What's Next...

When I quit my corporate job 5 years ago to stay at home with my daughter (and despite 3 years of freelance after that) I said I was “retired”. And I meant it. Specifically, I have retired from advertising and marketing.

So here I sit, blissfully unemployed and careerless and wondering what my next move is. I’m not in a hurry mind you (because I still have another baby at home) but attending Kindergarten registration this week got me thinking about what is next for me. I am and will always be a Mom (and a stay-at-home one for a couple more years), but eventually, I think it’s my duty to bring some cash into this house instead of spending it. I want to save for retirement (again), save for college tuition, and take family vacations. Buy a car built in 2000-something. Paint my living room. You get my point.

Recently, I had a short-lived income source – a seasonal, temporary gig as a cashier at Target. While I didn’t mind the brain-numbing work, I did mind the longs hours of standing and worse, working every Saturday and Sunday every single weekend. I quit my full-time corporate job to stay home and build a family yet I was leaving them every weekend. I craved family time with Mommy, Daddy and Kids. This was especially hard when my baby was sick. I went to work and fought to keep back the tears. A baby needs his mommy, especially when he’s sick. Besides, I worked really hard to finish college and endure the corporate world to avoid jobs like this.

Right now, at the top of the list is teaching. I’ve gathered information and talked to admissions at Hamline University about a Master of Arts in Teaching degree. Since I’ve already been a graduate student there, I have nothing but admiration for this school; so naturally, this is the place I’ll choose if I pursue this idea. I believe many of my existing graduate school credits would transfer to this new program; specifically because the area of teaching I’m considering is literature and writing. One roadblock is securing two letters of recommendations. I have simply been out of touch too long to have anyone rise to the top that I can ask. Nonetheless, if and when I do this, I should start soon so I can be nearly finished by the time my youngest starts kindergarten – which, by the way, is the unspoken agreement I have with myself (and my husband) of when I would return to work.

But the prospect of teaching makes me nervous. What if I don’t get a job? The job market in my chosen field is not great. And what if after all the school, time, and money, I suck at teaching!? What if the kids hate me and the parents and faculty doubt my ability? Furthermore, I’ve never been very good at dealing with bureaucracy and I can’t think of any place that would have more red tape, rules and “guidelines” than the education system.

Some days I’m completely ready to dive into this teaching thing, but other days the choice isn’t as clear.

Teaching isn’t something I plucked out of the air. It’s always been there – sitting in the back of my mind. Midway through my freshman year, I declared an Education major, but was distracted and changed to Communications my junior year. Years later, while working on an MFA in Creative Writing, it was a given that I would simply teach as an income source while working on my writing.

Two kids, a move to the suburbs, and kindergarten registration have made me realize the quick passage of time. Truth be told, I don’t think I have it in me to finish my MFA in Creative Writing and really, I don’t think I have the luxury of working toward a degree like that, one that has less promise of a job than a teaching degree.

I always knew I had to do something else. But what? I’m open to suggestions…

A Cat.

The Friday after Thanksgiving, often referred to as "Black Friday" by those who work in retail or savvy shoppers, now has another meaning for me. The name seems appropriate since it was the day I had to put my cat, Oliver to sleep.

He was a decent cat. A handsome cat. Only bothersome when he was hungry. Otherwise, he kept to himself. And, like cats do, he slept a lot. In his later years, he discovered the great outdoors, only coming in for some food and water and to sleep at night. Occasionally, he would vie for some affection. He was cute and soft and cuddly, so I didn't mind when he curled up on my lap and purred while he snoozed. We affectionately called him Ollie-bear and my daughter refused to acknowledge his real name and corrected us if we called him anything but Ollie-bear.

But he was sick. And it was more obvious each day by his constant desire to eat, yet he was getting skinnier. He relentlessly whined for food so I fed him. Nonetheless, within 20 minutes, he demanded more. It seemed he could not get enough; nothing filled up his shrinking belly.

Finally, I took him to the vet. I have a rule that when it comes to pets, there is a financial limit on how much care I’ll allow. But more importantly, I have to rationalize who is the care benefiting - me or the pet.

Oliver sat peacefully in his carrier on the long drive, letting out a soft meow once in a while as if to remind me he was still there, while I emotionally prepared that I might not leave the clinic with him. Inside the exam room, he sniffed at the scale while the vet tech recorded his weight: 9lbs. I was stunned because less than a year ago, he weight at least 15 lbs. I knew he was skinny, but to me, this weight bordered on emaciated. I felt awful because he truly was miserable.

The vet discussed four possible scenarios of his condition: hyperthyroidism, diabetes, kidney disease or cancer. Her best guess was his thyroid. (This was a bit ironic since I also have thyroid condition.) In order to determine what was going on, they would run blood tests ($200+). The remedy for three of these conditions would be daily medication. However, the side effects could cause vomiting and diarrhea. Additionally, I would have to constantly monitor his medication, bring him back to the vet for check-ups, etc. (I’m not one to bring my cats to the vet unless something is wrong.) I had some heavy deliberations to think through. How could I possibly remember to administer daily thyroid medication to my cat when I can barely manage to remember my own? And give him insulin shots? Really? Besides, I hardly ever see this cat unless he’s hungry. And the side effects are a huge consideration. I have enough vomit messes from cat hair balls and my sensitive-stomach dog. And cleaning up diarrhea? I still have a kid in diapers and a 5-year-old who insists I wipe her after she has a BM so I have enough “waste” to contend with.

Lastly and more notably how could I willingly inflict that upon anyone – especially an old, tired cat? This is where my rational brain kicked-in: would I be doing this for him or me? He was miserable enough already.

After a lot of tears and a phone call to my husband (who volunteered to come be with me) I decided that regardless of the outcome of the tests, I wouldn’t be treating the condition. I asked what would happen if I didn’t treat him and she said he would continue to waste away. The most humane thing to do at this point was euthanasia. I left the room to wait for my husband in the lobby. I couldn’t stand the increasingly intense heaviness of what I was about to do so I could not stay with Oliver, who by this time was nonplussed to be in the cold, sterile place. I grabbed the kitty carrier, walked out of the clinic and threw it in my car trunk (where it still is, weeks later). I walked to a nearby restaurant to wipe my mascara-stained cheeks in the bathroom and compose myself. When I returned, a kindly vet tech asked me if I wanted to spend some time with Oliver, I declined. Rationally, I knew what was about to happen was the right thing to do, but it didn’t make me feel better. By simply saying so, I had the power to end the life of a living creature - my cat, whom I loved and lived with for 13 years. He was a tiny ball of velvety brown fur when I brought him home and now this was the last day of his life. The tears continued to burn in my eyes and by the time my husband arrived, I was shaking. We went into the exam room and I held my skinny old kitty as tightly to my chest as I could. He didn’t purr and didn’t look at me. I’m pretty certain he knew the score. The vet tech gave him a shot to relax him and he curled up in my lap and gently dug his claws into my pants. When the vet came in, she explained the process. This was it. I set him on the table, which was covered in soft blankets and towels, and stroked his soft silky head and told him I was sorry. That I loved him. And that he is going to a better place where he can eat anytime he wants. He closed his eyes. The vet listened for his last heart beat and then he was gone. I gave him one more stroke and left the room. My husband stayed a few more minutes and finally joined me in the lobby where we hugged and I cried some more.

I am not relieved quite yet, even though I know this was the best-case scenario for everyone. I don’t miss Oliver’s constant whining for food, but I do miss his presence. My other cat, Sebastian, followed me around for days after that. Cats are said to be solitary creatures but those two were like siblings – they wrestled, bathed each other, and slept in the exact same position at opposite ends of the couch – I called them my book ends. I feel a bit unbalanced. I always had two cats. I had them before anything else - husband, house, dog, kids. I understand completely the circle of life and the joy and sorrow that go along with it; nonetheless, I was caught off guard by this one.

Rest In Peace my dear kitty, Ollie-bear; 5/1996-11/2009. Enjoy the never ending supply of food, wherever you may be. We miss you.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I came across this poem and it made me think of Oliver, especially because we had just moved into our new house and he was only here one week before he had to leave us. And he enjoyed his freedom outside, after years of being a house cat.

Hopper

by David Lehman

The disappearance of a cat is a good omen,
He said when she told him that hers was missing
A week after moving into her new house.
Cats in captivity violate the natural order,
He said. They should be out prowling, left
To fend for themselves in the streets and alleys
Of cities whose night life depends on them,
Of having them in the picture along with a cigarette,
A lamppost, the lid of an aluminum garbage can,
A police siren, an off-duty nightclub dancer
In a flimsy frock, with a run
In her nylons. A searchlight, a spotlight.
Strapless. The theater poster on the wall.

From Yeshiva Boys. © Scribner, 2009.

Home

We made it. We moved, unpacked, hosted Thanksgiving, replaced a dishwasher, and have settled in nicely to our new family home. Whew. We've been here two weeks and I can barely remember the old house. Okay, not really. In fact, I just had a dream about it last night. Mostly anxiety dreams - like the whole deal will fall through (albeit impossible since all the paperwork has been signed) or the new owners will have found something wrong and are causing some ruckus. Thankfully, it is all just dreams, bad dreams. Because my reality is much better.

Our old house felt like Jim and my house. When Shaelin came along, it was fine, but as she grew, the walls starting closing in. Then Owen came and it really felt crowded; as if our house couldn't hold anymore. Now we're here and I have a hard time believing we were all stuffed inside that house. This feels like OUR house. Everyone has an equal stake in the house now.

We have just a few miscellaneous boxes to unpack, but all the essentials are done. I feel like I can put my feet up and relax. Such a great feeling. I haven't really felt this relieved in MONTHS - nearly a year! Time to get on with the business of living. Ahhhh...

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?