Scribbling in San Antonio

hotter than a witch's mammary gland

2009-07-08T07:20:00.003-05:00

The high today is going to be 106. And it is barely July. Ugh and ugh. Damn you San Antonio.

Love dares you to care for...

2009-07-06T20:15:00.010-05:00

There are storm clouds in the sky so it looks almost electric green outside right now in the dusk. My favorite sort of weather during my favorite time of day. The aforementioned-in-the-previous-post exboyfriend, Jules, is kind enough to send the Hub and I mix CDs every now and again. And I just love them. Usually I don't listen to them right away. They get shuffled into my other stuff and then a year later, one surfaces, and I listen to it nonstop for a month. Jules is one of those people who loves music. But even better than that, he loves sharing music.... He is a great friend for sharing music. Not enough people do it in my opinion.

Tonight, I was reminded of a winter walk Jules and I took in Central Park all those moons ago. We saw a pair of young boys laughing and building a snow man together... and Jules started to cry. I asked him why and his reply,

"This is what they've been waiting for all year."

It was a sweet moment, shared with a sweet person. And tonight I wonder, wouldn't we all be better off if we could admit our faults, embrace our fucked upednesses and share our dear moments without being afraid?

Something to think about.

My Demons

2009-07-06T07:45:00.012-05:00

Let me come clean here for a second. As a blogger, for the most part, there are some things (as in life) I just don't talk about. Somethings I don't talk about because I don't want to hurt people that read this blog. Somethings I don't write about because they are too embarrassing and honest. And some things I don't talk about because I don't want people to think I am a loony toon. But I've decided today is the day to fess up with a few of the things I rarely ever talk about.

1) My Parenting: Do you ever feel like you are doing the most horrible job in the world of parenting? Boy, I sure do. Several times throughout the day in fact. You see, I love my child. I think I am a great parent in a lot of respects. I am fun. I snuggle him continuously throughout the day. He has my undivided attention most of the time. He is smart and handsome and everyone loves him, so I must be doing something right. But the number one thing I hate about my parenting is that I am a screamer. Sure, I would be far worse if I was a hitter or a hater, but being a yeller is bad enough. Now, that's not to say I yell at the boy all the time, but too much of the time when he is misbehaving, I default to the screaming, yelling mode. And I hate it. He is a boy see, so he does all kinds of manly things like lashing out and not listening and being a general toot, and boy, oh, boy does it make me mad. So, I yell to get his attention. Sometimes it works, but most of the time I just end up feeling terrible that I yelled at him. I can picture him years from now having complete immunity to my shouts... "There goes Mom again... You know how she is... Always going off the handle." I can already picture the secret club he and the Hub will form. The knowing glances. The "here she goes again" eye rolls. Usually the yelling is followed up with lavish snuggling and kisses and hugs, so the Bub and I are already forming a unhealthy cycle of "scream, snuggle, repeat" when it comes to discipline. Sometimes I think he pushes my buttons on purpose so that I will scream at him and it will eventually lead to love. Ugh. I am working on it. Always trying to do better. Someday I hope the boy will forgive me for having a huge mouth.

2) My Self: Right now, I hate the way I look. I've spend my entire 30s in this state of hating the way I look. It started when the Hub and I hooked up. I was happy. In love. I went from dating a marathon runner (hey Jules!) to dating a nester. I went from date night including salad, cold soup and a brisk walk to date nights spent baking cakes, stripping squid to fry calamari and snuggling-in on the couch to watch a movie with a giant bowl of popcorn. The Hub and I are self-professed foodies at this point. I write about food. I love food. Somehow I manage to make it to the gym on a regular basis, but that doesn't help much in warding off the midlife poundage when there are fajitas on the grill. I went from being a 20-something hottie to being a middle-aged dumpy housewife in almost the blink of an eye. Now that the Bub is getting older, and sparks of my former self are starting to shine through, I have been working on myself again... and let me just tell you it sucks. You have to work twice as hard as you did when you were younger and the results are slow in coming. Not to mention, sometimes I go days without a shower... DAYS... When I drop the Bub off at school I wonder how the hell some of these moms do it. Perfect coiffed at 8 in the morning. Makeup... hair... clothes. This morning I still had my yesterday after-pool hair and I managed to slip on a Arab 'thoub' I bought in Cairo. (You know, the long, floor length dress-like robe Middle Eastern men wear? Sexy, right?) I was looking around at all the cute wives in their tank tops and mini skirts and man did I feel about 78. So, I am working on it. Again, always trying to do better. Someday I hope I can forgive myself for getting a fat ass.

3) My Husband: As a wife, I feel like I am constantly disappointing my husband. I try really hard to keep the house clean, to be happy, to keep the car clean, to keep the Bub happy... but somehow it never seems enough. If the Hub comes home and the house is clean and I am happy (I am never happy if the house isn't clean)... then he is happy. If I am disheveled and struggling and fighting with the boy, he breathes a heavy sigh and then, sort of, checks out from me. And I can't say I blame him. Who wants to spend all day at work just to come home to unrest and chaos? See, that's the thing about the Hub. If I am unhappy, he takes it personally. He thinks it is his fault. I would say 60% of the time he comes home to happy, and the other 40% he comes home to me tired and struggling. So... when I am standing ten feet in chaos... feeling tired and worn out and terrible... what I would love more than anything is for the Hub to come in and sweep me into his arms and make me feel for one minute like I am pretty and not a housewife and not fighting with my child. But instead, I get the silence. And on some level I understand it. I do understand my husband. He handles conflict differently than I do, and I'm fine with that, I am... but sometimes it would be nice if he was a little less from Mars and I was a little less from Crazyland. We are working on it. Always trying to do better. Someday I hope the Hub with forgive me for always feeling overwhelmed and adrift.

4) My Family: So there is the Hub/Bub, and beyond that I have two sisters, a mother, a father and a 94-year-old grandmother. The five of us have been through a lot together. So, I am writing a book about the years of my youth when all the women lived in one house together and my dad lived 2,000 miles away. And it is hard. Really hard. I know I have to finish the book. Finishing the book is just one of those personal goals I have in my life that must be done. But again, it is hard. Trying to write honestly without hurting anyone. Trying to write honestly without making myself look like an ass. Trying to write honestly, period, is hard. It is a memoir, and memoirs are filled with the memories of people who write them, but aren't always the way other people remember things. I know, no matter how hard I try to not hurt my family, something I write will. I love my family. The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt any of them. So, no matter what happens... If I finish the book and it languishes on the shelf of our family history for eternity. If I finish the book and someone thinks it is actually worth a crap and wants to publish it. I hope my family will understand and know that mine is just one voice in a family of many. That hopefully it will be one more stepping stone in moving forward and moving on. We are all always working on it. Always trying to be better together. Someday I hope they will all forgive me for saying too much.

5) My Mortality: Over the past few years, you've heard this theme a lot from me. I am morbidly preoccupied with death at this point in my life. It is the first thing that comes to mind when I wake up at 2 in the morning. It is what I think about when I look in my son's eyes. It is what I worry about when I feel a twitch in my chest. I am absolutely terrified of dying. Everything I read in the paper scares the shit out of me. I can't think about Iraq... Afghanistan... Iran... New York... down the street... without feeling terrified and sad for people and their pain. It almost consumes me... almost. This one little life. This one life we all have to live. What the hell does it mean, when it can so easily be snuffed away? I do not want to die. I do not want my child, my husband, my loved ones to die. I keep thinking that if I keep thinking, an answer will come. A antidote to the fear will wash over me, and I'll feel a peace and serenity about it all. But I wait and I think and I worry and I fear and nothing comes. No great answer. I assume this is the point in a "non-believer's" life when they turn to God, but the thing is, I am not a non-believer in the traditional sense. Just because I don't believe in religion doesn't mean that I don't believe in spirituality. So I search, always working on it. Always trying to understand. I hope I will understand when the time comes. I hope I will not be afraid.

Now that I've depressed the crap out of everyone... know this. I use this blog to purge a lot. Despite what you might think, my life is not all doom and gloom. I have not painted all the walls in my house black and I do not write poetry in my own blood. And I do not spend every second of my life miserable. Quite the contrary, in fact. Most people think I'm pretty funny and friendly and helpful and sexy if a little bit wacky. So there. I just wanted to say a few things. Get them out there.

The Hub/Bub and I went to our neighborhood Fourth of July wagon parade... after the Bub pulled and rode and sweated in the July Texas heat for blocks and blocks and blocks. After we trekked up the hill to the Episcopal Diocese of Texas headquarters for lemonade dished out by local boy scouts. After we all recited a few patriotic poems and songs... the Bub looked up at us and said , "This is the best lemonade I've ever had in my whole life."

I guess all the lemons I have do make for some nice summer refreshment.

Just keep livin', man.

Happy Fourth

2009-07-04T12:46:00.001-05:00

Childhood: Part 8,672

2009-07-01T10:03:00.008-05:00

Gosh, it feels great to be home. The wedding was fabulous... the Bub was break-dancing at the reception, seriously... not sure where he picked up the moves, but he definitely stole the show that night... the coast of New England rainy, foggy and cold... we never did get to go on the puffin/whale watching boat trip because of the weather... though we saw eider ducks, grebes and sea gulls aplenty... plus the Hub/Bub followed a pair of wild turkeys and their brood into the woods. But, what I wanted to talk about here today is walking with ghosts.

As you may or may not know, I am slowly and laboriously, writing a memoir about my broken childhood. The weird thing about the act of doing this is that you have to reach beyond the cocktail party stories you've perfected from a lifetime of retelling and step back into untapped memories that have been buried away in your subconscious for years. You begin writing and the most fleeting thought spills out and turns into a whole series of memories you hadn't thought about... probably ever as a memory, only in the moment.

This happens with places too, and so it was that without even thinking about it, I found myself in the part of New England that is riddled with such landscape reminders. My parents met and fell in love in New England. My father worked at a boarding school in Maine and after they got hitched, my mom moved there to build a life and have babies. She loved New England. Years later after my sisters were born and they moved around for work and I was born and my parent's relationship fell apart, it was to Maine where my mother returned... bringing me and my sisters back there the summer after they split. We lived in a house right by the water. We swam in the freezing cold Atlantic. We collected Maine rocks and star fish and sea urchins. We hung out with my mother's old artist friends. It was perfect except for one fatal flaw. He was gone.

When I returned this trip, I sporadically phoned my mom to locate the landmarks... The lobster pound in Kittery on Chauncy Creek where we used to eat on the water. The house in Ogunquit. Kennebunk Port and its streets and galleries. We never did make it to The Berwicks where my family lived and worked... but it was probably better that way. And always, I talked of the Swingy Bridge... I thought I spotted it a couple of times here and there, laughing and driving the Hub/Bub around, showing them the sites. But it wasn't until we rounded a corner in York, Maine, that I saw it and remembered.

Called the smallest suspension bridge in the world, the real name is the Wiggly Bridge, a tiny walking bridge that literally jiggles as you walk across... and that summer after my parents divorced, it was my favorite spot in the whole universe. My sisters and I loved to walk across it over and over again and hide up in the woods just beyond. It was a magical world for me. A bridge to a secret, special place.

As we got out of the car, and it came closer into view... I got choked up. Watching my son run down the rock-lined path over the water leading out to it, I could almost hear the giggles of innocence from my sisters and me. The damp air and the memories flooding back. It was like having my heart broken all over again. There I was standing in the exact spot where, not much older than the Bub is now, my life changed course irreparably.

This is what fascinates me so thoroughly about childhood. It holds the key to all that is right and wrong in our lives. To the mysteries of who we are and how we came to be in this moment. It is not the past exactly, for too much of it is bound up forever in the present. It is the elephant in the room. The tree that grows quietly in the back yard. It is the beginning and end of everything.

Of course, as soon as we were on the bridge, I took out my camera and began to snap away... to which the Bub guffawed, "Awwww Mom, life is for living, not for taking pictures."

I scooped him up in my arms and held him tight and vowed never, ever, ever to leave him. How could I abandon this perfection?

2009-06-29T08:41:00.002-05:00

Greetings from Maine

2009-06-27T14:42:00.001-05:00

Blame It On The Boogie

2009-06-25T21:25:00.006-05:00

Ah Boston... we ate roast beef and seafood on the east side... paid homage to Robert McCloskey... walked Beacon Hill just after dusk during prime window peeking hours... ate a couple of slices from The Upper Crust (love that prosciutto) ... chased that with clam chowder and pistachio Italian ice. It was the kind of day MJ would have loved.

Rock on little brother, wherever you are.

Hello Tuesday

2009-06-23T09:00:00.009-05:00

Ah yes, a new morning and a new lease on life. Sorry for being such a whiny downer yesterday. I'm sincerely not looking forward to this trial and the sadness it will bring upon my mother. Plus, all the other little boo hoos. Vocal bandaids help.

I awoke this morning to news from the neighbor that Winky Spot is indeed lurking about the premises, spotted just last night sniffing around their stoop. As I headed out the back door, I noticed my wee little knight Wiggle II is getting strength in his good leg and was on his perch beside Snow White a good minute or two before losing his balance and toppling down. It was only once I stepped outside that I was able to see the backyard clearly.

It looks like the set on an old pirate movie... little holes dug up here and there throughout the yard. Unfortunately, the Hub hasn't been out there tracking the X that marks the spot at the end of a gold-filled rainbow, but rather trying to fix a million and one leaks in an irrigation system that was haphazardly built. Again, I thanked my lucky stars that I'm married to a man who knows how to fix things. I can't imagine what a nightmare home ownership would be if you were forever at the mercy of plumbers and landscapers and handymen. I know some part of him loves to get his hands dirty and work. The labor is a nice bookend to sitting at a desk inside all day, crunching numbers and building spreadsheets. I know there is another part of him that gets things done to impress me... to make me happy. But I also know there's a part of him that feels overwhelmed by a To Do list that never seems to grow shorter but rather everyday bloats on itself and becomes more and more monster movie-ish. The Sprinkler That Drowned San Antonio. The Attack of The Cracked Toilet Seal. Perhaps, this week we should celebrate Husband's Day instead of Father's Day by throwing a giant parade where beer shoots out from giant broken water mains and soaks half clad cheerleaders. Though the Hub would probably more enjoy an afternoon to himself to read a book, eat popcorn and drink a Dr. Pepper, semi-flat.

Which leads me to the other man in my life. I doubt I've mentioned recently that the Bub is going through a fabulous four faze. He has been a complete and utter angel. Listening and participating and truly being a partner in crime. After that first week of unrest, the summer has been a dream. His phonics class was spectacular, and even though I lamented not sending him to music or soccer camp, words and books and reading are totally his thing. He took to the class like a fish to water: the routine, the exercises, the teachers. Everyday, he would bring home a folder of the things he'd done. As soon as we exited the classroom, he'd lead me over to the curb and carefully show me each one... all while literally glowing with pride. They were simple exercises like drawing pictures and highlighting sounds in words and cutting and pasting. But all of these were things I was having a hard time getting him to settle down and do on his own. Since the class started, now he wants to color and do workbooks and cut things out and draw. He is certainly not reading, but the class opened the door to understanding that words are more than letters on a page, and I'm down with that. This week he is taking a small motor skills class that includes Legos and Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys, but it will be truncated by our departure for Maine early Thursday morning.

Vacation, at last. We fly into Boston and will visit the Make Way For Ducklings statue. We'll take a leisurely drive up the coast to my parents old stomping grounds. When they were first married, my father taught English at an all boy's boarding school and my mom was the dorm mother. Both of my sisters were born there (well, even though they lived in Maine, they were actually born in New Hampshire because the hospital was closer) and the sense memories are strong. We'll arrive in Bar Harbor in time for the rehearsal dinner on Friday night... then the wedding on Saturday, and in between and beyond there will be a whale watching boat trip and an eyeball full of puffins and some strolling and some lobster eating and wine drinking and swimming.

Grandpa will be here housesitting and looking after my mini-zoo. San Antonio will not miss us, but I will miss San Antonio. As with all things, absence makes the heart grow fonder and even though NYC might be the city of my past dreams, San Antonio is the keeper of my heart.

Hello Tuesday. Great to see you. Today is a spectacular day to be alive.

I Have Officially Lost Myself

2009-06-22T21:12:00.014-05:00

So, the other night... a friend had her brother and his girlfriend in from NYC. The Hub and I actually paid for a babysitter. Three couples (plus one) met and we stayed out until midnight. Have to say I haven't done that in like, um, well, four years.

At one point, I was complaining about a few "mother" friends I have but don't always totally enjoy spending time with and a woman beside me who has kids long since out of diapers encouraged me to seek out friends without children, and honestly, the thought never occurred to me. I hadn't really thought to differentiate people with kids from people without. It never occurred to me that maybe... just maybe... I wouldn't have anything in common with some of the women I spend my time with if we didn't all have children.

And then I realized I'd been with this group of people for four hours and not really mentioned my son once. And even better, it took four hours before the subject of television was brought up... In suburban Texas, that is HUGE because, like, nobody has anything else to talk about other than their kids and who kissed who on The Office and Project Blah Blah and The Real Housewives of Who Gives a Crap.

God, I miss people. Actually, I miss smart people. I miss people who talk and laugh and talk. I miss people who don't have children. I miss people who smoke. I miss people who drink and smoke and hang out in bars and talk about things worth talking about. I miss people who get cultural references. I miss having a brain. I miss New York. Oh my God. I said it. I feel like I just cheated on my sweet cowboy husband (Texas) with a sassy, trash talking, but impeccably stylish coworker (Manhattan).

I thought I was missing my youth, but maybe it is something more. Fuck. I HAVE A LAWN. With a sprinkler system. A sprinkler system that is constantly on the fritz. So much so that the Hub has spent every night for two weeks toiling over it instead of in here reading books, which is what he should be doing. What a tremendous waste of time... and still, who doesn't love a green lawn? The catch 22 of suburban purgatory.

I am a dip shit housewife whose only "intellectual" outlets are NPR, The New Republic and Vanity Fair magazines and Netflixed documentaries... all of which I sip rather than consume. I have a garbage disposal. I make myself feel better about myself by leaving my VOTE OBAMA bumper sticker on my car. The Hub and I haven't truly made out in like, um, well, four years.

I used to want to change the world, now I'm too lazy to change a light bulb. I just make my honey-do do it.

This is my life, but it won't be forever.

Damn.

Bub, you better be worth it.

3 Bad Things, 1 Horrible Apple and 1 Good Boy

2009-06-22T19:59:00.008-05:00

Ah. Even the Hub is in a bad mood today, which is really saying something. He is NEVER in a bad mood.

First, Winky Spot is really gone. Either he is meticulously spreading his seed around the neighborhood (house cat by house cat) or he is dead or he is sitting at the pound wondering why I forgot to put his collar back on the last time I bathed him. Now, I like my cat. Notice, I said like. Because he was feral when I snatched him from under Mary Ann's house as a tween and because he spent the first two months in the laundry room rehabilitating from worms and bacterial infections, he never really, fully domesticated. He was prone to playing Wolverine with my ankles when he should have been snuggling in my lap. He liked to crap on the Bub's bed. He liked to howl at top volume in the wee hours of the night. He liked to jump on the table during dinner and drink the Bub's milk from his glass. He was nasty like that. Basically, he stank at being man's next-best-friend. But, I do miss him. I miss that my wrists don't have any stinging cat scratches on them that bleed every time I wash the dishes. I miss the new and annoying canals that were pierced daily into my leather couch. I miss having to clean the kitty litter box twice a day. I'm sorry I won't be spending $150 to get his balls taken care of so he can infirm in my bed for a week and attack my face in the night. Basically, I miss the son-of-a-bitch, despite all his (MANY) flaws.

Second, Wiggle II is really screwed but is taking it like a man. One leg is totally lame. He keeps it clutched next to his chest. He tries in vain to fly up to a perch. He spends his days hobbling around on the cage floor. Those birds have been nothing but a delight as far as pets go, so I have way more sympathy for his situation. Snow White dotes over him and snuggles and talks to him all day. It's a broken love, but it's still good. One more reason to hate cats.

Third, they posted the Cash for Clunkers rules today, and after all the time and research and effort the Hub's put into the deal, it looks like our clunker might be exactly three months too old to act as a trade in. Really, we could probably sell the Wagoneer for $2000, so we are only talking about losing $2,500... but still. It's the principal of the thing. They've been touting that eligible cars can't be older than 25 years, and seeing as the car is a 1984 model, we thought we were in... But now they are saying date of manufacture, and for the most part cars are built the year before they are sold. So the Hub is pretty heart broken. It doesn't mean that we won't buy the new car. It just means we won't feel like we're getting as good of a deal.

Fourth, and the most horrible of all... it looks like the monster who raped my mother's best friend and then stabbed her 41 times and set fire to her house is pleading NOT GUILTY. As in I-N-N-O-C-E-N-T. We assume he 's gonna claim that a six foot tall... 60-something mother of five who was an amazing woman from an amazing family with more class that he has in his pinkie toe... got off the phone with her sweet and loving boyfriend of more than a year and then somehow managed to have consensual sex with a five foot tall, trailer park, white trash 30-something hillbilly STRANGER and then within the hour managed, coincidentally, to get herself raped and murdered by another unidentified party before a neighbor saw smoke and called 911. No doubt his scumbag lawyers will spin her in a terrible light, and then, inevitably go on to ROT IN HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY! But hey, it's all speculation at this point and we're all innocent until proven guilty, right?

Whatever.

I just hope that when that fucker dies he ends up in hell with Winky Spot for a house cat. Good thing the Bub is absolutely adorable because otherwise this day would've both sucked and blown, simultaneously.

Silly Little Things

2009-06-20T17:32:00.005-05:00

Silly things that sucked this week.

1) Wiggle II was marauded by a neighbor's cat and is now lame in one leg and semi-flightless. Snow White mourns by staying close to him of the bottom of the cage.

2) The screech owl my mother was rehabilitating was eaten by a black snake who crept in through the air holes in the animal carrier, but once the tummy was full, couldn't creep out again.

3) Being slightly hung over on Father's Day and fixing a big girl breakfast of chorizo and egg tacos for the Hub. Ugh. So sorry tummies, all around.

4) Winky Spot and his balls are MIA having slipped out of the door at midnight last night. They are currently reeking havoc on all the lady cats in the neighborhood. This can't end well.

5) We left the air conditioner running at the farm all week with no one there to enjoy it. Ka-ching.

Silly things that rocked this week.

1) We head to Maine in a few days for a friend's wedding in Bar Harbor.

2) I test drove a VW Diesel Sportswagon in preparation for next month. Go Cash For Clunkers Go!

3) The Bub watched his first Johnny Weissmüller Tarzan flick and somehow was not traumatized by the midgets in black face masquerading as Pygmies... sacrificing bodies to a giant man in a gorilla suit in a dirt pit and then watching as said gorilla flung bodies out and ate heads and was eventually gorged in the eye by an arrow. Horrifying, truly.

4) The Bub insisting we sing the song I Hope That Somethin' Better Comes Along from The Muppet Movie over and over and over again with me as Rowlf and the Bub as Kermit as we drove home from Gonzales the other night.

5) This two pound heirloom "Homely Homer" tomato we pulled out of the garden this morning. Half was used for tomato sandwiches consumed only moments ago. The other half will be combined with toasted 7-grain bread, olive oil, Romano cheese, basil leaves and a pinch of S&P later on this evening.

Stand by for further updates... Now go read this and this.

The Dog Days of Summer

2009-06-12T07:14:00.001-05:00

This has most definitely been the most trying week of my life as a parent. The Bub and I were having a wonderful, laid back summer until I went and over scheduled us out the whazoo... jamming summer school and swimming lessons and playdates (sometimes multiple play dates) into single days. Capped off with the Bubs BBF's birthday dinner two nights ago that had him up late and jacked. Yesterday at his 2:30 swim lessons, he left the waters edge three times to tell me he was tired. Trust me, for my son to admit he's tired means he is almost ready to fall over. Seriously. I brought him home and put on an LP of the lunar landings, replete with blast off sounds and ground control communications. Needless to say, he was snoozing within minutes. So glad when swim lessons are over next week and we can have at least part of our days back.

To top it off, the days were also mixed with animal woes. I'm sure I'll get a comment or two about what a horrible animal parent I am, so I'm telling you in advance, yes, I am a crappy dog-mother. We (like all stupid new pet owners who buy a gorgeous purebred of wonderful genes and think their animal is sooooo great that it must procreate) never had my dog Shuggie neutered. We've talked about it for years, but never put the plan into action. This year, we were a few months late on his annual check-up, and by the time we got him there, he had a raging staph infection and a giant growth on his back and a few more on his hind quarters. When we first bought Sugar six years ago, we promised each other we wouldn't spend thousands of dollars on costly and painful treatments should he ever get sick just to keep him alive for six months longer than he otherwise would've lived. Well, that was before I got attached and before Shuggie got bit by a rattlesnake the night before the Bub was born and I shelled out $1000 for anti-venom and cried like a baby... but that was after the Bub was born and every dime we make started going into his care and upbringing.

  So when the vet called on Tuesday after Shuggie got his nads whacked to tell me that the three sample growths she cut off from him rump were pretty heinous and surely I wanted to spend $140 a piece to have them biopsied... I immediately phoned the Hub and told him he would have to make the call. I am too emotionally sore. He would have to be the one to take the brunt of a reality-based decision. His debate against it being... so we pay almost $500 for all these tests to learn he is sick so that we can spend even more money on tests to tell us what kind of sick he is with an illness we can't afford to treat? What's the point?  

He made the call and Shuggie's fate was sealed. If it was cancer, we let the chips fall where they may. All we can do is love him. Fingers are crossed that the benign lumps don't return and we have another seven years of joy.   Good 'ole Shuggie gets to convalesce on the porch and in the kitchen and get all kinds of love. It is all just too much, really.

Picking the boy up from school yesterday, I circled the block four times looking for a parking spot. I finally found one on the street and squeezed in between two cars. The boy and I took our time. We went to the bathroom. We visited the art room. The bub picked a yellow flower, as that is his favorite color. And as I got back to the car, a cop was standing there, and I didn't think anything of it. I started buckling the boy in the seat and came out and looked at him again and realised he was giving me a ticket. WHAT!?! He pointed to the No Parking sign that I hadn't noticed because there were white parking lines on the street and I had to squeeze in between two other cars that were illegally parked only I was too busy celebrating finding a spot that I didn't notice they were. I begged the guy to give me a break. That I would never purposely illegally park and if I was gonna illegally park don't you think I would have done it in front of the school rather than two blocks away. I was so pissed off that by the time I got in the car I was crying and I screamed "FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!" when he was out of earshot and then the boy started asking all kinds of questions and I apologized for cussing and then started crying more and literally cried like a fountain for an hour. I was so mad. I HATE getting in trouble, particularly for things I didn't think I was doing. Seriously, I could have punched the guy. If I had known he was circling the block in his little golf cart getting ready to ruin my day, Augie and I would never have lingered to smell the roses and take a pee. So the weeping started there and basically went on and off up until 5 minutes ago. Last night, I found out the wife of a close childhood friend died, making the circle of life that much tighter around my neck.

23 minutes ago I dropped the boy at school and couldn't handle the blah, blah of NPR for one more minute and so I switched to the radio station that plays "the music of the 60s, 70s, 80s and today"... and Stevie Wonder's Isn't She Lovely came on... Now I realize I am half retarded and must've never listened to the words of that song before. You always hear it during the Miss America broadcast and all that... I always thought he was singing about a girlfriend... I never realized he was singing about his daughter.... made all the more poignant by the fact that he is calling her lovely when he can't see her.

Isn't she lovely
Isn't she wonderful
Isn't she precious
Less than one minute old
I never thought through love we'd be
Making one as lovely as she
But isn't she lovely made from love

Isn't she pretty
Truly the angel's best
Boy, I'm so happy
We have been heaven blessed
I can't believe what God has done
through us he's given life to one
But isn't she lovely made from love

Isn't she lovely
Life and love are the same
Life is Aisha
The meaning of her name
Londie, it could have not been done
Without you who conceived the one
That's so very lovely made from love

Maybe I just haven't heard this song before as a mom. More tears... Damn you, Stevie.

Maybe the past two days were meant to break me down a bit. I get so cooked up in life that sometimes I forget to see the obvious. The Hub told me that last night he and the Bub read a book about love in bed. At the end, the Hub asked the Bub who he loved....

HUB: Who do you love, Bub?

BUB: Mommy.

HUB: Who else?

BUB: Shuggie.

HUB: Anyone else?

BUB: Yellow.

Ah. Isn't he lovely?

A-B-C-D

2009-06-08T20:50:00.010-05:00

The end of a very long and full day. Needless to say, the Bub had a blast at summer school. As soon as I picked him up, he was breathless to tell me about the subtle differences between the short A and the long A sounds. I was thoroughly impressed by the take-home worksheet that included his hand cutouts of things with "short/long A"s (I was worried about his scissor skills under pressure)... and was proud that he'd written his name without me there to coach him along (save the backwards G). Surprise, surprise... he can't wait to go back tomorrow.

We followed that home run with lunch and books at Central Market where we ran into one of his friends and there were Swedish Fish all around to cheers the morning. Soon after, we dashed off to swimming where he regaled the class with his trickster antics but was still able to swim with "big arms" like a pro. After a dinner of cold cucumber soup and homemade pizza, the Hub/Bub and I headed off to the pool where we ran into his BBF who shared a swim and an ice cream with the Bub before we whisked him off to bed with a glass of water and a full reading of Elmer and the Dragon.

In the immortal words of Alfred E. Neuman, "What, me worry?"

Ha!

Sleep tight little prince, for tomorrow is another day.

Remorse, Regret and Motherly Guilt

2009-06-08T10:20:00.004-05:00

So, today is the official beginning of summer school for the Bub. And I call it summer school rather than summer camp because school is what it is. Though there is some element of fun, I'm sure, against the better advice of my friends, family and the Bub's teacher, I enrolled him in a two week pre-reading course. He is not even an hour and a half into it and already my stomach is churning with regret.

It all started months ago when I fell victim to the "sign up now or all the spaces will be filled" syndrome and signed my son up for a full summer of activities at one school. Since the day I handed over my $500 check, I've heard about a million and one awesome (and probably more appropriate) summer camps for the Bub, from music to puppets to animals. I know my son would love more than anything right now to be playing make believe and building marionettes and banging on drums instead of in a little classroom having phonetical fun.

My worry mode really kicked into gear this morning when I dropped him off and mentioned to the teacher that he was a "lefty", and she said, "Ok, we'll work with him, unless you don't want him to be a lefty?" WTF!?! I thought that sort of thinking was way way way antiquated. I was sure the days of pushing lefties to be righties was long gone... Both my lefty sisters have horrible memories of being forced to use right hands and ultimately learning to write all backwards and crazy. Regardless, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and wiped the comment from my memory (sort of), kissed the Bub and left him there. After all, it is only two weeks. How much damage can be made in two weeks? And odds are my ever-adaptable (and phonics-loving) son will take the class to heart and soar. I'm sure that will be the case, but still... Right now I am wishing he was getting his hands on some finger paint rather than working on an ABC journal when he can barely write his name. What have I done to my sweet angel? Ugh.

The First Harvest

2009-06-07T22:23:00.001-05:00

The Case for the Only Child

2009-06-02T20:02:00.005-05:00

I was wrong about these few weeks between school and summer school. They've been absolutely divine. The Bub and I are like two peas in a pod. Our days are our own. We answer to no one but the wind and we follow her wherever she takes us. Our mornings are spent wallowing in the covers, soft and safe and way too warm to give up too soon. We come out from underneath the blankets only to roll over and hug and lavish Daddy with goodbye kisses. Then we dive back in to tell jokes and giggle and sing secret songs about nothing until hunger and thirst draw us out. The days are filled with books and libraries and swimming pools and lunches and playgrounds and Legos and birds and green grass and crayons and stickers and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and push-up sherbet pops and play dates and pickles and iced coffee and chocolate milk.

The Bub has reached the point where he is a joy to shop with. A joy to talk to. A joy to play with. So the going and seeing and doing and even the errands are all light and fun. As long as the Bub doesn't get too hungry or too tired, all goes smoothly and the days slide by, minute into minute, hour into hour, happy and together. This is the plus side to having only one. It is easier to align the moods of two than it is to figure in the hunger and the tiredness and the strife of three or four or more. The Bub and I, we know each other. At this point, we can anticipate each other's thoughts and moods... Now even when he freaks or has a meltdown or a tantrum, I know what makes him tick and it only takes a word or two or a hug to settle him down and wrap him in my arms and get the love back.

Because he is only one it means we can bask in the pre-bed ritual, after dinner and dessert and teeth brushing... there is usually a story or ten. Tonight, three chapters of The House at Pooh Corner, two chapters of Pippi in the South Seas, three little golden books, two Berenstain Bears and a Beatrix Potter. Followed by a made-up story (always about a bird and an animal, animals usually handpicked by request), and six mommy-sung songs... This Looks Familiar from The Muppet Movie, All My Loving by the Beatles, You Are My Sunshine, Stewball... every night closing with the one that always shuts his eyes... Dream A Little Dream. I usually sing it out, even after he's gone to sleep, just in case he can hear me in his dreams.

I would say he's spoiled, except the nights I don't feel like reading and singing, he's just as contented with a lights out and a hug and a kiss and a sweet goodnight from the door. He's adaptable like that. He's not a creature of habit for no other reason than his parents aren't creatures of routine. He has no competition for my or the Hub's affections... except of course from each other. (Many a sexy snuggle has been sliced in half by the Bub's body butter knife.)

My only fear is that once he's out in the world and we're gone... well, maybe that sort of heartbreak is inevitable no matter how many children you have.

Soccer Mom

2009-05-27T15:41:00.008-05:00

It all started at his four year well-checkup. I am so used to genius praise coming out of the Bub's doctor's mouth, that when she said his large motor skills were in line with a young four I was floored. Now, you would think that if a doctor called your son average you would be bouncing up and down, happy that he was growing and changing and right in line with where he is supposed to be instead of obsessing that he is average at something. Even though all the magazines and the books say not to judge and compare your child to others... hey, we still all do it. And although he runs circles around his friends in his cognitive skills and verbal stylings and although he is still a boy's boy in that he loves to climb and wrestle and run, I do notice that his BFF can run twice as fast as him... that the Bub can't really get the hang of a tricycle and that he calls baseball soccer and soccer football and basket ball "that game where you put balls in a hoop."

So, I freaked when she said that, and immediately began asking around to our friends for advice. One friend suggested that the Hub and I aren't really physical beings. (It's true... I've been either biking, running, swimming or gyming since I was in my early 20s and I HATE every second of it. I only exercise because I have to. Seriously.) He said that we spend so much time reading and talking and following intellectual pursuits, and it is clear that the Bub is physical and boyish and needs to express that part of himself.

Let's face it, I was a soccer cheerleader in junior high only because my sisters were cheerleaders and because I was in love with the captain of the JV team and even though I got Best All Around two years in a row... make no mistake... it was because I am really, really loud. That about does it for my athletic career. Oh yea, I did make out with the captain of the football team my junior year, and I was on the sailing team, but hey, sailing was what the stoners did to get out of study hall.

The Hub was on the football team for only one season in elementary school before he quit because "the uniforms were too hot and all the coach ever did was yell at us." The last time the Hub took the Bub out to "throw the ball around" was, like.. um... never.

After pointing out our lack of athletic prowess, that same friend suggested perhaps Judo or Tai Kwon Do as they are less violent than karate and have a more karmic edge. I pondered that for a minute and then decided against it. Though the Bub would get a huge kick out of it, I refuse to condone any behavior that is going to spur my son to wack me more than he already does. But, my friend was right in that I read to my son too much. He needs to get out more and work his muscles and we need to teach by example. I stressed on this for a few days, signed the Bub up for summer swimming lessons and hoped for the best.

Then a few days ago, the Bub started bringing up the Obama yard sign that was in our front yard during the election.

BUB: Momma, where is that Obama sign?
ME: The one that was in the front yard?
BUB: Yea, where is it... I need it for my team.
ME: What team?
BUB: My baseball team. All my friends are gonna be on it and we need the sign to kick the ball through.
ME: Honey, that's not baseball, that's soccer.
BUB: No, that's baseball.
ME: Whatever. What's your team's name gonna be?
BUB: The T-Birds.... no no no. The Roadrunners.

I've really been dreading the idea of team sports. So many of our friends have boys the Bub's age and they are already dishing out hundreds of dollars for uniforms and fees and driving to practice four nights a week and going to away games on the weekends. Seriously, at this point in my life, that sounds as much fun as plugging up my pores one by one with a hot glue gun. Frankly, I'd rather kill myself. But the thought of my son being the last one picked on a school kickball team stinks pretty hard too.

Yesterday, we were in the car and passed by the ball field and the Bub started talking about his team again.

BUB: No girls are allowed on my baseball team.
ME: No honey... it's soccer. S-O-C-C-E-R...

And then it hit me. SOCCER.

As I've mentioned before, I think all of my young loves until I was out of school and in New York were on soccer teams. Honestly, it is the only sport I have even a vague interest in, and even more honestly, that interest has probably always been sexually motivated. Forever, I had dreams of being a soccer mom like all the moms of my youth... on the sidelines with a picnic blanket and a thermos full of red wine. I'd almost forgotten that dream until...

This was the chance. The moment I'd been waiting for since the Bub was born. That spark of interest. It was so natural I almost didn't recognize it when it happened. Once it hit me, we were only moments away from the sporting goods store. I let the Bub select his own ball and picked up a goal cheap on the clearance rack. Within minutes, we were down at the community soccer field and my son was actually dribbling the ball between his feet. He was a natural. It was almost like he was born to play the game. He couldn't kick for shit, but the style was there. The interest. Nothing a little practice couldn't fix. He looked adorable and amazing and I imagined him in high school in cleats with muscular calves. I imagined him winning a game. I imagined his girlfriend on the sidelines with a poetry book tucked under her arm cheering him on. I imagined my picnic blanket. I could taste the wine on my lips.

Granted, this fantasy only lasted another ten minutes before he said he was tired and he wanted me to carry him back to the car, but still. It was something. It was a start. Let the games begin.

Memorial Day

2009-05-25T09:08:00.002-05:00

Woke up this morning to a blogroll with one entry. What my old New York buddy PK had to say about Memorial Day. Well done.

This Must Be the Place

2009-05-24T07:23:00.012-05:00

Woke up yesterday to a weeping pink eye. After dropping the Hub at the airport for his weekend with friends in Ohio, the Bub and I spent the early morning sitting at the doctor's office and waiting in line at the pharmacy. One of the Bub's favorite school friends was having a birthday, and he freaked when I mentioned not going... so after the medicine round robin, I took him, even though the kid's father is an eye surgeon and I'm sure would have bludgeoned me if he knew I was dragging eye cooties into his party. I spent the whole time avoiding eye contact and dousing my hands in antibacterial lotion. Then it rained. A ton. Which on any other weekend would have been awesome but here on Memorial Day weekend with the Hub away and a plan to spend 80% of the weekend in the pool, well... let's just say it sucks.

We spent the better part of the day in bed watching movies... including Grease, though we skipped all the talking parts.

BUB: Mom, this movie's all about singing and dancing and love.

ME: That it is, my son. That it is.

Our evening plans were canceled due to rain and more eye cootie fears. For some reason, I went temporarily insane and took him to dinner at the most horrible place in the whole universe. Originally, I thought we'd stop by the local Goodwill, score some books and find a nice cozy booth at our favorite Mexican restaurant and read and eat and read and eat until we passed out from words and tortilla chips drizzled with lime juice. Instead, I lost my mind and took him to The Incredible Pizza Company, a place no thinking human being should have to endure, at least without a gin buzz and a massive dose of irony. It is one of the giant places where they charge you for horrible food and mind numbing games. I guess I knew what this place was before walking in, but you know... it's Memorial Day weekend, it is raining. I promised my son a great weekend and so far all I'd managed to serve up was some eye puss and Olivia Newton John in black leggings dancing in the Shake Shack. I was feeling guilty and generous, a deadly combination.

The upside was that the Bub totally got it. Sure, he was entranced by the bouncy castle and befuddled by the ticket system... but even he got that the food was terrible and the deafening din abhorrent. So, he didn't freak out when I asked to leave after only 45 minutes, $25, two iceberg salads, a slice of jalapeno (gag) pizza and a diet coke.

The only upswing was he fell in love with a large screen episode of Gilligan's Island... the one where Gilligan cuts the water measuring stick and they think the island is sinking. Awesome.

So today, everything was coming up roses, dime store dozens though they may be. There was an ice cream sandwich and a trip to the library and new friends and new goggles and a pasta/goat cheese dinner on the porch. It was perfect... save the Hub. (Though 11 phone calls since this morning says "He Loves Me" more than any alternating daisy petal ever could.)

You know, I am so tapped into my mortality right now that any day that turns divine (no matter how elemental) is worth singing praises. You know too though, it's more than that. If you are one of us, one of those people who didn't have the perfect childhood. One of those people who had to struggle for anything and everything. One of those people who cried almost everyday of her adolescent life because of family upheaval and broken dreams, then the little victories mean everything. I wake up every morning thinking how can I make my son's day magical? What can I do for him that will show him how special and wonderful and unique life really is so that when he looks back on this time he doesn't find issue with the problems of his parents but rather remembers how an ice cream sandwich tasted the week he learned to swim on his own. The way a girl's legs felt rubbing up against his when they hugged during a stage play and pretended to kiss. The way his mom threw him in a car and drove him up the street to see his first rainbow.

I am complicated. My husband knows this. My child knows this. And, I hope, they will both be better people because of it. I don't want to rear a marshmallow cream puff, nor do I want to bring up a conflicted youth. I want to give him the best of me, and leave the worst out... but not all of the worst. I want him to see and know and understand how I got from there to here, because only then will he understand what true love is.

Every single day my child lifts me up. He lifts me up and sets me straight and reminds me why. And this isn't repressed housewife bullshit. I've been there and seen that and more, but nothing... and I mean nothing, is like looking into your child's eyes and having him say I love you, unconditionally. That is heaven people. Beyond it, an afterlife is futile.

2009-05-22T17:32:00.001-05:00

Prettiest Day Ever

2009-05-17T15:51:00.002-05:00

The One Memory

2009-05-16T23:16:00.009-05:00

I was going to write about the end of school. The face of the boy you see here, contemplating the loss of his routine and buddies. Lament on having to fill the Bub's days again. Reaching out to play date friends I've let fall by the wayside. Dusting off my membership cards to the zoo and local museums. Begging swim schools to take the Bub a few weeks early so he doesn't have to wait until June for lessons. I was gonna write about all of that... and then, a miracle occurred tonight. Perhaps it was the three mile walk this morning. Maybe it was the gorgeous thunder storm. It might have been the amazing hamburger I made the Hub for dinner. Whatever it was...

Tonight started like any other. We are all out at the farm. The Hub has a sinus infection. I gorged a day's worth of calories at lunch so I opted out of dinner. The wind was blowing. The air had cooled. Dinner for the Hub/Bub was over, and for some reason I ambled over to our CD jukebox and selected the Grease soundtrack.

As I've mentioned before, when the Hub and I moved in together, he purchased a CD jukebox (the height of technology in the pre-digital era) in which to house our combined music collection... and that music collection has since become virtually lost in its black, Sony coffin. The mechanism is hugely cumbersome to sift through, and who knows what is in there anymore. Single CDs lost to a track screen that only shows the first few letters of a listing. So the fact that I even stumbled across Grease today in turning the dial was - at its worst - a mere accident - at its best - fate.

It started simply enough... I've loved that movie since I was a kid, so it's only natural that I'd sing along, right? I started out watching the boys eat and singing along to Summer Lovin' and wishing my sister was here to make an ass of herself with me. I skipped over Hopelessly Devoted to you. And by the time You're the One That I Want came on, the Bub and I had moved into the living room for a duet of dance. We were acting out. The Bub was creating amazing and never-before-seen dance moves. When suddenly, my rhythmless, hates-to-dance husband joined in the fray and began to boogie. What happened next would shock most of our closest friends and family. The dance party continued for 45 minutes from song to song. All three of us dancing and acting beyond silly. It was awesome.

At one point in a scene reconstructed out of Footloose, the Bub got the idea (entirely unsolicited by me) to have each of us dance separately in the middle of the circle while the other two stood on the sidelines and clapped. We took turns and laughed and laughed and the Bub set down moves that were amazing in their limber fearlessness and virtually impossible to recreate for the over-30 set. Some similar to yoga poses. Some that made him look as if he was swimming on the rug. Others that had the Hub and I giggling at adorable.

Really, I was astounded by it. And the Hub was right there with us. Smiling. Attempting to hand jive. Lovely asses all around.

One sweet little blog I've been following recently mentioned the Hirokazu film Afterlife and the notion of if you could only have one memory to keep in the hereafter, what would it be? I have now captured the exact moment in my life when I was most happy. Grease is the word, baby. I have no regrets.

The Kid from Borneo

2009-05-16T22:33:00.008-05:00

The result of my brother-in-law and Photoshop after hearing the Bub was digging his favorite episode of The Little Rascals. Look closely.... wait for it. Brilliant. (This fits in nicely that the Bub's had a dream or two in the past week where he was actually one of the Little Rascals. The Bub hasn't seen this picture yet, and I believe it might - quite literally - blow his mind.)

Last Day of School

2009-05-15T13:09:00.004-05:00

Oh yes. The end of the school year is here. Unfortunately, our little preschool gets out almost three full weeks earlier than everyone else... if I didn't love the school as much as I do, I might gripe, but alas... It's impossible to tear a true love down.

The Bub and I worked hard putting the teacher's gifts together last night. His class is called The Red Apples, so I decorated red buckets with wooden apples and the teacher's names... and the Hub/Bub and I made cards, cookies and red drawstring bags to hold the cookies... then supplemented each with a bottle of Shiraz prosecco and a red eye mask. The kids in his class were supposed to wear all red today.... and last night, the Bub asked if I'd sew an apple on his shirt... and sucker that I am, I stayed up until 11:52 designing, cutting out and sewing little appliques onto his red T-shirt. It was the first thing he asked for when he woke up this morning, and he was so proud when he saw it, he almost glowed in the dark. One fault however, since his T-shirt had a front pocket, I sewed the apple on the back... and he hated the fact that he couldn't see it when he had the shirt on... As you can see from the picture, he wore it to school backwards. Oh, well. I was almost perfect.

Seriously, I wish I was more type A and organized. I love doing this kind of stuff, but my life is so scattered and chaotic, it is hard to find the time. If I was one of those super moms, I could pull all this shit together without it killing me... but as it is, I take the emotional hit and move on. I wish I could do more, but I feel pretty awesome for being able to do anything.

The Bub will start his summer programs in a few weeks... swimming, pre-reading... maybe music later in the summer. The back porch is basically done and primed for candlelight dinners mosquito-free. Tomorrow is the grand opening of the new farmer's market, though I seriously doubt we'll need it as the garden should be coming in right about..... now.... But first, we'll spent the morning Marching for Babies (though with the bad economy, we'll be coming in a full $1,500 under what we've brought in the last three years, ouch... sorry preemies.)... Currently, the Bub is still hooked on The Muppets (The Great Muppet Caper specifically), The Life of Birds (two hours just last night, insane) and The Little Rascals (yum yum eat 'um up)... and all things readable. The pool. Birthday parties. A trip to Maine. My birthday down at the coast. I can almost taste the salt air. Good times my friends. Let the summer begin!