80% Rain

Rainy days and Sundays always get her down.

My Daughter Thinks I'm Ugly

When I was little I can remember standing in my mother's closet in a wondrous stupor.  Hanger after hanger of flower dresses, cuffed slacks, and pleated skirts longer than my own body shimmied as I walked under each one, imagining myself as a woman. 

My little girl feet pushed down into my mom's glossy high heels.  I loved the way the straps felt.  Even loose around my ankles, I could feel their promise:  You can be a beautiful woman one day too, just like your momma. 

It wasn't long before I gave up pretending her sweaters were dresses or pulling her skirts around me as gowns.  I parted ways with my frilly self and embraced the opposite world.  I favored my brother's clothing over her girly stuff - Adidas shirts and high top sneakers won me over just in time for middle school.

Just in time for puberty, new curves, mean girls and hormonal boyfriends. 

It didn't help that I chopped off every wisp of my inky long hair right before 7th grade.  It was when the Demi cut was big and lots of girls were donning asymmetrical short cuts.  I wanted that too but made the grave mistake of looking into a Hair Cuttery to seek out a brand new Hollywood style.

I am still growing that sh*t out.

Most of middle school, I looked more like a dude than my brother.  He was gorgeously metro with his long rocker hair and ripped up jeans.   Girls flocked to him.  Boys asked me to go dirt bike riding with them.

Even my beautiful grandmother favored Jackie O.  Her closet was the tiny version (not even feet tall) of my mom's:  stylish long skirts and delicate blouses.  Not a day went by without me watching her apply her coral Avon lipstick with golden leaf clip-on earrings wondering how she figured out her winning recipe.   

I was surrounded by fashion models.

My family tried to help me.  My sweet grandfather even offered up his closet when it became clear to everyone that I had zero fashion sense and defaulted to the same tragic baggy pink and white checkered sweatshirt; hiding whatever young lady was happening underneath.

My grandmother and mom would stage hair interventions.  They put hot curlers in my hair, twisted them tight, sprayed them down like hornets, and watched with tears in their eyes as my hair fell flat and listless the minute they unrolled each one.

I was the tomboy who would not quit. 

High school came and somehow I managed to pull things together well enough to remain neither fashionable nor a complete train wreck.  Thanks be to GOD for big hair where I could mousse up my lackluster waves and poof up the bangs to look like every other girl in 1992.  And I'm pretty sure I traded my baggy checkered sweatshirt for an oversized checkered blazer I wore once a week with leggings.  That blazer (and $%*! Algebra) is all I think of when I think of the 11th grade.

College was when I finally bloomed.  States away from home and anyone who knew me helped me to discern what I felt good in vs. what other people were wearing.  Long buttoned down skirts and fitted T-shirts were my new norm when the mountain air didn't call for flannels and boots.  I even added a few scarves and oversized batwing shirts with leggings in the mix before I confirmed with the public that it was stylish.  I was finally finding my own rhythm.

Those were the best 4 point 5 years of my life.  If only college lasted forever.

Years later, after teacher clothes, newly married vacation Ts and post baby workout gear, I am once again struggling to find a style that works for me.

It wasn't so bad, floundering about in what I assumed to be a private limbo of Fashionless Land, until Abby piped up recently.

"Mommy.  I want you to be beautiful."

Ouch.

"Don't you want to be beautiful?"  she asks with all the innocence of a girl who loves glittery Princesses.

Yes, actually, that does sound nice.

"Here, I will find you a new style in this book.  You can look like HER!" she points to a Macy's model at maybe 18  with come hither smokey eyes.

No, baby, no I can't.  That's disturbing.

"You can put on pretty make ups, nice pants, and borrow my Ariel wig!"

And give up my REI capri pants?

"You will look beautiful, Mommy!"


I'm trying not to die of self loathing here girlfriend, can you please throw me a bone?

"Abby?  Is there any part of Mommy that you DO think is beautiful?"

(thinking hard, squinting her eyes, looking me up and down)

"Yes, your purple toes!"

Oh no she didn't just say my feet are the only beautiful thing about me. Touchee, Princess.  This tomboy is about to rock your little Ariel world.  Watch out, Diva.  

I may need to borrow that Ariel wig after all. 

Water Balloons and Hammocks

We knew something was up when Abby regressed into not having a "thing to wear" while her wardrobe is filled with the softest clothes this side of the Delaware River.

Andy thought of taking her temperature before I did.

103.9

Aha.  Why don't I ever think of that first?

We Tylenol'ed her right away and felt confident she would be feeling better in 20 minutes.

I took myself straight to Giant for chicken soup ingredients, frosting for a doll party Abby insisted on having, and TP.  Three hours later (Someone got carried away reading labels.), I came back home to find Abby's fever was worse, not better.

Andy was buzzing back and forth talking about emergency rooms and cold baths.  Poor man.  He lives with so much stress on his shoulders all the time and this surprise fever was not on his syllabus.  His motherboard short-circuited so I put grocery bags in his hand to calm him down.  Food and organizing the pantry is his happy place.

Even with Tylenol, Abby's fever sky rocketed above 104.  Thankfully, a kind nurse on the phone squeezed us in as the last appointment for the day.

Abby's doctor couldn't have been better.  She took one look at Abby glossy eyes and flaming throat and called it. "Strep."  She was so sure in fact, that she wrote out a prescription for amoxi before we went to the lab downstairs.

Minutes after Abby and the tech tussled, the strep test came back positive.  Thank goodness, an actual diagnosis; something we can work with.  Not a mysterious ailment bringing with it a fever connected to nothing.  I will take strep any day of any week.

But poor kid, she really did have a rough day yesterday between body aches, chills, and generally feeling like hell.  I knew she was hurting when she shunned a Strawberry Shortcake marathon for her own bed and closed shades.



Grayson watched TV most of the day because Andy was stuck outlining historical wars in the study and I couldn't spin the nurse plate and the 5 yo boy plate just then.

By the time I was finished sponging down Abby's scalding hot body, it was near 4pm.

"Can we have a water balloon fight, Mommy?"

Seriously, kid?  I'll have you know I want to curl up on that there couch you've been camped out on all day to close my eyes and dream of rocking in a hammock over fields of barley.

"A water balloon fight.  Okay, yes. Go get your shoes on."

With that, I forced myself to ignore the great desire so sleep and we had ourselves a grand time.

 Granted, the water hose was not the fastest method but it got the job done.

 Which gave Grayson plenty of time to practice his I-Will-Crush-You-Like-A-Samurai faces

 This one kind of had me nervous.

 "I won't throw these at you, Mom!"

 "I will LAUNCH them at you like the scary ball of boy angst that I am!!"

 Ahhh, the One-legged death toss!!

 He even had the dogs running.

 But look who came outside with us later on for a quick visit?  

She didn't last very long but it was good to see her upright again.

I guess sometimes a water balloon fight really is much better than a boring old hammock anyway.

a letter to everyone i never call

dear everyone i never call on the phone anymore,

holy sh*t, do i miss you.

i'm sorry i haven't called back yet.  you already know why.  my children won't let me.  they bay at my forehead like bloodthirsty vampires if i so much as glance at the phone.  it's like they know i'm trying to escape.

i cannot believe they still want to play with me.  or try.  are the 5-7 minute long ninja fights and/or tea parties  once a week really enough to sustain interest in me as a valuable play mate?

vampire babies are poor judges of character.

must be the faces i make when i talk with friends.  they don't bother the daddy when he's on the phone- the daddy who is all serious, frown-brow-y, and official.  he's not on a business call, he's talking to pete about bow hunting.  or maybe it's his uniform.  the daddy looks tall, camouflaged, and important.  paisley jammy bottoms and rainbow socks do not exactly make them think i'm on my way to a board meeting.

you'd think all the floor laying, eye-averting, my head hurts why are you yelling please go over there zero body contact after 4pm would be evidence enough that i'm no fun anymore.

evidently, i need to change strategies.  the vampirelings are resilient to apathy.

i tried face-time.  it's disturbing for the other person.  hard to know what to say to a grown woman who clearly has not mastered speaker phone.  the voices in the background (vampirelings) explode and smash together with voices in the foreground (face-timers).  everyone is left smiling awkwardly and hoping someone's battery dies just to end that which hurts to watch.

so you, everyone i never call, please know how much i miss you and yearn to hear your voice again.

it's just not safe.  the vampirelings haven't lifted their curfew quite yet.  it's coming though, the school year is making them weak again;  i even saw one of them fall asleep in broad daylight at 4pm.  the sun shown on her lily white skin while her tired body began to twitch slightly, nearly giving in to an afternoon nap.

until i reached for my cell phone.

vampirelings.  they don't want rainbow toes to escape. 

Fresh Linen Placebo Effect

When the house is a complete travesty, the children have uprooted every doll, plastic ninja, tea party cup, and thousands of Lego-ey things despite the new baskets you just bought half off from Michael's to keep things tidy, you need this:

One whiff and voila! - You have a neat bun atop your head, dinner already roasting in a pan, and a belt wrapped around your cute dress fitted to accentuate your 50s pin-up girl curves that make your husband growl after he puts down his cigar.

I might need one in every room.

Where My Moms At?

I took myself out to lunch today.

Most of my mom friends (Playground Crew) have new schedules now that our kids are in different schools so we don't pal around as much as we did last school year.  I'm kind of a loner type so thought that would be fine by me.

No worries.  Grab a tea, read a book, introspect and write.  I am on it.  Just like college.

Lunch was decidedly great.

This is fun!

I tried a Pho restaurant I've had my eye on since we moved here. 

 Bean sprouts.  I still don't get what to do with them.

Tea was sweet, single sized, and freaking lonely as all hell.

Just one cup?  Not even room for two.

Truth is, I think this school transition has all of us moms bumping into doorways and forgetting our keys.

We are taking longer to transition into this kindergarten thing than our kids.

The moms I once clung to when we dropped off our scared three-year olds are gone.  The moms with whom I huddled in preschool hallways to chat about new projects, traveling husbands, and potty training are missing.  We are now in some other big school hallway with brand new moms saving cell numbers under "New Contacts."

We knew it was going to happen.  A few of us lamented about how strange it was going to be, suddenly being forced to break up with each other and move on before any of us were really ready.

"It's going to suck not seeing you every day."
"Maybe we can still grab lunch when I'm in town for work?"
"Yes, we will still be touch.  It's not like we're moving out of state or anything."

Except it is.  It is exactly like we all moved to different zip codes with different bus routes and separate Back-to-School nights.  The women we shared two to three years with discussing (often too many) details of our children's pink eye have flown the coop.

We are pushed out of our warm nests, forced onward to figure out new routines, lunch menus, and school policies.

I miss my preschool moms.

My kids have moved on.  They are making new friends and even seem happy about starting over.

I thought I was pretty good at moving on myself, giving credit to our multiple moves and outgoing-TMI-in-the-first-5-minutes-I-meet-you nature, but this time I am feeling a somewhat sideswiped.

We will all move on to make new nests, possibly even bigger warmer nests but right now I'm missing my old one with predictable laughter, sarcastic eye rolls, and sincere shoulder squeezes that I would give anything to feel tomorrow morning at school drop off.

The Facebook

Hi My Friends.

I created a Facebook page in case you wanted to chat with me, each other or just see way too many dog close-ups.  It's easier for me to load pics to a FB page than it is to this blog.  I vow to broaden my horizons beyond dogs & kids now that I have a bit free time on my hands.  Those 12 hours a week will be precious and I shall not squander in sameness.

Don't really have a master plan for the new page but since I'm on FB four million times a day, thought I could use it as a quick place to launch pictures, quick updates or show off some of my talented writer (and designer) friends from time to time.  You too, just send me your link and I will add you for all to see. 

Here's the link.  Feel free to ignore, I will never know the difference.

And I will adore you just the same.

*Apologies for those of you who might have seen variations of this post in your reader no less than 10 times.  I have a happy "Publish" trigger finger.

Fast Car

This weekend was a blur.

This whole year has been a blur.

Last night I asked Andy if his head feels cloudy too.  He said it did.  I asked him what he thought it was.  He said it was fatigue, burn-out, work, children, but not marriage.

(Smart husband.)

It got me thinking and wondering how long we can exist at this break-neck speed?  Will things ever clear up if they don't slow down?  Life has become pedal down, radio blaring, HOV all the way.

Yours too?  What do you do to bring it down to 25?

I'm desperately stomping the brakes in hopes of enjoying the scenery between lane changes.  That isn't happening;  I get used to the left lane.

You got a fast car,
And I want a ticket to go anywhere
 
Hopefully this year with both kids in school, time will stop pushing us over the speed limit, my comfort zone.

Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere

Or we will figure out a few shortcuts and detours to bring us back to a small town, shorter streets with stop signs at every other intersection.
 
Because this way is making me dizzy.  I can't even tell if the Chrysanthemums have bloomed.  Have they?

I'm a Volkswagon Bug, not a glossy Beemer.  Andy's a Beemer though and for that I can be grateful.

You got a fast car
But is it fast enough so we can fly away

Hopefully that means he can throw a hitch on my bumper and tow me right into the next town until we can stop again for coffee for our next leg of this blurry trip.

We gotta make a decision
We leave tonight or live and die this way





*Fast Car by Tracy Chapman

Sky Writing

Get this, you guys.

Tonight:

A tornado warning (a tornado warning!?) at 3pm here in VA. 

Looming green skies, swaying tree limbs, and thundering rainfall for thirty minutes around 4pm.

Lights flicker.  Power dims.  We grab blankets and head to basement.

Storm surges then wanes and is just a mess of tricking clouds after 5:30. 

At 7:55 my father-in-law hollars upstairs, "Hey, a double rainbow, come see!"

And this is what I caught with my camera:

 So excited...that I forgot the flash.

 It was a double rainbow but I was a bit too late to catch both..

 Flash on, rainbow fading.

 Fading more but still there.

I mean, really.

We could have had the tornado warning at noon.  Or last Tuesday.  Or never.  But it was this afternoon, at 3pm.

It could've rained just a normal rain and then passed us by but it came down like angry nails for thirty minutes, coating everything in its path with a swirling pool of water.

The storm could've ended without any encore but this sky had other plans:

(This looked about 10x more incredible in person.)

This sky had something to say.

And I pray Anna got to "hear" it too.

For Anna

One year ago a family's life was turned upside down and inside out in the worst way possible when a beautiful boy named Jack went outside to play with his friends and never came back.

His mom is Anna, a woman I now consider my friend.

My heart is so heavy for Anna, Tim, Margaret, Jack's aunt, Jack's cousins, Jack's friends, the entire world Jack had to leave behind.

I am spending the morning finding a bustling blue ribbon to place in honor of a boy who has changed so many lives forever, mine included.

Without Jack, I wouldn't believe half the things that come out of Grayson's mouth.  Jack helps me understand that sometimes kids just know.  They are connected.  They feel things adults may be too hardened or too busy to feel.       

May Jack somehow be able to connect with his family today.  On a day that must feel upside down and inside out all over again. 

We love you, Anna. 

You don't have to travel this unfamiliar road alone.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HoRkntoHkIE

Denverrr....

Look what greeted me upon my return from school drop off.

She didn't even try to conceal the evidence.

Her sister's bad counter surfing habits are beginning to rub off on her.

Sadieeee...
Watch this.

Fish Fry

The doorbell rang mid-afternoon and I answered it.

I never ever do that unless expecting someone but today the dogs were howling so I glanced through the peephole to find a pretty innocuous lady standing on my front doorstep.  She was there sweating her tookus off while looking somewhat distressed (red flag no.1) so I cracked the door open.

She wanted to know if I could buy a few boxes of meat and/or fish from her meat/fish truck parked next door.  You see, an elderly lady pushed the order button twice and only meant once and well, now, NOW there is all this extra meat/fish melting away in the back of her truck that she cannot return.

Why not?  Why is this meat perishable and nonreturnable?  You'd think I would've asked. (red flag no.2)

Nobody else was home, you see, and she was hauling these heavy boxes filled with meat/fish up to my driveway to show me what she could give to me at cost. (red flag no.3)

This very nice overheated and now noticeably tattooed lady went through all the trouble to tear them open with her bare hands, describing each one at length in case I  wanted to make meatballs out of the ground sirloin patties instead of just burgers for my family.

The kids so love their meatballs.

I listened politely in front of a door that was still howling with now an urgent high pitch G note wafting through the living room.  Abby isn't much of a howler but wanted to play along too.

The lady went on undeterred from the warning of many beasts unhappy without their fearless leader.

Their leader who was eying up plastic wrapped frozen solid salmon cakes, crab legs, T-bone steaks, sirloin patties, haddock, flounder, dolphin, Orca, you name it - all very good with Jim Beam's marinade that you should probably just go ahead and get from Giant.

Surely I saw through this ex convict and sent her and her millions of hermetically sealed salmonella on her way. 

Surely I am that smart.

Or maybe you all would like to join us this weekend for the biggest baddest fish fry our backyard grill can handle. 

Fish Fry.  Our house.  Bring your forks and some extra Jim Beam marinade.  We're gonna need it.

Putting a Cork in It

I don't cry that much but when I do I can't seem to put a cork in it.

Tonight, after bathing the kids, I pressed my face hard into a blue terry bath towel still tugging on its hook - trying to slow down a trail of tears spilling down my chin.

Grayson starts kindergarten tomorrow. 

He is ready, eager, and bubbling over behind those big brown eyes with excitement for the new school.  I know he will do great, I'm not worried about his first day of school going poorly.  I just didn't expect to feel so sad tonight.

When I ask myself why I'm crying I cannot come up with the truth.

The truth is somewhere between love, time, letting go, and pride. 

I am so proud of my son who has more compassion in one expression than I can conjure up in an entire lifetime.  He has given us perspective with his "Buddhisms" and ability to connect with things beyond this space.

"Who is older, Mommy - You are Daddy?"

"I am, Honey.  I beat him by 10 days."

"So you will go before Daddy because you will grow older first.  What happens to whales and sea animals when they get old?  Do they stay in the water?  They are already in the water and water means life."

"Well, Honey.  Sometimes whales end up back on the beach if they get hurt, sometimes I guess they don't."

"Yeah.  I forgot, everything goes back some day.  We all go back."

Go back.  I don't really know what he means but holy smokes does he have me curious.  Go back.  

So you see these tears don't make sense.  I cry because he is still so little even though he looks eight (my grandfather's long legs).

 

I cry because he has a new backpack and a new T-shirt he picked out because it looked "boy cool."

I cry because he is the only one around here who laughs at my jokes.  And we have kickass impromptu ninja fights in the middle of a hike.

(Don't worry, I threw that shirt away after viewing these pics. wth?  I bet you're more worried about the pants.  Nope, keeping those bad boys.  Lots of kick room.)

I cry because he is so good with his sister.  What in the WORLD am I going to do with her from 9-4?!  We don't even like each other.  Oh we love each other tons, we just have trouble always appreciating each others perspective on you know, life.

 

I cry because he picked out leaves for me tonight during our leaf painting extravaganza. 

 

Then endured the driveway paintfest just because he knew Daddy needed a study break.

 (And let me take pictures of him even though he'd rather eat alfalfa sprouts.)

 

I cry because he loves cheese but not the color red anymore.  His new favorite is green. 

 

I cry because his hair stands up on the very top of his head no matter how wet the washcloth.

 

 

I cry because 4 o'clock is a long time away from 9 o'clock and so close to dinner time.  What ever happened to half-day kindergarten?

 

I cry because he did this when I asked him to show me his very first tooth that he pulled himself when I was pretending to be a midwife.

 (Look in the background to the left.  Even Sadie seems concerned.)

My tears don't stop because I'm scared of what's next: all the things I can't see, predict, control, protect, warn, comfort, soothe, and love away when I am here and he is somewhere else.

This is my first rodeo. 


I miss him so much already and he's not even gone.



But he's going.

And I have to put a cork in it and let him enjoy the ride.

Awake

When you think you need one thing, sometimes you get its other.

A few days ago, I was so sure I needed sleep, rest, and alone time.

Instead I got its opposite:  54 hours awake.

Twenty-three of those awake hours spent with a childhood friend at the hospital during her first labor. And most of that private time shared with another friend who knew to stay quiet when I talked too much.

Deanna and I both received phone calls at 11pm Friday night. Ali's water(s) broke and she was "having cramps."

"It's okay...they are not too...oooh, hold on Erin...oww, okay..."

"Ali?"

"Hold on, it's almost...owww..."

"Ali, those aren't cramps. You're having contractions. Get to the hospital soon. I will meet you there."

With that, I kissed my sleeping babies and drove straight into tail lights on 495 toward the hospital. Traffic. At 11:30 at night. Welcome to the big city.

A half hour of zig-zagging through DC streets got me there before the guest of honor. An hour before her.

Once Ali arrived with Deanna, we could see her contractions were happening every five minutes. She was in enough pain that she couldn't speak through them. According to my extensive labor knowledge stupid excitement, she was going to drop that baby in the waiting room.

It took all night, an entire day, and another night until we got to the finish line.

I have never felt more useful in all my days. She ooh'ed and I pressed my open palm on her back in resistance. She aahh'ed and we figured out the yoga ball would relieve her from feeling the baby drop so much.  When the pain got to be too much, we pressed harder and leaned in to her more, showing her how to breathe.

 

Ali dealt with her pain from the inside, disappearing into her own world of deep concentration and staring into someplace we couldn't see.

"I go underwater, into the ocean," she tells me when I finally ask.

"Ahh," I can't help but laugh, "You've always been an oceanographer."

 By the time she was pulling at her bed rails and clawing at her bedsheets, Deanna and I called the nurse in to ask for her epidural.

Ali had been laboring hard overnight and well into the morning. She walked hallways in her robe through them, she breathed slowly through her mouth through them, she "swam underwater with the dolphins" through the really bad ones, but hours later exhaustion prevailed with contractions that were not progressing her physical state.

One epidural and bag of pitocin later, she was feeling fine and able to close her eyes.

Deanna went home to take her daughters to appointments while I perused the gift shop for fun and so Ali could rest. Bless her little laboring heart; she felt the need to entertain me when I was in the room with her so I shopped, giving her no choice but to sleep. Veteran moms know all too well that it's the last substantial rest you will get for many months, if not years.

The day wore on much the same way.  The steady heartbeat of baby coming through the monitor became the metronome for Ali's tireless work through her pain. 

A few more hours later, Ali winced really hard and jammed her cheek into her pillow.

The nurse, Deanna, and I knew: It was GO time.

"More epidural," Ali begged.

 "Oh Honey, you're about to have this baby," answered the nurse who was smiling for the first time since early morning.

About 8pm, hours after we thought she would have her baby, dear Ali clacked bed rails with her clenched fists and swam underwater with more seahorses. My poor friend was stuck at 9cm even though her contractions were coming fast and strong.

 "How long could this go on?" I whisper to the nurse.

"Hours," was her grim response.

I hate to admit it but I was frustrated. We had been awake for so long. My head was getting cloudy and driving myself home was becoming a scary prospect. I couldn't fathom staying for more hours without running myself off the road in my current haze.

Ali's family had just shown up and I was reluctant but ready to leave her in their hands for the rest of the night.

With much resignation I decided to depart.

"Ali? I have to go. I will be back to see you and the baby tomorrow but I have to drive myself home before I can't."

And before I could bend down to hug her goodbye, girlfriend had one monster contraction and needed to push.

My purse landed somewhere and I and got myself back in position to the right of Ali, Deanna already flanked on her left. Together, we held Ali's tired body forward as she pushed out her healthy baby boy.

It.was.amazing.

Out of nowhere, after so many hours of quiet and peaceful work, the room was at once buzzing with happy chatter of her family.  Bright white lights were brought out and the doctor's dimple showed as she ceremoniously gloved up. Things were suddenly festive and loud.

Without any announcement or hesitation, Ali drove her chin to her chest and held Deanna and me as tightly as she could. Then, silently through all happy, Deanna and I looked at each other. Her eyes welled up and mine stung in response. We were at the end of a very long journey. We were about to see our friend meet her baby. 


Baby D was born four pushes later.  

 

 He is stunning, just like his mama.

 

He had his eyes open from the beginning and quietly took in his surroundings like he was pleased with all the fuss.

(I love him already.)

The irony is when you stay awake long enough to see a baby being born...



...you're suddenly not so tired anymore.