Limits

What started as an out-patient procedure in the hospital ended with a dog.

As Tom was lying in the room for a brief recovery, the Filipino nurse told us about her dog. Our interest in her story led her to tell us about the other Filipino nurse's dog. Her husband was having asthma symptoms even though this dog, a Shih Tzu is not supposed to aggrevate allergies. Short story is that she wanted to find the dog another home. Out goes one Filipino and five minutes later, in came the other. Number 2 told us about her dog, Thunder, and that he was wonderful - playful, but calm, he ate without issues, peed without issues, pooped without issues and he, like this breed, doean't shed. He loves to take a bath!

Thunder likes other dogs, likes people and likes kids.

Tom just loves dogs, and I love things that cuddle near me, don't make a mess and don't bother my kids. So all in all, we decided we'd like to give Thunder a try. We asked Fili number 2 to call us.

The next day, another nurse from the unit at the hospital issued the customary call to the patient to see how Tom was doing. I said, "Oh, he's fine. But there was this one nurse..." and proceeded to describe her Filipino-ness in a politically correct way and this other nurse, nurse number 3 was going to look into it. 

Later that day, Tom sealed the deal with the number 2's son. We brewed over names since we didn't like "Thunder" and decided upon Issey for Issey Miaki, the Japanese fashion designer. I love his men's cologne and it is one that I bought for Tom a while ago and I love when he wears it. Apparently, Steve Jobs asked Mr.Miaki to make him a black mock turtleneck that he liked and Miaki made him hundreds! Hence the signature style of the Apple icon! We were set on Issey for the name.

When Gabby got home from school, I took her with me and picked up the pup about 25 minutes away. We found Thunder in an apartment with his family of two parents and three young boys who loved him. Thunder was living with nurse number 2's son in law to preserve the husband's lungs. The family was lovely and we gathered up Thunder's things and headed to the car.

I asked the son how Thunder is in a car and the guy laughed and said he is "all over the place". Ok, fine. So I decided to put him in the hatch area of our SUV. I used to have a small dog, a terrier, who would sit in our front seat and lie down still the whole ride. It was the calmest that terrier ever was. With this Thunder bolt, I didn't get the same.

I opened the hatch and put him in the trunk area, and in the blink of an eye, he hopped over the row of seats and was in the back seat with Gabby. I grumbled and went around and got in the car. This dog jumped all over my car, in every seat- he took my son's bear for a chew toy, he dug into a bag of stuff I had to return at Walmart, he dug at my seats. I let him do all this because it was better to remain focused on driving than yelling at a dog and crashing. I tried to take the bear because I didn't know how diligent of a chewer this thing was and I didn't want him to ruin Marco's toy. That was a mistake - he followed the toy to me in the driver's seat, which fell by my feet. Last thing I needed was this dog to jump down there, then I'm sure to crash! I screamed at it then and dug up the bear. The damn thing nipped my wrist and scratched me, albeit mistakenly, but I felt like doing a U-turn off the highway and dropping its furry, butt-exposing ass off. I think he thought I was playing - we were not on the same page, Thunder and I.

All I can say is that he didn't pee or poop in the car because that would have really topped this off. He did settle down next to Gabby and sit on and off for a chunk of the ride.

The rest of our time together got better in terms of Thunder's performance, but my kids became the problem. Marco was deathly afraid of this dog. and the faster he ran away, the more Thunder pursued him. Thunder loves to play and he loves to run after kids apparently. We picked him up on Friday, and on Saturday, Marco spent half the day sitting on my kitchen counter to be away from the pup.

When Thunder settled in on Friday, he layed on the floor, ate well and did his business properly outside. That night, he slept on his little bed on the floor of our bedroom. I heard him licking himself a time or two, but he stayed put and was quiet.

In all this, our current dog, Adelaide tried to disappear from the situation and avoid Thunder's existence as much as possible. A very similar reaction to our last addition, the terrier. Adelaide could care less about our kids so I think all this affectionate attention from Thunder was scaring them. I think Adelaide is scared of the kids whereas Thunder was fond of them and they were scared of him! Either way, Adelaide was not in favor of this situation and she kept mum about it. But when Thunder would smell Adelaide's rear you could see her upper whiskered lip doing an Elvis impersonation in disgust of that intrusion.

The night was fine, I didn't sleep too well because I was paranoid about the dog and what it would do if anything. But come Saturday morning, my mind began to loosen. Thunder peed on the floor out of anxiousness of the new situation, probably. I cleaned it up. Tom cleaned up another couple anxiety attacks. But the major problem was Marco running and screaming every five minutes because the dog was looking at him. It's funny because Thunder was grey and white and his whole face was dark grey and you couldn't see his eyes or even see if he had eyes. (I felt a disconnect without some good eye contact from Thunder blunder.)

And weather this dog caused them anxiety, or it was just an exciting, distracting situation, my daughter who had been potty trained for over 2 years peed on her self. This was totally surprising and she had no explanation for it except that she had to go and it came out. Less unusual would be my son peeing himself. And of course, right before bed, Marco pees in his pants on his floor. If I could explain all this I would, but I have no words for all the pee I cleaned up that day except that I don't want to add another bladder to the mix that isn't quite flawlessly functioning.

Each annoyance that came along had me wondering if I should call and give the dog back. The day was a blur of sleepy annoyance, and my son, who is the sweetest thing I have ever met was making me annoyed and aggravated. When I wanted to strangle little Marco for being driven to irrational tearful shaking over a 12 pound fur ball, I knew he had to go. (The dog.) My breaking point was when the normal shenanigans of Marco and Gabriella were underway - her taking something of his and teasing him with it - followed by the dog running after them and everyone screaming all for multiple reasons. I snatched the offending something, yelled at my kids, sent them to their rooms and picked up the phone.

And that was the end of that Thunderstorm. Thunder was a lovely dog, however. He was pretty cute, kind and mild-mannered. I was folding laundry and he sat about 2 feet from me and just hung out. That was exactly what I wanted from a dog. Just a friend who gives no advise, no criticism and pass the time by my side in quiet acceptance. Issey Thunder, as we called him, fit the bill. But my decision to send him back was based on the allotment of patience and tolerance that I have in me. And all of it needs to be directed to my kids. No animal, cute, kind or mild will usurp any gentle kindness I have to give. It should all be for my kids. Sorry Thunder.

Also, I had finally gotten to a place of less tension with my kids a little older - I can keep fragile trinkets around, I can clean the house better and they can be occupied without my constant attention. There is enough to maintain as far as cleaning rooms and people that I started to feel tense again at the thought of one more thing to do. This dog needed to be bathed often and brushed more often. We are not high-maintenence kind of people and this dog required some pampering. Not a ton, but enough.

That same Saturday, after finishing their lunch, Marco and Gabby ran up to their rooms, and closed the doors with Thunder on their heels. They proceeded to busy themselves there to keep away from the new dog. Tom and I sat to finish the rest of our lunch on a Saturday in virtual quiet. He said, "I like that dog!" Nothing as of late could keep my kids in line so simply - they sat promptly at the table for breakfast with  no screwing around. (The perceived threat sat calmly beneath either one of their chairs). They stayed in their rooms to play... quietly. and the ironic thing was that this dog was in reality, no threat to them at all! It was a potential source of enjoyment. But fear of the unknown kept them in their chairs while eating and kept them in their rooms playing quietly.

Tom and I explained several times that if they walked slowly, Thunder wouldn't pay them any attention, but if they ran around, he got excited. That strategy hadn't sunk in, but of course, after the phone call was made, Marco confronts the "threat" on the stairs. He said, "Excuse me Thunder can you get out of my way. I am going to go past you. I am walking slooowwlly." And that he did and Thunder watched him and stood still. 

We could have flexed to fit this Thunder into our lives, but I felt like my limit had been hit and it wasn't worth it for me to ride the limit line for a dog. I ride the limit line several times a year, but it is for people - my kids. And that is worth it and it will be ridden as many times as I need to ride it because that is my job, my devotion, my responsibility. I could have loved Thunder, but if I did, it would be harder to take him off my plate, so I sent him home on day 2 to Nurse #2 because he could have been pretty easy to love, but also pretty easy to resent. This was my lesson in both knowing my limitations and exercising my assertiveness.

I was happy to hear that Thunder's family may not have had a easy night without Thunder  - they said the three boys cried and were upset all night without Thunder. So maybe it was not our time to take on a dog, and it was not their time to let one go.

The Fondness of Yellow

I saw my baby get on the school bus this week. I can describe it as a tame trauma for me. Almost like someone ripped her from my heart and threw her on a big vehicle without any seat belts. I spent more than 3 years in paranoia about buckling her properly in a 5-point harness, then felt scared and strange when I switched her to an over-40-pound seat that sits loosely in the car using only the car's shoulder/lap belt. Now my baby is bouncing around in a bus with no protection.

The seat belt is a metaphor for my ties with her and my level of need in her life. She needs me infinitely but it is not because of her fragile inability to survive as it was in her first year. Putting her on a bus is my first step in letting go and when I am proud of her, I am proud of myself.

In reality, the teachers and staff at her elementary school give them lots of support and reassurance and they are there every step the kids take. All the little kindergartners were scared and nervous and confused. Gabby had a lot of fun at school, which makes me think they aren't doing that much work at the moment, but I am happy for her!

When she gets off that bus, I am now the one who is twiddling my thumbs with anxious excitement to see my beloved. I am the one checking the clock to see when she will come rambling up the street. I look like she did when she was a baby and I returned to her after hours of being apart. I like the color yellow. It symbolizes her growth, her independence, my constant reshuffling of my emotions as a parent, and it symbolizes her return to me.

Barbie's lesson in work ethic

Throughout the summer, I took my kids to the library once a week. Each time, we would take out a couple books from the school's suggested summer reading list and by the middle of August at 3-5 books per week, we made it through the whole list and had a great time. If we liked some of the books, we kept them for a couple weeks and if we didn't (or I didn't) I would return them after a week.

In addition to the books, I let each kid take out one movie from the library. Gabby would 95% of the time pick a barbie princess movie which 80% of the time would be scratched and skip at some point during the course of the movie. It became an expected reality and when the TV would freeze with barbie in mid speech, I would hear a choir from the two of them saying,  "Mommy! it's skipping again!" and I would take that opportunity to remind them of the importance of taking care of your things and being careful with DVDs.

Gabby seemed to take this scratch/skip scenario as a natural phenomenon and week after week she still would pick another barbie movie even if I warned her it may skip. One time, Tom cleaned one off with disc cleaners and tried everything and it still skipped. One disc was even literally cracked!

So as Gabby started school this year, I told her she was being such a brave big girl to go to her new school. She was admittedly nervous about getting on the bus and I had a fear that I would be one of those mothers pushing a crying kid onto the bus, so I told her if she got on the bus, then I would buy her a barbie movie. (I actually already bought the movie, intending to instantly gratify her if she rode the bus. It was a pure bribe)
The first day when she got off the bus, she reminded me of my movie offer and I cracked it open and loaded it up. She looked at it and said, "I can kiss it right? because it has no germs?" I told her she could kiss it and it was ours and hadn't been touched by every other 2-7 year old child in our town. She also looked at it like it was a shiny diamond ring and said, "Oohh, its not scratched!" and I took that as my teaching opportunity and said that when we work hard we can afford to buy a movie and keep it all to ourselves and take care of it so it will never get scratched.

But that is one of those lessons that can only be absorbed after months of borrowing scratched, cracked and germy barbie princess movies from the town library. After that, the clean, non-grubby, unmarked disc of a brand new movie can teach you the value of good work ethic. I guess barbie is a bit deeper than I thought!

My Pretty Purple Flower

Recently, we did an American Cancer Society walk and they gave survivors a big goody bag with gifts from local businesses. In addition to the big gift bag, we were given a flower. There were a couple options of flowers to choose from - they put about two plants (two sections form a big flat) into a clear plastic bowl and covered it with purple cellophane. I chose a small purple flower because of the purple theme of the event and I put it outside when we got home. I was forgetting about it and left it in that disposable bowl for too long and it was looking like mold was growing on the sides and the flower wasn't so happy. I wanted to do something with it, but I wanted to know what it was before deciding what to do. When I picked it up at the walk, it came with no description card, but after searching through some 'small purple flower' categories online, I have concluded it is something called ageratum or floss flower.

It is an annual who blooms from spring all th way to fall. It doesn't care if you water it, if its in the blazing sunshine or just a bit, it doesn't need to be pruned, and it doesn't care if its in a pot or in the ground. It is the happiest, most resilient little pretty plant I have made friends with. I planted it into a fresh clay pot and it is as happy as a clam.

It is such an appropriate plant for a cancer survivor. It will deal with anything, sub optimal conditions even, if it feels like crap, it still smiles. It is just happy to be alive.

The American Way

I was able to get through college without it. I was able to make it through my concentrated, unpaid internship with out it. I even worked a job that was an hour away with a 5 am shift start time...with out it. All my professional jobs out of school - long commutes, management - still didn't rely on it. But now, after all that, I have succumbed. I think it took my job with an hour commute while having two kids under the age of 3 while maintaining some work out schedule that did it. Coffee. I have succumbed and joined the over 50% of Americans that drink coffee daily. But I am surely shy of the 3.1 cups per day that is average of these coffee drinkers. Geez, if i did that I would have heart palpitations and be sweating and shaking. I am not one of those that can drink caffeine liberally but I have come to be quite tolerant and reliant upon my one cup of tea and one small cup of coffee in the morning. And coffee consumption appears to be beneficial for some of my systems in terms of disease risk, so c'est la vie for me.

A Lesson from a Rapper

I like to listen to upbeat music when I am working out - so I indulge in the often stereotypical, degradative lyrics of rap and hip hop music. When thinking about insightful song lyrics, rap and hip hop are not usually the genre that comes to mind. But I was listening to a new song by Mr. Puff, who goes by P. Diddy, but whose actual name is Sean Combs. He says, What am I 'posed to do when the club lights come on / Its easy to be Puff, its harder to be Sean  And the song goes on to be personally triumphant with Puffy man claiming in an interview that it's about "trying to find your way back to that person who your grandmother or father wanted you to be".  "Coming Home" has been named a redemptive ballad with personal lyrics that parallel struggles in his life including being a less than exemplary father, fearing commitment, and otherwise making mistakes, and faring losses.
I tell this background to make these lines relevant, but the crux of this post stems from the lines above that I plucked from the song about how its easier to do our "job", to put our face on and do what comes easily, or to do what is expected of us in a role - isn't that easier? Easier to do than to step out of our comfort zone, step up to a challenge even if were not ready, unprepared, or even unenthusiastic about it. The big job that this describes is being a parent. It is estimated that half of pregnancies in the US are unplanned. So it is safe to say, many of us are not ready. And I can safely assume from other statistics that many are unenthusiastic. I could go on and on about how that is wrong and upsetting, but the point of my reflection on this song is that yes, it is easier to do our job, leave our home and perform in the confines of our job description and then check out and leave. But when you are a parent, the "club lights" are always on. And it is more important to be our own Seans than to be a Puff. It was hard for me to instantly turn into a Sean, with no practice. I could go on as Puff forever. But the hardest things are often the most important and the challenging things often render growth. Puffing is easy once you become a parent because parenting is hard - I guess the goal is to be your best self in all roles, but the Sean should not be neglected or abandoned at the cost of the Puff.
Kudos to Sean for bringing his Sean to his Puff in this song (which is upbeat and enjoyable :) and I hope for his sake he continues coming home to the person he, judging by his many many accomplishments, is beyond capable of being. For the reward of being a parent is beyond any paycheck, public notoriety, or ego boost. It is the ultimate reward devoid of material boasting, it is the ultimate immortalization of everything good that you can give.

If the gut works...

As a dietitian, we have a mantra "if the gut works, use it". This is particular to a patient who may have been intubated (breathing tube in the mouth), or had been in the hospital without food for a few days - when re-initiating feeding these patients, it is always best to use our natural digestive system. If the mouth is out of commission, put a tube in the nose or stomach and use that gut! Use the gut rather than feed through the veins, to put it simply.
However, this mantra is paramount in other situations besides nutrition in the critically ill. We get a gut feeling about things and it should be listened to without needing explanation. I toured a facility that offers a very flexible summer camp - the facility also functions as a reputable preschool in the area - and I have gotten nothing but good reviews about it from other parents and educators.
I sat in on a class there and viewed the whole place. The class was managed well, nicely sized and stimulating for the kids. But for some reason when I went out side where the kids would be playing in the summer, something didn't sit right. Most places will have some sort of water, mostly a sprinkler on site. This school had a sprinkler and they had a pool that was very shallow and covered. I think that did it for me. I envisioned pure fun for the kids and they have clearly been executing this summer camp for years with out a hitch that I knew of, but it wasn't going to slide for me. I guess I am not comfortable with a complete stranger having that comfort level with my girl's body - changing in swim suits - I didn't ask about the procedure of that, male or female, and I don't know if the staff is new or temporary over the summer, but I am guessing some staff may be. So - less stringent with selecting staff, less clothing on little vulnerable people, more kids to keep safe and that chaos to hide behind.... it didn't sit right, and that was the end of that.

We tend to rationalize things - I could go through a slew of reasons why I am being hypersensitive or paranoid and give the strangers the benefit of the doubt. But I believe sometimes, our initial "gut" reaction does not need any explanation, and will be best put to use without any explanation. It is pure, God-given intuition that far too often gets pushed aside.
If the gut works, use it!

Holidays

It's funny how things that were once exciting turn into obligations – things that we once looked forward to, we now just want to “get through”. I don’t know how this creeps up on you, but I believe the evolution springs from complications – the fact that things get more complicated and with this, events feel like a chore more than a holiday. I guess the Jehovah’s Witness spare themselves a lot of frustration by not honoring all these holidays and occasions. But they say that it's beneficial for mental well being to have things to look forward to, and for me that is what these occasions are, birthdays, major and minor holidays, and other get togethers. I look forward to them with childlike excitement, the problem is that I am not the child anymore, and I am the one who has to cook, travel, decorate, choose the side of the family that gets our presence this time, and all this logistical junk puts a damper on the child-like part. Now it’s a subdued adult-like excitement mixed with hope for child-like occasions mixed with the God given forgetfulness of that which sucked last time. Kind of like child birth – boy that is something, but somehow, as traumatic as it is, it doesn’t seem to deter you from having another one. And as traumatic as the elusive fourth trimester is, still this, doesn’t deter you from getting excited about the next one. So thank you God for the forgiving memory bank that we possess, that carries us through the next occasion, the next less than fulfilling holiday and the next beautifully painful birth.

Quiet Love

I find that it is mostly the quiet moments in my children that blow me away. An oxymoron possibly, but a consistent realization for me. My Gabby may be silent for a moment of concentration coloring an elephant and I capture the profile of her face, the quiet curves of her lips and I am mesmerized. When a peaceful furrow takes over my son's brow as he diligently puts together a puzzle, I am in awe.
I think the awe is there all the time, but it can't rise to the surface all the time because life is occurring and the constant barrage of needs and wants infiltrate my minutes. But its when that tide ceases, for the brief moments that it does, that proud, humble, fascinated love abounds from my for my little creatures.
Once again, the beauty of a sleeping child is without words, but so understandable!
I love you two little things - all the time, but so tangible so when I am watching you be little people.

Purple Balloons

Be proud  - I told my kids about cancer :)
I used a walk for the American Cancer Society that we are doing this friday as a topic starter and the car ride as the setting and I think it went well. After my short talk was done, I asked her what she got from what I just said to her, and she told me "purple balloons". Well, this response was reminiscent of the Mary conversation but I was sure that something else had to have sunk in. So after prompting "anything else?" I got these series of answers:
"raise money"
"to help people feel better"
"for medicine"
And when I asked her for what disease we were doing that all for, she did blank out - kind of like the Freudian blank out of adults, but quite unintentional and consistent with any new word thrown at a 5 year old.
But hey, purple balloons to raise money to make people feel better...I think that covers it simply well!

Beauty is its own excuse for being

Sometimes I wonder what the point of this blog is. When blogging, some people realize they are good writers and write a book - some people have an intriguing subject and gain alot of followers..... and probably write a book too. Some people use it to make an income - with advertising and self-promotion. Well, I fall into none and neither of these categories because I have no followers besides my sweetest mother :) (Just kidding, there is my sweetest husband a couple friends) and I make no money from it and I don't want to write a book because I don't know what to write about and it will take too long. My blog is not subject specific - I don't write about cancer only, kids only, nutrition only, or doctor's-wife-life only, or food only... These are the most effective blogs - but you know what? I don't want to. Life is varied and my brain flows with life and it is varied as well. This is not my job, this is my hobby and I write because I like to - I find humor in life and I reflect on life and that is what I write about. And because of this, it may be that the only people who are interested in this blog of my speaking fingers is people who know me...
and that is ok!

There is a poem called Rhodora by Ralph Waldo Emerson. And anytime I think about something that has no purpose but to exist for its own sake of existing, I think of this poem. Why do I buy flowers for my home? Because they are pretty. What is the purpose of these things? No purpose but for me to walk by them and say, "they are pretty." This blog serves little purpose but to be a blog - to entertain a few and to make me mindful. Enjoy!

Rhodora

In May winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.


Ralph Waldo Emerson

My Radio Revalation

I was driving this morning and listening to my Sirius/XM radio to Doctor Radio which is a show that has various doctors host segments of their specialty - oncology, pediatrics, psychology, etc. And the segment that was on as I was driving Gabriella to school and continuing on my ride back home was a show about kids hosted by psychologists who work with kids and families to achieve emotional well being when a parent has cancer or another chronic illness. Right up my alley! All hosts encourage their listeners to call in and share anything or ask questions pertinent to the topic (some sort of super nurturing breed of very welcoming doctors, they are). So I was all alone in my car on the way to the supermarket and I called in. I asked them if I should tell my kids at 3 and 5 years of age that their father has cancer, even though nothing acute and traumatic is occurring with it at the time. I guess Tom's and my take on the topic has been to not broadcast this cancer thing- and further on my own perspective: I think this because if nothing of note is happening right now, I don't need to broach the subject with these two immature minds that I have. (Especially after my Mother Mary situation which enlightened me to my shortcoming in age appropriate explanations)

So all three docs on the line told me yes, I should tell them and explained to me different resources, approaches and reasons as to why it is a good idea. Some of what I remember is that -we underestimate youth's ability to cope with things, and if we tell them now they will have the knowledge in their bank when it it comes up in the future. She equated it to a parent having diabetes - you would tell the child because it is a part of their life, they'll take medicine daily and make dietary choices because of their disease. In the same respect for us, if daddy goes for a test, it is because he needs to, it is part of his life. I recently watched a TV special on sexual behaviours in youth, and the research shows that the more information a kid has and the younger the kid is that hears it all, the less likely they will be to engage in teen sex. I am taking a similar conclusion from what these experts said - maybe, the more information my kids have about cancer, the better equipped they will be to deal with it emotionally if they need to.


We adults fear and dread the big CA, but kids don't because they haven't seen what it can do yet - the stigma isn't there in a conversation about cancer unless a parent injects their turmoil into their words and tone. If I am able to have a non-emotional conversation with them about how papa has cancer, I think they can come away from it in good standing. The doc also mentioned that if years from now, papa relapses and the kids have more advanced critical thinking skills that they gain with age, they may wonder and feel left out at the fact that no one has ever told them all this time. I also hypothesized that if they have this knowledge in their arsenal for a couple years, it may lessen the likelihood of them blaming it on themselves, as children seem to do with any tragedy, it's my fault. Because they know it has been around for a while, really before they were born, they may deduce that it can't possibly be their fault. I believe that the very kind and knowledgeable woman I was speaking with on the air is Dr. Paula Rauch who wrote a book called Raising an Emotionally Healthy Child When a Parent is Sick, and she directs a center out of Harvard called PACT- Parenting at a Challenging Time- who knew there were so many resources for this situation!

I guess life shouldn't be a secret and there are lots of different "normals" in people's lives - we have a life with Cancer playing a big role and it should be out in the open to teach our kids that nothing is un-talk-about-able (as they said on the radio). Dr. Rauch (I believe) also said that her mantra is "no one should worry alone".

So wish me luck!- one, that I will convey this with an even tone void of pain or fright, and two, that I will start and end this at the kindergarten level. (which one of those is harder??)

The big house

We thought we wanted to move to Louisiana, and it was seeming as if it would all work out, so we chose to rent that big beautiful house. I was the maiden of this house, in a surreally, simple way for a month while I dragged the kids all over a 50 mile radius of northern Louisiana to buy furniture and furnishings. I tell you, a big house is fabulously manageable with sparse interior contents. And life seems so easy when you don't get any mail.
Then there was a setback with Tom's contract and it made us step back and really consider everything. And it turned out that we could not afford to keep renting that big beautiful house in this time of limbo and no steady work. So we returned this house to its owner who claims to want to stay in it and never leave it again. The breeze from our door closing opened up his window.
This house is bittersweet. Well, mostly bitter - it was a structure of hope, something that we can enjoy as if our own, with luxuries that we do not own here in NY- a play room for the kids, a swingset in the backyard, a steam shower... Our house in NY is beautiful as well, but this one was much bigger and quite fine, and it gave us something to look forward to and be excited about amidst a stressful and risky move.
So my internship as an interior decorator, secretary, full time stay at home mom without a drop of support, (and the usual housekeeper, cook, etc.) is over.
If we do go to Louisiana afterall, we'll have to find another house to rent.
Bye, bye big house of hope, back to reality.

Words and Therapy

Gabby's teacher gave each child in the class a cute stuffed doll - girls got Mary and boys got a Shepard. The doll was very simple and sweet and came in a box that explained how and why it was made, and how Mary loves you and listens to you.


When Gabby and I got home, I cut Mary out of her box so she could hold her. She hugged her and talked baby talk to her (which is so annoying for me...but beside the point) and their budding relationship was going well.

(Mary, in general, has a significance because she is a symbol of sacrifice - a young girl who was told to end whatever young girl dreams she had to be a mother (without even getting a few orgasms out of it...but that's besides the point) and be a blessed, holy mother and step into some sandals with high-standards).

So once Gabby's brother wakes up, the theoretical stimuli of the house rages. And with the heightened antics comes the downfall of Gabby's new relationship. Mary is getting flung around and is used to whack her brother in the head over and over. My first impulse is the usual explanation of why this is not nice to hit her brother and to stop doing it. Then, with the recollection of the previous day's counseling by her teacher of why she can't wear her new rosary beads as a necklace, I decided a confiscation of Mary was warranted along with an explanation about respect. I know why rosary beads should not be worn as flare "like the rap stars" as the teacher said, and I know why blessed virgin replicas should not be used to instigate an "I have successfully gotten under your skin" reaction from as many family members as possible. But the task for me is how to relay that to an almost 5 year old.

My explanation did nothing after the incident. I don’t think she was ready to absorb any reasoning. It's like they are an emotional sponge that is saturated with anguish from losing their plaything (and power as it may be in this situation) and no other words of justification are able to sink into that sponge.

So the next morning on the way to school, she brings up Mary and I take that opportunity to discuss the issue. I ask her to remind us both why I took sweet and soft Mary from her. She tells me because of respect and then asks me what respect means because she doesn't know that word. So I go on to explain to her what you do when you have respect for something because I don't know exactly how to define the word. I tried to lower my comprehension because I tend to speak as if my audience is much older than 4. After I am done, Gabby is quiet for a few seconds and says, "Mama, all I remember from what you just said is "treat her". That’s all I remember".

I laughed. I laughed and further realized that I have no idea how to talk to a toddler. And I further realized how much breath and effort I have probably wasted speaking about concepts that are too mature for kids.

I am a person of words and expression. I love words and language because it can be so chosen, and so expressed to relay what you feel. Feelings are so unique and inexplicable that to come close to putting them into words so that others can know closely what you are feeling is an amazing thing to me and a priceless skill. I love words, and I love thinking and I love understanding and I love explaining and I love writing. For me, whenever I am able to understand what another is feeling from an experience that I may or may not have had, I feel one bit more enlightened. But my kids are not old enough to understand all this and even if they were, this type of strategy may not be as effective for them anyway. For example, I tend to respond to an issue with an explanation that would cover any possible issues that may stem from the central issue at hand. To really bring it home and cover my bases. But I now think I should answer only the question at hand and let my kids ask the subsequent questions as they come to them. Because at least for Gabby, she would be much more absorbent and receptive if she was getting information because she wanted it, rather than getting information that someone else thinks is important. (Yes, she is very stubborn).

I retold this humorous story of Gabriella and Mary to Thomas and recanted my useless conversation. I told him that I understood where she was coming from and I equated it to my experience with other languages, namely Spanish and Italian. I took a few years of Spanish in school and I can communicate simple things in Spanish. So I told Tom that when his family speaks in Spanish or when I overhear other conversations in Spanish or Italian, I have best intentions and attention to follow along. But there seems to be a brain delay and I follow about 5 words in and get stuck on a word. The word needs to enter my brain, get put in a line up to be matched with the various possible English words that it could translate to. Once I have chosen my best guess from digging back in my brain to high school when I learned these things, I take this newly translated word, put it at the tail of the 5 words I am sure of and I am now 6 words in and ready to roll with renewed attention. The problem is, when I left the conversation talking about fish and rice, I am now hearing words about mowing the grass and rocks. Those 30 seconds of conversation has sailed off without me while my brain stumbled over one word. So Gabby is the same - she listened to me and her brain got stuck on the words "treat her" and she was done. She probably went off in a mental day dream-like tangent over these words and paid absolutely no attention to the rest. I actually appreciate her very much for telling me that because it really turned a light on for me.

So I guess, me and my brain decided that we will forgo a proper explanation and give a trivial explanation, which to me isn’t an explanation at all, to retort to these issues of flinging Mary's and rockin' rosaries. I will tell her we should not hit our brother with toys. And we should be extra nice to Mary because she is a very special doll. That's it.

Children are like little walking therapists. When they say the right things, they can teach us by helping us figuring stuff out on our own. Gabby and I just had a break through :)

Oprah

So one day my husband said "What is this with Oprah? What is so great about Oprah?" At which point I was stricken speechless. I am a self admitted Oprah lover, and it's one of those things that I can barely explain to do justice to the Oprah effect for me. Not only do I love Oprah herself, I love what she makes of, and inspires in me. Oprah extracts emotions out of this pretty blandly emotional girl - one without big high joyful expression and without low, sad moments. Oprah makes me cry, laugh, and learn. I don't think there is any show like it. (As far as a show that matches and often far exceeds the crying is Extreme Home Makeover. My gosh, any malfunctioning tear duct will rise from the dead after one episode of that show).
Her empire and creation is enriching and it helps to remind me of my potential and my purpose, and in all, makes me a better person. And when some sentiment is so universal and so grand, you have to know that there is something to it. When Oprah shows a product on her show and the company's website crashes for days, when she names what she has for breakfast and the sales of Red Mill Steel Oats skyrocket, her book club increased the number of avid readers in this country and can alter best seller lists and has been known to increase book sales fivefold! - on and on the examples can go. If there are that many people in the Oprah effect, there is certainly something to it. And I am one of them! And if you have a a bit of introspection, a bit of faith, a bit of humility, a bit of strength and a bit of weakness, you will love her too.

She often explains that she uses the show as a platform to teach and she sees a greater purpose to her access to the public and her platform - and that must be the root of this Oprah effect. She does what is right in her eyes and her personal integrity has risen her up. And what greater inspiration is her story in itself? That by doing the right thing, morally checking your actions each step of the way and by using power and wealth for positive things, you will prevail! What Oprah brings to people, and what Oprah IS is an inspiration for life.
Alright, now that I got that out, that is enough about Oprah. I know it is annoying to read the praises of someone else when you don't feel the exact same way. I guess in general, an opinion can be annoying if you don't get it. So I hope anyone reading this either gets it a little bit, or is inspired to get it - and I'll shut up!

Who knew a container and a label maker could be so theraputic?

In a recent issue of Oprah magazine (did I mention I love her?) there was a big feature on decluttering and organizing. I loved it! After I returned from spending a month in a new and empty house, coming back to our house was a bit menacing. My husband and I used to debate about what the problem was and I would say that we have too much stuff and he would say that our stuff is not organized. Now, I think we do have too much stuff, but he was more right and the organization is the bigger problem. So one junk drawer by one, one "just throw it in there" closet to the next, I have been organizing like a certifiable wack-o. And I love it! I want to believe that there is a place for everything, not only thinking: it goes there if it doesn't fall out, or if the drawer still shuts.
The Oprah article mentions that women organize and shop when they are stressed - that until about 10 years ago, research had only been done on the stress response in men- When women were finally studied, they found that women release testoserone and adrenaline, like men do, but additionally, we release higher levels of other hormones like oxytocin- that maternal hormone is what leads us to behaviors like nesting, eating and shopping. Quoting from this O Magazine article,
"Men's stress response says "Fight or flee!" Ours says "Fight or flee—and make sure everyone has a nice warm sweater!"
So we shop, eat and clean, and is often the case in pre-motherhood, these hormones make us nest. So I have been nesting and organizing and I am not pregnant, but I acknowledge that it could be related to this hormone mix symptomatic of my stress. (Cool, isn't it?) And pat me on the back for picking up such a destructive habit as organizing when I'm overwhelmed :)
It is not only the act that is fulfilling, it is the result and the feeling the result gives me. It is a well-roundedly rewarding experience to clean out and organize, I recommend it before drinking a few one evening, or taking a warm bath, or eating a carb loaded meal, followed by mouth-smacking chocolate. Like cleaning, these types of robotic, mundane tasks allow the mind to wander while maintaining the small amount of brain power that is needed to complete the task.
We, like everyone else, had a junk drawer, we actually had four of them. Now, when I open up my formerly-known-as-junk-drawers I smile and watch things slide around, like a toddler in the bath tub, so much joyous wiggle room for these proud objects who made the cut and are left in my drawer. Now, after several trips to Target and Walmart for more containers, and several hits of the print button on my label maker, this house smiles at me when I open up the doors and drawers of scary places. So, Oprah, like she always does, gave me inspiration and since February, I have conquered a gorgeous chunk of space in this house and satisfied my hormonal cravings. Amidst stress and a life I cannot control, I can fix something, I can do something, and I can give myself peace.

My Parts at 30

So life did not end today. I am 30 years old, and my boobs sag only moderately as they did at 29. And my ass can be squeezed just as questionably into my jeans as they did yesterday. So, of course, when you differentiate around the cusp of your personal decade change, there appears to be no difference. But there is a whole decade of the thirties to get through, a decade of metabolism to drop. I guess I am living my role as a 30 year old - married, family started, its about time I gave up that "I'm in my 20s" label. Maybe this psychological wrinkling is related to the angry owl in our biological clocks. Afterall, today marks the day that I have supposedly lost 90% of my fresh eggs. The chicken's are hitting the road, ditching me for a younger model. Even still, a huge part of the population does just fine with those 10% of eggs, it seems to be near normal to start rockin' the hen house with only 10%. Hey, its better than messing around with the 300,000 you have at the beginning of puberty. (Yes, I just looked that number up)
So me and my ass, boobs, and eggs will drink up this day. I am thirty, I am the same as I was yesterday, and miles different from when I was twenty. And I don't mind at all!

I have been Crowned!

I have a dentist who speaks as if she is reading a night time story to a pre-schooler - it is a calm, soothing, voice full of complete, seemingly scripted explanations of her work, laced with mild facial expressions and full eye contact. After a gentle, motherly explanation of the how to make a crown and what to expect, she asked me to put my head back and began by calmly saying, "I am going to prepare your crown now", and I felt as if I should have been in a jewelry store getting my tiara altered rather than in a dentist office. Undoubtedly she has crowned many a women but she actually made it seem like she was doing me a privilege and a socially envious procedure.
I hate going to the dentist and I hate Novocain but her voice seemed convinced that this was both well practiced, a bit exclusive, and freakishly nurturing. I was perplexed and taken back at how I was effected by her voice, words and demeanor, especially comparing her to many other dentists I have had digging and drilling in my mouth. Maybe in another life she'll be a social worker...
I know no one here reading this cares, but I am going to continue on in my fascination slash praise of this dental calming artist. She stayed in the room the whole time,and was very polite to her hygienist (who, I will add does not do your cleaning when you go once or twice a year - this dentist does that preventative, insurance covered service from start to finish!) She spent her free time filing down the temporary crown, smoothing it, and probably inaudibly comforting it and preparing it for its journey in my mouth for the next couple weeks.
This dentist is such a wonderful example of a way to be a health care professional especially in a time where they are few and far between. Kudos to her!!

The Old Lady's Hangover

So I ate Asian food and went to bed late last nite and now I feel hung over. I am tired, my eyes are dry, I feel dehydrated, and because I was wearing high, uncomfortable heels, I feel like a small truck ran me over. My gosh, I am not twenty anymore. In fact I am almost 30. My friend who swam the rough water of her 30th birthday a month ago told me, "That's OK -30 is the new 40!" To which I reassured her - "No it's not. 30 is 30 and it means your not in your 20s anymore". And there is no smoothing that over. Grey hairs come out, wrinkles form, my boobs sag (or is that because of nursing), I can't go out at night without having to pick at blisters, put hydrating drops in my eyes and self medicate with coffee, water and Tylenol. And, despite feeling similar to the after effect of a night out from when I was in those fond earlier years, I did not drink a drop of alcohol, but feel similarly hung over. Yup, I'm just about 30. All I need is to enjoy the new reduced rate of metabolism and not be able to tolerate fun spicy foods or staying up past 10pm and I am officially done. Still, though I had a night out like a true middle aged mother with my darling husband, I looked cute doing it! (as painful as it may or may not have been)...because I am still not wearing mom jeans and cutting my hair boy short, so I guess I can pull it off...for now!

My Fig Tree

Here is a quote from Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar:

"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.
From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as i sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet".

I love it because it is sad and tantalizing and ambitious and distraught... and I can empathize! Since I started working as a dietitian, I vacillate between what else to be - I since have gotten a Masters, a Board Certification to specialize and have sought and reached  a management level position. This all tells me I am looking for a more fulfilling role within my profession. But if given the opportunity, I toil with changing the profession all together - I'll go to Medical school- Neurology, I decided. No, that takes too long, too demanding, too family sacrifices... I'll go to PA school, about two years, function like a doctor, improved income....No, I don't want to go back to school just to feel like someone's bitch, someone's assistant.... I'll be a pharmacist! That is what I started out aiming to do out of High School - I worked in pharmacies, I applied and got in to several pharmacy programs. But, no, gosh it's boring the work you actually do as a pharmacist - pill counting, retail, measuring- and it will take like 5 years of classes with uncertain stimulation value. I'll be a Psychologist, I love the mind, I do enjoy counseling, which I do as an RD, I can work part time at my will, and make better money...But can't I do the same thing if I just get a Masters in Social Work?? With that interesting 2 year degree I can be reimbursed for counseling and spin the angle of nutrition with eating disorder clients, adjustment to new disease diagnosis, (such as those nutrition related) as well as a mix of other issues that I enjoy talking about :) But what do I enjoy possibly the most of all? Writing. Should I write a book? Should I attempt to publish my poetry? Should I combine writing and nutrition and write a nutrition related book?? A cooking book with my own healthy twists on recipes, since that is a hobby of mine?? (more fig branches) But, with writing, there are so many writers out there already, my niche could quite possibly be saturated. And it feels very invasive and vulnerable to display my poetry to anyone and everyone - it's like letting thousands of complete strangers into your personal world and thoughts. I can't even write a cyber blog without disguising my names and locations!
The other paramount fig branch, which I do snack upon now while looking at the others, is being a mother. The job with no degree required, no qualifications whatsoever. The job with a reward that is internal and gratifying while equally discouraging, overwhelming and trying. It is the most difficult and purposeful job I have ever done. When you are given advice on choosing a career, you are told to take on a job that you find purpose in, a job that you love, a job that gives you a sense of accomplishment and worth. In this job, my clients take me as I am, I don't have to wear a suit, I don't have to wear make up. No one has made a comment if I wore my pj's all day and didn't brush my teeth until mid morning. My clients don't complain if I give them the same presentation two days in a row and they applaud with praise if I simply give them the genuine gift of my presence. My clients are loyal to my business, whether I fail or prevail - they will stick by me and do it with unbending love and appreciation - just because I am their boss. There is no politics. There is no merit increase, or withholding of an annual raise. There is a lunch buddy, a movie partner, a playmate, a stimulating learning environment for boss and client, there is a challenge, and there is job security.
I guess the adjustment to motherhood is protracted and when they get to an age where you can breathe again, your mind searches for a bit of that selfish craziness. And not to leave out the wonderful husband I have who listens to ALL my ramblings, supports my curiosity and praises my talents like no other person could do.

So here I sit in the fig tree with lots of branches that I could reach if I wanted to, but unlike Sylvia Plath I do partake in the sweetest figs in front of me that I snack on. I will most likely continue to let the other figs shrivel up and google new figs and make spreadsheets if I so fancy. But I actually have all that I want- I have a job that I do on a daily basis that I feel more passionately about than anything else, I have degrees and qualifications in a field that I actually do love, preach and practice - these tools can find me the counseling job that could balance me out and fulfill me, I have a business partner that is infinitely supportive, knowledgeable, committed, and I have my wonderful friend in these words, in this anonymous blog - more for my benefit than anyone elses, I bet - that just revealed right in front of me now where on that fig tree I should be.

Love your Job

So I watch the Food Network a lot and Gabby asked me one day which one was my favorite girl. After telling her I liked a lot of them, I told her I really liked Anne Burrell. She gets very excited about her food and is captivating and educational. She is the chef of a couple restaurants in NYC and hosts "Secrets of a Restaurant Chef" on the Food Network.
Anne Burrell loves what she does. And as I have been known to do, I turned this innocent question by my daughter into a philosophical discussion with a moral lesson. As we watched the spunky, animated chef smile and dance around the vegetables and compliment her meats, I told Gabby that this is how she should feel about the job she chooses to pursue when she grows up. That when she goes to work, she should enjoy what she does, or at least the basis of what she does (politics and other factors will always exist). That it should make her feel good about her self, it should keep her bright and enthusiastic to go to work every day.
We are all different people with different characteristics and personalities and it would be my hope for my children to find a niche, to meet their potential and be truly satisfied in the career they choose. To this I pray...

Dishes and Dishwashers

I know this sounds very Seinfeld-esq but I am going to write about my thoughts on the dishwasher and how I find it interesting how every person can load the same dishwasher differently. If you  are confronted with a new or unfamiliar dishwasher, it looks so strangely foreign at first. You are used to looking at the pegs and baskets of your own. And along with the familiarity of the layout of these pegs and baskets, you know all your dishes and how they fit best, or how it makes the most sense for you to load it. If someone else loads your dishwasher differently than you, which they will, it feels very wrong! Like a banana in the freezer or a milk carton in the oven. It's YOUR dishwasher and YOUR dishes and another person is sticking YOUR things inside of YOUR cavity and they are not doing the way you do (no pun intended :). I cant be the only one who feels this way.
So in Louisiana I was confronted with a new and strange dishwasher. Bigger baskets, different pegs, different cycle lengths - we had to become acquainted with each other. And after a few dates, we were familiar. And soon, it happened again - I became a possessive and jealous lover. Only I knew how to load this thing most efficiently to properly conserve space and maximize its energy expenditure. I can't say that I like to load my LA dishes better than my NY dishes, because my NY dishes and I have a long history together filled with mistakes and successes. They are perfect for me because they are mine and I know them well. You can't just pick up any old dish set and stick it in any old dishwasher - you learn to be the best at your own and you learn to love them, not because they are the best in the world, not because they match your dishwasher with perfect ergonomics, but because they are yours, through time.

Syliva Plath

So last nite I laid in bed to read the book I am currently in a relationship with and an hour and a half later, I ended up finishing the book. It is not like me to stay up that late, but I kept reading another chapter as if it was just one more pita chip, until before I knew it, the whole bag was gone. I read Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, and I knew it was somewhat autobiographical so I continued on in the end of the book to read the "About the Author" section. Culminating this informative bunch of pages was the inclusion that she had killed herself, at the age of 31, on February 11, 1963. I though how unfortunate that was and she must have been tortured, much like the main character in the book. Then I thought, wow, the day of her death is really close to today...is today the 11th? Lo and behold, I read an inordinately large chunk of her book to finish it coincidentally on the very day she died.
I have always been intrigued by books about lunatics and the varieties of mental disability, and I have read quite a few of them. I think that many see life and interact with life in a different way from perfectly sane people, and it is a very interesting perspective. At one point, as she was descending into her breakdown the character hears the phone ring and in an almost cursed, unenthusiastic manner she describes the phone as such:
 "The black instrument on the hall table trilled its hysterical note over and over, like a nervous bird."

I like the way damaged people see the world and maybe without the affliction of the mental disease, sane folks just don't notice the impact of each piece of life. The phone rings, I pick it up. And 95% of the time, I am not disappointed to hear it ring and unsuspectingly invade my life like that. Though, I must say, that if I have a quiet, reflective moment, I too can see the world like a mild lunatic. I am a poet after all - a convention of words, often unconventional to a spoken thought. A deeper disrobing of life to find the naked truth of feelings that lies beneath.
Or maybe its the talent of the authors who write about the mad and sad who may have a bit of lunatic in them to write it so well.
I like Sylvia Plath.

Our Adequacies

I know this has been brought up a million times but I wonder why us moms can be unkind to each other sometimes. Someone recently made a comment to me about my child that served only to remind me of one of their inadequacies which I was already well aware of. It bothered me because I already know it is an issue and I don't need a friend of mine to make me feel bad by being reminded of it. The problem was that I was feeling a bit sensitive at the time and the comment struck me the wrong way. It isn't as if the advice of this mother is coming from a mother whose children are perfectly adequate in all ways. Why must mother's compare their children with each others' and inadvertently, or purposefully put each other down? It seems to start when the children become toddlers and start gaining usable skills like drinking out of a cup, walking and talking, and then of course potty training. But yet, when the child is an infant, and sits like a lump, you'd think that my lump is equal to your lump and there is no comparison and discussion. But even so, we take our stands on breastfeeding, working or staying home and mess with eachother's heads with these factors in raising our lumps.
I realized when Gabriella was a colicky infant and I was catapulted into motherhood with no training and no clue, that it is hard. And no matter what each mother deals with - a difficult baby, a sick baby, a difficult family life, poor support system, unfavorable financial situation, working or isolated- whatever the situation is, when you have a child, it is hard. And since I learned this, and many others should have too, shouldn't we all support each other and give each other the benefit of the doubt? I guess because it is so hard that we need to constantly boost ourselves so we feel good about what we are doing. And we shouldn't do this at another's expense. We should give the mother the benefit of the doubt because we don't know what they are going through. And God bless the mother's whose children have special needs, deformities or disabilities. That just adds so much onto the already hard job we have.
My son developed a hemangioma on his forehead days after he was born. This was a small window into the thought process that could result from a deformity like this. A hemangioma can develop into something rather large and defacing as well as impairing. Fortunately, Marco's did not, it stayed long enough for me to realize how fortunate every inch of unscathed flesh is on my children. And it stayed long enough for me to field questions from strangers and friends about it, and maybe spread the awareness  and realization of all of their blessings. People tried to make this scar a positive by telling me it was a kiss from God, or they called it a raspberry. I don't go for that kind of stuff. It's a collection of blood vessels in the skin. God kissed mine and yours and all of theirs, and I don't think He wears lipstick or gives them a hickey. It is what it is and because it arose on the magical forehead on my remarkable child, I loved it. I read about it and I left it alone. And as it was described, it grew until it peaked in size, and before my eyes began to vanish. I guess no mom wants a child who is impaired. Life is easier when you function properly and life is easy when you are beautiful. But there is so much inside that means much more than that. And I am not trying to sound cheesy but after you get up there in age you see a lot of unfortunate things and sad people and if you are strong inside, and content with a life where suffering is inevitable, you are pretty darn adequate. If you can smile through strife, you may as well be the equivalent of a 18 month old walking with their open drinking cup, rockin' big girl panties and talking about your feelings with your big girl words.

The Zenfull Side of the Door

I brought a few books down to Louisiana with me and I have read Room by Emma Donoghue,  Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes, Buddhism for Mothers by Sarah Napthali, Incendiary by Chris Cleave and now on to The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. They are all good books. However, the zenfull Mothering book I feel like I rushed through. It seems my only 'zenfull' moments are when I am in bed going off to sleepyland and I may have read parts of it partially sleeping. I have no time to be calm. What a ridiculous contradiction. Actually, without reading this book, the cover itself makes me calm. It is a beautiful baby sleeping on what appears to be a mom's pregnant belly. Though it doesn't make much sense if this is in fact what the shot is because the baby is pretty young. So either this mom is destined for a huge challenge in remaining zenfull with her children less than 18 months apart, or she has some very smooth, stretch-mark-free baby weight and protrusion to lose in her abdomen. The other possibility is this perfect baby fell asleep on another bump of the mom's body... but I can't place which bump that is.
Either way, I am trying to be compassionately, mindfully full of loving kindness :) (Buddhist buzz words for those of you who have not graced your agitated eyes over the soothing text of a Buddhist inspired book).
So this book tells me to feel my anger and give it its time to acknowledge it, then watch it dissipate. Anger is a feeling just like any other which I can experience. The author quoted anohter's thoughts on this anger as such,
If you get angry and upset you can pay attention to what you are feeling in your body, in your stomach, the tightness in your throat, whether your chest feels constricted - you can even acknowledge that there is a lot of anger coming up. It's one thing to describe and acknowledge it and another to act it out. I soon realised that whatever emotion was coming up would dissipate extremely quickly.
by Yvonne Rand  when interviewed in Why Buddhism?

So I have found myself saying this to myself as my children dump their milk over the table, almost pilfer a toy from the Walmart and tell me they have to pee 5 min into a long car ride prefaced by me offering our nice clean homey potty before leaving:.. I feel the anger. As if I could actually feel my blood pressure rising, this is what I imagine it would be like. This is anger, this is anger... and I'll let it pass.
Even as I type this, I feel this frustration. As my daughter comes over to me with her loud, repetitiously musical Leapster asking me to help her get the crown. I say, "wait a minute, I'm in the middle of a sentence". So she puts it down inches from me, so the voice of Aurora and the annoyingly digital music swipes zen from my ears. Then, of course, my son follows suit with his loud Toy Story game that gets placed by the other ear waiting for me appease the cowboy and space ranger....

Five minutes later...
Ok, loud games are off and on the too-high-for-a-kid-to-reach mantle.  Zen did not prevail this time. I guess I should have read the book slower. Irritation rose in me like boiling pasta water and I opened my lid and let it bubble over. The kids are now doing a quite game with magnets and stickers. I guess the problem is that I feel entitled to an uninterrupted moment of my own. I expect it, because why would I sit down to this computer and this blog if I expected to by interrupted sixteen times and have a very incoherent train of thought? Why would I choose to put myself in a position of these expectations when I have two little kids here with me who need me to facilitate their activity, reconcile their verbal and physical assaults on eachother and give snacks and wipe butts intermittently -  why did I have the crazy idea that I could do something on my own in the midst of this?? Well, I did. Shame me for having great expectations, but I selfishly believe that I should have some minutes for me. It's the same with a phone call- do you think I could have a peaceful phone call? I had to close myself in the garage the other day on the phone with the insurance company because these smart children somehow didn't understand the sign language of my mouth and hands gesturing to the phone, mouthing "I'M ON THE PHONE". Then I had to keep a stronghold onto the door because they took turns trying to pull it open. Where was my zen then? It takes alot of control to not answer that anger and frustration.
Another thing I took from the book is to try to understand where the kids are coming from. So I try to put myself in the mind of a kid with mommy on the phone locking herself in the garage when I want her to come play with me and get me more water to drink- Is she ignoring me? Doesn't she love me? Maybe I should smack my brother on the head, that usually works to get her to come over to me quick. yes, I will do that. And if that doesn't work, maybe I'll whine. I know mommy gives me attention with that. Even if she yells at  me, I just want her to be here, on my side of the door.
So, if I can stay on their 'side of the door' more often, I may not get so irritated when life doesn't meet my expectations because I don't understand what it is like on their side of the door and they are not capable of understanding what it is like on my side of the door. In being the mom, the adult who knows best, I need to zenfully get down to their side of the door.
...
As I hear the escalation of voices, and the claim that someone wrote on Marco's face, I realize that this 7 minute increment of satisfaction in activity is over and I must re-solicit and close my door.

The Art and Love of Food

My husband gets home late and as the dinner hour approaches, it is always my hope that he will come home in time for dinner. I love to cook and cooking is almost like art - you put things together to create something that is pleasing to the eye as well as the palate. And what art can entices you, calls you, and previews you with your senses like a meal that is cooking? The ears perch to the methodical chopping, the controlled snapping of hot oil, the hidden foiled sizzling of a roast in the oven... and what is more alive than my rice cooker dancing as the foamy bubbles find their way through the top? The nose, if it could, would salivate at the savory richness of an entree perfecting itself with heat, or the sweetness of an indulgent dessert, much like a Yankee Candle that you can eat. I love cooking and I love food. Unfortunately, this love is put aside for me because children of 2 and 4 seem to narrow their food preferences as their awareness and independence increases. I'm sure this will turn around as they get older, but as of now, they will not dance in the chopping, sauteing and devouring of my cared for cooking. And since my husband isn't home for dinner often, this love is solitary most of the time. But maybe that will work because I only have to aim to please myself.
Still, I find this kind of selfish art is less fulfilling, less satisfying than the art of giving, and sharing. The art that can be displayed by someone on their wall, to which they can smile at and adore, is liken to the smile and compliment of someone you love gaining sustenance, comfort, energy, and essentially life, from the artful meal that you cooked.
Food is so much more than just food. It is what goes into it, the micro ingredients, the things you taste but cant see, the things you love but cant identify, the healthful attributes of the ingredients, the culture it represents, or the creativity of fusion. Food is life, and gathering around food brings lives to life.
I guess this is why I love food.

North vs. South

Louisiana is different from New York. This is assumed from all the stereotypes, and this is quite obvious when you have lived in both places. And I think it is even more apparent in this city we're in because it is a Northern, rural LA town with a population of about 20K as compared to the southern LA city we lived in with a population of 100K. There is a website www.peopleofwalmart.com and it illustrates all the different creatures you may find at Walmarts across the country. And not to say that the creatures after 8pm and on the weekend in NY are not strange, but if you transplanted the creatures of the benign hours of the daylight here in this rural, northern bayou town, you might be scared. Everyone, and I mean everyone hunts. So 50% of the folks in Walmart are rockin' the camo. And not that trendy camo that we northerners like to use as an accent article of clothing - you may mistakenly weed whack them with their camo printed with life-like sticks, trees and leaves. They look like a walking piece of woods. So that's 50% of the people. This is a college town, so there is another 25% is composed of half young people wearing shorts (I don't know how youth can wear shorts at all times of the year and not be cold. Was I one of them?) and a category I'll call other which includes myself. My middle aged, child-toting, non-hunting ass is a minority here, I guess. Hunting is not too familiar for me, but I think I could surely like this sport for the pure fact that I get to eat the fruits of my labor. That is right up my alley! Every house has a pick up, an ATV in the back of the truck bed or near it, and a dead deer carcass either draped over the ATV in the back, or chopped up into deer sausage in their freezer or mine. (Yes I have fresh deer sausage in my freezer given to Tom by a co-working hunter waiting to be enjoyed :) Oh and everyone has a gun. So the 'don't mess with Texas' slogans extend to much of the south and definitely this actively hunting, red state.
And we all know the drawl. And since my kids have taken a liking to the Toy Story series of movies just before coming down here, they have adopted the drawl for fun, but they actually sound like the grew up here. I try to correct them - really its all Gabby, "not day-yoown, just DOWN, one syllable. Not they-air, say THERE". I guess we're doomed once she starts school.

It's different here from where I grew up, but it has lots of character and people like it here. They pride their live oaks like I pride my Hudson River. They drool over craw fish and dirty rice like I pine for Brooklyn pizza and Jewish bagels. I love it all and I love to take it all in and experience what is someone elses' normal. It is stimulating to walk through the Walmart - what is better than that! This is life.

Every House Tells a Story

As I exist in this house, I am taking in their choices in wall paper, color, and other architectural and design things and I realize that a house says alot about a person. Are they afraid to make bold choices, or are they fearless? Do they like bold and big furniture and structures, or safe bets that they wont get sick of? Do they choose quality and put together everything completely, or do they skimp here and there just to get it done and move on? Are they that attentive to detail? The only variable to my amature character description of the previous owners is that some things like the lighting- I don't know if it is a crazy, unusual choice, or if it is something common to the French Provincial, Louisiana architecture. And other things, like a separate ice making machine in the kitchen - is this common in nice homes, or down here because it's hot, or is this something this couple has always wanted and finally put it in the home they planned out together.
I think this couple was not afraid of bold choices, and was family oriented. I think they cared less if some crayon got on the floor or some nail polish splashed on the cabinet. I think they also didn't care if the dishwasher didn't fit quite right and you had to thrust it with your hip as you closed it each time. I think husband and wife wanted their privacy and some romantic comforts, but they also wanted their children to be happy and enjoy themselves. I can tell which areas are frequented by a man and which walls have looked mostly upon a women. It is interesting to infer all this, but also very limited because this house is but a chapter, or even the titles of the chapters of a book, with all the words and pages and content missing to make it all make sense. I can take this house that we are moving into now and make my inferences while comparing it to the equivalent in our own house in New York, because our house says quite a bit about us. I think I make pretty good sense.
So yes, there are left over imprints of mess and signs of life in this house. But as I always used to say to justify my mess as a teenager, a mess simply says that you were focused on other things. (or maybe its that you don't care, but I like to think the latter is true for most) So it is true now that I would have tried to scrape off the nail polish on my nice bathroom cabinets, or use a magic eraser to clean up my children's destruction, I hope that this couple did not because they were so engaged in each other and the family that that was the last thing from their mind.

My Son is Pinkalicious

We arrived in our new (but not new) house that we will be renting. It is bigger than I would want but it is hard to find a whole house to rent for a decent price. The house is beautiful and has some lovely french and southern flare, as is common and endeared to in Louisiana. However, the previous owner chose some interesting colors for some of the rooms that I am left to work with. And since Gabby had the bigger room in NY, we thought Marco should have the bigger room here. The only problem is that the bigger room was previously meant for a girl and is a happy girly turquoise. And the bathroom off it is a happy girly pink with a pink vanity, pink wall paper, pink shower curtain and crystal knobs. This bathroom joins the two girly bedrooms, the smaller on in happy green for Gabby and the larger one in happy turquoise for Marco, so Marco is screwed either way.

Come to think of it now as I'm writing this... I have them alternate who picks a book to read before we go to bed at night and two choices in a row, Marco has picked the book Pinkalicious to read. This is really Gabby's book all about a little girl who turned pink. Hmm. Interesting choice. Among all the books we have with all the key players in his life - Elmo, Diego, Woody, Pooh... I would even understand Dora, who can be a bit of a unindulge

nt tom boy at times, but no, he chooses Pinkalicious...twice. Besides the times that Gabby has chosen this pink book herself. Maybe he feels right at home surrounded by pink and cheerful turquoise.

(not that there is anything wrong with that...)

Anyway, I will boy up his room as much as possible and since i hate taking down wall paper (and this isn't our house) he'll have to get comfortable with his feminine, pinkalicous side while down south.
Or my husband will just hang up posters of trucks, cars, hammers, footballs, dragons, pirates, and various blue collar, civil service workers to compensate for the softer floral influences up there.
(not that he thinks there is anything wrong with that...)

:)