The Gav Menagerie

Holidazed

2009-12-14T20:40:00.003-05:00

So I looked at the calendar today and do you know what it said?

Somehow, it is December 14.

I am not at all sure how that happened because, like, yesterday, it was Thanksgiving. And the day before that it was Halloween. And just a couple of weeks before that we were swimming and picnicking and chasing fireflies under warm July skies.

I’ve had a crazy roller coaster year at work. All summer I felt like I was falling in and endless trough there – faster and faster toward some unknown oblivion ¬– and then somehow, finally, things are back on track. I’m drowning in work lately, which is a good thing in nearly every way except that elements of my personal life are unraveling like a cheap Christmas sweater.

Somehow, I’ve managed to get a fair amount of holiday preparations done, but when I still think of all I have left to do – baking and wrapping and a trip to see Santa live and in-person – I feel a little woozy.

Mark and the girls––my God--they are my salvation. For every second they might make me crazy there are 1,000 more when they pull me back from the brink. I am truly blessed.

Today, I had to drive out to Pennsylvania for a meeting over two hours away. Sitting in the car in some seriously snarly traffic on the way back, I could feel the stress level rising. So. Much. To. Do. I don’t have time to sit in traffic. I don’t have these minutes to spare.

But sitting there, I found my mind wandering back to them. Mark’s sweet boyishness, Peanut’s beautiful bright eyes, Loaf’s million-watt smile. I thought of them at home – imagined what they might be doing without me. And before I knew it, I was home.

I tiptoed up the hall and slowly opened Peanut’s door. She was still awake—barely. Loaf on the other hand was jovial – bouncing on her bed and delaying putting on her jammies.

Cries of “Mommy!” Small arms thrown around my neck. Smootchy kisses on my cheeks. School recaps and sweet smiles.

Another day over.

So much to do.

And so much to look forward to.

A Thanksgiving Story . . . more than a week later

2009-12-04T17:06:00.003-05:00

By now, the Thanksgiving leftovers are long gone and everyone has moved on to Christmas.

But wait! WAIT! I never shared my Thanksgiving story. I never told you all how Thanksgiving morning - four hours before 11 people were supposed to show up and expect a turkey and all the trimmings on a lace tablecloth with damask napkins and four kinds of homemade pie - the pluming in our house IMPLODED.

Seriously.

I walked up the hall at 8 a.m. and there was Mark, standing over a toilet with water filled Right. Up. To. The. Brim.

So I did what any hostess would do under the circumstances. I left the house to run a Turkey Trot 5K while he tried to snake out the clog.

(And I need to mention here that my mother-in-law arrived Wednesday night to get dinner going in the morning so that I could run in said Turkey Trot. She rocks).

But I digress.

So I go off to trot with the turkeys and give the home situation very little thought. After all, I have two young children who use 17 times the toilet paper necessary every time they sit their dainty butts on the loo. I assumed (and you know what happens when you assume) that the problem would be rectified toot sweet.

Except, it wasn't.

When I arrived home 90 minutes later, the first thing I saw was Loaf, fully dressed. The second thing I saw was the back of the van wide open and loaded with suitcases. Oh. Crap. (Not literally, but close enough).

Mark met me at the door and explained that every drain in the house had stopped working. Nothing was going down anywhere. And to make things even more fun, water was pouring out of the ceiling in the garage.

Awesome.

Fortunately, my brother- and sister-in-law stepped up to the plate and Saved Thanksgiving! Unfortunately, they live an hour away.

Have you ever moved an entire Thanksgiving feast an hour away on Thanksgiving day? Well let me tell you, it is quite the feat.

My mother-in-law had already taken the bird and left because getting that sucker in the oven was of primo importance. None of us really wanted to eat dinner at 9 p.m. In the meantime, Mark and I packed up the rest of the food: trays of sweet potatoes, pies, potatoes for mashing, a huge salad, a vat of salad dressing, as well as all the condiments, sauces, spices, beverages and trimmings we'd need for the meal.

And in what can only be called a Thanksgiving miracle, we managed to remember everything but a few pears I was going to slice and toss into the salad (it didn't need them anyway).

We then drove both cars (so Mark could come back at the crack of dawn to meet the plumber on Friday) to the relative's house.

Thanksgiving was a resounding success and the next day we found out that the problem was just a tree root that had grown into one of the main pipes. (Nice timing tree. Really. Thanks a lot).

But all in all, it could have been SO MUCH worse. We may not have found a backup host so quickly. It could have happened AFTER the guests arrived. It could have been thousands of dollars in repairs. So overall, I ended up being pretty thankful anyway.

OK. Phew. Got that one in. On to Christmas . . . .

Everybody wants to be a cat? Not in our house

2009-11-23T12:51:00.004-05:00

Meet Ben.

Ben is Peanut’s cat.

She loves him. A lot. Probably more than she loves me.

She talks to him like he is a baby and wraps him up in a blanket.

He is fairly tolerant of this.

He sleeps in her room, curled up next to her.

She loves this.

Ben had a collar. A black, reflective one. With an ID tag on it.

On one of Ben’s recent adventures, he lost his collar, and along with it, his ID tag.

This made Peanut very, VERY unhappy.

She was convinced he was going to get lost, like, IMMEDIATELY.

So we went to PetCo so she could pick out a new collar and ID tag for Ben.

Peanut is very girly.

VERY.

Ben is now sporting a bright pink sparkly collar. But that is not the worst of it.

Oh no.

His ID tag is a black heart, rimmed with hot pink. One side features his name, address, phone number. The other side? Reads “DIVA.”

Poor emasculated Ben.

(And he thought getting neutered would be the worst of it.)

Women's work

2009-11-12T20:57:00.005-05:00

My daughters were deep in the midst of an imaginative role playing game.

They have dozens upon which they draw for daily entertainment:
- Molly and Sally go the store
- Snow White and Baby Horse at school
- Rudolph and Clarice at the North Pole

Loaf is often delegated the boy’s role, if there is one, or the role of lesser importance. In a recent game based on Little House on the Prairie, Peanut was Laura and Loaf was assigned the role of Jack . . . the Ingalls' family dog.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

Yet.

But I digress.

There they were, playing some game. They were chattering back and forth. I was off to the side, folding laundry and sort of half listening, but mostly lost in my own thoughts. When suddenly, Peanut, who was wearing a bandana tied around her head like an old-fashioned kerchief and a pint-sized apron tied around her dress said, “I will go pick the berries because that’s women’s work.”

I froze mid fold and stared at her.

What?!?

Over the past several months, Mark has been reading chapter books to her – the entire Great Brain series, as well as the aforementioned Little House on the Prairie books.

While I am thrilled that she enjoys this time with her father and is completely enraptured by these big books with few pictures, these are tales written in an entirely different time – a time when men’s and women’s roles were clearly defined, rigid and limited.

It is good to learn about these times – the historical lessons are important – but I’m less than thrilled that the concept of “women’s work,” has been introduced into my six-year-old daughter’s lexicon.

And who’s to say it even came from these books? It could just have easily been slipped into one of the old Disney princess films, or another source I’m not even aware of.

“Peanut,” I asked her delicately, trying to keep my tone casual, “where did you hear that phrase? Women’s work?”

She looked at me with a skeptical grin. Maybe my tone wasn’t as casual as I’d hoped. “No where,” she said. “I made it up.”

“I’m not mad,” I quickly clarified. “I just want to know where you heard it.”

“No where. It’s from inside my head.”

Which I know is totally not true. But I decided not to press.

Instead I launched into an explanation of how roles have changed. How “women’s work” is a very old-fashioned term. How women can do any type of work—and for that matter so can men. I finish my diatribe using our own family as an example.

“Dad does the dishes. I take out the trash. We both take care of you and your sister.”

“Uh, OK, Mom,” she said, turning to resume her game. I can practically hear the eyeroll.

A few minutes later, I am back to folding laundry (and no, the irony of what I am doing as I deliver my little speech about today's changing gender roles is not lost on me) and they are once again playing.

“You pick the berries,” Peanut declares to Loaf. “I am going to sweep the floor.”

And then I walked up the hall, found a good solid wall and proceeded to bang my head against it for 10 or 15 minutes.

And the laundry? I left the rest of it for Mark to fold.

Let them watch their father finish it up while I’m in the office today. I think it might be good for them.

Helllooooo, Lover.

2009-11-11T11:20:00.003-05:00

I am a bargain shopper.

I loooove finding a hidden gem – some retail item that has been deep discounted. It is a thrill¬—my reward, my due—for suffering the mall, or worse, the disorganized big box store.

Lately, I have been getting my thrills in thrift stores. They appeal not only to my love of bargain hunting, but also to my desire to live a green lifestyle: reduce, reuse, recycle and all that good stuff.

About a year ago, a coworker discovered a thrift store about 10 minutes from our office. It benefits the Lupus Foundation, and while 85% of the stuff there is of no interest to me, every now and then I find something truly spectacular.

Like a caramel colored Ralph Lauren belted suede coat for $9. Or a black Tahari suit jacket for $12.

But in truth I am Carrie Bradshaw at heart. I loves me some fine shoes. Unlike Carrie, I don’t have the budget to stock up on Jimmy’s or Manolo’s. Once in a while I’ll stroll through Nordstrom or Neimans and fondle the fine Italian leather in the designer shoe section, wishing and hoping, but never buying.

There is a thrift store about 15 minutes from my house that I haven’t – until recently – spent much time in.

But last week, I went there looking for a pair of dress pants and I came home with two pairs of practically brand new Ann Taylor suit pants for a grand total of $7. Yesterday, I had nothing much to do after I dropped Loaf off at school, so I went back.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular – just killing time. I browsed around the clothing, but didn’t really find anything. Then I went downstairs and picked up two paperback books—The Shack and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn for 25 cents each.

I was standing in line waiting to check out, when I noticed a wall of designer shoes near the registers. And on top of that wall was a pair of black pumps.

Killer black pumps.

To some, they are just shoes. But to my inner Carrie Bradshaw, they are sex and classic elegance stacked on a three-and-a-half-inch glossy black leather heel. They are feminine and powerful and hot.

I sauntered over and lifted them from that shelf, feeling their weight in my hands – a weight that only the finest made shoes have.

They were by Dolce & Gabbana.

And they were my size.

I slipped them on and strolled slowly in front of the registers.

”Those are gorgeous,” said a woman standing by the register. “You have to get them.”

I pulled them off and turned them over, expecting to find a price tag of at least $50.

Instead? $25!

SCORE!

My inner Carrie is extremely pleased.

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T21:58:00.001-04:00

Hope you all had a fun, safe and chocolate-filled day!

Wordless Wednesday: Getting ready for Halloween

2009-10-28T09:38:00.003-04:00

Click here for more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

Well hello, blog

2009-10-28T09:26:00.002-04:00

Nice to see you? How've you been?

Anything new? (Ha! Obviously not).

Sorry for not stopping by sooner. It's been a little crazy around here, and on top of that, I've just not been in a very writer-y kind of mood lately. Hope you understand.

I do - finally - have a couple of posts brewing in my head, so I'll be back very soon.

Looking forward to catching up some more.

Kimberly

Third tri's a charm

2009-09-28T17:38:00.007-04:00

On Saturday, I completed my third sprint triathlon, but this time with a few twists:
- I was joined by two friends
- It was the Mainiac Tri all the way up in Maine
- The swim was in a 62-degree OCEAN

Now, before I go any further, I need to explain to what the ocean means to me. Its vastness and unpredictability, its swift currents and crashing waves, its odd and menacing marine life, represents a cornucopia of phobias.

It the mother of all phobias, because it is so many things wrapped into one: open water, drowning, sharks and jellyfish. Undertows, riptides that pull you out to sea and waves that knock you off your feet and crash over you with terrible force.

I have not been in the ocean past my upper thighs since I was about 10-years-old, flanked by my mom on one side and my step-father on the other, both gripping my hands and lifting me up and over each swell. Back then, the ocean was fun, but sometime after that, the joy of the ocean left and in seeped fear. It has never left.

I signed up for this tri under the promise that the waters of Biddeford Pool in Maine were fairly smooth and calm, but even so, the thought of swimming in the open ocean filled me with anxiety. For weeks, I dreamed of being swept out to sea and lost forever. I dreamed of swimming so dreadfully off course that I could no longer see land. I dreamed of waves of water pounding down on me, choking and suffocating me until I woke in my bed gripped in fear and unable to get back to sleep for hours.

So the most eventful part of this tri - for me - was the anxiety that I felt from the moment I woke up in my bed at 2:30 a.m. on Saturday until I rose from that water having completed the swim sometime after 11 a.m.

When I arrived on site with my friends Beckie and Michelle that morning, I could hear the breakers, but could not see them. My body seized and I felt instantly nauseous. Now, in reality, they were fairly mild, but still . . . breakers. There were not supposed to be breakers. The website said "calm and flat" waters. Breakers are neither calm nor flat.

I visited the water's edge several times before the race (we arrived onsite around 8:15, which was just Too. Much. Time. To. Think. And look).

The tide was going out and we were assured the waves would flatten out by the time the race started, but the buoys weren't up and it was hard to picture how far OUT we'd have to swim. How far in those waves? With a current or against it?

I stressed for hours, stomach tumbling, unable to eat. But oddly, when I slipped on my wetsuit, I felt a bit calmer. The buoys went up and most of the swim was parallel to the beach, which made me feel better for some reason. The waves did flatten out and watching each wave take off was a thrill. Beckie went in wave 3 and Michelle and I were in wave 4.

We hugged Beckie and off she went. Just minutes later it was our turn. I hugged Michelle and wished her luck and someone yelled, "GO!" and I went.

The water was freezing, but I was so focused on just getting past the (admittedly very small breakers) I didn't even notice at first. I waded out, walking as far as I could and bobbing over the swells the way I did when I was 10.

When the water was around my ribcage, I started swimming a slow easy breaststroke, just trying to acclimate to the temp. I hyperventilated a bit from the cold, but only for a minute or two. Just before the first buoy, I started freestyle swimming - the correct way. Face in water, though I did breathe every two strokes for most of the course instead of my usual three. I sighted the way I'm supposed to. The portion parallel to the beach seemed long, and I kept getting logjammed behind groups of slower swimmers, but I did pass quite a few people and soon enough I was rounding the final buoy and heading back to the beach. I kept thinking the incoming waves would work in my favor and push me toward shore faster, but if they did I didn't notice.

However, suddenly, I could see the ocean floor (OCEAN FLOOR!) and the next time I looked ahead people were standing up, so I put in two more good strokes and stood myself and ran out of the ocean (OCEAN!), cold and very winded, but also ELATED to have done something that scared me so much!

That's me in the front. You can't see my face, but I must have an ear-to-ear smile because I am just so happy in this picture.

Swim time: 11:37

NOTE: This is actually quite a bit slower than my 9:36 time from the quarter mile swim in August, but I'll take it. I swam in the OCEAN! That is bragging rights enough for me for now.

I had a really long T1. My feet were covered in sand ankle to toe and I struggled to pull my long-sleeved tech shirt on over my soaked arms and hands. This is definitely an area I need to improve.

T1: 4:32

The 14.85 bike was fairly uneventful. It was an almost entirely flat course, which is good and bad (good, because hills suck, but bad because you have to pedal constantly). I was passed a few times, but also passed several people, including a couple from the previous wave.

Start of the bike leg.

Two things of note:
1. The scenery was amazing. I found myself wishing it wasn't a race so I could stop and enjoy it more.
2. This was my fastest race pace to date - I averaged 14.07 mph - which I know isn't fast, but I am happy to see my speed improving.

Bike: 1:03:20

This was a decent T2, but there's still lots of room to improve here. I basically ran in, racked the bike, dropped my helmet, hydrated, pulled off the tech shirt, grabbed an energy gel and ran out.

T2: 1:21

The first mile of the run was sheer torture. My legs were wobbly, my sore knee was acting up and there was a hill. Plus, there was a slew of runners on the other side of the road returning from the run and I found that pretty demoralizing. When I hit the first mile marker, I felt like I'd been running for-EVER and literally shouted out, "Are you freakin' kidding me?!"

Yet, I kept running. This is the first run leg that I actually RAN the whole time. I passed three people of the male persuasion, which made me happy because all the men took off two waves ahead of me.

Again, the course was beautiful. Parts of it ran right along the ocean and that was a nice diversion. Finally, I reached a volunteer who said there was a half mile left, so I tried to pick it up a little, though admittedly, I was drained. Regardless, I set a PR (personal record) for this run, and for that, I am extremely proud and happy.

Run: 32:20

So that is that - the last tri of the season for me (though I have to admit, today I found myself looking to see if there are any tris or duathlons (run-bike-run) in NJ in October, and there are, but really, I think I'm done for this season). I feel like that was a good race to end on - I conquered a fear, set a couple of PRs on pace and got to do it with two friends.

And I have a whole set of new training goals. Only seven months until next season!

Summer's last hurrah

2009-09-22T18:37:00.004-04:00

June 2009

Peanut: Mom, remember last summer when we went to the beach, how fun that was?

Me: I do. It was very fun.

Peanut: Can we do that again this summer?

Me: Absolutely. We'll go again this summer. I promise.

September 2009

My words to my daughter have been weighing heavily on me these last few weeks because as summer '09 drew to a close, I still had not fulfilled them.

June was more or less a washout, with rain every weekend.

July had a few good weekends, but we were only free one of them. I recall that weekend in mid-July, sitting around the breakfast table on a Saturday debating whether or not to jump in the car for a quick day trip to the beach. I ultimately decided against it, opting to take them to a local outdoor swimming hole instead.

August was also chock full - a wedding, a triathlon, a road trip to Indiana and then Peanut's birthday party - and as the month drew to a close I found myself deeply regretting my promise, thankful that she did not bring it up, hopeful that she had forgotten.

September arrived and unlike previous years, it seemed the weather instantly cooled. Nothing awful, but there was a definite chill in the air, requiring a sweater during the day and an extra blanket on the bed at night.

But this past weekend was gorgeous - the kind of September weather that makes living in the Northeast so amazing. The skies were a cloudless, bright blue and the air was mild with temps in the 70s.

"This is it," I thought. "Our last chance to hit the shore."

So Sunday around 10 a.m. we piled in the car and drove just over an hour to Sandy Hook - the Jersey Shore's most northern beach. We spread out on a blanket and munched on barbecue chicken wraps, grapes and cookies. We dug in the sand. We collected shells and we even splashed (a bit) in the waves.

It was breezy, but beautiful. And I felt at ease having finally fulfilled my promise. Just. Under. The. Wire.

Happy fall '09 everyone!

You're my home*

2009-09-19T11:05:00.006-04:00

When you look into my eyes
and you see the crazy gypsy in my soul
it always comes as a surprise
when I feel my withered roots begin to grow.

Well I never had a place
that I could call my very own
but that's all right my love
cuz you're my home.

When you touch my weary head
and you tell me everything will be all right.
You say, "Use my body for your bed
and my love will keep you warm throughout the night."

Well I'll never be a stranger
and I'll never be alone
wherever we're together
that's my home.

Home could be the Pennsylvania turnpike.
Indiana's early morning dew.
High up in the hills of California.
Home is just another word for you.

Well I never had a place that I could call my very own
but that's all right my love
cuz you're my home.

If I travel all my life
and I never get stop and settle down.
Long as I have you by my side
there's a roof above and good walls all around.
You're my castle, you're my cabin
and my instant pleasure dome.
I need you in my house
cuz you're my home.

Happy 10th Anniversary to my most awesome husband!

I am awed by the love we have - love that has carried us through two decades, two homes and two children. Love that is not always easy, but is always true and always present. Love that still takes my breath away, sometimes at the most unexpected moments. Love that seems as fresh and alive as it did on day one. Love that will be with us for many more years to come.

*And thanks to Billy Joel, for writing one of the most beautiful love songs ever.

A friendly reminder of why it's not nice to label people

2009-09-17T21:44:00.009-04:00

Just over 20 years ago, (<--I know) I pledged a sorority.

Over the years, I have periodically found myself having to defend that decision to people who think sororities are outdated, or elitist, or petty, or conformist. I have heard all the labels associated with “sorority girls:” Stupid. Slutty. Snobby. Superficial.

I even once had someone snidely ask me if I could not make "my own" friends and thus had to buy them.

The stereotypes are astounding and, quite frankly, an outrage. What’s more, they often come from the same people who are horrified by the use of racial or ethnic slurs. Why they feel these types of prejudices are acceptable, when others clearly aren’t, is beyond me. As we all know, stereotypes are dangerous - and based on ignorance.

So for all of those ready to level any of the above stereotypes at me, or my sisters, consider this your education.

“Diverse” is the only generalization I can truly direct at my sisters. Some of us were brainy, others struggled in school. Some of us had steady boyfriends all through college, others played the field, others barely dated at all. Some of us played sports, others couldn’t catch a ball to save our lives. Some of us partied, others hardly ever went out past midnight. We were white, black, Indian and Hispanic.

This past weekend, some recent alumni and the current sisters planned a huge reunion during our college’s annual Homecoming.

Dozens of alumni sisters attended, spanning more than 20 years of graduating classes. The college said we were the largest group to pre-register for any event at any Homecoming weekend ever. Wow.

Catching up with my sisters – many of whom I have not seen in 10, even 15 years, was a thrill. We laughed, we reminisced, we ate, we drank, we stayed up late and we reveled in each other’s company.

What’s more, the shared experience of the sorority resulted in instant bonding with the current sisters and younger alumni. I not only caught up with old friends, I made a host of new ones as well.

One of Saturday’s receptions featured a 25-minute slide show of photos through the years. I didn’t even know some of the women in the pictures, but I could not take my eyes off it. They remain the incredible group I became a part of so many years ago. Steeped in tradition, fiercely close, I have no doubt they’ll be back in 20 years – rejoicing in each other.

Sunday came too fast and I drove away from them all with a heavy heart.

Through the years, we have been there for each other through weddings and divorces. Babies and struggles with infertility. Birthday celebrations and serious illnesses.

To boil this amazing experience that I have had down to one nasty little phrase is beyond rude. So stop it, please.

Doing so insults my friends. My confidants. My partners-in-crime. My shoulders to lean on.

My sisters.

Firsts

2009-09-16T10:12:00.004-04:00

The school year has begun! Peanut started last Tuesday and Loaf went this past Monday. I'm finally sitting down and catching my breath, so here are a few pictures.

First, Peanut went of to kindergarten (!). She was extremely excited and got on the bus without any hesitation. Here are a few pictures from her big day:

At the bus stop

Getting on the bus

::sniff

Then Loaf started preschool in the "Fours" class, meaning she'll go five mornings a week! Where is the time going?!?

Outside before heading off to school

In her classroom on the first day

It's crazy to me that the summer is over and the year nearly is too. Didn't we just celebrate Christmas? And Easter? Wasn't that, like, last week?

New York City: October 2001

2009-09-11T08:29:00.003-04:00

This was originally written on October 24, 2001, weeks after the September 11 attacks and long before I even knew what a blog was.

On the evening of October 23, I paid my first visit to New York City since the September 11 attacks. I was meeting a former colleague for dinner, and my plan was to drive to Weehawken and take the Port Imperial ferry to midtown.

When the attacks first happened, I had a strong aversion to looking at the skyline even from a distance and I certainly did not want to go down to the waterfront for a closer look. But as the weeks passed, I began to feel a stronger need to see it and come to terms in my own way with what happened.

As you may know, Mark and I lived in Weehawken for three-and-a-half years. We now live in Morris County, about 30 miles west of The City.

Weehawken is a small but densely populated town located on the Hudson River directly across from New York City. It is famous for two things: It is the site where Aaron Burr fatally wounded Alexander Hamilton in an 1804 duel and it has the most spectacular panoramic view of the New York City skyline imaginable.

Weehawken begins at the banks of the Hudson River then quickly gives way to the Palisades, towering vertical rock cliffs rising dramatically over the river. Understandably, it is on these cliffs where most of the people of Weehawken choose to live. Even though Boulevard East, the road that snakes along the top of the Palisades, is clogged with traffic from dawn to dusk, people who live there have enormous picture windows that frame views of the some of New York’s most famous buildings. From the top of the Palisades, the city spreads out before you as far north as the George Washington Bridge and as far south as the Verrazano Bridge. The height of the cliffs affords you a bird’s eye view of the city, allowing you to practically look the Empire State Building in the eye.

I looked at that view nearly every day for more than three years and I never tired of it, which is why I felt a strong need to go back there to take my first close look at the skyline.

I drove as far south as possible on Boulevard East, parked and walked across the street to Hamilton Park, which overlooks New York. Even as I walked toward the edge of the park, I couldn’t look to my right toward where the World Trade Center used to stand, anchoring New York’s southern tip to the harbor.

Finally, I stopped and stood at the iron railing erected at the edge of the cliff and slowly turned to look south. The feelings of complete sadness that I felt on the morning of September 11 came rushing back like a flood.

From that vantage point, it’s obviously not what you can see. It’s what you can’t.

We all know the Towers are gone, but their absence is incredibly hard to grasp, especially for people so familiar with how they used to stand to the south like two proud sentries keeping watch on New York Harbor.

Instead, there is void so huge it feels like it can never be filled.

About a half dozen others stood farther down the path – a group of teenage boys, a young couple rocking in an embrace, a lone man in a business suit – all with eyes locked toward the south. We are all trying to comprehend.

Along the iron rail were dozens of signs, photographs and handwritten notes.

“Angela, we miss you.”

“Thank you for giving up your lives to keep us safe.”

“We love you all.”

“United We Stand.”

A colorful and splotchy mosaic of wax – the remnants of probably 100 candles – coats the ground near the Alexander Hamilton memorial, along with several American flags, numerous long-dead bouquets and black and purple ribbons tied to the railing. Poems and prayers are tacked up on the wall and someone has left behind their dusk mask, used while they were working near Ground Zero in the days following the attack.

I stared for a long time trying to force my mind to accept the new skyline and everything that it symbolizes, but it’s just too big and too awful.

After some unknown amount of time, I turned to leave. One of the teenage boys asked me if I was OK and I smiled and said yes, but my answer felt forced and false.

I returned to my car and drove down to the ferry terminal. The ride across the Hudson offered a different perspective. The view of the city changes with each foot that the ferry chugs across the river. Buildings once hidden behind others become visible. New angles reveal new sights. And still, from every angle there is that void staring back at you.

Once disembarked into the streets of Manhattan itself, the city seems almost normal. Crowds of people were rushing to get home. Streets were crammed with yellow taxis.

But there are differences. Those people rushing home aren’t just looking at the ground or in their “locked on target” tunnel vision. They make eye contact with strangers; some even smile in a desperate attempt to make contact. Both on the way in and the way home, people struck up conversations with me on the ferry, something that has never happened to me before. And most of those yellow taxis have American flags streaming from their antennas, regardless of the ethnicity of the driver behind the wheel.

And then there is the security. Of the four revolving doors in the 50-story building where I once worked, only one set can be used. People who work in the building must show a photo ID and scan an ID card in order to be able to take an elevator to their floor. Visitors must stand to the side with security officers until the person who they are visiting comes down to the lobby to retrieve them. As you can imagine, this creates a large bottle neck getting into the building.

And yet people wait patiently in that line without complaint. It is a small hardship to bear in exchange for peace of mind at work.

Dinner was nice. My friend told me her “September 11” story and I told her mine. We all have one now – where we were and what we were doing when we first heard about the attacks. She told me about the numerous bomb scares, evacuations and false alarms that have taken place in her building. Employees in the building have also worried about anthrax, since NBC is housed in the same complex.

She lowers her voice as she tells me she’s thinking of leaving her job in the city. “It’s just too much stress to deal with everyday,” she says. At the same time, she thanks me again and again for coming into the city to see her.

The night was warm and pleasant and as I made my way out of the city, I decided to sit outside on the upper deck of the ferry. The view of Ground Zero was more unsettling in the dark. Instead of just a gaping cavity, there was a bright white light emanating from the hole, put there to enable hundreds of workers to continue clearing debris throughout the night.

Lost in my own thoughts, I barely noticed the woman sitting next to me talking loudly on her cell phone. She was reassuring someone that she was on the ferry and would be home soon. When she hung up, she looked at me and said it was her seven-year-old son, who refused to go to bed anymore until she was home safely. She smiled and tried to make light of it, but her eyes drifted toward the illuminating lights at Ground Zero.

“It’s almost beautiful, that light,” she said dreamily. “It’s got a nice glow.”

I disembarked the ferry the made my way to the car, pausing one last time to turn toward the south and take one more look at the skyline before driving west toward my home. It’s nearly silent there on the New Jersey waterfront, but New York City is bustling as people do their best to go on with their everyday lives.

And so I turn, get in the car and go on with mine.

Sentimental value

2009-09-04T21:38:00.005-04:00

My daughter lost her second tooth today.

Last night while brushing her teeth, it hung at an odd angle - askew from the rest of her teeth - and I knew it would not be long. I told her, "You will lose that tooth before you go to school on Tuesday."

It fell out of her mouth - literally, with no effort from her - before breakfast this morning. She wrapped it carefully in a bright pink drawstring pouch and put it under her pillow, anxious for tonight's visit from The Tooth Fairy.

Tonight, I slipped my hand under her pillow, thankful that she sleeps like a log, and exchanged the tooth for a crisp dollar bill and a note reading, "Nice tooth! Keep brushing! Love, The Tooth Fairy." Then I retreated into the kitchen, tiny tooth in hand.

What now? I pondered.

I know from talking to my friends that there are some moms who are not so sentimental about these matters and who would have tossed the tooth into the garbage without another thought. But for better or worse, I have a hard time releasing "things" that mean something to me, or did at some point in my life. Just last night I poured through my attic in search of old college relics in preparation for an upcoming reunion and was shocked to find what I'd saved from elementary school, high school and college.

So I stood there in my kitchen rolling the small tooth in my palm, thinking.

Not so many years ago, she fought for that tooth. Always a slow teether, I recalled the weeks and weeks of drooling and chewing. The many nights of restless sleep. The cold washcloths and Ambesol given to her to bring relief until it finally broke the surface.

We stared in wonder and awe when this tooth - the bottom center, one of her two first - made its appearance. It transferred her smile from a gummy one to a toothed one. We marveled at this. Beamed about it. We ran our fingers over it's pearly top and cooed, "Such a big girl, you are."

It marked a new phase for her: More solid foods. Crawling. A sliver of independence.

When she lost her first tooth, I dropped it into a small plastic bag and placed it carefully in the back of my top drawer. It was, after all, her first lost tooth. A big one. No question there.

But does every tooth need to be saved? There is something a bit strange and perhaps even morbid, even for a sentimental sap like me, to keep a bag of teeth in my drawer for the next 18 years. I mean, to what end? To give them to her someday? I can just picture the look on her face.

"Um, gee, thanks? Mom?" followed by her promptly tossing them into the trash herself as soon as I'm out of sight.

Yet, I recall the day I found some of my own baby teeth wrapped in tissue in the back of my mom's jewelry box. I don't know how old I was, but when I found them I recall taking them out and rolling them between my fingers, fascinated by how small they were compared to my adult teeth.

I remember the mix of feelings. Horror: Oh. My. God. She saved . . . my teeth!? And love: But she saved them. Because they are mine. Because she is my mother and I'm her daughter and she wanted to hold onto them. Because she wanted to stay connected to them somehow. Because she loves me.

Even then, I was a sap.

Now, once again, this tooth and the change it brings to her smile marks a new phase: Kindergarten.

On Tuesday, she will get on a bus at the end of our driveway - alone - and go away from us to a new school with many corridors and big kids. It is a momentous step toward independence.

So with that in mind, I walked down the hall to my bedroom, and plunked this tooth, this symbol of babyhood, into the bag next to its twin. I do not know at what point I will stop saving them.

But not tonight.

Out of curiosity, what do YOU do with your children's lost teeth?

Taste the rainbow

2009-09-01T21:23:00.005-04:00

We had Peanut's sixth birthday party on Friday. Ten little girls in princess outfits.

Last year, I made an elaborate castle cake. It took two days.

When Peanut told me she wanted a princess tea party again, I cringed.

Fine, but let's talk about different cake ideas, I told her.

Some friends of mine had recently posted photos of something called a Rainbow Cake on Facebook, and it sounded relatively easy, and given I can barely find time to clip my own fingernails, easy it was!

1. Make your cake batter.

I like Arrowhead Mills Organic because there's no trans fat in it.

(Believe it or not, both Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines mixes contain partially hydrogenated oils. Why these things need to be in a dry cake mix, I have no idea, but they are and they're HORRIBLE for you. It's worth it to pay the extra for organic, or if you're even more ambitious, make your mix from scratch).

I used two boxes of cake mix for this cake.

2. Divide the batter, a cup at a time, into however many colors you want your "rainbow" cake to be. I used six. Put a little extra in the first and last colors - maybe a quarter cup or so.

Then use food coloring to dye each bowl a different color.

3. Scoop the batter, a cup at a time, into the pans.

OK, here's the slightly tricky part. Use a one-cup measuring cup and scoop out a goodly amount from the first bowl. Pour it directly in the center of your cake pan. Because this is the first color and has to "spread" the most, add about a quarter cup more.

Rinse the measuring cup and do the same thing for each color, pouring each new color on top of the previous ones in concentric circles like this:

4. Bake per directions.

The two layers, about to go into the oven.

As you can see, I did the second layer in reverse order (purple on the outside and red in the center, but that's up to you).

(Mark called it a "Willy Wonka Cake." I think he's not far off.)

5. Let cake cool.

Finished cakes. I had a teeny bit of extra batter, so I did two cupcakes too.

6. Frost or decorate.

I used light blue icing (like the sky), colored sugar in rings and mini (all natural) marshmallows for clouds. The little birds are candle holders Mark had when he was a babe. Cute, aren't they?

7. Enjoy!

Birthday girl blowing out the candles:

Inside of the cake once sliced. Groovy, dude!

And staring as "The Joker" . . . .

2009-08-26T08:40:00.002-04:00

. . . in the next Batman film. My daughter:

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From 6 pounds to 6 years in about 66 seconds

2009-08-17T21:55:00.004-04:00

My daughter turns 6 today. Despite me strictly forbidding her to do so, she growing up.

Fast.

* * *

It was only yesterday or so it seems, that you were born. A small, red wrinkled thing that cried a lot and never wanted to be put down.

The weeks after we first brought you home were difficult. I had read numerous baby-care books cover-to-cover but none had prepared me for the physical, mental and emotional toil known as motherhood.

The moment I laid eyes on you, I was completely in love. It was so overwhelming and unexpected. I never dreamed such a thing could be possible. Though I had loved, intensely, for many years, I had no idea my heart was capable of even more. So much more. Limitless, boundless love. Love that I know I would lay down my life to protect without a second thought.

August 17, 2003

I remember in the beginning counting your age first in days, then weeks, then eventually months. Even after your first birthday, you were “15-months-old” or “21-months-old.”

October 2004

Years didn’t really seem to matter. Years were a far-off milestone. Distant. Too far away to worry about.

Until you were two.

And then you started to do all kinds of amazing things: go down the slide all alone and go to school and get dressed by yourself.

February 2006

Years, oddly, seemed to pass even more rapidly than months. Suddenly, you were three.

July 2006

Then four.

September 2007

Now, six years later – you are so very, very different from that crying, red, wrinkled baby we brought home from the hospital. You are a girl who writes her name and reads. Who loves horses and dolls. Who plays nicely with your sister (most of the time). A girl who likes to help me weed the garden and can name most of the plants in it. A girl who knows what partially-hyrdogenated oil is and asks if something has trans fat in it before eating it.

You, my love, are a full-fledged big girl. You are:

A silly girl . . .

May 2008

A happy girl . . .

August 2009

A clever girl . . .

June 2009

A beauty . . .

August 2009

There are moments when I look at you and I still see the baby you were six years ago today. It is often a fleeting thing, like the flash of a firefly. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’ve seen it. Most times, I’ve probably only wished I did.

When I do, it is both a gift and a hardship: A gift to view such a clear path to the past. A hardship to know it is gone.

I need to remind myself that you still have a long way to go. Your small feet still slide and clunk around when you play dress up with my shoes. You still need to stand on a step stool to brush your teeth and you still have trouble buckling your own booster seat sometimes.

But soon, before I know it, six more years will have gone by and you’ll be 12, then 18, then 24. And while I have no doubt that each passing year will bring new joys and experiences to treasure, a piece of me will always long, always pine, always yearn for the baby you once were.

Just yesterday.

August 17, 2009

Happy birthday, baby girl!

The second tri around

2009-08-16T21:09:00.007-04:00

Today I finished my second triathlon and one thing I learned is that triathlons are a lot like having babies:
• With the first one, you plan and prepare and make lists and pack and repack all your carefully selected gear about 100 times waiting for the big day. With the second, you throw your stuff in a bag the night before and hope you didn’t forget anything.
• With the first one, you are a nervous wreck. You question every decision. You fret about every little detail. You worry obsessively about what to wear. With the second? You just show up and with a “whatever will be, will be attitude.”
• With the first one, you take a lot of pictures. With the second, you forget your camera so you snap a couple of gratuitous pictures at home when it’s over (see below).

But another thing, second tris are a LOT MORE FUN!

This one was nice because it was literally five minutes from our house. It was also all women, which was a very different experience.

We left here at about 6:36 a.m., and arrived at the park a few minutes later, parked, unloaded and walked about ½ mile down the hill (one I’d bike back up soon enough) to the transition area.

There were about 450 women in today’s race and it seemed like 447 of them were already there. It was PACKED.

Somehow, there was still space on the bar for my bike, so I racked it, did a bit of set up (literally less than five minutes – I think I set and reset my area 10 times for the first one) and then went down to the beach to get body marked, which I still think is the coolest thing ever.

Then I found the bathroom and went back up to transition to grab my stuff for the swim and I JUST made it. They were closing transition in two minutes. Can you imagine? No goggles, wetsuit or swim cap? I would have been screwed. Next time I won’t cut it so close.

I went down to the beach for the pre-race meeting where they reviewed the course and all the safety regulations. I also took the opportunity to slip into the water for a practice swim, which was a really good idea since it helped work out some of the jitters. Half the lake was still in the shade and the water was – I do not exaggerate – pitch black. It was a little freaky, so I’m glad I took that practice swim.

It was also VERY mucky. The bottom had about 5 inches of sludge on it and when I climbed out, I had tons of seaweed wrapped around me and sticking to my arms. Say it with me people: EWWW!

Swim

This was a very small lake – little more than a pond, really. The course was shaped like an “M” just to eek out a measly quarter mile.

A photo I took of the lake a couple of weeks ago on one of my training runs. It was especially muddy this day due to a huge thunderstorm the day before, but it was still pretty icky.

A few minutes later, the first wave took off. Wow, were they fast. The first woman was out of the water in just over 5 minutes. Impressive.

I was in wave 3 so 10 minutes later, I was off. I waded in toward the back of the pack and breaststroked for the first few strokes for better visibility of the women around me, but I switched to the crawl fairly quickly and – LO AND BEHOLD - I started passing people. I probably passed about 10 women on the first long side of the “M”. Around the first buoy, I passed a few more.

(I also have to say that at this point I swam through a GIGNORMOUS octopus of floating seaweed that tangled around my face and arms and legs as I passed through it. So. Gross.)

On the other side of the M, I started passing women from the previous wave! I was shocked.

Visibility when swimming toward the beach was really tough –the sun was shining directly at us and I couldn’t see that well, but could see the swim caps of other racers in front of me. Swimming back toward shore on the final leg, I thought I passed the last buoy and thought, “No, way, too soon,” but within two strokes my hand hit sand at the bottom. I WAS DONE!

I looked back and there were still an awful lot of light blue swim caps (my wave) in the water. I was so surprised!

SWIM TIME: 9:36

T1
I ran up the beach and then up a steep cement path to transition, pulled off the wetsuit, chugged some Gatorade, pulled on shoes and my helmet and left.

T1 TIME: 3:32

Bike

This was the part I was dreading. It was only 10 miles, half the distance of my first race, but I cannot emphasize enough how hilly this course was. I heard three tri veterans saying it was the most difficult sprint course they’d ever ridden.

Start of the hill coming out of transition. It keeps going, and gets steeper.

The same hill farther up. Still not the worst of it. And there are four other challenging hills after this one.

The course was two loops through a park, so you got to do some of the tougher hills not just once, but twice. YAY. (Not.) I was very glad to have had the advantage of practicing it a few times. It didn’t necessarily make it easier, but I knew what to expect. I knew where the hills were – and most importantly – how long they were. I also knew I COULD do them.

There were a lot of women walking their bikes up the hills, but I never got off the bike. I pedaled slow but steady. Even if I was only going three mph, I was determined to ride every hill. And I did!

I also rocked the downhills – leaving my fear behind and just letting loose. I passed so many people on the downs. The two loops went by quickly and before I knew it, I was making the turn back to transition.

BIKE TIME: 1:02:50

T2

Mark and the girls came running up and he asked me how I was feeling and I said, “I feel great!” And I did. My legs were a bit wobbly from the hills, but overall, I genuinely felt great. Another surprise.

I pulled off my bike gear and chugged some more Gatorade. Because it was going to be so hot, I had packed a Ziploc bag full of ice in a small cool pack and dumped a handful down the front and back of my shirt. AH! It definitely helped.

I turned and ran off.

T2 TIME: 1:02

Run

OK, so I’ve decided the run is my new nemesis. I’ve gotten passably OK at the swim; running is where I’m still challenged.

And the run course was also not easy. It was a wooded trail run. It was in the shade, which was a blessing since the temps were near 90, but the trail was loaded – and I mean LOADED – with roots and rocks. There were large swaths of the run where I never felt my foot land squarely on solid ground.

I rolled my right ankle about 5 minutes into it and had to walk for a bit to shake it off. My arches, calves and ankles were killing me (as I sit here writing this several hours later – they still hurt. Aleve is my friend today.)

But I kept going, running as much and as fast I could on the terrain. The first half had a slight uphill grade. Nothing too bad, but it made navigation of the rocks and roots all the more challenging.

On the flip side, the second half had a nice downhill grade. Again, nothing too steep, but I had a really good groove going. I passed a ton of women –many walking, but some running too.

As I passed two women, one yelled out, “YOU GO GIRL, YOU ARE FLYING.”

I turned back – just slightly to yell back, “THANK YOU!” and taking my eye off the trail for just that fraction of a second was a big mistake because the next thing I knew, I was flying through the air. I landed on my stomach and skid across rough rocks and gravel for a few inches tearing a hole in the palm of my hand and scraping a goodly amount of skin off my elbow and knee.

This is what I get for being polite. Thank you, my ass. Next time: NO THANK YOUS!

The women behind me gasped and came running over, but I was already up. “I’m alright, I’m alright,” I assured and took off running again. The lens to my sunglasses popped out and I didn’t dare look at them to fix it, so I just carried them – frames in one hand, broken lens in the other.

I came out of the woods and there was a nice crowd of cheering people, but most of them just looked horrified by the blood dripping down my arm. I still had a lap around the lake. My arm and leg were aching, but I did my best and tried to give it a little more gusto.

I rounded the last turn – saw the finish and booked it – passing someone one final time in the ropes.

RUN TIME: 32:59

One of my boo-boos, as the girls call it

I feel pretty darn good about it. The bike could have been faster (I was passed so many, many times on the bike), but given the difficulty of the course, I am pleased overall.

Medal

I loved the all-women race too. The other competitors were friendly, helpful and encouraging. Not that these women weren’t competitive. There were some amazingly buff, lean-and-mean, giving it everything they had types. The winner finished in 1:11:02. It just had a different feel from the co-ed race I did in May.

So next up? The weekend of September 26, either here in NJ or up in Maine with a college friend. Looking forward to it already!

Peek . . .

2009-08-12T21:15:00.002-04:00

. . . a Boo!

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The one where my daughter fails to use her inside voice

2009-08-03T21:32:00.005-04:00

Scene: Target, Sunday afternoon.

We are there for two things:
1. To pick up a prescription and
2. To buy me a new bra

We have just visited the ladies room, because for some unknown reason the interior of Target seems to put my daughters' bladders into hyperdrive. I do not know why liquid passes through their body at a greater rate of speed in Target than anywhere else, but even the shortest of Target trips always require at least two potty stops, and one of them always comes when we are as far as humanly possible from the restrooms.

So I've learned--after nearly six years--to make a pit stop immediately upon entering the store.

We are just walking down the main aisle leading straight into the store from the main entrance when I say, quietly to Peanut, "I need to get a new bra."

And she says, at the absolute TOP of her lungs, "I'LL HELP YOU MOMMY! WHAT SIZE ARE YOUR BREASTS?"

I stop the cart and look up. Two teenage girls are standing at the side of the aisle. They are clearly horrified. Their mouths are hanging open and they are staring at me. Moments later, they turn and begin to laugh. Loudly.

On the other side of the aisle is a man in his 30s. Looking. Directly. At. My. Boobs.

Now I suppose, on some level, he really can't be blamed. We all know that men have a certain - um - fondness for them and we also know that their functions are not really so much ruled by the brain on their head as they are the head between their legs, but still. STILL. I mean the guy was practically drooling. A little dignity, please, because that, my friend, is not going to get you any where with any woman any time ever. PERIOD.

Peanut, by this time, has already reached the bra section and is riffling through an end-cap display of lacy black bras. "WHICH ONE, MOMMY? WHICH ONE? THESE SAY 'D'? IS THIS THE ONE?"

Drool-man looks like he is going to pass out any minute from all the excitement. I shoot him a dirty look, which finally seems to snap him back to the reality where I am a forty-year-old mother of two in Target on Sunday afternoon and not some stripper winding herself around a pole. He turns quickly and disappears into the ladies' clothing section (let's not even go there, OK?)

Peanut is standing in the aisle, holding a HUGE black lace bra up to chest and prancing.

"I LIKE THIS ONE!" she is shouting.

I can hear the teenage girls behind me howling with laughter. If nothing else, I feel assured that I have helped prevent two teen pregnancies with this trip. I'm a glass-half-full kinda girl, after all, and have to find the bright side somewhere in this.

I approach her. The bra she is holding up is a double D.

"Not this one," I tell her. "Smaller. B. We need one with a B on it. And not these - something a little less . . . fancy."

We search the aisles - her pulling every bright pink, loud patterned, adorned with 8-pounds of lace style she can find off the displays and me searching quietly for a basic, flesh toned, not overly padded, comfortable-looking bra. I finally find one, which I toss in the cart.

(And I need to say that at this point, though it's probably been no more than 10 minutes, Loaf announces that she needs to use the bathroom. Seriously?!? Is there some type of diuretic in the air in there?! So off we go - again - to the restrooms.)

We exit the restroom, hit the pharmacy, pick up the prescription and go to the other registers to pay for the bra, which I could have paid for in the pharmacy, but I completely forgot about.

I hand the clerk the bra and Peanut leans over the conveyor.

"IT'S A B," she states boldly. "I HELPED HER PICK IT OUT."

Standing behind me is another horrified teenage girl - eyes wide with shock, mouth hanging open and face flushing red. Score! One more teen pregnancy prevented.

Mission accomplished, in all ways, we leave the store.

Diagnosis

2009-08-02T17:25:00.002-04:00

I don't want to speak for all parents, so I'll just speak for myself: I spend a fair amount of time Monday-morning quarterbacking my parenting decisions and actions. There's a good deal of analyzing, replaying, retracing, judging and criticizing going on.

The care and nurturing of these tiny beings from infanthood to adulthood is a sticky process fraught with peril. One wrong move (so the adage goes) and our offspring will spend several decades and thousands of dollars propped up in some shrink's office telling him or her how all their woes are mom or dad's fault.

I'm not sure I actually buy in to that. I think every child is different. I know some adults who went through some pretty heavy shit growing up who are just fine (more or less) today. I also know a few who had more or less idyllic childhoods and are totally dysfunctional. So you never know.

But the part I am beating myself up the most about these days is in my role of protector.

They are still so young. And with youth comes a respectable level of fearlessness. I remember it myself. Jumping out of trees, riding bikes top-speed down steep hills (without a helmet, mind you), walking on a frozen pond with no thought whatsoever as to whether the ice was safe or not.

I like to think I do my best to protect them, knowing that they are not always going to do this themselves.

Protection extends beyond the extreme, of course. It's not just about jumping out of trees and steering clear of thin ice. It's also about the basics: Wash your hands before you eat. Don't tip back in your chair at the dinner table. After playing outside, let us check you for ticks.

We live in a rural area. Our yard is surrounded on two sides by woods. We have deer – lots of them – leaping through those woods, along with a host of other wildlife. I know probably a half dozen people here in town who have had Lyme disease, and probably a dozen more from the surrounding area.

When we moved here, we attended a seminar held at the local high school about Lyme disease. Finding the tick early is key, I learned. They need to be attached for at least 24 hours to transmit the disease, so one of the best ways to prevent it is to do regular and thorough checks after being outside.

I know the risks.

And yet, sometime in early June, after a day of playing outside, I stripped off Loaf's clothing, pulled a nightgown over her head and sent her to bed. The next day, I handed clean clothes to her and she dressed herself.

Later than night while preparing her for a bath, I noticed something on her back. A tiny black something. Not much bigger than a freckle. Unsure if it was dirt or lint, I gently brushed it with my finger tip, but it did not budge.

I looked closer.

Six tiny legs wiggled from the engorged body of a tick. A deer tick. A fully embedded one. The head was all the way in her back, meaning it had probably been there a while.

We gently removed it and I plopped it into a plastic bag telling myself it was wise to save it incase it needed to be tested later. (But it won't, right? A relatively small percentage of ticks carry Lyme, so the chances of this ONE being a carrier is small, right?)

A couple of days later we had dinner with our neighbors and he told the story of a recent tick buried in his side that he had tested and that came back positive for Lyme. I told him Loaf's story and he encouraged me to send it off to the lab for testing, just for peace of mind.

Twenty bucks and a few days later, we got the result: THIS TICK IS A POSITIVE CARRIER OF LYME DISEASE. CONSULT YOUR PHYSICIAN.

So we did, of course, but like many things, we were in a waiting game to see if she developed the rash, or other symptoms. And she was fine. Each day passed without any suspicious symptoms whatsoever.

Until this week when she woke up one morning complaining of leg pain. An examination and blood test confirmed it: Lyme disease.

The good news is, though she will be on antibiotics for most of August, she is expected to be 100%, totally fine. Her prognosis is good.

But my Monday-morning quarterbacking is still in diagnosis mode. And it says: Why didn’t you check her that night? How did you LET this happen?

And I suppose that’s a good thing. This way, hopefully, it won’t happen again.

A lesson in priorities

2009-07-29T20:34:00.004-04:00

My daughter won’t go to sleep. She tosses and turns. She sits up and reaches for a stuffed animal on the floor. She stretches her leg perpendicular to the bed and counts her toes. She sighs deeply.

This is all very annoying to me, because this is Loaf, my sleep-challenged child. She has asked me to sit here with her tonight until she drifts off, and while I don’t always indulge her, I want to just sit and read my book anyway, so I might as well sit in her room.

But still.

It’s after 9 p.m. and at some point I have to get up and start pulling together things for work tomorrow. I need her to go to sleep.

I am at the foot of her bed, propped up with my feet directed toward her pillows.

She flops over, sings the alphabet, then flops back to the other side.

She is looking at me. I pretend not to notice thinking, foolishly I know, that ignoring her will make her settle down.

She sits up, pitches forward and grabs my arm.

“I want to kiss you, Mom.”

I lean forward and she plants a soft kiss on my forehead. She is thrilled with herself. She hurls herself back onto her pillow.

“That was very nice, Loaf, but now its bedtime. Please go to sleep.”

“OK.”

I read less than two pages when she rolls onto her side, embraces my lower legs and kisses one of my shins.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Loaf. Now please go to bed.”

“OK.”

Instead of reading, I eyeball her over the top of my book. She is looking at the ceiling. She lifts her arm and makes delicate fluttery motions with her fingers, fascinated with the long shadows they make on the wall. She sees me watching her and smiles.

Not just any smile, but one of those ear-to-ear, filled-with-love, glowing from within smiles that makes my breath catch in my lungs.

I can’t help it. I smile back.

I sit forward and lean over her. She wraps her little arms tightly around my neck and I kiss her. She kisses back with a loud, wet smacking sound.

We repeat the kissing a couple more times. She smiles even more widely than before.

“OK, I’m ready to go to sleep now.” She lays back, closes her eyes and within minutes is sleeping.

I sat there, on her bed, for a while longer reading my book at times, but also just watching her – the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The rosebud mouth. The wild tangle of curls. A look of utter peace on her face.

These quiet moments are so rare.

I didn't get everything pulled together for work as I'd hoped and ended up running around pulling things together at the last minute. But I wouldn't trade that time in her room for anything. I believe I spent my time doing something much more worthwhile.

No pictures, please!

2009-07-22T17:47:00.003-04:00

Loaf often does not like her picture taken.

When the camera comes out, she has been known to hide, run, cover her face or turn her head away.

In most cases, I respect that and simply walk away. It's not worth it to me to torture her, and you don't end up getting a good picture in those situations any way.

Peanut, however, lives by her own rules. And one of those rules appears to be: Torture sister whenever possible:

When is zero not really zero? When it describes your food.

2009-07-15T21:44:00.013-04:00

I’m going to just say this: I’m a bit anal when it comes to my food.

I’m not perfect, but I make a real effort to eat healthy. My husband does too. We do it for ourselves but more importantly, we do it for our children.

Mark has a relatively blemish-free family medical history (you may recall that his grandfather lived to be 103.)

Mine however, reads like the warning label on a pack of cigarettes (unfiltered ones at that):
• Cancer
• Diabetes
• High blood pressure
• Heart attack

As a result of my wonderful genetics, I have high cholesterol.

How high is it?

High. 'Nuff said.

It is why I don’t’ “just “ exercise: I do triathlons. It is why I watch what I eat. It is why, most especially, I avoid trans fat like the plague.

You see, trans fat is the worst kind of fat to eat because it:
• Increases “bad” LDL cholesterol
• Decreases “good” HDL cholesterol
• Causes heart disease and stroke
• Contributes to diabetes and obesity

It negatively impacts your health even when eaten in small amounts. According to the Harvard School of Public Health, adding just 4 grams of trans fat to your diet each day—which represents just 2% of your daily calories in a 2,000-calorie diet—increases your risk of heart disease by 23%!

As a result, the American Heart Association recommends that the average person eat less than 2 grams of trans fat each day. However, it goes on to note that there is enough naturally occurring trans fat in some meat and dairy products that most people reach the maximum 2 grams without the additional consumption of the man-made trans fat found in many popular foods.

There’s no question about it: Trans fats are horrible for you. Even if your cholesterol is 78, like my husbands (OK, maybe it isn’t that low, but it is LOW), you still shouldn’t be eating them.

Avoiding trans fat should be easy, right? Just look at the handy-dandy nutrition panel on the packaging of any food product and find the row devoted to trans fats. If it reads “0g” then you’re good to go, right?

WRONG.

A few years ago the FDA, that ~~fantastic~~ government agency put in place to ~~cater to food industry lobbyists~~ protect consumers, established some guidelines for food companies to follow when listing the trans fat content of their food on the nutrition panel.

Are you ready for this?

So long as a food has less than 0.5 grams of trans fat per serving, it can list the trans fat content as ZERO on the nutrition panel.

Huh?

The problem with this is clear:

First, companies identify unreasonably small serving sizes for their products. The serving size for Fruit Loops is one cup, but the average bowl easily holds more than that.

Second, there are tons and tons of foods on the market with ‘trace amounts’ (under 0.5 grams per serving) of trans fats. Just look at these pictures. The nutrition panel on ALL of these foods claim zero trans fat, but they all have trans fat in them*:

So, let’s say you have a bowl of Fruit Loops for breakfast. At lunch, maybe you have a handful of Baked Doritos. Later in the day, you’re hungry, so you grab a Quaker granola bar. After dinner, you have a couple of Whole Wheat Fig Newtons (because hey! Whole wheat is healthy, right?) Later watching TV, you have a couple of crackers (Ritz, Saltines, or maybe even Wheatsworth) with a little Skippy peanut butter slathered on them.

Since all of those products have trans fat, you’ve just EASILY exceeded the 2 daily grams that the AHA recommends. In fact, you’ve probably consumed at least six, and maybe more, grams of trans fat.

And you didn’t even know it.

So how can you tell if a product has trans fat? You have to look beyond the nutrition panel and study the list of ingredients.

If anywhere in the ingredient list you see the words “partially hydrogenated,” “hydrogenated vegetable oil,” and/or “shortening,” then the product has trans fat.

The thing that particularly galls me about this is that many foods print “0g Trans Fat!” right on the front of their packaging in big, bold letters:

And we wonder why American's are 1. so confused about food and 2. so unhealthy.

These labels are there to deceive you by saying, “WOW! Aren’t we just the best? We are so healthy and responsible,” when in reality, they’ve probably tweaked their serving size just enough so it contains under 0.5 grams. It’s sneaky. And it sucks. And our government allows it, probably because enough food industry lobbyists greased the pockets of enough people in the FDA.

But you know who pays the ultimate price? People who eat this garbage, thinking they’re doing the right thing when in reality they are seriously damaging their health.

*This food is not from our pantry. Rather, Mark purchased it to use as a prop for a Toastmasters speech he recently delivered on this very topic. All of it was returned, unopened, to the supermarket following the speech.