Tis the Season For Tis The Season Blog Title Variations

I have a Facebook friend who is constantly broadcasting her good deeds: How much she volunteers and how much she donates and how much she does for others, with no gain for herself. And I find it perplexingly annoying. If you do a good deed and feel the need to announce it, then that seems to make it a little less altruistic, no? And yet I feel ridiculous lambasting a person who does indeed help others.

This is something interesting I noticed: In NYC, at the food store checkout line, there are little slips of paper that you can rip off and add to your bounty. Each slip is a little under seven dollars and it buys a meal for a homebound person in the city. It is subtle and casual and oh so easy to do. Here in Mass, I was at the grocery story and I nearly ran into, literally (runaway toddler) a giant display of those now lead-filled recycled bags filled with food. You can lift one of these ten pound bags of food and put it into your cart, taking up a good quarter of your cart, then pay for it, and — this is the kicker — put the giant bag in a giant box at the front of the store, to be delivered to a food shelter. Why not just employ the same slip of paper method? Why waste so much space and effort?

This is my very unscientific survey: In the city, I am a the grocery store every day, and frequently waiting on lines, and I have not seen one person take one of those clandestine tickets and buy a homebound persona meal. Not one. But in Mass, every time I am at the food store, I see DOZENS of people lifting those big, showy bags and putting them in their carts. Sometimes, even, two bags. I know there are all sorts of studies about this. Turns out we adults are a lot like kids, and we respond well to recognition and reinforcement for good behavior. “I Voted!” stickers come to mind. And the blood donation stickers. That sort of thing.

And, as long as we re talking about giving, it has always bothered me that some celebrities refuse to do commercials or endorsements, even though they are promised millions of dollars. I always think, why CAN’T you do a commercial for a freaking jewelry line that will be aired only in Japan, and take your $5 million dollar endorsement fee and, I don’t know, build a school? Make a food shelter’s year? Support a library? The celebrities say doing commercials and endormsemt will hurt their career. So what does that say about our society? Are we really going to stop watching someone’s movies because they did a commercial in Japan? It’s all so absurd. I would think that it would help their careers. Instead, pseudo celebrities are taking money for their own gain. Those ridiculous family of sisters have their clothing line and credit cards and TV shows and will show up for the opening on an envelope, especially if they get aid for it, and they are laughing all the way to the bank. Are they sharing? I’m gonna go out on a limb and say no.

Something I love about my Massachusetts town is that they just approved in their budget to spend just over 100K to help secure housing for the “6 to 7” homeless people in town who are committed to sobriety. I love that. The local food shelter recently received a 200K donation from a local school janitor, who saved that money his entire life. I love the sense of community here.

So what is the point of this whole post? I have no idea, really. All this is running though my head and the girls are sleeping and I have the luxury to raamble on.

Pictured above, I took the girls to Friendly’s. About halfway through our meal, a Veteran (he was wearing one of those war hats) came over and gave me a coupon for a free kid’s meal. It made me cry. Here is this hunched over man, who gave his time to serve our country and even now, in his old, old age, he is still giving. What can I say? I’m feeling sentimental these days. Meanwhile, the sundae looked nothing like the picture on the menu! False advertising. Who can I sue?

Mother/Electrician/Emotional Caretaker/Mere Bystander

Tonight Avery was climbing up the steps to the deck and said something when she got to the top that stopped me in my tracks, literally: “You can’t get me, monsters.” Now, there is little doubt that Avery and I share nearly identical emotional circuitry, but this particular statement is one that I used to say often (and its variation, “Monsters come and get me”) as a child. My own battle cry, of sorts, that I would declare once I was certain I was in a safe zone. And hearing Avery say it…How does that happen? How does Avery echo iterations identical to mine, thirty years later? My personal childhood soundtrack, in her three-year-old mouth?

She’s sensitive, this we know for sure. She is very loving and affectionate. She’s creative and gentle with animals and infectious with her joy. She has a sense of humor that cracks me up. And…she’s a little needy, which, of course, is adorable when one is three, but not so much when one is, say, close to 40. Life is hard when you go around with your heart stapled to your sleeve. But how do you warn a toddler about that?

Avery is also very impressionable, which was reinforced today when I introduced the Elf on A Shelf thing to her and Madeline. I told the girls the whole story (elf watches the girls all day; flies back to Santa and reports at night; relocates to new spot each morning). This highlighted Avery’s other quality silmilar to mine: She asks a LOT of questions. How does he fly, she asked. He has no wings. I said he flies by magic, like Santa. But Santa has flying reindeer, she responded. Oh. So that’s how it is now. I actually need to work on my lies. I can’t leave Grand Canyon-sized holes and assume she will not see them. I wormed my way out of that one. Just barely.

She kept an eye on that elf all day. I caught her sneaking peeks at him. She even referenced Chaco to her sister: When Maddie misbehaved, Avery warned her that Chaco saw it and Chaco would tell Santa. At the end of the day, she asked me to pick her up to see if Chaco was smiling. I assured her that Chaco would deliver a glowing report, and she seemed visibly relieved. I swear she sighed with relief. It is cute and charming and all that, but I felt terrible. I know there is a tangible reward for all of her good behavior (lots and lots of presents) but the writing is on the wall: We have a people-pleaser, an approval-seeker; keep-the-peacer on our hands. Hello, Mini Me.

We went out to dinner tonight, and meet up with Auntie Annie. The girls were both a little not tame, which is never good when spaghetti is involved. Madeline literally had a hysterically laughing Avery in a head lock and Auntie Annie told the girls that the waitress talks to Santa, so they better behave. Avery’s face went white and she became still as a stone, lips pursed, hands down at her sides. Maddie continued her hi-jinx — if not escalating said jinx — as if to pooh-pooh our waitress and her Santa connection. Then Auntie Annie delivered the best line of the night: “Maddie doesn’t care about Santa because she can make a toy out of a stick and a rock.” And that is so true. Maddie doesn’t need the toys. Or approval. Or incentive. Or even to please. I don’t mean that in a bad way; indeed those very qualities will serve her well in life. I admire that immensely. Maybe she can teach me a thing or two. But my Avery, she just sat there, almost petrified. Because she is afraid she is disappointing Santa and disappointing Santa hurts her.

So all day I found myself delivering Yoda-like speeches to Avery: “You don’t have to be perfect all of the time, but you must show remorse if you were not good.” And “Being good is its own reward sometimes.” I delivered various other statements that I am sure went over her head because the truth is, I have never been good at imparting lessons to the toddler set. It’s an art, really, and this coming from someone who is good with metaphors and similes and such.

But let the record reflect that there is a smidge of concern over here. I want Avery to be Avery, but I also want to shrink the lessons I learned after almost four decades of living to fit her. Going through life overly concerned about what others think is not the greatest way to live. How do I dial that down without overly distilling who she is? How do I cater to her emotional needs, while also showing her that she doesn’t need to be so needy? How do I let her exercise free will while also molding her? This is the parental paradox. On one hand, I am just a caretaker of this beautiful blooming flower. In a way, my job is just to protect it in the most basic way and watch it grow, because with or without me, she will. On the other hand, I am trying to add some fertilizer to the soil and help the flower be the best it can be. I love my daughter exactly how she is. But I can say with certainty that her emotional makeup will lead to quite a few sad days in her later life.

In many ways, I am proud that my daughter will grow up and be like me. In a way, seeing this girl evolve into me — especially lately — has made me feel a little more confident about myself. But I don’t want her to suffer the heartache and break that comes to those of us with such raw emotional circuitry. So I find myself scrambling a bit now, to burn the end of my own emotional circuits and disconnect a few wires that have proven to always end in sadness; to remember that while my job is to feed and bath and clothe, it is also to be a role model for my children, which is a role that often gets lost in the shuffle.

But if Avery chooses to live her life that way, then I am fine with that, too. I know how to feed that kind of soul. And I can promise her that I will always be there to help her pick up her pieces.

It is raining and I love the thud of the big drops on the roof. My girls are up now. It’s time to see where the Elf landed last night.

Pictured above, this is the face Avery had when I told her that Nicole and Maddie went for a walk alone. Avery, like me, wishes she could Velcro herself to Nicole. Alas. Also pictured, the Elf on the Shelf. And Avery, concentrating on painting her spice rack for Nana.

If You Don’t Have Anything Nice To Say

If our tax dollars pay for roads and schools, then why are there all those adopt-a-highway programs and why do we subsidize school funding with lotteries? There is a Wall Street hedge fund billionaire (this guy made two billionaire last year, which means he made a million dollars 2,000 times in ONE year, which means he could spend a million years every morning and every night for a year and still not come close to tapping his bank account) who is funding the campaign of a radical candidate who believes that the Constitution should be replaced with the Old Testament and that public schools should be abolished. Billionaires can buy candidates, and that is exactly what is going to happen soon. The top .000000001 percent of our nation’s populace will pick our government officials, and I’m guessing this doesn’t bode well for the masses.

Yeah, this is the sort of stuff that runs through my head all day. Well, that among other things. But it is really easy to feel like a teeny tiny speck of not-gonna-make-a-difference-so-why-bother. I’m trying to come up with my own action plan. My first objective: Convince Nicole to close all of our Big Chinese Bank accounts and put all of our money into a local bank. And if Bloomberg decides to run for President I will totally volunteer for his campaign.

Meanwhile, when random political thoughts aren’t racing around my head, I am reeling from a gift that our neighbors in NYC gave us. They were doing a bathroom renovation, which made quite a bit of noise. As a thank you for putting up with it, our neighbor gave us a gift certificate to have a family portrait done by a professional photographer/artist. We sit for a photo session and then an oil painting is created, based on the photo. Black tie suggested, for all of us. Total cost: Five-thousand dollars. Insane! I am beyond excited, and have spent more than a few hours coming up with creative outfit ideas. I tried to convince Nicole we should all dress as equestrians. Overruled. Hey, I thought it would be kitschy. Though I am trying to figure out a way to include over-the-knee boots. I scheduled a sitting for early next year, so we have some time to figure out clothes. And color my hair. The photographer will call me a month before to discuss the color scheme for the portraits intended hanging spot. Ha! Our apartment is not a blend of mid-century or Baroque or Minimalist anything. Cute that he thinks we have a design scheme. "Pottery Barn" with touches of "Restoration Hardware" about sums it up.

Pictured above, dress idea? That is so not something I would wear, but why not have fun? Who wants to see a portrait of me in jeans and a turtleneck with a cardigan? Not hot.Not hot at all. Also pictured, a bird, with a nut in his mouth.

Nature, 2. Nuture, Zero.

Avery may physically resemble Nicole, but it is becoming abundantly clear that Avery has the same emotional framework that I have.

The girls and I came up to Massachusetts early again this week. My “soaking up every last ounce of fall” rationale is evolving into “we need to be here to witness the first snowfall, which can be any time” excuse. Regardless, the girls love it, and I do too. Walks in the woods and trips to a real food store and visits to the library and running in the driveway trying to catch leaves as the fall on us does our souls good. Obviously, the biggest drawback is Mommy/Nicole withdrawal. We all know that I do not crave many spaces in togetherness, but I am at the point in life when I realize 1.) it isn’t all about me anymore and I need to remember that the girls come first and 2.) some space is a good thing and 3.) Nicole loves alone time so she benefits from an empty apartment every now and then and 4.) really interesting things happen when routines are all shook up.

Avery mentions Nicole all the time and asks when she is coming back. She misses her in an obvious and constant and wistful and occasionally visceral way. (Madeline, on the other hand, is the strong, silent type.) That alone makes her a lot like me. But our exchange the other morning really drove the point home.

Let me preface this by saying that I don’t like to yell or raise my voice to the girls, but when one spends 12 hours a day, every day, with them, sometimes I slip. And being up here alone, without Nicole, means that there is not an ounce of relief in sight. The other rainy morning, I was trying to get the girls dressed and shoed and jacketed and hooded and out the door to go to a toddler event at the library. I am never late, but having kids has definitely pushed me to the border of my lateness comfort zone. Cooperation is key, and I wasn’t getting it form Avery at all.

The more I asked Avery to cooperate, the more she too that as a license to run around like a crazy child. And she was being very picky and petulant. She had a fit and wanted to wear Maddie’s jacket, which I foolishly acquiesced to after about five minutes of listening to her whine about it. But then, after I switched the coats (Maddie is so very low key about these things), she wanted her coat back. You see where this is going. I started to loose my patience, and I spoke in a strong voice. She was jacket-less. She still didn’t have her shoes on. Maddie was ready and I was ready, so I started gathering the keys and books and told Avery to put on her shoes and meet Maddie and me at the car. Avery freaked out. She burst into tears, and ran around in circles looking for her shoes. She looked and acted terrified and was clearly in a panic. And then she broke my heart and asked me “Can you please hug me, Momma?”

She has asked for hugs before, and I know I need to hug her after a time out or a tough toddler/Momma moment, but this time it hit a chord with me. That is something I would do, demand that hug. Beg for physical contact. That is exactly how I act. I get so upset when I know (or think) I disappoint someone or even just during a difficult exchange that I feel like I need an instant and immediate physical act of proof that the other person still loves me. So while maybe I made someone mad or upset, I still feel like they love me. Childish, I know, but it is important to me. And it is why I tried to enact a rule that Nicole and I had to hold hands when we argued (I read it somewhere), but that sort of fell by the wayside. But I do think it is an important symbolic gesture.

Nothing is crueler than capitalizing on a child’s worst fears, and I won’t do it to mine. Some people, once they smell your intense fear of abandonment, really love to exploit it. This fear of mine has been exploited on quite a few occasions in my life, starting at a very early age. Was I born this way or did it evolve? I don’t know. But I do know that apathy and abandonment and even the threat of abandonment certainly added fuel to that emotional fire of mine.

While denying Avery affection or a hug certainly would drive my own point home to her, I won’t do it. There are probably 40 parenting philosophies that contradict this, but I will hug Avery on demand, no matter when she demands it. I will interrupt a time-out for a hug. And I am now starting to tell her that even when Momma is angry or upset or sad that she did something, I still love her. I don’t want her growing up thinking that love is conditional or that abandonment is normal. It’s not in my world.

In fact, I have a philosophical argument that proves that there is no such thing as abandonment, but that is another post.

And right now, at this very moment, Avery is biting her toenail with her mouth, which is something I did as a child (and can assure you I DON’T do anymore!). Nature, Point 2!

Pictured above, look who snuggled next to me as I typed this post. See….no space, physical or otherwise, in our togetherness! And also, late fall pictures.

It Might Come Cannon-Balling Outta the Sky

Watching the election return coverage is making my heart race. Political discourse these days is just so petty, contentious and annoying. Fox is too FOX. CNN is too CNN. MSNBC IS too MSNBC. Everyone yells and bickers and no one answers questions anymore. Spin spin spin and push your own agenda. Oh, then make an “It Gets Better” video, but don’t actually do anything to help things get better.

I voted in the morning, and it was a harrowing experience. It feels like it never happened. First, the polls opened about 25 minutes late, and I was five minutes early anyway, so I waited about a half hour to *maybe* vote. I watched one doctor walk out without voting because he had to get back to the hospital, and wouldn't get a chance to leave later in the day. Democracy in action, folks! The scanners weren’t working so I was directed by three distracted employees, who were clustered around me and several others, reading manuals and chewing on their fingers and arguing over how we vote without scanners. It was decided we fill out the ballot and stuff it into an envelope. I feel like my vote is out there, uncounted, lost in the bureaucracy of the NYC Board of Elections. The poll workers were not very encouraging. I had to even ask the yawing poll worker to return my ID.

And now, the returns on TV are just making me feel anxious and sad. Everyone seems so defeated or smug. Plus, I really hate that they make Rachel Maddow wear makeup. Couldn’t we take her seriously in a clean face and sneakers? I could. Why can't that be a Prop to vote for?

Anyway. After voting, I hightailed it up to Massachusetts with the girls. It is decidedly past peak here, but it is still heart-stoppingly beautiful. The palette has changed again: The golds have deepened to a rusty color and the reds are a bit browner. Most of the leaves have fallen off the trees, and the ones that are left drop like torpedoes. The air is chilly, though, and you can feel winter’s icy fingertips reaching for us. I’m ready! Well, first I need to buy new gloves, but the I will be ready. I lit a fire tonight, my first one all by my own self, as Avery would say, and after some fits and starts, it was decidedly roaring, then all glowy with burning embers. The girls are sound asleep and I am lounging in partial pajamas, as it is so hot. But I don't mind.

And the stars are just beautiful. I held Avery outside, tipping her back in my arms so she could see them twinkle, and she serenaded me with her "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

Tomorrow we will collect pine cones to make fire starters and go to story time at the library and paint with purple and red paint (their favorite colors) and make our daily trip to the food store for coffee! and cart rides! and aisle wandering! and go in search of some post-Halloween 90 percent-off bargains. I also will officially begin Christmas shopping.

There is an electric charge in the air or maybe just in my air. Or maybe it’s my lip gloss. Could be. Who knows? There's something due any day, I will know right away, soon as it shows. Etc.

Pictured above, Avery, our little Firestarter, helping with the wood. And Halloween. It was kinda a bust, as only three people in the neighborhood we traveled to opened their doors. I had NO idea there was a scientific process for picking out a neighborhood (I went with one with sidewalks....) But the girls were ecstatic anyway, so that alleviated the guilt I felt a bit. Next year, we will pick a better hood. You know, one with people that give out candy.

OK, I need to crack a window or take off more clothes. It's getting hot in here....

Triangles, Tanks, Teabags and How Does Your Garden Grow?

Everyone has a few talents in life, and one of mine is metaphors. Or, if I want to be technically accurate — and who doesn’t — I am good at long, in-depth analogies that include metaphors and occasionally similes.

I was talking today to a friend — who describes herself as a go-getter, a why-waiter, a love-maker and a life-liver — and explaining my garden analogy to her. She encouraged me to write it down, along with a couple others I have shared with her.

So here it is. Maybe it will change the way you look at yards.

You can tell a lot about a person by observing how they garden. Or, as the case is often, how they don’t garden. This is impossible to understand without examples (here come the analogies and metaphors!), so here’s one: There is this….person….I know who fancies herself a gardener. When asked what activities she enjoys, she will mention gardening. Conjures up images of wet dirt and spades and shovels and piles of weeds in a wheelbarrow. Sounds nice, right? However, step into her yard and you will notice immediately that you are not in the yard of someone who truly understands the verb “garden.” The lawn is frequently not mowed; trees and bushes grow out of control, with no pruning or trimming. There is no new growth, except weeds. Seeds are never planted and new plants and trees are never cultivated. The yard looks almost the same as it did twenty years ago, when she bought the house. She simply moved in and…did nothing. The only things she does is occasionally buy showy seasonal flowers: The kind you display for a couple of months till they die. Or, in other words, the kind of beauty that requires no effort at all.

This is not to say there isn’t beauty in this yard: There is. There is a beautiful thriving blue hydrangea, which blooms each spring without fail. The lesson here is simple: Beauty can grow, sometimes without attention or effort or intent. It’s indomitable, and can thrive in the worst of circumstances. And it’s inability to be killed off often speaks more to its own tenaciousness and not always that of its groomer.

So why does this person consider herself a gardener? Who knows, but she really and truly does. And yet her efforts in the garden amount to a couple of hours every couple of months and a few afternoons of raking leaves in the fall. This is also a person who does little to change her life; a person who does not put time and attention into relationships; a person who will take credit for beauty when it is not hers to take.

There are people who plant seeds, and water and weed and nurture and grow. There are people who look at a dying plant or tree and think, I can save that, and do. There are people who plant bulbs each fall, knowing that their reward may or may not come the following spring, but they do it anyway, their patience and faith and optimism is just that solid and formed. There are people who buy expensive plants and then ignore them, leaving them to wither and die, starving for water and light and attention. There are those rose gardeners, in their neat little gloves and usually a wide-brimmed hat, who carefully and strategically snip snip snip, even taking away what seems beautiful, for the greater good. There are those who carefully remove the weeds that are choking their trees. The ones who plant the same things year after year, with amazing results. The ones who plant the same things year after year, with detrimental results. There are those with no yard at all, who have one old plant on a windowsill or fire escape, that they water faithfully for years and years. The ones who have the most amazing flowers, shrubs and trees right outside their window, but they don’t even notice. People who see the beauty in weeds. Those whose street-facing window boxes are perfect, but private back yard is a mess. I could, of course, go on and on, as there is an endless array of gardening styles out there.

Is this an infallible way of learning about a person’s character? I think not. What is, really? But I do think that every action we make speaks to who were are as people. If there is one thing I believe in with all my heart it is this: Actions speak louder than words. This is one of the reasons why all those “It Gets Better” videos bothered me. I can’t stand the hypocrisy of politicians — including the president — saying it will get better and it will be okay, and yet these politicians are not taking steps to make laws that might protect these people and make changes that just might ensure that things will indeed get better. Yes, they get their damn sticker for even making a statement, but back up all those words with some actions. I digress.

So: Actions speak louder than words. And every action we execute helps define who we are. Our words can support who we are, but sometimes they support who we want to be instead. Our intentions, as it were. But our actions don’t lie. Therefore, how a person gardens just might offer some insight into who they are. It doesn’t work across the board, and it is open to much interpretation, and, yes, it is hard to apply to city dwellers (but not impossible), but it does work on a certain level.

I could extrapolate this further and say that the type of flowers we like might also give insight into who we are. Like me, for example. I love hydrangeas. Love them. Blue or pink or white. I want a yard full of them. I have no clue why I am drawn to them, but I am. They are a little fussy and only bloom under specific circumstances and need a lot of attention. Pot, meet kettle. My friend Molly reminds me of a sunflower: Sunny, bright and heliocentric, which means she, like the sunflower, will turn her head into the sunlight. What a great way to get through life. We all need to be sunflowers sometimes. I know a few cacti, of course (who doesn’t?) and a few beautiful vines that really are toxic weeds. But most of the people I surround myself with are perennials.

What kind of gardener am I? We have had the Massachusetts house for a year, and I can now say that I am more of a gardener than I ever was before. My gardening traits are starting to show. I know I should rake, but I love to see the lawn carpeted with those golden yellow, red and brown leaves. I planted bulbs for the first time this year, but am skeptical that those brown, onion-like nuggets I threw six to eight inches into ground will actual bloom into something beautiful. How does that happen? I tend to gravitate toward planting fully grown or partially grown things. I took it personally that the sunflower seeds I planted didn’t grow, even though I literally threw a few seeds in the dirt to see what happens. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty or get down in the mud, but I am not sure what I am doing and need lots of guidance from manuals, seed packets, other people, or the Internet. I don’t like watering plants, because I am not used to standing still for any length of time, but I do it anyway, because I know plants need it. I think weeds have a place in this world.

I want to have the most amazing, lush perfect, sanctuary-like garden by next spring, but I realize that it is going to take years of continual hard work, effort and patience, not to mention weeding, deadheading, transplanting and cultivating, before that even remotely happens. And I am okay with that.

I have gotten into the habit of checking on the girls before I turn in, and re-tucking them in and giving them another kiss or three. Three and a half years old and I still can’t kiss them enough.

Coming soon: More analogies! One about tea bags and one about impenetrable triangles and one about the tanks that we all have…

Pictured above, as someone once wrote (and named a blog!) hydrangeas ARE pretty! Below that, my little gardeners. And Madeline, in the leaves. I am so proud that she sees the beauty in fall foliage. And some of the bulbs: A big seed and a lesson in patience and faith wrapped up in one onion-like package.

I Need A Trapper Keeper For Random Thoughts

A snippet of a typical toddler conversation in these here parts:

M: “Looks Avery, Tape! Tape tape tape!”
A: “Momma got brand new soap for us and it’s pink!”
M: I like tape!

Well, their conversations aren’t always this scattered. They can have full-on chat fests and they tell each other stories all the time. Pretending is big with them now. I’m grateful that they get along so well. Apparently that is a rarity in the sibling world.

I am up in Massachusetts alone. Well, not alone, with the girls too, of course. I think of us as an inseparable unit: Wherever you find them, you’ll find me, and vice versa. Not that I am complaining. I am trying to slow down the passage of time and make these days last longer, especially since my niece and nephew left for China. Time is fleeting, and forty other clichés. This precious time home with my girls will pass, and I will lament that some day. I know I will. Empty nest syndrome is going to hit me hard, in kindergarten.

Coming up here alone is no easy feat for me. I am not a fan of spending the night alone, and being in the middle of the deep, dark woods does not help. I sleep with a flashlight, cell phone and car keys under my pillow. I would put a pocket knife under there too, if I had one. I sleep in the girls room and have an escape plan, should something happen (jump out window with girls and run like the wind). I leave the car parked in the opposite direction that I usually do, to facilitate a snappy, high-speed getaway. Yes, I worry and fret and conjure up all sorts of awful scenarios that are too absurd for even a bad made-for-TV movie. Be prepared: That’s my motto. Which might serve me well in life, if it weren’t for the fact that our lives are defined by moments that we never see coming. So I may be prepared for fires and intruders and bears, oh my, but it’s the wild card scenario that will do me in.

Which remind me…a friend of mine asked me to email her my final wishes. A list of things I want to make sure will happen, should I die. Morbid, no? But smart, especially as we get up there in years.

It is worth it, though, coming up here. We miss Nicole/Mommy, but the girls have such a great time. There is more room for them. We spend so much time outdoors. There are farms and pumpkin patches and llamas to visit. Stores with free day care. Fall foliage in abundance. Today I am taking them to a toddler story hour at the library. Yes, I can do these things in the city but everything is 1,000 times easier out here.

And, starting today some time between 2 and 5, we will have cable. After almost a year of no television, we decided it might be a good idea after all.

Final thought: I hate Play Doh containers. It hurts like hell, ripping those lids off. The side of my finger all ripped up. Yet another good reason to buy a multi-use pocket knife.

Pictured above, the girls first hair cut, and fall is busting out all over. And yet we are already putting up the Xmas lights….

Turning the Shards into a Stained Glass Window...

I am a mother of toddlers, which means if you looked in the giant bag I carry around (it’s a bag, not a purse. I don’t own purses) you will find extra pairs of size 4 princess undies, an extra pair of size four pants, a pink tutu, a random, awkwardly shaped toy that I was unable to negotiate leaving at home, and crushed emergency snacks in a zip lock bag. Today I brought the traveling Mom show on the road, and took the girls to visit Nicole at her office and then onto a play date with two friends and our combined seven children.

The girls lost their little minds in the glass elevator trip up to Nicole’s floor. Madeline actually gasped as we ascended, she was that excited. A few minutes later, as I sat in Nicole’s office, I wondered out loud (Nicole is used to my unedited ramblings…) if this could be one of the girls’ first memories, visiting Mommy at work. “Work” is such an esoteric concept for them, so could being in her office and putting the words with imagines make something click? I always wonder when that magic moment is going to happen, of the first memory. I hope that it is a warm, safe, cozy one. My early memories are just shards. I'm trying to arrange them into a lovely stained glass window, I really am.

Anyway, office visit did not disappoint. The girls were in heaven. Not one not two but THREE computers. A giant phone with a fancy screen and buttons. Avery pointed to various parts of the mega phone, asking Nicole what it is, because she has never seen a phone quite like this. “It’s still the phone,” Nicole said. About six times, as Avery’s finger inched a little more right, right, right. A chair that spins in circles and a round conference table to run around. A strange multi colored wall plug. And, of course, the corporate candy of choice, Twizzlers. Avery even found a Tinkerbell candy at the bottom of Nicole’s candy dish. The girls were in exploration nirvana, and I will not be surprised if they ask me to take them there every day for the next week or so.

The play date was so very pleasant. It was amazing how all of the kids played well together and actually gave their mommies time to (gasp! Can it be?) talk. Of course, she sat around talking mainly about the kids. But it was nice to do that without interruptions. We also discovered that combined the three of us would make the perfect wife: One excels at cooking, the other excels at meticulous cleaning and making a lot of money, and I bring organization to the table. That may seen insignificant compared to what the others bring to the table, but let’s remember that an organized home is a happy home. And imagine life arriving five minutes early for everything. Nice, right? Oh, and I could be the memory keeper and I am good at packing and heavy lifting. Cue up "I'm Every Woman."

Above, we went to a Fall Festival over the weekend. Maple snow-cones and fried dough with maple cream and apple pies and cider and artsy craftsy things. And one of the best caramel apples I have ever eaten (I may be wrong, but I think I tasted marshmallow is the caramel…) And the girls in Nicole’s office. Crappy picture, but I like that I am in it with them, sort of, all fuzzy in the window's reflection. Here we go again with window imagery and metaphors. I have so few pictures of the girls with me. They are my picture unicorns.

tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther....*

When my girls are in bed, in cute jammies, sleeping soundly, I feel like the worst mother in the world for a thousand little reasons. Like I could have done better. Should have done better. More, better, faster, longer. I feel bad that I didn’t make magical Bento Box lunches, like the magical Briar. That they didn’t eat anything green today. I feel bad that I didn’t read enough books, and even snapped one closed when they were being too wiggly, and threatened to stop reading for good unless they adhered to my reading policiy. I let them watch too much TV, because we were stuck inside for most of the day, trapped by the threat of a massive storm named Nicole, which turned out to be not much of anything. (We made it to the playground, at least.) I let them eat way too many ice pops, mainly because I love watching Avery shuffle off to the kitchen, open the freezer, pull out a pop and hide it behind her back and then come and find me wherever I am, and say “Don’t be mad Momma. I just want a purple pop. Purple’s my favorite.” How can I say no to that? How? I can’t. But after three pops each, they explode into a sugar rush and play Let’s Move All The Cushions And Pillows into One Central Location and Jump! and I deeply regret my errors and lose patience.

But now when they are all nestled in their beds, Maddie tucked in like a bug in a rug and Avery, on top of her covers, which are already twisted up. And then I take comfort in the fact that I let them stomp in puddles at the playground, because that’s what kids do, and just gave them a bath when they got home. And I let them play “Slide” in the tub, even though it is, oh, dangerous. “Look Momma, you’re smiling” said Avery. Because it did make me smile, the way they stood up at the back of the tub and said “Let’s do it together” and then they would sliiiiide down and make a splash. The look of surprise on the faces, it made me smile. And I let them each pick out a snack at the store (Cheddar Bunnies for Avery and Scooby Snacks for Madeline). So maybe that is the balance there. I try to remember that a good mother doesn’t have to be perfect all of the time.

Back up to Massachusetts tomorrow. It is stunning up there now, with the leaves changing color. It’s bulb planting time. I think the girls are going to love doing that. Maybe almond asiago pesto pizza with farm-fresh leeks and squash and corn. Maybe a movie on the couch at night, while I wait, hopefully, to hear the owl calls. Taking lots of pictures and waiting to see if one of my pictures receives an honorable mention in a photo contest I entered. That would be nice.

* Thanks Fitzgerald. He gets credit for that quote.I always loved that. Seems an apt description of motherhood.

Political Parties, Potties, Personalities, Pink Sauce

I am thinking about switching my voter registration to republican, but not really switching parties. Here is my maybe-not-logical thinking: If I register as a republican, I can vote in their primary elections. And if I vote in republican primary elections, I can select the lesser of republican evils. Before people start yelling, I am not calling republicans evil. Well, not all of them. But there is a special place in hell for Cheney, don’t you think? Also, not a fan of the recently deceased Kl.u Kl.u.x K.la.n senate member Robert Byrd. So if a republican is holding a public office, then I would prefer a liberal one, who supports gay rights and stem cell research and a woman’s right to choose, etc. And the republican party is on the cusp of change and evolution, and these divides are becoming quite prominent. They are becoming so much more dynamic than democrats.

What good is my democrat primary vote doing anyway? The democrat party is white-washed and the candidates are too close in positions to make any real difference to me that I tend to vote for The Woman, my own political version of affirmative political action. As a democrat voting in primaries, I am basically practicing feminism, and not true political decision-making. But if I were voting in the republican primaries, I am pretty certain I would be paying more attention to the subtle nuances of character and record, and looking deeper into their positions. And when it comes down to general elections, I can make an informed decision. Or, at the very least, be able to defend my selection with more facts.

All this mosque controversy and Quran-burning ridiculousness (A church with fifty followers? I feel like I could establish that by dinner. Think of the tax breaks!) and the mid-term elections and DADT and double-dip recession talk and, in international news, France and its Burqa ban, has got me in a political/religion-discussion mood. Anyone else? I miss the conversations and debates and even the flame wars that everyone was having around the presidential election time. Everyone, including myself, seemed much more engaged way back then. Now bitterness and anger and I-told-you-so’s are the flavor of the day, in both camps. There’s the “Nobama” camp and the previous Obama supporters, who are a tad more defensive than I would like. Is he a Clinton or Carter? Only time will tell, but history has proven it is too early to know that answer quite yet, so we should simmer down, live with our decision, for better or worse (after all, there’s no going back now) and focus on the critical November elections.

On a completely different note, my children cleverly justify any annoying sound they make with “But Momma, I’m trying to make music!” This makes me feel like I’m interfering with their artistic expression if I ask them to stop banging with a wooden spoon or hitting their potty with a block. Other expressions heard round here include “But Momma, I’m trying to make a cake” and “But momma, I am trying to make a pool.” These situations usually involve big messes. And then there is Maddie’s all-encompassing line: “But Momma, I’m trying to do something” and “I’m practicing.” This is what she says when she is doing anything wrong.

There are two potties here now and we are in the throes of potty training. We started last week in Massachusetts, and it was touch and go. In other words, frustrating, messy and traumatic for both of them. Then, on Sunday, something clicked with Avery. She is suddenly using the potty exclusively and using a pull up at night. Nicole warns not to get too cocky; indeed I have heard horror stories of reversals. My fingers are crossed that she is transitioned.

Madeline is taking a slower path, but she is wearing underwear and is making it to the potty 75 percent of the time, so I am grateful for that. When I start to get frustrated I remind myself that they are two different children with two different personalities and two different internal schedules. This is abundantly clear when they dance: Avery channels Bob Fosse while Madeline prefers a Twyla Tharp approach. Still, potty training is going a lot faster than I thought, which is in general how I feel about everything since having kids. It's 2010. When did that happen?

OK, time to make pink sauce for dinner.

Pictured above, scenes from last week, including a rare picture of Madeline, the Marlene Dietrich of the twin set. Well, technically, I have so few pictures of Madeline because she is so kinetic, not because she is private. It’s hard to get her to stand still, let alone smile at the camera and say cheese.

Le Grenouille Has Nothing on The Big Y

On Saturday, Nicole and I had a hot date at a food store. I am not kidding. This is the fabulous Massachusetts food store that features free childcare (for up to two hours!) that the girls tried earlier in the week and loved. I guess they forgot the horror of this past winter’s “gentle separation” class. Avery calls it “store school."

While “store school” was in all likelihood created so parents can shop undistracted,and thus spend more money, we used store school for our own advantage. The catch is, we can’t actually leave the store, but that is fine. Freedom is freedom, and it is easy to find a meal in a food store. The girls waved goodbye to us and went in like they do this every day. Nicole and I held hands as we walked down the romantic pet-food aisle (nothing says I love you like a 50-pound bag of kibble) and positioned ourselves in front of the surveillance TV in the Meat Section, where we spied for a moment on our oh-so-happy children, who were playing with the Childcare Specialist like it ain’t no thing. I think I may food shop every day we are up here.

Assured of their well being, we went to hunt and gather lunch. First we sampled a free baked clam (appetizer!) and picked up lunch at the Grinder Station. We sat in the lovely gardening section, surrounded by fall flowers, and enjoyed our childless meal. All that was missing was candle, which I could have picked some up in Aisle Four. Next time. For dessert, we sampled free Starbucks instant coffee. Cheap, convenient and tasty, like how I like my women (JUST kidding....).

It came to an abrupt end because we were paged by the Childcare Center. When we got to the Center we found a pacing and anxious Maddie. The caretaker thought she was tired, but we knew otherwise: She had to get on the potty, quick. The girls have been in intense potty training boot camp all week. We raced out to the car and improvised with a box. It’s exhausting, this potty training stuff, and sometimes requires MacGyver fixes. But they are making headway. Anyway, we didn’t get to buy the mums that we wanted, but all things considered, it was a lovely meal. We might spend our anniversary there. And unless someone wants to come up to Massachusetts and babysit, that is not a joke!

Now we are back in the city, where two hours of daycare would run us about $85 dollars and food shopping is an obstacle course with a double stroller. We were in Massachusetts for ten days and it was bliss. I was witness to the subtle shifts from summer to fall in ways that I just can't see in NYC. I have seen trees go from all green to green with spots of orangey, fiery red, in just a week and a half. Crunchy leaves fall on our driveway, and skitter across when the wind blows them. There is a chill in the air that makes me look forward to turtlenecks and sweaters and scarves. Fall is really here and I intend to appreciate every moment of it. Starting with the cardigan that arrived here in the city in my extended absence.

Pictured above: The cafe; the appetizer; the dessert. Jealous?

Thanks. I’ll Be Here All Week.

We are in Massachusetts for the entire week. Nicole is working from home (perk of the new job) and, sadly, she really is working. Part of me was hoping “working” meant playing, gardening, going for walks, shopping and exploring. Ha. Instead, there are conference calls and laptops and phones and ssssshhhhhh, I’m on the phone. You know, actual work.

So the girls and I are having a fabulous week of adventures. Nicole keeps stressing about us having to keep our distance so she can work, but it isn’t bothering me at all. We are taking long drives, purposefully getting lost and letting the GPS take us home. We are getting a baseline for the soon-to-change foliage. We are going shopping. We are discovering new bakeries. We are making cookies. Playing in the yard. Even mundane activities are exciting. I took them food shopping today and they asked to go into the free daycare center there. How great is that!? Free daycare in the grocery store for up to two hours, and my children WANT to go. And there are TVs all over the store so you can spy on them. I went there for seltzer and coconut but spent a good half hour just walking the aisles and chatting on the phone while my girls made castles with a CPR-trained child specialist. They were having such a good time.

We managed to work in some fun before Nicole’s work week began. We took the girls to another fair (party carnival, as they call it) and let them eat crappy fair food (lemonade and ice cream and caramel apples) and ride on the rides. We went to the nursery and bought black-eyed susan’s and a forsytia plant, which we planted. We took them outlet shopping. OK, maybe that wasn’t fun for them, but we let them ride those coin-operated things while I waited on line for twenty minutes to buy underwear.

Everything seems better surrounded by nature. I am sitting here blogging, listening to the wind through the trees, while my children are playing outside. Leaves are literally falling on the deck. Fall is really here, and we are witness to it.

And now, we have to go to the dump….

Once Upon a Midnight Dreary

It is dark here, Very, very, very dark. I am up in Massachusetts, alone with the girls for the night, and I would be lying if I didn’t admit to being slightly terrified. OK, maybe not terrified, but let’s just say I am not exactly comfortable. And I am wired and hyper-alert. So this might be a long post.

First off, it is a personal accomplishment that I am even here. I had the ultrasound today and it was, from start to finish, a pretty miserable experience. The technician was humorless. Her first comment to me, after slathering on that cold, cold gel, was “Your bladder is empty.” And then she pouted. I’m not kidding: An honest-to-goodness pout. She might as well had put her fists on her hips and stomped her foot. I pointed to my Nalgene and said that is my third one in the past hour. Plus four cups of coffee this morning. And just or good measure, I told her I had to pee. “No you don’t,” she said back to me. Which is incredible because no one has ever told me if I really had to pee or not. And I most assuredly had to pee (and did, five minutes later, before the wanding).

Her second comment: “Wow, they really botched you up inside.” She was referring to the placement of my internal organs. I am not accustomed to people talking smack about my internal appearance. Our tense conversation then went something like this:

Me: Really? You can tell that?
Her: Oh yes.
Me: It was a rough C section. Will this have any sort of effect on me in the future?
Her: [silence]
Me: I mean, it’s ok if everything is slightly askew, right?
Her: [scrunches up her mouth and nose]
Me: OK, tell me this: Does this just mean I am not pretty on the inside anymore, but it doesn’t negatively impact me any other way?
Her: Yes.

Of course the screen was turned away from me, but I could catch a reflection of it in a Plexiglas wall covering. I saw her measuring my ovary. And then something else. And then she stepped out for a minute and came back with a doctor. Who did some more measuring and looking and typed some things and left. Mr. Bedside Manner. He was gone again before I could ask him why the hell he was there. That freaked me out, because it is never good when a doctor shows up. Next up, the wanding, which was extra painful, because it seems that my uterus is quite crooked now, so I must be really probed.

I tried to fish out a morsel of info from the tech, but she was tight as a clam. I sighed and asked how long till the results make it to my doctor. She said two to three business days. That meant I would be lucky to get a call on Tuesday.

Imagine my horror/shock when I missed a call to my home number AND cell a mere two hours later (I was in the middle of a toddler fiasco). It was my doctor’s office, calling to discuss the results of the scan. My stomach flipped and my mind started racing. I called the office back but, of course, the doctor was on another call.

All this as I was about to leave for Massachusetts with the girls. I literally sat down and thought, I’m not going. I can’t get on the road and not know why my doctor is calling two hours after then scan. I can’t go anywhere until I speak with my doctor. But I got up (sticker, please) and loaded eight bags and one toddler potty onto my arms (sticker, please) and took the elevator downstairs, where Nicole was meeting me with the car (sticker for Nicole).

I tried to get Nicole to admit that the two-hour turn-around time doesn’t bode well for good results, but she was quite even. Maybe later she will admit that it was alarming, but she didn’t let me drive off thinking that that was anything less than totally routine.

How much longer can I draw this out? To be honest, there is no real answer to my medical woes, and the call was anti climatic in that of course it requires a follow up. When I spoke with my doctor, she said the report indicated what they think is a cyst. I need to follow up with my ob. My doctor asked if I had followed up yet with my ob (she even had my ob’s name) but since we just switched insurances, I said no, I am looking for a new one. I mentioned my difficulty finding one that is accepting patients before Oct/Nov, but told the doctor I would search anew and would make an appointment after the holiday weekend. Why all the details here? Because Nicole tried to assure me that if they were super concerned, they would have told me I need to see a doctor right away. But the way I see it, I said I WOULD see an ob right away, so I can’t tell if my doctor had a sense of urgency or not. Cyst? Tumor? Is it getting bigger? Smaller? Good? Bad? Don’t know.

But it comes down to this: I can’t worry if I don’t know what I am worrying about. I can worry over biopsy results or worry over will a scan show something (it did: Worry justified!) but I just need to make the next appointment and see what to worry about next. So I guess I am pulling down the covers and tucking worry in for the night. Because this week of worry really drained me and I need to get a break from it. I just wish I would stop the bleeding. It is a constant reminder that something is not quite right.

And besides, now I can worry that my transmission light on my car is blinking. What is that all about?

We are up here for the weekend and aaaaaaaaall of next week. The girls and I came up early for two reasons: To beat the holiday traffic and to counter any potential storm traffic. The combination of the two could create a veritable perfect storm of traffic woes. Nicole is taking a train up tomorrow and the girls and I will pick her up. This is my first time alone here, and it has taken me almost a year to work up to this. Yes, staying here, in the woods, alone with the girls, scares me. But I really want to get comfortable with this. I mean, it was a perfectly wonderful evening: Dinner out, followed by rousing rounds of Memory on the carpet for a half hour followed by jammies, playing house and a trip down the street to see the llamas. They went to bed fairly easily and here I sit, on the couch, blogging and reading and waiting for the sun to come up.

Pictured above, Avery in town; the girls at dinner.

I am an [Oxy] Moron

It seems I haven’t heard the last of my pelvic pain. I gritted my teeth through the first round of acute pain. It was not nearly as bad as ectopic pain, but bad enough that I went looking for some Percocet and spent some time with Dr. Google. Then the sharp pain went away, and was replaced with a gentle throb. Throbs, I can ignore, deny, give the cold shoulder. After a brief but welcomed hiatus, blood returned. Now this is an entity that demands attention. No matter how many ways I attempt to explain it away, I can’t.

So I have an appointment for an ultrasound this Thursday, made after calling different places for almost an hour to find someone, anyone who would take me. I am prepared for the stoic sonogram technician and know that s/he is not allowed to offer up any info. They can go ahead and probe my most private of parts but they can’t offer a sliver of information? I know, I know, it’s the law blah blah blah. Luckily I have gotten pretty good at reading scans. At the very least, I am good at knowing when the technicians are measuring something. Plus, as long as I can see the screen I can get an idea of what is going on. And, I have been know to gently extract some information “off the record” from technicians in the past. I guess they see the panic in my eyes. That, or they just want me to stop talking.

Of course it will take a while for the scans to make their way to my doctor and my doctor to get back to me with an Official Diagnosis. My head has always gone to the worst case scenario. Nicole says I do that all the time. I think “all” is a bit of a stretch, as I did, for example, walk through an ectopic pregnancy that was excruciatingly painful without thinking I was dying, but I will agree that this is a coping mechanism I do indeed employ. I need to walk myself through, say, cancer, so everything is will be a cakewalk. If I can figure out what to do if the worst of the worst happens, then surgery to remove cysts? No problem.

I have four reasons why I am extra Cancer-worried:

1. I took so much fertility medication and, well, studies show that those meds have lead to cancer. On the other hand, studies show that those meds do not lead to cancer. Let’s just say I am not happen that there are studies, period. Where there are studies, there is justification. Somewhere, there is justification. Somewhere someone’s inside exploded from too many rounds of injectibles.

2. My mother had surgery to remove some cancerous growths form her uterus when she was about 40, two years older than I am now. I was in ninth grade I think. Let’s just say I have had a hard time finding out EXACTLY what it was and what the diagnosis was. But I do remember, clear as day, a lovely diagram she drew for me and when she had surgery and that the word pre-cancer at the very least was used. I also had to skip a field trip to see a Frederico Garcia Lorca play in the city on surgery day.

3. My c-section was so not smooth. They had a hard time stuffing my uterus back in. And then there was the whole kidneys shutting down thing. Not sure how I get from botched c-section to cancer, but there you go. Maybe that is what Nicole is talking about.

4. I am from Long Island, which is basically a 90-mile-long cancer cluster.

My back-from-Italy friend Jen is convinced that all will be fine based on her very scientific reasoning that horrific things only turn up in random appointments. Like a routine physical that turns up skin cancer. I guess I should believe her because her husband is a surgeon, so she is one heartbeat away from a medical degree and first-hand knowledge of these things.

I’m not going to lie. I am a little worried and am more than ready to have this over and done with. I could use some distraction right about now. Not the distraction that the aforementioned Jen offered today, which included a horrific story about a friend’s husband who is battling cancer. (I had to cut her short on that one!) But some sort of distraction would be good.

And I’m not going to lie about this either: There is a small part of me that wants to just blow off the entire sonogram. Just ignore the appointment. I have never done that before. I have become a person who wants medical information immediately, more so than ever before, now that the girls are here, but I am strangely, bizarrely and uncharacteristically willing to pretend that everything is fine, even when I know something is wrong. The real question is, big wrong or little wrong? Chances are very much in my favor that it is little wrong. And here I am, caring and not. An oxymoron.

Pictured above: Maddie, in Leif’s and-me-down orange sweater. It still has his Leif scent on it! Below that, a weird tree thing. And Avery holding an inchworm. This child of mine is so ready for a pet! And last but not least, my most joyous hide-and-go-seeker. Maddie looooooves this game, even though she only hides in two spots (the closet and the under a coushin in the couch).

I'd Like A Sad Sandwich with a Side Order of Angry, Please. No Mayo.

I woke up this morning feeling the sharp pang of one week since my niece and nephew moved away. I had horrible, vivid, lucid dreams the night before, so that didn’t help my state of mind. I was just sad. Sad that this could be the beginning of a very slow separation process brought on by diverse geographical locations and opposite time zones, which could ultimately drive a very large wedge in my relationships with my niece and nephew. Or it could make it stronger. To recap: Hoping for the later, scared of the former. In the meantime, just happy for the phone call we had, and looking forward to more. Like now. Now is a good time. Is now a good time for you?

I love the care package idea and am already planning the October one. This involved buying black spray glitter to make bat cards. Black spray is, apparently, a rare commodity both in real stores and online. Back to the drawing board. And I better keep things light: It costs a ridiculous amount of money to send packages to China. Maybe I can just send one of the bats from near our house? They are light as a feather and can fly far. And they make great pets, if they don't carry that deadly rabies thing.

We were up in Northampton this weekend. Saturday was beautiful and almost a perfect day. We got work done around the house; I bought a new cozy sweater and pajamas; we discovered a farm five minutes from our house that sells fresh veggies and eggs and fruit and has chickens, which the girls loved. We had our favorite arugula pizza at night. Sunday, it was rainy, but there is something about rain in the woods that is awesome. I could fall asleep listening to it, if it weren’t for the fact that I have two kids running around narrating every thought that enters their little heads, thus making it quite difficult to hear anything other than their toddler drone. Avery, in particular, does not stop talking. She has hit the “why?” phase and follows up each sentence with “But why?” or “But how?” and “What’s that?” I find this quirk adorable and charming, but it can get frustrating when, say, I am trying to explain the elements of the Quaker religion to her. But why? She asks. I don’t know, I say. Ad infinitum…

Lest I seem ungrateful, I should point out that I love this stage in the girls’ lives. And now, especially after Leif and Skye left, I am even more grateful for them.

But now I need distractions. A great one will be released on Tuesday. And for tonight, I downloaded a movie to watch. But after an hour it was only halfway downloaded, so I gave up. That will be tomorrow’s distraction. This post was tonight’s uninspired distraction.

Pictured above, holding hands at the apple orchard. And Avery and Nicole trying to pinpoint, via an Owl app, which owl I just heard hooting in our woods. I am so excited to get an owl to roost in our woods!

It’s My Heart You’re Taking As You Go

When I was about eleven years old, my grandparents had a garage sale. Somehow I ended up there and somehow I ended up the proprietor of my very own card table and in possession of a silver money box packed with singles and loose change. While my grandmother was selling dusty crystal and no-longer-loved knick-knacks, I was selling boxes of brand new Made in China digital clocks and pen watches. Who doesn’t love a pen with a digital clock imbedded in it? It was the 80s, after all. I think there were also phones, the kind with cords and clock radios attached to them. The assorted electronic goods came from my very own garage, some sort of surplus from my dad’s import business. I was raking in the dough, which I was most likely going to promptly deposit into my savings account, because even way back that I was a good pleasure delayer.

What stands out from this otherwise lackluster memory is a random comment from a random woman. She was browsing my wares while I stood proudly and importantly behind my table with my grandmother next to me. Random woman looks up at me and then turns to my grandmother and (speaking as if I wasn’t there) said “My, my, someday that one is going to be a heartbreaker.” She might have clucked too, but I don’t trust my memory.

To this day, I do not understand what that woman saw or why she said that. Maybe it is something she says to people to make them feel good about themselves, though that is kind of creepy, considering my age. Or maybe it is something that neighborly people say to their neighbor’s not super cute grandchildren. Because there was nothing about my appearance that would suggest “heartbreaker.” Nothing. I had buck-ish teeth with a giant space between the front two. I was in that awkward space of not thin and not fat, but “husky.” I bit my nails to the quick and I was probably wearing glasses, and since it was probably sunny, I was probably squinting in a not flattering way, with my mouth open and nose scrunched, like a rapid dog baring its teeth. Yes, I just compared myself to a rabid dog. And my sense of style at that age was very, very undeveloped. Very. And let’s remember that I was standing behind a table stacked with leftover electronics, which did nothing to enhance not-very-cool status.

The things we remember. This always stuck in my head. Something about how she said it, like it was a compliment, like it was a good thing that maybe some day I would break some hearts. We all need goals, I guess, but that one hadn’t popped up on my radar. I get that it is an expression and I get that I shouldn’t take it so literally but I did. It stuck out, probably because it was so absurd.

The thing is, I don’t think hearts break. And I don’t think I broke any. I may have trampled a few in my stampede of figuring out who I was and what I wanted out of life, but I am fairly certain no one is crouching in a dark corner, clawing at their face, screaming my name. Hearts, I think, get carved up and stolen. Janice Joplin had it right with that whole take a piece of my heart song. Broken things can be fixed, but little pieces can’t be replaced. A little piece of my heart disappeared when my niece and nephew left for China. I know it sounds so dramatic, but it’s true. I love those little people for who they are and I love that they are mine and I especially loved that they were near me. I am trying to figure out how this new dynamic will work. I spoke with them last night and it was great to hear their voices. To hear their little stories about finding a gecko and the mundane happenings in their day. It occurred to me that this story may even have an ironic twist: We may perhaps speak more and see each other more than we would if we still lived a few miles apart. Only time will tell, but I am working on manifesting that. Thank god for the internet and the postal system and digital cameras. So I will make the calls and send the emails and craft the Halloween cards and demand the pictures and hope for the best.

Pictured above, my brother (I blacked out his face....) and nephew shopping at the Chinese version of Costco. My sister in law said that people stare at them wherever they go, and follow them around. You can see that here, with all of the store workers clustered around them. It made me laugh. Also pictured, their new skyline.

Checking In, Dialing In, Ordering In,

How do I deal with situations I can’t deal with? I asked my therapist this the other day and she didn’t have an answer. I want my money back. I mean, if she can’t answer every question and magically make everything better, then what good is she? $150 to anyone who can give me an answer to that question.

On my mind lately is the big C word: China. And there is another C word on my mind, but let’s start with China.

My niece and nephew are leaving for China on Sunday and I am just not dealing with it well. I knew this week would be hard, but I am finding it little more arduous than anticipated. Sort of a sucker punch, even though I knew it was coming. My mind can’t stop racing. There is no stopping point, no safe thought process that doesn’t meander right . Every thought leads to They Are Leaving. And I just feel like I am splashing around, trying to get anyone’s attention and looking for life rings, for land, for a freeking sand bar at least. And then I get angry with myself because God knows I can never deal with any emotional trauma on my own, which makes me feel weak.

I may not be dealing with some current turmoil well, but at least I can deal with historical issues much better than I did before the girls were born. It’s not like strands of my tangled, awful, bad, sad and painful memories were just plucked out of our head for all of time, in some sort of a science fiction way. I just think I have gotten a tad better with accepting things that have happened. Making peace with things I can’t change. Accepting things for how they are, or were, as the case may be. So I can look back, analyze something and pick it apart and try to pull out the lesson, and leave the rest of the mess there. Emotional evolution. And while I am sometimes guilty of the whole Woe Is Me attitude or getting lost in some negative thoughts, I think in general I am embracing the concept that it is okay to look back, but not to stare. It’s like staring at the sun: Nothing good can come from it and you may burn your retina.

So I know I will be better when this is in my rear view mirror. I just need Sunday to come, and go, the plane to land safely halfway around the world, and then look around and pick up the pieces. But right now I am stuck in a fugue. I worry how it will be possible to maintain a relationship with a five-year-old and seven-year-old from so far away. Skype with a 12-hour time difference will have its challenges. I worry that they will forget me. I worry that we won’t have the chance to create new memories. When I stop thinking about myself, I worry about how my pint-size family members will deal with such a culture shock. And then I think about my girls, who will be missing out on growing up with cousins around them. Worry worry worry. There is no peace in my mind or heart right now.

And then when my brain is saturated with all this, I start thinking about the fact that I have most of the symptoms of uterine cancer. Bombshell! At least two of the three most common symptoms. And here I am thinking dealing with this move was gonna be hard. Yes, good times over here. I feel like I am being tested, because I am always quick to say to others that old chestnut about as long as you and the people you know are healthy, then everything will be okay. Well, life might be serving up a different and difficult lesson for me. Of course, most of these health-scare situations turn out just fine, but right now my overtaxed brain is thinking the worse. I told Nicole if I die, I changed my mind and I want to have a huge funeral/memorial. I want people wailing in corners, shaking their fists at the sky and screaming how it is not fair. People giving speeches about how much I will be missed. I will make everyone wear orange, because it is sometimes my favorite color. And I like thinking about how everyone would be running around looking for orange clothes. And then I’ll look at the room from above (below?) and it will be like staring at the sun again.

So that is my current state of mind. When I stop thinking about China, I think about cancer. When I stop thinking about cancer, I think about China. Then I take a couple Advil and start the cycle all over again. I hope my next post isn’t so doom and gloom.