Sitting Still

Happy (slightly belated) Father's Day

Do you remember distinct moments of falling in love?  The words, or images, or touches that let you know, yes -- this is the one.  Because I have some, and I remember the moment I knew my husband would be a good father.

Ron was seventeen years old when his niece was born.  When I started dating him and met her, she was six months old.  One day while looking through pictures of her doing the latest cute-baby thing, I saw a photo that made me fall in love.  On the couch, Ron lay flat on his back, wearing a white undershirt and some pajama pants.  On his chest, curled up like a tiny pink frog, was his infant niece, asleep.  And while I wasn't at that point sizing him up for his ability to care for little humans, I think there was a primal part of me that etched that image onto my deep memory.  Note to self: this might be a good one with whom to share your genes.  Maybe all those make out sessions aren't such a bad idea after all.

Many kisses and fifteen years later, that teenager napping with the baby on his chest has two kids of his own. It's a crazy thing to watch the twenty-something cutie you married turn into a father.  Trades are completed: shot glass for sippy cup, action films for cartoons, trips to Thailand for trips to the zoo.  He learns how to wrangle a wriggling baby into a diaper, and he teaches a preschooler how to cast a fishing line with her new pink Barbie rod.  Discussions are had about serious things -- discipline methods, college savings plans, life insurance -- like we're real honest-to-God grown-ups with a constant sense that the decisions we make now affect these little folks who depend on us.

Ron works incredibly hard to provide our family with what we need and want.  He became a father for the first time just as he entered the most rigorous part of his training, and balancing work and family was not easy.  In the last year, however, some of that pressure has eased, and with it has come more time for family life.  Of course, that doesn't always mean the fun stuff.  Sometimes it means standing in the midst of chaos while the baby spits up everywhere and the preschooler loses her shit for no apparent reason and your wife slowly goes crazy because of the spitting-upping and the shit-losing.  And all three of them look to you to make things work better. 

Talk about pressure.  Microsurgery ain't got nothing on the insanity we call fatherhood.

But the 17-year-old who babysat his niece has stepped up nicely to the challenge of being a dad.  And just as I fell in love with him that day, there are moments he shares with the kids everyday that make me do it all over again.  Playing soccer with Claire.  Looking for a way to learn Chinese with her.  Going fishing two days in a row just because she loved it so much (didn't catch a thing).  Taking her to work and teaching her about "fixing kids' eyes."  Promising her that we'll go camping this fall in a tent with sleeping bags.  Snuggling Gage.  Making him put his hands on his hips and say "oh, no you didn't" just to make me laugh.  Discussing your shared interest in my boobs.  Taking a nap together.

So today, I just want to say thank you.  Thank you for giving all that you do to this family -- time, energy, support in many forms.  Thank you for partnering with me to muddle through the uncertainty about doing the right thing for them.  Thank you for trusting me to mother your children as best I know how, and thank you for forgiving me when I screw it up.  Thank you for believing with me that one of the best gifts we can give our children is a happy, healthy marriage, and thank you for working with me to create that despite all the challenges we've faced.

Thank you for being a man who puts his family first, and who shows that in the decisions, big and small, that you make every day.  

We love you.  Happy Father's Day.

watch out world

I don't know where I lost it. That's the whole idea of losing something, right? You're not sure where you put it, or where it got to, or you'd go right to where you left it and pick it up and put it in your pocket and it wouldn't be a big deal. But sometimes the thing you've lost is hard to describe. That thingamajig. That whatchamacallit. That -- what's the word? Hmmm. I can't quite put my finger on it.

I'm guessing it got misplaced somewhere between the third trimester of pregnancy, delivering a baby, having a husband gone and then sick. When you're waiting for the other shoe to drop, you don't really care whether your feet are pedicured or that your sandals are last season. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other, looking up every once in the while to make sure you're headed in the general right direction, but not really sure which way that is.

Then all of a sudden you realize that it's been months since you read a book for pleasure. Or taken photographs for the fun of it with that camera you so desperately wanted. Or written something that was outside your comfort zone. It's been since December that you hosted friends at your house. Even longer since you wore something you liked for a reason other than it was clean. Nevermind that your year-long sabbatical for motherhood is approaching an end, and you're craving the stimulation of a workplace that does not constantly need cleaning and the wardrobe of clothing that is not made by Old Navy.

The haze of the fourth trimester is lifting. Gage is thriving. Claire is adjusting well to sisterhood. And now, I want me back. Strike that. I NEED me back.

Change comes slowly. Still one step at a time, but now in the direction I want, towards goals beyond survival. I'm looking for a job. Digging into the stack of books accumulated on my nightstand. Making an effort to trim down the pregnancy weight and find clothes that fit my body and make me happy.  Taking walks whenever I can and taking pictures whenever the mood strikes me. Volunteering to host a baby shower on a moment's notice despite the fact that the house is dirty and the yard still needs a spring clean-up. Enjoying my last months as a stay-at-home-mom with trips to the strawberry fields and plans to make homemade jam, at the same time I'm writing kickass cover letters and hoping for a great career opportunity.

One day at a time, one decision at a time, I'm starting to feel like myself again -- sassy, smart, and on top of my game. There's a spring in my step, a smile on my face, a twinkle in my eye, and a hunger in my soul. I want more, and I'm about to reach out and take it.

I don't know where I lost it, but I know it's returned: Mama's got her mojo back.

Consider yourself warned.

this evening

Sitting in a beach chair on my deck. Fussing with Twitter (addicted). Watching my husband play soccer-tball-tag with Claire while Gage snoozes in the swing.

Right now, for this moment, life is good.

bringing The Suck

I'm an optimist at heart.  I really truly am.  But lately, my ability to roll with the punches has been a little challenged.

Remember how my husband spent time in Guatemala right after the baby was born?  Well, I vaguely referenced that he came home with some fever/delirium-inducing illness.  We thought it was something he caught there -- a bug in the water, bad food, whatever.  Maybe malaria?  But when it did. not. go. away.  and he grew ginormous lymph nodes in his neck, I finally convinced him to go to the doctor. 

One visit to the infectious disease specialist and many lab results later, we've got a working diagnosis of mono.  MOTHER EFFIN' MONO.  If you've had mono, you know how much this sucks.  Cyclical fevers, night sweats, incredible fatigue, joint and muscle pain, nausea and a lack of appetite.  He's been sick since he returned and there is no apparent end in sight.  Dr. Google told me that the acute symptoms are only supposed to last about two weeks, a deadline that has come and gone, but the REAL doctor today told Ron that this infection in older adults (should I be concerned that 32 is an "older" adult?) can suck even harder than the version most teens and young adults experience.  Ok, so he didn't say "suck even harder" but THOSE ARE THE TECHNICAL TERMS NONETHELESS.

Suddenly, malaria ain't looking so bad.

My mom was here but now she's gone.  My in-laws are on their way but not here yet.  I am sleep-deprived and short on patience at the same time that Claire is cooped up and dealing with the fact that she now has to share my attention.  She is watching entirely too much television and has --just now-- resorted to Swiffering the floors for fun.  Gage is hanging ok, but I suspect he's beginning to wonder what kind of crazy woman he got for a mother.

I swear there is something in the air.  Everyone seems to be experiencing their own version of The Suck.  Colleen has it for sure.  Other friends who delivered a son two weeks ago was hit with a terrible stomach flu as soon as they got home from the hospital.  We just saw friends at storytime, and there was a general consensus that people were feeling sick and tired and generally "off." 

Last time a similar situation happened, Mercury was in retrograde or something like that.  I don't even know what that means, but I think blaming astrology makes perfect sense. 

Because if this is karma biting me in the ass?  I am ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY SORRY for whoever I pissed off.

I may even try the tofurkey

I have started and deleted a number of posts since that last one, days ago, because of concern that y'all are tired of hearing about the fact that I'm pregnant...blah blah... I have a cute kid... blah blah... I like chai lattes and so on.

Then, I got over it.

So, for whoever cares about those kinds of things, here are the updates from la casa.

Claire seriously is one of the kindest, sweetest souls.  I told her that I was having heartburn, and she wanted to know what that was, and because I am a lazy parent, I told her that my heart hurt in order to avoid a way-too-clinical discussion of the digestive system.  She came over, climbed into my lap, and kissed my chest, asking, "Did that make your heart feel better, Mommy?"

Yes, yes it did.  In more ways than you can know, my love.

Baby boy is growing and occasionally attempting to exit my body via my abdominal musculature.  At some point, the nurse told me to start doing kick counts, but I have never had to make it a formal process, as this child makes his presence obvious, at all times of day. 

My Cesarean section is scheduled for December 31.  Party in my hospital room New Years' Eve.  I promise to share the good drugs and let you see my boobs.

Ron has somehow ended up as the only doctor in the department in town for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and has somehow been wrangled into taking call those days.  While I'm only slightly pissy about the disruption this may cause for the holiday (which isn't likely to be too bad, except that parents seem to think that BB guns are excellent gifts for young lads), I'm more concerned about the whole administrative breakdown that led to this decision.  Because, you see, the reason that we're in town for Christmas is that I'M HAVING A BABY.  And that said baby could decide to come AT ANY POINT.  At which time my husband cannot be in another operating room because he needs to be with ME in MINE.

Clearly, I am a little edgy.

Planning a quiet Thanksgiving with friends.  We're making the turkey because the hosting neighbor is a vegetarian (but fine with having a turkey in her house as long as she doesn't have to touch it).  I also bought pumpkin pie to bring.  I thought about making one, but then realized that I do not make pie crust from scratch and I sure as hell don't cook fresh pumpkin, so what's the difference, really?

I'm throwing in some whipped cream and calling it good.  Hope your holiday plans are equally as rational.

baby's first rock concert

Asheville treated us well, as always.  Meeting up with friends downtown, excellent hosts at the Sweet Biscuit Inn, browsing vintage stores and smelling the incense burning in one of any number of hippie outlets.  Claire and I started calling it our "girls' weekend" and I think it should become a new tradition: just she and I, shopping and eating and giggling in a bed that we don't have to make in the morning.

The Dan Zanes concert was awesome.  The venue was packed when we got there, with kids dressed as flower children and parents to match.  Had I been alone with Claire, we probably would've hung back, squeezed into a spot where we could barely feel part of the crowd.  But our friends are braver than I, and well-practiced at being band groupies, and so we plopped into the space that more polite folks had left up front near the stage.  When the band started playing, my daughter was with her girlfriends, in the middle and up front of what would become the dance floor, jumping up and down and grooving her little heart out.  If their current moves are any indication, these gals are going to be trouble come college.  Send the chastity belts. 

Best remark ever, from a dad friend: "I just ordered two Newcastles and two juice boxes at the same bar.  It was weird."  Sounds like my kind of place.

We woke the next morning, juicebox hangover-free, and enjoyed a relaxed breakfast of waffles and eggs and bacon at the inn.  The owners' son was babysitting a five-year-old boy, and Claire jumped right in to paying soccer in the front yard and army guys on the staircase.  When I finally managed to get her and our stuff into the car, she made me promise that we could return really soon.

The drive home took forever.  Less you think this whole weekend of single-parenting was idyllic, let me confess that around 5 pm we stopped for a fast food dinner and a bathroom.  Claire refused to get back in her carseat to go, and right at that moment I wanted nothing more than a space-time transporter to get us home NOW.  The constant chatter had turned from endearing and cute to just plain annoying, and I'm sure she was fed up with me as well. 

This morning we are back to routine.  Ron returned last night from his conference and is off to work this morning.  At home, we're doing dishes and laundry and arguing about who gets the pink bowl for breakfast.  Getting away was good, though.  In two days, I felt like the hours stretched into more and that the gift of time escaping with Claire reminded me to listen more carefully, act silly more often, and dance like a nut, right up front.

quickie

My family has been visiting this week, but it wasn't until today that we got ourselves organized and out the door to really enjoy Charleston.  Today, though, we managed a carriage ride, lunch downtown, a browse through the market, and a quick trip to the beach.  It's not even 9 pm, and everyone is beat. 

My husband, on the other hand, flew to New Orleans for "work", and the only message I had for him was "Be good."  Repeat after me: "Be good."

More actual content tomorrow, once I have a moment to sit on the computer without being distracted by either my favorite little person or my nephew's chubby cheeks that seem to always need smooches.

something big

(Disclaimer: This post references sexual activity.  If you are related to me by blood or marriage, you are hereby asked to "touch the X" as Claire says and stop reading.  If you choose not to do so, please know that I WILL NOT discuss this post with you.  Do not bring it up.  While we're at it, don't ask me how I got pregnant, because my name is not Mary and God was not involved except for maybe at the end.)

For a little while now, Claire has been working the concepts of size, time and distance.  Her stuffed animals are categorized into small, medium and large. She'll ask how far we have to drive, and how much longer it will take to get there.  She checks the tags on clothes at Target to see if they have something that will fit her.   At some level, she understands measurements and that you can attach numbers as a representation of size.  For whatever reason, in spite of the fact that she can only count to about 30 reliably, she's decided that the number that means "big" is none other than 69.

As a result, we have conversations that go something like this:

"Mommy!  There's a big monster in my room!"

"Oh yeah?  How big is he?"

"He's really big!  Like 69!"

If that doesn't make you giggle, you are either dead inside or too naive to be my friend.

With the number being bandied about with some frequency, it was only a matter of time before the man of the house decided to use it to his advantage.  One night, as we were getting ready for bed, he smiled at me and asked, "Want to do some 'honey stuff' [translation: sex] tonight?"

"Perhaps.  What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know.  Maybe something big?"

"Something big, like..."

albuquerque turkeys

We went to Albuquerque Thursday morning and returned yesterday afternoon.  And the truth is?  It was lovely.

I haven't been to Albuquerque for more than five years, and last time I was there it was for a conference for work.  If you've ever been somewhere for a work conference, you know that you see mostly the inside of a hotel.  This trip was really my first chance to look at the city from the perspective of someone who might live there.

Ron had interviews all day Friday, but Claire and I got to explore.  We walked out of the hotel room to the most gorgeous view: a waking downtown in the foreground, backed by mountains and finished with the orb of a transparent moon hanging just above.  I whisking Claire up into my arms and said, "Baby, look at that moon."  She smiled.  If you are one to consider these things signs, as I am, I would say it was a very good one.

Claire and I went to the zoo first.  We were among the first people there, 9 am on a chilly desert morning, up early because of time zone confusion.  For the first hour, it felt like we had the place to ourselves.  With no To Do list to hurry into, I made the conscious decision when we arrived that we would go at her pace.  No rushing, plenty of exploring.  Taking time to actually READ a little about the animals. 

It was the best trip to the zoo ever.  I need to slow down with her more often.

The rest of the trip saw us swimming at the hotel's indoor pool, eating more Mexican food than is probably healthy, driving around to neighborhoods that we LOVED, and visiting nearby Santa Fe, just to see what all the fuss was about.   

I think I could feel at home there.  Way better than Fresno.  Way.  High desert, four seasons, mountains, nice downtown and university areas, great older neighborhoods, rich cultural influences, a zoo, museums, a thriving artist community.   It's just big enough to have everything you want or need, without as much of the sprawl that troubles similar Western cities.

My only complaints this morning are that I was passed a cold virus by some bastard on the plane and that the elves did not come to clean my house while I was away.  However, I also realized that I can no longer see my feet when I look down, and that I have not addressed my toenails in too long, so the first order of business while the wee one is in preschool is to go and get a pedicure.  At this point, I think it is fair to say that it is not a luxury, but a necessity.

caffeine-fueled blogging

Some people blog drunk and are really really funny.  But since I'm abstaining on account of the tenant in my body and his need to build synapses and the like, I instead bring you nonsensical turbo-typed blogging.

You're welcome.

The reason I consumed a diet Coke at dinner and a fully-leaded Dr. Pepper at 8 pm is that I needed to stay awake tonight.  (Rest assured, pregnancy police, that I do not consume this much of any stimulant on a regular basis.)

(Except, of course, the meth.)

(Kidding.  Do you think a pregnant meth addict would gain 8 pounds in a month?  I rest my case.)

The occasion for my overindulgence was a date night.  Yes indeed.  Tonight I went with my husband to laugh at a gay man telling brilliantly written stories.  And while some of you get this regularly at supper club or some similar venue, in my life you pay good money for it, and schedule a babysitter.  Mr. Sedaris did not disappoint.  I snorted more than once, and I laughed so much my cheeks hurt.

On the way out of the auditorium, I said something like, "That was really funny!" and I know that somewhere, somehow, right now, there is another audience member blogging about the dumb blonde chic stating the obvious.  It's probably the stout gentleman who waddled into me near the exit, which for some reason I found hilarious.  Here I am, 6 months pregnant and round, and some guy has such a duck gait that HE waddles into ME.

Anywho.

We've had guests since last Wednesday and the demands of entertaining have kept me off the computer.  My sister-in-law and niece are excellent guests, particularly since my SIL has a wee case of OCD and every time she comes to visit she cleans something in my kitchen.  Once, she rearranged my pantry so that it made complete sense to someone other than me.  I think the idea was to put all of the baking supplies together, all the canned goods together, and so on; however, I thought it made perfect sense to have the birthday candles on top of the tomato sauce -- you know, for when you need to whip up a celebratory red flambe for that special someone.

My niece is 14 years old and she is a good kid.  However, re-read the first part of that sentence and note that she is 14 years old.  Thus, this weekend included lessons in finding the perfect Homecoming dress (mission unsuccessful, two days of shopping and 67 stores later), Webkins (perhaps an even bigger mind drain to be found online than, say, blogging), occupying the bathroom for hours in the morning (only to come out looking about the same as yesterday, just cleaner), and the Hollister store (where they save the environment by powering only a handful of lightbulbs but splurge on the pounding bass).   

My goodness I am old.  Have I told you lately how my sciatica is acting up?

And now, I am officially out of steam.  The best way to break the blogger's block is just to write something, and I think this time I've outdone myself.  I'll work on being coherent.

Tomorrow, maybe.