who's the mommy around here anyway?

Baseball stuff

2009-06-02T13:40:00.000-07:00

My favorite baseball story. Marc took Lizzie to see the Mets play. She must have been about 11. They went very early to the game, and at that time, if you went really early, you could get into the field level in the old Shea Stadium to sit and watch batting practice up-close and personal.

After batting practice was over and the players were leaving the field, the onlookers began calling to the players to come over to sign autographs. Some of the players would do this, but not many. Mike Piazza was on the team at the time. He was so very popular, and my husband told me that everyone was calling to him, but as was his habit, he walked away without signing anything. On this day, however, he threw his batting gloves at the waiting crowd of people. My daughter ran after Piazza's gloves and dived down through the stadium seats, emerging in triumph with one of the prized gloves in her hands. She walked proudly to her dad clutching the glove and my husband told her that she'd just retrieved a collector's item that would be unbelievably valuable in the future. He then offered her $25 for the glove. She took the money, he took the glove and they went to sit in their seats to watch the game and bask in the glow of a job well-done.

A couple of years later Marc took our other daughter on a long weekend trip to watch the Mets at spring practice in Port St.Lucie, Florida. Laura was excited to go, being at the age of 9, as big a baseball fan as her dad. She knew players' names and numbers and positions, and would accompany her dad faithfully to as many games as we'd allow her to go to. She and her dad took the infamous batting glove on the trip with them. Marc's stategy was something like this: Laura would be sent out as a decoy and ask Mike Piazza to autograph the very same batting glove collected by our older daughter. Marc thought that because Laura was so very tiny and cute and utterly adorable, this plan couldn't fail. As it turns out, he was right. Piazza signed at the last possible moment before he left the field. Marc and Laura returned home with their prize and told and re-told, in two-part harmony, the story of the baseball glove signing; they were so excited.

Some time later, Marc had the glove PSA tested and certified. It now sits in a place of honor, under fully-alarmed, bullet-proof glass, and from time to time when we're all together, my family will re-tell the story of the glove, from beginning to end, and for me, that is the real treasure.

potty stop on the major deegan expressway

2009-05-12T15:05:00.000-07:00

When Lizzie was pottie training, I had potties everywhere. I had potties next to every toilet and a pottie in the kitchen. The only place I never thought to place a pottie was in the car, and when you think about it, that's probably the one place where you really might want to have one.

You can somehow improvise with your newly-in-undies toddler if there's a real toilet handy, but what do you do when you're cruising along on the thruway and you hear a tiny little voice pipe-up from the back seat, "Mommy, I need to peepee." If there's anything that a parent driving a car dreads to hear, besides, "Are we there yet?" it's any sentence from their child having to do with bodily functions.

I was on my way to grandma's house and I was stuck in traffic on that little slice of Hell in the Bronx otherwise known as the Major Deegan Expressway, of which no known portion is an express. And of course Lizzie had to go. And of course she was newly out of diapers and newly into big-girl undies. And of course I had no pottie. Her cries of discomfort became piteous, so I pulled over onto what little shoulder the Major Deegan offered, climbed over the passenger seat to get out of the car, pulled my little girl out of her car seat, which she'd already considerately unbuckled for me, and looked for a likely spot where she could do her business. I told her to squat down, which she did and fell on her ass, not such a good idea, so I picked her up, dried her tears, and then began to contort myself into what I imagine could only have looked to passersby like Ralph Macchio in a Karate Kid movie as he got into his bizarre position to deliver the winning blow. My arms became disjointed to cradle my daughter so that she'd feel like she was sitting on the toilet, one arm under her legs, one arm behind her back. I squatted down low so she'd be closer to the ground. Then I told her, "Ok, now you can pee." And she did, all over my shoes.

Afterward I dried her off with a tissue and pulled her pants back up, amazed that she hadn't gotten a drop on her while I was leaving pee-sodden footprints everywhere. A CSI would have had a field day with what I was leaving behind. I put her back in her carseat, she considerately buckled herself back in and we were on our way to grandma's house once again. I should have run out to get a pottie to keep in the car, but loving to live dangerously as I did, this was not to be, and I may be exaggerating, but I believe I may have made unscheduled pottie stops in such unlikely spots as the Cross Bronx Expressway, New England and New York State Thruways, New Jersey Turnpike, and many more. I wouldn't suggest this for the faint of heart, but if you're into bungie jumping and skydiving, give it a try - you might like it.

The Safest Place

2008-08-25T09:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my Dad's unveiling. My Mom is here from Florida, staying with us for a few days, and tension is high between my husband and me, as it always is when he has to share me with someone else. I blame the tension on him, he blames it on me, and I'm sure the truth is somewhere between.

Yesterday was a beautiful day with bright sunshine, not too hot, and a steady breeze. We gathered at the graveside for the brief ceremony. The rabbi asked if I'd like to share any personal memories of my Dad, or just stick to the prayers, and I opted to stick with the selected prayers, not too sure I wouldn't break down if I started to speak. As the ceremony ended, the tears began, and when they began, it didn't matter that my husband and I had been sniping at each other all week, or that I'd been bitchy to him all day, or that I'd been trying to avoid him for the past 15 minutes, because in that instant I just instinctively sought out the safest place I knew, and that was my husband's strong arms, steady shoulders and comforting presence. I moved to where he was and he put his arms around me and kept everyone away, kept me safe and protected until I was ready to rejoin family and friends.

My husband is the safest and most comforting place I know. I'm so grateful.

My Dad, My Hero

2007-10-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

I just made a reservation for a flight to Fla. to visit my mom. I usually love these visits, catch up with Mom and Dad, get told by loving parents how great I am, visit with their friends and get shown off...

But this time I'm going there to say goodbye. My dad is ill, hooked up to a ventilator. He's had a stroke, his bad heart is failing, and my mother signed the DNR with my brother's and my consent. I hope I get there before Dad passes.

Dad was six feet tall, handsome and capable and smart, and I was his little girl, Daddy's girl. I adored my father, and though he was a man of few words, and none of them emotional, I know the feeling was mutual.

After a particularly terrifying childhood nightmare I would wake up and make my way into my parent's room and sit by Dad's side of the bed and stare at him. I remember doing this. Mom said it was because I favored him over her that I would wake up at night and sit at his side of their bed, but I was there because my big, strong hero of a Dad would protect me and and keep the nightmare monsters away. I was safer at his side even if he was sleeping. If he opened his eyes and woke up, I was untouchable. Even as a teenager, if I'd passed a sleepless night, when the alarm went off in my parents' room and I heard my dad get up to start his day I'd relax, knowing that whatever was on my mind, when Dad began his morning ritual, all was right with the world. I had such faith in him.

I remember being about 4 or 5 when he taught me to ride a bike. He ran beside me, holding me up on the bicycle from which he'd so recently removed the training wheels, and then came that last moment when he let go and I didn't fall, I felt like I was flying and I called out, "Look Daddy, I can do it!" He was proud of me then, as proud as he was over the years when I brought home good report cards, or my first paycheck, or his first granddaughter.

I remember leaving him, leaving home, moving out when I was 21 into a place of my own. He stood in my little studio apartment and looked around, and he just looked so forlorn and sad that I wanted to pack all my things back up and say, "Nevermind, I've changed my mind." If on that day my dad had told me that I was moving into a dump, and maybe I should come home till I found a better place, I probably would have listened...but he wasn't selfish, he let me go.

My heart is breaking. Friends who've been through this offer their support and kind words and hugs, but this is a lonely road to walk. I've always thought you're not really a grown up until your parents are gone, but who wants to grow up if this is the price you have to pay?

Mysteries of the Universe

2006-11-07T08:06:00.000-08:00

Every now and again I like to read some good non-fiction, and my tastes run to history, and to physics. Stephen Hawking confounds me, but Brian Greene writes at a level I can just barely understand and enjoy. I discuss his writing with Laura, my 15 yr. old, and we marvel at all we don't understand about the universe and the mysteries thereof.

Mathematicians and physicists seem to be trying to work on something familiarly called the "Theory of Everything," a theory that would explain how the universe works. It would be a fluid theory without fault which would work in every given situation. In my limited understanding, the theories that currently explain our universe work well, but each works only under narrow and specific circumstances. The theory of everything might have to take into account that our understanding of the three dimensional nature of our universe is flawed and that there are more than three dimensions, perhaps many more than three, depending on who you believe. As Brian Greene states it, and my understanding is limited by my lack of genius, there could be dimensions so large or so small that they are imperceptible to our senses, and can only be measured by devices that we haven't yet invented. But in the future..... We're making strides, and the future holds limitless possibility. All will be understood, told, unveiled. I look forward to unraveling the mystery. I believe that once you lift the foggy veil, you'll be able to see to the heart, to the core of it all. I often think that the heart of the mystery is really the face of God. I also think looking at the face of God is a scary proposition.

I believe in God, not the literal, biblical, creation in 7 x 24 hr. days God, but God nevertheless. I believe there's a point to the lives that we lead, that it isn't just nonsense or accident that put us here. I also think that a little bit of mystery is good for the soul. Indeed, if there is no God, then is there a soul? If we understand all that there is to understand, if we can explain away all the mystery with science, where then falls morality? Without God, can we have a moral center or a moral compass?

I look forward to finding out if string theory is reality. I look forward to seeing if science can find a unifying theory to explain the workings of the universe. I don't want anyone to explain to me that I have no soul (yes, there's a book out there written by a brilliant man of science who explains biology and shows just where in the brain the soul might originate, but I don't really want to know this). I want science and faith to mesh, like two friends who agree to disagree and somehow find a way to co-exist, not just peacefully, but agreeably, happily, with backyard barbecues and occasional block parties on holidays. Is this too much to ask?

BFF

2006-11-02T19:59:00.000-08:00

I was never a parent who wanted to be her child's best friend. I knew who I was. I told my kids who I was from the start. I was the mommy. I was the parent. Make no mistake about it, I was, and still am, the boss.

But then raising my girls, I found myself involved in something quite unexpected, a new openness, uncharted territory, something I never had with my mom. My girls and I could talk about anything. We do talk about anything. And that's where I went wrong. I should have quit while I was ahead.

Never become friends with your daughter until you're both much, much older, like menopause older, like my mom and me, because if you do, you might find that your daughter will try to confide in you those secrets best left to the whispered conversations you'd normally have with your best friend in places where you're sure no one else can hear you. Don't even try to tell me you don't know what I'm talking about! That's right, I'm talking about

S-E-X!!!!

Yes, those conversations. The conversations my mother never, ever had with me. She probably should have at least broached the subject at some point and if she had I promise I would never have reciprocated by telling her all my dark sexual secrets and favorite positions as my daughter seems hell-bent on telling me. Or asking me. How do you respond to your child, do you give her advice and refer her to the Kama Sutra? Or maybe the Joy of Sex? Our Bodies, Our Selves? Once again, I am not her best friend and there are some things that just shouldn't be shared. It's not natural. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW!!!!

AAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!

Anybody got a bottle of scotch?

I've been in a mood lately...

2006-10-31T17:12:00.000-08:00

...so as Monty Python would say, "and now for something completely different!"

My kids are natural athletes. Liz played basketball as a tween, and though she was short, she could steal the ball from even the tallest girl on the team. She'd make a fast break and be under the basket all by herself before the others knew she was gone. Unfortunately, that's where the excitement ended 'cause she couldn't shoot for beans, and had to wait for the rest of her team to catch up for someone else to dunk it in the basket, but you couldn't keep the ball out of her hands. Laura swims and dives and does gymnastics, and she's good at it all. She's fast as lightning on a rock climbing wall. She has a natural agility that amazes me.

My kids don't get their athletic talent from me. In school, when the kids chose teams in gym class, I was always chosen last. Well, not last, but next to last, a fact I was somewhat proud of, pathetically enough. Over the years I've tried to encourage myself in athletic pursuits, but with no natural aptitude, it's been tough.

I've learned to swim after a fashion, but I can't swim and breathe at the same time because I can't exhale when my nose is submerged in water.

I tried water skiing, but couldn't get stand up on the skis and had to swim back to shore in disgrace.

I tried playing tennis on a date I had with a corrections officer. I don't really remember the date, but since he didn't call me back for a doubles match, I assume it didn't go well.

I once went skiing with friends. I couldn't make it up a small incline to the bottom of the bunny hill to where the rope tow began. Toddlers went running by me on their tiny skis as I tried and tried to get up the small slope that led to the tow. I kept slipping and sliding further and further away, getting perilously close to a small stream on the edge of the ski slope. I quit before I ended up in the small stream and took my skis off, leaving the white powder for the safety of the ski lodge and comfort of steaming hot chocolate.

I went with my husband to a batting cage when we were young and our relationship was new, before he realized what a klutz he was dating. I swung at the first pitch and missed completely. I swung at the second pitch and hit a home run with the middle finger of my left hand.
I called out to my yet-to-be-husband, "I think I broke my finger!"
He called back to me, "Nah."
I called back to him, "Yeah!"
He didn't believe me till I tried to flip him the bird and couldn't because my finger wouldn't straighten out.

And then I went horseback riding and my bra fell off.

I went for one horseback riding lesson. It went well until the end when the instructor increased the pace of the horse to a quick 'canter'. I felt one bra strap start to slide down my shoulder till it landed at my elbow. "OK," I thought to myself, "I can handle this, it's only one strap," but then I felt the other strap fall. Next thing you know, I'm two tits to the wind. The horse and I are bouncing up and down as we circle the ring. My elbows are pressed to my sides trying to hold my boobage in place, and my hands are holding the reins with the white-knuckle grip of death. I remember thinking to myself that I needed to get off the horse while my breasts were still attached, before the horse got to wear them as saddle ornaments.

The lesson ended, I said thank you and left, never to return.

I now only participate in things that require me to sit still and watch. It's safer for all concerned. My new favorite sport is spectating. I can spectate like it's nobody's business. I don't break any bones, and all my undies stay right where they belong.

The Courage of Your Convictions

2006-10-31T08:00:00.000-08:00

I was at Blogs are Stupid reading this particular post which brought back my own memories. I sit at the computer, crying. I remember this incident every now and then, and it always hits hard.

As you may know, I was an operating room nurse. I practiced for many years and participated in thousands of procedures of all types, no exaggeration. I have very few memories of individual procedures. They all just blur into one big amalgam of surgical experience. A few things stand out, though. This is one of those things.

I've always been a supporter of the Roe v. Wade decision. As a teenager I would have told you that I supported abortion, but as an older and wiser woman I can tell you that what I support is not abortion, but the right of a woman to make her own decisions about what is best without interference. I am not going to use my blog as a soapbox, and if you go to the aforementioned blog, she states the case much more concisely and eloquently than I'm capable of doing. Suffice it to say that because of my convictions I was often called upon to participate in abortion procedures performed in the operating room where I worked. Nurses were allowed to refuse to participate based on religious or ethical grounds, but I was not one of those nurses. I didn't find it pleasant to participate. I didn't find any high moral ground in it. I also didn't judge the women undergoing the procedures and treated them as courteously and caringly as I would treat any other patient. These women were neither young nor old, rich nor poor. There was no unifying characteristic among them except that they were having abortions and I was not always aware of the reason for the procedure.

Abortions performed during early pregnancy are fairly uncomplicated and quick procedures. One does not generally get emotional while watching them. There is no baby as such, usually just blood and tissue. Late term abortions are another thing.

I took care of a woman having a late term abortion. She was having the procedure because her continuing pregnancy was endangering her life. She was pretty sick. If you're squeamish, skip this part. The baby was removed from her uterus in pieces using metal instruments and force, and it was barbaric. I don't remember the details, but I remember that finesse was definitely not involved. I do remember tiny body parts and the horror I felt, not because we were there doing this, but because as this tragedy was occurring, and indeed I did believe it was a tragedy that we all had to be there, but because of the callous attitude of the other caregivers. The doctors, an attending OB and his resident and an anesthesiologist, were talking about their vacations and laughing about something or other throughout the procedure. There was no dignity in the OR on that day. The baby passed into oblivion with no one to mourn, never to be held or cuddled or kissed. It was awful.

I cleaned up when it was over and I was alone in the OR. My good friend, another RN, came into the room. She's a devout Christian and someone who would not participate in the procedure. She's also an incredibly special person with a big heart. I was in a mood. I told her what had happened, how terrible it was and I broke down. I think I said something like "...and no one cared." She held me while I cried.

To this day, I mourn that baby. I don't even know if it was a boy or girl. I just think that I should remember. I wonder how the baby's mother did, if she recovered and went on to live a long life. If I had to do it again, I would, but I wouldn't be silent. I'd be strong enough to tell the others in the room to show some respect for the life that was leaving this world. Even the tiniest and most unwanted of us deserve that much.

The Art of Perfection

2006-10-13T10:19:00.000-07:00

I meant to take a week off, but that's turned into a long time away. Maybe it's the change in weather or the decreasing sunlight but I've been unable to concentrate on anything meaningful. My mom asked me to write something for her. I've been procrastinating, but here it finally is.

Mom thinks of herself as a perfectionist. She calls it her sickness and tells me that it permeates every aspect of her life. It was ever present in her child rearing technique. She tells me perfectionism reared its ugly head when she'd clean her house till it shone rather than spend time enjoying her children. She'd make sure her children were polished and put together, and God help us if we got dirty. I remember being the only kid on the block not being allowed to play in the dirt, because if I came home with a speck of mud on me, I'd be in big, big, serious, couldn't-sit-down-for-a-day-after-my-rear-end-met-the-hair-brush-kind-of-trouble. Mom keeps apologizing for this and it's one of her biggest regrets, but my interpretation of her parenting is much different, and doesn't revolve around her need for perfection, at least I don't think it does.

Mom thinks she was a "bad" mother. To her, I think it's an all or nothing deal. Either she was a perfect mother or she was a bad mother, but the truth is she was neither perfect nor bad. I keep telling her that she did the best she could with the tools she had. She was only 20 when I was born, a veritable baby herself, and a new mom to boot. I think of myself at 20 and there was no way I could have handled that kind of responsibility.

The thing that disturbed me most about mom's parenting was her unpredictability. She was a screamer when she became angry and lost her temper often, though probably not as often as I remember. I remember that being around her was sometimes like walking on eggshells. I was never sure of what would set her off and bring out the frazzled and screaming woman who could scare me half to death. This kind of uncertainty is awful for a child and I'm afraid that I brought this to my parenting when my kids were younger. I also think that this is a result of things that go on in our brains that we're not in control of, and for which there is now wonderful medication. If you think you're having a problem with mood or anger control, you're probably right. Don't let it go, seek help, you never know who you're hurting.

On the positive side of things, mom taught me invaluable lessons about the person I wanted to be and the things I wanted to hold dear. She did this directly and indirectly both by example and by speaking to me about the values she held. I remember when I was about 10 and we lived in a neighborhood in Queens, in the second story of a courtyard garden apartment. I was hanging out with a group of girls from my area and we played in a playground behind the courtyard. The ringleader of our group, a nasty and pretty little girl named Debbie, had decided that we should ostracize another little girl, for whatever reason, and being the mindless sheep I was, I went along with it and was cruel to this little girl. My mother observed our group behavior one day and approached me in our home. She wasn't angry or loud. She was patient and kind and loving as she explained to me how hurtful this kind of behavior was to the outcast little girl, and how she expected better of me. I remember thinking about it and being ashamed of myself. Mom was right, what we'd been doing was cruel, and really, there was no reason for it. She was a perfectly nice girl. I went back to the group and told them that we were no longer going to behave this way, and fortunately another girl backed me up. Debbie, the ringleader of nastiness, told us we could do without her, she refused to play with the object of her rejection, but now Debbie herself became the rejected. I moved away shortly thereafter, but I always wondered how that worked out for them. Mom had forced me to examine my behavior and values and to think for myself. In retrospect, I look back to that incident and see it as the place in time where I began to question the world around me and the choices I made. I tried, from that point forward, to make choices for good, choices for kindness. Thanks, mom.

I remember these things also. Although we were poor, I never felt poor. I felt loved and cherished and secure. If my mom and dad fought, I never remember it because they didn't fight in front of me. They always presented a united front to me and my brother. Very wise of them. I wish my husband and I were capable of such wisdom in raising our own children, but sadly we were not.

And I've told this to mom just recently, because I've only recently figured out that when mom would wake up at night when I was a young child to find me sitting on the floor on my dad's side of their bed, it wasn't because I was favoring my dad, as mom had always thought, it was because I was scared of the big bad things that go bump in the night, and I knew that my big strong daddy would be able to protect me. Even so, even though I may have been daddy's little girl, I'm also my mother's daughter. She's the person I am most like and closest to. And, Mom, neither one of us is close to perfect, nor do we need to be. I love you Mom.

Peace to all...

2006-09-21T08:40:00.000-07:00

This evening starts the Jewish high holy days. I will be the hostess for the family dinner, and the menu includes the obligatory chicken soup and, at least in my house, matzoh balls. This is my favorite time of year. I love the solemn ritual and sense of renewal that comes with Rosh Hashanah. I wish peace, health, and happiness to all my internet friends.

How Do I Love Thee

2006-09-20T12:57:00.000-07:00

Let me count the ways:

1. He doesn’t lie to me. Ever
2. He doesn’t cheat on me. Ever.
3. He has ADHD, ODD, OCD, but not ED (as he so often proves to me).
4. He holds my hand in public.
5. He hugs me in public.
6. He kisses me in public.
7. He grabs my ass in public.
8. He loves me when I’m bitchy and unlovable.
9. He loves me enough to fight with me.
10. He apologizes when he believes he is wrong.
11. He doesn’t care whether or not I cook.
12. He doesn’t care whether or not I clean.
13. He loved me when I was young and skinny and cute.
14. He loves me now that I'm older and fatter and not as cute.
15. He makes me feel sexy.
16. He supports me in whatever I decide to do.
17. He loves his children and indulges them foolishly.
18. He indulges me foolishly when he can.
19. He still cries when he thinks about his father who died when he was a young child.
20. He never gives up on us, no matter how rough things get.
21. He’s bald.

Talking about my husband, of course. Think I'll print this one up and hand it to him.

Laura Goes to the Doctor

2006-09-19T09:38:00.000-07:00

I had to take Laura to see a cardiologist today. Your 15 year old daughter's name and the word cardiologist should never be uttered together in the same sentence, but she's been complaining of chest pain and so we sent a note to school temporarily canceling her gym classes and swim team participation and a doctor's appointment was made.

Laura has complained of occasional short, sharp, random chest pains in the past and our pediatrician, after performing an EKG, assured us it was musculoskeletal, and we all went our merry ways. However, now the pains are occurring every day, more than once a day, and Laura herself is getting nervous. I know she's nervous because she asks me, "... but it's OK, right?" In Laura-speak, this is the equivalent of screaming out loud, "I'M SCARED, HELP ME, HELP ME!!!!" You have to know your child, right? I assured her that it was probably nothing and that we'd take her as soon as possible to have it checked out. I behaved very non-chalantly and as soon as she left the room I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and threw up.

I can pretty much handle anything, blood, guts, bodily functions of all types and sizes, there's no end to the amazing and unusual things I've seen in 28 years as a practicing RN, and after having seen or cleaned, well, many of them and then gone and had my lunch like it was nothing, you'd think I could handle this with some semblance of calm, cool collectedness, but you'd be way wrong! The thought that my baby girl might be ill sends me over the edge, puts me in a tail spin and makes me sick to my stomach.

I adore Lizzie, but there's something more protective about the love I have for my youngest child, even though of my two children, I think Laura is the tougher. One of my favorite authors, Barbara Kingsolver, says this in The Poisonwood Bible, that '....a mother will save her children from the bottom up.' I think she's right. I see my youngest from now until forever as more helpless and more innocent and more needy, though in reality she is strong and smart and capable. I told her just the other day, as we were walking through a parking lot and I reflexively grabbed her by the shirt when a car passed close by, that when I was 96 and she was 60, I was still going to be grabbing her by the shirt when a car passed too close, reminding her to be careful, telling her to zip her coat in the cold. No matter how old and infirm I get, I imagine that the last thing to go won't be my hearing, as I was taught in nursing school, the last thing to go will be my urge to protect my youngest child.

P.S. Laura was given a clean bill of health. On the way out of the doctor's office she told me that I didn't have to be nervous anymore and I replied that it was indeed a relief. I told her the same and in typical teenage fashion she denied any anxiety, it was only parental over-protectiveness that had brought us here, and how glad she was that this silliness was behind her so now she could participate in this afternoon's swim meet. We're all back to normal now.

You're so Vain

2006-09-17T18:25:00.000-07:00

I've been reading a lot of blogs lately, maybe too many. I like to comment on almost all of them and I've only once left a negative comment, and that only after a great deal of thought and only with a lot of heartfelt explanation.

The other day I was reading a blog that was recounting an extremely inane conversation between two women. What bothered me was not the subject matter, but the description the writer used for one of the conversation's participants. She named the participant 'Hi I'm 40 But I'm Wearing $300 Dollar Jeans.' Very descriptive, evocative, maybe, of a certain type of woman, funny maybe, offensive maybe. I took offense. I didn't leave a comment. I brought it here.

I'm not 40. I'm past 40. Way past. I don't wear $300 jeans. I'm more the "$30 on sale at Old Navy" jeans kind of woman. What did the author of the blog in question mean to convey with her label of 'Hi I'm 40 But I'm Wearing $300 Dollar Jeans'. Did she mean to say that women of a certain age have no business wearing a certain kind of clothing, that they have no right to the kind of vanity that would put them in designer jeans? Does she think that the only thing women over 40 have to spend our money on is our grandchildren. Chances are, at the age of 40, $300 jeans woman doesn't yet have any grandchildren (No, I'm not a grandma yet either, my oldest is only 19 and the only child she'd better be thinking of is child psych 101).

At what age does 'mystery blogger who shall not be named' suggest that it's appropriate for a woman to give up her vanity? 28? 35? We already know that she thinks 40 is over the hill! I celebrate 'Hi I'm 40 But I'm Wearing $300 Dollar Jeans.' I hope '$300 jeans' still has a short skirt or two in her closet to go with the spike heels I know she must have been wearing under her denims.

I'm going to overshare here. I threw my 36DD's into their first push up bra at the ripe old age of 51. That's right, 51! and I haven't looked back since. I'd just lost 70 lbs. and nobody was more suprised than me that I was suddenly in possession of a very nicely shaped shape. So I went out and got some new bras, and heavens, some thong undies because I'd heard that pantylines had become completely unacceptable. Now I'm a woman possessed. I possess a new and improved sense of self. If I had $300 to waste, I might spend them on a pair of useless designer jeans, just because I could, though I suspect my heart might stop and the earth swallow me up as I pulled the money out of my designer fake $18 pocketbook, or I might not. Either way, I hold my head high and proud. Others may judge harshly, but that doesn't mean they have the right nor does that mean that their opinions should be given any weight. Mystery blogger sounds fairly young, but she'll find when she's 40 that, surprise, she may still possess vanity. She may find that at the age of 60 she'll still care about how she presents herself to the world and take the time to dress with care. She might want to eat her words.

Me, I'm zipping up my size 6 jeans, hooking on my good push-up, throwing on a tight low-cut shirt and meeting my husband for dinner. I've got my make-up on, and damn, I look hot. I'm vain, I admit it. But that's OK. Mystery blogger can judge me for it if she wants, if it makes her feel better about who and what she is. My vanity is just one small facet of who I am, one very small facet. To all other 40 something and over women out there, it's OK for you too. If you want. You're allowed, entitled even.

I'm reminded of the lyrics to a song by one of my daughter's favorite bands, Fall Out Boy,

"Sugar we're going down swingin'..."

That's how I want to go out, defiant and on my own terms. If it be in designer duds, so much the better, and if anyone feels the need to stand there in prissy judgement, that then is their problem, not mine.

Ode de Dog

2006-09-15T19:05:00.000-07:00

Calli

Sung to the tune of Bingo

I have a Bernese Mountain Dog
And Calli is her name-O
C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I,
and Calli is her name-O

When she walks me down the street
She pulls me off my feet-O
C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I,
She pulls me off my feet-O

All the neighbors point and stare
And keep their distance cause they're scared
C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I,
They keep their distance cause they're scared

At night she climbs into my bed
And tries to sleep on top of my head
C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I,
She tries to sleep on top of my head

A tiny lap dog she tries to be
But at 70 pounds she squishes me
C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I, C-A-L-L-I,
At 70 pounds she squishes me

Unless you have a pet, it's tough to understand how crazy people can get about their animals, like my neighbor who has a carseat for her toy Coton de Tulear. The dog cruises the neighborhood in the frontseat of the woman's Mercedes, while her husband sits in back. Now, I understand this. The last time my hairy, and eternally shedding dog climbed into my bed and tried to sleep on my head, I shoved her into the middle of the bed, where she flopped on top of my husband. He left and went into another room, and I spent the rest of the night with the dog. Which was OK with me, because the dog doesn't snore, plus she snuggles really well.

Callie doesn't fuss over what you give her to eat. She's been known to consume cement chunks, and spent one whole summer snacking on a dead squirrel that nobody could bring themselves to dispose of. Everytime she passed by the dead squirrel, she'd drag me over to it, delicately retrieve a tiny bone to nibble, and keep on walking. Ewww, but I wasn't about to fight with her about it. I wasn't strong enough to drag her away from it. It's all I can do to keep her from dragging me off my feet when we walk together, something she used to do with regularity, till we spent $500 to have her trained. That's the kind of thing crazy pet owners will do.

There's no particular point to this, except that I love my dog. My mom asked me what it was with me and the animals. I grew up in a house without any pets, but in my own home I have two cats and a dog, at least until we had to have one of the cats put to sleep. I don't really know what to tell my mom, but for me, in order for my house to be a home it needs certain things: it needs a flight of stairs (I always lived in an apartment till I had my own house, so stairs were necessary. Now that I've had them for 20 years, I know better.), children, and animals. The more the better. Bring on the shedding, the noise and the chaos. Bring on the love.

James Lynch - 2996 Tribute Project Post

2006-09-10T22:17:00.000-07:00

As I contributed my name to participate in the 2996 Tribute project, I’m not really sure what I expected, perhaps a welcome screen and some instructions on how to begin, but what I got was a picture of a man who had been lost in the Pentagon on 9/11 and his name. There was no gentle introduction nor were there instructions on how to proceed. I sat in front of my computer screen and looked at a picture of Mr. James Lynch for a short while, waiting for inspiration, and the only thought that came to me was, “He looks so kind.” Thus began my search to find out what I could of James Lynch and I freely admit that I was looking for some kind of hero.

Mr. Lynch was a resident of Manassas, Virginia. He’d been in the Air Force and was proud of his military service and in September of 2001 worked as a civilian employee of the U.S. Navy, his reason for being in the Pentagon on 9/11. One story I read repeatedly on the memorial message boards was about his fondness for Werther’s Original candy. He purchased it in large amounts, not so much for himself, his son said, but for those around him. He’d go around his workplace and give candy to co-workers who needed a little sweetness added to their day. He was known to co-workers as the ‘Candy Man.’ His son commented with fondness that his dad probably could have paid for his college education with what he’d spent on candy!

Mr. Lynch’s sister remembers her brother as a boy with a fondness for electronics and gadgets. She remembers him wiring a record player into the backseat of his car so they could drive around and listen to music, especially Roy Orbison records. She also remembers walking into his wire-filled boyhood bedroom. He’d hooked everything up so that with the flick of just one switch, voila!, everything electronic would turn on. Every kid’s dream, isn’t it? He made that happen. Her last communication with her brother was via computer. She said he’d encouraged everyone in his family to get a computer and keep in touch via email. His final email, she said, consisted of simple hellos and jokes. How could they know it would be his last?

This is pretty much all I could find out about James Lynch. There were comments on a memorial site from co-workers and others who confirmed that he was kind and sweet, a gentle soul. You might say, that’s not a lot, but like most of us, he lived his life out of the spotlight. I began to wonder, how do we claim immortality? Those of us who are great claim it in history books and encyclopedias but those of us who lead smaller lives can only claim immortality in the finite memories of those nearest and dearest to us. If we’re lucky, they last for a generation or two, and then they become as dust and float away as the people who carry memories of us pass on themselves. Here’s the challenge then, to make a life immortal while we can, rather than a death, to celebrate the living human, and not the act of destruction that took him from us.

I didn’t personally know any of the 9/11 victims, but searching for James Lynch has made the 2006 anniversary of September 11th a much more personal time for me than any of the previous anniversaries. Although I started my quest by looking for a hero, what I found was much more. I found an ordinary man, a real man who, in the time he had, did his best in his own small way to make his life, and the lives of those around him just a bit better, kinder, sweeter. I do not claim to know Mr. Lynch, I barely scratched the surface of who he was and I realize this, but I feel that I’ve perhaps done the equivalent of shaking his hand, or accepting a piece of his candy. If I'd known James Lynch I would have searched him out for the candy, yes, but even more for the caring soul that offered it, the gentle smile from kind eyes. James Lynch was, after all, a hero, but a hero of a different kind.

It has been to my enrichment to have been involved in Project 2996. Going forward I realize that my remembrance of 9/11 has been permanently altered to include Mr. Lynch and for this reason I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to participate.

Laura's Pearls of Wisdom

2006-09-06T18:07:00.001-07:00

Today was Laura's first day of school. I woke up early wih her, to keep her company as she ate her breakfast. She was antsy, and I asked if she was excited or nervous. Her words said no, but her body language said otherwise. She fidgeted a while longer and then blurted out, “I hate the first day of school. Because now you have to June, and there's just no way out of it.”

Laura, honey, when you get out into the real world there's no such thing as 'waiting' to June. Enjoy it while you can.

Dear Lizzie

2006-09-05T15:21:00.000-07:00

Dear Lizzie

I just wanted to let you know how proud I am of you. This has been a difficult summer for you. You spent the summer on your own and away from home. You were fired from your first job, lost your first love and have managed to survive with both your pride and your sense of humor intact. Be proud of yourself, because survival of these trauma is no mean feat.

Good luck in your new job at the pizza place. Don't eat more than you serve. I advise you not to do any bodily harm to ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend and am so proud of you when you tell me that just two short years ago you would have hauled her ass out for a good whooping, but now that you've developed a conscience you find that you're unable to carry through with said whooping. You're right, this is, indeed, maturity.

Today you started your second year of college with enthusiasm and requests for increased financial support. No problem. We’re here for you. Dad and Laura and I love you. Money will be forthcoming.

Mom

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2006-09-02T09:19:00.000-07:00

Here in my part of NY school starts Sept. 5th. School supply shopping is the one thing I actually complete before the appointed date, because there’s no way I’m going to be caught dead in Staples standing on a check-out line a mile long, after having spent an hour circling the parking lot for the privilege of fighting over the last Hello Kitty notebook. No way!

In Laura's high school, teachers are much less fussy about the kids' supplies, and leave it to the students what they want to use, but this year there are a few things I’m insisting that Laura have, based on knowledge of her work habits. Harry Potter had his Goblet of Fire, but Laura will have her Dreaded 10th Grade Homework Forgetting and Meltdown. The extra supplies I’ve purchased include lots of post-it notes, glue sticks, and a super-duper superior staple gun.

Laura’s homework forgetting can be broken down as follows:

a. She forgets that she has homework in any given subject or subjects.
b. She remembers that she has homework, but forgets the assignments.
c. She remembers that she has homework, remembers the assignments, but forgets the books she needs to complete the assignments.
d. a & b
e. b & c
f. a & c
g. ALL OF THE ABOVE

I intend to help Laura solve the homework dilemma in the following manner. I am listing the pros and cons of each method to show how thoroughly I’ve thought this through.

Post-it notes
Upside
Can write assignments on notes and stick to forehead
Downside
Not very sticky, liable to fall off forehead before she gets home

Glue stick
Upside
Can glue post-its to forehead to make them stick better
Downside
Ouch factor and could still fall off greasy teenaged forehead.

Staple gun
Upside
Stapled post-its won’t fall off forehead
Downside
Plastic surgery

Here’s hoping there’s very little stress in the coming school year. Hoping, and yes, praying. Good luck to us all.

Grounded

2006-08-30T20:23:00.000-07:00

I encountered the Flylady site while browsing some other blogs. I was very, very impressed. Then, after I was finished being impressed, I realized how very, very not for me it was. Apologies to any Flylady adherents, I think it's a great thing. It just happened to inspire some very bad poetry.

Grounded

Two vacuums, a steam cleaner,
An iron and all’s well
I have all the equipment
Still I bitch and yell

Dust bunnies here
Dog hair there
Dirty clothes pile up
Six feet in the air

I’d sweep and I’d clean
And get it all done
I just need a plan
Even though it’s no fun

So I looked to the lady
She’s just so damned fly
She has all the answers
Thought I’d give her a try

And it’s tough to admit
Organization’s not my thing
And I abandoned before I started
Didn't give fly a fling

I survey my domain
Messy it may be
But at least I’m at peace
And not OCD

Heartbreak

2006-08-27T13:05:00.000-07:00

Whe it rains it pours. Lizzie lost her job, and then a few days later, her boyfriend broke up with her. This was her first adult relationship, her first love. She's devastated. I went to visit her in the college town where she lives, a few hours away. She's hovering somewhere between hurt and anger. I took her to the mall and bought her a new pocketbook and a new lipstick, and a few other minor things, then took her out to dinner before taking her home. We talked about life, hugged, held hands and laughed some. She became sad before I left, admitting that the worst times were when the night came. Everything's always worst after dark and that's when I had to leave her.

I remember my first love. I was twenty, and it ended abruptly, tearing my heart into tiny, little irretrievable pieces, much like it had gone through a paper shredder. It was a long time till I felt whole again. Looking back, I gained this perspective. You enter your first serious love affair with an open and unguarded heart. You expect the best of your lover, and never expect to be hurt. Then, when and if it ends badly, the hurt is endless. After you recover, you're capable of building a wall around your emotions. Not an impenetrable, unscalable wall, but a wall that protects you from the kind of hurt that will bring you prostrate once again. You now know how to guard yourself, and though you can be hurt, you can never, ever be hurt to the same depth again. I tried explaining that to Liz, but I realize that this might just be my own take on things, and Liz, who's so much more open, whose feelings are so much more 'out there' than my own ever were, might never learn to guard herself and might always be capable of falling victim to the same kind of excruciatingly deep hurt. I hope not.

Liz and ex-beau live in close proximity. He's supposed to be moving away soon, but I suggested that she needs to be prepared for certain possibilities, such as him not moving away, or him finding another girlfriend. I asked her what she'd do if he turned up with another girl, and her response involved violence and possible jail time. I pleaded with her not to do anything that would involve me having to post bail. We just left things at that.

Oh the heartbreak you take on when you decide to bear children. Contemplating motherhood, I didn't get past imagining how good it would feel to hold the tiny body of my baby in my arms as I sat in the pristine white rocking chair my own mother had purchased for me. If I knew then what I know now, I'd have taken the same course, but maybe I'd have been better prepared to handle my child's pain. I'd at least have stockpiled the phone numbers of some good therapists.

On the Shore (collaboration)

2006-08-27T12:52:00.000-07:00

More than ten years ago I found myself discovering the on-line world of chat rooms. A random conversation brought me an email containing a short story which the writer asked me to read and consider for critique. I haven't a clue how to critique, so instead I wrote an answering short story, and the following is what I wrote. That began a months long acquaintance with a new friend, and I wrote a total of 4 short stories during that time. I'd never tried my hand at fiction before. My online friend, and his wife, were encouraging, and without them I'd never have spent any time at all trying to write anything. I owe them a debt of gratitude. This is one of two stories we wrote together on the same theme, a nautical reunion. This is my favorite. Given my daughter's recent heartbreak, I think it's sort of apropos. Thanks to Garp44.

On the Shore

I do not find it easy to wait. Distances seem forever and absences only make my heart grow forgetful. How do you remember the feel of an embrace or the warmth of a kiss? Still I find myself here on this island, waiting, waiting... watching the horizon, unsure. The light fades as the sun sinks lower and with it sets my spirit, for I do not believe that the long awaited moment will arrive. And yet, I remember my first kiss, so long ago and in a place so much like this. The sky was black but the moon shone on us brightly, and for me night became blazing day, noon in the desert. The sounds of the surf were loud, almost as loud as my heartbeat as he bridged the short but endless distance between us to brush my lips with his.

Since then I have believed in a special magic which can occur only near the ocean's shore, with the wind in my hair, the sound of the waves in my ears, and the salty taste of sea spray on my lips. Here, where water meets land, might dreams come true. Though the years have exposed magic as illusion, and dreams as a disguise for heartbreak, I find myself returning again and again to the memory of that first kiss, yearning for the innocent fulfillment of mysteries not yet understood and promises not yet broken.

There have been many kisses since the first but few so dearly anticipated as the one for which I now wait. I pace along the beach with urgent reason as I scan the waters, like a captain's wife on her widow's walk. The distance at sea is measured in knots and on land in miles and I imagine that Time at sea is also different. Perhaps on the ocean a month is just a month, exact and precise, defined by the movement of the stars in the infinite dark of the sky, but left behind on land a month stretches into a year, or two years, or a lifetime of wondering when he will return. The ache in me takes on a physical shape. I touch and caress it in the dark and wonder if he feels this in his dreams, or has an answering ache that will bring him back to me once again.

Today my mind tricks me as I see a tiny piece of ghostly white approaching my sheltering island cove. I watch breathless and anticipating. It moves swiftly and unerringly, skimming the waves as though they were slippery glass. The ghostliness of the vision recedes as the vessel floats closer and I see that I am neither dreaming nor imagining. The wind has picked up and I feel the tension in the sails as I feel it in myself. I sense the firm and steady hand of a sailor who knows well his ship and his way, and his woman. The craft and I are one as we navigate toward our pre-appointed destination. I am gliding, floating toward the waves as they reach out and pull me into their blue and white foam. My captain dives, moving with powerful grace, abandoning his ship, making his choice, answering his call.

I am held hostage by the land as he is indentured to the sea, but love or passion, the fire which binds us close over great distances and brings us together time and again, is the irresistible force which meets the immovableable object and causes the earth to shake, and the tides to ebb and flow.

Slow Cooked Blues

2006-08-23T06:38:00.000-07:00

Ode to a Slow Cooker

Crock pot, oh crock pot
I do love you so
You feed my whole family
Without you it’s all sloppy joe

No pots and no pans
No mess and no fuss
Our nutrition you’ve saved
No fast food for us

So here’s to my slow cooker
I do not regret
Converting you from planter
For meals we’re now set

Now that a reversal in financial fortunes has caused me to convert my mostly figurehead role of domestic princess into the more active role of chief cook and maid, I find myself in the unenviable position of having to cook meals on a somewhat regular basis. Husband and youngest child find themselves in the unenviable positions of having to eat said meals, so they think their positions are somewhat worse off than mine. To that end, I’ve discovered that my crock pot is useful for soooo much more than just holding the outgoing mail.

My crock pot, together with the “Fix-It and Forget-It Cookbook” have become my best friends. They’ve been in my house for a long time but I don’t know how I managed to get along without using them for so many years. Just throw the required ingredients into the crock and voila, hours later, dinner! No dirty pots, no dirty oven, and there’s nary a bad recipe in the book! I would venture to say that without these two items, and throw in my food processor because there’s no way this domestic princess is ever going to cry over chopped onions, my family would be eating on the cheap at Burger King every night, nutrition be damned, I’ve got fingernails to preserve.

I have friends who can whip up a nutritious and delicious meal from the most rudimentary ingredients. If they had beer and tomatoes in their fridge, somehow by dinnertime they’d turn it into a three course gourmet feast. I think the ability to cook well’s a God given talent, and while God gave me many talents, I must have been waiting in the wrong line when he gave out cooking. If I don’t have a recipe book, I can cook three things: scrambled eggs, spaghetti with bottled tomato sauce and meatloaf, and the meatloaf’s if-fy.

I like watching The Learning Channel and they have a program, Take Home Chef. I’ve only watched it start to finish once, because the things they cook are way too ambitious for me, and of course I really do think that the yummiest thing on that show is the chef himself and let’s not go that way, but cooking really is an art. I take my hat off to all the artists out there. My family will have to be content with other people’s slow-cooked hall of fame recipes. I’ll shed a tear of regret into my crock pot for all those never-to-be-cooked gourmet meals as I plop together all tonight’s ingredients, and then I’ll get back to knitting, something I’m good at, because I just made the swap of the century. I traded a pair of my hand-knitted socks for a week’s worth of my friend’s home cooked meals. Take that, TLC!

S.O.S.

2006-08-22T10:05:00.000-07:00

Lizzie, my soon to be 19 year old who went away to college last fall and liked it so much that she hasn't come home yet for more than a week-end, got herself a part-time job. She really liked that job, and was counting on it to help support herself through the school year, as she has decided to live off-campus, and gotten herself a room in a house where her friends live.

Yesterday, the unthinkable happened, and she was fired. She is just beside herself. Her self-esteem's been crushed and she thinks the world's coming to an end. She cried for hours to her dad and me, on the cell phone. Ordinarily, I'd be complaining about the cell phone minutes, but yes, this was a crisis of great proportions. This crisis was so enormous, that husband actually admitted to having been fired from a job or two himself, an admission of imperfection that one doesn't normally get from him. He was being fully supportive. How I love That Man!

Lizzie reads this and frequently leaves comments. She's a decent, caring, sweet soul and she's hurting. I hurt for her. If you are here and reading this, I invite you to share any story you may have of workplace trauma. We all have them. Liz gave me her permission to do this. I'm going to start her off with a story of my very first job as an RN. Liz, I hope you appreciate this level of sharing. See comments for my story.

Domestic Dysfunction

2006-08-21T08:45:00.000-07:00

My husband and I have been nominated for induction into the Domestically Dysfunctional Hall of Fame. To celebrate this event, I’ve written a little poem:

Your house is a mess,
The neighbors protest!

Your lawn’s out of shape
They stare, point and gape.

Your garage needs a cleaning,
Take a look, get our meaning!

Elected to the Hall of Shame,
Your names they will proclaim!

We’ve spent 21 years working hard to earn this honor. We’ve been nominated in a number of categories.

Household Appliances
Husband has been nominated in the category of household appliances, specifically for his lack of knowledge that we have any. He doesn’t know that we have a dishwasher, as evidenced by the dirty dishes, cups, glasses, silverware, etc., I keep finding in the sink after he uses them. The dishwasher is located right next to the kitchen sink, a standard arrangement as far as I can tell, but he still hasn’t found it, and we’ve lived in this particular house for 19 years. He couldn’t find the dishwasher in our last home either. It was in the same place, right next to the kitchen sink. Maybe I should have it moved so it would be easier for him to spot.
I’d say that he also cannot find the washing machine, but I know this to be untrue. It’s right next to his brand new gas-powered boiler. What he cannot find is the button that turns the washing machine on. Or maybe he cannot find the laundry detergent. Or maybe he cannot find the fabric softener. Or maybe he cannot find the bleach. Or maybe he cannot find any of his dirty clothes that he threw in the dirty clothes hamper!!! I know you're thinking that I should be glad he's at least not throwing his dirty clothes on the floor, and you're right, but all-in-all, wouldn't you agree that this is a well-deserved nomination?

Culinary Arts
I have been nominated for my contributions to the culinary arts. For years my contributions in this area consisted of, but were not necessarily limited to, speed-dialing every restaurant in a 5 mile radius of our home (sometimes I went out of my way and dialed long distance). There are many, many restaurants near my home. We have Chinese restaurants, Italian restaurants, Mexican restaurants, Jewish delicatessens, seafood restaurants, steakhouses and diners, all within delivery distance. For years I was able to feed my family on ‘Dial-Up’ and without dirtying a single pot. I never told husband, however. To this day not only does he think I make a mean Arroz con Pollo, but he’d be willing to bet that my Veal Marsala compares with that of some of the finest Italian restaurants around. And he’d be right.

Horticulture
This nomination came as a result of considerable effort. We have many lovely plants in our home, all of them silk. That’s because I’ve managed to kill all the live ones, including the plants that are practically kill-proof, like cactus and lucky bamboo and chia pets. My black thumb has become a point of pride for me. Anytime my husband’s been ill and hospitalized, and unfortunately those times have been plenty, I just wait for the get well plants to come rolling in. Husband and the kids make bets on just how long it will take till the leaves start to wither and turn brown, and I try to hide the dead carcass on the back patio. My greatest success so far has been the dead indoor tree. I babied it and nursed it until it gave up its last leaf. Now it sits with its bare, dead branches in a pot in the backyard. My mother-in-law suggested I paint and decorate it with ribbon as a monument to my 100th kill.

I don't know where the Hall of Fame for Domestic Dysfunction is located, but I’m sure that while on the way there, husband'll get lost (no sense of direction) and I’ll refuse to ask for directions (just plain no sense). I’m willing to bet there are dysfunctional categories for those, too!

A Woman of Faith

2006-08-18T06:11:00.000-07:00

I spent 28 years working as an RN. Most of that time was spent as a practicing operating room nurse. I've had many experiences that touched my heart. I've been posting about my family, because they say write about what you know, and maybe this isn't the place for this, but nursing is the other thing that I know. I wrote this story a few years ago. If you choose to read it, keep in mind that it is fiction. It is based on actual events, but only loosely, and any names used have been changed.

A Woman of Faith

A woman of faith has no need of fear because she knows that this life is but a stepping-stone to the next and greater life. The woman laying on the stretcher outside of the operating room knew this, and had a true belief that God would save her, and if not her mortal body, then her immortal soul. Still she couldn’t shake her fear. She feared the unknown answer sought by the surgeon who would soon perform her surgery, she feared going to sleep under anesthesia and ultimately, she feared death. Carmen knew that her fear of mortality was at odds with her faith, and this she acknowledged to herself with a wry and sad inner smile.

The nurse approached Carmen and introduced herself. She asked a few questions, inquired after Carmen’s comfort and then excused herself and turned toward the operating room. The nurse looked back at her patient as she pushed open the operating room door, and noted that Carmen appeared tired and frightened, but just then Carmen turned her head and smiled, and the nurse saw not fear and exhaustion, but serenity and an inner light which caused the care giver to take comfort from the patient.

Inside the operating room the scrub nurse, Dana, tended to her instruments, the only noise in the room the jarring clank of metal hitting metal as she arranged the surgical instruments, placing everything into its prescribed place so that it could be reached without hesitation or delay. Dana sang quietly to herself as she worked, a hymn perhaps, with the name Jesus the only intelligible word. Dana was also a woman of faith, and she brought her faith to work with her every day. She offered it to patients and co-workers alike, a precious gift that could be accepted or not as the intended recipient wished. Dana’s faith transformed each ordinary day into an extraordinary and joyous tribute to God. Dana and the nurse acknowledged each other and the nurse, a long-time friend and colleague, teased Dana good-naturedly about her off-key and somewhat flat singing voice. Dana laughed and invited the other woman to join her in praising the Lord. The nurse, who wasn’t a Christian, declined with a fond smile, and the two women returned to their work, counting the items laid out on the sterile surgical table. The anesthesiologist and surgeon poked their heads into the room to see if all was ready and asked if they could bring the patient in. Both women nodded, the door opened and Carmen was wheeled in on her stretcher.

The stretcher stopped beside the operating table, and the patient slid from one bed to the other. Carmen lifted her head and looked around, and seeing the drabness of the green-tiled room, the reflected overhead light glinting off steel and glass, felt her heart grow heavy. She lowered her head to the bed but kept her eyes open and stared at the ceiling, wondering how any good could occur in such a dismal and cheerless place. She felt the nurse place a strap across her legs, and obeyed the doctor who asked her to place her arms onto the padded arm-boards that stuck out at sharp right angles on either side of the operating table. She felt her arms being strapped down, and although she heard voices reassuring her that everything was routine, and all was being done for her safety, she could feel panic form as a knot in her belly, and could feel it sprout cold tentacles that spread through her torso and into her limbs. Unable to move, scarcely able to breathe, she pictured herself strapped to the OR bed as Jesus was nailed to the cross. She felt herself to be a martyr, not to faith, but to her own life, and to her faithless husband who, after numerous infidelities, had brought home to her the unwelcome gift of AIDS. He had passed on, leaving her the painful task of explaining to their children why Daddy had gone to God, and why she might soon join him in Heaven. Her children had cursed their father, and then cursed her for continuing to love him, looking in her for an echo of the anger they felt, disappointed when they couldn’t find it. She didn’t know how to explain to them that without their father, that particular man, they wouldn’t exist, and to her that was everything. No regrets, she refused to look back with regret. Carmen lifted her chin and forced herself to breathe deeply, pushing panic and self-pity into a hidden place and calling silently upon the Lord as she did so, looking to him for courage and strength.

This is when Dana turned to look at the patient and, stepping away from her table and instruments, she approached Carmen as if sensing her need. Dana removed her sterile gown and asked the patient if she would like to pray with her. Carmen responded quietly and simply and without hesitation, “Yes.” The two women began to pray out loud and I, the nurse, who had seen Dana pray with patients before, felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck as the two women turned their spoken prayer into song. Dana began first in her small, thin voice, and Carmen, eyes closed now, quickly joined her. Carmen’s voice was a wonderful surprise, deep, melodious and rich, thick and sweet as golden honey, and this is when the miracle occurred.

Watching the women, I saw their songs become opaque and take on shape as they left their mouths, Dana’s voice a delicate green-leafed vine, and Carmen’s a jumbled profusion of brightly colored roses. The vine and roses moved toward each other and met in the center of the room where they climbed toward the ceiling, an operatic bouquet of prayer and flower. The voices floated overhead, reaching the far corners of the room where they descended and covered the dull, antiseptic walls with the splendor of unshaken belief and then, reaching bottom, swirled round and round, carpeting the floor, reaching out to the astonished care givers who witnessed, in open-mouthed wonder and amazement, the unfolding marvel of faith.

The two singing women seemed unaware of the lush beauty they were creating. I put my hand up to pluck a hanging blood red flower and just then the music stopped, the prayer ended. The flowers and vines the women had created disappeared with the fading echo of their voices, and I drew my hand back, empty. I felt the loss as a hollow reverberation in the center of my being, like a dream whose perfection is forever lost upon awakening. We witnesses to the miracle were left wondering if our minds had played tricks on us, but I can still remember the faint hint of perfume in the air. We shook our heads as though to clear away the cobwebs that had grown over our consciousnesses, but I didn’t want to lose or discredit what I had just seen; I wanted to carry it away with me, and remember and believe in it for always. I thought, in the brief moment of extreme clarity that followed, that miracles must happen around me every day, but I don’t see them because I don’t know how to look for them. Perhaps my eyes are closed to that which my mind does not fully accept, and that is the possibility that an omnipresent God is there with us every day, regardless of our faith or lack of it.

Maybe we are all God’s children whether we believe or not, and perhaps we can also be divided into two groups, those of us who live our lives searching for meaning, and those of us who live our lives with faith. Seekers after the meaning of life look in vain for an answer they will never have, while those who live with faith do not need to ask for life’s meaning because the certainty of God’s love makes the answer unimportant.

Carmen’s physical life may not have been saved on that day, but I believe her spirit was saved and in a state of grace, her place at God’s side assured. One day she will be one of His angels and will raise her voice in mystical song to lift the hearts of the sick and weary. I will listen for her.

I also believe that there’s a special place in Heaven for all those who, like Dana, are able to give of their own spirituality, who sing of their faith in voices both large and small, voices God loves, because it isn’t the size of the song that matters, but the size of the heart that sings it.

Mom, you're not fat...

2006-08-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

I’m 5’4 ½” and I used to weigh 195 lbs. I went clothes shopping with my daughters one day.

Me, depressed, looking at myself in mirror while trying on clothes: “I’m so fat.”

Liz: “You’re not fat.”

Laura echoes: “Mom, you’re not fat.”

Less depressed now. Isn’t it great, being seen through your children’s loving eyes!

Me: “I feel fat.”

Liz: “Mom, you’re not fat, you’re just obese.”

Uh oh.

Me: “And that’s supposed to make me feel better how?”

Liz: “You know. You’re not that fat.”

Me: Non verbal communication here. I think I non-verbally said, "WTF".

Liz: “I went shopping with Ex-boyfriend, and he always said the same thing. He said that he was fat and I told him, ‘Oh, Ex-boyfriend, you’re not fat, you’re just obese.’ What’s wrong with that?”

Me: “Liz, do you know what ‘obese’ means?

Liz: “Well, duh, it means a little overweight.”

Me: On the one hand, I just wanted to stop right there because at 195 lbs, well it should be obvious why I wanted to stop, but on the other hand, I felt that I had a parental obligation to lift the veil of ignorance from my daughter’s eyes. “Liz, obese means really, really fat.”

Liz: “Oh"…. sigh …. another sigh …."Do you think that’s why he broke up with me?"

Me: “No, honey, not possible. Could you hand me that other tent, excuse me, dress to try on?”

Liz and Laura together, exasperatedly, in two part harmony: “Mom, you’re not fat.”

Me: “Right, just obese.” ...Sigh.

The Last Muttsy

2006-08-15T18:10:00.000-07:00

For years, my youngest daughter, Laura, sucked her thumb. She was one of those babies who just naturally found her thumb as an infant and discovered the joys of sucking on it till it was raw, calloused, and sometimes infected. I tried replacing her thumb with a pacifier, but to no avail. She knew the difference, spit the pacifier out and promptly replaced it with her left thumb. Somewhere along the line she developed a habit to help her fall sleep. She'd pull her own hair out, a few strands at a time, roll it up into a ball, and then as she'd suck her thumb, she'd rub her nose with the hairball she'd made. Laura now had a deformed thumb, and a bunch of bald spots on her head. She was a real looker.

My husband owned a store, and had a stuffed animal section in his store. Almost every day he'd bring home a new stuffed animal for one or both girls, so their rooms looked like fanciful menageries with brightly colored animals wherever you looked. One of the animals, was a 3 foot long floppy dog, with a big head and long floppy ears, floppy tail, soft and cuddly and pink. It's name was Muttsy, and it became Laura's favorite. Laura and the Mutt were inseparable. Wherever you found one, you found the other, and heaven help you if they became separated. The Mutt flew on airplanes with us and took car trips with us, Laura carrying him (her?) around slung over her shoulder like a mother would carry a precious infant (if that infant were 3 feet long and had no skeleton).

I took the kids to Las Vegas to visit my parents who had semi-retired there. After seeing Laura, my mother decided that the way to deal with Laura and her hair was to cut it off and so that's what we did. And she was absolutely right. I returned home with Laura's hair-pulling problem solved, and new hope that she'd grow up a normal well-adjusted young woman, and maybe even get married and have a family of her own one day.

I wonder what was going on in Laura's 2 year old brain after her hair had been cut, when she reached up to her head and found she couldn't get a good handful? She never cried, she never whined, she never lost any sleep....but suddenly I began finding little pink and sometimes white fuzzballs all over the floor, and I didn't know what they were or where they were coming from. One day, I happened to spy Muttsy's underside as she carried him around in his accustomed place on her shoulder. The Mutt had a huge bald spot on his belly with a small hole in his fabric and I, genius that I am, was finally able to put two and two together and get three and a half. Laura was pulling Muttsy's fur and stuffing out in lieu of her own hair. I was impressed by her resourcefulness. I was impressed by the size of Muttsy's bald spot. Hell, I was just impressed!

To date, we're on Muttsy #3. Laura, now 15, no longer pulls his hair out or sucks her thumb, but she still sleeps with him over her pillow, right under her head, and stresses over whether or not she should take him along on family vacations. I've told her it's ok to take him in the car, but not on a plane. I can't imagine the grief if, packed in a suitcase, he somehow ended up on the wrong plane and didn't manage to make it to our destination and back. Because I've told Laura, this is definitely the last Mutt. And this time I mean it!

Menopausal Momma

2006-08-15T16:35:00.000-07:00

Did I mention that I'm in menopause? My gyne told me that you're into menopause when you have gone a full year without your period. I'm just a few months past that point and I don't mind telling you that not having your period isn't half bad!

I wrote my very own little menopause song, bear with me here as I clear my throat, ahem, ahem: (Mom, you might want to stop reading here and skip the song!)

The Menopause Song

(sung to the tune of No More Pencils, No More Books, No More Teachers, etc, etc...)

No more tampons, no more pads
No more unplanned baby scares

Oh more personal lube, oh more hairy skin
Oh more whiskers on my chinny, chin, chin

Now there's hot flashes, now there's night sweats
Now with my husband there's unprotected sex, sex, sex

I'm kind of stuck there. Really it's not so bad. Menopause I mean, not the song. I'm really liking the whole no period thing, 'cause I used to get mine at the worst possible times. Special plans - got my period. Going on vacation - got my period. Visiting my parents in Florida - always got my period, even if I'd just had it and wasn't due to get it for another three weeks. Never really understood that one

Seriously, menopause, is like the ultimate female wake-up call. It makes me aware that I'm at the irrevocable end of a certain phase of mommyhood. I am no longer fertile. Babies are in my past and not in my future. If I have another maternal yearning, I'll just have to be satisfied with getting a puppy. (I realize that there's adoption and foster parenting, but at this point I don't think I would consider them, for multiple reasons.)

Also with menopause comes a certain awareness. I'm aware, as never before, of the fragility of life, of the passing of it, that the way I've come is a way I will never go again. I no longer feel invulnerable or immortal. I've read about time's arrow. Time goes in one direction only and marches from the past straight on into the future. Time doesn't go in reverse and you can't get it back.

How to explain this next part? I'm ready for my own future. Not the one that involves my family, but the one that belongs solely to me, with children and husband as adjuncts. I know, what a wretched, selfish woman I am. Even as I write this I'm sitting next to Laura, helping her import songs onto her iPod, watching her play on her gameboy, and my heart overflows with love for her. Three more years and she'll be leaving for college and I'll regret that we didn't have more time together, to cuddle, to giggle, to share. I'll be ready to eat these words. Don't get me wrong, my children are the greatest sustained passion of my life. But just for right now, I have a yearning to fly, and solo. While I still can. Forgive me. It must be the hormones.

Den of Iniquity

2006-08-14T22:21:00.000-07:00

When we renovated our house, we re-did the basement so that our then 15 yr. old, Lizzie, could live in it and use it as her own (sort-of) apartment. It had it's own entrance via the side door, bathroom complete with shower, bedroom and living room. We furnished the bedroom, and in the living room put a tv with cable, dvd player and new stereo along with some large pillows and bean bag chairs for seating. I wanted Lizzie to have the privacy that I thought every teen coveted (I'd coveted it when I was a teen). I wanted her to feel comfortable inviting her friends over to chill in our basement (see, I'm down, I know the lingo!). In other words, I wanted to know where she was and what she was doing at all times. Really, it wasn't for her, it was for ME! I know that now. My reasoning was that if she's in my house, under my roof, she couldn't possibly get into trouble, could she?

Apologies to Lizzie, 'cause I know she's going to complain that I've gotten the facts wrong, but this is how I remember it.

There was a gathering in my basement. Not a party, just a gathering. Must have been 15 or so teenagers, from 13 up to 17 years of age. It smelled just like a locker room down there. Being the cool parent that I am, and trusting my daughter implicitly as I did, I checked on them once, and left them to their devices. They were in and out of the house till all hours of the morning, but I went to sleep. I knew all these kids, I wasn't worried. I was an idiot. What was I thinking!!!!

Somehow the next day, I found out there had been drinking going on. Horrors! Drinking of alcohol! Not my alcohol! I don't have any alcohol, but after learning about this, I sure needed some! The kids had brought their own beer in (right, I'm with you, where'd they get it from?). I tried explaining to Liz about how it was my house and I was reponsible for what went on in it, but she didn't get it. She told me that it was OK that they were drinking in the house, as long as she, Liz, didn't participate. Furthermore, she didn't even go with them to the park when they went out to get high. OMG!!! Was she kidding!!! Now I definitely needed a beer so I could wash down a Xanax! All this in my house while I so innocently and trustingly left my daughter in charge and went to sleep! We went back and forth, but she didn't get it, and I had to ground her for life + 20 years and ban certain individuals from the premises, FROM THAT MOMENT ON AND FOREVER!!!

Things cooled down, even though Lizzie still didn't understand why she should be held responsible for what went on in her home, and life went on as usual. A few weeks went by and I received my cable bill. It was a little higher than normal. I perused the bill and came to the very bottom, an itemized list of extra charges, and there it was. Three Adult Channel movie rentals, all with the same date as the now infamous drug and alcohol fest. How did I know these x-rated charges weren't mine and my husband's you ask? Because we don't rent our porn from that particular station. Apparently, I had hosted a full-fledged basement bacchanalia. Two xanax and a bottle of white zinfandel later, I was ready to deal. To Lizzie, this was again, "NO BIG DEAL, MOM." After all, it was so in-the-past, like 3 weeks ago, ancient history.

Tears were shed and grounding was extended for another life + 20 year stretch, sentences to run consecutively, not concurrently. Friends were again banned and when they were allowed back in, I made sure to check on them frequently, oh you can bet I did. Did Liz finally get the point? I'm not sure she did. Teenagers are an unknowable, inscrutable and illogical law unto themselves. But I learned something invaluable. Always keep a bottle of wine and a good tranquilizer safely hidden, but within easy reach. You never know when you'll need them.

Do husbands understand?

2006-08-14T10:39:00.000-07:00

Do husbands understand? This could be the question of the century? of the millennium? and it could apply to any aspect of marriage or child-rearing, but I just had this one thing in mind.

I sit at the computer and blog, or read the blogs of others and sometimes I just laugh myself silly. One particular post was so hilarious that I shared it with my husband. He laughed out loud, but then he asked how I could spend so much time (translation - any time at all) online. He asked what could possess women to share so much personal information about ourselves with virtual strangers. How to explain..... Hmmmm........

I tried to make a start, but by then he'd lost interest because his favorite sports talk show was on. In order to regain his interest I'd have had to strip naked, swing from a chandelier, offer to have wild monkey sex with him while, yes, allowing him to leave the TV on. I don't have any problem sharing this episode with virtual strangers. After all, there's no chance he'll ever read this!

So if there are any visitors, what do you think? What drives us? Do the significant others in your lives understand? Do they read what you write? Do they care?

Mother's Guilt

2006-08-13T11:40:00.000-07:00

Someone once told me that a teenager's attitude towards her parents can be described with this one quote, attributable to whom I do not know, but here it is,

"I hate you, now take me to the mall!"

Laura is in a band. She's into music big-time. Her all- girl band, "Fat-free Milk" has 2 guitarists, one bassist, and their new-found drummer, who lives 40 minutes, and 3 parkways, away.

Today's their first practice. I told Laura that I wasn't going to commit myself to the 40 minute drive. I'm just not that kind of mother. The bassist's mother, however, is that kind of mother and is driving them to their destination. The other guitarist's mother might be that kind of mother, and is picking them up, but she had to be in the area anyway, or so she says. Laura now hates me and compares me unfavorably with the other mothers. So here I am, as usual, with:

Mother's Guilt

.

"Mother's Guilt" is the guilt that just doesn't end. Am I doing too much, or not enough? Do I give too much or not enough? Am I stifling my child or am I encouraging independent and creative exploration while keeping her safe? AM I CAUSING HER IRREPARABLE DAMAGE AND WILL SHE HATE ME FOREVER? AAARRRRGGGG...

One day, when they are grown, I will apologize to my daughters for the mistakes I made as a parent, and for the hurts I caused them. I will apologize because I think it's the right thing to do. I will ask for their forgiveness. I will apologize as my mother once apologized to me, and hope that they will accept my apology as I accepted my own mom's apology, with the knowledge that she/I did the best she/I could with the gifts and abilities she/I had.

Each successive generation benefits from the mistakes of preceding generations, and parenting skills improve (IMHO). It can be as simple as looking at what your mom did, like threatening you with the hairbrush on your tender rear-end when you misbehaved, and deciding that you'll handle things differently, with time-out instead of corporal punishment. Research is done, books are written, Mommy and Me groups are formed, and we have the opportunity to do better for our kids. Yes, change happens. Yes, progress is made. And yet, and yet, we still make mistakes, we still manage to hurt our most precious charges, however unintentionally, and we still manage to end up carrying around way too much doubt and guilt. Will we never get it right?

How is it that our children somehow survive our deficient parenting to grow up and enter society in a (mostly) productive way and not as convicted felons? I'm sure I'll never know. I'm also sure that, with all my parental power, I may not even have anything to do with it.

Out, damned spot!

2006-08-08T18:52:00.000-07:00

In the grocery store the magazines on display at the checkout aisles should be kept out of view of small children. Brand new tiny readers can see the headlines on the latest issue of Cosmopolitan entitiled, "95 Sex Tricks To Drive Him Crazy," which they then practice their phoenetic skills on, to the embarassment of moms who are then forced to stand there and try to redirect their attention to Golden Books with Big Bird on the cover.

I was standing at the checkout with a cart full of groceries patienty waiting my turn. My 3 year old, Laura, was in the seat of the cart. Her sister, Lizzie, 7, was wandering the aisles as I called her to come over to me. She was meandering from checkout to checkout, looking at the magazines. I thought she was safe. Suddenly I hear her, 4 aisles down, call to me. "Mommy?" she called, with a question in her voice.

"Yes, honey?" I responded, clueless.

"Mommy," she called, loud now, looking at the magazine rack in front of her, "what's a G-spot?"

I paused, mouth open, speechless. I looked around to notice that my daughter had the attention of every person at every checkout in the entire store, including the cashiers, who had stopped cashiering.

"Honey, why don't you come over here and mommy will tell you."

She was no fool. She looked at me. She knew she had me in one of those, I've got mommy just where I want her moments, and she was going to make the most of it. She started to dance. She started to sing, a made-up off-key melody, at the top of her voice, "Mommy what's a G-spot, Mommy what's a G-spot, ..." and on and on and on.

I looked down at my sweet little Laura, sitting in the grocery cart. I looked into her innocent brown eyes as she opened her mouth to mimic her sister, "Momma what's a G-spot, Momma what's....." you get the picture.

I thought the whole store was going to break into song, like a bad Broadway musical! I put a fake smile on my face and strode past the staring customers, pulled Lizzie to me, walked her to my cart and stuffed a donut in her mouth. Silence at last!

Years later, the girls and I were in the car and I told them this story. Lizzie was now 18 and Laura 14. They were hysterical with laughter. The laughter died down slowly and in the silence that followed, I heard Laura ask, "Mommy, what's a G-spot?”

Caveat Emptor!

2006-08-05T12:55:00.000-07:00

I was just reading a blog where the blogger was contemplating giving her kids away, versus selling them on Ebay. Haven't we all had this fantasy from time to time? Now get real. You're just kidding yourself if you think you're going to get any money from selling your kids on Ebay. If you don't want them, what makes you think anybody else will? Everybody knows that parents only give away the troublemakers. Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants a used problem child. They only want new, unused babies.

If we didn't have the smarts to sell them at birth, when they were all little and cute and had some value on the open market, then we're pretty much stuck with them, right? But this got me thinking. There's got to be something we can do with them? Something that'll get them out of our hair and our homes... something useful, profitable, that will create a meaningful experience for all involved? And then it hit me like a bolt of spit-up from a bottle-fed. A Rent-someone-else's-kid service!

That's right! It could be marketed to all those couples out there contemplating parenthood. Try it for a few weeks, and don't worry, it's not permanent, this one you can give back, unlike the one you give birth to! (Just ask your Rent-a-Kid's mom!) They could get a feel for the real thing, instead of just having to use their imaginations which probably stop at what it's like to hold that 8 pound precious bundle of joy. They'll get a fully grown teen, or pre-teen to contend with, and really come to know the joys of parenthood, because, let's face it, it's only a few short months between birth and the time the little bundle of joy takes his first tiny toddler steps and tells off mom and dad in his sweet little tiny toddler voice. After that it's years of torture and abuse, and gimme this and I want that!

It'd be like a reverse baby-sitting job. You'd get someone to take your kids off your hands, and they'd have to pay you for the privilege of doing so. Your own children will come home with a new appreciation for your parenting skills after spending time with mommy and daddy wannabees. For parents, there's just no down side.

However, once the word is out that parenthood is no walk in the park, and all these would be moms and dads give their Rent-a-Kids back, I'm not sure I'd hold out too much hope for the future of the human race.

Foul ball!

2006-08-03T19:19:00.000-07:00

I'm not really that crazy about baseball, but I figured way back when I was young and in love, that I needed to share some of my husband's interests. I picked baseball. It was a fateful pick. In the spring and summer months, I am a baseball widow, which is much worse than being a football widow since there are so many more baseball than football games.

Marc has season tickets to his favorite team, thanks to me. I once worked with the girl who was married to the man who's head of ticket sales for the team. Long after the girl retired and became a SAHM, Marc would call the ticket office and throw her name around as he tried to improve his seats. This worked for a very long time, much longer than you might think, and I hope she never found out about it. Thanks to this shameless tactic we now have great seats. Lots of foul balls come our way, but we've never caught one, though a ball bounced off a chair once and hit my daughter in the face. She thought it was great, and came home and proudly showed me the bruise that caused her to make a visit to the stadium's medical office where she was tended to by the stadium nurse, who, in one of those "isn't this a small world," moments, turned out to be her elementary school nurse.

Next time I was in my daughter's school, the nurse suggested I might want to invest in a catcher's mask for my daughter, "just in case," she tried to catch another foul ball with her face.

Batter up!

2006-07-26T13:56:00.000-07:00

My husband's a really big baseball fan. He desperately wanted to share that with his sons and was really excited with my first pregnancy. Imagine his surprise and disappointment when he found out we were having a girl! He took it fairly well, though there was this one time when he was teaching Lizzie to play baseball......

She was maybe four or five and had a plastic bat. My husband, Marc, taught her to hit just like a real ball player. She'd take the stance with her legs firmly planted, the bat over her shoulder, and then, just before my husband pitched, she'd go through her pre-batting routine. She'd lift her head, spit with authority, and then she'd reach down between her legs to grab her crotch and adjust her non-existent balls. Satisfied that his daughter could one day play with the major leaguers, Marc would finally throw.

I had alot of explaining to do the first day of PAL softball.

kentucky fried potty

2006-07-26T13:55:00.000-07:00

To my eldest, Lizzie, pottie training was an adventure, and she approached it in a most creative manner. We kept up with her creativity by keeping a potty on each floor of our house, one upstairs in the bathroom next to the main toilet, one on the main floor in the kitchen (we had no powder room on the main floor), and another potty in the basement. I even kept a potty in the car, for those occasional adventures in mobile creativity that Lizzie found so amusingly necessary.

One evening after having served my family a nutritious and tasty dinner of good old KFC, original, not extra crispy, I put the left-overs back into the box and put the box into the fridge. A while later I'm upstairs when I hear my husband calling me frantically to come down to the kitchen. So I come running, expecting murder and mayhem, or at least fire and a little blood. I come running around the corner to the kitchen and what do I see? My little 3 year old Lizzie, sitting on the potty with her pants around her knees, the KFC box on the floor at her side holding a drumstick to her mouth and munching away with neither a care in the world nor a piece of toilet paper in sight.

Potty training with an appetite.

blog the 1st

2006-07-26T13:14:00.000-07:00

Whenever the kids got unruly, I'd call to them, "Now just who's the mommy around here anyway?" They never quite got that they were supposed to be filled with awe as they answered, "You are, Mommy." They invariably answered something to the effect, "We are." They always knew who the boss was.

I became a SAHM just in time for my oldest girl to go off to college and my youngest girl to turn teenager and ignore me. Just the latest in a long history of doing things bass-ackwards. When my girls really could have used me around, I had to work full- or part-time to earn just enough money to keep them in day-care. That was really more about sending my husband back to day care, I mean graduate school, for his newest advanced degree, and his last shot at changing careers. A good man with a great education and a now infamous work history. Another story entirely.

I think a good blog can make good therapy, and since my kids don't need me, I have some time to fill. I'll fill it with self-help, and take out some of the funny stories that I love, and some of the sad, and maybe hurtful ones too. It takes all kinds of stories to make a life, doesn't it?