She said / She said

Just another morning commute

2008-09-05T08:51:00.000-07:00

A quick note to the two people I screamed obscenities at this morning:

To the lady in the green SUV. I am sorry. You were right; I should not have been stopped at a green light adjusting the straps on my bag. Instead, the polite and safe strategy would have been to pull off to the side of the road, allowing you to pass through the intersection before the light changed. However, honking multiple times at me (and my sleeping child) probably wasn't the most mature way to deal with the situation. Nor was calling me a bitch. I do apologize for the language I used in responding, and for the things I suggested you might do to yourself, or the things I suggested I might do to you had you followed through on your threat to step out of your car.

To the gentleman in the white van. Although I understand that you were on your way to work and in a hurry, I must note that I was in the crosswalk when you attempted to make that right turn. Yes, you had a green light, but I had a white walk sign. And Oregon law says I had the right of way. Also, hello, lady on bike with baby. What happened to chivalry? Don't you think telling me to pay attention really was a little silly? Did I really deserve to have the term used by some uncouth souls to describe a certain part of the female genitalia hurled at me? Still, I do apologize what I called you in return. Redneck is so unpleasant. And that other phrase I used -- the one that describes a certain part of the anatomy that needs to be kept very clean and very private? -- that perhaps was a step over the line, too.

All I can say to both of you is that I have some rage issues that seem to be getting worse as I get older and have me thinking menopause might not be such a bad experience. It doesn't help that my adorable daughter has decided that 5 a.m. is the proper time to begin the day. Nor that you're both raging assholes who I would kill with my brain, if the good lord were to bless me with that power for just a moment.

Have a good day. Sincerely yours. Love and kisses.

What I did on my summer vacation

2008-08-26T17:33:00.000-07:00

Paxil.
Prozac.
Wellbutrin.
Lexapro.
Effexor.
Cymbalta.

Ok, I didn't try all of those THIS summer, but I sure tried a lot of them, and I'vecome to the conclusion that my brain has just does not get the whole concept of "antidepressant."

At best, these drugs had no discernable effect on me (Lexipro,) while others (Prozac) made me feel, metaphorically speaking, like I was under that giant foot in the opening sequence of Monty Python's Flying Circus. Sure it looks like a good time, and yet, without the humorous squishy sound, it's not much fun. Paxil made me yawn a lot and not want to have sex, and Wellbutrin made me cry and cry and cry. Effexor had promise - it gave me the energy to spring out of bed in the morning. Unfortunately, it did nothing about the not wanting to get out of bed in the morning. Also, it gave me the shakes. Then there was Cymbalta, which might have helped if only I could have tolerated the headaches, nausea and dizziness.

I've always been a big fan of talk therapy, and for a long, long time I had no interest in popping pills to feel better. Over the years I'd developed some effective coping mechanisms to get me through my semi-regular little sojourns into the badlands of depression. But sometime after The Girl was born, my short stay turned into an endless stretch of colorless days and desolation. I was stuck there, like a castaway on Gilligan's island, minus the hilarity (and not a coconut cream pie in sight.)

My life is great. I'm nearly forty, and I pretty much have everything I want. With each year, I grow more confident in and comfortable with myself. I love my job and my family and our home, and even though I wish we were closer to our dearest peeps on the East Coast, I recognize that to have that, I'd have to give up everything that makes our life so great here in progressive, affordable, environmentally aware and bike-friendly Portland. My life is great, but I just can't seem to enjoy it.

And so the promise of better living through chemistry becomes oh-so alluring. Even though endless, hit-or-miss trials of this drug at that dose, I find myself tolerating the intolerable. My health care professionals assure me that there is something out there that will work for me, and for a while, I believed them. When you're stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere, it's easy to get your hopes up about a radio made out of two coconuts and a ball of twine.

Anyway, I'm feeling better these days. I'm taking a new drug - not an antidepressant - called Provigil, that's all the rage among narcoleptics and fighter pilots. It was prescribed for my ms-related fatigue, and for the first time in about 10 years I feel like I have enough energy to get through the day, and that makes me - what's the word I'm searching for? Oh yeah - happy.

A fairly big deal

2008-04-07T12:18:00.000-07:00

The first Monday in April is a big deal in the newspaper biz, our own version of the Oscars except without fancy clothes or attractive people. It's the day they announce the Pulitzers, and today if you visit the right website -- say this one right here -- and follow the links to the explanatory reporting winner, you might notice this down at the bottom of the page:

Also nominated as finalists in this category were: Beth Daley of The Boston Globe for her evocative exploration of how global warming affects New Englanders, from ice fishermen to blueberry farmers, and the Staff of the Oregonian, Portland, for its richly illustrated reports on a breakthrough in producing the microprocessors that are a technological cornerstone of modern life.

It's the second part there that's important. It refers in part to this. And it means something pretty stupendous:

My little Judybat was a finalist for a Pulitzer.

Stop reading this

2008-04-07T07:30:00.000-07:00

And go read this. Our North Carolina friends -- actually, they're friends of the world -- Lisa and Jacob are in China adopting their second beautiful not-quite baby girl. It's much more interesting, funny and heart-warming than anything I can tell you on this, our national day of NCAA mourning.

Congrats, guys. Two is so much harder than one, which it sounds like you're discovering already. But worth it. Most of the time. Except for that moment last night before dinner when both children decided it was time for a meltdown. That just sucked. Have fun!

the numbers game

2008-04-03T00:18:00.000-07:00

I turned 39 a little while ago, and it was cause for celebration, because I keep thinking I'm in my 40s, and this was a reminder that I'm not quite there yet. It was not unlike last year, when I learned to my great delight that I was not, in fact, 38 going on 39, but 37 going on 38. It was like daylight savings, except instead of an hour, I got a whole extra year!

Actually, I'm kind of looking forward to 40. Clearly I don't have to worry about my memory going, since I don't seem to have one, and thanks to long-term back problems and ms, I'm used to feeling decrepit. Sure the added wrinkles are freaking me out a little bit, but the rewards of aging far outweigh the loss of elasticity.

Turning 30 was a great, because along with the big three-oh came more confidence in myself than I ever felt in my twenties, And now as I approach 40, I feel like I'm much better at recognizing what's important and what's bu!!$#*t. I can't wait to find out what added bonus 50 brings!

A friend of mine once told me a story about an old man. He said, "When I was young, I thought a tree was just a tree and a rock was just a rock. Then I got a little older and and saw that a tree was much more than just a tree, and a rock was much more than just a rock. Now I am older still, and I know that a tree is just a tree, and a rock is just a rock."

I feel like I know what that dude was talking about.

What really matters

2008-03-29T19:53:00.000-07:00

I didn't lose my voice last night. Bruce was great, but I'm not the type to go nuts over any rock star, even the best of the best.

But tonight, I'm going hoarse and my hands are already sore from clapping. My boys were up by 12 at the half. Now they're up by 4 with 5:37 left. I am slightly drunk and very loud, with all sorts of very inappropriate language drifting down from the TV room to TheGirl's crib. Judybat and TheBoy are out being social, which is good, because nobody needs to see me behave this way. I say work is where I'm happiest, but that's not true. It's watching the Tar Heels, screaming at them to box out and hustle just a little more and play just a bit smarter.

A five point lead with 3:31 left. Make one more pass before you shoot, please?

At least Duke is gone already. Maybe it's the beer talking, but I think if we have another baby, we should use Tyler Hansbrough's sperm.

Judybat, is that OK?

Bruuuuuuuuce

2008-03-28T23:40:00.000-07:00

For our 14th anniversary (the anniversary of our first kiss, that is - not to be confused with the up-and-coming 7th anniversary of the day we stood up in front of friends and family and got hitched) AR shelled out a ridiculous amount of money and got floor tickets for Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Here are a few observations I made during the show:

1. Those guys - and girl - are old.
2. Those guys - and girl - can rock and roll.
3. The audience was old.
4. The audience was whiter than the state of Vermont.
5. It's fun to watch middle-aged white guys dance to 'Born to Run'
6. Steve Van Zandt is just as funny on stage as he was in 'The Sopranos.'
7. With all due respect to Clarence Clemons, nothing says 80s rock band like a wailing sax.
8. It's cool to hear thousands of people sing in unison.
9. It's even more cool to ride your bike a mile or two down the road to see Bruce Springsteen in concert.

THANK YOU PORTLAND AND GOODNIGHT!

His ancestors would be horrified

2008-03-25T09:27:00.000-07:00

TheBoy was born in Raleigh, but we seem to have gotten him out of North Carolina before certain unpleasant Tar Heel traits took root. How do I know? This morning, as we were leaving his sister's daycare, he sniffed the air, frowned and let out this little pearl of little guy wisdom: "I smell a cigarette. That's disgusting."

Keep in mind that my parents both did a little time in the tobacco fields during their summer breaks, and that my first newspaper internship was in Winston-Salem, a place where the smell of tobacco still hangs in the air, sort of like chocolate in Hershey. A certain respect for Big Tobacco runs in his family, if not his gene pool. So I wanted to make sure I'd heard him right.

"Disgusting, really?"

"Disgusting."

"How do you know?"

"Well, Grandma smokes. And you say it's disgusting when she does it."

Yes, Mom, I do. TheBoy learns well.

Not quite the cruelest month

2008-03-23T15:23:00.000-07:00

October used to be my favorite month. I'm a bit of a grey-scale girl to begin with, and there's just something about the smell of fall in Connecticut, the beginning of college basketball season, the end of baseball season. But now I'm a continent away, and older and wiser, and March is quickly gaining on my ranking of the best time of the year.

It's rainy and windy here right now, except when it's sunny, except when it's freezing cold and hailing. The variety pleases me. And there's something to be said for all the things going on right now: The occasional glimpse of sun and fun and Joba in spring training, the adrenaline rush of election season, this wacky life in which my small family celebrates both Purim and Easter on the same weekend. Noisemakers yesterday, colored eggs today, in other words.

And then there are moments like this one right here, sitting upstairs watching the Tar Heels -- knowing good and well CBS is going to cut away any minute because we're up by 24. TheGirl is sitting right next to me ripping apart the Sunday Times. TheBoy is eating jellybeans from an egg hunt. I'm acting like a true Portlander, drinking one of these and feeling the way I should feel after half a glass. Slightly tipsy and very pleased with the world, in other words.

Happy holiday, everybody.

I'm not an addict

2008-03-18T12:29:00.000-07:00

I gave up caffeine on August 26, 2006, in preparation for the effort to get knocked up. I figured it was better to kick the habit before the stress of trying to conceive really kicked in, and to give myself as much time as possible. I went cold turkey, and I suffered through four days of -- I kid you not -- vision-blurring headaches.

Friends told me I was stupid to give it up completely, but I knew two things: First, I lack the willpower to slowly wean myself off anything. It's got to be all or nothing. Second, I knew cutting the caffeine entirely would be horrible -- so bad that I would never, ever want to go back.

I was right. Or at least, I was, up until now.

Regular coffee is calling to me. And real Diet Cokes. And maybe the occasional, adult Coke, in the pretty red can, with all that sugar.

The other morning I made a pot of coffee that was half-regular, half-decaf. Twenty minutes later I felt the oddest sensation: Awake. The colors of the world were more vivid, maybe because my eyes were actually wide open. My brain couldn't keep up with all the stuff I wanted to accomplish. I felt like myself, only myself two or three or 10 years ago. Eager, energetic, maybe even happy.

I'm not going back completely. At work, it's still caffeine free Dike Coke -- I know all about the brain tumor I'm giving myself, thank you, but I figure the one I'm getting from cell phones will be bigger. After 10 a.m. or so, I'm solely a decaf kind of girl. But I've started adding at least a spoonful or two of the good stuff the pot in the morning, a little jump start to the day.

It feels good, even though I know better. I'm in complete control of my habit. Really. I swear. Pass the half and half.

Where'd we go?

2008-03-15T16:52:00.001-07:00

That, my friends, is an excellent question. This blog has slowed down considerably here in the lord's year of 2008. It's not that we don't love you. It's not that we don't have stuff to tell you. But life interferes, you know?

For example, the not sleeping. Round about early January, The Girl began sleeping through the night. You'd think that would mean her mommies are well rested, right? Wrong. My body has responded to the end of breastfeeding and the wonders of a kid who sleeps 10 hours a stretch with the nastiest case of insomnia I can recall. Every night I collapse by 10:30. Then I wake up at 2 or 3 or 4, wide awake. I should just get the heck up and do some work or read or watch the movies Judybat won't watch with me. Or my Xena DVDs. Instead, I toss and turn ... and notice, as I do, that darling spouse is doing the same thing. She's sleeping, sure, but not deeply enough to really feel rested in the morning. I want her to do one of those sleep studies where they hook electrodes up to her body and track her dream patterns. She wants me to call the doctor and get some Ambien. Either way, we're exhausted.

I'm also working too much. The nice guy who took over city politics for me suffered some severe health problems earlier this month, so I've lost my cushy feature writing gig and am back wandering the halls of government. Speaking of things that keep me up at night ...

And it's the end of college basketball season. And I'm really depressed about what just happened in Ohio and Texas. And The Boy just turned 5, with all the pomp and ceremony such a grand event requires. (Not to mention a clown, who was nowhere near as terrifying as I'd feared. He seemed like what he was, a guy from down the street, rather than one of those Ronald McDonald, my-mouth-looks-like-I-just-ate-a-baby, clowns in the professional makeup.) And we've got a steady stream of visitors enjoying the hospitality and the upstairs skylight shower of the Little Green House. And the big blue car needs new tires. And our basement light needs replacing. And and and.

There's really no excuse, I know. We should be writing more, both of us. For the moment, however, accept my apologies and know that if you could see what I see right this second -- a little girl toddling her way across the hall, a boy making thank you cards for his buddies, early March sunlight shining through the front window -- you wouldn't feel like sitting down at the computer either.

Milestones

2008-03-02T12:01:00.000-08:00

Warning: this may be one of those nauseating parenting blog posts that marvel about the wonder that is my child. Although, there is a reference to someone's stinky butt, so maybe not. Or maybe that's worse. I know it's been a while, but maybe you just want to skip this post and wait for the next one.

That said, there are a few moments that stick out in my mind as gateways to a new and better way of life, moments where parenting got - if not easier - a little less hands-on. Moments where I got to sit down on the job. Like the time when The Boy learned to pump his legs and I no longer had to push him on the swing, or when he figured out that he could drag a chair over to the fridge and get a yogurt out all by himself. We're still trying to get to a place where he can consistently - and cleanly! - wipe his own butt, but he has reached the point where he can reach the water fountain all by himself.

And now we are on the verge of the biggest, most satisfying milestone of all. A couple weeks ago, I sat down with The Boy and Hop On Pop. He had been calling out some simple words he saw - like "to" and "from" and "stop" and "go" - for a while and I wanted to see if he was reading them or just recognizing them. When we opened the book, sure enough, he started sounding out the words. I had to help him out with things like "fight" and "night", and sometimes he would get a little lazy and guess a word based on its first letter, but there was an amazing light bulb moment when he realized that if he could read "play" he could also "day." It was just as amazing for me to watch him work through the book, page by page, as if I could see things click into place as the little gears turned in his head.

We're still a ways away from that delicious moment when I say to the child nipping at my heels, "go read a book," but it's so close I can almost taste it.

Further signs that I'm old

2008-02-18T16:15:00.000-08:00

Forget the silver that keeps appearing in my hair, or the fact that certain parts of my body seem to have permanently migrated to a new southern home, or the increasing amount of time it takes me to find the keys in the morning, or the fact that I can no longer claim to be in my "early 30s."

Here's how I know I'm really creeping close to middle-aged: See this woman?

She just turned 40.

It was only a matter of time

2008-02-12T20:32:00.000-08:00

I realized we'd hit another milestone this evening when, from the kitchen, I heard the wife chastising The Boy in his room. He had taken a permanent marker and written his name on his door. And the floor. And on a couple of bookcases and his bed. He wrote his sister's name on the lower bunk, which I thought was quite sweet, actually. And while I wanted to be mad, I couldn't help but notice that his penmanship has improved quite a bit. Maybe paper just isn't his medium.

At 4-nearly-5-years-old, the boy seems to vacillate from heart-aching sweetness to mind-addling frustration with the frequency of a molecule dancing in the heat of a Bunsen burner. Does that even make sense? Anyone here remember anything from seventh-grade science class?

Anyhoo, The girl has entered her own brave new world this week; she is definitely walking now, choosing to get around on her own two feet way rather than employ the butt-scoot she had been using to propel herself from room to room. Or, I should say, from hazard to hazard. It's clear to me now how things are going to be for the next few years, and I wonder how much time we have to say "no" to our kids before the word has lost all meaning.

He's fine, but I'm bummed

2008-01-30T11:16:00.000-08:00

Being a responsible adult sucks. Big time.

We're headed to Southern California this weekend for the annual Brown alum Super Bowl party/game marathon, and I was all set to take the family to Disneyland on our spare day. Imagine TheBoy's delight! Imagine how big TheGirl's eyes will get! Imagine the thrill of replacing my faded, hole-riddled, 12-year-old Eeyore t-shirt! What a great mom I am!

Then I started doing my research. And I quickly realized that taking the 4.5-year-old and the 14-month-old to the happiest place on earth for a day was the worst idea I've had since drug-free childbirth. Every website I turned to had one thing to say about day trips to Disney: Don't do it.

So we're pulling back. Instead of Anaheim, we'll take the kids to the Santa Monica pier along with a bunch of other Brownies and spouses. It will be lots of fun, TheBoy will get to ride the big-ass ferris wheel, and Judybat and I won't have to spend the rest of the weekend recovering.

Still ... I was really excited about replacing that t-shirt.

Next week: Driving

2008-01-28T19:46:00.002-08:00

We have walking. It's official. Tonight, just seconds ago in fact, TheGirl made it a good eight steps on her own, freestanding, without anybody holding her hand. She doesn't quite have the hang of it yet -- she keeps her head too far back to maintain much balance, and she's got her feet too close together to really work up any speed -- but still ...

She leaves for college next week. That is, at least, what it feels like at moments such as this, as if our teeny tiny things are well on their way out of the house, into their own lives. One step follows another, etc. It's enough to make a mother want to weep.

Except, of course, that I can hear TheBoy screaming in the background because he doesn't want his Ima to wipe his tushy for him even though the entire world -- or at least the parts within sniffing distance of his rear end -- recognize that he's not yet capable of taking care of his own needs in that department. And TheGirl took those baby steps away from me only to fall down -- baby go boom! -- on her butt, and immediately start to cry.

So we have a ways to go before they up and leave. But it doesn't always feel that way.

Bus stories

2008-01-21T13:52:00.000-08:00

Three times in the past month, I've landed on the bus next to somebody who wound up crying. And I never know how to handle the situation, or seem to handle it correctly. Once was a young woman, maybe late 20s, who was clearly in the middle of a nasty breakup -- her cell kept ringing, and she kept answering and saying things like, 'It hurts too much to talk to you anymore.' Another girl, this time maybe 23 or 24, got on crying and just happened to sit down next to me. Then there was the elderly lady who just burst into tears for no reason.

All three times, I asked if they needed anything. In one case, I even had a tissue to offer up. (A tissue? My hero!) But what is the appropriate response to mass transit weeping? Anyone? Most of my busmates seemed to think averting their eyes was the answer.

And yet, Portland busgoers still step up when need me. Last week, my bus got stopped in the middle of a bridge behind a stalled car. We sat for about 15 minutes, until the driver finally radioed in to his supervisor, who suggested just pushing the car to the other side of the bridge and out of the way. That's exactly what we -- or rather, a collection of large men who were not carrying little Girl's -- did. The boys came back, we gave them a nice ovation, and we went right on our merry way. It was one of those nice little Portland moments: This is a big enough town to have busses that people actually ride and bridges to go over, but not big enough to let a little thing like a stalled car actually slow traffic down.

Imagine the George Washington Bridge in a similiar scenario.

Sad but true

2008-01-11T15:16:00.001-08:00

Sorry about the recent silence, but it's hard to find anything worth sharing these days. We wake up in darkness. We go home from work in darkness. It's 3:15 as I type this, and the sun is already starting to slip down below the tall buildings outside.

Plus, I'm not feeling so hot about myself. Last weekend or thereabouts, I was playing on the floor with TheBoy when he turned very serious.

"Mommy, let me tell you something. You are very fat."

I didn't really have a response for that, so he continued.

"Mommy, you need to stop eating so much sugar so you are not so fat."

Ouch. And yet, he's right. I gave myself a year after the baby was born to, literally, let it all hang out. As a result, my baby gut has turned into a beer/ice cream/brownie/french fry gut. Somehow it's less attractive on me than it was 14 months ago.

This week I finally gutted up and started doing something about it. But finding inspiration for that is just as hard as inspiration for writing. It's cold and wet and grey here in lovely Portland, and all I really want is a cheeseburger and a nap.

2008-01-03T16:11:00.000-08:00

This week Oregon's new domestic partnership law was supposed to go into effect. I'm not a huge proponent of domestic partnership laws; I think they're a way to distract us from fighting for true equality. (Exhibit A: When AR and I moved here for her job, we took advantage of our new county's Domestic Partnership Registry ordinance so that I, then playing the role of stay-at-home mom, could be covered under AR's health plan at work. But the @#$%ing Feds TAX her on the benefit she receives for me, because they don't consider domestic partnerships to be valid.)

Nevertheless, I was irked when groups like Concerned Oregonians Against Reason and Decency led a petition drive to put a referendum of the law on the next ballot. And then I was ENRAGED when - after decency prevailed and the petitioners failed to gather enough signatures - a federal judge blocked the law before it could go into effect. (I'd say something here about conservatives only favoring states rights when it comes to abortion and only labeling judges "activist" when they make decisions deemed liberal, but that's a whole 'nother rant. Maybe two.)

Many couples who were planning on registering under the law on Monday attended a candlelight vigil instead. I asked a friend of mine, who is seven months pregnant, if she and her partner were going to the vigil. (Registering as domestic partners would save them the hundreds of dollars in legal fees it will cost for her partner to adopt their baby and be recognized as a legal parent.) My friend said no. She said her partner "doesn't want to be sad and have a
vigil. She wants to b(expletive removed) slap somebody across the face."

I'm not a big fan of the B word, but I can't help feeling this is the appropriate response. In fact, I think we should make a community event out of it - maybe a b-slapping in effigy rally.

Dude, don't make the lesbians angry.

Happy New Year!

2008-01-01T18:02:00.000-08:00

I spent the whole day in my pajamas. How about you?

I used to think a nice, brisk hike was the best way to start of the new year, but as my resolution this year is to cultivate sloth, a three-hour nap seemed more in line with my goals. (Thank you, AR, for helping me to achieve those goals today.)

That's not really my new year's resolution. AR would like me to resolve to write more for the blog, but I resolved a few years ago not to make any more resolutions. I don't really believe in them - except for that last one, of course. That one seems to have stuck.

I like starting off the year with a day of fasting and quiet contemplation, which I did in September. This year, the Kol Nidre sermon - one of the best I've ever heard - urged us toward an absolution so complete as to free us from our own grudges, because - let's face it - those grudges only hurt the ones who carry them, not the ones who caused them. So inspired, I did resolve then to achieve that highest level of forgiveness, but whom to forgive? Clearly, I am blessed, because there isn't a soul in my life who has wronged me so that I'm in need of forgiving. Then it occurred to me: George W. Bush.

The rabbi did say it wouldn't be easy, and I do believe that letting go of my anger - so inconsequential to the man to whom it's directed - would lighten my load. But you know what? I just can't do it. GWB, if you are reading this - and of course you are - I've decided that you are beyond redemption.

So much for resolutions.

Statcounter, how do I love thee?

2007-12-29T20:22:00.000-08:00

Judybat? Where are you Judybat? Are you out there somewhere? Can you come out and play?

Oh well. Taunting isn't working, people. I know she's hiding out here in the Little Green House, because clean laundry keeps appearing in my drawers and my dirty socks keep disappearing from the very logical yet completely inappropriate places where I like to leave them. Sigh.

Her absence has not affected traffic, at least not according to my favorite Internet gizmo: Statcounter.

Statcounter is like my secret boyfriend. He tells me how many people have visited, he tells me where they came from, he helps me track down the occasional troll and he gives me my favorite little piece of info of all: How random and sometimes troubling Internet searches land complete strangers to our little corner of Blogger.

For example ... in the past week, we've been hit by someone from Leicester, England who was looking for details about "excessive gift-giving mother in law"(sorry, Mom!). We had a new friend from Warrington, Pennsylvania, who wanted to know about "penis pee" (yes, they go together). Someone from Ankara, Turkey, found us through a search on "flaccid tubes" (that's just sad). A guest from Mandeville, Louisiana, was interested in "little boy bowl cuts" (we prefer the #4 Air Force Officer). And we made a new friend in Ottawa who wanted to know all about "scary cakes.

Yes, yes, we've had some of those.

First Blood

2007-12-28T09:11:00.000-08:00

At some point soon, Judybat might resurface to give you a Christmas/holiday roundup. Until then, however, a little horror story.

We've taken to putting the kids to bed at the same time, which is great because it means we get them both down around 8 p.m. and give ourselves an extra hour of adult time. To do important things like pay the bills and watch "Family Guy." A nice thing about brother and sister hitting the sack together is that they entertain each other until they reach some sort of mutual understand that it's time to get serious about sleep.

That's also a problem, however. Last night, for example, both the munchkins were so worked up that bedtime turned into a giggle fest. TheBoy kept popping up in his bunk bed to say something silly, and TheGirl responded by standing up in her crib -- yes, standing -- and cackling at him. Which was vaguely amusing until still laughed so hard she cracked her chin against the top bar of the crib. When I picked her up, there was blood all over her face.

When TheBoy suffered his first major injury -- a similar blow to the lip that left a huge bloody stain on one of my dress shirts -- I freaked out. I was halfway out the door to the hospital when Judybat made me stop and actually assess the damage. Apparently lips bleed a lot.

I'm proud, in a twisted way, to say that I did not lose it last night. There were no aborted trips to the ER, no tears on my part at my baby girl's first brush with her own mortality. Instead, I managed to calmly pick her up, clean her off and rock her back into her happy place.

Still, this morning I'm having flashbacks. The blood! The blood!

The dairy is closed

2007-12-18T13:49:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot recently about where we were a year ago at this time, with the holidays bearing down and the days as short and dark as possible and the sky an eternal slate grey. That was not a good time. Post-partum depression was a killer, that constant feeling of impending doom that had everything to do with my anxiety over feeding TheGirl and all those ounces she lost during that first week home. And hormones, of course. Out of control hormones.

For maybe four or five months, I worried 24/7 about whether she was getting enough to eat, about whether I would ever get comfortable nursing, about whether it would ever stop hurting. In the depths of that emotional hole, I couldn't imagine ever feeling good about myself or my world again.

Now, a year later, I'm officially finished feeding the girl. And to my surprise, I'm a little sad about it. Over the past few weeks, the kid has taken to biting as her new little nubbins turn into actual, food-ripping, mommy-injuring teeth and squirming more. She's not quite done with me, I think, but she's close. And, not to put too fine a point on it, but ... I am ready to have my bosom back, to put the girls back to other, more recreational uses. And I love the idea of being able to sleep in when the grandparents visit rather than having to leap up for that first morning feeding.

Still, I'm going to miss those stolen little moments, TheGirl curled up like a little bear cub in my lap, one little hand shading her eyes, the other locked tight around my shirt, lost in a place of pure bliss and perfect security. When will she ever feel so safe, and will I ever find a better way to show my love?

I'm ready for the end of separation anxiety, for a time when she doesn't cry every time she realizes that I'm in the room but not holding her. At the same time, it feels like something is ending, as if this is the first step toward that day not so many years from now when I look up and realize that my little girl doesn't really need me anymore.

My mom likes to remind me sometimes that, "You'll always be my baby." I usually roll my eyes at that kind of sentiment. But today, at least, I understand exactly what she means.

A kick in the pants

2007-12-13T15:35:00.001-08:00

Oregon is weird. Don't get me wrong. I love it here. The scenery is unbeatable, from the majestic views of Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens to the rocky coastline that's only an hour away to the comforting veil of gray that fell over us on Dec. 1 and won't pull itself off until, oh, May. The people are great, warm and funny and just as passive-aggressive as I am.

But the place is wacky. We don't, for example, have a sales tax. How do we pay for schools, you might wonder? Dumb luck, mostly. And then there's the oddest things of all, at least in terms of how the place is run: The kicker.

A few years ago, voters in their infinite (and strange) frontier-style wisdom decided that if the state collects more in income taxes than it can use in any given calendar cycle, taxpayers should get a refund. It seems like a great concept, right? That's our money, not the government's. Yeehah.

Of course, the more fiscally responsible among us might wonder whether government should be stashing some cash away for a rainy day. I had that thought until this year's kicker check arrived. Between the two of us, Judybat and I got back more than $1,000. And just in time for the holidays.

I do so love living in the wild west.

p.s. Eagle eyes in the room might note a slight change up top. I decided nonviolent protest was better than another writer's strike.

The festival of lights

2007-12-07T20:56:00.000-08:00

I've been on strike for the past week and a half, determined not to post again until Judybat gets off her duff and puts something up here. But apparently that's not going to happen anytime soon, so ...

These are crazy days. We're both working hard, TheGirl still isn't giving us all the sleep we need and the holidays are upon us. Back in Raleigh, we threw a nifty Hanukkah party every year -- partly because we love our friends, partly because it was a wonderful excuse to get rid of all the crap we'd been collecting all year as dreidel prizes. This year, we decided it was time to resurrect the tradition. But something has happened to our happy little band of partygoers: It's grown. A lot.

Between my job and Judybat's job and our neighborhood friends, we're expecting 80 people tomorrow night. That's bigger than our wedding.

It's not quite as expensive. But Judybat has spent the past two weekends pre-making latkes (she's up to 150, with more coming tomorrow). And I took the day off today for a list of errands that ran like this: Home Depot. Costco. Wild Oats. Fred Meyer. Safeway. Liquor store.

Given the stress we're both already feeling, that might have been the most important stop.