Through Kat's Eyes

Boy, oh boy

2012-02-02T14:23:00.001-08:00

I grew up in a house of girls. There was me, my two sisters, my mom, and my poor dad. (Even the dog was a girl!) Estrogen ruled the roost. And it was comfortable for us ladies. By comparison, I remember my mom shuddering any time a neighborhood boy would enter the home.

"They touch everything!" she would hiss. "My silk wallpaper just absorbs oily little handprints. And they don't know how to treat antiques!" In truth, our house was not set up for young males. All our rambunctiousness had to take place out-of-doors or in the basement. We learned very early on not to enter the "no-no rooms," Mom's formal sitting parlor and the dining room. We had strict rules to obey when it came to the house and its upkeep. It just was what it was.

Fast forward some 20-plus years. While pregnant with Becca, I just KNEW she was a girl, despite our decision to be surprised upon delivery. I coveted swirls of pink and chocolate brown and fell in love with girly outfits. And I was right: Our life was soon overrun with princess gowns, fairies, dressy shoes, and bows.

This time around, I had no such certainty. However, we know FIVE sets of fraternal twins--all of which include one boy and one girl. It seemed like a nice balance, less competition, the best of both worlds. I think The Banker and I sort of assumed this was what I had rolling about in my quickly growing abdomen.

So when the sonogram showed one boy, we weren't surprised. However Baby B remained demurely hidden behind the umbilical cord, causing us to wait some two additional weeks to know for sure what we were having.

Yet when that umbilical cord moved, it did not hide a little girl. It hid another little boy. TWO BOYS. Oh boy, oh boy, indeed.

My friend texted me: "Welcome to the world of balls." This seems an understatement. I don't know boys. I wasn't raised with them and haven't a clue how to go about molding them into respectable young men. Everyone has told me the energy levels are higher. The common sense can be lower. Becca and I will be outnumbered. And oh, my antiques.

Looking forward, with a quick look back

2011-12-09T13:06:00.001-08:00

It's not often that I look backward. I'm more the kind of gal who assesses what needs to be done in the future and concentrates her efforts there. I find that waffling over what-ifs really only leads to melancholy. So when I last wrote, months and months and months ago, I was focused on moving ahead. I was attempting to overcome disappointment and a whole menagerie of emotions so we could focus on what was next.

That was until our Reproductive Endocrinologist called; that sorta-famous doctor from another state, who's now even more well known because he helped a reality star discover her breast cancer in the midst of infertility treatment. It's a rare thing to get a call from this doctor, so when he calls, you kinda have to listen.

When you're world-renowned, I think getting an ego comes with the territory. And this doc thought we'd be a slam-dunk case. An effortless boost to the clinic's (already) impressive success rates. So when our first round of IVF failed, I think it hurt his ego. Perhaps even pissed him off a little? So while The Banker and I were moving on, this doc wanted us to put on the breaks. He wanted to try again, only this time he would use an entirely different protocol--one that would hopefully keep me from hyper-stimulating while simultaneously being gentler on my body.

I told him we'd think about it. And then we sat on his offer for a few weeks. He'd dangled this giant, glittering carrot in front of us, causing me to rethink our future plans. I dreaded the thought of months of hormone injections. I feared the cost to my body and my longterm health. Our bank account could only handle one more large expense--and if IVF failed again we'd have to borrow money for the exorbitant cost of adoption. It was a decision that quite literally made me sick with nerves.

Still, I told The Banker that I didn't know if I could ignore this opportunity and move forward without having severe doubts, without suffering from huge what-ifs that would swallow me whole. Never one to push me, I think he was relieved by my decision. We would try again.

So in July, The Banker and I left Boo with our families and traveled to the clinic. I stuck to a strict diet of no sugar, no white flour, no alcohol. I religiously saw the acupuncturist. I injected day after day until my stomach turned the most amusing shades of green, purple, and blue. And the clinic was able to retrieve a good number of healthy eggs, which then went to the lab to grow into embryos while we returned home.

And waited.

And waited some more, wondering if these embryos, like our last ones, would fall apart.

When the lab called with the good news--healthy embryos, Grade A for transfer--I was numb. Until the tears came. And then the sneaky paralyzing doubt, because there was still so much left in our journey.

So we took a vacation, both mentally and physically. We recognized that the past few years had been hard on all of us, and that Boo's love of princesses and all things Disney could be fleeting. So along with my parents (and THANKS to my parents, who offered the trip as our Christmas gift), we all headed to Orlando in September with one agenda in mind: Blow a 4-year-old's mind. Needless to say, between the Bibbido Bobbido Boutique, lunch with the princesses, and the amazing magic that only Disney can provide, Becca was in heaven. She literally shook with excitement as she waited to meet Mickey, Minnie, and all her beloved princesses. So often her excitement, joy, and wonder would make me smile until tears crept up. It was an amazing vacation and helped steel The Banker and me for our return to the clinic the next month.

Leaving Becca once again with our family, we returned to the clinic for the IVF transfer in October, three days after my birthday. What followed were a few very long days of achingly dull bed rest in a hotel room. Then upon our return there was a strict regimen to follow: no lifting anything over 5 pounds, no exercise, rest often, and try not to stress.

Try not to stress! This is awesome advice, akin to "don't breathe." But I stayed busy--while trying so hard not to overdo it--and waited for the days to pass so I could take the blood test to determine whether this gamble had paid off.

Thankfully, as the sky-high HCG test results practically screamed--we'd been very, very successful. To the blessed tune of TWO little babies. Holy cow, TWINS.

Not that The Banker and I quite believed it as first. After so many years of disappointment, it took a little bit of time to accept that we'd finally found what we'd been working and praying so hard for--and then some!

I'm battling through the end of a bumpy first trimester, complete with violent sickness, headaches, a few complications, and sporadic bed rest. It hasn't been an easy ride, but it's one I'm not taking for granted. After the holidays, we'll begin to cautiously gear up for the drastic changes that will be coming our way this June, give or take. But in the meantime we'll be taking the time to celebrate all our blessings this year, because they've come to us two-fold.

A Plethora of Pink

2011-03-09T12:03:00.000-08:00

It's been a process--mourning in ways (hopefully) hidden from Becca and finding concrete steps to help us move on. And while we've not yet arrived at that (mythical?) place of acceptance, I think we're closer.

Having something to throw myself into helped a great deal. And what better focus than someone's 4th birthday? We had a visit from Sleeping Beauty that wowed the wee princesses in attendance and certainly made the Birthday Girl's day.

There were ample decorations, cake, and presents. It might have been a bit much. But I'm okay with that. Because I want Becca to know how incredibly important and loved she is--and I certainly don't want her memory of this period in her life darkened by our attempts to grow our family.

Where I get a little technical (and depressing)

2011-02-23T05:48:00.000-08:00

I've been quiet, so, so quiet here, for months and months because I needed every ounce of "me" to denote to what we'd undertaken at life. And now? Well, now I'm just a bit lost as we've discovered that much of this all-encompassing focus was for nothing.

The Banker and I traveled to a world-renowned fertility clinic, where we were told we were ideal candidates for IVF. The expense would be massive, but if I returned to the Really Big Company during Becca's preschool hours and continued to aggressively freelance, it would make the smallest of dents in the massive investment. So I went back to work on a special project, threw myself at every freelance opportunity, and started the slew of medicine concoctions, injections, and invasive sonograms to monitor my process. When it came time to harvest the small army of eggs, The Banker and I hesitantly, sadly, left Becca behind with family and moved into a hotel room for the remaining duration of the process.

Then things went wrong: I hyper-stimulated, producing too many eggs, and my body started retaining water in my body cavity. (Should the fluid have migrated to my lungs, hospitalization would have been required.) The doctors harvested the eggs but refused to transfer the embryos until my body had time to recoup. The postponement was crushing, as we returned home early, empty-wombed.

Then things went wrong again: For some unknown reason, and to the shock of the doctors and nurses, our embryos reacted poorly to the lab setting. What had begun as a large supply of eggs, turned into an assortment of embryos that were under-grown and fragmented. Our odds of eventual success dropped considerably.

But there's always hope, right? So we took two months off. Took Becca to the beach with my family, tried to focus on our family, our marriage, and all that we did have. And then we returned to a hotel room in another state for the transfer of the few embryos deemed the healthiest.

Then the waiting began. The excruciating waiting accompanied by a bevy of medicines, injections with 1.5-inch needles, a carefully monitored diet, and an almost total lack of physical exertion on my half. I tried not to be too hopeful, though the doctor thought our odds were roughly 50 percent. I tried not to be stressed out by my sister-in-law's upcoming baby showers and how difficult my attendance would be should we fail. I tried not to see everything and anything as a sign. Of success. Of failure. Yesterday, I was practically vibrating with anxiety as I had my blood drawn at 6:30 a.m. to determine if the pregnancy hormone HCG was present.

And as I discovered minutes before having to pick up Becca from preschool, the blood test was negative for the pregnancy hormone. Two years, an immense financial burden, untold damage to my body from incredible dosages of hormones...all for nothing.

In the time it's taken us to desperately try and fail for one child, friends have had two. I am surrounded by pregnant family members and friends. And every day I wait to see if my body will crack and fall apart, my outside finally mirroring how broken I feel inside. I wonder how long it will take for me to lose my sanity. After all, during this process I've lost my faith. (It's hard to go to church and praise God for the hellish existence we've endured these past 2 years while we're surrounded by others blessed repeatedly with what we can't have. I feel like a dog that continues to be kicked.) I've lost untold sums of money. I've lost time. And Becca has lost out on what she continually asks for (and all her little friends have)--a sibling.

Becca will be 4 in March. We're fast approaching a potential age gap between siblings where she'll not have a built-in friend but someone she has to "babysit" or care for (I know, as I've lived it). I feel like a complete failure for not being to able to give her the larger family she (and we) so desperately, heart-achingly want.

So what now? There's truly no revisiting the option of IVF. Cost aside, there's no guarantee our embryos will react any differently to a lab setting, essentially falling apart. (And we've tried everything leading up to IVF, including a painful D&C to prep my body, countless meds, meds and IUIs, and more.) Likely as not, we're going to take some time to mourn the loss of this dream. And I can't adequately express how crushing this is. And then, once we've had a chance to internalize this hell, we'll look to the long, emotionally exhausting, and expensive option of adoption.

Because despite how difficult this has been--and hands down it's been the hardest, most miserable experience of my life--I won't give up. Becca deserves to be a big sister. And The Banker and I really would like for someone else to call us Mom and Dad.

Merry Christmas to All

2010-12-28T18:43:00.000-08:00

Not much to say here, other than the last few months have not been as kind as I would have hoped. There were doctors, injections, long stays away from home, and a large dose of disappointment. Maybe someday I'll be up for writing about it, but needless to say it still causes tears to burn in my eyes and my throat to constrict painfully. But I have to be thankful for what I do have, and it's this little amazing creature here, who had herself one helluva Christmas:

Wishing us all a kinder, gentler, more prosperous 2011.

An important first

2010-09-15T19:47:00.000-07:00

Boo has begun preschool. It seems like a small step after her experiences with Mother's Day Out, but at the same time there's something quite different about this "first." She's officially started school--a foray into an education system that (hopefully) won't spit her out again until she has a college degree or two. Here she is on her first day:

Although I suppose I wouldn't be a true yuppy parent if I didn't also have her in a small Spanish class once a week. I so hope she can effortlessly master the language that her mother pitifully destroys during infrequent use.

But we're also doing some "school time" on our own as well. Becca has asked to learn to read. So, in a move that will no doubt make her preschool teachers hiss with disapproval, I've started giving her daily lessons from the book Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons. The book came highly recommended by some homeschooling moms I know and teaches reading based on phonics, which is the way I learned to read too many years ago. But only four years later when Sister #1 entered school, the curriculum had changed and she learned to read based on sight recognition alone. The difference between our love and ease of reading is immense. I only hope my efforts will make Boo a voracious reader rather than someone who takes years to finish a single novel. (Still love you anyway, Sis!!)

So this fall is one of many firsts, where my toddler towers above her classmates, forcing her mom to recognize she's not so little anymore.

A home for tumbleweeds

2010-07-27T13:30:00.000-07:00

It's been a veritable desert on this blog, eh? I can almost see the pixelated tumbleweeds, hear the deafening roar of silence.

I suppose I put the blog on hold because, in many ways, I've been in a holding pattern. Life, not so much. She is charging ahead, riding the slippery rails of time. In the past several months, Becca turned 3. The Banker got a new job. We escaped to Colorado to celebrate our 8th anniversary. Becca finally got in to a great (and previously booked) preschool down the street. So many wonderful things clicking into place after so long. That is, except for the one thing that I struggle to keep from overwhelming me altogether. I kept thinking, "With this month's treatment, surely there will be success. And then I can post something triumphant." Then nothing. And it's a heat-rending, soul-sucking, obliterating nothing to endure. Repeatedly. For 2 years.

So we're changing things up. We've "fired" our local doctor and been accepted at a clinic in Denver nationally renowned for fighting infertility. Tired of putting life on hold, we were stupid and got a new puppy. We're shopping for antiques, making improvements to the house. I attended a writer's conference, and while I still don't have the time or wherewithal to write a novel, I have a much firmer grasp on the process...not to mention a load of books to help "walk" me through the steps. And we have contacts at two different adoption agencies. Because we will grow our family one way or another. Despite the chaos, we still have more love to give. And who wouldn't want to have these two for sisters?

For the Kindness of a Stranger

2010-03-10T12:27:00.000-08:00

The Banker and I are preparing to leave for a long weekend to visit his sister and her husband. It will be our first get-away without Boo in over a year--and trust me, it's overdue. Between the horrendous turn in the banking world, my mother's broken foot and the subsequent care she's needed, our ongoing frustrations with fertility, and the difficulty in remaining honestly thrilled for the 25-plus friends who have recently delivered or are expecting, a weekend away from it all seemed a good idea.

Today I threw myself into the world-wind of required preparations: a trip to the grocery store, cleaning the house, packing for Becca's stay at my parents' house and The Banker's parents' house, getting the pets set up for their respective stays, and our own packing. Thankfully, it was Becca's day at Mother's Day Out, which simplified my to-do list...that is until they called at noon saying Becca was screaming and crying that her ear hurt. Damn. What perfectly awful timing. She was right as rain this morning. So I rush to school, and Becca's inconsolable. She's not a crier, so I know it's bad. And of course the pediatrician's office is closed for lunch hour. Despite my inability to procure an appointment, I drive there anyway; Becca in the backseat sobbing.

Becca's screaming has all the parents in the waiting room shooting us sympathetic looks. The nurses, to their credit, manage to get us a room, even though they don't have an open slot for another hour-and-a-half. Another pediatrician in the practice has me hold a writhing, sweating, screaming Becca as she removes enough earwax to determine that yes, we do have an ear infection. She quickly writes me a prescription and tells me that the medicine is flavored, but not a big hit from what she's heard. "Immediately give Becca some in the pharmacy. If she doesn't like the flavor, pay to have one added right then and there."

It seems to take hours for the pharmacy to fill the scrip, the entire time Becca is crying and I'm trying to cradle her in my lap. Finally, the medicine is ready. But when I turn to try to give Becca some, she runs to the corner, curls up in a ball and wails. And wails. And screams until she's gagging, threatening to vomit up what little lunch her teacher said she ate. There is nothing I can do to entice her to take the medication she so desperately needs.

I remove her from the pharmacy and we sit in the hallway, Becca sobbing and struggling to breathe while I try to calm her down, cajole her, and threaten her in turn to please, please, for all that is holy, take the medicine. A woman waiting for the elevator walks over to us and asks Becca if she held her in her lap if Boo would take the medication. Amazingly, Becca--who shies away from being held by strangers--nods her head. And this dear, sweet woman held Becca in her lap, cooed and sang to her while I gave her the medicine. Sure enough, she hated the flavor. We needed to have another added if the grandparents had any hope of administering it themselves. I was so taken aback by this woman's gesture and by how successful it was. I couldn't thank her enough. She had the most calming influence on one tired, sick toddler and one exhausted, panicked mom.

So whoever you are, thank you. I told you that you were a Godsend, and boy did I mean that.

Ouch.

2010-02-09T06:24:00.000-08:00

So this child informed me last night that I was a bad mommy:

(She'd gone without a nap and come bedtime was a MESS, wailing and trying to wriggle out of bed. So being a "bad mommy," I forced her back into bed.) My God, did it feel like she'd ripped the heart from my chest and trampled it underfoot. I admit it, tears sprung to my eyes. The Banker keeps telling me that "she's only 2, she was tired, get over it." But man, oh, man. I don't know if I'll survive the eventual teen-I-hate-you phase.

2009 Musings

2009-12-10T13:33:00.000-08:00

I realize, as I reluctantly schlep back here, that it's pretty pathetic to post Halloween photos almost a month later, at the end of November. Yikes. Sorry about that. It just seems that I've been neglecting this space--not for a lack of things to write about, but a lack of POSITIVE things to wax on about. And I don't want to be a "bitching blog." (Not to say I haven't bitched here. Far from it. Don't get my wrong: I'm a Class A Complainer. But if that's ALL I had to write about? Geez, painful.)

So I've been waiting, waiting, waiting, oh God, waiting for an upturn of sorts, something shiny and beautiful to offer forth here. Only it's really not arrived, this shiny, happy bit of something. It made writing my yearly Christmas letter a monumental feat of b.s.ing and hemming and hawing. We went to TENNESSEE, people! Wooo-hooo! We had a spate of family weddings, and we have more to "look forward to." (As my best friend commented, "You really were desperate for content to go that far. Let's look at what's coming in 2010 since nothing happened in 2009!")

Not that nothing happened in 2009. It's just not the sort of stuff you put in Christmas letters. The banking business bombed, making The Banker miserable. (The stuff runs downhill, they say, right back home to roost.) His one hope to find a new job in a better environment has gone nowhere. We have tried and repeatedly failed to add to our brood. The stuff of doctors and medicines and exhaustive medical visits are not Christmas letter fodder. Two loved ones decided to end their marriage. We had to get rid of one of our dogs. We have a 2-year-old who is funny and brilliant and headstrong--something to most assuredly be thankful for--but who continues to blatantly refuse to use the potty at home. At Mother's Day Out? REPEATEDLY. At home, where we can be comfortable and everyone loves us, well, that bulging, stinky diaper is just more to love, right? Exotic vacation plans were shelved. A long-time freelance client up and moved its operations to LA, effectively cutting its writers free. So...all things said, plenty occurred in 2009, just none of which I really want to repeat in a letter to loved ones, let alone here.

It's so much nicer to condense such fist-gnawing into one navel-gazing post, huh? (Before anyone clucks that things could have been so, so much worse, I absolutely agree. The Banker still has a job, albeit one that makes him a bear. We have an amazing daughter, and for her I thank God daily. We're housed and fed, warm and healthy. These are the big blessings, and I don't mean to undermine them. But we had many hopes and desires for this past year, and the gaping holes these unfulfilled dreams have left behind are truly painful.)

Still, there is this:

So here's to 2010. May it be better than 2009. May it be laughter-filled, love-renewing, family-gathering, and oh-so rewarding. Please, please, please.

A Bit of Belated Halloween

2009-11-22T13:57:00.001-08:00

Parenting FAIL

2009-10-22T20:17:00.001-07:00

This post right here? This is where I admit a serious parenting FAIL. Me? I'm holding the TV hostage...in exchange for successes on the potty. One successful potty trip=One Mickey Mouse Club House show (plus candy, sticker on potty chart, and more).

Why the cruel tactics? The kiddo is 2-and-a-half and the last girl in her Mother's Day Out class in diapers. Next year she'll have to be potty trained to attend preschool as well as her spanish class. Maybe she's not ready, some would argue. What they don't understand is that she TOTALLY GETS IT. I caught her peeing in her diaper the other day and asked if she wanted me to change her. She put out her palm and informed me, "The feeling will go away soon." Yea. That's called an absorbent diaper, which DOES make the wet feeling go away "soon." BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT.

It's not like we haven't tried previously. A lot. A sticker chart, M&Ms, and a cool ride-on toy were not motivation enough. (I even succumbed to watching an episode of Dr. Phil in which he guaranteed potty training in one weekend. I bought the peeing doll, the party horn blowers, the whole nine yards. Dr. Phil is full of crap, and my hardwood floors were immersed in pee.)

So we're trying again, with varied success over the last three days. And oh, is this child stubborn. And oh, do I really, really, really hate this process. Because denying the girl TV is punishing me as much as it's motivating her.

The Little Things

2009-10-11T13:27:00.001-07:00

I've been taking the easy way out when it comes to this blog as of late. I post rarely and only to write a funny quirk about the kiddo, to share a photo or two. I lamely assert that there's nothing going on worth writing about. But the truth is that there's plenty to write about, and for whatever reason, I'm reluctant to put it down. As if by not writing about it, it will somehow go away. Because there's quite a bit of sadness going on. Maybe because I'm the oldest, maybe because I'm accustomed to putting on a brave face, a forced smile, I don't share the sad news. But so it remains. And I'm not doing myself any favors by keeping it bottled up inside, an ache in my belly, a lump in my throat.

Yes, a lot has happened. We were forced to find a home for one of our dogs because after 5 years the two female pugs had evidently had enough and resorted to mauling one another. I patched and bandaged. The vets stitched and medicated. We sought the help of an animal behavioralist. We set up strict routines. But when it came down to it, our original pug had settled into bitchy old ladydom and had had enough with the rescue pug. The rescue pug, an acute fighter, wasn't about to give up her alpha role, however. Thank God Boo never got between the two during a tussle. But I most assuredly did. Still have the scars to prove it, too.

Thankfully, we were blessed with a wonderful retired couple who took in Ginger to keep their elderly, blind male pug company. The two are fast friends, sleeping in the same bed. The situation couldn't have ended more happily. Yet Boo still asks about Ginger, and I am left with the guilt that accompanies crappy pet owners. I did what I never thought I'd ever do: I gave away a family member.

In the same vein, more disappointment reigns in our ongoing failed attempts to give Boo a sibling. We're currently seeing a specialist who has prescribed medication to force my body to regulate itself, which it apparently never did naturally after Boo's birth so many years ago. The treatment is expensive, not covered by insurance, and at the moment leaving me sick. Tomorrow we will revisit this doctor and see what the next plan of action entails. I'm feeling very much at the end of my rope.

BUT there's no time for pouting (this post aside, really). I'm drowning in freelance. While my friends lose their jobs at my respective former employers, I'm awash in work. There are TWO family weddings this upcoming year, God help me. And at the moment, I'm awaiting the arrival of some Chicago friends. So I'm plastering on that smile, pushing aside the disappointments, and making it look like that things here? Well, they're just hunky dory!

Blogiversery

2009-10-01T09:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday marked my fourth blogiversary. But I can't even bring myself to read the old entries just yet. Too cringe-worthy, I think. Still I must admit, I've had more success keeping this blog than any diary I've ever started. So that's something. And I'm sincerely hoping that this coming year--my 31st as of the 3rd of October--will hold more than this past year has. Less spinning of the wheels, more forward movement and accomplishment. Here's to hope!

Whirlwind

2009-09-21T18:48:00.000-07:00

Last week we returned from our family vacation to the Smoky Mountains, but before I could post anything about that particular adventure, I flew down to Santa Fe to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday (sans Boo and The Banker). I returned home today to a child with a 100 degree fever, a husband who's D.O.N.E. being Mister Mom, and a staggering load of freelance. But first this:

A trip to the aquarium, which was a BIG hit.

And a trip to a questionable petting zoo.

See just how questionable? Check out this stellar sign. And don't even get me started on the Zonkey.

It was an exhausting trip, though I think Boo had a good time. We stayed in a log cabin, searched unsuccessfully for black bears, hiked to a waterfall, had M&M pancakes, and of course the aforementioned aquarium and petting zoo. But four days was clearly the kiddo's limit, and she was a pill on the return flights. As in running madly about the airport until we forced her into her stroller, where she arched her back and planted her feet on the ground, effectively putting the brakes on. If you saw an exhausted mom putting her kid in "time out" in the middle of the Cincinnati airport last week, it was probably me.

It was with great relief that we returned to our hometown airport. As I was getting the bags, I called my mom to let her know of our safe return. I handed the phone to Boo so she could talk to her grandma as I struggled with a bag, and this is the conversation I overheard:

"BaBa? We've got a problem. I got in a fight with Mom and Dad."

This child never ceases to amaze, frustrate, and amuse me. And if she sounds like this at 2, what in the world will 16 hold?!

The Lecture-Stopper

2009-09-03T15:09:00.000-07:00

Becca is whining that her diaper hurts her, so I walk her up the stairs to change her, along the way lecturing.

"You wouldn't hurt if you went potty on the big girl potty. Then you could wear pretty big girl panties just like your friend Holly does."

The lecture continues as I lay her down to change the diaper. She's squirming, playing with her hair, rolling her eyes.

"You know, Big Boy and Big Girl School is only for those who learn to use the potty. This is the last year you can go to school in diapers. After that, they won't let you go unless you use the potty..."

And then Becca cuts me off, saying, "I understand. Just change my diaper."

At that point, I'm slack jawed. I've been summarily dismissed by my 2-year-old, who somehow has channelled the attitude of a 16-year-old. God help me.

The Flower Girl

2009-08-30T13:45:00.000-07:00

She seems to be cheering that her "job" had been successfully completed. Let me tell you, I was cheering with her. It was dang stressful trying to ensure that all would go according to plan. You want a 2-year-old to walk down the world's longest aisle in a huge tulle dress with a wreath of flowers pinned tightly to her head, remain quiet through a Catholic wedding mass (never the shortest in the world), and then walk up the aisle once more? While we're at it, let me train my cat to do your taxes...

Still, we succeeded. More or less. And I'm so thankful that's behind us. A big WHEEEEW. Now a few more days until we escape to the mountains with some dear friends. This vacation has been so earned, and so desperately needed, in so many ways. Yippee!!

First Pony Ride

2009-08-14T17:04:00.000-07:00

So Mom had to fib and say that Becca was 3 (though she's big for her age, I think), but it was totally worth it. She'd only been begging for this for 4 months:

Guess who can FINALLY rock the pigtails?

2009-07-31T12:59:00.000-07:00

It only took over 2 years for her to finally grow enough hair, but here it is:

Smooches all!!

A city to remember

2009-07-27T12:47:00.001-07:00

Full disclosure: I have a goldfish's memory.

Don't know what a goldfish's memory is? It goes a little something like this..."Ooohh, castle!!"
"Ooohh, castle!!"
"Ooohh, castle!!"
"Ooohh, castle!!"

So I'm constantly reminded by family and friends of long-ago memories. High school, for instance? I don't have many memories of my entire first year. My childhood is more about fleeting, slippery images rather than chunky, firmly-held recollections.

And another confession: I have zero sense of direction. None. Couldn't find my butt with both hands, a flashlight, and a map. I can get lost ANYWHERE, and I have: Rome, Mexico City, Perth, and the list goes on and on and on.

So it was utterly shocking that as soon as we entered Chicago I suddenly, inexplicably knew my way around from memory. The Banker was fumbling with his GPS system on his Crackberry, and the directions were all wrong. And he couldn't accept that I instinctively knew my way around downtown. And what frightened him even more was that I kept bringing up recollections of our time living in the Windy City that he'd forgotten about. It was like we'd switched bodies.

And the city did feel like home. The energy, the sites, the hustle and bustle, the endless culinary possibilities. Just amazing. But I missed Becca something terrible. When we visited The American Girl Store to watch little ones race about in consumptive delight, both The Banker and I wished we'd had Boo along, so she could share in the delights.

So we've decided we need to return to Chicago sometime next year, and this time, take Becca with us. She'll probably not understand what it is about the city that makes her mom re-centered and happy. She probably won't understand that this busy, busy place is where her mom and dad used to call home. But I've no doubt she'll entirely understand the premise of The American Girl Store.

A respite, of sorts

2009-07-20T15:11:00.001-07:00

It's been awhile, but so little has changed here that I've not had anything about which to write. We're slugging forward. Struggling with potty training and a stubborn 2-year-old. We survived The Banker's brother's bachelor party weekend--barely. (Why must bachelor/bachelorette parties now take up entire weekends nowadays?!?) Now we have a shower to throw for said brother and the wedding. Becca will be a flower girl in a thick tulle dress that she doesn't like. No doubt THAT will earn a post. But in the meantime? Nothing much. It feels a little bit like spinning my wheels.

So that's why this coming weekend has been much anticipated. We're returning to Chicago--our old home--for a friend's wedding reception. Becca is staying with my parents, since it will be a whirlwind trip. Down Friday, back Sunday. We're having lunch with a dear old neighbor, dinner with friends, a visit to another set of friends and their newborn son, and of course, the reception itself. It's going to be exhausting. And hopefully exhilarating. I've been like a caged tiger as of late, pacing back and forth, furtively hoping for change. Of scenery, of situation, an uplifting of the heaviness of heart.

So to stretch our legs, spend some quality time together as a couple, and revel in our old haunts has me giddy. I pray Becca will be well behaved for my parents. I pray that we get everything in that we have planned. But my true fear? That I won't want to board the plane for that return flight home.

A Snippet

2009-06-28T17:29:00.000-07:00

Becca leaps into the air and lands her boney knees on The Banker's chest.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaims in surprise.

"No, I'm Becca Marie!!" his daughter corrects him.

JUST PRICELESS.

In Which I'm the Bad Guy

2009-06-21T20:04:00.001-07:00

Okay. I need some perspective. Because tonight? It sucked. And there were words exchanged between The Banker and me, and I'm wondering if maybe I was out of line.

Tonight we met The Banker's family at a local bar for Father's Day celebrations. Okay, bar/restaurant, but mostly just bar. (But, hey! No smoking there now, so that's a win, right?) They reserved the back room to accommodate the 11 adults and three children. Among the children was Becca's cousin, whom she adores. What this 4-year-old does, Becca mimics. It's natural and can occasionally be adorable. Yet at other times, it's a serious annoyance.

For starters, the boy refused to sit in his seat while we waited for dinner. But hey, they're kids, and we had the back room, so we let the little ones play around. But when said boy started slamming his hands onto his face and Becca followed suit? I told her not to hit herself. Because that's just stupid. Then the 4-year-old started bouncing on the booths. Becca thought this was GREAT fun. Again, I was the bad guy and told her that's not the way we treat furniture. Brother- and sister-in-law don't reprimand their boy. At all.

But the volume is escalating and their conversations suffering, so sister-in-law pulls out their portable DVD player. It's often pulled out at family meals to entertain the boy. It makes me inwardly shudder, but whatever. Needless to say, we don't own one, and so Becca is drawn to the screen like a moth to the flame. "We're going to watch Transformers!" the boy exclaims to Becca.

Wait. Transformers? As in the PG-13 movie? To be viewed by a 4-year-old and my 2-year-old?

Why, yes. The very same.

I respond, "I don't think Becca needs to watch that. It would probably scare the crap out of her."

Sister-in-law responds, "Oh, we watched it before letting the boy see it. There's not a lot of scary violence. And it's robot violence, not people violence, which is where I draw the line. Becca will be fine."

The Banker says nothing, effectively, in my view, hanging me out to dry. I now get to play the role of Overprotective Parent. Because I don't want my daughter to see Megan Fox's ample cleavage, scary, car-crushing robots, and men with guns. [Full disclosure: I feel a bit icky when Becca even plays with toy guns (water or otherwise) while at my in-laws. My uncle and the family he was employed by were slaughtered by a psychopath who got a hold of such weapons. So, I have a right to be squeamish. But for the most part, I stay quiet. We don't own guns, toy or otherwise, but I don't force my beliefs on others.] Even with my gun hang-up aside, I still don't think the movie is suitable viewing for such little ones.

There was, it felt, like no possible win. I couldn't call my sister-in-law out on the movie without drawing her parenting skills into question. This family is sensitive. So I do my best to distract Becca from the screen. When dinner arrives, thankfully the player is put away. The boy sits for three minutes, eats a few french fries, and gets down to run amuck again. Becca wants so much to join her cousin, but I demand she at least eat part of a grilled cheese first. She does so, grudgingly, and then flies to her cousin's side, to no doubt pick up more delightful habits.

Then to cap the stellar evening, someone pulls a cake out for another brother-in-law, whose birthday landed on this fateful day. The ice cream cake has peanut butter cups--a treat Becca can't yet enjoy for fear of a deadly peanut allergy. The pediatrician wants us to wait until she's 3 for proper testing. Explaining to her why she can't have the ice cream, carving out the cake portion to let her have instead...it was all so painful. So exhausting. So frustrating.

The Banker is defensive about his family's gathering. However, I take issue with the position it forces me into. I don't want to be Overprotective Parent. But I also don't want my daughter picking up on terrible habits that would never, ever, ever fly in our household. (And she's also only 2, so she doesn't understand that what works in one situation--a la such a family gathering--is not acceptable anywhere else. This muddies the water, confusing her.) And I don't think I should be backed into a corner, without support, while another family member tries to convince me that a movie for those 13 and above is somehow appropriate viewing for toddlers and preschoolers. Thoughts?

Just a bit of summer fun...

2009-06-19T08:09:00.000-07:00

Just an FYI

2009-06-08T12:13:00.000-07:00

Advising someone to "just relax" is in no way helpful. It doesn't help someone shrug off her burdens and gleefully skip about in blissful abandon. Telling someone to relax is akin to looking in the mirror and saying, "Grow, damn it!" I mean, I'm all for positive thinking, but I'm not about to sprout the four or five inches that would benefit my figure so much. It's advice, that while most likely entirely accurate, is next to impossible to follow. Quite simply, it doesn't work that way. And it's a platitude that is continually offered as appeasement for the months of exhaustive disappointment that have come my way.

I understand that people need something to say, and that they honestly want their words to be found helpful. And I don't want to seem ungrateful for their kind thoughts. But I also think people don't realize the absurdity of this advice "gem."

When my dearest friend suffered a heartbreaking miscarriage some five-plus years ago, it was followed by months of fist-shaking, loathsome infertility. And the more months that passed, the more stressed and anxious she became. Self-fulfilling process. I get that. But telling her to relax wouldn't magically make it so.

Just around the time of her would-have-been-due-date, I flew her up to Chicago to visit The Banker and me for a long weekend. We hit all the restaurants she'd seen on The Food Network. We shopped at all the flagship stores she loved. It was, in essence, a vacation from mourning--as much as possible, because I'm not a miracle worker, and mourning is important stuff. But she claims it helped. In the long run, I don't know if it made much difference. But I do know that she was pregnant again within four months and is now the happy--and harried--mother of two.

I'm not trying to gloat. And I'm certainly not asking for kuddos or trips to my much-missed Windy City. But I'm wondering why people do so little to help others relax. If that's your advice, why don't you let me out of that family obligation? Why don't you try not to cram a visit into an already-packed weekend? Why don't you let me off the hook, especially given how much you know I suck at saying "no"?

Lucky Number 7?!

2009-06-01T11:38:00.000-07:00

Today marks The Banker and my 7th wedding anniversary. Although if we were to take into account the years of friendship and dating that would eventually herald our wedding day, we're looking at something more like 14 or 15 years. Sheesh!

The connotation that often accompanies this given anniversary year is "the seven-year itch." You know, when married couples began to bore of one another and eye greener pastures? (To be perfectly correct, the phrase has evolved. Originally the seven-year itch had been known since the early 19th century as the name of a particularly irritating and contagious skin complaint...So gross all around, no?)

The thought is laughable to me on so many different levels. And at the moment, entirely ironic. Because right now it seems the need to cling to one another has never been more necessary. A shit storm seems to have hit our families and closest friends with a cruelty and force that leaves my head reeling. Here are just some of the terms being bandied about lately in our circle of loved ones: Lay-offs, The Economy, Wrongful Termination, Divorce, Infertility, HSG, Dead-Beats, Restraining Order, Falling Off The Wagon, DUI, Reoccurrence of Cancer.

So tonight when we go out to dinner and celebrate, it's with no shortage of exhaustion and weight on our shoulders. For ourselves, our families, our friends. But with it comes the knowledge that we'll weather this storm like all the others these past many years--and the sincere hope that this coming year will be a blessed respite for us and all those we love.

Change of perspective

2009-05-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

As I was feeling guilty about the obvious blog neglect and thinking of what to post--Becca's all-night fever, accompanying vomit, The Banker's simultaneous illness, the silverfish that have appeared out of nowhere wrecking clothing, my stress level over freelance that isn't coming together, family drama the likes I've never seen before--I brought myself up short. I mean, COME ON. QUIT WHINING, WOMAN. Not to mention grossing people out with bodily fluids.

So I thought about things for which I'm happy. The list may seem a wee bit weak. But heh, you gotta embrace the good stuff where you can find it. So here goes:

The ferns have gone crazy in the black metal urns that flank the front door. The hydrangeas I planted are beginning to flower. Okay, not with the blue flowers I'd worked so hard to produce with copious amounts of Aluminum Sulfate, but pink will do nicely all the same. Green thumb success! I don't take this lightly. I did not inherit my mother's talent with plants.

Dinner on the back patio, grilling out, while Boo plays on the swing set. There's this small sliver of time before it gets too hot, before the mosquitoes drive us inside. If I were to bottle it, I'd love to live in this perfect weather sphere for the better part of the year.

My sister (#2) introduced me to a wonderful new concoction: Jameson and Ginger Ale. When the day is through, having drained and then tossed me about, it offers a sweet little reward. It almost whispers, "Congrats on still standing."

I made a mean garage-sale purchase for Becca: a pink, retro-style kitchen set that now sits in our sun room. It keeps her delightfully busy while I'm in the kitchen (and prevents the worry of her trying to make her way to the playroom upstairs).

I have book club coming up this month with a delightful group of ladies. I doubt they know just how key they are in helping keep me sane. With all the upcoming events littering the calendar (weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, showers, and various other parties), this one tiny event is one of the few welcome ones. Hooray for awesome friends!

So there. Bright spots, positive thoughts. And now added to the list: Something new on the blog. Take that, Sister #2!!

In which we struggle a bit

2009-05-06T11:13:00.000-07:00

It seems that this period of time is marked by struggle--some I've discussed and some I'm keeping to myself. And among those various battles is the struggle to achieve some semblance of balance between family, work, myself, my dreams, and the scorching truth of reality. Tough stuff, this. But as I'm peering down the barrel of this weekend, the family struggle is one I'm feeling most acutely.

My parents have no relatives here in town, so while I was growing up it was just us three girls and Mom and Dad. My dad's parents would come into town for Christmas, but more or less, we didn't have to "share" holidays with anyone. Worked out quite nicely, truth be told. To some this would seem a terrible shame. After all, where were the grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins? But to be honest, most of these people weren't necessarily missed. I've little in common with my cousins, so most interactions with them was (and is) marked by awkwardness. And my parents are drastically different than their respective siblings. Visits are more often a testament to the virtue of patience than love.

So it's been very difficult for me to adapt to the way The Banker's family functions. Both sides of my husband's family bred. A LOT. And short of three cousins (out of over 30, mind you), none have dared venture outside the state. And regardless of whether they truly like each other, family comes first. So any given baptism, graduation, birthday, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Fourth of July, St. Patrick's Day, Christmas, Easter, or general sneeze is warrant for the mass descent of family members. Folks, it's not unusual for full family parties to number over 100 (should both sides attend). It's a mass of confusion, a small roar of conversation, a muddle of hugs, too many names to remember (even for The Banker), and a bunch of sub-par food. And it's a lot to handle for a girl accustomed to intimate gatherings. (How it makes me miss our Chicago days when we were free from all the tedious hometown hoopla!)

But we also have my side of the family: my parents, Sister #2, who now lives in town, and the occasional presence of Sister #1, who remains out-of-town. So add their small numbers with The Banker's family, and it's a lot of people to keep up with.

Having never shared my holidays before, I was unaccustomed to the frantic schedule comparisons and manic driving between functions on days of import, such as this weekend's Mother's Day. It doesn't help matters that The Banker's family are last-minute planners. What was traditionally a Mother's Day brunch was changed to a possible dinner, then back again. My adaptive family made plans for a dinner gathering. Now The Banker's sister wants to move their plans, again, to a dinner.

And me? I'm just damn tired. Tired of never having a holiday my way. Tired of too many people with feelings that have a tendency to get hurt. Tired that, even now, in my second year of motherhood, there is no time for our own family traditions. Just exhausted that I don't know how to draw the line, come what may. How's that for a whiney, self-serving post?

In Which There is Vomit, Blood, Poop, and I Get Bitten in the Ass

2009-04-21T18:27:00.001-07:00

Gross-out Warning: This post--just the synopsis of my last few days--covers most bodily fluids and entails one seriously messed up toddler. Those weak of stomach kindly quit reading now.

I was bitching to my sister on the phone extolling the ridiculousness that is my life over the last few days and she responded by saying, "Just write about it, already!" Nothing like the familiar ring of familial guilt to get me to post again. So if the following makes you want to gag, thank my sister.

Where to begin? How about Sunday night where the in-laws invited us to a favorite local pizza joint along with The Banker's brother, his wife, and their two kids. It was the end of a long weekend for us, as we'd driven down to Retirement Village with my parents to visit my grandparents. They'd been hankering to see Becca, and it'd been far too long. So two looong car rides (in my new car! a hybrid! that's used! and I already magnificently scratched it!) and an overnight stay in a hotel had Becca pretty much spent. But then again, so was I, and I didn't want to cook. So we dragged our cranky pants to dinner. And Becca was a pill, as she was pretty much entitled to be. The Banker and I kept exchanging glances that said, "This is the last time we'll be asked out for dinner," when our nephew leaned over his mom...and projectile vomited everywhere. The little bugger was sitting next to me. All I could do was rub his back as his mom attempted to catch the torrents in her hands, empty them under the table, and repeat. Several times. I ignored the splatter I felt on my feet. On the drive home, The Banker turned to me and said, "Well, Becca came out of that looking pretty good after all." Indeed.

Monday I picked up Boo a bit early from Mother's Day Out. I was in the neighborhood and sometimes I like to sneak in and play with the wee ones. This time, Becca was still fast asleep on her cot, obviously still exhausted from our long weekend. But a few of the boys took to hollering and promptly woke her up. I was greeted by a brilliant smile, warm hug, and a gentle patting of my hair. "We have to run some errands, Boo, before we go home, so let me change your diaper here," I told her. She climbed the adorable wee steps to the changing table, and as I'm finishing up, I feel this peculiar grasping on my ass. I turn around to see Logan, his face entirely too close to my bottom region. "Logan, did you just bite me on my bottom?" I asked in total shock. Logan was promptly scolded by the teacher for, well, biting my bum. A 2-year-old I barely know decided to take a hunk out of my hiney with his teeth. Just awesome.

I thought that today probably couldn't top the bizarreness of my last few days. THINK AGAIN. This afternoon my mom called and asked to be taken to the emergency room, as she'd fallen and severely bruised her hand and wrist. The swelling, discoloration, and pain made her fear a break, so Becca and I took mom into the ER, which was oddly empty. For the moment. As my mom is filling out paperwork and seeing the initial nurse for check-in, and as I'm trying to entertain Becca, a hefty man limps through the sliding doors, his hands busy keeping the 30-galloon clear trash bag encircling his right foot up around his waist. To keep the volumes of blood from leaking all over the floor. I swivel the library book Becca and I've been reading into her line of sight, attempting to keep this visage from scalding her memory. But of course, she's all over the fuss that is now centered around this man, who in a stroke of genius kicked his lawn mower. Obviously while the blade was still rotating. Thankfully a wheelchair arrives and The Lawnmower Man is taken into the bowels of the hospital, though not before leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Shortly thereafter we continue back to my mom's assigned room where a variety of nurses come and go. At each entrance, Becca announces, "BaBa boo-boo--not Becca!" Clearly, she wants them nowhere near her. But about this time, Becca starts to work on something. First the smell hits me, then I see the large swell in the back of her diaper. She'd been a bit constipated as of late, and I'd just used the last diaper in the bag while we were at the library. Mom's call had been unexpected, and I was clearly unprepared. But now, err, the blockage was cleared.

The only choice I had was to try to salvage this diaper. So I took Becca to the (nasty) hall bathroom and removed the plum-sized blockage and turned to throw it in the toilet only to discover the bowl was crowded with wrappers and mounds of toilet paper. If I were to add Becca's contribution and flush, water would shortly be in the hallway. So I did what I had to do: I balled it up with ample paper towels and dumped it in the trash. As we exited, a nurse was leading a gown-clad woman right into our very bathroom. "Umm," I apologized, "there seems to be a blockage in the toilet, we didn't even attempt to use it." The nurse bravely entered and I could hear her trying to flush. I almost said, "Please excuse the giant smelly dump in the trash as well. Sorry." Instead, we hightailed it back to my mom's room. Where, thankfully, all was fine. No break, just bruising.

I'm hoping the rest of the week entails fewer bodily emissions and butt-obsessed 2-year-olds. Because I could use some normalcy, oddly enough.

Ta-Dah Two!!

2009-03-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

This past weekend Boo turned 2 and the family rang in the momentous occasion with a Dora The Explorer/Go Diego Go! party. It was originally slated to just be Dora themed, but days before the shindig Becca started saying the party would have Go-Go, too. Umm, kiddo, that was not the plan...but some last minute purchases rounded out the dual themed party. There were a handful of kids running about, cake, ice cream, a smattering of presents, and a scary Dora piñata. And the kiddo had a blast. It was exhausting for her parents, but Becca told everyone and anyone about her party. Whew.

Oh, Vey.

2009-02-23T18:06:00.000-08:00

From Sister #2 via e-mail today: "The last time you wrote on your blog was January 17th. WRITE!"

Ouch. I admit it--I've signed in, only to sign out again, unable to write about anything. It seems that tiny little nuggets of doubt have crept in, taken root. The freelance that last month was overwhelming has slowed to a sluggish, painful trickle. The Really Big Company that keeps me "On Call" (and continues to hold and "nurture" my 401K) has gone to radio silence. I will be dropped shortly from a company that requires months of testing and exhaustive interviews to enter. Part of me sensibly says, "It's the economy, Stupid." Yet the part of me that harbors doubt, self-loathing, whispers, "If you were a better writer and editor, you'd still be in demand."

But it's not just the doubt. It's also the not-quite-but-seeming-failures that register as dull thuds in my chest. Becca will turn 2 in a matter of weeks. And with that fateful date fast approaching, I'm asked by family, friends, and virtual strangers alike, "When is Number Two coming along?" In response, a tight, pained smile plasters across my face. The response varies: "Oh, Becca's enough of a handful for right now." "Maybe in awhile." "We'll see..." The truth is much simpler: "We're trying, but...nothing. While Becca was a miracle--against all odds and precautions--now that we're actually open to adding to the chaos...nothing. And all around me, friends and acquaintances are happily sporting baby bumps. Three out of the eight-or-so mothers from Becca's Mother's Day Out class are expecting, due in April. And me? I'm undergoing blood tests to ensure that everything is okay."

I shouldn't complain--we're so incredibly blessed with Becca and are far from reverting to IVF treatments--but I still am beginning to feel like a bit of a failure. Because trying is now shifting to TRYING. And within a few more months will resort to UNDERGOING TREATMENT. What is currently a dull thud will soon verge on a painful ripping in the area that houses my heart.

I understand the need to rely on faith. The knowledge that There Is A Greater Plan. But patience has never been my strong suit. And the sudden void is beginning to resonate in ways I didn't expect. The absences--of work, of words, of inspiration, of life--are beginning to wear on me. My near constant work of caring for others, putting out fires, keeping all in order, is ringing hollow. The bareness echoes.

The days of February don't help any. This limbo between winter and spring has always been pained. It's temptingly sunny, but not warm enough. Too cool to run about outside, but so painfully tempting from indoors. No-man's-land sucks.

So I'm holding out for spring. Green, fresh earth. Warm, nurturing sun. Life coming back. Renewal. And I'm holding on to the ideals of faith, hope, A Master Plan. And in between, maybe I'll write more often. Post a picture that sparks delight. A song that stirs the soul. In other words, keep moving forward and embracing the joys of life as they occur.

Heavy

2009-01-17T08:33:00.001-08:00

I'm feeling a bit claustrophobic in my own life. The symptoms are physical in nature--heaviness in my chest, shallow breaths, a deep and mysterious ache that seems to know no boundaries.

I know it's just an overload of everyday responsibilities. One terribly sick dog that's not even my own. Family issues so convoluted and distant I can't even begin to touch on them here. Disappointment in one I love from afar, a difference of opinion, an inability to pick up the once effortless daily conversations. Too many deadlines. The fact that I can't refuse yet more deadlines. A recession that's hit uncomfortably close to home. The edge to The Banker's voice when he calls from work. The suddenly stubborn, obstinate nature of our almost 2-year-old who is trying my patience, my sanity, in increasingly creative ways. Add to these very little private time, a lack of an outlet, and you get a case of claustrophobia. A feeling that life is closing in on all sides providing too little space for your soul.

So I'm hanging on. Holding out. Waiting for an ease in pressure. Listening to music that stirs the emotions in my chest. Escaping to warm showers and good books when I can painstakingly carve out the time. And knowing that this too shall pass. And that we're never given more than we can handle. And dreaming of a vacation, an escape, that while I know won't materialize, provides soothing moments of daydream. One day at a time. Bird by bird. We all move forward.

Christmas in a Nutshell

2009-01-10T12:38:00.000-08:00

It was a really, really nice Christmas. The Banker and I cut back on our social calendar, focused on Boo, and had one of the best holidays we'd had in ages. I hope your holiday was just as great. Here's a quick peek at ours:

Remember when...

2008-12-15T11:16:00.001-08:00

...something as simple as a Dora The Explorer Backpack would rock your world?

Some Christmas Spirit

2008-12-09T18:58:00.000-08:00

Three articles down, two to go. Almost all gifts purchased. One tree up and decorated. One little girl who's learning about Santa...and Jesus (and has her own little Nativity set with which to play). One Peruvian hat someone is so in love with that she wears it even in the house. Some good, old-fashioned Christmas carols played. (Thank you for the good advice, Mike Z!) Snow falling steadily and covering everything in a thick blanket. And some cooking to occur this weekend. A little of the Christmas spirit, which managed to be found:

Holiday Meltdown

2008-12-03T07:55:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been almost a month--and part of me is wondering whether keeping such a neglected blog is even worthwhile. But much like my current addiction to candy corn, I keep coming back for more. And having a place to silently scream is quite handy at the moment.

I'm in the midst of, for lack of a better term, a freak out. One month crammed with holiday festivities, gift buying, home decorating, and FIVE ARTICLES. Did I mention I'd agreed to host a mini-reunion of sorts for my high-school class two days after Christmas? (And everyone keeps asking when we're going to give Becca a sibling. AWESOME TIMING.) Unfortunately, The Banker is getting pulled away to every possible work event, family celebration, and such, so there's not a lot of support around here. The Banker's mom hurt her back and can no longer watch Boo. My mom is fighting the flu. Add to that mix some particularly saddening family drama, and I'm having a hard time getting into the holiday spirit.

And I so, so want to be. For Boo. This is the first Christmas she has a bit of a handle on what's going on. She recognizes Santa, his "deer" and the concept that toys get delivered for well-behaved children. This, as they say, is the good stuff, and I don't want to miss out on it.

But with The Banker's bank freezing salaries and abandoning bonuses, I can't turn down any freelance. What little money I can scrounge is so needed by this household. But how I'm supposed to balance such a heavy workload with the demands of the holiday and the needs of a 20-month-old, I have no idea. So if you hear a loud BOOM!, it's probably my head exploding. Fa-la-la-la-la indeed.

Feeling Slightly Sheepish

2008-11-05T09:01:00.000-08:00

Okay, it's been ages. I know, I know, I'm sorry. I've flitted in and out, but life's been crazy. But that doesn't mean I didn't appreciate the birthday wishes, because I most sincerely did. There's just been so much happening around here!

For starters, in early October, The Banker and I went to Santa Fe to check out my parents' new home with some dear friends of ours, while Boo stayed here exhausting her very kind grandparents. It was so much fun. Incredible food, beautiful art, great company. And The Banker was relieved that I didn't find a single piece of art that I couldn't live without. Talk about dodging an expensive bullet! But I did find something that made me go all goo-goo eyed:

Isn't he adorable?! We took a leisurely hike into the mountains with a fantastic guide and we had llamas that carried our packs. Such great, gentle creatures! I want one. (More accurately several, as they're social pack animals.) Perhaps when I get that land I've always wanted?

And as soon as we returned home refreshed and renewed life took us out at the knees--as it always seems to do when you return from vacation. There was strep throat, double ear infections, allergies, and other miserable fun to be had by all. My old company suddenly needed a lot of help and my freelance assignments were doubled (not that I'm complaining, mind you. In a sucky economy, I'll take all the work I can get). There were family parties (let's not go there, shall we? Let's just say The Banker's blowhard brother brought up politics. WHO DOES THAT AT DINNER?!), Halloween festivities, out-of-town visitors, and an election to survive. So these are just a few of the reasons I haven't sat down and weighed in as of late.

But I'm still here, albeit trying to get a handle on things before the insanity of the holidays descends. Which should happen in about three days by the way the retail establishments are looking. So before I'm bombarded with holiday cards, carols, and other obligations, I'll just leave you with this, a reminder why October, despite it's insanity, was really a great month:

My Updated List

2008-10-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

So on the eve of my 30th birthday (enjoying my last day in my 20s, as my sister so snarkily reminded me), here's my updated list:

Done:
Bungee-Jumping
Sky Diving
Parasailing
Dog Sledding
Hot Air Ballooning
Snorkeling
Scuba Diving
White-Water Rafting
Skiing
Snow Mobiling
Water Skiing
Took a Road Trip
Drag Raced
Camping
Climbed Ayers Rock
Hiked the Inka Trail to Machu Picchu
Danced on Stage at a Bar
Seen an Opera, a Musical, a Play, and Alternative Dance Performances
Ridden a: Camel, Elephant, Dolphin, Horse, Mechanical Bull
Traveled to: Sweden, Italy, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, The Bahamas, Mexico, England, Ireland, Scotland, Peru, and Assorted States in the U.S.
Tried: Escargot, Tongue, Lime-Sorbet-Flavored Ants, Foie Gras, Ostrich, Crocodile, Kangaroo, Frog Legs, Caviar, and Truffles
Practiced Falconry
Fell in Love; Had my Heart Broken
Tried It on my Own
Graduated from College
Received Master’s Degree—Helped Publish a Start-up Magazine
Got Married
Bought a House (Times Two)
Got a Dog; Rescued a Cat
Moved to: Columbia, Missouri; Chicago, Illinois
Became a Contributing Writer for National Parenting Magazines
Became a Mother

To Do:
Travel the Rest of Europe
African Safari
Visit Egypt
Own a Horse
Ride on a Zipline
Write a Book (and get it Published)
Buy Land
Acquire Art
Do right by my Family
Live with NO Regrets
Stay True

A Retrospective

2008-09-18T10:23:00.001-07:00

When I turned 25, I made a list of things I'd accomplished and things I wanted to do. Something about starting the latter part of my 20s filled me with a degree of angst, so writing the list helped put things in perspective and provide focus for the future. I've attached the list below for the sake of amusement (with only details that provide too much insight into my identity removed). So read on, laugh, and think of what would be on your list. In the meantime, I'm fine-tuning a revised list (also known as a Bucket List) for my pending 30th birthday. Anything anyone thinks I should add to my list? I'm open to suggestions.

Done:
Bungee-Jumping
Sky Diving
Parasailing
Dog Sledding
Hot Air Ballooning
Snorkeling
Scuba Diving
White-Water Rafting
Skiing
Snow Mobiling
Water Skiing
Took a Road Trip
Drag Raced
Camping
Climbed Ayers Rock
Danced on Stage at a Bar
Ridden a: Camel, Elephant, Dolphin, Horse
Traveled to: Sweden, Italy, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, The Bahamas, Mexico, and Assorted States in the U.S.
Tried: Escargot, Tongue, Lime-Sorbet-Flavored Ants, Foie Gras, Ostrich, Crocodile, Kangaroo, Frog Legs, Caviar, and Truffles
Fell in Love; Had my Heart Broken
Tried It on my Own
Graduated from College
Received Master’s Degree—Helped Publish a Start-up Magazine
Got Married
Bought a House
Got a Dog; Rescued a Cat
Moved States, Countries
Became a Contributing Writer for National Parenting Magazines

To Do:
Travel the Rest of Europe
African Safari
Own a Horse
Write a Book
Buy Land
Have a Family
Live with NO Regrets
Stay True

Nada much...and yet everything much

2008-09-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

I guiltily admit that I've been away for a bit. Every time I've pulled up the screen and thought, "Geez, I should really post something..." the effort seemed too much, so I'd click elsewhere. Maybe because everything that's been going down here seems a bit mundane? Maybe because I think so many others have much, much, MUCH more interesting things about which to write? And maybe because I suck. Yep, I think it's safe to say that all three apply. Abundantly.

But I do owe a little someone this post. Because while I've always been awful at keeping a diary, this is the closest thing Peanut has to a collection of my thoughts and feelings prior to and since her birth. So this is for you, Boo.

Today, I took you in for your 18-month old appointment. I had lots of questions to pepper the doctor with, such as: Why does she yank on her hair? Why in the hell does she make herself puke every now and again? Why does she hit and throw tantrums? Why is it that she does all these things in a manor that makes me think she's doing it JUST TO PISS ME OFF?

It seems, much like your height, weight, head size, and vocabulary, you're a little more...advanced. And it seems that this also applies to your personality. Wait, that doesn't quite do it justice. P E R S O N A L I T Y. Yes, that comes closer.

"Some kids are put on this earth to sit there and look pretty," the doctor told me. "Others are here to change the world. Becca? She's most definitely here to change the world."

Okay, I get that this is probably a line regurgitated over and over again to anxious parents. But I have to admit, it made your mom feel better, kiddo. It made me hope that your strong will and excruciating ability to get my goat and challenge me in ways I never thought possible are because inside of you is an independent, brave, and unbelievably powerful person just waiting to come out.

So let's keep at it, Little One. Let's keep helping each other grow. And then let's always remember to use our power for good and not evil.

FYI, Mr. Highway Patrolman

2008-08-25T16:57:00.000-07:00

If you should happen to see a woman in a Jeep going just a teeny bit over the speed limit on a deserted highway in the middle of BFE, and she has a screaming child in her backseat, milk spattered across the interior of the car, and she's on the verge of tears, have a frickin' heart and just give her a warning.

Or be a prick and don't and then leave said woman wondering how much she could sell her eggs for.

Where the "blahs" turn into more

2008-08-21T12:44:00.000-07:00

It's been a bit rough around here lately. Not due to external forces, mostly, but due to internal ones.

I spent last weekend cramped into a too-small lake house with The Banker's family. We left the house only for dinner, really, and so the entire time I felt like the walls were closinginonme. There were three children and eight adults and while there was booze, even that didn't take the edge off. It was just too tight, too much, too long. And I found myself wanting to crawl out of my skin.

I fully expected this intense discomfort to pass upon our return home. But it didn't. Oddly enough, the anxiety seemed to build rather than dissipate. I'd a physical scheduled for Wednesday and in passing mentioned these symptoms to my doctor. Okay, not so much in passing. More like, "Geez, doc, what the hell is going on? Tightness of chest, insomnia, diminished appetite. WTF?!"

As it turns out, my encroaching 30th birthday has a lot to do with this. Because my hormones? They're taking a serious dive. I'd always heard that a woman's fertility drops in half at 30. Well, what they don't tell you is that this drop is caused by a serious diminishment of hormones, which leads to all the symptoms I was experiencing. The doctor assured me that my body would soon re-align itself to deal with the lower levels, however.

But come on! Like saying farewell to my 20s wasn't going to suck enough, it turns out that 30 welcomes me with an emotional roller coaster from hell. What a bitch.

A hardcore case of the blahs

2008-08-12T07:56:00.000-07:00

I think I'm suffering from a hardcore case of the blahs. Too hot outside, and I'm always consumed by mosquitoes. Currently itching at some dozen-plus sites (and that was WITH jeans on!). Anxious kid and no Mother's Day Out until September. The terrible twos have also seemed to arrive early, which means we have our fair share of tantrums and time-outs to contend with. And I have freelance to write and no interest in either article. And my editors seemed to have dropped off the face of the planet, so I feel like I'm sending out queries into the nether. Ugh.

And The Banker and I are trying to get ourselves on a strict budget, now that the new-house spending hemorrhage has started to dwindle to droplets. In makes sense trying to reign in costs, given the whole sucky economy and all. But there's nothing quite as anxiety-ridden or mood-bumming as writing down the costs for everything. Zanax for anxious, fighting dogs: $14. Groceries, even with coupons: $124. Gas: $78. Yuck.

Both my sisters, who were in town this past weekend for The Race for the Cure, have returned to their respective homes. And I can feel their absence most heavily.

Thrown into this mix is the fact that this weekend I'm supposed to go to The Lake with The Banker's family. This family doesn't travel. Ever. So what prompted this get-together, I've no idea. But the boys will get to go golfing, leaving the wives with the screaming kids. Supposedly, there will be a trade-off and pedicures or something for the ladies. But what I REALLY want is time to myself. To work out. Read. And maybe buy my first pair of jeans in over two years. But that, I think, is not in the budget.

Fall better hurry up and get here.

It's official

2008-08-05T07:59:00.001-07:00

This morning, as Becca grabbed a book from her bookshelf and sat down to flip through the pages, I attempted to read along to her. She leaned over, stretched out her arm, palm flat, and pressed it firmly against my face, pushing me away. Three days away from her 17 month, and she's decided that, Mom? Mom's pretty much not needed.

And the kitchen sink, too

2008-08-02T08:59:00.000-07:00

After a whirlwind weekend to visit my dad's parents, some five days later my grandmother was promptly put into the hospital for almost a week. She'd looked so great during our visit, so strong and happy, but a variety of factors finally led her to desperately needing a break (from keeping up a house that's too large for them and for caring for my grandfather). The toll it took on my dad was crushing to see. I'm really shitty at seeing the people I love in pain. Coupled with my own fears and pain was the knowledge that I needed to step up and help. Make phone calls. Arrange for information from assisted living facilities to be sent out. Send out encouraging cards. Keep everyone in the loop. Keep the smiles and positive thoughts rolling.

Added to this was the responsibility of watching my parents' elderly dog, run errands for them while they were away, write four freelance articles, plan a small dinner party, keep atop a child who--despite a tumble down the stairs--STILL wants to go everywhere she shouldn't. I was feeling really, really overwhelmed. The oldest child, the only one in town, the mom, the daughter, the writer, the part-time worker, the house cleaner, the dog sitter, the chef, the wife. Wearing so many damn hats while trying to shoulder the emotional burden of this past week left me exhausted. And, I have to admit, a little angry. Because the selfish, crappy part of me, whimpered, "Isn't anyone going to help? Who's going to take care of ME?"

Thankfully, we're coming out the other side. My grandmother is out of the hospital and into rehab to get her strength back. My dad returns tomorrow. Two articles are, at least, roughly written. Dinner party a success. But the exhaustion and haggardness lingers. And in some ways, the battle has only begun. There will be arguments over facilities. Over cleaning out a house so cluttered from almost 30 years of life that closets are overflowing. There will be nastiness as siblings bicker.

Boy, I could use a vacation.

We interrupt this broadcast...

2008-07-27T20:03:00.000-07:00

So I've been a bit quiet as of late, despite the abundance of topics about which to write. The trip with Becca to see my grandparents? The unpleasant weight of old age? An unexpected downturn? The somber increase in responsibility that comes with being the oldest child? How about being an unfortunate disseminator of information?

I could weigh in on all of these topics right about now, but I simply don't have the heart. Right now I'm charging into unknown territory. And right now I'm not ready to reflect about any of it in words.

A creative labor

2008-07-14T11:32:00.001-07:00

One of the most aggravating parts of making a "living" as a writer/editor, is the relative ease friends and family treat what you do. I don't know how many times someone has cheerfully chided me to "just write that children's book already," as if to do so I would need merely to concentrate really hard and POP! out a manuscript, much like a chicken lays an egg. Viola! There it is. Such a marvel and produced so effortlessly. (Now I think if I'd shown an interest in writing a novel, than that would be a different story. That invokes images of angst-ridden time alone in some dimly lit room, writer's block hanging like an albatross about the neck, causing the gnashing of teeth and ripping of hair.) But no, writing a children's book must be so EASY. After all, every Hollywood star has managed to do it. How hard can that be?

I have trouble explaining to people that there's this small thing called inspiration, which I've been sadly lacking lately. And then there's the whole other issue of quiet, private time in which to write. I can't even go to the bathroom unassailed anymore let alone write much for myself. Between the parenting articles I spit out every month, the inane work I'm doing at my old Really Big Company (part-time brainless data entry that the other editors never get to because they're doing CREATIVE things), and the move, there's been precious little extra time.

But really, I'm making excuses. Because I have one story written and another two so well outlined that it would take little blood, sweat, or tears to bring a rough, rough draft into existence. It's the next step that has rendered me powerless.

I know enough to know that getting a book published is damn difficult. I know that self-publishing entails monetary freedom I don't have. I know that, for the most part, you have to have an agent to get published from a reputable publishing house--but to have an agent you need to be published. Catch-22, anyone? And I don't live in a publishing mecca. There are some small local publishing companies, but not many. And what few contacts I had while living in Chicago have grown so stale as to be useless. So I'm at a standstill. I've always, always wanted to publish something of my own, (and have all the writer's guides and background research to know a thing or two about the process), but knowing where to go from here has left me feeling creatively stalled.

Umm, hello again?

2008-07-11T08:38:00.000-07:00

I know it's been awhile--almost a full month by my count. And to be honest, I've been avoiding this simply because I don't know how to encapsulate everything that's happened during this time. Do you have four hours and a drink?

Living at my parents' house for the two-and-a-half weeks before the new house was ready was stressful. Angst-ridden. Difficult. My parents have a gorgeously decorated house that doesn't exactly scream "Children and ill-behaved dogs! Come in! Play! Make yourself at home!" Because of this and because I knew we were inconveniencing my parents, I walked around on eggshells for two weeks. And can I tell you it took all of two days before one of the dogs peed on my parents' super-expensive white rug? Yeah. And it's hard when other people pipe in--as well meaning as they might be--on your marriage, parenting skills, and general lifestyle.

And then an unexpected angst came from living in my old neighborhood again. I never set out to be just like my mom, and here I am, 29 years later, a stay-at-home mom living in the EXACT. SAME. NEIGHBORHOOD. What would the 12-year-old me think of this? I think she might be disappointed.

And as I watched the neighborhood kids walk home from swim practice, something I did for 9 or 10 years myself, I was struck by the irony that even at that young of an age I didn't like my body. Oh, sweetheart, I wish I could tell myself. It really only goes downhill from there. Enjoy your taught belly for all it's worth before it turns stretch-marked and stretched out.

So those few weeks of internal and external onslaughts were tough. But we survived.

And then the movers came.

I could go on for hours about the incompetence of our movers. We used a well-known, professional moving company. They sent three men to load up our things, store them, and return our items to the new house. Sadly, these men were poorly motivated and educated. Our invoice is littered with terrible misspellings. (Did you know we have four blue tots in our house? We do! Except that's supposed to be blue totes...) While this made me incredibly sad, a number of other things made me fume with anger. Such as the process taking triple the time promised. Or the fact that EVERY SINGLE PIECE of wooden furniture was somehow scratched, dented, or otherwise marked up.

So as we struggle with the moving company, the cable guy who accidentally drilled a hole through our wall, the survey that shows our flower bed and sprinklers on our neighbor's yard, and the fence that is two weeks behind, I've kinda avoided posting. Because it looks like one major bitchfest.

But we're in the house. We're getting settled. We're establishing a new routine. Things are coming together. Artwork is being hung. And while there's still work to be done (painting! new ovens! new stovetop! selling a kidney to pay for all of this!), this place is beginning to resemble a home. Thank God.

A hard, hard farewell

2008-06-13T11:29:00.001-07:00

As I sit and type this in my parents' kitchen, it's hard for me to encapsulate what the last two days have entailed. Yesterday, chaos consumed us as we moved, cleaned, moved, and watched warily as "professional" movers threw about our furniture. I made six trips over to my parents' house to drop things off (which cost $75 in gas--ugh).

The rain that pounded the night before gave way to a stifling humidity that left The Banker and me drenched in sweat (not to mention the movers, too, whom I could begin to differentiate by smell). We couldn't get everything out of the house by the buyers' walk-through yesterday evening. Still, the house was orderly and clean enough to pass snuff, and we returned this morning for three more trips hauling our junk.

For starters, I didn't realize we'd accumulated SO. MUCH. STUFF. Loads and loads and loads of boxes. And secondly, we weren't nearly as prepped as I thought we were. When we move into the new house, over a dozen boxes will lack labels and will hold a mish-mash of random things. And how I hate hodgepodge while I'm trying to neatly lay out a new home! But what caught me most by surprise was the heart wrenching sadness that took hold as I prepared my home for someone else. I sat on the empty floor of Becca's nursery and just balled--my sobs echoing off the hardwood floors and the naked walls.

These new people? I'm sure they're nice enough, but they're not good enough for this home. This place that we lovingly updated. This place that we filled with craziness and junk and love. I know every inch of that home, every squeak in the floorboards, every knot in the floor. And it's not mine anymore. My first home, the place I brought my daughter home from the hospital to...it's all gone now. And it still hurts enough to bring tears to my eyes. I know we couldn't stay where we were forever, but leaving hurt so damn bad. And I doubt I'll ever come to love another home as much again.

Bowled Over

2008-06-10T12:39:00.000-07:00

There's simply too much to be accomplished and I'm running out of the necessary time and energy. Where are the promised vacation pics? Still in my camera...along with the better part of Becca's memory book. AND SHE'S ALMOST A YEAR-AND-A-HALF OLD. She'll never forgive me if I don't get going on that.

But she may also not forgive me for taking her to Mother's Day Out, where she got so thoroughly upset today that she vomited all over herself. I was putting in a few hours at the company I used to work for (what? and you're moving on THURSDAY? well, see if I didn't go in and work I would have been kicked off of Creative-On-Call, so I kinda had to, despite all the other chaos...). So I'm wracked with guilt, stress over freelance and Creative-On-Call hours, exhaustion from a family wedding this weekend, and a house that needs to be packed and cleaned. And did I mention The Banker turns 30 this weekend?

So what the hell am I doing on here?

I'll try to be back when this overwhelming chaos subsides. And if I promise pictures and fresh cookies, will you come back?

A Hasty Retreat

2008-06-02T16:21:00.001-07:00

Was it just last week I departed for Grand Cayman? Where did the time go? And how can I adequately encompass all that that retreat entailed and meant? And do I really have time, given that I need to complete three freelance articles, pack up an entire home, get Becca to her first day of Mother's Day Out, and somehow make time to help out my old company?

Okay, so we'll give it a quick go: Private villa at the Ritz. Needless to say, a girl could get accustomed to that lifestyle. If she were made of money and $20 drinks didn't make her throat seize up. The beach was gorgeous, the digs incredibly posh, the sunsets amazing. I saw two sea turtles while scuba diving and touched sting rays and an eel while snorkeling. Loved, loved, loved it.

The company: I knew only one of the gals on this trip (an amazing friend who kindly asked me to join her. Um, THANK YOU). The other three were strangers to me--two single, one married. I think I could get along great with all of the gals, sans one, who'll we'll get to shortly.

The neighbors: Six married men in their 40s. All fathers. They spotted us on our patio (by the private plunge pool, natch), and invited us over for a drink. I hesitated, but the consensus was it was harmless fun, right? Well, it quickly became apparent that these millionaires (most of who graciously let us know their financial status), put higher stock in their investment funds than in their marriages. And that one aforementioned gal? The tall, beautiful party girl from L.A. who bedded a Coast Guard member during our stay? Well, apparently she took it upon herself to sleep with TWO of these men...unbeknownst to my friend and me, as we'd retired early in preparation for the next day's flight.

I'm disgusted by both the single party girl and the two married men. Not that these things overshadowed my incredible trip--far from it--but they did make me so very, very thankful for the family I have. Who were waiting excitedly at the airport for my return. Pictures later, but now, I have china and crystal to pack.

Grand Cayman, Here I Come

2008-05-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

Monday morning at an obscenely early hour, while The Banker and Becca sleep, I'll sneak away to catch a flight to the Grand Cayman Island. For a week. With a gaggle of gals.

I've never taken a girl's vacation before, and, admittedly, the timing is less than ideal. But when someone dangles a FREE stay at a private residence at the Ritz Carlton, well, you'd be kinda insane to pass it up. And so I find myself in the usual Mommy Conundrum--How to go and enjoy myself without letting the guilt take over?

This trip, for all intensive purposes, is free (minus food, drink, and SHOPPING. Did I mention the SHOPPING?!?). But The Banker and I have some serious costs looming: moving expenses, new carpet for the house, fencing the yard, and all sorts of necessities to fill this larger house. But that guilt pales in comparison to abandoning my babe and very tolerant husband for five days. In the midst of packing hell.

I'm rationalizing that this will be the break I've been in desperate need of for, say, the last six months or so. And I'm hoping it will be renewing and reinvigorating enough so that I can return to pack, move, move again, and unpack all without losing my cool...too much. I'll do some scuba diving, some reading (yes, I know. So selfish. But all I want to do is READ. Uninterrupted. For more than 10 minutes at a time.), some beaching and pooling, and hopefully some delicious eating and drinking. And maybe some shopping. Maybe.

So I'll see you all again in on the 31st. Pray that The Banker, Becca, and I find this to be a good couple of days.

Grand Central Station

2008-05-15T18:57:00.000-07:00

Three plumbers and three electricians (two trailing dried mud and spewing plaster) paraded through my house today. But it's finished--the electrical problems and the various other demands that the buyers had put forth. And so now the count is on till our closing, some 28 days. I cannot tell you how great it feels to have strange, messy men out of my house.

So while I'm still buried under one lingering bit of freelance, I can sort of see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sure, there's the packing, the moving, the shacking with the in-laws for a week, then two weeks with my parents, and then cleaning and moving into the new home...but before that is a promise of a get-away. Something I've never experienced before, something that will carry with it no small amount of guilt, but will also hold the renewing properties of warm sand, soft, lapping waves, and unexplored horizons. And I'll need all that peace to carry me through the next month.

Nightmare

2008-05-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

The inspection lasted some three hours yesterday with the buyers and the real estate agent in tow. I had to entertain Becca, stay out of the way, but be on call to answer questions. That morning, my body finally screaming for mercy from all this stress, succumbed to a head cold and terrible sore throat.

The inspector (who was not a registered electrician), tried to trip a GFI outlet in our main-floor bathroom. In doing so, he shorted out some five lights (and the outlet). He left--without fixing the problem--and told me that by replacing the outlet the problem would be solved. The Banker returned from a golf tournament last night to one pissed-off wife. In short order, he too was angry. He replaced the outlet...and nothing.

An electrician has been here since 8:45 this morning (I barely had time to throw on a hat and jeans), and after over two hours, he can't solve the problem. He keeps asking if there's another GFI outlet somewhere in the house, but to our knowledge, there isn't one. Every light fixture and outlet in my house has been disconnected and is dangling, all the ugly wires exposed. The floor is filthy with plaster, dust, and whatever the electrician has tracked in.

My sore throat is now accompanied by the chills and sheer exhaustion. And tonight The Banker was going to take me to dinner and to see The Police for my Mother's Day gift. Neither of us feel like celebrating. This nightmare can kill our sale.

I'm trying to keep things in perspective. We're incredibly lucky and right now there's so much heartache in the world. But my own heart hurts, along with various other body parts. It's all too much. Please, Lord, help us!

Pins and needles

2008-05-06T13:40:00.000-07:00

We accepted an offer on the house--for our full asking price!!--but we're not in the clear yet. We have to pass the appraisal and inspection hurdles, which leaves us on pins and needles. Even more nerve-wracking is the knowledge that this couple backed out on another house just a few weeks ago based on the inspection findings.

Hear that glub, glub? That's my stomach flip-flopping and my left over Cinco de Mayo meal slushing about. Come on clean inspection and appraisal equal to our selling price!!

Ugh, ugh, and more ugh

2008-04-29T08:39:00.001-07:00

I can not adequately express my distaste for selling a home. We've had three open houses, several showings, and the sum result has been sheer exhaustion on my part. It's the constant cleaning. The constant hiding/putting away. The wrangling of the dogs, cat, and kid, while we open our home to a bunch of trudging strangers. The emotional toll as we hear, "Adorable home!" "So cute!" "Wish it had another bathroom/bedroom."

We live in a cute, little city, built after WWII for returning soldiers. These are not super large houses, though they can be expanded. We have three bedrooms, though admittedly one does serve better as an office. We have one-and-a-half baths. These are our limitations. But we have updated EVERYTHING, (granite! new appliances! refinished hardwoods! new carpet! new paint!), have the sweetest screened-in porch, great flow, and a large kitchen (for this neighborhood).

I'm not made for this. It's very hard for me to wrench open my door, invite strangers in to gawk, judge, and haggle. We fell in love with this house almost six years ago and made an offer within 20 minutes of seeing it. That was such a drastically different market! Now, the market is filled with, as one real estate agent put it, "a lot of bottom feeders keen on getting something for next to nothing."

Is it so much to ask that someone fall in love with this home? That someone would want to make it their starter home, to begin a new life in, to start a family in? It's been such a great home for us, and being who I am, I can't take the emotion out of this process (as I've been urged to do).

The summer months are already filling up with demands and responsibilities, and hanging like an albatross around my neck is this home that I adore. I'm beginning to feel frayed around the edges.

A $20-Grand Ouch

2008-04-25T07:08:00.000-07:00

We got an offer on the house this week--some $20 grand below our asking price. Ugh. The Banker has looked at comps for houses in the neighborhood and our price was aggressive from the get-go. Several realtors who toured implied that they thought our price was too low. Still the interested party won't pony up even $10 grand more, which is needed to make our numbers work.

I hate to walk away from an offer. It leaves this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. But it's really too low. Still the market sucks, and I'm worried that we're looking a gift horse in the mouth. Selling a home really, really stinks. Ugh...I can feel the weight of my breakfast at the back of my throat...

In over my head

2008-04-18T06:03:00.000-07:00

I know I've been lax about updates here, mostly because there's so much happening that I'm not quite sure what to write about. My life right now feels like one very major to-do list, from which I'm desperately trying to check things off.

Santa Fe was fun, though low-key. I spent the better part of the time running to stores and waiting for deliveries and cleaning. My parents' home is incredible, and I"m so proud of them. This is something they've clearly earned, and it's beautiful. The Banker came up for a long weekend and we ate at some great restaurants and saw some amazing (read: expensive) art. And Becca was pretty well behaved for the entire ordeal.

We actually succumbed a bit to the Santa Fe mentality...and we bought the tiniest oil painting. It was cheap by art standards but not by ours. Still, it's so lovely--a single cotton blossom in full bloom. The painter is Simon Winegar, and our piece is called Spring Manifest. I also fell head-over-heels for a Dan Ostermiller, but since we don't have an odd $5 grand lying around I will have to content myself with the hope that maybe someday...if I sell a kidney.

Still reeling from our Santa Fe expenditures, we're now in total house-selling mode. We had two showings this week and will have an open house this Sunday. Many kind comments about how darling the house is, but at only one-and-a-half baths, I know it's not for everyone. Still the sooner we sell this house, the better off we'll be, even if that means moving into my parents' house until we can move into the new home come July 1st. So please cross your fingers and say a few prayers, because we could use the perfect home buyer!

And then there's the aforementioned to-do list: a handful of freelance articles, Becca's Mother's Day Out group, four weddings (come on people!! Can't you postpone your love until after we sell our house?!?!), three birthdays, a graduation, a new baby in the family, and countless things to do around the house. Eeeek.

Overload

2008-04-05T17:43:00.000-07:00

Let's see, in the past two days, this is what happened:
Made a bid on house
Counter offer
Counter-counter offer
Cat escapes
Cat returns
Counter-counter offer accepted. Holy shit--just bought a house. Will now own TWO houses.
Must sell current home. ASAP!
Cat falls off roof
Cat catches self on gutter, scrambles back inside
Cat cut off from any open crevice
Prepping home for open house
Clean, clean, put away, hide
Pack for Santa Fe

So, the last few days have been a WHIRLWIND. I think I'm allowed to use all caps given the circumstances. I'd like to go on and on about how stressful this has been, how The Banker can't sleep due to it all, how I'm in denial mode, how we need to sell this house SOON or we'll be responsible for two mortgages and I'll have to sell my dispensable internal organs on the black market, and how all the smug neighborhood kids I grew up with are probably having a pretty god laugh at my expense about all this. But there's simply no time. I have to get the house ready for an open house tomorrow and Becca and I packed to fly to Santa Fe at 8 a.m. The laid-back atmosphere of Santa Fe sounds pretty good right now...so more later. But until then, this is (apparently) where I'll call home, come July 1st:

Wondering...

2008-04-02T08:36:00.000-07:00

So The Banker has fallen in love with an in-between house (since our dream of a home with land is at this point too expensive), and by all accounts it's move-in ready. The yard is non-existent, so this would be a house we settle for until we can afford more. Oh, and there's one more problem: It's catty-corner to my parents' house. Anyone want to weigh in on the insanity of this idea?

Happy Second Easter, Little Bits

2008-03-25T05:35:00.001-07:00

The Night I Turned into THAT Lady

2008-03-20T19:25:00.000-07:00

Tonight I became that uncool, bitchy woman I'd always shaken my head at before. And you know what? It felt kinda good.

The Banker and I were driving home after picking Becca up from my parents (Thursday nights we volunteer at a therapeutic riding ranch), when we'd just entered our little neck of the "city." It was about 8:30, the streets still busy. I was in the backseat of the Jeep, turned to entice Becca into taking the last of her final bottle. Suddenly, The Banker shouted, his hand on the horn as he swerved and simultaneously slammed on the brakes. My body, twisted to the side, jerked forward awkwardly against the seatbelt. Becca uttered a cry of absolute panic. In front of us, four boys in a tan Honda had crossed four lanes of traffic and almost side-swiped us. Obviously embarrassed, the driver quickly turned the car off the street, only to reappear minutes later and cut us off to make a quick right-hand turn.

So you know what I did? I memorized the license plate, noted the street I last saw the Honda turn on, and called the police when we got home some five minutes later. The dispatcher, a very kind-sounding woman, looked up the plates and based on where I saw the car turning, surmised the kids were returning home and said she'd call the residence.

Becca, while shaken, is now sound asleep. Me? My neck and lower back ache something fierce. And my pride is both bruised and gloating. Part of me shakes my head that I've become that lady, the straight-laced kind who doesn't get it when kids are just trying to have some "fun." But in the end, I'm a mom, and if dare endanger my child I will take you down. Those kids are damn lucky I wasn't driving, because I probably would have followed them home and given them a good screaming. (Something my own mom has done.) And if I see their car again...well, let's just leave it at that.

Needless to say, I get it--the Mama Bear or Lioness comparisons. And so if I've become that lady, I guess that's okay. Because while I remember my carefree teenage days, there's no excuse for endangering my cub.

Teenage Angst in a One-Year-Old

2008-03-16T18:13:00.000-07:00

Time and time again, people react with surprise when my daughter throws them a look like this:

Or, if she's been scolded, this:

I know this means I'm in for a lot of trouble. Of all the one-year-olds we're familiar with, only Becca pulls this sort of thing. I catch her watching expressions, trying to catch the eye of anyone close by. She's clearly tuned in, craving interaction--so much more so than other children I know. This is a point of pride and concern. This kid is stubborn. Tough. And so much more of a handful than I ever expected.

But by the same token, with the pouts and scowls, she's also perfected the art of hugging. She will toddle up to one of the animals--or me--and squeeze sooo tight. It's enough to make my heart feel as if it could burst. It's these moments I'm holding onto when Becca fights me over every meal. Or repeatedly throws her food on the ground despite constant reprimands. Or flips over mid-diaper-change and tries to crawl off. Or tosses me one of her new, perfected, looks.

ISO: Help in Hiding Veggies, Meat

2008-03-11T16:55:00.001-07:00

Becca is absolutely refusing vegetables. And meat. She's sort of taking after her mom: all carbs, fruit, and cheese. And even though I've written parenting articles on similar subjects, I only have one or two recipes for hiding vegetables and absolutely zero for hiding meats. And umm, I don't want to spend all day in the kitchen. (Okay, full disclosure, I also really, really don't want to have to buy Jerry Seinfeld's wife's cookbook. Ugh.)

So if you, or anyone you know, have any ideas for outsmarting a really, really finicky one-year-old, I welcome the input. Because carrot cake can't be her sole source of vegetables.

Happy Birthday, Peanut!

2008-03-10T11:31:00.000-07:00

This Saturday marked Becca's first birthday, and I think I'm still trying to wrap my mind around this fact. There are days when it feels as if she's been here for ages, that I can't imagine a life before Becca. But most days it seems so fast, an absolute flash. On my to-do list is a year-in-review letter of sorts to the Little Miss that she can look at when she's older. But first I have to get some freelance and other matters under control. So in the meantime, here's a quick peek at Saturday's gathering and the anniversary of Peanut's arrival:

I Don't Know Why I Bother

2008-03-06T10:53:00.000-08:00

We got Becca this adorable little chair from Pottery Barn Kids for Christmas, and I had romantic notions it would be her reading chair--that she would sit lovingly next to me and we would read together. Thus far, this is the sum total of it's use:

Where, you might ask, is the Little Miss sitting? Well, right here, of course:

Yup, that's the one of the dog's beds. I blame The Banker's lineage for this. After all, his family was known as the Clampetts at their country club, and one of his siblings has been known to wear a tank-top and flip-flops to a funeral. I'm not even kidding.

Mother's Day Out

2008-03-03T10:37:00.000-08:00

Finally! I can breathe through my nose and my body doesn't ache like it's been hit by a truck...repeatedly. And I only occasionally cough up my lungs. There's nothing like feeling well again after feeling so, so terrible to make you appreciate your health. Thank you, God. Now please, please help us all stay healthy through Becca's birthday this coming weekend.

Some interesting things happened while I was fighting influenza. For starters, I had to get up at the crack of dawn to stand in the frigid cold and fight off other desperate parents to enroll Becca in Mother's Day Out for this fall. (Becca, in the meantime, was spending the night at my parents. Where she slept soundly through the night. OF COURSE SHE DID.)

So there I was, cold creeping into my boots, trying to make small talk with other parents without coughing crap up all over them. I was about the tenth or so person to arrive. We were all freezing, desperate to get our kids enrolled, and trading tales of parenthood. (We were nice to one another because one brilliant father had brought a pad of paper and a pen so we could sign up as we arrived. Then we were able to chat kindly, knowing we weren't going to have to elbow each other in the face for a spot in line. Did I mention this brilliant father's wife made him get there at 5 a.m.? This man deserved a medal!)

One mom and I ended up chatting even after we were let into the church building and led down a long haul to wait some more at round tables. She was older than I with a two-year-old son and a nine-month-old daughter. She asked if I was a stay-at-home mom, and when I said I was, she let slip words that cut to my very core: "You know, it was so much harder staying at home than I'd anticipated. I went through this identity crisis. I'd always worked, I always had that, and suddenly I didn't anymore. I felt like when I talked to people, I had nothing to contribute. And I found it very isolating, being stuck in the house at the mercy to constant feeding and nap schedules."

I wanted to hug this complete stranger. I wanted to scream, "AMEN, SISTER!" But I didn't. Instead, I fervently nodded. I get it all. The isolation. The crisis of identity. The feeling of worthlessness. The knowledge that the only thing I have to add to a conversation are the antics of a wee person, and most people don't care to hear me go on and on about poop, feedings, naps, and crazy kid antics. It was so affirming to hear that I'm not the only one--that this staying at home thing? It's not all cuddles and roses. It's the hardest damn thing I've ever done. And probably the most important, too.

Sick, again.

2008-02-25T10:59:00.000-08:00

As if this past week hasn't been nasty enough, as if this weekend wasn't hard enough given my grandmother's funeral, I'm now sick with the flu. The kind of flu where you shouldn't get out of bed for three or four days. Unless, of course, you have a child. Then you're forced to be up during the day--and if you're super lucky--from 1:30 a.m. on, too.

Sanctuary!

2008-02-19T17:15:00.000-08:00

Another blown-out diaper and projectile vomiting. I'm seriously wondering if I have what it takes to be a stay-at-home mom. Because right now, I'd prefer to be almost anyplace but here.

A sincere thank you

2008-02-17T11:38:00.000-08:00

There are days, much like today, when a kind comment can mean the world. Whether it's an encouraging note on a blog, an e-mail just to say hello, or a kind smile for a stranger at the grocery store--these social interactions matter. So thank you. You know who you are. Your supportive comments have such uplifting capabilities. I carry them with me like little nuggets that I can nurture myself when things get hard. Like yesterday, for instance. Or today.

My mom's mom started a steep decline yesterday. My parents, still in Santa Fe, had an evening flight home. I sat by my grandmother's bedside pleading she hold on so my mom could say goodbye. Thank God my parents caught on earlier flight enabling my mom to arrive by midday. I don't think I could have sat bedside, on death watch, by myself. So I put in several hours yesterday and then gratefully, selfishly, handed over the reigns to my mom and one of her sisters.

Then I had to hold it together for The Banker's grandmother's 85th birthday brunch. On our way home, Becca got quite ill. The kind of ill where her diaper was blown, her clothes, jacket, and car seat soaked. Despite the freezing cold, we alternated cracking the windows on the drive back home. It took an immense amount of control not to vomit. Then more heart-wrenching time at the nursing home. Then on to a gala dinner and dance--a bank function The Banker had to attend.

This morning, as I was on my way to bring my mom and her sister coffee, my grandmother finally passed, marking the end to an over-5 year battle with Alzheimer's.

But there's no rest for the weary. Or those with children. Those with a weak stomach, stop reading now. I'm very serious about this. Now.

Becca's virus continued into the night and this morning, just hours after I returned from my final visit to the nursing home, it hit an all-time first. I've seen projectile vomiting, but this was so, so much worse. The Banker was changing her diaper, already leaking from another round, and he called for my help. As he was switching out a clean diaper, Becca projectile diarrhead across the room, into the hallway, and across my body. She shot some 7 feet. It was like a water cannon went off. A water cannon full of liquid poop. The Banker and I looked at each other, our jaws on the floor. (In poop.) Then, because there was nothing else to do, we laughed. Hysterically. As we cleaned the bedspread, the floor, my clothes, and Becca, we laughed. Because the tears had already been spent and all that was left was the maniacal laughter of a mad person.

Now I'm off to rekindle a much-hated talent from my journalistic past: writing an obituary for a woman who was beautiful and adventurous. Who raised a family in Venezuela. Who loved to dance and party. Who lacked maternal instincts. And who always spoke her mind.

All quiet on the blogging front

2008-02-13T07:18:00.000-08:00

I'e been meaning to jot down a note or two here, but I've been caught up on this whirlwind that is life and I can't seem to find the time. Or energy. Or motivation. First I was sick with the bug that's been going around, which left me feeling like I'd been jumped in a dark alley or hit by a bus...or both. But as my mom not-so-sympathetically declared, "There are no sick days for moms." And boy was she right. I slept when Becca slept, went to bed as soon as I felt things were under control in the evenings, but other than that, I just had to rough it out.

Then The Banker fell ill over the weekend (if you want to see what THAT was like, see "Man Cold" on YouTube. SO ACCURATE.), so I had less than the usual amount of help around the house. (While he didn't take any "sick days" from work, The Banker did get loads of naps during the weekend. Apparently, sometimes dads do get to take sick days...sort of.)

This week has already started to get away from me--freelance dangerously piling up, book club book to be read, and yes, still hoping to get Becca's memory book started before her first birthday, which is just around the corner. And why did the dogs decide NOW was the best time to start molting and leaving clumps of fur all over my formerly clean home? Let's not even mention my gym membership that expires in a week. I'm not sure I even remember the route to take to that mystical place called "the gym."

And last night Becca screamed from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. This morning, she's got the worst runny nose and keeps sneezing. So it's off to the pediatrician's, but not before I stop by the Alzheimer's unit to try and feed my grandmother some lunch because my parents are out of town. And then tonight? The Banker has a work event I must attend looking properly groomed and smiling...on three hour's sleep.

Okay...back to eating bon-bons and sitting on the couch.

Rule of Nature #74

2008-02-05T14:27:00.000-08:00

When you finally, after two rainchecks, take your kid into that really big company where you once worked--you know the one that people from all over the country spend years and countless portfolios and tests to get into?--to have lunch with your former managing editor, your usually sweet cherub will act like that kid, the kind who force people to give you glances urging you to remember to use birth control going forward.

Putting the FAT in Fat Tuesday

2008-02-05T09:56:00.000-08:00

I love Fat Tuesday. I mean, on no other day does the world say, "Go ahead, eat and drink and be merry like it's the last day you'll get to let loose...at least for the next 40 days." (Except if you count Thanksgiving, which has less debauchery involved. Or Easter, which is mostly chocolate and egg based.)

Tonight I've opted for extra crispy fried chicken and red bean and rice from a fast-food joint. I don't ever eat fast food and never eat fried chicken, so this will be quite the treat. A big, greasy, gut-busting treat. And after that? Well tomorrow Lent begins and with it a hardcore push to lose the final lingering pounds of baby weight. To boot, The Banker and I are cutting out alcohol Mondays through Thursdays. This will be quite the feat, because in this house wine is kinda like toilet paper--if we run out, people get panicky.

Not-so-friendly skies

2008-02-01T10:01:00.000-08:00

This is a portion of the letter I wrote to Frontier Airlines after our total crap flights to CanCun. I never, ever bother writing companies, but the people who work for Frontier so totally screwed us that I got angry enough to write:

My husband and I arrived early for a 7:15 a.m. flight to CanCun on Saturday, January 19th. It was our first flight with our 10-month-old and we wanted ample time to get settled. But we were forced to stand at the ticket counter for almost 50 minutes because no one knew how to charge us $12 for an infant tax. Three different employees over 45 minutes couldn’t figure out how to take pocket change from us and check our baggage. By the time they phoned someone with the training required to complete this task, there were only minutes to spare before our flight. We rushed through security and were among the last to board the flight—no ability to pre-board and settle for our first flight with a baby. It was a terrible and stressful way to start our vacation.

But Frontier didn’t disappoint on the return flight, either. Departing at 3:25 on Saturday, January 26th, we arrived with plenty of time to compensate for any ticketing problems. We were first in line for pre-boarding, but right as we were to step onto the plane we were told we would have to stand and wait—the flight attendants had yet to arrive. The entirety of the plane’s passengers stood for 15 minutes, waiting outside the plane’s door. It was insinuated to my husband by one of the ground crew that the flight attendants might have been caught up “shopping” in the duty-free stores. After the flight attendants’ eventual arrival, the plane sat on the tarmac for 40 minutes waiting to take off—providing no shortage of discomfort for the passengers. (One person in our party was almost forced to urinate herself due to the extended time without bathroom access.) After all this, the plane was an hour late arriving home.

The person in our party almost forced to pee herself? Yup, that would be ME. I'd gone to the bathroom right before boarding, but since we didn't depart for an hour after we were supposed to and because I'd drank a large bottle of water in attempts to rehydrate myself, well...it wasn't pretty. While we were waiting on the runway, the pilot announced it'd be another 16 minutes until we departed. I almost burst into tears--at this point I had a 20-pound baby on my lap (on my bladder) who would scream if anyone else held her. The Banker told me I'd better make a quick jump all of three rows to the restroom. The minute I stood up, though, two flight attendants (obviously grumpy because of the crap choices in the duty-free store) screamed like banshees at me. Total humiliation. If I'd had more guts, I would have peed myself to make a point.

And I didn't even mention how the return flight ran out of booze.

Proof the romance hasn't died

2008-02-01T09:19:00.001-08:00

Last night as The Banker and I are brushing our teeth and getting ready for bed...

Me: What did we eat for dinner that was red?
The Banker: Nothing
Me: You mean this was stuck in my teeth since lunch?! Geez, I should brush more...
The Banker: Tell me about it!

A different sort of vacation

2008-01-30T14:41:00.000-08:00

CanCun was, by all accounts, a great vacation. But here's the thing: it was a different sort of vacation. In the past, vacations meant freedom--from work schedules, the demands of the daily grind, and all the other responsibilities that keep one tethered and tired. Vacationing with a baby, or children, I would guess, is different in that you're still tied to the schedule. The feedings, the naps, the bedtime. Sure, there's some flexibility, but not much because altering the timeline too drastically means an ugly meltdown.

So when the rest of the family was sunning and drinking on the beach, we were headed up to the room to get the Little One out of the sun and down for a nap. This nap thing? It happens twice a day. And that bedtime thing? Well, Becca goes to bed between 7:30 and 8:00, which means long leisurely dinners are not an option. Hell, long and leisurely anything is not an option because attention spans and patience are short in wee ones.

I don't mean to bitch and boohoo I-had-to-take-my-kid-to-Mexico-feel-bad-for-me. That's not it. Seeing Becca on the beach was such a joy. And the trip was relaxing, in it's own way. It was simply different. It's odd that you think you've settled into this new role of parent and you think you know how it goes when suddenly something comes up and you're like, "Hmm, how to handle this now that there are three?"

(And since Becca learned to crawl--I mean chuck it across the room like a rocket--and pull herself up on anything and everything while we were on vacation, parenting as I've known it is ALL OVER. Constant line of sight and baby-proofing in full effect. God help me!)

Beach Baby

2008-01-29T07:51:00.001-08:00

Here's a quick peek at how Miss Becca did while on vacation:

Needing to rail against Frontier Airlines and their stupidity and muse about how a vacation with a kid is not, by typical standards, a vacation, I'll be blogging...for at least a wee bit longer. Apparently something needs to seriously get my goat to compel me to write. But more on that later, for at the moment I desperately need to run to Target and give them a kidney in exchange for diapers, formula, and various other necessities.

A few notes

2008-01-17T06:06:00.000-08:00

It seems time has been doing its thing--namely getting away from me. We're leaving for Mexico on Saturday (with my entire family, hopefully, hopefully), and there's packing and cleaning and so much else to do. But first I thought I'd take note of a few developments around here.

For starters, Becca has decided that despite how disdainful crawling seems, she'll do it...a little. When the motivation is right, she'll crawl at quite the clip across the room. However, it's not her preferred mode of transportation, which is to walk with assistance. She wants to be standing or walking ALL THE TIME. And fittingly, her new word is "up," which she utters constantly. I think it's become her catchphrase for "I want something." It's a bit hard to decipher if an "up" means "more bottle" or it actually means "up, you, and walk me about the house until your back gives out." But now that we're mobile I'm both relieved (Hooray! No explaining to the doc why my daughter refuses to crawl!) and suddenly more exhausted. Parenting just took on a whole new challenge.

She continues to be incredibly stubborn, which is at times funny and at others so exasperating that I want to run from the house to the nearest bottle of wine. Every other day she's on some sort of strike: formula strike, baby-food strike, nap strike. Staying one step ahead of this kid is harder than one would think. But at the same time she's a joy. Becca is funny and sweet and exhausting and all-encompassing. There are days when I think I made a mistake in staying home with her and other days when I know I did the right thing. Depending on what day you catch me, you get a whole different take on parenting. But I think that's part of the gig. The ups and downs, the steps forward and the steep slide backward.

And with this need for flexibility in mind, I'm mentally gearing up for Becca's first plane ride, first vacation, first dip in the ocean. I fervently pray everything will go smoothly. As to whether I'll continue this blog when I get back, I'm undecided. I wonder if it's serving its original purpose, and at times shouting into the abyss seems a bit fruitless. But until I'm back and have had time to decide the fate of my incoherent ramblings, cheers!

Cue the music

2008-01-10T06:42:00.000-08:00

In all my various theological teachings from Catholic high school and CCD, limbo was always described in rather neutral terms. It's this place between heaven and hell, a place where you wait and see. What they don't tell you is that limbo, emotional limbo, is its own private form of hell where your emotions get jerked back and forth between hope and despair, often in only a matter of hours. It's exhausting. And just when you think you've gone numb, another wave of news sends you crashing. It's a place where all plans are tentative, all joys are slightly guilt-inducing, and all phone calls make you vaguely shudder.

But even in limbo, life goes on. Becca is oblivious to all the chaos around her and I don't think she fully understands what the tears are for. That or she's decided court jester will be her first call of duty. She smiles serenely or makes raspberry noises at inopportune moments. Like those last rites? Perfect time for making farting noises. (She obviously got her knack for timing from her father.) But more than anything she's a reminder that life goes on in this bizarre, funny, heartbreaking, amazing circle.

She is now 10 months old, sporting five teeth, a lust for walking and standing (assisted), and a general disdain for crawling. Becca loves the cat to no end. She also loves to repeatedly do the things that I've said "no" to. Don't throw my sippy cup off the tray? Are you sure? Because I really think one more toss is in the cards. Don't spit my food at you? But carrots make such a lovely spatter design on your shirt...

Discipline is now among the things we're trying to reinforce in the household. That and every time the phone rings, like Pavlov's dog, you must take a sip of wine.

A crap day

2008-01-02T16:58:00.000-08:00

In what kind of world do you rush to the vet's after your mom calls to say that your childhood dog may be put down, only for a blessed reprieve...and in the same hour discover your grandmother, in the local Alzheimer's unit, is going downhill so rapidly that the priest has been called in to provide an anointing of the sick?

Mine, apparently.

Think the kid is a little spoiled?!

2007-12-31T05:49:00.000-08:00

And this is just the haul from my parents' house.

Visions of sugarplums...

2007-12-28T06:02:00.000-08:00

All in all, Becca did very well throughout the Christmas chaos. She went on nap strike on Christmas Eve and carried that through Christmas Day, which led to a handful of meltdowns, but I can hardly blame the girl given the number of places we dragged her and the number of people to whom we showed her off. And her efforts were rewarded with more loot than we have room for in this little house. If Toys for Tots were still accepting donations, they'd get quite an armload from me. As it is, many of the toys will remain in their boxes for later on in the year.

The sheer amount of colored plastic, loud songs/noises, and moving parts has formed a cacophony that makes The Banker nervous. This is a man who likes things neat, organized, and properly stored. (We had a kid. How he thinks his detest for clutter would survive, I've no idea.) So with three carloads of new stuff and a house that was already pleasantly snug at the seams, the house hunt now goes into high gear. The two lots we were eyeing won't be ready for development for another two years, which is just too long in The Banker's estimate. So one of our goals for 2008 will be to find a new place to roost. Let the craziness begin!

Merry Christmas...

2007-12-24T06:11:00.001-08:00

to all and to all a good night!

Choice words

2007-12-21T05:54:00.000-08:00

Although she's only 9 months old, Becca is really working on speaking. Her pediatrician has assured us that she's only mimicking and doesn't comprehend what she says. But I have to wonder at that, because every time she sees a cat (or a dog, or any other animals for that matter...), Becca breathlessly utters "titty tat." Yeah, she's dropping the "k" and "c" but her intention is unmistakable. This kid loves kitty cats. As for the butchering of the English language? Well, let's just say she's also a big fan of clocks...but she keeps dropping the "l"...yikes.

Past lives

2007-12-21T05:48:00.000-08:00

It's funny how the tiniest thing--the tip of a boot--can trigger a memory so powerful that it floods your being, and suddenly part of you is screaming to shed your outer skin, to reclaim 10 years and be the person you once were, younger, free, living on exotic soil. Impossible to fulfill, the desire leaves you empty and sad, just for a moment.

A surprise in the bedroom

2007-12-19T04:57:00.000-08:00

When The Banker came home late last night from one of his various board meetings, he went upstairs to change and begin to unwind from his long day. There was a little something waiting for him in the bedroom, though, something that caused no shortage of an uproar, let me tell you. It looked something like this:

She was just hanging from the molding around one of our windows, quite content to be in from the cold, thank you. But The Banker is not quite at ease with such wild things in his house, and with the fear of rabies, I can't quite blame him. Although I thought her rather cute and pet-able.

At that late of an hour the city's Animal Control office was closed, and it didn't seem worth calling the cops over, though by no uncertain terms would we be sleeping with that thing in the house. Thankfully, we have some incredible neighbors, one of which is a Nature Boy. He delights in catching the mice, ground squirrels, and other such creatures that occasionally end up inside our homes. (He's under continual call by our mutual neighbor--a single mom of two young girls. None of these ladies has much of a penchant for spiders, squirrels, and so on.) With a plastic pitcher and lid, he eased the little bat into a makeshift cage of sorts. After we all marveled at her (most likely a big brown bat from what I can find online, though she wasn't very big at all), we let her go down the block.

First thing to do this morning? Find someone to inspect the house and ensure we don't have any more such bedroom surprises. With Becca in the house, it's not something we can mess around with.

Protection

2007-12-12T17:55:00.000-08:00

The train circling the Christmas tree is a new addition to our holiday decor. It was purchased last Christmas by my dad, who was just giddy at the thought of a grandson or granddaughter (and for the record, continues to be both giddy and adorable with Becca).

But Becca was less than enthralled with the train when we first showed it to her. In fact, it scared the shit out of her. Her whole body shook and then she turned and frantically grabbed--for me. She buried her head in my neck and held on for dear life. And while it was heartbreaking that the train scared her, I can't even begin to describe how it felt to be the one she wanted when frightened. Becca knows I'm her mom and that I'm there to protect her, and knowing that she knows that is just incredible.

Sparking my anger

2007-12-10T07:29:00.001-08:00

I was all ready to post happy pictures of our tree--complete with train set--which we finally set up last night at about 10:30. Check it out:

But then this article on cnn.com caught my eye this morning. It details how Christmas tree light strands are just dripping with lead. Um, you mean the lights we playfully draped over Becca yesterday? Then took photos of?

This pisses me off more than I can adequately express. I am so careful with what I let come in contact with Becca. I researched the safest car seats, the safest crib, we don't let her watch TV, she eats organic when at all possible, we use distilled water in her bottles--which I carefully hand wash instead of throwing into the dishwasher where the heat can expedite the breakdown of the plastic. I get a fair amount of flak because I'm so neurotic. But Becca's our firstborn and until I'm worn down, this is how we'll function. The next kid will no doubt play with rattlesnakes in the middle of a highway, but for now, we're a cautious household. So I'm pissed I didn't know about Christmas lights and lead. I'm pissed that though we've known for decades that lead is bad for us, we continue to crank out products laden with the stuff. And I'm pissed that nothing seems safe anymore.

Maybe we're more paranoid as society. Maybe we just make more cheap junk that's bad for our health. Regardless of the reason, I don't think we should force our children to live in a world where their blood will have to be tested for lead as they grow. Aren't we smart enough to know better?

It ROCKED

2007-12-09T20:09:00.001-08:00

It's not often that I bask in the glow of The Banker's job-related perks. For the most part, these "perks" entail a lot of dressing up in uncomfortable clothes and playing nice with customers. However, last night I thoroughly enjoyed The Banker's job. We were the recipients of two unused tickets--suite tickets--to Trans Siberian Orchestra. I love Christmas and I love Christmas carols. And I really love carols that wail with energy and electric guitar. And if I can help myself to limitless pinot noir, delectable sandwiches, and palm-sized shrimp while listening to this incredible music, well that's pretty darn close to a perfect night.

My new addiction

2007-12-07T18:41:00.000-08:00

I love popcorn. I mean, I adore it. It's slightly salty, carb-filled, and not that fattening. I'll eat an entire bag for a meal. And right now I'm totally digging Paul Newman's Old Style Move Picture Popcorn. It's so dang yummy I have trouble not eating several bags a day. Mmmm.

"Let me juggle these flaming clubs..."

2007-12-02T12:44:00.000-08:00

This is sort of what the holiday season feels like. It wasn't always this acrobatic juggling act where at any moment I could get burned. I used to love the holidays. Christmas was my favorite because of my family's traditions. But once another family was thrown in to the mix--one that's demanding and different from my own--the season came to mean stress, too much running, and the constant possibility of hurt feelings, and on occasion, tears. Happy Birthday, Jesus, indeed.

This year the stakes are particularly high, because it's Becca's first Christmas. In my head, this is the perfect time to start making our own family traditions. The perfect time to start saying "no." But here's the hypocrisy: I really only want to cut out the headaches on The Banker's side of the family. Not very charitable or understanding, is it? I know. It's shitty. I can be flexible as Gumby any other time of the year (okay, more or less), but this time of year is SO. DANG. HARD.

Typically, my family has a Christmas Eve brunch, almost the only time of the year I see my dad's brother and his family. Then there's the race to church, and the race to The Banker's uncle's annual Christmas Eve party. (The fact that The Banker is Irish and comes from a HUUUGE family should be kept in mind.) Then we usually spend the night at my parents', followed by Christmas morning there, then on to The Banker's parents' house, then back between the houses two more times for Christmas dinner. (Be thankful The Banker's family finally did away with the Christmas Day movie, which was another three-hour headache!) And this three-ring circus does not include a trip to The Banker's brother's house where his son gets a visit from Santa. The fact we weren't in attendance last year was greatly noted. (Much guilt + Pregnant me = Tears.)

And while this two-day ordeal is insane, I'm just not sure what "fat" can be cut without letting people down. The Banker's mom is particularly sensitive to any such slight and his family doesn't take well to anyone breaking away from the tried-and-true traditions to start their own.

Thus far we've decided to spend the night at our own home, with our own Christmas morning. But then there's still this insane back-and-forth between homes after that. To complicate matters, Christmas is my dad's birthday, so we've always tried to celebrate a bit on Christmas Eve (the man has spent almost 60 years getting screwed out of his b-day). We used to sneak that in between the Irish Christmas Eve party and an exhausted drop into bed at my parents' house. The new schedule has no time for this little added extra.

I do have this dangerous dream of reclaiming Christmas Eve from the Irish. When I was growing up, it was the perfect time to cuddle in with the family around the tree, put out cookies for Santa, and unwrap a new pair of pajamas. With the family's standing party, there's no room for this sort of thing. And I've seen how The Banker's cousins trudge into the party, make a beeline for the TV, and hunker down with some food. These kids don't enjoy the shindig at all. Why would I want to put Becca through that? But this is a sacred tradition and I could be risking life and limb to dare suggest that we not attend.

This is Becca's first Christmas, and I want it to be an enjoyable one. (Freudian typing: I originally typed "run." Yikes.) Juggling flaming clubs is something I've come to hate--and with it the entire holiday season. I just don't know how to reclaim the day and make it what it was intended to be: a time to celebrate, give thanks, and enjoy the love of family and friends.

A few years back...

2007-11-27T14:07:00.000-08:00

The Banker and I were at one of those huge, obnoxious mega-stores. Rather than wait in the horrendous checkout lines, we opted to try the "Self-Checkout" machine. All was going well until The Banker swiped a coupon too quickly and jammed it into the (irretrievable) coupon slot.

"Ooohh--you did it too fast! The machine didn't read the coupon."

"So what?"

"The coupon was for FIVE BUCKS."

"Shit."

So as we waited for a human to lend us a hand, I turned to apologize to the woman waiting behind us. She gave me a stoned-looking smile and exclaimed, "Take all the time you need. This is like a vacation for me--my newborn is at home with my husband and I'm in the store by myself."

Then, I only vaguely could appreciate what this woman had to say. Today, I TOTALLY GET IT.

A case of the Mondays

2007-11-26T15:36:00.000-08:00

Today sucked. Big time. Both my sisters are back in their respective states after the holidays and I feel their absence greatly. Becca is teething and refusing to eat. Every meal is a battle and her reams of saliva and screeching are winning. I'm feeling the crushing weight of cabin fever. What few trips to the gym I could muster these past few weeks aren't amounting to ANY weight loss. And out of nowhere this afternoon the glass globe over a kitchen light dropped from the ceiling and shattered everywhere. Thank goodness everyone was elsewhere in the house, but it was a big freaking mess to clean up.

Right now, I want to be somewhere else. Someone else. Ugh.

GO TIGERS!!!

2007-11-24T11:46:00.000-08:00

'Nuff said.

Fun: Recalled

2007-11-20T12:17:00.000-08:00

And Becca's big Christmas gift that I was so excited about has been recalled:

I swear, I'm thisclose to buying her nothing but wood blocks and cardboard boxes. At the moment, these seem to be the only totally safe toys.

Forgive me

2007-11-20T08:00:00.000-08:00

This morning, I committed one of the cardinal sins of parenting, and it's only by the grace of God I'm here writing about it rather than sitting in an emergency room engulfed in guilt and tears.

In Becca's room, we have an antique brass bed. It's my childhood bed, our only place for visiting guests, and a functioning changing station for diapers and baby clothes--saving both the expense and space a proper changing station would have cost. As with most antique beds, it's a good three feet or so off the ground, and as Becca has become more mobile, it's become a bit more of a challenge. And a danger.

Since she's rolling now and can go from a sitting position through her legs onto her stomach, I never stray more than a foot or two from the bed while she's on it. But this morning, even that was too much. I'd moved Becca to the center of the bed, putting her a good two feet from the edge. I took two steps to retrieve a pair of socks, keeping an eye on her tired, sitting form. Suddenly, she sprung forward with such force that she was on the edge. She'd never before covered so much ground so quickly. And just like that, she rolled headfirst off the bed.

What happened next felt like it played out slowly, like trying to move against a strong tide. I took the two steps to the bed, catching Becca mid-air, cradling her around her middle with my arms, and before the momentum brought her face-first into the hardwood floors, flipping her so that in a split second she was standing on the floor supported by my arms. It was the most graceful acrobatic maneuver I've ever accomplished. And I firmly believe it wasn't really my doing. I lack the grace and talent to pull off such a move--Someone was looking out for me.

Becca looked at me and gave a small whimper, as if to say, "What the fuck?!" I stood there stunned, holding her until my entire body began to shake with the implications of just what could have happened. At best, Becca would have been bloodied, screaming, and we would have had to rush to the emergency room. At worst? Well, I can't even begin to think about that.

Every experienced mother knowingly warns you. And every new mother tries to be so careful, remembering the warnings, dreading what could happen. But in a split second what once worked no longer does. I should have known better. But the lull of routine made me careless. Guilt and fear sit like a rock in my stomach as I try to figure out a new routine that will keep this from every happening again.

I'm so sorry, baby girl.

A head cold from hell

2007-11-14T13:56:00.000-08:00

Becca has her first true head cold, and it's managed to turn this household upside down. For the uninitiated, congestion in an infant is a far cry from the annoyance it is to an adult. See, as adults, we're aware that we can breath through our mouths. But babies don't have that recognition yet; they're hardwired to breathe through their noses (enabling them to chug happily away at a bottle or...whatever). So when babies are congested, they can't really eat, and--what may well be worse--they can't sleep, either. Last night we were up from roughly 1 a.m. to 4 a.m.

Medically, there's little that can be done. Recent recommendations by the AAP and FDA translate to no cold medicine for children under the age of 2. We can spray saline up Becca's nose, but doing that is akin to brushing a cat's teeth--it ain't pretty and it takes at least two people. In fact, our pediatrician gave me a look of utter shock when she tried to look in Becca's throat yesterday. "My God, she's so strong, so determined, and she's only eight months old!" This sort of reaction makes me dread the terrible twos, because temperament-wise, my kid already acts like one. And she's not been happy lately.

From the looks of it, tonight will be a repeat of last night. I can't wait till Becca can learn to blow her nose. I can't wait till she's old enough for medicine to help knock this sort of thing out of her system. Because until then, there's not much recourse, and I hate seeing her so miserable. Oh, and I hate trying to function on three-and-a-half hours of sleep, too.

Tick, tock

2007-11-12T10:44:00.000-08:00

It's with some sad irony that I marvel at how Becca is currently infatuated with clocks. My parents have an assortment of antique clocks that ticktock and chime on the hour. Her head swivels as chimes mark the passage of time. She can find the clocks in every room of the home. (My mom is encouraging this to be her first word--as it was mine.)

Seems I, too, am acutely aware that time is marching on. Yesterday we returned many of the borrowed "baby" items to my brother- and sister-in-law...the sleeping "bumpers," the extra padding for the car seat, the life-saving swing in which she passed so many hours. She doesn't need them anymore. We've moved on to bigger and better things...the exersaucer, high chair, sitting up all by ourselves.

Becca's not a newborn anymore. She's a wee person. And I just don't know how she went from this tiny, helpless bundle into this opinionated whirling dervish of movement and sound.

Happy Halloween, Little Bits

2007-11-02T17:40:00.001-07:00

Look at our cute little puppy!

Here we go again...

2007-10-31T06:39:00.000-07:00

This weekend I went to D.C. to visit Sister #2, who's finishing up her Master's degree in the city of creepy business people. I couldn't mention it ahead of time because my presence and that of Sister #1 was a surprise. Sister #2 knew that my parents were heading out to visit her, but our arrival took her completely off guard. It was a great weekend full of sightseeing, scrumptious meals, and waaaay too much wine. (Mike Z--you're definitely right about the wine!) I'd vowed upon my return to go into detox, but due to current circumstances, that's been impossible.

The Banker did wonderful with Becca in my absence. It was with no shortage of angst that I left her. Alone. With her Dad. The man who can watch an action flick, drool streaming from the corner of his mouth, unaware the house is burning down around him. But The Banker rocked the single daddy thing. Although I think he was really glad to have me back after four days on the job...he greeted me in the front yard with his arms outstretched, Becca swinging in the breeze.

The lack of effective detox is due to The House Hunt. We've been here, done this. Right before I found out I was pregnant, we were thisclose to putting a bid in on a "country home" with a few acres. Resistance from family members and an unexpected pregnancy stopped us in our tracks, but The Banker has continued to keep an eye out and on occasion we tour a home that looks promising.

Last week we found such a home. Totally rehabbed, gorgeous living room and kitchen, two-and-a-half treed acres, much closer into town than anything we'd looked at previous. And my dad, breaking his long refusal to look at homes that don't meet his desired locale, took a peek at the home yesterday. The result was a wee bit soul crushing. This house is the same distance from his house as the one we're in now--20 minutes. It's in the best school district in the state. The house isn't perfect, but we're looking into making it better meet our needs. But my dad's inability to say anything positive and his usual complaints of "too much land, too far out there" were regurgitated. Again.

I'm an adult. I'm fully capable of purchasing a house without my parents' go-ahead. But my dad knows a great deal about home building and I wanted his expert opinion. But he just can't seem to get over his own desires for where we live.

So we're at it again: The Banker frustrated and me with this sinking feeling in my gut. Do we buy this house? Or do we look at finding a few acres (harder to find in all this urban sprawl) and try to build something ourselves? What can we truly afford? The housing market sucks. I don't want to think of moving in the frigid winter. Why, why, why is this so dang hard???