You 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.
Actually, that's a lot of stuff that makes it sound like I am totally interested in irises.
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.
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.
And not once have I played with my irises.
Though I did accidentally spray a few with weed killer last year. That was not pretty.
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.
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.
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 safe, accepted and competent, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And my irises are blooming again.
Showing posts with label the good stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the good stuff. Show all posts
May 12, 2013
January 14, 2012
Baby, you're a firework
My 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.
And yet she does.
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.
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.
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.
But once we got there, she was good. She ran off with her friends for line dancing and root beer floats and giggly conversation.
The evening flew by, and finally the deejay played his last song, Katy Perry's "Firework." 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.
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.
It's in there, all that strength and poise and power. And when she's ready, she'll share it with the world.
And yet she does.
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.
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.
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.
But once we got there, she was good. She ran off with her friends for line dancing and root beer floats and giggly conversation.
The evening flew by, and finally the deejay played his last song, Katy Perry's "Firework." 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.
You just gotta ignite the light and let it shineThis 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.
Just own the night like the Fourth of July
'Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go oh, oh, oh
As you shoot across the sky
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.
It's in there, all that strength and poise and power. And when she's ready, she'll share it with the world.
October 7, 2011
The Big Get Healthy, part deux
As of today, I'm an "after."
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.
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, Rhoda Waiss, now a health coach with Take Shape for Life. And I asked her for help.
That's exactly what she did. She helped.
A week later I started my Big Get Healthy.
It's a journey, and it's not over. Maintenance is a lifetime commitment.
But this stage is over.
Because today, I'm an "after."
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.
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!
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.
I've lost 51 pounds.
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.
But she's me. And I'm happy she's back.
 |
| Before, with my diva, at Christmas time |
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.
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, Rhoda Waiss, now a health coach with Take Shape for Life. And I asked her for help.
That's exactly what she did. She helped.
A week later I started my Big Get Healthy.
It's a journey, and it's not over. Maintenance is a lifetime commitment.
But this stage is over.
Because today, I'm an "after."
 |
| After ... I'll get a better picture, promise! |
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!
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.
I've lost 51 pounds.
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.
But she's me. And I'm happy she's back.
August 26, 2011
Pampering
This is what pampering looks like.
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.)
It looks like being cozily tucked into bed under a downy, huggy comforter to sleep it off.
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.
And golf carts. They had golf carts, and they'd drive you places in them. That was kinda cool.
It looks trips to museums and gardens and sips of tea, movie dates and dinner dates, and a snuggle in front of the TV.
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.
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.)
It looks like being cozily tucked into bed under a downy, huggy comforter to sleep it off.
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.
And golf carts. They had golf carts, and they'd drive you places in them. That was kinda cool.
It looks trips to museums and gardens and sips of tea, movie dates and dinner dates, and a snuggle in front of the TV.
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.
August 8, 2011
33 Pounds
Okay, so now my blog looks like something designed by a perky tweenager with a sherbet fixation. Sheesh.
That's not my topic of the day, however. This is.
You know that Big Get Healthy thing I've been doing? Well, at this point, I've lost 33 pounds.
Pausing now for dramatic effect.
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.
33 pounds that have shrunk me right out of my entire wardrobe.
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.
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.
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.
"Um ... I've lost a lot of weight recently and I don't know what size I am anymore."
"Oh, honey," she said, looking me over. "You want the small."
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.
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.
And I cried.
And then I tried on the purple dress. In an 8. And it was too big. Too. Big.
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).
And it's never, ever, ever seen a 6.
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.
But it's not just about being thinner. It's about being happier. Healthier. More active. Less stressed. Sleeping better.
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.
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.
I really hope it fits when I'm finished.
...
I'm not doing this solo. I've been lucky enough to work with health coach Rhoda Waiss, a long-time friend who works with Take Shape for Life. She's got a web site of her own at feelfabnow.com. 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.
That's not my topic of the day, however. This is.
You know that Big Get Healthy thing I've been doing? Well, at this point, I've lost 33 pounds.
Pausing now for dramatic effect.
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.
33 pounds that have shrunk me right out of my entire wardrobe.
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.
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.
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.
"Um ... I've lost a lot of weight recently and I don't know what size I am anymore."
"Oh, honey," she said, looking me over. "You want the small."
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.
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.
And I cried.
And then I tried on the purple dress. In an 8. And it was too big. Too. Big.
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).
And it's never, ever, ever seen a 6.
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.
But it's not just about being thinner. It's about being happier. Healthier. More active. Less stressed. Sleeping better.
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.
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.
I really hope it fits when I'm finished.
...
I'm not doing this solo. I've been lucky enough to work with health coach Rhoda Waiss, a long-time friend who works with Take Shape for Life. She's got a web site of her own at feelfabnow.com. 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.
July 4, 2011
Inner Peace
Next 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.
And that's exactly what these kids need.
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.
I love this school.
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.
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 56-day odyssey. So I said, hey, why not get everyone together at the movies?
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.
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.
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 Kung Fu Panda 2, 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.
It was awesome.
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.
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.
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).
This is my inner peace. This day, and the days like this to come.
And yeah, I liked the movie, too.
And that's exactly what these kids need.
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.
I love this school.
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.
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 56-day odyssey. So I said, hey, why not get everyone together at the movies?
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.
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.
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 Kung Fu Panda 2, 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.
It was awesome.
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.
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.
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).
This is my inner peace. This day, and the days like this to come.
And yeah, I liked the movie, too.
June 14, 2011
Lightning. 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.
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.
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.
Pretty empowering.
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.
I own my own home.
And then lightning struck.
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.
My house, to which I have held sole title for not quite two weeks, was victimized by an act of god.
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.)
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 eventually coming to love him), 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.
You'd be wrong. Though the poison ivy did test me.
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.
Odd how a little empowerment can make you immune to lightning.
Ba-dum-bump.
(Yeah, yeah, I know. Keep the bad puns to myself.)
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.
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.
Pretty empowering.
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.
I own my own home.
And then lightning struck.
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.
My house, to which I have held sole title for not quite two weeks, was victimized by an act of god.
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.)
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 eventually coming to love him), 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.
You'd be wrong. Though the poison ivy did test me.
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.
Odd how a little empowerment can make you immune to lightning.
Ba-dum-bump.
(Yeah, yeah, I know. Keep the bad puns to myself.)
May 8, 2011
Sister's Day
If I had my druthers, I'd spend my Mother's Day digging in the dirt while my beautifully behaved kids played in the grass around me. I'd have a marvelous meal cooked by someone who isn't me and who wants to wash all the dishes. And the whole world would chew with their mouths closed.
Oh, so not my life. I've got a little too much chaos for that.
I settled for bribing my kids to let me sleep in. I promised them as much TV, video game and computer time as they could manage. Which meant I had a great sleep, with only six interruptions between 6:30 and 10:30 a.m.: two Aspie tantrums, one set of fighting siblings, two beautiful handmade gifts, and one breakfast in bed comprising American cheese, a Nutella sandwich and a very, very tall cup of strawberry chocolate milk.
Yum!
I got up and made a big brunch. Then I broke my own cardinal rule of Mother's Day and washed the dishes.
I brokered 37 arguments, including some with other kids in the neighborhood. I put everyone in time out at least once. I shushed the very loud and annoying barking dog. I bandaged a scraped knee and kissed away some tears. I brokered 15 more arguments and shushed the barking dog again and finally gave up and hauled everyone outside just in time to join a neighborhood walk. Which was great fun, with two dogs and three grown-ups and a passel of kids racing around on various wheeled things, until they hit a particularly steep and curvy hill, where two of mine wiped out, the redhead dangerously so, scraping his left leg from his ankle to his backside, complete with ground-in dirt. I wound up piggybacking my screaming redhead all the way home, holding my dog by the leash, consoling Peabo (my other wipee) with words. Which really doesn't work so well.
My sister arrived as we rounded the corner home.
I have two sisters. This is the one nearest me in age, hair color and height. She hasn't got kids, and my kind of chaos stresses me out, so I can only imagine what it does to her.
And yet, she consoled and played with my diva while I put my redhead into a tub and cleaned off his scraped leg - and if you've ever inflicted that kind of pain on your child, knowing it was what you had to do and knowing you were hurting him badly, you know what that felt like. He wasn't crying alone.
We left the bathroom shaking and sobbing. While I dried him off and bandaged his leg, my sister blew up balloons and sent them whizzing through the air. She made my redhead laugh - actually laugh, after all that - by pointing out that it sounded like a fart. And doing it again. And again.
Then she went downstairs and found a leak in my pipes and a half inch of water in the back of my basement that I wouldn't have discovered until 2012.
She also cleaned it all up.
When I said, "I give up, let's go get pizza," she said, "Yes, let's!" even though she had pizza yesterday.
She let Peabo poke her all the way through dinner. She answered the eternal question, "Do you like waffles?" about 93 times. She listened to my diva's fabulous Mother's Day story that lasted through three car rides and an entire meal. She laughed at the redhead's jokes, and made him laugh right back.
And at the end of the day, she told me she had fun. Despite the screaming and the crying and the barking, and the stressed out, exhausted kids, and the stressed-out and moderately well-rested mom. She had fun.
I know it's Mother's Day. But I'd never have made it through this one without her. So I'm renaming it Sister's Day in her honor.
Because I'm glad she's my sister. And I don't tell her that nearly enough.
Oh, so not my life. I've got a little too much chaos for that.
I settled for bribing my kids to let me sleep in. I promised them as much TV, video game and computer time as they could manage. Which meant I had a great sleep, with only six interruptions between 6:30 and 10:30 a.m.: two Aspie tantrums, one set of fighting siblings, two beautiful handmade gifts, and one breakfast in bed comprising American cheese, a Nutella sandwich and a very, very tall cup of strawberry chocolate milk.
Yum!
I got up and made a big brunch. Then I broke my own cardinal rule of Mother's Day and washed the dishes.
I brokered 37 arguments, including some with other kids in the neighborhood. I put everyone in time out at least once. I shushed the very loud and annoying barking dog. I bandaged a scraped knee and kissed away some tears. I brokered 15 more arguments and shushed the barking dog again and finally gave up and hauled everyone outside just in time to join a neighborhood walk. Which was great fun, with two dogs and three grown-ups and a passel of kids racing around on various wheeled things, until they hit a particularly steep and curvy hill, where two of mine wiped out, the redhead dangerously so, scraping his left leg from his ankle to his backside, complete with ground-in dirt. I wound up piggybacking my screaming redhead all the way home, holding my dog by the leash, consoling Peabo (my other wipee) with words. Which really doesn't work so well.
My sister arrived as we rounded the corner home.
I have two sisters. This is the one nearest me in age, hair color and height. She hasn't got kids, and my kind of chaos stresses me out, so I can only imagine what it does to her.
And yet, she consoled and played with my diva while I put my redhead into a tub and cleaned off his scraped leg - and if you've ever inflicted that kind of pain on your child, knowing it was what you had to do and knowing you were hurting him badly, you know what that felt like. He wasn't crying alone.
We left the bathroom shaking and sobbing. While I dried him off and bandaged his leg, my sister blew up balloons and sent them whizzing through the air. She made my redhead laugh - actually laugh, after all that - by pointing out that it sounded like a fart. And doing it again. And again.
Then she went downstairs and found a leak in my pipes and a half inch of water in the back of my basement that I wouldn't have discovered until 2012.
She also cleaned it all up.
When I said, "I give up, let's go get pizza," she said, "Yes, let's!" even though she had pizza yesterday.
She let Peabo poke her all the way through dinner. She answered the eternal question, "Do you like waffles?" about 93 times. She listened to my diva's fabulous Mother's Day story that lasted through three car rides and an entire meal. She laughed at the redhead's jokes, and made him laugh right back.
And at the end of the day, she told me she had fun. Despite the screaming and the crying and the barking, and the stressed out, exhausted kids, and the stressed-out and moderately well-rested mom. She had fun.
I know it's Mother's Day. But I'd never have made it through this one without her. So I'm renaming it Sister's Day in her honor.
Because I'm glad she's my sister. And I don't tell her that nearly enough.
February 20, 2011
Too Osum Mom
My five year old wrote that. On the back of an envelope. It was for me. See? "To Awesome Mom."
It totally made me cry.
He's been in Kindergarten for just over 100 days, which I know because he and my au pair recently counted out precisely 100 Honey Nut Cheerios and brought them to school on the 100th day. A hundred days of learning means he can read like a pro. He knows letters have sounds. That one O makes an "awe." That two Os make an "oo."
Now he's using those sounds to write.
And he thinks I'm awesome. Or, you know, osum.
This is the kid who greets me after school with a happy "Hello, cute mama!" Who never thinks that one hug is enough because he'd rather have five. Who curls up in my lap in his fuzzy mornings and sticks his finger in my bellybutton. The kid's a morning-hater, like me, and I love him for it - enough so that I forgive the wacky bellybutton thing.
He's also five. Inside the envelope was a heart that he'd written on and colored on and then cut up to make a puzzle. He was beaming when I finally put it together. He wrote, "I love Mom. Mmmmm!" I guess because I'm yummy. And then he drew a brown me and a blue him and a whole bunch of decorative brown circles. He read me the words. Then he pointed at the pictures. "That's you. And that's me. And look, I'm pooping!"
He's pretty osum too. Poop and all.
It totally made me cry.
He's been in Kindergarten for just over 100 days, which I know because he and my au pair recently counted out precisely 100 Honey Nut Cheerios and brought them to school on the 100th day. A hundred days of learning means he can read like a pro. He knows letters have sounds. That one O makes an "awe." That two Os make an "oo."
Now he's using those sounds to write.
And he thinks I'm awesome. Or, you know, osum.
This is the kid who greets me after school with a happy "Hello, cute mama!" Who never thinks that one hug is enough because he'd rather have five. Who curls up in my lap in his fuzzy mornings and sticks his finger in my bellybutton. The kid's a morning-hater, like me, and I love him for it - enough so that I forgive the wacky bellybutton thing.
He's also five. Inside the envelope was a heart that he'd written on and colored on and then cut up to make a puzzle. He was beaming when I finally put it together. He wrote, "I love Mom. Mmmmm!" I guess because I'm yummy. And then he drew a brown me and a blue him and a whole bunch of decorative brown circles. He read me the words. Then he pointed at the pictures. "That's you. And that's me. And look, I'm pooping!"
He's pretty osum too. Poop and all.
February 6, 2011
Girl Time
In elementary school circles - or at least in ours - the annual Father/Daughter dance has taken on prom-like proportions. There's dress shopping and hair doing and dinner out with dad. And that's no less special when your dad lives in one house and your mom lives in another. In fact, on some level, it becomes that much more special because it means on this one day each year, you get alone time with each of your parents.
Yes, I said each of them. Because the Father/Daughter dance isn't just a night out with dad. It's also an afternoon with mom. And that's all about the girl time. It's about trying on dresses and shoes and stockings. It's about manicures and hairstyles and finding the right something in mom's jewelry box.
And it's about getting to know each other.
That's what my daughter and I did today. We shopped. We groomed. We coiffed. And I learned something I didn't know before.
My diva looks like me. That's not a surprise. She knows she looks like me; I know she looks like me. But I didn't know she was proud of it. She is, though. She's proud to look like her tired, wrinkly, plumply middle-aged, glasses-wearing mama.
I expect that to vanish the second her age ends in "teen." But for now, and for nine, I'm touched.
Yes, I said each of them. Because the Father/Daughter dance isn't just a night out with dad. It's also an afternoon with mom. And that's all about the girl time. It's about trying on dresses and shoes and stockings. It's about manicures and hairstyles and finding the right something in mom's jewelry box.
And it's about getting to know each other.
That's what my daughter and I did today. We shopped. We groomed. We coiffed. And I learned something I didn't know before.
My diva looks like me. That's not a surprise. She knows she looks like me; I know she looks like me. But I didn't know she was proud of it. She is, though. She's proud to look like her tired, wrinkly, plumply middle-aged, glasses-wearing mama.I expect that to vanish the second her age ends in "teen." But for now, and for nine, I'm touched.
December 9, 2010
Sometimes You Get Anchovies
It is well established on this blog that the perfect food is ice cream. That stuff is creamy crack in a carton, which is why I no longer keep it in the house unless someone else buys it. Someone who, I must admit, looks exactly like my evil, ice cream-addicted twin.
But there are other foods that run a close second to ice cream, and not all of them are chocolate. In fact, one of those red-ribbon foods may just be the anti-chocolate. Because it's not a dessert. It's a fish. The anchovy. No sugar. Almost no saturated fat. Just salty, protein-filled goodness.
And no one else likes them.
At least that was my impression given how frequently my pleas to order even half an anchovy pizza have fallen on deaf ears. These people, they don't know what they're missing. Anchovies do something amazing to a pizza. They give all that fatty warmth and comfort a bit of a salty edge that makes all the sweetness in the sauce and the cheese not quite so cloying. If you add a veggie or two, it even feels healthy.
Anchovies are awesome. Even if I have to eat them alone.
Except that I don't anymore. Because my San Francisco sweetie - remember him? He likes them, too. We recently had a spot of time together babysitting for a few junior family members, and we ordered a pizza. You'll never guess what was on it. With no prodding, no poking, just a little, "Hey, what would you think of ...?" and an immediate, "Absolutely!"
And then we had them again, not a week later, at a tapas place, wrapped around a little bamboo skewer with a fat, green olive and a tiny, marinated pepper that together made the perfect bite.
He likes them. He really likes them.
And I had no idea. Which is funny. Because I've known this man for two full decades. We've had coq au vin au chocolat and cauliflower goat cheese gratin. Green curry and noodles of the drunks. Coconut cake and fried green tomatoes. Vichysoisse and tapenade. And once, during a blizzard, a heart-warming Irish stew.
And yet, we'd never shared a pizza.
Now we have. And now I know something new about him. I know he likes the salt and the tang and the difference of anchovies. Which is one of the coolest things about dating one of your dearest friends. Sometimes, you get anchovies. And you didn't even know they were there.
But there are other foods that run a close second to ice cream, and not all of them are chocolate. In fact, one of those red-ribbon foods may just be the anti-chocolate. Because it's not a dessert. It's a fish. The anchovy. No sugar. Almost no saturated fat. Just salty, protein-filled goodness.
And no one else likes them.
At least that was my impression given how frequently my pleas to order even half an anchovy pizza have fallen on deaf ears. These people, they don't know what they're missing. Anchovies do something amazing to a pizza. They give all that fatty warmth and comfort a bit of a salty edge that makes all the sweetness in the sauce and the cheese not quite so cloying. If you add a veggie or two, it even feels healthy.
Anchovies are awesome. Even if I have to eat them alone.
Except that I don't anymore. Because my San Francisco sweetie - remember him? He likes them, too. We recently had a spot of time together babysitting for a few junior family members, and we ordered a pizza. You'll never guess what was on it. With no prodding, no poking, just a little, "Hey, what would you think of ...?" and an immediate, "Absolutely!"
And then we had them again, not a week later, at a tapas place, wrapped around a little bamboo skewer with a fat, green olive and a tiny, marinated pepper that together made the perfect bite.
He likes them. He really likes them.
And I had no idea. Which is funny. Because I've known this man for two full decades. We've had coq au vin au chocolat and cauliflower goat cheese gratin. Green curry and noodles of the drunks. Coconut cake and fried green tomatoes. Vichysoisse and tapenade. And once, during a blizzard, a heart-warming Irish stew.
And yet, we'd never shared a pizza.
Now we have. And now I know something new about him. I know he likes the salt and the tang and the difference of anchovies. Which is one of the coolest things about dating one of your dearest friends. Sometimes, you get anchovies. And you didn't even know they were there.
November 3, 2010
The Art of Dadness
Oh, I'm such a bad blogger. I've got two posts sitting in draft and October has just been so freaking crazy that I haven't had time to finish them up properly. And trust me, they are totally unreadable without a fair bit of editing. Not to mention quite dated by now.
But here's something I can blog about quickly.
My handsome redhead has recently become obsessed with being a dad. It's his thing. He wears pants with belts and button-down oxfords and takes great pleasure when folks notice and tell him he looks dad-like. He also spends a lot of time asking about the hows and whys of dadness. To wit, the following conversation, which took place in whispers when he was meant to be falling asleep.
"Mom, when I'm a dad, will you be old?"
"Yes." Since I'm nearly there now.
"So, when you're old, will I be a dad?"
"I think you get to decide when to be a dad."
"No. I don't get to decide that."
"Oh? Who does?"
"I think my birthday decides that."
"Okay. So how old do you have to be to be a dad?"
"Eighty-six."
Nodding. "Okay."
"How far away is that?"
"About 81 years."
"How many days is that?"
"Oh, sweetie, that's more math than I can do in my head."
"So it's really far away."
"Yes. But, you know, your dad became a dad for the first time when he was only 32. And your Opa, he was 27 when he became a dad."
"Okay. Then I think I'll be ... 31. Can I be a dad when I'm 31?"
"Yes, sweetie. You can."
And he's gonna be a damn fine dad, too.
But here's something I can blog about quickly.
My handsome redhead has recently become obsessed with being a dad. It's his thing. He wears pants with belts and button-down oxfords and takes great pleasure when folks notice and tell him he looks dad-like. He also spends a lot of time asking about the hows and whys of dadness. To wit, the following conversation, which took place in whispers when he was meant to be falling asleep.
"Mom, when I'm a dad, will you be old?"
"Yes." Since I'm nearly there now.
"So, when you're old, will I be a dad?"
"I think you get to decide when to be a dad."
"No. I don't get to decide that."
"Oh? Who does?"
"I think my birthday decides that."
"Okay. So how old do you have to be to be a dad?"
"Eighty-six."
Nodding. "Okay."
"How far away is that?"
"About 81 years."
"How many days is that?"
"Oh, sweetie, that's more math than I can do in my head."
"So it's really far away."
"Yes. But, you know, your dad became a dad for the first time when he was only 32. And your Opa, he was 27 when he became a dad."
"Okay. Then I think I'll be ... 31. Can I be a dad when I'm 31?"
"Yes, sweetie. You can."
And he's gonna be a damn fine dad, too.
September 17, 2010
Lucky Me
Tuesday morning was a school holiday in this part of the world because it was the day of our primary elections. (Please hold while I blush ... Yes, I should have voted, but it's the primaries, people. And besides, I forgot.)
Usually my morning starts with my eager nearly-12-year-old bursting into my room to request a new app for his iPod Touch, which he won on a $2 investment in a Stacker game at the bowling alley on a school field trip. Last $2 I ever give that kid. Though I will say, he's learned the hard way that if he wakes me up by shoving his iPod two inches from my nose and demanding downloadable stuff, the answer is a monolithic, 24-hour, applies to all things in the universe variety of NO.
That's not a good no.
Tuesday morning, though, was quiet. Kids on holiday, still in their pajamas. Au pair up and at 'em and feeding them breakfast. Me, stumbling down the stairs, fumbling for coffee, and snarling out the occasional, deeply insincere "Good morning."
I am not a morning person.
I crawled into the dining room to join my kids for breakfast and plopped myself into a chair. My Aspie grinned and said, "Mom! Aren't you lucky? I didn't wake you up!"
My five year old piped up. "And isn't she lucky I did??"
Yes, dear. I'm lucky. I'm very, very lucky.
I'm lucky because he did wake me up. Just as he does every morning, by curling up beside me and sticking his finger in my bellybutton. Do I miss the extra sleep? Oh, you betcha. Still lucky, though.
I'm lucky because his finger is just the right size that when he sticks it in my bellybutton it creates a little bit of suction and makes a funny popping feeling when he pulls it out. Not sure what that says about my tummy, though I'm certain I don't want to know.
I'm lucky that he's invented 53 different ways to hug me. My favorite is the 10-hug, where he hugs me 10 times without stopping. His favorite is the tackle hug. (That one's self-explanatory.)
I'm lucky that his sister lets me brush her hair, which she didn't used to do, and only does now because I totally guilted her into it.
I'm lucky that my kids respond well to guilt.
I'm lucky, too, that they all eat their cauliflower. And I didn't once use guilt. Nope, I bribed them. The use of bribes is much better parenting.
And I'm lucky to have my au pair, because she makes me coffee and has her mom send her stroopwafels and then shares them with me, and because she's just that amazing.
I'm also lucky that my Aspie is so brilliant at Stacker. Because the music settles him and lets him shut out the world when he needs to. Because the whole appverse is amazing. And because now he can listen to Weird Al Yankovich all he wants, and I don't hear a thing.
He's been trying to win his sister her own iPod. He's been just one row off pretty much every single time he's played. Trust me, he will win again.
So will I. Hard to lose with this much luck floating around.
Usually my morning starts with my eager nearly-12-year-old bursting into my room to request a new app for his iPod Touch, which he won on a $2 investment in a Stacker game at the bowling alley on a school field trip. Last $2 I ever give that kid. Though I will say, he's learned the hard way that if he wakes me up by shoving his iPod two inches from my nose and demanding downloadable stuff, the answer is a monolithic, 24-hour, applies to all things in the universe variety of NO.
That's not a good no.
Tuesday morning, though, was quiet. Kids on holiday, still in their pajamas. Au pair up and at 'em and feeding them breakfast. Me, stumbling down the stairs, fumbling for coffee, and snarling out the occasional, deeply insincere "Good morning."
I am not a morning person.
I crawled into the dining room to join my kids for breakfast and plopped myself into a chair. My Aspie grinned and said, "Mom! Aren't you lucky? I didn't wake you up!"
My five year old piped up. "And isn't she lucky I did??"
Yes, dear. I'm lucky. I'm very, very lucky.
I'm lucky because he did wake me up. Just as he does every morning, by curling up beside me and sticking his finger in my bellybutton. Do I miss the extra sleep? Oh, you betcha. Still lucky, though.
I'm lucky because his finger is just the right size that when he sticks it in my bellybutton it creates a little bit of suction and makes a funny popping feeling when he pulls it out. Not sure what that says about my tummy, though I'm certain I don't want to know.
I'm lucky that he's invented 53 different ways to hug me. My favorite is the 10-hug, where he hugs me 10 times without stopping. His favorite is the tackle hug. (That one's self-explanatory.)
I'm lucky that his sister lets me brush her hair, which she didn't used to do, and only does now because I totally guilted her into it.
I'm lucky that my kids respond well to guilt.
I'm lucky, too, that they all eat their cauliflower. And I didn't once use guilt. Nope, I bribed them. The use of bribes is much better parenting.
And I'm lucky to have my au pair, because she makes me coffee and has her mom send her stroopwafels and then shares them with me, and because she's just that amazing.
I'm also lucky that my Aspie is so brilliant at Stacker. Because the music settles him and lets him shut out the world when he needs to. Because the whole appverse is amazing. And because now he can listen to Weird Al Yankovich all he wants, and I don't hear a thing.
He's been trying to win his sister her own iPod. He's been just one row off pretty much every single time he's played. Trust me, he will win again.
So will I. Hard to lose with this much luck floating around.
August 10, 2010
The Sea of Fabulosity
As many of you know, my fella recently moved to the other coast. I could call it the "wrong" coast, the presumption being that the coast I'm sitting on is the "right" one. But ... um ...
Yeah, that's really tempting. Wrong, but tempting.
He's been there for a couple of weeks now. I know this because his status on Facebook the other day said, "Week 2," and not because I'm keeping track or anything. Because I so totally would not do that.
And in fact, if you look carefully, you'll notice a quiet, bloggy gap right about the time he moved. That's because I went with him. Not to stay, of course. Just to help.
I'd say I ignored the mom guilt, packed my kids into a shipping crate, stamped my parents' address on the side and shipped 'em off for a week, just so I could go to San Francisco. But we all know that's not possible. Mom guilt doesn't allow for shipping crates. Plus, my kids would do each other serious injury if I left them alone together for that long without their electronics.
But I've got fabulous friends. Deeply, lovingly fabulous friends who get both mom guilt and the importance of giving a newly long-distance relationship the proper send-off.
So when my fella got word of his move, my friends listened and commiserated. They mixed gin and tonics and fed me Thai food and let me talk. Pretty much endlessly.
They quietly arranged a handful of playdates and sleepovers (even when their own kids weren't around), so my fella and I could enjoy a few last evenings together.
And they invited my kids to the beach. For four days. With my amazing au pair.
Even the ex helped. He took the kids on vacation, then brought them from his vacation directly to theirs.
And so my fella and I had a week together in San Francisco. We had friends there, too. Friends who put us up and treated us like royalty. Friends who gave us list after list of things to do so we wouldn't spend our days all mopey and maudlin. We ate pretty food, saw pretty art and pretty trees, and walked the pretty, hilly streets.
We also bought a big down comforter. It is yummy and warm and, well, comforting. Basically, it's a hug in the form of a household good. Because if I can't be there to hug the man in person, he should at least have a hugalicious comforter to take my place.
We said good-bye. I flew away. And then another friend picked me up at the airport. She put up with my overtired, drugged and mopey self, put me to bed and let me sleep. For a very long time. And then she drove me home. Which was really far away.
This is how fabulous my friends are.
Now, mind you, I have many fabulous friends. What happened here, it's just a snippet of fabulousness in a great big sea of fabulosity. But it was a very well-timed sort of fabulous. And the kind you can't repay. So you say the biggest possible "thank you" you can muster, and then you bake a cake or two. For the kids. Because, as it happens, sugar and chocolate compensate beautifully for mom guilt.
(Well, I'll be damned. I think that last sentence just summed up the whole premise of this blog.)
Yeah, that's really tempting. Wrong, but tempting.
He's been there for a couple of weeks now. I know this because his status on Facebook the other day said, "Week 2," and not because I'm keeping track or anything. Because I so totally would not do that.
And in fact, if you look carefully, you'll notice a quiet, bloggy gap right about the time he moved. That's because I went with him. Not to stay, of course. Just to help.
I'd say I ignored the mom guilt, packed my kids into a shipping crate, stamped my parents' address on the side and shipped 'em off for a week, just so I could go to San Francisco. But we all know that's not possible. Mom guilt doesn't allow for shipping crates. Plus, my kids would do each other serious injury if I left them alone together for that long without their electronics.
But I've got fabulous friends. Deeply, lovingly fabulous friends who get both mom guilt and the importance of giving a newly long-distance relationship the proper send-off.
So when my fella got word of his move, my friends listened and commiserated. They mixed gin and tonics and fed me Thai food and let me talk. Pretty much endlessly.
They quietly arranged a handful of playdates and sleepovers (even when their own kids weren't around), so my fella and I could enjoy a few last evenings together.
And they invited my kids to the beach. For four days. With my amazing au pair.
Even the ex helped. He took the kids on vacation, then brought them from his vacation directly to theirs.
And so my fella and I had a week together in San Francisco. We had friends there, too. Friends who put us up and treated us like royalty. Friends who gave us list after list of things to do so we wouldn't spend our days all mopey and maudlin. We ate pretty food, saw pretty art and pretty trees, and walked the pretty, hilly streets.
We also bought a big down comforter. It is yummy and warm and, well, comforting. Basically, it's a hug in the form of a household good. Because if I can't be there to hug the man in person, he should at least have a hugalicious comforter to take my place.
We said good-bye. I flew away. And then another friend picked me up at the airport. She put up with my overtired, drugged and mopey self, put me to bed and let me sleep. For a very long time. And then she drove me home. Which was really far away.
This is how fabulous my friends are.
Now, mind you, I have many fabulous friends. What happened here, it's just a snippet of fabulousness in a great big sea of fabulosity. But it was a very well-timed sort of fabulous. And the kind you can't repay. So you say the biggest possible "thank you" you can muster, and then you bake a cake or two. For the kids. Because, as it happens, sugar and chocolate compensate beautifully for mom guilt.
(Well, I'll be damned. I think that last sentence just summed up the whole premise of this blog.)
August 1, 2010
Glow-in-the-Dark Days
There are a lot of sucky things about divorce. But the one that sneaks up on you, the one you don't expect, is that the awkward and uncomfortable of the whole thing colors your memories. Even the good ones. This means that your biggest, brightest, glow-in-the-dark days can get sort of gray and irritating.
I have three spectacular glow-in-the-dark days. There may be more, but these are the ones I'd lay down my life to keep shining.
I'll bet you know what they are.
The third of them happened just over five years ago. I woke up that morning calm, relaxed, and uncomfortable in a house full of boxes and the scent of fresh paint. It was 5:30 a.m. The sun was rising. It was peaceful and quiet, and I was roughly the size of a sperm whale with cankles that could sink the Titanic.
Six hours later, my redhead was born.
And no, it wasn't all peace and joy. I blew two IVs. I chewed out the nurse when some goober started delivering lunch on the floor, like 10 rooms away. You've heard of supertasters, right? When I'm in labor, I'm a supersmeller. And that lunch smell that no one else noticed, it made me want to hurl.
I also distinctly remember about 30 seconds of absolute panic when I realized that the ginormous child my midwife's assistant had told me was at least 11 pounds was actually coming out, like now, and I'd decided not to get an epidural and WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING, at which point my midwife did the mental equivalent of a face slap. Meaning, she shouted at me. Yes, at me, a woman in labor. Who does that? But it worked, and my redhead was in my arms, wet and squirmy and bright red all over, not 10 minutes later.
The rest of it, though - all of it - that was peace and joy. It was my daughter in her gymnastics leotard with sparkly clips in her hair because that's what she wanted that day. It was my son, going with the flow and heading off cheerfully with his grandparents (which is a bigger deal than you might think, given his attachment to routine). It was my kids holding their baby brother, and my now ex holding me while my redhead eased his way into the world.
And I don't want that to be bitter, or even bittersweet. I want the birth of my third child, and the births of all of my children, to glow.
To hell with the sucky part. I'm keeping this one.
Happy birthday, peanut.
I have three spectacular glow-in-the-dark days. There may be more, but these are the ones I'd lay down my life to keep shining.
I'll bet you know what they are.
The third of them happened just over five years ago. I woke up that morning calm, relaxed, and uncomfortable in a house full of boxes and the scent of fresh paint. It was 5:30 a.m. The sun was rising. It was peaceful and quiet, and I was roughly the size of a sperm whale with cankles that could sink the Titanic.
Six hours later, my redhead was born.
And no, it wasn't all peace and joy. I blew two IVs. I chewed out the nurse when some goober started delivering lunch on the floor, like 10 rooms away. You've heard of supertasters, right? When I'm in labor, I'm a supersmeller. And that lunch smell that no one else noticed, it made me want to hurl.
I also distinctly remember about 30 seconds of absolute panic when I realized that the ginormous child my midwife's assistant had told me was at least 11 pounds was actually coming out, like now, and I'd decided not to get an epidural and WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING, at which point my midwife did the mental equivalent of a face slap. Meaning, she shouted at me. Yes, at me, a woman in labor. Who does that? But it worked, and my redhead was in my arms, wet and squirmy and bright red all over, not 10 minutes later.
The rest of it, though - all of it - that was peace and joy. It was my daughter in her gymnastics leotard with sparkly clips in her hair because that's what she wanted that day. It was my son, going with the flow and heading off cheerfully with his grandparents (which is a bigger deal than you might think, given his attachment to routine). It was my kids holding their baby brother, and my now ex holding me while my redhead eased his way into the world.
And I don't want that to be bitter, or even bittersweet. I want the birth of my third child, and the births of all of my children, to glow.
To hell with the sucky part. I'm keeping this one.
Happy birthday, peanut.
July 13, 2010
Peanuts Happen
When I talk to my kids, I often use nicknames. There’s “sweetie” and "kiddo" and all the typical mom stuff, which I use mostly because I can’t remember their names. But they also have one nickname each that’s just for them. Almost like a name, except easier to remember.
My Aspie, he gets to be my pumpkin because he was born in October.
My diva used to be my sweet pea, until she realized she was really a princess and started behaving like one, and that’s what she’s been ever since.
And my little guy, who is much bigger than your typical nearly-five-year-old, he’s my peanut. Not because he’s little. He’s never been little, not even at birth. Nine pounds, nine ounces of baby, that one. I call him my peanut because he’s the only one of my three who got an ultrasound in utero during that phase when your soon-to-be baby still looks like a peanut.
It stuck.
Last night I was on the phone with my sister having a very deep conversation, because there’s a whole lot of deep going on. And I was eating a big bowl of ice cream, because my fella is moving to San Francisco and that means I get to eat ice cream. Suddenly I was interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs. I jumped up to put my ice cream in the freezer before the little feet found me, because it was on the verge of melting anyway, and came back to find my little guy on the sofa.
At which point I interrupted my sister to say, “Hey, peanut. Why are you awake?” (Clearly, that was not directed toward her.)
I got a raspy croak in response, which generally means, “I have to pee, mom, but there’s zombies in the bathroom, and really I’d rather be sleeping.”
So I made my excuses to my sister, and when I apologized for the interruption she said, “That’s okay. Peanuts happen.”
Which I thought was funny.
Now you get to think so, too.
My Aspie, he gets to be my pumpkin because he was born in October.
My diva used to be my sweet pea, until she realized she was really a princess and started behaving like one, and that’s what she’s been ever since.
And my little guy, who is much bigger than your typical nearly-five-year-old, he’s my peanut. Not because he’s little. He’s never been little, not even at birth. Nine pounds, nine ounces of baby, that one. I call him my peanut because he’s the only one of my three who got an ultrasound in utero during that phase when your soon-to-be baby still looks like a peanut.
It stuck.
Last night I was on the phone with my sister having a very deep conversation, because there’s a whole lot of deep going on. And I was eating a big bowl of ice cream, because my fella is moving to San Francisco and that means I get to eat ice cream. Suddenly I was interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs. I jumped up to put my ice cream in the freezer before the little feet found me, because it was on the verge of melting anyway, and came back to find my little guy on the sofa.
At which point I interrupted my sister to say, “Hey, peanut. Why are you awake?” (Clearly, that was not directed toward her.)
I got a raspy croak in response, which generally means, “I have to pee, mom, but there’s zombies in the bathroom, and really I’d rather be sleeping.”
So I made my excuses to my sister, and when I apologized for the interruption she said, “That’s okay. Peanuts happen.”
Which I thought was funny.
Now you get to think so, too.
June 14, 2010
One Good Right Turn
So, you know the question I dodged the other day? The one about whether or not I've got a boyfriend?
I do. But shhh, don't tell the kids.
He's a great guy. He's smart and funny and his hugs are better than Xanax. He asks intelligent questions about knitting and understands why cupcakes matter. He accepts that chronic lateness is a part of my character and knows that a conversation with me will generally involve a series of right turns and an occasional big old twisty circle. He always walks on my right side because I carry my purse on my left, and he points when he gives me directions because I don't get the whole left/right thing anyway (he learned that one the hard way).
He likes good food and interesting people and keeps passing me books I can't put down so that I'll have something fun to read when I'm wide awake at 2:00 a.m. He's allergic to mussels and mixes a mean dark and stormy, and you wouldn't believe what he can do with a cosmopolitan. He loves his family. And he once spent a whole day in the kitchen making a mole from scratch. I wasn't there for that, but gee it's fun to hear him talk about it.
We've been friends for 21 years.
I like him. I like spending time with him, just talking with him or being quiet with him. I like the sound of his voice, the strength in his hands, and the way he brightens when he's with me. He makes me brighten, too. His apartment is the only place in a 100-mile radius where I can get a good night's sleep because there I feel safe and relaxed and cared for.
Next month, he's moving to California.
I'm going to miss him.
I do. But shhh, don't tell the kids.
He's a great guy. He's smart and funny and his hugs are better than Xanax. He asks intelligent questions about knitting and understands why cupcakes matter. He accepts that chronic lateness is a part of my character and knows that a conversation with me will generally involve a series of right turns and an occasional big old twisty circle. He always walks on my right side because I carry my purse on my left, and he points when he gives me directions because I don't get the whole left/right thing anyway (he learned that one the hard way).
He likes good food and interesting people and keeps passing me books I can't put down so that I'll have something fun to read when I'm wide awake at 2:00 a.m. He's allergic to mussels and mixes a mean dark and stormy, and you wouldn't believe what he can do with a cosmopolitan. He loves his family. And he once spent a whole day in the kitchen making a mole from scratch. I wasn't there for that, but gee it's fun to hear him talk about it.
We've been friends for 21 years.
I like him. I like spending time with him, just talking with him or being quiet with him. I like the sound of his voice, the strength in his hands, and the way he brightens when he's with me. He makes me brighten, too. His apartment is the only place in a 100-mile radius where I can get a good night's sleep because there I feel safe and relaxed and cared for.
Next month, he's moving to California.
I'm going to miss him.
May 16, 2010
Veggie Girl Versus the Insect
A few nights ago, I'm putting the kids to bed, helping with tooth brushings and face washings and pajama wearings. And there, in the bathroom, up near the lights, was a great big giant bug.
Ew.
The redhead and the diva were clearly freaked. So I did what any good mom would do ... and no, that does not mean I ran screaming from the room, because really, what kind of lesson would that teach them?
Nope. I calmly pulled a few sheets off the roll, folded them over once or twice, climbed up on the counter and squashed the hell out of that bug.
Immediately I heard a shocked gasp from behind me. It was the diva.
"Mom!" she gasped in horror. "You killed nature!"
And then she stormed out of the room.
My little chicken-eating vegetarian wants to save the world. Even the bugs. I must be doing something right.
Ew.
The redhead and the diva were clearly freaked. So I did what any good mom would do ... and no, that does not mean I ran screaming from the room, because really, what kind of lesson would that teach them?
Nope. I calmly pulled a few sheets off the roll, folded them over once or twice, climbed up on the counter and squashed the hell out of that bug.
Immediately I heard a shocked gasp from behind me. It was the diva.
"Mom!" she gasped in horror. "You killed nature!"
And then she stormed out of the room.
My little chicken-eating vegetarian wants to save the world. Even the bugs. I must be doing something right.
May 9, 2010
Ice Cream for Breakfast
Today was the very best kind of day.
A year ago - and this is where blogging is just a little surreal, because you do get to look back a full year and see where you were - but a year ago, I was in a very different place. A year ago, I dropped a pitcher of iced tea on the floor, burst into tears, and put my cranky kids to bed.
Today I had ice cream for breakfast.
Today I had eager kids bouncing on my bed, and an amazing au pair who woke up early and helped them mix and scramble and toast and scoop. They gave me ice cream for breakfast, with four spoons and a heaping helping of Belgian chocolate sprinkles (I am so planning a trip to Belgium, 'cause those folks really do have their priorities straight when it comes to food).
Today I had my family around me, with two mothers in the house and a birthday to celebrate, and plenty of yummy goodness. That includes some incredible cupcakes - and yes, I made them, but it's not really bragging because they are not really my cupcakes. These cupcakes belong to Martha. THE Martha. They are Martha Stewart's tiramisu cupcakes, and they are easily worth whatever you have to pay for real vanilla beans to make them happy.
What's funny is, that bad day, a year ago? That's the day I realized I was happy. And yes, I know that seems a bit contrary. But it's true. I knew I was happy because that one bad day didn't knock me down. It didn't send me diving for the covers. That one bad day was followed by one good day. And then another. And another.
And that's what makes happy. A string of good days, with a bad day plopped in there from time to time to remind you of what you've got.
Crap happens. It happens a lot. And then you have ice cream for breakfast.
Happy Mother's Day, folks. Gosh but this mom thing is fun!
A year ago - and this is where blogging is just a little surreal, because you do get to look back a full year and see where you were - but a year ago, I was in a very different place. A year ago, I dropped a pitcher of iced tea on the floor, burst into tears, and put my cranky kids to bed.
Today I had ice cream for breakfast.
Today I had eager kids bouncing on my bed, and an amazing au pair who woke up early and helped them mix and scramble and toast and scoop. They gave me ice cream for breakfast, with four spoons and a heaping helping of Belgian chocolate sprinkles (I am so planning a trip to Belgium, 'cause those folks really do have their priorities straight when it comes to food).
Today I had my family around me, with two mothers in the house and a birthday to celebrate, and plenty of yummy goodness. That includes some incredible cupcakes - and yes, I made them, but it's not really bragging because they are not really my cupcakes. These cupcakes belong to Martha. THE Martha. They are Martha Stewart's tiramisu cupcakes, and they are easily worth whatever you have to pay for real vanilla beans to make them happy.
What's funny is, that bad day, a year ago? That's the day I realized I was happy. And yes, I know that seems a bit contrary. But it's true. I knew I was happy because that one bad day didn't knock me down. It didn't send me diving for the covers. That one bad day was followed by one good day. And then another. And another.
And that's what makes happy. A string of good days, with a bad day plopped in there from time to time to remind you of what you've got.
Crap happens. It happens a lot. And then you have ice cream for breakfast.
Happy Mother's Day, folks. Gosh but this mom thing is fun!
The Great Potty Caper
Ever since our One Step Back, the redhead has had a bit of trouble with ... uh, shall we say preschool incontinence? That first day, my poor little guy went through five - yes, five - pairs of pants. He just doesn't make it on time anymore, and I'm not sure why. He could be regressing. Or maybe he just really hates washing his hands.
We've tried all kinds of incentives and bribes, the latest being an M&M for every successful, dry trip to the loo. None has really worked. Though, thankfully, our failures have generally been at home. Quiet. Discreet. Stash of clean clothes in a dresser upstairs.
Until yesterday.
Last night my folks were here (YAY!). They live on the other coast, so we see them maybe once a year. I had the kids out for a very late dinner at Wendy's. And no, I don't do fast food that often, but when in the excitement of seeing the grandparents and possibly swimming in the hotel pool you totally forget what time it is, then realize it's nearly 8:00 p.m. and your kids haven't eaten yet, fast food is the result.
We'd made it through the chicken nuggets and on to the ice cream when suddenly the redhead starts saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"Why are you sorry, peanut?"
"'Cause I pee on everything."
Oops.
I rushed him to the bathroom. Too late. He was soaked. And because he's been potty trained for nearly three years now, I was there without a stitch of extra clothing, trapped in an eco-friendly restroom with not a paper towel in sight.
Seriously. No towels. And you can't dry pants with toilet paper.
So I did the only thing a mom could do. I held him up, pants and all, under the air dryer. Baked him till he was done on one side, then flipped him over.
Worked, too. He marched out of that restroom, dry and warm, and finished his ice cream. He even washed his hands.
Fingers crossed that delivered a lesson, though. Because I'm running out of M&Ms.
We've tried all kinds of incentives and bribes, the latest being an M&M for every successful, dry trip to the loo. None has really worked. Though, thankfully, our failures have generally been at home. Quiet. Discreet. Stash of clean clothes in a dresser upstairs.
Until yesterday.
Last night my folks were here (YAY!). They live on the other coast, so we see them maybe once a year. I had the kids out for a very late dinner at Wendy's. And no, I don't do fast food that often, but when in the excitement of seeing the grandparents and possibly swimming in the hotel pool you totally forget what time it is, then realize it's nearly 8:00 p.m. and your kids haven't eaten yet, fast food is the result.
We'd made it through the chicken nuggets and on to the ice cream when suddenly the redhead starts saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"Why are you sorry, peanut?"
"'Cause I pee on everything."
Oops.
I rushed him to the bathroom. Too late. He was soaked. And because he's been potty trained for nearly three years now, I was there without a stitch of extra clothing, trapped in an eco-friendly restroom with not a paper towel in sight.
Seriously. No towels. And you can't dry pants with toilet paper.
So I did the only thing a mom could do. I held him up, pants and all, under the air dryer. Baked him till he was done on one side, then flipped him over.
Worked, too. He marched out of that restroom, dry and warm, and finished his ice cream. He even washed his hands.
Fingers crossed that delivered a lesson, though. Because I'm running out of M&Ms.
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