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A Trip Halfway Across the Country - Part II (In No Particular Order)

2009-07-13T13:01:00.004-05:00

We took our 27' recreational vehicle across 8 states with 6 occupants in 4 days before arriving in Missouri. Two of the travellers were under 4 years of age; one was over 60; another was a dog. The Partner drove. I sat in the front passenger seat, alternately reading, sleeping, and watching corn stalks whizz by.

The Boss's oft-professed hatred of Interstates did not articulate itself on the journey, except for one or two "I do not care for highways" that she threw in more as statements of fact than of complaint. Number Two kicked up his heels in his bucket car seat and only resorted to cries upon becoming hungry, a condition quickly alleviated when my mother would rush to his side with gifts of crackers and cheese.

We drove for more than 9 hours a day on the way out. We'd stay each night at a different state park or, on one occasion, at the home of friends. Each day got later, with the sun and moon competing for evening domination. The moon won out, as it always does, but the brighter ball of light put up a more valiant fight than it ever did back home in the northeast.

The rhythm of asphalt under 15,000 pounds of automobile set the tone to our days. The Partner and I were discordant in the front seats during arguments that went largely unheard by those in the back. My mother read to the Boss, or read to herself, or looked out the window for 40 year old memories in the form of defunct Indiana Army bases.

We saw things we don't usually see, like porcupines in the median, and Sonic Drive-Ins, and a river called the Mississippi. Most of all we saw this huge part of the United States that is integral in a way we'd never understood as suburbanized citizens of Connecticut.

The ride was long and uneventful. We drove for 1600 miles on the roads that drive us.

A Trip Halfway Across the Country - Part I (In No Particular Order)

2009-07-08T14:23:00.007-05:00

The house sat on a lake in Kansas. Unlike Kansas, it was modern and glassy. Like Kansas, it sprawled. The place belonged to the daughter of my father's brother, and it was our first visit.

Uncle Sonny left Hartford for good in the 50s. He stopped in Topeka more than twenty years ago, setting up house in grand style. His daughter's place is grander still, built on the strength of her husband's endodontics practice in a town with lots of bad teeth and few practitioners with the two extra years of schooling necessary to root all those canals.

Not long after we arrived, my mother asked me if I'd seen the bathroom. "It has a window for a wall," she whispered. I raised an eyebrow at her. "A window," she repeated. "For a wall!"

Two Bud Light Lime's later, I saw it for myself. I closed the door behind me to find a toilet to my left, a sink like white art to my right, and an unobstructed view of the lake in front of me. The wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. A screen, which could be raised and lowered via a control panel next to the door, was in the descended position. I could see out, but nobody could see in. Not unless they really tried, anyway.

The grass rolled from patio to deck to beach. Two boats sat parallel on a slip. The Boss was a red, white and blue dart across it all. The Partner sat on an weather proof cushion under a tree as he pulled at a beer bottle while talking to the endodontist. I went about my business, more conscious than usual of my every shadowy move. I exited with my back to the door until the last moment, marveling.

After awhile, dusk fell. My northeastern nights are early; these were late and lazy. The sun was weightless in its last gold hold-off to night. The Partner suddenly nudged me from where we stood on the grass between the house and the lake. "Oh my God, I can see someone in the bathroom!"

I looked up one level and my eyes went buggy. The familiar stoop of shoulders like my father's, of a craggy face like Uncle Jack's, was centered in that clear square of glass. I looked away. "We've got to tell someone," I said, not waiting to lurch off toward the patio in search of my cousin, or the endodontist, or any of the family members in a position to do something (although I'm not sure what) about it.

Uncle Sonny is the oldest of my uncles. He's a sharp shooting joker with three children and a bevy of grands and greats. A year ago, or maybe two, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. There's medicine now to slow the progression, but his wife told me it's not working. The first night we arrived, he locked himself in his truck and couldn't get out. At a picnic on the fourth, he met an old acquaintance he no longer knew. My aunt says she can't get used to it, this evolution amidst the sameness of each new day.

"There's someone using the bathroom with the shade up!" I said to Andy, the first of my second cousins that I came upon.

"It's Uncle Sonny," The Partner added.

Andy turned back to the house and went in through the sliding doors. My duty done, I leaned against the deck railing. I thought of the shade's control panel right next to the light switch; I thought how the mistake could easily happen. I thought of the murkiness of the short-term against the clear view of a lake made to glisten by the tips of a fading sun. Below Uncle Sonny, his children and his brothers' children conversed, relaxed. Our own children played.

He looked over it all--caught inside that strange, contemporary enclosure of bodily functions--for all the world to see.

The Blue Glow

2009-06-17T11:10:00.012-05:00

Sometimes at night, the tinted screen of the computer makes a haze that is the only evidence an outsider can see of life within my window.

This is me when I'm reading your blog, or clicking on the "newlywed" bulletin board I continue to visit without knowing why, or Googling "recurrent high fever infants" to find some reasoning behind the fact that Number Two spikes a temperature of 104 if he so much as looks at a bacterium.

Sometimes the calendar on the wall is two weeks out of date; sometimes it's a month. Sometimes my answering machine blinks with a message that I've already heard, being that I was sitting right in front of it as the caller left a taped proclamation of her desire to speak with me. Sometimes my desk is messier. It's rarely neat.

The glow is more fascinating than the reality. It's the not knowing. It's the imagination of children as they drive by houses on a summer evening, looking in windows while the warm air pushes through their own cracked glass.

It's always bluer on the other side.

***

Thanks to Mrs. Chicken and Lauren for inspiring this post.

A Precursor to Another Father's Day

2009-06-15T11:57:00.005-05:00

I found The Partner's first Father's Day in an old blog of mine. It went like this:

Last night The Partner did the most amazing thing. He walked into the banshee's lair, placed his hand on her writhing back, and lulled her to sleep with his presence. The incredible part isn't that she calmed down so easily; it's that he reached out. The gesture was a year in the making. His hands-on approach toward swapping out car engines or turbo-charging lawnmowers never extended to the day-to-day maintenance of a baby. What he wanted from life was simple: cars, trucks, boats, cable television and pie. He thought a wife to hand him the torque wrench and laugh uproariously at his jokes would be quite nice, too. At 27, he was sure he had a few more good years of buying toys and watching Modern Marvels on the History Channel before Father's Day would be anything but a celebration of his own dad's role in his upbringing. At 28, he realized he was wrong. Much petulance ensued.

When I told him I was pregnant and he was unenthused, I pushed it to the back of my mind with the ever hopeful "he'll get excited when I start to show and it becomes more real to him." When I started to show, I figured he'd come around when he felt her kick from within. When her kick made him jerk his hand back with an incredulous "it's like a God damned alien in there," I was sure that her birth would be the moment of true acceptance. Unfortunately, I was unconscious for that and cannot make an identification either way. All I know is that I came to and there was nothing to indicate that the bond I was anticipating had been forged. Until yesterday. Until Father's Day.

The Partner was adamant that he didn't want any gifts. So I didn't get him any. But we had what turned out to be a nice visit to his parents' house and, on the drive down, I laughed a lot. He likes when I do that and I guess, yesterday, it was as good for him as it was for me. At his parents' home, we conversed and ate and ogled the happy baby. Our dog drank too much water and peed on their carpet. The ride home was companionably silent.

After I nursed The Boss and put her in her crib, she was too exhausted to sleep. The air was thick with humidity and with dust from the inaugural use of our big box fan. I laid on top of the sheets in my underwear while she cried it out. I heard my husband at the top of the stairs and saw the hall go black. I thought the creaking floorboards would lead him to our bedroom, but the doorway remained empty. Suddenly there was only the white hot noise of the fan. Several minutes later he padded into bed. He set the alarm for 7:30 a.m.

"How'd you get her to do that?" I asked the ceiling as he laid on his back beside me.

"I just put my hand on her back till she fell asleep."

"Oh." A breeze that wasn't light or heavy rustled through the curtains. I thought, this is why I love the beginning of summer. Things you have been waiting for so long finally start to happen.

Inscrutable

2009-06-09T08:47:00.007-05:00

I don't know Number Two.

I know he likes balloons and baths. I know he's calm most of the time, except for when he's tired, or when I return from somewhere else and he suddenly realizes I was gone. Then his upper lip starts to quiver over a straight bottom one, and his eyes wrinkle a bit as tears wait for just one more crease to push them over the edge.

But in this one whole year, I don't yet know him.

His time is his alone. My time is for feeding and changing him; for meeting every ramped up demand of his big sister; for housework and homework. He plays by my side, or crawls fast around the first floor in time with the rhythms of our life. His moves don't elicit the attention that The Boss's every one earned the first time around. I don't force myself into his head the way I did with his sister. There are too many heads now. There is too much going on to figure it all out. He's happy to avoid analysis. He's content with a tickle and a big laugh.

When The Boss was one, I did not understand the shortness of twelve months. So I had to know her right away. I made it my business. Now I know a year is a blink--the kind of blink, like Number Two's, that finally makes the tears spill over--and that it doesn't have to hold all the answers.

I will know him soon enough. I'll know him well enough. Then, and for a short time, I'll know him better than anybody.

100 Things About Me - Part IV

2009-06-08T13:48:00.004-05:00

76. After some job changes, and in yet another example of the efficacy of a liberal arts degree, I worked in a factory bending metal for several months during 2002.
77. The Partner asked my father for permission to marry me in a clandestine driveway encounter at my parents’ house while I sat oblivious in the living room.
78. My father told my mother, who promptly told me.
79. I get angry just thinking about it.
80. The proposal, slightly less of a surprise than intended, came on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, which was the site of one of our earliest and most romantic dates.
81. The Partner-to-be and I bought a house in sin.
82. There was a mechanical bull at our wedding reception.
83. The latter part of our European honeymoon was spent with my in-laws.
84. When I got pregnant three months later, we waited till the end of the first trimester to tell anyone, including my parents.
85. My mother expressed outrage at not being trusted with the secret.
86. The Boss’s birth was a medical clusterfuck, if you’ll pardon the expression. Proper English simply does not convey my meaning.
87. The Boss was such a good baby.
88. If only my hormones were as cooperative.
89. I am a stay-at-home mom in name only. The Boss and I prefer to go out.
90. I put 30,000 miles on the car that first year.
91. I love Cadillacs.
92. It wasn’t until I became a mother that really became myself.
93. I completed my first book project when The Boss was a year old.
94. When she was two, we moved to the home in which we hope to raise our family.
95. She did not take kindly to the news that she was to become a big sister.
96. The Boss sensed imminent labor before I did. Hours before my first contraction hit, she let out a shriek. “It’s not fun being bigger and older!” She threw herself face-down onto our bed. “It’s not fun!” She threw herself back. The Partner and I reached out to her in our last huddle as a family of three.
97. I gave birth to Number Two after fifteen drug-free hours, thanks to The Partner and our Fairy Goddoula.
98. My son’s first year was a blur.
99. I don’t expect that view to change.
100. I save moments in writing because my clarity comes from words.

All Rabbits Go to Heaven

2009-06-04T18:03:00.004-05:00

Roxie was out of food. The Boss and I walked into the local dispensary of Wellness dog chow to stock back up. The store was filled with agricultural sundries as well as an array of gifts displayed around horse, American Flag, and lighthouse themes. Upon entrance, we were met by a collection of fowl pecking out at us from a multi-level enclosure.

The Boss watched for a few seconds, jumping back as one of the stringy chicks threatened to gouge out part of her anatomy. Then she submitted an interesting tidbit for discussion. "One of the animals in our class died. Fluffy died."

"Oh. Oh!" The sudden arrival of this moment, amidst caged turkeys at the feed store, caught me off guard. I knew it was important; I knew I should speak. But I've never been good under pressure. It's been accomplishment enough when I don't begin to flap my arms and hop around on one foot during a crisis situation.

"It's okay," The Boss told me. She was somber but sure. "Miss Kathy buried her."

"Oh. Oh!" I felt choked up by the loss of the white rabbit that had been a part of The Boss's daily life during her first year at school. I needed to say something to comfort her. The lack of words, coupled with my fierce desire to speak anyway, caused me to stutter a few times on "I."

The Boss stopped me. "It's okay," she repeated, more adamantly this time. Then she shrugged. Her arms were out at her sides, palms up, as if holding necessary weight atop each hand.

She thought for a minute, searching, like me, for words of comfort. I couldn't believe it. My daughter was trying to soothe us both.

"Fluffy is safe," The Boss said, finally. Her shoulders lifted again. "It's okay."

Note: Looking for the final installment of 100 Things About Me? Well, I guess it's not the first time I left you hanging. Numbers 76-100 will be posted shortly.

100 Things About Me - Part III

2009-06-02T10:05:00.008-05:00

51. I expected to share my first college dorm room with another student, but I sent in my registration form too late and was put in a single on the hall of misfit frosh.
52. I wore a sterling silver crucifix around my neck the day my parents dropped me off in Virginia. I’ve been told I struck my hallmates as quiet and demure, but that was mostly because my mother did all the talking.
53. I secured a date with a cadet from the Virginia Military Institute on my second day at school.
54. There was a Lost Boys poster on my wall and a bottle of Jim Beam on my dresser.
55. My closest friends that year were from southwest Virginia, upstate New York, and Maine. Only one remains in touch.
56. I met my future husband via the Member Directory search function of America On-Line during the fall of my sophomore year. I was supposed to be studying for mid-terms. Sending random Instant Messages to remote frat boys proved more productive.
57. We met in person the following spring. Up until that point, I hadn’t even seen a photo of him, though he’d seen mine. It didn’t matter. I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed.
58. I wasn’t.
59. We dated casually for the next two years.
60. My next batch of close college friends were keepers. We’re the same way—each of us as crazy as the other, each as crazy as we ever were—to this day.
61. My college summers revolved around the 3-11 p.m. shift at the snack shack where I’d been employed since high school.
62. After work, I'd go home to my parent's place and put on jogging clothes to run four dark miles.
63. Each jogging session was accompanied by the mixed tape made by my one remaining freshman friend. I remember the songs to this day: Shelter From the Storm by Dylan, Wannabe by the Spice Girls, Fast Car by Tracy Chapman, Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac.
64. Then I'd come home, eat a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats, and chat online with The Partner-to-be until 4 in the morning.
65. While maintaining one casual, long distance relationship, I started dating a VMI cadet back at college.
66. At the end of our junior year, we traveled cross country to his home in Washington. His truck had a manual transmission which I learned to operate respectably, if not well.
67. His mother drank a nightly Manhattan on the patio beneath a sun that set so slowly it seemed to brighten midnight.
68. When the cadet finally decided I needed to choose between him and The Partner, it was a no-brainer.
69. I think I miss his mother the most.
70. It wasn’t until the morning of graduation that I learned I had not earned the concentration in creative writing I anticipated in conjunction with my English Literature major. I was one class short. Luckily, my second degree in Communication Studies remained unscathed.
71. My graduation gift from The Partner was a smaller, personalized version of the monogrammed ID bracelet he wore every day.
72. When my first job as a certified professional landed me near The Partner’s hometown, I told everyone that I wasn’t following him. It was partly true, inasmuch as he wasn’t living there at the time--he was finishing up college in New York. Still, I had reason to hope he’d move back.
73. He didn’t.
74. He first told me loved me in a drunken stupor on his 22nd birthday, right before he pulled down my pants in a forced moon on the overtime cop working the bar across the street.
75. I arrived early at work one remarkably blue-skied morning. It was the last time I’d have no context for the statement I overheard on the other side of my cube: “A plane flew into the World Trade Center.” What? My eyebrows crunched in confusion; my fingers tapped CNN.com into existence on the screen of my Mac. What?

100 Things About Me - Part II

2009-05-29T14:03:00.003-05:00

26. My brother had the kind of temper that would make a huge vein pop out on his forehead.
27. I was afraid of that vein.
28. My fourth grade teacher was a recent divorcee. One day she told us about her wedding dress and what a colossal pain in the ass it was to put on. She described hundreds of buttons all along the back that took her bridesmaid an hour to secure.
29. I won grand prize at the town-wide Fine Arts Fair, circa 1989, for my book titled “Witchimina Fafner and the Popularity Elixir.”
30. In junior high, I would wear sneakers on gym day no matter what else I had on. It was not unusual to see me in a sweater, a suede skirt, nylons and white Reeboks.
31. I ran for eighth grade class president on the “Don’t Clown Around, Vote for Binky” ticket.
32. I lost.
33. I hated junior high.
34. My sister was born when I was thirteen years old.
35. As a pre-teen, I became infatuated with the movie Young Guns and the series Young Riders. I wrapped a sheet of blue construction paper around a coffee tin, cut a slot in the cover, and christened it my “Wild West Fund.” I called the 1-800 number advertised on television for a free Texas travel guide. I never saved up.
36. Subsequent infatuations included the Italian mafia, racecar drivers, and the men of the United States military.
37. The best teacher I ever had was my ninth grade civics teacher. He took a group of us to Yale to see Norman Mailer speak and another group of us to visit the Vietnam Memorial in Washington D.C. He gave me a copy of Armies of the Night; Ben Bradlee’s autobiography; and a written recommendation that my college interviewer said she would never forget.
38. The worst teacher I ever had taught Shakespeare as an elective. His was more of a core curriculum mentality. On the second occasion that I forgot to bring my big, honking anthology to class, he took me out into the hall and berated me for several minutes. He had closed the classroom door; it shook from the screaming.
39. There were days when the only person who would sit at my table during lunch was the learning disabled boy who bagged groceries for me at the supermarket where I worked as a cashier.
40. I hated high school.
41. I was a member of the creative writing club and editor of the literary magazine.
42. One day, just before I turned seventeen, it occurred to me that there was nothing stopping me from having sex.
43. So I did.
44. It was a marvelous epiphany.
45. I started looking for colleges based on two criteria: distance from home and the quality of the creative writing program.
46. When I found the school that fit the bill perfectly, I was not deterred by the fact that it was an all women’s college.
47. I figured I could do without the day-to-day distraction of men.
48. I did, however, make sure there was ample supply nearby.
49. My early decision application was accepted.
50. I got a D in English on my final high school report card.

100 Things About Me - Part I

2009-05-28T11:38:00.003-05:00

1. I am a New Englander born and raised; I used to think that stoicism lacks story, but now I know it’s just a different way of telling.
2. There’s addiction in my blood.
3. I was an only child for my formative years. Though I have a brother and a sister, as well as a half-brother and half-sister, mine is more of a sole child psychology.
4. I remember very little from those years, except for:
5. The time we stayed in a cottage on the Sacandaga and bats flew in my bedroom;
6. Dad’s weeks-long stay at that place in New Hampshire, which I visited wearing my corduroy coat with the faux fur trim;
7. The smell of Marlboro hands;
8. And throwing up once at daycare.
9. My parents were cops.
10. They dated only a few months before they married.
11. They were married a year and a half before they had me.
12. I was conceived after the wedding of a good friend of my father. Mom brings up this fact whenever the couple’s anniversary is mentioned, which, thankfully, is not often.
13. Mom is similarly free in divulging the fact that I was a conehead at birth. Personally, I don’t see why she has to draw such attention to her vaginal canal.
14. My first bedroom was wallpapered with pale blue partridges.
15. I hated naptime.
16. I remember reading my first word. It was S-T-O-P on a sign near the supermarket. I was in the back of my father’s small pickup, sitting on the wheel well under the cap. One could travel like that back then.
17. Each of my grandparents died when I was small. Well, not my mother’s father, but we were estranged from him, so it was all the same to me.
18. I had four uncles on my father’s side and three on my mom’s.
19. I was six years old when my brother was born.
20. We moved to a house with a pool when I was seven.
21. I have a summer birthday.
22. Uncle Bob was the lifeguard at each year's pool party.
23. I always wanted an ice cream cake, but I seldom got one.
24. My mom once gave me a horrible home perm. Combined with my Coke bottle eyeglasses and that fact that they were consistently focused on a book, it is no surprise I was the biggest nerd in town.
25. In third grade, I was the teacher’s pet.

A Spring Landscape

2009-05-01T09:21:00.004-05:00

There’s no rain now, but the fog is thin everywhere. It mutes the foliage just starting to show. The green is more startling at ground level, where a lawnmower could stand to chug if the rusting heap weren’t still parked next to the shed, enmeshed in a pile of detritus from last year’s fall.

On the tree where pears will grow, there are white blooms in leaf jackets. The evergreens nearby haven’t changed. The bee baum looks coarse in all this wetness; when the sun shines again I will clip the stalks low to make room for new growth that will become a base for humming birds and for the fuzzy flying buzz that lends the plant its name.

Up high, it could still be winter. If there are buds there, then they are no brighter than the gray. Bony knuckles clench in a wave; if it’s “hi” or “bye,” I don’t know. I can’t hear above the wind, but I can see them clearly, the vapor accentuating their witchy plainness: fat for stalks but thin for trees, bending high but unmoving where bark meets root.

It’s steel in the sky, a woody mold just below, and then, at my feet, so much lushness where the slush used to be.

Green rises like heat. Soon it will eat the trees. It will mix with the sun to turn the sky blue.

Smoke Through a Keyhole

2009-03-30T10:47:00.008-05:00

The Partner was home all day with no big plans to fix all that was failing around him. We ate breakfast first, which he cleared as I nursed Number Two. Then the baby napped. The Partner and The Boss played a board game. I shut the door on them all and ran a bath.

Later we watched home movies of The Boss when she was the age Number Two is now. I had no recollection. Was she really ever so tiny? I looked down to where she sat, nestled in my arm on the love seat, and I found it hard to see her as anything other than what she was at that very moment. The past, though vivid on the screen, was faded; the future, a blur. I patted the solid bend of her leg next to mine.

Then we were diverted to a flea market, where we bought a camping chair for $2. At home again, I cleaned up breakfast pans I'd left sitting. The Partner kissed my neck from behind me. The Boss watched a movie. Number Two played in a pen of primary colors.

The Boss's bath came before dinner. I lined up foam letters in short word formation on the wall of the tub. I held my breath as The Boss sounded out the first one.

"Puh-ah-duh. P-a-d. Pad!"

I screamed and clapped. I ran to get the Partner, who wore mechanics' overalls as he worked under my car in the garage. He followed me up the stairs to the bathroom.

"You've got to see this." I arranged three more letters in front of The Boss, who was splashing slap-happy as the center of attention. "She can read! She can really read!"

She studied the word. "Buh..."

The Partner and I stared down, nodding her on. My eyebrows were high in my forehead. I still wasn't breathing. "Yes?" I sucked in air, prodding.

"Buh...ah...guh. B-a-g. Bag!" The Boss fell forward like a seal, splashing water over the side of the tub, sending the letters sailing away. We were all spastic.

At the end of the night, after the dishwasher had been loaded and the kids' beds filled, The Partner and I sat down to a movie. I don't like to be sad on purpose, but I suggested The Bucket List anyway, thinking that an uplift would prevail. And it did. We've never been immune to schmaltz. Toward the end I cried so hard that my face hurt where the tears clogged my sinuses.

"It was the little girl that got me," The Partner said. She was the new found granddaughter Jack Nicholson kissed on the cheek; she was the most beautiful girl in the world. "I can't see a little blond and not think of our own adorable kid." His eyes were puffy. He sighed beneath the weight of pride. That breath propelled him into the star-struck addendum that follows almost any mention of The Boss: "She's the best." It takes a little more air away each time. "The best."

You won't hear me deny it. I've said it right here. We'll never be immune to schmaltz.

The Boss Needs a New Pair of Shoes

2009-03-26T16:32:00.005-05:00

The Boss has been down to one pair of shoes--snow boots, actually--for more than a month. Since the freezing New England temperatures hadn't done anything to contraindicate the use of fur-lined vinyl over plastic soles, I was not motivated to purchase alternate footwear when I first realized she had outgrown every other pair of shoes she owned.

Things changed yesterday. It was at the track behind the elementary school that she found herself left in the dust (let's be honest here--it was mud; I mean, the boots weren't totally unjustified) when the two boys she was playing with took off running. She couldn't keep up. She could only clomp. Then she could only slump. Then she could only sit there, kicking a sad sole into the dirt as her hair hung in front of her face.

My girl knows how to hang with the big boys. What stopped her from matching their stride this time was my bad planning and my inability to accept the ferocious pace at which young feet bust out of whatever tries to hold them in. I got down on the ground beside her and promised I'd take her for new sneakers as soon as possible.

Soon was today; possible was the mall. She found princess sneakers with lights that flashed in the rubber with each footfall. They were on clearance. I bought them. She insisted on holding the bag. We were on our way to the elevator when she saw a mannequin sporting bright pajamas on a pedestal ahead. "Look mom!" She shouted. "Look at that role model!"

She was running in front of me, the plastic sack smacking her thigh as her still-booted feet threatened to trip her up. She was enchanted by the smooth facelessness of the dummy. I half-grinned at her malapropism and half-cringed at her gait.

One thing was certain: if she fell flat on her face, it would be MY fault, not that of the role model she was looking up to.

Not Just a Spoke in My Menstrual Cycle

2009-03-24T10:41:00.006-05:00

The second half of any given 28-day span will find me with the hormonal urge to do nothing but watch HGTV and read crime fiction. I am more content to think than do. I don't plan ahead and I don't create. I'm a slave to the whims of estrogen.

I envy men their even keel. My husband's brain chemistry is simple and safe. In my head, on the other hand, it feels as if a middle school student with poor grades is conducting a never ending science experiment. It's all Bunsen burners and volatile solutions and things that go BOOM.

I'm menstrually manic. I fly high for the first half of the month; I creep below the radar for the second. More than childbirth or having to pee sitting down, it's these moods that make me wax bitter about being a women.

If I didn't have a history of breast cancer in the family, I'd pop a pill to regulate those hormones faster than you could say YAZ®. Instead, I let nature take its course.

Picture Day

2009-03-19T10:40:00.003-05:00

I bent into low balance on the balls of my feet as I hugged The Boss. "Have a great day," I said to the space between ear and cheek, then I kissed her there for good measure. "Don't forget to give your school picture form to your teacher."

Even as I gave that parting message, I wasn't much concerned about my daughter's follow-through. Maybe she'd remember, maybe she wouldn't. She's three years old. Things have a way of working out whether one makes a formal declaration as to the presence of a $22 check in one's backpack or not.

The Boss turned away from me and walked toward the end of the hall, where her head teacher waited in greeting. Per classroom custom, The Boss extended her hand and the teacher shook it.

"Wait, I have something for you," The Boss said, bending with purpose over her kangaroo backback and pulling a folded sheet of paper from the pouch. Her confidence belied her age as she handed the paper to the teacher.

"Thank you," said Miss Kathy.

"Thanks!" chirped The Boss.

I had been watching the exchange from the foyer door. That girl in the quilted botton-down coat made me marvel. There seemed to be nothing of me in her--not the forgetfulness, not the social distance, not the awkward manners. Her teacher smiled down at her and then looked over at me with a wink of amusement at The Boss's grace and courtesy.

I acknowledged Miss Kathy with a shake of my head. In the smile and the sigh, I meant to say I don't know where she gets it, and, in the incredulity, she is a person all her own.

These Precious Moments

2009-03-16T10:16:00.012-05:00

It was Wacky Hat Friday at the Catholic school in which I was a kindergartener. I wore a party hat--the cone-shaped kind with the annoying elastic digging into my chin--that my mother had covered with orange felt and decorated with construction paper dots. Bobbling atop the hat was a star on a coil. The class lurched into the auditorium for an assembly that I can only imagine was the culmination of yet another fundraiser.

A raffle was taking place onstage. I remember nothing of the offerings except for two Precious Moments baby dolls. They had blond hair and huge eyes. They were huggable-soft. I held my raffle ticket in a hand that shook to the beat of my thumping heart. At five years old, I'd never wanted anything so badly.

I didn't win, of course. The difference between then and now is that I actually thought I would. I probably cried. I'm sure I was sad all day. It is what I remember as my first disappointment.

Now I have a three year old daughter and a real-life baby doll of my very own. And suddenly, in the memory of twenty-five years, I realize that the gratification I sought in those Jesus Loves Me dolls wasn't denied but delayed. That blond hair, those big eyes and the huggable-softness of a gurgling core.

I can't believe it. I finally won something.

Photo by Lauren

A Bright Spot in Children's Night Lights: Sylvania PalPODzzz

2009-03-12T07:22:00.018-05:00

There are some things a night light can do, and some things it just might. The list for The Boss's new Sylvania PalPODzzz™ Portable Nightlight looks something like this:

CAN DO:

Light a dark room with a soft LED glow when the ladybug is docked on its pod. It automatically brightens as the room darkens.

Illuminate a path with a rechargeable LED flashlight beam when the ladybug is removed from its pod.

Act as a backup light during power outages.

Look really cute while it's performing the above functions (note: the photo does not do it justice).

Ladybug model

JUST MIGHT:

Help you potty train your child through the night. I had high hopes that the novelty of the fun little ladybug flashlight would lure The Boss out of the comfort of her bed and onto the potty, but it didn't happen. It turns out, however, that there is a rational basis to my wishful thinking , and it's been supported by Surrender Dorothy's experience. The PalPODzzz just may work as a night-training aid for your child, too.

Rocket ship model

Enter to win! The Parent Bloggers Network is hosting a blog blast! Write a post on your blog about your kids’ excuses for getting out of bedtime, and win a gift pack of super Sylvania products valued at $200! Visit the Parent Bloggers Network for more details.

My Muse Macabre

2009-03-11T09:08:00.007-05:00

Rob Zombie's House of 1000 Corpses came on the cable screen the night my then-soon-to-be husband celebrated his bachelor party in Montreal. I was home alone, a fat goblet of wine threatening to overflow onto the coffee table in front of me as I chain smoked out the window with clandestine vigor. The fingers of my lift hand released their weak grip on the remote control and it fell to my side. I watched the whole horror show.

Triumph of Death c. 1562 by Pieter Bruegel the Elder

I have a confused fascination with the macabre. Sometimes I can't look away and sometimes I can't look. There's a canvas print of the Triumph of Death hanging on my living room wall; I asked for and received part of Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights for Christmas. The final painting in the room is a thrift shop find of a statue coming to life as decapitated heads watch with eyes and maws agape. I'm not sure most people notice. I know I generally don't.

I want to write a novel that is gothic and contemporary. Place is character. A house, maybe, where people have no choice but to notice the freaky paintings on the wall.

I can get there if I stop looking away.

Two Days in the Life

2009-03-05T11:18:00.004-05:00

Yesterday I left wet laundry in the washing machine. Today the whole load smells like a SweeTart.

Yesterday I agreed to be a speaker at a meeting about emotional support for birthing mothers. Today I tell myself I'll come up with my talking points tomorrow.

Yesterday I sat in our green, micro suede love seat while I fed Number Two. I looked down at him between pages of the book I was reading and thought "I need to just watch him, I need to slow down." He slurped a contented tempo. Today I sit in the same love seat, falling into a pillow, still trying to match his pace.

Yesterday I found a stash of saved emails and a journal from my college days. The Partner spent two hours reading through my angst, which was all about him. He thought it was funny and sweet. Today is just like yesterday; it's nothing like ten years ago.

Times are Tough

2009-03-02T15:24:00.006-05:00

Today I interviewed The Boss about her perceptions of me in the hope of eliciting some blog fodder. It worked for Toyfoto when she turned her reporter's notebook on her daughter, Annabel.

I did not have similar success.

The long list of questions included ones like this, "what do you do that makes your mom happy?" (her answer: not doing something bad) and this, "what do you do that makes your mom sad?" (her answer: doing something bad).

I almost threw in the towel completely when she cited "vegetables" as my favorite food. The exercise was shaping up to be a bust.

I didn't know that The Partner was listening from his home workstation in the corner of the kitchen until question #13 came up.

"What's your mom's job?" I asked The Boss.

"Cleaning the house," she replied.

I made a self-conscious little tee-hee at my daughter's gross misperception as the background click of the computer keyboard ceased beneath The Partner's fingers. There was glee in the gloat that emanated from the other room:

"You're fired!"

Ah, Youth: Eluding and Deluding Me

2009-02-27T12:33:00.005-05:00

The Boss notices everything. She remembers it all. I wish I had those qualities. She's three years old and I'm already jealous of her gifts.

"She's going to be the famous writer I've always wanted to be and I'm not going to be able to handle it," I told The Partner over dinner.

As usual, he refused to indulge me. "Don't worry. She might turn out to be a scientist." He looked over at the continent map she'd traced and colored at school that day. "Or a geographer."

"Maybe," I murmured. I slowly warmed up the idea. Then The Boss made another witty observation from across the table and even as I choked on laughter, my confidence cooled. I sighed. The Boss returned her attention to chasing rollaway peas around her plate with a spoon. "She's so much smarter than I ever was," I said.

The Partner was patient in his explanation of the circle of life. "At the stage she's at, it's her job to absorb things. It's all she does. She's supposed to notice the flowers. She's supposed to remember the colors. At the stage we're at, it's our job to filter out the noise." He looked me in the eyes, his own gaze narrowing as he went from theoretical to practical. "You? You can't afford to be distracted by the pretty flowers on the side of the road while you're driving."

I offered up the quick snort of acknowledgement he was looking for, then tossed his jibe aside. "But I can train myself. I can go back to her stage, to that frame of mind. It'll make me a better writer. I can be more observant and I can make myself remember things." I became increasingly impassioned with each passing phrase.

The Partner nodded. He's always been my biggest supporter. "Just not while you're driving," he said.

***

We have a winner! Liz Barlow, the woman who has only ever won a fanny pack, was randomly selected as the recipient of a MilkBank Breastmilk Storage System courtesy of Parent Bloggers Network. Congrats, Liz! Please email me with your contact information via the link in the upper right corner of this page so that I can get your prize right out to you. Thanks for playing.

Like Father, Like Son...Maybe

2009-02-26T12:28:00.007-05:00

I understand that children are designed to look like their fathers at birth so that the male's desire to flee is kept in check by his ego. Women as a whole do not need additional incentives to stick by their babies; men, on the other hand, lack nine months of shared biology tying them to their offspring. They look for themselves in the newness. They see the resemblence and think, "yeah, I guess he is mine."

There's no doubt that Number Two as a newborn looked uncannily like The Partner. And what do you know? Ten months in, The Partner is still here.

Now that the bond has been set and the child is biologically free to grow into his own person, I wonder how he will look? Am I deluding myself to think that there just might be a little of me in him after all? Recent findings support my theory. Just the other day a friend's mother told me that my son is so much cuter than he was as a newborn.

But you be the judge. Here I am, splish-splashing wild and free at 7.5 months:

And here is Number two at the same age:

I think the eyes have it.

___

It's a Contest! Win Here and Take Your Milk to the Bank!

2009-02-24T08:54:00.008-05:00

My mother-in-law still has nightmares about the time The Partner and I absconded to a Bed and Breakfast in New Paltz, leaving our son with her for the long weekend. Everything was hunky dory until the second night, when a vomit-storm was the sight that greeted her as she walked into the guest bedroom to find out what was bothering her screaming grandson.

It's six months later and she can't let it go. "Oh la la," she says (seriously, I'm not stereotyping) in a French accent that belies almost 40 years on US soil. "My poor bebe. I think of him like that, all covered in..." she trails off, unable to articulate the horror. "Oh, my poor bebe."

I can't be sure, but I've since wondered if expressed-breastmilk-gone-bad might have been the culprit. From breast to freezer to refrigerator, and from baggie to bottle, there are many chances in the milk storage process for things to go awry. Maybe I'm just indulging in the international maternal pastime of blaming oneself for every harm that befalls one's child, but it stands to reason that there are a lot of leaks in the system.

Then Parent Bloggers Network sent me this product to try out: The MilkBank Breastmilk Storage System. It takes the leaks out of breastmilk storage/feeding with a vacuum that pumps excess oxygen from the storage bottle, creating an airtight seal.

Perhaps the use of exclamation points here will best convey my excitement about these facts that I really feel people need to know:

The vacuum pump keeps more nutrients in your milk!

Milk stored in the MilkBank system will stay fresh longer than milk stored in other bottles or baggies--longer than six months!

MilkBank bottles and storage containers will not leak your precious supply all over the diaper bag!

The Fully-Vented bottle system allows feeding bottles to double as a milk storage system, thus minimizing the milk/nutrient loss associated with transferring milk from storage bottles/bags! (Did you know that the majority of nutrients in breastmilk reside in the lipids (or fats), and fats tend to stick to the sides of containers? Thus, the more often milk is transferred, the more nutrients are lost)

MilkBank is BPA, pthalate, and PVC-free!

MilkBank is not, I repeat, NOT made in China!

MilkBank is not just for pumping moms. The bottles are great for formula as well, having been designed to insulate the milk (studies show that keeping it warm improves nutrient ingestion) and to keep it from leaking. MilkBank Triple-Vented bottles help bubbles bypass the milk, therefore reducing colic, and making feeding easier for baby.

You can check out the MilkBank product line at its Web site or head out to Babies R Us to look it over in person.

But before you do that, take a minute to win your very own MilkBank Storage System right here! That's a value of $29.99, folks. Just leave a comment below by Friday (Feb. 27) at noon, and I will pick one winner at random. Be sure to check back later that day to see if you've won.

***

We have a winner! Liz Barlow, the woman who has only ever won a fanny pack, was randomly selected as the recipient of a MilkBank Breastmilk Storage System courtesy of Parent Bloggers Network. Congrats, Liz! Please email me with your contact information via the link in the upper right corner of this page so that I can get your prize right out to you. Thanks for playing.

In the Wilds of Fairfield County

2009-02-23T09:37:00.006-05:00

The helicopters were swarming overhead as we drank champagne and ate cake in celebration of my mother-in-law's 69th birthday last week.

"That's not normal," I said, peering out the bay window to see the lights of the helicopters flickering between the knuckled limbs of so many North Stamford trees. "We should turn on the news to find out what's going on."

My mother-in-law pressed the Bose system into action. 1010 WINS came on, a strange mix of high quality stereo mixed with antiquated terrestrial radio signals. Somewhere between the weather report and the commercials, we lost interest and began to drift in separate directions to other rooms of the house.

"The Merritt's closed in Norwalk because of an accident," my mother-in-law called out. We all nodded. The Partner went to check the details on the Internet so that we could plan an alternate route home. I wandered back into the kitchen, puzzling over the fact that five choppers were circling backyard because of an accident 15 miles down the highway.

I stood at the window. I watched the lights. I heard the hover. Then, out of the corner of my ear, the radio announcer barked out the story that came to me only in keywords. "Stabbed. Chimpanzee. Rock Rimmon Road."

"That's it!" I shouted. "A chimp was stabbed on Rock Rimmon Road!" My mother-in-law didn't even look up from the recipe for cabbage and apples she was writing down for me. In that moment, based on two keywords and the name of a street one block over, it was hard to understand why all those helicopters were hell bent on bringing the story of a bloody chimpanzee to the nation.

I know now, and every time I hear the latest information leaking out from the press, I feel a tightness in my chest that makes it just a bit harder to breathe. One of the goriest scenes ever to breach the wooded canopy of Fairfield County privilege played out as I clinked glasses with my husband's family on a lazy President's Day.

Stories that hit close to home hit harder. It's not that they're worse or sadder or more deserving of reflection than other catastrophes; it's that they're easier to relate to. It's the path of proximity: there but for the grace of God go I. A widow whose daughter was killed in a car accident raises her chimpanzee like a son. She sleeps in the same bed with him; he surfs the Internet; he once took a downtown joyride. The details are a stretch, but the results of the chimp's final rampage bring out a common, primal fear. A friend of the widow is torn apart by the chimp. Face, hands. The terror in the backyard is a reminder of unknown perils at home.

I saw the helicopter lights shine down on truths that had been so well hidden beneath the landscaped forests in which my husband was raised. No matter where you go, how much you make, or with whom you surround yourself, the facts are the same: people can be crazy, animals are wild, and tragedy so often begets the same.

Whose Fault Is It, Anyway?

2009-02-18T13:50:00.007-05:00

It might've been spilled milk, or the fact that that dinner got cold while we were waiting for The Partner to finish a conference call, or maybe that someone ganked the last of the banana bread. The cause doesn't matter as much as the admission.

"It's all my fault," The Partner said, throwing up his hands in martyrdom. "It's always my fault."

The Boss looked over at me. "It's his fault," she confirmed. "Not ours."

I laughed. I had to. But the chuckle lost depth as I thought of growing up in a house where my mother would drop a glass in the kitchen and immediately blame the wreckage on someone else, even if the nearest person was minding her own business upstairs in my bedroom, reading Judy Blume through spectacles as thick as magnifying glasses.

"It's nobody's fault." I spoke more for The Boss's benefit than to validate The Partner's histrionics. "We don't need to blame anyone."

The Boss's eyes were wide with knowledge that belied her three uneventful years. She looked from me to her father before settling back on me. Her voice was a blend of confidence and whisper. It was as if she didn't want to burden me too heavily with the truth. "But sometimes people have fault."

I gasped out a smile the way I do so often when I can't believe the words that have just come out of The Boss's mouth. I never expect the perspective, the grace, the matter-of-fact observations that elude many a person ten times her age.

So I conceded. How could I not? I marveled at our daughter with a headshake and a shrug, then I dismissed the issue from the table, sure that we'd be able to discuss it in more detail for the rest of our lives. "You're right. Sometimes people do have fault. You're absolutely right."