Missives From Suburbia

Twelve

2009-12-10T11:47:00.000-06:00

Sweet girl,

A dozen short and very fast months ago, you illuminated a corner of my heart that I wasn't aware existed. That light, combined with the ones your father and brother brought me, has given me a greater capacity for love than I could have conceived before you all arrived in my life. Each day, my heart thuds with a bottomless, aching joy; a vast, unspeakable fear; and a ferocious passion. All for three people. Three people who could replace the oxygen in my lungs should it ever be necessary.

In the past twelve months, I have done my very best to begin to build for you a foundation of love and security that I hope will carry you through the times when the world does not show you kindness. I can't be there for every bruise and heartache, and it hurts me to contemplate the hard lessons you will surely learn as you grow up. But you are never, ever alone. I am with you every day, as certain as your own breathe and as true as your own heartbeat.

I have but one wish for you on this very special birthday, my darling girl: everything. I wish everything for you. Every happiness. Every success. Every bit of knowledge and power. Everything your heart needs. Every thing, big and little. I wish to give you everything, dressed up in a big bow, handed over on a silver platter, and blessed with a big, slopping kiss, just as you have given it to me.

Happy birthday, baby.

Love,

Momma

I'm Doing Your Holiday Shopping for You! (Hint: FREE STUFF)

2009-12-09T15:24:00.009-06:00

That's right I said I'm doing your holiday shopping for you. In one fell swoop, I'm going to take care of two book lovers on your shopping list and as an added bonus, I'm throwing in a little holiday breakfast, too. (Expensive thank-you gifts can be mailed directly to my house.)

Access to books is essential to reading development. However, did you know that over 80 percent of childcare centers serving low-income children lack age-appropriate books? And a recent study shows that the ratio of books per child in middle income neighborhoods is 13 to 1, while in low-income neighborhoods, the ratio is 1 age-appropriate book for every 300 children.

The generous folks from the Cheerios family of cereals, Blog Spark, First Book, and Jon Scieszka, author of the popular Trucktown series and other children's books, have joined together to deliver 100,000 books to community-based programs serving children in need. They'd love your help. All you have to do is go online with your child and test your knowledge of children's books by answering trivia questions related to Trucktown and other popular children's books.

For every trivia question you answer correctly, you get to cast one vote for the state you would like to receive books. The five states receiving the most votes will get 20,000 books each, for a total of 100,000 books. Visit http://www.FirstBook.org/Scieszka to test your knowledge and start voting.

After that, come back, post a comment and tell me how many questions you answered correctly and what state you voted for. I'll enter you to win my giveaway, which includes a $25 gift card for Barnes and Noble, five popular children's books, and a big ol' box of Cheerios (could be Honey Nut, could be Frosted... you never know!)

Don't sweat it if you don't have a kid. Go test your own knowledge and report back. I promise it's not as hard as it sounds. (Plus, they repeat some of the questions, so if you get it wrong the first time, you can get it right the next time. Shhh... that's our little secret. No, I did not cheat in school. Much.)

Hurry! My giveaway ends a week from today. That's next Wednesday, the 16th at 9am. So test, test, test, vote, vote, vote, and comment, comment, comment!

P.S. If you retweet my giveaway on Twitter or FB, let me know, and I'll throw your name in the hat again and give you an extra shot at winning.

Christmas Ornaments 2009

2009-12-07T22:27:00.004-06:00

Every year, we buy a new ornament for our tree. Sometimes we find something when we're on a trip, and other times, we find something symbolic of a big event. Because Weebo was still tiny during our normal travel season (late-winter), we didn't have any big trips this year, so as we decorated the tree tonight, Hubby and I tossed around ideas about what our big moments were this year...

ME: We saw the space shuttle launch, and we took the kids to Disney World and Disneyland.

HUBBY: Yeah. Umm...

ME: The Ambassador started school.

HUBBY: Yeah.

(SILENCE)

HUBBY: We decided our family was complete with two kids! That's big.

ME: Uh, yeah. But I doubt Christopher Radko makes ornaments commemorating vasectomies.

Credits: Sperm Christmas Pornament image courtesy of PrankPlace.com. No, I'm not making that up.

Happy Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T09:46:00.005-06:00

"Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace and gratitude."

- Denis Waitley

TMI

2009-11-04T15:41:00.002-06:00

While wiping The Ambassador's derrière:

THE AMBASSADOR: I want to see da poopy in da nakin.

ME: (WIPING) You want to see the poopy what...?

THE AMBASSADOR: I want to see da poopy in da nakin.

ME: (STILL WIPING) I don't understand.

THE AMBASSADOR: (EXASPERATED) I WANT TO SEE DA POOPY IN DA NAKIN!

ME: Okay, look, I'm not deaf. I don't understand you. You want to see the poopy in the... what?

THE AMBASSADOR: NAKIN!

ME: Nakin.

THE AMBASSADOR: (PLEASED) Yes. In da nakin.

ME: Uhhh... OH! The poop on the napkin? On the wipe?

THE AMBASSADOR: YES!

ME: Here.

THE AMBASSADOR: Dat not much poopy.

ME: Well, there was a lot on the first one, but I kept wiping and...

THE AMBASSADOR: (CUTTING ME OFF) Whoa, whoa, whoa... dat LOT infumation.

ME: Too much information?

THE AMBASSADOR: Yeah.

Me: Okay.

THE AMBASSADOR: Yeah. Okay.

Why My Marriage is Like a Coffee Table

2009-09-18T14:29:00.006-05:00

After we'd begun dating, my then-boyfriend (now husband) and I went to our favorite flea market and scoured the antiques, looking for cool things for his house. I pointed out a lovely old copper tray to Hubby and told him it would make a great coffee table. When he told me to buy it, I said there was no point. While I loved the tray, could conceive of it being a table top, and even knew a furniture maker who could craft the base, I know myself all too well. Despite my best intentions, I would never get around to making it happen, and the tray would sit in my garage collecting dust.

I had barely finished my lament when Hubby began negotiating for the tray. He carried it the rest of the morning as we toured the aisles of the market, and once we got it back to his house, he took the number of the furniture maker from me, and a few weeks later, he had a gorgeous coffee table in the kitchen nook overlooking his flower garden. I fell just a bit more in love with him after seeing it.

What I didn't realize at the time, but have come to deeply appreciate, is that we had just set the stage for our entire relationship. It's a partnership of two very different people. He is calm and methodical, even in the face of my darkest storms. He is slower to move and longer to plan, even while I am racing an imaginary clock and scouring a situation for shortcuts. I am driven by my intuition, which rarely lets me down; he is an intellectual to the bone -- a talent that has served him and us very well. And as the coffee table demonstrates, all the creative thinking in the world would be lost without someone to get things done, and that is how we function on a day-to-day basis.

That's not to say Hubby isn't creative. He is, and sometimes, far more than I. Nor is it to suggest that I can't get things done. As Hubby would attest, I can not only get things done around here, but I can usually do six things at once. No, it simply means we compliment each other and have the ability to build on one another's strengths; and every time I see that table in our livingroom or someone asks me to tell them about it, I'm reminded why we're together and what makes us work. I am also certain that if all of my deepest dreams come true, it will be because he helped me make them so.

Yet Another Milestone

2009-09-17T20:25:00.003-05:00

Two years ago today, Missives was born with this post.

The 30 Babe Shred

2009-09-15T19:03:00.005-05:00

Some of my favorite bloggers like Sarah and Pauline are doing the 30-Day Shred. I'm playing along, even though I've been Shredding most of the summer (and I promise to talk about the results in a few more weeks). Weebo saw me working out this afternoon, and the look on her face made it clear she was unimpressed with Jillian Michaels. So she put together her own workout video.

I want to warn you, this workout is not for everyone. Fleshy rolls on your thighs, dimply ass cheeks and no ability to open childproof lids are key to success. Do you feel like that description fit you to a T? Yeah... I can identify. Uhh... what was I saying? Oh, right. Disclaimers. You know, the usual disclaimers like don't try this at home, avoid eating a half hour before swimming and don't take any wooden nickels. The Golden Rule: He who makes the gold makes the rules. That sort of thing.

Without further ado, the 30 Babe Shred:

The 30 Babe Shred from Missives Suburbia on Vimeo.

Happy Aneuversary

2009-09-02T13:28:00.005-05:00

BRAIN ANEURYSM
BLUE CROSS
NO MEDS, NO ALLERGIES
ICE: (Hubby's mobile phone number and name)

A year ago today, I was seven months pregnant, laying in an MRI machine and quietly, but desperately panicking and considering the possibility that I was having a stroke. That's not hyperbole. 15 minutes earlier, I had walked into the ER, nervously described my symptoms, and felt my heart drop into my stomach when the triage nurse's eyes widened with concern. I was prepped for an MRI before Hubby finished parking the car.

I was assured by not only the nurse but my attending doctor and neurologist that my suspicions were warranted. But I was not having a stroke. In fact, my symptoms had nothing to do with the subsequent surprise the MRI revealed, which was a brain aneurysm.

Three days later, I wrote this post, which I published very late at night and then promptly pulled down, because the initial reactions were more than I could deal with at that point. The next day I addressed both the diagnosis and my feelings about the previous post here.

It was a hard post to write. We'd been through a lot with The Ambassador in the previous year, so my love for the medical establishment and people's well-intended platitudes had worn thin. More to the point, I was absorbing a very large piece of news about my brain. My brain, people. I have pretty nice legs, but my brain has always been my best feature.

That news changed everything. It changed how I gave birth to my daughter. It changed the conversations my husband and I had. My will and medical directives were drawn up and stowed in our lawyer's vault weeks later. It changed the way I think about my daily life, even though I am not very vocal or open about the changes. But they're there, like that little bulge lurking in my head. In my imagination, the vessel flickers with light, and the light reminds me I am mortal.

This morning, I was coloring and painting with The Ambassador. As I removed my watch and my medical alert bracelet, it occurred to me that bracelet is a small summation of my life right now. I have a brain aneurysm. Anyone who treats me needs to know about it. Every doctor I work with now has it in my file, and any medical person who stumbles upon me in an accident will know about it, because of the bracelet. As aneurysms go, mine seems to be in a very good location; the risk of a rupture is thinner than the paper we colored on today. But people still need to know.

A week after my diagnosis, my neurologist called to follow up with me. He wanted to know how I was doing emotionally. I said I felt like the luckiest person in the world, and I meant it. A year later, I haven't fully soaked in the news, and I probably won't before the blood vessel is repaired*, because it's a lot to think about and imagine. As most people do, I live in denial about the possibility of my death most of the time (which will likely be under far more benign circumstances than this aneurysm). But nearly every day I stand in my kitchen and make lunch for my kids and that little flicker reminds me I am lucky. I am lucky to know.

*The vessel will be repaired sometime next year, after the tests can be performed to determine precisely where it's located. I'll keep you posted.

For Sale: A Life

2009-08-24T20:45:00.010-05:00

There is a house on a hill, a hill steep enough to make my heart pound just a bit if I run from the bottom to the top. The hill is in a city that makes my pulse quicken at the thought of it. And the city is in my heart, in no small part, because it's the place where I took a deep breath and drew in life for the very first time. When I exhaled, the fog enveloped me, and I knew I'd found home.

A few days ago, Hubby discovered our home in San Francisco was for sale. It was his first house and a labor of love resulting in a remodeling effort that didn't stop until the back of the house was ripped off and replaced and virtually the entire building gutted. It was breathtaking, and when I moved in and added my name to the deed, I brought furniture and rugs and art, and together, we made it a home.

When we sold our painted lady four years ago and left for Portland, we cried as we drove away. For city block after city block, I sobbed ugly, hitching sobs.

Now our house is for sale again.

It's not just the house that's for sale when we see the MLS listing. It's our old life. Weekends in Paris. Indian food -- cheap or not, take your pick, they're both a wine bottle's toss down the hill. Duboce Triangle. Boots from Dior. Mani/pedi lunches with Lori. The top down over the Golden Gate. Learning to drive a five-speed. Chrissy Field. Weeks in Tahiti and Bali. Stacked parking. Date night in the magazine aisle at Safeway. Cheyenne. Long baths in a deep tub. A weekend in Mexico, no electricity necessary. Honking horns. Conference calls. Pulsing concrete. Planes to catch. A vibe. Sounds. Life at the highest definition and fidelity possible.

It's not just our old house for sale. It's my first life. If it's banal to say I found myself in San Francisco, so be it. It's true. I lived in Southern California like an outsider peering into the window of a party she was neither invited to nor cares to attend. But finding no other place to go, she feels compelled to stop and stay, smiling stiffly at her fellow guests, and wondering when she'll be found out and asked to leave, hoping it's sooner rather than later. I embraced San Francisco, and that gorgeous girl hugged me back with a death grip, ripping part of my heart straight from my chest, allowing me to wander to the next place without it.

I'm not going to lie. I miss that life. I wouldn't trade one minute of this life for another year of that one. I wouldn't. Since they were born, my babies have broken my heart and constructed it anew every single day, leaving me happier and more sure of myself than ever. But if I could take this life and plop it into that one, I would. Because I may not take my kids to Le Cinq for Thanksgiving dinner, and I will never allow Hubby to jump the car down the hill on Franklin with those angels in the backseat. But I want my children to live with cement under their feet, to taste the culture a real city has to offer, and to know the place their mother learned both who she was and what it felt like to inhale.

We won't live in that house again, although in our own silent ways, I'm certain Hubby and I have both tallied the costs to our family if the other could be convinced to return. I'll admit I've scratched out the emotional math and discarded it like a crumpled receipt that I'll revisit again when I find it in the bottom of my purse some dreary winter day. The thought will be irrelevant by then, because the house will belong to someone else, but it will prove there is a part of me forever lost to that city.

There is a house on a hill, and in that house lives the kernel of a family. And the beginning of a love and a marriage. The dream of a child or two. The ghostly patter of furry friends now lost. The echoes of a life moved on. And the silent swell of one last breath that will never be fully exhaled until our life is no longer for sale.

Call Your Momma

2009-08-12T14:21:00.007-05:00

The Ambassador has spent most of today wandering the house with a solar calculator in his mitts. He'll say, "What dis, Momma?" and for the twenty-third time, I'll reply, "It's a calculator, honey." Then he'll say, "Caculador!" and beam broadly. If I ignore the tedious and repetitive part of the exchange, it's quite cute. In fact, one could argue that if I ignored the tedious and repetitive parts of life altogether, it would be quite cute, but that's another topic for another day.

Anyway. The calculator. We went for a run this morning, and naturally, since it's the toy of the day, the calculator came with us. I can only peek at The Ambassador through a small window in the roof of his sun shade, which is closed most of the time (because it's hot, not because I want to pretend I'm alone or anything like that). So I was surprised to hear him yell, "HEWWO? MOMMA?"

I tugged open the window in his sun shade and peered down at him. He was pressing the calculator to his ear like a mobile phone and yelling into it as if he was calling from 1996. He screamed again, "HEWWO?! MOMMA?"

So I picked up my phone and responded, "Yes, honey? Don't yell. Momma can hear you just fine."

"MOMMA?! I need more gowdfish! PWEASE!" he demanded politely. (Demanding politely is an art form. Just ask anyone who's ever worked for me.)

"I don't have any more. We can get more at home."

"NO! MOMMA?! HEWWO? MOMMA?"

"Dude. I can hear you. In fact, I can see you, too," I sighed.

In response, he cocked his head and squinted up at me with one eye, smiled, and said into his calculator, "Okay, Momma. I see you, too," he waved and continued, "I wuv you. Bye-bye. Cwick."

"I love you, too, honey. Bye-bye. Click."

It just didn't seem like the time to teach him not to hang up on someone before they respond to you.

Sucker

2009-08-10T19:46:00.004-05:00

Tonight I joined The Ambassador's bedtime festivities a little late, as I am prone to do, since I am in charge of Weebo's intense nightly wind-down, aka "Boobing the Babe".

In case it hasn't been made clear, The Ambassador is a bit of momma's boy, so when I walk into the room, the attention tends to shift away from Hubby and toward me.* For the thousandth time today, the kid pleaded with me to hear Blue Gets Syphilis , and immediately upon wrapping up that little beauty, he made his case for the next book:

THE AMBASSADOR: Momma, puwease, weed Wild Thing?

ME: Noooo... I already read Blue. I'm done for the night. Let Papa read.

THE AMBASSADOR: Puwease, Momma?

ME: Noooo... please? I'm done for the night. I have to go.

THE AMBASSADOR: Puwease, Momma? Puwease weed da faaaavowite book in the whoooole world?

ME: (SIGHING) The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another...

Because, really, what can you say to a three-year-old who begs you to read his faaaaaavorite book in the whoooooole world, right? Especially when it's a book that fills your own heart with so much joy that his love for it makes you want to cry.

*Sorry, Hubby. One of these days, it will be all about you, and you'll understand the joy of having a child who is singularly devoted to you, wanting to follow you everywhere you go, even to the bathroom, and wanting only you to change his or her poop-filled diapers. Hm. Come to think of it, you'll probably be the new It Parent after he's potty-trained. That's so unfair.

Another Baby

2009-08-10T13:56:00.007-05:00

My wee bitty one turns eight months old today. I can scarcely believe it's been that long since she was born, and I can't imagine life without her. Throughout my pregnancy with her, I followed the story of another woman's pregnancy, a woman I don't know, but just happened to stumble upon one day in my bloggy travels.

Over a year later, I still only know Katie, Donnie and their sweet baby Catherine through the stories on Katie's blog. But whenever I need a dose of cheer and inspiration, I check in on them. If you aren't the sort of person who believes in miracles, that's okay. As always, everyone is entitled to their opinion. But if I ever had any doubts before, they were erased with this story -- the story of a baby that never should have lived more than a few hours outside her mother's womb, but is now over 11 months old and crawling, and a story of parents who, even when there was little to hope for, continued to embrace the life and family given to them with immeasurable hope and gratitude.

The Worthless Nature of To-Do Lists

2009-08-04T19:33:00.004-05:00

Today I spent hours getting things done, yet a glance at my to-do list makes me feel like an utterly worthless human being, whose very breath is contributing massively to the world's carbon footprint and who is taking up space that could be better utilized by a more productive life form. Like a garbage disposal. Why? Because I managed to cross off about three things today, and if I'm being completely forthright, one of them was probably a little bit of a cheat.

The problem with to-do lists is that every item on the list has a single value: one measly check denoting completion. It doesn't matter if the to-do takes five minutes or five weeks, its value is still one check.

Oh, and of course, there are all those little daily things in a mom's life that feel like major accomplishments when you have two kids hanging off your legs, but aren't even on the to-do list. You know, things like dishes, showers, vacuuming, feeding the cherubs, nagging the cherubs to eat, scrubbing the cherubs after their meals, changing diapers, laundry, vacuuming again, letting the dogs out to pee 8,000 times a day, getting two kids to nap simultaneously -- which, let's face it, is a skill on par with revolutionizing our country's lousy healthcare system and takes nearly as much negotiation and time -- and... well, you get the picture. None of that, absolutely none of it, is on the to-do list, because there simply isn't time to write it all down before it has to be done.

So between the lack of relative value of the items on my to-do list and the dozens (hundreds?) of tornadoes that turn my day into a whirling dervish, I suppose it's no wonder that I sit down at the end of another 24 hours and think, "Now what did I accomplish today?"

When I had a job job, I wondered the same thing at the end of the day, but it didn't weigh on me so heavily, because I was getting paid actual dollars for every minute spent. I got value out of every check mark. In fact, it was almost preferable to be paid big money to check off lackluster tasks like responding to complex emails, listening to voicemail, scheduling meetings, and wrangling my team onto a plane (the working woman's equivalent to the two-kid nap), because the relative value of little tasks was actually greater than big ones.*

I want to know if anyone has created a to-do list that provides the doer with relative value for their completed items. If so, let me know. You know where to find me -- I'll be here, staring at my to-do list and considering whether or not moving 90% of a closet's contents to their new closet-home allows me to check that off my list.

*Oh, sure, that's a slacker attitude. But tell me you don't think the same way about your paying job. That's what I thought.

Lost and Found

2009-08-02T13:06:00.007-05:00

"Have a good day," the guy says, as he pushes the button and closes the hatch, securing my groceries, my husband's SCUBA gear, and a cacophony of motherhood-related paraphernalia that whispers to me about who I've become.

That guy -- the one manning the drive-through grocery pick-up -- doesn't know what or who I once was, and it doesn't matter. But the summer breeze carries the memories he doesn't, and today it chides me. "I matter," it says.

Even as I forget to take the long way home and avoid the lake traffic (such a simple thing to remember!), the vaguest details of my prior life waft through the open car windows and dance with a flurry of dog hair that springs from my dashboard. They badger me to go. Go again. Go now. Go fast. Just go.

My carriage, so natural then, still comes easily, but it's a more practiced, more mindful pursuit, not quite forced. The cadence of my breath is an outpouring, no longer a meditation. Creaks and cricks pulse where none existed before. All as it should be; after all, I have run only once in the past four years.

I never liked the heat and how it smothered me, coaxing me to quit, snaking its way around my chest and daring me to take another breath. Today is not hot. Today is, in fact, perfect, and my shoes call to me.

I have cheated time. Yes, that's a confession. A toe-touch away from 40 and a newly-minted mother to two late in life, I still have a runner's build. The muscles return with little effort; they are not as twitchy as they once were, and they lie hidden under a layer of loosening skin and last night's pasta, but they are still there and still formidable when pushed. Absolute truth be told and modesty aside, I'm not built much differently than I was in my late-20s, even if my body doesn't fully remember those days and its accomplishments. But the trials of birth and mothering have armed me with a deliberate strength I never had before, a resolve that bridges the gap between what was and what is.

There are few photos of my previous life's hobbies. I showed up on race day, sleep still in my eyes, did what had to be done, then puttered home to resume my normal life, with my hamstrings a little tighter and my mind a little freer. I went alone, because crossing the finish line is a solitary pursuit, and I have never had much interest in sharing my wins and losses. All but the most prized t-shirts have been discarded, along with a different marriage, a long career, and vast time to spare.

It will surprise some people to learn that I've run marathons. It seems laughable that I can't remember how many, when they once represented so much to me. In that gap of memory, it seems that I've forgotten who I once was and what I did, no more knowledgeable about myself than the guy at the grocery store. But the breeze off Lake Calhoun reminded me today, and when this cough disappears (yet another affront to my youth), my body will remember, too. Even if I have to make it.

Three

2009-07-24T08:03:00.002-05:00

My Sweet Peanut,
I feel like I have been saying you're "almost three" forever now, but in the blink of an eye, the day crept up on me, and here you are. Three.

Each one of your birthdays has been a new experience for your papa and me. One was exciting -- your first birthday! You were still a baby, but turning one made you more real, more substantial somehow. It's as if a person does not exist until they have an age, a non-fractional age. Two ushered in the Terrorist Twos (although, if the truth is truly being told, those started around 18 months). But now there's three.

Three is a little perplexing for me, my dear. You are no longer a baby. You routinely astound me with the new things you've learned, absorbing words and ideas like an industrial sponge, then turning them on their heads and showing me that you are not just learning by rote, but truly grasping the world's construct. You make me laugh every single day, even if over things as juvenile as yelling "a-holes" over and over again as we roll through the Target parking lot (because, let's face it, the world really is full of a-holes sometimes, although I should probably stop pointing that out). But despite our shared love of fart humor which makes you seem like such a boy, you aren't one just yet. So I am confused about what to call you, how to think of you... where to file this new age in my brain and in my heart.

You became a big brother last December. I had prepared myself for how big you looked laying next to your tiny sister on the hospital bed. But I was not ready for the gut-wrenching sobs and cries of, "No! Where Momma GOOOOO!!" that trailed you down the hallway as you left me in the hospital for the night. I cried with you the whole way and imagined that's precisely how my heart would sound were it ripped from my chest and carried away from me. I will always cry when I remember that night. Just like my hard edges will always melt and my insides will go all gooey when you beg to kiss your sister one more time or "nuggle" her in bed in the mornings. You have already proven to be WeeBO's champion and protector, and the best big brother a girl could ever ask for. I'm proud that you have accepted your role so gracefully and with such enthusiasm, but I'm still not ready to call you a boy.

So many remnants of your infancy still abound in our lives. Your binky is here, albeit in a greatly diminished capacity, but still around. I cannot seem to interest you in big boy pants, and even bribery has not convinced you that a diaper-clad tush is not the greatest fashion statement imaginable; in your defense, you have no butt, so how your pants will stay up once you're finally potty-trained is still a bridge we will have to cross, and perhaps that doubt is creating some pause for you. But my kisses and hugs still heal your owies, imaginary and real, even if your affection for bandages is growing steadily by the day. And when we snuggle close at night, your fingers still idly meander across my neck and shoulders, soothing you to sleep. Yet I can't call you baby anymore (at least not in public).

So what to call you? Three, I guess. You're three. No longer a baby, but not quite a boy, living in a catchall place of sweet baby habits and big boy struggles, surrounded by a fog of not-quite-there-but-almost. I can't think of any other place I'd rather be right now. I'm glad you're three.

Happy birthday, baby. (Yes, I said it.)

Love,

Momma

It's a Strange, Strange Afternoon In the 'Burbs

2009-07-22T14:59:00.009-05:00

I know that's not the most original headline, but I really don't know what else to say. The Ambassador is playing Safari, mugging in full regalia and dining on the exotic and elusive Golden Arches Frog (steamed, of course, because he's watching his waistline):

Meanwhile, WeeBO and her friend, Baby*, are wearing big boy pants. In a misguided effort to coax The Ambassador into trying a pair on, I thought dressing everyone else in big boy pants might bring him on board. Our conversation:

ME: Look! WeeBO and Baby are wearing big boy pants! Yay, WeeBO and Baby!! Don't you want to wear big boy pants, too?

THE AMBASSADOR: No! Yay, WeeBO! Yay, Baby! Day wear der big boy pants, Momma! Look at dem!

ME: Not even a hint of sarcasm in that is there, big man? You are genuinely happy for them, aren't you?

THE AMBASSADOR: YEAH!

Just before publishing this post, The Ambassador saw the photos, and asked if he could wear big boy pants, too. "YES! Victory is finally mine," I thought.

Or maybe not.

*Baby appears to be female, based on unspecified genitalia and a heart-shaped tramp stamp on her posterior.

Apathy Sold Separately

2009-07-08T13:17:00.007-05:00

Dear Senator Franken,
May I call you Uncle Al? I'm going to be really up-front with you and tell you that I didn't vote for you. Not because I don't think you're funny (all Senators should be funny -- how else would they get such hot mistresses, right? It's not with dough on your limited salaries.) No, I didn't vote for you because I'm not old enough. In fact, I'm not even old enough to have a blog, so I'm using Momma's.

Let's start over. Congratulations on being named Senator, and more important, on your position in the Senate Judiciary Committee. I trust Aunt Sonia is a shoe-in now, right?

Umm... okay, what I really wanted to write you about is cold medicine. See, I've got a cold. I'm seven months old, and I'm suffering. I need cold medicine. But all the hop heads and irresponsible parents of the world have colluded in their idiocy, and now there's no such thing as cold medicine for little people. Even my brother who is really old (almost three) can't take OTC cold medicine.

Have you ever had a summer cold, Uncle Al? Have you ever had snot running uncontrollably down your tiny, chapped philtrum and into your mouth because you're too uncoordinated to use a tissue (or be trusted not to eat and choke on it), and the big people in your life only glance your direction often enough to ensure you aren't drowning in your own salty fluids? Have you? I didn't think so. No offense, Uncle Al, but you were born in an era when mommies were rubbing 80 proof on their baby's gums at the merest hint of molars and people said things like, "Awww... it's only a small gash -- walk it off, Al!"

So have some sympathy for the little people. Bring back cold medicine, Al. I promise I'll vote for you in 17 years and five months if you make baby drugs a centerpiece of your senatorial life's work.

Love,

WeeBO

P.S. Momma is wondering if I'm eligible for FMLA. She says keeping me in diapers is pretty pricey, and she's tired of changing two kids' poopy pants. Not that it would be an issue if my brother would consider for one moment the damage he's doing to the environment by not potty training. But that's another post for another day.

Kasparov Versus Deep Blue

2009-06-25T19:22:00.006-05:00

HUBBY: Okay, I'll go grab dinner now.

ME: You're taking the big kid with you, right? (POINTING TO BABY MONITOR, OVER WHICH BABY'S BEDTIME NOISES ARE BEING TRANSMITTED FOR PARANOID PARENTAL LISTENING PLEASURE)

HUBBY: I'd like to, but he's outside right now, enjoying the bounce house. He'd probably have more fun if he stayed. (PUTTING ON PERSUASIVE "YOU TAKE HIM" TONE)

ME: Right. But if she cries, I'll need to tend to her. (MIRRORING HUBBY'S TONE)

HUBBY: (SIGHS) Okay, I'll take him. I swear it's like a game of chess.

ME: Checkmate.

Coercing Good Wishes

2009-06-21T10:48:00.007-05:00

Hubby records the evening news every night*, and he often spends weekend mornings catching up on his programs. This morning, he was hanging out with The Ambassador and the dogs, watching yesterday's (or Tuesday's -- who knows) news, and the following conversation unfolded:

THE AMBASSADOR: Want to watch Penguins**?

HUBBY: (Hits pause.) Say, "Happy Father's Day".

THE AMBASSADOR: No.

HUBBY: Then no Penguins. (Presses play.)

THE AMBASSADOR: Want to watch Penguins!

HUBBY: (Hits pause.) Say, "Happy".

THE AMBASSADOR: Happy.

HUBBY: Father's.

THE AMBASSADOR: No.

HUBBY: Fine. (Presses play.)

THE AMBASSADOR: PENGUINS!

HUBBY: (Presses pause.) Happy.

THE AMBASSADOR: Happy.

HUBBY: Father's.

THE AMBASSADOR: Fodder's.

HUBBY: Day.

THE AMBASSADOR: Day.

HUBBY: Happy Father's Day.

THE AMBASSADOR: Happy Fodder's Day. (Then... meekly...) Penguins?

HUBBY: Okay.

*Don't ask why. I can assure you the answer will not satisfy you. It's not like Hubby is a neo-Luddite. He manages to read approximately 420 news sites over the course of a normal day. Why the TV evening news is still deemed necessary, much less why he records it totally baffles me.

**Penguins of Madagascar. Quite possibly the funniest afternoon cartoon on TV, from which Hubby and I have picked up such lines as, "He's an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, and dunked in nasty sauce!"

No Words Needed

2009-06-19T13:49:00.008-05:00

My Appomattox

2009-06-08T13:22:00.009-05:00

There was a time when the main floor of our lovely home was toy-free. Everything was contained to the basement play room. Then, with productivity in mind -- and trust me, the irony of that bout of mommy brilliance is not lost on me -- I bought The Ambassador a small table and chairs and put a selection of toys in my office, ceding some of my precious space to him in the name of that great goal of mothers everywhere known as Getting Things Done.

That was okay, because it was just my office. But, as all great generals know, wars are won and lost in the kitchen, and coincidentally, that was the next flag to fall as my laptop was taken over for movie-watching in the dining room. Then The Ambassador received a kiddie computer, which took over the Wii's predominant slot in the sun room. Do I need to tell any of you that battalions of toys find their way into each of these rooms, ready to act out the latest scene from Bolt or provide companionship during a particularly difficult round of "Spot's House"? I didn't think so.

But even after all of these small battles were willingly lost, we thought we had secured the living room, AKA The Final Adult Frontier. But today, even that cherished space fell, the victim of a rainy day, a toddler with the energy to spare, and a mother who desperately wanted to avoid standing on the front porch in her wrinkled bathrobe, screaming to the damp, gray heavens, "MY GOD, MY GOD, WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME?!" while her neighbors tut-tutted and shuttered their curtains, appalled by yet another public display of insanity.

7:30AM

8:00AM

Phoning It In, But Not Hanging It Up

2009-06-01T08:03:00.006-05:00

The other day, I was wearing a chip on my shoulder the size of a repossessed McMansion, and it was over something stupid someone said to me. I wrote a post about it. Then, yesterday, as I was talking to a blogging cohort about this unpublished post, I had an out-of-body experience and heard how positively idiotic the whole thing sounded and wisely opted not to hit publish on that one. (To the aforementioned blogging cohort: thanks for listening to that one-man performance of Mundane on the Lake. I wish I could take back that part of the conversation, but I've found that revealing one's dorky nature early on does have its advantages over time.)

So that leaves me with the following deep thoughts with which to blog:

- I think the girl who cuts my hair gives me the same haircut every single time, and would do so whether I brought her a photo of Farrah or one of Halle. But if I said that you'd want to see pictures of my previous haircuts, and you'd lie and tell me they really were different, so what's the point of that post?

- Furthermore, I'm pretty sure my haircut is once again slightly longer on the right. Either that or my shoulders and ears are uneven. On the length differential, you would definitely agree, but I plan to remedy that with the cuticle scissors later on in the privacy of my own bathroom, and there's really no need to invite you all to my bizarre shearing party, so that post is out.

- That baby of mine? That breathtaking beauty who could be the first cover model of Baby Vogue if there was such a thing? She's turning six months old in just over a week. She is utterly flawless in every possible way, and I could write 17 posts about nothing but her cheeks, those rosy, delectable little apples that grace her sweet face. But you'd get bored.

- That son of mine? That sometimes-shy-but-really-not, devilishly clever, heartbreakingly handsome boy who has gifted me with a life more fun and filled with more love than I ever imagined? That one? He's turning three in just about two months, and after that, he'll be heading off to start a school career that will span most of the rest of my life. I'm not sure how I'd fill an entire post on the topic, because I don't even think there are words for the volumes of emotions that spill from my heart as I contemplate those little facts of growing up, but I could try. So that's a maybe.

- I'm going to have six-pack abs again by the end of summer. I'm running into 40 head-on, and it better be ready for me and my taut glutes. Assuming I don't decide to have another baby, that is. Now you all have forgotten about resolution about abs of diamond (not steel -- steel isn't the hardest material on the planet), and you're wondering if we're going to have another baby.

- Yes, we're talking about having another baby. Me. My husband. We. I'm not discussing it with anyone else, though, so that could make it a tough post to write. Sorry.

- Summer is here, and I feel new and shiny and alive. Why doesn't the New Year start on the first day of summer? It would be a lot easier to keep promises about getting back in shape and finally getting the basement organized if the sun and the heavens above were shining down upon your plans every day. So you know what? Screw January 1. Happy New Year, people. May all your hopes and dreams come true this year. Yeah... so... there's that post.

And see... it's still mundane. That, my friends, has been the crux of my problem for a few months now. I do love this blog, but a shift has occurred, and I either need to change things or go away for a bit. Or both. If you love this blog, I apologize for subjecting you to the mindless drivel I've been spewing for a while now. You have been very patient while I've been phoning it in, and I appreciate you not just pressing ignore every time you see my caller ID in your inbox.

There is a reason for the drivel. I have become self-conscious about what I write. I'm not going to blather on about the tiny handful of people reading this blog that come to mind every single time I sit down to write and make me rethink every idea and every word. Because it's really not them holding me back. It's me. Everything I've written lately is authentic, but not open. Honest, but not whole. More important, there are large gaps where posts were supposed to run (although perhaps I'm the only one who has noticed), but I ended up not hitting publish, and those posts were where the passion lies. Anyone who truly knows my heart knows that I do not do things without passion.

Missives will be two years old in September. It's not going away. But it's going to change a bit. I don't know yet what that means. I've contemplated taking it private, but there are hundreds of you reading Missives every day, and while I'm absolutely positive your worlds will not crumble without photos from my vacations or tidbits of the latest con my husband is running on The Ambassador, I'm not ready to give you up. I like you. I like that you like it here. You, in turn, have given me encouragement to do more.

By more, I mean that I'm going to spend some of my "down time" working on a book. My husband has believed that I could something this big for years. He's a guy who has always done big things with his life, and when someone like that believes in you, it feels somehow unpatriotic not to oblige them. He thinks a bestselling novel is all we need to coast into retirement. I don't have the heart to tell him the odds of that happening. But I do have the heart to write a book, and furthermore, I have the stories, so that's where some of the old Missives energy is going to go. I'm sorry you won't see that work, but I will do it with many of you in mind.

One last, self-indulgent note: Thank you for reading me. This blog started as an experiment in social media, believe it or not. I wanted to keep my marketing brain alive, so I set out to learn what it took to build a blog audience and what social media tools were the best. Then it became a way to energize the other side of my brain that had been dormant for so long in the business world. Then it became part of my life, and some of you became my friends. So thank you again for reading me.

Now we'll return to our regularly scheduled drivel. Or not. Either way, I'll figure it out soon. For your sake and mine.

Overheard Part III

2009-05-26T08:03:00.002-05:00

THE AMBASSADOR: No, no! No nap! No nap, Papa!

HUBBY: We're not going to nap. We're just going to lay down until we fall asleep. Okay?

THE AMBASSADOR: (SHEEPISHLY) Okay.

Anatomy of a Vacation

2009-05-18T20:22:00.041-05:00

I don't know if you remember last year's Mother's Day, but after it was done, I wanted a do-over. This year, I clearly found myself in need of much deeper punishment, because I chose to spend my big day ON A PLANE, with two kids who have radically different needs, but somehow, miraculously, the most insane requests all begin with some version of, "Momma!" or "Honey?"

Accompanying me in the 2009 Mother's Day Follies was my husband, a man known for losing things, setting things down in weird places (and losing them), then nagging me, "Hey, do you have the boarding passes/my ID/my wallet/the kids?" as he and the stroller career wildly off the bloodied ankles of strangers. Why he can't figure out the most logical way to stack luggage on a luggage cart, I will never know. But I can promise you that if there is a round bag, he will attempt to set two square things on top of it. It's baffling, I tell you. Baffling.

Yeah. So. This is how my Mother's Day and the week following unfolded:

DAY ONE (MOTHER'S DAY)

He needs more of something. All kinds of things. All at once. (At this particular moment, he wanted more Blue's Clues.)

After wrestling the overly-tired Alligator Baby to sleep, we all (quietly) heaved a sigh of relief.

Bedtime, attired in "jammas" that I bought to help the little ~~ingrates~~ cherubs celebrate Mother's Day appropriately. (As in, "Ain't Momma great" and then off to bed they go!)

I KNOW, RIGHT? (You were saying how cute they are, weren't you?)

Despite the day's happy ending, this still seemed mind-blowingly appropriate:

DAY TWO (ME AND 18,563 OF MY CLOSEST FRIENDS AT KENNEDY SPACE CENTER IN 9,000 DEGREE HEAT WITH 700% HUMIDITY -- CAN YOU SAY CRANKY?)

After ice cream...

And water...

And screaming tantrums over photos (the kid, not me, although I had my moments)...

STS-125 left Earth for the final repair of the Hubble Space Telescope. The sonic booms and goose bumps could be heard for miles.

And, of course, they missed it.

The drive back to the hotel took 17 hours, which was particularly interesting, given that the ride to the Space Center in the morning only took 90 minutes. After we'd creeped along for about four thousand hours and only gone a mile, Hubby turned to me and said, "Shoot me." Which was awesome timing, since we were -- at that very moment -- driving past the Police Officers' Hall of Fame and Shooting Range! (Don't ever say I can't fulfill your every wish, Hubby.)

DAY THREE (PRIVATE)

Day three was spent hanging out with a friend and her kids, and if I weren't protecting my friend's privacy, I would post the most awesome photo of a tug-of-war over a toy telephone, complete with The Ambassador wearing pink Mickey Mouse ears. A classic, I tell you.

DAY FOUR (HERE, SHAMU! HERE, BOY! WATCH YOUR FINGERS!)

Is my kid the only one who takes a toothbrush to amusement parks? Voluntarily, I might add. In fact, he was very insistent about bringing it along and pretty peeved when Hubby took it away from him for dunking it in the fountain.

We fed the ducks at lunch time. The tamest, sweetest ducks I've ever seen. I'm pretty sure they would have curled up in my lap if I'd offered them a bedtime story. The squirrels were also frighteningly friendly and unafraid, as were the cranes. The menagerie gathered at our feet like rejects from Noah's Ark, and I bribed The Ambassador to eat by forcing him to take a bite of food for every piece of bread (MY hot dog bun, thankyouverymuch) that he threw to the begging, pooping little animal freaks. I'll spare you the video, but at one point, Hubby referred to it as an "inter-species gang bang" if that gives you any sense for how out of control it got.

Oh, yeah. We saw whales, too.

DAY FOUR (AN ANIMAL KINGDOM WE HAD TO PAY TO ROAM, AS OPPOSED TO THE ONE WE LIVE IN EVERY DAY)

In their unnatural habitats, we saw lions, elephants, alligators, giraffes...

Gorillas...

And mice and dogs (who get along quite well, considering the politics between Disney and Nickelodeon).

DAY FIVE (YES, WE WERE STILL THERE, AND YES, IT WAS STILL AFRICA HOT. YES, WE WENT TO DISNEY. HELP.)

Mind you, The Ambassador has had zero exposure to Disney characters, so we weren't sure going to The Magic Kingdom was really worth it. Hubby and I discussed not going, but in the end... well... you'll see.

There is an episode of Blue's Clues that features Blue playing dress-up as a knight, so The Ambassador fully understood the concept of a magic castle, and when he saw this:

He did this:

But was denied access by a very strong looking female "cast member" of the park:

He recovered quickly, though, because who couldn't enjoy their day after spying this?

(Isn't Hubby adorable in his ears?)

I spent the entire day correcting Hubby every time he tried to call "It's a Small World" "It's a Wonderful Life". By nightfall, he got it. But I sometimes wonder if he had it right in the first place, and it's Disney that got it wrong. I mean, how could you not wonder such a thing when you see this:

Or this:

DAY SIX (THE PERVERTS RUIN IT FOR EVERYONE)

We spent day six doing the smartest thing imaginable: nothing. We hung out at the pool, we ate McDonald's for the thirty-fourth time, and we watched TV. I might also have done some laundry, but I'd rather not give you more evidence of my obsessive nature by talking about how doing laundry on vacation makes me so very, very happy and almost seems FUN (because it means less laundry to do when I get home).

I'd show you pictures, but there are weirdos getting to Missives with search terms like this. And I don't need those people looking at my kids in their bathing suits or dissecting the joy on my face when I realize I do indeed have enough quarters for ONE MORE DRYER CYCLE! Yay, me.

DAY SEVEN (HOME)

It was a flight. But, of course, the difference between this flight and the one a week earlier was that we were going home, and this is what home looks like at this very moment: