Will's Birthday

I've been catching up with friends this week and I have to say what a great group of friends I have. Lucky girl I am. Instead of spending more time worrying about my stuff, I'm going to write about the day Will was born.

It was a Memorial Day weekend just like this one, also a Sunday. Around four o'clock in the morning I got up to go pee and just kept peeing. I called out to Rod, "I think something is wrong." Then I realized this must be what happens when your water breaks. We called the doctor who asked me to describe the contents of the toilet bowl. Because the water was yellowish they wanted me to come in immediately. They would explain later that they suspected meconium which means Will had likely taken his first tiny poop in utero.

Because of the meconium there is a risk of infection to the baby, so the doctors wanted to get him out as quickly as possible. We decided to induce using pitocin, a nasty drug that has to be administered through an IV. For me that meant my Lamaze stuff was out the window. No showers or baths, no rolling on a yoga ball, no walking around the hospital. I had an IV, a catheter and a fetal heart monitor so I was tethered to my bed. The pitocin seemed to have no effect as I lay there not effacing and not dilating. It took me hours and hours to get to two centimeters. So the day and then the night wore on and on.

Rod very kindly agreed to let me watch the Stanley Cup and the NBA finals. I was so uncomfortable I really didn't care. Sometime in the middle of the night they called in an anesthesiologist to administer a blank? I've blocked it from my memory. Just asked Rod and he said, "The saddle block?" Yes Rod the saddle block like they give horses. What the hell is it called? Administered into the spine. Should remember that.

Anyway, sweet relief. I dozed for two hours. I can't remember if it was before or after, I think before, that one of my awesome nurses let me take a shower. It was completely against the rules for her to do this but I really appreciated it. I could glimpse why being in the water while giving birth could be a good thing.

As the morning rolled around, I was finally at the right station or effaced enough to start pushing. Unfortunately at that point, some 30 hours after being induced, I no longer had any energy. I was tapped out. My epidural (THAT'S THE WORD) had worn off and I was back to uncensored pain. The OB finally came in and it was the one guy I didn't want. Hair plugs man. I remember looking down at his hair plug head and wanting to kill him.

After pushing for two hours and getting nowhere, hair plugs said something like, "We probably should've done a C-section but it's too late. So you need to get your ass in gear and push this baby out." Those weren't his exact words.

Finally, there was Will. He didn't cry. He was very calm. They had a special team in the room at that point to check his lung function and make sure he didn't have an infection. He just sat there under the warming lights. I could see Rod put his hand on his chest and almost cover it entirely. Will was a big baby, 9 pounds 4 ounces.

As Rod loves to remind me, I was not feeling particularly maternal at that point. I had a fourth degree tear and had to have stitches. I hated Dr. Hair Plugs and Rod and pretty much everyone except my nice nurses. So Will waited patiently for me to change my attitude and then I got to hold him for the first time. He was a beautiful boy. Really the most beautiful boy with a full head of dark hair. But the thing was his demeanor. To come into the world as he did through much pain and chaos and to just sit there quietly observing, was amazing.

He's still a beautiful boy. Still even keeled. Not really quiet anymore but calm. Happy 11th Will! Love, Mom

Toby's New Trick

I find particularly with TV commercials, the stereotypes still out there about women are absolutely infuriating. Because I'm also in the marketing business, I'm even more offended that creative people like myself could come up with these concepts and then sell them to clients without so much as a thought as to how ridiculous women look.

To that end, I'll be pointing out major offenders as I see them. First up, Stanley Steemer and the dog butt scrubbing incident.

First of all, I don't know what they did to that poor dog to make him scrub his butt. Either they had a casting call for dogs with worms or they infected the dog with worms. Either way, just cruel.

Second I think the two women are wearing exactly the same ugly sweater in different colors. (cheap ass production budget)

Third no mother is going to shriek in horror at dog butt scrubbing. Let me tell you Stanley Steemer copywriting team, mothers are bad asses who have seen all manner of horrors. You can't imagine what comes out of a child's body, from their noses to their bums. Absolutely horrifying. Not only that, it often ends up on our clothes and we walk around town wearing it, completely unfazed.

Get a grip. You want to throw a woman a curveball? You'd better come up with something better than worms. Because that's the least of our worries.

Things I Found at My Mother's House

I did not perform my annual refrigerator purge at my mother's house this time. I had the full high-maintenance crew with me and just didn't have the time to get to it. As I explained in an earlier post (Easter Potluck with a Side of e Coli) my mother has old person refrigerator. I'm actually terrified that I'll come back next year and find the half a BLT I left in there. Really good BLT by the way from B&D Burgers on Broughton.

I did find some interesting things in and around the house and started compiling a list as follows:

• 7-10 day old tea in a mug with a coaster on top. I estimated age based on moldy film. I'm no CSI but guessing I'm close on the estimate.
• Lemon pepper expired May 2001. I momentarily considered reviewing the expiration date on all her spices but decided it would take me too long. And as I mentioned, I had plenty of high-maintenance to deal with already.
• Washcloth containing what appeared to be two disintegrated dog pills
• Rocks aka landmines. My mother had her gardener bring a bunch of stones to the house so she could stop the dogs from digging holes in her lawn. He didn't set them in the ground. She just placed them willy nilly creating little obstacles all over her yard. Like a toe stubbing nightmare.
• Scary BBQ sauce
• Why she still likes Sally Miller. Really a story more than a thing but interesting nevertheless since Sally is a serious biatch and I always wondered why my mother continued to deal with her. Now I know.
• A piece of paper towel containing dog fur under the bathroom sink.
• Way too many cashews. I've read several articles about snacking on a handful of nuts everyday including in this month's issue of Fitness Magazine. I cannot keep nuts in the house at all or I will eat them, every one of them until they are gone.

My mother says I enjoy these moments of finding old food or that bottle of rusted shaving cream. I feel like I'm giving her quite a bit of room on this stuff. I did throw out the paper towel with dog fur but I let her have the shaving cream because a gooey green gel still came out of the spout. You never know when you might find yourself in a shaving pinch and think, "Hey this stuff's still good, as long as I don't cut myself on that rusty metal bit there."

Southern Gothic

Yesterday my mother hosted brunch to celebrate Easter. There were about ten of us, including her priest, Father McDreamy they call him, two couples and another woman. It was a cast of characters that could only be assembled in a place like Savannah.

Early in the morning my husband told me he understood what was going on with me and my mother. He said I was like the herding dog tasked with looking after stray cattle. My mother and son are co-conspirators, the stray cattle. They make fun of my worrying and general anxiety associated with leaving the two of them alone together. The thing is I have good reason to be anxious. There are several examples on record of my leaving them alone and something bad happening. In all fairness, the same is true for all the grandparents. I love a metaphor with me as the dog.

We assembled at two in the afternoon. My mother wanted me to barbecue lamb. I have never cooked lamb, I never eat it and I don't own a charcoal grill. She assured me another guest was an expert and I needn't worry. The other guest was not an expert and I did worry. I asked the Father to bless the grill, he did and things worked out all right.

One of the couples lived in Paris for many years. I lived in Paris for one year as a student. The wife was not happy to be back in the US particularly back in Statesville, Georgia where they own a 6,000 square foot home in the middle of nowhere. They also own a home in nearby Thunderbolt which is apparently more to her liking. They were both very stylish if not over the top for a brunch in my opinion, but my taste runs to the very casual. I rarely get out of jeans. This couple bickered much of the afternoon, she having very clear disdain for living in the boonies of Georgia after spending 25 years on the Boulevard Saint Germain. The husband is from Statesville and quite ill. He decided to come home to ride out the rest of his life and his wife wanted no part. I sat next to him and she was across from me.

At one point, the husband realized he'd lost his wedding band. I began a frantic search only to find out later his wedding ring was not from his current wife but from his first wife which would explain why she, the second wife, showed so little interest in finding it. Who keeps his wedding ring from the first marriage and carries it forward to the second? I didn't ask.

The other couple was equally interesting. The wife was from South Dakota. She brought these delicious dumplings she said were the equivalent of Russian ravioli. Her mother in South Dakota made them and shipped them to her for the occasion. Delicious. Her husband was a pistol, making fun of my mother's manic behavior so of course I was a big fan. Then Father McDreamy and one other woman rounded out the crew. This other woman was from Fairfield, Connecticut where I now live. When she walked in, I thought wow, another over the top 60-something with her huge sunglasses and big jewelry. But the more we talked, the more I liked her.

And so it unfolded, from the Parisian couple and their little dog, to my mother, her friend from Fairfield and the couple from the Great Plains. Did I mention the little dog walked in the house and immediately wee'ed on the carpet? Orleans, the little dog from Chartres, did that several times and also took a poo that my mother's dog graciously ate to cover up her tracks.

All and all it went fairly well in spite of the lost wedding ring, the pee and poo, the mysterious reference to the 60 something's husband's death by accident and my feeble attempts at lamb grilling. My son was the only child as is often the case. He did dump his entire ginger ale all over the dining table. But he held his own until the end of the night when he started having asthma again.

My mother gets very agitated because my son has asthma. My entire family has asthma. My mother outgrew hers. My father's family moved from Ohio to Texas for the dry climate. He outgrew it. My brother outgrew it. I still have it and so does my son. Everyone else in my family wants to push my son to outgrow it. I wish he would too. I really do, but so far it's not happening. So my mom was pissed at me for giving my son a breathing treatment with the nebulizer. I don't really get it but because of this behavior (wishing to ignore the asthma) and the other grandparents' behavior, my son has wound up in some type of emergency care on more than one occasion.

My son was so upset he started crying. I thought my mom and I were going to get into it again. We often get into it to the point where we typically go for some period during every year not speaking. I have three more days here in Savannah so I was hoping to stave off a major argument until I was leaving. But that may not happen. I may have to kill her before we leave.

In the meantime, it's all very Southern here with the wedding ring feud bubbling just below the surface, my mother and her agitation about my son's asthma, all of this being pushed below the surface because by all means we have to be well-mannered. There are many times when I miss the South, particularly the weather, and today was a spectacular example of the weather. But the stifling and the bullshit I can do without.

I can see why so many great writers come from the South. There's so much material. There are so many characters. The place writes itself. But this place is not for me. I've kept secrets my entire life. I've stifled and been well-mannered. But it's not for me.

A close friend once said to me I have no filter. I was offended because I obviously don't think that is a good thing. Still at this point, I'm starting to think I don't give a shit. I don't want to keep the secrets. I want to know why the man still has his wedding ring from his first marriage. I want my son to be able to say he's got asthma and not have to hide the fact we're doing something about it. I want to say what's on my mind, write about it and have a good laugh later.

The Santa Killer

Last night my son asked me if Santa Claus was real. He's 10. He's been asking about it for a couple of years now so I told him. No Santa Claus isn't real. It was like the shot heard round the world.

I think 10 is old to still believe but he's an only child so he doesn't have anyone else to break the bad news. My brother and I figured it out when we found a stash of gifts in my parents' walk-in closet. Really not the best hiding place. I think I was 6 and Clay was 4.

Will was very sad about Santa. I could see some part of his innocence washing away in front of my eyes. "So you and dad, are you guys giving me the presents?" "Yes," I said. "We've been giving you the presents." He was heartbroken.

I tried to recover and tell him I believe there is a Santa who brings some of the other gifts of Christmas like people feeling happy, people singing and being cheerful. This is all really a stretch for me because I hate Christmas but that's another story for another cheery blog.

I called for reinforcements - hy husband - who is Mr. Christmas. We both sat there on either side of Will trying to console him.

It's all the Wii's fault. We said Santa got him the Wii and we got him the games. But I could tell he wasn't buying it. How did we know Santa was bringing the Wii? I said Santa emailed me and told me. He cast a sideways glance.

Today he seems okay. He said he thought it was pretty cool that dad and I gave him presents. I can tell he's still upset. What was I thinking?

In the Motherhood is Out

I read yesterday that ABC has already cut their season order of In the Motherhood from thirteen episodes to six. I watched it. I thought they had some funny bits.

When I was at the gym last week I saw Megan Mullaly promoting Motherhood on the Bonnie Hunt Show. As I watched, I had a bad feeling, a premonition. Everybody says shows about women don't fly in Hollywood. Married women or older women, I mean I'm surprised they got on the air at all.

This is particularly upsetting to me since I've spent the last two years of my life writing a film about women. What started as a group of 40 something characters has skewed to women in the early 30's. People also say write what you know. Well I don't know early 30's anymore. I'm trying to remember.

The show started online and they had clever hook of using viewer submitted stories from real moms as plot lines. But somebody up there doesn't want to see moms on TV, unless they're perfect moms like June Cleaver or wild and crazy moms like Peg from Married with Children.

Watching Megan Mullaly and Bonnie Hunt together I thought about how funny both of these women are. Really funny women. Why don't we want to see 40 something's? What's wrong with us?

I rented an HBO comedy called "The Comeback" with Lisa Kudrow. It's a show about an actress in her 40's who had a hit show when she was younger and is on the comeback trail with a new sitcom. Originally she was cast as one of the roommates in the show "Room and Bored". The network decides to go in a different direction and Kudrow takes on a new role as Aunt Sassy, the landlord. The Comeback is one of those shows that makes you uncomfortable it's so realistic. Like the Ricky Gervais version of The Office. Mainly it's about this older actress relegated to wearing a bad track suit and being completely overlooked if not persecuted by the show's writers. She's not a particularly likeable character but I really thought she was wonderfully written. I don't think that show was picked up either.

I had high hopes for In the Motherhood. If they can make it, we can make it. I suppose I should look on the bright side - that the show was produced at all, even though their season was cut short. We're going to finish this damn screenplay if it kills me. And I hope we get a shot at making a film. At least we're trying. That seems to be my mantra for the month of March.

Holed Up: Tales from the Motherhood

I spent this weekend in the City but didn't see the light of day except for a couple of coffee runs. Lou Lou flew in from Denver and Rosey trained in from Long Island and we all met in their mom's apartment on Sutton Place. Sounds pretty swanky, but swanky it ain't.

It's a lovely building in a peaceful, pretty part of town but the apartment was last used by their brother Pat, a former Navy Seal with a penchant for Munch-like art and even darker fiction. I slept on an air mattress and the sisters shared the bed.

We were working on our screenplay that we've been working on for longer than I care to admit. This is the toughest writing project I have ever attempted and it still isn't finished. I think because there are three of us with very different opinions. You add the difficulty of managing time zones and a total of 11 children (mostly Rosey's) and we just can't seem to get it together.

Rosey lives in Huntington, near Syosset home of Apatow and other movie kids. A woman in her local book group has agreed to pass along our screenplay to her c-level exec husband at WE if we can get it into MOW format rather than feature film format. They've promised to read it and that is big.

We've been writing all along what we hoped would be a feature film finally stumbling on Save the Cat to help us with structure. A Movie of the Week (MOW) format is different because you have to allow for commercial breaks roughly every fifteen minutes of film for two hours. Plus in this instance, they want what's called a Bible thinking this might be the next Desperate Housewives. The Bible consists of detailed character descriptions, 13 half-page episode synopses and the script in the event the movie launches a series.

It's like the closer we get, the more hurdles shoot up. This weekend we met with other hurdles. Lou Lou's husband is a long-time stoner who has recently decided to try his hand at more serious combinations of prescription drugs, pot and alcohol. On Saturday night, he pulled some major shenanigans that I think I'll not reveal but let's say it kept us up late that night and seeped into the next day as Lou Lou's family gathered round trying to offer their best advice.

I'd brought in a book for her about Adult Children of Alcoholics. I'm one of those. I have the gene and battle it myself. I do pretty well mainly I think because I'm too tired after working and momming all day to get into much trouble. But I understand the root of it and frankly am pretty sick and tired of dealing.

I tried to keep writing as the sister and a brother were counseling Lou Lou. I know the objective of alcoholics whether intended or not, is disruption. Same with any addict I'm assuming. After 40+ years of it it's really getting old. Same old stuff over and over again. It's very unimaginative.

My friend Lou is a tough bird. She's one of 9 children and they do not mess around when it comes to toughness. I think it comes from their mother who possesses a very black sense of humor for someone in their late 70's. She's also a ruthless tennis player, a very unlikely grandmother to scores and until recently a real estate tycoon in the Hamptons. I think they'll ride out this real estate storm; they will if Betty Ann has anything to say about it.

I feel for my friend Lou Lou. She's in a serious pickle with 3 kids and no work experience in roughly 15 years. She's trying and will no doubt find her way. As the old hand in the addiction department, I feel it my duty to keep us moving on the screenplay. Like I said, the disruptions have worn thin. No more drama as Mary J says. Or Mr. Eliot, "For I have known them all already, known them all."

Looking Good Out There

My new profile picture is actually about 2 years old. My brother took the picture when we were out in Montana visiting my dad's place in Whitefish. We were on Whitefish Lake learning to wakeboard. I got up for about 2 seconds and that was it. My brother Clay rode around for quite a bit and my sister-in-law did well too.

It was a funny day. We thought we were taking a water skiing lesson but our instructors told us no one water skis anymore. Everybody wakeboards now. The water was freezing as it always is there. So every time I fell, I got smacked by water as cold as ice. It felt like I was hitting pavement.

One of our instructors was this guy named Link. He was much older than the kid driving the boat. He was in good shape, probably in his 40's like me. He was a small guy and he had what is probably the worst hair piece or weave or whatever it was that I've ever seen. I was thinking this guy has some nerves wearing that thing into the water. We nicknamed his hair the badger.

He was in the water trying to help me and my sister-in-law stand up on the board. You have to just stand up straight when the boat starts to move so it's an awkward feeling. On my first try I got up for a brief shining moment. And subsequently fell, fell, fell until I hit my forearms so hard on the water I thought I was going to cry.

At that point I gave up. I really should've kept going until I too could ride around the lake on my board. But I was embarrassed and I felt badly that they had to keep circling back to pick me up. Now I look back fondly on getting to meet Link who in spite of his badger hairpiece was a real sweetheart of a guy. He wanted me to succeed more than I did.

I like this picture for a couple of reasons. One, my legs and my arms both look pretty good. You can't even see the back of my arms waving behind me in the wind.

I also like this picture because it's a reminder to me to keep trying new things. It wasn't pretty and I really only saw what it could be like for about 2 seconds. But I tried and that's what counts.

Trapped with a Ten Year-Old

Yesterday we had a conference with our son's teacher. This is the second. The first was not that great. We're used to Will being good to great at pretty much everything so it was a shock to learn his teacher thought he was basically coasting. This is a specialty of mine so I can relate.

This conference went much better and I almost started crying at one point. I was so glad to hear his teacher say she thinks he's ready for the big leap to middle school.

Before the meeting began, we were in the hallway waiting. The three of us - me, my husband and son. My husband was glued to his iPhone and I was OCD-ishly checking my blackberry for new email. My son started in again about how he wants a phone. At ten, I just don't see that happening.

I said, " I was thirty before I got a phone." Oh sure I had that old Princess phone back in the day but that was tethered to a wall and closely monitored by my parents and brother. I neglected to mention cell phones weighed about 15 pounds until I was 30 but hey, I'm allowed to edit.

My husband was sitting about 10 feet away, again engrossed in iPhone. My son was harping, going on and on. Finally I said, "Dad said you can't have a phone and I agree with him."

My son whispered to me, "Daddy can't help you from over there."

What's a Renal Carbuckle?

Further Adventures in Motherhood: Taking Will to the Doctor with Me

I whacked my toe on a flashlight that I keep near my bed. This happened about two weeks ago but my toe is still bothering me. At first it turned black and blue. Now it's red and kind of swollen. This is particularly bothersome to me because I have pretty nice feet. So the thought of amputation or other foot scarring is upsetting.

I made a doctor's appointment for the following day and then quickly changed my mind thinking I'll take my son with me this afternoon . It will take five minutes for the doctor to say there's nothing he can do and then we'll leave. Why put off until tomorrow what can be diagnosed today?

When we got there, Will asked if he could come in with me. Thought twice about it, but how bad could it be? When we finally got in the exam room, Will started playing with the various plastic models they have of asthmatic airways and clogged arteries. Then he started studying this chart with kidneys and a bunch of lines leading here and there. That's when he asked me, " What's a renal carbuckle?" I'm pretty sure that's not the spelling but that's the gist of it.

A renal carbuncle (correct spelling) is a medical term for a kidney abscess. I'm not going into the rest of it because it involves the word pus and that word makes me faint.

The running commentary ensued. "You know Leprechauns drink a lot of beer." (It was St. Patrick's Day) "What's that glass they drink out of? Shots?"

"It's called a pint," I said. Then he says, "Are my eyes completely white?" He has this thing about rolling his eyes all the way back in his head until only the whites are showing. At this point, I started cracking up. Then he started laughing and we were both laughing until the doctor came in the room.

He asked us to switch seats so that I was on the chair beside him and Will got up on the exam table. Will started swinging his legs, swish, swish went the paper. Swish, swish, crackle.

The doctor asked him to settle down. Said he couldn't hear what I was saying. I asked Will if he'd like to wait outside. The doctor answered for him. "He doesn't have to go. I'd just like him to be quiet."

I don't like when doctors interfere like that. I've had that happen several times actually and it's annoying. You're the doctor not the parent. You do your job and I'll do mine. Of course I just sat there quietly, knowing Will wasn't about to stop fidgeting.

Finally the big reveal from the doctor, there's nothing he can do. He said something like, "The infection idea was a good thought. Well not really because I don't think you have an infection but.."

Then the doctor asks if I've ever heard of buddy taping? Yeah my dad used to make me run plays with him and my younger brother. I know about buddy taping and stick'em and ice packs and having a nice big shiner on my first day of eighth grade from getting hit with a baseball.

I didn't know about renal carbuncles but I'm thrilled to add them to my repertoire.

With Friends Like These

I am perpetually on the lookout for moms like me. Deeply flawed but trying.


This weekend my sister-in-law had a friend down from her hometown. This friend is one I covet because she is really funny. I was telling her about my son's various sex questions from my Nag in the House blog. She shared this story with me. Her 9 year-old daughter had a friend over and they were in her room being very secretive. She could hear whispering but wasn't exactly sure what was going on. Then her daughter told her they were writing a book called The Valley of the Vaginas. Bonni called the other girl's mother and said, "I think you'd better get over here. They're writing porn."

I just got off the phone with my friend Lou Lou who lives in Denver. She'd sent me an email last night that her daughter is going deaf in one ear. They're not sure why or if it can be reversed. Her only comment? She said it was weird.

Lou's going through quite a bit right now so I figured she was holding back emotionally because what else is there to do? At some point, it's all just overwhelming. I called Lou today to check on her and she went on to explain that she felt like she had to keep it together so Olivia wouldn't get upset. But she stayed up half the night worrying about what had happened, what she could've done, all the things moms worry about when something is wrong.

She went on to say that on the way home from the hearing specialist, Olivia asked her what she couldn't be if she lost her hearing. "Can I still be a vet?" she asked. Lou Lou said, "Of course you can be a vet. But you probably shouldn't work at a shooting range."

I Am a Shit

My husband didn't get home until 9:15 last night - Friday night. He was just, I don't even know the word, maybe wrecked, defeated? He was texting me from the train like he always does about what's for dinner and the answer was nothing. I left a cupcake for him that my neighbor gave us. My intent was to split it with him but he looked so friggin' bummed out, I told him to eat the whole thing.

I told him I had a good day. I had three unsolicited positive remarks on my blog. One from my stepsister even, who read Adventures in Babysitting and somehow didn't want to kill me for that story about taking care of her son.

He couldn't be consoled my husband. He wanted to talk about what a shitty day he had. I should've just sat there quietly and listened. Instead I laid into him about what the hell are we doing if he hates this job.

I thought he was enjoying it. He seemed cheery enough. Maybe it was just an exquisitely bad day. Seriously though, what are we doing? Will and I never see him during the week. He leaves at 8am and the earliest he'll be back is 9pm. That's everyday, Monday through Friday. And he's working on the weekend. Baseball is starting soon and I can't help Will. I used to have an arm but now I throw like a girl. And no way I can catch Will now, he's throwing way too hard.

So I'm up now at 4am. blogging about this mess. Writing, writing, just keep writing. For what? The only money I make writing has absolutely nothing to do with this blog, which is unfortunately the only writing I really enjoy.

Yesterday on the thread (yes, the same thread, world's longest, will soon have a spot next to world's largest ball of twine), yesterday Jack took a "hafe" day as he put it. Jack is in the process of losing his job as a well-paid lawyer. In light of that situation, he decided to say f - it and he took off to watch his little girl swim.

I keep telling my husband you have more power than you think. Don't let them mess with you because you think you have no power. And in most years, that would be true. But this year, with the way things are going, there could definitely be another 100 guys in line to take his shitty ass job. We won't even have paid health benefits until April so if he quits now, we are screwed

Here's what Jack said on the thread:

Since these f-ers have turned me loose in the worst possible f-ing time, I said f-them today and left at 1:30 - watched my daughter Sarah's swimming lesson at 2:00, then went to the gym, then hung out with my kids (Sam too) and that's how I spent my hafe day, the other hafe.

Things are bleak. Things are grim. There's a feeling out there that the worst could happen at any point. I should've listened to my husband who has apparently been telling me for several weeks now that he's unhappy, but I missed the signs. Now he's downstairs sleeping with Will because he never gets to see him. And I'm up here, blogging in obscurity.

I have to write this thing. I have to keep putting it out there even if no one reads it and nothing ever comes of it. It's like the thread. My blog sustains me during tough times and we are in tough times. My husband is proof of that. I'll tell you one thing, that biatch at work who's giving him so much trouble, better back off. I will come after her. I will write about her and make her life a living hell, if only in my own mind and on this here blog.

Nag in the House

My husband started a new job in January. It's a good job and we're lucky, that's what I keep telling myself. But the hours are a pain in the ass. He works in the City from 10 until 7. You add the additional 4 hours of commute time everyday and that's a long day.

Sorry brief interruption. My son just asked me what is sperm? He's 10. Then he asked me, "What time is it?" That's the fourth time he's asked me what time it is since 8:03. It's 8:10 now.

What's been most difficult about this new job is I'm the only one here most of the time to answer questions like, "What is sperm?" What's a booty call? I got that one last week. What's foreplay? I got that after we went to see Pink Panther 2.

The ironic thing is I'm the last person who should be answering questions about sex from anyone. I didn't have sex until I was in college and that was with my 8th grade boyfriend. It took me 5 years to warm up to the idea and to him.

I'm the only one here with my son. I don't know how single parents do it. It's the monotony of hearing your own voice over and over again. I can't imagine being the recipient of that voice. Like nails on a chalkboard I'm guessing.

Brush your teeth. Put your shoes on. Where's your backpack? You need a coat. What's going on with your hair? Practice guitar. Hurry up. Slow down. Stop watching wrestling. Turn off the computer. Are you reading? On and on until he finally goes to sleep.

It's always nag, nag, nag. And let me tell you nagging makes you feel like a nag. You start to shrink. You don't brush your hair. Your clothes are mismatched. Who has time for these things when there's so much nagging to be done?

We had a schedule that was working out great for me. Now that my husband has this new job, we're totally off schedule and back to nagging. This weekend I'm making a new schedule, something that takes me and my nagging out of the equation.

It's amazing how I'll make something simple like changing a document this huge thing even though not changing it, is causing me and my son so much grief. Yes I'll have to boot up my husband's Mac, and email the file, change the file, save and print.

Is that really such a big deal in exchange for having my freedom back in the morning? No it is not. The nag has left the building.

Cooking Up a Blog

I had an idea for another blog today. This is what happens when you limit red wine, ideas flow. At any rate, I had this great idea for a blog about music but I have to write it while cooking dinner.

Typically when I multitask while cooking, it ends badly. So far into this blog, I've burned my hand on grease (rather seriously I believe) and then I turned off the wrong burner. I am now typing with an ice pack. this is what my vtypy ing woulsd realyy look like.

Using left hand and right middle finger, I shall proceed. My idea was about oldies music and that eventually my music will be oldies music. It is to some degree already, but it's not quite like doo wop and a 57 Chevy. Soon my music will become doo wop and then I don't know what will become of me. Will I sing too loudly to the wrong lyrics like my dad? Will hip young groups be sampling my music? Gwen Stefani sampled Rich Girl but it was the Tevya version, not Hall & Oates.

On my Facebook thread we were discussing bad white man dancing to It Never Rains in Southern California which made me think of other gay songs from the late 70's like You Don't Bring Me Flowers and Escape aka The Pina Colada Song aka super gay. But I loved those songs. Hell even KISS was getting in on that morose action with Beth. But the one song I came up with that I don't think will ever be sampled is The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I loved that song.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down

Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee

They don't write'em like that anymore. I mean who else could rhyme Gitche Gumee? I looked it up and Gordon Lightfoot hit the #2 spot on the Billboard countdown in November of 1976 with Edmund Fitzgerald. Some entrepreneurial young rapper could've sampled that song and written the theme to The Perfect Storm.

Will Sweet Home Alabama become the next New York, New York? Will Summer Breeze become the next Summer Wind? Could some poor sap show up at the Carlyle boasting the musical stylings of Todd Rundgren?

Only in Moderation

My friend Christina told me I need to update my blog. Since she is one of 4.5 followers I have, I shall gladly comply.

What to write, what to write. I'm still on my Facebook thread. We're balancing bad joke telling with mocking distant family members. Also our friend from Costa Rica sent some pics from a local surfing competition and once again I'm wondering why I live here in Connecticut.

I had coffee last week with my friend Steven and we were talking about misperceptions surrounding women and technology, namely that we don't get it when in fact, women are on the web, women make most of the household purchasing decisions and women are speaking out about everything from annoying commercials to products we love. Women have had strong opinions all along - now we have a big ass megaphone for airing them.

This morning I've been researching women bloggers. I saw a segment on the Today Show at the gym about Digital Moms. I looked up some of their experts from Heather Armstrong who writes Dooce to Cafe Mom and Blogher. It's so funny to me that I've been plugging away thinking I was the worst mom of all time but well hidden here in the burbs. Then I read Dooce and Baby on Bored and truemomconfessions and am just so grateful there are others like me out there.

My hero for the day is Romi Lassally who actually wrote on Huffpoo about becoming the oldest intern of all time at 43 to get back in the workforce. It's the exact same thing I've been thinking--how to pull out of self-employed world and back into some level of social interaction. She also told a story about one of her kids throwing up in the middle of the night and she left it for the dog to eat. Yes! That's what I'm talking about.

I've said this before and I'll say it again. Never trust a perfect mother because it's just not possible. Somewhere there is a chink in the armor. As my friend Kristen says, "I love the chinks." This was right after she invited me to a Pilates class that will "work your ass off" while holding her 4 year-old. Hey I taught my son his first curse word. "Goddammit," I said when I guy cut me off and in almost a whisper from his car seat behind me I heard Will repeat, "Goddammit."

Or as Mrs. Mulderrig said about her pregnancies, all nine of them, "I always had two scotches a night. That was it." Hey at least she quit smoking.

http://dooce.com/
http://babyonbored.blogspot.com/
http://www.truuconfessions.com/channels/Mom

Adventures in Babysitting

On Monday I babysat my nephew Even who is 10 months old. His mom and dad left while he was still sleeping so when he woke up to find me in place of his beloved parents, there was a moment when I thought this could be a disaster.

But he settled down in a few minutes, turned his binky over to me and got down on the floor to play. I took off my hiking boots so as not to step on the little guy with my tire tread soles. He seized on the boots, in particular the soles and started gnawing. I tried to take the boot away but he didn't look happy. So I thought fine, chew the boot. What's a little dirt going to do? Then I pictured him breaking off a baby tooth and decided I'd have to be firm about the boots. "Sorry Even but you've got to turn those over to me," I said firmly. Actually I just swiped them when he was distracted.

Before leaving, Even's dad told me the dog probably had a bladder infection and would need to go to the bathroom multiple times. He showed me a leash attached to the back porch and told me to put her on the leash if she needed to go outside.

About 30 minutes into our playdate, the dog began whining like she has to go outside. So I attached her to the leash as directed and left her to her own devices. When I came back to check on her I noticed the leash was under the porch. There are two entrances to the porch and she'd gone to the one on the far right when she should've gone back to the left. I pulled on the leash to get her to come back around. I called her name, "Delphi, come over here." Nothing. I thought to myself this is one stupid dog. I checked and Even was still safely behind the baby gate so I walked onto the porch and let the dog off the leash to come inside. She ran away. Like a shot she was in the neighbor's backyard in a matter of seconds. Oh no I thought. This is not good.

Checked Even again. Still behind baby gate. Put on slobbery hiking boots and ran after the dog, yelling back toward the house, "It's okay Even I'll be right back." I ran to the neighbor's yard and as I did, Delphi ran past me toward the street. She had her eye on a fuel delivery truck parked about two houses down the road.

See Delphi is a sweetheart but she's a priss. She's a labradoodle but she's mainly poodle. A large white poodle born and raised in Southern California and now trying to find her way in the marshes and waterfront of Old Saybrook, Connecticut. I don't know if you've ever seen your average fuel delivery guy but they're kind of "rough around the edges' is probably the nice way to put it. I'm imagining Delphi running to greet this guy in her "hey how's it hangin'" California style and the guy bats her away with the back of his glove.

I run back in the house frantically looking for a leash. I ran to pick up Even because at this point he was beginning to notice my absence. I wasn't mom or dad but I was someone to talk to at least.

I put Even in his high chair thinking I could call for the dog from the back porch and Even could see me from his seat in the kitchen. I couldn't figure out the tray. It's one of those newfangled Italian made high chairs. I had the prototype but it's been ten years since I needed a high chair. At a loss and in panic mode, I tied Even into his high chair using the shoulder straps in the chair. Then I took a look out the backdoor to see if I could see the dog. Nope no dog.

I untied shoulder straps and put the baby in the stroller. Again very high tech stroller. Luckily it had a built-in blankie so I zipped him in and wheeled him outside. We ran down the street to capture the dog. And there she was in all her glory giving me that "what did I do" look.

The three of us headed back to the house. The sun was shining and all in all not a bad February day for Connecticut. I thought we could kill some time by taking a walk. We went back to the house, I tied the dog to the leash and put the brake on the stroller. I went inside to find outerwear for Even but I couldn't find anything except a hoodie jacket. I put the hoodie jacket and a pair of booties on him. Not enough head coverage I thought. I went back inside and found a hat and gloves belonging to Even's mom. Kind of a cool Banana Republic Haight Ashbury looking hat. Both ridiculously oversized but they would have to do.

Off we went on our little walk. I didn't want to get lost to further complicate matters so I basically kept going in a big square. Walk to the beach, walk back to the house. Repeat. After he settled in Even seemed quite happy just talking to himself. He'd get aggravated occasionally when the hat would slide down and cover his eyes. But he generally enjoyed himself and got some nice color in his cheeks.

I was thinking as we headed inside that his parents were going to be wondering what exactly went on here. The hat and gloves were out of place. The stroller is in a different position. The dog has sticks in her furr. It's that same feeling I'd get when I came home and my mom had been babysitting or my brother.

I'd get these calls from my mom. "Are you sure he has to be in a car seat?"

"Yes mom. It's a law now. You can't throw garbage out your window either. The 70's are over."

One time I came home and my brother had been watching Will. I couldn't put my finger on it but something was amiss. As it turned out later, during the daylight when I could see down my shotgun hallway, Will took a crayon and drew all over the wall. The entire story is that my brother fell asleep and while he was asleep WIll drew all over the walls and on a lamp that I really loved. Then he toddled over and stuck his fingers into my brother's nostrils to wake him.

At forty-five, I still have visions of having another child but as I learned on Monday, I've moved into grandmother babysitting mode. Can't figure out the high chair? Just use duct tape. Unable to find baby cap? Wrap a scarf around his head and off we go. Even the diaper genie has changed. It's all new and unfamiliar to me. I mean it took me about ten minutes to figure out the release button for the stroller brake. I think my baby days are over. And that makes me sad. But the day was a good one and I did pretty darn well considering my lack of practice.

Do You Have That Hunk of Skin?

I had to use this. It's too good to be true. My friend and neighbor was cleaning her broken blender, because that's what women do. We make use of the tools we have. So she's cleaning blueberry off her broken blender and cuts her finger open at the knuckle. Bleeding profusely, she spies a big piece of skin on the blender. Thinks to herself, "I'm bleeding profusely and there's a big piece of skin on my blender." Puts two and two together and she heads to the local urgent care where the doctor confirms she will need stitches.

The doctor asks her, "Do you have that hunk of skin?" No. No she does not. Like any other sane woman, she cleaned up her blender and disposed of the big honkin' piece of skin before heading out to take care of herself. "Because I could re-attach that skin. If you had it," he says.

And in case you don't believe in signs as much as superstitious old me...the injured finger is her middle one now temporarily raised in a familiar salute.

F you she can tell the world. I don't need no stinkin' skin. And I'm not getting rid of that blender.

Potty On

My friend sent me an email. I was in a movie so I just saw the subject line in re: pooping breakthrough. I laughed and decided to read it later.

As I've said before, until you go through potty training, you really have no idea. I mean we've all technically been through potty training but it's more of a repressed memory versus something we look back on fondly.

I read the email when I got home and my friend was writing about how proud she is of her son's efforts to go to the potty - that she's pulling for him because he hasn't really taken to it like a fish to water. I think it took my son about a year and a half so I can relate. At any rate, you could tell that she was relieved that he'd made a breakthrough today.

There are milestones in parenting that are really quite scary. There's a lot of anxiety around these milestones like first steps, first words, potty training, etc. The anxiety results from those smug marrieds who have perfect children. I love the movie "Baby Boom", thank you Sam Shepard you beautiful country vet you. Anyway, there's this scene where Diane Keaton is talking with other moms whose children are comparing clouds to a Manet painting. Or is it Cezanne? The other moms are shocked to hear that Diane - J.C. Wiatt - doesn't have her daughter enrolled in any enrichment programs. No french lessons, no art classes, no tennis. Quelle horreur!

"Nothing," she says. "Child can't even hold a cup."

One time I took my son Will in to visit a friend in the City. I got the same grilling from some of the New York daddies that were her co-workers. What no wine tasting? No fencing classes? Nope, nothing. My son just sat there like a lump, sleeping in his stroller, not even a Maclaren at that.

Luckily Will took his first steps early. He was cruising around at 11 months. He spoke early and often and continues to this day. But potty training was a disaster. The first few times he tried to poop he actually went on the floor. I don't even understand how that happens. He would poop in the bathtub. Just pooping willy nilly all over our little bungalow.

We tried to take it easy until we realized they were going to ban him from pre-school if he couldn't go potty in the potty. Luckily this was a Montessori school, picture crunchy not blue blazer set. So the headmistress agreed to let it slide while he figured it out. And he did figure it out. But it was a very sore spot in my marriage and also with friends. "What do you mean he's not potty trained yet?" they would ask in that tone of voice.

My mother was very helpful. She told me my grandma potty trained me and my brother in a weekend by using money to bribe us. Bribing didn't work with my son. He wasn't having any of it.

So I'm sorry to use my friend's life in my blog, again. But what I like about this friend is that even though she could be like those perfect moms, she's not. She tells the truth to me about her marriage and her kids and her life.

It's so refreshing. In fact, I have a pretty strict policy about it now. If your life is perfect, I don't want to know you. First of all you're full of shit. And secondly, all the good stuff, all the funny stuff, is in our imperfections.

While I may waver in my focus, ADD as I am, I am committed to telling the truth about my life in this blog. Mom, wife, writer, woman who could swear she's still 32. I'm totally screwed up but somehow okay with it. Because the real me is far more interesting than anyone I could ever pretend to be.

I've had a breakthrough of my own today. Thanks C & W for the reminder.

Activia Challenged

I am taking the Activia challenge. Activia is a yogurt enema. I mean that's not what they're saying but the signs are all there. Activia logo? A woman's stomach with a yellow "down" arrow superimposed on her navel. Activia tagline? Bifidus regularis (TM)

Regularis, even in its Latin form, is a word many of us dieters understand. It's code for laxative. Dannon, the makers of Activia, claim it is a bifidobacteria or intestinal microflora. But we know the truth.

See this all started because of a massage I got in Montana. I asked her not to pull my finger, not a joke, because it's swollen. Kim, the masseuse in Montana, told me that sometimes swelling is caused by bacteria in our intestines from the food we eat. Then she proceeded to tell me this disgusting story about eating sushi with her brother the doctor that I won't relay. Trust me, I don't think I'll be ordering yellowtail sashimi for a few months.

Back to the Activia challenge. What caught my eye was this whole idea of balancing the bacteria in your digestive tract. I'd assumed the swelling in my finger was arthritis. Or, and this is also not a joke, it could be gout. My mother thought she had gout in her toe and her symptoms were swelling and pain. One of the things that causes gout is red wine. And let me tell you that if I have to give up red wine, life as I know it will cease to exist.

Bacteria is my salvation. An entirely new way of thinking that would not interfere with my wine drinking AND erase the ugly spectre of arthritis in my early 40's.

So while others are taking the Activia challenge to flush their digestive system or get back to "regular", maybe they're looking for that next weight loss miracle, I'm taking the challenge because I wish to continue drinking red wine until that day when my right index finger falls off and I'll be left with four.

At that point, I think I'll go with a large cocktail ring to distract or kid gloves.

Doodie

My neighbor called me in a panic. "There is a gigantic shit in my Adirondack chair."

"What?"

" I just lifted up the kiddie pool and underneath was a gigantic shit. This is not cat poop. This is a really big poop. I mean what kind of animal could that be?"

"I don't know," I said. "Raccoon? Possum? Turkey?"

"No. There's no way. It has to be something bigger."

"Like what?" I said. "Do you think somebody took a dump on your Adirondack chair?"

We live in sort of a fringe neighborhood. The kind of place that will be super cool about a year after we sell. For now, it's the kind of place where bikes are stolen, where randoms drive through throwing cigarette butts or the occasional beer can. But could someone actually have taken a dump on my friend's Adirondack chair?

"Hold on. I'm going to call Gordon. Maybe he knows what it is. I'll call you right back," she said.

Duh duh duh .... duh duh duh .... duh duh duh....duh. Standard Blackberry ringtone that I can't figure out how to change.

"Hey. What did he say?"

"He said it was Cal." Cal is their youngest.

"What? What do you mean?"

"He said Cal came in the house on Sunday with poop smeared everywhere but he couldn't find the actual dump. It must've been in the chair.....He said he just missed it. He didn't see it."

I'm not sure what the point of this story is other than this. First, men are truly oblivious because even if you didn't see the poop, you probably should've smelled it baking in the sun in your Adirondack chair. Second, you win some you lose some in the potty training biz.

Close Encounter with Bagel Boy

This morning I decided Will should make his own breakfast. Rod, my husband and Will's dad, popped the bagel in the microwave while I wasn't looking. One less thing for Will to do.

I asked Will to take a knife out of the block and cut the bagel in half. "I thought I wasn't supposed to touch the knives," he said. "No you can use the knife," I said. "Finally you're going to treat me like a nine year-old," he said. "Yes I agree it's time."

Then I asked him to take the cream cheese out of the refrigerator. "I can't find it," he said. I foraged in the back of the fridge and found the cream cheese. "Here it is," I said. Still one less thing Will had to do.

He slowly smeared cream cheese across the bagel. Very nice work, I thought to myself. My husband walked out the door to put his backpack in the car, preparing to leave for work.

Will turned to me and said, "You know I'm only doing this because dad is here. Otherwise I would have to kick your butt." Kicking someone's butt is his latest threat now that he's taking karate. The whole nonviolence message hasn't really sunk in with him yet.

It's these special moments that really keep me grounded as a mom. Coming so close to karate blows with my nine year-old.