first bell

Eleven.

Shufflin' shiz up on me already.

I knew it would be a big year.  The boy will turn five.  Go to school in the fall.  I'd maybe look for a new job because with the cuts on our grant one can never be too sure.  Another field, perhaps.  Get out of what it is I'm doing now and do something normal and boring.  Something absent of the gut and heart wrenching that follows me from nine to five these days.  I'll turn 35.  My cat might die.  The market may come back to life.  Anything is possible.

Big year.

There was a layoff in my unit yesterday.  Monday my workload increases by 50%.  I can handle it.  I'm efficient.  I know how to do my job and I know how to manage my time and my responsibilities and the people who will be involved with the change.  We all knew for six months that the layoff was coming, but six months seemed far off.  Far enough to build up a healthy dose of denial. 

That's what's happening in social services and public health these days.  Lots and lots of cuts.  Lots and lots of jobs lost, lots and lots of elderly and children and mentally/physically ill adults who will be shoved out into the wind. 

I go into 2011 knowing I have job security for another six months and knowing that I will somehow make a little bit of a difference somewhere in someone's life, and that's enough for me to keep on keepin' on for the first half of the year.

I'm going into 2011 with a healthy head of hair, praise all that is holy.  Sure I have tiny pokey little ones sticking up everywhere, but I'll take anything after losing half of what thegoodlord gave me.  It was rough there for awhile.  I'm giving regrowth credit to CVS brand Hair, Skin, and Nail vitamins and Lush brand hair moisturizer.  I got a couple creative haircuts since the fallout to even things up, and the loss is almost a repressed memory.  What does this have to do with anything?  Nothing, but my job is easier when I'm not embarassed about showing my bald gourd around town.

I'm going into 2011, with its increased 9 to 5age with the knowledge that somedays might be packed so tight I can't fit it all in to an 8 hour work day.  Which is fine.  We don't get overtime, but we get comptime, and one day's 12 hour grind is the next's 4.  But see, I've got this kid.  And a daycarelady that can't accomodate my new duties every day and sometimes on short notice.  A daycarelady that took in my son at 12 weeks.  A daycarelady who works out of her home.  A home that Jake spends more waking hours in than he spends in his own five days a week.  A home where he is loved.  A home where he is nurtured and cared for and disciplined and loved.  Did I mention loved? 

And Monday?  Monday I begin the intake process in a pre-school.  Nine months before I thought I'd have to do it, but I'm feeling okay about it.  Ish.  My brain is already demonizing his school mates.  Little bastards with bad habits and dirty mouths and a desire to rub it all off on the New Kid.  I've met the (Master's level!) teacher.  I've sat for hours with the director.  I've seen the pool.  Pool!  The gym.  Gym!  The classroom.  The napmats.  The smock hooks.  The boot boxes.  The cubbies.  The bathroom.  The supplies.  The materials.  The curriculum.  The projects on the walls.

I'm a sucker for projects on the walls.  I work in elementary schools quite often and I lurk around just to see what the students are making.  All by themselves with some government issue tempera and their own two hands.  It gives me a fuzzy feeling that things, at their core, will always be the same as they ever were and kids are still kids who work in mixed media that consists of tissue paper, popsicle sticks, and cotton balls.  That trees are always green and full of apples and roofs are eternally peaked and dogs continually keep watch right outside the front door.

Monday I begin the intake process in a preschool.  A preschool that will take in my son 12 weeks before his 5th birthday. A preschool that is nothing like a home. A preschool that Jake will spend more waking hours in than he spends in his home five days a week. A preschool where he might fall in love. With his teacher, with another student.  A pre-school where he will be nurtured and cared for and disciplined and maybe even loved.

I have never, in all my life, eaten the way I did this holiday season.  It just didn't stop.  The dinners, the lunches, the brunches, the parties, the mass amounts of homebaked goodies that people put on my desk at work and brought to my house out of the goodness of their heart.  People that know me preface the gift with something like, "I know you don't eat this sort of thing but I made it and would love if you tried it and if you don't eat it, you can put it in Jake's lunch".  So I tried it and I liked it and not much made it into Jake's lunch.

It's been awful.

It's been wonderful.

Now I see how people fall down that slippery slope.  Treats every day, drinking things that aren't water or coffee, rich and fatty foods at every meal.  It all sort of just snowballs on itself. 

Like an addiction.  One little bite won't hurt.  One cookie, two cookies, eight.
No one will know if I eat this at my desk. 
Or in the dark.

My body is seriously breaking down.

This is not a fat post. 
Because we all get a little rounder this time of year.
Big deal.

This is a post about how it's hard for me to climb a flight of stairs all of a sudden.
A post about how it's hard for me to get through an hour without sugar.
How I get angry.  Get the shakes.  Get desperate.  Get angrier.  Get a fix.  Get better.  Get worse.  Get angry.  Get the shakes.  Get desperate.  Get angrier.  Get a fix.  Get better.  Get worse.  Get angry.
It's a vicious and disgusting cycle.

If I don't stop now, I'm going to hit some sort of point of no return.  Point of difficult return.
Point of needing to go clothes shopping, and I don't want to do that, because then all of this is real, and heading downhill quick.

So, I'm cutting out the c-word.  C-words.
Lately all of my favorite things start with c

cookies
candies
custards
confections
cocoas
cheese
cakes
croutons
cordials
caramels
condiments
chips
creams
crackers
cupcakes
cobblers
crepes
chocolates
colas
coldcuts

I'm eating things I don't even like, just to feed the beast.

Things I haven't eaten in years, just because they are there.

And yesterday it stopped.
No it didn't.
I tried.
Today it stops.
I hope.
I'm trying.
Tomorrow will be better.
I think.
I'll try.

après Santa

2008

2009

2010

Jake won't wear sweater vests anymore. He thinks they are for babies.  "Very important babies wear vests, not kids". 
It's starting.  He doesn't want to wear what I want him to wear.  I can't dress him up anymore.
He's his own man.  He's changing.
But that's okay.  Lots of things are still the same.

It's over!

Almost.

We still have New Year's to get through.  But that is relatively painless.  Ish.  I'm not a fan of cold late nights and rampant rookie boozehounding but I think I'll survive.  Knock wood.
I just typoed "knock wookie".
Dave is in the parade again this year and Jake might tag along for a bit.  We'll see.  It's supposed to be near 50 degrees so if he's going to go, this would be the year to do it.

***

Jake and I went to see Santa last week.  The "real" Santa at the downtown Macy's.  Of course, Jake still isn't sold that there really is a Santa Claus, but he did well.  He gave him a hug and sat next to him for pictures.  I love the no-lap Santas.  So much less creepy than the lap variety.  Jake told him he wanted a race car game (which he didn't get) and some more train tracks (which he did) and then totally dimed me out that even though I was a pretty good mom, I didn't always have milk in the house but Jake would be sure that there would be a glass out on Christmas Eve, even if he had to go out and buy it himself.

Ah, Jake and his Christmas zingers.   Although nothing beats last year's "what the heck is this barn baby doing all over the place?".

Oh right.  Jesus.  The barn baby.
Oy.

***

Christmas morning had Jake convinced that Santa really did come, but Christmas afternoon had him doubting again.  I don't want to spend my time convincing him of something that isn't true, so I just ask him what he thinks about the whole thing and he answers that it just doesn't seem possible, magic isn't real, there are so many kids in the world, and even though there are time zones and stuff, blah blah blah, Jakespeak Jakespeak Jakespeak... and I tell him that the real magic is love and sharing, and spending time together, and being thankful for all that is good and stuff, blah blah blah, Loraspeak Loraspeak Loraspeak...

Christmas is hard.
On so many levels.

But good.
On so many more.

***

Christmas Proper was quiet and full of Chinese take out and movies and playing with new toys and staying in pajamas all day.  Just the way it should be.

***

I never did get to card writing this year.  Card buying, yes. 
Maybe I'll do New Year cards.  Or Valentines.  Or nothing.

Oh my gosh, speaking of Christmas cards, my dad.
Are you on his list?  Because if you are, you now a proud owner of a picture of my boobs.  Well, half of my boobs.  The top half. 
My dad, who is a Conservative Christian by the way, wanted a picture of Dave to include in the mailing because most of us went to get our pictures taken at the mall after we buried my grandmother and Dave wasn't there to be in the group shot. 
What?  Your family doesn't have their photos taken after putting a loved one in the ground?  You mean that's not normal?  (ps- the picture looks just like you'd think it would.  We all look like we just lost our best friend.  Well, rather our grandmother/mother.)
So my dad, who is a Conservative Christian by the way, wanted a picture of Dave to include in the mailing because most of us went to get our pictures taken at the mall after we buried my grandmother and Dave wasn't there to be in the group shot.
Now, Dave isn't really a picture guy.  Neither one of us is.  We don't have a lot of pictures of ourselves.  I made a crack about how my dad just wanted to prove to his churchfolk that his daughter did not have a bastard child, as it would appear in the Family Foto.  And we laughed and Dave said that he doesn't have a picture so I suggested to my dad he look on Facebook because I know my stepmom is on there and maybe she could pull one that she liked off of there.
And then I didn't hear anything about it until I got the letter and there it was- they were.  Swaddled in a red dress.  Pressed up against Dave like two Christmas melons. 
Mor
ti
fi
cation.
It took every ounce of maturity that I have not to call my dad and be all "dadohmygod!  what were you thinking now everyone can see my boobs and they're gonna think I dress like that all the time but I didn't pick that dress it was a bridesmaid dress and all your friends are gonna think I'm a total slut but I'm not really and how can I ever show my face anywhere ever again?"
But then I figure that we don't really run in the same circle anyway and since I do have spectacular ones what's the harm anyway?  It's not like there was nipple or anything.
I don't want to hear anything about this in my comments, btw.

***

My brother and his family was supposed to come down over the weekend, but life got in the way of that so we were alone most of the weekend. 

A visit from the inlaws on Christmas day and a party in the suburbs Christmas Eve with lots of friends was fun.  And fishless.  Nothing worse than a fishy Christmas Eve.  Ick.  I like to get out of South Philadelphia on Christmas Eve if at all possible.  Seven Fishes, my ass.
One of the guys dressed up like Santa, but Jake had him pegged within five minutes.  I guess a 6 foot tall Japanese guy with a thick accent might not be the best chance one has at convincing one's child that Santa dropped by a Jewish household.
Jake was good about it though.  He said that sometimes grown ups do stuff like that for fun, and I agreed.  Sometimes we do.

***

And it snowed here.  In not quite catastrophic amounts.  Just a foot or so.  Enough to cause some fights over parking spaces and shoveling techniques.  But the wind is what gets you.  Fifty mile an hour winds managed to work their way into our house so I sealed off the laundry room and the sun room.  With curtains.  And duct tape.  And thumbtacks.  And now nothing swings in the breeze in there anymore.  I didn't know what a problem those two rooms were until they weren't a problem anymore.  They're heated, but poorly insulated.  I'll bet it's 40 degrees in those rooms now that they are standing alone. 

Man I hate being snowed in.  Even just for 24 hours.
You know what I hate more than being snowed in?  Outside when there's snow.

Everybody plays, everybody loses.

***

I got an email from HR explaining the Group Term Life Insurance deduction on our next paycheck.  I guess most people have this deduction, I don't know.  But what I do know is that it shows on our stub as GTL and now that the Jersey Shore has infiltrated into my core I think it's wildly hilarious that GTL shows up as an expense.

***

So now Christmas is past and the New Year is upon us and by this time next year none of us will smoke and we will all be 10 to 50 pounds lighter and closer to being out of debt and we won't swear so much or drink so much or eat junk so much or make anymore bad _____ decisions. 

2011 is going to be the bizzy.  I can feel it.

on high

most days we play at the church
jake thinks it's a castle
no matter what we call it
angels are among us.

Last weekend, I had something taken from me.  Something of huge sentimental value and considerable financial worth.

I thought I wouldn't cry.

I thought I wouldn't be so angry.

I thought I wouldn't cry after the first time I cried about it.

I thought I wouldn't cry the second time in front of my son, who has seen me cry before but knows I'm not much of a crier so when I do cry he slips into the most amazing nurturing mode you've ever (well, I've ever) had the pleasure of knowing.  He curls up on my lap and brushes back my hair and kisses my nose and smooths my lashes and strokes my face until I'm all done. 

Jake deals with my tears much better than I deal with his.  I should take a lesson.

So there we were, wrapped up in one another in front of the Christmas tree and he takes hold of my cheeks and says to me, "go ahead and cry, Mommy.  And after you get it all out we will talk about the good things that you still have and we can figure out a way that you can go on with your life and be happy without this thing."

And I went ahead and cried and after I was done we talked about all the good things I have and we figured out a way I can go on with my life and be happy without a thing.

Because, after all, it's just a thing.  A symbol.  And no one can ever take away what that thing stands for.

Happy Christmastime to you all.  I hope that all the things that Santa brings you stand for something wonderful.  I hope all the things on your list that he isn't able to fit down the chimney this year are quickly forgotten and your heart is filled with love and sweetness and hope and warmth and your nose is kissed often and your tears are all joyful ones and your nights are all peaceful ones and your days are all merry and bright ones.

Dear Santas,

This year, please don't buy Jake any toys. He has more than enough already. He doesn't need clothes. He is outgrowing his 5T's but I have some XS and S's waiting in the bureau for him. He has two pairs of shoes that fit him now and his feet aren't growing so fast anymore.

Everyone is going broke, so I will advise you to put the money you would spend on Jake in your own savings account. Don't have one? Start one. If you feel the need to give, donate to your favorite charity. They are going broke too. They can use your dollars, and they can most likely use your time if you have some to spare.

If you want to do something specifically for Jake, spend some time with him. Take an afternoon and hang out on the couch watching movies and reading books and go ahead and play with his cars and eat pb&j's and apples on a blanket on the floor. Do a puzzle together. He will appreciate this so much more than he will appreciate a toy. He wants your time more than he wants anything else.

Be a superhero.

It can cost next to nothing, which is a whole hell of a bunch cheaper than what we usually do this time of year.

it's beginning to look a lot like shopping...

If you're buying presents for people this year, please do all the crunchy squishy annoying stuff like buying local and fairly and remember your wallet speaks louder than your words.

Long time readers know my spending credo, which sort of goes out the door this time of year.
Where could this money be better spent?  Saved?
Who is this money going to?  Who is the vendor?  Where will she spend her money?  Who does she hire?  Where is her shop?  What does she support?  What does her landlord support?  Who is the manufacturer?  Where do they get their ingredients or parts?  Who do they hire?  Where do they spend their money?  What are their emissions practices?  Shipping practices?  Packaging guidelines?  Which organizations do they support?  Where is my money going?  Is it worth it?  Is my spending breaking my moral code?  Does 2% of my purchase support something I hate? 

Need a few places to spend guilt free?
Here you go.  Of course all these people are my friends and I would never dream of taking payment for these endorsements, but please take the time to check out the following:


Etsy is always a great place to find handmade things.
The Froggy Bog gorgeously cute paintings to hang in your home and custom headers for your website.  Also, you can ask Jen to paint something amazing for you and she'll do it.
Revel Baby cloth diapering, fingerless gloves, bibs, hotsy coldsy bags, and other cute stuff for babies and moms and kids and ladies.  And gentlemen.  Sometimes.  Handmade and repurposed stuff sewn up with love by Pamela.
Live Simply custom made photo blocks for babies and home decor.  Michelle isn't taking Christmas orders anymore, but this stuff is great year round.  
Twining Vines has really cool metal jewelry and accessories, including a few that have proceeds going to PKD research.  I'm a sucker for copper jewelry, and Leigh's is amazing.
Peppermint Pink Revamped has amazing repurposed and vintage things that make me want to throw a garden party and Ditzy Redhead has little treasure boxes and ornaments and waycool religious stuff that isn't churchy or preachy in the least bit.  The Ditzy Redhead was responsible for my Sookie Stackhouse obsession, so who knows what she can hook you into!

Need your picture taken? Check out Nicole K Photography.   Plus I know she can do all sorts of cool stuff with pictures and teach you how to be almost as good a photographer as she is.

Like yoga? playing? art? peace? love? Do you live in the Philadelphia area? Check out PLAY in West Chester.  All sorts of classes and groups and activities and parties every day.  Plus Amy is super adorable.


Don't forget about eBay!  Check out the jewelry at Kindred Spirit.  Back in the olden days before people sold stuff on the internet, I spent hours and hours and dollars and dollars at Kindred Spirit, which is how I met Cindy, the owner.


Last but not least, take a look at the card game that Susannah has come up with.  It's not a normal deck of cards, but a way to learn about yourself and someone you love in a fun and different way.  Susannah also teaches and practices Reiki, is a life coach, and holds workshops for women and coaches.  


Do you have a store online?  If I didn't mention it, I'm sorry.  I did this post off the top of my head.  Please mention it in the comments and I'll amend the post to include your business!


I'll be back here soon.  I promise.  I think.  
I've been busy.  Happy, healthy, and busy.

World AIDS Day

As an open-minded responsible health-conscious public health sector worker bee, I feel that it is my duty to practice what I preach. Every year I get tested for HIV. I don't think that I have HIV, I don't worry about getting HIV, and I don't sweat the waiting period for my results to come back. While they are poking around in the crook of my arm I also get tested for a bevy of other diseases and conditions too.  TB, Hepatitis, etc. These things I worry about a bit more because they are communicable and I do a lot of communicabling during my workday, but I try not to panic to the point of losing sleep. I can't afford that these days with the boy running amok.

I do this because I am constantly telling others to do it. I do this so I get a little bit of the feeling of anxiety, fear, and even relief that other people feel when they get tested so I can better empathize with what they must be going through when they work up the nerve to get the test done. I do this because I have friends and family members living with the disease. I do this because I know people who are no longer living because of the disease. I've done this all alone at my family doctor, I've done it with friends at Planned Parenthood. I've done it with my husband in the room. I've done it with clients at the clinic. I do this because my job strongly advises it. I do this because my doctor strongly advises it. I do this so I know, and like the poster on the bus says, "knowing is beautiful". I do this because it's the kind of messed up world that we live in and it only makes sense to take care of yourself.

Routine HIV testing will likely be a reality for Jake when he is an adult. When I was his age there was no such thing as HIV. When I was eight years old I brought home a note from the school nurse telling our parents to warn us of the dangers of sharing food, silverware, glasses, kisses, and hygiene products with others because you just never knew. We've come a long way from there thanks to education and research. I guess.

A few years ago, a nurse at work spotted The Bandaid and asked me what kind of blood work I had done and if I was pregnant again, and when I told her ("Oh, I got a CBC, a full culture, and an HIV test. I do it every year.") she took a step back, said "Mmmm. I don't do all that" turned and said under her breath " I trust my man". Nice. You trust him to what? Be sure that you don't sit in body fluids or needles on the bus? Assure that you are only given healthy patients at work? That you don't make home visits as part of your job? Keep you in a bubble so you aren't coughed on, sneezed at, or touched by another human? Way to go. You've caught yourself a winner. Fortunately for me, I'm allowed out of the house. I do have a world to save after all.

A social worker overheard the conversation and wanted to know if I tell my partner (this is social work, we never say husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/whatever.  We say "partner" because it's PC and unlikely to offend.) that a full culture includes STD's. She doesn't tell her boyfriend that she gets tested every year, she just tells him it is a screening for nutrients in her blood if he asks about the needle mark in her arm. Good. Smart. Lie to him.  Do I tell my partner? Of course. It doesn't mean I'm accusing him of whoring around, or admitting that I'm a big old tramp. It means that I am assuring that I am healthy for myself, for him, and for the people we love and who love us back.  For Jake. And I want to see how my cholesterol is doing and whether my rheumatoid levels are up. It is all very responsible and adultish of me, no?

Well, Happy World AIDS Day.
Take care of yourself.
Take care of the world.
Take care of getting an AIDS test.