Wendy and Jason's Excellent Adventure

Economy of language

2012-01-27T19:09:00.000-07:00

Every night, I put Josie in her bed and I sit in a little chair next to it and read her stories. Lately The Snowy Day and Llama Llama Misses Mama have been in heavy rotation.

The Snowy Day is one of my all-time favorites. I read it to my children a lot, and every time I do, I find it magical. I never get tired of it. I love the illustrations, the way the book conveys the beauty and wonder a child finds in heading out to play in the snow, and the simplicity of the language. (Plus, it's very free-range -- Peter lives in the city and goes out to play all day long by himself, though he's obviously fairly young -- too young for snowball fights with the big boys, after all).

Well, Josie may have one up on Ezra Jack Keats in the simplicity department. Lately she has taken to reading the books to me ("Mama, I read it!"). This is The Snowy Day, Josie-fied.

"There's a boy. And he's outside and there's LOTS of snow!"

"Crunch crunch crunch! He walk in the snow with his toes."

"Whee! He goes down a hill!"

"There's his mother!"

"Night Night! The end."

She slams the book shut.

"Song, mama?"

I turn off the light and sing.

Everybody's got a random

2012-01-24T11:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in maintaining a blog, I get too into the notion of themes -- of telling stories that have some overriding point, or of depicting life in a way that betrays some grand plan. Because it makes for more interesting writing (and reading).

But truthfully, I think that's all bullshit. Most of life is totally random.

Like the other day I was on the bus coming home from work. Sitting across the aisle from me was this huge guy that looked a bit vagrant-ish. Not quite homeless, but certainly someone who has seen brighter days. I got the sense that he spent a lot of time riding the bus and striking up conversation with people, just to pass the time.

Which, whatever, ya know? More power to him, I guess.

Except that I am not one for idle conversation with strangers.

Every once in a while the planets will align and I will enter into a conversation on a plane or whereever with a seatmate, and it will be genuinely interesting. But this is an exceedingly rare occurrence, and not something that I actively seek out.

So this guy across from me on the bus has been bothering some poor guy who was in a Navy uniform, so Almost Homeless Dude starts in with the, "oh, you're a Navy man, eh? Did you know [some obscure fact about the Navy that may or may not have been true, but was a way to ingratiate himself with the dude in the uniform] blah blah blah." Navy Guy humored him for a while, but finally reached his stop and practically flung himself off the bus, he was so overtly happy to be free of Almost Homeless Dude's conversational stylings.

I could practically feel Almost Homeless Dude searching around for some new shlub to talk to. And eventually he settled on me.

I stared straight ahead, and then was stunned to be smacked across the face with a scarf, which Almost Homeless Dude had flicked at me, like a 10th grade boy smacking ass in the communal shower after gym class, in an effort to get my attention.

I whipped my head around and glared at him. He sort of chuckled and said, "oh, I'm so sorry," as if it had been an accident. I frowned. He tried to talk to me, saying things like, "oh, I see your ID badge, where do you work?" but I grunted one-word answers until I reached my stop and got off the bus.

And there isn't any grand point to this story. It's just an example of a random encounter that is a part of commuting on public transportation. One that I would never remember, if I didn't record it for posterity here on the internet.

And the day had been sort of random like that. I spent the day going from meeting to meeting, never quite getting my bearings with a big project -- just small encounters and questions that were unrelated. I felt kind of disjointed and off-kilter all day.

The day ended randomly as well.

I was lying in bed with Zeke, snuggling with him to help him get to sleep. He had been quiet for awhile, so I thought he was settling down and falling asleep. But I should have known better. My mother once remarked that when she thinks about Zeke she's reminded of those machines that measure brain activity -- the red areas show areas of heightened cerebral activity. She envisions Zeke's brain as all red, firing on all cylinders at all times.

I don't disagree.

We were lying there in the dark, quiet and cozy. Suddenly, he lifted his head and exclaimed, "Mama!" He sounded very excited.

"What is it, honey?" I asked.

"Mama! Have you ever heard of the number 139?"

I chuckled. "Yes, I have heard of that number."

"You have??" He seemed incredulous.

"Yes. I've pretty much heard of all the numbers."

"Oh." He sounded skeptical.

He put his head back down on the pillow, his little brain continuing to fire away. I put an arm over him and pulled him close.

Eventually we both fell asleep.

Me love you long time

2012-01-23T15:30:00.002-07:00

Let me start by saying that my mother is a highly intelligent, sophisticated, worldly individual. She is extremely well read and has traveled all over the world. I would never describe her as naive or sheltered.

Which makes this story that much funnier.

She's been away on business the past few weeks, traveling in China, Vietnam and Cambodia (there might be other places, but I don't remember). Mostly she worked, but from time to time she and her coworkers had a few hours here and there to do some shopping and sample the local culture.\

She arrived home and immediately called me. We usually speak on the phone at LEAST once a day, and we had only a brief 5 minute chat the entire 2 weeks she was gone, so we were jonesing for that mother-daughter connection. She was telling me about how the trip went, some random friend of my dad's that she ran into in the hotel restaurant in Cambodia, and the various tchotchkes she bought for the kids.

"Oh, and I got the cutest t-shirt in Beijing!"

"Oh, yeah? What does it look like?" I asked.

"It says 'I love BJ' on it, you know, with a heart. In honor of your dad."

Before your head explodes, let me clarify that my father's initials are "B.J."

"You bought a shirt that says 'I love BJ' on it?"

"Yeah, you know, 'BJ' for Beijing. Only really for your dad." She sounded very cute and proud. It made me sad to have to break it to her.

"Mom, if you wear that shirt in the United States, do you realize what people are going to think it means?"

"What? Uh-oh." Her voice took on a somber tone.

"'I love blow-jobs.'"

"Oh, no! Really? Come on!"

"Really."

"Dammit!"

"Yeah. But hey, you would have been really popular if you had worn it out in public!"

"That's really what it means?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Shit. I guess I'll just use it as a sleep shirt."

I think that would be best for everyone involved.

Or maybe I'll just get my dad one of those super-classy "Free Mustache Rides" shirts, and set them both loose on society.

Give me an earworm, toot suite!

2012-01-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

There's a lot of talk about tooting in my house. We're all quite adept at it, and we all think it's funny.

Immature, yes. But funny.

"Mama, I tooted," is uttered by one or both of the children multiple times a day, followed by giggles and exclamations of "that stinks!" from the non-perpetrator. I generally join in the giggles. And I've discovered that a sure-fire way to get my kids to pay attention and mind me in the morning is to talk in an accent like Borat's. I get far fewer objections and grumbles from them if, instead of saying, "come ON, for the fiftieth time, PUT ON YOUR UNDERPANTS!" I say, in a silly accent, "Come on-a, now, Meester Zeke, we need to put on your-a underpants (pronounced, AHN-dare-ponts), we need to-a cover up a-your tooty-booty."

Go ahead. Say "tooty-booty" in a vaguely Eastern-European-mixed-with-Father-Guido-Sarducci accent. It's fucking hilarious. The children giggle their butts off -- and are amazingly compliant.

So there's this song by Breathe Carolina, a local Denver band, that has received quite a bit of airplay in these parts. I have no idea if it's popular elsewhere in the country, but their song Blackout is on, like, all the time. And it's kind of catchy.

I spend virtually no time in the car, save for the 4 minute drives to drop the kids at school and then go back home to catch my bus. So I'm not really up on what's on the radio. But Jason does a fair bit of driving and generally pays more attention to what's on the radio than I do, so he's up on what the kids are listening to.* And one day when after he picked the kids up from school, they were driving around and Blackout came on the radio. It has a chorus that goes like this:

I’m only getting started, I won't blackout
This time I got nothing to waste
Let’s go a little harder
I’m on fire, I won't blackout
I’m on my way

So Jason, being Jason, cleverly replaced the lyrics thusly:

I think that Josie farted, she backed one out
It smells like poop in here
I think that Josie farted
She farted, it came out of her butt
We've gotta get away...

They proceeded to sing this for the next 30 minutes. They gleefully told me about it when they got home, and taught me the song as well.

It has now become something of a family anthem. When we hear the song on the radio, we automatically replace the lyrics. Quite honestly, I prefer them to whatever they're saying in the song.

The kids have even started singing it when they toot. The other day Josie was in another room.

"Mama!"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"I tooted, Mama!"

"That's wonderful, honey."

Then she starts singing. "I think Josie farted, she back one out, it smells like poop in here...*giggle giggle*"

That's my girl.

For your listening pleasure...and by all means, sing along and change it to the toot version. It's much more fun.

_________________________________________________________
*Not our kids, necessarily, just kids generally.

The Real World: Colorado

2012-01-03T12:50:00.001-07:00

This is the true story...of 4 people (well, mostly 3 of them) in a family...are forced to spend time together, all day, every day, for 10 days...here's what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting real.

[Various shots of Denver in rapid sequence, finally settling on a crooked shot of a dilapidated Victorian in Congress Park. LMFAO's Party Rock Anthem plays over the sequence]

Day 1: Everyone is happy and in a good mood. Whee! We're on vacation! We're heading to the mountains to see our cousins! We've never been to Carbondale! It's pretty! Yaaay!

Three hour car ride proceeds uneventfully. Kids sleep through much of it. We admire the scenery driving through Glenwood Canyon.

We arrive at the cousins' house, and Zeke and Josie reunite with the cousins' 2-year-old and everyone plays and has fun. We go for a walk down by the river. The children throw rocks and run around. We have the traditional Jewish Christmas eve dinner of Chinese food. Cousins are alarmed by how much Jason eats. "Welcome to my world," I tell them.

Cousins are slightly horrified by my childrens' bedtime habits, or lack thereof. Their kid goes to bed at 7:30. Our kids are still up and partying like rock stars at 9. I make them go to bed and we watch Bridesmaids. Josie and Zeke keep popping out of the room to try to join us. We finally get them to settle down.

[Shots of mountains, the town of Carbondale, and Aspen, especially women in ugly fur coats, leggings and boots, and horrifying plastic surgery. Pink's Stupid Girls plays.]

Mt. Sopris. Pretty.

Day 2: Christmas Day. As Jews, we do nothing to commemorate the holiday except to say, "hey, it's Christmas! Merry Christmas!" and then go about our day. The children play nicely. The guys take the kids into Aspen to go to a park. Cousin and I get some quiet time (she's 7 1/2 months pregnant and could use the rest). I exercise. We drive into Aspen to meet everyone.

Josie is fussy. Zeke is obnoxious. The guys seem harried. Aspen is vulgar. We go to lunch at a diner. We manage to contain the children long enough to scarf down a turkey reuben (me) and a club sandwich (cousin). The guys go skiing/snowboarding, and we take the kids home. Cousin's kid naps. Mine don't.

We walk by the river again. Kids play and wear themselves out, but the lack of naps means they are acting like assholes much of the time. We light Hannukah candles. We make lasagna for dinner. It is yummy. Zeke proclaims it to be the best thing he's ever eaten. Everyone is, again, astonished by Jason's ability to inhale ridiculous amounts of food. "Tell me about it," I say.

Bedtime. Cousin's kid passes out at 7:15 without a fuss. At 8:00, Zeke proceeds to have a total meltdown. He loses his shit. I lie down with him to try to calm him down and we all fall asleep at 8:30.

[Shots of kids sleeping, then slowly waking up. Shots of toys all over the floor. More mountain shots. Chorus of Rocky Mountain High plays.]

Day 3: Everyone wakes up happy, having gotten lots of sleep. The children play nicely together. Zeke tells his little cousin, "you're a really nice baby!" Josie pushes her doll stroller around. I take Zeke down by the river again so he can throw rocks and sticks. He digs this. We see a bald eagle flying around, which is really cool.

We pack up the car and head home. I can tell the cousins are happy to be rid of us and our noise.

The kids sleep on the drive home. The rest of the day we chill out, unpack, watch movies.

So far, so good, mostly. But the true test starts tomorrow, when Jason goes back to work.

[Shots of traffic on Colorado Boulevard, people walking in and out of the coffee shop on 12th Avenue, finally settling on the crooked shot of the dilapidated Victorian. Drake's Unstoppable plays.]

Day 4: Everyone sleeps in. We get up, have some breakfast, and watch some Pink Panther episodes on Netflix. We don't have diddly in the fridge, so I load the kids into the car and we go to Target to go grocery shopping. Josie sits in the seat part of the grocery cart, Zeke sits in the basket because all of the double-kid-seat carts are taken. He is remarkably good natured as I proceed to bury him in groceries, no doubt helped by the fact that I buy his cooperation with animal crackers and little mini boxes of goldfish. And a new box of crayons.

We head home and have lunch, then the kids are sent to their rooms for quiet time. Josie naps, Zeke hangs out on his bed and plays Angry Bird on his new Kindle Fire (a present from my mother -- doesn't every 4-year-old need one?), and I exercise. The day is going well.

Later we color and play with trains, then a friend of Zeke's stops by and invites us to go sledding, so we put on our snow gear and head out to the sledding hill.

We go home and light the Hannukah candles -- it's the 8th night so the menorah is full and beautiful.

Everyone is happy. I feel like a success as a mother.

Day 5: I've still got some tricks up my sleeve. We go to the indoor community pool, the one with the big water slide. Josie, who thinks she can swim even though she really can't, requires all of my attention, so Zeke ends up swimming much more independently than I would otherwise be comfortable with. He ends up going down the big water slide by himself a number of times and then swimming to the side of the pool alone - the first time he has ever done this.

We make it out of the rec center without anyone drowning.
[Neighborhood footage. Overcast skies. Eminem's Things Get Worse plays.]

Day6: The wheels start to fall off the wagon. Everyone is getting tired of being around everyone else. I try to rally the kids to do something -- anything -- but no one will get dressed and everyone is whining and no one wants to do much but lie around, watch TV, play on the Kindle and make a mess.

Both children are going through very bossy phases, particularly towards each other. At one point, Zeke is annoyed with Josie because he keeps telling her to do something and she won't.

"You're not her boss, Zeke. She doesn't have to do what you want. Stop ordering her around," I tell him.

"Go away, Zekey. Leave me alone," Josie says.

"Josie, stop telling people what to do!" Zeke yells.

He clearly has an under-developed sense of irony.

By late in the afternoon, I'm losing it. I'm supposed to go to a retirement party for a coworker, but Jason gets called out on an emergency job so I have to stay home with the kids. The one thing that I'm clinging to is Jason's promise to take the kids to Jump Street when he gets home so I can have my weekly banjo lesson without the monkeys interrupting me.

He walks in at 5:45. "Oh, man, I guess it's too late for Jump Street," he laments.

"Nooooo! Please! You have to take them out of here!" I'm practically in tears.

He does me a solid and hustles the kids out the door in under 15 minutes. I have a good lesson and I get some peace.

I'm all Scarlett O'Hara, thinking, "tomorrow is another day."

[Shots of cultural points around Denver - the zoo, City Park, Mile High Stadium, the Museum of Science and Nature. Howard Jones's Things Can Only Get Better plays.]

Day 7: Determined to avoid the disaster of the previous day, as soon as the kids are up and fed, I hustle them off to the science museum. We go see the real dinosaur exhibit, then look at the wild animal dioramas, then we go to the kids' center. They run around and play hard for 3 hours, then go home for lunch and a rest. Jason gets off work early, and my time as a stay-at-home mom officially comes to an end.

That night, one of the daycare teachers comes over to babysit and Jason and I go see The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. It's really great (the movie, too!).

Day 8: I had been planning to take a solo ski day, but the weather is shitty -- crazy gale force winds that end up forcing most of the ski resorts to close their lifts -- plus my uncle and his family are in town and invite us to have lunch with them at the Four Seasons. We take the kids and manage to eat and get out of the hotel without anyone getting injured or summoning the fire brigade.

That night it's New Year's Eve. We had been planning to go up to Frisco for the weekend to stay in a friend's condo, but the condo is under renovation so we can't use it. We go over and visit some friends in the neighborhood around dinner time, but go home at 7:30. Jason and I are asleep by 10:30. Woop-dee-freakin'-doo.

We do, however, manage to take a picture of us kissing for the cover of our 2011 yearbook. Every year since we've been married, we have made a yearbook and the cover shot has always been one of us kissing. This year, we had never taken a kissing shot, so we got it in under the wire.

[Interior shots of a messy house. Toys on the floor. Crumbs on the floor. Garbage pails needing to be changed. Matchbox 20's How Far We've Come plays.]

Day 9: Another write-off of a day. Nobody has slept well. Everyone is tired and grumpy. I try to clean the house. I spend all day cleaning, and every time I turn around, a child is making a mess behind me. Even when they're ostensibly trying to help. I clean the kitchen 3 times and it's still a mess.

I manage to get out of the house to pick up my new skis, which have been in the shop getting bindings put on. Come hell or high water, I am taking a ski day before going back to work.
[Shots of the Rocky Mountains and cars driving on the highway in the early morning. The end of Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech, where he says, "free at last" is playing in a voice-over.]

Day 10: I leave the house by 6 and get to Copper Mountain by 8. I have a cup of coffee and head out to the lift when it opens. I proceed to ski my ass off for the next 3 1/2 hours. The lift lines are non-existent and I rarely stop to rest, so I'm just going up and down and up and down the mountain. My new skis are awesome. I'm flying.

Heading up the Super Bee lift.

My legs turn to jelly by around 12:45, so I head back to the car and go home.

I'm happy to see my children again. We go for walks and watch football and get to bed early, ready to begin the new year in earnest.

[Shot of the kids under closing credits. Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World plays.]

Join me in getting my butt in gear (and smaller)

2011-12-23T14:14:00.001-07:00

One of the things I'm been trying to build my coaching business around is the concept of motivation - how to help people form healthy exercise and nutrition habits and to stay motivated to stick with them. I go through periods of struggling with motivation as much as the next person. My "down" periods tend to coincide with my depression cycles, so they're actually more difficult to battle because they're so chemically based. But at least I'm at the point of being able to recognize how I'm feeling, and I've developed strategies to help me push through the depression until the cycle passes.

Something that seems to help is to be very short-term-goal oriented. And I think people generally respond well to short-term challenges, so I've been putting together regular fitness challenges, every month or so, to help people focus on reaching their fitness goals. Some of them I participate in, others I just guide.

The next big one is one that I'm going to be doing along with my challengers - a 90 day New Year's resolution challenge involving a fitness program and replacing one meal a day with Shakeology. I've already filled up one challenge group of five participants, and I've got a couple of others on a waiting list -- if I get a few more, I'll do a second group.

I'm going to be doing P90X2. It's the follow up to P90X, and it's based on training techniques that the pros use - core and pelvic stability exercises, developing agility and explosive power. Becoming not just stronger and leaner, but a better athlete, with better range of motion and greater protection against injury. I figure it will help me become a better skier. Plus it's always fun to try a new program.

So I'm putting the word out here as well as on my coaching blog -- is one of your New Year's resolutions to get in shape? Would you like to give it a shot with the benefits of a structured program, a group of like-minded people encouraging and supporting you, and a coach (i.e., me) guiding the way? It's a proven formula -- everyone knows that exercise and proper eating are the keys to fitness, but what people don't often realize is that having the support of peers is equally important. People to cheer your triumphs, encourage you when you're feeling unmotivated, support you when you need a lift.

If you're ready to give it a shot (and really, if you don't do it now, when will you?), let me know. I would love to help you succeed.

You can't have everything... where would you put it?*

2011-12-21T10:06:00.000-07:00

We've reached that time of year when I'm hyper-aware of being different from the rest of society.

Not because I'm Jewish and I don't celebrate Christmas. I got over that a long time ago. In fact, I'm not sure it ever really bothered me at all.

No, it's because I hate the whole focus on buying shit and giving gifts.

Honestly, the last thing most of us need is more stuff.

I don't need chocolate or candies or baked goods wrapped up in celophane. I appreciate people's thoughtfulness, but I don't eat it. It goes in the office breakroom or in the trash.

I don't need tchotchkes or jewelry. I don't wear jewelry. I don't put out tchochkes (with a few exceptions -- love my Romanian pottery, mom!).

My children don't need more toys or electronics. (Clothes are a different story - they grow like weeds). They already have obscene quantities of *things* and they barely play with the stuff they have. Most of their toys end up with missing pieces or sit languishing in the bottom of a box.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not an ascetic. I like nice things and I am actively trying to grow a business so I can make more money. I'd like a newer car. Nothing flashy, but something that is newer than 11 years old (we don't have a car newer than that), so I'm not always waiting for the next thing to break and cost me a shit-ton on repairs. I'd like to be able to replace the windows on my house, because the old ones are ancient and barely functional. I'd like to get out of debt.

But the main thing I want is more time. More freedom. Time to read, time to practice my banjo, time to ski, time to spend with my children and my friends and my family. Freedom to travel or take classes or volunteer. I'm getting there, bit by bit, day by day. Not there yet, but I will be.

On that note, Happy Hannukah, all! I wish you health and happiness and joy and love and music and dancing and fun. Not so much on more stuff.

What about you? Do you get into the holiday gift-giving spirit, or are you a scrooge like me?

*This quote is from the comedian Stephen Wright.

Talk to me so you can see, oh, what's going on...

2011-12-19T21:35:00.003-07:00

"Hello... [tap tap tap] ... is this thing on?"

It's been a weird month or so. For a while I felt very fragmented and unfocused, largely because of depression cycle that I went through. But I powered through it and it passed, followed by a period of great clarity.

was

Like Thorough at Walden Pond, I'm trying to live deliberately. Which is great, in terms of my desire to focus on my goals and tackle them, and in particular build my coaching business.

But kind of boring in terms of any interesting resulting blog posts. I go through periods when every little thing that happens to me brings to mind a funny (I hope) or engaging way to tell a funny story in this space I'm occupying here. But right now is not one of those periods.

I did have a kickass ski day up at Copper Mountain last Friday. I was 10 minutes away from the mountain when I realized I had forgotten my ski boots.

"Fuck it, I guess I'm renting today."

Then I thought about the fact that my skis are 8 or 9 years old -- dinosaurs, in terms of the advances that have been made in ski design and technology lately. "Hell, if I'm going to rent, I might as well demo some new skis and see what all the fuss is about."

So the nice young hippie working at the ski shop fitted me out in a pair of brand new K2 Superburnins. And I proceeded to have the time of my life, while realizing what the fuss is indeed all about.

It's about precision and control.

I am a good athlete, and I am a decent skier, particularly given that I didn't learn how to do it until I was 28. And what I really like to do is go really fast down steep inclines. But I've always felt that notwithstanding my willingness to let myself fall down the mountain the way I do, I haven't been exactly safe -- I've had the sense of skirting a very fine line between fast, fun skiing and crashing horribly out of control.

No longer. On these skis, I was still really fast, but totally in control and carving turns in a way I've never been able to before. It was a totally different skiing experience.

I obsessed about the skis all day Saturday, doing Google searches and finding last year's model (which is essentially the same ski) for sale at a number of different places. Including one retailer in Seattle that was having a close-out on the skis in my size, which I guess isn't that popular a seller because I'm such a shrimp. What started out as a $850 pair of skis was eventually marked down to $370, by the time they took all the discounts at checkout.

So I bought them.

And was able to afford them because of my new-found focus on building my coaching business. I'm really, really determined to grow it to the point that in two years, I will be able to pay off all debts, fix up my million-year-old house, and no longer have to work full time if I don't want to. I've signed a bunch of new coaches recently and am very excited about helping them build *their* businesses so they can achieve their goals as well. It's pretty cool. And it's working - every month I earn more than the previous month, so I'm chipping away at my target, bit by bit.

You can read more about it here.

So that's what's going on with me lately.

Six years ago today...

2011-12-09T10:13:00.001-07:00

According to the interwebs, the traditional 6th anniversary gift is candy or iron. Random.

Or perhaps not. Because after 6 years, marriage can be sweet, or it can be very, very hard. Or both.

Free ranging right off the farm...

2011-11-30T12:07:00.001-07:00

I definitely subscribe to the parenting school of thought referred to by my friend Lisa as "benign neglect." I love my children, I care for them, I make sure they go to a good school, I feed them, I take them to museums and the zoo and the park and all that good stuff. But I do not hover. My kids can be upstairs when I am downstairs. They can be in the bathtub without me in the room. They can play in the back yard without my supervision. They can go to a friend's house or a birthday party without me staying. When they are 6, they will be allowed to fly unaccompanied to go visit their grandparents.

But the prevailing parenting ethos these days is very much counter to this philosophy. There seems to be a trend towards infantalizing children, insisting that every move they make be monitored and tracked and supervised, even for kids well into their teens.

And then people wonder why kids get to college and are incapable of fending for themselves or taking any responsibility for their actions.

I follow a blog called Free Range Kids, and the more I read, the more I resolve to allow my kids appropriate levels of independence, the freedom to explore and make mistakes and learn from them. It's how I was raised, and I firmly believe that it's the way to go.

I'm kind of bummed that I wasn't awake during a recent episode which might have tested my resolve.

My parents live on a decent-sized plot of land set back from the road in a very quiet and safe neighborhood. And the weather in DC last week was lovely -- a bit rainy and damp early on -- but perfectly suited to playing outside, especially if playing in the mud is your thing. So the kids played outside and enjoyed accompanying us on walks around the neighborhood, including a very short loop that leaves via the front of my parents's house and then follows the sidewalk around to a quiet road that goes along the back of their property, where you can cut back into the yard.

Zeke was allowed to play outside by himself to his heart's content, with the caveat that he needed to tell us where he was and stay in the yard (which is huge, so this was not an onerous request). But he was really enjoying being outside by himself and having all that woodsy space to roam in (we live in the city, so our yard is postage-stamp-sized and mostly covered with brick patio stones). So knowing the little out-the-front-of-the-house-around-the-sidewalk-in-the-back-yard loop, he took a little stroll.

But didn't tell anyone where he was going.

I was taking a nap with Josie at the time, so I missed all the hubbub. But Jason kind of freaked. Zeke was home shortly thereafter, being "escorted" by a neighbor who was driving by -- the neighbor wisely didn't invite him into the car, but ascertained where he was going and then drove alongside of him as he walked.

Everyone told me about it afterwards when I woke up, and I guess they expected me to be all upset. But I really wasn't. I talked to Zeke and told him that he needed to tell a grownup before he goes outside, and definitely if he's going to go for a walk, but my immediate thought was that Zeke isn't stupid (and in fact, he's both incredibly smart AND very cautious and thoughtful with regard to his own safety). The neighborhood is quiet and safe and there's virtually no traffic, and he knew where he was going and was never in any danger.

Yes, four is a little young to be going off on walks alone, if only because he is not quite able to control his urge to throw things into the street (like rocks, which could hit cars, which could cause damage and piss off drivers). But I was secretly kind of proud of his desire for, and enjoyment of, a little bit of independence.

When I was little, I walked to school by myself at the age of 6 (and was responsible for escorting my 5 year old little brother). All my other friends did, too. It was not a big deal at all. I flew alone on an international flight when I was 5. Throughout my childhood and my teens, I was given enormous freedom by my parents, who raised me to have common sense and then trusted me to use it.

I would like to impart that same gift to my children, the judgment of the helicopter parents of my generation be damned. The world is a much safer place than most people are willing to acknowledge. And life is much more fun and enjoyable when you don't approach it with the assumption that there is evil and awfulness around every corner.

Are you a "free range" parent? Do you think I'm nuts? What were you allowed to do as a kid that you would never let your kids do today?

The goats in the vicinity were disappointed

2011-11-29T10:43:00.001-07:00

Our Thanksgiving travel last week provided an unexpected - and much welcome - glimmer of the light at the end of the tunnel. Since having children, and particularly since having two, the mere thought of navigating an airport and getting through security and surviving a plane ride has filled me with dread. First, there's the sheer amount of stuff that you have to take - diapers and wipes and toys and books and sippy cups and snacks and car seats - that is overwhelming. And then you're dealing with one kid running one way while the other runs the other, or someone doesn't want to sit in the stroller, or someone decides they have to go potty when you're in the middle of a 25 minute security line, or someone runs around the scanner and causes a TSA agent to have a stroke, or someone jumps on the luggage carousel because it seems like the fun thing to do. Either that, or you're waiting for one of things to happens - so the kids could be perfectly well-behaved but you're still all stressed out because the other shoe always feels like it's on the verge of dropping.

But Josie is now two, and her language and socialization are both developing at an amazing pace, so I can give her an instruction and she a) understands me, and b) knows how to comply. And Zeke is a full-on, intelligible, semi-rational person, particularly in his response to threats and/or bribery ("if you don't behave on the plane, we're not going to the Air and Space Museum tomorrow"). So all of a sudden, traveling with them isn't so terrible. It's still not great -- there's still all the stuff, and there's always the possibility of a meltdown -- but we're getting closer to the point of being able to count on them to behave.

Plus, we were flying Frontier, which has individual TV monitors for each seat, and for $6, you can get DirecTV for the entire flight.

"Aw, pretty please?"

I said to Jason, "I'll happily pay $6 to get some kid's show that will keep them quiet during the flight."

"Oh, hell yes. If it would keep them quiet and occupied, I'd blow a goat."

Lucky for Jason, such extreme measures were unnecessary.

The month in review; also, go the fuck to sleep

2011-11-14T12:32:00.001-07:00

I know that I am in the minority in that most Mondays, I am thrilled to come back to work after the weekend. I like the structure of getting up and having a schedule to maintain and someplace to go. Because outside of work, life is very chaotic. I am tired.

First I was sick. Then I got better, but we had the kids' parent-teacher conferences. Josie's went fine - she's right on track, everyone loves her, she's a delight to have in class, blah blah blah.

Zeke's was more unnerving. Apparently, he's smart as hell ("scary smart" was how the director of the school described it) and doing fine in all areas of development except for social-emotional. The teacher is concerned because occasionally he has bad temper tantrums. (Um, he's four?) So she recommended I have him evaluated.

First, this was a total surprise. Sure, there have been days when the daily progress report was, "he didn't have a great day," but that's true of everyone from time to time. Mostly, the reports are all good. Second, I've been practicing special education law for 12 years, so I know a little bit about evaluations.

"OK," I said. "What sort of evaluation should I seek out? Do you think he has an emotional disability? Should I take him to a psychologist?"

"No, I don't think so. But I couldn't really say what kind of evaluation to get. I think you should have him assessed by an occupational therapist."

"Why an OT? Wouldn't an OT look at sensory issues or gross or fine motor skills? I don't understand what an OT has to do with evaluating emotional or behavioral concerns."

She couldn't really explain it further. So I went home frustrated and upset.*

Then we had the craziness of Halloween to deal with. Which was awesome, but not exactly relaxing. Zeke and Josie both decided to go as pirates (or rather, Zeke was a pirate, and Josie wanted to do what Zeke did). So I'm all ready to go with their costumes for the Halloween parade at school, except that Zeke announces, "I want to be a gorilla for Halloween." Mind you, this is maybe 10 minutes before we're ready to leave for school on Halloween day.

"No. You said you wanted to be a pirate, so I've got a pirate costume for you. I don't have a gorilla costume."

"Oh. You don't have a gorilla costume?"

He has a habit of taking the last thing I say and turning it into a question. "No."

"Why?"

This is also par for the course. "Because. Now here's your sword and your eyepatch."

I am nothing if not full of rational explanations.

So they put their costumes on and looked all adorable and then had an absolute blast when we went trick-or-treating that night. Seriously, Zeke was so damned happy I thought his head was going to explode. Josie was bored with her costume at that point, so she went sans. But they still killed with the cute, knocking on doors and yelling "TRICK-OR-TREAT!" and then giggling and saying "thank you" 85 times.

Josie went as a beat poet.

Then two days later I went to Omaha, Nebraska, for a legal conference. Which was fine, except that I've essentially been to the same conference twice already this year. I mean, literally, the same presenters doing the same presentations with the same handouts. But at least I got two nights in a hotel room to get caught up on horrendously bad reality TV (Braxton Family Values makes Jersey Shore look like Masterpiece Theatre) and sleep without anyone waking me up in the middle of the night or wanting me to snuggle with them so that their night-time pull-ups then leaked pee all over me.

Then two nights later we were headed to IKEA to get Zeke's new big boy bed. We drove the SUV and went down to Jason's office in Littleton to pick up the Civic, where he had left it because he drove his work van home. We found the Civic and turned off the truck while Jason found his keys and we prepared to move a booster seat because Zeke wanted to ride with Daddy. When I tried to turn the truck back on, it wouldn't start.** So we all piled into the tiny little Civic and went to IKEA anyway, because Zeke needed a bed. By the time we got home and I started to put the bed together (I am the designated assembler of furniture in the family, which is fine because I love doing it), it was 8:15 p.m. And whereas most pieces of IKEA furniture are really easy to put together, this one presented more of a challenge. So it was 11:15 by the time I was finished and Zeke and I could both go to bed.

Touche', Kura bed. Touche'. Fucker.

The one bright spot in the last few weeks was this past Friday, when I had my first Friday flex day of ski season. Copper opened a couple of weeks ago, and only a few trails and runs are open, but it was still a blast. I went with my friend Christin and her kids, and it was a beautiful day and the conditions were pretty decent. I found that all the weight training I've been doing has made me really strong, so I had none of the initial wobbliness in my legs as I got used to using them on really steep inclines. Christen even suggested that I enter some ski races. The truth is, I ski really fast because I'm not as safe as I should be -- I tend to skirt the line between being speedy and hurtling downhill out of control. But I'm intrigued by the notion of entering a race, especially if it means I have an excuse to wear one of those funky racing suits that looks like it's covered with spider webs.

But then I spent the weekend being sick again. The top of my windpipe is sore and tickly, so I'm constantly coughing and I sound all frog-y. It would have been really nice to get a decent night's sleep before heading back to work.

Alas, this was last night:

9:00 p.m. - I lie down with Josie in her bed (which is a junior bed, so it's both shorter and narrower than a twin) and we read Goodnight Moon. Then we both fall asleep.
12:20 a.m. - I wake up all achy because I'm asleep with my ribs pressing on the thin wooden frame on the side of her bed. I get up to go back to my own bed. Josie wakes up and starts to cry. I figure, "sorry, hon, you're on your own," and I go to bed in my room.
12:45 a.m. - she's still crying. I go into her room and she's standing in the middle of the room, in the dark, sobbing, "Mama! Maaamaaaa!" I pick her up and take her back to bed with me. She promptly snuggles in and falls asleep.
1:30 a.m. - I'm still awake. Zeke wakes up and starts crying, which is odd for him. I wait to see if he'll put himself back to sleep.
1:50 a.m. - Zeke's still crying. I go to his room and climb up into the bunk with him. His bed's a twin, so there's actually room for both of us. He puts his head on my shoulder and calms down a little bit. "What's the matter, sweetie?" I ask. When the crying has diminished so that he can speak articulately, he says, "I neeeed a hu-u-uuug." So I give him a hug. He promptly calms down and falls asleep on my shoulder. I nod off as well.
5:00 a.m. - Jason gets up and starts getting ready for work.
5:30 a.m. - I get up and start getting ready to exercise.
5:45 a.m. - Josie wakes up and starts to cry. "Get up?" she says. "No, sweetie, you need some more sleep." "Snuggle mama." So I bag my workout and get back into bed with her.

So, yeah. I'm a little tired. Thankfully, I work through Thursday, Friday I'm giving a short speech in the morning, and then I'm off for the Thanksgiving holiday. We fly to DC on Sunday, where we will spend the holiday with my parents, my brothers and their significant others, and my nieces. On the agenda are hockey games, visits with friends and cousins, the Day After Thanksgiving Pie, the Turkey Trot, football, and much fun and merriment.

Six more sleeps. That is, assuming my kids allow it.
________________________________
*I emailed Zeke's pediatrician when I got home. She said that she's never seen anything in him that gave her any kind of concern, and that she suspects that he's just highly intelligent and his maturity level hasn't caught up with the rest of his brain, which is not unusual for super-smart kids. I love her. I also talked to the director of the school, who agreed with the pediatrician. Which begs the question of why I was referred to child find if no one suspects him of having a disability, but whatever. In any event, I'll have him screened, but I think it's a load of bullshit.

**We got it back $1600 and a new fuel pump later...

My (admittedly lame) excuse is that my defenses were down

2011-10-26T11:06:00.000-06:00

The past week has been kind of a nightmare, with some points of light thrown in, in the form of my parents' visit and Zeke's birthday party. To which I forgot to take my camera and thus got no pictures. Pfft.

So last Wednesday I was in the middle of doing a workout and holding 25 pounds weights in each hand while bending forward at the waist. It's a hamstring exercise - you keep your back flat and let your legs do all the work as you lift and lower your torso. And I was maintaining proper form, not even letting my arms dangle, but rather keeping them slightly engaged so as not to pull on my back too much. But then all of a sudden I felt a little pull right in the middle of my back on the left side, about level with the bottom of my shoulder blade, and then the rest of my torso started to spasm and I couldn't move without excruciating pain.

I put my weights down and managed to find an ice pack in the freezer and lie down on it on the couch. Jason brought me a bunch of Advil and an Aleve, so I took them and waited for the pain to subside while I worried about how I was going to function over the next couple of days.

Finally the medicine kicked in and I was able to get around without doubling over in pain every few seconds, so I showered and dressed and got the kids off to school.

The next two days were spent at a big annual convention for all of the state special education directors. I gave a speech on Thursday, which went fine, but Thursday night I started feeling a tickle in my throat and Friday my tonsils and my neck glands were definitely acting up. I went to the conference for a little while, but by around 11 a.m. I was feeling really shitty and I didn't really need to stay, so I went home.

My parents arrived a couple of hours later, to spend Zeke's birthday weekend with us. Unfortunately, I spend the bulk of the time feeling crappy and lying on the couch, nursing a virus that mimicked strep in every regard -- extremely painful sore throat, swollen glands, and fever -- but wasn't *actually* strep, meaning that the doctor wouldn't give me any antibiotics for it. Plus my strained back muscle was still acting up, so I was a pathetic mess. I felt well enough to make it to Zeke's party on Sunday morning, which was really fun -- we went to a little dinosaur museum over in Morrison that has great hands-on exhibits and activities for kids -- but by the end of the weekend I was spent.

Monday I stayed home from work and slept and caught up on my DVR'd shows. Jason went to work, but also had a court date at 1:15 in Jefferson County because he got pulled over a couple of months ago for having expired tags - I thought he had renewed them and he thought I had. No big deal, right? All he had to do was show up with the renewed registration and maybe pay a little fine.

Now, I've mentioned in the past that Australians in general, and my husband in particular, are notorious practical jokers. And I grew up in a family of bullshit artists, so I tend to be pretty good at ferreting out the nonsense.

But I guess I was tired. And in pain. And grumpy.

And thus obviously unprepared when I received this text message from Jason approximately 5 minutes after he was due in court: "$1000 and 10 days jail"

Because I freaked.

If someone were telling me a story like this about someone else, I would have been all, "Oh, ha ha, good one."

But Jason has a history of getting kicked around by law enforcement. So my initial reaction was, "NO! WHAT THE FUCK?? REALLY??" followed by furious efforts to call him. But he didn't pick up his phone and I got more and more worked up and finally I just called the court.

CLERK: Hello, Jefferson County Court, Criminal and Traffic Division.

ME: Yeah, hi. Uh, my husband had a court date this morning for a traffic ticket and I was just trying to find out what was going on with his case.

[I give her the ticket number.]

CLERK: Yep, here it is. Looks like the DA dismissed it.

ME: Really? I'm so confused. I got a text from my husband saying that he was assessed a huge fine and jail time, and I don't get it because it doesn't seem like failing to renew your registration on time would be a jailable offense.

CLERK: Ma'am, I think he was just messing with you.

Ya think??

Goodnight, nobody

2011-10-18T01:25:00.000-06:00

Josie threw herself out of her crib last week, so last Friday I went to IKEA and got her her birthday present from her grandparents - new big girl (or should I say, little girl) furniture. She and Zeke both love it so every night we sit on the couch in her room, turn off the overhead light, turn on the little pink flower light over her bed, and read books together.

It really is a different room now. It flows better, it's more comfortable. I don't know anything about feng shui, but my sense is, this room has it. With the new furniture and new layout, everyone wants to be in there.

Last night's book selection was Goodnight, Moon. Josie loves the part about "goodnight, mush" because she thinks the word "mush" is hilarious, and the part about the old lady whispering "hush," because we love to whisper the word "hush" together.

When we got to the end, "goodnight noises everywhere," Josie looked at the picture, with everything dark and quiet, the little rabbit asleep, and the old lady gone from her chair, and said, "where's the old lady?"

"She must have gone to her room to go night-night," I surmised. Josie pondered that for a couple of seconds.

Then Zeke said, "I think she passed away," and cracked up laughing. Josie started giggling and saying, "passed away! Passed away!"

I totally lost it, and soon all three of us were laughing uncontrollable.

Poor old lady. And poor me, because clearly, neither of these goofy monkeys was going to sleep any time soon.

Here's what I've been up to...

2011-10-14T07:00:00.000-06:00

Today I finish a 90-day exercise program. It is by far my favorite of all the Beachbody programs I've ever done -- and that's saying something. Read all about (including before-and-after pics of me in a bathing suit) here.

And if it means I must prepare to shoulder burdens with a worried air, I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up, not me.

2011-10-13T09:48:00.001-06:00

"Mama?"

"Yes, Zekey?"

"It's hard to be little. I don't want to be a kid."

"You don't? What do you want to be?"

"I want to be a man like Daddy."

"Well, you'll get there someday. You're growing and you'll keep growing and someday you'll be like Daddy."

"Yeah."

"In the meantime, you get to do all kinds of fun things like play with your friends, and ride your bike, and learn how to swim, and learn how to read. You've got some really cool stuff going on."

"Yeah."

"But I know that things are hard sometimes and that it can be scary to be little. But you know what? It's hard to be a grownup, too."

"It is???"

"It really is."

"Why?"

"Well, because Daddy and I have lots of things that we have to take care of. We have to go to work so that we can have enough money to pay for our house and our cars and stuff. We have to make sure that you and Josie have clothes and food and toys, and we have to make sure you're safe."

"And you need to buy dinosaur shoes."

"Well, Papa takes care of that for you, but we have to buy other stuff."

"Like bananas."

"Yep. And underpants."

"And oranges, too, right, Mama?"

"All kinds of food."

"And toothbrushes."

"And washcloths."

He snuggled into my arm.

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, sweet boy."

Guest Blog: It Ain't Just About Fitting Into Your Skinny Jeans

2011-10-11T14:55:00.002-06:00

I received an email this morning from a guy who found my fitness blog and was interested in guest-posting an article about the importance and benefits of physical fitness for cancer patients (or cancer survivors). I think it's an incredibly important message, so I decided to post the article on this blog as well. I've had so many acquaintances, friends and relatives suffer with or die of cancer lately, it's a subject that is very much on my mind these days.

Physical Fitness and Cancer
~ by David Haas
Almost everyone can improve his or her life with a moderate, consistent physical fitness program. The physiological and psychological benefits from physical fitness simply cannot be overstated. As the treatment for and prognosis of cancer patients has greatly improved over the last decade, it has become clear that physical fitness can greatly improve the quality of life and energy levels of cancer survivors. There are two different types of physical fitness. Aerobic activity requires oxygen and helps build up stamina and endurance. Aerobic activities include walking, jogging, riding a bike and hiking. The second type of physical fitness is referred to as anaerobic. Anaerobic exercise includes weightlifting and stretching. These activities increase strength and flexibility.

According to the National Cancer Institute, research indicates that physical activity after a diagnosis of breast cancer may be beneficial in improving quality of life, reducing fatigue and assisting with energy balance. Physical fitness may be an important component of lymphoma treatment, mesothelioma treatment and the treatment of a number of different types of cancer. Physical fitness may also benefit survivors of mesothelioma, lymphoma and prostate, testicular and colorectal cancers after their disease has went into remission.

The physiological benefits of physical fitness include:

1. Increased blood flow to the extremities and improved circulation

2. Increased levels of energy

3. Increased levels of strength

4. Improved stamina and endurance

5. Improved oxygen utilization

6. Decreased level of fatigue daytime exhaustion
The psychological health of anyone going through cancer diagnosis, treatment and remission can be severely challenged. Let's face it, cancer of any type is a very frustrating and scary disease. In those who survive, the psychological toll that the disease has on their minds can linger for years. The psychological benefits of physical exercise in cancer survivors include, but are not limited to:
1. Decrease in levels of anxiety

2. Decrease in levels of feelings associated with depression

3. Increase in feelings of inner strength and well-being

4. Decreased stress and tension

5. Decreased levels of insomnia and daytime fatigue

Of course, I recommend checking with your primary care physician or oncologist before beginning any exercise routine. This is extremely important because there are some inherent risks with physical fitness and the general health of a person with cancer can certainly be compromised. Physical Fitness can certainly be a beneficial component of any cancer treatment program and can also help the person who has survived cancer.

Take care of yourselves, people.

Aussie Word of the Day: Motivational edition

2011-10-06T13:59:00.000-06:00

**Just a little warning -- this is kind of a long one. You might want to go pee or top off your coffee before you start reading.**

Pull your finger out: Aussie for "get on with it; stop wasting time."* Shortened form of "pull your finger out of your ass" (apparently, having your finger up your ass interferes with efficiency).

It's been an insane week. Things are really busy at work and I'm doing this big 90 day push to grow my Beachbody business that involves weekly webinars and daily check-ins with an accountability partner (who is awesome -- hi Ferreh!!) and I'm trying to plan Zeke's birthday party and make it fun without being too too much and this weekend is Yom Kippur and next weekend we're going to a wedding reception and I've got a presentation that I'm doing at a big statewide conference and holy shit.

On the plus side, ski season starts in less than a month, and opening day at Copper Mountain coincides with a flex day, so I've got that to look forward to.

So yesterday at 6:15 in the morning I was in my room doing a workout -- I was in the middle of a set of pushups, to be exact -- when Jason walked in. This was a bit of a shock, considering that he had left for work an hour before.

He's been having some problems with one of the guys on the job -- a former friend (Greg) who was promoted to foreman and immediately turned into a raging asshole at the first whiff of power. Screaming, yelling, swearing at people -- just generally being incredibly abusive and awful to the guys on the job, and given that the construction industry is notorious for treating guys like dog shit, it's saying something that this guy's behavior really went above and beyond. Everybody hated him, everybody was miserable. Jason would tell him to back off and watch his mouth, and Greg tended to tone it down somewhat with Jason, but he was still a major douchebag.

Apparently, a couple of days ago, it got really, really bad. Guys were completely up in arms, an apprentice was so mad he was throwing things, and the entire job site was tense and miserable. So Jason went to have a talk with the head of the company. In a very calm and rational way, he explained what was going on and that it was negatively impacting everyone, that if the yelling and screaming was meant to be some kind of motivational tool, it was having the opposite effect, and that if something didn't change, guys would be leaving en masse. The boss, being an asshole himself, kind of blew it off and insinuated that Jason was being a pussy and just couldn't take the heat.

This is pretty much par for the course. This company is awful -- they don't pay shit, they provide no benefits, they insist guys work overtime and then mysteriously have "payroll problems" that cause the overtime pay to be absent from paychecks. They suck. And in a non-union state like Colorado, there's very little recourse. It's a tough economy, everyone's grateful to have a job, so the companies make the guys eat shit because they can -- they hold all the cards.

Fight the power, yo.

So yesterday morning, Jason made the decision -- probably not so smart in hindsight -- to try to have a calm discussion with Greg and explain why his behavior was inappropriate and counterproductive. Greg responded by yelling and screaming at Jason, getting up in his face. Jason responded, "Fuck you." Greg said, "you just quit." So Jason came home.

Notice how Greg immediately framed it (and subsequently put it in an email to the boss) that Jason had quit, rather than been fired? So as to set up a factual dispute that would make it harder for Jason to file an unemployment claim?

Evil fuckers.

Anyway, I'm literally mid-pushup when Jason walks into the room. And I'm continuing to do pushups while trying to talk to Jason to figure out what happened. This is difficult enough, but Jason was so angry and shaking and freaked out that it was hard for him to even form a sentence, so I told him to go downstairs and make some coffee and calm down and I'd be there to talk to him in a few minutes after I finished my workout.

We sat in the living room.

"So what happened?"

"I tried to talk to him, but he kept getting in my face and I just snapped. I just can't take being treated like that anymore."

"Well, I know you hate it there, and I don't want to pile on, but we can't afford for you to be out of work right now. We're operating on a razor-thin margin as it is."

"I know. I know. I'll find another job."

"Is there any way you can go back?"

"I can't. I just can't." He was practically in tears.

I nodded, took a deep breath and got up and went into the next room. I got a pad of paper and a pen out of a drawer and brought them to him.

"OK. Then here's what you're going to do. Write down the name of every single person you can think of that might be able to help you find a new job. Call Steve [the guy who has done a bunch of work on our house] -- maybe he knows somebody or needs some electrical work on some of his jobs. Vicki manages a bunch of properties -- call her. Joe manages a company that does residential electrical stuff -- give him a call. Guys you've worked with. That friend of my dad's. That placement guy that keeps calling you. I'll put the word out to everyone I know and also see if anyone needs any odd jobs done." He started writing and I continued to rattle off names, which then went on the list. "Now start calling, texting, and emailing. We need the money, so start hustling. Everything's going to be fine, but you need to focus. Pull your finger out and get it done."

And he did. He made some calls and sent some texts. We got the kids up and took them to school, and then he drove me to work. By the time he dropped me off, he had already gotten the names of some companies that were hiring and had an interview lined up. I was giving him a pep talk and helping him plan his day, and he was feeling much better.

"This is awesome. You're really amazing," he told me.

"You married the right woman," I agreed, and I gave him a kiss, got out of the car and went up to my building.

Within an hour, 6 people in my office had responded to an email I sent out, telling me that they had electrical work they needed done but didn't know anyone reputable to call. By 10 in the morning, he had another job interview lined up and side jobs to take him through the weekend. And this morning, he's already had two calls from companies that got his name from friends of his. So we're thinking that he'll have something solid lined up soon.

In the meantime, he and I have been texting back and forth. I've been trying to give him little e-pep talks. At one point, he texted me back: "Tony Robbins called. He wanted me to tell you to to back the fuck off."

I don't know. I may be on to something.
________________________________________________
* I know this expression isn't used only by Aussies, but I never really heard it used in great abundance until I married Jason. In the U.S., people tend to use the entire phrase, i.e., "pull your finger out of your ass." But Aussies feel compelled to abbreviate and shorten everything, so I feel like "pull your finger out" is the Aussie-fied version.

Someday she'll make a great Jewish mother

2011-10-03T13:47:00.000-06:00

Josie is going through a massive language explosion all of a sudden. It's been building slowly for a while -- she's been picking up new words and figuring out how to use them -- but in the past week or so she has been putting sentences together and really expressing herself.

It's so awesome. One of the most amazing things about living with the short people (TM Elizabeth) is watching their language acquisition, both because it is fascinating to see it in action and also because when kids start to talk, that's when they get exponentially more fun and interesting (in my opinion).

This huge change has coincided with Josie's move from the Twinkles class to the Little Dippers* class -- she is now with kids who are talking more than the kids she had been with, and the curriculum is more advanced and language-based. And she's doing great -- every day when we pick her up, all we get are reports about how engaged she is and how much fun she has.

But -- and again, this is not unexpected or atypical -- she's still struggling with the transition. She was with the Twinkles for a year and the teachers were wonderful and warm and cuddly and sweet, and by the end of her time there, she was unquestionably the queen bee, so it was a hard place to leave.

And she obviously thinks about it a LOT. Because yesterday, as we were heading downstairs to do something, she said to me, "Mama, I don't want Dipper. I not Dipper."

"Really, honey?"

"Mm-hmmm. I not Dipper."

"What are you, then?"

"I go Twinkle. I a Twinkle."

"Oh. Well, that's interesting." I refused to confirm her view of the world, but it also did not strike me as worthy of an argument, so I was non-commital.

"I not a Dipper, Mama. I a Twinkle. Okay? Okay??"

"Hmmmm. Well, we'll see, baby. We don't have to worry about it right now."

She wasn't assuaged.

"Mama! I not Dipper. I go Dipper and I cry. Okay? I cry!"

This seriously went on for the next hour. She was determined to have her point heard, particularly the part about the crying.

It started again when we pulled up at the school when I was dropping the kids off. I got Josie out of her car seat and was carrying her into the building when she reminded me, "I not a Dipper, Mama."

And when we turned to go into the Dipper room, she lost her shit. Her whole face crumbled and she buried it in her hands. "Nooo! No Dippers! Noooooo!"

She did indeed cry, just as she promised.

I gave her a big hug and a kiss and assured her that she would be fine. Her teacher, Miss Jessica (who is great), took her and did the same. Zeke and I left and went to his classroom to deposit him for the day.

By the time I came out of Zeke's room 5 minutes later, Josie had stopped crying. Because after all, if I wasn't there to witness it, what was the point?

The girl's got a great future in piling on the guilt.
_________________________________________
*Her school is called "Bright Star," and the different classrooms all have star-related names. The Twinkles are the 1-year-olds, the Little Dippers are the 2-year-olds and the Cosmos (where Zeke is) are the 3-5 year olds.

Reminders

2011-09-27T15:02:00.003-06:00

Some years ago -- at least 4 -- I created an account at a website that sends out birthday reminders for anyone whose birthday you want to remember. I put in everyone I know, or at least whose birthdays I know. And then promptly forgot about it and never logged in again.

So now I get these reminders from time to time to send birthday cards or emails or whatever when someone whose information I entered has a birthday coming up.

This morning I got an email reminding me that my grandmother Ruth's birthday is next week. She would have been 92 on October 4. (I got one for Leo around his birthday as well.)

It still feels strange to not have my maternal grandparents around, when they were such a big part of my life until my late 30s. Even when I didn't see them as often as I wanted to, I talked to them all the time. Even when they weren't with me, they were with me.

So I guess I could log on to that website and update the information. But I don't want to. I like remembering.

Grandma Ruth with baby me (2 1/2 months old). We were living in Cyprus (where I was born)
and my grandparents came over to meet me.

Dear 2-year old monkey

2011-09-26T13:40:00.001-06:00

Dearest Josie, my little bean, you turned 2 years old this past Saturday. And man, are you going through some major changes. After transitioning into your new class (the Dippers) over the past couple of weeks, today was the big day that when we went into school, I dropped you off in Miss Jessica's class instead of with Miss Cindy and Miss Francine. To say that you were not happy about this, despite having had a grand time in Miss Jessica's class during your recent visits, would be a gross understatement. You cried and cried and reached for me when I left in a way you never do when you go to school. But you're a tough little cookie, not one to dwell on the negative, and I'm sure that after 10 minutes you were your normal smiling self again.

It's hard to believe how big you're getting. Of course, "big" is a relative term, because you're still the peanut-iest little peanut who ever peanutted. Though you're tall-ish for your age, you're barely on the weight chart, yet to crack the 23 pound mark while your contemporaries are approaching the high 20s and even low 30s. But you are coordinated and agile, so even though you're a bitty thing, your confidence of movement and your level of comfort in your body makes you seem older. Plus you're fearless when it comes to physical endeavors, so we know you'll master the Skuut that Daddy and I got you for your birthday in no time.

Though you could use an extra inch or two of leg.

Your birthday itself was a blast, and we're thrilled that you had so much fun at your party. We kept it mellow and did it at the house, but we rented a bouncy house and your friends came over and you jumped and colored and played and giggled. Just as it should be.

You were a bit overwhelmed when everyone started singing to you, even though "Happy Birthday" is one of your favorite songs.

The art activities included drawing on your face and arms. But you're still gorgeous.

Sidewalk chalks - the perfect end to a perfect party.

Last night we concluded the weekend by snuggling in the bed in your room as I sang you to sleep. But you weren't that interested in sleeping right away, so we had some hilarious exchanges.

"Song about 'raff, Mama?"

"You want me to sing you a song about a giraffe?"

"Yah."

"Um... I don't know any giraffe songs. How about other animals?"

So you started to name other animals. "Turtle.... elephant ... lion..."

"Hmm, songs about a lion..." I said.

And when I said "lion," you said, "RROAAWRR!"

We giggled and roared at each other.

Then a light bulb moment. "I know a song about a frog!"

So I started to sing Froggy Went A-Courtin'.

Mr. Froggy went a-courtin' and he did ride, mm-hmm, mm-hmm...

And when I mentioned Mr. Froggy, you said, "ribbit, ribbit."

Which made me laugh and feel the need to give you a squeeze at the same time.

I kept singing.

He said, 'Miss Mouse would you marry me, mm-hmm, mm-hmm...

And upon hearing the word "mouse," you said, "squeak, squeak..."

We continued in that vein for awhile, and finally you settled down.

"Night-night, JoJo," I whispered as I put you in your crib.

"Night-night, Mama," you whispered back, and you rolled over and went to sleep.

I love you like crazy, my brave, tough, funny, sweet little girl. I feel privileged that you're my daughter and that I get to continue to watch you grow and change over the coming years.

Love,

Mama

Milestones and realizations

2011-09-19T21:49:00.001-06:00

"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. William Blake."

"Whaddaya mean, 'William Blake'?!?"

"I mean, 'WILLIAM BLAKE'!"

-- Annie Savoy and Crash Davis in Bull Durham.

By the time they hit my age, most people have a fairly set concept of themselves -- what they're like, their defining characteristics, who they are. And I am certainly no exception.

But like most people, my self-assessment is undoubtedly skewed. I cultivate an aura of confidence and brashness, sometimes to the point of starting to believe my own hype. But in truth I am far less confident than I project to the world. And for all my snarkiness, I detest detached irony and am far more sentimental and earnest than I tend to let on.

I mention this because I have recently been making a concerted effort to get control of my life -- to figure out what parts of it make me happy, what parts don't, what priorities and goals I want to achieve, and how. And the way I have gone about figuring this out and taking steps to move forward are so unlike me -- or at least, unlike the type I play in my head -- that it's kind of freaking me out a little bit. But in a good way.

I am so not the type to read self-help or personal development type books. In addition to the fact that I'm a literature snob, and books like that tend to be horribly pedestrian in their writing style, my sense has always been that there really isn't anything new under the sun and that in order to achieve your goals, just decide what you want to do and do it. I don't need anybody to tell me that. And all the rah-rah bullshit -- or what I perceive to be rah-rah bullshit -- of people like Tony Robbins or whoever is so not me.

But. But but but but but...

Sometimes the trick isn't just knowing that in order to get somewhere, you have to figure out your direction and then start the journey. It's clearing away all the clutter in your head and getting organized enough to even find the road. Or the car. And that's where I was having trouble.

What with the kids being as young and demanding as they are, and Jason working nights for the past 7 weeks or so, and work being crazy and money being tight and trying to manage a full-time job while also trying to figure out how to grow my Beachbody business, to say that I have been a bit harried and overwhelmed over the past few months would be a laughable understatement. But something had to give, because I was starting to feel the cold clutch of a depressive cycle in my chest, and every time Jason did something even slightly irritating I was mentally dividing up the household effects and preparing myself for single-parenthood, and I was grumpy with my children and generally exhausted.

So in a flurry of, "aw, what the hell, it can't hurt," I signed up for a 30-day organize-your-life-and-achieve-your-goals challenge run by Chalene Johnson, the woman who created and leads a lot of the workout videos I do. Starting September 1, every day I have gotten an email from her and watched a video on how to get organized and get successful and happy. She starts with the basics -- think about what your priorities are. Write them down. Then think about what your goals are for the next year. Are they realistic? Measurable? Consistent with your priorities? Write them down. Then put them in order, with the biggest, most important one at the top -- the one that makes all the other goals possible. Write it down. Then brainstorm about what you would need to do to achieve the goal. Do you need to do research? Go to school? Whatever you need to do, write it down. Then develop to-do lists, with one or two steps included every day to take you a little closer to achieving your goal.

And so on. None of this is revolutionary, rocket-science type of stuff. But having someone slowly and methodically take me through the steps in a way that doesn't overwhelm me was apparently just what I needed.

So I've been doing it. I keep a notebook that I use to jot stuff down -- my goals, what I want to do when, anything that's on my mind or that somehow relates to my "push" goal (the one that will make my other goals possible). Every night I do some free-form writing of things to add to my list, and then I transfer the list to my phone, which also syncs with the same list on my computer. I check it multiple times a day and schedule my days so that everything has a block of time.

You know what?

I feel fucking awesome. Writing everything down this way takes it out of my head. So I have it, but it's not stressing me out, because I know it's written down and I'm taking care of everything. I've become insanely productive. My 9-to-5 is going great, and I'm taking the Beachbody business forward in a way that will be a decent second income without it feeling like a second job. I'm happy with my children and my husband again (and the fact that Jason is now back on days doesn't suck either). And I feel like I have some direction, and that I know what that direction is. I don't feel remotely depressed. In fact, I'm downright cheerful most of the time.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still going to be the same sarcastic bitch you've come to know. I will never be one of those people that posts tweets or Facebook status updates consisting of inspiring quotes by William Blake or whomever.

But I will be (slightly) less judgmental of those who do.

Her father's daughter

2011-09-13T08:00:00.000-06:00

After telling Jason this morning not to pick the kids up in my car because of the busted key, of course he completely spaced out and picked up the kids in my car, only to have the key crap out on him when he tried to come home. So they walked home (it's maybe a mile), with Zeke riding his Skuut that he happened to have with him because he took it to school for Show & Tell.

Josie is always very happy to see me when she comes home from school. She's an affectionate little thing, always giving the kids in her class kisses in the morning when she comes in, coming up to me for random hugs here and there, and leaning in for a kiss just because. So she walked in the door, threw her arms up and gave me a big squeeze. "Mama," she sighed.

"That's my girl," I said, giving her a hug and a kiss. "I love you, sweet pea. Did you have a good day at school?"

We went over and sat on the couch, where I was watching the final minutes of the U.S. Open men's final.

"Elmo?" she said.

"Sure, honey." So we settled in to watch Elmo.

She stood up facing me on my lap, threw her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder. My little snuggle bug.

"I bounce!" she said, as she jumped around on my lap. Then she crawled over to look at something on the side table, leaning over with her booty in my face.

And promptly ripped a long, rumbling fart.

"I toot, Mama!"

She was so proud.

"That's my girl," Jason said.

He'll get no argument from me.

My petite little (stinky) flower.

It's because I'm Jewish, isn't it?

2011-09-12T09:50:00.001-06:00

Dear Mercedes:

I've been driving one of your cars for a long time. Almost 10 years. And I love her. She's good to me. She could use a paint job, but she's still pretty. She holds my family comfortably.

And I finally learned how to drive her in the snow, so we're all good.

But seriously, what the fuck is up with the key?

It's like I'm cursed or something.

The first one lasted 6 years. But then Zeke bit it or something and it just died. So I got a new one.

Which I dropped down an elevator shaft. But I recovered it. And granted, it wasn't your fault, but the fact that I couldn't just get a new key cut kind of sucked.

Then it started acting funny. The panic button would suddenly activate without my touching it.

Then when we were at Monkey Bizness last weekend, it died altogether. So I was stuck at Monkey Bizness with two tired children. We took the bus home. We went to Walgreen's and bought new batteries.

I hate you with the passion of a thousand white-hot suns.

And even though every time I tried to open the key, some other part of it broke or fell off, I got it open and got the new batteries in and got home.

But it's still been acting up. The panic button is still seemingly possessed. Sometimes the key works and sometimes it doesn't.

Which is annoying.

This morning I took the kids to school. When I went back to the car after taking them to their classrooms, the key, which had been working fine, was dead. When I tried to open it to look at the batteries, it fell apart in my hands. I sat there futzing with it, fuming that after a week off, I was going to be late for work on my first day back.

I finally got it to work and got home.

But I'm not risking using it again. Meaning I have to shell out $200 for another key.

Your cars are beautiful. They drive like a dream. I fell safe in them.

But your keys fucking suck. Honestly, sometimes the old technology -- an actual fucking metal key that you put in the ignition and then turn -- is the way to go.

I'm starting to take it personally. You are a German company, after all.

Just wanted to let you know.

Love,

Wendy

Vacation, all I ever wanted...

2011-09-02T12:00:00.001-06:00

Maybe this will be me some time next week. I just need to learn how to waterski.

It's been kind of a crazy week. My family survived the hurricane just fine. I met up with my Denver sorority sisters for a little pool party, which was fun. I'm trying to figure out what to do for Josie's birthday, which is on September 24, and then for Zeke's birthday, which is a month later. Josie's can be low-key because she's not quite at the age where she really gets what a birthday is, but I still want to do something fun for her. Maybe rent a jumping castle and just invite some friends over for cake and ice cream.

Then yesterday was the big launch of P90X2, the follow-up program to P90X. It's a huge deal for Beachbody, the company I rep, so in my spare time (i.e., after the kids are asleep) I've been watching webinars to learn about it and reading up on the new training methods it incorporates and then writing blog posts and scheduling stuff on HootSuite to go up on Facebook and Twitter (and I know my posts have been numerous and repetitive -- sorry about that). But I've already gotten some advance orders, so it's kind of cool. Seriously, all you athletes out there, this program is gonna be the shiz, so if you're interested, click here or send me an email. I'm sort of nervous because it looks so tough, but also kind of psyched to see how hard I can push myself at the ripe old age of 41.

But now I'm (almost) on vacation. The office is closed on Monday for Labor Day, and next Friday is a flex day, so I decided to take off Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday for an entire week off. I'm not going anywhere, just staying at home and cleaning out closets and maybe painting a room and exercising and reading and going to the movies in the middle of the day or meeting friends for lunch and just relaxing. I haven't had a "staycation" since I was between jobs last November. And that wasn't even paid time off, so this is going to be even better!

Just a few more hours....

Friday frippery

2011-08-26T16:54:00.001-06:00

It only took a year.
I had a flex day today and spent it cleaning and organizing the house. We finally finished the walls downstairs, so I hung paintings. The house looks pretty. I'll take some pictures and post some before-and-afters to contrast with when we first bought it. Of course, the kids will be home in an hour and it will go from being nice and clean to being a shit-show in no time.

Progress?
We've finally, finally moved on from Elmo. But now Josie is obsessed with Yo Gabba Gabba.
This morning I went into her room when I heard her awake. "Hi, sweetie!" I said. "Gook and Gabba-Gabba!" she responded. (She doesn't have anything against the North Vietnamese -- "gook" is Josie-speak for milk.)

I kind of like the show. It's trippy and weird, but I like the very specific lessons it offers, like songs devoted to how you shouldn't put things you find on the floor in your mouth. But Jason is wary.

"Don't let her watch too much of that show," he warned.

"Why not?" I asked.

"She'll grow up to participate in drum circles and be a glass-blower. There's no money in that."

Be safe, East coast internet peoples.
Even though I am obviously not personally in harm's way, I'm a little freaked out by the projected path of Hurricane Irene. I have family and friends in Virginia Beach, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York City and the Boston area -- all of which look to be about to take a beating -- plus the Outer Banks of North Carolina is about to take a direct hit. Sammy and Camille, please don't ride out the storm on the 47th floor in Tribeca. And call me and let me know you're OK.

Have a good weekend, all!

If only spotting other members of the Tribe were that easy

2011-08-25T11:49:00.002-06:00

I would wager that for most American Jews, being Jewish is as much a cultural experience and identification as it is a religious one, if not more so. And I include myself in this generalization. I am not particularly religious, but I very much identify with being Jewish. Many of my ancestors came to this country because of their Judaism -- my great-grandparents escaped the pogroms -- and spoke English with a very heavy accent because they mostly spoke Yiddish.* For my parents, being part of the Jewish community was an essential aspect of growing up in Detroit in the middle of the last century. Even when my dad went to the University of Virginia, he was in a fraternity that was identified as a Jewish fraternity, because Jews weren't really welcomed in the more established houses.

So a big part of being Jewish, in response to persecution and prejudice, was to mostly associate and identify with other Jews.** And even though that kind of prejudice and persecution is not so prevalent today -- when my grandmother asked me if I was rushing Jewish houses when I decided to go through sorority rush in college, I had no idea what she was talking about -- there's still a sense of recognition and kinship in encountering other Jews in everyday life, as well as pride in the accomplishments of other Jews.

But of course, you don't always know who is Jewish and who isn't.

My mom and I were talking on the phone about her recent trip out of the country.

"I met the most wonderful Jewish couple," she said. "I was talking to the husband and of course I didn't come right out and ask him but some of the things he was saying made me think that he might be Jewish, and that he realized that I might be Jewish. But it's not like you necessarily can tell right off the bat."

"Right. We're not required to wear yellow stars on our sleeves anymore."

"Exactly. I mean, I couldn't just ask him to stick out his penis so I could inspect it."

No.

Because that would be very awkward.

_________________________________
*They called me "Vinda" because there isn't really a "w" sound in Yiddish. "Vinda, vould you like a gless of meeelk? Some coookies? You need to eat, dahlink."

**I recognize this is not a novel or revolutionary observation. It's true of all minority groups throughout history.

Apropos of nothing except that this story totally cracks me up every time I think of it

2011-08-23T21:40:00.012-06:00

My brother Sam and his girlfriend Camille live in New York City in a 47th floor apartment in Tribeca.* They have two dogs, both pugs. Number One Pug is a boy named Phillip, who is 11. Philip is fat and hilarious and adorable. He's lazy as shit and would eat 24/7 if given the chance, and he's a big sweetie and we love him.

Sam set up a Facebook page for him, with a bio that says he went to SUNY-New Paltz and status updates that say things like, "Tonight for dinner I had ... wait for it ... dog food. Jesus Christ. I feel like I'm in a Kafka novel." Fucking priceless.

Anyway, Phillip was an only dog for awhile. And around the time that Sam and Camille decided to move in together, they got Daisy, also a pug (or, more accurately, Camille got Daisy, which means Sam got Daisy). I believe Daisy is a rescue dog. Daisy is slightly older than Phillip, and other than the fact that they're both pugs, they are easily distinguishable from each other to anyone paying attention.

Phillip and Daisy. To quote Sam, "they're not exactly Great Danes, but they'll do the trick."

So they're looking for a place to live and they find this place in Tribeca. And I think when they submitted their application, they said they only had one dog -- I'm not sure if they hadn't gotten Daisy yet, but I suspect that they had but fudged a bit to increase their odds of having the application approved. Apparently, it's a very nice building with a doorman and standards that are enforced by a condo board or management association or whatever.

(Incidentally, they also lied about Phillip's weight and then were incensed when his vet, who has been trying to get Phillip on a diet for years, refused to sign a certification that Phillip weighed only 20 pounds. Which, if you've ever seen Phillip, is a big "no duh.")

So they move in and the place is great and all is well. Except for the fact that they claimed to have only one dog but actually have twice that. I guess they did things like hid or sprinted down the street when they saw someone from the management association approaching them.

They had been in the new apartment a couple of weeks when we went to the beach in New Hampshire, and they joined us there for a couple of days. They had gotten a message from one of the management people: "Uhhh, Mistuh [Wendy's Brother], we need to work out the situation with the dooh-ug." In my head, the person leaving the message was either Selma or Patty Bouvier, with a heavy, heavy New Yawk accent.

Sam's plan was to appeal to her sense of decency by explaining that Daisy was a rescue dog and that if he didn't take her in, she would be put down and DO YOU WANT TO BE A PARTY TO DOG MURDER???

Turns out Patty/Selma's sensibilities were not so delicate, because she didn't give a shit. "Don't you try to make me feel guilty, Mistuh [Wendy's Brother]. You were only supposed to have one dog and you've got two and it's not my problem."

Now, to me this whole scenario is all the more awesome because of Sam's extraordinary ability to be seized with self-righteousness when he is clearly and unquestionably in the wrong (remember when he made up a Wikipedia entry and then was all indignant when it was removed not because it wasn't true, but because it wasn't noteworthy enough?).** And I say this as someone who absolutely adores him. But it's true. So the image of this grumpy woman peering out at him over her cat-eye glasses while the world's longest piece of ash threatens to fall off the cigarette dangling from her lips, as she tells him to take his old pathetic dying dog and shove it, just makes me giggle.

But now the condo board/management association had him by the short hairs. What to do? What would become of poor Daisy?

The solution was surprisingly simple.

I think it might have been the super (who isn't on the management association) who suggested that they walk the dogs separately and always take one out the front entrance and the other out the back entrance. So that the doormen would only ever see one dog at a time, and always the same dog, and thus somehow be duped into thinking they only had one.

And amazingly, it worked. Even though Phillip is a spry (if chubby) dapper young gentleman, and Daisy could not be mistaken for anything but his decrepit old aunt.

Only in New York. I love it.

______________________________________

*Originally this post stated that they lived on the Upper West Side and that Phillip was 5 or 6 years old. Those errors have been corrected. Apparently Phillip looks young for his age.

**This post was written when Sam was married to She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. He isn't any more. Obvs.

Nasty, brutish and short

2011-08-22T09:20:00.003-06:00

I feel like everywhere I turn, people I know and care about are dying of cancer. The brother of one of my brother Josh's best friends from high school just relapsed. The neighbor who has lived across the street from my parents the entire 27 years they have lived in their house is in the ICU with non-smoking-related lung cancer, and he isn't expected to come out. A woman that used to work in my office (and who was a judge in a case I litigated) was diagnosed with lung cancer a little over a month ago and then died last weekend. She was 47 and had never smoked.

And this past Friday my cousin Simon died of brain cancer. He was only in his mid-50s, and had always been healthy and fit until suddenly getting a tumor a couple of years ago. His death came a few months after his father, my cousin Ron, died of kidney failure.

It's such a cliche, but damn, it can all go in a second, can't it? So hug your kids. Don't work too late. Take care of yourself and your loved ones. Don't be an asshole.

This world is not for the faint of heart, that's for sure.

**UPDATE 8/24/11: The neighbor died today.

I'm about as liberal as they come, but then I drew a line.

2011-08-19T14:56:00.003-06:00

One of my little indulgences is getting manicures and pedicures. I don't like my nails to be particularly long, but I like them nicely groomed and painted and pretty. And it's lovely to sit and relax for an hour while someone else massages your hands and feet.

But in these days of skyrocketing food bills (which are already high because my husband eats what would be normal for 3 adults his size) and monthly daycare checks that are more than my mortgage, I was looking for places to cut back. And since I love getting a full-body massage even more than I like getting my nails done, I decided to substitute bi-weekly professional manicures with bi-weekly massages (on the cheap, courtesy of Groupon and the like) and just do my nails myself.

This coincided with my discovery of nail polish strips. They're strips of real polish that you stick on your nails like a decal, and they come in different designs that are fun and super-cute. Plus they stay on for a couple of weeks, so you get a manicure-type look and it lasts for a while.

Now, it turns out that Zeke likes having his nails painted. Occasionally when he's seen me get the polish out, he'll ask if I can paint his as well. I often use colors like navy blue or slate gray that aren't that ultra-feminine, so I'll put some on his nails or toes and he giggles and enjoys it. Jason isn't crazy about it, but I don't think it's a big deal.

Sally Hansen's Salon Effects Nail
Polish Strips, "Girl Flower" -- would
you let a 4-year-old boy put
this on his nails? Am I being an asshole
and overreacting?

But then the other night I was putting on some new nail strips that are a bright flowery pattern in pinks and oranges and yellows and purples. I was sitting in my bed while Zeke sat next to me watching The Upside Down Show. When he saw the nail strips, he was all curious and wanted me to put some on his nails as well.

I thought about it for a second, but then shook my head and told him "no" and made up some bullshit about how they were just for grownups.

I don't want to make a big deal about things that aren't a big deal. And I don't want to stigmatize behavior that obviously has no sexual or gender-driven motivation. He likes the nail polish because it's colorful and different and because I'm doing it. It's fine.

Why do I care? I don't care. Who cares? What difference does it make?

I want to be the cool J. Crew mommy who lets her son paint his toenails neon pink.

But it turns out I'm not.

I didn't think I was that bad

2011-08-17T13:09:00.000-06:00

Even though Jason is now working night shift, we've been able to maintain the weekday routine we've had established for awhile.

He gets home at about 5:45 or 6 in the morning. We both handle the morning routine with the kids, I go to work, he takes them to school and then comes home and sleeps. He gets up, does whatever he does (works out, cleans, etc.) and then goes to get the kids at about 4:45 or 5, and then takes them to the park or to swim or something. In the meantime, I get home from work, exercise, and then get dinner ready so that we can eat when Jason gets home with the kids. We play, have bathtime, read books. Jason goes to work at about 8:30 and I put the kids to bed and then wind down for the night.

I've gone through stages when I've regularly exercised in the morning, but it's been hard to do that lately because Josie's been getting up early and occasionally she'll wake up right when I'm in the middle of a workout. And I enjoy exercising in the afternoon because the endorphin release makes me all happy and calm, so I'm feeling good and have tons more patience with the kids than I would otherwise have.

The weekend was really hectic and I had a hard time finding time to work out. So by yesterday afternoon, it had been a couple of days and I was feeling kind of stressed and antsy.

I was talking to Jason on the phone when I was getting ready to leave work. He was lamenting that he didn't know what he was going to do with the kids in the afternoon because it was getting ready to thunderstorm.

"Well, figure something out, because I really need some time to exercise. It's been a couple of days and I've got to exercise. You know, I find that I'm much more patient and easy-going when I exercise. So it benefits you, too."

Without missing a beat, he said, "no problem. I'll be at the park with the kids for the next three hours."

Hmph.

In which it is revealed who plays with funny-shaped balls in my family

2011-08-14T22:25:00.001-06:00

I know that this post will result in an irate phone call from my father. "Don't you criticize my grandson!" In his eyes, neither of my children can ever do any wrong, and both will win the Nobel prize, the Heisman Trophy (even Josie) and at least one Olympic gold medal by the time they're 20.

My response will be that I am not trying to criticize Zeke. Just pointing out my observations about his strengths and weaknesses.

We went on a date night the other night to watch rugby with some good friends (the wife ended up not being able to go because of a feverish baby, so Jason and I hung out with the husband). The US team in town was playing a test match against Canada. I really enjoy watching rugby even though I don't understand it very well. It's a fierce game played by tough, fit people.

I observed that, at least in the U.S., where rugby tends to be most popular in universities, I love guys that play rugby because they're big strapping strong men who also tend to be smart and well-educated.

"Not in Australia, baby," Jason corrected me. "In Oz they're the window-lickers."*

In any case, it was a beautiful evening and we had a great time enjoying a few beers and watching the game even though the U.S. team got their asses handed to them by the Canadian side.

In fact, because the main attraction was kind of a dud of a game, the highlight of the evening came during halftime, when some kids from local youth clubs played against each other for a couple of possessions.

The kids were awesome and the best player on the field was a girl. She was fast and tough and amazing at reading the field while she ran with the ball.

The friend that we were with, Trey, is the parent of one of Zeke's friends from daycare. His daughter, Lucy, is about 3 months younger than Zeke (she'll be 4 in January) but is super-tall (she towers over Zeke and looks like she's about 5) and totally athletically fearless. She loves rugby (her dad plays) and is going to start playing in a youth league this winter.

As we were watching the kids play, particularly the one girl who was really good, Trey was talking about how excited he is for Lucy to start playing.

Jason kind of shook his head. "Yep, and Zeke will be on the sidelines, cheering her on while playing with his iPad."

I couldn't really disagree with him.

Not that we think Zeke is a pussy, because we don't. He's a good athlete, loves jumping around, taught himself to swim at the age of 3 1/2, enjoys ski school and all of that. But he's kind of cautious and sensitive and cerebral. I see him as a baseball player more than I see him playing something like football or rugby.**

No, the consensus (at least between Jason and me) is that the biggest balls in the family belong to Josie.

Because Josie is like Jason -- totally fearless, amazingly coordinated and athletic, and utterly without regard for her own physical safety. She will climb on and jump off of anything. She takes shit from no one and will not hesitate to defend herself when someone gets in her face (I'm sure that some of her toughness comes from being knocked around by Zeke, but I also think it's just part of who she is).

This is particularly alarming in the pool, because she thinks she can swim even though she really can't -- she's a frightening combination of supreme confidence combined with a lack of actual ability. I can't even take her in the big pool because she gets so mad when I hold on to her. So I let her bounce around in the 2-foot-deep baby pool, where she puts her head underwater and starts kicking her arms and legs, and then after a few seconds she'll put her feet back down and stand up. If she's under for more than 5 or 6 seconds, I'll gently tug under her armpit and pull her back up so she can breathe, but other than that I leave her alone. The other parents always look horrified, but she's fine. I'm obviously not going to let her drown.

So even though she's a skinny little string-bean, if anyone is going to be kicking ass and taking names on the rugby pitch, it'll be Josie, not Zeke. Not that I think he'll be pasty-faced virgin living in our basement well into adulthood -- hell, he could have a career as a porn star -- but I don't see him as a rugby player.

Sorry, Dad, but it's true.

___________________________________________
*I had to look up what a window-licker is, but I correctly assumed it wasn't Aussie-speak for someone who went to Harvard. Turns out it's not a very nice term, but in my experience, Aussies can be a bit harsh in their word choices even though they are some of the friendliest people on the planet.

**On the other hand, Zeke reminds me of another sensitive, cerebral guy - my brother Sam, who is a terrific athlete, including being a really good football and rugby player. So what do I know?

A little of this, a little of that

2011-08-11T11:18:00.003-06:00

I've been crazy busy both at home and at work. I feel like my head is full of things I want to write down in an organized way, but I can't because it's all crammed in there too tight for me to present anything except in bullet form.

Jason started on the night shift last week. So he works Sunday night to Thursday night, from 9 pm to 5 am. It actually hasn't been too bad, because he still picks the kids up from school in the afternoons and then plays with them for a little while before bringing them home for dinner. We hang out for awhile, then he goes to work and I get the kids to bed. Then he's home when we get up in the morning. Sometimes he gets the kids up and takes them to school, sometimes he's too tired, so I do it. But we see each other about the same as we did before, except that we don't sleep together. Ships passing in the night and all that. Such is the modern life.
We went to a really fun party last weekend, hosted by the parents of one of Josie's classmates. It was a quasi-dressy garden party, so I wore my sassy reunion dress and Jason wore a nice shirt and linen pants. We met some really cool people and had a blast having a night out with no kids. But Jason being Jason, he abandoned his shoes at one point, stepped on something and sliced open the ball of his foot. A first aid kit was produced and I proceeded to do surgery by cutting away this massive chunk of bloody skin that was hanging off of him, then cleaning and bandaging the wound. At least Jason was so drunk ("beer-then-liquor-never-sicker") that it didn't hurt him too much. When he went back the next day to retrieve his wallet or whatever he had left, he asked Erin, the hostess, if she had a good time. "Well, one person sprained their ankle, another fell down the stairs, there's blood on the patio and the house smells like weed. So I guess it was a successful party!"
Tomorrow is another flex day. I'm getting a massage, organizing the kids' clothes drawers, and maybe going to IKEA, which opened a Denver branch a couple of weeks ago. I've never been to an IKEA. I may have a spontaneous orgasm upon walking into the place. I'll let you know.
Wonder of wonders, Jason and I are having another date night this weekend. I KNOW! Two weekends in a row!! This time we're going with some friends to watch the USA v. Canada in rugby. I've never played rugby, but both my brothers have played, Jason played as a kid in Australia, and the guy we're going with plays in a local rec league. It's actually a really fun game to watch, plus it'll be great to hang out with friends and have a grown-up night out.
Continuing the theme of men being clueless when they enter the confines of a grocery store or similar retail establishment, Jason noticed that Zeke was running low on night-time pull-ups (he's toilet trained during the day, but wears a pull-up diaper at night) and offered to pick some up on his way home from work. I said, "the ones he's been wearing are 4T-5T and they're a little big on him. Get the 3T-4T size." Jason said, "right, got it." He came home with baby diapers (not pull-ups) in a size 4 -- which is what Josie wears. Zeke hasn't worn size 4s for at least 2 1/2 years. I can't win.

Happy Thursday, all!

How to have a healthy marriage, and why almond milk is good for you

2011-08-04T09:50:00.005-06:00

About a year ago I was informed that this blog had been put on a list of the top 50 blogs for marriage advice. Considering that you can't swing a virtual dead cat without hitting 100 other blogs just like this one, and that I ain't exactly Dooce when it comes to the level of my readership, I was (pleasantly) surprised and a bit befuddled. Then a few months ago some guy who wrote a book about marriage, and particularly Jewish marriage, contacted me and asked me to do a post for his blog and also to read and review his book (I would provide a link to his blog but now I can't find the email). Because I am constantly overestimating my ability to get anything done, I told him I would and then promptly didn't. Not to be an asshole, but let's just say it's a task that joins many others on a very long list.

But the thought of being asked for marriage or relationship advice or insight popped into my head yesterday when I was poking around in the fridge looking for almond milk. I drink almond milk, and particularly use it to make my daily Shakeology shakes, because it's very low in calories and has no sugar, so it's perfect for my low glycemic diet.

The thing is, there are two kinds of almond milk -- sweetened and unsweetened. And obviously, I need the unsweetened kind.

Jason is working on a big job at a local supermarket that's undergoing massive refurbishment, so he does a lot of our shopping these days. Which is great, because it saves me a chore (at least during the week), because now that I'm taking the bus to work, I can't just pop in to the grocery store on my way home from work anymore.

But it's also a problem, because he is about the worst grocery shopper on the planet.

For some reason, in our relationship it has become my job to keep track of the contents of our pantry and refrigerator. And maybe it is just a function of how my brain works -- I have the ability to see in my mind a snapshot of the cupboards or fridge at any given time, so I can pretty much always tell you what we have and what we need. Plus, I assume that if I am aware of the fact that we are out of soy sauce, everyone else is aware of that fact as well, so if they happen to be at the grocery store, they will know to pick up a bottle of soy sauce without me having to tell them. Or that at least, if someone else is going to go to the store, they will let me know beforehand and say something like, "I'm going to the store. I'm going to get cheese, pasta, pasta sauce and laundry detergent. Is there anything else we need?" And then I'll say, "don't forget the soy sauce."

But invariably, one of two things happens.

I will go to the store and replenish the soy sauce supply, and then Jason will go the store and ALSO buy more soy sauce, so we end up with an entire section of the fridge devoted to soy sauce; or
Jason will do some shopping without telling me in advance, will be oblivious to the lack of soy sauce in the house (even though he's the only one who uses it) and will not buy any, and then the next time I make red Thai curry chicken, he will ask me for soy sauce and then be annoyed when I explain that we don't have any.

Actually, three things - I just thought of a third.

I will say I'm going to the store and ask him if there's anything he can think of that we need. He'll say "soy sauce," because he only glanced in the fridge for .38 seconds and didn't see the bottle of soy sauce hiding in plain sight next to the bottle of Newman's Own salad dressing. I'll say, "don't we already have soy sauce?" because I have my mental picture. Jason will say, "no." I'll think to myself, I could have sworn we had some, but he's the one that uses it, so I guess he finished it without my realizing it. Then I will buy soy sauce. When I get home, I will be annoyed when I go to put it away when I find that we already had a full bottle sitting right under our noses.

Jason is also a bad grocery shopper because he doesn't pay attention to labels. And I don't just mean the details of nutritional labels, like how many calories or fat grams are in anything. I'm talking about the basics. One time he said he was going to the store, so I asked him to pick up some shredded cheddar cheese because we were going to have chili for dinner. He came home with fake, non-dairy soy cheese-type substance. When I was getting dinner ready and grabbed the "cheese" and saw what it was, I asked, "what the hell is this?" "Oh, I just grabbed it. I didn't realize what it was."

Cue the eye roll.

So, back to the almond milk.

Last week, when he told me he was going to do some grocery shopping, I asked him to pick up some almond milk. I said, "make sure it's the unsweetened kind. It will say 'unsweetened' on it. If it doesn't say, 'unsweetened,' don't get it. It's sweetened by default, so get the kind that says, 'unsweetened.'"

I must have told him this 5 or 6 different times. He "yeah yeah"-ed me.

He came home with the sweetened kind.

Then again, two nights ago he was going to do some grocery shopping. I gave him a list. On the list, I wrote "almond milk." When I gave him the list, I said, "please make sure it's the unsweetened kind." I said this repeatedly. He "yeah yeah"-ed me.

So there I am yesterday, poking around in the fridge, looking for almond milk. All I can find is the same carton of sweetened milk that I can't drink.

"I thought you were getting almond milk? It was on the list."

"But we already have some, right there," he responded.

I took a deep breath and tried to keep my head from exploding.

You hear people talk about communication being the key to a healthy relationship. And I wholeheartedly agree with that. But I think I would focus on a different kind of communication than the kind talked about in every other article in women's magazines.

Don't talk about your deep-down feelings or that kind of shit. Really, most of the time, who the fuck cares?

I'm talking about communicating -- both talking and listening -- about the basics. Chores. Laundry. Grocery shopping. Where you put the kids' shoes when you came home from the pool, so that the next time we go out I know where their shoes are.

The little things that make everyday life so tedious. My feeling is, if you make those things smoother, everything is smoother. Remove the small annoyances that build up into big annoyances and grumpiness.

If you're the only one that knows what's in the fridge, just accept that fact, make a list and keep it someplace conspicious. And when your spouse says, "make sure you get the unsweetened almond milk," then get the motherfucking unsweetened almond milk.

But also, when you don't get what you want, take a deep breath and keep your head from exploding. Because in the grand scheme of things, life goes on.

It's just almond milk.

Family tradition

2011-08-01T09:22:00.002-06:00

When my brother Joshua was little, I'm thinking maybe 4 years old or so -- in other words, close to Zeke's age now -- he and my mom were out together. Grocery shopping, running errands. Doing something out in public.

And my mother noticed a dwarf was standing near them. (Or "little person," whatever.)

Her stomach sank, because she knew that Josh would notice them too. And would be incapable of not commenting on this person's short stature.

Loudly.

"Mom!!"

"Yes, Joshua. Shhh."

His body was practically vibrating with excitement at this point. "Mom! MOM!! Look!! Look!"

"Yes, Joshua, I see, please don't point. Shhh. It's not polite."

"But Mom! Mom!! Look at that person!! Look! LOOOK! MOM MOM MOOOOOOM!"

"Mmmhmmm, hey, we need to get out of here, pleasestoppointingI'llgiveyouanythingyouwantjustpleasestop ohmygodjustlettheflooropenupandswallowusboth. Shhhh. Please."

I know most parents go through a similar situation at least once.

But it's hard to be prepared.

Yesterday Zeke and I went for a late afternoon swim at our community pool. It's a short walk from our house so it's nice to go late and get the kids tired and hungry from swimming -- dinner and bedtime tend to be a breeze. Josie didn't feel like going so she stayed with Jason and they went for a walk or something, and Zeke and I walked over for a swim, just the two of us.

We were hanging out in a corner of the big swimming pool and Zeke was practicing swimming from the wall to where I was standing, about 10 feet away. There were a couple of ladies sitting on the edge of the pool with their feet dangling in the water. They were both a little on the heavy side.

At one point Zeke said, "look, Mama, that lady has a baby in her tummy."

I hadn't noticed any pregnant women in the vicinity, so I was looking around trying to find who he was talking about.

"Where, sweetie?"

"Right there!" He pointed to one of the ladies sitting near us. Who, to me, looked chubby rather than pregnant, though I couldn't say for sure.

My chest tightened. I threw a Hail Mary. "Oh, do you mean that pregnant lady way waaay over there down by the fence, really far away from where we are now? Is that the lady you were talking about?" My efforts were so pitiful and obvious to me that I was practically rolling my eyes at myself.

Zeke started swimming again and appeared to lose interest in the maybe-chubby-maybe-pregnant lady. I figured we were safe and concentrated on teaching him how to time his breathing and float on his back. We meandered around the shallow end a little bit.

We drifted back to our old position. Near the lady. He glanced at her and her stomach a few times, obviously trying to work out what was going on, but then would go back to swimming.

Then at one point, Zeke swam from me to the wall, right next to where she was now standing in the water.

And said to her, "hey! You have a big tummy!"

I grabbed Zeke's arm and whisked him away to give him a talk about how people don't like to be told that they have big tummies. I was uttering parento-babble-bullshit, hoping to distract and somehow persuade him at the same time.

Thankfully, the lady was deep in conversation with her friend and either didn't hear Zeke or did a great job of acting as if she hadn't heard him.

But still, I was mortified, and I keep thinking I could have handled it better or differently, though I'm not sure how.

Parents out there, what would you have done? Any tips on dealing with a situation like this?

Flex

2011-07-29T09:11:00.000-06:00

Yesterday one of my co-workers stopped by my cubicle to say good-bye as she was heading out.

"Are you flexing tomorrow?"*

It always so funny when people talking about their day off as "flexing." It brings to mind standing around my house assuming various body-building poses.

"Yep," I said, as I raised my arms to show her my biceps.

My bi- weekly days aren't necessarily to flex my body, though I will use some of the free time to exercise. Mostly, I use it to flex my sanity.

Weekends are not relaxing for me right now. The kids are still so young and needy and demanding, so we spend our time Doing Things. The zoo, the science museum, the park, the pool, in between getting the house cleaned and running weekend errands. So I often get to work on Monday exhausted and relieved to be able to sit quietly in my cube and work without noise or requests for milk or announcements of "I got poopies."

So my flex days are sacred. I get to spend time in my quiet house, paint my nails, do some cleaning. Maybe take a nap.

I'll meet with my contractor about doing some painting and finish work. This afternoon I'm getting a 90-minute massage (from the same kid whose face I managed to avoid tooting in last time -- I'm hopeful I'll be equally successful today). I've got a couple of errands to run.

Mostly, I'll just revel in the silence and the solitude and steel myself for the noise and craziness of the next couple of days.
_______________________
*In every two week period, I work a "flex" schedule consisting of 8 9-hour days, 1 8-hour day and then have every second Friday off.

Road trip ideas, and why fighting with your siblings means you don't get to have any fun

2011-07-26T10:34:00.000-06:00

This past weekend, we were talking with my mom about how we love that Josie and Zeke get along so well, and how important it is that they love each other and have strong relationships when they grow up. I'm very close to my brothers, and Jason is tight with his brother and sister, and we want our children to look to each other and always have each others' backs.

My mom opined that the closeness between my brothers and me stems in part from the fact that we spent a lot of time together as kids and took lots of family vacations.

Suddenly, Josie sneezed. My mom said, "God bless you!"

Josie grinned and giggled.

My mom explained, "Josie, that was a sneeze. Can you say 'sneeze'?"

"Neees."

And it reminded Mom of a funny story about my brothers and me from when we were kids.

In the summer of 1982, when I was 12, Josh was 10 and Sam was 5, we were in the U.S. on home leave from Israel (where we lived from 1980 to 1984). My aunt (mom's sister) lived in Boston and was about to give birth to her first baby (my cousin Aaron), so we went to visit her and also took a beach trip to Cape Cod. The drive out to Cape Cod was in an old Rent-a-Wreck that was massive. Josh and I sat in the back seat and Sam sat up front with my parents.

My mother became concerned when she started to hear sneezing from the back seat. One after the other after the other.

"Bless you."

"God bless you!"

"Gesundheit! Oh my goodness, are you two OK?"

It kept going on, non-stop sneezing.

She turned to my father. "We're going to need to find a doctor. We're flying back in a couple of days and I'm worried that the kids are getting sick."

Titters and giggles from the back seat.

She turned back and glared at us. We acted natural, probably complete with fake whistling and glancing around nonchalantly.

Another sneeze. More giggles.

She snapped her head back in time to see me with a shoe-lace up my nose. Josh and I had been sticking shoe-laces up our noses to make ourselves sneeze.

In our defense, this was before the days of personal DVD players and video games. And reading in the car makes me carsick.

After being admonished by my mother ("what on earth is the matter with you two??"), we settled down for a little while.

Zing -- splat!

The spit-balls had started. We had stopped at a McDonald's for lunch. McDonald's has big, wide straws. So Josh and I grabbed a bunch of them and some paper napkins and entertained ourselves by trying to hit the rear-view mirror. Or the windshield. Or the side-view mirror. Or the back of Sam's head.

More giggling. Even my parents were amused.

Sam fumed from the front seat. He was a whiny little thing at that age and was always bitching about something.

"It's not fair! How come Josh and Wendy get to sit in the back and have fun while I have to sit up here with you??"

My mother responded sensibly, "because you can't sit with your brother or sister without getting into a fight."

Zing!

Josie and Zeke, let this be a lesson. Together, you can rule the world. Or at least dot it with soggy bits of chewed up paper napkins.

Always look on the bright side of life.

2011-07-25T08:58:00.001-06:00

Zeke is going through a phase that can only be described as, um, Oedipal. Lecherous, even.

In addition to STILL being in the naked-all-the-time toddler phase, lately it seems like he just wants to consume me. He only wants to sleep pressed up against me. If I'm sitting on the couch, he's on me. If I'm walking from one part of the house to the other, he wants to come with me and hold my hand.

"Mama, I just want to be with you."

"Mama, if we go to the store, I don't want Josie or Daddy to come."

"Mama, I want to snuggle with you."

"Mama, let's get married."

Then there's the fact that when he's on me, it's like being with a cross between a horny teenage boy and an octopus. Constantly kissing me, licking me, running his hands over me, trying to reach his hands inside my shirt and touch my boobs.

The other day I was wearing a dress and sitting on the couch. Zeke walked up, lifted up the edge of my skirt and put his head under it.

"Well, that's disgusting," observed my mother, who was visiting for the weekend.

Add to that his tendency to be constantly tugging at his junk or otherwise touching himself -- on the couch, in the car, while he walks around the house, and I'm beginning to worry that I'm raising a little pervert.

Yesterday we were all up in Zeke's room playing with blocks. Zeke (who was naked, natch) found a red plastic ball about half the size of a tennis ball. He propped it between his butt cheeks and started walking around giggling.

"I'm kind of nervous that he's going to grow up to be some kind of fetishist porn star," I said to Jason.

"Well, at least he'll make some serious coin and get laid a lot," Jason responded.

I guess that's one way of looking at it.

Dear Pretentious Hipster Driver

2011-07-23T16:40:00.000-06:00

You're probably thinking pretty highly of yourself right about now. Reliving the moment, ya know?

Because what a moment it was.

A crowded parking lot at Hipster Central, aka the Capitol Hill King Sooper's (where I seem to have driving related run-ins more than any other place in town -- must be something in the water, or maybe in the absinthe or whatever the fuck you people drink as a way of distinguishing yourselves as cooler-than-thou). Lots of people coming and going, and thus lots of people waiting for others to vacate parking spots so that others can then occupy them.

I'm sure it must have been intensely frustrating for you to have to wait a whole minute and a half for me to move. I mean really, it was insufferable of me to be taking up space behind your car while I waited for a lady to finish loading her groceries and then leave (even though I got there before you came back to your car, so technically you shouldn't have taken it personally). So when you backed out notwithstanding that I was right behind you and then rather adroitly slid into in the teeny space alongside me (even though the space I was waiting for was finally freed up and I was 5 seconds away from being able to move into it), there were two possibilities for me to consider: 1) that you actually didn't see me behind your car and were about to hit me, and 2) that you're an impatient asshole. Given how unlikely the former was, I guess it was really a waste of energy for me to lean on the horn, I guess I should apologize for that.

What I find incredibly disappointing, however, is the lame "snap" you then directed my way. I mean, you stopped behind me and waited for me to pull into my spot and then get out of the car, so you had a little time to think about it -- time that most people faced with an opportunity for a good "diss" only dream of having in advance of the actual moment of delivery. And even with the prep time, the best you could come up with was to say snidely, "you should learn the dimensions of your automobile."

Seriously? That's the best you can do?

You should learn to wait 5 seconds and not be such a pretentious dick. But then, I guess I told you that already.

Enjoy your absinthe.

Love, Wendy

A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste

2011-07-20T16:34:00.003-06:00

Yesterday Jason and I were talking on the phone as he was on his way home from work, discussing possible dinner plans.

"I set out some chicken breasts to defrost, so we can figure out something to do with them when I get home," I said.

"Awesome. We've got vegetables we can have. I'm sure we've got some steamers in the freezer," Jason responded.

We were both quiet for a couple of seconds and then I started to giggle.

"And not of the Cleveland variety," he clarified.*

Had I been in the act of taking a sip of some liquid, I would be in the process of explaining to the tech people at work why my keyboard isn't working because I spit all over it. Thankfully, I wasn't. And on the plus side, I have been been tittering to myself nonstop since this conversation took place. It's the little things that keep you going, right?

_________________________________
*Do not click on this link if you are disturbed by descriptions of truly disgusting - and I mean disgusting - sexual acts. Also, sorry, Mom. Also, I have no idea why I even know what a Cleveland Steamer is. I am not a sexual deviant or even remotely turned on by poo. Knowing me, I heard a reference to it somewhere (TV? the radio?) and googled it. Mostly, I just think the name sounds funny.

Brain dump

2011-07-18T21:16:00.000-06:00

I'm back from a week of vacation. I went with my family to the beach in New Hampshire. After taking two weeks to go to Australia in May, Jason couldn't get more time off, so I took the kids by myself.

Some general observations:

My family has been going to the beach on the Outer Banks of North Carolina since I was 8 or 9. I loooooove the Outer Banks. But I have to admit that I love the beach in New England in summertime more than I love the Outer Banks. It feels blasphemous to even think it. But the weather is better, the nights are cooler, and the beach and the waves are just as good. The water is colder, but I got used to it (and that's why God invented wetsuits).

Our first morning in the house, going for a surf with Emma at 6:30 in the morning. I'm wearing the wetsuit that Jason gave me as an engagement present. That's Lola, my old board - she now lives with my brother Josh.

I don't miss living in Hawaii, but I sure miss living near the beach. Our house was a 5 minute walk from the beach and it made for extraordinarily fun and pleasant days and nights. One evening before dinner the kids were fussing and getting on my nerves, so I took them down to the beach to go for a walk. It was cool but comfortable, and just beautiful. The kids immediately perked up and started laughing and running around. If we end up moving to Australia, we will be by the beach again, which definitely will not suck.
There are few things cuter than little kids frolicking on the beach.

This is a happy, happy girl.

I love how he's wearing his shoes on the wrong feet.

On the other hand, there are few things more horrible than traveling with small children. Everything about the experience -- lugging ridiculous amounts of gear, getting everyone through security, dealing with Josie screaming her face off because she's tired of being strapped in the car seat, the two of them both bursting into tears because they didn't both fit on my lap at the same time, the jet lag -- sucks huge, hairy smelly balls. But as the nice man on the plane said (and seriously, the one benefit of traveling with unruly children is that people take pity and are so fucking nice to you), "it gets better." His children, who looked to be about 5 and 7, sat quietly in their seats the entire time and amused themselves with books and videos -- the prospect of my children similarly behaving themselves makes me weep.
Even when they're being good, vacations, while fun, are not particularly relaxing with small children around. For 8 days, they were on me. Asking for (or demanding) food, toys and attention. Wanting to sleep with me. "Mama, I want to snuggle with your face and your boobies and everything," Zeke said. Before I could even absorb that outrageous statement, Josie yelled, "Snuggle! SNUGGLE!!"

But they were awesome. Josie's language is exploding -- she is suddenly learning so many new words every day and is talking in sentences. Zeke taught himself how to swim. The cousins had a great time together.

So it was wonderful. I got some surfing in. I hung out with my brothers and my parents and my nieces.

But of course, as ever, I'm so tired.

Telepathy

2011-06-24T09:20:00.002-06:00

We live right in town, so we've sacrificed acreage for location, meaning our back yard is teeny. But it does have a brick patio and a patch of dirt for the kids to play, plus we live within a stone's throw of about five different public parks and one public pool, so we're not hurting for places to run around.

When we first moved into the house, the back yard was a mess. All overgrown ground cover and stumpy trees and raggedy looking bushes and weeds and vines and rocks. My big strapping husband, bless him, spent the better part of late April and early May out back with a pick-axe and shovel, clearing away the debris and pulling out the yucky trees and shit until we had a smooth dirt patch that was ready for sod. Then he went online and found a sod farm out in the middle of nowhere that sells Kentucky bluegrass sod for 25 cents a square foot, so we were able to sod the entire thing for about $80. He and I did it on a Saturday and it took us about 45 minutes.

So now we have a nice little yard. We're still working on getting some chairs and maybe a patio table, plus we need to finish the fence on the side where our douchebag neighbor lives (he started building a fence and never finished it), but it's got a big crabapple tree and we've planted some flowers and herbs and a tomato plant and the kids can play out there and it's all very pleasant.

That tree in the lower left corner is no longer there and all the crap on the right has been cleared out. And I have no idea why Jason hung a swing 5 feet off the ground, because no way in hell will either of the children use it.

The other night Jason and I were sitting outside while Josie played and climbed on the slide and splashed in puddles ("hi, water!") (Zeke was inside futzing around with the iPad). I was inspecting my tomato plant and was pleasantly surprised by the number of tomatoes that are sprouting, given that I have the brownest thumb on the planet and am an absolutely hopeless gardener.

Jason asked, "what are you going to make with all the tomatoes?"

"I don't know. I guess I'll figure it out when they're ripe and I'll see what I feel like."

"You should make that soup."

"Oh, right, I know what you're talking about. What's it called again?"

"Ceviche. The one with the fish."

"No, you're thinking of the other soup." The name escaped me.

"No, I'm not. I'm thinking of ceviche."

"But you don't really make ceviche with tomatoes. I mean, you can put tomatoes in it, but it's not the primary ingredient, at least not the recipes I've used. It's citrus and peppers and onions. You're thinking of the other one. The cold soup with tomatoes."

"No, I'm definitely thinking of ceviche."

"Gazpacho! That's it! I couldn't think of the name. You're thinking of gazpacho. Gazpacho is the one that you make with tomatoes and peppers and stuff. That's what you were thinking of."

"No, I was actually thinking of ceviche. *You* were thinking of gazpacho."

Hmph. He was totally thinking of gazpacho. Which my pretty tomatoes will be perfect for.

Why I love my family

2011-06-22T07:00:00.003-06:00

My dad is in Baghdad right now on business. I think he and my mom are engaged in some business travel one-upmanship, because she's leaving today for Haiti. It's like they're on some kind of perverse game show where the goal is to visit the shittiest country imaginable.

My dad wrote an email to the family:

Being in the Green Zone is like being in a medium security prison. Very depressing. We are staying in a private security compound that makes the Bates Motel seem luxurious by comparison. My room comes complete with body armor and a combat helmet.

Because we are all incorrigible smart-asses, this was the immediate response from Brother Number 1:

From what I have seen on tv the key to surviving prison is the following:

1) Soap on a rope
2) Buddy up with the biggest person there
3) Cigarettes are like cash, if you can control the cigarette market you can control the prison
4) Keep your head down and be safe.

My dad appreciated the advice. His only lament was that he wasn't sure his body armor matched the outfits he had packed.

Sugar sugar, oh, honey honey

2011-06-21T12:40:00.000-06:00

Remember, like, 2 years ago, when I was pregnant and turned out to have gestational diabetes, much to my surprise and chagrin? And not only did I have GD, but it turned out I was crazy sensitive to just about everything that my body could possibly convert into glucose with any kind of speed, so I ended up spending the last part of my pregnancy essentially doing the induction phase of the Atkins diet, i.e., no bread, pasta, rice, milk or fruit.

And then Josie was born and life got crazier and crazier and like an idiot, I never bothered to follow up on the whole diabetes thing to see if it went away once I had given birth. I just figured that I maintained the diet while she was in utero more for her benefit than for mine, so once she was out in the world, who really cared, right?

I'm so stupid.

Because I've spent the last 2 years trying to work out and do Weight Watchers and get in shape, and while I had some success, I could never quite get over the hump, so to speak, and lose the last 10 pounds of belly fat that were clinging to my middle like the baby orangutan glomming onto its mother for dear life. And I couldn't figure out why. I had the discipline. I had the tools. But nothing that I had done in the past was working quite as well as it had before.

Then a friend of mine told me about how much success he had had on a "slow carb" diet, which is essentially a low glycemic index diet full of foods that don't cause blood sugars to spike. And it got me to thinking about whether the body fat that I couldn't get rid of was the result of a diet that, while calorically appropriate, contained things like fruit and rice and milk -- foods that sent my blood sugar levels skyrocketing when I was pregnant.

So I tried the diet and promptly lost 7 or 8 pounds of belly fat in a span of about 3 weeks (just in time for my reunion).

I had been thinking about getting a physical, because it's been awhile since I had one and I figured I might as well take advantage of my health benefits, which are really good. So I went on Friday and got checked out. And on just about every front, I'm in superb health -- my cholesterol is way down since the last time I checked it (I believe as a result of Shakeology), my blood pressure is so low that it's a wonder I'm alive, my weight is good, all is well.

Except my blood sugar.

Did you know that there's a single blood test that can take a 3-month snapshot of your blood sugar levels? Apparently it involves delving into the red blood cells at the molecular level or something like that. I find that astounding. Anyway, when I told her about my gestational diabetes, she said that it puts me at a higher risk for developing diabetes and that it's definitely something that we needed to look at, so she ordered this test. And sure enough, while my 3-month levels weren't quite at the diabetic range, they were still pretty high.

So no sugar, milk, bread, pasta, rice or fruit for me (though I'm allowed to cheat once a week). It's kind of a drag.

But at least know I know and can do something about it.

Helpless

2011-06-20T20:05:00.000-06:00

Even though I know that the odds are in favor of it happening eventually, I am in total denial about the fact that one day, my parents will no longer be around. I talk to my mother every day, often multiple times. She is unquestionably my best friend. The thought of something happening to her or to my dad makes me sick to my stomach. I have a hard time processing the thought.

So it makes it hard to know how to help my husband. His father is dying.

Jason came back from Australia having said his good-byes. He said he was at peace with his dad and that he had said what he needed to say to him.

But really, there's no way it was that easy. And in the back of his mind, there was a hope, a belief -- however unrealistic -- that maybe there was more time than there really is.

So we started talking about maybe going to Australia for a couple or three years. Jason can make crazy money there, and I could get a job doing something, maybe working for an American law firm or something, and we could save money and get out of debt and spend Denis's last years with him. He could get to know his grandchildren. He's met Zeke only once and he's never met Josie at all. It would provide Jason with some closure. He could spend some time in his home and have precious time with his father.

But I don't think there's much time left. Denis had a treatment that was sort of a last ditch effort. It didn't work. He can't walk unassisted anymore, the lesions on his brain are getting worse and his condition is deteriorating. The doctors are going to try one last round of radiation, but if it doesn't work, that's it.

And honestly, I don't think it will. And I think in his heart of hearts, Jason doesn't think so either.

If I were a betting woman, I would take odds that he's got maybe a month left.

I don't know what Jason wants to do if Denis dies. If he still wants to go to Australia for a few years. I don't have any particular desire to move again -- I feel like we're finally getting settled, my job is going really well, the kids are happy. But if he really wants me to, if it's what he needs, I will.

He's just so sad.

"Nice punch, ya little bastard! Now let's go have cake."

2011-06-13T08:58:00.001-06:00

I've always been amazed at the way guys can get in a fight, including one that involves the throwing of punches, and then shake hands and go have a beer minutes later.

Women do not do this. We can resolve our differences, but it invariably involves tears and recriminations and self righteousness and martyrdom, and that will last for awhile before any resolution is reached.

It certainly made living in a sorority house a barrel of laughs at least once a month, when all our cycles had synched.

Anyway, with guys, I guess it's just how they're hard-wired from birth.

Yesterday Zeke went to a friend's birthday party at a jumping castle establishment. So there was much running around and bouncing and general rambunctiousness.

Also at this party was his friend Connor. Connor is his "best buddy," as Zeke describes him. They play together at school all the time. When they greet each other in the mornings, they run towards each other as if they haven't seen each other in years and give each other a big bear hug. It's hilarious and cute.

They also tend to get in trouble together from time to time. And sometimes they bitch at each other like an old married couple.

So yesterday, for whatever reason, Connor was in a mood and was being a bit of a douchebag to Zeke. Kept pushing him and pushing him and pushing him. And Connor is bigger than Zeke -- taller and a bit brawnier.

But I guess Zeke finally got to the point where he had had enough. After being on the receiving end of one push too many, Zeke cocked his extended arm back as far as he could and swung it around in a classic haymaker punch, connecting right at the side of Connor's head. Connor didn't see it coming and dropped like a ton of bricks.

An older lady who had witnessed the whole thing remarked, "wow, I didn't think the little one had it in him!"

Connor wasn't really hurt, just a bit taken aback. And he tried to whine about how Zeke had hit him, but everyone had seen that Zeke had essentially been pushed to the breaking point and was just defending himself from being pushed down yet again, so Jason gave Zeke a half-hearted talking-to about how you're not supposed to hit your friends and left it at that. And the kids were fine after that -- Connor and Zeke played nicely for the rest of the party and fun was had by all.

This morning when I dropped Zeke off at school, he and Connor ran towards each other and hugged and ran off to play with trucks. So no hard feelings, I guess.

Typical guys.

Destroying childhood illusions, one at a time

2011-06-10T08:00:00.002-06:00

So yesterday I revealed myself to be a Mean Mommy who tells her kids to piss off (not in those words) because they're constantly clammoring for maternal attention.

I can't seem to stop destroying their little worlds.

Zeke is totally into Dora the Explorer, and really likes learning new words in Spanish. Sometimes he'll ask me how to say something in Spanish, and because my ability to speak Spanish is about on par with what a 3-year-old's vocabulary would be, I can usually accommodate.

Yesterday, he asked me how to say "wheel" in Spanish.

I racked my brain, but I couldn't remember. (It's "rueda," for those of you who are curious.)

"Sorry, honey, but I don't know. I'll have to look it up for you."

He looked shocked. "But Mama, you know everything."

I chuckled and shook my head. "No, honey, I really don't. I know lots of things, and I know how to find the answer to just about any question, but I don't know everything."

"Yes, you do!"

"No, sweetie, I don't. I'm sorry but it's true."

He looked skeptical but didn't say any more.

A few minutes later he asked, "Mama, what's the Spanish word for 'key'?"

"Llave," I responded.

He nodded, reassured. Just like that, all was right in his universe again.

The worst four letter word of all

2011-06-09T09:15:00.001-06:00

I swear to God, if I hear a sweet little voice say "mama" to me one more time, I may lose what little is left of my mind.

From the time I get the kids up in the morning until I drop them at school, and then from the time I get home from work until we all go to bed, all I ever fucking hear is "mama" (or "mami" if it's coming from Josie).

"Mama?"

"Yes, honey."

"Mama, I want..."

"What?"

"Um.. I... Mama?"

"Yes, dear."

"Mama, can I... can I have..."

"What is it, sweetie? What do you want?"

"Mama...mama...ummm...."

"Yes?"

"Mama..."

Sometimes I am able to resist the urge to scream "WHAT DO YOU WANT??? SPEAK!" at the top of my lungs.

But not always.

And now Josie is going through a super-clingy phase. All she wants is to be sitting on my lap, or hugging me, or for me to be carrying her. Sometimes I can accommodate. But it's hard to cook dinner while holding a toddler. I generally need both hands to chop vegetables.

So last night, she stood at my feet, sobbing "Mami! Maaaamiiii!" while I cooked and said, "sorry, honey, you're going to have to suck it up for a little while."

And then again this morning when I needed to put her down so I could pee. Or get dressed. Or eat something.

She's so pitiful. And it makes me feel like such an asshole to say, "Josie, you need to get out of my face for a minute. Away, please."

In her class, the kids are taught to say "away" to other kids who are bothering them or trying to take their toys or whatever, so I figured it would be something she could understand.

Well, she understood it, all right. And promptly crumpled in a heap of tears and misery.

There's an older lady in my office that I was chatting with in the break room one day. She asked how many kids I have and how old they are, and when I told her, she said, "oh, it must be hard leaving them every day to come to work."

She was a bit taken aback when I responded, "no, not really."

On days like today, that walk down the hall and out the door after I've delivered the children to their respective classrooms is incredibly liberating. I can literally feel the stress leaving my body. Because I know it will be at least 9 hours or so before someone starts tugging at my clothes and pleading, "mama!"

Grasping

2011-06-07T15:33:00.001-06:00

Rose Castorini: Cosmo, I just want you to know no matter what you do,

you're gonna die, just like everybody else.

Cosmo Castorini: Thank you, Rose.

~ Moonstruck

As expected, the reunion was phenomenal. I had an amazing, if exhausting, time catching up with old friends, having fun, dancing, staying out until 2:30 in the morning. It was incredible to see people that I knew so well and spent so much time so many years ago, and to learn what they had been doing for 20 years. They're so successful - doctors, lawyers, hedge fund managers, business owners, parents to beautiful and accomplished children. It was impressive and a little bit awe-inspiring.

But mostly it was just fun. It made me so happy.

Of course, being me, I can't get out of my own head and just enjoy myself. I was all obsessed all weekend (and beyond) with thinking about memories. The role memories play in making a person who they are. Whether the loss of certain specific memories with the passage of times diminishes the impact of the experience being remembered. Whether with the loss of certain memories, you lose parts of yourself.

Friday was a whirlwind. I dropped the kids at daycare, went to the airport, caught my flight to DC, my dad picked me up, we went to my parents' house, I took one of my mom's cars, drove the 2 1/2 hours to Charlottesville, checked in at Alumni Hall, went to my hotel, checked into my room, changed my clothes and ran up the street to the big Class of '91 welcome dinner. I immediately ran into a bunch of friends, with whom I ended up spending the bulk of the weekend, and we ate and drank and shmoozed and then went to hear a band and ran into some more people. We ended up at the Corner at a bar that I have closed down probably a hundred times (at least). After last call, a bunch of guys that I used to hang out with invited me back to their old fraternity house to drink and catch up some more, but it was already 2:30 in the morning and I was already a little drunk and a lot exhausted, so I went back to my hotel room and crashed.

The next morning, after grabbing some breakfast and hanging out and shooting the shit with some friends, I had some time to kill before meeting a group of sorority sisters for lunch. So I went for a walk around Grounds.

I walked up past the Rotunda, in front of which my class's dinner had been held the night before.

If you look closely, at the top of the stairs you can see the tables and chairs from the previous night's dinner.

I walked around the front and then cut in to walk on the Lawn.

It was a beautiful day and a beautiful scene. Many people had brought their families with them to the reunion, and there were kids running around and people chatting and picnicking and enjoying the day. I continued across the Lawn and walked down inside the colonnade on the east side.

Further down, I doubled back across the Lawn and walked past the amphitheater.

Setting up for that evening's dinner and band party.

I walked down Monroe Hill and then wound my way behind Newcombe Hall and up to the quad bounded by the libraries before heading past the chapel, back toward the Rotunda and down to the Corner again to meet my friends.

What a breathtakingly beautiful building.

As I walked, I was thinking, "I have walked this route hundreds and hundreds of times. Every day, multiple times, back and forth to class, to see friends, to parties." I was also struck by the incredible beauty of the place -- the architecture, the greenery. And as much as the place is such a huge part of me, it feels like I was there a million years ago. Or yesterday.

As I passed the Rotunda, the chapel bells began to play the Good Ol' Song (the tune of Auld Lang Syne). It was surreal. Like having pieces of my DNA brought to the surface of my body.

I felt like the reunion, and really, my efforts to hold on to memories generally, was an exercise in rebuilding a wall. As the years pass, little memory bits, like old pieces of brick or mortar, fall away, and we make concerted efforts to reconnect with old friends at reunions and through Facebook and whatnot as a way of finding those fallen pieces and putting them back in their place. We try to hold on to those memories so tightly, as if by holding on to them, we can go back in time. Or stop aging.

But then the weekend ends and we go back to our lives. The grey hairs and wrinkles keep appearing.

Toward the end of Saturday night, after laughing and having a great dinner and dancing to two bands, we headed back across the Lawn on our way to find a bar that was still open. It was a beautiful warm night, with enough humidity to make the air feel soft and enveloping.

We saw a group of people streaking the Lawn, carrying on a time-honored tradition. So that was awesome. And then we saw the Rotunda itself, which was lit up and looking as beautiful as I've ever seen it. My friend Bob grabbed my camera and told me to pose for a picture, and I was feeling so happy that I just threw my arms in the air and my head back and laughed.

The nametag doesn't really go with the dress.

That was my magical weekend.

And then it was over.

Another memory to try to hang on to for dear life.

As Churchill said, the only thing to do when you're going through hell is to keep going.

2011-06-02T15:36:00.000-06:00

It's been a rough couple of week. Hell, a rough month.

Jason got home from Australia (after being detained in secondary security for an hour and a half, once again to be accused of procuring his green card through fraudulent means). But the jet lag coming back is a million times harder than it is going. So even with him home, I didn't get much of a reprieve because he was exhausted and drooling on the couch by 6:30 every night.

Then the jet lag passed, but the kids both got sick. Josie hasn't slept in about 5 nights because of an ear infection, so I've spent my nights lying with her, trying to sooth her and keep her fever under control.

And there's some other stuff going on as well. Stuff that I don't feel comfortable blogging about right now. But it's eating at me.

The silver lining is that tomorrow I leave for another reunion. Twenty years since graduating from UVa.

I've lost 15 pounds since early March (I switched out P90X for TurboFire-- decided to try something new), so I will show up at the reunion looking the way I want to look. So that's good.

I will be going alone. So that's even better.

Gearing up for another weekend of sensory overload - reconnecting with old friends, visiting the old haunts, dancing to the old bands. Then the wishing that I could hold onto that feeling a little longer before it slips through my fingers.

I could use more than a weekend away. But it's a start.

Other things may change us, but we start and end with family

2011-05-19T20:46:00.001-06:00

Jason called tonight, probably his last call before he gets on a plane to come home.

We exchanged how-are-yous, what-did-you-do-todays and all that. He sounded relatively chipper. He told me how the kids and I are getting custom-made Ugg boots (Josie's will be pink!), how he had a nice time seeing his sister, how the weather was good.

"And I got to spend some time with my dad."

"Well that's good. How's he doing?"

"I went to the doctor with him yesterday. He goes to the hospital for another treatment."

"Huh."

"Yeah, the doctors told me that this will most likely be the last time I see him before he dies."

He was so nonchalant about it.

I, on the other hand, burst into tears.

Apparently, his condition from this crazy-ass disease that only 60 people in the entire world are known to have, and only 3 adults, all of whom are on the verge of dying, is deteriorating. He's developed lesions on his brain. His mental acuity is getting worse. His vision is worsening. And all of these things have gotten much worse, quickly, in the last month. The doctors only give him a slightly better than 50% chance of even surviving the treatment he's going through next week.

Jason said that he's sad, but that he's spent good time with his dad and has said everything he needs to say. He's said good-bye. He'll have no regrets about leaving anything unsaid.

But I feel so awful for him. Awful not only at the prospect of losing a beloved parent, and at not having more time with him. Awful because I can't even imagine what it must be like to go through this and then fly to the other side of the world, and not be there in the end. It makes me feel guilty for pulling him away from his family, even though I know that I never forced him into anything -- he made his choice.

Still. It just sucks so much.

Welcome to the world, baby girl

2011-05-19T08:56:00.000-06:00

From the day she was born, Josie has been The Good Child. The one who's mellow and easy and only fusses as a way of communicating hunger or tiredness. She hasn't had tantrums or screaming fits.

Until now.

I know it's the age. A combination of starting to assert independence and separation from others, and frustration with an inability to communicate as well as she wants to and feels she should be able to. She is so, so close to truly functional, conversational speech. But she's not there yet. And it's pissing her off.

Over the past month or so, she has occasionally put herself into a strop over something she wanted but couldn't have. I accommodate her wishes to the extent that is reasonable, but I'm not going to raise an asshole, so she doesn't get everything she wants. And when that happens, she'll run and flop herself on the ground in front of me very dramatically, crying as if I had just run over her puppy. I'll say something like, "I'm sorry you're upset, honey," and walk away. So she'll get up, run over to me and flop herself on the ground in front of me again.

It's hard not to laugh.

Yesterday she had her first full-on tantrum at school. Screaming, running around in circles and then throwing herself on the floor, throwing things, arching her back when people tried to console her or pick her up. No one could figure out what was wrong and because it is so out of character for her, the teachers were very alarmed.

I told them that once they had discerned that she wasn't hurt or in some kind of danger, to walk away and ignore her.

The time from birth to about 18 months, as hard as it is, is lovely in that you don't have to make any real efforts at discipline. You establish schedules and limits and say "no" when you have to, but it's way too early for scoldings or time outs or any of that kind of thing -- the kids just don't have the cognitive or emotional capacity to understand or benefit from it. Discipline is a pain in the ass -- it's no fun to fight with your kid or watch them be miserable while they're being punished.

But I fear the time has come for Miss Josephine.

Love given to you will evaporate like a puddle, unless you are open to absorb it.

2011-05-17T21:05:00.001-06:00

The first week of Daddy being gone passed relatively smoothly. I made a point of emphasizing to Zeke how I needed him to be a big boy and help me out with Josie and to generally be a good boy. And the three of us seemed to be ever-vigilant about being patient and taking care of each other.

This week the bloom is off that rose and we're all just crabby. I ask Zeke not to splash water out of the tub and he gives me a throat-fart* and a surly face. Zeke tries to lean in to give Josie a kiss (and to be honest, he's got issues with personal space) and she pushes him away and says, "AWAY!" Josie starts whining because she wants to watch Elmo, but I'm in the middle of cleaning toys off the floor and I snap, "oh, for God's sake, hold on!"

The weather has been weird. It was warm for a couple of weeks, then last week a cold front moved in and it's been chilly and either raining or threatening rain. When I went to pick up the kids from school, it looked like a storm was moving in, meaning we wouldn't be able to go to the park, so I just took them home. We all had dinner, but then the bitchery ensued about who was going to get to watch Dora when the other wanted to watch Nemo, and then Josie ran towards the front door and started to cry when I wouldn't open it for her because I was in the middle of eating a plate of food.

I looked out the window, saw that the sun had poked out for a spell and said, "c'mon kids, put your clothes on [Zeke was naked, naturally], we're going to the park."

The elementary school down the road has a great playground that's open to the public. Play areas with structures that increase in size and complexity, for different ages and levels of dexterity, surrounding a big open baseball field. But the field was soaking wet from being watered. Both kids immediately made a bee-line for it.

I started to yell, "watch out for the puddles! You'll get wet and make a mess!" But then I stopped myself. The kids were running back and forth in the puddles, soaking their shoes and their pants but giggling their little asses off and having a great time.

So their clothes got wet and dirty. Really, who gives a shit?

I just sat and watched them have fun. Zeke fell down in the mud at one point, but we all just laughed. They ran around, they went on the slide, they played "chase." And when it started getting colder and I told them it was time to head home and have a bath, they were happy to oblige.

There were no more fights the rest of the night. Everyone was tired and happy.

Four more sleeps until Daddy gets home.

________________________
*A wordless, gutteral exclamation of irritation made from the back of the throat.

The distance is quite simply much too far for me to row, It seems farther than ever before

2011-05-16T10:57:00.001-06:00

When I was a kid, we almost always lived overseas, so my grandparents (who lived in Michigan) were always far away from me. We loved them and loved seeing them and they were a big part of our lives, but not because we got to see them often. We visited them when we could and they visited us, but it wasn't a relationship built upon regular interaction. The notion of parents and their grown children living in the same city was not the model that I was exposed to.

So when I grew up, I went where school and jobs and whimsy took me. It never occurred to me to make a serious effort to stay physically close to my parents because I didn't see it as something that people did. At least, not something that we did. My brothers and I are as emotionally close as we could be to our parents, but none of us lives near them.

When I was living on the East Coast and was making plenty of money and my folks were an hour and half away by plane, I didn't think much of it.

But then we went to Hawaii and had a baby. And Hawaii is so, so far away from the rest of my family. And distance is made more so by young children, who are difficult and expensive to travel with.

Denver is so much closer. But it's still far away. And money is so much tighter, and two small children are such a pain in the ass to travel with.

It's making me sad.

My folks were in town this weekend to hang out and visit and also to help with the kids while Jason is gone. It was so wonderful to have them here. They're such amazing grandparents - totally engaged, fun, willing and able to go out and do things. We went to the book store. To Target. To the park. To the indoor pool. They took Zeke to the science museum. Hosted him at their hotel for sleepovers (two nights!).

They left this morning, so they hung out at the house until late last night. We ordered Thai food and watched baseball and my mom and Zeke played Angry Birds on her iPad.

And then they had to leave. Zeke was all ready to go with them to the hotel and was very upset to learn that he would have to sleep at home without Mimi and Papa. And that Mimi and Papa were leaving and he wouldn't see them for a couple of months.

"Why do Mimi and Papa have to go away? Why, Mama?"

Then a few minutes later, "where are they? What are they doing right now??"

When he woke up this morning: "Where are Mimi and Papa? I want to see them."

I want my children to be able to see my parents whenever they want. I want my parents to be able to see my children whenever they want. I want to be able to see my parents whenever I want.

My heart feels heavy today.

Oh where have you been, my blue-eyed son, and where have you been, my darling young one?

2011-05-11T10:21:00.002-06:00

I was having a bit of an existential crisis last night. Looking at my life with a critical eye and wondering how I got to this point, miles from where I thought I would be at this age and this stage of my career, and not feeling particularly good about it.

I started to cry and was sort of weepy throughout the night. No doubt a combination of hormones and exhaustion and a little bit of loneliness, of feeling like the weight of keeping the family going is on my shoulders. Wondering if I'm doing my children any good at all.

Zeke saw that I was upset and said, "what's wrong, Mama?" And I mumbled something about being a little sad and a little tired, all the while feeling more like an asshole for even subjecting the children to my moods in the first place. They need me to be the solid, stable one. It's not their responsibility to make me feel better.

Zeke's eyes were wide and concerned. "It's OK, Mama. Everything's going to be OK." He rubbed my cheek and gave me a hug.

Later, after Josie had gone to bed, he and I were hanging out downstairs when a thunderstorm rolled in. Super-loud thunder, crashing lightening and rain driven sideways by the wind. Zeke was mesmerized. When a particularly loud clap of thunder exploded, his jaw dropped and he said, "WOW!" in total wonderment.

"Let's go over to the window and watch it, Mama!"

So we went and sat by the front picture window that looks over the road. "We need to wait for more thunder, Mama. Sometimes it takes a little while. But do you see the rain falling on the road there? It's falling really hard!"

I looked down at him and marveled at how lucky I am to have this sweet, beautiful, sensitive boy in my life. I put my arms around him and held him close.

"I love you, Mama."

"Oh, Zekey. I love you, too. So, so much. You're the best boy in the world."

"Are you still sad?"

"No, honey, I'm OK. You gave me great hugs and that made me feel better."

He patted my face and then turned to look outside again. We sat like that in the dark living room, our arms wrapped around each other, looking out the window until the storm passed.

Mission accomplished

2011-05-10T09:22:00.002-06:00

The first few days of Jason being gone were tough. Especially Sunday, which was Mother's Day.

A few weeks ago, Jon Stewart did a piece mocking the media's reaction to a J. Crew catalog that featured a mom having a nice moment with her 5 year old son, who happened to have his toes painted pink. In response to the outcry about confusing gender roles and other bullshit like that, Jon made an excellent point: "Do you know how long a weekend is with children?? Everybody gets bored. You will do anything to fill the time. 'You want to paint your toenails, honey? Sure, let's do it.'"

Truer words were never spoken.

So Sunday we got up and it was a beautiful day, so we went to the zoo. Which is fun, but it involves me either pulling the kids around in the wagon or chasing them around when they decide to climb out of the wagon and sprint off in different directions. But I managed to keep them in my line of sight, and for 3 hours we walked around and looked at the lions and giraffes and tigers and fish and elephants and hippos and gorillas. We even got to see the baby orangutan, who is insanely cute. And we rode the train. And the carousel. And Zeke used the potty 3 times. By noon they were tired and starting to melt down, so I had the pleasure of pulling two crying children through the zoo on my way back to the parking lot, absorbing the looks of pity and "Jesus, I'm glad those aren't my kids" that you tend to get when your kids are acting their age in public.

The afternoon was spent napping and watching Dora, then we went to the park for a couple of hours to play. The thing about taking both of them to the park when I'm the only one watching them is that I have to go back and forth between the two of them because they can't do the same things. And because Zeke is older and more physically able to play safely on the gym equipment, I tend to stick with Josie more. She has Jason's attitude towards physical challenges -- bring 'em on, and the consequences be damned. Leading to me standing next to Josie as she climbs all over equipment made for kids 3 times her size while Zeke sprints off to the other side of the playground by himself. Then I get the nervous glances from the other parents, who are saying with their eyes, "aren't you going to go get him? Aren't you going to hover over him every moment of his life? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU???"

I just smile and yell, "Zekey, don't go too far off!" And we managed to make it out of the playground and to the ice cream store without anyone dead or maimed.

We had ice cream. We went home and watched Nemo for the 70 billionth time. The kids had a bath and splashed water all over the place. I painted Zeke's toenails blue. We read some books and went to bed.

I didn't get breakfast in bed. I didn't get to leave and get a massage.

But I filled the time.

The Daily Show - Toemageddon 2011 - This Little Piggy Went to Hell
Tags: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

Mental blocks

2011-05-05T11:46:00.000-06:00

I am a relatively intelligent person and a relatively organized one, at least in my head (you wouldn't know it from looking at my desk). I remember things, for the most part. I've got my shit together.

And yet.

There are certain things about which I have incurable mental blocks.

Where I put my keys, for example. Every single time I look for my keys, I always have a moment of panic. "Shit. Did I put them in my briefcase? Are they on my desk? In my pocket?"

And because I have trained myself to put them in the same place every day (I occasionally mess up, but I'm pretty good now), I always find them.

I need to figure out something similar with my computer.

Our computers at work are laptops that click into a mechanism that essentially turns them into desktops. It links the hard drive up with a monitor and connects it to the office server and there's a separate keyboard and mouse. But if I have to work from home, I can just detach the laptop and take it with me. Easy peasy.

Except that I always forget to bring it back to work the next day. And when I say always, I am not exaggerating. I am currently batting .000. 0-fer-5, I think.

I had my computer with me in Phoenix this week, for checking emails and getting some work done (but mostly for watching The Daily Show in my hotel room, because the Hyatt does not subscribe to Comedy Central). I left it in its little computer bag in the trunk of my car, thinking that I would just grab it when I headed to the bus after dropping the kids at school. I must have had at least 5 conversations with myself about it. "Don't forget!" "I won't, I won't."

At least this morning I was only half-way to work when I remembered that I had forgotten. All the other times, I was all the way in the building when I had to turn back. So today, I got off the bus at the next stop, walked across the street, caught the bus going the other way, went home, grabbed the computer, walked back across the street, caught the next bus and came to work. I was only 20 minutes late.

I guess it's progress?

Pros and cons

2011-05-02T18:56:00.000-06:00

I'm in Phoenix now for a special education law conference. Downtown Phoenix is generic and relatively free of charm. It is warm, though, which is a nice change because it's been ridiculously cold in Denver lately. I got a text from Jason this morning: "It's snowing here."

Fuck that.

Other benefits are that I get to sleep in a comfortable bed by myself without anyone climbing on me, kicking me or peeing on me during the night (Zeke tends to soak through his pull-ups at night -- I'm not saying that Jason and I are into golden showers). I don't have to clean up after anyone, including myself. Phoenix is in the Pacific time zone, meaning that I can get up at my normal time to work out (5:15 a.m.) and still get an extra hour of sleep.

Of course, there are downsides. My children make me tired, but I love them and miss them. And they're still so little and rely on me for so much, including looking to me as an emotional anchor. When I'm not around, they're a bit adrift. They even shunned me when I was saying goodbye to them yesterday at the airport. Josie burst into tears and pushed me away and when I went to give Zeke a hug and a kiss, he turned away from me.

Ouch.

So as I write this, I'm enjoying free wireless in an outdoor bar as I nurse a glass of oatmeal stout. It's very pleasant. But I'll be happy to get back to my messy, noisy life, with children clamoring for my attention and showering me with love and slobbery kisses again.

T.S. was off by one

2011-04-28T14:30:00.000-06:00

I know April is supposed to be the cruelest month, but for my kids (and somewhat for me and Jason), May is shaping up to be a doozy.

On Sunday, I leave for a 3 day legal conference in Arizona. So Jason, who is normally out the door by 6:30 to go to work, will have to fuck up his schedule to get the kids up and off to school and get them in the afternoons and deal with dinner and bath and bed. Which isn't so hard - hell, I did it for a year and a half when Jason was working in Vail, but still, it's exhausting.

And I think the kids will have a rough time of it -- they're very used to their routine: Mommy in the morning, Daddy after school, and then both of us for the evening. Josie does not like that routine upset, and I can't even prepare her by explaining that I'll be gone for a few days. At least with Zeke, I can get him ready, and he's old enough to understand that just because I'm gone doesn't mean I won't be back. So he'll deal.

Then, 3 days after I get back, Jason is leaving for Australia. For two weeks.

He needs to go home. He really does. His dad has been really sick for years and Jason hasn't been back since he took Zeke almost 3 years ago. I can't imagine not seeing my family or my homeland for that long. So I begrudge him nothing with this trip.

But still. Two. Fucking. Weeks.

Like I said, I've been there, done that (though never for 2 straight weeks), so I'll be OK. My parents are coming to visit the middle week and I've enlisted friends and family to be available for a dinner or a playdate to keep the kids distracted.

But I think it's going to be really, really hard on them. I fully anticipate acting out, fussing, toilet training regression. Ugh.

At least they'll have us for 2 full weeks after Jason gets back before I leave again for my college reunion. Without them.

Poor little monkeys.

Getting through

2011-04-26T06:35:00.001-06:00

I was emailing with Lisa yesterday about life. She had written a post about how it feels like life is just a series of fighting the same fights, worrying the same worries, getting through it, most of "it" being not particularly fun or pleasant. I felt like it described my life to a "t."

So much of it is just a slog, getting through chores, making sure everyone is fed and bathed and cared for, and then cleaning up the endless messes. The endless dishes. The endless laundry. The endless bills that, right now, seem to exceed our ability to pay them.

And then last night I found out that one of my cousins had died (he's actually my mom's first cousin, so he's once-removed from me). He was in his 80s and had been sick for a long time, but he had actually been doing really well, so it was a bit of a surprise. He was one of the DC cousins (as opposed to the Michigan cousins), and he was always fun to talk to. Quick with a dirty joke or an inappropriate remark, big sports fan, smart, and far kinder and more generous than he would ever let on. He and Zeke even shared a birthday, so there was that little connection. I will miss him.

And his son (my second cousin) has aggressive brain cancer and probably doesn't have much longer left.

Shitty times for their family.

And there's my brother, whose middle daughter needs a heart procedure sometime soon. She was born with a heart condition and recently had a test that the doctors weren't thrilled with. The procedure shouldn't be a big deal, but still. It's their kid. And it's only a year after almost losing one of their other kids.

It's hard.

As always, there are glimmers, points of light (geez, I never thought I'd be borrowing a phrase from former Pres. Bush (H.W., not W, obvs)). My goofy-ass children bouncing around and hugging each other on the couch. My sweet husband. My fledgling Beachbody business (I started getting checks after the first week - not huge ones yet, but they're growing). The roof over my head, care of a beautiful old house that will some day be really beautiful. My health, and in particular, my shrinking waistline. My generous parents and my wonderful friends and family.

Lisa and I didn't solve any of the world's problems with our email exchange, or even any of our own, most probably. But as always, it's nice to connect with an old friend. So there's that, too.

And we just keep going.

Things to do in Denver when you're Jewish

2011-04-25T10:24:00.001-06:00

Yesterday morning the weather was kind of crappy and cold, so rather than look to outdoor outings to entertain the kids, we decided to go to the science museum (aka "the dinosaur museum"). It's really close to where we live and we have an annual membership, so it's a good "go to" when we're looking for something to do. Zeke and Josie love to run around, looking at the dinosaur bones, the wildlife exhibits, the bugs. It's fun and they learn things (Zeke knows the difference between a diplodocus, a stegosaurus and a pachycephalosaurus, for example). Plus they have this great kids' center where there are tons of "hands on" projects for the monkeys to play with, dancing, demonstration, puzzles, games, etc.

I hadn't even thought about the fact that it was Easter, other than having my annual trade-off of tasteless Easter jokes with my dad when we called in the morning to say hi. Not my holiday, yanno? So we were pleasantly surprised at the lack of crowds - makes it easier to keep track of short people. And then we started noticing...characteristics. Like the abundance of men wearing yamulkes. The kids named "Yael" and "Isaac" and "Abe." The moms named "Chava" (hard "ch") and Rivka. A few stray prayer shawl fringes hanging out of shirts.

"Jason!" I whispered.

"What's up?"

"I think we're here with all the other Jews in town!"

He chuckled and nodded. "I was thinking the same thing. We Jews need to stick together, baby!"

Cross-pollenation

2011-04-21T10:29:00.000-06:00

I started a new blog just for my fitness and coaching stuff. I'm over there today (with challenges! and prizes!) so feel free to check it out.

My little monkey-bean

2011-04-20T10:08:00.000-06:00

I was bouncing Josie on the bed the other day - holding her hands to help her achieve greater height - as she giggled and smiled at me and said, "again?" every time I stopped. I can't really do it with Zeke anymore because he's getting so big. But Josie is still such a peanut. The right height for her age, but definitely on the skinny side -- she might have crossed the 20 lb. mark recently, placing her solidly in the 1st percentile for her age. So it's easy for me to rough-house with her as she squeals with glee.

As we were playing and laughing, I was thinking back to my surprise and (mild) consternation when I was pregnant with her and learned that she was a girl. How I was kind of hoping for a boy because I already had one and felt like I "got" little boys. How I was nervous about her growing up to be an evil teenager.

So stupid on my part (not the evil teenager part -- that will undoubtedly play itself out and I'll just have to deal).

Because I love her little girly tendencies. Her love of baby dolls, for example. She has a couple of them at home, plus there's a box of them she plays with at school, and she walks around holding Baby or sitting with it and patting its back or using a towel or a cloth napkin to swaddle Baby and then rock it from side to side. Sometimes she'll hand Baby off, and if you're the recipient, you had better hold Baby up to your shoulder and gently and soothingly pat her on the back like you're burping her, because if you hand her back to Josie without having done it right, Josie will hand her right back for you to try again.

And she's so sweet and happy and snuggly. She loves to sit on my lap just so, holding Baby, while we read a book or watch Elmo. She loves to play "chase" through the house, making the loop through the front hall to the dining room through the kitchen to the living room and back to the front hall.

It's so much fun, and so gratifying, to see her with Zeke. They adore each other. They bathe together every night, splashing and giggling. He shows her his books and they stand at the front window and look out while he explains what they're looking at. They give each other hugs while they say, "awwww" and pat each other on the back.

He's teaching her how to talk. "Jo-Jo, say 'flower'!" "Flaw!" "Say 'window'!" "Winnow" He goes to her classroom every day at school to check up on her, see how she's doing and give her a kiss.

After having Zeke, I always thought, "little boys are the best. They love their mothers. They're hilarious and sweet and wonderful."

Now I look at Josie and think, "little girls are the best. They love their mothers. They're hilarious and sweet and wonderful."

Maybe I'm just blessed with great kids.

Tradition!

2011-04-18T20:54:00.001-06:00

I'm coming down from the high of Passover. Maybe a little bit of a Manischewitz buzz. A little overstuffed with brisket, haroset, horseradish, matzoh ball soup and way more coconut macaroons than I have any business eating.

It was lovely. My cousins and their 1 year old came over, and my high school friend Kim came over, and a good time was had by all.

Passover is my favorite holiday. I love the themes (Freedom! Let my people go! Next year in Jerusalem!), the food, the family chaos, the telling of the story, the ceremony. Jason loves it, too ("Baby, it's my favorite holiday since I became a Jew").

I love the fact that every year, we carry on a tradition that is being carried on all over the world, and that has been carried on for thousands of years. And I love carrying on my own family traditions.

Using the china and silver that used to be my grandparents'.

The china I inherited from my grandparents, still meticulously packed with 35-year-old pieces of foam and paper towel protecting the plates, just as my grandfather always left them.

I'm third generation Royal Danish.

Using the kiddush cup and monogrammed napkins that I got for my wedding.

Using my grandmother's matzo ball recipe (the secret is seltzer water).

Enjoying the holiday with my children, who don't really get it yet, but they will, and they will carry on the traditions as well.

Zeke, of course, isn't wearing a shirt. The Australian wine is a nod to Jason.

Traditions like this are a blessing. A mitzvah. They link us to each other and to a greater purpose. On days like this, I am honored to be chosen.

Wishing you all a happy Passover, blessed Easter, happy spring.

Why my house is a shit-show

2011-04-11T14:22:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, within a span of about half an hour, Zeke:

tasted something I had offered him, decided he didn't like it, and "wiped" whatever it was (probably some sort of vegetable, I don't remember) off of his tongue by licking the couch;
went off to the bathroom fully clothed but came back naked, having left his clothing next to the toilet;
dumped his bucket of Mr. Potatohead parts all over the living room floor to play with them, only to abandon them when the next shiny thing caught his eye; and
sprayed water all over the couch in an effort to "help me clean up."

Meanwhile, in approximately the same time span, Josie:

ate half a cereal bar but crumbled the other half in her fists and threw the crumbs in the air;
took off her diaper, played for awhile, peed on the floor and then used her hands to spread the pee around;
took clean laundry that I had just folded out of the laundry basket and flung it around; and
pulled pots and pans out of the cupboard and arranged them throughout the kitchen.

Everyone with kids tells me to cherish these early years because they fly by so quickly.

That rapid passage of time doesn't seem like such a bad thing sometimes.

Will work for underpants

2011-04-06T14:10:00.002-06:00

I'm putting the kids in the car to take them to school. As I'm buckling Josie in, I'm saying to Zeke, "come on, sweetie, hop into your seat and I'll come and strap you in."

"Where are we going, Mama?"

"We're going to school and then I'm going to work."

"Why?"

Josie, who is in that stage of language acquisition in which she repeats everything she hears without necessarily knowing what it means, parrots, "why? why? why?"

"Why do I have to go to work?"

"Yeah. Why, Mama?"

I think for a second. "Well, you know what money is? What we use to buy things at the grocery store?"

"Yes."

"The way you get money is to do something for someone, to do some work, and then they pay you for it and give you money. So Daddy goes to work and he gets money for the work he does, and I go to work and I get money for the work I do, and then we take that money and we use it to pay for the things in our life, like our house, our cars..."

"And food?"

"Yep, food's a big one."

"And underpants."

"Exactly. Underpants are very important."

"Yeah."

He goes back to looking out the window and humming to himself, satisfied that he has covered the bases.

The Costa Rica fund

2011-04-05T06:51:00.000-06:00

I've mentioned more than once my fondness for exercise programs like P90X and Insanity and TurboJam and a few others, all by a fitness company called Beachbody.

I started using them about 6 years ago in preparation for my wedding. I was getting fitted for my gown and the seamstress told me that the dress was ever-so-slightly tight around the bodice, but that if I lost 5 pounds, I wouldn't need any alterations at all.

I had been doing home exercise programs since I was in college, but I was bored with my collection. Then I saw an ad for P90X in Esquire magazine. The program didn't promise any quick fixes or easy weight loss -- just great results if you were committed to working incredibly hard 6 days a week for 90 days. I liked the no-bullshit approach and the money back guarantee, so I ordered it, figuring that if I didn't like it, I could return it and get my money back.

Long story short, I rocked my wedding dress, got into the best shape of my life, and became a devoted consumer of Beachbody products. I've used 5 of their programs and then just started a 6th, TurboFire, this morning. I've recommended the programs to friends and relatives, who have become similarly addicted.

Now I've drunk the Kool-Aid in full.

The company has a coaching program in which you can sign up to become a coach and a rep for the company's products. I've been thinking about doing it for a while. There are people I've read about it who have been able to turn their coaching gig into a full-time job that allows them to work for themselves and quit their day jobs. I don't see myself doing that, but I would like to be able to help people get in shape and at the same time, maybe make a little bit of money that I can use as a vacation/rainy day fund.

So I signed up.

I'm not going to give a hard sell, because the products basically sell themselves. Here's my page -- it will link you to all the information you could need about the programs, products and coaching opportunities. After a couple of days, I'll move this post to a separate page (linked at the top of the homepage), and I'll put some links on the sidebar. Check it out.

What a fool believes, he sees, no wise man has the power to reason away...

2011-04-04T05:00:00.000-06:00

As I said, I'm generally not creative enough to come up with worthy April Fool's gags. Nor do I usually even remember it is April Fool's Day until it's too late to do anything about it.

So it's nice to be included in someone else's gag.

In this case, my high school friend Mark emailed me and asked if I would be willing to participate in a blogging gag flowing from last year's awesome punking of the New York Times.

But of course, I said.

So this time the gag was not on the Times, but rather on readers eager to see the Times taken again. Eric Turkewitz,* a New York lawyer who writes a law blog, conceived of and executed the prank, involving a series of links promising a great punking story, but never delivering. Click here for his deconstruction of the gag. (For reals, this time.)

Happy April, all!

* Part of the gag was that I know Eric at all -- the story about meeting him in India way back when was made up.

Punk me once, shame on you. Punk me twice...

2011-04-01T05:00:00.003-06:00

I've always been one to admire April Fool's Day from afar. I was never able to come up with anything clever enough to make a worthy prank, plus usually by the time I actually remember it's April Fool's Day, I'm driving home from work and it's pretty much done.

An old friend of mine pulled a great one last year, however. He's kind of the adventurous type - I met him when my parents were still living in India and he ended up there as part of a big round-the-world trip he took on a bit of a lark.

Anyway, last year he planted this story on his law blog that he had been hired as the official White House Law Blogger. I have no idea if that position actually exists, but it would be kind of awesome if it did. Anyway, he got a bunch of his blogger friends in on the gag -- they chipped in with their comments about how they confirmed it with anonymous sources in various places. The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal both got taken, but the NYT ran the story without checking. The WSJ got a denial from the White House before posting. The NYT, after pulling down the post, then went on to include it in an editorial about new media.

So it was kind of a big deal. And also very funny, and embarrassing for the NYT.

But I guess some people never learn.

Because a year to the day after being totally punked in an April Fool's prank, the NYT has once again fallen victim to their own sloppy practices.

Eric tells it better than I could: http://www.newyorkpersonalinjuryattorneyblog.com/2011/04/nyt-gets-punked-again.html

Who knew the Gray Lady was run by such a bunch of punks?

At least we're not total failures

2011-03-29T20:54:00.001-06:00

Today was our first parent-teacher conference for the kids. I don't know why, but I was terrified.

Not about Josie, who is a total rock star in her class. She's perfectly behaved, easy going, everybody loves her.

But I was a little worried about Zeke.

Not that I actually think there's anything wrong with Zeke.

He's just so... 3.

And if you've ever spent significant amounts of time around a 3 year old, you know that "annoying," "difficult," "infuriating" and "unpredictable" are words that come to mind when asked to describe them.

So are "adorable," "hilarious," "sweet" and "effervescent."

But quite often, the former qualities overwhelm the latter.

And Zeke is a lot like me -- not a huge joiner, not one to prefer a big noisy crowd when a quiet corner with a book is an option. Except that I'm old enough to know when I need to suppress my own preferences and do as I'm told, whereas Zeke doesn't really have the maturity to have mastered that particular skill.

So I frequently get reports about how he doesn't always participate in group activities and likes to do his own thing.

Which is fine. It's not like he gets grades. And that's not a trait that bothers me. But that observation is frequently presented to me as a "concern."

And then lately he's totally regressed when it comes to potty-training. He's gone from having no accidents, like, ever, except when he was in a situation in which he truly couldn't get to the bathroom in time, to having 3 or 4 a day. Nobody can figure out why. When I ask him about it, he shrugs his shoulders. We've had conversations about it, I've scolded him, I've threatened with the return of "baby diapers, because big boys don't poop in their pants." Nothing works. So now I'm trying bribery -- I bought a big bag of M&Ms -- every time he uses the potty, he gets one. I don't know what else to do.

So, the parent-teacher conference. Jason and I were nervous that we were going to get reports that our kid is woefully behind and that somehow it was all our fault.

Of course that didn't happen. The teacher said she is concerned about the potty training thing, but that we'll work on it together, and it will right itself eventually. Other than that, he's fine. He's really smart. He has the emotional maturity of a 3 1/2 year old. Which he is. And that's OK.

We drove away relieved, not just that our kids are doing well, but that we weren't branded as parenting failures.

Until we drove from the preschool straight to McDonald's for dinner.

Hey, nobody's perfect.

Mother [muhth-er] (noun) - a repository for the detritus of childhood

2011-03-28T09:44:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I went and got a 90 minute massage. It had been a few months since I had one and I had some Groupon deals in the bank, so Jason agreed to keep the kids for a few hours so I could get some time to myself.

It was in a funky little massage/accupuncture place up in Arvada. Hip music was playing, the therapist was all be-tatted and pierced. The walls were adorned with prints that looked like they were from Thailand.

I felt decidedly uncool in my ratty University of Virginia sweatshirt and jeans that I had used to wipe my hands after picking boogers out of Josie's nose.

But hey, my money's good, so she led me back to the therapy room, asked me about my "problem areas," and then left so I could get undressed.

I emptied my pockets and took off my rings, disrobed and got under the sheet.

When the therapist came in a few minutes later, she wasn't able to stifle her guffaw.

Not because I tooted when she walked in or had left a bare cheek uncovered by the sheet.

No, she laughed because she caught a glimpse of the table where I had stashed my clothes and the contents of my pockets:

1 Android smartphone
1 pair dirty jeans
1 sweatshirt
1 long-sleeved t-shirt
bra and panties discreetly tucked into fold of pants
socks and sneakers
3 gold rings
1 toy car

I always thought I could be one of those cool moms that looked well put together.

Not so much, as it turns out.

Friday frippery

2011-03-25T09:58:00.000-06:00

Snow day! -- Tomorrow Zeke and I are off to ski, just the two of us. Jason's got a bad back and can't snowboard without great discomfort, so there's no reason for him and Josie to schlep up to the mountains just to sit in the lodge. So far, Zeke has only skied in ski school, so I'm a little nervous about taking him out by myself. But we're going to play on the magic carpet (which he's used to), work on making wedges and controlling speed and maybe some mild turns, and if he's up to it, we'll get on the chair lift to try a bunny run. I won't be able to do any serious skiing of my own, but last Saturday I got a lot of time on some super-steep black runs at Copper, so that will have to last me for a little while longer.

Hi, Mom! -- My mom has been out of the country on business, in Cambodia and Vietnam. I'm used to talking to her every day, so it's always weird when she's away. But when I check my statcounter, I see hits from Phnom Pehn and Ho Chi Minh City, so I know she's checking in on me. Which makes me feel better. Travel safe, Mama! I miss you.

Something's gotta give -- Jason and I were talking the other day about how we're constantly trying to stay on top of chores -- laundry, keeping the house clean, grocery shopping -- but constantly feel like we're falling behind because we just don't have enough free time to take care of everything. We have a cleaning service that comes every 2 weeks, meaning that every 2 weeks, the house is clean until the kids have been home for an hour, at which point it's trashed again. My office just instituted this flex time policy where people permitted to participate would do 9 days on and 1 day off, i.e., work 9 hours a day for 9 days, and then have every second Friday off. I think I'm going to put in a request to go on that schedule, because Jesus, I could use the occasional day without the kids in tow. Especially during ski season.

Happy weekend, all!

An outburst of the soul

2011-03-24T12:49:00.001-06:00

Weekday mornings are pretty mundane and repetitive. I get up, exercise, have some breakfast and coffee, get the kids up, get them dressed, take them to school and head to work.

But there are wonderful little moments that fill me with tingles. Like when I first open the door to Josie's room. She's usually half awake, but still lying comfortably in her bed, sucking on her two middle fingers. When she hears the door open, she pops her head up and gives me this impish grin. She's got this hilarious mop of hair that sticks up all over the place in the morning, and these chubby cheeks, and big blue eyes that crinkle up when she smiles at me.

So. Fucking. Cute.

I sing-song, "good mooooorning, sweetheart!"

She giggles and plops her head back down on her mattress for an impromptu game of peek-a-boo. Then she stands up, holds out her arms for me to pick her up, and gives me a huge hug.

Every morning I get this gleeful reception from her. It makes my whole day.

Zeke is similarly full of love, especially these days, with the unending stream of "I love you, Mama." He's happy to see me, he's happy to see Josie.

"Good morning, Jo-si-jo-jo-jo-beany-bean-bean!"

Constantly giving both of us hugs and kisses.

*sigh*

They kill me with the cute.

Usually, when I drive them to school, I keep the radio down low and we talk. But today when I turned on the car, the radio was already on. Mumford & Sons' The Cave was playing.

After a couple of seconds, Zeke said, "I like this song, Mama." So I turned it up. "So do I, sweetie. Let's listen to it."

In the rearview mirror, I could see him sort of bobbing his head with the beat as he looked out the window. Josie started singing as well, imitating what she was hearing on the radio, but punctuating it with the occasional "E-I-E-I-O."

We drove along, listening to this cool song, each in our own little world that the music created for us. And I was filled with a sudden burst of intense adoration for my children, and a hope that they would grow up to love and appreciate and maybe play music, as I do.

And maybe I teared up, just a little.

It was another one of those moments.

Insert pithy quote about aging gracefully here

2011-03-23T14:36:00.001-06:00

As I mentioned about a month ago, I'm back on the exercise wagon.

I tend to do that. Go off and on, I mean. And when I'm on it, I'm really disciplined and good.

But then I'm not.

So last year, in preparation for my Israel reunion, I did Insanity. And it was -- wait for it -- insane. Not particularly fun, but certainly an effective program. And I lost many pounds and inches and went to the reunion in the dress I had been working to wear, and all was well.

Except that afterwards, we were moving and then I was changing jobs and then Jason had his hernia surgery and I just didn't have the mindset to stick with it. So I ate what I wanted and didn't have much time to exercise, plus there were the daily offerings in the break room at work of leftover pie and "hey, taste this new recipe I made" and "there's extra Halloween chocolate, help yourselves!"

Now I've got another reunion coming up. Celebrating 20 years since I graduated from college.

20 fucking years. Holy shit.

And in the fall and winter since my last round of serious exercise discipline and dedication, my slack-ass-ness has resulted in an additional 6 pounds of chub on my 5'2" frame. Not good.

So I'm back on the wagon.

I'm not sure what it says about me that I feel the need to pretty-up in preparation for seeing people that I haven't seen in 20 years -- I mean, really, who gives a shit?

But I do (give a shit, that is). Call it vanity, call it clinging to the trappings of youth, call it superficial.

Guilty guilty guilty.

But I feel like if I don't show up bearing some resemblance to the little hottie I used to be, I have lost. Or given up.

I'm not prepared to give up yet.

Maybe for the 30th reunion, when I'm 51, I won't care. But right now, I still do.

So 2 weeks ago, I started another program: P90X and Weight Watchers. That's another thing I tend to do -- programs. I like the regimentation of having a schedule that tells me what I need to do on which day, for how long. It gives me a sense of control. Same with the points system on Weight Watchers. I do well with structure.

The first two weeks were predictably difficult and somewhat discouraging, because I didn't feel like I was seeing results right away. I was getting used to the program, and all the resistance training was probably adding a little bit of muscle weight, so my weekly weigh-ins were not sources of joy.

But like an old steam engine, I feel like I'm slowly but surely gaining momentum. My metabolism is picking up again and I''ve started dropping pounds. My muscles are responding to the weight work and are regaining their definition. My clothes are drooping a little bit.

I feel good.

And by June, I predict that I will feel great.

Obsession

2011-03-22T10:28:00.000-06:00

What is it with this guy?

Josie has discovered Elmo.

Zeke went through a big Elmo kick when he was her age, but as crazy for the little red punk as he was, Josie's got him beat by a mile. Every waking moment she wants to watch Elmo. Or hold the Elmo doll. Or do the hokey-pokey with the Hokey Pokey Elmo that she managed to wrangle from school by throwing an arched-back fit every time the mere suggestion that the doll might be taken away was made.

Sometimes it's all at the same time.

This morning as I was getting them ready for school, she insisted on doing the hokey-pokey with Hokey Pokey Elmo while holding the Elmo puppet while watching an episode of Elmo's World on TV.

I caved only because I knew she was tired and cranky, the result of having been up every couple of hours, crying and asking for Elmo. I finally brought her into bed with me at 4 in the morning to try to sooth her and get her to sleep. She sat up, pointed to the TV and said, "Elmo!"

"No, honey, we're not watching Elmo now. It's time for night-night."

She slumped in my arms, utterly defeated, moaning, "no! no! no!"

So pitiful.

Finally, she rested her head against me, snuggled in, and went to sleep.

I'm not overly alarmed by this behavior -- I know it will pass -- but I'm having a hard time understanding it. I don't remember ever forming attachments like this as a kid. I didn't have a binky or fixate on a doll. I was always very independent and almost disdainful of those kinds of displays, like they showed weakness or something. My mom tells me that when I was about 2 there was a doll that I played with with some regularity, but one day it got lost. She kept waiting for me to get upset or ask for it or something. I never mentioned it and moved on.

I don't want to be a hardass. But I kind of want Josie to sack up and not be such a patsy for Elmo. I feel like it doesn't bode well for her future relationships, to be so overtly needy.

Or maybe I'm the one that needs to chill out and not view the situation so harshly.

What's on second

2011-03-21T09:28:00.001-06:00

Zeke and I have this thing we do when we go to the park. I push him on the swings and he sings "Old MacDonald," but instead of animals, on the farm there are light posts and dirt and various other inanimate objects that don't make noise. And then we'll make up silly noises that the window or wagon or juicebox make.

Josie has started to sing Old MacDonald, and particularly likes repeating "E-I-E-I-O" over and over. She started doing this in the car on the way to school this morning. So I sang along with her, and then Zeke picked it up.

We went through cows and chickens and goats and sheep.

Then Zeke sang, "Old MacDonald had a farm. E-I-E-I-O... And on that farm he had a what."

Me: He had a what?

Zeke: He had a what.

There was no question-like inflection in his voice, so I thought he was being funny with the song, as is our wont, and doing a "who's on first" kind of thing.

Me: He had a what?

Zeke: A what.

Me: A what what?

Zeke: A what.

Me: What the what?

Zeke: He had a WHAT!

Then he started to cry. "What did he have, Mama?"

I realized he hadn't been playing and was waiting for me to fill in the blank, i.e., identify what Old MacDonald had. And he thought I had been mocking him.

This is what happens when you establish a rep as a little smartass.

And here's how to use that rep, pull the old switcheroo, and make Mama feel like a grade A asshole.

One year

2011-03-18T09:45:00.007-06:00

I was sitting at my desk at work when I got the call. I think it was around 3 or 4 in the afternoon, Denver time. It was my dad.

"Emma's been in an accident. She was hit by a car."

"WHAT? Is she OK?" My heart started to race.

"It's very serious. She's being medevac'ed to Mass. General right now."

I began to cry. "Is she going to die?"

"I don't know, honey. It's moment-to-moment. Everyone's one their way to the hospital. As soon as I or someone else has any information, we'll let you know. I love you, sweetheart."

I think I asked how it happened. I remember some coworkers coming in to comfort me, because I was sobbing. I remember driving home and thinking, even though I am not remotely religious, "please, God, please. Don't let her die."

I remember the next few days being a blur of tears and terror and trying to get news, any news. My heart feeling like it was breaking not only for my beautiful niece, but also for my brother and sister-in-law, who were holding up remarkably well, considering.

At first, the big question was whether she was going to make it at all. Then we knew she was going to live, but the question was, how? Would she ever speak again? Walk again? Would she have cognitive function? Would she be able to live independently? Would she be the same, or as close to her old self as possible?

Miraculously, the answer to all of these questions was "yes."

It has been a year since that awful day. And in that year, not only has Emma come back to us, beautiful and funny and strong and sweet, but we have all felt the power of having not only family and close friends, but acquaintances, and sometimes people who weren't even acquaintances, offer up help and support.

While Josh and Lori were spending months with Emma at the hospital in Boston and then at the rehab facility she was in for a few weeks, my parents were up there almost weekly to look after Emma's sisters and provide whatever help they could provide. I went up for a weekend to do what I could. Our brother Sam did the same. Lori's parents and siblings pitched in. Neighbors organized a food rotation, so every night for weeks and weeks, the family had dinners ready for them. People who lived in the neighborhood, but whom Josh and Lori had never met or talked to, would stop by to drop off a meal. Friends sent gas cards to help with the expense of driving back and forth to Boston. She was on prayer lists all over the country, for every religious denomination.

Josh set up a "care page" on the Mass. General website (he still updates it from time to time) where he and Lori posted updates and pictures. In the months following the accident, the page was inundated with comments from a far-ranging group of people.

The comments and expressions of love, support and concern from family and friends was obviously appreciated, but not unexpected.

What was incredible, what blew everyone away, was the daily visits and messages from people in their town who hadn't met them but had heard about the accident. Or friends of mine from college, law school, and beyond, who didn't know Emma, but had heard me brag about her and who wanted to send their love. Friends and bandmates of my brother Sam. Friends and colleagues of my parents.

In the year since the accident, 593 different visitors have logged in to the care page, leaving over 2000 messages. I find that so extraordinary. It moves me to tears.

The other day Josh wrote an post about how the year has affected him. Obviously, to say that it's been difficult would be a ridiculous understatement. But he was sending a message of love, and I'll let him tell it:

One of the most important things that I have learned is how to love and open one's heart to accept love and kindness, how to be true to one's self as much as possible. Trust me, it is not easy to do in this day and age. People at times, me included, can get filled with thoughts of jealously, bitterness, pettiness, the list could go on and on. With the opening of my heart, talking to friends, family and strangers, I was able to begin this journey of growth. I was able to come to terms with the accident in a better way, accept reality, push away as much as possible the ugliness that can creep into one's life. As I said, not easy but worth it.

Where am I going with all this, not sure. I try to smile more, accept people for who they are, love my wife and kids as much as possible every day.

Amen, brother.

It's such a cliche, but life is so short. And so fragile.

So go out and live. Let go of the bullshit. See the world. Try something new and scary. Have fun. Be kind. Take care of yourself and the people you love. It's the most important thing.

The only thing.

Emma at the park with us a few weeks ago.

Keeping the romance alive

2011-03-17T09:22:00.001-06:00

We've gotten into a nice routine in the afternoons. The weather has been so glorious -- upper 60s to mid 70s -- that Jason picks the kids up in the afternoon and takes them straight to the park. I get home, exercise if I didn't manage to do it before work, and then get dinner ready. Jason brings the kids home at about 6, dinner's ready and on the table by 6:30, and we have some nice family time.

Yesterday I did a weights workout that didn't cause me to break too much of a sweat, plus I knew that I would be doing a hard cardio workout this morning that would require a shower afterwards, so I cleaned up by running a washcloth over my face and pits (face first, natch).

By the time Jason came home with the monkeys, the table was set and dinner was ready. When I heard the car pull up, I went outside to meet them.

When Jason saw me, his eyes lit up, he gave me a kiss, and he said, with great enthusiasm, "that's my girl! All barefoot and sexy."

There were some people walking by on the sidewalk, and he looked at them and did a, "eh? eh? check out what I got! That's what I'm talking about, baby!"

They laughed. I rolled my eyes and chuckled under my breath.

Oh, and the outfit that sparked his ardor?

A ratty white wifebeater, replete with grease spots from the burgers I had been preparing. A ratty black sports bra underneath. A pair of workout shorts that fit kind of like men's boxer briefs, only they're so old and abused by my wearing then when I was pregnant that the waistband is all stretched out. And an knee-length apron decorated with pictures of herbs and flowers. Hair in a scraggly ponytail, lop-sided from when I was lying on my back to do ab work. A smudge of mascara under one eye.

Hot hot hot is how I roll.

Clearly, he needs to get out more.

Can't I just give her my dog-eared copy of Are You There God, It's Me Margaret? and be done with it?

2011-03-15T12:12:00.002-06:00

I'm on all these email lists from baby/parenting websites, leftover from when I was naive enough to believe that message boards populated by equally clueless first-time parents would be of any value. I'm too lazy to click on "unsubscribe," so I'm bombarded daily with 80 bazillion emails about my toddler's developmental milestones and "5 ways your baby's crib can kill her!" Plus I get lots of product offers for diapers and whatever.

Then today I got this from Mamapedia, which is kind of like Groupon for parents:

First of all, my daughter isn't even 18 months old, so thanks, Dot Girl, but I'm good for a while.

Second of all, What. The. Fuck.

When I got my first period, my mom and I weren't even on the same continent (we were living in Israel and I was in the States for the summer, so my friend's mom had the pleasure of dealing with me when it happened). And it wasn't a big deal. I had read my Judy Blume books so I knew what was going on, and it was fine and not even remotely emotionally charged or traumatic or anything. My "practical kit" was a box of sanitary pads. No "facilitation of healthy communication" was required. I called my mom and told her the news, and she said something about growing up, and that was that.

Seriously, is this a thing? Is this what people do now? Is every single event in life now the subject of a marketing strategy?

No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow.

2011-03-14T14:10:00.003-06:00

One of the things that I'm really enjoying about living in Denver is the weather. Yes, it can be a little crazy at times with the what-the-fuck?-there's-a-blizzard-in-April? and the supercrazycold and the 70 degrees one day and 40 and windy the next, but for the most part, it's not bad at all, even in the winter. While the East Coast has been getting socked over the past few months with wave after wave of snow and blizzards and ice storms and whatever else, it's been OK here.

And now it's about to get really good.

Spring is getting ready to spring, so in addition to being able to head west and up to ski on the weekends, we can stay in town and go from park to park to park on the weekends.

Saturday, Jason and Zeke went to one park at 10 in the morning and then walked a mile and a half to another park to be met by Josie and me (she had been napping), where we played played played to the point of exhaustion and then all took the bus home together.

Yesterday we skied in the morning and then came home and met my friend Kim out at Confluence Park in downtown Denver. The kids giggled and ran and Zeke rode his Skuut and they threw rocks and sand in the river and had a blast in the late afternoon sunshine.

Then home for dinner, bath and a good night's sleep.

All the activity and outside time is putting everyone in a good mood. Josie's boil is healing and she's comfortable and healthy. Zeke tells me he loves me every 5 minutes. Jason and I are having a good time with our kids.

There's a lot of scary, awful shit going on in the world. Sometimes it's hard not to get bogged down in the bad news and uncertainty that seems to persist on a global scale.

But life is to be lived, so that's what we try to do.

The downside of regaining "hottie" status

2011-03-11T05:00:00.007-07:00

I'm fortunate to be married to a man who has an awesome physique. He's a surfer and a biker and an all-around great athlete, and it shows.

Generally.

After his hernia surgery, he couldn't do much but sit around and watch TV and eat. And in the process, he put on a little bit of weight (and understandably so).

It drove him crazy. So as soon as he got the all-clear from the doctor, he started exercising again, and decided to do a round of P90X.

The one benefit of starting work at 5 in the morning is that he gets off at 1:30 in the afternoon, and thus has time to work out for an hour when he gets home. And he's been incredibly diligent, coming home every day and doing the workouts.

He's in the home stretch now, only a few more weeks to go, and he looks awesome. He's lost a bunch of weight and has his abs back. Rrowr.

Recently he was walking out to his car after work. He's redoing wiring or whatever for a big grocery store, so he was walking out through a crowded parking lot. His hands were full of tools and what-not and he had his tool belt on.

Which is heavy. As he was walking, it was pushing down on his pants, which are loose because he's so much thinner now.

Because his hands were laden with big heavy things, he tried to wiggle and arch and reposition himself.

But to no avail.

Leaving him in the middle of a King Soopers parking lot with his tool belt and his pants around his ankles. There were quite a few cheers and claps from the onlookers.

As he was telling me the story, I thought, thank goodness he was wearing underwear. Also, lucky King Soopers shoppers.

I tried to come up with something clever about a boil on the ass of humanity, but I got nothin'

2011-03-10T09:50:00.003-07:00

First it was the ear infections. One after the other, each treated with a different antibiotic -- amoxicillin, cefdinir, zythromax -- nothing worked. Josie still had persistent pus in her ears that wouldn't go away. The doctor tried one more round of a different antibiotic and told me that I had to bring her back in two weeks to check her ears. If they still were infected, we'd have to try other remedies, like shots or tubes.

So she did her course of medication, seemed to get better, but then her nose started running again, which always seems to be a sign of another (or the same) infection. So I made the appointment with the pediatrician, fully expecting that her ears were still fucked up.

Amazingly, they weren't. She had a runny nose, but her ears were free of infected-looking pus.

Now the problem was that all the antibiotics had given her a raging yeast infection.

So I whipped up a batch of magic butt (or in this case, vajayjay) paste,* including an extra batch for her teachers to use at school, and slathered it on with every diaper change.

I was changing her diaper after a few days and noticed that the yeast infection seemed to be healing. Victory! But then as I was putting paste on her, I felt a hard lump on the inside of her right butt cheek.

The Passover plagues

She has a massive, painful boil, right near her anus. Which makes it difficult to sit without leaning to one side and difficult to be wiped off during a diaper change without intense pain. Plus, if it comes to a head and bursts, it could lead to more dangerous infection if it comes in contact with poop.

Poor monkey. I feel horrible for her, though she's a tough little girl -- she doesn't really fuss and has weathered the recent spate of one-malady-after-another with remarkable aplomb. I, on the other hand, am a wreck. I'm good at taking care of sick kids, but I become horribly agitated and nervous when one of my kids has an injury or an illness. Along with any prescription the doctor gives, I should ask for some Ativan for myself.

So I've got a call in to the pediatrician for advice, and I'm letting her sit in a hot bath and run around naked, and I try to position her on the couch to watch Elmo so that she leans to one side. And I guess there's not much to do but wait it out.

And hope that as the boil heals, we don't get beset by locusts or cattle disease or something similar. Passover is just around the corner, after all. You never know.

_______________________________
*Magic Butt/Vaj paste recipe (handed down to me by my friend Karen):
1 part zinc based diaper cream
1 part lotrimin (anti-fungal) cream
1 part hydrocortisone cream

Spread liberally on affected area. Marvel at the speed with which affected area gets better.

Reminiscing and rambling

2011-03-08T09:53:00.000-07:00

I was talking to some coworkers last week and the topic of conversation turned to childhood. Specifically, the question asked was, "what was the most difficult thing you had to deal with as a kid?"

My childhood was the best of anyone I was talking to, by far. Everyone else had suffered from parents who were alcoholics, who had abandoned them, who were divorced, whom they never saw because they were poor and the parents worked multiple jobs.

It was a serious eye opener. I've always been aware of how fortunate my brothers and I were growing up, with parents that were together and happy and supportive of us and each other. We got to live all over the world and see incredible places and things. We got a top-notch education not just through our experiences, but because we lived in countries where the diplomatic schools were superb (Israel and India in particular).

When it was my "turn" to talk, it was hard to come up with something that didn't sound petty. The best I could do was that all of the moving around left me without a strong sense of place. There isn't really anywhere in the world that truly feels like home to me, because I had so many homes.

I was born in Cyprus, a half a world away from where I am now. For most people, the place where they were born is someplace familiar. But I haven't been back to Cyprus since we left when I was 2.

Same with Venezuela. I have vivid memories of the house we lived in, our yard, the mango tree, the wall behind the house where my parents let Josh and me paint with watercolors. I could draw the interior layout of the house if you asked me to. I remember the park and the barrio down the road. I remember my school. One day I was dicking around on Google maps and was able to find the house we lived in.

But I haven't been there since I was 6 years old.

Same with Israel and India. Those were majorly formative years for me -- middle school and high school, first kisses and boyfriends and going through puberty and seeing truly incredible parts of the world. Those places are a part of me. I could give you directions around Tel Aviv or New Delhi, draw a map of my schools and my neighborhoods and where we hung out. But I haven't been back to Israel since we left in 1984, and I haven't been back to India since Christmas break my first year of college (New Year's of 1989).

Most people I know have a hometown. Somewhere they can return to (if they don't still live there) where they can sort of return to childhood, see the people and places they grew up with, feel a sense of home where they can recharge their batteries.

I wouldn't change the way I grew up for anything. But as I wrote yesterday (can you tell I'm doing a lot of reminiscing?), the wonderful friendships and experiences I've had are so disparate in time and place that sometimes it feels hard to hold on to them.

So I think. And I go to reunions. And I try to preserve memories by writing.

Are you far away from the people and places you grew up with? Do you want to go back, or are you glad for the distance? Should I just quit my mawkish ramblings and be grateful for my quasi-Rockwellian upbringing?

Why I'm jealous of Marilu Henner

2011-03-07T09:28:00.003-07:00

Sunday was a wonderful day of skiing and reconnecting with an old friend that I hadn't seen in 10 years. Eleanor and I were close friends and sorority sisters at UVa., and we've kept in touch via Christmas cards and Facebook and word of mouth, but we haven't seen each other much. So when I found out (via Facebook, natch) that she and her family were going to be vacationing in Breckenridge for the week, I jumped at the chance to go and hang out with her for a little while (and get some skiing in, of course).

I got to say hello to her husband, Robert, and meet her beautiful daughters, but then Robert took the girls so that El and I could have the morning to catch up, just the two of us.

It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is to slip back into conversations and coexistence with people that you've known really well, have been really close with, and who have been with you through formative periods in your life (like college). And social media obviously helps. I haven't seen Eleanor in forever, but I keep up with her daily via Facebook and Twitter, so I've seen the pictures of her kids and know what sports they do and I have a general sense of what's going on in her life. She can say the same for me. So we might do a little bit of catching up, of filling in the blanks, but mostly we fall back into just talking -- about life, about how we feel about where we are, about our mutual friends. It's the same conversation we always had.

Of course, there were certain things that she remembered that I didn't, and things that I remembered that she didn't, and it was fun to bring back things that had been otherwise tucked away in the recesses of my brain, probably never to be retrieved.

You're probably saying to yourself about now, "yeah, yeah, that's really nice, but what the hell does Marilu Henner have to do with any of this?"

Salvador Dali's Persistence of Memory

Marilu Henner is one of 6 known people in the world with the ability to recall, in vivid detail, every single day of her life (the clinical term is Superior Autobiographical Memory). If you say a random date -- April 7, 1989, whatever -- she can tell you what day of the week it was, what she did that day, who she saw, and whatever else she can remember about it. When she hears a date, she describes her brain's function as being similar to a DVD -- the day cues up and she sees it as if it were all happening again. She can look at a pair of shoes and immediately remember the exact date she wore them last, what happened that day, etc.

Now, I have a decent memory for history and dates -- I even do exercises to try to cultivate and improve my ability to recollect -- but it's obviously nothing like that. And I often lament the loss of certain memories because in losing the memories, I've essentially lost the experiences. I've done so many cool things in my life, visited so many amazing places, met and known so many incredible people, and I feel like by not being able to remember all of them, it's like they didn't really happen. I crave the ability to bring it all back, to carry all of those memories with me. It makes me feel closer to my friends and family. Friends like Eleanor, who is so wonderful and whose company I enjoy so much.

It makes me feel more alive.

Proof positive that he's not adopted

2011-03-03T05:00:00.005-07:00

Psst...don't forget to click on the "like" button to the right or on this link to "like" the blog's Facebook page, so that you can get posts directly in your newsfeed...

When I went to pick up Emma and my mom at the airport last week, I took Zeke with me. I wasn't originally intending to because I was going to go through security to meet Emma at the gate, and who needs a toddler in that scenario? But Jason had been sick and puking and then sleeping all day, so rather than leave him with both kids while he was feeling like total dog shit, I lightened his burden a little bit by leaving him with the easy kid who cheerfully lies down and goes to sleep at 7:30 on the dot after giving her Elmo doll a hug and chirping "night-night, Mommy!"

And I love having one-on-one time with Zeke. He's so smart and fun to talk to. And he tends to be much better behaved when Josie isn't around competing with him for attention.

So we got our escort passes and went to the potty and then made it through security and rode the train and went to the potty and successfully jumped off the escalator and rode the moving sidewalk. He was a little bit shy when he first saw Emma, but then we sat down to have something to drink while we waited for my mom's plane and he became his normal chatty self. He met a friend, a 4-year-old named Zach who was with his grandma waiting for his mom's plane, so Zeke and Zach had a grand time jumping around and making funny faces and saying things like "booty tooty chaka looty" and then cracking up like it was the greatest joke ever told in the history of jokes.

My mom's flight arrived, there were big hugs and kisses all around, we got the luggage and settled into the car for the ride home.

My mom sat in the back seat with Zeke. He talked about school and his friends and going to the zoo and his desire to have a birthday party on Sunday. So we decided we'd make a cake and blow out candles to celebrate everybody's unbirthday.

It was silent in the car for a minute or so. Then Zeke leaned over and whispered to my mom.

"Mimi!"

"Yes, sweetheart?" she whispered back.

"The quiet ones are always the stinkiest," he responded.

She cracked up. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Yes, Mimi. I tooted quietly."

It occurred to me to make a crack that he's just like his father and comes by it honestly, coming from a long line of tooters. But I kept my mouth shut, realizing that he gets it from my side of the family as much as Jason's.

Bitchfest

2011-03-02T11:59:00.002-07:00

We had a lovely visit with my mom and Emma (who is doing fabulously well, by the way). Josie recovered from her stomach bug (from which she suffered while also having the miserable experience of cutting 4 molars at once) and was (and is) back to her normal, chipper self, running around all happy and saying new words all the time and eating everything in sight every minute of the day. Not that I blame her, considering that she essentially went 4 1/2 days without eating. But it's seriously hilarious now -- she's still a peanut but now she's got this ridiculous belly that sticks out.

Reminds me of her uncle Sam:

This is my brother Sam, aged 2, checking out a safety demonstraton on the beach in North Carolina.
Josie's belly is even more pronounced than this, if you can believe it.

Anyway, she's doing great.

But then on the second day of Mom's and Emma's visit, we were standing in the pizza place getting ready to order a pie to take home when Zeke suddenly threw up. I got him outside. He threw up again. We went home.

He was sick for the next 5 days. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, exhaustion, and general punkiness. Which, given his current level of 3-year-old (im)maturity, made him whiny and emotional in addition to his default state of annoying and defiant (when he's not being really sweet).

So I had a nice time hanging out with my mom and my niece, and we got out of the house and did some cool stuff, but we couldn't have the Denver cousins over for dinner because nobody wanted to get Zeke's cooties, and Zeke was exhausted and emotional regardless of what we did, so we always had to be prepared to just pick up and go home if he started to melt down.

And he just wanted to be on me. "Mama, sleep with me." "Mama, snuggle with me." "Mama, I want to sit on your lap." "Mama, I don't want you to drive. I want you to sit with me in the car."

Whee! Motherhood is fun!

Honestly, I feel like I've been living in a state of siege since we moved to Denver. Just one shitty thing after another (with the exception of Josie being born). Husband working out of town, husband sick or injured, dog dying, grandfather dying, niece severely injured, moving, losing the Hawaii house, husband unemployed, burst pipes, sick kids, blah blah blah.

The minute one thing clears up, another thing starts.

Yes, Jason recovered fine from his hernia surgery, and yes, he's gainfully employed now, but his work schedule is so fucked up that I still never see him and still never feel like I have any help with the kids. I have great friends and family in town, but every time we have plans to do something, a short person starts vomiting and we're quarantined.

I'm exhausted. I'm emotionally drained. I'm resentful. I'm lonely.

Life is hard. Being a grown-up is hard. I guess I just assumed that there were be more moments of light, more moments of peace, than I'm currently able to enjoy. Because right now, it pretty much sucks, and I'm not seeing any respite any time soon.

The sweetest boy in the whole world

2011-02-24T06:50:00.000-07:00

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When Josie was sick over the weekend, she ate nothing. From Friday through the middle of Tuesday, I don't think she had more than 6 or 7 ounces of food, total. And she's already so skinny. She's 17 months old (today, in fact - happy 17 months, sweetie!), is in the 55th percentile for height (right where she should be), but is on the verge of dropping off the weight chart.

When she first got sick, she had been flirting with 20 pounds for a while. She's now under 19 again.


not a happy girl. at least her hair looks cute

Then on Tuesday afternoon, she suddenly got her appetite back. She was scarfing everything in sight -- bananas, toast, cheerios. We thought she was better better, but I guess she was only kinda better, because she had a rough day at school yesterday, which continued on to be a rough night at home. Just cried and cried and cried, and there was nothing I could do to console her. Eventually, after an hour or so, she just stopped crying and sat in my arms to read a book, and then went to bed without incident.

I was steeling myself to deal with getting Zeke ready for bed. Jason gets up and leaves for work so early (3:30 in the morning to be precise) that by 8 at night, he's totally exhausted and barely functioning, so I generally have to deal with the bulk of the bedtime duties.

And Zeke does not like going to bed. He tends to get a burst of energy at around 7:30 or so, which means that hitting the designated 8:30 bedtime is a dicey proposition at best.

But I think sometimes he's as clued in to my moods as I am to his, because he just knew that last night was not the night to raise a fuss. We went upstairs, brushed teeth, put on PJs, and he got into bed.

"Mama, will you snuggle with me for a little while?"

"Sure, honey, just for a few minutes."

I wrapped him in my arms. He put his hand on my cheek and patted it.

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, sweet pea."

"You're the best mommy in the whole world!"

"Wow! That's such a nice thing to say, thank you!"

"I like ants."

"Really?"

"Yes, some of them have polka-dots!"

"They do? That's interesting."

He pats my face again.

"I'm patting your cheek, Mama."

"I know, honey. That's very nice."

"You feel beautiful."

"Oh, my goodness."

"Maybe you could be a princess when you grow up."

*plotz*

Midweek musings

2011-02-23T04:00:00.002-07:00

A bit of housekeeping: My friend Lisa gave me the idea to set up a Facebook page for the blog. So click here to "like" the page and get posts in your news feed (and while you're at it, "like" Lisa's page, too). Or click on the link in the sidebar to the right. Or just keep reading and go about your day. Whatever makes you happy.

Mini-Vacay! I know I just said how much I love going to work. And honestly, I really do. I love the job, I love the people I work with. When I sit down at my desk, I'm happy.

But the benefits don't suck either, including the time off I get when I need it. And my mom and Emma are coming tomorrow to visit for the weekend. So I need it. Excited for mani-pedis, lunch, maybe a hike out at Red Rocks, and some much needed time with my mommy.

Another day, another reunion: I've got yet another reunion coming up in June. This time it'll be my 20th college reunion. Which means yet another exercise/weight-loss ramp up. A P90X/Insanity hybrid, plus Weight Watchers. Ugh. Josie, I love you to pieces, but you single-handedly managed to exponentially increase my body's desire to retain fat deposits around my midsection. Aging sucks.

Boys will be boys: Finally, Zeke's obsession with the swimsuit issue continues unabated. He's sitting next to me on the couch leafing through the magazine. "What's she doing, Mama?" "Uh, she's lying in the sand getting her picture take." "What's that, Mama?" "That's water. The lady is lying down in some water." I honestly didn't think I'd have to deal with this for years and years.

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Freedom!

2011-02-22T14:59:00.000-07:00

It's kind of sad that these days I look forward to being at work more than I look forward to weekends.

Well, sort of.

If I could spend my weekends doing whatever I wanted, or doing nothing at my leisure, weekends would be awesome. But these days, when I already get no down time to myself as it is (except for the random morning off to ski, but that hasn't happened in a while), weekends are just more time to clean up after short people* and argue with said short people about their need to take a nap or change one of the short people's diapers (the other is finally potty-trained).

And it's not that I don't love the short people. I adore them. They're hilarious and sweet. I laugh even when they do things like come out of the bathroom announcing that they went pee not in the potty, but rather in the drain. Problem is, we don't have a drain in the downstairs bathroom. Only a heating vent.

I know, it's gross. But it's still funny.

This past weekend, Short Person No. 2, i.e., Josie, developed some kind of stomach bug. We were supposed to go skiing on Saturday with my cousins, but only made it to Idaho Springs before Little J started puking all over the car. So we went home.

And I spent the entire 3-day weekend with her on me. All. The. Time. Because all she wanted was to be cuddled and held. Which I understand -- she's a little peanut who wanted her mommy because she felt like shit. But it meant that I was pretty much chained to the house for 3 days.

Plus, Zeke is going through a major Oedipal phase right now. It's like he wants to consume me. He's always on me, caressing me, kissing me, even licking me. Which is made even creepier by the fact that he's (still) in the little boy stage when he likes to be naked if he's in the house. I finally told him that if he wanted me to hold him or cuddle him, he needs to at least put on underpants. Jeez.

So I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that I could not wait to come back to work. To sit in my cube and work on my stuff without anyone touching me. Or bothering me. Or asking me for chocolate milk. Or throwing up on me.

Yesterday Josie seemed to be doing better. She was keeping down fluids and had even eaten a little bit. She hadn't puked in a long time. She slept well. So I was all excited to drop the kids off at daycare and head off to work.

But then as we were getting ready to leave, she stood in the middle of the living room, coughed ominously, and then puked all over the rug.

I burst into tears.

But, I managed to keep it together, took Zeke to school, went to the store to get Pedialite and saltines and some other stuff we needed, and then took Josie home. We colored for awhile, watched last night's episode of Hawaii 5-0 (such a guilty pleasure, that show), and then she went to sleep. I cleaned the living room and did the dishes.

And then, thankfully, Jason came home. He was able to get off work early and knew I needed some relief, not just because I was fried, but because it's not fair that every time the kids get sick or have to stay home, it's my job that suffers.

Tonight I will be working late. The thought of it makes me so happy.
_____________________________
*TM my friend Elizabeth.

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