100 moving boxes

I've done my fair share of moving in my life including the "do-it-yourself" style of moving. However, somewhere in my mid-30s I decided that driving moving trucks through crowded city streets, lifting couches, and pulling beds up stairs was not for me so I vowed to never do it again. Now I leave it to professionals.

I booked the moving company on Monday and by Wednesday 100 folded cardboard moving boxes arrived. Fifty small-sized boxes, 25 medium-sized boxes and 25 large-sized boxes crowd my dining room floor. The cats use them as perches and scratching posts while the kids climb on the piles. I ignore the boxes, but they are there, watching me, waiting patiently to be filled.

When will I feel inspired to pack? To my credit, I have filled about 5 boxes because I've had fleeting impulses, but tire quickly of the whole scene and move onto something else (like Facebook). However, my general apathy toward packing is going to bite me in the ass. I know it will. I will not be the organized mover I want to be. I will end up throwing whatever and however into boxes just to get it done. My goal is to not take a lot of useless bits and pieces to the new house, but I know for certain that is easier said than done. I feel terrorized by the basement, specifically the storage room where various out-of-date electronics, childhood artifacts, and boxes of nameless, forgotten things lives.

The garage is a whole other world and I've officially put that on my "off limits" list. I will not touch it. That is the husband's domain. Especially because there are items in there that belonged to his father, who has been dead for over 5 years. Rusty old golf clubs, anyone?

I do feel like I am a bit ahead of the game [insert optimism here] because a lot of the clutter is already packed from when I got the house ready to sell. But as I look around, the feeling of oh-so-much-more to do is overwhelming and is the source of my inactivity and inability to pack more than one box at a time.

My mind is busy making lists of how I'm going to tackle each room and how I'm going to fill those dang boxes, nevertheless my follow-through is lousy.

T-minus 14 days before lift-off. I know it'll get done because the movers arrive at 8:30AM on November 20th. I accept that it will not be pretty. Packing up the lives of a growing family isn't as rousing as I thought it would be (or should be).

Just keeping my eye on the prize. Eye on the prize...!

Done!

Seven months of twisting in the wind is finally over. We're done. We not only sold our house, we bought another - in the span of 5 days!

I'm exhausted, but relieved. I will write about how it all went down at another time - when things have slowed down.

In the meantime, I received this poem in my email box yesterday from "The Writer's Almanac" and it seems appropriately named for the situation and how I feel.

Patience

Patience is

wider than one

once envisioned,

with ribbons

of rivers

and distant

ranges and

tasks undertaken

and finished

with modest

relish by

natives in their

native dress.

Who would

have guessed

it possible

that waiting

is sustainable—

a place with

its own harvests.

Or that in

time's fullness

the diamonds

of patience

couldn't be

distinguished

from the genuine

in brilliance

or hardness.

by Kay Ryan from Say Uncle. © Grove Press, 2000.

House For Sale - Part II

Last week we instituted a marketing ploy in our efforts to sell this house - we "re-listed" it. This means we took it off the market for a day, then had it listed again with MLS. This sends a "new listing" email to anyone who has a saved search on real estate websites whose criteria fits our house. We hoped this would generate new interest and showings in our house. So far, it is a total failure. We've had only one showing. And they didn't like our house because according to them, "at this price, there should be a bathroom upstairs". Ah, hello...really? Do you know of any house in this neighborhood at this price with a bathroom upstairs? It doesn't exist. I know my competition.

We also decided to end this whole "ordeal" at the beginning of November if we don't have an offer before that. We think our house appeals to first-time home buyers and to qualify for the First-Time Home Buyer Tax Credit, buyers have to close by December 1st. Since closings take about 30+ days, we figure if we haven't received an offer by then, we probably won't. Additionally, the last thing I want to do is having showings in the middle of winter and/or around the holidays. Bundling up the kids and a dog in the winter and riding around in my car on the off-chance someone "might" buy my house is a little too much. So, if nothing happens by November, we're done. We accept defeat (albeit temporary) and we'll start this whole thing over again next Spring.

I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders because there is an end date. The ambiguity around this house selling ordeal is now defined. And that feels pretty good!

House For Sale - Part I

We are in the midst of trying to sell our house and it is not going well. We’ve been on the market 174 days. Yes, that is nearly 6 months – for those who, like me, are mathematically challenged. I don’t think anyone expected it to take this long, especially me.

I’m not a patient person. I’m not one who is at ease to just wait around for things to happen. I like to have some control over things in life. One would think after having kids, I would learn a bit more patience. But I’ve accepted this is a part of me I cannot change, but I can learn to “control” it I suppose. I can “tell” myself to be patient, but that will only work for so long.

I’ve moved past patience now – that happened about three months ago. Now I’m just numb with anguish and frustration. We are officially entering our third season that our house has been for sale. We started this odyssey in the spring, endured the summer showings and now entering fall. The months of waiting, the anticipation, the feeling of having your life on hold is ridiculous. It is pure and simple agony.

I do not like to be involved in things I have absolutely no control. The only thing I can do is make my house shiny and clean when people want to see it. We can control the price of the house, but after reducing the price four times, we are done with that tactic. We are at rock bottom. I feel like we are giving away our house at this price, and that has yet to work.

I understand and rationally accept “this is a tough market”. There are a lot of houses to be bought and sold out there. We have had a lot of interest in the house; there has been plenty of showings, but as the old saying goes, “always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” The reasons for no one buying it vary from the color of the bedroom walls to more legitimate concerns like our street is too busy. To be fair, we did receive one offer, but it was ludicrous, so it barely warrants a mention. It was such a low offer to start with, plus they wanted us to pay closing costs, making the offer the price we paid for our house six years ago! We’re desperate, but not that desperate.

Meanwhile, many houses that we see as our next house come and go so I’ve stopped looking. Houses in my neighborhood go up for sale and in a few short months are sold. Is there a black cloud that says DO NOT BUY hanging over my house, right above the For Sale sign?

Needless to say, after six months, I’ve lightened up a bit. I’m not letting selling this house consume me too much. Whatever happens happens. I accept that we will sell our house – eventually. The “when” is the unknown, which is the most frustrating part of any of situation, I suppose

It’s difficult to write about this experience with reflection and a healthy distant perspective because I’m still in the midst of it. However, I have realized that while this may consume me, life is still happening. My kids are growing and I need to divert my focus to them and enjoy the time while they are young. So, while I still may be impatient, somehow I’m managing to overcome that and just live.

a nice, little poem

In My Next Life
by Mark Perlberg

I will own a sailboat sleek
as fingers of wind
and ply the green islands
of the gulf of Maine.

In my next life I will pilot a plane,
and enjoy the light artillery
of the air as I fly to our island
and set down with aplomb
on its grass runway.

I'll be a whiz at math, master five or six
of the world's languages, write poems
strong as Frost and Milosz.

In my next life I won't wonder why
I lie awake from four till daybreak.
I'll be amiable, mostly, but large
and formidable.

I'll insist you be present
in my next life—and the one after that.

"In My Next Life" by Mark Perlberg, from Waiting for the Alchemist. © Louisiana State University Press, 2009.

It's all about baby products...

Finally, the little boy sleeps through the night! And what was the secret? A simple device I bought for my daughter - the wonderful crib tent. Neither of the kids are (or were) climbing out of the crib; it was a solution to the binks “falling” out of the crib.

My daughter would clear the crib of her binks by spreading her arms out across the mattress, pushing the pacifiers out the sides. (Yes, I’m using plural – both kids have/had no less than 4 binks with them in crib at any give time.) My son prefers to stand up and throw them across the room. The crib tent fixed both of these problems. And this fabulous invention creates a “cocoon”, a cave-like dwelling that both of them love(d) to sleep in.

Since my son is in our bedroom, the crib tent also provides a nice hide-away from any distractions caused by my husband, the dog, or me entering the bedroom to sleep.

The best part of the crib tent is that it is machine washable! Yesterday, I awoke to a most horrifying scene inside the crib tent: my baby boy was covered head to toe in his own feces! At some point in the night he had a major BM blow out! The mess leaked through his diaper and pants and throughout his night sleep cycles, managed to smear it EVERYWHERE! (You think I would have smelled it since his crib is a mere 20 inches from my bed!) As I unzipped the cocoon and between my gags and gasp for air, I managed to get him out and head for the tub. Then I collected many of the soiled items – some for the garbage and some for the washing machine.

I can’t sing the praises of this wonderful invention more! It has helped both of my kids sleep through the night. Also, naptime became a whole lot easier – he goes in willingly, pops a bink in his mouth, waits for the zip and then goes to sleep!

Yay!!

Finally, a solution...

Well, I did it. I did what everyone was telling me to do; including medical professionals. I put my precious baby boy in his bed awake and let him cry himself to sleep!

Despite his torturous screams and my visceral reaction (heaving chest, flood of tears) I resisted the natural motherly urge to scoop him up and calm him. In fact, I left the room. Daddy and the dog also left because it was 4 o’clock in the morning!

A few nights ago, it took three hours to get him to stay asleep. (See previous post “How to Put a Baby to Sleep”.) From 7pm to 10pm, I rocked, nursed, and bounced on the Yoga ball until I was successful at putting him in his crib without waking and crying. All my hard work was for naught since he woke up two hours later. So I put him back to sleep, another 30 minute trial. When he woke up again at 3AM and wouldn’t go back to sleep, I hit a wall. I refused to get out of bed – despite his cries from the crib (which is less than two feet from my bed.) Even the pleas from my poor, sick husband (he had a dreadful cold) couldn’t pry me from my warm blanket and the safe envelope of my pillow. I gave up. So my runny-nosed husband got up and bounced the writhing baby on the Yoga ball and rocked in the chair without success. He put the baby in with me and got back into bed. Still, the baby was not going to sleep. I nursed, soothed, and did whatever I could from the comfort of my bed, but nothing worked. Finally, I scooped up the baby, changed his diaper, made sure he was burped, hugged and kissed him, and place him in his crib. Screaming and crying. My husband asked if he could leave to finish sleeping someplace else and I excused him. The dog left too – he gets upset and nervous when babies are crying. I lay in bed for a few minutes before I realized my presence in the room was more torment to the screaming baby. “Why are you not picking me up,” his sad, sad, cries seemed to say. I turned off the monitor and left the room. I found a warm spot on the couch and listened to his distress for another 20 minutes. Then it was quiet. I woke up about an hour later and went back to bed.

There is no turning back. This is how it works. I’m learning to accept the protests – some minor screams and cries, which are less desperate and shorter in duration now. He seems to accept these terms too. Although, I backslid at 3AM this morning, I was too exhausted to put up with his agony so after 10 minutes I pulled him into bed and we were all fast asleep in one minute.

I admit that despite its inherent nature of torture and my abhorrent skepticism, letting him protest a little to get himself to sleep seems to be working.

And with that, we are all a little less crazed in this house because of it.

How to Put a Baby to Sleep

Step 1: Get yourself a Yoga ball and fill it so it’s chair height and rather bouncy. Any color will do, but the white balls, when placed in front a night light, glow like a giant orb, which can be quite soothing for you at 3 in the morning.

Step 2: Position the baby. Lay his head in the bend of your left arm and turn his face slightly toward you. His right arm/shoulder should be under your left arm/shoulder. Wrap the rest of his body around your abdomen so his tummy and your tummy align. Then mold your right arm around his legs and apply a tight hold.

For those grabby kinds of babies, use your left hand to hold down his flailing left hand.

Step 3: Insert the binky. Sucking typically calms and distracts him, especially during the transfer to the crib.

Step 4: Sit on the Yoga ball. Close your eyes and start bouncing. Count to 100 to pass the time. Try counting backwards from 100 to keep your mind sharp (which might be hard since mothers of young babies have very few available brain cells to do much else beyond eating). You will probably need to count to 100 a few times; at least until the baby’s eyes are closed and then throw in another 100 for good measure. Or you may wait to start counting when he finally closes his eyes. And then you will only have to count to 100 a few times. Don’t be surprised if you lose track and skip from 20 to 50, it is bound to happen. This is normal.

If the baby isn’t settling, feel free to pat his backside with your right hand and/or throw in a few rhythmic “shushes” with the momentum of the bouncing.

Step 5: Once the baby is in a relative sleepy way, stand up on your last 100, which by the way, has 3 bounces “one.hun.dred” so you’ll want to spring up swiftly on “dred”. Getting off the ball is all in the legs. Do not move your arms because you might jostle the baby’s eyes open.

Quietly make your way toward the rocking chair. A rocking glider is recommended for its smooth and quiet motion.

Step 6: Carefully lower yourself into the rocking chair. Balance the baby’s legs on the arm of the chair so your right hand is free to grab the pillow next to the chair. Place the pillow under your left arm. You will need this pillow because that baby’s big old noggin gets heavy as he drifts off to sleep.

Don’t forget to throw a couple thick blankets on the back of the chair to cushion your own noggin once it starts bobbin as you drift off to sleep. Which you will. Again, all completely normal. Your sleep deprivation is a powerful state when you’re putting a baby to sleep; don’t fight it.

Rock the baby for no less than 10 minutes. Do not cheat – the baby will wake up if you stop even after 9.5 minutes.

Step 7: After the requisite 10 minutes or more, stand up gently and slowly. Again, this action is all in the legs; do not disturb the baby enveloped tightly in your arms. Quietly walk to the side of the crib. Roll up on your tip toes so you have enough height to lower the entire upper half of your body into the crib. This makes the transition easier for the baby when you roll him from your arms. A note of caution, it is not a good idea to have the side of the crib down because of the excruciatingly loud and disruptive noise it will make when you move it back into place. For shorter people, feel free to have a step stool next to the crib to carry out the transfer.

Step 8: Transfer the baby. As you’re leaning over the crib, slowly roll the baby from your arms onto the mattress. This action will cause him to roll onto his left side - which is okay (who cares what the “Back to Sleep” people say). Eventually he will roll himself onto his back, but starting out on his side seems to do the trick. Once you’ve laid him down, keep your right hand on his legs, while patting and rubbing his back with your left hand. Count to 100.

Slowly walk away. But don’t wander too far. More than likely, he will wake up in 30 minutes, which you will then have to start the process all over again at Step 1.

You may skip Steps 1-5 (the whole Yoga ball thing) and start at Step 6 if you breastfeed the baby to sleep. But he’ll probably need to burp, which in that case, you’ll just have to start at Step 1 anyway.

Finally:
1.Turn on a fan. The white noise keeps the baby focused. He will not hear the 4-year-olds squeals of delight that her favorite TV show is on and/or the dog barking for no apparent reason.
2. Throw a sheet over the blinds – the darker the better. Babies like to sleep in dark, cool caves.
3. When you leave the room, take the dog with you. Otherwise you will hear his whimpers over the monitor because clearly he can’t open the door to follow you from room to room.

Good luck and Godspeed.

A Few Minutes With a 4-year-old:

Mom, may I have some tape, please?

I’m sorry, we don’t have any tape.

Please, can I have some tape?

We don’t have any tape.

Tape!

I just told you, we don’t have any tape.

Please!

How can I give you tape, when we don’t have any.

Tape! Tape!

We don’t have any tape so stop asking for it.

Pleeeezeee!

I know you understand what I’m saying so stop asking. We don’t have any tape.

Tape! Tape! Tape! Please!

If you ask me again, you’re going in a time out.

NO time out….!!!! Tape…! (runs away screaming…)


A few minutes later:

Mom, I guess we’ll just have to go to the store to buy some tape.

The Great Pet Debate...part I

The cats have outgrown their usefulness, according to my husband. When have they ever been “useful”, I ask? Indoor cats stopped being useful when dirt floors were replaced with linoleum. And we don’t have a mouse problem. Although, it’s unlikely they would know what to do if they saw a mouse anyway.

My husband hasn’t always hated the cats. The cats were here first and he had a healthy affection for them when we started our life together. His distain for them started when he took over the task of cleaning their “bathroom” four years ago when I was pregnant. It remains one of his few household duties to this day, much to his dismay.

We debate about which is the better pet – the dog or the cats. My argument is based on which pet is more destructive to the house and the dog wins! His claws scratch the wood floors when he spastically runs from window to window trying to catch a squirrel he spied in the front yard. The window ledges are shredded from him clawing at the bunny hiding in the Hostas outside. The glass is permanently stained with “greasy dog nose”. And the newly refinished steps have deep gouges from his need to race us up the stairs. The cats have scratched a few pieces of furniture and occasionally take out their frustration over being locked up in a room by leaving a steaming pile of defecation in the middle of the floor (we no longer lock them up). It’s a lot cheaper to replace a couch than repair the wood floors and windows.

My husband’s argument is based on personality of the pet. And while I agree the dog has more personality, he is more annoying than the cats. He barks – a lot. But not because he’s protective, he barks from excitement and the simple act of my husband walking into a room is cause for celebration in the dog’s world. The cats could care less if we are around, much less make much noise. One of the cats whines because he’s eternally hungry; the other cat bullies him away from the food dish. I throw a few cat treats on the floor and push him outside and I don’t see him for hours.

If it were up to my husband, the cats would have met their maker by now. I say that if we get rid of the cats, the dog goes too. The discussion is dropped. At least until the next time we discover some of their destruction or have to clean up after them.

A few things I've learned...

Elmo’s love of goldfish isn’t the goldfish snack crackers that lives on the grocer’s shelf. His goldfish lives in a bowl and has a name – Dorothy.

I do have tolerance and patience.

The full feeling of love.

How much more you can love your child each day.

All kids love sweets – even if its apples and pears.

She’s not the dog.

You do have change the diaper – even if it’s in the bathroom of an airplane.

Santa is scary.

Sleeping is learned.

Naps equals happiness.

“Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.” -- Phylliss Diller

Sleep...

I finally got that last RSVP from my daughter's BFF. The party was a smashing hit - everyone had fun and we, the parents, weren't too exhausted.

Now onto sleep. As you can see by the name of my blog, I love sleep. To me, sleep is almost as important and food and water. Especially for babies. But, try telling that to my 3 month old. Today, he took only three 30-minute naps. All day. Makes me mental. My daughter was the same way - a difficult sleeper in those early months. The difference is she didn't care if she slept or not; she was content and peaceful. But we paid for her no-sleep day at night - she was impossible to get to sleep. We spent many hours rocking her and walking the floor trying to get her to settle down. My son, however. wants to sleep, needs to sleep and gets fussy if he doesn't, yet can manage only 30 minute naps and is ready to go back to sleep an hour later. He is however, much easier to get to sleep at night and practically sleeps through the night already.

My daughter still isn't the greatest sleeper. It takes her almost two hours to fall asleep at night these days. Her brain doesn't seem to shut off. She talks, sings, and acts our scenes with friends who aren't in the room. Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night and does the same thing. I hear "you're so silly Cecilia" and giggles and princess-themed songs at 4am! I'm awake anyway, nursing my son.

I don't understand why sleep is so hard for my kids. My husband and I are champion sleepers! Eventhough I'm a light sleeper, I enjoy my sleep and get plenty of it. Even with a baby. My husband can sleep through a train wreck. Before kids, it was not unusual for us to sleep till 11am on the weekends! Oh, I miss those days.

Once my son is sleeping at night, he sleeps until 8 or 9 the next morning with only two wake ups. My daughter's usual wake-up time is around the same time, so like thier parents, they are not early risers.

I realize my son's sleeping patterns will change, as I learned with my daughter. But it's hard to see that far away right now, especially when I spent so much of my day trying to get my son back to sleep.

Ah, wonderful sleep.

The Importance of an RSVP

RSVP: “Répondez s'il vous plaît", a French phrase that translates to "reply, please." or literally "respond, if you please". It is with this meaning that invitation cards and similar documents are often marked with "R.S.V.P." It is standard practice to reply to an RSVP request whether confirming attendance or declining.[ Wikipedia]

The first time I understood the importance of RSVP was planning my wedding. It was important to know how many people were coming so we had enough food. (Although, as it turns out, it didn’t matter because the caterer had 100 person minimum and we only sent out 75 invites.) Nevertheless, it was nice to know if who we invited was coming especially since we painstakingly reviewed, edited, added, and deleted many people from our list.

I understood the theory of the percentage of RSVP returns for wedding invitations, but I never could wrap my head around how hard it was to check a box on a card and drop it in the mail – especially when it was addressed and stamped.

I waited for weeks for people to RSVP. This was especially maddening because we invited some people out of obligation (out-of-town family, long-time friends that we don’t see often) but I really wanted to invited co-workers, people I see almost everyday. A couple weeks before the wedding, I sheepishly invited some of my co-workers. None of them came and while I think some had legitimate reasons, I’m sure the others felt like sloppy seconds.

Fast forward 8 years and now we’re planning our daughter’s 4th birthday party, which also happens to be her Golden Birthday. We’ve been talking about it for months and the invite list is very important to our daughter. She was adamant and specific about who was to come. I distributed the 7 invitations with RSVP requests and even provided two RSVP ways – a phone number and an email address. I received one phone call, two emails and an in-person confirmation. As for the others, I emailed two of the mothers I know to ask if they received the invitation – which they did. Both of them were very cavalier about saying they were coming – as if it was an afterthought. I’m still waiting for one more RSVP.

And this is where it gets sticky…

The unknown RSVP happens to be my daughter’s current BFF. She is in her class at school and every time we talk about who is coming to her birthday party, she says her BFF’s name first. I try to explain to her that I don’t know if BFF is coming because I haven’t heard from her Mommy. I know my daughter doesn’t understand this and will be completely crushed if BFF doesn’t show up.

How do I explain delinquent manners to a 4-year-old? How do I say in kid-speak that some people don’t follow the same social etiquette we do? How am I going to keep her from whining (and possibly crying) at her birthday party because her BFF didn’t show up? If her mother would simply pick up the phone and/or drop me an email and tell me they aren’t coming, then I can absolutely prepare my daughter that her BFF can’t come. She’ll understand that – she doesn’t understand vague. Things are very black & white to my daughter, as I think they are for most kids her age.

Why wouldn’t you tell someone you are showing up at a party? What if I assume you’re not coming because I haven’t heard from you and I don’t have enough food when you show up? Birthday parties these days require gift bags (A phenomena I don’t understand and wonder when it started…I never left a birthday party with gifts…?) and what if I don’t have a gift bag for your daughter because you didn’t tell me you were coming? Or I assume you’re coming and you don’t and now I have an extra gift bag – just more crap toys I have to push around in the playroom.

A friend recently experienced the same situation, except she only received 1 RSVP. A week before the party, she hastily invited a few more kids to the party so her son wouldn’t be devastated with only 1 party guest. She didn’t want him to remember his 6th birthday party when only 1 kid showed up and how she couldn’t prepare him for it because no one bothered to let her know if they were coming.

I think an RSVP is a necessary part of an active social life. It’s the simple polite thing to do.

Update!

I've just been reminded that I have a blog by a good friend who wants to link our blogs - great idea I say, but I should probably remember that I have one and actually write something on it.

Although, writing something decent might be hard to come by because my brain power is very scarce these days due to the fact that I have a 7 week old baby. Time gets away very quickly between him and my daughter who is 3.5 and sometimes I forget to eat...okay, not really, I never truly forget to eat. In fact, I eat a lot. Breastfeeding will do that to you.

I will stop the eating and start writing! Check back!

Knees

Today I felt excruciating pain and it makes me laugh out loud. It is the kind of pain nightmares are made from. The stinging burn of a wretched metal needle sliding into an already swollen knee is so shocking, laughter is an involuntary response.

Shaelin, my 2-year old, climbs into the chair next to the padded exam table and watches me. I stare at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling and once the menacing needle is out, I turn and smile at her. “Mama laughing”, she says. “Yes”, I lie. Smile through the pain. This will get a lot worse if she sees me crying.

The needle man in green scrubs and a gold chain says he will “numb it up” before he drains the knee. His spikey brown hair matches his glimmering eyes. “First you’ll feel a pinch, then a slow burn, then numbness,” he says. These things happen at the exact moment he says them.

Despite the alleged numbness, the draining needle is equally tortuous because the pain is sharp and dull and annoyingly uncomfortable all at the same time. Needle man explains there’s a fine line between therapy and torture and he will go only as far as he thinks one can stand it.
I cover my face as my chest involuntarily heaves with laughter, my body twitches as I inch closer to the space between the wall and the table. “We’re done”, Needle man finally says.

Shaelin kneels on top of the doctor’s desk and pulls out all the Kleenexes from the box, she does not see me convulsing from the pain.

“Arthritis! But I’m only 39”, I yell into the phone at my mother. She says “I have it in both knees and that replacement surgery I had made it worse.” This is her way of making me feel better. My grandpa always smelled like Ben Gay and my Grandma’s fingers were bent over at the tips, “Arthritis”, she explained.

Last week, my Valentine’s Day date was a huge, clanking machine made by G.E. Dr. Orthopedic orders an MRI of my knee “just to be sure”. It is agonizing for a fidgety person to remain still for 30 minutes while a machine pounds away, taking pictures of every angle. The technician offers a list of music to drown out the noisy machine and The Beatles is only tolerable option is. The sound system and headphones are worse than hearing loud piercing music through the overhead speakers in an airplane.
Help, I need somebody. Help, not just anybody. Heeelp!! screams in my ear and I shove the headphones off to check for dripping blood.

“Arthritis”, Dr. Orthopedic says staring at the oversized sheets of gray film. “Looks like the start of it” he says, crossing his knees.

A month ago, Shaelin stands up in the ant cave at the Children’s Museum and hits her head and cries until I crawl around inside it with her. My knee swells up the next day and never recovers.

Twenty some years ago, at a high school dance I shuffle across the floor to show off my Morris Day moves from his music video “Jungle Love”. I fall to the floor and hold my knee. No pain, just a circle of friends and teachers staring down at me. Dislocated knee caps require a cast (6 weeks for me), physical therapy (another 6 weeks) and crutches.

Shaelin likes to show off her jumping prowess. She lands flat feet without bending her knees. Doesn’t that hurt? Will it damage? I teach her to land and bend her knees at the same time, but she doesn’t understand. I can’t bend my knee to show her.

MINE

I rush lunch to hasten her nap
Mine she says
and hugs the white kitchen cabinet

Daddy hurries the bedtime story
turning pages quickly
mine she says, holds the page in place

Her young mind protests
her parent’s pace. Mine.
Slow down. I’m only two.

Repressed cruelty, American Idol style

When I was 10 years old, I told my younger sister she couldn’t sing and that dogs were probably howling somewhere because of her awful voice. My mother intervened on her behalf and said that if I couldn’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.

This was not the first time I heard this phrase of wisdom, for it would become a teaching mantra my mother used in dealing with her children who were cruel to each other at times.

Working in advertising, I often have to offer an opinion on creative work. These words from my mother buzz through my brain and I learned how to be tactful in my honest assessment, without destroying a person’s fragile creative spirit. Instead of saying “this work is shit”, I say “well, the headline doesn’t really hit the strategy we outlined and the color you’ve chosen doesn’t fit into the corporate brand.”

So imagine my surprise when I found myself addicted to the audition shows of American Idol. Everything about these shows flies in the face of how I was raised. You just aren’t suppose to be that mean to someone – at least not to their face! At times, the judges do offer some constructive criticism telling the contestants they are “pitchy” and I do respect the notion of honesty when they tell people that a singing career is not in their future. But when they tell a male contestant that they are better off wearing a dress, putting on false eyelashes and singing in a cabaret show, that hits below the belt (even if I think it's kind of funny and true). And then the camera focuses on the contestant’s face full of confusion and ignorance to what the motives of the judges words are. This show is Mean Girls on steroids!

Yet, why then do I snicker and roll my eyes at the contestants? Despite the cruel nature of these shows, I find myself rushing to get my daughter to bed, so that I can lounge in front of the TV, kick up my feet and groan at the overweight, not at all attractive, 18 year old who has been over-encouraged by her friends and family that she can actually sing. Is it because I have repressed ambitions to tell everyone what I really feel – without being tactful, without worrying about hurting their feelings, in other words, completely destroying someone?

When did it become okay to tell someone that they look like bush-baby in the jungle when they are auditioning for singing contest? And why did I agree and laugh? Quickly followed by a “oh, now that’s just mean” comment. As if to tell my husband and the world that I’m not really a Mean Girl too. Why are the audition portions of this show one of the highest rated on TV? Why do I plan my evenings around this show? Shouldn’t I be reading a great American novel? Or better, working on a piece of my own writing.

Do I accept what I’ve become – one of the masses who have thrown politeness, decorum and respect for the average Joe on the street out the window? And worse, feeding the TV ratings machine that perpetuates the Mean Girls attitude in the name of Reality TV.

Or simply, I’m allowing my repression to play out two hours a week?

Ode to "Windfall"

The frigid December winds blew in this week making outdoors not a nice place to be. It's so cold that even the dog pauses before bolting out the door and it's the kind of cold that freezes your nose hairs the instant you step outside. This kind of cold air rips through your clothes and makes you feel naked because the thick parka you're wearing doesn't seem to matter.

For sanity sake, during these Arctic blasts, I reminisce about the steamy, dog days of summer. I hunker down for the winter and do tasks that I put off all summer, like filing. The other day, I came across the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, "Windfall" by Son Volt, and they conjured up random memories - some of them pleasant, some of them not.

Just a few short months ago I was sweaty and melting in the July heat driving to a creative non-fiction writing workshop in Northfield, Minnesota - a 4o minute commute south. On the first day, my normally dependable car lit up like a Christmas tree on the ride home. Every light on the dashboard flickered on and off as the car slowly lost power until it came to its peaceful resting spot on the side of the the highway.

Fortunately, enough juice remained in the engine to allow the power windows to open so that my travel companion, Amy, and I didn't have to stand outside on the boiling asphalt and blazing sun. We dialed our husbands. Then I dialed my mother-in-law to pick us up, while my husband dialed a tow truck. Amy and I passed the time standing outside when the temperature inside the car became too stifling, then sat back inside the car when our skin sizzled like eggs on a hot Teflon skillet. We dabbed our perspiring foreheads with pink Kleenex I managed to scavenge from the back seat.

We wondered aloud why no one stopped to help two "youngish" women on the side of the road. The heat was heavy and dangled in the air like a deflated helium balloon and the unseasonably dry air caused us to breathe shallow. We lumbered about because of the the blistering heat and the threat of sweat saturating our clothes. Another car stalled on the other side of the highway and we gave him a camaraderie wave. Lucky for him a tow truck was on its way and could radio in for another truck. Finally, a pick-up truck with South Dakota license plates stopped, the nice man asked if we needed help (we did not), and handed us two bottles of water as he drove away. The cool water barreled down our dry throat and sustained us until our ride came to our rescue.

During the writing workshop, I met a very cool woman named Monica, who is the wife of Jay Farrar, the lead singer/song writer of this great band. She was down-to-earth and unassuming, despite her rock-star wife status and she didn't seem to mind when I gushed about loving the song "Windfall".

I fell in love with it when it first came out, but the song became more significant when my newborn struggled to fall asleep on her own. I sat for hours rocking her in the darken bedroom, ignoring the clock that read 3AM, and listening to the low-hum of the radio I turned on to lull her to sleep. "Windfall" seem to play at the same time every night and the words "may the wind take your troubles away" resonated with me because I was going out of my mind with sleep deprivation and worry because she wouldn't sleep. Those words reminded me of what I heard so often back then from so many other mothers that "this to shall pass" and it did. Now I reflect with peaceful melancholy of a very special time with my daughter, despite the conflicting memories of the post-delivery, new-baby-mania haze.

So, in honor of reminders of certain memorable event and want-to-forget times in life and the things that you get you through them, I share these lyrics.

::::::::Windfall:::::::: (Jay Farrar)

Now and then it keeps you running
Sometimes it just won't die
Trail spent with fear
Not enough living on the outside
Never seem to get far enough
Staying in between the lines
Hold on to what you can
Waiting for the end, not knowing when

CHORUS:
May the wind take your troubles away
May the wind take your troubles away
Both feet on the floor
Two hands on the wheel
May the wind take your troubles away

BRIDGE:
Trying to make it far enough
To the next time zone
Few and far between past the midnight hour
Never feel alone
You're really not alone

VERSE 2:
Switching it over to A.M.,
Searching for a truer sound;
Can't recall the call letters,
Steel guitar, I settle down.
Catching an all-night station
Somewhere in Louisiana,
Sounds like 1963
But for now sounds like heaven.

CHORUS
May the wind take your troubles away
May the wind
Take your troubles away

Classifieds

LOST:
A clean house free of tumbleweed sized dust bunnies made of pet hair.
Patience for dog training and cat brushing.
The energy to distinguish between dog toys and baby toys.
Agility to stop the cats before they swat at the baby when they’ve had enough of her kisses.
The ability to stop swearing at the dog even when the baby repeats it.
The willpower to break the dog’s bad habit of going outside, inside, outside, inside, outside, inside, outside to search for bunnies, inside to leave muddy paw prints on the freshly mopped floor, all within one hour.


FREE TO GOOD HOME: Two indoor tabby cats; one gray and sagging, one brown tiger striped with black tipped ears. Male. Neutered. Front and back claws included. Sheds. Hates vacuums. Old, tired, and cranky when hungry. Great companions for lounging. Litter box trained, except if box has lid. May need sedative or suit of armor for vet visits. Not good with kids, dogs, other cats, old people, pre-pubescent teens, mother-in-laws. Requires prescription “Science Diet” to prevent formation of crystals in urine. Eleven-year-old, 20-pound gray cat hates dogs, anything that moves quickly, small children. Tendency to swipe. Loves to cuddle if you’re feeling blue. Stalks until allowed to sit on lap. Prefers being carried over shoulder to walking. Passive aggressive. Hisses without reason or provocation. Licks hand lotion. Enjoys hiding between shower curtains while water is running. Ten-year-old, 15-pound brown striped cat likes to eat. Often. Whines relentlessly if not fed. Stands up on hind legs for treats. Propensity to swat objects off tables, pushes lamps, turns off alarm clocks. Not allowed in bedroom at night; destroys things at 2am out of perceived hunger. Wraps paw under closed bedroom door and rattles it. Prefers own company. Drools while kneading. Pulls thumbtacks off bulletin board with mouth. Sleeps in closets on dirty laundry.
These cats come as a set.

ALSO FREE TO GOOD HOME: Four-year-old, 40-pound beagle mix. Male. Neutered. Black, brown, white-tipped tail, pink striped nose. Healthy and current with shots. House trained and winner of Best in Class in obedience training. Does not come when called, does not sit on command. Finally responds to yelling. “Home Again” microchip in neck included. Enjoys walks. Chases squirrels and pees on every single tree. New owner must be able to withstand pull of crazed dog when he spots rabbits. Barks. A lot. At cats on couches, bees in flowers, and imaginary buglers in window. Does not bark at strangers. Citronella-spraying bark collar included. Fetches. Does not give stick back. Sleeps with humans. Prefers to be carried up stairs and hogs bed. Loves cats. Too much. Quickly forgets cat swipes across nose with sharp claws. Licks baby’s faces, cleans floors and dishes. Does not eat vegetables, Cheerios, or grapes. Pilfers and rolls in wet bath towels and rubs face in clean hair. Tendency to snatch baby bunnies on the run and adult birds from mid-air. Occasional gassiness, devours Greenie bones, chokes on rawhide chews. A year’s supply of treats included; needed to entice dog into house at midnight. Hates baths. Tolerates wet cloth wipe downs. Excitedly greets anyone who walks in the door. Jumps. Loves dog parks. Great with kids and other dogs.
Fenced-in yard preferred.

DESPERATELY SEEKING: A lifetime supply of cleaner for coughed-up cat hairballs. Lint brushes. The freedom to turn over in bed.

PERSONALS: In search of the perfect companion. Loyal. Trustworthy. Someone who won’t need therapy because they’re blamed for everything that’s gone wrong on any given day. Someone who is genuinely happy to see you, even if you’ve been gone for five minutes. Someone who is always home, curled up on the back of the sofa, purring patiently for attention.

FOUND: Unconditional love and forgiveness from someone who doesn’t hold it against you when you curse them for chewing a rug or vomiting on the mail left on the dining room table, leaving them at places with catchy names like “Dog Day Getaway” or “Pets Are Inn” for a week where they sleep in a small room, alone, on the cold, tiled floor, and putting Santa hats and reindeer ears on their heads and hold them in place while flashing bright lights in their eyes.

Halloween Neurosis

Ah, Halloween. A holiday filled with witches, mummies, cobwebs, candy, and costumes.

Growing up in Northern Minnesota, where the temperature is never above freezing, Halloween costumes are required to fit over a snowsuit, so while they aren’t very creative, they are practical. The last Halloween my mother allowed me trick or treat, before I was deemed too old, my costume was a large piece of red burlap wrapped around my pink puffy nylon coat and blue snow pants which I belted with a colorful strip of fabric. I used lipstick to draw “war paint” on my face, tied a striped headband around my forehead, put a feather in it, and announced I was Pocahontas. It was the 70s, so I got away with this.

By the time I was 13, I was barred from trick or treating, but I still managed to sneak away and go in a friend’s neighborhood. When going door to door, asking for candy wasn’t cool anymore, we stayed inside and watched scary movies and told frightening stories. This fascination with being scared went beyond one night a year. We the passed time on weekends by watching every "Friday the 13th", "Halloween", and "Nightmare on Elm Street" movies and told too many of the baby sitter is in the house alone and the call is coming from inside the house stories.

I’m convinced this is the root of my present-day neurosis. All those horror movies and scary stories manifested itself into a phobia that there is always someone right around the corner, ready to do me harm. Any noise I hear coming from bowels of basement, I rationally dismiss it as the house is settling or more convincingly the cats are fighting again. Nevertheless, the irrational imp sitting on my shoulder says, "there is a man sitting on top of the washing machine and you will be blinded by the glimmering butcher knife he holds in his hand when you turn on the light.”

I use my cats and dog as a litmus test to gauge the level of my paranoia. If I hear a strange noise, I look to them to see if they heard it. Most of the time, they don’t move a muscle, so I dismiss it as the house is settling.

One night last Spring, my husband was out, my daughter was sleeping, and I was in the basement watching a movie. A romantic comedy, of course. The dog slept at my feet and the cats snored on the back of the couch. A loud, inexplicable noise came from the living room upstairs and all three pets snap their heads up from a dead sleep and looked at me. My lizard brain shifted into rational mode: Someone has just entered the front door. It was not my husband because he comes in the back door and besides, he knows of my phobia and announces himself. My daughter sleeps in a crib and does not climb out. Who and what could it be?

I resign myself to fighting off the intruder; but how and with what? What length will I go through to protect myself from the interloper? My dog is no different from most dogs – he follows me from room to room, and is excited and befriends strangers. But, I’m banking that his mere presence will temporarily distract the intruder while I make my move. I pause the movie and quietly walk up the stairs – dog at my heels.

Unfortunately for my prowler, I pass through the kitchen where I grab the largest butcher knife from its wooden block holder on the counter. I send the dog ahead of me as I leap through the doorway into the dining room, landing in a Ninja stance, with my legs bent at the knees, holding the knife with both hands in front of me. I might have even said “ah ha” as my feet hit the floor.

The room was empty.

I Ninja-leap into the office, flip on the light. Empty. Okay. He probably made his way upstairs by now.

I walk up the steps in the dark, sliding my back against the wall like the police do in the movies when they sneak up on the kidnapper. I snake my hand around the doorway to flip on the light to my bedroom. No one is there. Yet, some how the dog managed to get ahead of me and is comfortably resting his head on my pillow. Back in the hallway, I pause outside my daughter’s door. I hear nothing but the whirling fan that lulls her to sleep. Sanity and reason snaps me back. If I walk in that room, flip on the light, the hell I pay would be worse than seeing the (imagined) interloper. I listen a while longer and conclude, he’s not in there.

Maybe he’s behind the shower curtain.

Maybe I’m insane.

I return my weapon to its resting place in the kitchen. The cats have not moved from the couch and the dog re-assumes his position at my feet. I press Play.