Check, Check, Check

The good: I got to visit with Nance's husband, Ken, at City of Hope today. Although his hair is starting fall out, he looks good and seemed to be his usual self.

The bad: I was unable to donate platelets because of my "stringy" veins. The veins are so small that the staff were only willing to attempt a whole blood donation because it was for a friend. Didn't matter, because despite taking about 300 times the recommended amount of iron, I was .2 too low (has to be 12.5, I was 12.3). If someone can be my stand-in and donate whole blood or platelets, I would be ever grateful.

The ugly (but also the good... life is a circle, after all): Tonight Corey and I noticed that a police car was right out front with it's lights flashing. Neither of us had called the police and it wasn't coming to our house. We high-fived.

Chocolate, Naps

Since thinking that I might be pregnant, I gave up all sources of caffeine, including chocolate and coffee. That was July of last year. I'm avoiding the math, because it's just too freaking long no matter how ya look at it. Well, I exaggerate a bit; I did resume drinking decaf when Mad was about four or five months old. Here's how pure my system has been: I can feel the caffeine in decaf coffee, even if it's not from Starbucks.

I know that a lot of women have all sorts of coffees and chocolates throughout their pregnancies and even while nursing. I don't judge. It works for them, and in every single case I know, the moms and babies are none the worse for wear. I've always been sensitive to caffeine, so even at the height of my Starbucks addiction, I couldn't have more than a grande half-caf misto (half steamed milk and half steamed coffee... and half of the coffee was decaf) per day... and frequently I didn't finish them.

I went to a breastfeeding support group the other day. Did I ask for any new suggestions to help increase my milk supply? Did I mention that I'm now down to pumping less than four ounces a day... and not all at one time? How about mentioning that I'd love some tips for dealing what has become a standard two weeks of PMS? Nope.

"When can I have chocolate?" Hmm... maybe I did cover the PMS thing after all.

The other moms looked at me like I was from another planet. I guess the whole, I didn't judge your choices thing wasn't reciprocal, but that's okay. The group leader, Jeri, said... *drum roll, please*

"Well... now. Just don't have a whole bunch. The thing with chocolate is the caffeine, so don't have chocolate and coffee."

The first person I told was my son. Why? Simply because right after group, I picked him up to go to my mom's. If I'd been at the top of Mt. Baldy, I'd have been yodeling it down into the valley, believe me. The thing is, I don't just want chocolate. I want damn good chocolate. I want XOXO Truffles chocolate. Yes, that means driving up to San Francisco (unless somebody can show me a link to their website... all I can find are mouth-watering reviews), and no, Tom's brother doesn't live there anymore, so we'd also have to get a hotel room. I know that's a lot to do for a truffle. Have you tried them?

Aaargh!

Tonight Corey and Tom had guy night. Somewhere along the way, Tom stopped and bought me a bag of Ghiradelli's dark chocolate squares. I tried not to scoff and sneer at this pathetic little imitation. I tried not to rip it open and eat them all in some horrifying impersonation of Cookie Monster, too.

Ugh! I took a nap this evening when Mad did. I figured she was about to wake up in half an hour, max. I'm already up later than I should be. I know that if I have one of those squares tonight, I'll never get to sleep. So I'm signing off now to go enjoy some chocolate dreams, but tomorrow... it's on!

Tough Choices

When Tom and I first confirmed that I was pregnant, nursing came up pretty much right away. Tom mentioned looking forward to giving the baby bottles each evening or overnight so I could catch a break. Like a true zealot who was just begging to have her words fed back to her at some later time, I insisted that this baby was not having formula. I had nursed Corey for two and a half years, and while I didn't plan to let it go that long this time, there was no good reason to bring formula into the... well, formula.

Then I started thinking about why I nursed Corey for so long. My first husband turned out to be a bit of a nut job, something I realized halfway through the pregnancy. It was later confirmed when he lived on the corner at the end of my street. In a parking lot. With two other people who owned a car... they rotated who got to sleep in the car each night. "But he's breastfeeding" was my prepared response should Stephen ever demand custody or independent visitation. Thankfully it only came up once before the court ruled, and he didn't have the wherewithal to follow through on the threat. After that, I just let it go on because it was the easiest thing in the world, and because it was the most direct means of bonding with my beloved child.

Corey was so old when I stopped that we had a conversation about it.

Me: "There's no more nurch. Nurch all gone."

"No more nurch?" (short wail of despair)

"Mommy talked to the doctor and now nurch is all gone."

"Nurch all gone."

And then we snuggled and went to sleep (yeah, took me quite a few more years to get him out of my bed... baby steps, people, baby steps). He slept fine that night and never asked to nurse again.

When I took all of that in and combined it with the fact that Tom is not a nut job (or, as we say in my family, "You're weird, but you're my kind of weird and I like you"), I was relieved of the hyper-vigilance I carried around for Corey. I didn't have to nurse so that this baby wouldn't be stuck in the care of a man who put himself first (although not well) to the exclusion of the baby's safety and well-being. I could be like those mothers who declared how long they were willing to breastfeed, meet that quota and be done with it.

Sweet!

Most of the time I had figured that nursing for six months would be perfect. About a month before I returned to work, we spent $300 on a breast pump and I realized that I might as well pump for the whole first year. And if I'm pumping and giving Madelyn breastmilk in a bottle, why not just nurse when we're together, too?

I stayed home with Corey (and married to his father) until he was 11 months old. There was no pumping, there were no bottles, there was just me and him from his first day.

Madelyn started off with four days in the NICU due to a collapsed lung. There was no oral nutrition for the first day and then formula for the next 36 hours until the neonatologist agreed to let me nurse. With that kind of beginning, physically and emotionally, breastfeeding was tricky. Although she got the hang of it after about 10 days, it was hard to put it all behind me. My milk supply has been difficult to maintain. I have used herbal supplements, post-natal vitamins, extra pumping, extra nursing, massage... pretty much anything someone suggested, I did. Madelyn was almost six months old when we had to supplement with formula.

Over the past two months, my body has continued to wean her. The original plan was for Mad to get a formula bottle only when needed during the week if I didn't pump enough the day before for two full bottles. Within a matter of days that became 1-2 formula bottles a day during the week, and now we have to give her bottles on the weekend as well. My new goal is to get her through the majority of the cold and flu season.

You might be thinking that the tough choices to which I referred in the title are about choosing to add formula. Not exactly. Here's something you don't know about my life: the husband of one of my best friends, Nancy, is fighting leukemia. In February he was diagnosed with a "pre-leukemia" illness. In March we had a blood and bone marrow drive. A bone marrow donor was found, but not from our group. The extremely generous donor is in Europe (let's all say a little thank you for worldwide registries, shall we?).

Ken was supposed to have the bone marrow transplant last week, but the latest biopsy indicated that he now has "full blown leukemia," so it was postponed for two months while they put him into remission. I am on the list to be a blood and/or platelets donor and they finally called me this afternoon to schedule my donation. (I say finally because Tom and another of our friends have already been called twice!) I was so excited to be called, but it was a bit dramatic.

"Any surgeries?"

"I had episiotomy stitches in April."

"Let me check. (short pause) No problem. Are you breastfeeding?"

"Yes!" (with pride)

"Ooh. Oh no. I don't think you can donate. You can't donate."

"What?!? We're barely nursing. She gets about six ounces a day!"

"Hold on and I'll check." I heard her talking to someone else... "But she's weaning."

Turns out that weaning mothers are okay to donate, but I have to pump beforehand and not for two hours afterward. I guess I'd be really drained (ah ha... okay, I know it wasn't that funny). But in that moment when I didn't know the answer, I realized that I might have the biggest decision of my life to make. Do I keep breastfeeding Mad through the cold and flu season, thereby offering her antibodies to help keep her little body well or do I stop completely so that I can help Ken through this incredible fight?

I know what I'd do. I'm really glad I don't have to make that choice. I would if I had to.

Home Is the New Away

Wednesday will be our third wedding anniversary. Being married just three years seems odd somehow. Maybe it's that we've been together well over eight years. So this year I will again say we've been married X years + five and a half.
For our previous wedding anniversaries (I point out wedding because there is also the first time we acknowledged we liked one another even though it was so impossible, because he lived in Chicago and I lived in LA; the first time we said I Love You, something we'd been feeling for a couple of months, but were waiting to admit to because... *ahem*... we hadn't met in person just yet; and the first time we met in person. Okay, we don't really celebrate the others so much anymore, but we used to, and I still keep things separate in my mind.), we have spent the weekend in Big Bear or in Julian. This year there is a budget crisis in our home.
Not only is Mad the proverbial "like a weed" daughter (hello! I'm hoping the size 12 months clothes we bought for winter are going to fit long enough for the weather to stay below 90 for more than two days in a row), but this is the year of our biennial Christmas trip to Chicago. Oh, and the company Tom works for (which shall remain nameless because I sense a rant coming sooner or later) is doing what it can to stay afloat. That means that he generally works four or five eight-hour days instead of five 10-11 hour days each week.
We have a "free" trip to San Francisco (airfare and hotel included) that we had planned to use this coming week, but the $80 processing fee and the fact that he'd be using up days off that we'll need for Christmas means that we had to come up with an alternate celebration.
In all honesty, I spent most of Saturday morning mentally moping. I didn't even bother to call my parents to see if they'd watch Mad until just before noon. Lots of internal scolding, cajoling and name-calling helped me get my act back together well enough to get going. We didn't have much of a plan before the kids were dropped off at their preferred grandparents' houses. I wasn't sure how late we could leave Mad with Margaret and my dad. We went for an early start time so we could get back early, too. Based on recent history (recent being since I got pregnant with my perpetually tardy husband's child), I am stunned to announce that everybody, including me, was ready to go, kids were dropped off and we were free to do what we wanted at 4:03 PM.
Neither of us had eaten much and Tom was starving, so he suggested an early dinner. I laughed and pointed out that we should go to Lenny's for the early bird special. Seriously. And to underscore how early we were seeking dinner, the Indian restaurant we'd chosen wouldn't be open for another hour.

**On a side note, I would have chosen something more than two blocks from my mom's place, but we are pretty well surrounded by fires and freeways are not all open right now, so it made more sense to stick close.
We talked about a few more options and decided to go to our old standby, Casa Sanchez. Sure, it's a little unfancy place in a strip mall. Not everyone would think to go there to celebrate getting married, but it was the first bona fide happy choice of the night for me. Why? Aside from the fact that the owners and staff are friends, this is the restaurant that catered our wedding. Between us, we had all the wedding night food. It was delicious. I can't remember the flavor of anything at the wedding because I couldn't get more than a couple of bites down, I was so excited. So we relived it that afternoon.
Yes, afternoon. It was still well within the four o'clock hour when we arrived. No, most of the people there weren't blue-hairs, but the couple coming out when we went in were rather old. And she was on oxygen. That's how close we were to being old fuddy-duddies (maybe the fact that I'm using that term means it's too late).
Dinner was great. We hadn't set any "let's not talk about the kids" rules. In fact, we talked about the kids we have and the fact that Tom would like to have one more. I'm telling you, he could probably talk me into anything. Oh alright, he already has, but not for now. Mad was our summer vacation surprise last year. The timing worked out perfectly in terms of time off after she was born, so that's our plan for next year. I'm a little excited about it. Like, I've already picked out a name excited, haha. But I'm only telling you, dear readers, because I don't want to have to answer questions from everybody I know for the next eight months. Plus, if it doesn't work out for some reason, I won't have to explain it over and over again.
Anyway, we decided to go see a movie after that. The plan was to find a light romantic comedy (Tom's suggestion because he knows his girl and because he was probably trying to set the mood, bow-chicka-bow-bow). We drove to a theater to see our options: nothing! So we headed over to a small independent theater. It's outside of "the village," a charming little place that is growing a bit too much. Tom's friend has called it too Disney-fied. The village is not, but the theater and surrounding shops do look a bit like a set. Most of the movies were either not for us this night (Bond, Madagascar 2) or we'd never heard of them. The one I recognized and knew I'd been interested in seeing was Rachel Getting Married.
Did I stop to recall what it was about? Did I pause to think about the review I'd read recently in which the word "disturbing" was used? No, I did not. So we bought tickets for a showing that started in an hour and went for a walk. We had ice cream and Tom answered sports questions from roughly a dozen kids who were apparently on a scavenger hunt type activity. They came to us while we sat outside Coldstone after going inside and singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame with the server inside.

The movie was good, but it was not light, romantic nor comedic. It was intense. I was tense. So tense, in fact, that I wanted to yell at any number of the characters or get up and leave, maybe slamming a door on the way out. Whew! And the music was mostly great, but there were huge stretches where it seemed like the makers of this movie just wanted to showcase their varied tastes.
After it was over, we needed to get Mad and go home. When we'd dropped her off, Margaret had offered to keep her overnight, but it seemed inappropriate to take her up on that at the last minute, like I was hoping she'd offer because I didn't have the nerve to ask.
I nursed Mad as soon as we were home and then Tom put her to bed. In the penultimate alternative anniversary celebration finale, I fell asleep on the couch while he took care of her. I'm pretty sure he tried to get me to come to bed, but I did not. It wasn't meant to be a withholding sex type of thing, just an exhausted woman thing. Thankfully, Tom doesn't tend to hold grudges and we were eventually able to enjoy the best part of our weekend during Mad's afternoon nap today. Corey didn't come home from Grammy's until after 9:00 tonight and that, too, felt a little like time away.
So even though I taught two classes Friday night and one Saturday morning, for the first time in a couple of months, I felt like the weekend was all that it should have been. I almost don't mind getting up and going to work tomorrow. I love my job, but Tom will be off, so I'd like to be here, too.

Leaving

I have taught sign language classes on Friday nights for 13 years. Tomorrow night is the end of those classes. I have mostly loved teaching. Other people's unruly children are not my favorite kind of beings. Since I have one of my own, I really don't have the energy for yours, but thanks anyway. Most of my students are adults. Most of them take one class and then move on. The occasional person will come back sporadically. Some stay with me for years and become my friends. A few have become like family.


I have always stressed that the most important thing to remember when signing is to breathe. Then I would joke about how nobody should be nervous because I hadn't "lost one yet." Of course, when my friend Carol died last year, it was from Cystic Fibrosis, not sign language. Still, I couldn't make that joke anymore. 


On the other side of the life spectrum, I lost count a few years ago of how many babies had been born to my students and former students. It's been a lot of fun to see "my people" become parents for the first time.


I've been teaching at a community center. People come to me for several reasons:
They are curious;
A family member is deaf;
A classmate is Deaf or
They have a strong desire to work with Deaf people.

Sometimes I'm not quite sure why they're there... like the foreign exchange student from New Zealand several years ago or the Korean children who were only in America for a few months last spring... but we had good times together and learned from one another.


When it comes to the business of sign language, about a dozen former students have gone on to complete courses in college. A couple of speech pathologists, several interpreters, and a handful (no pun intended) of teachers started out with me.


Through this position, I was able to spend a few years volunteering with a family, helping them find even a glimmer of communication with an autistic son and brother. He had quite a program going; I have no idea how many people worked with him, but I taught his parents, sister, occupational therapist and grandparents. Sometimes other family members and friends came, too. One day this little boy who had never formed a complete sentence in any language used two to make his first request. He spontaneously and appropriately signed WANT and then very slowly said, "Mom." I thought that it was the most wonderful thing I'd ever heard and was so proud to be part of it.


Sometimes I have been less than successful. (An aside to all the students I taught that first year: I'm sorry. Classes are much more organized, less all-encompassing and frenetic now. You should check them out; you'd be impressed and even have a chance to learn something. I give people the opportunity to ask questions these days.)


Someone has agreed to take over the classes. Sylvia was a student of mine eight years ago. She substitute teaches at a local school for the Deaf and teaches a sign class at a local elementary school. She's going to be great. I know that there is a natural tendency for people to have strong preferences for one teacher or another. Some of "my" students will always love me best. Some will wonder why Sylvia didn't come along sooner to save them.


We'll still be sharing some of the students, because I also have a private signing-only class that gets together on Saturday mornings. Everybody in that class has been part of my Friday night group, too.

Here's where my emotions get a little sticky: For all that I understand human nature... and for all that I am hoping Sylvia does a great job and excites and motivates people to learn and do more... what if?


What if she's better than me?


What if she is one of those "there's only one right way" sort of people?


What if I want to come back?



Speaking of which, why am I leaving in the first place? Well, it was a combination of meeting Madelyn (when she was en utero it was pretty simple to declare that this baby would have to adjust to our lifestyle), having years of bad printer karma (both of my printers have taken long, slow craps and made it hard to put my book together for one class and to print weekly materials for another... then I bought a new printer, but had about six different problems with it in the first night before taking it back... and lastly, I was going to buy a new new printer, but the first new one had maxed out my card and the refund took too long), and the fact that I think I'm done coming up with new ideas for vocabulary for the second class. And no offense meant to Christians, but I have spent at least one-third of my last five or six sessions teaching hymns and prayers. And the last, least important reason is the money. In 13 years of teaching, I have not yet made the equivalent of what I earn in my day job for one year after taxes and tax deductions. Without a working printer, my costs ate up nearly half of the earnings.


It's time for something new... for my students and for me. I was quite misty-eyed about the whole thing three weeks ago. But I had miscalculated and thought that class ended last week. It's amazing what having an additional week did to those almost formed tears, haha. I do wonder how it'll go tomorrow night. Hopefully Sylvia will be there so I can introduce her to everybody and drum up interest in her class. Because if she doesn't end up doing it, or if she decides it's not worth her time, I could totally be persuaded to take it all back.

Steady As She Goes

Monday night Tom adjusted Mad's crib down to the lowest level. Even though she hasn't fully mastered crawling (oh, she'll get there, just give her a minute, would ya?), she's pulling herself up... to her knees or her feet... on any stationary object.

The good news is that I don't have to worry about her tumbling out of her crib while I'm going to the bathroom first thing in the morning. Not that she's that tall (although at 27.5 inches, she's no shorty), but a mom worries.

The bad news is that she's now too low for me to lean in and give a little noggin smooch while she's sleeping. Not that it stopped me from trying... tonight Corey and I went to peek at her a few hours after she went to bed. So cute.

I couldn't resist leaning in. One foot had to come off the floor. If I leaned just... a... little... bit... more I could reach her, right? Next thing I knew, both feet are off the ground and I'm flailing, trying to smooch her without falling in with her.

With my fat ass, it must have looked pretty funny. Corey did the silent laugh and went back to bed.

I would just like to send a little thank you to my husband, who "kicked the tires" of every crib we liked before approving this one for its sturdiness.

What Is She Trying to Say?

Mom lives roughly four miles from here. For the couple of years prior to Tom and getting married, Corey and I lived with her. A few years before that, she and I were neighbors in the same apartment complex. One of my childhood friends, Mary, lived with her then. Mary's whole world revolves around children, unlike my mom's, so Corey ended up spending quite a bit of time over there. Mom benefited from Mary's desire to hang out with my boy. As Corey got older, Mom has enjoyed having him around, too. She frequently requests his presence at her place on the weekends. This is for him, too, since he has friends in her neighborhood, but she truly likes to have him around.

When Tom and I first got married, we had Mom over for dinner all the time. It was a nice way to adjust to the separation, but money was tight, so after a while, the invitations dropped off.

When I was pregnant with Mad, I think it threw Mom for a loop somehow. She loves, admires and respects Tom in a way that she never did feel for my first husband, so I know it wasn't about him. In fact, it got to be that she raved about how great he was every time I talked to her... to the point of saying that I was lucky to have him. While this is true, I am lucky to have Tom in my life, I would hope that it goes both ways.

In any case, I'm not sure if Mom felt like she didn't belong in my life or if I had said or done something that made her feel uncomfortable calling or what. We typically speak four to five times a week, but calls dwindled to mostly me calling while I was pregnant. Occasionally Mom would say things like, "I don't want to be a bother"and "I know you're busy so I'll keep this short" when we did speak.

I invited her to one of my prenatal visits so she could hear the baby's heartbeat and she declined. Well, not exactly declined, but said she'd have to check her calendar (not even paraphrasing here) and get back to me. She did not get back to me. My dad went, even though he has no blood ties to me... he was married to Mom when I was 5-15. My best friend Nance went every chance she got, and of course, Tom was there every time. (Corey went because he had to... it creeped him out to hear the heart beating... he said it sounded like an alien.) I know that my mother-in-law would have gone if she'd been out here during one of my appointments, but my mother acted as though it was something to get out of doing.

Mom was there during my labor and delivery... out in the hall during the delivery per my request, but she heard Mad's first cries just as she'd heard Corey's 15 years earlier. A few days after we (finally) brought Mad home, Tom's parents came to town from outside of Chicago. Normally they stay at our place, but for this occasion stayed in a nearby hotel for five days. We saw them every day, of course, but they also did some sightseeing around the region, so they weren't here all day every day. Two months later, my in-laws had still spent more time with Mad than my own mother.

In July, Judy (MIL) came out to visit for a week. This time she did stay at our place. We were quite a pair, she and I. The day she arrived, I pulled a bunch of muscles in my neck and shoulder, so I could barely move. Nance had to pick her up from the airport. Judy would probably have rented a car if her leg wasn't in an ankle-to-hip brace because she'd shattered her knee in May.

Mad will be seven months old on Wednesday. I should really stop keeping track of how far behind my mom is, but it hurts that she doesn't make the effort to come over.

Over the past couple of months that I've been back to work, Nance occasionally asks if my mom has seen Madelyn. Ninety percent of the time the answer has been no. It's especially hard for Nance to understand where Mom's coming from, since Nance feels she is on the other side of the same dilemma. She would love to have a better relationship with her adult daughter, but Kristen holds her back. Nance and my mom chat via email every once in a while, and I do wonder if Nance puts thoughts out there for Mom to consider.

About two weeks before I started teaching again (not my day job... classes started up about three weeks after I went back to "work"), Mom, Mad and I started hanging out on "guy night." This had to stop during my classes, because guy night typically happens while I'm out teaching. When I was struggling with the decision to stop teaching two-thirds of my classes, Mom actually suggested that I quit so that she and Mad and I could hang out more often on guy nights. Lately she has taken to suggesting we get together on her day off while waiting for my classes to end. But we never make specific plans and nothing ever happens.

The most recent development has been that Mom is now stressing how important it is that she gets to spend some time with Madelyn, even while not making any real plans. She seems to understand that Mad doesn't know who she is, and won't if she doesn't high-tail it over here. I agree completely. Mom's only 60, but most of those 60 years have not been spent taking good care of herself. It worries me that she won't be around... well... forever, I guess. For all of my independence (and there's a lot, to be sure), I do need my mom. And she has always been there for me when I have really, truly needed her, just not always when I would like for her to be.

So tonight I emailed Mom and laid out my availability for this Thursday (her day off). Hopefully she'll be available. Hopefully I won't forget with my sleep-deprived brain if she is up for it.

She's a Girl... I'm Not Sure If She's a Friend... Is She My Girlfriend?!?

Friends are hard to come by for Corey. Our neighborhood doesn't have many kids, and none are his age. He attends an independent study program twice a week for up to an hour each time, mainly to take tests and turn in assignments. The interactions with other students are limited. Corey's shy, too. He's always been shy, even when his behaviors were calling everybody's attention his way.

He has a friend, Rachel, with whom he attends school and band. School is in our town, but band used to be in the town "next door." Rachel's mom and I worked out a deal where I would pick the kids up at school and take them to band. Rachel's mom picked them up. It was my one and only bona fide carpooling experience and I loved it, but the band class is now within walking distance from school, so it's over.

One of the reasons I loved carpooling is that Rachel's a pretty great girl. She's a smart ass, to be sure, but she teases Corey and he actually laughs about it. Corey and Rachel talk on the phone quite a bit. I don't know how much, but I'm guessing that most days I could push redial when I walk in from work and end up chatting with her, too.

The other night he got a call from her and I happened to hear a few words, but nothing I could string together in a sentence, my hearing's not that great. What I wouldn't have given to be able to just stand there and listen in. That's what I'd have to do, too, since we have the world's smallest kitchen. There'd be no pretending that I had to be six inches from him for long. The thing that struck me about what I did hear wasn't the words, it was his tone. He sounded so sincere and soothing. If I was a girl, a boy with his way of talking would have been just the thing. It's not that he's smooth, either. I know, because I've always had access to his MySpace pages and the conversations he's had on there are juvenile at best.

I think Corey likes Rachel. I haven't always thought it, but it does make me glad that I turned down a request he made a couple of weeks ago...

Corey (on Rachel's cell phone, calling me after school one day): "Hi, Mom! Hey, I have an idea. I'm done with school... I passed my test. Could I go to the library with Rachel? Otherwise I just have to go home and be all... by... my... self. So I could just hang out with her there for a while or, HEY, I know, she could come to my place (did he just say "my place" like it's his pad or something?!) and we could hang out until her mom gets off work."

Me: "Uh... yeah, that'd be a heck no! You can walk with Rachel to the library, but then you need to get yourself home straightaway. Call me when you get there. Better yet, I'll see you when you get there. Love you, bye!"

Whew! I might have averted the creation of my first grandchild! Probably not, though, really. I can't tell how Rachel sees Corey. Maybe she doesn't know either. Corey's certainly confused.

Rachel invited Corey to attend a play with her and her dad this afternoon. Even though Rachel was wearing jeans and a nicer T-shirt than she wears to school, Corey wore black dress pants, a black shirt, burgundy tie and a black vest (worn inside out because he likes the lining better than the vest itself... never mind the label, would ya). However, before selecting his attire, he tried to get into an argument with Tom. Tom told him that he needed to pull himself together or he wasn't going. Corey said he didn't want to go anyway.

He did end up pulling himself together, but he still didn't want to go. Rachel teases him and he figured she didn't like him. He couldn't see why she'd ask him to attend the play when she has other friends and she likes to hang out with them. Then Corey started melting down completely, complaining about all the things he doesn't want to do anymore, like go to band or hang out with Rachel or... anything! Looked like a classic case of nerves to me.

I reminded him that we do get to choose our friends. If Rachel isn't offering good friendship, he should respect himself enough to put an end to it. On the other hand, she and her dad would be coming to pick him up within the hour. He had accepted the invitation and he would have to see it through; it was too late for her to find a replacement.

"But the play's about a dog and it says that anybody who has ever owned a dog, which I haven't, or anybody who's ever competed for a dog's love, whatever that means, will love this play. That's not me."

"Remember when we went and saw Late Night Catechism? We're not Catholic, but we had a blast. And you don't listen to opera, but you went to see Phantom of the Opera and you loved it. You'll probably love this play, too."

Somehow it all worked out. He got dressed... a couple of different ways before choosing the ensemble. He came home smiling and happy that he went. The play had a sad ending and Rachel cried in front of him. She's kind of a tough bird and he's very sensitive, so I think that it got to him. I haven't asked if he's still quitting band and... well, everything.

Hope

Yep, I've got it, but not in that giddy, all-out way that recalls one's youth. Nope, cautiously optimistic at best, really. I have said over and again that whichever man became President, he would have the world's hardest job in front of him. So hard, in fact that he might not succeed.

Now that it seems Obama is our leader, I will send up a little prayer of gratitude to the powers that be. I will also send up one for his continued safety. It's an incredible shame that hate can exist solely based on race and skin tone.

Thus, I am not only hopeful for our country's ability to rise out of the quagmire created by eight years of the shrub and untold years of our own bad decisions. I also hope that Mr. Obama is able to live out his own eight years of leadership, peace-making and unification, without a return to the civil rights era's violence by those who fear what makes us different.

Fun and Games, Madelyn Style

Six months old is a fabulous age. I vaguely remember when Corey was that age, but do recall thinking the same thing then. About three weeks ago, Madelyn got her first tooth. The next day she started growling. It cracks me up when she does it; sometimes she cracks herself up.

Two nights ago during dinner she started playing her first follow-the-leader game... and she was the leader. In between bites of turnip, Mad would lean her head way over to one side, resting it on her arm or on the highchair. As she leaned, I leaned. Then she would slowly sit up and lean the other direction. Again, I leaned with her. We didn't break eye contact. Several times she leaned over to the right, started to sit up and then went quickly back to the right. Pretty sly for a baby... and the look in her eyes when she's doing it, man oh man!

Getting Daddy to do it in the midst of dinner is a breeze!

Naturally the power has gone to her head and she tries to get me to lean whenever we see one another.

Do You Hear Me? Do You Care?

How does one know when to file a missing person's report? Who can you call to find out?

A little background before the story... we have a 15 year old son. He is mine from a previous marriage, but Tom has done everything he can think of to help make Corey feel like he belongs to us, especially since my ex-husband is nowhere to be found these days ("these days" being comprised largely of the past 13 years, with periodic spurts of knowledge as to his general whereabouts).

Since age four, Corey has exhibited some pretty intense emotional and behavioral problems. I could not begin to count the number of times that he was sent home from preschool and kindergarten. I could probably round the number of times he was suspended from kindergarten through third grade to the nearest five... maybe even ten. He and I have been through counseling on and off (mostly on) since he was nearing five. We've seen psychiatrists, psychologists, neurologists, a cardiac specialist, a behavioral therapist, a chiropractor and his own physician too many times to count. He spent over two years in a class for kids with emotional problems, but with the support of the teacher he had (who's now a family friend), the counselor he had access to through that program, and his own hard work, he was eventually mainstreamed completely.

Corey was such a little guy then, smaller than most of the kids a year younger than he was, and still pretty immature for his age. He'd been working one year below grade level because his behavior had eliminated the standard curriculum during third grade. Thus I had him repeat sixth grade. He fit in pretty well with the younger crowd... for a couple of weeks.

In middle school it became increasingly difficult for him to manage his behavior. Plus he grew a mustache and about five inches during sixth and seventh grade. We looked at all the options available to us and chose an independent study program. It has been a godsend. Since July of last year Corey completed eighth, ninth and part of tenth grade (in other words, he's where he should be, credit-wise). The program he's in is excellent in some ways (field trips and camping trips abound... and they're free!), and not so great in others (the curriculum is occasionally very poorly constructed, and Corey's high IQ rebels against having to deal with dumb stuff, like, "If you one million dollars, what would you do?"... I didn't leave any words out ... the most important verb... won, lost, found, stole... was missing. Corey's response was, "I'd hire someone to fix your curriculum" or something like that).

Tom and I have been married slightly less than three years. Almost immediately upon getting married and moving in together, we had problems with Corey taking stuff from our room or from our office... some stuff just to have, other things to disassemble. In all honesty, I'd had that problem for years, but it was a minor annoyance to me then... once Tom's things came into the picture, the problem became clearer to me. Then we started noticing other stuff showing up in his bedroom. Stuff that wasn't from us... a lot of it seems to be junk. He apparently gets it from fields and dumpsters in the area.

Recently we've been having a problem with him "finding" airsoft guns. Yeah. The money I'm missing and the pawn shop that's not too far from here are pretty easy explanations for those.

Another problem that we've had in the past few years is that Corey leaves in the middle of the night sometimes. He did it about six months after we were married and one of our neighbors thought he was a prowler so they called the police. Corey tried to say it was the first time, but it turned out that wasn't true. However, it went really badly for him with the police and then with us, and I really didn't think he was still going out.

Two weeks ago I learned the folly of my thoughts when we had to call the PD to find out where to go pick him up. There was a long, extremely convoluted story that he told about how the police came to be involved. I'm not going to bother to type it all out here; suffice to say that he either got lost and overreacted, completely imagined some events or made them up to try to cover his own butt. It's also possible that any of these choices are combined in some way. The not-quite-end result is that I had to go to a neighborhood about a mile from here to pick him up. Thankfully, he wasn't cited for breaking curfew, so our interaction with the police could have stopped there. However, Corey's pretty sure he's seen a car that he said was involved with him that night, so we called the police again to have them come talk with him.

One of the good things about not living in a big city is that every single time we've dealt with the police in the past month (four times and counting), the same officers have come to see us. We are now on a first name basis with one, Jim. He and another officer know my son's history reasonably well. So when we had a major blowout last week that ended when Corey ran out of the house, slamming the screen door so hard it wouldn't stay shut after that, it was sort of a relief to have Jim come to talk with us. Corey had been gone for a couple of hours at that point. We weren't sure if we should be reporting him as a missing person or not. I'd called Mom to let her know that Corey might be on his way and Tom had driven around the neighborhood and then walked through the alleys before we called the police to find out what to do next.

It turns out that parents have a good deal of leeway in determining when and if to report someone missing. If (when?!) it happens again, I have a better sense of what to do. In case you're wondering, no, the police cannot really make you wait 24 hours to file a missing person report, even though they might try it.

So, it's been loads of fun in our house, as you can see. One upside to all of this is that we've had lots to talk about during our weekly counseling sessions.

Patron Saint of Potty Mouths

I'm not one for sitting in long meetings and behaving well. One of my best friends, Nance, knows this. Sometimes she feeds the fire, but generally keeps me under control. Last year during a particularly long-winded speech by one of our esteemed colleagues, Nance wrote me a note that said, "STFU," meaning shut the fuck up. We tried not to laugh about it until later when we were safely out of the building. We vowed to tell one another to St. Fu (Saint Foo) whenever necessary from then on. Too bad she's not always by my side.


New mommies are notorious for sharing too much information. Seriously, I would love to recount for you some of the experiences of my pregnancy, labor and delivery. Maybe I will someday soon.


After Corey was born, we spent eight months of his infancy in Oklahoma with my then-husband and his family. It was a very different lifestyle and life philosophy than I was accustomed to, but I'd say the ratio of great, decent and rotten people was about the same there as anywhere else. Still, I didn't really have many women in my life to talk about things with, and I'm pretty sure I hadn't even heard of the Internet yet. It was quiet and fairly isolating. The best I could do was to write and rewrite the story of Corey's birth (man, I'm glad for the backspace key!) and obsessively fill out his baby book and first year calendar.
This time around, my life is about a 180 degree switch from back then. For one thing, Mad's first year calendar pretty much details her social and culinary life, rather than being a day-to-day accounting of her life thus far.
A couple of friends from the childbirth class that Tom and I took together also went to a new mommy group with me, where we got to share our birth stories, struggles and successes of life with our newborns. The three of us still get together regularly, and two more occasionally join in. Even now, six months later, the topics are wide-ranging and deeply personal... not so much when the two stragglers are there, but it's still more than most groups of extremely divergent women share so soon after knowing one another, I think.
With Corey, I stayed home until he was nearly a year old, only returning to work because of my separation and divorce. Although I wish I could be a stay at home mom now, there came a time when I had to return to my job. Luckily for me, Mad was nearly five months old. Still way too soon, but I remember trying to count my blessings when she was six weeks old and my "disability" ended. Even after so much time off... and so much of that spent deep in conversation, the desire to really share the inner workings of my brain is apparently quite strong. Too strong, some might say. My coworkers, for example.
In the past six weeks since returning to work, I have told a principal that she needed to "help a sister out" in regards to a teacher friend of mine and the completely mediocre principal who's in charge of her site. I have pointed out to the program specialist of a neighboring district that the reason one of his schools only had 21 students attend our event was that one of his teachers arbitrarily closed the enrollment. The other day at the office, within a five minute span, I announced that I was glad my nipple rings were out (because I'd just gotten an electric shock from a passing coworker... it was bad, but not as bad as getting one from a car while pierced) and then proceeded to admit that I sometimes forget to close my nursing bra back up after pumping in my car... and even if I do, there's no telling which way my nipples will be pointing.


I'm not Catholic, but perhaps I need to get one of those medals that Catholics wear. Do they make one for Saint Foo?

Where Did the Time Go?

I haven't written on this blog for over five years. I guess the whinefest I left last time I was here was just too damn annoying to return. One of my friends, Tiana, recently established a blog here, so I figured I'd send her a little shout out. It took me about five minutes of fooling around to figure out that I'd never remember my user name/password combo. Once that was all squared away I reminisced (after gagging during the last post) by reading some of my other essays.

I've also been following the blog of a woman whom I guess a lot of people followed, Michelle Mayer's Diary of a Dying Mom. She passed away today. Reading her posts have often left me in tears. Heck, thinking about her posts has often caused my eyes to sting.

It's admittedly shallow, but I don't tend to carry other people's problems around with me. It's not exactly an out-of-sight-out-of-mind deal, but it's close enough that I'm not proud to admit it.

But Michelle and her family, especially her young children have weighed heavily on my mind. Maybe it's because of my own two kids and how I worry about what will happen to them if anything should happen to me. It's probably also the clear, open way Michelle has written about her experience and journey from life to death. Somewhere along the blog I could see that she's the type of woman I would have as a friend, and I felt like a friend to her, silently cheering her on. Even as she said her good-byes, I hoped that the disease that was claiming her life would miraculously reverse itself. It did not.

I wondered how I would react when she passed away. My heart has been aching for the past several days. Between yesterday and today I must have checked her blog 10 to 15 times at least. The image of all those people waiting for the light to go off in Evita has come to mind frequently.

This evening, the news came that she had passed away earlier in the day. As soon as tears started to well up in my eyes, I calmed back down. What a relief for this wonderful and brave woman. And there must be some relief for her family, too, who have seen her through the last year or so of what must have been intense suffering. I am sad. I'm sad for Michelle and for her family and friends. I'm sad for me.

But I'm hoping that Michelle isn't really gone; I hope she's finding out what's on the other side. I hope that it is peaceful and pain free, filled with people who love her and have been waiting to welcome her. Her grandmother, for example. I can't buy into the Baptist version of heaven that I was raised with, in part because I can't believe that streets paved with gold and pearly gates are truly of any value beyond what we place on them here. Perhaps the John Whatshisname's version is the one she's found. In any case, hope Michelle is able visit her mother as requested.

The End

It came today. It snuck up on me and retreated, came to the fore and went back so many times over the past three months that when the end actually arrived, I don’t think I really believed there wouldn't be another start. So many shocks along the way have numbed the nerve endings a bit, but the pain is still there. Over-sensitivity and easy irritation have become hallmarks of my days. I try to fight them with heavy doses of rational thinking and gratefulness for what I have found with my family and what I am not losing of myself. I want to be grown up, but the whining rings in my heart and in my head and sometimes – often, really – I let it out.


How can I have lost my job? The rising unemployment rate should have meant job security for me, since the majority of people I served weren’t working. If they are out there, why can’t they come to me? I want to help them. I want to show my empathy for their plight and cluck my tongue and shake my head in commiseration and say, “Wow, that’s terrible.” I want to do these things out of a natural caring for people, not because I am in their sinking boat.


How come I can’t get a straight answer? How can it be that I am out of work and not getting paid, but still not able to qualify for unemployment? How can I be covered under the insurance policy, but still have to cancel a dental appointment?


How is it possible that my coworkers, who’ve been with County Schools six to 10 years longer than I have don’t have bumping rights, but I do?


How can one person's recent reclassification to a better paying position have left her without any seniority, even though she’s been with County Schools six years longer than I? Why do I get her job?


When will I finally know what I’m actually making each month? How do I get vacation if my calendar is already set for the year? What am I getting paid for July and when will the check actually come?


How will Carrie make that drive to and from the High Desert? How will Tami make that car payment without a job? Who’s going to help Gus? What are we all going to do without one another?


How can they just throw GED testing out the window? We were the fourth largest test center in the state – one of the few with any addendum sites, let alone eight of them. What about that kid in juvenile hall who was told by a judge, “You can get out as soon as you complete your GED?” Nobody will come to test him now. Imagine his hard work and preparation for a goal at hand that will provide at least two benefits: completion of a secondary education and the final payment toward a debt to society. How his heart must have sunk when he heard the news, when he asked his instructor, “What does it mean?” The teacher's reply was meant for us all, “It means you’re screwed. Welcome to life.”

Running

I am thrilled to say that I've run a marathon, during which I somehow left my slimmer, more physically fit cohorts in the dust for most of the course. It was quite a pleasant surprise to see one come up from behind around the halfway mark; the other apparently passed me somewhere after 21 miles. (Okay, they both were recovering from knee injuries – do I have to mention that?)


Many runners identify themselves with creatures of the wild. Through my recollections of the marathon – the events leading up to it and the effort put into running since then, I have distilled the creature with which I can be most accurately identified. I am a leach.


Sure, I started running by myself. My son played in the grass at the track where I made myself run without stopping. Walkers out for physical therapy were lapping me, but I never stopped doing the bouncy step that told them and me that I was running, not walking. As I progressed, I grew bored with the track. Heading out to the street required that my son come with me. I became dependent on his entertainment to keep me from thinking too hard about the .5% uphill grade I was pushing through. I didn’t mind that he would engage in an imaginary football game, run after the invisible football, catch it and do a victory dance before I could catch up to him.


Within weeks I found myself talking about running at work: “I did two and a half miles last night, so I’m a little sore.” Tami was interested. She agreed to meet me for a run. That night I ran long enough and fast enough that my legs kept trying to run even after I stopped. When we ran together I would ask her open-ended questions and then follow up with additional questions that required more than a yes or no answer. Eventually I became able to converse while we ran.


A few months later I did a race with my son that was a total blast. It was at night; people dressed up and ran in costumes, a couple of small groups provided entertainment along the way. A few weeks later we did another 5k. It was tough, but I won third place for my age group (out of three or four people). Corey won second for his age group. Still, he was losing interest in running.


Without my son as running partner, I was starting to procrastinate. Eventually, Tami and I began to run more frequently. Around January, she started talking about the LA Marathon. I just smiled and nodded and thought she was nuts. I felt my palms break into a sweat whenever she looked at me with that gleam in her eye. It was the same gleam that got my body tattooed. I was doomed. I agreed to do the marathon with her, but I couldn’t find anybody to run with for practice. I could always find something else to do and nobody would watch my son and I was working two jobs and how could I take time out from my son to go running when he didn’t like it anyway?


Tami talked about the upcoming marathon. I thought about it, but said little. I delayed sending in my entrance fee. I knew I wasn’t ready. Four days before the race, she let me off the hook. She and her daughter, Mandy went out and did it. For the first time in my life, I got up early and watched the LA Marathon on television. It was a sad, rainy day and I wished I’d pulled it together and gotten myself out there. When she returned with her medal and her stories of Mandy’s injury and of finishing together anyway, I regretted my inaction all the more. It wasn’t the medal I wanted, it was the story.


We learned of the Rock N Roll Marathon in San Diego; it was happening in June and early registration was required. If the first thing that motivated me was company, the second was definitely money. After sending in $80 and ordering an “in training” t-shirt, I was committed. I ran regularly. I ran farther. Nine days before the marathon, I set a personal record: 9.5 miles in just over two hours. Half of those miles went up to the base of Mt. Baldy. I pulled my hamstrings and walked about half a mile at the end, but I was elated. I was unable to run again before the marathon.


We arrived in San Diego Saturday afternoon, checked into our room and picked up our bib numbers and goody bags. A nice dinner at one of my favorite restaurants was followed by an hour or so in the Jacuzzi with four other runners and a family on vacation. We returned to our room and settled in for the night. The neighbors had their TV blaring. Mandy and Tami slept like babies. I put the pillow over my head, but laid awake most of the night. We arose very early and headed out. I ate half a banana before the race and washed it down with a bit of Frappacino. It’s a good thing we were in the last “truck” of runners because we were in line for the restrooms when the race started.


In every other race I’d run (yeah, all four), I’d tried to start in front. The rush of bodies swarming past was surreal and daunting. With the marathon, I started last. My nervousness and the caffeine worked to push me past others. I had to run on the sidewalk to get around the slow crowd. I ran faster and better than I’d ever run in my entire life. I’d only set two goals for myself, one of which was to keep running until halfway up the The Hill, which went up for about two miles and rose several hundred feet.

Running, Continued

While running the only marathon I’m convinced I’ll ever run, I spent much of my time behind a man who wore a neon pink hat with the encouraging words “I may be a snail, but I’m ahead of you” embroidered around the opening in the back. I also faced a man who completed the entire marathon while running backward – we were passed around the 8 mile mark by another, faster backward runner. Halfway up The Hill, I met William, a fundraiser from Ireland. He was the first person I’d seen in a while who was walking. I’m not entirely sure what possessed me, but as I ran past, I hit his arm and said, “Come on, if I can do it, you can do it.” He gave me a look of irritation and horror (I think I startled him) and kept walking while I bounded up the hill. About 10 minutes later he came up and slapped me on the back as he ran past. After that we were friends and I had someone to chat with. It took about 10 miles to understand his accent and a bit longer to understand his jokes. Over the span of about 19 miles, we talked about our families, jobs, reasons for running. William the Great was running to bring peace to his country. I was running to get a medal for proof of my tale. William knew he’d finish; it was his 32nd marathon. I knew that if I didn’t get across the finish line in less than seven hours, I’d have no marathon medal.


Near the 20-mile mark there was a simulated wall. I’d heard about the mental wall people hit, but when I saw the painted brick mural attached to the overpass, I found it quaint, a nice gesture. When I was under the bridge and saw that the actual 20-mile marker was about 50 yards away, I was devastated. Tears burned behind my eyes. My throat constricted as I strained for breath. A cheerleader saw me and said, “You’re doing fine. It’s gonna be okay.” As I coughed to force air into my lungs, William again looked at me in horror. Each breath literally pulled my neck in around my windpipe (I didn’t realize that until the race photos were posted online.)


As we entered MCRD and headed toward the finish line, William told me that one of two things would occur: either I would get a burst of energy and run the last 200 meters or I’d die. He was wrong. I did manage to run the last 50 yards or so. William tried to let me finish ahead of him, but I wouldn’t hear of it. In retrospect, I wish I had. I’m still waiting to regret not purchasing the marathon photos, but it hasn’t happened. Sure, his legs were as white as mine, but they were mere twigs, almost cartoonishly thin. On the other hand, mine have never been thin. We were Jack and Mrs. Sprat.


After the marathon was over, William and I stayed in touch for about six months. Tami and I haven’t run together outside of the gym since then. Although I meant to, I never really ran much after that. About four months later I convinced my friend Norm to run with me and it led to us to the Light the Night race again. That was enough for him and apparently enough for me. I have no one to run with and I no longer talk about running with friends or strangers as if it’s something I do.

The Evil That Is Bunny Foo Foo

What's happened to our children's songs? Why do they (whoever they are) adulterate them so? Today's example is "Little Bunny Foo Foo." If you aren't familiar with this song, here's the gist: Bunny Foo Foo keeps "scooping up the field mice and bopping 'em on the head." Each time he does this, the good fairy comes down and tells him to knock it off or he'll be turned into something awful (like a goon). Eventually BFF uses up his chances and gets turned into a goon. End of song. 

Enter the religious establishment and the flower children gone astray. The old song -- which mentions the unconscionable abuse of field mice (never mind that their attacker is warned and even suffers the consequences of his actions) -- has been changed. The new lyrics change only Bunny Foo Foo's actions: He no longer bops the mice; now he kisses them on the head. The rest is the same -- same good fairy, same warning, same consequence, same result.

What is the message our misguided friends have given the children?

Bopping is so bad it can't be sung about? No. These toddlers never heard the other version.

They might get that kissing on the head is bad, but why?

Is it the cross-species aspect?
Are the field mice underage?
Is Foo Foo an adult?
A mousophile?
Maybe he's a religious leader and therefore no longer allowed to offer a simple kiss on the head to a young mouse?
Maybe we've mistakenly believed he was kissing their heads, when he was really kissing their heads?

Oh, to be around a hundred years from now and read the way our culture is described. Of course, if kissing on the head is punishable by being turned into a goon, who'll be around to describe us?

Mother Love

My relationship with motherhood is ever-changing. When I was newly legal I thought that a large family was definitely the way to go. Maybe this is understandable since I grew up living with three siblings (plus two more who lived elsewhere). Maybe it's not since I remember feeling stifled and worn out, especially when a lot of people had been around. Also, unless I'm at a club or concert (which happens less than annually), I much prefer quiet to loud and small to large when it comes to groups. These facts and my memories of childbirth helped me rethink my position. I have been a mother to one for nine and a half years. 

Yeah, sometimes I've thought about having more, but there have always been reasons not to do it. Getting divorced and taking several years off to lick my wounds and tend to my very young son were a couple. Dating freaks and psychos was interesting, but did not make me willing to procreate. Having a son with emotional and behavioral problems has also mellowed that desire. Although I have learned enough about my ex-husband to understand how his genetics may have been a factor, I also know that my own family has some interesting codes to share. And, as if all that's not enough, being a family of two is really hard on both of us and I never want to put another person through my single parenting, especially because of another error in judgment!

Nonetheless, every once in awhile I get the baby tingles. You know that feeling? I try to ignore it, mostly. Then somebody mentions that they love babies, the way they smell. I start thinking about that soft, powdery scent and the feel of a baby's skin. The sound of a baby crawling around in a diaper. The sounds a baby makes when it's nursing, sleeping, exploring, learning. The weight and the warmth of that baby. The look in the eyes that seems impossibly beyond the ken of a child that young. Ahh, baby tingles. I battle them with heavy doses of reality and logic, and that's usually enough to make them go away for a time. But lately I find them fighting back. The baby tingles' weapon of choice? Ticking clock - what else?

Who would have believed I'd be hearing that? Or caring if I did? There are times when I'm completely certain that I wouldn't want and couldn't handle another child. I still have that, mostly. Behind it there is ticking. And a voice saying, "You're going to be 32 soon. When are you going to have that child? Maybe a daughter? How about another son? You were never going to just have one child. When? Your clock... it's ticking!"

One of the major factors in not letting the baby tingles take over has been the lack of a viable partner - not because the guy said he couldn't make babies (never, never believe that one). But for almost three years (how it does go by) I have been dating a really cool guy. Perfect? Hardly. Funny, caring? Absolutely. Responsible? In his own way (makes you go Hmm, huh?). Patient with my son? Often more so than I am. Good father material? Maybe. Ready? How do you figure something like that out?

I can't even decide that about myself.

Thoughts on Life and Love and Relevance

He takes my sounds, my words, my too cute catch phrases and makes them his own. As if he thought of them, brought them up from the depths of his memory, his creativity. When he does this - makes these sounds, says these words - I give them back to him. Reinforce that they are his. Like a stingy toddler I want to declare that they are mine. 

"Yes, you can use them, but remember that I gave them to you. Tell others."

I hear the sitcom laugh-track break into me, telling me I'm being ridiculous. I am so often ridiculous.

Some couples are smooth together, noncompetitive, a good fit. We are not most couples. We live for originality, nonconformity, a sense that we are not normal. In this endeavor I suppose we succeed. It's an awkward state we cling to like the lifeline of two rock climbers who have just fallen a hundred feet. The safety rope is saving us, but we can't swing in to reach the mountain. We move neither up nor down.

While we hang I count the seconds, the thoughts and the gestures. I measure his moves against what I would have done or how he had done it in my mind. When did this start? In the beginning there was a small spark of interest. He thought I was funny and thought he was a nice guy. The first time we kissed was symbolic of our relationship to come. We were both incredibly nervous. My mouth was so dry that I really should have kept it shut (when do I ever keep my mouth shut when I really should? when will I?). Lust and love propelled me, his rapid heartbeat pulled me, and I couldn't be stopped. I was the tallish, blonde woman dressed all in black. He was the 32 year old guy dressed like the perpetual college student that he is. He kissed me back and held me close. I stood behind him while we waited for his luggage. I forge ahead, look for him to be engaged, then stand back and wait for him to take control. He does not take control.

That small first spark bloomed into a full and beautiful flower of love, but neither of us is an outstanding gardener. The tending of this flower is haphazard and erratic. I can see the browning tips of our petals and, as with all of my plants, I am helpless to stop the process. I overwater and underfeed. We both want to be directed and resent being told what to do. We want to be supported, but do not pursue anything requiring real support. He is a man trying to extend the angst of teendom. I am a woman trying to unearth the drama in the details. I use my independence like a weapon. Silence is his. We are alike in our differences. Our similarities are unique from one to the other. The fit is not comfortable, but the colors are beautiful and I can't seem to justify cutting down the plant and putting its pot away.

How to Get a Free BJ... that's Brake Job, You Pervert!

Last year I bought a truck and, after putting over twenty thousand miles on it in less than a year, it needed new brakes. So I took the advice that I had never before followed -- I went to the dealership. I made a reservation for first thing Friday morning for a brake job, oil change and tire rotation. On arrival I stated my name and purpose ("Shan P - I have a reservation for a 5k service and brake job."). The service advisor, Ruben, replied, "We'll tell you if you need a brake job or not." I told him that I definitely needed brakes because that they were making a lot of noise and that it had gotten worse since a recent trip to Mt. Baldy. He sent me on my way and told me he'd call when it was done. 

About three hours later he called to say that my 5k service was done, that I didn't need brakes, and that my transmission needed to be serviced. I authorized the new service and asked if they'd driven my truck. I was told that they'd driven and inspected it. Ruben said that I had a lot of room left on the pads and that I could expect them to last at least another ten thousand miles. I started wondering if I was nuts or it was yet another case of a woman's car behaving well in the presence of a mechanic.

I drove and braked silently away from the dealership and went to run some errands. On the way home the grinding started up again. I made a mental note to grow a penis before heading back to the dealership. Since no penis was pressing outward from my nether region I pondered other options, including a strongly worded letter of complaint or just finding a good mechanic through my friends and never going back to the dealership. In the meantime I had my dad take a listen and then a look (I should mention that he has more years of professional experience with cars than I have experience breathing -- and that he is the director of a truck racing organization). Without removing my wheel he was able to determine that I needed a new brake shoe. His suggestion was that I call the dealership and "offer to sue." Instead I called the dealership with that most female question, "But how did it happen?"

I spoke with the service manager, Mike, who came up with several really interesting possibilities, but not until after he defended his mechanic over and over again.

"I stand behind the work of my mechanics. They do an excellent job and if I didn't believe that, they wouldn't be working for me."

"But how could they say I don't need brakes if they actually drove my truck like Ruben said? If they'd driven it, they couldn't have missed the horrible grinding noise it makes."

"My guy didn't just drive your vehicle, he took apart your brake, inspected it and measured the parts to within 1/32 of an inch. On your invoice you'll see where it gives those measurements. To within 1/32 of an inch."

"Where would I find that? Would that be after the notes to inspect the brakes?"

"Yes. Exactly." (This sounded like a man talking through gritted teeth.)

"On mine it says 'Check and fill fluids!' There are no measurements." (This sounded like me when I'm right and you're wrong.)

I was then placed on hold while my invoice was retrieved for a conversation more specific to my vehicle. When Mike returned he began reading off numbers and measurements that were not on my copy of the invoice.

"Those numbers mean nothing to me; they aren't on my invoice. How can you have these numbers from my invoice when they're not on my invoice and how can your men have driven and inspected my vehicle and not noticed that I needed brakes?"

"Let me tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to give you a free brake inspection and we'll send your truck to our brake specialist. I'm confident that we're not going to find anything, but if that'll make you feel better I'll cover it."

"That's really great, but I already brought my truck to you and specifically requested that my brakes be done because of the horrible noise they were making and what I want to know is why it didn't go to a brake specialist the first time?"

"Everybody's brakes make noise from time to time. That doesn't mean anything."

"Oh, that must be why I have been hearing all that squeaking and grinding from the cars around me. No, wait -- just mine are doing that."

"Everybody complains about their brakes making noise. That's like saying the sky is blue."

"Huh?"

"It's a very common complaint."

"I'm not imagining that my brakes are making noise. They're grinding, not squeaking. Plus, I had it looked at and was told that I need brake shoes, but according to your guy I could drive it around for another six months."

"Who looked at it?"

"My father, a mechanic."

"Oh. Well, perhaps in driving down from Mt. Baldy your brakes got heated and became off-round."

"Huh?" (An explanation followed, but my dad later dismissed it as horseshit, so I didn't bother remembering for this story. Sorry.) "That still doesn't explain how this happened."

"Let me tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to have your brakes looked at, and if there's any work that needs to be done, I'll cover it. I'll take care of one axle for you. If both need to be done, I'll cover half of that."

On one hand, yes, my head began to swell with power, but on the other, I still didn't have the answer to my question. Also, note that it took the mention of my father to get any real help from this guy. On the way home I called my dad to update him. He asked me to bring it to his place so he could mark the old parts to ensure that the repairs actually happened. When he took it apart, there was no pad left. Parts had been ground down so far that metal shavings fell out all over the place and still filled the bottom of this cup-shaped part. I dutifully retrieved Dad's digital camera with the telephoto lens and helped snap about six shots before he put it back together. Then I called the dealership and arranged for them to get me a tow truck -- it was not safe to drive. The next morning I got a call from Ruben who told me I'd have to call for the tow truck myself and that they would only pay for it if the vehicle really was unsafe to drive. I don't know if these attempts of his to negate my information made him feel powerful, but if so, it couldn't have lasted long.

When the tow truck driver pulled my vehicle up onto his flatbed he remarked about how bad the brakes sounded. I explained the situation to him on the way to the dealership. When he pulled it off the tow truck at the dealership, he insisted on driving it in because he was a "professional driver" and my truck was "obviously unsafe." Ruben walked up and I handed him the brake pad and smilingly relayed my dad's message, "My dad said I should throw this at you and demand an explanation, but I'm just going to hand it to you." I asked the tow truck driver if he needed my signature on anything until they determined who'd be paying, but he shook his head and said, "Oh, they're paying for this," and went to Ruben for billing info.

I told Ruben that I needed to get to work, but that I wasn't leaving until I found out what was going on, so he put a rush on my order. About half an hour later I was called into Mike's office along with Ruben. Mike sat me down, seated himself in front of me and said, "Well, I'm not going to tell you anything you don't already know. You need brakes." He then detailed the exact nature of the repairs needed, including something with the rear axle that they had missed and that he'd also cover. I was given a rental car for the day and Mike's "deep and humble" apology. He also requested that I express his apologies to my father for the inconvenience he'd been caused.

While waiting for the rental car I considered what had just transpired. Rather than feeling really cool about having handled this essentially on my own (no guy came along with me or called for me), I was struck by two things.

1) That prick was so patronizing that he wouldn't help me until I mentioned my father. The fact that he wanted to apologize for inconveniencing my father said a lot considering how willing he was to endanger my life, my son's life and the lives of those on the road near me, and

2) For him to have paid for what ended up being about $300 worth of repairs plus a rental car means that we really were in danger.

When I got home that night, some unfortunate schlub had the misfortune to call me from the dealership's "customer care center" to inquire about my satisfaction with the service I'd received.

In the end, everybody was stripped of power: Ruben, Mike, the mechanic, and me. Sure, I had gotten the brake job for free, but I would have rather paid for it and not had the nausea that stuck with me that day.