Perspective

I've been away for awhile. I have been so ambivalent of time as of late that I didn't even realize months had gone by since I last posted. Months . . . lifetimes, really.

Ear infections, Autism assessments, illnesses, periods of self-reflection, speech therapy, dirty floors, bad hair days, preschool, unshaved legs, occupational therapy . . . life.

They say the mark of a true writer is someone who writes everyday. Anywhere. Anytime. Thank goodness I never made that claim. I love to write. Sometimes. It can be cathartic. Cleansing. Freeing. But sometimes it is like picking at a scab that is not quite yet healed underneath.

Did you hear about the parents who were both diagnosed with cancer within 9 days of one another? I watched their story on the news today. Read the article. Visited the blog.

Then I remembered. This place, it isn't about JUST the writing. It isn't about just the telling of the mundane and not-so-mundane aspects of our lives. This place . . . it is full of people who have provided love, support, and encouragement to virtual strangers. It is a place where we meet, where we wrap ourselves around the stories, where tears fall in silent rooms dimly lit by the glow of a computer screen. It is the place where we make promises to be better, to do better, to go beyond what we know and who we are to do for someone else. Someone, often, we have never, ever met and may never meet.

There are reasons why I stepped away from blogging. From this place. But they are not nearly as important as the reasons I wish to come back. Outside of the dizzying number of well wishes from my blogging friends on a birthday I don't necessarily feel like celebrating, I realized I was missing something. And, I wanted it back.

Read this story if you haven't already. Nathan and Elisa are now part of a family of infinite members. A family that I am forever grateful to know.

See you soon.

I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to post about P-O-O

But here's the deal. I really don't care . . .

***

JR is fairly well potty trained. The only challenge we've come to face is the "poopy" parts. While he has no trouble announcing its impending arrival, "POO POO coming!" and then hightailing it to the toilet, he does have some relational issues.

He has trouble . . . letting go.

***
"Mama, poo poo coming!" I race behind him as he scrambles toward the bathroom, pulling down his pants as he runs. He tosses the McQueen (CARS) toilet seat on the toilet and springs (and I do mean SPRINGS) on top, shifting his legs beneath him, tucking his boy parts beneath the pee protector.

Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Red face. Squeeze.

Plop.

"Mama, I did it!" Hands go in the air. I cheer as if I have just been notified that I am indeed a finalist for the Nobel Prize in potty training. This is my job. I do it well. I scream, whistle, hug and give what has become known as our finale--the double fist pump.

"Mama, look!" He peers into the toilet, admiring his handiwork.

"Yup, you did good little man! You have one big one and one tiny one." I support his curiosity. This is what good mothers do.

"Mama, oh, is so-eee cute!" He grins at me, indicating his belief in the aesthetic value of the smaller poop.

"Yeah, it kinda is," I say supportively. "OK, buddy, time to flush." I don't want to rush a good thing, but I fear this quality time has run its course.

We spend a few more moments in admiration. I'm fading fast. I remind him it is time to flush, wash hands, go play. His eyes narrow and he begins the whine. I try again. He laments, again. I can't take a poo dirge. I simply can't.

"Hey, JR, let's tell the poo poo bye and that will see it soon, OK?" The promise that they will meet again has worked. He reaches for the handle and slowly flushes.

"See you soon, poo poo!" He waves. It waves back in a swirl and disappears.

***THE NEXT DAY***

"Mama! Poo poo coming." And here we go.

Grunt. Squirm. Red face. Plop.

He jumps off the toilet in dramatic fashion, performing a sort of half spin as he faces the toilet, head bent down.

"Poo poo, you came back!" He turns to face me, perhaps realizing that I am a mother who keeps her promises. I lift my shoulders with pride. This is what good mothers do, you know.

"Oh, poo poo" he rejoices. Yes, indeed it came back.

My son can hardly contain his excitement while relishing in his good fortune.

"Yes, JR, it sure did." I make mental doodles in my head.

"Is sooooo--eeee cute!" And here we go again.

Superhero

I have had many jobs in my life. I remember making "floor shakes" when I worked at a fruit juice stand while in high school. We would pour the pitchers full of sticky, fruity concoctions onto the already sticky, dirty floor and then slide around like blind ice skating Olympians, drunk Olympians with a penchant for Orange Julius.

I loved that job. I mostly loved that every single time I had to make a chocolate banana shake that I ALWAYS made way too much. Oddly, I was not about to waste such a precious mixture (yet, I had no trouble dumping it on the floor at the end of the night for pure entertainment purposes). No judgment please . . . thank you.

I made Subway sandwiches (I was an expert bread cutter--I cut the bread like hull of a boat where the top of the bread fit like a Tupperware lid minus the burp). I taught water aerobics to senior citizens. Cranky, opinionated, invigorated--it didn't matter. It was a "Rump Shakerpalooza" and a hell of thrill to watch. As a side note, it was one of the only times in my life I wasn't self-conscious in a bathing suit. I have to admit getting a few cat calls from the over-60 set was a thrill.

Customer service, retail, teaching, technology. I have been to job hell and back. I have worked for nothing and done nearly nothing for a lot of something. I've had bosses who bossed, bosses who leered, bosses who went crazy and did things to Post It Notes that to this day I still have a hard time talking about.

Jobs. Lots of 'em. Too many . . .

Yet, the job that I loved the most. The job that I would do all over again from day one. The job that paid absolutely nothing.

Motherhood. Well, yes . . . that, too.

Sister.

I loved being a sister (even if I didn't know it then). I love it more now. Being the eldest I had an advantage that extended beyond height (that advantage is long gone as I am the "runt" of the family). I had experience, knowledge, and a driver's license.

I remember hoisting up toddlers and preschoolers on my feet and launching them onto the couch. They would slide to the floor in fits of giggles while begging for more. I lugged the three of them to the beach, piled them in my car, chased them in the backyard, and checked on each and every one of them at night, to make sure they were breathing. To make sure they were still there. We fought. Big fights. Lots of tears. Lots of wounding words. I'd give a limb to relive those moments and make them pretty, sweet, a moment a unicorn would hang a rainbow on.

But I can't. All I can do is be thankful for the moments we shared that made me look like a superhero. Yes, I said it. I loved that they saw me that way. Before they knew any better.

JR calls his little sister, Baby A, Angel. It is a name that will stick for the purposes of this blog. I love that he calls her that, even if he is just mimicking me. I love that he leans in for kisses while she hums and pushes her puckered-lipped face forward. They meet and it is magic.

I swell. They swell. He sighs, "Oh, Baby Angel" and she nuzzles her head under his chin.

He loves her. She loves him. He's her Superman.

Then he nearly chokes her as he pulls her away from the train table and the impressive track design he has so diligently been working on. She screams as she uses her head as a weapon against him, pounding it against his chest.

Sibling love. What a beautifully painful thing.

So they probably will try to kill each other on more than one occasion. I know he will profess his disdain for her and she will swear she is not related to him. I know he will probably pull her hair (when it finally grows in) and she will more than likely tattle on him for every single little thing. Hero worship will become a thing of the past.

I know it's coming. I've seen the previews.

But I know that no matter what, they will be there for each other. I hope that in the midst of teaching them love, respect, and self-defense, that I'll be able to foster a friendship that will last forever or at least until my funeral.

I'm not a superhero anymore. My siblings are all grown up. They are smart, strong, independent. They are funny, creative, talented. They can leap tall buildings . . .

You know, I just realized something. I may not be a superhero . . . but how cool is it that now I have three of my very own?

Very cool, indeed.

I Love You . . . But

BlogHer dumped me.

I can't say I blame them. I hadn't blogged in weeks. Months. (That's cool. I made .49 as per my recent BlogHer check--now I feel guilty that some tree had to suffer for my meager earnings. Great.)

A friend of mine had a baby a week or so ago.
I didn't even know she was pregnant.

I've missed a few appointments.
It's no wonder since I don't even remember making them.

I can be in the middle of a conversation and fall asleep.
Well, what do I expect on only a few hours of sleep?

I have no idea what I look like with make up and hairspray.
But I know exactly what I look like in sweat pants and t-shirts.

My purse has a Buzz Lightyear, a Blue's Clue paw print, and a mini Doc from CARS in it.
I have no idea where my lip gloss went.

"Date Night" involves a movie never watched and a fancy dinner at the Taco Bell.
We usually never get through the movie--sleep is a rare commodity.

I type this as my nearly three-year old climbs on me and points to my tepid coffee and says "So hot!"). I tickle him and her races off preparing for the morning chase. Which means I'm going to have to run . . . again. And again . . .

Time is a rare commodity . . . yet oddly, sometimes it lingers longer than it should in the spaces between bath and bedtime.

Are you ready for the great revelation?

Motherhood is hard.

I get it.

It took a little time, a little distance from the hormonally fueled honeymoon of being a new mom, with my shiny, squeaky things and inflated ideas of perfection. Oh, and I suppose having ANOTHER child provides some clarity as well.

(My nearly three-year old has confiscated a box of "Crunchies" and is now . . . he poured the entire box on his pancake plate. I consider it a victory in that it is ALL on the plate. SCORE!)

I've come a long way from videotaping my living room and posting the elaborate toy "stations" we would go through as the day progressed. I've come a long way from the posts with ethereal photos in the park of a pale-faced, doe-eyed child looking lovingly into the camera. I've come a long way from the rhyming, witty posts about the lack of sleep, ending in a couplet of sweet understanding and love.

A long way . . .

Motherhood is hard. Perhaps "Whiskey in My Sippy Cup" was a clue. I just thought is was a cute blog name. Yeah, I had no idea it was a survival technique. Not that I've tried it . . . yet.

* * *

Jennifer Senior wrote in NEW YORK MAGAZINE about parenting. It wasn't your typical article about the joys of motherhood and the trials and tribulations that end in profound revelations doused in love. Nope.

It was about why parenting sucks--"Why Parents Hate Parenting." (a blog post dedicated to this article is brewing as I write this . . . )

A few years ago I would have scoffed at such a topic. Today, I get it. I love parenting, right? Sure I do. Do I hate parenting? Yes. Some days I do. But the constant is this--I absolutely love my children. Even if I cringe as I peel a Dum Dum out of my hair, change a poop explosion that has spilled out into areas unknown, chase after a toddler as he runs like an Olympian into the parking lot, tend to "business" while my infant eats toilet paper and the toddler "decorates" the bathroom with said paper while "blessing" it with the toilet brush. Yeah. I love them.

I feel like a late arrival to a party where all the games have been played, the wine bottles have been emptied and the party goers sit slouched on tired couches recalling the days of misspent youth. Mommy bloggers have been blogging about their exploits since the blog was first birthed (pun weakly intended). I remember thinking, "Perhaps it will be different for me."

No. It hasn't been.

And for that, I am thankful and desperate, trying to remember why I've abandoned this blog, the blog world.

Oh, yeah. The whole time and sleep thing.

And, while there is not enough blog space for me to thoroughly explore another topic, I think too much. I don't think I have that luxury anymore and quite frankly, it is a luxury I don't need, I never needed. I would ruminate over a blog post until I killed the topic with critical thoughts and misdirected misconceptions. Really, I obliterated perfectly good ideas, worrying about how it sounded, driving myself crazy with fear that it might not be good enough. I was drenched in self-doubt and while drowning, I let go of the story and it let go of me.

Just write, just tell it like it is, with all the raw details, cliches and misspellings you want. So you're no Hemingway. Who cares if what you say is trite or far from profound. It's like blood . . . everyone has it running through their veins, but the difference is that it courses through your body. Your words. Your blood.

Perhaps you'll want to read what I write. If you do, so be it. If you don't, so be it.

I miss this. I do.

And I'm not ready to walk away . . .

I Tried Not to Make a Scene

Let's just not mention how it has been over a month since I last posted. Agreed?

Great.

Moving on.

JR is in this art class. Well, it really isn't so much an art class as it is a big room with activities set up in stations. Outside of the very loose circle time at the end of the class period, there is very little structure. It is perfect for JR.

The very first day we went to class was a nightmare. While the little girls sat at tables and pressed their tiny hands into clay or happily twirled a paint brush, my guy ran around the room as if his head were on fire. He begged nearly every person in the room to help him escape the evil of a room filled with crayons, puppets, and puzzles. Let's be perfectly honest, some of those puppets can be scary.

He hung on ankles, pleaded with his sad blue eyes, and yanked with all his two-year-old might. He wanted OUT.

The first day was spent trying desperately to get him to stay, to try, to hang in there just one more moment.

He went over to the sensory table (a sand/water table filled with beans), filled his hands with beans, and let them fall through his fingers. The sensation was calming. Unfortunately, the mother standing nearby with her daughter didn't think it was so calming. She abruptly pulled her daughter away. "Let's go play somewhere else for now." For now.

For now.

I get it. I got it. I do. My child isn't exactly gentle. But, he was not out-of-control or violent. JR is just a little more robust in his play. He's a boy. He's a sensory kid. He's a toddler.

Her obvious disdain for our play was felt by me but largely ignored by my son. I'm thankful that he didn't notice the little girl being pulled away by her mother.

Flash forward to Wednesday.

JR has calmed immensely. He's in a playgroup that should help him with transitions and "proper" social interactions. They get that he is a sensory kid and they work that into how they interact with him. I love that. He needs that and so do I.

JR's behavior has improved in art class as well. He is calmer, more engaged in activities, and seems to enjoy socializing with other children (and inanimate objects--whatever works!).

Unfortunately, the mother from day one is still not convinced.

At the sensory table, JR and the little girl stood. JR raked his fingers the length of the table, she watched him intently as he looked up and caught her eye. They were calm, clearly engaged and maybe even enjoying one another.

Until mom came. "Let's go play somewhere else, for now."

She did not just say that again? I made an effort at eye contact with her, hoping my mom-to-mom gaze would speak volumes.

It didn't work. Off she went, little girl in tow. JR standing alone at the table.

Again, he seemed unfazed. I, however, was not.

Inside a fire was ignited. How dare she! Couldn't she at least make it a little less obvious? I know moving to the circle of other mothers to discuss exercise videos and vacation spots was clearly more important than letting her daughter socialize with the class pariah, but come on! Because it is my hope to keep this a family friendly blog, I will withhold the unpleasant (horrific) thoughts that filled my head and the poisonous words that clung to my tongue.

I've been there. I've been rejected. Neglected. I've been ignored. While in my youth these rebuffs would have sent me reeling, as I've grown older they barely register. I don't care. I will not force anyone to like me, to befriend me. Being fairly level-headed, I don't get worked up by much.

But JR. It is a wholly different. This is my child. He is innocent. He is sweet. He is funny. He is smart. He is just a little different.

A little.

I am pained to realize that one day he may realize those differences. But even if those differences no longer matter, I pray he will never, ever be the kind of person who lacks compassion, understanding, acceptance.

I want him to see beyond the differences of others, to embrace them, maybe even celebrate them. My greatest hope is that he is one who reaches out instead of turning around and walking away.

Filed under things they never tell you when you become a mother

I cried today. I felt the tears well up, drowning my vision in what ifs and what could have beens and a healthy dose of you were not enoughs.

He sat before me, alternately working his pen across the page and looking up at me, the mother. He told a story, an anecdote meant to comfort me, while his eyes darted to my son writhing in my husband's arms, my son in the grips of an unexplained urge to bolt. Our daughter lie on the table, clad in a diaper and a drool-filled grin. Patient. Waiting.

I'm sad. When I looked in his tiny eyes nearly 2 1/2 years ago vivid images of a laughing toddler, a boy curled up with a sleeping puppy, a young man proudly walking across a stage, a father cradling his child took up residence in my mind. My boy. My son. Those images are nothing but hazy reminders that I am not in control. That sometimes life renders you powerless.

The doctor gave us our referral. JR will soon be in therapy for a disorder I'm still trying to wrap my brain around. While I take comfort in a checklist of symptoms, I find I have more questions than I do answers--the questions are tiny voices echoing in my ears--"Is this my fault?" "Has my history inked itself upon your present, your future?" "How will I fix you?"

* * *

This is it. I gorged myself on optimism. This will work! Fresh lies pushed the nagging truths to the shadowy recesses of my brain. I will make this work. My conviction wallowed in fatigue, as did my body. I knew this was going to suck. Hope was nothing but a sucker punch.

He ran around the room. I introduced myself to the other mothers, pulling suckers out of my bag and watching as JR climbed the stairs, peered through the windows of a plastic house, and happily greeted the pretty girl who has become his best friend.

An unstructured art class. For toddlers. This was what JR needed. I just plunked down a small fortune to make it true. I tried preschool. Fail. I tried a gymnastics class. Fail. Playdates. Fail (mostly). This had to work.

***

He's such an awesome kid. He's charming. Engaging. He's learning new words and phrases nearly every single day. Do you know he can identify every letter of the alphabet? Maybe it's no big deal, but to me it is simply genius. He is so bright. But . . . he never, ever stops. Never. He lives by the credo- "Why walk when you can run?" His energy level is astounding, infectious, exhausting. But only at home, in a world carefully constructed by me, his mother, or in a world where there exist no walls, no hands pulling him back, no voices telling him NO, does he truly thrive.

***

The unstructured art class was my undoing. I was THAT mother of THAT child. With an infant in one arm, I raced after him as he headed for the door, the big room, the staircase. The other children crowded the easel, the bean table, the train set. Their parents sat with them, taking in the look of gleeful wonder that gilded their toddlers' faces.

Except for mine. He screamed. He writhed. He dropped to the floor. He wanted out. And so did I.

"Do you want me to take her while you handle him," her voice was kind, masking the pity she felt for me. I handed my baby girl to another mother, a stranger, so I could stop my son from running out of the room, up the stairs, and out onto the street.

We sat on the floor in the outside hall. I pulled him to me, willing him to be like the other children. Willing him to just stop.

"If he can't do it, that's OK," the teacher said to me in a hushed, yet supportive tone. I heard only, "Please don't come back, ever." I'm sure that's not what she meant. Actually, I'm not all that sure.

We left early, both of us empty and a little lost. I was too tired to be mortified. Too afraid to be angry. It didn't work and I had no idea how to fix it.

***

My daughter is six months old and today was her six-month check up. While I wanted so much to immerse myself in her growth, in her amazing development, I was lost in a haze of self-doubt, of worry, and of an undeniable fear for my son. I raced through the questions about my daughter, who gurgled and grinned her way through her exam. My hand rested on her soft belly, her fleshy legs kicking excitedly at my touch. But my focus was on the small piece of paper I had in front of me--a penciled in checklist of all the ways my baby boy was broken stared back at me.

Broken.

I know every child is different. Evey child has his or her unique challenges. I don't seek platitudes or even heartfelt words of support and encouragement. I simply seek a soft place to land. For now. I want time to inhale and exhale. I want a few more minutes, hours, days to look at my son and not think therapy, disorder, referral, special, delayed . . . broken. I just want to look at him and feel the weight of his perfection one more time.

Truth. I'm broken. Yet I need no salve. No tape. No glue. No bandages. No glaring faces with a notepad and wire rimmed glasses. No labeled bottles filled with pills. No bottles filled with booze (not yet, anyway).

I just need to dry these stupid tears, yank up my mom jeans, and push on. Right? Because that's what we do. That's what I must do.

Because right now . . . he's alive. He's happy. He's healthy. And he's gonna be OK. Broken or not.

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
-Coldplay "Fix You"

How to Rip Off a Label

"I don't get it," I turn the pages and desperately try to understand the fascination with a green room, a rabbit and a painting of a cow jumping over the moon. Toy house. Mittens. Socks. And that old lady "whispering hush."

My husband shrugged. He didn't get it either. Why was this book beloved by so many? What was the big deal? There wasn't much of a plot and the character development was awfully flimsy.

Although I didn't know it then, I would be delivering a 5 lb. baby boy in a matter of days. It would be only then that I would get it.

***
"She's a daydreamer. It is hard to get her to focus." My mom nodded at what she already knew.

"I know. She's always been like this. She gets lost in her own little world." My mother had no idea the weight of her words.

We left the meeting with a label and a referral for services. I was now "special." I had a label and "it" had a name. ADD.

My mom refused the drugs, claiming that I would eventually grow out of it as if it were last year's woolly winter coat. Although I don't know if I grew out of the condition or if I just learned to manage it, I never grew out of that label. While over time the label no longer existed in my records, it wrapped itself around everything I tried to do. It became my crutch, my excuse, my reason to begrudgingly welcome failure. ADD--my chaperone to mediocrity.

***

"What are you thinking?" I watched her as she followed JR around the room. She'd tilt her head, sigh, scribble in her notebook, and then finally, she looked to me. What the hell was she thinking?

"Well, I'm just taking note of the things he is and isn't doing, you know, what's right and wrong for a two-year old." The sound of her voice was like a needle working its way through the back of my neck. I cringed. She was the developmental specialist assigned to our case. Since JR was a month early we qualified for special services. Although I didn't think we really needed them, I was eager for any help, any guidance that I could get. I was focused on speech--the extra help would be a bonus. But the look on her face, the haughty tone in her voice. What was she talking about?

JR was born a month early. Totally healthy except for having to endure time under a lighted blanket. He hit every milestone. No delays. I never expected him to be a genius, to play a concerto at 3 , recite the periodic table at 5, enter college at 10. I just wanted him to be where he was supposed to be, whether he got there early, late . . . didn't matter. I just wanted him to get there.

His speech was my biggest concern. While he was a physical dynamo, his verbal skills consisted of short grunts and my personal favorites, high pitched, groans and whines. I got it. He had better things to do than speak. He wanted to run, to jump, to make an attempt to land in the ER before 3.

"What are you thinking when you watch him? I only ask because you have a look of concern on your face." I prompted her to respond. I leaned in closer and searched her expression.

"Autism," she replied. And with that, the oxygen was sucked out of the room.

***
He doesn't have autism. I'm 99% sure. The doctor was 100% certain, shaking his head as I told him of the events leading to his "diagnosis."

Regardless, we live in a world of labels. What will be his label, I wonder? What word will bind his hands and cause him to second guess his ideas, his dreams, his abilities?

***

A wise friend once asked me, "What would you do if he did have autism?"

My mind was a swirling vortex of bubbled questionnaires, meetings around tables with "experts" scrawling notes, laborious hours of therapy, and the countless fears that he may never belong.

What would I do?

Love him. Intensely. Unconditionally. No matter what.

***
JR wraps his legs around my body, his head rests on my shoulder as I lean back into the chair and open the book.

GOODNIGHT MOON.

"Moon!" JR shouts.

"Yes, baby. MOON!"

"Goodnight comb and goodnight brush."

"Mush!" he shouts.

I squeeze him tightly in my arms.

"Yes, baby. Goodnight mush."

I hold him in my arms, gently rubbing the arch in his back. His words silence the nagging fears and doubts--in him, in me.

The labels fade into an imperceptible whisper.

"Goodnight noises everywhere."

Getting It

Atop a wobbly stool I sit, one knee tucked under the counter, fingers stumbling across keys.

This is my escape. If I had the fortitude to do so, I would climb in and nestle against the steady hum of hard parts and slick wires.

I get it.

I do. Today my son and I debated the heroic traits of a cowboy and an astronaut. Maybe debate is too strong a word. He ran around the house with my old Woody doll (though my husband prefers "action figure") while calling him Buzz. I corrected him. A few times. I say debate. Call it what you will.

My daughter sang an aria. Her voice carried through the house, over the "Buzz" and the whir of the dishwasher. She punctuated her aria with shouts of agony attributed to two tiny buds forming on her tender pink gums. I spent an hour rubbing her gums while humming "You are my sunshine" and listening to Elmo drone on about going to the doctor.

I did brush my teeth. Granted it was after a lunch of stale crackers and celery sticks, brushed they are. My bicuspids do not keep time (though my incisors are rather annoyed at my tardiness from time to time).

The rhythm of my life is filled with the constant beat of fulfilling wants and needs. None of which are my own.

I'm OK with that.

***

I don't hate Facebook. Not really. It is like a sad little friend longing for attention. How can you hate the pitiful soul that wears too much blush and thinks stirrups are in? She spouts pithy statements about her life because in truth she longs for depth. She stares at the sink full of bowls of crusted oatmeal and mystery food, at the floor covered in Thanksgiving grime, the TV screen filled with purple dinosaurs and talking one-eyed monsters. She turns to the pulsing screen and faded keys for consolation when all she gets is a nod and a grunt from the fleshy figure that walks through the door mumbling about "me time."

Her fancy cookies, trips to Paris, and brilliant children are the flesh and bone of her existence. Facebook (Twitter, blogging . . . ) gives it life.

I get it. I do.

We all do what we must. Who am I to judge? Who am I to roll my eyes at photos of grinning children over a plate of iced gingerbread cookies with the Eifel Tower as the backdrop?

So maybe I'll roll my eyes a little. Just a little. And then I'll come up with my very own pithy statement.

***

Today I cut out little felt circles. I placed them on a larger piece of felt, stacking them atop one another to fashion a snowman. "What you do, mama?"JR asked.

"I'm making a snowman for you." I held up the pieces for him to inspect. He palmed them, feeling their softness between his palm and forefinger.

"It is a snowman, JR. We'll make real snowmen when the snow falls from the sky." The curious tilt of his head tells me he gets it. Images of snowsuits, sleds, and me and JR making snow angels crowd my thoughts.

"Mama?"

"Yes, baby?" I am filled with anticipation.

He drops the small felt circles to the floor.

"Buzz." He picks up Woody and pulls his string. "There's a snake in my boots!"

"Honey, that's Woody." I gently correct him.

"Buzz."

I pick up the circles and wonder how hard it would be to make a felt Woody. Or Buzz.

***

I lure him into the kitchen with the promise of strawberries and marshmallows. I toss marshmallows up and catch them in my mouth. He thinks it is the most amazing thing he's ever seen (his laughter is evidence). His little sister sits in her bouncer, amused at the squeals of her big brother. Their whoops and giggles fill the room. In only a few moments I find that I can "trip" and "fall" and JR is in near hysterics. His little sister can barely contain her glee. Larry. Curly. Moe. I'm all three to the delight of my children.

Walt Whitman once mused, "I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing."

I get it.

I do.

I totally do.

Caught Up

Blank screen.

I have no idea what to write. Not a single clue.

Yet, my mind is filled with rambling thoughts, words willing themselves from keyboard strokes to the virtual page.

I hate when that happens.

I had a goal. I wanted to write a little every day. I thought my blog would hold me accountable to that promise.

It didn't. I got caught up.

Baby A is growing so fast. She used to fit between hip and knee, propped up with her head tilted as if listening to secrets instead of my sing song whispers in her ear.

JR is speaking to me. He was silent for so long and now he is all, "Mama, mama, mama." I cover myself with the warm cloak of motherhood with each mumbled syllable.

I find myself feeling heavy with frustration. I want so desperately to soak in my baby girl, to observe each twitch of bowed lips and shift of her slate blue eyes. I want to translate her melodic coos and chirps. Sometimes, I just want to hold her, to feel her heft against my chest or her soft frame curled within mine.

But he calls me. He needs me. I want to sit with him, watch him trace his fingers over the page, willing the words to come and bring the story to life. I want to guide him as he creates masterpieces of crayon, chalk and paint. I want to take his hands in mine and twirl him until we fall into a dizzy pile, legs entwined, locked in a loose embrace.

And then there is me. Mama.

Laura.

I used to know exactly who I was, what I wanted. I was passionate about so many things. I was fueled by an internal drive to succeed--to do something big, to be someone important.

I feel myself fading into motherhood and it is right where I want to be. I am big to them, I am important to them. I am enough as I am. There are things I want, but for now they can wait.

But so much will not.

She will grow out of the gentle curve of my body and leap out of my arms, never to return again.

When will the last day be? When will I last feel your squishy little body resting in my arms? I know there will be a last day . . .

I know his calls will one day be for someone else. The woman he needs will no longer be me. I get it. I do . . .

Do you need me? If you do, I'm here.

No, mama. I'm can do it.

That day will come.

It's OK. I want those days to come, to see my babies grow. To see them become independent, strong people of purpose.

But for now, I just want to hold them in my arms, feel their sweet breaths against my ear as we talk about how I love them "through and through." I want to stay caught up for as long as I possibly can . . . for as long as they'll let me.

Reason #354 on why Facebook Sucks

Click. Scroll. Click.

Nice. Swell. Awesome.

Today I have even more proof as to why I am the world's worst mother.

Flippin' Facebook. Oh, how I hate thee.

"Just took the kids to the apple orchard! The kids absolutely loved it! We're making homemade applesauce this afternoon and then we'll bundle up on the couch and tell stories about how much we love apples! What a glorious day!"

"Tanner's teacher told me how special Tanner is and that he incredibly advanced for his age. We are looking to have him tested for MENSA membership. We just adore our little one-year old. Wish us luck!"

"Just got back from a Safari in Africa. The children were ecstatic. We have some amazing photographs that were taken by a National Geographic photo journalist. He's thinking that our family would make a wonderful cover! Can you imagine? We just wanted to give the children the opportunity to actually SEE African animals and now we are going to be on the cover of a magazine! I'll let you know when so you can all pick up a copy.Maybe the children and I will fashion homemade frames out of bamboo for you to put the picture in. Wow, I am so full of ideas!"

"I just finished making 12 costumes for Ashley's dance troupe! I even weaved the cotton with my loom. It's so lovely. Later I'll be making a hearty vegetable soup (from veggies picked from our cooperative) that we'll deliver to our local soup shelter later this afternoon. All this and it is barely noon! I'm not even tired yet. Bring on the day!"*

Really?

Seriously?

I get it. You're perfect. You have an awesome life. You have a busy life (really? 'cause I totally think some of you are lying or at the very least, exaggerating. If not, then you are bragging and that just sucks). But, do you really need to tell all 6,543 of your friends?

It has gotten so mind-numbingly bad that I'm back to wishing for more posts like this:

"Just picked a splinter out of my big toe. It was big. Ouch."

"Ate Wheaties for breakfast. Going to shower now."

"Anyone know any home remedies for hemorrhoids?"

I'm not perfect. I'm nowhere near a supermom. I wouldn't know the first thing about African Safaris -- but WE do look at animals in books. Occasionally, I'll follow JR around and growl. That's as safari as we get in these parts. JR is nowhere near being MENSA material. He bangs his head against the wall for fun and his best friend is a tiny toy car named Lightening McQueen.

Once, a long, long time ago, I lived in a bubble. It was a glorious bubble free from Facebook and mom's groups. It was a bubble that had me believing that I was OK. I was actually pretty darned great. JR and I colored, played with Playdoh, I chased him and tickled him silly, we watched Sesame Street together (I am an expert at imitating Cookie Monster--and eating like him, too), I read to him, and we'd dance and spin in the living room until we were dizzy. Sometimes we did absolutely nothing but sit on the couch where I would hoist him up on my knees and make up songs.

Damn, I was good.

I don't doubt that I'm a good mom now. Trust me, this isn't a whiny post where I am desperately searching for words of support and encouragement.

BUT, I can't like, Facebook can make it tough (so can blogs and Twitter if we really want to get down to it). There are super amazing freakishly perfect people out there . . . let me tell ya.

As for the rest of us, we're just . . . we're just, here. Trying our best. Day after day.
"I just brushed my teeth (it's noon). I'm hoping I'll be able to take a shower sometime today--or at least before my PJs start walking on their own. JR just smeared finger paints . . . oh, no, that would be a Sharpie, on the walls. Baby A is grunting something extraordinary in her diaper. And, I'm pretty sure my washer is dead. Yay me."

That's more like it . . . yup. Sure is.

*So, none of the above post were actually on Facebook, but you get the point. And quite frankly, some of the posts are even worse.

Survival Mode: Act III

I grab fistfuls of damp grass, mud crusts underneath my fingernails.

Not wanted. Discarded. Dead.

I want to scream, to sob, but I'm suffocating. I stand among the ancient headstones trying to figure out how to breathe.

***
"I just think we need to take a break." He disentangles his fingers from mine, my hands drop to my sides. Defeated.

"Why?" My voice shakes. His answer won't make a difference.

I stare at my feet. They don't move. I don't breathe.

"You know I love you, right?" His eyes search mine. His finger lifts my chin so that my eyes meet his, but I squeeze them shut. I can't look at him. I'm humiliated. Embarrassed. Lost.

"God. You are beautiful." I'm giddy. "Every time we go through a yellow light, I get to kiss you." I turn to look at him, at this boy who makes me burn with longing. So this is what it feels like? This is love? Lust? Whatever. He wants me. I search for a green light and lift my foot off the accelerator.

I finally inhale. I'm only eighteen. The lanky boy with the sand colored hair is my first boyfriend. I have no clue what I'm doing. How do you act when someone tells you they don't want you anymore? There are no instruction manuals on how to survive this.

"I'll call you later," he says. He heads for the door, leaving me on my bed, my chin resting on my knees. No words. No manual. Am I supposed to cry? Would that be better than dying?

Frantic thoughts course through me, pushing out logic, flirting with insanity . . . i love you so much. please don't leave me. you are the only one i'll ever love. why don't you want me anymore? didn't I do enough to make you happy? what is wrong with me? am I ugly? stupid? your mom loves me. i braided your sister's hair and went to your brother's wedding. what about this ring? i don't know what to do? please . . .

"If he truly loves you, he'll come back." They sit in circles offering up words meant to shake the sadness from my bones. But the hurt runs through the marrow, clinging stubbornly to my insides.

"I'm just not ready. Can we wait a little longer?" Although uncertain, my words fall like bricks. He leans back into his chair, defeated. His smile fades as he turns his attention from me to nothing. I wonder if he still thinks I'm pretty.

I'm desperate to purge. I cut up his picture. I burn the program from Otello, the Othello opera he took me too only months before. We had front row seats. I pledged my love to Shakespeare. Later that night, I pledged my love to him. I smell him. I taste him. I see him every time I close my eyes. I dare not dream. I can't breathe when I dream.

"One day I'm going to marry you." He slips the band on my finger. The tiny stone still manages to catch the light. My thoughts drown out the lectures of the day. I'm too busy scrawling my name with his in my notebook.

I call his phone. I hang up before he answers. I listen to his voice mail messages. Replay. "I love you. See you at lunch." Replay. "I love you. See you at lunch." Replay. I wonder where he is now that he isn't with me.

My middle parts turn soft. My pain feeds on food and rarely surrenders to sleep. I sit on my bed in three-day old t-shirt and shorts eating soup noodles, granola bars, and Tootsie Rolls I stole from my roommate's secret stash. A rule-follower to a fault, I chug a beer when I couldn't sleep. The next night, I chug another. My roommate finally thinks I'm cool.

"Tell me your dreams." No one has ever asked me that before. Our feet tangle in the cool of the grass. His fingers pluck at the strings of his guitar as he puts my dreams to music. An empty clearing in an old cemetery becomes our Eden. I stare at him and swear that I see everything.

"She's not even pretty," says my friend. She tries to distract me to no avail. I watch him take the girl's hand in his while they walk across the courtyard, his guitar slung over his shoulder. I try desperately to catch his eye. I need him to see me, to tell me that she doesn't mean anything, to tell me that her dreams don't make music. He never looks my way. I can't breathe.

My hand moves over the passenger seat in my car. I remember him there. I hear him profess his love. I see the ring. I see a yellow light. He loved me once. But no more. I can't see past the ache. The loss etches its reminders in my flesh, wrapping me in a foreign desperation.

I drive. My foot pushes on the accelerator. I see flashes of him in my mind--his face, the cemetery, his guitar, yellow lights, my hand in his. They are cold reminders of what I no longer have. I try to piece together what I did. What I didn't do. I can't make sense of it. How does someone just stop loving you?

I drift left of center.

* * *

"I need to see you." His voice is familiar, the desperation is not. It's been three years since I last saw him. After letting me go and pulling me back in, one cool summer evening I finally said goodbye. Suddenly, my goodbye seems transparent and weak.

I agree to talk. We meet for dinner which turns out to be a setting for two at his apartment. Nervous, empty conversation over spoonfuls of spaghetti. This is what we've become.

And I feel nothing. No hurt. No pain. Nothing.

He tells me about his job, school, his goals. I nod. I'm impressed and proud. Nothing else lingers. I don't want to be with him. I watch his lips move, but I can't listen. I'm preoccupied with trying to understand why I ever thought the loss of him meant the loss of me.

I have no answer.

"I want you back." Wow. The four words every dumped girl dreams of hearing. He holds my hand, rubbing the soft square of my palm. "I need you." His hand reaches to my face, tracing the outline of my lips and bravely descending down my neck. This is all so familiar. Too familiar.

I sit forward in my seat and gently take his hands in mine.

"But I don't want you. I don't need you. Not anymore."

And suddenly, just like that, I can breathe.

Why not?

I'm going for it. I'm going to attempt to write a blog post every single day in the month of November.

You know, I had a brilliant blog post written.

Then I realized it was nearly 3 AM (I started it before midnight, swear) and it just wasn't so brilliant anymore.

More like the opposite.

See you tomorrow.

Vanilla

Narcissist. How dare you think of yourself so much. Stop reflecting. These thoughts, they are cumbersome.

I've always thought of myself as vanilla bean (all natural, of course) with caramel swirl and chunks of oddly shaped fudge. Some days I would even top myself with tiny pastel colored marshmallows. I didn't think I was just vanilla. But, just vanilla I may very well be.

Cruising the Internets, I try on posts for size. I shake them out and dig between their lines. Wondering. Do I fit? Does it fit? I read posts on disorders, loss, heartache, revelation, anger, and how to get the poo in the potty. I read about days too long and lives too short. I read about blossoming affairs, too much booze, sexless marriages, and hurdling victimization. I read abstract poetry that bleeds and pleads on the page. I read words that creep up the bony edges of your spine and whisper tauntingly in your ear, "You are not enough."

I cringe at the thought. I bend under the weight of my insecurities.

I remember my first year teaching high school. Roomless, I pushed around a cart, peering over the tower of files while navigating the perilous halls of the ancient school where dirt covered windows cast long shadows and perilous doubts. I even had a horn on my cart. The students ate me alive; they greedily gnawed on my fear and devoured my pride. Knowing there was very little to eat, I let them.

"Fake it until you make it," I told myself. You are only at year one. What shit-laced advice to give oneself. I didn't want to fake it, but I desperately needed to make it, bills to pay and all. I smiled with full teeth. I laughed with my whole aching body. I showed not one ounce of weakness and sucked back frustrated tears. They only saw what I showed them--my flesh stayed hidden, my bones buried. The smile was a simple yet perfect act of defiance.

I push through this blog, these posts. Am I writing down the bones of my history? Am I reflecting on my fragile present and the lives I have birthed ? Am I picking at half-healed scabs, hoping the salve of written words will heal? If so, like the clinician evaluating his patient, you should all be taking notes. Copious notes. On imaginary paper.

The truth. I can't fake it. I can't exist in spaces that aren't mine, even while I long for comfort in the soft folds of experience. My own story only occupies the periphery of where I am. I peck at it with my words, I pull at it with phrases drenched in longing. Longing to be more than the sum of another's history. My history was never about me. I was merely the observer in waiting.

But the words, won't they shape the stories, the fictions and truths you ache to tell? Will they? Or, will they fall flat and tumble across the page, exposed and empty? Gentle words, how can I place such a burden on you to provide shape to my existence?

I tell my stories against the grain of other people's histories. I tremble with the realization that maybe I have not lived. Maybe I have buried my truths for fear that they will break, will bleed, or even worse, fade against the backdrop of stories too vanilla to tell.

You cannot be what you are not. You cannot write what you do not know.

Yet this is it, this is what I have. I cling to it, the writing. It is my oxygen and I have been breathless far too long.

I don't know yet what I am. I don't know yet what I know. But, I know those words, no matter how clumsy and forced they may be at times. I know they are me. Vanilla? Maybe.

For now.

Survival Mode: Act II

I dip my head in just enough--a modern Ophelia with no agenda. The world around me turns into echoes of twisted apologies. I close my eyes and focus on the stillness, the quiet that wraps around my body. The weight of the water provides asylum from all I don't want to know, from all I long to forget.

* * *

"Shhhh . . . " I found my voice pleading with the three faces before me. They angled their small bodies behind mine as I reached for the door knob, cold and hard in my hand.

Movement in the back room. I am not distracted. It is their fear that calms me.

"Hi!" I greet the man at the front door. My cheery disposition betrays the calm rage working its way up my spine, twining around my shoulders.

My eyes meet his. He looks down at his worn shoes, smoothing his gray pants as he hands me a small slip of paper. A folded reminder that we have no money. Now, no water.

"So, you're turning off our water? Right now?" I ask him. My baby sister works her way in front of me, curiosity beckons her. He looks down at the small girl, barely a child, much more a baby, and nods.

"Can you give me five minutes?" I plead with him in a low voice, masking my words from the ears below. They need baths. We need water. To cook.

"I'll give you 20. I have a few other houses to visit. I'll shut yours off last." He bites his lip, his head shakes with knowing. I suck in my breath. He has no idea what he's given me. Twenty minutes might as well be hours, days. Halfway down the walk, he turns his head to face the tiny faces that follow him. I turn away, refusing all offers of pity.

"Is he gone?" my mother asks, emerging from her hiding place in the back room.

I nod. I am 15 years old.

"We're going to take a bath." I guide them down the hall.

I let the water fall over their tiny frames as I work a soapy rag over their bodies. We stand in a stream of water, washing off the remains of the day. I know there is no water left for me.

There is no quiet, no stillness.

The bodies bounce excitedly past me, dragging their damp towels behind.

This is my asylum.

Survival Mode: Act I

Her smile was tight and her hands gripped the wheel while a weak "Bye, I'll see you in a few hours" squeaked from her lips. Few. Too long.

My babysitter let the screen door shut before I had the chance to enter. The morning news blared from her TV set, the smell of stale cigarettes and bacon grease filled the small living room.

"Take off you shoes. Damn it, don't you kids ever remember?" she barked. She hid away in the kitchen, behind her newspaper and a cold cup of coffee. Across the living room her daughter, two years older than me with a body of curves and bulges that belied her eight years, was curled up on the burnt orange couch. The thrown. Her thrown. Her half-cocked sneer and arched brow were a bellwether. I shifted into survival mode.

I made my way to the other side of the living room to sit. To wait. The daughter flipped through stations, stopping only to watch my expression. I knew not to react. If I showed even the slightest bit of interest she would quickly change the channel. I remember once grinning wildly at an old episode of Gunsmoke. She flipped the channel and then let out a dramatic laugh of pleasure. I hated Gunsmoke. I was thankful that the sneering girl parked on the burnt orange couch was not too smart.

It swam in a congealed lumpy brown liquid. I pushed it around on my plate, hoping that it would either disappear or jump off my plate and run away before I had to take a bite. "You'd better eat every single bite," my babysitter let the words fall slowly, each a twisted reminder that she was in charge. So I ate. Every. Bite.

"That's mine," her daughter would stare me down, grabbing whatever it was I had in my hands, hers or not. I handed it over. There were too many battles in one day I had to fight, this was not one of them. I remember finding a knotted chain on the sidewalk while we walked to school. She jerked it from my hands, "It's mine!" Twisted. Knotted. Broken. Yes, I thought, it is yours.

"What is that?" My mom squinted at me as I pulled at my hair. She reached across the seat and found the soft pink mass that was lodged among the strands of long black hair.

"Gum? Why did you put gum in your hair?" I had no response, my teeth came down on my lip until I tasted blood. She worked for hours trying to free my hair from what was once a harmless piece of Bubblicious. Finally, she pulled out the scissors.

"Oh my God. You look like a little boy," squealed my babysitter, her short stubby fingers working their way through my hair. With cool satisfaction, a slow grin crept upon her daughter's face.

"You owe me a piece of gum," she whispered.

Tucking my shoeless feet under me, I silently nodded and counted down the hours. Only a few more to go. Just a few . . .

Survival mode.

Powerless

"Mama! Mama" JR's small hands pushed against my arms. He stared up at me with a mix of fear and worry. I was breathless and my grip on him was unrelenting. I couldn't let go of him. I could barely move. My mind had returned to a nightmare only hours earlier.

I had awoken to feed my daughter. She was peacefully tucked at my breast as I fell back asleep. In what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, I awoke to see her peering up at me, her arms working their way out of her wrap as if she were trying to reach for me, perhaps to comfort me. My body was tight, my heartbeat echoed in my ears.

I had a nightmare. I can't even bear to write the hazy images that are seared into my brain. I'm still trying to understand how such images entered my mind, invaded my dreams, and turned a rainy early morning into a bruising nightmare.

I can't protect you, can I? I'm sitting in front of JR watching his tiny fingers work the wheels of Lightening McQueen. He loves CARS. He pushes the little red car across the hardwood, an excited squeal escapes his lips. My shoulders tense.

His happiness protected by me. His body protected by me.

Little A's breath is warm against my neck. I feel the heft of her body resting against mine. She is so peaceful, so calm. I rest her on my knees, lean forward, and brush my cheek against her's. A lopsided grin forms on her face.

Her happiness protected by me. Her body protected by me.

But what if I can't? What if something happens? Illness. Accident. Or something far worse.

In my nightmare, I watched him hover over their tiny bodies. JR had curled his small frame around his sister, attempting to shield her. Unaware of the danger, Little A's legs kicked and her hands waved above her head. He knew I was powerless. My babies were his bounty. And I could do nothing.

From the warmth of my womb they came, but into the cold world they will go. For now they are safely curled in the niche of my body and under the ABC quilt in the room next to mine. But I won't always be there, no matter how much I want to, no matter how much I try. I don't think I have that kind of faith. And hope at times eludes me.

I've squeezed my eyes shut a thousand times today, willing the images to go away, praying that GOODNIGHT MOON, the fingerprint painting drying on the counter, the Cheerios under the couch, a single pink sock on the floor will distract me, remind me.

I don't feel like supermom right now. I feel frightened. I feel powerless.

My Child is NOT a Designer Handbag

Here's the deal . . . the number of play dates you schedule, the vast array of classes your kid attends, the brand name sewn in the back of his t-shirt, the "latest and greatest" toy you just purchased does not equal your ability, talent, or quality as a mother.

Playing dress up, rolling around on the floor, singing silly songs (that make absolutely no sense but would most certainly have Dr. Suess laughing and clapping while nodding his head in approval), putting together puzzles, jumping in the leaves, running around in the rain . . . makes them happy, makes them laugh, makes them smarter in ways we will never know . . . and it makes them look at you and say, "I love you, mom."

THAT should be enough.

But if you want to continue to brag about classes and playdates, designer clothes and the bajillion dollars you just spent at some toy boutique, be my guest. I'll be busy making mud pies.

I have no issues with classes and play dates . . . none at all. Big fan. But the "look at me and all I do as a mother" schtick gets old really, really quick. They are children, not a stinkin' Gucci bag.

OK. I'm done.

My Yearbook

I always felt them coming. I would be shuffling lunch bags and textbooks around in my locker while the heavy buzz of conversation echoed through the halls. Lockers slamming, feet hitting the floor, and forced laughter accompanied the strained faces of students rushing through the day. High school. A foundation for social learning that often crumbled under my feet.

But they never seemed to rush. They never seemed to try too hard. The sisters. The twins-- identical but yet completely different. Star was constantly animated and bursting with unrestrained energy. Angel was thoughtful, the rock her sister perched upon. They floated through the halls. Huddled together, they swapped secrets and we felt special because they always seemed to let us in on them.

Though they weren't conventional beauties and they didn't posses the edgy cool of the high school jet set, they were popular.

They were the kind of popular you didn't envy because you actually liked them and they liked you in return. They were genuinely nice in a place where nice usually got you nowhere. There were no, "Wow, I love your outfit," or "Hey, how are you?" only to snarl and roll their eyes as you walked away.

We weren't really friends. Then again, my life motto of "thriving in anonymity" didn't really lend itself to making a multitude of friends. That didn't stop me from observing them and sometimes wishing they were triplets and I was the third.

Facebook.

Some of you know I finally broke down and joined. I must confess that soon after I spent one very long night perusing profiles. A kid I used to babysit for. My old college roommate. The girl I detested in high school--the one I used to sit behind in Geometry and fantasize about tying her long stringy White Rain-smelling hair to the back of her chair--with double knots. The quiet drummer from English who penned song lyrics, skipped Steinbeck, and frequently starred in my adolescent dreams.

Profile after profile had me reliving my childhood, my teen years, my college years. And then I saw it. Her profile.

"I am now raising my two nephews after the passing of my sister Star from stage IV breast cancer. It has been a long and hard road for us all this last year, but we are surviving."

The twins had lost their Star.

I pushed myself back in my chair in disbelief. We had lost students over the years--but Star's death didn't seem real.

Breast cancer? She was so young. We are all so young. The cliche wore heavy on my shoulders, for who am I to stake a claim to youth?

But none of that matters, does it.

"Can you believe she's gone?" I typed furiously to one of the only friends I have kept in touch with since high school--one of my best friends.

The same disbelief washed over her. She immediately contacted Angel, Star's sister, and expressed her condolences.

"I have stage IV breast cancer," replied Angel. "I'm so worried about these boys."

Angel. Cancer.

But I still see them in the halls, their easy conversation and laughter trailing behind them. I see Star bent over her sister's desk, hands moving through the air as she acted out her latest adventure. Angel pushing up her glasses as she balanced her lunch tray. The sisters, arms wrapped around each other, grinning and posing all over my yearbook.

My memories of high school seemed forever untouched. Our youth was as eternal as the images in my yearbook. The promises of what was to come were so alive, so vibrant, so real.

Is thirty or so years long enough to live? I don't think so . . . but, such is life. Fleeting as it is, like the echoes in those old halls. What will Star's sons, Angel's nephews come to believe?

Between then and now, life went on just as the inked up pages of my yearbook had begun to yellow and fade.

For now, I'm going back to that hallway, to remember those sisters who were so full of life, so full of promise, so full of untouched tomorrows . . . if even for a little while.

Two

How did we get from this . . .




to this?


I have no idea. All I know is that it has been one crazy ride that I'd do all over again in a heartbeat.

Happy Birthday JR.

Thank you for teaching me how to breath . . .

and so much more.

Stabs at Coherency

Averaging about 3 hours of sleep a night (and day--does a 10 minute snooze during Sesame Street count?) I realize that trying to compose a coherent blog post is . . . what is the word? Oh, yeah. Impossible (you should know it took three times to spell that right).

Let's just spill it . . .

Rainn Wilson. Funny. I don't even watch The Office. He was on Conan and his wit gave me weak knees. I found him rather sexy in a geek-love sort of way.

Baby still has no blog name. What she does have is a favorite sleeping position. On me, one arm tucked up under my armpit, her head wedged up under my chin, her body curled up on my chest. Best accessory I've ever owned.

Pajamas. I have no idea how to get out of them. Showers elude me. You can fake clean hair with baby powder.

Baby girl dreams. My sister-in-law once said that she thinks babies dream of breasts. Every time I see baby girl's eyes flutter I imagine she sees all sorts of boobs--all shapes and sizes. Some sporting wings and flying around performing air acrobatics. Others basking in the sun. A few swimming in pools of milk. It makes me laugh.

I wish I could wear a Onesie.

No. I don't. Neither do you.

I get to change the diaper of a toddler and the diaper of a newborn. I've never experienced such joy. Heard in our household last week:

Dad (shouts from JR's room--upstairs): OMG, L, you gotta see this. I see corn, raisins, and I have no idea. D-A-M-N. Massive stinkage.

Mom (me--shouting from the living room): Um, T. Sorta busy. I got stringy seedy stuff down here. Excellent shade of mustard yellow.

Dad: Man, if this is our idea of fun on a Friday night, I can't wait for Saturday!

Mom (reaching for another wipe and shoving a diaper under a tiny puckered butt): Neither can I. *sigh*

A mom from my mom's group brought a meal that contained a homemade cheesecake. I ate the entire thing. I told her I shared it with my husband. I lied.

JR has finally realized that baby girl is here to stay. He seems OK with that.

And so do I.