My three year old, in a nutshell

We let Monkey stay up a little late tonight and snuggle between us on the bed for some Antiques Road Show. It was one of those rare quiet moments in which he is so happy for the special treatment that he actually behaves himself for a bit, like he's testing out the icy pond to make sure it's really frozen.

Out of that moment, before the drama of trying to get him to go to bed, I bring you this dialogue, which I think demonstrates the full range of a tender-hearted three year old boy's deepest thoughts:

[We were talking about grandmothers, for some reason]

Monkey: ...and Grandma Peggy died.
Me: Yes, she did. And I really miss her.
Monkey: I miss her, too.
[Hubs and I exchange a tiny smile since she died 10 years before he was born].
Monkey: But it's okay, she still loves us. She's in our hearts.
Hubs: That's right.
Monkey: And G-d is with her.
Me: [Can say nothing, tears flowing. Hugs him tight.]
Hubs: Yeah, buddy. You're right.
Monkey: And you know what else?
Hubs: What?
Monkey: If you cut yourself open and looked inside, you could see all your bones. And your heart. My heart is pink and purple. [Farts loudly] Did anyone hear that noise?

There are moments in life where you don't know whether to laugh or cry, and others where you're absolutely sure you must do both. I'm so grateful to my little boy for giving me one of those tonight!

Do Me a Favor: If You See Me at the Playground, Treat Me Like a Man

Last night the hubs and I cashed in a date night and went to the MJCCA book festival 'parenting edition' with Dan Zevin and two of the four Sh*tty Moms. It was a fun evening, commiserating about the challenges of parenting young children in funny and irreverent ways. With two children in a Jewish preschool, I was in stitches at Dan's joke about how many Jewish holidays keep the kiddos home [Tu B'Shevat, Erev Tu B'Shevat, Tu B'Shevat post-game and analysis, etc.]

Today I'm home with Fozzie Bear, who has an ear infection that is barely slowing him down, but still keeping him out of school. So instead of working on my NaNoWriMo project, I've been chasing a waddling little powder keg of peanut butter, ibuprofen and antibiotics, trying to keep him from hurling himself off the back of the couch.

It has me thinking in a new way about parenting and its many challenges. One issue that was part of the discussion at last night's reading was about the difficulty for modern parents (moms in particular) to accept less-than-perfection. Even though raising children has not gotten easier in recent decades -- in fact, there are many ways one could argue it's become more complex, if not exactly harder -- we seem to be holding ourselves to ridiculously higher standards than previous generations.

On top of the fact that many moms work outside the home, or work at home to bring in income, we also still expect ourselves to: be the primary caregivers, keep immaculate houses (ahem), keep up with our families' expansive social calendars, volunteer, stay in shape, cruise the birthday party circuit, stay involved with our kids' schools, head up the PTA, cook dinner, write a blog, work the consignment sales, take the kids to the doctor and dentist, buy the groceries, update Facebook, limit screen time, seduce your husband, get the kids to eat their veggies.... it goes on. And if that's not enough of a challenge for you, Pinterest has a thousand ways you can occupy any spare minutes by challenging you to create the perfect house, the perfect kids' crafts, the perfect party appetizers.  Did we mention you have to try to look good doing it?

Anyone with an ounce of common sense can look at that list and tell you it's not realistic; but somehow that doesn't stop us from beating the crap out of ourselves on a daily basis when we don't hit all the points satisfactorily. We are constantly criticizing ourselves, and what's worse, we judge other women by the same absurd yardstick.

Dan, who happens to be his family's primary caretaker as well as a hilarious and genuine humor writer, commented last night that "all I have to do is show up somewhere" with the kids and the other moms accept and applaud him. He noted that it doesn't matter if he has shaved in the last two weeks or if he packs the perfect snacks. (One of the Sh*tty Moms complained about having to pack the perfect snack for the soccer team and Dan just laughed).

To my shame, I realized that it's true -- I don't look at Dads on the playground with the same critical eye with which I view other women (or I imagine they turn on me). I also don't hold hubs to the same high standards I hold myself when each of us is caring for the kids. Why? I work hard, I love my kids with all my heart. Together, we keep a roof over their heads and try to teach them to be good people (and to get something green in them once a day). Why isn't that enough?

So what I'm saying is, we women need to be harder on Dads. They're getting off easy.

Just kidding! I think in this case we need to follow the lead of the men in our lives and focus a little more on what's essential (happy, healthy kids), and a little less on what makes us look or feel like the perfect mom. So you're late to carpool and still wearing the tracksuit you threw on for yoga hours ago and your floor is carpeted in crushed goldfish and cheerios -- so what? Is anyone going to die as a result? No! Will the world end if I go to the grocery store without makeup, and stains (yogurt, snot, who knows?) on my jacket? No!  

I say, embrace the chaos. Ignore the messy van (your own or someone else's), and take time for yourself even when the to-do list is still a mile long. If you're a perfectionist mom, channel your inner laid-back dad. Reach out to that other mom on the playground or at the grocery store with an accepting smile instead of a judgmental glare. Let's work together and give each other, and ourselves, a much-needed break. Our kids and our sanity will thank us.

Fat Girl's Halloween Oath

My Little Pumpkins: So delicious they're a little concerned Mommy will eat them.

I love Halloween. It's an enchanted time, when people temporarily cast aside social propriety, modest clothing and resistance to the supernatural. It's a time to embrace one's inner witch or warlock, feline familiar, or slutty cab driver. Time to go nuts with the spookiest and cheesiest yard decor available, and gleefully take a butcher knife and flame to the nearest unsuspecting gourd.

But in one way it really is scary as hell. Every year, this is the beginning of the unraveling of whatever healthy habits I may have been developing in the previous months, lost to a frenzy of candy wrapper ripping and chocolate rationalizations (they're like regular rationalizations, but soooo delicious).

Halloween seems to be my gateway drug. What starts in mid-October with me picking up a bag of tootsie rolls "for the kids," culminates three days after Thanksgiving with eating pumpkin pie and chocolate cake directly out of the refrigerator in the middle of the night without a fork, glancing around furtively like a starving hyena.

It's been a rough year for self-care, and I am just finding my way back to the gym and developing something of a fitness a routine. I don't want Halloween to be the beginning of the downhill slide for me this year. So with my hand on a bag of caramel rice cakes, I solemnly swear that this year will be different.

• This year, I will not purchase six large bags of candy for the four trick-or-treaters who visit our door every year.
• I will not "sample" the candy I purchase, or the candy my kids collect, to "test it for quality."
• Once Fozzie Bear has fallen asleep in the stroller, I will not continue to collect candy in his bucket "to keep things fair"
• I will acknowledge that I do not burn off enough calories walking from one house to the next to justify eating 17 pieces of candy at the end of the night.
• The best way to get treats out of the house is to give them to charity, or send them to Hubs' work break room, not to put them in my mouth.
• I will set aside a publicly identified number of candies for the boys to enjoy in the days following Halloween. These will be kept behind a locked door requiring two keys and dual thumbprint identification. They will be distributed when the entire family is present, counted and weighed for accuracy, and given only after vegetables have been consumed. No tantrums will be tolerated. The kids should behave themselves, too.
• For the next sixty days, before consuming any sugary treats, I will require myself to do the "Truffle Shuffle" in front of a full-length mirror. This should not only curb any appetite for sweets, it will also create a state of Goonies-based nostalgic ecstasy. Those trigger the same hormones in the brain, right?



Hubs' Spook-o-Lantern: Awesome even in a chocolate withdrawal rage

• Without a steady supply of chocolate, I become enraged and unpredictable. This year I will channel that terrible power into working out and NaNoWriMo, rather than my usual habit of screaming obscenities at other drivers on the road and noticing out loud every single thing that Hubs does sub-optimally. I will not behave in a way that causes my acquaintances to throw Reese's cups at me as a distraction while they make a hasty escape. 

Well, I think that about covers it. Here's a friggin' cute picture of Monkey and Fozzie picking out our pumpkin, and the super-spooky result Hubs created.

Happy Halloween!

Stranger than Fiction (Parts Three and Four)

This is a continuation from the previous blog entry about a week I couldn't have made up if I'd tried. It will make more sense if you read that one first.


Part Three: Situation Comedy

After Tuesday's crisis, you would think I'd had enough drama for a good long while. Apparently, there is never enough drama in my life.

This storyline actually started at the very beginning of the week, when we turned our 2 1/2 year-old Little Monkey's doorknob around to lock from the outside. This was a last resort effort to help him learn to get to sleep on his own, without .5 mg of melatonin every night and a parental song-and-dance that ranges in length from 30 minutes to 2 1/2 hours.

He used to be a great sleeper until we transitioned him to a big-boy bed, about a month before Fozzie was born. Once he learned he could get out of bed and stake a claim on some of that attention his little brother was getting, we were done for. Nearly seven months later, we have become desperate enough to reclaim our evening peace that we have begun locking him in the room (after books and kisses and water and goodnight) and letting him work it out by himself. It actually did seem to help after a first night of chaos and destruction.

Monkey's doorknob is very old, one of many we've been meaning to replace upstairs. It's the kind that locks inside and has a key lock on the outside, for which we have never had the key. We put gobs of masking tape on the lock as a temporary solution the first day we moved in, planning to replace the doorknob ASAP. And here we are over a year later... Of course when we turned the knob around we removed the masking tape so we could lock it from the outside.

We were planning to meet some friends at the park Wednesday morning. I had just put Fozzie in his crib, and Monkey and I were discussing our differing opinions about whether I would be allowed to change his diaper and get him dressed before heading off to the shower myself. As a show of personal power, he attempted to lock me in his room, but I caught the door before it closed (whew!), unlocked it (I thought) and closed it behind us so our diaper-clothes battle wouldn't wake Fozzie up in the next room. When he was dressed and ready, I headed out of the room to get a quick shower.

I headed out of the room. Out of the -- oh, no. Are you kidding me?

It was nine o'clock in the morning. Hubs had gone to work for the day and was not expecting to hear from us until at least noon for lunch, and probably wouldn't get worried until one or later since he knew we were going to the park. Fozzie would be asleep in his crib in the next room for an hour and a half, tops. My phone was downstairs, along with anything else remotely useful. We'd done a great job childproofing the room - no tools, keys, wire hangers, or blunt objects in sight. Hell, I wasn't even wearing a bra.

Locked in a second-story bedroom with nothing but an energetic toddler and a few toys and books. Ho-ly crap.

It was easier not to freak out since the previous day's adventures had really put things in perspective, and I told myself that even in the worst case we'd all be hungry and miserable but safe. (Deep down, though, I didn't know how long I could listen to Fozzie cry when he woke up without tearing through the wall to get to him).

Monkey was calm and brave through the whole thing. He stood on his bed next to me and we shouted out the window, hoping to attract the attention of neighbors, walkers and/or passing cars. Every time a car would pass, we'd call out fruitlessly for help, and then he'd look at me and say, "Oh, well!"  Can you tell we've been practicing handling disappointment?

We were lucky that it was cool outside and not raining, or we might seriously have been stuck there until Hubs came home after work. But a passing jogger - our Good Samaritan - heard us and came up the driveway to help. He didn't have a cell phone, but he was very nice and tried to break into our house. No luck. He went across the street to my neighbor who works from home, but she was understandably hesitant to open the door to a strange man in jogging clothes. So, he took off jogging back to his house a few neighborhoods away and promised to return with a phone as soon as he could.

For the next little while, Monkey and I played with his trains and waited. After a little bit had passed, the slight possibility occurred to me that maybe this guy would get home, realize he was late for work or something, and think I'm sure they've already flagged down someone else by now. So I went back to the window, just in time to see another neighbor pull up in their driveway caddy-cornered to ours.

We don't know these neighbors well at all, but we did attempt to introduce ourselves when we first moved into the neighborhood and were greeted somewhat brusquely. Still, in an emergency they'd respond, right? We shouted to them for help and, when they turned in our direction, I tried to yell out the explanation of what we needed. They turned and headed toward the door. "No! Wait!" I yelled, "I need to borrow a phone - we're trapped in my child's bedroom!" They looked at me for another long minute, went inside and closed the door.

Fortunately for us, not everyone is so jaded, and the Good Samaritan returned with his car and a phone. He called Hubs for me, explained what was going on, and chatted with us for a minute to make sure everything was okay before heading off. It turns out we have a mutual acquaintance who lives in his neighborhood, so we are going to try to track him down to thank him properly. He also reported that on his way home, he tried to flag down several people in cars to get help to us faster, but no one would stop for him.

In any case, Hubs was home in a few minutes to release us and appropriately, to laugh at me. Crisis #2 of the week brought safely to an end.

Part Four: Friends and Neighbors

When I was a little girl my mom and the other women in the neighborhood spent more time in one another's kitchens than they did in their own. We kids flowed freely back and forth between the houses and up and down the streets. We knew which neighbors would let you cut through their yards and which didn't. We knew who would buy candy bars for the school fundraiser and who wouldn't. We knew their pets' names, their kids' names, their cars. We had friends in other places, too, but that little community was the center of our world. It wasn't pleasant all the time, we had our issues, but we knew each other.

Nowadays I feel more connected to people on Facebook than I do those who live within a mile radius of my house. I can tell you what someone in another state who I haven't seen in person for more than two decades had for dinner last night, but I couldn't tell you the name of the guy who turned his back on me when I was locked upstairs. We've lived here for a year and a half, fifty yards away from his front door.

Maybe this is a function of the age of our neighborhood and the fact that it's a relatively busy residential street. But I can't help but notice that more of us are paring down our relationships to the known quantities and easy connections. The friends we know through other friends, the people we've found on pinterest. Texting, status updates, blogging (ahem). We can gather and send information and feel 'connected' without having to actually connect at all. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm no Luddite. I love technology and social media (insofar as I can keep up with it) and I'll continue to use it. But it seems to me that we are taking fewer and fewer social risks as a culture, choosing the perceived safety of our computer screens rather than braving the challenge of getting to know new people. We lock away 'Others' and the world outside.

I don't pretend to know all the facts of the Trayvon Martin shooting, nor do I even remotely compare my scary experience last week with the hell that his parents are going through. What I do know is that while I got relief after forty minutes, Trayvon Martin's parents have no relief or justice in sight. Their unarmed child was murdered by someone who was supposed to be the neighborhood watch captain. He was supposed to be looking out for the safety of all the children in their neighborhood, and instead he let baseless fear turn him into a perpetrator himself. I can't help but wonder how that situation might've ended differently if the 'neighborhood watch' had focused more on bringing neighbors together and less on rooting out potential villains.


This probably sounds weird, coming from someone who had a scary experience with the stranger I hired to care for my child. Part of me wants to quit my job and stay home so that I never have to trust anyone else with his safety again. But I believe we do not make ourselves safer by disconnecting from 'Others' or 'Unknowns.' Ours is a global village, and it's time we all took responsibility for getting to know our neighbors. In the flesh, warts and all.

Losing our real, live, imperfect connection with others means losing our village, along with the fundamental thing that makes us human. And that is dangerous.

SERIOUSLY Stranger Than Fiction (Parts One and Two)

Part One: Prayer

I'll be honest: prayer has never been a big thing for me. I spent most of my formative years as a staunch agnostic (yes, that probably is an oxymoron -- decidedly undecided). For many more years I was a kind of spiritual wanderer, searching for a home. Now that I'm happily settled into my identity as a Jew, I like to concentrate on prayers of gratitude and the ritual prayers that surround my heart during Shabbat and holiday services like comfortable old sweaters.

I have never been one to consult the Almighty on big decisions -- at least not consciously -- nor do I tend to pray for help when I'm in trouble. It's just not my style. Sometimes I like to think that G-d knows this about me and maybe even finds it amusing, the way I do when my two and a half year old is trying to jump high enough to reach the ceiling by himself.

This week, however, has been a different story.

Even though I work very hard to keep good emotional boundaries, sometimes my professional life affects me personally. I'm human after all. In the past couple of weeks, I have taken on one of the most challenging and heart-wrenching cases I've ever worked with, a child (and family) suffering so cruelly from OCD that it hurts my heart.

I can't say more about that for fear of compromising confidentiality, but suffice it to say I caught myself saying a prayer this week, that I would be able to help this family in some small way and would not add to their frustrations by being useless.

Part Two: Horror Film

Those thoughts, however, were eclipsed by my own crisis on Tuesday. We had a new part-time nanny, who had been with us for about three weeks (2 days/week). Though we adored her at first and my almost seven-month-old seemed to love her, too, things just didn't seem right after the first few days. There was nothing glaringly wrong, just little things that didn't quite add up. Things that made hubs and me just a touch concerned about her personal life and overall stability. I had tried addressing our concerns with her, and she responded appropriately, but I still wasn't 100% satisfied.

That day I was on my way to lunch and had a sudden impulse to drive by the house, just to make sure everything was okay. As our house came into view, time slowed to a crawl and my brain struggled to process the fact that the sitter's car was not in the driveway (she did not have permission to take little Fozzie Bear anywhere except on walks, and I knew she didn't have a car seat base installed in her vehicle).

I slammed the car into park and ran inside, frantically looking for a note or some other indication of where she might be. My son, the diaper bag, and the carrier part of the car seat were all missing. Everything else was in place. Panic rising, I called the nanny from both my cell phone and the house phone. She didn't answer.

I called 911. The operator took my name, address, the nanny's name, a description of the car, etc. I forced myself to be calm while giving her the information. Only when she asked me to describe my son and what he was wearing when I saw him last did my voice break, threatening to bubble over in suppressed fear. Visions of an Amber Alert with my child's name and information raced through my mind.

I paced wildly and willed myself not to vomit, trying to keep the horrifying possibilities at bay. The operator asked if I had any reason to be suspicious of the nanny, and I gave her what information I had, including some things that weren't necessarily incriminating, but had given me pause. Some of those I won't mention here.

But I knew she was having financial difficulties. I knew she had a boyfriend (and what sounded like a rather tumultuous relationship). I didn't know his name or the kind of car he drove, or what he did for a living. I knew she was from out of state, but I didn't know the names or locations of friends and family of hers who lived in the area. Why hadn't I asked more questions? The operator said she would send a patrol car.

I called my husband to come home using the other phone while the operator dispatched the unit to our house. She said that I could hang up and wait for the officer, but I couldn't bear the thought of being alone with my thoughts, so she stayed on the line with me until he arrived.

The next half hour was far and away the worst of my life. Talking to the officers, leading them around the house, continuing to call and text the nanny. Watching my husband pull into the driveway on two wheels and immediately begin reciting everything he knew about the nanny and her car. And, praying as I never have before that my child would be okay.

It was 31 minutes between the time I called my husband and the time the nanny finally returned his frantic calls to say she was on her way back with the baby. Hubs made her stay on the phone with him the entire time and continually report her location to make sure it made sense to him and that she was headed directly back. [Have I mentioned that I married the most amazing, brilliant man?] Not until she was in view of our house did he inform her that the police were there. All told, I would guess about 40 minutes elapsed between the time I discovered Fozzie missing and the time he was back safely in my arms.

The police officers, who were very kind to me, seemed mildly concerned that some kind of violence might erupt when the nanny got back (and trust me, gouging her eyes out did cross my mind); but once she was back all I wanted to do was hold my baby boy and never let him go. I also had to fight the urge to go pick up Monkey from school three hours early and never let him go, either.

Sanity prevailed on all fronts, however, and I was able to calmly listen to the nanny's pathetic-even-if-true explanation for her ridiculous and irresponsible behavior, and then just as calmly tell her to please take a few minutes to gather her things because she would not be back. There were so many bad decisions, from leaving the house in the first place to not calling me or leaving a note, to putting the carrier in the car without its base, to not keeping her phone on her while she was gone. And that's all if I believed her story about the supposed emergency that took her away.

The cops took her information/driver's license and filed a report, but did not ask us if we wanted to press charges and -- a little surprisingly -- did not give her a ticket for the car seat violation. I think they were just glad the incident was resolved, and I was too relieved to care either. After checking him over carefully and kissing him like crazy, I canceled the rest of my day and put an exhausted and disoriented Fozzie down for a nap.

My mother-in-law was kind enough to drive up from Macon to be with me -- and to get her hands on the little guy -- for the rest of the afternoon. The five of us went out for dinner after school/work, and the day ended far better than I could've imagined at noon.

It's funny, if I hadn't been through that experience, I think what happened the next morning might've thrown me for a serious loop....

Stay tuned!

Words, Words, Words

I've had language on the brain this week.

First and rather unpleasantly, there is the language of the law. Despite a house-wide lack of sleep, the major disruption in our family right now relates to one poorly-written phrase in an outdated will of my father's. It's a long story I can't tell in detail, but there's an outside chance that a few unfortunate words may mean that a substantial portion of the modest inheritance Dad intended for me, my brother and my children could be siphoned off to someone else.

So instead of being free to grieve his loss and undertake the management of his estate, I am gearing up for a potential legal battle that can only end in tears and wounded family relationships. While frustrating and heartbreaking, it's a survivable event. Whatever happens, life will go on.

It's well-known that the legal world does not always share language with the average person, or even common sense. I was talking about this the other day with a friend whose husband is an attorney, and she recalled a time when he ripped up a will they had recently written in case of emergency while they were traveling. Upon re-reading the document, he realized that one particular word in the will would actually negate their overall intentions and cause major problems for their friends and family. One word. Sheesh.

I can read something and think it means one thing, while my lawyer sees something entirely different. We both speak English, as did the author, but it's like the difference between me staring up at the starry night sky and Stephen Hawking regarding the same scene. One sloppy turn of phrase written 37 years ago could impact many lives today, and undermine the whole purpose of a document. A painful reminder to the writer about the power of words.

On the other, more fun end of life and the language spectrum is my two-year-old. He is learning to talk in the messy way with which two-year-olds do everything. He picks up words and phrases immediately after hearing them and uses them -- right or wrong -- over and over and over again. He does this with wild abandon, until eventually he narrows down their meanings on his own. (And on his own terms).

My son is absolutely reckless with language and does not worry a bit about being wrong. One of his favorite new word games is to hold up his index finger dramatically and say, "Mommy, I have ONE question." Of course I oblige and say, "What's that, babe?" and then he grins broadly and picks a nearby object as inspiration to give me a one-word response: "Car!" "Box!" "Window!" "Candle!"

When I gently try to explain that those things aren't questions, they're, well, things -- it seems to fall on deaf ears. I try giving examples of questions as demonstration: "How are you?" "Where are we going?" etc. But rather than picking up on the definition of the word 'question' by illustration, he just answers all the example questions. Hilarious. And then we go back to what he really wants to do anyway, which is play the "I have a question" game his way.

I don't press the point. I'm almost positive that by the time it matters, he'll have worked out what the word 'question' really means, whether I try to teach it to him or not. And honestly, I love watching him explore the world this way -- shoving the square peg relentlessly into the round hole, not caring whether it fits at all. He's absolutely confident in his worldview, even though it may change from moment to moment. It's wonderful.

In the meantime, I find myself singing to both of my boys more than ever. Not just the traditional lullabies and kids' songs, but the music my Dad loved. He used to have classic and folk rock stockpiled in the car for long road trips: Crosby, Stills and Nash; Neil Diamond; Elton John; Simon & Garfunkel; Joni Mitchell; Janis Joplin; Roger Miller; Peter, Paul & Mary.... and lots of others. At 16, I thought these artists were mostly lame and outdated (or at least, that's what I claimed when I wanted to listen to Guns 'N' Roses or Nirvana instead). But now, those songs are the legacy through which I fondly remember both my parents, and that I try to share with my children.

The other night, I sang "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" to my two-month old while I rocked him to sleep. I thought about Dad and our road trips, and how the lyrics of that song used be so full of mystery to me -- before I had an adult's perspective. Now I see so many things differently, and I turn to wonder how my boys will come to love and explore the mysteries of their world.

As a mother, I can't promise what the future will hold for my kids. But I hope I can pass on some of the wonderful characteristics of my parents to them, even if only through snippets of melodies and old song lyrics.


As a writer, I realize I have to tie all of this together to create anything worthwhile. The reckless abandon and unadulterated joy of a two-year old trying things out -- unafraid of results. The surgical precision of the lawyer who must have every word at its best and most meaningful. The love of a daughter/mother trying to capture a legacy for her children.

Writing is a journey that mirrors life. Somewhere along the road, I have to embody all those things to tell the stories of my heart. I'm not always sure how to do that, but I'm lucky to have some wonderful souls in the minivan with me. And great traveling music, naturally.

Writing the Good Fight

I posted my last blog entry seven weeks ago today. Two days later, my son was born. A beautiful 8-pound baby boy who looks like his father and loves to be held by his mommy. He is my treasure. Big brother is so proud -- already trying to show him the ropes.

The birth was difficult, though, and ended with an unplanned Cesarean. This meant a challenging recovery for everyone in our family, especially since I couldn't lift our older son for 4 weeks after my surgery. We had lots of help from our amazing friends and family, though, and somehow made it to the four-week mark.

Then, just after midnight the next day, my Dad died. He had known about his lung cancer since May and was undergoing treatment, but we thought he was responding well and at least had a few more months left. So his death was both expected and shocking at the same time. I don't think I'm ready to write much about Dad just yet, but I know I'll get there. He has always been a voice in my head whenever I had a decision to make, and I'm pretty sure I will always be trying to make him proud.

In the meantime, I am trying to unravel the mysteries of the probate system, work through the normal sleep deprivation that comes with a newborn, and figure out what normal is like from here. Several people have asked me when my next book is coming out, and I'm flattered by what is a really good question.

A blank page is a challenge at any time. But when you're feeling beat down and overwhelmed by real life, it is especially hard to face. Don't even get me started on trying to conjure up readable fiction while bouncing a baby seat with your foot, trying to get a little one to sleep.

That doesn't mean I shouldn't take on the blank page. After several weeks away from writing, and away from my work-in-progress, I am realizing that writing is part of what makes me feel human and normal. When I can't get to my computer, I write in my head. I do this constantly, sometimes without even realizing I'm doing it. In the shower. In the car. In the wee hours of the morning while I'm nursing the baby.

It's not always fiction, and it's rarely the latest chapter of my current project. More often I write snippets of prose, stream of consciousness narration, random connections between real life and the million stories I create in my head. Some of these snippets make it out of the shower or the car and onto a page. They might get woven in with a current story, or simply jotted down for future reference. Others just float away with the steam. I've done this since I was a little girl, and it's part of who I am, even when it's hard to distill anything out onto the page (or the screen).

So, the answer to the question of when the next book is coming is, I don't know. Given everything that has happened, and the fact that it's taken me three hours just to write this blog while caring for a fussy baby, the pace won't be a speedy one. But it's coming. I've never been one to stay down for long, and writing is one of the ways I find the strength to get off the floor.

Alpha Readers, Passover, and Paci-over?

Hope everyone had/is having a wonderful Easter, Passover, and beginning of spring. We're on Day 7 of Passover at our house and I'm proud to say I'm still hanging with the dietary restrictions thus far. My track record during pregnancy is slightly blemished in this regard: when I was prego with Monkey I fell off the wagon around Day 6 after getting the distinct feeling that I would burst into flames if I didn't have a bagel immediately.

[As an aside, DH has a new theory that since the Israelites ate unleavened bread because they didn't have time to wait for it to rise before leaving Egypt, a more appropriate modern equivalent would be eating ONLY fast food for 8 days. I see a couple of issues with this, including both the health implications and the oddity of gathering around for a seder with a bunch of Burger King value meals. If he gets any rabbinical support for the idea, though, I'll keep you posted.]

Passover is all about freedom from slavery, and I always like to take advantage of the opportunity to examine the things that enslave me: especially bad habits, outdated ways of thinking, and even the overabundance of choices in my life that can sometimes be paralyzing in themselves. Of course, it's also a wonderful opportunity to be with family and friends and take stock of what is most important -- the things I would bring with me if I suddenly had to leave my current life with no time for the bread to rise.

In the realm of bad habits, we also decided that Passover was an appropriate time to try breaking Monkey of his pacifier addiction. He has only ever used a pacifier for sleeping and naps, and months ago gave it up for naps at school when I forgot to send it in with him for a week. But we've noticed lately that it is taking longer and longer for him to give it up after waking up in the morning, and I'm getting concerned that we missed our window to take it away before he got too attached. On top of potential orthodontic and speech issues, we'd like to avoid having that kid who is four or five and still using a 'binky.' So, yesterday we took him to pick out a "big boy toy" -- a drill and hammer set, nice -- and this morning allowed him to play with it after saying "bye-bye" to all his pacis and putting them in a bag.

Everything went great with the plan until nap time. He cried for almost 45 minutes, saying "paci" the whole time, and we totally caved. In preparation for this experiment, I'd read lots of stories online from moms who tried this technique -- usually on a slightly older child -- and the results were far better. The stories often ended with something to the effect of, "He asked for it once and we reminded him he'd given it away, so he calmed down and went right to sleep." NOT the case today.

I can't decide if he's not ready/old enough to give it up yet, or if selfishly, I'm just not ready to give up the easy nap. I almost always start out his nap time with a sizable list of things to get done while he sleeps, and listening to his tortured cries for an hour is pretty much never on the list. At any rate, once I handed over paci, he lay down and went right to sleep. So we're going to regroup and try another strategy in a week or two. My overall goal is to follow the advice of his pediatrician and get rid of it by age two, just under two months away. Tick, tock.

Finally, a book update: 'The Marriage Pact,' (working title) is almost complete in first-draft form, and I am collecting all kinds of feedback from my Alpha Readers, for which I am most grateful. We are finding character inconsistencies, plot holes and annoying phrases. One trusted friend and fellow English major has helped me identify a couple of key themes, and taken me to task for my myriad abuses against semi-colons. I haven't had this kind of feedback since I was part of a writer's group in Portland, and I have to admit it's been really fun.

I am beginning the first major revision now, hoping to have something readable in the next few weeks. I'd also like to express my gratitude to many of you who have volunteered to read the book and haven't yet been asked to do so -- I'll definitely be looking forward to your thoughts a little later in the process. In the meantime, if you haven't already done so, please visit  www.facebook.com/MJPullenbooks and click the "like" button at the top right to show your support, and follow all the latest!  

Super Mommy and the Amazing Choo-Choo Car

Until yesterday, I'd been away from the keyboard in almost every way for the last week. I barely managed to keep up with critical e-mails, much less to find time to blog or work on my novel. (Isn't it funny that I feel like a pretentious ass saying 'work on my novel,' even though that's exactly what I'm doing? I didn't say 'working on my awesome novel' or 'the Next Great Novel...' Weird.)

Early in the week, my working hours were absorbed by a very long trip to the car dealership so that we could pick up our new Sienna, and I could officially become a Minivan Mom. Over the years, I've been resistant to the idea of a minivan for a number of reasons: maintaining my individuality, disliking many aspects of suburban 'Soccer Mom' culture, thinking that some tiny part of me still had an outside shot at being cool one day... In fact, like many women I know, I'm pretty sure that I have more than once over the years uttered the phrase, "I will never drive a minivan."

Right.

And then we got pregnant a second time and I started realizing that it was getting harder and harder to hoist and twist Monkey into his car seat without blowing out all my abdominal muscles and shrieking in pain. We started evaluating my adorable, fun station wagon (a 5-speed Subaru Outback that I LOVE and will never entirely give up) in terms of camping, vacations, etc., not to mention seating space with two car seats. We looked at prices and fuel efficiency of SUVs, and... Well, practicality won the day. It didn't hurt that my new van comes with leather seats and satellite radio (which I've never had) and a sunroof (which I haven't had since I was single in my mid-20s). Compromise taken.

The day after we brought home the van, Monkey started to act clingy, whiny, etc. I wasn't too worried until we went out for lunch with Grandma and my child refused to eat. No one in our family passes up a quesadilla and chips unless there's serious illness afoot. Over the following couple of days, he developed a fever and croupy cough (the 4th time this year - yuck!); and by Friday he was a complete mess. He would actually sit or lie on the couch with one of us for upwards of 30 minutes, watching TV -- absolutely unheard of since he learned how to wriggle out of our arms at five or six months old.

Monkey wouldn't eat, drink, or take his medicine. I'd offer him ten different things to eat or drink or do and he would shake his head violently, say "No!" slapping away whatever I'd presented, and then cry even harder as though each failed attempt to please him was only adding insult to injury. He's been sick several times this year - first year in preschool, I guess it's to be expected - but I've never seen him quite like this.

Nothing made him happy. Well, almost nothing.

Our new van has automatic doors on both sides. You press a button, the door slides gracefully open. Press it again, and it closes in the same smooth, quiet way. This is pretty cool if you're a grownup (at least, I thought so when the Toyota salesman demonstrated it). But if you're an almost-two year old, it's the Greatest Thing Ever. From the first time Monkey experienced this feature, he began signing and saying "More" and then his version of "Open" (which sounds like "Apu").

The middle seats of the van where Monkey sits are also much higher than they were in my Outback, both in relationship to the ground and to the windows. So he can see much more as we drive around in the new car, which is nice. I've looked back a few times to see him mesmerized by the passing scenery. Also, apparently the van looks more like a train than either of our older cars, which I probably wouldn't have noticed except that at some point he started referring to the van as "Choo Choo Car." Looking at it, I had to agree with him.

Thursday was a beautiful day, and with my little guy not feeling well and a new set of keys on the table, I decided a bit of fresh air and commercial-free radio were the best medicine for both of us. It worked rather better than I'd hoped -- not only was he calm during most of the trip, but as soon as we got out of the car, he wanted to get back in. It took a few minutes for me to convince him that we needed to go into the house, the store, wherever, and each time we'd spend several minutes saying "Bye, bye, Choo Choo Car" before we could move on.

By Friday, my whiny wet mess would not accept any food or drink, or any of his usual sources of entertainment, including (GASP!) "Elmo's World." He wanted to be held at all times, except when he wanted to run to the front door and point, and the only thing he consistently said all morning was "Choo Choo Car, Go." So we went.

After a long visit to the pediatrician, we spent more than three hours in the Choo-Choo Car on Friday, making ambling little circles around the area near our house -- I didn't want to get too far from home so that we could be nearby if he took a nap or needed his medicine or decided he had had enough driving. Also, being four months pregnant means I already have a frequent need to pee, not a practical endeavor in a gas station bathroom with a 21-month old. So we came home every 45 minutes, and almost invariably, Monkey whined and cried until I strapped him back into the van for another ride.

There's nothing fun about having a sick child. You hate that they don't feel good, you worry if you're doing all the right things to take care of them, and (selfishly) you have to put your life on hold -- everything from working to showering -- to give them constant care. But as a parent, it's also a moment to shine. Somewhere amid the worrying and frustration, I realized that I was putting my needs aside and watching the odometer on my brand new car rise, because that's what Monkey needed in that moment. It was the best I could do; and that's the job.


Monkey is on the mend, and I'm happy to say that he's eating a little more at every meal and the fever is long gone. He'll be back in school tomorrow barring any unforeseen relapse. I don't know whether he's actually grateful for the care his dad and I have provided him in the last few days (Hubby had most of the weekend duty and was amazing, as always); but I do know that I came to sit next to him on the stair this morning while he watched TV, and he said "Hi, Mama!" and put his head in my lap. That's the payoff.

Mommy's Writing Process

Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience. ~Thoreau

Okay, sure. I'm on board.

I found this quote while looking for some motivation since I have been feeling a little disconnected from my writing lately. I do get ideas (some of them a little fiery, maybe); but always at random times of the day when I have no access to pen, paper, laptop, energy or privacy. In fact, I haven't had (made) time to write since Friday. But Tuesday is a workday for me -- in fact my only free day this week -- and I've been looking forward to hitching myself to the old plow. Bringing the heat and inflaming minds.

Here's how the schedule plays out:

4:45 a.m. - Wake up to crying toddler who sounds suspiciously like seal. Either my child has the croup for the third time in the last year, or I'm having that dream again where I'm the star attraction at Sea World. Hmmm...

4:47 a.m. - Decide this is not a dream (no applause, no fishy smell), but is actually child crying in the other room. Pee hurriedly. Retrieve Monkey from his crib.

4:50 - 5:10 a.m. - Turn on hot shower and attempt to keep surprisingly alert child entertained - away from toilet, cabinets - while confining to steamy bathroom. Take two breaks to fetch crackers, applesauce. The Monkey-Seal is hungry.

5:15 - 6:15 a.m. - Stare hazily at full episode of "Sesame Street" while failing to convince Monkey that he is tired enough to go back to bed or even to lie on the couch with Mommy and snuggle. Periodically think, "I should really be writing. I'll get up in a sec."

6:30 - 7:15 a.m. - Nap. Wake up with "Surrey with the Fringe on Top" in my head. Why?

7:15 - 8:30 a.m. - Get Monkey up, make breakfast for both of us, wrestle him to the ground for diaper and clothing changes, send an e-mail, take away toy broom due to its misuse as a baseball bat, soothe resulting tantrum, call doctor's office, attempt to get self dressed upstairs, run back down to solve new crisis (favorite car stuck under piece of furniture), vow to sweep under furniture later (yuck!), bring Monkey upstairs to finish dressing, explain what breasts are, pack Monkey's bag, pack Mommy's purse, attempt to put shoes on both, answer phone call, chase Monkey around dining room table with jacket, run back upstairs for forgotten phone, start car with "help," turn volume of radio back down from 40 to 10, buckle Monkey in seat, find my sunglasses, find his sunglasses, drive to doctor's office.

8:45 - 9:45 a.m. - Doctor visit. Lots of waiting, wrangling and "please don't open that cabinet." A double ear infection and croup. Explain to the nurse giving him oral steriod that he doesn't take medication well and suggestions are welcome. "This is flavored," she said, "It will be yummy." Attempt, with nurse, to hold Monkey down for yummy medicine. Medicine goes on his shirt, his face, his ears, the table. None in mouth. "I can't get him to take it," she says, "You'd better try." Try again. Red everywhere. Ask nurse if we should try putting it in his juice? "If you think that will work," she says. Pour out half of juice, add medicine. Monkey drinks. Whew. Pay copay and try to keep Monkey from playing with open trash can conveniently located at toddler height next to the check-out desk.

10:00 - 10:30 a.m. - Wander around grocery store while waiting for prescriptions. Wish I had not just done all my shopping yesterday. Explain to Monkey about one-cookie limit (bakery policy and Mommy policy - both very harsh). Wipe liquified cookie off jacket, hands, mommy, cart. Answer the question "What's 'at?" 4,500 times. Pick up prescriptions, head home. Call DH to make sure he can come home early so I can go to work later.

10:45 a.m. - Snack time. Through elaborate ruse involving yogurt smoothie, manage to convince Monkey that antibiotic is actually 'special treat.'  Victory for Mommy.

11:00 a.m. - Open novel document and attempt to continue scene in progress. Keep accidentally typing words from children's TV show in background -- hardly appropriate for love scene. Decide to open twitter account instead. 

11:30 a.m. - Still trying to pick twitter user name. Monkey claims to be hungry, start cooking fish sticks and butter beans. While cooking, complete sign-up and start 'following' some people. Try to ignore how creepy this sounds. Am not stalker, am not stalker, am not stalker....

11:35 a.m. - Put announcement about new twitter ID on Facebook. Suddenly feel pressure to write interesting tweets. Must learn what a 'tweet' is.

11:45 a.m. - Lunch is ready. Hungry? Monkey says no. Want yummy fish sticks? No. Wants Mommy to sit and watch terrible preschool TV with him. Say in best Peter Falk voice, "You're sick, I'll humor you." No one laughs.

12:00 p.m. - Make second attempt to serve lunch, Monkey upset that fish sticks cold. Put plate in microwave, apparently even more upsetting.

12:10 p.m. - Finally calm, both eating lunch. Three fish sticks later, Monkey is "all done!" Wipe down hands, mouth, pants, chair and floor. Explain that nap time is after one more episode of "Caillou."

12:30 p.m. - Naptime. Turn off TV and chase Monkey around room twice. Monkey yells "no, no, no, no!" and when caught, makes the sign for 'hungry.' Give children's ibuprofen for ears and one slice of cheese for good measure. Change diaper, locate pacifier, put in bed. Sweet! Writing time!

1:00 p.m. - Continue to stare at same sentence in document that I was working on last Friday. Upstairs, Monkey still awake, intermittent yelling has intensified. Return to his room to find pacifier, blankets, lovie, and all stuffed animals on the floor. Monkey says, "uh-oh." Grins.

1:05 p.m. - Debate the psychological merits and repercussions of returning everything to the crib or not. Weigh concept of behavior reinforcement against realization that we are both exhausted, Monkey sick, nap necessary. Cave. Monkey thrilled until he realizes I am leaving without him.

1:08 p.m. - Ignore screaming from crib, blow kisses and take shower. Enjoy first half-hour of solitude today.

1:40 p.m. - All is quiet. Sit down to write in robe, slippers, wet hair. Suddenly aware of headache. Caffeine withdrawals?

1:45 p.m. - Put on kettle for tea. Writers need energy.

1:50 p.m. - Read various tweets while waiting for water to boil.

1:55 p.m. - Prepare tea, return to novel. Notice bird outside. Watch cat in yard watching bird menacingly. Say to cat, "Who are you kidding? You're 13 and barely have any teeth." Apologize to cat even though she doesn't hear me through window. None of us are as young and talented as we used to be.

2:00 p.m. - Enjoy rare quiet in house. Run upstairs to make sure Monkey still breathing.

2:08 p.m. - Right. Time to write. Inflame minds with a hot poker or something.

2:10 p.m. - Solicitation call. Threaten caller with personal visit and slashed tires if call woke Monkey.

2:15 p.m. - Realize I have less than an hour before I need to get ready for work. Decide blog is more realistic goal for today than progress on.... what was I working on again?

Gestation Explanation

I've been chastised by a few people lately for my sporadic, infrequent blog posts; and I have to say I'm flattered to know that at least two or three people miss me when I'm not around. So, thanks for that!

Now, the reasons for the cyber-doldrums... First, as many of you have learned in the past couple of weeks, I'm almost 13 weeks pregnant with our second child. What's wonderful about that is that I once again get to experience the miracle of the human body as it nurtures and sustains a new life until it is ready to bring into this world, and into our overjoyed little family.

What's less wonderful is that I feel like crap. More specifically, I feel like I've had a perpetual hangover for about 10 weeks and the whole dang world is a noisy, stinky garbage truck. And for some reason, my toddler doesn't care one bit. He continues to demand the same level of attention and care regardless of how I feel. Can you believe that? SO inconsiderate.

So for the last couple of months I've been spending my minimal down time cat-napping, searching for foods that don't make me queasy, and doing my best to exercise at least a few times a week. This last is a particularly good idea since most of the palatable foods I mentioned are primarily sugar -- in fact, you could say I'm on the empty calorie diet. I'm also pretty much toast (hey - toast!) by 5:30 p.m. each day. Even though I always, always, set out to write or accomplish something after Monkey goes to bed; I always, always end up sinking into the couch watching bad TV and/or going to bed at 8:30. There you have it.

This rigorous schedule of scarfing down carbs in front of reality TV has also impacted my other baby - the book I've been working on. Despite everything, I'm very pleased to say that I have managed to drum up enough spare time and energy to churn out about 53,000 words. Of course, 52,000+ are likely to end up on the cutting room floor -- thank goodness we bought a house with a cutting room! -- but I'm okay with that. I am learning to appreciate the imperfectness of my process.

My goal by the end of March is to have a super-rough draft ready for the friends who have kindly agreed to serve as first-line readers. Primarily, I'm hoping that none of them will regret too deeply the choice to volunteer, or die of boredom by Chapter 6. We'll see.

I'm finding that gestating a baby and gestating a book are similar in some ways. Like a child, the book has a life of its own; even though I am the one trying to shape it. There's lots of anxiety about the parts of the process over which I have no control, and lots of worrying over the parts I can control. I keep wondering if I'm good enough to really do this, or if at some point somebody is going to figure out that I never should've been trusted with either children or a laptop and come take my license away. And in both cases, sometimes I have to acknowledge that I've done the best I can for today, and it's time to rest.

One key difference is that at the end of the nine months, I know this kid is coming. I can't push back the deadline or realign my goals or decide to wait for feedback from an editor. Pregnancy is the one area of my life where I've been unable to successfully procrastinate (and let's be honest, by 37 weeks the last thing you want to do is drag out the process). So I am trying to treat my writing goals the same way, as an inevitable progression with a definite end date.... Hopefully with a lot less screaming there at the end.

Sometimes you have to stop and smell...whatever died in the wall

The last couple of weeks around our house have been all about ears and noses.

The problem with Monkey's sleeping I wrote about a couple of weeks ago turned out to be not teething, but a double ear infection. It took me almost six days of his crazy behavior (plus a fever) to figure out something was really wrong and take him to the doctor. I felt particularly silly about that because, during the first year and a half of Monkey's life, I probably took him to the doctor four or five different times thinking that he had an ear infection when he didn't. Sigh.

The silver lining was that I got a nice little Mommy lesson, which is when MLM doesn't seem like himself, there is probably a reason.

The nose problem has been even less pleasant and more pervasive...

We've discovered a major problem with buying a house in a wooded area that has been vacant for a couple of years and has an easily accessible water supply nearby... rodents. What we thought was a past problem when we moved in has turned into a parade of disgusting as we, and our pest control company, try to take back our house from its former residents. Roof rats, I am told, though I'm grateful not to have seen it for myself.

The good news is, we haven't seen any critters or their, ahem, tracks in our actual living space. They've been partying in the attic and the crawl space, and using the voids in the walls as their little rodent floo network back and forth. The bad news is that the pest control company's special bait -- which was supposed to send Mickey and company out of the house in search of water, where they would die somewhere I could pretend was a pleasant place full of cheese and classical music -- has unfortunately backfired. At least one, maybe two, of our uninvited guests did not find his way out into the yard before meeting his demise.

It started as a faint smell in our bathroom; then spread to almost every room in the house. Two men from the pest control company came out, climbed ladders, wandered around for a couple of hours and confirmed that, yes, something had died in our wall. Next to an air duct. Sweet.

Could they fix it? Well, maybe. They'd be drilling holes in our walls, piping in their cameras, which might not be able to get around the insulation; and there was some chance they'd be able to spot something. If they found it, it was somewhat likely they could get it out. Or not. Then we'd have anywhere from one to several open holes in our wall, which we'd have to fix ourselves. In the meantime, a toddler with free access to the inside of the wall. I could picture Monkey chewing on fistfuls of insulation while the house smelled EVEN WORSE because of the holes.

So the other option: hold our breath (literally), and wait. Ugh, ugh, ugh. We had to move dinner with friends elsewhere one night; opened the windows when we could, and left the house as often as possible when we couldn't. We have endured the sickly sweet smell of plug-in air fresheners turned all the way up to full blast, and the awful funk during showers and while brushing our teeth. I found myself dreaming that the rats were taking revenge, nibbling my extremities while I slept.

Thankfully, after two weeks, the smell has mostly faded. The pest control company is coming tomorrow to seal off all the entry points and set traps for anyone who wasn't frightened off by the smell of their compatriots rotting in the walls. Needless to say, all this smelly drama has left me with little inspiration to blog. If I had been posting, the last 14 blogs would have been titled "My House Still Stinks - What's Up With You?"

The other (better) reason for my absence from cyberspace is that I've been writing like a fiend on that novel I mentioned to y'all last month. There's definitely a learning curve, but I feel I'm scaling it, slowly. I haven't decided yet if the rats will get a cameo in the book, but I'll keep you posted.

"Mom, I Can't Sleep"

Originally this blog was going to be about how our little monkey didn't sleep Friday night, and what fun it was trying stay awake and present Saturday morning when we had a crowd at our house for brunch.

MLM is getting in a back molar, we think, and he was awake and crying from midnight until 3 a.m., then slept in bed with us from 3 to 6. Parents reading this know what quality sleep you get with a squirmy toddler in your bed (ha, ha)! He's also in a phase right now where when he's the slightest bit unhappy, (a) he immediately has a world-ending meltdown, and (b) only Mommy will do. So even though DH wanted and tried to help out, Monkey would accept no such substitute.

So we were all exhausted Saturday, and Monkey missed out on some quality time with his friends and cousins. But it actually was fun, cooking with my best friend and sister-in-law in the kitchen and catching up with some great friends over coffee and french toast. So that's what this blog was going to be about.

Then today, I got my daily e-mail reminder from the Sean Costello Foundation to vote for their Mojo Project on the Pepsi Refresh Everything website. The first words were "Mom, I can't sleep," and the rest is just reprinted here because I couldn't possibly say it better than Debbie Costello Smith herself:

I know that my asking you to vote every day for the past two months may seem annoying, and maybe it's not even clear why we're asking. I have some texts saved on what was Sean's BB and as I was cleaning out the texts on my phone today, I saw one of the last ones that I ever got from him. It said "Mom, I can't sleep." It's personal for me, as you might have surmised already. To win would be a long shot, and would take votes from everyone we know all 3 ways every day, but I have to try. There is no contest in February, so these last few days are it.... I hope these words affect you. Sean lost his life because he was trying to get some sleep.  This has happened to many people, including famous people like Heath Ledger and Michael Jackson.  Let's keep this from happening to others.

As many of you know, Sean was my brother's best friend from age 10; so I have memories of him from when he was a child, as well as the musical prodigy who suffered so profoundly from bipolar disorder as an adult. The Sean Costello Foundation for Bipolar Research is a cause near and dear to me both personally and professionally.

When I read Debbie's words today, I thought how the job of a mother really doesn't change over time. My little guy cries out for me when he can't sleep because of teething, and at just shy of 29 years old, Sean was still reaching out in that same way. I felt renewed grief for Sean's loss and for the heartbreak that Debbie and so many other mothers have had to experience when their children couldn't handle the challenges of bipolar and other mood disorders. I also grieved -- am grieving -- for my own mother, who always had trouble sleeping and lost her life to mental illness and self-medication as well. It will be 10 years this June.

I hugged Monkey a little extra tight today, too, grateful for the moments I have with him now, never knowing what the future holds for any of us.

If you are already voting daily, please accept my sincere gratitude. If you have not yet voted for the Mojo Project, please consider clicking this link, signing up with the Pepsi Refresh project and voting for the next 8 days. [You can sign up for a daily e-mail reminder, learn more about the Mojo Project, and hear some of Sean's amazing music here.]

It takes about 10 minutes the first time you do it, and two minutes to vote for each of the next 8 days. That's 26 minutes total -- half an episode of 'Glee' -- and I'll assure you that I have been voting consistently for the last two months and have yet to receive any kind of marketing e-mail from Pepsi.

It's the final push for this very important grant, since there will be no voting next month, and winning it could mean that other musicians like Sean (and my brother, and thousands of others) will have better mental health outcomes despite their special risk for mood disorders, self-medication, and lack of access to mental health services.

Maybe if we can learn more about bipolar disorder and help creative people get better access to the help they need, fewer mothers will have to mourn because their kids couldn't sleep.

The Grinch, Santa, and the Busy Post Office

I saw on the news this morning that today is the busiest day of the year at the post office; and of course I had an errand there that wouldn't wait. Needless to say, I was pretty much dreading the idea of waiting in line forever with a VERY active toddler -- that's pretty much a recipe for an enormous public meltdown.

I was dreading it even more because my errand was not dropping off cards or holiday packages, but mailing a certified letter warning our tenants that we'll have to start eviction proceedings if they can't get their rent in. Which made me feel a lot like the Grinch. [boo, hiss.....] In my defense, we aren't actually evicting them at Christmas, but still. It's not a position I ever wanted to be in, and not great timing for threats of legal action.

The Grinch feeling only increased as Monkey and I filed into line with everyone carrying cards and packages for loved ones. It was like the letters in my hand were slowly becoming radioactive. I found myself re-explaining to me how lenient and understanding we have been with our tenants so far; reminding myself that we've given them plenty of opportunities, done lots for charity this season, etc., etc.

Then my mood improved substantially because Monkey started aggressively playing peekaboo with and blowing kisses to the people in front of and behind us. He's such a little ham, and it was hard not to laugh at him -- and soon we were chatting happily with the lady in front of us, who is missing her own grandchildren and seemed to enjoy a bit of a baby fix. She also kept Monkey engaged and happy, and that helped all of us pass the long wait more easily. I was so grateful and all my Grinch feelings were back in perspective.

As we neared the front of the line, another little Christmastime dilemma arose as the nice lady in front of us asked a question I've had frequently this year and I'm sure will only get more often as I take my Irish-looking son around town. "Have you taken him to see Santa yet?"

This always makes me feel a little awkward, not in a deep theological sense, but in a basic conversational sense. We're Jewish, and while some Jews have absorbed the Santa tradition, we have not. So when I meet someone in passing who I will never see again, is it appropriate to fib my way through this question -- the same way you say "fine," when a stranger asks you how you're doing, even if you've had a crappy day and a vicious headache?

It's a tough call for such an innocuous and well-intended question. When people wish me Merry Christmas, I wish it right back. So what if I don't celebrate the holiday? Obviously that person does or they wouldn't say it, so I just receive it as a positive thing and reflect back their well-wishes. I think people of all faiths could benefit from being more flexible about how we show kindness to one another this time of year, instead of demanding that everyone conform to one particular understanding of the holiday(s).

On the other hand, answering a very specific question falsely to facilitate an easy conversation doesn't feel right, either. This lady did not say, "Hope Santa's good to you!" as we parted. She specifically asked if I had taken my son to see Santa. Even though he's not old enough to understand the question fully, I feel it's important to model honesty, and teach him not to be ashamed that our religion, culture and holiday observances may sometimes be unlike those around us.

My primary hesitation on being truthful in this circumstance is that I don't want to embarrass the person asking the question. I often feel that when I do clarify the fact that we're Jewish, in response to the assumption that we're Christian (a common one given the pasty Irish complexion and red hair), it makes the person asking the question feel as though she's been corrected. And, well, I guess she has.

In this case, I started with a simple no, and then she asked as a follow up, "I guess he's too young for that, huh?" So I went with the truth.

"We celebrated Hanukkah already, actually..."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" See? Totally embarrassed.

"No, that's alright. We did see a Santa at a church play with some friends last night, and he didn't show any interest, so I guess I'm off the hook for answering that difficult question for another year!" I tried to smile comfortably to let her know it was really okay that she'd asked.

It was awkward, and I could tell she felt a little bit bad as I wished her "Merry Christmas!" and stepped up to the counter. But maybe she learned something about her own assumptions that she can carry forward with her; and hopefully I got a little practice doing the uncomfortable, but right thing, because you know this won't be the last time I get that question! 

As I left the post office today I thought, wow, I'm glad we got here when we did. The line is out the door! But I also thought what a good lesson for this time of year, for both of us. For all of us:

Be proud of who you are. Be a friend to someone who needs it. And your true self is the best gift there is.

[Cue the violins! Pass the Kleenex!]



Merry Christmas to my Christian friends. Happy Kwanzaa to those who celebrate it (if any of you do celebrate Kwanzaa and don't find it intrusive, I would love to know more about your traditions). Happy Chinese food to my MOT friends, and happy warm thoughts to everyone.

The blog is going on a short break, but I'll see everyone bright and early in 2011!!

Life's Questions Answered... Or, Not

A mommy first today... I got a call about an hour ago that my sweet baby was vomiting "everywhere" and I needed to go pick him up from preschool. Yuck. And poor baby.

So I am busy scrapping my plans for the afternoon, desperately rearranging my work schedule, and waiting for a call back from the pediatrician. MLM is sleeping soundly upstairs, while Mommy waits. And wonders.

When I feel nervous, my anxiety tends to take the form of a need for information. In situations like these there is almost always a period of time during which we have no information, like between the time the school calls and the time I get there to see what's going on for myself. So it ends up being sort of an internal Q & A session...

How sick is he? Sick enough that the school felt the need to call you. Is it too much to hope that he just showed the teacher his new trick of sticking his fingers down his throat? Probably. Did I remember to pack a change of clothes for him today? Yes. Why isn't DH answering his phone? It's been 6 minutes. Why didn't I take the time to find a new pediatrician yet? Have you met you?

Once I pick him up, give him a big hug, and bundle him in the car, the questions seem to snowball. Should I call the old pediatrician or try urgent care? Would it be better for DH to come home early or for me to shuffle my clients? Should I take him home to nap or try to feed him? Is that vomiting I hear in the backseat? Is this a stomach virus or the beginning of strep throat, as the preschool director suggested? Do we have anything that gets throw-up out of car upholstery? Is it my imagination, or am I feeling a little queasy myself? What is my schedule like for the rest of the week and how disastrous would it be if MLM and/or myself were sick at home? Could it be the milk from this morning that expired today?

At home, I decide to pack MLM off to sleep, talk to DH and realize he knows exactly as much about what to do as I, check the milk and pour it out even though it smells fine, and continue waiting for a callback from the doctor's office. Now, maybe someone in the health care industry can explain this to me, but why when I just need to make an appointment for sometime in the distant future, I can call the office and talk to a live human being right away; but when I'm trying to figure out if and how to organize the rest of my afternoon around a spewing 16-month old, I get to wait 2 hours for a triage nurse to call me back? The need for information strikes again.

So, getting no answers from all the reasonable sources, I begin to direct my anxiety in a new direction, one that only mommies of my generation can really understand: the Internet. Fortunately, I'm wise enough to know that putting "baby vomiting" into a search engine is going to do me zero good. So I begin to cling to one of my amateur theories about what could be making MLM sick, and I google "can expired milk cause vomiting?"

Seriously? I am 35 years old, relatively intelligent, and I just asked the entire universe if old milk can make you sick. Someone should really go to my office, take one of my 4 degrees off the wall, and smack me in the head with it. What I really want, I realize, is to talk to a health care professional and have him or her put my anxiety to rest by giving me some direction, telling me what to look for, assuring me it is more likely this or that. At least then I'd know what today's next task would be, and I'd have some idea how to care for my little guy.

But in the absence of such reassurance, I really, really want to be able to rule out (or in) the idea that MLM just has what my grandmother used to call a "sour stomach" from drinking milk past its prime -- which would be great because it's not contagious or overly dangerous and he would likely be back to himself by tomorrow.

So I find myself trolling through chat rooms, looking for pieces of a puzzle that I wish I could put together immediately -- when deep down I know I just have to wait and see what happens.  For me, that's one downside of the Internet, it allows me to continue feeding my anxiety by searching through infinite information (some credible, much more of it not) hoping for reassurance; rather than forcing me to deal with the uncertainty and move on with my day. Sometimes what we need is not more information, but more patience.

If you're wondering whether expired milk can make you sick.... Not really. Or, yes, but only if it gets thick or smells bad. Or sometimes if it is neither thick nor smelly. You should never, ever, ever drink it after the expiration date. EVER! But many people successfully drink it up to two weeks after with no problems. It can make you mildly sick. Or be fatal! Or it's fine. And never, ever drink unpasteurized milk. Unless you prefer raw milk and believe it's healthier. So listen to your mom's advice. Or conduct a testing procedure with lemon tea before drinking it. Or just throw it out. All clear now? Good.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go see what the symptoms are for Avian Flu...

The Very Cluttered Diaper Bag

The latest obsession around our house, edging out the toy vacuum cleaner that a girlfriend let us borrow, is Eric Carle's The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Before MLM was born, people warned me that this book would be the object of pure passion, and that has certainly has been the case. I now read that book, on repeated and sweet request ['peeeeese'], about 9 times a day. DH adds another 3 or 4 readings himself. I can hear that little caterpillar munching in my sleep.

I don't mind, I really don't. In fact I'm pretty excited that my son is growing attachments to his books and our rituals of reading them together. But I'll admit that when one of the characters on Modern Family was reading his daughter a gossip magazine because he couldn't stand to read TVHC one more time, I could completely relate.

I'm starting to think in the simple meter of that story about everything. Exempli gratia:

The Very Cluttered Diaper Bag

By the light of the moon, a tired and messy mommy rubs her shoulder.

Even when the warm sun comes up on Sunday morning, she cannot find anything.

Her diaper bag is so heavy and messy. She decides to look for the bottom.

On Monday, she moves the diapers and the wipes. But she still can't see the bottom.

On Tuesday, she pulls out her sunglasses, wallet and keys. But the bag is still full.

On Wednesday she removes a crumpled diaper that's a size too small. But the bag is still cluttered.

On Thursday she takes out an empty snack container and a used juice cup. But the bag is still messy.

On Friday she pulls out a board book and a teething toy. But she still can't see the bottom of the bag.

On Saturday, she takes out.......
one cup of applesauce, one bag of Scooby snacks
   two bibs, one lollipop, 14 cheerios, one pack of yogurt snacks
        three wadded up post-it notes, 43 cents in change, one yarmulke, three baby socks,
              17 receipts, one hair band, five ear plugs, one pacifier cover, one bottle adapter,
                       two tubes of lotion,
                          one empty glasses case [odd since Mommy doesn't wear glasses],
                                 one camera battery charger, four pens and
                                             one plastic baby spoon.

That night she had a headache.

The next day was Sunday again, and she turned the bag upside down over the trash can to get out all the crumbs, 6 more cheerios, and 13 additional cents. She felt much better.

She decided to keep her bag neater from now on. This lasted for two weeks.

Then she got busy again, and did not emerge as a beautiful organized butterfly.

But she loved her little man and always had something he needed. So that was okay.

Trying to Get the TV to Babysit, But It Shows Up Late and Talks on the Phone the Whole Time...

Don't use the TV as a babysitter. 

This is one of those rules I always hear thrown around about parenthood. Actually, come to think of it, I hear it less often as a rule and more often as a derisive example of bad parenting that people desperately want to avoid. It's usually something like, "I allow my children to watch a little bit of educational TV each day, but I would never use the TV as a babysitter." [The emphasis on this last word is typically said in the same disgusted manner you might use if you were saying "I would never feed my baby monkey feces."]

I don't know when I heard this expression first, but the adage has been ingrained in me for a long time -- since long before I started thinking about having my own children. I remember making little mental notes to myself about how I wanted to be as a parent and thinking, as most of us do, that there are some habits I wanted to minimize in my hypothetical future household, TV among them.

With good reason, of course. Children who watch too much television are at risk for a host of problems: sedentary lifestyle, obesity and ADD, to name a few. And I am committed to making sure MLM has lots of opportunities to get outside, play actively, and get lots of non-TV-related learning stimulation.

But like most "rules" I've internalized, the TV-as-babysitter one can reach a point where it ceases to be a helpful guideline for doing something proactive and positive; and instead becomes a metaphorical parenting whip with which I beat myself into guilt and inadequacy.

MLM has just reached the point in his development at which his favorite programs [Sesame Street, Curious George, any football game] will hold his attention for five or more minutes at a time. And I have to admit, I'm so glad.

At 6:30 a.m., I can put a sleepy, whiny baby in his little chair with a cup of milk and let him watch Sesame Street while I make coffee and find the sweatshirt that is currently functioning as a robe -- which make me much more available and perky mom by 7:15. I always feel a twinge of guilt at that moment, because I am, in fact, using the TV as a babysitter; and kicking off our day together with the boob tube as the focus. But the guilt is far outweighed by -- what is it? relief? gratitude? -- that I can focus on starting my day as a human being rather than exclusively a mommy.

And I have to say, I'm okay with it. It's an educational program, and LM rarely watches anything for more than 8 minutes before he's off to find something to play with or to figure out where I am and why my attention drifted from him for any reason.

The challenge is in the balancing act. It's hard, once you turn that noisy screen on, to turn it off again. And there's always the danger that a few minutes here and there throughout the day will turn into two-hour blocks of watching TV later on (which I really do want to avoid). Like most things in parenting, and in life, it seems that the trick is to allow the conventional wisdom, or the "shoulds," to guide decision-making in general; but to also adapt that to what works best for you personally.

Maybe that derisive voice in my head that says "Don't use the TV as a babysitter," causes me to hesitate a bit when I plop LM down in his chair in the morning, or when we turn on the weekend football game. It doesn't change what I'm doing in that moment, but it does give me pause, helps me to check my behavior. Because of that hesitation, that twinge of guilt, I can moderate my decision and commit to balancing it out later in the day. So if we watch a bit of TV as part of our morning ritual, maybe we turn it off and get outside in the afternoon, or opt for some music instead.

Everyone has differing opinions on this issue, of course, and every parent draws the line in a different place -- a place that can change daily, depending on the situation. But for me the focus is going to be more on not only balancing "should" with "can," but also feeling less guilty and conflicted in the process. Besides, everyone loves Elmo, right??

Cobwebs and My Addled Brain (Unrelated, Mostly)

First, I have had the heebie-jeebies all day [that's right, I said heebie-jeebies] after a trip to our basement laundry area this morning. I have noticed in the last few days that the cobwebs have gathered amazingly fast on our new washing machine and hot water heater, both of which were installed within the last two weeks. This morning I went down to find teeny little strands attached to almost everything, including our hanging clothes from earlier in the week.

I grabbed a duster and went to work. Then I noticed that under the light fixture, there were tons of dust particles lingering in midair. Weird. So I looked closer, and, yep -- those were itty bitty spiders. There had to be at least 30 of them, hanging over my head by almost imperceptible single strands from the fluorescent light bulbs. After spraying them down with my trusty Citrus Magic (sorry PETA, I'm a peaceful person and animal lover, but spiders in the house incur my wrath), I moved the clothes and went back upstairs. Ugh.

Wait.... was that a spider on my shoulder? Do I feel something crawling on my foot? Is my back always this itchy in the morning? Now there is definitely something in my hair.... All morning I was scratching and searching, battling phantom spiders everywhere in my clothes, on my skin, in my hair.

Once the ick factor wore off a bit, I started wondering about cobwebs, which I have always assumed were just collections of dust that had somehow formed a sticky line. I guess I thought it was static electricity or something. But I did a little research (esoteric code for Googling 'what is a cobweb'), and learned that cobwebs actually are spiderwebs that have been abandoned.

So the little guys start a web and get interrupted, or they make a web and it turns out not to be ideal hunting ground, etc. So they head out, leaving the sticky little strands behind to attract dust and conjure up spooky visions of Miss Habersham's wedding cake. What? Just me? Fine.

There's probably some interesting metaphor in there somewhere. Hmm.... Nope. I've got nothing.

That's a perfect segue to my brain issues. I love, love, love having my sweet baby boy around (and with me so often) and I can't express the joy he's brought to my life. But his impact on my cognitive abilities -- well, it isn't pretty. My memory, already lousy, is so much worse than ever. I forget birthdays and phone numbers that I never thought would slip out of my awareness and I forget to do basic stuff sometimes like locking the front door and paying rent at my office.

The distraction factor is huge, too. Today I had lunch with one of my favorite people (with MLM tagging along) and as we said goodbye I thought of several little things I wanted to ask him.... nothing major, just simple follow-up questions and bits of conversation that got lost when I was checking someone's mouth for pieces of chewed-up crayon or distracted by what could've been a choking-on-apple noise. We still enjoy our time together, I know, and it doesn't weaken our friendship. But I do have hazy memories of our long, intellectual conversations tucked into a booth at an Oxford pub, and I sort of long for the days when I could hold onto a topic long enough to cover it deeply.

Even when Little Man isn't at the table, the many tasks and duties of motherhood seem to be a constant soundtrack in the background of my brain, keeping me from focusing completely on whatever is in front of me. Part of it is the move, of course, and my mental acumen will stabilize as life becomes more normal. And whatever I have lost in the process of having a baby and raising a toddler is 100% worth it.

Still, it would be nice to be able to clear out the cobwebs -- literally and figuratively!

Name that Weird Feeling

It's been a long day, friends. I'm at work between clients just now; and this has been the most peaceful part of my day so far. Otherwise it's been lots of packing and hauling and being really, really angry at the Comcast people. It's amazing how much power over us some companies wield, like those who provide internet and phone service, such that with a simple error on their part they can completely ruin the better part of an important afternoon for us (their customers) and not so much as bother to apologize. Why should they? Where else am I going to go? Another company with equally bad customer service and fewer options?

Don't worry, I'm not going into details here. Saving that for the angry letter I will either decide not to write, or fume over for hours only to have it tossed in the recycle bin by someone's assistant. Maybe if I'm crazy enough when I write it, it'll get posted in the Comcast break room, where the employees will come to laugh at it and eat donuts while some other poor sucker is "holding for one moment."

While I work on my phantom letter to the Comcast executives, I am also trying to focus on all the excitement I should be feeling right now about the new house. Have you ever noticed that there are certain occasions in life where things go really well and you get exactly what you want, and yet you feel that somehow your level of thrilled-ness seems to fall short of what is expected at the moment? When everyone can't stop saying "Aren't you just so excited?" and you find yourself thinking, "Yes, but....."

"Yes, but actually, I'm worried about all the things that can go wrong," or, "Yes, but the excitement is being overshadowed by the enormity of the logistics/responsibility," or, "Did you know you have to go through LABOR to have a baby? It sounds really painful and it's scaring the crap out of me!"

This is one of those moments for me. I was totally psyched about the house when we made the offer, and once we had it under contract I floated around for a few days, pretty giddy. But I didn't want to get too overly excited until closing, aware that things can always go wrong and not wanting to set myself up for utter disappointment. And since closing actually occurred yesterday, I've been so darn distracted by everything that has to be done immediately that it's been hard to stop and celebrate.

We will, of course, celebrate upon move-in; and I know I'll be as happy as I have been expecting to be in our new home. But I always feel a little weird/guilty when people ask me how excited I am, or tell me how excited they are for me, and... well, it's hard to tap into that emotion at that moment. This was also true toward the end of pregnancy, when everyone around me was anticipating the joy and I was primarily preoccupied with worry. It's sort of a temporary dissociation from happiness. Has anyone else had this experience? If so, maybe we should come up with a name for it!

The Random Answer

I had sort of a nonstop, stressful day today, one that left very little space for contemplation and creativity. We're in the process of preparing to move, closing on a new home in a couple of weeks and getting our current space ready to rent out to someone else; and today was one of those days with lots of meetings,  phone calls, faxing, and e-mailing trying to make all the pieces of the process work together.

So I'm worn out and brain-dead, and definitely in a state that would not normally be conducive to blogging. I guess this is one of those days for stretching the limits.

But I can't do it on my own. So in search of inspiration, I did a little random googling, and then started googling "random" just for fun, too. I found something called a random question generator on a website geared toward sparking creativity.

Here was the question: Can I transpose positives and negatives?


Hmm....

After packing until nearly midnight last night, it was totally exhilarating to be awakened at 5:00 a.m. by my ready-to-play toddler. I often laze around until as late as 6:45, so the opportunity to greet the morning extra-early was really special. The fact that he wanted to be right under my feet or in my arms the entire time was nice, too, because I always want to be close to him. Every second.

Having a nonstop day today made me feel important and needed. It's nice to know that I'm such a pivotal part in our family and so helpful to my husband. It was really great that I had no time to waste on any frivolous activities, and that the near-constant flow of phone calls, emails, etc. really kept me on track. It was a nice bonus, however, that my phone completely malfunctioned mid-afternoon so that I couldn't spend too much time on that important call on my drive home.

The frequent, ear-piercing shrieks emitting from my child's mouth from 3:45 until 7:30 were so nice to have in the background as I tried to help a friend with a problem via IM while scrambling to make appointments with plumbers and carpet vendors and gathering sensitive information from potential tenants, while showing the condo to another potential tenant and realtor, chicken nuggets on the floor and all. It's really great that they got to experience me in my full humanity, rather than seeing me as too professional and cold.  Sometimes hearing yourself think can be so overrated!

You  know, it's funny, even trying to exaggerate this exercise and even with the true stressors listed... I have to admit that some of the positive 'spin' really is just as true, at least upon reflection. Okay, maybe without the shrieking in the background while I'm on phone, but still.

Trying to artificially turn the negatives into positives in response to the random question made me realize how easy that really was. Many people don't have the opportunity to move right now at all, much less to a house they're totally excited about. The logistical juggling that comes along with that is a short-term stressor; and in a month, I'll look back happy and relieved that everything has worked out for the best.

And it doesn't take long of complaining about my noisy, needy, early riser before I can also hear his deep belly laughs and feel his sweet tired baby hugs. And I am reminded, as I am every day, how difficult it was to get him here with our fertility challenges. I can still vividly remember those painful and frustrating moments when we weren't sure he was even possible. That fact makes it hard for me to even consider taking the positives of my day - the little things that made me smile - and turning them on their heads. But turning negative into positive? Yeah, I can do that.