date night

Friday nights are not my night to go out. Never have been never will be. When I was young and cool and slinging cocktails I hated the people who were out on Friday nights. Total douchebags who kissed their spouses goodbye on Friday morning and promised to be home at a decent hour. Five o'clock brings drinks with the workbuddies. People who could be handled for two more hours at the end of 40+, provided alcohol would be involved. Then the college buddies started filtering in and buttons were unbuttoned and ties and thighs are unloosened, then the old high school friends buy a round of Jagerbombs and then all of a sudden every one was 18 again, young and free and trashed and assy.

When I was even younger and cooler and in college, Friday meant our friends who chose to go straight to work after high school came filtering into our tiny college town to take advantage of the best part of campus life. Thursday night tuckers out us co-eds and the week exhausts the working man and the promise of a weekend full of nonsense has us all resting up on Friday. We sat in and ordered pizza and let the good time guys roll in through the front door.

When I was even youngerer and in high school, I held down the Baskin Robbins from 6.30 til 9.30 on Friday nights. Malls are scary places on Friday nights. It's a wonder that I ever survived.

Fast forward.

Enter Jake.

He isn't old enough to go to the bar, so there is no pressure there. He wouldn't know a fancy dinner if it slapped him in the face. He doesn't keep me up late. Or try to trade me drink specials for my dignity. He just wants to spend time with me and thinks I'm relatively awesome. He's the perfect date.

Last night we stopped in at Maison Ronaldo's and had the filet avec fromage on sesame brioche and pommes frites and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly in the terre de jeu.

We came home for our most favorite thing to do ever that we have been waiting all week to have the house to ourselves for. The Jump Party. Never done it? Oh, you are missing out. We've been doing it for years. Put on your favorite music and jump around together. It's simple and fun. Doesn't matter if the neighbors are looking in. Let them. (They were). Last night we changed out of our dinner clothes and jumped and jumped and jumped to the Cake Station on Pandora.com. If you are born between 1968 and 1982 and you are a normalish person (I say ish because you are here, and truly normal people click away after a minute or two of reading. We are a pretty special bunch here. I say "we" because I am constantly reading my blog. I crack myself up and make myself cry all at the same time. I'm here all the time when I get bored of the internets.) you will really like the Cake station.

Last night Jake suggested that we match for the jumping. He's much into the matching lately. He asked me to put on my Chuck T's and my "cold shirt" so I did.

We didn't stay cold for long. We jumped. A lot. And we may have done the mashed potato. And the twist. And the jerk. Watch us work.

Then we played with the blanket for a million hours.

Then we took turns taking pictures of each other. This is the reason that I bought a subpar camera. The boy loves to take pictures and I love not caring that he's got his grubby little ick sticks and sweaty palms all over them.



I took this one:



Jake is supposed to be in there but I missed. But I like the way I look there. I look just how I felt.

Jake took this one:

I asked him where my head was, and he told me he wasn't taking a picture of my head, he was taking a picture of my belly. Because that's where he "growed before he was born".
Jesus.

I'm kinda glad he did because I've been feeling icky and squishy lately and this picture proves that I'm practically ballerina thin. For like, a ballerina who eats cheeseburgers and drinks beer and snacks regularly and doesn't dance anymore and has given birth in the last decade and doesn't have the poise nor ability to stand on one foot for very long. And no my fly isn't open. It's a bum zipper. But those jeans make my butt look perky. And they are the only pair I can currently button. So I'm dealing.

Then Jake did take a picture of my head.



And one of his favorite grossout.


And then we were beat so we brushed our teeth and changed into our jams and read a book and went to sleep together.

Jake took that picture too, so it is art. If I took it, it would just be a crappy shoot from the hip pic of a book that every mom in America knows by heart. But Jake is amazing, right?

I know.

First I'll start with the good part of my shopping experience.

Now, not that I would suggest that anyone shop at a store who's name may or may not be spelled with a star (or a sunshiney asterisk, depending on how new yours is) but if you are anything like me and you are tightening your pursestrings a bit you might be making fewer trips to Target because you have a slight spending problem when you walk in Target but you only shop for what you actually need at the other place. Anyway, if you chose to shop the sun/star store, and you have a toddler or a preschooler, check the toy aisle. They have retro Candyland and Chutes and Ladders there for $10 a piece. They come in hard boxes, which totally beats the cardboard ones that eventually end up requiring a roll and a half of Scotch tape on every corner because they get stepped on every time the game is played. And they are full size boards in a smaller than normal box. I love smaller than normal storage solutions.

I like to keep toys very minimal and simple, and one way of doing that is restricting most of what I buy to things that I had when I was little and telling everyone else not to buy Jake anything. It's very therapeutic to watch my son play with the same things that my brother and I played with when we were little. I'm big on nostalgia like that. It's also very therapeutic to not have mounds of super loud battery operated garbage lying around the house.

And now the sad part. You can't go to that store and not see something sad, can you? When I walked in, I noticed a little boy, maybe 3 or 3.5 years old, walking up and down that big aisle between the door and the baby stuff in the back. I noticed that no one was calling him to come back to the cart, so I stuck around there for ten minutes or so. I finally asked him if he was looking for his mommy and he said yes. I asked him to sit on the bench near the bras and I would look for his mom and he did. Ten minutes had passed and no one was calling for this child. There was no PA announcement, no store associates that said anything to him, no other moms who bothered with him. Shame on his mother for not paying close attention. I know I'm much more paranoid about letting Jake have a bit a freedom than most moms are with their kids, but ten minutes and you don't even call for your son? I would be screaming loud enough for everyone to hear. I would want everyone in that store to know that I was missing my three foot tall brown haired brown eyed son Jacob wearing a camouflage sweat suit (don't say it. I let him pick out his own clothes today) and a black coat and hiking boots. Everyone in the store would know what I was missing.
Shame on the store personnel for not noticing a baby running free for so long, and shame on the customers who pushed him out of the way rather than hold his hand.
He was a dirty little brownishbutkindayellow child, clearly not my own. No one would have assumed he was mine, even though I was close by to him. It breaks my heart. Seriously, in half.
He was so trusting of me and let me hold his hand and lead him over to the bench. He listened to me when I told him to sit still. Kids his age aren't supposed to do that. They aren't supposed to be subservient like that. As much as I want Jake to listen and follow, I'm glad when he doesn't because it means he feels safe enough and trusts me enough to test me. It's what kids are supposed to do. Jake listens better to other people, but only other people he knows well. Your kids probably do the same thing. You know what I mean, how they get all weird around perfect strangers and roll their eyes and shake their shoulders and make goofy grunty noises. It's normal behavior for normal kids who are growing up in normal houses.
When children are sheepish and subservient in an unfamiliar situation it is a sign that they aren't properly cared for and nurtured. That little boy was scared, a healthy kid that age would have been hiding or crying, but he was just roaming around.

Waiting for someone to take care of him.

I can't wait until we are all rich again so I can stay out of that place. My heart can't afford to shop there.

four

My uncles put together a digital photo album for my grandmother, and were kind enough to send me a link to the pics. I've looked at them a dozen times in the past few days, and I think this is my favorite. It was taken at my grandad's funeral luncheon, a month after Jake's first birthday. The best thing about funerals (funerals are generally hilarious and wildly terrific, it's hard to pick a best) is that it gives everyone a chance to get together, minus one.

I think it was the first and only time that Jake, me, my dad, and my grandma were in a room together. It's a neat picture to have.

Family is a funny thing, isn't it? I find myself redefining family all the time. I think it is creepy to count my husband as my family, because it's weird to make babies with family members but I think it's nice to count my friends as family, because some of us are thick as thieves without the messy shared upbringing to screw things up. Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister.

Jake is my family, because anyone willing to put up with my guts for nine months gets a spot in my family. Tyler is my family, even if she is furry and meowy.

I keep in close touch with two of my uncles, pretty good touch with another one of them, and I see the fourth one once or twice a year. He is the one who made me eat puke when I was staying with him for awhile, and I'm still not over that. Does forcing a person to eat vomit immediately cut them out of the family? No, turns out. But rest assured, if someone else made me do it, I'd call the police.

I only talk to one of my aunts regularly. I talk to Dave's aunts and uncles all the time. I guess this makes them family, even if they are inlaws and I don't really get that in today's day and age when you get married you marry the family too. And your fam is my fam and my fam is your fam. The more we get together the happier we'll be. Or not. Luckily you can just pack up and move away if they start coming to your house too often. This is all too much. I'm going to brave the big scary inch of snow out there and get something with lots of caffeine.

Which reminds me, did I tell you that my company changed its dress code policy? We have to cover our underwear now, which is probably a good policy to have in place.
They suggest that we should wear proper undergarments, which will be a disappointment to the braless wonder we have bouncing around here.
They keep stressing the no! denim! of! any! kind! rule. I'm wearing jeans now. What? It snowed today. And I came to the office. I'm entitled.
They also say that clothing should be clean and pressed. I'll agree with 50% of that. It is hard enough to get up and get going without ironing my pants. Eff that. The wrinkles will work themselves out by noon. Plus, if I press them the wrinkles will be back by noon. I like to do all my admin work late in the day, so I'm going to go with letting gravity take over.
There is a section on revealing clothes too, but I swear to god all it says is "revealing clothes". Taking a look around, I'm guessing we are supposed to be wearing them, but I have this thing about showing skin. I hate doing it. I'm practically in a burka all the time.
My current favorite is footwear policies. If you are a fieldworker you aren't allowed to wear open-toed, non-treaded, nor heeled shoes. And of I should not wear flip flops, which I wear every day but I have 100 pairs of shoes under my desk so I change if I have to go anywhere. And I like that the proofreaders didn't catch that someone used the word "should" regarding a few of these policies. Apparently my decision to wear a bra weighs right around my decision to wear flips. So.... I can wear disgustor Crocs but I can't wear my sensible peep-toe Naturalizer pumps? Got it. And I can wear sweat pants, but no jeans? Okay. And I don't have to wear underwear but if I do they can't show? Understood. I just won't wear them so no one has to worry about seeing them.
Oh wait, no. My favorite is the policy on visible tattoos, piercings, and hairstyles. Funny though, it was in the big corporate email but I can't seem to find it on the HR site. Basically no visible tattoos, only two earrings in each ear, and only in the lobe, and no outrageous hairstyles or colors. Okay. We hire people with facial tattoos. Do you know what that means? Some one who got a TATTOO. On his or her FACE. We (they) hire them because they can "really connect with the clients on a level that schooling cannot teach you". Sure. I get it. (read: they are undereducated and will work for $22K per year+benes) But what do they do with their face every day? Bandaids? Bandito-style bandanna neckerchiefs? We have little hippy dippy college kids and "ethnic" people with piercings in their noses and eyebrows and lips and upper ears and- get this- one girl has the nape of her effing neck pierced. Ack!
And hairstyles? Sister, please.
I'm wondering if that little section got challenged before the IT guy got the policy handbook up on the web.
Oh, and no drinking or drugging at all on the job anymore. I know a few people who will get the shakes if they stop drinking on the job, and having the shakes is very detrimental in this field. No one in Harrisburg takes you seriously if you have a serious case of the DTs while you are presenting your new policies to a panel of funders.
We'll see how that one pans out.

nachtmares

Long long ago, when I was a little girl, I had a recurring nightmare about the Tall Lady.

The Tall Lady was so incredibly tall that she could stand in our foyer (typical early eighties split-level ranch) and reach the chandelier. The Tall Lady was so thin that she could slip through the crack between the door and the door frame, when the door was closed. She could hide behind the banister rungs and the houseplants and she had the ability to make the stairs disappear while I was trying to run up them to get away from her. I feel like I was always running up and down the stairs to try to get away from her. She was dressed in impossible black dresses that I could never really figure out. I remember thinking she could put me in a pocket and hide me so no one could find me. She had black hair and black eyes that were sometimes a little bit red, sometimes a little bit blue.

She chased after me because she wanted to take me away from my mother.

I think of the Tall Lady from time to time, maybe once a week or so. Sometimes if I'm out late I see her in an alleyway and I can almost laugh because I'm 32 years old and haunted by a nightmare that I stopped having a quarter century ago. I swear she's been in the subway, just outside my speeding train, looking in at me to make sure I don't feel too safe. I see her standing at the top of my stairs every once in awhile, but I know now that she won't take any of the steps away from me as I try to go up to tend to my screaming child in the middle of the night.

I'm sure she doesn't want him the way she wanted me, but I can't be confident that Jake doesn't know that. I don't know what happens in his head that makes him cry in his sleep*.

I was sitting alone, late the other night, eating something that had been meant as an evening snack for Jake but was discarded on the window sill (what? like you don't eat your kid's scraps?) when I saw an ad for Coraline, the new Harry Selnick movie.

There she was.

I choked on whatever it was I was eating and lost my breath at the same time. She is someone else's nightmare too. Jesus. Someone made a movie about that damn bitch.

So, do I see this movie and just get over it or do I run and hide and bring it up in therapy? Should I read the book and hope it doesn't have pictures? Should I read a synopsis of the story in hopes that maybe this Tall Lady is a Good Tall Lady and maybe this is all for naught? Is it normal for a growedass woman to still be afraid of something that never existed in the first place? I'm getting jumpy in the dark lately. I'm having a hard time sleeping. I don't trust my eyes. I don't trust the noises that I can only hope are caused by the cat jumping around in another room. I can't stop thinking about the Tall Lady and the fact that she is in a movie and I shut my eyes every time the trailer comes on because I can't bear to see her outside of my brain.

This is so ridiculous.

*This morning at 4am Jake asked me if he could take off his head. If you know me, you know that my greatest fear is a severed head. I don't even like to see the words. I told him "no", of course. He asked "why? because of the spiders?".
"What spiders?"
"the spiders that crawl around inside my head. you don't want them to get out?"

bewwwwellchk.

Payton is eight months old today and doing well. No more seizures, just the regular old snotty pukes that a lot of kids get this time of year. I would post a picture of Jake at this age so you can see the uncanny resemblance that continues with those two brats, but I think it goes without saying.
Arrowsmith genes are strong.
Beware, world. Beware.

I was dreamin' when I wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray

Back in the olden days, before we had Jake, before we bought the house, before we lived downtown, before we lived on that weird little street with the weird neighbors, right after Dave and I got married, we moved into the city and lived with two friends in a big old crooked, rigged, angled, haunted house on Passyunk Avenue.

During your first year of law school you aren't supposed to work so you have time to study stuff like torts and contracts and how to wear a sweater vest and talk through your teeth. During your first year of grad school you can work, but you don't have so much time when you carry a full load so you end up working at the mall for $7 an hour. Wedding money ran out fast, thanks to rent and bills and take-out and happy hours and, well, that's about it. Philadelphia was cheap at the time, our rent for a big house was $650 divided by four of us. Pizzas were about $5 or 6 for a large plain pie. Chinese was something like $3.50 a quart. Beers were a buck, the bus was $1.60. Somehow sometime during our first year of marriage we ran out of cash. Necessities were paid with savings bonds that had been sitting around for 20 years and niceties were paid for in coins. It sucked. For a good long while it sucked.

Then I got a message from my dad letting me know that he ran the value of my savings bond serial numbers and saw that most of them were cashed. Why he did that I don't know, I was the one with the bonds, they were mine, they were gone, and I didn't need a message to tell me that.

I called him back, it was probably the first time in months I had talked to him.
I talked to the bum outside that Sunoco on 17th and Snyder more than I talked to my dad. I didn't want money from him (dad, not the bum. The bum wanted money from me), I pride myself to this day for leaving at 18 years old and never taking more than a bit of help with my undergrad tuition. I didn't want him to feel bad for me. Pity is so damned pitiful. I just needed someone to listen. Someone who I didn't have to look at everyday and someone who would never bring it up again and someone who I probably wouldn't even talk to until I figured out a way to get back on my feet again.

I cried and cried and he laughed, and said something like, "These are the good old days, Lora. in ten years from now you won't care that you are paying your rent in quarters and savings bonds. You will long for your crappy rental house when you are busy fixing things on the one you will own. You will miss your late nights out and your crazy friends. You will want to give a week's pay to have one of these days back".

He was right.*

Those were the days all right, they were good and now they're old. I've been remembering things from back then lately, because I can look at my six month planner page and see my tenth wedding anniversary date and no matter how I do the math and how many fingers I use to count on, I just can't figure out how that was ten years ago and if it's almost ten years gone since we were married that means almost fourteen have passed since we met. Time flies when it isn't dragging.

We didn't have a home computer back then, and I remember loathing the tech lab at Temple U. We didn't have cell phones. We had these green bedsheets that I loved. I thought they were so soft and classy. I think I paid $25 for them at Wal*mart. We had Tyler, but she was living in my bedroom closet because of Marley, the giant Husky/Shepard/Akita monster that only loved me and bit everyone else. He was named after Bob and Jacob, btw. It wasn't for six years until the book came out. We had lots of used furniture but we bought some couches and tables brand new. We never had anything brand new before and we were really proud of them, even if they turned out to be total crap. We had a glittery popcorn ceiling that sucked unless you were high and there were a million candles lit. And then it was the most spectacular thing you've ever seen. We were making friends who came from families unlike any we have ever seen before. Children of doctors, of lawyers, of indian chiefs. We kept our old friends and somehow managed to melt them all together. We had the big blue Chevy, but it hardly ran with its bum tranny. We stayed up all night and slept all day and no one knew or cared. We coulda run the world but no one gave us the memo.

So, yeah. The good old days.

The new ones aren't so bad either.


*that was my comment on Nadine's blog. I totally just lifted it from her post so I wouldn't have to get creative twice.

three, four, shut the door

It's not that I forgot that Jake passed the 34 month mark, I just couldn't figure out what to write about it. There isn't much baby left to him anymore, and I can only write about his obsession with trains and trucks so many times before it gets old.

The thing that has struck me down the hardest lately is the level of independence this kid has. A few weeks ago, I walked into the daycare and Jake wasn't around. I figured he was downstairs looking at the turtle tanks or upstairs taking a nap, but no. He was in the bathroom, going pee all by himself.

What? When we are at home I have to carry him upstairs, pull down his pants, guide his- um- aim, wipe the renegade pee off his knees, wash his hands, then do some sort of congratulatory dance until my eyes roll back. At daycare he does that all by himself. FOR MONTHS!

Then I find out that he makes his own sandwiches for lunch. Pb&j's, ham&cheese (or cheesenhamns as Jake says), plain cheese. What? He can spread? With a knife?

I didn't even know the kid knew how to walk down the stairs by himself. Mostly because I wouldn't let him. Our steps are steep. And wood. And plentiful. And totally navigable by my son. No more free rides.

Jake can fold his pants (I didn't even know he could take them off by himself). He can fold a washcloth. Wipe a table with a spray bottle full of water and paper towel. He can hang up his coat, untie his shoes, and put on his socks. Get this- he can pour himself a glass of milk, provided there isn't much milk left in the gallon.

I know I baby him on certain things. I didn't teach him how to undress himself because I didn't want him undressing himself all day. I didn't let him use a regular cup because I didn't want a mess. I didn't let him use a knife because I didn't want to ruin our No-ER-Trips-Ever run that we've been having with him. I didn't let him pour because I didn't think he could. I didn't let him use the bathroom because I didn't want my bathroom smelling more like pee than it already does.

I started a job chart with him this week. He has to put away his shoes, do a worksheet (more on these later today or tomorrow), hang up his coat, brush his teeth, feed the cat, clean up his toys, and help cook in order to earn his stars. He is happy enough with the foil star stickers for now, but I'm sure he will want more when the novelty wears off. I'll probably go back to giving him pennies when that happens.

At the end of the day Jake asks to go to bed. He sometimes asks me to lay with him but sometimes he just tells me that he wants to go to sleep alone because he would like to think about his day and plan for tomorrow.

He is really into privacy lately too. "mommy, i need some privacy. please go away. i said please? go away?". Gladly. I can get some things done that are calling my name. Like breathing.

And he calls me "mom" more often too, which I'm happy about. There is lots less pressure when you are a mom than there is when you are a mommy. Mommies have to do everything. Moms get to sit back and watch the show unfold from time to time.

And it's a good one.

the last of the manifestos, I promise.

I love anonymous comments. They are the ones full of piss and vinegar and I love love love piss and vinegar. I always assume they either come from someone who I know that doesn't want to start an argument or that the author is embarrassed of what they have to say, and that is why they do not own it. Or maybe it is completely out of their character to say something like they did and they don't want their name at the top of something that doesn't usually define them.

I like to run at the mouth, by the way, and I feel that because this is my site I can pretty much say what I want. I'm technically a political retard, but I'm educated and socially motivated. If I don't know something, I look it up. If I believe in something, I try to find an avenue that will allow me to expand upon that belief and act upon it. I do not see Obama as my own personal Jesus, and my faith in his administration lies within the people of this country, not within him as a man nor as a president. I am not totally thrilled with the man, I'm totally thrilled with our country. The fact that our nation is finally coming together and welcoming change is more than I expected out of this election. I am humbled at the activism that is sprouting out of all this. There is a quote by Gandhi that I strive to live by:

"You must be the change you wish to see in the world."

We might all have the opportunity to do this now. We didn't before. No one was listening. And you know, we may not have this opportunity now, either because a lot has to happen before we all start getting our way or political promises won't be kept, but there is a chance that we do. A chance. Do you know how huge that is?

I am totally open to both anonymous comments and comments with links to names and sites and whatever else you want to throw at me. I figure for all the crap I throw at you here, it would be a welcome change to have some flung back.

In either case, I knew that someone might take offense at my implication that Republicans vote that way because someone else suggested that they do so.

There is an overwhelming stereotype among non-Republicans in this country that Republicans tend to be "sheeple", people who are born followers. This is widely and presently based on the large number of right-wingers and Evangelicals who are touting themselves as Republican because of the conservative ideas practiced within Republican policy development. Obviously not all Republicans are followers, as we have plenty of Republican leaders and free-thinking party hoppers.
Republicans are the ones who are leading our family-based initiatives, our faith-based initiatives, they are our "group thinkers" rather than our "individual dreamers". Thankfully, they are here to do that for us. A country run by a bunch of individualist radicals and idealists would get us nowhere. We thrive on checks and balances. Republicans have historically spread the concept of "togetherness". They play together, they pray together, they stick together, they vote together to preserve this. They insulate one another from the liberal movements that threaten their core values. Good job, I say. I surround myself with people who think like me and work to insulate me from things that threaten me. Two points for the Republicans and their warm warm squishy family values and their traditionally strong faith in God and their willingness to band together and fight their fight.

There is also an overwhelming amount of wealthy Republicans. Republicans like to work hard and keep what they earn. I like to keep what I earn. I work hard to have nice things. I studied hard so I could have a job that affords me a better life than most. I pride myself on having a nice, comfortable house filled with things that are lovely to look at. I don't want anyone taking that away from me. But, I want to be able to use my neighborhood, my city, my local resources. I want a home, not a bunker. Republican administrations have taken away social services and community resources all over America. The sick are getting sicker, the crazies are running amok, the addicts grow more desperate every day in their struggles to stay clean. I've written about this here. And here. At great lengths, so I'll spare you another go around.

There is nothing more important to me than my child. I know every one of you who have children will say that. The reason that I am so liberal and so militant about working for change and rallying others to fight for what they believe in is because I have seen first hand what can happen when a child, a family, an individual, does not have community support. I have been inside houses and neighborhoods that most cannot imagine. I do not want poverty encroaching on my house. Ick, right? I do not want houses like that to exist in any town, because inside those houses lie children who will be peers to my son. I don't want my son exposed to that. I do not want to be forced to pay for snooty private schools to protect him from the neighborhood children. I do not want to explain to him why he can't go over to a classmate's house, or why his classmate wants to be at our house all the time. I don't want to flee to the suburbs, where I can assure that Jake has a very vanilla picket-fence upbringing because I want to instill compassion and reality on him, and if he doesn't see it, he may not know the struggle that others have. I want him to know that his father went to bed hungry sometimes, and I want him to see the house where it happened and the people who it is still happening to. I want him to know that he has a responsibility to share what he has with those who have very little, and especially those who have nothing. I don't want him doing it simply by dropping an envelope in a collection plate. I don't want him doing it out of pity. I don't want him to hear stories about the poor and the sick and the addicted. I want him to do it because it is the right thing to do and he sees and understands why. I want him to have a safe place to fall asleep at night and an appreciation of it.

If you nose into my life and look at our 1040s for 2008, you'll see that we are actually quite well off. We are comfortable, we are happy, we seem to be insulated from this recession because of our career choices. Neither Dave nor I grew up the way we are living now. If we lost it all tomorrow, we have the skills to survive. We know how to make do, we know how to eek by, to ration, to share, to accept help. We are not defined by our income. We are not defined by our lifestyle. I strive to be defined by the work I do in the world and under the past administration I was not able to do much at all. I could stand on the rooftops and holler my ideas, but they fell on deaf ears. Deaf, unfunded ears. All of our money was being used to fight a war. To keep us safe from terrorism, but at what cost? Jake will have friends who have lost their mommies and daddies to a war that has gone on too long. I have friends who have lost their wives and husbands and don't understand why it was allowed to go on. Our nation has been chipping away at itself and becoming a place I do not want to raise my child. I fight to change that. Even if it is a simple letter to a councilperson, or a hand in policy development or social service implementation. I believe in karma, and some day I might need to get back what I'm giving out. I believe in the Golden Rule. I believe in taking a hands on, front line approach in doing unto others. Unfortunately you kinda have to be an obnoxious loud mouth to get anything done around here.

My anonymous commenter admitted being afraid of Obama. I'm not sure why. Is it because he gives hope to the little people? Because his name is, well, unfortunate? Because his daddy was a blackasnight African? Because he has the power to rally us? To bring us together rather than divide us? His platform is not so radical that we should be afraid of much other than a little bit of restructuring and re-prioritizing.

I'm afraid of McCain, and I'll tell you why. It's because I used to like him, early in the race I listened to him and crossed my fingers for him because I liked the work he did and I respected him and I thought he would be a good man to follow W, to get us out of the place we have been forced into over the past eight years without turning our political holds around too drastically. He almost surely had my vote. But his ideals began to change, he began to be persuaded by his party to be a bit more conservative and I believe we need to get away from that mentality. We need to get away from fickle politicians. Politicians who change during a race. Who knows how he would have changed in office.
Palin shocks me. The choice of Palin repulses me. She is under-educated and was willing to compromise her role as a mother to accept a position she is clearly not ready to handle. I have a hard time juggling a very flexible 40 hour a week job and one healthy child. How will she be on the clock, on her toes every minute of the day and provide the mothering that her children need? I'm sorry if what I say sets back women fifty years, but I believe that our children come first. Before our country, before our husbands, before our faith, before our career, before ourselves. I cannot support a woman who comes virtually out of nowhere to step up to the task of VP, leaving a trail of children behind her. That is my reason for being afraid of those two.

I've said enough, I'm making myself tired. I urge you all to fight what you believe in. I am constantly motivated by my political opposites. If I am angry about what is going on, I fight against it. If you are angry about what is going on, fight against it. There are plenty of people like you, there are plenty of people like me. Band together and get things done. No whining.

I now return to regularly scheduled mommy blogging. Thank you for being an open forum of listeners and supporters and haters. Now get off this crappy site and write a letter or something!

'tis a gift

I'm quite sure that not everyone is as tingley and happy and full of hope and peace as I am after watching that inauguration. I cried because I saw millions of people braving the cold to be part of something enormous. I laughed at the flubbing of the vows because I know that just as we all probably did on our wedding day, Obama feared doing exactly what he did and he did it with a smile. We all fear stuttering during vowtaking, it's serious stuff. I swooned during Aretha's performance, I talked about Sponge Bob during the ceremony because I am, above all else, a mother and 65% of the time my mind is operating on the level of a 5 year old.

I know that some of you wanted the other guy up there, and I respect that. Your church told you that JWVR (Jesus Would Vote Republican), or maybe your daddy or your drill sergeant or your husband told you that you should vote McCain, maybe you secretly (or not-so-) feel that white is right, or maybe you actually took the time to review every line of your finances and run it through both tax plans and you just didn't see how you would come out of the next four years and be in the same comfortable position you are now. Maybe you really are rich enough to be slammed with the Democratic plan, and you might lose some stock, or a few assets, or that cushion that allows you to stay home with your kids or lets you take those swanky vacays once or twice a year. Because that is what this election was about right?

Right?

Oh, okay.

I feel your fear. It's scary. Change is scary. If you are scared, embrace it. Remember this feeling. Really feel it and remember it and let it sink in. Be scared. You have a better chance of fighting for your beliefs if you are scared and the time has come to speak up and fight and stop being scared and figure out how we can all come out on top. The dread that you might lose the big house or the boat or the country club membership. It sucks, doesn't it? It effing sucks to know that because of your government and the choice that the majority of your countrymen made you might not be sitting as pretty as you are right now in four years from today. But as you mourn your potential losses, know that so many people in this country are living just like that every day of their lives, every day of their entire lives they are afraid.

They aren't worried about losing luxuries, they are afraid of losing life. They stay awake at night to watch their child sleep because they can't afford medications and health care to cure a treatable disorder and there might not be a tomorrow for that baby. They work three jobs to keep a roof over their family. They are afraid they will lose heat, lose the car, lose the food stamps, lose the health benefits, lose the people who help them keep it all together, lose the house, and after they lose all that they will lose their children because after everything else is taken from them they will be deemed as unfit parents.

Do you think this doesn't happen? There is a running joke in social services that "the City/State/Township/County doesn't want your babies". No, we don't, but we don't want them living on the streets either so we will take them and place them with someone else. Someone who won't love them the way their mother does. These fears are very real. In every city/state/township/county in America.

I will go to sleep tonight knowing that there is a bit of hope in every one of those timid hearts today. I will rest easier because there is a chance that change will come, and my son may not have to watch his neighborhood crumble, his city shut down, his state grow poorer, and his country become even more divided. Change is coming. This change will not come in four years, nor in eight, but by the time Jake starts a family of his own there is a chance he may not have to worry about the things that I am working to protect him from.

That, beginning today, our country is working to protect him from.

I've gotten a lot of really supportive comments on that last post, and on others like it. I've gotten a handful of emails from you guys sharing what were your less-than-stellar mommy moments and I've shared some things with the senders of those emails that I don't feel comfortable sharing here. Because, believe it or not, this blog is edited. I spoke with a few of you, who told me that I must be so confident and secure to be able to put stuff like that out in the world.

The answer to that last sentence is "absolutely not". I'm not confident about much of anything, really. I check and double check and read and reread everything to make sure that I'm on top of things and doing the best I can be, but I'm still not overly confident. And secure? Ha! I'm terrible. I know that is a shock to most of you. If my colleagues read this they would be appalled because they think I have it totally together about everything in life. My family probably used to, but I know they check in from time to time and now they know my secret. My friends know I'm a well put together mess. The proverbial shoes are polished, but there is a tiny hole in the bottom.

But, I am confident and secure that there is a ginormous lack of honesty and openness about the way that moms, and women, really feel, and what they really do, and what really goes on once the cameras are off and blogger is closed and the curtains are drawn.

Many mommyblogs make motherhood seem amazing and beautiful and simple and wonderful all the time. They are day-to-day accounts of the good things, the worst that is listed is a potty accident or a temper tantrum or a bit of teething drool. The photos are fantastic, the daytrips are fun and educational and the kids seem shiny and happy and good. Shinyhappygood babies make shinyhappygood mommies. Everyone is so shiny and happy and good. It's so effing adorable that we can all hardly stand it and I can't get enough of reading them because they are a great reminder of what we should be appreciating between the recession and the bickering and the cramps and the shut off notices and the laundry and the gas bills and the transmission fluid dripping under the car and the evening news.

Many mommyblogs make many mommies feel like total shit. I know this because I talk to a lot mommies about stuff that they don't have a chance to talk about with anyone else so they turn to blogs and find a lot of the same rainbows they find in real life interactions- when they find time for real life interactions. I can read your blog when I'm up at 3am but I can't call anyone. It is easier to build a virtual network than it is a real one. I get emails and phone calls from the mommies who have the picket fence blogs and read the picket fence blogs, thanking me for making them feel normal about things and telling me that they wish that they could be honest and open about every part of their day, but they don't want to worry their own mothers, or their husbands, or their friends, or their readers. They don't want to look like bad mommies. They don't want to look like bad people.

To that I say "bah". We need to stop hiding behind the manicured lawns and good silverware and soccer/ballet/karate schedules. We need to start banding together and come up with a few solutions to our problems. We have to stop making each other feel like motherhood is a competition. She with the best car and glitteriest ring and cutest kids and tiniest waist wins. We are all winning, even in the worst situations. If there is at least one moment in your day when you can sit, and breathe, and love you are winning. Even if the walls are crumbling around you, you are winning.

It breaks my heart to watch a friend sob because she can't tell her mother or her husband how she feels. It breaks my heart when I sob because I feel all alone. We all feel like we all do. We are all tired, we are stressed, we want a break, we want to scream, we want to spend every second with our families but we want to spend every second by ourselves. We want more fine china and less plastic in our dishracks. We want to look like we have never had children, we want to be seen as experienced parents. We want a few more dollars for ourselves but we want our children to have nice things. We want to stay at home with the babies while building a name for ourselves in the field we studied for four, six, or eight years to excel in. We want a damn drink and a bra that doesn't open like a mailbox but we want to nurse. We want to formula feed but we don't want to be judged. We want to meet new people, eat new foods, go new places, try new things, and bring all of our old friends along. We love our children so much that it breaks our hearts. Every single one of us. It's hard to juggle life and love and selfishness and selflessness and why aren't we talking about it when we aren't behind closed doors? Why is it a secret? Why are we prefacing everything we are whispering about with "boy, they sure don't tell you this in the books but...".

I work with the worst of the worst parents. Parents that curse and hit and kick and steal and hate and do things to their children that you've never even imagined. Those people. Those people still love their children. There are still moments when they break down and they cry into their children's necks because it is all so damn hard and the only thing real is the love they feel for their babies and they know they are doing wrong. They are the bad parents and they want to get better but don't know how. They don't know what normal is, what acceptable is, what people like us do. But they still have those moments that they are sitting, and breathing, and loving, and wanting to be good and they can. With help. And they do. With support. Whether they ask for it or they are forced into it they get it. And when they do, they talk to one another. They sit in a room and they pour out their hearts and let other people- other parents help them make sense of it all and they turn to someone who knows what they are talking about to make sure they are getting the right answers. Their children are in the next room over, getting the help they need from therapists and teachers and other children. If they can do it why can't we? They have social services set up for them because they can't do it alone. We, people like you and me, have so much knowledge and so many resources that we should be able to do it without any effort, but we don't because we are embarrassed and proud and ashamed. Of what? Of admitting that we are just like everyone else but not better than everyone else?

I started this blog when I was about four or five months pregnant to keep people I knew in the loop about what was going on. By the time I was in my third trimester, I had lost several readers because there was "just TMI" or "things I should only be bringing up with the doctor" or "things ladies just don't talk about". But for every one I knew that stopped reading, I had two readers who were perfect strangers, who were thanking me for making them feel like they weren't the only one crying their eyes out if they forgot their daily PBJ (sorry for the underwear pic in that link) or that they were the only person in the whole world who's baby was lactating better than she was (I'm not done transferring posts from my old url to this one, but Jake had lots of breastmilk when he was a newborn that would leak out. It was creepy).

If you know me in real life (I think there are four of you that do) you know that I love to talk about things that are off color and taboo and weird and make jokes about them and you also know that I will suck you right in to the madness and pretty soon the convo will turn from me asking an awkward question (like: do you hold your breath when you poop? or: how far do you let your finger go up your nose? and sometimes easy ones like: do you drink the crumbs out of the bottom of a chip bag and lick the cardboard in a twinkie pack? my answers are yes, past the first knuckle in my left nosehole and right before it in my right, yes if I'm in the privacy of my own home, and i scrape it off with my finger and eat it before i eat the cakes) and turn into you going on and on about something totally unrelated and way more outlandish. I'm good for getting you to talk about what you don't really feel comfortable talking about. That's why they pay me the big (read: $4/hr) tax dollar bucks to do what I do. I can get anyone to talk about just about anything. And that's what I aim to do here. Get you talking (typing) and get you thinking and get you knowing that you are a normal person. I hope it is working for at least a few of you. I hope the rest of you are enjoying the trainwreck.

Okay, only puppies and strawberries for a little while after this. My blog is really starting to get me down and I'm actually in a very good place these days. Surprising, seeing that it is 9 effing below all the time and I'm stuck in the house. But I just had to let you know that we have to stop pissing on each other and start pissing with each other.

Or something.

I've been struggling with something I did awhile ago, and I've kinda decided that it really isn't all that bad, and hopefully it will seem even less so once I get it down and out here.

A few weeks ago I had one of those crappy days at work where too many people wanted too much from me and there weren't enough hours in the day to get everything done that was due so I fell behind and was blamed for the fact that I only skip lunch four days a week instead of five (or something like that) and when I picked Jake up he was acting like a maniac with the other kids and while we walked home he was being needy and weird and whiny and even though I know that means he is going through something and probably could really use some quality time I just didn't have any to give him because some dumb thing was happening at the house or with the bills or in my head and the cat wouldn't leave me alone and I felt bad for pushing her away because she is old and every time she is nice to me I think she is trying to say goodbye and my head hurt and and and I could just make up a million annoying things but I'm really just making up excuses.

Before I had Jake I could hide in my room with a book or a movie or a healthy dose of Nyquil until daybreak on days like that. Now I hide in the laundry room and fold stuff and try to think about getting the seams even instead of whatever is bothering me or I stand at the sink and do the dishes because at least I'm doing something constructive and no one (read: Dave and Jake, not that they would, but still) can say that I'm wasting time or being reclusive because Can't! You! See! I'm! Working! Here! Dammit!

Anyway. I don't feel bad about doing the dishes or being cranky or hiding out with the socks. What I felt bad about is I had Jake tugging at my pajama strings all evening and I had had it up to the ears with the sass and whining and the demanding and I turned around from the sink and kinda lunged at him and screamed either "JACOB, WHAT?" or maybe it was "WHAT, JACOB?" and I don't know why I would have yelled because I'm not a voice raiser at all and I certainly don't want him to think that yelling is okay because he sees me doing it but it was the lunging that really made me upset. I've never slapped or spanked him, but I feel like somewhere in the visceral reaches of my being I wanted him to shut up and be scared of me so he would leave me the hell alone.

He didn't even jump, which I'm really glad about. If he would have jumped I would have freaked because I would have felt like he thought as though he was going to get hit and I would have wondered who in the world would have hit my kid to make him jump when someone comes at him like that. He took one step back and laughed and said "Mommy, are you okay? You almost fell!".

And then I cried.

And then he asked why I was so sad and I didn't have a good answer so he gave me a hug because "hugs make sad better and don't cry Mommy, you didn't fall down you just slipped a little and got scared".

I really do pride myself on being a calm, quiet, consistant parent who can outwardly deal with just about anything a tiny person throws at me even if I'm seething on the inside but something that day really sent me over the edge. I didn't raise my hands at all but I raised my voice. There is nothing I hate more than a loud mouth. There were loud mouths in my house while I was growing up and it made me resent and disrespect the people they were connected too. I don't want to be that person. I certainly don't want to be that parent. I jumped at a child. My child. It sounds so silly and meaningless and he wasn't scarred or scared or anything but I. Jumped. At. My. Child.

Is that how it starts?

Of course not. I know that about people, about myself. But I can't stop thinking about it. I know that it is totally natural and normal to snap. But it isn't natural nor normal for me and that scares me. And scars me.

One of the biggest things I had to go through as a new mom is dealing with certain things that happened to me while growing up. After I had Jake it all came rushing back so fast I couldn't stay on my feet.

I wondered why if I was truly loved the way I love my son how could they treat me that way? How could they let someone else treat me that way?

Or does it switch at some point? Is there some point where you stop feeling so overwhelmingly in love with and responsible for your child that it makes a little bit of XXXXX towards that kid and a little bit of YYYYYY just a few times a month and just a touch of ZZZZZ every once in awhile okay?

Times like these make the irrational part of me think that yes, there is a point where you can start to yell, to lunge, to slap, to insult, to, to, to. Times like this make me think that maybe there is a small part of me that doesn't love him the way I thought I did, unconditionally and unwaveringly and even when he is being a total douche.

I'm trying to carry that awful sick feeling around with me for a little while because it helps me be more patient and kind and quiet. I'm trying to drop it because it is an awful sick feeling and it's getting me down.

This stuff is hard.

weird science

After I had my son, everyone told me what to do. My friends, my family, my co-workers, my neighbors, the store keepers on the corner, the old lady at the grocery, everyone. Well, everyone except my mother, who knows what a horrid stubborn witch I am and is a little bit afraid of what I might do when I’m sleep-deprived and hopped up on estrogen. People told me what to do because their mothers told them what to do and their grandmothers told their mothers what to do and since no one had any serious problems they all took it as the absolute ultimate in right ways to do things.

You’ve heard it all too, I’m sure. Formula is better because it is scientifically measured. Put cereal in the bottle. It’s okay to put your baby on his belly. Start a schedule right away. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Hold the baby all the time so you don‘t have to hear him cry. Don’t ever hold the baby because you’ll spoil him. It continued through his infancy and right into his toddlerhood. Mostly about food and sleep and carseats and medication. The basic message is, “doctors don’t know everything and it is better to do what is easier, more convenient, and more fun”.

I’ll be the first to agree that doctors don’t know everything. I have several Dr. Friends, and they are as goofy and real and silly and just as unsure about some things as the rest of us. They don’t know everything, but they get paid to know and have a desire to practice and are willing to share everything that is current and proven and best for us and that’s as good as any reason for me to listen to them rather than listen to someone who is following advice that was passed down from 1910. My grandfather was one of my favorite people in the whole world. He turned out just fine, but he suggested that when Jake didn’t take to nursing right away that I hire a nanny to chew soft, vitamin-rich foods and slip them inside his cheek or under his tongue because that’s what his mom did after he was born without a sucking reflex. Yeah, no. My grandfather also was born on his kitchen table while the other kids were playing out back waiting until the table was wiped down so they could have lunch and he weighed more than the butcher’s scale could measure. He pegged past 12 pounds. And that was a few days after he was born and not suckling and someone found the time to take him to the butcher. Sorry Poppa, but we don’t do any of that anymore. If I were my great-grandmother, I would have agreed to giving him to a pack of wolves to feed. I can’t imagine she was the same for quite some time after his birth. Oh, and he claims that a few of his six siblings were bigger. Whatever. Thanks be to modern medical science for that glucose test and episiotomies and, well, modern medical science in general, right ladies?

Of course that is the most outlandish advice I heard, but I’ve heard a lot of weird stuff. I usually just nod and say thank you. If I was asked to explain why I was nursing, or not putting cereal in the bottle, or waiting on solids, or feeding on demand, or putting him on his back, I would explain and try to turn a deaf ear to the arguments. In all honesty, I did what I did because my very trustworthy doctor told me to, but even more so because in my line of work, I’ve encountered babies who have choked to death on a bottle full of cereal. Babies sometimes inhale their milk, and can easily cough it up. But if it is heavy with flakes of cereal, the baby won’t be able to expel it from her lungs and she can literally drown. When you’ve held a mother who has just buried her baby because she heard that a little cereal in the bottle will put the baby to sleep and all that she wanted was a few damn hours of peace you promise yourself you’ll never put cereal in your baby’s bottle no matter how tired you are. When you hold a second mother a few years later, you swear you’ll tell everyone else not to put cereal in their baby’s bottle. When you know people who have lost their babies because the babies were sleeping in the wrong place or the wrong position you will do anything in your power to be sure that you follow everything that is suggested by medical professionals so you don’t join the ranks. I know I’m a bit over-exposed to developmental delays caused by poor pre-natal care and disorders and diseases that could have been prevented by proper newborn feeding and sleeping and stimulation practices. I know too many kids who could have overcome nature with a little bit of nurture. I’m over-protective of my child’s development, but it helps me sleep at night knowing that I do all I can using all available up-to-date information that is out there. And call me biased, but I think my kid is doing pretty well.

I have a point here, I promise. I started typing that last paragraph and just kept at it without really meaning to, but I’m going to leave that in there. Where was I? Blah blah blah, medical science, yadda yadda yadda bad mothering advice… Oh yeah! People who completely discount medical advice for their own convenience. So, the same exact people who told me I was gross for nursing or dumb for watching him while he slept and I was depriving my baby of chewing on a rib at his first 4^th of July BBQ (he was three months old- I didn’t let him have a pacifier because it was interfering with feeding, why do you think I’m going to let him have a carcass in his gob?). Those same people who are so down on my for restricting sweets to parties and special treats and that I stick to a bedtime even if it cuts into my own personal schedule are now so into modern science. You’ve heard it, right? Sugar doesn’t cause hyperactivity anymore. Sugar! Doesn’t! Cause! Hyperactivity! How do we know that? Science! Science! I love science! So how can I not love this! Now Jake can have all the cookies and ice cream and Tastykake he can jam in his face because he won’t! be! hyper!

First of all, no. Even if a couple limey bastards found a way to skew data to show that it is environmental factors and not the breakdown of sugars in tiny bodies that makes them run around like savage little madmen I’m still anti-cavity and anti-obesity and anti-indulgence. Because let’s face it. Jake is not a master tooth-brusher and I can only get in there so well without losing a fingertip. Obesity runs in my husband’s family in a really bad way. And I don’t want my kid to be the kid who knows that sweets taste better than peas and only eats cookies as a result and I freak because he's boycotting all other food so I give in and let him have cookies because at least it's something and I don't want the kid to starve. And also because if he starts eating all the cookies then there won’t be any for me to sneak at midnight when no one else is awake and I don’t have to share.

delurk

If you are a regular reader who comments all the time, this doesn't let you off the hook. Please be sure that if your blogs aren't listed on your profile that you list them in the comment. I feel a huge need to read all about the people who read all about me.

Also, how about taking some time today to include your email address in your profile? You can set up a dummy account and have it filter into your regular email if you feel more comfortable doing that. That's what I do. So many of you leave comments but I can't respond and it kills me!!

routine post-holiday weight complaint.

First of all, let me just say that there is no way in hizzie that doctor's office scales are right. Right?
I mean, I'm fully dressed. It's 11.39 in the morning. I'm not at the low point of my ladycalendar. I ate breakfast. Twice. I was fully hydrated just in case I needed to pee in a cup or give blood. I'm wearing boots. My socks go all the way up past my knee. I have on two shirts. These pants are thicker than most. And they are a little bit long.

I couldn't possibly have gained ten pounds since July, right? Right?

Gaw. This is just the kick in the (enormous) ass I needed. I'm tempted to take a few hours from work and go play with my new Wii Fit that came in the mail yesterday. Or go to the gym that I'm paying a dollar a day to not go to. Or go eat one last big meal.

I used to only eat foods I liked and only eat when I was hungry. I only liked fruits and veggies and nuts and cheese. Then I started eating junk food. I didn't know junk food was so good. We really weren't allowed it when we were kids, so I didn't know what a slippery slope a 3pm snack could take me down. Then I started eating meat again. Then I started having little snacks with Jake under the guise of "quality time with the boy". Then I started attending Christmas parties and ladies luncheons and meetings at the coffee shops rather than in the office so we can talk about what is really going on in the city instead of what we are supposed to say is going on in the city. Then I started making bigger dinners so we would have leftovers. It's a never ending cycle that has to end today.

I'm not obese. No one would look at me and think I was fat. My doctor didn't even mention the gain. But, I'm tired of feeling squishy. I'm tired of my pants leaving marks on my skin. I'm really tired of people who haven't seen me in a couple months asking me if I'm pregnant. Oh, and I think I'm shrinking because I'm somehow all of a sudden shorter than the rest of my 5'7" friends. Maybe they're wearing heels.

Remember when I needed to gain ten pounds awhile ago? Well, I really ran with that one. I'm almost 20 pounds up from my ridiculously low post-delivery weight. There has to be a happy medium somewhere. Don't make me have another baby just so I can be drastically underweight again. Because if I do, I'm leaving that brat on your doorstep and running away.

Public shaming: weighing in at 135 pounds. measuring up at 36-29-39 (rounded UP to the nearest pound/inch so I feel better when I measure myself next)

It seems the whole world has something to say about John Travolta's loss. It's funny how hard we can be hit by someone else's tragedy. Someone who doesn't even know we are alive. It's really funny how we can walk right past the sick and the homeless and the less-than-sane that surround our homes and offices and shopping centers and feel angry, but when we hear about a dead kid who we haven't thought about since we made fun of his name 16 years ago we cry.

Anyway, of course I teared up when Dave told me that Jett died in the shower. I'm a mom. And human.
I freaked the eff out because I already have a HUGE problem with Jake taking a bath. I hate when he is in there, surrounded by slippery soap and ceramic tiles and an iron tub and sharp spigots and water all while he is full toddler excitement. Needless to say, my boy doesn't get many baths on my watch. Luckily he gets rented out to his aunt and his grandmother on regular basis, who don't seem to share my belief that a tub is a very dangerous place to be. He gets baths all the time when he is with them. Me, I just wipe him down really well or wait until Dave dunks him. Plus it's winter, and his skin is dry, and there is only so much colloidal oat products a little body can take. Good thing there is a pool at the daycare, that rinses the summer grime off him four days a week.

When I found out that Jett had a seizure disorder, I felt really bad for John and Kelly (they said I could call them that). I always wonder how people feel if their faith doesn't allow them to seek certain medical treatments and their children die of something that might have been controlled. I don't know whether Jett was on medication, I refuse to read into his death because it will just make me neurotic and I don't want to invade their privacy, but I know via Tom Cruise that Scientologists frown on some medical interventions. If I lost Jake, I would be awfully angry if you guys searched for the death report and medical records and talked about my beliefs if you only knew what Tom told Matt Lauer. So, I've been spending my days delving into whether or not LiLo broke up with SamRon. I would much rather think about skanky girlgirl action instead of dead teenagers.

Before I had Jake/grew up a little, I always had an attitude that when it is your time to go, it is your time to go. I still believe that, but now it's more like "when it is your time to go (to the doctor), it is your time to go (to the doctor)". Luckily we are a pretty healthy bunch, and it's never really our time to go anywhere. I'm still not a medicine person if I can help it. I don't call the doctor until the last minute. I completely subscribe to the Ounce of Prevention school of thought and it works for us relatively well. But I'll be damned if there is someone with the godgiven talent and knowhow to fix someone I love and I turn my back on them and leave my problems up to a higher (space) power (alien) to sort things out. Before, I felt like our time and place was bound to happen when and where it was supposed to. Now, I feel like there are certain people put on this earth by space (higher) aliens (powers) to help me and help you and we can all live better together in perfect harmony. And we could hold each other in our arms and keep us company while we all drink Coke and grow apple trees and honey bees and snow-white turtle doves.

So, I felt a little better knowing that Jett didn't slip and fall, which is my worst nightmare. Then I felt terrible for his family because I know there may have been something that could have been done to prevent it and I know I would be suicidal with guilt if that were the case for me, but now I'm okay with that because I believe that we are all free to chose our faiths and beliefs and even though I don't agree with Scientology, I'm down with them being down with it as long as it was chosen from their hearts and not because all the other cool Hollywood types were doing it. Then I got over my incessant desire to be on top of Jake every minute of the day by Sunday afternoon when Jake went with Dave and the boys to watch football because my rational brain convinced my irrational mind that the likelihood of him having a seizure was practically zero because no one in the history of my family or Dave's family has ever had a seizure that I know of, and if there was a serious risk of it I would probably have heard something about Old Aunt Pittypat taking the shakeydance from time to time.

And then I got a phone call from my mom on Monday telling me that my brother's daughter Payton had a seizure that morning. So, more on that to come, hopefully only good news.

I'll be over there in the corner if you need me.