Save Me From the Little People

2007-06-07T10:38:00.000-07:00

Just One More Thing...

Don't get all over me for coming back for a brief minute...

I took Brendan's crib down yesterday. The one that was Alex's before him. The one that Owen and Brendan shared for the first few months of their lives.

I also packed away into the donation bag all of the cooler weather 2T clothes. And found the lamp I bought for Alex's nursery five years ago.

Then I went to pick up Alex from school with the twins. I let them run around on the playground for a bit, and put on my sunglasses, so no one could see me cry.

2007-05-01T10:42:00.000-07:00

I'm Out...

I've decided to stop writing here. It's been a fun experience overall, and I really have enjoyed "meeting" all of you, but for a few months now, I've been feeling like this space is more of another obligation than an outlet.

I figured out a while ago that the times when I wrote the most were the times that I most felt like I was losing my grip, what with new babies, staying at home, moving to another country, and what not. So the less I write, the more you know that I'm doing okay. I don't feel the need anymore to get up here and prove to myself that I still have a voice in this world, in spite of being surrounded by Little People all day.

So this is a good thing. I'm going back to my original plan, which was to write privately about what's going on in my head and in my family, so I won't look back in 20 years with my typically sucky memory and wonder if this all really happened.

It's been fun. It really has. And there are those of you with sites I'll still haunt---- I promise not to lurk. I'm still keeping my email address (jcleaverdiaries@yahoo.com) open, so feel free to say 'hi' whenever.

See you around, chickies!!!!!

Katy

2007-04-01T17:25:00.000-07:00

The other day I was late getting Alex to school. We were completely out of diapers, so I spent a good hour dressing everyone, loading them into the car, and driving to Costco--- because I buy diapers by the gross, literally. And of course I got distracted by the crab dip samples. And the book table. And the roll-up cargo pants (yes, I bought a pair of pants at a warehouse store. It was so very scandalous). So by the time we got out of there, I had 45 minutes to get back across town, feed the kids, get Alex's backpack ready, and get him to school.

And then I remembered that's why God invented Wendy's. As much as I hate the fast-food thing, it's saved my ass plenty on days like this. We ran into the house, I tossed nuggets on the table, and let the guys go at it while I put 12 rolls of paper towels away.

Of course, the kids took forever to eat, blah blah blah. When I got Alex into the front door of school, I saw one of the girls in his class go up to the office with the attendance slip. I could have chased her up the stairs, tackled her and ripped it out of her hands, but I thought that might freak her out. Instead, I did the proper thing and went to the office for a late slip--- something I haven't done since high-school.

When I got there, there were three other kids ahead of me, all waiting for late slips. Of course, the principal was the one handing them out, and with the keen empathetic insight into other people's moods that I've honed over the 17 years since high school, I could just tell she had a fight with her husband that morning, started her period, and ran over her dog on her way to work.

Mrs S: "Tyler, why are you late?"

Tyler: "Um, my mom..."

Mrs S.: "Speak UP, Tyler!!! Why are you LATE?"

Tyler (wetting his pants):"Um, my mom had a problem with the gas company, so she had to use her cell to call them, and she couldn't get a signal, so..."

Mrs. S. " Oh really??? Well, you need to tell your mom that she needs to do these things another time, and that she needs to get her act together and get you to school on time! Amanda--- what's your excuse?"

Amanda: "My mom..."

Mrs. S. "Your mom, too? What's with the mothers today? The both of you need to remind your mothers about how inconvenient it is to your teacher, and to me, when they can't get you here on time! They know better! And if you need me to call them right now to discuss this with them, I'm happy to do it! Ma'am, can I help you?"

Me (wetting my pants): "Um, yeah, hi, I need to get a late slip for my son...I had to get diapers, um, at Costco, um, everyone took too long to get dressed, um, the crab dip was so delicious, so I had to get more, and um, I fed my kids nuggets, but I did the drive-through, and, um..."

I should have just taken that little girl out when I had the chance.

2007-03-28T16:49:00.000-07:00

Viva My New Career

I've been thinking a lot lately about what I'm going to do with myself once the twins are in school. It's still a couple of years away, but let me tell ya, entertaining three kids under five all day, like I do, would cause any mother to ponder her future--- post haste.

My main issue is that I'm not sure that I can get a work permit for occupational therapy here in Canada. There has to be a pressing need for my skills that a Canadian can't meet, according to immigration. And I'm shocked by the number of allied health professionals here in Ontario. Just this morning I read in the paper that 180 people, all physical therapists, occupational therapists, and psychologists, are being laid off in my area, due to financial cutbacks.

Considering I spent six and a half years and over a hundred grand in loans to get my master's degree in OT, I'm a little bummed.

The other night Ward and I were watching Idol (again. I resisted the show altogether until this season, and now I can't look away. Damn that Sanjaya.), and a commercial came on to recruit school bus drivers. We listened to how bus drivers get to stay home in the summer, and that they're home when their kids get home, blah blah blah. As an adult, certainly appreciate the (mostly) fine people with whom I will entrust my children to as they ride to and from school.

That being said, I don't know about you, but the kids in my school did nothing but taunt the these poor people, until they pulled the bus over to scream at us. Sure it was a little daring, but the bulging eyes and neck veins, the spittle flying from their lips, was more than worth the risk. I was sitting there, on the couch, thinking about how I'd rather poke my eyes out with a fork than put myself through that, when Ward turned to me and said,

"You know? Maybe you should..."

I cut him off before he could finish.

"What!? What? I should drive a bus? What don't you drive a bus, Dr. Cleaver? I worked as hard for my education as you did, and just because I'm not Mr. Big Doctor Man like you are, doesn't mean I get to be the one to drive a bus!!!"

So I was a little defensive...

Fast forward to yesterday. My friend Christine called:

"Hey! Jack (her son) saw the school bus that Alex will be riding next year, and he wanted to know if Alex was on it. So I said no, and he looked at the driver and yelled, 'Hey! That looks like June driving the bus!! Is that June?!?!?!"

I told my Ward all about it, and to say he was smug would be putting it mildly.

Guess I'd better start getting used to yellow.

2007-03-23T11:02:00.000-07:00

Listen Up!!

Go read this. I beg you. Make sure you're on her 3/22/07 post. I'm still wiping the laugh-tears off my face.

Wordgirl, why can't you live next door to me???

2007-03-20T10:30:00.000-07:00

Mommy's Censoring Skills Need Some Work

Her lyrics may be salty--- she's an addict and not ashamed of it--but she's honest, real and man can she sing. I have Amy Winehouse's new album playing over and over again on my iPod and in my head. She's a mix of Etta James, Ronnie Spector and Fiona Apple, and it's taking me ever ounce of control I have not to belt out her songs while the kids are around.

So I've been singing in a whisper, out of earshot from Alex especially, since he could hear an ant pass gas in the woods.

While I straightened my hair this morning, I softly sang, "They tried to make me to go to rehab, but I said no, no, no..."

Even though I was two rooms away, and The Backyardigans were on full blast, I heard a small voice call, "Mom, what's rehab?"

I've now taken up humming.

2007-03-12T17:16:00.000-07:00

The Day I Almost Made Good on My Threat to Sell Them to the Gypsies

My trip with the kids to the grocery store on Friday was a brief glimpse of what Hell is like. The twins were hitting and smooshing each other in the cart, screaming and crying and laughing. Alex entertained himself by asking me (very quietly, so I had to stop, bend down and listen each time) such questions as, "Mom, why isn't fur blue?" Once or twice I'm okay with, but by the tenth time in as many minutes that I had to do this, with the screaming toddlers to boot, I was about to blow.

I noticed the store was selling kid's umbrellas, and since I know spring's rainy weather is about to hit, I picked up one for each of my sweet somethings. Of course, at the time, I wasn't thinking about the fact that I had effectively just armed the twins. I got thwacked in the face a few times and cruised to the checkout.

Once outside, the twins had to have their umbrellas up, because Alex had his up. So I had to basically do a backbend while steering the cart through the parking lot, to avoid getting jabbed in the eye again. And of course, I couldn't see a damn thing, so I used my keyring to set off my alarm and locate my car.

Once there, I opened the hatch, loaded in some groceries, and said to Alex, "Okay , Buddy, in you go." He obediently started to climb up. The twins were acting up again, so it took me a second or two to hear a woman saying, so softly, "Excuse me. Excuse me?"

"What? What!?" I looked up and saw two women sitting in the front seat.

"Ah, I think you have the wrong car," she said, almost apologetically.

Sure enough, I was loading my food and my kids into someone else's car.

My car, the same make and model as hers, was in the next aisle over, parked nose to nose with hers.

I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I stammered, "Oh. Sorry! Want some groceries? Ha ha!"

"Um, no thanks, we're going in right now to get ours." At least she was laughing.

"Oh, okay," I said. "Want some kids? Ha ha!" I looked down, and Alex just scowled at me.

She climbed out of the car, well dressed and about my age, with a wistful look on her face. "I'd love some kids like yours."

She wished me a good day, and set off to the store. I watched her go in, then looked back at my kids, suddenly grateful I have them to drive me crazy.

2007-03-02T18:38:00.000-07:00

How Andrew Lloyd Weber Probably Started Out

For the past two weeks, Alex has been fascinated by rhyming.

"Mom! Mom! Beer and Clear!! They rhyme!"

"Great, honey," I said, and threw my beer bottle in the recycle bin.

Tonight after his shower, he began to dabble in songwriting. Behold his talent:

"Run! Run! As fast as you can!
You can't catch me,
I'm the Pee Pee Man!"

Catchy, doncha think?

2007-02-26T17:26:00.001-07:00

Birthday '07

My husband's friend came over a couple of weeks ago, wanting to know what I had planned for February 26, which is his wife's birthday. Seems he wanted to send her to a spa for the day, and since my birthday is on the 28th, he thought Hubs might want to send me with her. Of course, Hubs agreed, because, when put on the spot what else could he do?

He took the day off to be with the kids today, while I spent the afternoon getting a hot stone massage, manicure, pedicure, and root touch-up.

I came home to an immaculate house and loads of kisses from my kids. And Hubs was amazingly calm, considering he played Me all day. He looked at me when I came throught the door and wanted to make sure I had a good time.

Gotta love that guy....

Now that I did this for our friend's birthday, should I ask him what he's doing for me on mine?

I'm kidding, people. Just kidding....

2007-02-11T10:13:00.000-07:00

Britney and I Should Schedule Some Playdates Together...

After all, it turns out our mothering techniques are strikingly similar. I was at the gym the other night (yes! really!), trying to divert my attention from my burning loins to Entertainment Tonight. During the intro, Britney Spears was seen in her car with lil' Sean Preston in the back seat. As the car pulled away in slow motion, the announcer piped in with how Brit partied until the wee hours, how she's been drinking out of control, blah blah blah. Then he added, "...with baby Sean in the backseat, bottle feeding."

WOAH!!!!! Not bottle feeding!!!! Never mind that the girl allegedly leaves her kids all day and all night with hired help. No problem with the fact that she has her bare crotch plastered all over the internet, and that sources claim she's a meth whore, but BOTTLE FEEDING?!?!?! Geez, that makes her an awful mother. Where's Social Services when you need them?

Now, granted, I'm way past the breast vs. bottle stage, and I would have nursed my twins for longer than two weeks if I could have done it:

1) Without neglecting my then 2 year old and

(strum up "Dueling Banjos")

2) Without having to continually ask my dad (while Hubs was at work) "Can you lift up my shirt for me?"

But alas, would anyone stop to consider for a minute that if the rumors about Darling Britney are even slightly true, perhaps bottle feeding is the most loving thing she could do for her kid right now? Isn't the bottle better than serving the poor child whatever chemical cocktail would come out of her breasts?

Color me sensitive, but I'm so tired of the media putting bottle feeding at the top of the List of Things You Can Do to Ruin Your Child. Sure, breast is best, yadda yadda...

... but really, sometimes the bottle is okay, too.

2007-02-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

Remember ME???

Holy smokes it's been sooo long since I've posted. I'm sure no one checks in anymore. I'm still alive, but I'm too busy with my hundreds of children (the twins turned 2!!! Help me!!!) to post. Plus, I'm still dealing with Mama Drama, so at the end of the day, the last thing I want to do is rehash it all. And it's not just the blog I've been neglecting--- I've been neglectful in terms of staying in contact with my friends, too. When it comes down to it, I'm pretty much so absorbed with my parent's issues that I don't have bandwidth for much else right now. I know that's not a good thing, and I'm working on it, believe me.

Anyway, I'm still here. Once the dust settles, maybe I'll be back...and maybe I'll actually be funny, too! Wouldn't that be a neat trick...

2006-12-01T14:04:00.000-07:00

I've been working up the strength to have the following conversation with my four year old for a couple of weeks. The other day, I just sucked it up and sat Alex down. Here's how it went:

Me: Alex, I need to talk to you about something very important. I need you to listen carefully, okay?

Alex (looking concerned): What, Mommy?

Me: Grandma and Grandpa Sullivan won't be living together anymore. They still love you very much, but Grandma lives somewhere else now.

Alex: Oh. Are Grandma and Grandpa still in St. Louis?

Me: Grandpa is still in St. Louis, but Grandma lives near Aunt Dawnan and Uncle Corey now. We can still visit both of them.

Alex: Why is Grandma not in St. Louis?

Me: Well, sweetie, Grandma and Grandpa have lived together for a very long time. Sometimes, people just decide that they'd be happier living apart. But they still love you very much, and they're still your Grandma and Grandpa, no matter what.

Alex: Oh.

Me: (waiting for Alex to break down into hysterical sobs)

Alex: Mommy?

Me: Yes? (my heart catches in my throat)

Alex: Can I go watch Dora now?

Me: Oh, um, yeah, sure. Yes.

I wish we adults could roll with the punches as well as our kids...

2006-11-13T15:30:00.000-07:00

Summer, come baaack!

This November drizzle sucks.

2006-11-03T11:30:00.000-07:00

I went shopping the other day and noticed a lovely jammy/undie store that wasn't skanky or poor quality or granny-like. Intrigued, I went in, and found and adorable sleepset. I also found a cool pair of panties, but, to my dismay, they only style left was a thong. "Oh, they're sooo comfortable," the saleslady said. "Just try one pair." I had my doubts, but I bought them anyway.

Yes, I'm going there.

I hate thongs. I've tried them before, and they suck. Whenever I see someone on What Not to Wear or in an ad or at the mall telling me, "Oh, they're so comfortable," I want to shake them and scream, "STOP LYING!!!!" Why do people try to get around the whole annoying wedgie problem by putting on underwear that's supposed to go up their asses? Are they just skipping over the slow creep by going straight for the power-wedge?

I abhor panty lines as much as the next person, but really--- unless you're ass is rock-solid, everyone knows you're wearing a thong. The jiggle gives you away every time. And then people think you're out of shape and easy.

Then there's the whole laundry issue. Think about where that string has been before you pick it up bare-handed to throw it in the wash. Grab a pair of gloves, for Pete's sake.

I'm no prude, trust me. I didn't bring three children into this world by playing the part of the Virgin Mary. But believe you me, Ms. Salesgrrl, you won't play me for a fool again, sister. Uhhh UH. You'll have better luck selling me one of these.

2006-10-24T19:23:00.000-07:00

Eight years ago this very minute, I was on the balcony level of a shoe factory-turned-art gallery, dancing my fool head off to the best of late '80's alternative, with a shiny new ring on my left hand and my new husband off in search off some more champagne. I was still embarrassed over crying at my wedding (helloooo??? I was exhausted! I cry when I'm tired and stressed!) But I was having a blast at our reception, with people I hadn't seen in years mixed together with my family and my best friends. I can't think of another time in my life that would ever be cause for that same group of people to gather again.

What I didn't know, as I twirled out of my slip again, was that my family,through death, dementia, pride and divorce, would fall apart.
I didn't know that I'd be the mother to three boys, much less a set of twins. I didn't know the depths of postpartum depression or the relief of asking for help. I didn't know that you could love a child with an intensity so fierce that it must be primal. I didn't know I needed so much sleep, or that I could function without it. I didn't know how to cook. I never imagined I'd live in another country. And if I were to imagine it, I never would have guessed that country would be Canada.

I didn't know that if I really let my guard down to someone, and let him see how ugly and ridiculous I can really be, that he'd still be there to tell me I'm beautiful. I never imagined that I could matter so much to someone that wasn't blood-related, and that he could matter that much to me. I didn't know that as bumpy as these past eight years could be, that he could still support me without judgement and even make me laugh.

All I knew, as I looked out over the crush of people to him, raising a glass to me, was that I was happy and buzzed and sweaty and thrilled to be dancing with everyone I loved on our wedding day. And that's as good of a way as any to start a marriage.

2006-10-19T18:06:00.000-07:00

The twins are asleep and the Boy is happily watching The Backyardigans. I finally have a solid chunk of time to get dressed---- before 10 am!! So what do I kill my shower time doing? Unbelievable.....

I can't stop!!!!!

2006-10-17T15:22:00.000-07:00

Just Because I'm From the States Doesn't Mean I'm George W's Best Friend

"Hi, Mrs. Cleaver? This is Dr. M's office. Your son's pediatrician referred him to us for allergy testing? Yes, well, we have an appointment open on November 3rd, but before we book that appointment, Dr. M needs to know your nationality. Specifically, whether or not you are American, because the doctor will not be able to see your son, if you are of American nationality."

Of course, I immediately returned her call, and demand to know exactly why the Good Doctor doesn't see Americans.

"Well," she spluttered, "I think maybe the doctor doesn't believe that Americans are covered by your UHIP plan."

"But UHIP specifically insures international residents. So he should know that I'm covered. Are you sure there isn't some other reason the doctor would rather not see my son?

"Oh, yes, I, ah, see the copy of your card here. I think the doctor thinks Americans aren't covered with this."

"They are," I said.

"Well, I see. I'll have him call you just as soon as he gets back from vacation on the 23rd."

Just to be sure, I called my insurance company.

"Of COURSE you're covered", the agent said. "That's like someone telling me I can't see a doctor because I'm black. There's something else going on here."

No shit. I saved the message, Dr. M., And once I've cooled down enough, I'll decide what I want to do here.

2006-10-10T17:41:00.000-07:00

Justice, Thou Art a Woman

The three big relationships before my husband:

1991 (cue "I've Got the Power" by Snap):
I met D. in college, and thought at first he was nothing special. Then beer intervened, and he became my boyfriend for the better part of a year and a half. One night I called, and he answered, but he was clearly in the middle of having sex with some girl. Why he answered the phone, I have no idea. Fighting and screaming ensue, followed by ultimatums, and in the end, I stupidly take him back. Four months later, he dumps me for another girl, and marries her three months after that.

2002:
D. tracks me down online, emails me, sends pictures, calls. He's fat, bald, and alcoholic. He tells me that last Christmas, his wife waited until he went to work, then had her dad load up all of her stuff. He never saw her again. The morning before she left, he noticed there were no gifts for him under the tree. "I thought I was just getting something really big from her," he said. I'm the only one he's ever loved. I tell him to get over it, I'm married, pregnant and happy, and that being dumped by him was the best thing that ever happened to me. Otherwise, I would have been the sad case that married him.

1992 (cue "You Oughta Know" by Ms. Alanis):
R. was a busboy at the tres chic Olive Garden that Hausfrau and I worked at. He was nice, he was hot, and he was three years younger than me. I had to buy his beer when we went to parties. Overall, a great guy, I spent almost three years with him, until he dumped me for a 18 year old hostess. Sure, she liked to get into barfights and make out with girls, but he was sure she was The One. "You Oughta Know" came on during the Break Up Speech. "Um, this is a little uncomfortable,"he said. "Can we turn this off?" "No, let's leave it on, " I said, turning it up.

He married the hostess a year later.

I began to sense a pattern...

2005
I ran into R's best friend at a restaurant. Thankfully, I was dressed well and had on makeup. All three of my kids were with me, and all were perfectly behaved. He tells me that R divorced two years after he got
married, because his wife wouldn't give up her fights or her girls. I told him to give R my best, that as sweet as he is, I'm sure he'll find the right one someday. I flashed my diamond ring, packed up my kids, and hugged his friend goodbye.

1986 (cue "I Will Follow" by U2):
I had a dream in 8th grade that I had a crush on J., and when I saw him pass me in the hall, I noticed that--hey-- he IS kind of cute. He and I spent the better part of the next decade in that "will they or won't they??" mode that seems to work well only on sitcoms. First he said he liked me, then asked out another girl. Then he dumped her, but I wasn't having it. And on and on and on, through the years and through moves to other states and in letters and on the phone. The drama was quite intense, but the over riding theme was that I always felt I had to prove I was good enough. So I dressed better, became funnier, listened to better music, studied harder, thought deeper, got into some great schools, got my Master's. Then he called me "an overachiever," and I gave up.

2006:
I found out today that J., at age 34, "isn't sure what he wants to do with his life," and doesn't have a real job. Oh, and he lives with his mother. MWAH HA HAHA HAAAH HAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

2006-09-29T16:27:00.000-07:00

Typical

Today I bought my son a Beta fish. He named the thing Beta (original), and proceeded wax poetic about how pretty Beta is, how he loves Beta fish, how he wants to give Beta a pretty home.

Ten minutes later, he earnestly asked, "Mom, when is Beta going to die?"

My heart lurched when I considered that he might be thinking of the whole circle of life so soon, and I was quiet while I thought of an appropriate way to segue into discussions of aging and the afterlife.

But before I could say anything, he continued, "Will she die soon, Mommy? Because when Beta dies, I want a turtle. Or a bigger fish."

Or a prettier, perhaps younger model, Mr. Jagger????

I feel for my future daughter-in-law, I really do.

2006-09-26T19:34:00.000-07:00

Question of the Day:

Will I ever feel like posting again??? I'm so not in the mood anymore.

2006-09-10T17:22:00.000-07:00

September 11

In memory of Angel Luis Juarbe, a New York City firefighter who died at the World Trade Center on 9/1/01:

Our little hour, how swift it flies
When poppies flare and lilies smile;
How soon the fleeting minute dies,
Leaving us but a little while
To dream our dream, to sing our song,
To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower,
The Gods—They do not give us long,
One little hour.

Our little hour, how short it is
When Love with dew-eyed loveliness
Raises her lips for ours to kiss
And dies within our first caress.
Youth flickers out like wind-blown flame,
Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour,
For Time and Death, relentless, claim
Our little hour.

Our little hour, how short a time
To wage our wars, to fan our hates,
To take our fill of armoured crime,
To troop our banners, storm the gates.
Blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red,
Blind in our puny reign of power,
Do we forget how soon is sped
Our little hour?

Our little hour, how soon it dies:
How short a time to tell our beads,
To chant our feeble Litanies,
To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds.
The altar lights grow pale and dim,
The bells hang silent in the tower
So passes with the dying hymn
Our little hour.

---Leslie Coulson

2006-09-06T18:34:00.000-07:00

Oh, Canada....

Okay, how bizarre is it that, despite my politics and better sensibilities, when I saw my son stand for the Canadian national anthem on his first day of school today, I got all sad and misty?

2006-08-06T18:23:00.000-07:00

Still Not Passing As Canadian

On Saturday, Ward and I decided that as much as we love family togetherness, we were a little sick of staring at each other in our (still) empty house. I saw a mention of a Rib Festival nearby, at which the title of Best Ribs in Canada was up for grabs. The website claimed that not only was it the second biggest rib fest on the continent, it also had plenty of beer to wash it all down and rides for the kids. So, off we went.

And yes, the park was beautiful, and yes, the ribs were delish, and yes, we had a blast. I actually stopped feeling like I had a giant American flag tattooed to my forehead and I started to feel more in my element.

But it all came to a screeching halt when I paused for a moment at a souvlaki stand to ask, "What's 'poutine'?"

I swear it felt like all sound around me stopped, as people covered their mouths with their hands in horror. The lady behind the counter narrowed her eyes and asked, "Where are you from?" I half expected her to end the sentence by calling me "Yankee," but it never came to that.

"Um, Rochester, New York," I stammered.

"Oh, "she said. "It's great that you came all this way for the festival. Poutine is fresh-cut fries with cheddar cheese on top, covered in hot beef gravy, to melt it all together. Want to try it?"

Sweet Nelly.

So, my friends, even though my coronary arteries have been spasming for the last 24 hours, I can honestly say that I have found the world's most perfect food (although a side of ranch dressing would be nice). It's everywhere here, even at McDonald's. It's so good.

I think I will bathe in it tomorrow.

2006-08-01T17:20:00.000-07:00

Eh???

Okay, so we're here in the Great White North, and it's 110 degrees out. What up with that???? My brain hurts from all of the unfamiliarity and homesickness and trying to maintain normalcy for the kids, so I'll give a few of the highlights from the past few days....feel free to put on some Bryan Adams and settle in with a Labatt's.

- We almost didn't get across the border. I can't go into details yet, but it was all very White Nights. Trust me.

- Grocery shopping was like traveling to Oz. Most of my usual brands were there, but in different packages. I walked by the Kraft Parmesan four times because I was looking for the familiar green can, when it's actually packaged in a giant Yoplait-looking container here.

- Butter is typically not cut into quarters here.

- A woman at the store asked me about the twins, and when I answered, she cut me off with a hearty , "Are you from the STATES???" Then she, crazed, whipped out a pen and paper, wrote down all of her phone numbers, and begged me to call her. I guess she wants me to be her little American mascot. I'm great as an ice breaker at parties.

- The food here is really, really good, and really, really authentic. Chinese takeout is the real deal, without a crab ragoon in sight.

- I went to a party the other night and was told that I have an accent. Never mind that the host is Syrian, his wife is French Canadian, and the other guests were Hungarian, Romanian and Polish. Almost the entire Eastern Block was represented, but I have an accent.

- The cable guy overheard me talking about current events, and he chuckled and said, "Americans are funny." And then he walked away. The cable guy.

- I found out that Canada has a special visa for strippers. It took my husband forever to get his papers as a physician, but a stripper can hop right on into, well, Canada's lap. Sorry, I couldn't resist.

- JCrew ships here from the States!!! Woo HOOOOO!!!!

- Twelve bottles of Harp beer went for $20.00. Even Bud is that expensive. Hubs says that unless I plan to jump on the pole for some cash, we only get one beer each every two days or so.

- My son doesn't understand why he has to say "bum" here, instead of "heiney" or "butt." I tried to explain that we've entered polite society, but he's hanging on strong to these words as well as his favorite, "heiney gas."
His new teacher will be thrilled.

There's so much more, but I have to go hang toilet paper holders in my, er, washrooms.

2006-07-26T13:41:00.000-07:00

Off to Hockeyland

The movers come tomorrow to pack us up, so the next post I'll write will be from Canada. Yikes. I think my stomach just dropped again. There's so much to do in the next two days...

Mama Tulip once told me they give mandatory mullets at the border. If so, I'll post a picture of my sassy new do.

Goodbye, New York!!!!!

2006-07-21T17:52:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I was in London, Ontario with my friend and her family to see the World Lacrosse Championships. Her husband plays recreational lacrosse, and enough of his friends were able to get together to play as Team Watertown--- woo hoo!!! So, off we went to the fields to watch him play.

I know nothing about lacrosse, except that it is yet another sport that involves getting a ball into a goal. How novel. So I got a little fidgety and made a trip to the bathroom. Shaking my hands dry, I walked back out into the hazy afternoon, only to smack right into two very dreamy players from the Welsh team. I looked at my feet, muttered an apology, and basically floated back to my chair on a cloud of lust.

The game was still going, and I started to glaze over. Except for making sure my kids didn't run on to the field, there wasn't a whole lot to do, except, well, watch lacrosse. But then I looked to my left and saw an entire team rising over the horizon, walking my way. With a few exceptions, each player was hotter than the next. My friend was equally impressed. I looked closer and whispered, "It's the team from Ireland." "Holy smokies," Heather sighed. They kept walking closer. And closer. Then they started to pass us. And there was one guy in the middle of the pack, with green eyes and dark hair, tall and amazing, who seemed to have a ray of light cast over only him. And he was staring at me. He kept staring until he got to the point that he would have to turn around to see me, if he continued. There was no one else on the planet, except me and my Irish man. The exchange with him in my head went something like this:

"Oh, my love, how tragic that we should find each other at this point in our lives. Yes, darling, yes I love you, but it can never be, for I am happily married. See all of these children? Yes, they are mine, and as you can see, I would have made you beautiful children as well. All sons, because I am but a boy factory. Oh please, please do not weep, my love, do not weep. You must remain strong for your upcoming match with Japan. Perhaps in another lifetime, another epoch, we will find each other again, and I can return with you to Ireland, the home of my ancestors."

And surely, as he stared at me, he was thinking,

"Jeez, I could really go for some nachos."

2006-07-14T07:25:00.000-07:00

Perspective

Five years ago, I walked into her home to find her chain smoking on the couch, listening to gospel on the radio and singing softly to her daughter. Melissa stirred a little and moaned as she rested in her hospital bed in her mother's living room, age 24 and in that purgatory of consciousness that results from a traumatic brain injury.

Melissa was uncomfortably close to my age. Three months before her wedding, she was broadsided by a speeding truck on her way to work. To her misfortune (or so I thought at the time), she survived, only to remain in a persistive vegetative state. She had made no progress in the intense brain-injury rehabilitation program at the hospital, so she was sent home with home-based therapy as her last resort.

"Can you help her?" Her mother implored of me at our first session. So I turned my self inside out for the better part of six months to get any meaningful response from Melissa. Seeing myself in Melissa's eyes, I was desperate for her to show some sign of recovery. She never did. Nor did she make progress with the speech therapist or the physical therapist. To make matters worse, every neurologist that saw her insisted that she would never wake up. And because she wasn't making progress, insurance was about to cancel her coverage.

As the situation disintegrated, so did my relationship with her mother. She was openly hostile with me, and although I knew it wasn't my fault, I still felt awful. A meeting was called for all of us therapists to meet with our supervisor.

"Can you document change?" My supervisor asked pointedly, and we knew the writing was on the wall. Because we couldn't show progress in our notes, Melissa would have to be discharged from our services. It wasn't a choice for us--- to keep her on with therapy would constitute insurance fraud, and each of our licenses---heck, our careers-- were on the line. Since I had the next appointment with Melissa, I had to set the wheels in motion with her mother.

Naturally, she exploded, she ranted, she threatened to sue me, she cried. No matter how I explained the situation, what it came down to, in her mother's eyes, was that I had given up hope. But what she didn't know is that I had lost hope for Melissa within the first few weeks of working with her. Once I had seen her CAT scans and MRI's, I saw that letting Melissa survive was a cruel trick that God to played on her mother, and I would pray that Melissa would quietly die in her sleep, so that she and her mother could be out of misery and find some peace, some closure.

The next day at work, I found out that Melissa's mom had basically cursed my name to the other two therapists. And surprisingly, my co-workers never discharged her. They went against the plan, hung me out to dry, made me look like the bad guy. Why was I the only one that could see the reality of the situation? Melissa would never get better. Never. And yet they kept plodding on, furtively. Foolishly, I thought that I was the only one of the three of us who had cajones.

But in thinking about it today, I realized what made the other two therapists keep going---why they didn't give up, even though the situation was hopeless. Quite simply, they were mothers, and at the time, I wasn't. Although I could put myself in Melissa's place and never want to live like that, the other therapists identified with her mother. To them, it was their child on that bed. It was they who were desperate and bargaining with God for a miracle for their daughter. Melissa's mom was living a nightmare, and as mothers, my co-workers needed to help pull her out.

I finally understand that once you're a mom, every child is your child. And no amount of science, no matter how well proven, can convince you that a miracle can't happen. Because honestly, whether you're watching your child take his first steps in the kitchen or toward his bride, you're seeing miracles every day.

2006-07-11T19:31:00.000-07:00

2996

A blogger named D. Challener Roe is putting together a project to remember the victims of September 11th, 2001. His goal is to find 2996 people who would each be willing to post a tribute on September 11, 2006 about one person killed in the terrorist attacks.

It's easy to get involved. Just click the banner on this page, and email Mr. Roe. He'll send you the name of one person who died on 9/11. On September 11, 2006, you should post a poem, a picture, an essay, whatever you want, in honor of that person.

Mr. Roe is not making any money off of this project. He simply wants people to remember those who died on 9/11. I'm not sure how many participants he has, but I know he doesn't yet have enough bloggers to post about all of the victims. So, if you're interested, contact him, get involved and help spread the word.

2006-07-07T10:33:00.000-07:00

I Always Knew I Had Althletic Skill

Last night I dreamt I was kicking butt as an olympic pole-dancer. The judges were all non-plussed housewives, with the exception of one guy, who though he was there for a thrill. Sadly, he blanched upon seeing my stretch marks, and demanded an explaination. "Look," I said. "This isn't about beauty. It's about technique. Notice I'm wearing a sports bra. This is serious competition, not some seedy bar. " With that, he up and left. For some reason, Baby Girl was there. I'm not sure why she was there, but I was very careful to wash and sanitize her hands before we left.

I can only imagine what my Wheaties box would look like.

2006-07-04T19:11:00.000-07:00

Wild Goose Chase

July 4, 2003:
Just moved into our new house. We have no idea where to see the fireworks. We walk around the corner and down two blocks to the elementary school, where we're sure we'll see some action. It's 9:45, it's hot, we have our 11 month old with us. We see nothing, but do come away covered in mosquito bites. Spend the next three days worried about West Nile disease.

July 4, 2004
This year, we're smarter. We head out for a drive along the lake, towards the pier. We're positive there will be an awesome firework display on the beach, near the carousel. It's 9:45, the air conditioner is blasting, and we have our 23 month old with us. We see nothing, because there are no fireworks on the pier that year. By the time we figure this out and head home, it's too late to see anything, anyway.

July 4, 2005
We spend the day partying with the neighbors, in an alcohol haze. Jeepers, it's hot. At 9:30, we all clammer down the street, down the hill and back up another hill, to the day care center, where we have a fabulous view of the fireworks. Our almost-three-year-old is amazed, and exclaims, "That's incwebable!" after each glittering burst.

July 4, 2006
Our last Fourth of July in the States. The babies didn't nap today, so I stay home. My husband plans on taking our older son back to the daycare to see the fireworks. A neighbor sees me outside and tells me that a security guard from the high school (three blocks away) has opened the gates to the football field. This guarantees prime viewing, so off everyone goes. Home alone, at 9:45, I wander outside to feel the cool night air. I look to my left, and discover a space in the branches of a tree, and find that the best place ever to watch the fireworks, the clearest view I've had after all this time searching, is right in my own driveway. After the show, I wander back into the house, shaking my head and muttering to myself about the irony of it all.

2006-06-30T06:22:00.000-07:00

An Open Letter To the Makers of Tylenol Cold and Flu

Dear Sir or Madam,

All I wanted was to breathe. So I took your stuff, the 'non-drowsy' variety, and now I'm teetering around the house like friggin' Betty Ford. What the heck is in that 'cough suppressant'? Acid??? I have 3 little ones to take care of, and not a babysitter in sight. So I can't even give the pack of dancing polka-dotted elephants my full, rapt attention.

Damn you. And why did I not discover this stuff in college?

Enjoying the rainbow sparkles,

An Irate and Stoned Consumer

P.S.
Guess who just called? My husband's BOSS. I had to have an extended conversation with him. You will pay, Tylenol Cold and Flu. You will pay.

2006-06-27T05:59:00.000-07:00

I'm Tossing My Visa Away

We were in Ontario, CA a few weeks ago, closing on our new house. The movers told us that we have to pay by the pound to move our stuff, so we'll be leaving plenty behind. So, as I stood in my new kitchen, brow wrinkled, I told my friend, "God, we have so much to buy. I'll have to make a Target run as soon as we move here."

She had a blank look on her face, and immediately I knew. I knew.

There ain't no Target in Canada, people.

I took it in stride, adjusted to having to shop at Walmart or somewhere even more unsavory, and moved on with my day.

Three weeks ago, I was giddy with excitement as I stood in Pottery Barn. We have two living areas to furnish, and we'll finally have some money to buy what we want.

Then the salesperson told me Pottery Barn doesn't carry furniture in their Toronto stores, and they don't deliver anything to Canada. Unable to conceal my horror, I listened as she explained that they'll be happy to ship my items to the border for a huge fee, but there's a risk that a Sullivan Ottoman lovin' border guard might confiscate my stuff in the interest of "national security". And the company would rather not take that risk.

Still in mourning over this, I went to drown my sorrows (or dress them, if you will) at the JCrew sale. And guess what the sales lady told me??

Uh huh. That's right. No JCrew in Canada.

How can this be??? I've met plenty of Canadians, and they're a civilized people. I don't understand. This just isn't right. What's next? No pizza?

So I'm done. I'm staying. The family can go if they'd like to, but I'm staying right here, even if it means pitching a tent in my parent's backyard.

2006-06-22T19:39:00.000-07:00

So He's Taking It Well..

My dad was up visiting this past week. And he's now reading my blog--- hi dad! You may recall, back in February, the shot heard round' the world when my mom decided she wanted a divorce. Things are progressing, and although my dad wishes his marriage were still intact, he's slowly beginning to see that there's lots of life still out there to live. So he's been joking a lot about "Grandma Susie," a woman that he works with whom he thinks is 'foxy.' He's nowhere near serious about asking someone out at this point, since he still loves my mom, but still, it's good to know he's dealing.

Anyway, we were hanging out one night, talking about his regrets about the past and his hopes for the future. These past four months have been hard on all of us. So my dad suggested that once this is all over, we should all get together somewhere and raise a glass to the future.

"It'll be great," he said, "And we can bring Grandma Susie." I rolled my eyes. He continued. "But we'll have to wait until next year, when Grandma Susie turns 21."

Niiiice.

2006-06-16T18:13:00.000-07:00

Stupid is as Stupid Does

It's odd to that I thought I was a girl of my own mind as a teenager. I was all wrapped up in being 'counterculture' in comparison to the other hokies from my Midwestern high school. Everything I wore that wasn't black came from Goodwill. I made a sport out of coming up with the newest slang, and scrawled the names of punk bands all over my book covers. Funny thing is, a few times, I had never heard a single note from the bands I was intent on advertising. But, true to the cliche and every Molly Ringwald movie ever made, I was desperate to fit in. I was firmly rooted in the values that my parents had raised me on, but when kids I hung out with made fun of someone else, usually someone who was painfully awkward socially, I never spoke up. I never joined in, but I never stopped it, either. Occasionally, when the target was someone with disabilities, I didn't work too hard to suppress the smirk that I never wanted to make in the first place.

One day, someone slipped my a copy of some random Dead Milkmen tape. It was truly awful, but I suffered through because if they were going to be the Next Big Thing, I wanted to be the one who knew about them first. There was a song on the tape that explicitly made fun of kids with mental disabilities. I played it for my dad. He listened for about a fifteen seconds, then made me turn it off. "That's not even the least bit funny," he said, and I immediately felt shame. He made me sit and hear about an experience he had growing up.

He went to high school in the late '50's--- way before equal access laws and school-based therapy came about. There was a kid he went to school with who really shouldn't have been in the public school system at that time. He, his brother and his father were all mentally retarded. His mother wasn't, I believe, but she died young and was not around to advocate for her family. His IQ was low enough that he was not aware that he was different, so as he went around school, he was oblivious to the other kids making fun of him.

One day my dad was at his locker, and he noticed a circle of kids forming. A bunch of guys were pushing the kid around the circle, shouting at him, slapping him around. He had no idea that they were serious. He actually thought they were playing, and laughed and flailed his arms around to play back. Until a guy socked him square in the mouth. The kid immediately fell down, shocked, and started sobbing. My dad felt completely helpless, because he was a lot smaller than most guys his age, and he didn't want to become a victim himself. And that feeling was excruciating. Eventually, teachers broke up the scene. Maybe the kid was placed in a more appropriate setting, because he and his brother never came back to school.

In hearing the story, I felt even more shame than I did before, but I got it. I felt the kid's agony and my dad's angst. I imagined what his mother must have felt like before she died, worrying herself to no end about what would become of her boys. I was devastated to understand that in being silent, I had been a participant in causing so much pain to people. My dad taught me compassion, and that's something that most of my peer group was sorely lacking.

So I stopped being silent. I didn't laugh when I heard jokes about people who were different. I got angry--- really, really pissed, and I let people know. A lot. And although I did lose a few friends in the process, I felt lighter rather than upset. It felt good, and suddenly I found myself much more comfortable in my own skin. I stopped trying so hard to be someone else, and even shelved punk rock for a while to give Tiffany a try. Fortunately, she lasted about a minute in my boombox before I switched her out for U2.

And today, as a lot of you know, when I'm not doing the Mom Thing, I'm an occupational therapist. My career focuses on giving people with mental or physical disabilities access to the same rights and opportunities that typically- abled people take for granted. One of my biggest challenges--- but one that I take the most pleasure in---is opening people's eyes to the bigotry and fear society has of people with disabilities. I try my hardest to give the disabled a voice and a chance at a fulfilled life. It truly is one of my passions, especially when I'm working with kids.

And I have my dad to thank for giving me the courage to find that voice.

2006-06-07T09:38:00.000-07:00

ARGH!!!!!

Twice this week I have written lengthy, insightful, incredibly witty posts. Ones that could get me a book deal. A Pulitzer, at the very least. I can tout the genius of these posts, because, well, you'll never see them. Both times, as I was about to hit "Publish Post," my 17-month-old flipped the computer off, mesmerized by the pretty blue button. It's been great week here in Cleaverland.

Update:

It's almost midnight, and I just got back from seeing The Da Vinci Code (against my better judgement). There was so much of this type of dialogue:

Sophie N.: "It's a fleur de lis."
Tom H: (incredulous): "It is not a fleur de lis."

...and...

Sophie: "It says ' You smell like stale baguette' "
Tom: (incredulous) "It does not say that."

It's a good thig Hausfrau and I didn't write the screenplay, because if we had, it would go more like this:

Sophie: "It's the fleur de lis."
Tom: (incredulous) "Shut UP!!!!"
Sophie: "No, YOU shut up!"
Tom: "No, my friend, YOU shut up!!!!"

And on and on, you get the picture....

2006-05-31T16:30:00.001-07:00

Almost Famous

My dream when I was nine was to make Katy S. a household name. I had just acquired my soundtrack for the Broadway version of Annie, and like any respectable girl in circa 1981 North Jersey, I spent the better part of my free time acting out every song in my driveway. On rollerskates. Wearing a purple leotard. And a pink boa. After all, living a half hour from New York City, a top acting agent could have driven by my house at any time, searching for new talent. With the genius idea of merging Annie with Xanadu, I considered myself well on my way to stardom.

I can safely say that none of you ever saw my name in lights. Still, every now and then I fall into a daydream of myself belting out a diva-song to a packed Broadway venue. My few brushes with fame have never been that dramatic.

Witness:

1) My dad's friend was dating a chick that used to be on The Edge of Night. She, in turn, used to date Randy Travis from WKRP in Cincinnati. Therefore, I was a mere three degrees of separation to the kind of fame that got people on Battle of the Network Stars.

2) I shook hands with Mohammad Ali when is was three. All I remember is being terrified of this massive hand coming at my face. I'm sure I wasn't the first to feel this way upon encountering the man.

3) My friend had asked me to take a knitting lesson with her, waaay before knitting was cool, so she wouldn't feel like such a dork. I obliged, under the condition that she breathed not a word of it to anyone. Unfortunately, that was the day the reporters showed up to profile the Trailblazing Generation X Knitters. Lo, my hands and mug took up the entire top half of our local paper's Living section. And yes, everyone saw.

4) When we lived in the hip and trendy part of the city, a 14 yr old boy was shot by police at the end of my dead-end street, as he was trying to run over a cop with a stolen car. No one was allowed off the street that day, and since a friend of mine was a local TV reporter, I was obliged to give her an interview on camera. I kept my answers brief and appropriately somber.

5) When I was five months pregnant with the twins, my OB put me on bedrest and told not to lift anything over 5 pounds. The next day, I decided to have one last hurrah with my older son at the beach. Feeling confident that I wasn't being watched, I picked my 30 pound son up by the arms an swung him out over the water--- about 15 times. To my horror, when I opened the local section of the paper the next day I found that, once again, I was taking up the entire top half of the paper, quite obviously not on bedrest and lifting something most definitely over five pounds. Not only did my OB call me to scream, but so did my former boss. See, I'm an OT who used to specialize in arm and hand rehab, and the number one thing we tell parents is to never lift or swing a child by the arms.

6) A few months ago, when exploring model homes in Canada with my friend's wife, a news team (yes, another one--- the paparrazzi's interest in me is international, apparently). The hottie reporter told us he wanted to interview us for a story about the impact high energy costs have on the decision to build a new home. We reluctantly agreed, because, again, he was HOT, and spent a few takes after my interview doing staged shots of Cathy and I walking in the distance together, looking at properties. Afterward, the guy thanked us, and asked us,

"So how long have you two been together?"

So in the end, no, I can say that I haven't found fame and fortune yet. But we're moving to another country this summer, and I'm sure the Canadian public is dying to know about the lesbian knitting American who can't stand high gas prices and likes to pretend she's throwing her son into the lake.

2006-05-22T17:46:00.000-07:00

Space Age Love Song

When I lived (briefly) in Syracuse in the early-eighties, I busied myself at becoming the hippest sixth grader at the skating rink. I spent the better part of my Saturday mornings in my room, prepping myself for my grand entrance into Empire Skates. With "Beat It" blaring in the background, on went the purple eyeshadow, the cut-off lace gloves and the Aqua Net (pink can, naturally). At the time, those barrettes with the ribbons woven through were all the rage. They usually were made with two colors of ribbon.

But I had my secret weapon to get myself noticed.

I had a pair with seven ribbons each--- one for every color of the rainbow. No one else in town had them, and when I paired them with my rainbow striped dolman sleeved t-shirt, well, let's just say I was IT, baby. A final spritz of Love's Baby Soft, and I was out the door.

I have only a couple of clear memories from the rink. Somehow, each afternoon went the same way:

1) Clammer into the rink with about five friends.

2) Ignore ticket lady as she rolls her eyes at us. Clearly, her time had past, and she was JEALOUS of our fabulousness.

3) Race to the benches to put on five identical pairs of the blue-skates-with-red-stripe-and-white-pompon-with-bells combo.

4) I would try to lift Pam T's Member's Only jacket, unsuccessfully. Mine was flesh colored, and sucked (thanks mom).

5) Skate round and round to a mish mosh of Cool and the Gang, Flock of Seagulls and Rick Springfield.

6) Slowly skate off the floor when Couples Only skate was called, looking like I didn't care at all that no one ever asked me to skate. I was too cool to care.

7) Roller Limbo contest. Kristie S. was a gymnast and about two feet tall, so she always won. But one week, some random guy beat her, and it was the scandal of the week. Kristie was hysterical, and we all threw hexes at the poor dude that beat her.

8) Picked up by parents on the corner waaaay away from the rink. Stephanie's dad picked us up once in front of the rink ,and we, like, almost died.

Ward is also from Syracuse, and we spent one day early into our marriage drinking and laughing over the enigma that was Empire Skates. Seriously, everyone went there. Ask anyone currently in their mid-thirties that even passed through the damn town, and I'm sure they'll know the place. It was like a pre-teen Studio 54.

Together we remembered the drama of the place. The music. The social structure. The ticker lady. The limbo contest.

"Yeah," he said. "There was this little chick that won every week, and one week I kicked her ass."

I didn't believe that Ward was that same kid---until he got down on the floor and demonstrated the infamous sideways Shoot the Dog move that toppled Kristie from her throne.

Still trying to pick my jaw up off the carpet, he blew me away again with, "Yeah, and I was always too shy to ask anyone to skate. There was this girl I always had my eye on, but I never went over...

...she wore a rainbow shirt and had these really cool rainbow ribbon barrettes...."

2006-05-14T07:34:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day

Dear Mrs. S.,

Every Mother's Day since Leslie died, I think of you. I want to send flowers, or a card, or something to let you know that I haven't forgotten her, and to thank you for raising her to be the kind of person she turned into.

When ever I find myself entrenched, as I often am, in following the straight and narrow, I imagine what she'd say to me. I went from college to grad school to marriage to babies. Never diverted off course. I sometimes wish I had.

I remember when I was holed up studying on the first warm days of spring, Les would drag me off to the quad to snooze in the sun. As I lay there next to her, I wondered how she would get through finals if she kept taking breaks like those. But she always did.

She also grabbed me from studying to go have a quick smoke in the back hall of the KD house. At the time, I thought we were being so rebellious, and I was sure Les would die from lung cancer one day.

I remember how she took an extra year to graduate, not because her grades were bad, but because she took her time. Time to do other things like play and think and dream and laugh. And a the time, I felt proud that I stuck the course and graduated right on time. Sure, I didn't have as much fun as she did, but I got the job done.

I remember how right after she graduated, while I was stuck in lecture halls in the midwest, she up and moved to New York City without a dime in her pocket. I had always dreamed of doing the same thing, and I promised her that I would join her. Just as soon as I was done with grad school.

While I spent my time agonizing over whether or not each guy I dated was The One, she was throwing herself head first into relationships, falling in lust over and over again. And while I fell apart with each breakup, she took hers in stride. She picked herself up, dusted herself off, and went off searching for an adventure, with or without a man. And then she would fall in love all over again. Or not.

I promised myself that one day I would travel, just as soon as I had enough on my bank account from my first job to do so. Of course, the rent and the student loans had to be paid, so it never happened. Meanwhile, Leslie charged tickets and traveled all over the world. At the time, I thought she was reckless and just a tad irresponsible.

I got married right after grad school, having never moved to NYC, never traveled, and never spending a single unscheduled moment in the sun. We drifted apart as she kept on being her, and I became more "grounded."

At the time, I was proud of playing the part of Good Girl, and was sure that Leslie's carefree lifestyle would catch up to her one day. I knew I'd be there for her if it ever did.

Ultimately, it wasn't recklessness that killed her, but a stupid freak fall. She wasn't don't anything careless, she was simply posing for a picture while on vacation. We hadn't spoken in about six months, simply because I was busy with the inane details of my life. So in the end, I wasn't there for her at all, and I couldn't forgive myself.

I never got the chance to tell you this, but I found out that Leslie considered me to be very much a part of her life towards the end of hers. Two days after I got back from the funeral, I received a post card from Puerto Rico, and when I saw that familiar back handed writing of hers, my heart lurched. She mailed it the day before she died, and in it she let me know how much she'd been thinking about me lately, that she missed me terribly, and that she would call just as soon as she got back so we could plan to see each other. On the front of the postcard was a Matisse painting, and I had the exact same one framed on my desk in college. She remembered.

Thank you so much for giving her the space she needed to grow into herself. She was larger than life, and you gave her enough guidance and love to ground her. You supported her no matter what she did, and she loved you more than you know.

By living each moment to the fullest, Leslie was able to cram into 29 short years more than most people ever do in a lifetime. She taught me to loosen up and enjoy life, and not to get mired down in the details. She taught me that the straight and narrow isn't that much fun and that we all need time to snooze in the sun.

I know that you must have hoped that Leslie would one day pass on to her own children all of the values and love for life that you instilled in her. I hope it gives you comfort to know that I am trying my best to pass those lessons on to my own children, and that the memory of your daughter guides me every step of the way.

Happy Mother's Day,
Katy

2006-05-11T19:47:00.000-07:00

How it Went Over (update on last post)

So the Dixie Chicks were on full blast, and I hollered, "So what do you think?"

And Ward said, "I'm just wondering why you're listening to this. "

Turning around slowly, he said, "Wait a minute...... is this about Johnny Cash?"

Excellent memory, that one.

2006-05-05T18:55:00.000-07:00

Will He Still Love Me Tomorrow??

I hate Johnny Cash. At least I used to, until I developed a mad crush on a certain Joaquin Phoenix. But loooong before Walk the Line came out, my sweet, sweet husband, whom up until then I thought would listen to nothing but old alternative, goth and techno, whipped out his hidden album of the Man in Black, and proceeded to make my ears bleed whenever we were in the car together. I could usually make it through about two songs before I took matters into my own hands and snapped off the CD player, folded my arms across my chest and simmered in silent fury. He just thought it was so damn funny.

I relayed this to my parents when they came to visit towards the end of my last pregnancy. Expecting sympathy from my mom, the Motown Queen, I absolutely seethed when she came out of the closet as a Johnny Cash lover. Upon hearing this, Ward clapped his hands together, did a little hop of glee and bounded off to get his CD. I waddled out of the house,muttering, to avoid the noise.

While I was gone, Ward and my mom explained the situation to my dad, who then scurried off to grab his cell phone. Walking back in to the house, panting but refreshed, I had his phone shoved into my face, the ringtone singing "I Walk the Line."

A few nights later, I heaved myself into the car after everyone else. As soon as I settled into my seatbelt, my parents locked the doors and blasted "Ring of Fire." Three of them just thought they were a hoot.

Little does my husband know, I've been holding my own cards close to my chest, waiting for the perfect moment to put them into play. See, I used to date a guy from Arkansas, and because of Bubba, I spent about two years listening to country almost exclusively. I'm not proud of that time of my life, but it was what it was.

Tomorrow, Ward wants me to go with him to take our son to see Thomas the Train---Live!!! Woo Hoo!!! I really, really don't want to go. I want to spend the day here, puttering around the house and not having to play 100 Questions with our son. But for reasons I can't go into here, he begged, so I'm going.

And little does he know it, but I've downloaded and burned every Dixie Chick, Garth Brooks, Faith Hill and Lorrie Morgan song that I've ever heard in my life. The man hates country. But this time I'm at the wheel, and I control the stereo and the doorlocks.

Touche, my love.

2006-04-25T17:35:00.000-07:00

Diagnosing the Chicken (and other cool tricks)

My husband (aka Ward) is totally ignorant to the fact that I've been playing games with him for the last, oh, ten years or so that I've known him. He really has no idea--- the entire game is in my own little head. I'm a sore winner, so when I am victorious in the secret competition, he's completely baffled as to why I'm suddenly all full of smug sassiness.

The gist is this:

He's a physician. I'm not. But if I can beat him to diagnose someone, or better yet, I correctly diagnose someone--- and he doesn't, I win. And since there's never an end to people who want to air their laundry lists of symptoms to two medical professionals, this secret pastime of mine had no end in sight. Yay me!

First there was a patient that kept crashing in the ICU when Ward was doing his neurology rotation in med school. I was this guy's OT, and I had a gut feeling about what was going on. In the meantime, the MD's were just scratching their heads and ordering more tests.

My hunch was right--- sepsis! Bada BING!!

Then there's this friend of mine that was having troubles with falling and tingling extremities. She's not diabetic.

"Oh my God," I thought. She has MS.

When I relayed the symptoms to Hubby, he said "She has MS."

Uh huh, that's right. Who thought of that first, Mr. Smarty?

Fortunately, I came off my winner's high quickly, when presented with the seriousness of the situation. Turns out it wasn't MS after all--- just some random minor thing that's easy to fix. Thank goodness.

But I still won.

Yesterday, I put on the full June Cleaver Act, and roasted a chicken. It smelled wonderful, and I praised myself on my ability to appear somewhat domesticated, at times.

I cut into it at dinner, and it was the juiciest damn thing you ever saw. I served it to the kids. And I noticed, too late, that there was some yellowish spongy thing near the spine. By that time, the kids had inhaled their dinners, so I was left to retch in peace. I thought I recognized The Thing, since it looked too much like something I found in my cadaver during Gross Anatomy. Still, I hoped I was wrong.

Sure enough, Ward comes home and confirms my worst fears.

"I think this thing has a tumor."

I must have had a look of absolute horror on my face. So he tried his best to make me feel better by saying, "What? Look, just because you eat a tumor doesn't mean you're going to get a tumor."

I was quite aware of this, thank you. And still, it took a few tries to swallow my bile back down.

Suddenly, The Win doesn't taste so sweet.

And I'm now, officially, a vegetarian.

2006-04-05T12:17:00.000-07:00

I Wonder How I Would Have Handled This Without the Happy Pills...

I love a lot of things that most people despise. Fury-of-Hell thunderstorms, for instance. Sushi. Half-popped popcorn kernels.

And there's a lot of things I can do that many others can't. I can wiggle my ears. Cross my eyes one at a time. Give me a Top 40 '80's song title, and chances are I can name the band, album track AND year it came out. I'm weird that way.

Something I loathe, something I just can't do, would be selling this freaking house.

I've done everything. I clean like a madwoman, to the point that this place looks like a G.D. showroom. For open houses, I buy flowers, light the fireplace, put in nice music. The works. I even made coffee and bought fancy decorated sugar cookies once. At the end of the day, the cookies were gone, but the For Sale sign wasn't.

All the feedback we've been getting has been tres fab. Everyone luuurves the house. ("Oh! It's so beautiful," they tell my realtor) So, even though we priced it quite reasonably, we lowered the price. Suddenly, one couple wanted a second look.

We got the call from our realtor around nine at night, to tell us we had an appointment at eleven the next morning. So, even though we're broke, I had a sitter come over at 7:30 in the morning, so I could tear through the place to make it sparkle. I was so excited.

As I'm getting shoes on all three kids to get out the door, my realtor called to say that the people had to reschedule. To say I was pissed would be an understatement, but that's how it goes, so what could I say? I couldn't force them to come over. But I was tempted. The least they could do is come over to tell me what a great job I did cleaning. At that point, I didn't care about selling the house. I just wanted the props, yo.

Last night, my realtor called to say that the same people wanted to come over at one this afternoon. YAY!!!! Once again, I shelled out $50 for a sitter for the morning, and by 12:45, the place was so glittery and beautiful. I have fresh pink roses the size of basketballs on my dresser, irises on the fireplace, and gerber daisies floating in a vase in the dining room. I simmered together apples, oranges, cinnamon and cloves, and had to fight the urge to eat the mess for lunch. Oh yeah--- I skipped lunch so I wouldn't stink up the place. The twins, however, decided to take craps in unison as I put on their coats, but whatever. And I had a fire absolutely roaring in the fireplace.

I herded everyone to my neighbor's house, and then realized I locked myself out of the house. So, my realtor called the other realtor, and she promised to leave the house open when she left. All I had to do was sit back and turn into a huge peeping Tom on my friend's couch, and the house would be sold.

Just as I start to relax, I see the realtor and the buyer pull into the driveway and try the front door. No luck, because the lockbox is on the back. So they try the back, and after about 10 seconds I see her swearing as she came back to try the front again. So I called my realtor, who called her, and it turns out my sitter locked the back screen door. So, no one could access the lock box. My realtor told me to go over to the house (which is soooo never done. "Katy, look, they know you're watching them. You have to go over." ), and see what I can do to get them inside.

I felt like a total idiot, because, quite simply, I'd been busted, but also because I looked like I'd been cleaning all day. Anyway, the only way we could get in was to send my son in through the milkbox, and we'd be all set.

Except that Boy wasn't in the mood to be a Rescue Hero. "I don't WANT to!" he whined. I smiled at the nice people and hissed into Boy's ear that I would take him to the Children's Museum to play AND to Chammps for dinner AND he could have the half-eaten bag of Veggie Booty that I found in the milkbox,

if he would just go through the milkbox and open the freakin' door for Mommy.

Still, no deal. I was bright red by that point, and started down the driveway to get my neighbor's kid to do the deed. Suddenly, Boy insists that he will do it, because he can't stand to be one-upped. So I pick him up and hoist his feet in. Just as he's in to his armpits, just at the point that I can't pull him back out (well, maybe I could have), he freaks and starts screaming. And I know that Child Protective Services is probably on the way over as I'm writing this, but the realtor and the buyer were right behind me, and I was mortified, so instead of pulling him out, I stupidly reached in and stuffed Boy the rest of the way into the kitchen.

And of course, he froze near the stove and screamed his fool head off. I saw the neighbors' kid running over, so I grabbed him and threw him through the milkbox. I swear, anyone under 50 pounds that was in my general vicinity was goin' through, like it or not. The kid opens the door, Boy gets pissed off and screaming at him that HE wanted to be the Rescue Hero, and I'm standing there smiling at the buyer and wanting to
die.

I continue to fall over myself apologizing. The realtor turns to me and oh-so-sweetly says,

"Well, we really don't need to go in. We found another house a few hours ago. We just came by because we had an appointment. And you were locked out, so. But you have a BEAUTIFUL home....so thanks!"

Mother FUCK!!!!

And I'm all "Oh! No problem! Good luck!!! Congratulations!! Where are you moving?"

They looked at each other nervously and said, "Well, we don't want to jinx the offer, so..."

....SO, they didn't to tell me---why??--- did they think I was going to burn the place down out of spite???? Please.

On second thought, that's exactly what I'd like to do. Maybe it's for the best that they didn't tell me.....

2006-03-17T12:00:00.000-07:00

But I'D Buy it!!!!

Okay, I'm trying not to panic here, but no one is coming to see our house. It's in near mint condition, built in 1941, and it's very tastefully decorated, if I do say so myself. I tend to buy all things Pottery Barn, so it's not like I have ceramic cheetahs flanking my fireplace or anything. Anymore.

We have a side porch, an updated kitchen, a great yard, and the house is huge compared to others in the neighborhood. And I dare you to find another four bedroom house within a four block radius. Okay, well, my friend across the street has four bedrooms, but her house isn't for sale, so it doesn't count. We live on a tree-lined street and we can walk to the library and the playground. The schools are some of the best in the state. Yet we've only had eight people go through here, and seven were from the open house. One was a realtor. Another couple scheduled a walk-through, then cancelled. We're only priced three grand over our break-even point.

So what gives????? Is it normal to have such slow traffic the first week on the market?

Anyone need a house? Please??????????

2006-03-13T17:55:00.000-07:00

Why One Should Never Visit Me at Moving Time...

Holy BALLS it's been a long time since I've posted. Believe me, I've been busy, not dead. We put our house up for sale this week, and between the cleaning and the kids, I'm ready to just burn the place down and collect insurance.

Misfit Hausfrau came to see me this past weekend! Wee!! We've been planning on this visit, like, forEVAH, giggling with glee over all we'd do while she's here. Drinking! Shopping! Spa! Alas, in the end, she busted her ass raking my leaves, cleaning my kitchen, blah blah blah, because our open house was this weekend. We did do fun things, like discuss our previous boyfriends over lots of wine. And we greatly enjoyed observing the cross section of humanity that inhabits the local greasy spoon. Oh, and I even took her to the spectacle that is Trivia Night, because she had to witness it for herself, people. I'm sure she'll tell you I WAS NOT MAKING ANYTHING UP!!!

But back to busting our asses---publicly, Hausfrau, I am declaring my eternal gratitude to you. And we're going to try this thing called "just hanging out" when I go to see you next week.

Oh yes. Yes we will.

And between you and me, may I just say,

YERS!!!!!

2006-02-28T20:02:00.000-07:00

Mad Money

Okay, so this, like, never happens, but I actually have some mad money to burn. My mom sent me a hundred bucks for my birthday, and I'm not supposed to spend it on anything that I need. Nor am I allowed to buy things for other people, for the house, etc.

And since this never happens, and since I'm the stereotypical martyr mom that takes care of everyone but herself (except to get my highlights, honey), I have no idea what to buy.

All I know is that I don't want a massage. And I've already thought about shoes. Any other great ideas?

Help me?

Anyone?

2006-02-24T17:35:00.000-07:00

"And it's BAD (bad), BAD (bad) Irma Brown.."

Ahhhh. So nice to be smacked THREE TIMES by my three year old, once in the middle of Target. Nothing like that and hearing four other mothers suck in their breath simultaneously to make me almost completely loose my shit. And let me tell ya,

the time outs weren't workin', people.

So, thanks to Hausfrau, I bring you this. Kindly scroll down to the video, and turn up the volume. Once the kids are in bed, of course.

Not that we advocate the kind of behavior shown here...

... but yesterday, it was so, so very tempting.

2006-02-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

Bathtime

Bathing a one-year- old can be one of those lovely, calm, mist-covered fantasy parenting moments that springs up every, oh, six months or so. Bathing TWO one-year-olds , however, can make a person literally burst ino flames.

Therefore, Hubby and I make sure we always have on hand an ample supply of this and this and these.

Yesterday, however, I discovered that we should have saved our money. Turns out, Brendan's favorite bath toy is his brother's.....

There are some things that a mother should not be forced to witness.

2006-02-07T20:04:00.000-07:00

What Have We DONE????

Holycrapholydrapholycrap!!!

We bought a house today. In Canada. It's beautiful and I thought I would DIE DIE DIE if our offer wasn't accepted.. And then it was, and I immediatly started to regret the whole thing.

This is the EXACT SAME THING that happened whenever I went after some guy who I swore was the hottest, the smartest, the funniest thang ever to cross my path. And then once he asked me out, I instantly thought, "Eh. Not so much."

Anyway, we close in May, and we haven't even put our current house on the market yet. HA HA!! HA!! Hoooooo boy!!! I think I'm starting to twitch!!!!

Does anyone have some cash to donate to our anemic down-payment fund? Maybe I'll get some Google ads over here. Or sell some eggs. I hear there are a few prime street corners I could walk downtown....

By the way, were you all even aware that I will become an immigrant this summer?

Hausfrau and I have decided that I will spend my days living the Canadian Dream in my babushka, pining away for the Old Country.

I wonder if they have hot dogs in the New World?

2006-02-06T06:38:00.000-07:00

Ugh

Hungover.

Ate my weight in guacamole.

Go Steelers.

Yay.

2006-02-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

Random....

1) First off, Happy Birthday, Peaches!!!

2) Second, I thought I'd share with you what my son said while whipping around the dining room on the baby's scooter:

"Look Mommy! I'm a racist!"

Just what every mother hates to hear. And so soon after explaining MLK Jr. Day, too. Of course, I told him the proper word is "racer."

3) On a (much) more somber note, Jenette had her baby boy yesterday. Get a box of Kleenex and go check out her post.

Off to hug my boys...

2006-02-01T08:17:00.000-07:00

Jenette, one of Hausfrau's friends, needs some support. Please go to her blog at some point today, if you can. Does anyone have any experience with what she's going through?

2006-01-29T20:43:00.000-07:00

Freaks and Geeks

Let me just start off by saying that I'm a pretty smart chick. I was in all of those "gifted" classes, got placed into the high track group in school, always scored in the 99th percentile in those dumb standardized tests. I struggled, sure, through grad school in one of the toughest medical schools in the country--- but I was one of a handful in my class that made it to the end.

But I'm not scary smart. Not the kind of smart that had me running with glee to compete in science fairs. Not the kind of smart that would have me recognized as a contender for the Junior Nobel Prize. I never had the luxury of having to choose between an MD or a MD/Ph.D combo. Nor did I graduate at the top of my class in Harvard, then sleep through medical school, only to graduate with honors. Again. My Friday nights in high school were spent at football games or parties, not playing chess.

No, I leave those things to my husband and his friends. How the hell did I get hooked up with these people?

At home with Hubby, and when we socialize with our friends, I have no trouble holding my own. We all get along, and I always feel like I'm at least their equals, socially. But tonight, I joined Hubby and friends for their weekly Trivia Night at the local pub. Where they compete for cash, people. And tonight, as I sipped my cider and adjusted my uber-hip sweater, I looked around and realized how Hubby and Co. (aka Team Triumph, after Hubby's motorcycle) have been pulling the wool over my eyes. I'm not their equal. No, they were just being nice.

I noticed something was up the moment I walked into the bar. First of all, it was clear that no one in the entire building cared a bit about fashion. Uh uh. Apparantly, they've been too busy discussing quantum physics to watch What Not to Wear. Second, even before the quiz started, the 'small talk' was above and beyond the small talk I would normally make. Also, there was a throng of Trivia Groupies (some were in their 40's and lived with their parents!) that gathered around our table, each person falling over the next to "warm us up" for the quiz--- with questions they painstakingly came up with at home. Questions that were fully researched. And cross-referenced. And the worst part of it was, Hubby and Co. knew Every. Single. Answer.

And I just sat there and sucked on my beer, sticking out hugely in my Nine West Riding Boots.

Once the warm-ups ended, everyone at our table started talking normally again--- gossiping, dishing, the whole bit. And I started to relax a bit.

But then the quiz started. As each question was read, the members of Team Triumph would huddle together, frantically whispering potential answers to each other. At one point, a Free For All question was asked , ("What, in outer space, is furthest away from earth?"), and Team Triumph shouted "QUASARS!!!!"--- and won another round of beer.

Then the next Free For All was read. "What do the following have in common: silver, purple, orange (and some other word that was not a color)?" As I started my mental dialogue, "Okay, silver. Purple....," one of ours guys shouted "They can't be rhymed!" More beers all around.

Okay, Rainman.

And so it went for the rest of the quiz.. I knew better than to say a word, or even to raise an eyebrow. A member of Triumph actually berated me for doing so at the start of the quiz ("The other teams are watching!!! They'll think we're cheating!!! We're only allowed 4 people per team, and you make five!!! You can't play!! No talking! Just sit there and drink--- DON'T EVEN NOD!!!!") Criminey!!!!

In the end, of course Triumph well, triumphed. But not without controversy. Sure enough, another team noticed me sitting there, and raised a stink, insisting Triumph was cheating by using my 'superior intellect.' HA!!! Please!!! After all those free beers, I was half in the bag, people!

And now I must come to terms with the fact that I am married to a nerdy smart guy. A HOT one, mind you, but still. I'm awed and proud of his brain power, and thrilled that he's so far passed it on to at least one son.

But I dare him to challenge me at online shopping. I'd KICK his ASS!!!
Bring it on, Big Guy!!!

2006-01-25T18:36:00.000-07:00

Because I Know Brad is Sitting Around Writing About Me...

(I can't believe I'm wasting space on this)

So imagine you've been married for a few years, and you and your husband have openly talked to everyone about starting a family. Then you find out that not only has your husband had an affair with a co-worker, but he's also leaving you for her. And oh yeah, while you were still in the dark, thinking that your marriage was okay, not great, but okay, he was out getting her pregnant. And he's adopting her kids.

Once word gets out, everyone celebrates what a great couple your husband and his co-worker make, and how wonderful it is that they're together. And baby makes family! Adorable!!!

And for some reason, everyone is intent on painting YOU out as the bitch, like a psychotic scorned woman, a desperate shrew who had it coming.

Jesus, could Jennifer Aniston have gone through any greater hell with this guy?

I'm usually interested in celebrity dish, I admit it. I've read my fair share of People magazine (in between Dorothy Parker and Tolstoy, of course).
But they way the press is handling this situation, totally turning it's back on the fact that Brad is an ASS--- just because he's hot--- completely turns my stomach.

Not that I expected anything better from the press, but still....

And on a somewhat different tangent, can I just say I'm not at all surprised that he did this? He and I both were a part of University of Missouri's Greek system (sad, but true), and not to generalize, but his fraternity was notorious for it's achingly beautiful, yet morally bankrupt members who had their fair share of chicks to use and abuse.

Congratulations, Brad Pitt. You did Sigma Chi proud.

2006-01-22T19:17:00.000-07:00

A Delay in Our Regular Programming...

Weeeeee! I just spent the ENTIRE weekend in the hospital with one of the twins. All of my kids have contracted RSV, but O's oxygen level was so low that he had to go under an oxygen tent all weekend. I felt so bad for him, and I was so worried about him, that I hopped into the crib and under the tent with him, and snuggled and played all day. The nurses thought I was nuts. Staff that had nothing to do with my son kept dropping in to see the Neurotic Mom in the Tent. What's the big deal??? He was scared, I was worried, the crib was 4 1/2 feet long and could support my weight, and his O2 sat level was 100% with me in there, so why WOULDN'T I go in with him??? Anyway, he's home now, and doing well.

Strange that I felt for no good reason that I should get him in for an ear check on Friday. The nurse walked into the room, heard the Rice Krispies in O's chest, got an O2 saturation level immediately, and off to the emergency room we went. Mother's intuition strikes again.

I feel like after 3 1/2 years of faking it, I've finally been initiated as a mom. Of course, I would have felt the same way if I'd been asked to join a carpool, but the scary, dramatic route is okay, too. Not really. Truly, I was feeling a bit sorry for the two of us until I noticed that the Pediatric Neurosurgery step-down unit was down the hall. Talk about coming back down to reality. I'll take RSV over having to stay with my baby in one of those rooms anyday.

Funny posts to resume later...once I get some sleep and work the kinks out of my back from the "cot" provided for me next to the crib.....

2006-01-19T17:33:00.001-07:00

And the Winner of the 2015 Darwin Awards is........

Um, yeah, I think that will be me.

Today, after changing the babes, I was absolutely gagging on the after-smell. Something about pineapple and poop that does not mix.... Anyhoo, a neighbor was stopping by, so I got out the Lysol and sprayed and sprayed with all my might. And then proceeded to walk through the mist. Twice.

Which reminded me of the time in high school when my uber-tough North Jersey pal showed me her first can of pepper spray. It was all little and cute and attatched to her keychain. "Woah," I said. "Can I try it?" She looked at me like I was nuts, but handed the thing over anyway. I was super careful to point the nozzle away from me, then sprayed. Turns out, I was standing in front of a air conditioner, on full blast. Oh, and did I mention this all took place in front of a guy I was trying to impress? He was impressed, all right. I was oh- so- sassy rolling on the floor, screaming with mascara streaming down my face like a river gone wild. Ohhhh yeah.

Brilliant!

2006-01-11T17:32:00.000-07:00

I Feel Pretty, and Witty and Wise!

I'm taking a brief vacation from my bed to tell you all how I've spent the better part of the last three days. If you're one who doesn't like sicky stories, stop reading.

All of Monday night, I was crawling-- literally -- too and from the bathroom every 30 minutes, so sick that I made my husband rub my back as I puked. I even didn't mind that I had to take care of "the other end" in his presence. Now that's sick. I'm pretty sure we're never having sex again.

I went to the hospital for fluids, came home in the afternoon, slept and slept some more. I lost track of time and sense of reality. Husband stepped up big time and fixed meals, took care of the kids, and kept me stocked in fluids and magazines. I'll never be crabby when he's sick. Ever.

But the best part (of being sick??) was waking up at some point, just for a moment, only to discover that my three year old had been sitting Shiva next to my bed for some time. I was surrounded by his favorite books, toys, and even his lamby. Right before I drifted off again, he ran into the room with his toy mop and said, "I'll dust the ceiling for you, Mommy. Then you'll feel aaallll better."

God, I love that kid.

Off to puke....

2006-01-08T21:01:00.000-07:00

Hello, people! I thought I'd make your Monday a little more complicated by making you search for my latest rant. I started it on New Year's Eve, and finished it today. Unfortunatly, Blogger still listed it under 12/31/05. So if you're at ALL interested ( are you really???), scroll down a little to that day.

BTW, Craziequeen tagged me for another MEME. I'll do it tomorrow, my sassy British friend!

2006-01-04T19:30:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Hausfrau, I'm It!!!!

A New Meme for the New Year!

Here's what Hausfrau wants us to do:

Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot.

the weirdgirl
Cynical Dad
Cape Buffalo
Misfit Hausfrau
The June Cleaver Diaries

Select five people to play (but only if they want to).
Anyone out there that still hasn't done this. Are there five of you left???

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Ten years ago, I was on Christmas break from my graduate school program. My beer swilling-chain smoking boyfriend had just dumped me (well-educated, funny, not smelly) for a 19 year old hostess from the restaurant they both worked at. Hausfrau fielded many a midnight phone call with me sobbing, "But I luurrrved him!"

In other news, my roommates and I had just bid a fond adieu to another roommate, who was leaving school "to rest," after we found a her suicide note and rushed her to the psych ward.

What were you doing one year ago?
Recovering from a c-section and taking turns getting up every 45 minutes with my newborn twins. The nights were awful, but we had a system for the day. My mom and I would each take a baby, my husband would take care of my then 2 1/2 year-old, and my dad was the runner for all of us. We'd mix it up sometimes, but essentially, that's what worked. Until my parents had to go home, of course. Okay, Mom stayed for 4 months, but STILL!!!!

Five snacks you enjoy:
1. Doritos
2. Oreos
3. Chips/salsa/guacamole ( I could live on this alone)
4. Girl Scout Thin Mints (I love the handy single-serving sleeves!)
5. Peppermint Mochas from Starbuck's

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
1) "Groove is in the Heart" By D-Light
2) "At Last " By Etta James
3) "It's a Hard Knock Life" (from Annie---- I wanted to be her)
4) "Kappa Delta Song of Dreams (YES!! YES!! I was in a sorority! I admit it!!! Stop shaking your heads at me!)
5) "I Will Follow" by u2

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1. Throw up with the anticipation of telling my husband about the cash
2. Pay off those pesky school loans and credit card bills
3. Wear something that has to be dry-cleaned ONLY
4. Gallivant around Europe with friends and family
5. Put a large wad of bills, anonymously, in the mailbox of a friend whose kids get free lunch at school.

Five bad habits:
1. Poor temper control
2. Spontaneously bursting out into song without realizing it (scaaarry)
3. Picking my cuticles
4. Swearing
5. Drinking waaaay too much coffee

Five things you like doing:
1. Sleeping
2. Cooking
3. Reading
4. Snuggling with my kids after their naps
5. Having a beer with friends

Things you would never buy or wear again
1) MC Hammer pants
2) Pink Chuck Taylor high-tops
3) Anything from my Dreary, Wanna Be Siouxsie Sioux Days
4) Pleated khakis
5) Massive, oversized sweatshirts with leggings

Five favorite toys:
1. Sirius Satellite Radio
2. My computer
3. Battery-powered boyfriend (KIDDING)

Sorry--- lost my focus after #3.

2006-01-03T17:48:00.000-07:00

So Be Good For Goodness Sake !

The past two days with my three year old have been exceedingly difficult. He's been pushing my buttons right and left, and he's been down right nasty at times. Time outs aren't doing the trick, and beatings are out of the question, so what's a mom to do?

Scooby Doo has been his latest obsession, so after a particularly egregious exchange between the two of us (before I had my coffee! The horror! Doesn't he know?!?!?), I told him Scooby Snacks are gone until he can prove to me he can show good behavior. And manners. And civility, for the love of Joe.

Suddenly, he was the model of perfect behavior. He even covered his mouth when he sneezed and offered his trucks to his brothers. So, silly me, I acquiesced and let him have his Scooby Snacks.

Big mistake. After he swallowed the last one, his head promptly spun around on it's axis several times, and he was back to his old tricks.

So I dropped him off at school and blew off steam by storming through Sam's, snarling "Yes, they're twins!!!!" the whole way through.

Driving home, I was flipping through the stations on the radio, and I paused on the Christian station for a minute. As usual, some preacher was going on about how the Kingdom of Heaven and Eternal Life can be yours, if you follow God's rules and act like a Good Citizen. And suddenly I realized what bothers me about fundamentalist religion, of all types.

And my beef is this:

I don't know if there is life after death, or Heaven, or paradise, or even 40 virgins waiting for me when I die. I'm gambling that none of these things exist, since I'm a science geek, but I'm the first to admit that I have been wrong. At times. But whether or not God or Allah or whomever exists, should we be mindful of following the Golden Rule only if it means getting a reward when we die? Or should being a good person, raising a family of model citizens, volunteering in the soup kitchen, etc., be reward in itself?

In other words, should we "be good" only if it gets us our Scooby Snacks, or should we share, refrain from hitting our siblings and use our indoor voices solely because it's the right thing to do?

I mean REALLY. Suppose all those God fearin' people get to the end of their lives and discover there is no after life? Are some of them going to shake their fists skyward and shout, "DAMN! Think of all the puppies I could have kicked!" I know, they'll be dead, they won't be saying anything. I'm making a point. Work with me, people.

I think we should treat each other with dignity and respect because we should. Period. Any reward is inconsequential to me.

And that's what I want to teach my kids.

2005-12-30T12:32:00.000-07:00

It's ME!!! It Really IS ME!!!!

First of all, welcome to my new identity. It wasn't easy to do, but I had to leave SN Martha behind. I hope all of my fellow playdates found me.

So here's the deal. Last night when I was trying to forget about losing my wedding ring, I spent about an hour on the web doing NOTHING. So I'm over on Google, and I find this little search option that lets you look for your name in other people's blogs. So, curious to see if anyone is talking trash about me (thinkin' it's time for a smack-down if they were), I entered my name, my husband's name, blah blah blah. And came up with NOTHIN'. So, on a whim, I entered my maiden name. Holy COW--- my blog was the first result out of about a hundred. Suddenly, I'm all paranoid that someone from high school will find my blog, or former boyfriends who are still agonizing over losing me, you get the idea.

The paranoia is justified, trust me. I got an email last night from someone who has been looking for me for a while, apparently. Someone who I was all to happy to lose touch with in the first place. I can only imagine what would happen if by chance someone decided to look for me through a blog search. Stranger things have happened. After all, this Blast From My Past is back, why not someone else???

And with what my husband does for a living, which I will no longer discuss here (those of you who know, hush it), huge problems could develop if I'm outed (Dooced, whatever).

So, call me Over Dramatic, Paranoid, Egocentric, whatever. But SNM is gone. Welcome to The June Cleaver Diaries.

2005-12-28T21:08:00.000-07:00

I lost my wedding ring. Shit.

2005-12-27T17:38:00.000-07:00

A Year in the Life With Twins--By the Numbers

A year ago today, I was shell-shocked in the hospital, in pain from a c-section, with two newborns and my nurse's call bell firmly by my side. Since then I've learned how much stress I can take and my marriage can take. I've also learned how to grocery shop with three children at once, breast feed two children at once (lasted 5 days), and live on less than 45 minutes of sleep per night (that lasted about 2 weeks).

Number of:

Weeks I was pregnant: 38 1/2

Pounds each baby weighed at birth: 7

Diapers used: 2,100

Cases of formula: 240

Hours of sleep lost: Countless

Nights they've slept through the night: 6

Times they've slept through the night that I actually went to bed early enough for it to make a difference: 0

Car accidents caused by sleep deprivation: 1

Worst thing I ever said: "I think it would be easier if I were dead."

Number of pills taken, following this statement, to counter post-partum depression: 185

Days I've been grateful for getting help: 185

Baby outfit changes: 1250

Mom outfit changes: at least double that.

Pounds I gained: 74

Pounds I lost: 59

Amount of cash spent on nanny, even though I stay at home: Over $15,000

Number of times we've had to count pennies at the end of the month because of this: 10

Toddlers toilet trained in the middle of the chaos: 1

Times I've been asked if I took fertility medication: 4

Times I actually took fertility medication:0

Times I've been asked "Are they twins?": Countless

Times I've dressed them identically in public to avoid having to answer that question: 10

Times I've still been asked that question, in spite of these actions: 10

Time it takes to get everyone out the door once fully clothed: 30 minutes

Times I took the twins to Gymboree by myself: 1

Times I went back: 0

Approximate number of magazines ingested by one of the twins: 6

Number of days I still had back pain: 365

Stupid arguments with husband: Quite a few

Days I've wondered "Why me?": 365

Days since I've learned to take the bitter with the sweet and thank God it's me: 185

Was it all worth it? Absolutely.

2005-12-19T11:50:00.000-07:00

Which of These Things Does Not Belong???

I just opened and read a Christmas card from my uber-Christian neighbor.

"We pray for a blessed season for you as we celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ."

How nice.

Is it odd that I read this while listening to the Sex Pistols????

2005-12-13T18:04:00.000-07:00

I'm Out...

Okay you guys! I'm officialy burned out on blogging.

Burned. Out. Big time.

I'll still be reading you all, though.

And maybe I'll start this up again, who knows, in a couple of weeks....

2005-12-08T19:52:00.000-07:00

97 Martini Playdate

Okay, so maybe it was more like Two Bottles of Wine and Countless Beers Playdate, but still. The ride to Ohio was a bitch, what with two babies needing to stop after three hours, then two hours, then one hour, and so on exponentially, until finally we were forced by those two little dictators to stop twenty minutes from Hausfrau's Haus to feed them Wendy's. Really now. Am I being unreasonable to expect them to can it until we hit Hausfrau's driveway? Please. I'm surprised we didn't have to stop at the gas station near their house for beer nuts and a diaper change. And did I mention that on this trip, I mastered the art of changing a diaper without unstrapping the child from the car seat??? Uh huh, that's right. I'm the Queen Momma of Roadtrips. All in all, it took us 10 hours to cover what most people can do in 6, so I was beat and I remember very little of our first night in Cincinnati. Except that Herr and Frau's Haus was mighty huge indeed.

The next day, after the usual five pots of coffee we all go through together, we headed out to Jungle Jim's. Please check out the link. I've tried to describe this place to other people, and I've failed miserably. Also, please take note of the Amish corpses in the buggy. The place had everything, and I drooled over so so much, especially the wine selection, but I remain deeply concerned about the sanity of Mr. Jungle Jim. Oh-- and as a side note, they also stock virtually every hot sauce known to man. Aisles and aisles of hot sauce. Listed alphabetically. Complete with an "adult oriented" hot sauce section. Use your imagination. I won't describe it here, at the risk of attracting every perv on Google to my blog.

Then we shipped ourselves and our millions of children back to the house. Can I just take a moment to gush over the mini Misfit Hausfrau's? Baby Girl and Peaches will certainly be my daughters-in-law, if I have anything to do with it. And yes, I realize one of my 3 sons will be left out, but every mother needs a gay son to take care of her in her old age, so I have no worries.

The kids went to bed, the guys watched football downstairs, and Hausfrau and I retired to her huge bedroom to snooze and watch "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner."

No, we did not spoon.

Please.

I don't remember a whole lot about the night, after the kids went to bed. Except the fab shrimp appetizers we had (massive shrimp wrapped in prosciutto and a basil leaf, topped with Tastefully Simple Balsamic/Basil oil and grilled). Holy God, they were good. And I remember the drinking, and talking about everything and nothing, and playing Shut the Box. And I remember losing miserably at that game, because my score was literally in the millions. I had a blast. I even remember laughing so hard at one point I had to sit on the floor to keep from peeing, or tooting, or whatever.

And now, the pictures. I'm sorry to say, there aren't as many as I had hoped, and they're not that exciting. And there was a FANTASTIC shot of my husband and Herr Hausfrau laying on a bed "watching football." I know it was all innocent, and our hubbies are so very straight,but DAMN it was a good picture. Alas, my husband doesn't want me to post it.

Hausfrau and Herr Hausfrau

Oh my.

Okay, actually, as you may have guessed, she NEVER looks like this. It's just a horrible picture taken mid-blink. And I know she's going to kick my ass for posting it, so last night I took these pictures of myself, so you know what I look like when I'm hammered:

Am I not fabulous at all times???? Just kidding. For you, Hausfrau, here's a crap-ass picture of me, taking one for the team:

Nice jammies, eh? Only the best from Costco for me. I consider this pair to be birth control. And what up with the nose? Damn camera.

Anyway, I'll do a better job with the camera when Hausfrau et. al. come up in March for one whole, fabulous week of Martini Playdates.

You'd better watch out, Sistah.

2005-12-06T13:04:00.000-07:00

Katy's in Da House (Aw Yeah!)

I'm baaack!

And I'm back to the usual routine. Which means today, I went to the gym, sweat my ass off, and then ate a half a bag of mini Oreos. Damn Nabisco and their sweet, sweet manna from heaven.

Anyhoo, off to rescue chiiluns from the cribs, call Hausfrau, eat the rest of the oreos, make dinner, get the kids to bed.

Then my friends, oh yes, the time has come.

I will be posting pictures from the 97 Martini Playdate.

Of course, I have no idea how many pics there are, or what's in them, so I'll be as surprised/disappointed as the rest of y'all.

Wiping the chocolate dust off my face.....

2005-11-08T17:44:00.000-07:00

Break Out the Tarp Window Covers....

If the plague really does break out today, as Susan predicted last week, me thinks I'm to blame.

You may be wondering where I've been all week. I sure as hell wasn't voting. Save your breath--- Hausfrau already lectured me. So I cut her off and told her I voted Republican. She almost hung up on me. Tee hee.

No, my friends, I've been elbow deep in the squirts for the past twelve days. The twins both got this nasty stomach bug, and I've just about been gassed out of the house. Over in NotMarthaLand, we disposed of our Diaper Genie when we could no longer decide what smelled worse--- the damn diaper bucket, or the actual crappy diapers. Now, when we have to get rid of a pooper, we throw it into a plastic grocery bag, give the bag a whirl and a knot, and toss the whole thing out on the back porch. It stays there until one of us heads outside and throws it into the trash in the garage. Usually that happens within an hour or so, so it's all good. But with this stomach virus, even after only an hour, three or more bags might be plopped out there, pyramid style. Call this disgusting if you want, but believe you me, if and when you ever have twins yourselves, you'll see that you begin to do all sorts of things that would have grossed you out in the past.

Anyhoo, I'm sure none of you were checking out the weather for upstate New York for the past week or so, but there were a few days when we were under a "Wind Advisory." Which, of course, is just a nice thing to call it to keep the masses calm when we see Dorothy's house whirling around outside our windows. Leaves were swirling into little dust devils, mums sailed off porches into the streets, people bent into 45 degree angles just to get down the sidewalks with their dogs. The dogs, of course, were airborne. You get the idea.

I woke up after a particularly tornado-ish night to find the morning surprisingly calm. I opened the door to add another poop bag to the stack, and noticed the stack was gone. Gone. GONE!!!

So I frantically ran into the back yard to look for them. They weren't there.

I ran into the front yard. Not there either.

The street? Nope.

I ran up and down the road, searching, searching, sure I had infected the entire neighborhood with Flying Poop Bags. I thought I saw one under the Thompson's tree, so I scurried over there, snatched it up, and let out an anguished yell. It was one of those freaking plastic-bag ghosts that people hang from their trees at Halloween.

Then I saw another bag. Once again, I ran over to it, picked it up, and hollered when I saw it was ANOTHER ghost. And so it went, with me scurrying in my pj's, braless, barefoot, and bed-headed, up and down the street, hopping around people's yards, picking up ghosts, muttering and swearing to myself. Thank God I'm not 80, because I'm sure someone looking up from their morning paper to see me flailing around in their leaves would mistake me for a Wandering Granny and have me picked up.

I never found the bags. And I agitated about it all day. I was mortified and concerned that the entire block would be poisoned from our E Coli packets.

When Hubby came through the door at 5, I tearfully told him the whole sordid tale. And you know what he said to me?

"Katy, I threw those bags out when I left for work this morning."

I could have slugged him.

2005-10-29T09:34:00.000-07:00

Dios Mio!

Wondering why there's been so many Dora repeats lately? Turns out, she's been to busy to work, what with the midnight feedings and all. Look at what I found in the new Fisher-Price catalog. I almost choked on my coffee. Apparently, Dora has gotten herself in to a bit of "trouble." The description says that Dora is "the older sister," but I think we all know better. Haven't we all discussed how her mother needs to keep better tabs on her? How walking around unsupervised in the countryside, talking to a monkey can't be good for any child? And Mapa---ugh, don't get me started---Mapa can get Dora to Blueberry mountain, but not the freakin' birth control clinic?!?!?!

Oh and P.S.--- Dora, stop putting both of those kids in a front carrier at the same time. You'll be sorry once you've shelled out $300 for chiropactor co-pays. Trust me. Been there, done that.

2005-10-23T16:23:00.000-07:00

It's an Epidemic

Okay, so Susan has been having dreams about us lately. And last night, she worked her way into my head. In my dream, she took me to a fabulous mall, showed me all of these wonderful things to buy, but whenever I decided to get something, she stole my purse. I got really frustrated, of course, because stealing one's purse after tempting them with shoes is not cool. So I storm off to look for my husband. After running through the mall forever, I finally find him and my son. Together, they are carrying a million bags full of things that I'd want---- shoes, purses, skirts, lingerie, etc. But they weren't for me. Everything was for my husband. And for some reason, even though I was ticked off, somehow it all made perfect sense to me. Of course my husband wears
frilly panties and heels. Don't all guys?

2005-10-02T17:00:00.001-07:00

The other day, I was running late getting my son to school ,and as I was about to sail out the door, I realized that I was supossed to pack him an art smock. I yelled upstairs to my husband to throw me something out of the donation box, and he tossed down and old blue shirt. My son wore it proudly that day in class, but his teacher looked at me with a little less enthusiasm at pick-up that day. I couldn't figure out why.

Later, I realized with a sinking feeling, that the shirt we gave him (which he flaunted around in around at his very catholic preschool) was from a movie promotion---- it had a huge patch on it that boldly said,

"SWINGERS."

Let me just say, with absolute sincerity, the we are not swingers. Those of you who are, don't bother with an invitation, thank you. So I yelled for Hubby to come back in and explain himself, and he stated that he already dropped off the donations, and this was all he could find.
"Sweetie," I implored, "we're sending him off to a Catholic preschool in a smock that screams that we're swingers? They're gonna know we're Protestants!"
"Just tell the teacher the truth," he reasoned. "I won it when I was drunk at a bar in med school."
Oh. Like that's going to go over so much better. Long story short, I quickly discovered a new talent for stitch ripping that morning.
The first day passed uneventfully. I dropped him off, the other mommies and I politely smiled at each other, and went on our way. In the afternoon, we all got there a little early, to prove how responsible we are for our kids. More tight smiles all around. The second day went just the same. But that afternoon, I went to pick him up, and my car died in the parking lot. It's bad enough that I have to drive a freaking minivan, but it then has to die at school, just when all the mommies were trying to prove how composed, together, fashionable and aloof we were. I'm the one jackass who has to walk up to a car, clear my throat, and ask if the driver has jumper cables. Oh yeah, and I have to ask this person if they'd also mind jumping the thing for me, because I sure as hell don't know how. I purposefully picked a set of grandparents, figuring they'd have a little more sympathy for me. Yeah, right. The man was nice enough to jump the car, but he and everyone else looked at me like I was insane. And to make it all worse, the kids had just started to come down the steps, so the teacher had to hold them all back. Imagine what happens when you have a skittish group of 3 year olds inches away from their mothers, but not allowed to go to them. The sight of 11 three year olds about to lose their shit is awe-inspiring, let me tell you. Oh--- and the car never started--- I had to have it towed. Fabulous.
So the next school day, I made sure I looked extra put-together. I wanted everyone to see that I wasn't the wreck I appeared to be the Tuesday before. I put on my capris, flat ironed my hair, even put on a little lip gloss. I was the first mommy in the parking lot. The babies had fallen asleep in the back, so I pulled the seat lever, and eased backwards to take a nap myself. I heard another car pull up. I peeped my eyes open just enough to see that it was The Grandparents. They pulled in next to me and rolled down their window while I made a great show of not noticing. I dozed off, only to be awakened by my friend Beth, sliding into my passenger seat to keep me company while we waited for our kids.
"Oh, hey," I said, and reached for the lever to pull my seat back upright. The next thing you know, the seat shoots forward, slams me in the temple, and pins me against the steering wheel. The horn blew, spittle flew everywhere. "FuckityfuckityFUCK!," I hissed to myself, and clawed for the lever to pull the seat back.
And of course, there's Grandma, barely concealing a laugh, asking, "Are you alright?"
Fabulous. I'm juuuuust fabulous.

2005-08-17T18:56:00.000-07:00

Hey, It's Franklin...

And apparently, he's comin' over to plaayayayay. I went in to check on my 3 year old yesterday during his "quiet time." Normally, he's out cold for an couple of hours. And I thought he was this time, but suddenly he popped up from behind his mesh bedrail and exclaimed, "Franklin's coming over to our house!" He then proceeded to gush for about 10 minutes about how Noggin's favorite reptile will be gracing us that evening, as will Beaver, Beaver's mommy, the snail, the porcupine and the teddy bear.

"Sounds like a big day," I said, "you'd better get a nap to be rested for all the fun."

Big mistake. When he eventually woke up, he was literally quivering with excitement. "Is he here yet? Is Franklin here?' He grabbed his little red chair, raced to the window, and took up post for awhile. At first I didn't much of it, I just figured he was playing a game. But when I told him that it was time to go on a walk, he turned desperate. "No Mommy! We have to wait until Franklin gets here! We don't want to miss him!"

And he was so damned earnest that I started to get the creeps. He wasn't playing. This was absolutely real. So when he shouted that he actually saw Franklin, that he was actually outside, I called my friend across the street.

"Hi Heather, Oh fine, fine. Hey listen, is there a large turtle in a red baseball cap standing on my front porch?"

I quickly filled her in on my predicament, and she helpfully offered to come over in a turtle suit, which she claims she actually owns. I kind of want to know why she has this, but perhaps it's none of my business. She then suggested that I tell my son that we might see Franklin on our walk.

So of course, once I spring this on my son, he couldn't jam his feet into his shoes fast enough. We combed the neighborhood, went to the library, stopped for ice cream, and there was no bipedal reptile in sight. He was crushed.

He later told me he was pretending, but I'm not so sure. In any case, the TV will be off for a few days, lest he starts waiting for Dora to stop by. I'm sorry, but a little girl who wanders freely around the countryside talking to a monkey worries me just a bit.

2005-08-13T18:13:00.000-07:00

Welcome to The Prozac Nation

When my three year old was a week old, I was so depressed that when a friend saw us during a walk and mentioned how adorable he was, I said, "Do you want him?"

He chuckled, made more small talk, and walked on. But I don't think he realized I was serious. I thank God every day that I'm married, because I was so depressed that I would have given him up for adoption, had I been single. And then I wouldn't know now this child who is truly the love of my life.

And the odd thing is, as educated as I am, I didn't recognize postpartum depression when it was dancing right in front of my me. Naked, pungent and screaming.

But the months wore on, and I came out of it, and getting to know this child was pure joy. We developed a new normal, a rhythm, and soon those crushing first few weeks were nothing but a memory. And I felt normal again. Whole, and funny and sassy and a damned good mother, wife and friend.

So we didn't think twice about having another child. I got pregnant immediately, and soon found out I was having twins. I was overwhelmed thinking about how hard it was going to be, but I never thought twice about postpartum depression. I may have actually forgotten about it. But when you have two babies, you have twice the hormone crash. And until now, I just figured I was a little moody from sleep deprivation. But then the babies started to sleep better, and I didn't. I'd be awake for hours, too tired to sleep. And I was still a bitch. I just hid it as best I could. What came out of my mouth and what was actually in my head were often two completely different things. I thought I'd snap out of it.

Last week I came home from grocery shopping, stretched out on the couch, and burst into tears as my ice cream melted in the car.

Also last week, I told my husband that I spend the entire day in state of such high stress, that I feel like the only time I'll be able to rest is when I'm dead. But not in a suicide way, please. No one's getting hurt here.

Regardless, neither stunt went over well with my husband. "Enough," he told me.

Enough.

So yesterday, I put on my balls and got in to see the doctor. And I had to answer all of the usual questions. Questions I've asked my own patients.

"No, I don't have impulses to hurt my kids. Yes, I have help at home. No, nothing's going on, it's just I feel so overwhelmed with everything. My shoulders are always hunched around my ears, I'm putting out fires all day, I'm pulling away from friends because it's too much effort to pretend I'm doing great. Everything seems like work to me, even when it's supposed to be fun. And the weird thing is, nothing's wrong! I just cry for no reason! I'll walk down the street, get teary, and figure my contact must have ripped, because I don't feel sad, I just feel turned down. Muted."

Then she asked if I'm enjoying my kids. She asked, God, she asked, and there it was, like the clank of a quarter dropped on the desk between us. "No," I whispered. "I'm not."

She asked if I wanted counseling. No, I don't. We know everyone in this town. "Gee, Doc, I'm so out of sorts I can't even FAKE a good orgasm. So, will you and Joe and the kids be over for dinner tonight?"

So, I've joined the chemically blissful population. I take my first pill tonight. It's not a cure, but it's a start. I've got my Dixie cup full of water, and I'm ready. Ready to feel like myself. Ready to feel something, anything. And I'm ready for the mood I've been having to match the happy woman I've been faking. My kids deserve at least that much. And so do I.

Cheers.

Oh and P.S. --- Tom Cruise, go to hell. Brooke Sheilds wasted a whole op-ed on you, but it really just comes down to those three simple words.

2005-07-30T21:47:00.000-07:00

GRRRRR.....

I know I swore I'm off 'til Monday, but I, alone, just finished the first of probably 2 midnight feedings, and I can't sleep until I get this off my chest. Then I'm done. Really.

Public Notice to Everyone at the Saturday Market:

Yes, you were right. I WAS huge. How nice of you to notice. I had two babies in there, but I got sick of telling everyone. Sometimes I just wanted to buy my escarole in peace.

Now that you can see they're here, there are a few things I need to make clear.

1) They're identical.
2) That means they are BOTH boys.
3) No, we're not disappointed that one isn't a girl.
4) No, we're not trying again so we can maybe have a girl. We love our sons and we don't feel like they're a consolation prize.
5) And even so, it's none of you're business.
6) No, we didn't use fertility treatments. Sometimes these things just happen.
7) And again, none of your business. Would you ask the parents of a singleton how THEY got pregnant?
8) Yes. My mother was a twin.
9) Identical.
10) Conjoined.
11) Yes, really.
12) My aunt died at birth.
13) The leg. And hey, is this in the realm of not your business, also?
14) Identical twins are never genetically passed down through the generations.
15) Fraternal twins are. So the my family link is moot, anyway.
16) Yes, I'm exhausted.
17) No, I'm not a Supermom.
18) I don't do it any better than anyone else would, nor do I have a special aura around called "Mom of twins." I'm just trying to survive, just like you would be.
19) Hey, anyone notice my older son standing here? He'd love to say hi and talk about something else besides how lucky he is to have twin brothers.
20) For instance, he loves to ride his bike and watch butterflies.
21) Please stop touching my kids, at least on the face and hands. All 30 of you who did it today.
22) Really. I'm not a germ-phobe, but we just spent an entire winter indoors, and if they get sick again, I'll be stuck inside again. Crying.
23) Yes, it's really, really hard.
24) I sometimes wish that I still had them both, but not at the same time.
25) I know it will get better. But if you keep asking me to tell you what it's REALLY like, I think I might just burst into tears right here from all of the love and struggle. And really, all I came for was escarole, anyway.

Oh, and to the nice lady who stopped me on the way out? My earnest smile and thumbs up were quite sincere. You seemed so sweet, but I don't speak Mandarin Chinese.

2005-07-29T09:25:00.000-07:00

Mommy

With all the talk we've been doing back and forth about what makes a "good" mommy, I thought this would be appropriate to share. Take THIS, Alpha Mom....

MOMMY
by Anna Quindlen

If not for the photographs, I might have a hard time believing they ever existed. The pensive infant with the swipe of dark bangs and the black button eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll. The placid baby with the yellow ringlets and the high piping voice. The sturdy toddler with the lower lip that curled into an apostrophe above her chin. All mybabies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, and one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me n their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves.
Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach. T. Berry Brazelton. Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories.
What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all. Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 2. When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow.
First science said environment was the great shaper of human nature. But it certainly seemed as though those babies had distinct personalities, some contemplative, some gregarious, some crabby. And eventually science said that was right, and that they were hard-wired exactly as we had suspected. Still, the temptation to defer to the experts was huge. The literate parent, who approaches everything; cooking, decorating, life as though there were a paper due or an exam scheduled, is in particular peril whenthe kids arrive. How silly it all seems now, the obsessing about language acquisition and physical milestones, the riding the waves of normal, gifted, hyperactive, all those labels that reduced individualityto a series of cubby holes. But I could not help myself. I had watched my mother casually raise five children born over 10 years, but by watching her I intuitively knew that I was engaged in the greatest and potentially most catastrophic journey of my life. I knew that there were mothers who had worried with good reason, that there were children who would have great challenges to meet.
We were lucky; ours were not among them. Nothing horrible or astonishing happened: there was hernia surgery, some stitches, a broken arm and a fuchsia cast to go with it. Mostly ours were the ordinary everyday terrors and miracles of raising a child, and our children's challenges the old familiar ones of learning to live as themselves in the world. The trick was to get past my fears, my ego and my inadequacies to help them do that. I remember 15 years ago pouring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.
Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleep over. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, What did you get wrong? (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?
But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt inthe shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath,book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.
Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me andwhat was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

Me again---- I love this. I cry when I read it, and it totally reassures me that I may actually be doing an okay job.

2005-07-17T11:39:00.000-07:00

NEKKED

So, there we were yesterday, my husband and I, eating lunch in our cramped little kitchen. I was in the middle of blathering about some sort of nonsense, when suddenly hubby becomes perfectly still, and says, "Oh my God. "

He had the same panicked look on his face that he gets when he needs the bathroom ASAP, so I was mentally ticking back over all the meals we've had in the past 2 days, trying to remember exactly to which one I had added the Ex Lax.

"K is naked in the window!" he announced, dodging from sight.

"What? No way....," I started, getting up to look over to our neighbor's house.

Sure enough, there's K in the upstairs window, full frontal naked, her arms strategically covering her nipples, holding a pair of binoculars. Aimed at our house.

I hit the floor, commando crawled over to the phone, called my to call my friend across the street and hissed, "K is naked in the window! On purpose! ACK!!!"

Upon hearing about the binoculars, my friend helpfully suggested, "Maybe she wants to swing with you."

By the way, we're not into that, but I digress...

After about 5 minutes, K pulled the bathroom curtain shut and went about her day. Or to get dressed. Whatever.

And suddenly I remembered being in her house last week for the first time, and having her announce to me and another neighbor (male) about how she jumped out of the shower last week and suddenly remembered that she left her curtains open in the family room. So, naturally, this being an "emergency", she went (sans towel) to close the curtains on those panoramic windows. "Oh", she said, "I hope no one saw me!!!"

Riiiiiight.