcerers-Stone-Book/dp/B0029K8O5W/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1312345781&sr=1-4">Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone</a></i>. With the kids. We haven't finished it yet: it goes kinda slowly when you're reading a few pages at bedtime every night. Reading it used to be a chore because the redhead hated it. Now he loves it. I think that's because he has a scar on his forehead (seriously, he does), and his birthday is the day after Harry's.</li>
<li>Because I know you're an enormous Harry Potter fan - isn't everyone? - I'm sure you've realized my redhead's birthday was, in fact, yesterday. And that means means that my redhead, who was 5 before yesterday, is suddenly and most unexpectedly 6. </li>
<li>I gave him a book that uses the word "jackass" twice. It's okay, though, because it's describing an actual jackass and the book is damned funny. We read it over dinner last night, and all three of my kids cracked up, out loud even, and the redhead's read it twice more on his own. It's Lane Smith's <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Its-Book-Lane-Smith/dp/B0058M4XXA/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1312344835&sr=1-1">It's a Book</a></i>. Check it out. Though if you've got any issues with introducing your younger kids to that kind of mildly cussworthy snark, you may want to hold off. My guy invented snark (we call it self-defense when you're the youngest of 3). So I'm good with it.</li>
</ul>And that's the biggie. My baby is 6. I'm trying hard not to be misty about that. Which probably explains why I went for the snark.<br />
<br />
PS For those who don't know, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Now-Are-Six-Pooh-Original/dp/0140361243/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1312347195&sr=1-1">Now We Are Six</a></i> is a brain-stickingly brilliant book of children's poems by A. A. Milne.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-57338672650821281212011-07-15T23:32:00.001-04:002011-07-16T01:48:53.399-04:00Sibling IssuesOne thing I've always loved about my kids is that they are a team. I've tried very hard to foster that. I think it's a significant part of my job as a mom to make sure the kids know they have each other, now and always. They lift each other up, back each other up, because that's what siblings do.<br />
<br />
A few years ago, when Peabo was maybe 9 and his sister not quite 6, they showed me they got it. Peabo was playing his first season of basketball, which he loved. And loves. He was sitting on the bench in maybe the 3rd period, watching the game, when he spotted a gaggle of very tall middle school girls in a part of the gym where people are Not Supposed to Go. So, being the rule follower that he is, he got up from the bench (did I mention he picks and chooses his rules?) and followed them in there to tell them to leave. I didn't notice this. I was watching the game. But my diva did. She went in after her brother. Good thing, too. Peabo asked the big girls to leave. They told him no. He asked them again, because that's what he does. In fact, he insisted. They said no. One of them pushed him. And then my teeny little diva, still in Kindergarten, planted herself in front of those big scary girls and said, at the top of her lungs (and she's got really big lungs), "Don't you touch my brother! He's a GOOD. GUY."<br />
<br />
At which point an entire gym full of grown-ups turned to look, rescued my kids, reprimanded the tween-to-teens, and went back to the game.<br />
<br />
That's having your back, is what that is. That's what sisters do, right? I mean, my sisters do. Both of 'em. My brother, too. It's the awesomeness of siblinghood.<br />
<br />
And I think my kids have forgotten that.<br />
<br />
These days, Peabo is heading headlong into puberty, and I think it's changing the chemical mix that defines who he is and how he responds to his world. Some of his behaviors are suddenly things he can manage. And some are ones it seems he no longer can.<br />
<br />
And, despite being more than three years his junior, I think his sister is in much the same boat, with puberty on the not-so-distant horizon. Which means that now, suddenly, her brother embarrasses her.<br />
<br />
So she watches him like a hawk. Did he brush his teeth? Wash his hands? Is he chewing with his mouth open? Talking when it's full? Is he drumming or singing or singsonging? Is he dancing at the table? Is he repeating his favorite phrase ad nauseum? Which is, oddly enough, "OBAMA!" ... which just recently supplanted "WAFFLES!" ... I really don't know why.<br />
<br />
But she hovers, waiting to catch him. Which she often does. And then she's on him like white on rice. Only it's a snide, nasty, and even physical kind of rice. Or, um, white.<br />
<br />
Bad metaphor.<br />
<br />
The redhead isn't much better right now. He's figured out that Peabo doesn't always listen, or that he can't. ADHD can do that to a kid. So when the readhead really wants his brother to hear what he's saying, which is usually when he's mad, and often when he's not, he doesn't just say it. He screams it. Very very loudly.<br />
<br />
It's like Peabo's siblings are angry with him 24x7. And they have no hesitation to let him know it. They're not exactly nice about it either.<br />
<br />
And it hurts. It hurts him, and it hurts me too. <br />
<br />
They love him. I know they do. And I have a lot of faith that they will come back to that, and to being a team. I'm trying everything I can think of to foster that. But right now, it's not working. And while I'm blaming pending puberty for the changing dynamic, it could just be the way they're handling Peabo's kind of special right now. I've always believed having Asperger's in the family is a good thing for all of us. We learn patience, tolerance, and a new way to look at ourselves and the world. We see difference in a different way. But this is their home. And maybe they sometimes need a little less difference, and a little more same.<br />
<br />
I've started a new thing, because the old tricks aren't working. If one of my kids says something mean to another, we all shout "Rabbit!" and then the culprit goes back and starts over, only this time she has to come up with something nice to say. Got everyone laughing last night over dinner and thinking of things they like about each other.<br />
<br />
This morning, though, it was back to the screaming and the cranky not getting along.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Can I get a "rabbit," too?Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-65254473793793968952011-07-13T23:30:00.000-04:002011-07-14T00:31:43.273-04:00DesignThis is where you can tell I am so not a designer. Because I've been playing with my page, and it's still really ugly. I want to turn my little blog over to my sister (the older of my two sisters ... the one who creates artsy stuff on a somewhat regular basis, even if it's not web stuff) and make her make it pretty, because I've been trying and failing since I started this thing.<br />
<br />
But hey, that picture in the background? I took it. And it's actually kinda pretty, albeit kinda hard to see. It's a picture of Paradise, on Mt. Rainier, of a little clump of flowers in the mist there. And I like it. But it doesn't exactly match my theme now, does it? I should snap a shot of a garden full of rosemary, is what I should do. I did try the elbows in the background (you can still see the elbow shot, by the profile). But that big it just looked freaky weird.<br />
<br />
If you've got a visual eye, make a suggestion! I'm all ears. Or, in this case, thumbs. Because you can't build a web page with your ears.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-63108269153769381512011-07-04T01:51:00.000-04:002011-07-04T01:51:23.238-04:00Inner PeaceNext Tuesday, my Peabo starts his Extended School Year program. For most kids, this would be summer school, and it would be full of extra math and reading and other academic gobbledygook. For Peabo and the kids who go to school with him, though, Extended School Year means summer camp. It's outdoors. There's swimming and canoing and trips to the bowling alley. It's fun, loads of fun, because it's all about the social skills.<br />
<br />
And that's exactly what these kids need. <br />
<br />
For those who don't know, Peabo attends a terrific school that is just right for him because it focuses on kids with Asperger's. It gives them the social, language and fine motor skills they need, along with constant behavioral feedback, and even homework assignments meant to help them fit in - like "wear deodorant" or "shower every day" (when you realize that most of these kids are middle school-aged boys, that assignment makes total sense). And they are working slowly toward mainstreaming, because this private school is set smack dab in the middle of a public school, so the kids attend at least a handful of classes each day with their neurotypical peers.<br />
<br />
I love this school.<br />
<br />
I love it for many reasons, but the biggest is that now, Peabo has friends. Real ones. Friends he can call and chat with. Friends he can play video games with and have inside jokes with and even small tiffs with.<br />
<br />
Last week, Peabo came up with the great idea of getting the gang together before they meet up again at camp. He wanted to have a party at my house, which I am not up for at this point, as I'm still recovering from my <a href="http://rosemarycoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/06/56-days.html">56-day odyssey</a>. So I said, hey, why not get everyone together at the movies?<br />
<br />
Which he did. He arranged the whole thing. He called his friends and agreed on a movie and a day. He talked to parents, and handed them off to me when he needed to. He arranged a ride for one friend, set up a meeting place for the others, and made sure his siblings and the one more who joined us were occupied with each other so he and his friends could hang.<br />
<br />
All that left me, my increasingly awesome new au pair (seriously - she rocks), and one other mom shepherding 8 kids - 6 of them on the spectrum - through the mall.<br />
<br />
It was chaos. As we wandered through the Food Court, and the book store, and then up to the theater, you could see me and Mom 2 doing constant head counts and then calling, "wait, wait, we've lost one" (usually it was my redhead, who has of late decided that listening and staying in sight are overrated skills that he needn't be bothered with). It was friends talking over one another, laughing too loud, talking Manga and music and battling each other on their DSi's. And battling in real life, too: We went to see <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YdaMGcOyfjM">Kung Fu Panda 2</a>, and if you're a tweenager who's just seen a kung fu movie, you're going to come out of it believing in your soul that you're the Dragon Warrior and your companions are the Furious Five.<br />
<br />
It was awesome.<br />
<br />
I spent years fighting to get this for my kid. This exact thing. An afternoon at the mall with his friends, getting goofy and eating too much popcorn.<br />
<br />
Today, I watched my diva and my redhead, so accustomed to their brother's kind of normal, accept and enjoy his fabulously quirky friends as just that and nothing more - his friends. And I spent time with other parents who just get it, innately, because they live this life, too. <br />
<br />
The movie is all about Inner Peace and how you achieve it (and then kick the ass of the mortal enemy you did not even know you had). <br />
<br />
This is my inner peace. This day, and the days like this to come.<br />
<br />
And yeah, I liked the movie, too.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-27791576427797097282011-06-30T23:30:00.010-04:002011-07-01T01:18:38.695-04:0056 daysI just got through 8 weeks without childcare. 56 days. 1,344 hours. And I am still standing. So are my kids. In fact, they were pretty darn fabulous for 8 straight weeks. Cooperative. Cheerful. Eager to help.<br />
<br />
I so love my kids when they're like that. I love them all the time, of course, but it's easier when they help.<br />
<br />
My friends and neighbors rock. For those 8 weeks, they walked my kids to school and back, invited them for playdates, fed them, hugged them, and even hooked us up with a good sitter.<br />
<br />
All that was a lot easier to manage because there was a vacation at the end of it. In Florida, with a beach and a sunset and my fabulous fella. And that part was awesome.<br />
<br />
My vacation was also kid-free. It was one of two weeks this summer they'll spend with their dad. I missed my kids. Weird that you can have fun and relax when your heart aches because you left three giant pieces of it back home. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijoyDYaJeWB30WNPnMQ0eyCSm-Yydo2z0QPYKYyWggiqUC474iVebnv3v9bfeZbbZ5OND22N6IFm0xcChRXnm7ZsBfj4AQxiIyUXkIKORQ5zbJ5cu9MqeOtrHg4G0bCJWq3AzCG0dbYqDw/s1600/DSC03676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijoyDYaJeWB30WNPnMQ0eyCSm-Yydo2z0QPYKYyWggiqUC474iVebnv3v9bfeZbbZ5OND22N6IFm0xcChRXnm7ZsBfj4AQxiIyUXkIKORQ5zbJ5cu9MqeOtrHg4G0bCJWq3AzCG0dbYqDw/s320/DSC03676.JPG" width="320" /></a>I grew up - at least for a little while - on the Gulf Coast of Florida. We were there for just over a day, and it still feels like home. I don't want to move back there, because I like winter just enough that this barely Southern part of the world is the right part of the world for me. But I want to visit more, and I want to bring my kids. <br />
<br />
But not right now.<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago, my old au pair came to visit, and to help. Our new au pair came to stay. My kids had a week with their dad. I went off on vacation. Then we said good-bye to our old au pair, with a fanfare of tears. So now we're in full-on transition mode.<br />
<br />
You know how my kids do with transitions? It's not pretty.<br />
<br />
I don't know why, but my kids keep telling me they're stupid. One little mistake and they go all, "I'm an idiot!" Do yours do that?<br />
<br />
Oddly enough, Peabo - the one with Asperger's, the one you'd think would struggle the most with change on this scale - he's the one who's handling it best.<br />
<br />
It's the redhead who worries me. But I think he's starting to come around.<br />
<br />
I did not get a lot of blogging done in those 8 weeks. I did not sleep much. But the Big Get Healthy is working. I'm not sleeping much, but I'm sleeping more. I'm not moving much, but I'm moving more. And I've lost 22 pounds.<br />
<br />
Which means all my pants are falling off while I try to catch up on work, get my kids through yet another transition, and go back to missing my San Francisco sweetheart.<br />
<br />
Eh. Who needs pants.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-21733152321545420832011-06-14T23:27:00.002-04:002011-06-14T23:29:07.253-04:00Lightning. Seriously?There are a whole lot of milestones you hit as you pass through the post-divorce aftermath. Some good, some bad. On the bad side ... telling the kids. Spending weekends without them. Spending Christmas without them. Handling the first multi-kid vomit fest solo.<br />
<br />
But some of them are of the good, life-affirming, independence-asserting sort. Managing your single-income budget. Actually getting divorced. Reclaiming your name. Going on that first, scary, post-marriage date. <br />
<br />
You're taking back control. Moving from a life shared to a life defined by no one but you. You set your own path, create your own future.<br />
<br />
Pretty empowering.<br />
<br />
For me one of the biggest of these affirmational milestones came about two weeks ago. After nearly a year spent taking charge of my finances, cleaning my credit rating until it squeaked, and making copy after copy after copy of every obscure corner of my financial life, I refinanced my house. And in doing so, I became its sole owner.<br />
<br />
I own my own home.<br />
<br />
And then lightning struck.<br />
<br />
I am so totally not kidding about that. Sunday night, I pulled into my driveway in the middle of a torrential downpour, was startled by a shock and a flash and a smashing boom, and the chimney cap and a handful of bricks flew off of my chimney and into the backyard.<br />
<br />
My house, to which I have held sole title for not quite two weeks, was victimized by an act of god.<br />
<br />
The lightning went through the phone lines. It blew up several phones, two DVRs, and whatever makes my barely-past-its-warranty desktop computer connect to the internet. It also blew something called a "board" in my heat pump, which is a nice way of saying, "Ha! We know you live in the swampy morass that is the Chesapeake Bay watershed so we are stealing your air conditioning!" (Cue evil laugh.)<br />
<br />
You would think that after losing the manny (I don't think I ever posted about that, but the manny is long gone: I was so totally wrong about <a href="http://rosemarycoloredglasses.blogspot.com/2011/04/stress-and-ice-cream.html">eventually coming to love him</a>), running through a field of poison ivy, and other assorted disasters, ailments and random folderol that make life just a little more annoying ... you'd think, after all that, the rose-colored glasses would have gone slipping off into oblivion somewhere.<br />
<br />
You'd be wrong. Though the poison ivy did test me.<br />
<br />
You'd be wrong because all that other stuff, all those milestones, all that empowering control over your own life ... well, damn if it isn't downright cheery making.<br />
<br />
Odd how a little empowerment can make you immune to lightning.<br />
<br />
Ba-dum-bump.<br />
<br />
(Yeah, yeah, I know. Keep the bad puns to myself.)Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-87725346131097396572011-06-08T18:50:00.003-04:002011-06-14T22:47:34.473-04:00When Poison Ivy Is an Act of LoveA week ago Tuesday, the kids and I were at my redhead's second-to-last T-ball game. It was screaming hot out. And I mean screaming. Heat index over 100, even after 5:00 p.m. The kind of hot where you sweat just stepping outside.<br />
<br />
My redhead is a pro. He ran up to join his team, played all of his three innings, and barely broke a sweat.<br />
<br />
My diva doesn't notice heat much either. She found a friend with a soccer ball and spent the better part of an hour running the ball across the field. That girl lives for soccer.<br />
<br />
Peabo started well. He headed off to look for a friend of his, and, not finding him, spent some time digging for frogs in the woodsy brush behind the backstop. Found one, too. Little baby frog, and if I'd had my camera I'd have gotten a picture for you.<br />
<br />
And then the heat hit him like a Mack truck. He spent the next 30 minutes in a ball on my lap, grabbing my arms and holding on for dear life while he fought waves of heat exhaustion and nausea. We're used to this: it happens every year during the first few summer heatwaves. I fed him water in slow sips, and toward the end convinced him to lie down on the blanket beside me while I poured cold water over his head and neck.<br />
<br />
We all went home. He got better as soon as he hit the air conditioning and ate a big old dinner, despite his telling me as often as I'd listen that he was too sick and would not eat a thing. Homemade macaroni and cheese, that's the secret. It's like appetite magic.<br />
<br />
Then, two days later, he started to itch.<br />
<br />
Three days later he was covered in a rash. A red, blotchy, itchy, uncomfortable kind of rash. So I rushed him to urgent care. Poison ivy. A very bad case. Bad enough that when they said, "Hey, kid, we can make the itching stop if we give you a horribly painful shot of prednisone in your thigh," he said "YESDOITDOITRIGHTNOW!"<br />
<br />
So. He had poison ivy.<br />
<br />
And that night, I realized, I did too. First in a handprint shape on my upper left arm. Then another handprint on the right. Followed by another. And another.<br />
<br />
By this morning, both upper arms were covered in an oozy, reddened rash that was turning stomachs everywhere. The redhead told me quite plainly that I'd have to wear long sleeves or he wouldn't let me hug him. And with good reason: I'm pretty freaky looking at the moment, and all the drying, peeling calamine lotion just makes it worse.<br />
<br />
That I disgust a 5-year-old boy is bad enough - who even knew that was possible? But the worst part is that I itch so badly I can't sleep. And my poor body, which just figured out for the first time in years that sleep is not only good but possible<b>,</b> screamed "WTF!" and made me go to the doctor, where I begged and I cried - they even gave me a tissue - and now I have my own steroids that I hope will soon make the itching stop.<br />
<br />
Please. Oh, pretty pretty please make the itching stop. I mean, I'm a silver-lining girl. I can see the wonderful in pretty much anything. But there is no silver lining in poison ivy. That stuff is noxious. It is evil in plant form. I can't think, I can't sleep, I can't focus on anything but the extreme and horrific need to scratch<b>.</b><br />
<br />
So I complained on Facebook. My cousin replied, telling me about how our Oma, the Queen of Gardening, once made the great poison ivy sacrifice and put herself between my cousin and the evil weed (I know, I know, that means something else ... but it should mean poison ivy). My cousin got away scott free, not a rash in sight. Not Oma. She was covered in itchy ick, and I'm sure at least as uncomfortable as I am right now.<br />
<br />
But that's what you do, right? I hate this poison ivy. But if comforting my son while he's sick and sobbing means poison ivy ... well, then, it means poison ivy. Because there's no way I'm not holding him when he needs me. Poison ivy and all.<br />
<br />
I'm really happy for the steroids, though.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-9804055251626177192011-05-27T23:32:00.000-04:002011-05-27T23:32:04.352-04:00Narcolepsy. The good kind.I keep falling asleep.<br />
<br />
My kids left the house today for their weekend with their dad. Five minutes later, zzzzz on the sofa.<br />
<br />
Last night, I put everyone to bed, took a minute to sit down and do a quick email check. Next thing I knew it was midnight and all I wanted to do was go back to bed.<br />
<br />
I'm awake for important stuff. Meetings. Driving. Playtime with the kids. But give me a quiet moment, and the last five years of sleeplessness hit me over the head with a big rubber mallet and knock me cold for a good two hours. <br />
<br />
This is what life off caffeine will do for a girl.<br />
<br />
You'd think I'd mind, but I don't. Not even a little bit. This is a relief. A huge, giant relief. Because somewhere deep in my soul I'd started to believe I'd never sleep again. Never. Which is a scary thing, worse that the worst serial killer nightmare, and since I've had a fair number of those you're-being-chased-through-a-department-store-by-a-bad-guy-who-will-encase-you-in-ice-and-pour-acid-on-you kind of dreams, you can trust me. That's scary.<br />
<br />
Of course, I haven't dreamed at all in years. When you don't sleep, you don't have those flashes of dream memory, those moments where you can feel yourself flying through the city streets touching the trees as you go by, or watching a sunset over the Gulf of Mexico and the ocean reflecting colors more vivid and striking than any you'd see outside your own mind.<br />
<br />
Who knows, I might even start dreaming again. How awesome would that be?<br />
<br />
Assuming, of course, that the serial killers keep to themselves.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-78775577404448715662011-05-24T23:30:00.000-04:002011-05-25T01:08:15.295-04:00The Big Get HealthyA few days ago, I made reference to The Big Get Healthy. I debated sharing anything else about it. I mean, my success on these types of things is spotty at best.<br />
<br />
But I'm having <b>fun</b>, and that bears repeating. Publicly, even.<br />
<br />
This whole thing started, though, with some serious unfun. Just over a week ago I stepped on the scale - which I do sometimes - and realized I'd just crossed the teeny tiny line between reasonably plump and not so reasonably anything. Between that and the regular sleeplessness and the lack of movement and the amped up stress ... well, I'm on a fast track to heart disease or diabetes or something equally uplifting. And, in that sense, I'm also setting an unhealthy example for the three little people I'm raising.<br />
<br />
So I did something about it. I got in touch with a woman I met when I was a ripe old 17-year-old. She's a health coach. She's awesome.<br />
<br />
Just over a week later, I'm on a healthful, well-supported, medically researched diet that is having an impact. And, like I said, I'm having fun. I'm having fun because, while most of the day is heavily proscribed and well mapped out, relatively dull, and totally practical, once a day I get to be all creative and play with a meal in a way that's healthy and good.<br />
<br />
For the record, the healthy and good part is just as fun as the creative part.<br />
<br />
Sunday night, I had a shrimp salad. Shrimp sauteed in a teeny tiny bit of olive oil, with a clove of garlic, a bit of chopped parsley, 1/4 cup of mushrooms and the juice of half a lemon, served over a bed of greens with 3/4 cup (combined) of tomatoes, cucumbers and green onions, with light balsamic vinaigrette sprinkled over top.<br />
<br />
Monday, it was tilapia marinated in a little fresh lemon juice and baked till flaky. I blended up a quick tapenade from 8 gorgeous, fresh green olives with a little parsley and a little more fresh lemon juice and a clove of garlic and some pepper, with 1/2 cup diced tomatoes thrown in at the end, I spread all that over the fish, then stuck it back into the oven. Great olivey goodness, with a cup of steamed broccoli on the side.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrq244AnqwLI6-R7yzKeZVeeGCQwcKnvaPvbrvE4KeVrKuuz_Zq82T-D0v6T5ajApNNLn9gXpY4mUJtG3n7w7O6FODifYymIFAS4jN1T0SToNeVCxFVbptrI59xyJwuJWxv_zJkymAG0g/s1600/DSC03645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrq244AnqwLI6-R7yzKeZVeeGCQwcKnvaPvbrvE4KeVrKuuz_Zq82T-D0v6T5ajApNNLn9gXpY4mUJtG3n7w7O6FODifYymIFAS4jN1T0SToNeVCxFVbptrI59xyJwuJWxv_zJkymAG0g/s320/DSC03645.JPG" width="320" /></a>And tonight? Hard-boiled eggs - 3 of them - with a cup of steamed green beans, 1/2 cup of tomatoes and diced red peppers, a sprinkle of chopped fresh chives, pepper and 2 tablespoons of red vinegar.<br />
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See? Healthy. And yummy enough that Veggie Girl begged me - yes begged me - to make an egg salad for her.<br />
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The egg salad's the only one I thought to take a picture of. But if I come up with anything else interesting, I'll let you know! <br />
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It's been a week, give or take. That's it. And I realize this is just the beginning of a very long - a lifelong - journey that will keep me well and healthy and give my kids a mom they can emulate and be proud of.<br />
<br />
Just a week.<br />
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But I'll take it. And you know why? It's not the life lessons I'm learning. Or the 7 lbs I've lost already. <br />
<br />
I'm sleepy.<br />
<br />
For the first time in years, I'm sleepy. When I'm supposed to be.<br />
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Which means it's time for bed. Good night, y'all.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899499377100127447.post-61764189759169314762011-05-22T01:06:00.000-04:002011-05-22T01:06:29.418-04:00Over-CaffeinatedYou know what's weird? When one cup of coffee does you in. Utterly. Shakes in the hand, woozy feeling in the tummy, kinda wobbly on the legs.<br />
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Many many years ago, I gave up all of my caffeine. Every bit. I didn't even eat chocolate. This is because I found a lump and it scared me. I was diagnosed with <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0001910/">fibrocystic breast disease</a>, and I decided it was better to be safe (i.e., minimizing cysts by limiting caffeine) than sorry (mistaking a real lump for a cyst and ignoring it).<br />
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In the middle of all this decaffeinated goodness, I started dating a fellow who brewed his own beer. Very very yummy beer. He made one particularly yummy brew, a chocolate cherry stout, that we popped open on New Year's Eve. Within 30 minutes, my heart was racing and I was shaking so badly that I couldn't read the cards in my hand (yes, we celebrated the New Year with a card game because I am just that kind of party animal). I was shaking like a madwoman. From the caffeine in a chocolate beer.<br />
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Caffeine doesn't like me.<br />
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So I ignored it. For, like, six straight years. Until I had my second child, and a full-time job on Wall Street, and I realized that umpteen million years of pregnancy and breastfeeding had made all the fibrous cysty bits go the way of the dodo.<br />
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So I had some chocolate. Then I had some more. And some tea. And then, maybe four years ago, a cup of coffee. And then a cup every morning. And sometimes one in the afternoon, too, because Starbucks is just that yummy.<br />
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And it seemed to be going okay. Except that today I realized maybe it wasn't.<br />
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The past few days I've been on a bit of a nutritional cleansing exercise. It's part of my attempt to Get Healthy (yes, this deserves capital letters, because once you gain that last pound that pushes you across the line into obesity you realize you need to get serious). Getting healthy means eating much, much, much better. It means managing my stress. It means sleeping. Which, in turn, probably means a bit less blogging, but I'm gone so often now I'm sure y'all will hardly notice. I'm gone because the new au pair left, and I'm smack dab in the middle of 8 weeks with nothing but the public school system and a few stalwart friends for childcare, eagerly awaiting the arrival of au pair number 10, who is awesome and asks me questions and writes me emails and introduces me to her boyfriend.<br />
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So, the caffeine.<br />
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This morning, on Day 3 of the Big Get Healthy, I brewed up a cup of coffee. I left it black, which is just exactly not how I like it. And I drank it. All of it. Because I'd mixed my morning meal into it, and I had to finish the morning meal.<br />
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Hey, there, shaky shaky. In 30 minutes flat. Shaky and woozy and vaguely nauseated. After exactly three caffeine-free days.<br />
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Caffeine really really hates me. Probably it's time for me to realize I need to hate it right back.<br />
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Starbucks, I'm gonna miss you.Rosemaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01916520993692252210noreply@blogger.com0