Vote: Montessori or Play-Based?

We went to Big Lots the other day and there was a bunch of spaghetti all over the floor. A., of course, went back several times to walk on it. I told him, "Hey, buddy, don't make it a bigger mess than it already is, OK?"

Still skating on the spaghetti, he deepened his voice and said, "Cleanup in aisle 2! Cleanup in aisle 2!" Cracked me up.

We've been laying low licking our wounds lately. G. has more wounds than I do, being the one who got rejected and all. I think he feels like this was our one chance to move up to Portland and he blew it (not saying he did, but that's what it feels like). There really aren't that many jobs up there in our field that pay a living wage, let alone a decent one. Major HMO was the best shot we had. I applied for a different position the day after he found out, but that job appears to be gone now.

I've also been struggling with preschool decisions. The cheapest, best academically school is the Montessori school a couple of miles away, which would seem to be a perfect answer. But, I have mixed feelings about Montessori for preschool.

On the one hand, he loves doing stuff like their "jobs," and would be really well prepared for kindergarten.

On the other hand, he's really imaginative and loves pretend play and there's not as much room for that at Montessori. When people wonder about the lack of creativity in Montessori, I've seen the example of learning the violin used as an answer:

"Like learning how to handle a good violin and then playing music. It is not considered "creative" to use a violin as a hammer, or a bridge while playing with blocks. We consider it "creative" to learn how to use the violin properly and then create music."

Yeah, OK, except these are 3-year-olds and I love that he uses his imagination. He can come up with amazing relationships between things and I'd hate for him to lose that because he was concerned with the "correct" way to use things. I think Montessori might be great for grade school, because it has innovative ways to teach academics, but I don't know about preschool.

On the other hand, it would be one year of preschool (I think, maybe two) and only 3 hours a day. We do lots of pretend stuff at home and it might be a good balance.

I don't know. When I was observing, I tried to picture A. among the very quiet, industrious children there. Each one finished their task and quietly took their tray back to its spot, and got another tray, usually without saying a word. A. tends to announce every move he makes. "I'm done with this now! I'm going to count now!" in a very excited voice (he'd make a great emcee).

We could start and pull him out, I suppose, if it's too stifling. I just want his first school experience to be a good one.

I've also looked at some play-based programs, but I'm afraid he'll get lost and be intimidated in those. I think he could really be a leader at Montessori, and I don't think it would intimidate him at all. I think it fits his brainy side and it wouldn't matter so much that he was scared to do the slide or the rings. I do think he'd wonder why you had to do certain specific things with the sombreros and beans and couldn't say, make up a ring toss game with them. I can totally see him telling the teacher, "But I'm going to play like THIS."

ACK. Anyone have any insight? Psychic abilities? The answers?

They Learn Early

Conversation between A. and his friend W. (exactly a year older than A., and generally a very sweet kid):

W: C'mon A., play baseball with me!

A: I can't right now, I'm climbing this tree.

W: But I really want you to play baseball with me!

A: I'll play later!

(and so on.....over and over)

A: Oh, alright W! I'll play baseball with you!

W (forlornly hitting the ball off the T-ball stand): That's OK, you don't have to play, I'll just play by myself. :::sulk sulk sulk::: (hits ball weakly and drags bat over to pick it up)

A (cheerfully): OK! (goes back to climbing tree)

W: Aw man. (starts hitting tree with plastic bat)

A: Stop hitting the tree, W! You have to stop because plants need water and trees need water!

W: Huh? I think this is an oak tree. (note: tree is a small juniper-type tree)

A: W! You have to stop hitting the tree because plants need water and trees need water TOO!

W: I think the oak tree is inside.

A: Yeah, it's inside the bark.

W: I hit trees at home all the time and they don't mind. They still get water.

A: Well, it's not good to do. It won't grow anymore if you hit it.

W: I won't hit the tree if you play baseball with me.

A: OK! I'm coming down and I'll play baseball with you! (climbs down)

W (sliding past him): I'm gonna climb the tree!

I think W. was hoping to turn the tables on A. by scrambling up into the tree and hoped A. would then beg him to get down and play, but it didn't work because A. is not versed in these sorts of games. He just shrugged his shoulders and climbed back up a different branch.

A little later, A. stomps down the driveway with a big ol' frown and gets on his bike. W. follows with a bigger pout and gets on his bike. Both pedal away angrily. W., who is a far better bike rider, maneuvers his bike to block A.

W: I won't be mad at you anymore if you play baseball with me!

A: I don't wanna play baseball!

I can tell A.'s getting really frustrated so I go over and tell him, in front of W., that he doesn't have to play baseball. W. sulks but leaves him alone.

Me to W's aunt: Man, that kid is already pretty good at emotional manipulation, huh?

Aunt (shaking her head): He's great at it.

Best Night for TV EVER

The great thing about American Idol is that I get a chance to be 14 again. Last night I was jumping around behind the couch yelling, "This is the best finale EVER!" and telling G, "I am so totally going to the Idol concert!"

and, "I LOVE Elliot! Why aren't they putting him in front? He should be in front. How come Ace is getting all the camera time? Wow, Bucky sounds pretty good."

and, "OHMYGAWD! PRINCE! Look G! It's Prince!"

to which G. replied, "Hmmm. I thought Ryan said there wouldn't be any more surprises."

"Well, obviously he lied!" OMG, roll the eyes.

I didn't literally jump around behind the couch because G. was sitting right there and I was tired, but I was doing it on the inside. I also had aggressively curled long hair and was wearing pink from head to toe, too. I probably even cried. On the inside.

And I still have to watch the whole thing (which I taped, of course - I'm retro in a world of Tivo) because it was on against LOST and you can miss parts of AI and not really miss anything, but you can't miss parts of LOST because then you'll be, well, LOST. By the way, like, how hot was cleaned-up Desmond?

But, "OHMYGAWD! Was that David Hasselhoff? And was he CRYING?"

More About My Mammogram Than You Want to Know

So, I had my first mammogram today. Nothing's wrong - just getting a baseline now that I've reached the big 40.

First the receptionist confirms with everyone what part of their body is getting x-rayed.

"It's for your knee, right?"
"Your shoulder today, right?"

So I was expecting her to say, "Your breasts, right?" but she disappointed me by just saying, "A mammogram today?" I wanted to respond, "Yes, my BOOBS," just in case there was any confusion.

Then I'm led into a little dressing room, told to strip from the waist up, and, I'm not making this up, given a gown with THREE armholes. Ummm..... If you put it on right, is it supposed to make a slit through which you stick your boob out, ala nursing gowns? I can't figure it out.

So the tech is outside saying, "Whenever you're ready...." and I have to tell her, "Yeah, I'm just trying to figure out this gown."

She says, "Yeah, it's crazy, isn't it?" but doesn't offer any helpful information.

I wrap it around by putting one arm through two of the armholes, which I'm pretty sure is wrong, but whatever. There's also a sign on the wall apologizing for any bruising or discomfort I might have as a result of the exam and suggesting I take some Tylenol for it. It also suggests that I will feel better about the pain if I realize that squishing my boob to the point of bruising allows them to get a better picture of the inside of my breast. Yeah, just like those cute kids made me feel so much better about the labor pain. I wonder why women have to use these cognitive tricks to accept pain. Is there a similiar experience for men? Do they tell men, "Hey, you'll feel better about my fondling your balls if you realize it gives me a much better sense of what's going on in there"? Because I'm pretty sure they don't have to get their testicles squeezed between two pieces of plexiglass as a preventive measure, but I could be wrong about that.

We go into the exam room and I have to take the whole 3-armed thing off anyway. I wondered how uncomfortable it would be, since I've heard stories - much like labor, ranging from, "Oh, it's not that bad," to "Ouch."

In retrospect, it really wasn't that bad, but it's a weird process. They don't just stick your boob on a plate and then tighten the vise - you have to contort your body all kinds of ways and reach out to grab a bar that's barely reachable (for one as short as I, anyway) and keep your chin up and hold your breath. Maybe if you're more flexible it's easier, but I found it a rather difficult position to hold. And forget about holding my breath - there was no way I could breathe in that position anyway.

She squishes the plates together as far as they'll go (or so I think), and then says, "OK, just one more tightening." Seriously? How's that going to work? But yeah, she tightens it a notch and that's when I stop breathing.

Fortunately, it's not like other x-rays where she has to leave the room - she just stands behind a clear partition right near the machine, presses a button and is back to release the vise. Then we do it to the other side.

I found top-to-bottom squishing more painful than side-to-side squishing. But the whole thing is pretty fast, then I had to get my gown on again while she developed the film. So I asked, "How does this gown work?"

She said, "Like a jacket, then the extra piece goes across your front." Aha. That makes much more sense then the way I was wearing it. Next time I may remember. But probably not.

In other health news: Damn, brain injuries suck. Not as much as many other things that could be wrong with me and overall I'm really lucky blah blah blah, I realize that, but still. My memory is crap. I'll get annoyed with G. for "hiding" something like the box of OTC meds, and he'll point out that I was the one who decided it should go there on the shelf in our new cabinets. I'm afraid to put anything away because I'll never find it again. I was seriously worried about this when I thought we were moving. How was I going to decide where things went, and how was I going to remember where I put them?

Another thing that happens is that I forget what I've thrown out and/or donated. We take photos of everything, so that helps, but I was realizing that I can't remember if I kept any of my maternity clothes. I know I gave a lot away, but did I keep my favorites? I have no idea what I would have done with them if I had kept them, so it's not like I can exactly check. Is this normal? I think I normally would remember that kind of stuff. I can usually keep a to do list in my head, too, but not anymore. I have to write it down.

I just feel dumber. I haven't noticed a difference at work, except that I have to write any schedule changes down right away and keep better track of who paid what - I can't just call it up from memory anymore...but maybe like Dr. House last night, maybe I think I'm OK but I'm actually saying stupid stuff. I don't really think so - a few nights ago one member of a couple I see told me I'd done "a very good job tonight," and asked if I was related to Henry Kissinger, considering all the diplomacy involved in working with contentious couples. So that felt good.

Oh, and I blabber more, I think. Not that you could tell, or anything.

And To Think I Wasted All That Angst....

So G. didn't get the job in Portland. They put him through what amounted to a grueling oral exam last Wednesday and 4 hours of individual meetings with every staff member on Thursday, and Head Guy called yesterday to leave a message (grrrr) that there was too big a gap between their "program up here and your program down there." Well, la de freakin' da.

Mostly I feel bad for G. He deserves to be appreciated and they're idiots for thinking they can do better. Yes, I'm biased, but he really is the hardest working and most responsible employee I've seen. He gets along with everyone and clients really respond to him.

I'm angry and sad and frustrated. Everything seemed to be flowing so perfectly....the perfect house came available through his sister's friend (it would be a direct sale and we would save money by not using a realtor), but in case that didn't work, his childhood friend is a realtor in the area....his work schedule would have been just what he wanted, etc.

All signs seemed to point to this being the right move for us - and then BLAM! Guess what guys? You think you're in control but you're not. You think you get to choose when you're ready to relocate, but you don't.

Anyway, I'm a little frustrated right now, but we'll press on. I guess it's my turn to apply for a job. I don't want to work full-time while my kids are small, but sometimes you don't get to choose.

Some Planet is in Retrograde

Haven't written much lately because it would just be a bunch of whining and complaining, and really, I have very little to whine and complain about, in the grand scheme of things.

Except that I think I broke my nose. Last Friday at the playground, Ben and I went down a tunnel slide. I tried to sit up just as he threw himself backwards and thrust his head right into my nose. It only bled and swelled a little, but it's TUESDAY and it still hurts whenever anything touches it and glasses give me a nose-ache. These kids are determined to break my head.

G. hasn't heard anything about the job in Portland yet. We should know by the end of the week. In the meantime, we're trying to get all the accumulated crap out of the house so we can put it on the market as soon as we know we're going. There are many things I'm good at, but this is not one of them. I'm a collector, a hoarder. And a piler. God, the piles. Everywhere - the tables, the desk, the closet. And it is not easy to sort through all this crap with two sick children demanding either cuddling or entertainment. And I think I'm getting sick now, too.

And our experiments in potty training have failed. Now I just give A. the choice of underwear or pull-ups, and he'll usually pick the pull-ups. Not always, though. I also encourage him to be "Half-Naked Boy" (as he calls himself) at home. Our little super-hero.

Now that American Idol is on, I'm off to sort through more toys.

Journal Cover

Found a perfect quote on Rhonna's site for my current journal cover:
Live is never a straight line.
It's full of twists and turns.
The way to a happy life is not to avoid them
but to embrace them, to find happiness in them.
~Warren T. Vander Ven

(Patterned digital papers from Jen Wilson and dotted brush by Rhonna Farrer).

G's interviews in Portland went well, but they're incredibly detail oriented and asked him to essentially walk them through every professional decision he's made in the last 15 years. The first interview with the department administrators lasted a couple hours, and the next day's interview with the staff lasted over 4 hours.

He also looked at some houses. One is being sold by his sister's friend, who rehabs old Portland houses. She's hoping to sell to us directly and avoid a realtor. G is quite taken with this house, which has a studio in the back that we could use as a private practice office (as long as we don't see more than 8 clients a day). It's in a perfect location, with old, tree-lined streets and the elementary school about half a block away.

As a rule, I'm against change. Change is hard and I already tend to be incredibly sentimental about the things left behind. I know there are a lot of good reasons for considering this move, but damn. I'm feeling my 40-year-old roots shudder at the thought of being ripped up.

And I wish I just knew one way or the other. The Boss said he'd let us know by the end of next week, but last time he said that he called the same day, and I'm kind of hoping he does the same thing this time. I hate not knowing where I'll be living in three months.

So Far, So Good

24 hours down, 26 hours to go.

We went to the Children's Discovery Museum today. I packed diapers, wipes, snacks, lunch, drinks, a change of undies and pants for A., Motrin for me, sunscreen and hats in my backpack. Dressed me and the boys, fed me and the boys breakfast, loaded the car and felt quite proud of myself for accomplishing all of this by myself before 9 am.

It's about 35 miles away, and traffic was horrible. An hour later as I finally found the darn parking lot, I pulled in and said to myself, "*&#@! I forgot the &^%$# stroller."

AAARRRGH! I finally have the perfect stroller - my new double jogging stroller*. It rocks. And it's home in the garage because we took it out of the trunk last night to put G's luggage in. Damnit.

So I carried Ben the whole day. He's just 20 lbs, but 20 lbs can get pretty heavy when you're walking a couple of blocks and have to carry him inside the place as well. I hoped they'd have strollers to rent, but no such luck was mine today. Oh well. One of the best things about this place is that they have several areas set aside for kids 4 and under (and they're good about keeping it enforced). They even had a little infant room for "crawlers only" where Ben had a great time crawling up shallow steps, ramps and kissing puppets. I was able to set him down often enough that I'm still able to move tonight.

But, I couldn't carry him and our bag. That meant I only carried my wallet and we had no lunch so we had to buy a greasy expensive lunch there; we had no camera, no wipes and no travel potty seat, so A. had to go on the big-people public potty. Let's just say he was "unable to perform" and ended up holding it about 5 hours. Adding insult to injury (sort of), 5 minutes after arriving home and 2 feet away from his potty chair, he peed on the floor.

Besides the stroller absence, it was really fun. I can't believe we haven't been there before now. We may go tomorrow, too (just to take the stroller since it missed out). And I want to go for Mother's Day, as well.

Ben looked so cute in his plastic smock in the water play area - it was full-length on him, and he was so excited he actually walked to the water table holding onto just one of my hands. That was the first time he's been willing to attempt that. He also managed to get the smock situated just right so that the water ran down the smock, around his side, and down the back of his leg. Both he and A. were drenched, but very happy.

In one part of the 4-and-under area, two separate little girls (but both blonde...coincidence?) tried to keep Ben and A. from playing in the "forest tree" area where there were puppets inside this tree trunk room that would fit about 4 kids. The first chickie bounced in while they were exploring in there, took a puppet from A. He gave me a look that said, "Girls are trouble," and ran off to some other exhibit. Then she tried to scoot Ben out with giant waves of her arms. Seeing no adult attached to her, I told her, "Screw you."

No, I didn't. But I did give her the evil eye and said through gritted teeth, "Can't he play inside too?" She shook her head no. Geez, babe, don't you even know enough to give me lip service? You're supposed to say, "Yes," or say nothing but look guilty, then try to push him out without me seeing it.

If she'd been there first, I'd say, "OK, whatever, ya little brat," but the boys were there first and both were significantly smaller than her, so I saw her as a pretty little bully. I sat at the entrance, folded my arms, and smiled at her. She got the message that I wasn't going to move Ben, that I was bigger than she was, and she finally skulked out.

Word of the male tree interlopers must have gotten out because a second blondie girl ran over and actually tried to push Ben out. "Hey! We don't push," I told her. Ben did crawl out of the tree trunk entrance and sat down right outside it. The girl picked up a puppet and made it snarl at Ben. "Trying to scare him, are you? I'll show you something scary," I snarled at her.

No, I didn't. But I laughed because Ben thought it was funny and kept grabbing the puppet and giving it hugs and kisses while her hand was in it. She didn't know what to do with that, so she took the puppet off her hand and threw it at him. He was thrilled, picked it up and showered it with more hugs and kisses. I laughed and she glared. Way to show her, my little lovebug.

Can you tell, by the length of this post, that I've had very little adult interaction today? My sister called to find out how it went today, G. called to fill me in on his interview and some housing possibilities (all of which are looking pretty good), and a chick took my money at the entrance to the museum and was spectacularly unhelpful with any of my questions. Oh, and our neighbor came over with some freezer pops for the boys and talked to me at length. But I don't count that since I only understand about a quarter of what she says and she doesn't stop talking long enough for me to get an "I'm sorry...what?" in.

*By the way, I was mistaken a few posts back - our new sink did NOT cost more than the stroller, G. pointed out. It was not THAT much cheaper, I'd like to point out.

Got Nothin' to Do But...

Blog. I caught up on all my paperwork because I knew I wouldn't have a chance to do any work while G. was away. The dishwasher's going, the kids are in bed, got a cold Hefeweizen, and American Idol's on. Life is good, and I love Elliot. If he doesn't make it into the finals, I'm boycotting something. Chevrolet. I'll boycott Chevrolet.

Some More Thoughts

I cooked some frozen ravioli for dinner tonight. The directions said to boil them for 5-7 minutes or until the internal temperature is 160 degrees.

I wanna know, who takes the internal temperature of their ravioli?

All By Myself....

well, except for the little guy in diapers and the little guy who's trying mightily to get out of diapers. We just dropped G. off at the airport. He's flying to Portland and has interviews and house tours (with our friendly realtor who happened to grow up next door to G.) for the next two days.

I realize that mothers all over the world deal with husband's business trips, deployment or various levels of absence, so 48 hours with two little ones is not that big a deal, but let's just say I wish I had to work the next two days and could drop them off with a babysitter, day care, swim lessons, whoever.

I told G., ala Roseanne, that if we're all alive by the time he gets home, I've done my job.

Am I Too Much of a Drama Queen?

Every evening, as I start to pick up the wreckage that is our playroom/family room, the scene in "Fiddler on The Roof" comes to mind - the one where the villagers start cleaning up the wreckage from the czar's army setting fire to the village during the wedding feast. I also start humming "Anatevka," although I know that's a different part of the movie.

Also, I'm trying to do more yoga videos in an attempt to relax and feel less burnt-out....but they're so damn slow that I find myself fast forwarding through them to the next pose. I'm afraid I may be missing the point.

Comment Lunacy

I've switched from HaloScan to Blogger comments. Sorry I had to delete all the previous comments - I still have them and hold them close to my heart. Go ahead and break the new Blogger thing in, though.

I don't know how to get rid of that little string of code next to the comments. It's not in my template, and the comment code looks OK to me. I turned trackback off. That didn't work. Any ideas are welcome. When I have a few more minutes, I'll check out Blogger help.

Land of the Obvious

So an advocacy group has filed complaints saying that those hyper-expensive Baby Einstein videos don't actually make your baby smarter.

In other news....Bill Gates isn't going to give you 10 million dollars, no one in Nigeria is going to pay you to help them move their money, and you can get pregnant the first time.

We Da Bomb

Tonight we took a walk around the block. A. rode his scooter, which he just recently figured out. We stopped to look at all the houses and comment on the color.

"I wanna see more houses I never seen the color of before!"
"Well, you're in the right neighborhood."
"Look at dat house! Dat house isss vewy sy-lish."
"That house is stylish?"
"Yes, I think dat house is sy-lish."

As we went to cross the street:
"But this sidewalk is all ready for me to ride on!"
"Yeah, but this sidewalk across the street is ready for you to ride on, too."
"C'mon, buddy, we'll help you cross." I picked up the scooter and G. took A.'s hand.
"Oh, thank you guys! You're da best."

See? THAT'S why I let him watch Dragon Tales.

Before and After

Here's before: old white cabinets with about 6 layers of paint on them, and some sort of wood-grain formica stuff. The sink is over-mounted, which means lots of crud gets underneath the lip.



And here's after. Better, eh?












And here's the nicest faucet I've ever used in my entire life. Seriously, this is probably Julia Robert's faucet. It's G's indulgence, and it cost more than my brand new double jogger stroller, and while I think it might be a bit grand for such a small kitchen, the sprayer is so smooth I could stand and spray all day.

A Cautionary Tale

Some advice for new moms: Here's what you can expect if you wash your baby's hair and then put him down for a nap.

Will Someone Please Explain to Me....

the fascination with Kristin Chenoweth's breasts? At least once a day I get a hit from a search using the terms "Kristin Chenoweth breast" or "Kristin Chenoweth breast size," so I figured if they're coming here anyway, maybe someone can enlighten me.

Hah - I just ran the search myself and figured out why they're coming here. Although there are several results more pertinent to Kristin Chenoweth's breasts above my blog, the result for my blog says..."More Posts about Breasts. I just want to make it clear that I was not on the top ... Oh, by the way, if anyone saw it tonight, did you see Kristin Chenoweth ..."

Despite sounding totally dirty, it was an entry about people finding my blog on a search for "saggy redheaded moms," and, later, the West Wing's latest episode.

Oh, and I got a hit from someone looking for the dirty lyrics to Rolie Polie Olie? I did my own search and came up with nothing. If there are dirty lyrics, I want to know.

Also...one more question. I have HaloScan comments, which annoy me because they disappear after a month or so. Do Blogger comments stick around for longer? I suppose I could go look it up, but if someone would tell me, that would be much easier.

Assorted Morsels

In a fit of uncharacteristic efficiency, I've totally cleared out the kitchen cabinets and drawers in anticipation of the new kitchen cabinets and countertop arriving this week. And now we can't find a damn thing. Woe to the man who wants a spoon to eat his cereal with, let alone a bowl to put it in.

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See the sweater A's wearing in the photos of him and his pizza down there (couple posts down)? He's worn that same sweater for THREE years now. Ah, the benefits of having slow-growing children. Except I think someone (Mom? Is that you?) intervened on his behalf Easter morning and made the sweater disappear. Seriously, it literally disappeared for 24 hours, we had to dress him in something else, and it reappeared the next day. The little-known 37th Commandment: Thou shalt not dress thy child in the same sweater three Easters in a row.

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G. scrubbed the kitchen floor to within an inch of its life over the weekend, and now it's incredibly slippery. We can't wear socks on it because we'll go sliding all over the place. We have to barefoot and it's kind of cold in the mornings. He put some MopnGlo on it to replace the top wax, or whatever it is, but it's still really slippery. Any ideas? I think it's plain old vinyl.

I Am A Benevolent Analyst

Benevolent Analyst

This is an interesting test, but I was a little concerned about being a therapist and only getting "average empathy." (Move the cursor over each color to see what it represents and how I scored). But I think the questions they used to test empathy were a little off - they asked if you felt the way others around you feel, like do you feel sad if others are sad, etc. That's not necessarily empathy, that's codependence or having boundary issues. Empathy (at least the way I teach it to kindergartners) means you can understand how others feel, not that you necessarily absorb that feeling yourself. Also, being a therapist, we have to learn how to have empathy with some boundaries or else we'd burn out in a year. I also don't think I have low openness, whatever they think that is. I think I'm pretty open, but I don't spill everything all the time to everyone. Low style...yep, that's pretty much right on.

And the validity questions (where they ask you questions like, "Sometimes I get mad" that most people would answer yes to if they were being honest to see if you're faking good) were all lumped together instead of interspersed throughout. Anyway, I still think the results are pretty.

It Was a Double CD Set

For Easter morning, G. insisted on making a treasure hunt for A. He hid clues in plastic eggs, with each clue leading to the next, and the final one leading to the baskets. What's more, the clues had to rhyme. So we're sitting on the floor the night before, filling baskets and looking for words that rhyme with "oven."

A. loved it, except he threw us a curve by taking one of the clues and telling us, "Now I read the clue and you try to find it." He can't read, but he pretends he can, and so he made up a clue, non-rhyming, that led to G.'s office, where there was no egg. But with a little sleight-of-hand, G. dropped another egg in his office, slipped the original clue out, read it out loud and the hunt continued. Phew.

We were bad Christians, though. We knew we'd be up early, so we'd planned on attending 7:30 a.m. mass. But after the 6:00a.m hunt, we looked at each other and said, "Nuh-uh." I went back to bed, then got up and relieved G., who slept for another three hours. We did watch "The Story of Jesus for Children" on DVD and listened to the Bible songs on their new CD, so hopefully God will forgive us.

More Easter Tragedies

"I am not a monster; I am a BUNNY!" We had ONE barely warm afternoon last week, but it was too much for Peter Rabbit, who was hiding in the trunk of our car. I didn't discover the tragedy until tonight, of course, so crisis intervention was necessary and substitutions found.






When I was about seven, my much older sister was about 19 and suggested, to my horror, that we have fruit in our Easter baskets instead of candy. Can you imagine? She probably doesn't remember it, but let me tell you, I saw my life flash before my eyes. Huge cognitive dissonance occured for me because I thought she ruled everything, and usually would have gone along with whatever she said. But no little chocolate eggs? I couldn't go along with that. So I think we ended up with oranges and chocolate eggs.

At age nine, I was selected to sing a solo at Easter mass. David was to sing the first verse of "I Am the Resurrection", I was to sing the middle verse, and Dennis was assigned the third verse. The children's shoir sang the chorus. So there I was, in this huge church packed with people, in my pretty blue Easter dress with curled hair. David, Dennis and I stood at the front of the choir. David sang his part, we sang the chorus and I stepped up the microphone, opened my mouth....and started singing the verse David had just sung. When I realized what I'd done, I gasped and threw my hands over my mouth. The director, our fourth grade teacher, was playing the guitar and hissed, "Keep singing! Keep singing!" So I stepped back up and started over with the correct verse*. Fortunately, the organ player was a versatile and adaptable eight grader and he was able to compensate. Afterward, everyone told me that I did such a good job recovering that no one could tell. Looking back, I find that hard to believe, but everyone really united in a rare show of solidarity to convince me that no one noticed.

The first Easter we were in our house, I got G. an Easter basket as usual and hid it. He found it, turned pink, thanked me, and excused himself. He rustled around a bit, and then told me I could look for my Easter basket. What I found was a basket grabbed hastily from the garage with 2 cans of Diet Coke thrown in it. I thought it was funny, so every year since then, I insist he put Diet Coke in my Easter basket.

*Which, by the way, is firmly embedded in my brain now, never to be forgotten again: "In this world, all men shall come to know; it is love that makes the spirit grow. If you believe, then you shall live." I believe it has been changed, though, to "In his word, we all shall come to know..." Odd that the one girl chosen to sing was given the "all men" line, back when we were politically incorrect. Perhaps my bohemian teacher was trying to make a statement. She was a bit of a loose cannon - I wouldn't put it past her.

Random Sightings

I came home from an errand and found that while G. was changing Ben's Personal Best Poop, A. had colored on both his cheeks and his arms with a green marker. I was about to begin the "We only color on paper" speech, when A. threw his hands in the air and exclaimed, "Sometimes I just like to be colorful!" Well, OK then.




There is a most extremely cute baby reflected in the CD player, and he likes to get some tongue.







A. was eating his pizza at the mall when I said, "Hey, you know what that looks like?"
He looked at it for a moment and answered, "Portland!"
Well, I was thinking Africa, but didn't say it.







Then, because he can read my mind (it's scary), he takes a few bites and says, "Now it looks like Africa!" Really. It was weird.







Me getting my last CT scan. Not the most flattering angle, but I had become friendly with the machine and wanted to remember it.








And finally, proof that I live on the wrong side of the tracks. Found in the food court where A. was making topo maps out of pizza.

Chocolate Bunnies and Contemplation

In Catholic school, we were always told around Christmas time, "Now, you know, as good Catholics, you have to realize that Christmas is not our most important feast day. Easter is much more important."

Easter is very important in the Catholic church, because Christianity is based on the miracle of Jesus' resurrection. Without the resurrection, Jesus is just another tree-hugging liberal.

I've been looking for kid's books explaining the whole Easter thing. It's hard to find one that isn't macabre. Of course, Easter wouldn't be Easter if it weren't for that messy part about the murder. It would be nice if we could skip over the death part until he's a bit older, but the resurrection doesn't make any sense without it.

So I tell A., "Well, Jesus died, but then he wasn't dead anymore, and that's Easter. See, usually when someone dies, they stay dead. But Jesus didn't - he died and then three days later he was up and walking around and everyone was so happy to see him!" He humors me and pretends to listen, but really, if you believe in the Easter Bunny, a guy who dies and then isn't dead anymore is not that impressive.

What I'm really having trouble with, though, is that all the books I found have some version of, "Jesus died for our sins." The problem is, I either don't understand this or don't believe it. It's possible that I don't believe it because I don't fully understand it.

It was explained to us as children that because Adam and Eve ate that apple, we've all got Original Sin on our souls. So because we're sinners from the get-go, we'd go to at least purgatory, if not hell. I think they didn't say hell because they didn't want to scare us. Don't know why not - never stopped them before.

Anyway, in some sort of weird deal God made with us, Jesus came along and because he died ("for our sins"), we're saved and have a chance to get into heaven. I've heard that Jesus died so we don't have to, Jesus sacrificed himself for our sins, etc. etc.

I tried very hard to understand this trade-off, but no one could ever clearly explain it to me. I thought I must be missing some sort of Catholic gene, because the missing logic didn't seem to bother anyone else around me. I stopped asking but now I'm asking again.

Because what makes sense to me is that Jesus died to show us a different way - to show us how to react to enemies with love and integrity instead of retaliation. Is that the same thing as dying for our sins? It doesn't sound the same.

My favorite explanation of Easter takes place in a French class in David Sedaris' book "Me Talk Pretty One Day." The French class is trying to explain, in halting French, Easter to a Moroccan woman:

"It is a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and...then he be die one day on two morsels of lumber....He die one day and then he go above my head to live with your father...He weared of himself the long hair and after he die, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."
"He nice, the Jesus."
"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."
..."Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb..One too may eat of the chocolate."
"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.
..."The rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."

Then it goes into the difference between Americans, who have a rabbit deliver chocolates at Easter, and the French, who have a bell that flies in from Rome.

I am a Calif-oh-nee-an

But change is the only constant, right?

G and I decided that he'd apply for a position with Major HMO up in Portland. It's the same position he has here, but that one would be full-time. If he gets it, we're moving to Portland this summer. We've talked about it for several years, but we're finally making plans to actually do it.

The good parts:

Big Sister and Big Niece (and little grand-nephew) both live there.
All my in-laws live up there: more babysitters, and we can go home to our own house on holidays.
I've been there enough that I kind of already know my way around.
It's beautiful, especially in the summertime.
Would still have access to beach and mountains.
Cheaper cost of living.
Could get a nicer house.
Could live in a nicer neighborhood.
Kids could go to a better school.
Would have some $ for investment/retirement.
Slower pace.
Pizzacato is pretty good.
They have a good zoo.
Neighborhoods are cool.
No sales tax. Things cost what the sticker says they cost.


The bad parts:

Have to leave Middle Sister (and family) in California.
Have to leave all my friends here.
Have to leave my clients here.
Can't do private practice up there until I get some referral sources.
Have to work in an agency.
G would have to work 10 hour days.
It rains. A lot.
It snows. I've never lived in snow.
They don't let you pump your own gas.
San Francisco isn't up there.
They drive more slowly.
The freeways only have three lanes.
This is where I had my babies - they're not even going to remember CA.
I have to get an OR driver's license.
I've become attached to the flamingos at our zoo.
They don't have Barney's.
I have never lived outside of the Bay Area.
Have to leave my Ob/Gyn (women with a good Ob/Gyn would understand this)
I like this house.
I hate change.

Rapprochement

A. does lots of things that I love…but I think the thing I love the most is that when he’s angry with me or I’m angry with him, enough that he’s about to lose it, his eyes tear up and he holds out his arms for a hug.

“Mama, I need you!”

I love that he trusts me enough to know that of course I’ll hug him. Of course he can come to me for comfort, even if one of us is angry. I love that he has that basic trust in my love for him.

One of my friends complained once that her toddler got clingy during or after a tantrum. She didn’t want to give in to his requests for affection because she felt it was like rewarding him for bad behavior.

I see it so differently. Toddlers have tantrums because they can’t tolerate frustration. It’s our job to teach them to self-comfort, but to do that, they have to be comforted by us. I don’t give him whatever he’s having the tantrum about, so it’s not like tantrums work to get him what he wants. But I do comfort him because it’s really hard to be a toddler. I want him to eventually learn to internalize my comforting and do it for himself.  

Maybe I’m wrong, and maybe I’ll feel differently when Ben gets to that stage, but for now, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Sunshine and Lollipops It's Not

You know those days when you're just so happy to be a parent? You just look at your children and you know that bringing them into the world was the best thing you ever did, and you can't believe how cute and smart they are and you don't know how you got so lucky but you want to praise Allah or send a shout-out to the Goddess or whoever was responsible for blessing you with such a marvelous gift?

Today was not one of those days.

Actually, this whole week has not had a day like that in it. Both boys are sick, G. and I are sick (but not as bad) and the amount of mucus in this house is reaching biohazard levels.

A. is quite stoic and refuses to admit when he's sick.

"I'm not sick! I'm fine! :::cough-cough-hack-hack-blow-bubble-out-of-nose::::" So he's fairly low maintenance except that I have to run around after him with a kleenex all day. He refuses to keep a tissue under his pillow at night saying, "If I need to blow my nose, I'll just call you." Yeah, that's kind of what I'm trying to avoid.

Ben, on the other hand, really doesn't like being uncomfortable. So he wants to be held constantly and won't sleep for more than half an hour at a time. He doesn't just want to be held, he wants to be held and walked. And not just walked anywhere, but walked in the direction in which he is pointing. I am his personal Segway. And, you know, he's sick, so if you don't go where he's pointing, or, Gd forbid, if you try to put him down, he's all, "Waaah! I'm sick! I'm miserable and all I'm asking for is a little help getting around but you're ignoring me and fine, I'll just sit here and produce a river of mucus from my nose to drown in. And good luck paying for all the therapy bills when I'm a teenager and I remember how you neglected me!"

Having to walk Ben all the time means A. gets whiny and goofy in a bid for equal attention. So they're both whining and crying constantly and my clients want me to call them back and I just want to go far, far away and have Miguel bring me fruity drinks with umbrellas. I want to lie back in the sun and listen to my tunes and have someone else wipe the noses.

Add to that the fact that it's been raining for most of the month. So we're stuck inside most of the time and I'm cursing e-Bay's rules that won't let you sell people, especially children.

A. is working on using the potty. We finally decided that if we waited for him to show the signs that he's "ready," we'd be buying pull-ups until he was in college. So we took off his diapers at home and he finally got tired of getting his legs wet. Now he's pretty well potty trained (for pee at least), but he also insists on being naked all the time. This limits our activities just a bit.

I spend a lot of time cleaning out the potty chair, and Ben knows it's an important piece of furniture. And, by the way, here's what he thinks of his Veggie Puffs. (edited to add: he's putting them in, not taking them out)

Updates All Around

I was feeling OK about things because G and I had remained healthy although both boys were sick. Then Gd smote me for my impudence.

I gotta tell you, though, those Zicam things really work. A. and Ben are still all snotty, but I'm already feeling better.

You know, when you're anticipating being a parent, you might think about some of the gross things that come with being a parent - poop, vomit, etc. But I'm here to tell you that the grossest thing about being a parent and the best form of birth control for me is sleeping next to an baby who can't blow his nose. Arrrgh. And don't believe those nurses who'll tell you to use the bulby suction torture-thing. I know of one person in the world who can get a reasonable amount of mucus out of her baby's nose with that thing. The sound of a baby breathing through his nose despite an enormous amount of mucus will make your husband's snoring sound like sweet music. And yeah, I gave him decongenstant and we had the humidifier going full blast. I also steamed him and served him up with a nice dill sauce. Just kidding. I steamed him in the bathroom with the menthol stuff. I did everything I could think of to get his sinuses to drain.

And regarding my head: I had another CT scan yesterday and guess what? I'm released from neurosurgery care! I don't have to have another CT scan and I don't have to go back to see Dr. Clean. When we left, G. thanked the doc for helping us avoid surgery, and the doc said, "Yeah, well, I'm glad it turned out OK, but you don't really want to be that close to surgery again." I keep forgetting that I came really close to having my head shaved, my scalp peeled back, my scalp cut open and staples put in my head.

OK, now I've really gotta go wash the hair I still have.

Never a Dull Moment

Heard this morning from A's room, 3:30am:

A: Papa! PAPA!! (BTW, whom he calls has no relationship to who actually gets up and goes in)

Me (stumbling in): Whatwhatwhat? You need to go back to sleep, buddy, it's the middle of the night.

A (eyes closed): I was thinking we could make fruit salad tomorrow.

Me: Um, OK.

A: I will get the grapes and maybe some watermelon.

Me: Yeah. OK.

A (still not opening his eyes): OK. Goodnight.

Me (goes back to room and pokes G. because these are his genes that are waking me up in the middle of the night): Hey! Wake up! A. wants to make fruit salad tomorrow.

G: mumble mumble

The Cutest Thing

You know how when your friends or siblings have kids, and you don't, and they say stuff like, "Oh, you've got to see this! Look how cute this is....C'mon Taylor, give Mommy a kiss..." and the baby leans forward with their mouth open and goes, "aaaahhhh" on your friend/sibling's nose?

And you're like, "Yeah, cute. Just like every other baby I've ever seen do that."

And friend/sibling's like, "Oh dass so sweeeeet! Such a sweeeet baby!" And you think, "Damn. When did friend/sibling lose their mind?"

Well, Benster is doing the open-mouth kiss thing. And he climbs up on me at least 10 times a day, says, "aaaahhhh" and puts his head on my shoulder. Then he's off again. And I cannot get enough. It's the cutest thing I've ever seen. Seriously.

So that's as good as it gets with trying to take photos of the two of them. (papers and elements by Nikki Meador at www.scrapwithnikki.com )

Before I had kids, I used to go all out on St. Pat's Day. I tried starting an annual Irish dinner, but Irish food sucks, so I changed it to all green food. NO food coloring, either, if I can help it! We've had salad, green vegetables with herb sauce, pesto pasta, cream of various green vegetables soup (the best was roasted asparagus and leeks), and fish with dill sauce. Lime jello, too - although I concede that probably has food coloring in it.

One year I made Irish Flags - a layered drink with brandy, irish creme and creme de menthe. Yeah, yuck, but after you drink the first couple practice ones, they get better. Now that we have kids, I made do with shimp and pesto spaghetti and beer in green bottles. That's as festive as we get around here.

A. is very into holidays, so I told him that St. Patrick's Day was a day when we all wear green and eat green food. I don't want to get into the "our ancestors came from Ireland" talk because it's hard enough for him to understand that much of our family lives in another state, let alone another country. We did mention at dinner that a long time ago, St. Patrick went to Ireland and told all the people there about God and so we have a special day for him. That's it. He watches only PBS which didn't mention St. Pat's Day as far as I could tell.

So he turned to me and said, "I love being Irish." I've never told him that he's Irish. I don't think I've ever used that word around him. I asked G. if he'd been saying it, and he said No, and besides, if he'd said anything it would be that A. was Irish and Italian.

What freaks me out is that there are times I swear he's channeling my mother. When he was a baby, he'd reach up and mindlessly finger his hair, exactly the way my mother did when she was watching TV. So I said, "Wow, who told you you were Irish?" and he answered, "I don't know. I just knowed it." He's the only grandchild (on our side) with her treasured red hair, and I know she would've thought he was hilarious.

So after claiming pride in his heritage, he told me, "When you were a baby, I used to teach you stuff." OK, this was getting weird.

"Like what stuff?" I asked.

"Like how to dance while you were standing up."

Phew. My mother never taught me to dance while I was standing up. Couldn't be her.

Chicken, Rice and Blogs

Thank you, everyone who weighed in on the posts they liked best! I really appreciate it.

A. was giving me a list this afternoon of what I could make for dinner. On his list was, "Wine with potato sauce," and "Oversize chicken."

"Oversize chicken?"

"Yes. That's the new chicken that tastes like strawberries."

He then decided he wanted chicken-rice-and-sauce, which is chicken breasts with Dopiaza sauce (mmmmm),
but we didn't have any sauce. So he suggested "chicken-rice-and-flour." I told him I didn't know how to make that, and he tried to explain it to me, but I finally got him to eat chicken nuggets.

He's just trying to get out of cooking later.

Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?

So I need some input on your favorite posts here at Everyday Lunasea. Here are some that got lots of comments, but if there are any that you think were particularly memorable, like, if you remember them at all, could you let me know? I need to collect a few. It's hard for me to pick because darnit, I like 'em all.

Strange Things I Believed As a Catholic Child
Scary Kids Books
Oh, I liked this one too
You've Been Talking In Your Sleep (in which we are introduced to G.'s sleep-talking)
Congratulations, Your Baby's a Klutz
Confessions of a Neighborhood Snob

I've been drawn in by the Cult of American Idol again. I really like that several of the contestants are funny-looking this time. I really like Taylor and His Spams (the name of his future band). And Bucky's hair tonight? That's how my hair is supposed to look. I thought it was quite lovely. Chris - he's the one with the stepkids, right? I remember thinking that it was really touching that he adopted his wife's kids so he's good too. And Paris, even though she's a baby, she's pretty darned talented. But I'd bet on Katharine to be in the top two. Melissa and Kevin are going pretty soon.

Happy Birthday, Buddy

One year ago today, Fussy/Smiley Boy came into the world. On the one hand, it's gone by amazingly fast. On the other hand, it seems like he's been part of our family forever.

Little Mr. Freud

When I get home from work, A.'s already gone to bed but he's usually still awake, so we snuggle for a bit. He always asks about my clients and what they said. I give him a quick synopsis and try to answer his questions as best I can. He always amazes me - is he really interested or does he just have really good conversational skills?

A: Did you have another client?
Me: Yes.
A: And how are they doing?
Me: Well, she's pretty upset because she feels like her work is too hard.
A: Too hard?
Me: Yes.
A (thinks): Well, sometimes people can get tired of work and they don't know how to change it.

Um, you're three and a half and you don't even know what work is. Where do you come up with this stuff? Who are you channeling?

----------------------------------

This afternoon, G. was playing with A. and told him, "Pretty soon it'll be time for your nap."
A. replied, "Oh no! I think I know better than that!"

Payback

Longtime readers (and family members and friends and anyone else willing to listen to my stories) will remember that G. talks in his sleep. Last night, around 2am, A. shouted out, "Papa! PAPA!" with such intensity we thought there actually was was a monster in his room. As G. got out of bed to go check it out, A. yells, like it's an emergency, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?" I started laughing and when G. came back to bed, I whispered, "He was fast asleep, wasn't he?" G. said yes, and I said, "Yep. Welcome to my world."

The other night G. shook me to wake me up, right on schedule (between 12 and 1 am), and asked, "Are you OK? Do you have enough oxygen?"

The thing is, even if I answer him, he doesn't believe me.

"Are you SURE???"

"Yes, goddamnit, but you're not going to have enough oxygen very soon because I'm going to stuff this freakin' pillow into your mouth."

I'm Wearing Eddie Bauer Tonight

We were driving a friend home today and he said, "So, no crises this week? You guys are getting boring."

Little did we know that when we got home, I would find that the VCR that I programmed to catch the first 3 hours of the Oscar coverage would have spit the tape out and therefore, not recorded anything. It's evil and I hate it. It does stupid things like spit tapes out all the time for no reason. How sorry are you for me that I don't have an iPod, Tivo or even extended cable?

So I did watch the end of the Oscars, and I have a question - did they play music during all the speeches? It was distracting and just an overall bad idea. You could tell the winners were thrown off because you hear music during your speech, you think, "My time's up and I'mgonnatalkreallyfast." Even though I'm sure they were warned ahead of time, if you win an Oscar I'm guessing you're just trying to get up the stairs without tripping.

Donatella Versace needs to stop the plastic surgery.

Wasn't Rachel Weisz the one who was married to Macauley Culkin? OK, no. I love the internet.

Before I had kids, I used to try to see all the big nominated films before the awards. Those days are long gone, unless they start giving Oscars to Heffalumps.

OH! I forgot some firsts in my post about firsts - for the first time in 4 years, I am wearing non-nursing bras. This is the first time in 4 years that I have not been either pregnant or nursing. Yep. Dug the old VS bras out, and while they're a little small still, it's nice to wear something besides white cotton bras with flaps.

The other first is that A. is sleeping without a pacifier, finally. So now without it, A. needs more snuggling before bed, which is kind of sweet. We take about 10 minutes to rock in the glider and talk about the day. He told me while we were snuggling last night, "I'm a boy who likes to talk a lot." Yeah, I noticed. What's not sweet is that he calls us back about 8 times after bedtime to ask, "What are you doing?" and "What are you going to dream about?" He decides ahead of time what he's going to dream about. Last night he said he was going to dream about being a clock. Tonight he's going to dream about being out in the rain. Nothing like taking control of your dreams.

My Head's Feeling Roomier Already

According to my Johari window,

93% of people agree that Lunasea237 is intelligent.

So of course I'm like, "Wait a second....who doesn't think I'm
intelligent?"

Turns out everyone but G. chose "intelligent" to describe me. Hhhmph. He's just threatened.

So the CT scan looks quite good - my brain did much better this time. The clot is down from 1.9 cm to 1.1 cm. So it's almost half the original size. What pleased me most was that Dr. Clean (who we know now has 7 children, 3 of them redheaded) said, "That's better than I expected."

I told him I was still having some visual weirdness in my left eye, and he said, "Oh, I'll send you to the eye doctor. They'll test your visual field and other things. (pause) Of course, it won't help. They can't do anything, but...." Then he led me out of his office. He's a nice enough guy, but he never finishes his sentences.

This time we had to take the kids with us, and A. got to see the CT scan. But what really impressed him was a bunch of men gathered in the hall discussing how to move another CT machine in. They pulled out their measuring tapes and A. was entranced.

One of them measured the hallway and then snapped his tape back into its case, (you know, where you release the button and the tape retracts quickly into its case) which I guess is against Contractor's Code of Ethics because the other men acted like he'd painted over a window. One said, "That's YOUR tape, right? Sure am glad you didn't do that to MY tape!" accompanied by gasps and groans from the others. The next time he slowly eased it back into the holder (case?). So I was wondering, what happens if you snap it back?

It was weird explaining to A. what was happening. We were in the waiting room with a bunch of old people and I was telling A. that they would be taking pictures of my head, then we'd see the doctor. I could feel everyone's eyes on me and I wondered what they thought. Same thing in the neurosurgery waiting room - everyone was pretty old except me, G. and the kids. You could tell people were wondering what was wrong with us/me. Nobody gave us any money, though.

Tell Me What You Think....

....my blog says about me. Or what you think if you know me IRL. The problem with this window, of course, is that it's not exhaustive and it only lets you pick 6 items. But hey, give it a go. I'm curious. My Johari Window

Oh, and I get another CT scan tomorrow. I'm hopeful that the clot is much smaller. I'm feeling much more like myself this week, and I'm tired in the I-have-two-kids-in-diapers kind of way, not the my-brain-is-damaged kind of way. So I'm hopeful.

Big Week

So it's been quite the week of firsts here at Chez Lunasea.

1. Ben is crawling and cruising. He finally figured it out, a week and a half short of his first birthday. He still goes backwards most of the time, getting stuck under furniture, and still does the crawling-furiously-but-staying-in-one-place thing, and he complains most of the time. But he can make it across the floor, and can cruise around the train table, much to A.'s dismay. And he claps. That's new. I'm going to find a patty-cake marathon to enter him in because he could go all day. He grabs my hands and forces me to patty-cake against my will all the time. Since I manhandle him against his will all day long, I figure it's fair.

2. I have a nice routine during bath time - get Ben out, dry him off, get him at least in a diaper, go get A. out, wrap a towel around him, let him parade naked through the house while I get Ben in jammies. Worked great. Tonight I'm drying Ben off and A. appears, with the bath mat wrapped around him, at my side. "I got myself out of the tub!"

"How did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to get out."

"Yeah, I know why, but how?"

"I don't know."

3. A. also got himself nekkid all by himself for the first time.

4. A.'s also gotten 3 stickers for peeing in the potty. He's tired of me asking him if he wants to poop in the potty, so if he's about to poop, he fixes me with a stare until I ask him, "What?" and then yells, "I don't want to use the potty!" That's how I know I'll have to change him in a few minutes.

5. Ben eats grown-up food now. Only grown-up food. He eschews baby food, leaving me with a pantry full of organic bananas and oatmeal. He only wants to eat something if he sees us eat it. That means he'll eat Life cereal but not Cheerios. I've told him over and over that babies are supposed to love Cheerios but he's not swayed.

I think A. might be spending too much time on the preschool computer programs. While he was picking out his four books for night-night time, he pulled one off the shelf, looked at it, mumbled to himself, "No, that's not right. Try again." Then he pulled another one off, looked at it and rejoiced, "That's the right choice! Good job!"

He told me before bed tonight that we needed to say prayers. I asked him what we should say and he said, "Ga-ba A."

"Ga-ba A.?"

"Yes. And Ben."

"Ga-ba? Ga- ba. Oh....God bless A. and Ben?"

"Yes. And Papa. And Uncle Barry."

Uncle Barry gave him 6 EXTREME STEAM train DVDs at Thanksgiving, which I think is why he gets top billing. Or maybe he thinks Uncle Barry needs the extra blessing.

If you need to laugh...

..and you might, after contemplating the previous entry, watch this video. Make sure your sound is on. I promise you'll laugh too. Thanks to Busy Mom for the link.

Question

Deep question: If there was a particular date on which you were going to die, but you have a choice of either knowing about it 4-5 months in advance, or just dying suddenly on that date without warning, which would you choose?

Sorry, But I Gotta Record These Somehow...

...so I'm gonna share them with you. More conversations with A:

"Mama, did you have any dreams last night?"

"Yes, but I don't remember them. I think there was fruit involved."

"Fruit? Banana's a fruit. What fruit did you dream about?"

"I don't remember - maybe an orange."

"Oh, an orange. An orange is a juicy fruit. Can you think of other fruits that are juicy?"

"Um, grapes."

"Yes, yes! You're right! Those are juicy fruits! Now do you know one that's red?"

OK, look, dude, I went to almost 30 years of school. I don't need an oral exam first thing in the morning. He's not even in preschool and he's already the teacher.

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He's been trying to stall bedtime lately. He goes in fine, but then comes up with all kinds of sudden needs.

"Mama! Mama!"

"WHAT??" (He'd already called me back to use the potty and get cough medicine, so my patience was wearing thin).

"What are you doing in the kitchen?"

"You don't need to know what I'm doing in the kitchen. It's night-night time."

"But WHAT ARE YOU DOING??"

"Remember the spoon you just used for the medicine? I was putting it in the dishwasher. Good night."

"But I have some things to talk to you!"

"After night-night is not the time to talk, though, it's the time to sleep." But last night I came home from work after he was in bed and we had a nice little snuggle and talk in the rocker, so I knew he wanted that again. It was also his second night sleeping without a pacifier, so I knew his anxiety level was a little bit high.

"OK, what do you need to tell me?"

"I thought you were watching the 'lympics!!"

"If I ever make it back to the family room, I will watch the olympics. Or I might turn 'Dancing with the Stars' on."

(heavy sigh) "I wish I could watch Dancing with the Stars."

"Yeah, well, you didn't take a nap today so there's no way you're staying up late."

"But, but...stars don't have feet!"

"True. Good night."

"Stars can't dance! That's silly."

"Yep, you're right. Good night."

"But sometimes stars can come down to the sidewalk."

"They fall out of the sky?"

"Yes. And then they have feet. And then they can dance!"

"OK, that works. Good night."

"But Mama, I can dance. I can do dancing tricks. Like upside down. That's a good trick." He was getting desperate.

"Yep. Maybe we'll dance some more tomorrow. Good night."

"But I don't know how to go to sleep all the way!"

"Yes you do. You're a very good sleeper. You can start by lying down."

"I want more lights on."

"No, because that will make it hard to sleep. And it's sleeping time."

"It's fine. I'll be FINE."

"No. You're three years old and it's your bedtime. Good night."

The one good thing is that at least he understands what I'm saying. Ben just plays dumb when I tell him 4:30am is not an appropriate time to wake up. It's like that Gary Larson cartoon where the human is talking to the dog and all the dog hears is "blah blah blah blah blah." Ben grins his big grin at me like he's hearing "Oh Ben, you're such a cute baby when you get up early!" even though that is most certainly not what I'm saying.

Speaking of Ben, he's going to be one year old in two weeks. How'd that happen? He's still not moving around of his own accord, and appears to expect us to carry him to high school.

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Conversations with A.

This morning A. decided we needed to discuss the ottoman.  

“I think it has a screw wrong.”

“Oh, a screw is wrong, huh? What should we do about that?”

“Actually, I fink it needs to be zamined.”

“Um, what?”

“I fink it actually needs to be zamined.”

“You think it needs to be examined?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to move it into the kitchen and then we can cook on it.”

Good as his word, he pushed it onto the linoleum in the kitchen, and returned. He sat in Ben’s little chair, and said, “Now I will talk to you about it.”

“OK.”
“It’s in the kitchen now. We can use it to cook.”

“Um, I guess so.”

“Yeah, and the screw is still broken. But I don’t fink it’s really bad.”

“Do we need to fix it?”

“Yes, but maybe we’ll fix it a different day.”

I love these conversations because I never know what he’s going to come up with. I just wish I sometimes knew what the hell we were talking about.

A Few Random Stories

A few stories from the hospital:

There was no traditional nurses' station - the nurses worked at built-in desks along the walls of the corridor. So walking down the corridor, I walked right between these desks. They had files, binders and supplies on the shelf above the desk, and one of the bins was labeled, in really big letters: CADAVER BAGS. I had vision problems and even I could read the label and see the bags as I walked by. Don't you think they could have put them in a cabinet somewhere? I mean, do they really need such quick access?

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G and I ventured down to the vending machines one night and, hungry but trying to be healthy, I asked him to buy me some Kashi cereal. Upstairs, I found my nurse and asked if there was any leftover milk I could have. She brought in a carton, and was carrying a brownie that looked like it was leftover from a dinner tray. She said, "I wasn't sure if you wanted anything with it." But it was weird - she was holding it sort of to her side, like she didn't really want me to see it. She turned back to the door.

But I had a head trauma and figured I could be bold, so I pointed to it and said, "What's that?"

"Oh," she stared at it like, how'd that get in my hand? "It's a brownie."

Might as well go for broke. "Well. Can I have it?"

"Oh, yeah, sure."

I hope I didn't take her dessert, but hey, I had an epidural hematoma and they were waking me up every 3 hours to take my vitals. The least they could do was give me a damn brownie.

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While A. and my niece were visiting, they found the buttons at the end of the bed and pushed them all. I didn't know they did anything until an aide came in to help me unplug the pump and wrestle the IV into the bathroom. When I got up, an alarm sounded. We didn't know what was going off until the aide figured out it was the bed alarm - they set it to alert them when a confused patient who is supposed to remain in bed gets up. When she realized it was the bed alarm, she grabbed my arm and said, "That's for disoriented patients! C'mon!" and grabbed my arm and started dragging me back into the bed.

"No! The kids were playing with the bed! That's not for me! I can go to the bathroom!" They were pumping me full of fluids so the situation turned dire rather quickly with her pulling on me and me trying to free myself.

Eventually she believed me, but I was afraid I was going to have to punch her like Jack Bauer in 24.

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I asked the brownie nurse, whom I liked, what she thought of my doctor. She'd expressed some frustration with Dr. Ray of Sunshine for not allowing me any food when surgery wasn't imminent, so I figured she'd be honest. So I asked her what she thought of Dr. Clean and she said, "Well, he's been here forever." Okkkaay. I laughed. I mean, it was an unfair question.

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More good news: Today was the first day I felt like myself. I think I might actually get better. Yeehaw.

TMI about TBI

It's been two weeks since I slammed my head into the asphalt in front of our house. I had no idea that recovering from a concussion was so hard. I don't think I've really known anyone with a concussion since grade school when a kid hit his head on the closet ceiling and was out for months. I guess I thought one might get some headaches, and slow down for a few days but basically I assumed everything goes back to normal pretty quickly. I had no idea.

I've never been so tired. Even when I was pregnant and anemic it wasn't this bad. And I don't know if my brain isn't working the way it used to because of the fatigue or because it's bruised. I'm really, really irritable and I feel bad because I'm so impatient with A. I snap at him easily now, and I never used to do that. I'm frustrated because I don't know what to do with myself. What were my routines? How did I entertain the kids? My big goals are to make sure the kids are dressed and fed each day. Bathed once in a while, too. I don't remember what I was working on before I hit my head - I think I wanted to clear out the office so Ben would eventually sleep in his own room. Now I think about working on it and I have no idea where to start. Maybe I'll just go lie down for a while.

I wake up with headaches every day. I'm lightheaded a lot, and it's bad enough that I don't drive unless I have to. I feel like I have chronic low blood sugar.

And the worst part is that according to what I can find, these symptoms can last for weeks to months. And some people never recover fully at all.

I'm trying to stay positive and remind myself that things could be much worse. I'm trying to look at this as an opportunity to revise how I take care of myself. This is my chance to be more mindful and conscious. So I'm trying to make the best of it. But really, it pretty much sucks.

There is good news: It's Cadbury Creme and Caramel Egg season.

Don't Forget St. Pat's Day

I made a card for G for V-day, and asked A. to dictate what to write inside. He came up with:

"Dear Papa,
Thank you for the Christmas presents. Happy Thanksgiving. After Valentine's Day, Easter."

Got most of the bases covered there.

Que Sera Sera

So I had another CT scan yesterday, and I must say I was rather disappointed with the results. I had hoped the clot would be quite a bit smaller, but it was about the same size. While I was in the machine and the pictures came up on the screen, my hsuband "Dr." G. analyzed them and told me that it looked less dense, which would hopefully indicate that it was reabsorbing.

So an hour later in the doctor's office, Dr. Clean said, "Well, it looks about the same size, maybe a little smaller, but you can see it's less dense."

"So is that what you would expect after a week?"

"Yeah, yeah." He looks at us.

"OK. So it'll just keep reabsorbing and we don't need to get it drained?"

"I don't think so. So I'll see you back in two weeks."

"OK."

He said it could take a month before I feel normal again.

And that was that. My vision is just about back, though, and the biggest problems I'm having is that I'm lightheaded much of the time and get very tired very easily. It reminds me of being anemic and pregnant and just feeling like I barely had energy to breathe. But lying down feels wonderful and if I can lie down for a little bit each day, I do OK.

Things are different. I've slowed way down (and I wasn't all that fast before). I can only do one thing at a time and I have to be really intentional in my actions. I move more carefully and I'm slower. I sit a lot and rest. I watch A. play ("You watch me kick the ball, OK, Mama?") and we sit b y the sandbox in the sunshine. It's all really quite zen except when it's frustrating.

I saw three clients last night and had to remind myself, "You just have to sit here. You're not going to fall out of the chair. Just sit and listen." Damn, it's hard to slow down.

The in-laws leave today and we're on our own. I'm eager to get back to a small routine with the boys. It's actually been a really nice time for the grandparents and grandchildren to bond, and we learned that my MIL can wrestle A. into a half-nelson and what to do when hemorroids are a bother, according to FIL's physician.

And my MIL taught me to knit. I swore I would never knit - I don't need another hobby and it intuitively doesn't make sense to me how a skein of yarn can turn into a scarf. But I needed something to do that wasn't as taxing on my eyes, and she was here and knows how to knit, so what the hell? Look what I made: It's a thing.

And Here's Your Brain on Film

This is not mine, but it's a very close approximation to what I remember mine looking like. That bubble in the bottom right hand corner isn't supposed to be there.

3-Year-Old Coping Skills

My sister came to pick up A. and Ben at the house while we were in route to the other hospital. The next day, she took them to her house and they had a big "sleepover" with their cousin, who's only 7 months older than A.

When we all got back home a few days later, A. commented, "I had a hard few days."

Being therapist-parents, we jumped all over this. "Oh, yeah, I'll bet it was hard. What was the hardest thing for you?"

(heavy sigh) "Making dinner."

"Really. You made dinner, huh? What did you make for dinner?"

"Salmon and rice. Yeah, it was a lot of work."

"Wow. A nice dinner, even."

Hhmnph. Kid's making his own pb&j sandwiches from now on.
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Later that night, I was changing him into his jammies and we had a talk.

"Are you feeling better, Mama?"

"I'm feeling much better. Do you remember when Mama bonked her head? I'm sorry I had to be gone for a few days. I missed you a lot."

"Yeah. You had to go to the hospital."

"I did. But now I'm home. Do you remember what it was like when I bonked my head?"

"Yeah. Kinda sad and kinda scary."

"I know, it was."

"It was.....a little bit too much."

"I totally agree with you. It was definitely a little bit too much."

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Yesterday I ventured outside to watch him "ride" his bike. I use quotation marks because he refuses to use the pedals and rides Flintstone-style. He's only about 1/2 a foot off the ground so it works.

As we went out the door, he commanded, "Now, there's no falling outside!" I agreed and told him I would just sit and watch.

I sat on the curb and watched him while my father-in-law held Ben, and A. seemed so delighted by my undivided attention. He waved at me a few times, and then pulled his bike up to me at the curb.

He got off the bike, and totally spontaneously, gave me a kiss on the cheek. He'll offer his cheek to be kissed by family at night-nights and bye-byes, and he will occassionally kiss Ben's head goodnight, but he's never just come up and kissed me. It was the sweetest thing in the world.

Me and My Blood Clot, part 2

Saturday night: So I can't eat or drink anything, which is a pain. I don't mind not eating because the food here is pretty bad, but my throat is dry and I would like to sip water.

My sister brings the boys to visit. Ben's a little thrown by it all, and A. asks the nurse filling out the wipe-off board in my room, "What are you going to do to Colleen?" I guess he thought he was more likely to get an answer if he used my first name. We tell him as much as we can about how I bonked my head and the doctors have to take care of me and make me better. He and my niece really like my mechanical bed.

I go up and down (nice transition - I mean in mood, not the bed). Tonight is a bit down. Most of the time I'm able to focus on how OK I feel and how everything's going to be fine. Tonight I'm annoyed. I was just playing soccer with a three-year-old, for heaven's sake! Part of me wants them to just go in and fix this.

G. climbs into bed with me and we notice that we haven't had this much time alone together in forever. I ask him if he thought I was overreacting when I said we needed to go to the ER, and he admitted he did. But he rallied and was glad we did. While I was in the ambulance on the way to the neuro center, he said that he decided he could deal with this one of two ways: he could get really anxious about everythihng, or he could turn it over to God. So he imagined me in the lotus position sitting in God's lap and that was calming. I thought so, too, so I closed my eyes and climbed up into God's lap.

Sunday a.m.: First doctor (let's call him Dr. Clean because he's bald and has an earring) returns. He says it's up to us if we want the craniotomy. It would take care of the pressure and relieve the pain faster, but it would be, you know, brain surgery.

Part of me thinks, "There's something in my brain that shouldn't be there - get it out." But most of me says "No, let's not go in there if we don't have to." And let's keep the hair. I'm finally getting it back after losing over half of it from childbirth.

We have to pry his recommendation out of him, but he finally says that he would recommend against surgery, and he would avoid it if it were his wife or daughter. So we agree. He also says I have to stay at least another day. G. arranges for his parents to arrive the next morning, and goes to get the house ready, do some grocery shopping and visit the boys at my sister's. I can eat and drink again, so G. brings me some coffee, Cheese Nips and pretzels. Perfect.

I’m on percocet, have a small blind spot just left of center in my vision, which is annoying when I try to read or type. It’s hard for me to see the whole word at once, so it’s hard to catch typos. I can’t access the internet here in the hospital, so I can’t do any compulsive Googling of epidural hematomas and craniotomies, which is probably good. But I also can’t blog or amuse myself with random surfing.

Sunday 4pm: The Super Bowl's on, but I'm having trouble concentrating. . It's still 0-0 so I guess I haven't missed much. I close my eyes and visualize lots of little scrubbing bubbles wiping away the clot, singing “Getting Spongy” from JoJo’s Circus. The nurse just walked by and said, “Oh, I have a terrible headache!” I said, “Tell me about it.”

I take a little walk down the hall, trying to think of words to my new song, to the tune of "Me and My Shadow:"

Me and my blood clot
Walking down the corridor
Just me and my blood clot
I don't want you anymore.

Most of the people on this floor are pretty old. But the old lady next door is reading a book and I envy her. I don’t think I could read a book right now. The blind spot is too distracting. My TV picture is all green, too. That’s annoying.

Sometimes I wonder if this will change my life in some way. Will my perceptions/priorities change? Will I remember this as a very scary time? Is this gonna turn out to be a spiritual experience? Or as a blip on the radar screen? I don’t really know how to put it in perspective yet. Everyone around me seems very concerned, and the doctors seem very surprised that I’m as clear as I am given the size of the clot. Well, hey, maybe I just don’t use that part of my brain very often.

I just want to be back for my kids. I want to play with them and take them places again. I can’t drive for a while (guess it would be good to get the vision thing working before I attempt that). I want to plan my one-year-old’s birthday party.

G. said last night that he got probably the best sleep he’s gotten in months. I went to roll over once, and he jumped up and yelled, “Hey hey hey! Be careful!” I guess he has some justification now. He didn’t remember it this morning, of course.

The Super Bowl's over and I’m watching Grey’s Anatomy . The guy just went to the OR with a “temporal epidural hematoma” – hey! I know what that is! I’ve got an occipital one! The ER dr. told me that if I was going to get one of these, the back of the head is the best place – you don’t want a temporal or frontal one.

Oh, and now there’s a bomb (unexploded ammunition) in another patient and they’re evacuating the hospital while my hematoma twin has a scalp flap open on the table (oh, and his wife’s in labor upstairs). This guy’s definitely worse off than I am.

Occassionally, very rarely actually, I have a minor hit of, “geez. This is serious.” I watched the woman across the hall from me get fed because she can’t control her arms. This guy in the show is getting the operation I decided not to get. ‘Course he was having some trouble speaking, and probably other things were wrong, too. Many people who have that operation are having tumors removed.

“I have a guy with his brain exposed on the operating table and he will die if I close him up in this condition.” Grey’s Anatomy is probably not the best show to watch while you’re in the hospital.

9pm: I’m watching Family Guy because laughter is the best medicine, right? This show was a lot funnier before I had a brain bleed.

I notice that I’m not as quick at catching typos, which is probably because of the vision thing. But I’m really scared that my cognitive abilities have changed. What if I’m sitting with a client and I’m at a loss for words (something that would be very unusual, I assure you)? It’s sort of like being terribly sleep deprived, except when I can’t remember something or seem slower at some decision than usual, I wonder if it’s the meds, my mother-of-little-kids flakiness, or a brain injury.

To be continued, again...

Play by Play

Friday evening 5pm:

I go to kick the soccer ball, my foot slides over the ball, my feet fly out from beneath me and I fall backwards on the asphalt. My head goes TWACK, hard (which I keep having flashbacks to, by the way). Ouch. I hold it for a second, and realize I can see and move, so I stumble over to our neighbor's house and ask them to come outside. They give me an ice pack, and sit with me until G. gets home. I rest, but the pain doesn't subside and I start throwing up.

7pm: to ER. Have to sit in the waiting room for over an hour. I feel like I have the flu. The boys are losing it, so they finally find a gurney for me and park me in the hall by the quiet room where the boys can sit. The Dr. says he thinks it's just a concussion but orders a CT scan just in case.

10:00 pm: Boys have had it. G takes them home and I go to get the CT scan. I think as I'm going in..."Well, if by chance I have an undiagnosed brain tumor, at least they'll catch it."

10:30 pm: Dr says to person on gurney in front of me: "Hey! Got half your blood tests back and they look great!"

Then he walks to me and his face gets more serious. He speaks slowly, and I know immediately it's not good news. I think, "Crap. I do have an undiagnosed brain tumor." But no, I have a skull fracture, but what's more concerning is that I'm bleeding into the lining under the skull - an epidural hematoma. He's talked to the neurosurgeon at the center 20 miles away, and he wants me transferred to the ICU there to evaluate me for surgery. "You're kidding," I say. I can't believe it.

The nurse is a genial fellow, and I'm joking with him. Then I think, "Don't do that! It's always the cheerful, coherent patient that ends up crashing suddenly and becomes a Sobering Reality for the staff! I've watched enough ER and Scrubs to know I was the patient marked for tragedy in the first 5 minutes of the show.

Greg gets a neighbor to look after the boys and asks my sister to come to the house to take over and returns to the ER. He goes to look at the CT scan. I asked if the bleeding looked big, and he stammered, "Well, you know, you can see it, but it's kind of...it's there but...it's not that big." I can tell he doesn't want to tell me how big it is.

12:00am: They send me in a ambulance to the other hospital. The paramedics are also genial, but they are watching me very closely. I get taken to the ICU, where everyone says I don't look sick. I pass the neuro test with flying colors, except for some blurriness in my vision. The doctor says he doesn't think I'll need surgery, but I will have to stay for a couple of days. The nurse wakes me up every couple of hours to ask me if I know where I am and what day it is. I take a wild guess that it's the 4th, and fortunately I'm right. Greg sleeps in a chair next to the bed. The doctor says that I can eat and drink since it's unlikely I'll need surgery.

7 am: Nothing's about my status has changed the next morning, so I'm transferred to the neurosurgery floor. I get another CT scan, and a new doctor comes in a few hours later to report the results. Let's call him Dr.Ray of Sunshine. He walks in and gapes at my food tray. "I wouldn't be eating that." He says the clot is measuring a little bigger, but it could be a measurement error between this scan and the first hospital's machine. He seems to think it's more likely that I'll need a craniotomy. He says that by eating, I've increased my risk of aspiration dramatically and if I need emergency surgery, G. "would have to make some tough choices." He says "You look really good and clear, I mean, it's amazing, but still..."

I say that I've been clear for a while now and isn't that kind of unlikely to change? He shrugs and says, "Well, you've heard of the lucid interval, right?" Yeah - that period right after a brain injury when the patient seems coherent and not badly hurt, then they end up falling into a coma or something. I say "I'm probably out of the danger zone for that though, aren't I?" He replies, "You could be an outlier." Oh, shut up. The other doctor said I was one of those disgustingly healthy people who just do remarkably well. Well, great, but I'd rather be normal than extraordinary. That would make me feel less like a walking time bomb.

Then Dr. Ray says that he has low blood sugar, so I offer him some juice from my tray, since I can't eat it anymore. He opens it and spills it all over his shirt. I ask when he'll be off duty, since my confidence in his surgery skills are slipping. He laughs. He leaves, and G and I are freaked out again.

To be continued....