Pre-Election RANT... UPDATED

Every time a friend on FB "likes" Mitt Romney, I have to resist the exceedingly strong urge to DE-Fucking-Friend... and I have to sit on my hands not to write an expletive-laced response

I have a lot to say about Obama and why I think he is the right leader for the country, but in this moment, I'm not in a pro-Obama space or even an anti-Mitt space as much as I'm in a How do you stay close to people who claim to like or love you, but vote against your basic human rights?!?

I agree with Doug Wright:
"I wish my moderate Republican friends would simply be honest. They all say they're voting for Romney because of his economic policies (tenuous and ill-formed as they are), and that they disagree with him on gay rights. Fine. Then look me in the eye, speak with a level clear voice, and say, 'My taxes and take-home pay mean more than your fundamental civil rights, the sanctity of your marriage, your right to visit an ailing spouse in the hospital, your dignity as a citizen of this country, your healthcare, your right to inherit, the mental welfare and emotional well-being of your youth, and your very personhood.' It's like voting for George Wallace during the Civil Rights movements, and apologizing for his racism. You're still complicit. You're still perpetuating anti-gay legislation and cultural homophobia. You don't get to walk away clean, because you say you "disagree" with your candidate on these issues."

I would only add:
It's not close. It's not even close. These candidates are no where near each other on how they intend to treat my family if elected. It isn't abstract. It's very personal to me. With the brush of a pen, he could* reverse the incredible protections Obama has put into place for families like ours. (*Not only COULD but has promised to). Vote for Mitt if you need to, but while you are doing it, remember you are casting a sure vote against Katy and me. Whether it's for your pocketbook, your contempt of unions or environmentalists, your "pro-business" stance, your belief that the deficit will be reduced faster or the employment rate will improve quicker, or that you think we will somehow be viewed as
Stronger throughout the world... There is NO DOUBT that gay and lesbian, bisexual and transgendered Americans are better off (by a COUNTRY MILE) than they were four years ago. So, it's true, I do sort of wish my "fair minded" Republican friends would read up on this issue and just be honest: "Look, I know this guy wants to fuck with you and your newly won civil-rights, but I don't really care about that. I doubt very much you'll stop being friends with me just because I cast votes for people that vow to De-legitimize your family and legal marriage; it's frankly a risk I'm willing to take."

UPDATED RANT:  I went 9 rounds with a dude on a FB thread after one of my friends re-posted my above rant...  Each time I responded, I said to myself: "That is all, I'm not going to respond again." But I couldn't help myself. And in the end, I decided I just couldn't let him have the last word...
It's a little immature, but yeah, that's the space I was in. Enjoy!

How to honor the dead

I've been following this blog.  WARNING! DO NOT CLICK LINK if you are not in the right frame of mind to read about a five year old with Cancer.  Ty Louis Campbell was born 6 days after our Jake was born.  He lived in another state. We've never met him, and I've only been reading his family's blog for less than 2 weeks. He's been sick with a brain tumor for 2 years.  His family nicknamed him "Super Ty".  And today, he died.

October 17th...

Fifteen years ago today, one of my kindred spirits died.  We were 24 years old when John died.  I've known and loved him since my senior year in HS; and we spent some intense "coming of age" time  in those tender "late teenage/ early 20's" years together...  He's been dead more than twice as long as I knew him as a living soul, but I'd be a liar if I told you I wasn't all messed up about it today.  I think about John every day, but I spent a lot of today beating myself up, and just being sad.  It's just fucking sad that he had to STOP while the rest of us had to keep going and fill the place in the garden where he was growing up near us.

Today, I'm 39 and 1/3 years old and the promise of FORTY looms over me like a laughing ogre.   I really buy into that stuff about people are only as old as we feel or act; but truth be told-

I'm feeling old.

October 17th usually does that to me.  And Stories of kids dying has a similar effect. But it's not just psychological:

My body is creaking... My gray hair is growing in, my abdomen is full and flabby.  My memory is showing signs of fragility.  I've spent a lot of exhausting effort- keeping survivor's guilt at bay, trying to be sure I did a little more than I might have otherwise in the name of he-who-is-no-longer-with-us.  (I'm not sure I've succeeded.)

I spent the early years after John's accident working hard to be sure I did not seal off my heart.  And I still do a lot of meditating on settling into and celebrating the hardships and sometimes disappointments associated with "growing up" and aging.

Feeling the weight and simultaneous levity of every birthday is intentional.  I will not lie about my age.  I will not regret this ticking off of the years.  "I've earned these gray hairs," I like to quip.  And "Not everyone gets to be this age," I repeat at least annually.

John B. Klimaszewski was about as brimming with life as a body could be.  He was about as energetic and full of possibility as any of us has a chance of being.  He was completely human, prone to making mistakes of all sizes.  But with a smile and compassion and generous spirit that makes you want to whimper about only the good dying young.  To be fair, alcohol seems to also play a role in many pre-mature deaths.  But I digress...  I use his full name here because he died in 1997, before Facebook, before Google, before the internet was useful or organized.

If you die when you're a child, or even a young man- how can all that potential be lost???  What happens to it?  What happens to all that people wished for you?!?

If you die before Facebook or Twitter, or even Google existed, did you exist at all? Where is the public record.  Newspapers and stacks of town hall documents are not being transferred to the internet, they are crumbling apart in soon to be extinct metal filing cabinets.

There is the philosophical and there is the emotional.

My heart has broken right open for Super Ty, for his parents and brother... Their story has effected me profoundly.  What will they do now?  How will they handle their grief?  Will they be okay?  My heart still aches for John.  All these years later- what I wouldn't give to be retweeting his hilarious tweets and harassing him via text right now... Comparing notes and stories about our children.

I've been shy about putting posts up about John on this blog- not because there's a huge volume of things I want to write about him, necessarily, but  because it somehow doesn't seem to be "MY" story to tell anymore.  My story contains a different cast of characters.  And I'm not sure whose permission to ask to keep telling John's story (or at least the part of his story that I am privy to).

But I guess at this late stage in the game, I'm happy to have that conversation/debate if someone comes out of the woodwork and says I can't talk about him.  I am desperate for stories about him to be told.  No matter what you believe related to an after life, it seems to me that you can only exist here- in the world- if there is a shared understanding of you- If you stay alive in the memories of others.  If the stories about you are told.

I went into my basement... to look for pictures... of him... And found the most amazing thing- a love letter from my wife.  It was written just after we had first fallen for each other.  Her love: sweet and exuberant and described to me in generous, flowery, metaphorical detail; in her own lovely handwriting.
- Way before we imagined how children would enrich our life and exhaust us and deepen our love for each other.
- Way before we could comprehend the hard work required of us by marriage.
- Way before we learned to rely on each other's strengths and encouragement.

I think it's okay to spend a bit of time wallowing in grief as long as you try not to get lost in it.  I think the most important thing we can do for our dead is to acknowledge them, bring them with us, (sometimes slap their pictures up on the internet and tell a few stories about them) while we carrythefuckon... 

RIP Super Ty
RIP Johnny K

I love you Jake and Milo.
I love you, Katy

Baby boy turns 5

We've had a very interesting week that has involved 2 separate trips to the ER for stitches to Milo's face. Everybody is fine (if a little tired) and our babies are troopers!

September is a busy month and I have a lot of stories to tell, but can't... stay... awake... right... now... We are so lucky and have so many reasons to celebrate. 

And we have amazing friends and family...

"Live in the layers, not on the litter"

Transitions have never been my strong suit.

I'm not sure transitions are anyone's strong suit, but I'm particularly bad at them.  When the ground starts to shift underneath me my anxiety quietly but insistently fills in the cracks, expands itself, and eventually threatens to break me apart.  I am particularly adept at ignoring it, and then, when it demands my attention, I shape it into something less than it is.  The reshaping is an attempt to make it less damaging, less severe.  It never works.  Change is not a thing to be denied.  As summer folds into fall, and kids begin school, and birthdays and anniversaries abound, and Yom Kippur approaches, I feel the shift acutely.

We have had a stretch of quintessential fall days of late.  Cool, crisp, clean air dominates.  Pearly light adorns the trees in the morning and again in the evening, the two getting ever closer together.  The evening sky turns that shade of blue with glints of gold, a color reserved, it seems, for this weather, at this time of year.  I love this weather, even as I wistfully admit that the oppressive heat of summer is mostly gone for the time being.  My bones feel alive in the summer.  Every year as I wait excitedly for that blast of hot, insistent, humid air, I can feel the pores of my bones open expectantly.  There is one bar in Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata that, after pages of minor key solemnity, shifts into a major key.  That one bar explains everything: a lightening, a weightlessness, a freedom.  By the same token, the cool air that seeps in as the seasons change feels almost threatening.  Or at least that's how my body reacts: protect, gird, prevent.  I can feel my body involuntarily try to buck the change, as if digging in my heels would somehow make a difference. But the coolness always comes, chasing away the heat like an old cantankerous lady with a broom on a cabin porch.  I guess I should be thankful for the warning of fall before the winter exerts its more weighty smack down on me, but I still shudder at the thought of that lady's broom.  Even so, during these cooler days, I am reminded to shift, to settle back in, and begin again.

Fall seems to be the time when things get organized.  And, Lord knows, I love organization.  I like predictability.  I like schedules.  I like to know ahead of time what's about to happen.  It's a set up, of course, because life isn't like that.  By allowing myself to depend on organization I set myself up for the fall.  Sometimes it's just a misstep, sometimes it's like jumping out of the plane without a parachute.  In my very literal, photographic-memory laden brain, I imagine there to be scaffolding all around me.  Every branch of it at perfect right angles, and me, like a monkey, swinging from one to another, always sure of where my fingers should land.  I've built that scaffolding with care for years, rung by rung.

There have been two themes that have been unavoidable the last few days.  They seem to be lurking in broad daylight for me recently.  The first is of naming.  Or, to be more precise, un-naming.  It was the topic of Margaret Edson's keynote address at Power Day (a workshop for nursing and medical students at Yale where the students start to think about what power means in health care) last week.  She is a graduate of Smith College, which endears her to me without hesitation.  What makes her indelible is her personality, her command of words, and her wit.  I write that chuckling because she is the author, of course, of Wit, a Pulitzer Prize winning play, and the reading used for Power Day.  It is an amazing work, one that never fails to unhinge me at the end.  I've read it countless times, and the ending, even though I know full well what's coming, makes me tremble each and every time.  In her address she talked about what it would be like to lose a name.  My immediate reaction, from somewhere deep in my hippie-raised heart, was "Absolutely! What a great idea!"  That enthusiasm lasted about four seconds before I was reflexively grasping for the monkey bars.  What would it mean to not walk out of my house each morning as a mother? a nurse? a wife? a woman? Katy?

Not two days later, Jan Nielsen, senior minister at our church, delivered a jolting sermon using the story of Jacob as a way of approaching atonement for Yom Kippur.  She talked about Jacob wrestling with a man who, by the end of the night, un-names him, and in doing so, frees him from his past of misdeeds and destruction.  She posited that becoming your best self is, at best, a work in progress.  For. Ever.  I groan internally at the thought.  Forever seems like a long time to be comfortable with change.  How many names does one have to lose, exactly?

The second theme that lurks is from Ray Bradbury's All Summer in a Day.  The title itself makes me shudder.  It is the story of the sun, being present for only one hour every so many years, and what happens when you miss it.  It has been referenced in the last two books in a row that I've read.  In both, the theme of that story underscores the narrators worry that happiness is but a fleeting moment, and the opportunity frail.  It's a well placed reference in both, making both stories more acutely devastating in a "don't let this slip away" kind of way.  Like I need help feeling more claustrophobic.

These two themes have been kicking around in my head as I try to figure out where they'll settle in to my being.  This idea that there might not be an absolute, that the names and scaffolding might not be real, unnerves me.  For better or for worse, I am sometimes so literal I actually hurt myself rolling my own eyes.  Never mind the times (frequent) that my fingers slip.  Or get blisters.  Or just miss the bar completely.  I still trust in that framework, and could actually name the bars if asked.  But I think that what the transition of fall, and the naming, and the Ray Bradbury story have been suggesting to me is that perhaps it's in the spaces between the bars that the good stuff resides.  My heart rate increases just thinking about it, but maybe the falling is where the real living happens.  And maybe the bars won't look the same after you let go.  Maybe some things you lose when you let go.  But maybe the sun in those spaces is so bright, so bone-warming, that it's worth the chance.

I'm not sure I will ever convince my body not to fight the coming cold.  I certainly never expect to be fully accepting of transition.  But maybe in these two ideas I can start to remove a finger or two from the rungs, or lose a name, or even (gasp!) be comfortable in uncertainty.  It's daunting to consider, but maybe it's worth the risk.


Reading:
The Age of Miracles by Karen Thompson Walker
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
The Layers by Stanley Kunitz

Song list:
Words Fail You by Kris Delmhorst

Baby boy turns 3

We are just about 2 hours short of the exact birthday time... a birth story that was elooooooooongated and bloody and nothing short of miraculous for the work that my wife did and the stupendous outcome. He didn't seem to want to come out at all- but then once he got here, Milo broke all our hearts wide open.

I promise, little boy, we will write a newsletter for you soon, but know that we celebrate you EVERY day- your smile and humor, your charm and musicality, your "tiny dog" spirit. Your spectacular hair.

Happy, Happy, Happy birthday!

Mommy and Mama

First day of Kindergarten: Hopes and Dreams

During orientation today, the principal at Jake's school encouraged us to "get to know" her and share with her our "hopes and dreams for his kindergarten year."  Kate and I sat side by side in a humid basement that they call the "gym/auditorium" and even though I was closer to bursting into a puddle of sweat vs. tears, that line did make me shrug away an emotional shudder.  Maybe I hadn't realized I did have hopes and dreams for him at this early stage in the game, maybe i was shocked in these first few seconds of contemplation how basic they were.

Perhaps to a fault, I don't give a shit where he is with his reading or math.  The kid is smart and a "pleaser" with two academic-minded moms, he will excel in school and be reading like a champ in no time...

I hope he has fun and learns to love those put in charge of his learning.
I dream that what happens this year sets him up to trust the people we call "teachers" and to feel safe in the buildings we call "schools".

I hope he makes friends and learns how to be good and generous to other kids.
I dream he has the experience of acceptance and friendship without learning to crave and chase the "high" of feeling popular.

I hope he somehow learns to appreciate the special qualities of others without feeling jealous.
I dream he learns to appreciate the special qualities in himself without feeling superior.

***************
In the middle of the first 1/2 hour in his class room, Jake pulled at my pocket and said, "I have to go potty."  His teacher showed him the room and he was in there for several minutes before the motion sensor light went out.  Over the din of the classroom, I heard quiet yelling, "Anyone... Hey, Anyone... Anyone out there..." it was soft at first and grew louder.  I realized what must have happened and the lights flew on as I opened the door and rushed in.

He shrugged at me, "Hey," he said, not quite embarrassed.
"Hey, buddy!" I said laughing in a way that I'd hoped would reassure him.  "If that ever happens again, you just have to wave your arms around to get the lights back on again."  I offered several more sentences in the way of explanation.  And then I noticed his red face and watering eyes...
He was about to cry, and I didn't want that to happen...  All these emotions rushed to me: he is way more nervous than we realized... He's afraid.  And he was literally left in the dark, oh no...

And then I heard the splash as he dropped (what I later realized was the third) rather large turd in the tiny "to scale" toilet. Misty eyes, cleared and the normal color replaced the red in his cheeks.

Here's my kid!  First thing he does at kindergarten is take a huge dump!!  When I told the story to Katy later, she mocked me with her mind-reading skills: "Oh MY GOD... it's like when you go into a book store and the info overload sends you running to the public restroom!!!"

It's funny because it's true.

I couldn't help it. I reached down and planted a kiss on the top of that kid's head.  "I love you so much, Jakey."

"Yeah," he said absentmindedly contemplating the status of his bowels.  The absurdity of the situation hit a peak as he obviously bared down one last time.  He relaxed his abdomen, shifted on the seat, took a short breath in and out, and I easily identified the cues- he had completed his business.

Looking up at me, he shrugged: "Can you believe I'm in kindergarten?!?" He asked excitedly.

Brief, awkward silence.

"Yes, baby.  I'm so proud of you," was the only thing I could think to say.

I've admitted it before, and I'll say it again, this kid is weird.  His moms are fine with it.  In fact his brand of quirky, honest sweetness is probably less weird than we are.  I'll sometimes tell him he's weird so he recognizes that word doesn't have to hurt: everybody is weird in some way(s).  I dread the day when someone makes him feel bad or insecure about the amazing things inside of him.

I hope that doesn't happen to him in Kindergarten.
I dream for him that when that does happen he has a good friend near him to reassure him that he doesn't need to make apologies for who he is.

Jake has a bunch of friends that he's gone to day care with for several years.  Today, KK shouted to him in the parking lot, "Thank you, Jacob!"

"You're welcome," he spouted over his shoulder as we all walked away from the bus.  When I asked him what he did that she was thanking him for he looked at me as if to say, "What the fuck are you talking about?"  It became crystal clear in that moment that this is just the beginning of me asking what I think is a perfectly legitimate question and him acting like I'm blind, deaf, and dumb.

Colin is Jake's BFF since he was 6 months old.  It's because of Jake and Colin that we are friends with Col's parents.  Now those kids are stuck with each other at least through high school, because Katy and I have really grown to love those dirtbags (Private joke).  When Jake asked us what a "kindred spirit" was recently (after the term came up in Puss in Boots) hearing the definition prompted him to report to us that Colin was his kindred spirit.  Sometimes the two boys greet each other with this term of endearment (sigh).

Life can be hard, even for kindergarteners.
I hope that he hits some bumps (even at this tender age) so he can start to grow confident in his ability to overcome challenges and obstables
I dream he'll have some good little peeps by his side reassuring him and giving him sound toddler advice.


***************
A few weeks ago, katy and I both picked Jake up from day care.  When the kids saw us come in together, it set off a sewing circle of banter among 4 four-year old girls.  They were working on some craft at a low-to-the-ground, circular table and the image in my peripheral vision was oddly similar to a group of old ladies gossiping while shucking peas- heads bent together, hands busy, absentminded familiarity with one another.  While I tried to get Jake to gather his things, I started to catch the content of their conversation:

Girl 1: Yeah, that's how it is.
Girl 2: He has two moms...
Girl 3: No dads...
Girl 1: No, he didn't come with one.
Girl 4: Not a dad in sight.
Girl 2: Nope, just only moms

Jake was oblivious and I realized that the arrival of the two moms simultaneously (when we usually took turns picking up our boys) likely prompted some solidification of the concepts that these little girls have been well aware of for a long time.

They weren't questioning the legitimacy of our family structure.  They weren't trash-talking.  Just hammering the points home to each other in a way that old friends might discuss the inevitability of an impending summer shower:

"Looks like rain"
"yessir, there's no way we're getting out of this one..."
"I guess we better bring the laundry in"
"These rains come and go"
"The sky is sure dark"
"It's been dry- we could really use the rain."

I hope that it will be sometime before Jake is exposed to a conversation where he realizes there are people in the world that have a problem with his family.
I hope if someone indicates there is something wrong with his family structure, there is a teacher (or one of those pea shuckers) right there on hand to immediately correct that lie
I dream we have a few years of solidifying his confidence before he gets a wiff of this part of the world from anywhere.


I didn't cry today. If it hasn't happened yet, I've probably avoided it.  But I wouldn't be surprised if it hit me later in the week or month.  Putting this kid out into the world,  further out of the sphere of our protective capabilities is humbling.  It makes me feel the intense weight of human vulnerability.    It makes me want to grab the break and slow down time a bit.  It makes me want to pray more.

Okay... there.  A few tears dripped down...
Is everyone happy now?

On birthdays

Birthdays are strange creatures.

For many years I was perpetually disappointed by my birthday.  There was so much hype about the day, likely created in my own mind, that it could never live up to my expectations.  The presents were never quite right.  The person I wanted to call didn't.  The day got swept away by some other more pressing need.  I understood my birthday to be the one day when it was okay to embrace the conceit of wanting others to celebrate me.  Pre-social media, it was more difficult to navigate that celebration.  Walk around announcing the day?  Hope others would somehow just know?

I've had a very contemplative last month, touched off by the 5 year anniversary of the murder of my colleague's family.  I had stashed that grief away in self preservation, stuffing the suitcase full and taking off at a moment's notice.  This summer, it decided to unpack itself and land on me like a tidal wave.  It was a long time coming, but it felt like I'd been sucker punched.  There are some things in life that are beyond explanation, that challenge my scientific-leaning understanding of the world.  Trying to make sense of it is about as fruitful as a dog chasing its tail.  Normally organized into predictable and controlled parcels, I was suddenly scattered.  It was as if someone grasped the string at the end of a knot I thought was impenetrable, and suddenly there were marbles all over the floor.  It was dizzying.  Tucked in that insistent wall of tears, though, was an opportunity to gather my wits and dig back in to life.

I spent the first several hours of this birthday holding a screaming child as he seemed to have night terrors (but what turned out to be a full bladder).  It made me laugh, because somewhere in those hours 35 years ago I was causing a similar ruckus.  It seemed to solidify for me that parenthood is at least one part payback.  Tracy and I spent almost an hour on iChat last night with some of our closest friends, Kate and Adam, who are exactly 2 years behind us in the parenthood game.  Between us we have a 5 year old, two 3 year olds, and a newborn.  We spent a good deal of time acknowledging the strangeness of feeling overwhelming love and crushing frustration all in the same moment, over and over and over.  Before we had Jake, people used to try and explain to us things about parenthood: how tired we'd be, how happy he'd make us, how much we'd worry, how much small children vomit, how hard it would be once he was mobile.  You can't warn would-be parents.  There are chemicals that prevent people attempting pregnancy or who are pregnant from hearing any of it.  It doesn't register.  It blows past them like a wisp of hot air barely noticed.  It's a good thing, too, because no one would choose this kind of insanity without those blinders.  I left the conversation overwhelmingly thankful for our friends.  There is a comfort in knowing you're not the only one who can't stand their own kid some of the time.  There is also a simple elegance in being able to share in that sweet love for the heart that walks around outside of your body.  This morning, the aforementioned screaming child came down the stairs, stood on his tippy toes, gave me a two-handed kiss, and said "Happy Birthday to you, Mama".  Turns out parenthood is also at least one part sweetness.

Despite my determined efforts, there are things I cannot control or change.  Timing that cannot be reset to fit my own version of daylight savings.  Events that cannot be prevented, and a similar number that cannot be forced into existence.  I feel a physical discomfort in the severity of that understanding.  I get it, but I don't like it.  And sitting with those two realities is a constant battle.  I continue on the learning curve roller coaster, though, sometimes eyes open, sometimes hands up.

In recent years I have had a much more Zen approach to my birthday.  Turns out, when you stop plotting out every minute, every minute starts feeling like a gift rather than a disappointment.  Say what you will about Facebook, but the near constant stream of "Happy Birthday!"s feels like points of light carrying me through the day.  Messages flow in from people who I may never see in person again, and from friends who will sing to me later today, and from people I only know because I kicked their ass in Fantasy Football, and people who know me as Katy, KT, or (smile) Tierney.  At worst, someone steals my identity.  At best, on my worst day I'll be able to see that light shining a path in front of me.

Birthdays are, indeed, beautifully strange creatures.


Poem list:
cruel, cruel summer (D.A. Powell)
Difference (Mark Doty)
Sublunary (AE Stallings)

Playlist:
Exile Vilify (The National)
All This and Heaven Too (Florence and the Machine)
To Just Grow Away (The Tallest Man On Earth)
Lorraine (Lori McKenna)
Helplessness Blues (Fleet Foxes)
Sticks and Stones (The Wheels)
Kiss It Away (Kris Delmhorst)
Gentle Hands (Thieving Irons)

Crazy talk and non-sensical rage

Milo's language skills have exploded.
Finally the kid can practically get his point across.  He has so many thoughts and ideas but they are generally not recognizable by English speakers.  Lately though, he is spilling over with impressive vocab and compound sentences.  Today at a red light he told me:

"Red means 'stop' and yellow means 'slow' and green means 'go'."
He has known this for a long time, but could only get out a word at a time. 
"YELLOW!" He'd scream as I blew through an intersection.

At some point in July, the kid was in the back seat of the car and he was stammering and stuttering trying to tell me something very important (perhaps that a tow truck had passed us) and finally he slapped his hands on his knees and shouted, "I'm tryin' TALK-TELL YOU SOMETHING-CAN'T!!!" I felt so bad and fed him a few lines to repeat: "Say, 'There's a red truck.'" He repeated it perfectly. "Say, 'There's a blue car'."  Again, flawless. He nodded at me in what I perceived to be a "Thank you" and calmed down.
 
As I've mentioned, he is somewhat strong-headed and wickedly intelligent, but he can be lazy with pronunciation.  He tends to eliminate "s"s completely.  So when he's asking for one of his favorite songs "Stuck like glue" and he insistently implores, "I WANT UCKLIKEGLUE!!!" I spend the next 45 seconds making him repeat, 'cause I still have nofah king idea what he's saying. 

When i finally figure it out, I"m like, "Milo,  stay 'SSSSssssssstuck'..."
"SSSSssssstuck."
So okay, he can say it.  He just frequently opts out.

Last week he asked Katy, "Did you get that out of the cabinet?" As clear as can be- like that was the most normal thing in the world for a 2 year old to say. 

She looked at me and asked, "Did he just say 'cabinet'?"
"Yes.  Yes he did."

In addition to improving his speech, Milo's been teething for what seems like forever, and drooling and sticking fingers and whatever he can find into his mouth.  "Get your fingers out of your mouth," is my most frequently uttered directive.  In our house (despite two Master's prepared nurses running the show) there is astounding ignorance related to germ theory.  No matter how many times I explain about all of the various nastiness that can be on the bottom of our shoes, I can count on both of my boys to absent-mindedly scan their digits over every square milometer of their sneakers and Crocs, just to pass the time.  Then everyone acts shocked when I'm screaming "GET YER DISGUSTINGLY DIRTY FINGERS OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!!!"

Today, I guess Milo was a little sick of my badgering, but he showed me- just skipped the middleman entirely and went right to the source:

Mommy: (unsuccessfully trying to hide her disgust) GET YOUR SHOE OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!!!
Milo: NOOOOOOooooooo!!!
Mommy: RIGHT NOW!
Milo: (growling) I'm gonna bite you in the baby room!
Mommy: WHAT?!?
Milo: (mumbling) I'm gonna bite you in the baby room...
Mommy: (softer and in a more serious tone) Milo, we don't threaten to bite people when we are angry...
Milo: YOU ARE DANGEROUS!
Mommy: You have no idea...

The kid is nuts.  But there is nothing I don't love about him.






Comparing how these two watch TV says a lot...

Shout out to the man

Today is my Dad's birthday.

He was 19 when I was born, so in many ways, we were kids together. He's taught me more things than i can possibly describe here, but I'll put forward a few:
- How to loaf around and then feel bad that I didn't use my time more productively.
-How to get distracted by any tiny little lint on the carpet, or any piece of reading material in the bathroom.
- How to be funny, make jokes, and use laughter to bring people together.
- How to use words and self depreciating humor to expose the bullying behavior of bullies without getting beat up (much).
- How to try to fix things before you throw them away.
- How to accept people for who they are and not get shocked when they do the same things over and over again.
- How to give people the benefit of the doubt even when you have to give them the benefit of the doubt over and over and over again.
- How to appreciate the satisfaction that comes from building something or finishing a big job, or hanging out with a small group of close friends.
- How to be loyal, accommodating, and respectful.
- How to walk away or say goodbye when you've had enough of others who might not know how to be loyal, accommodating, and respectful.
- To appreciate music, art AND science
– To appreciate a good political debate but then get aggravated if it goes on for too long.
– How to stand up in front of a room full or a church full or an auditorium full of people and captivate the crowd; or to act like a fool trying.
- How to speak my mind, without abandoning the premise that others have a point to make as well.
- How to look out for the little guy.
- How to strive for success without stealing, or cheating, or swindling others.
– How to speak from your heart.
– How to oscillate (sometimes erratically) between extreme generosity and extreme stubbornness.
– How to be too hard on yourself.
- How to give really GREAT hugs.

Also from him, I got my holiday/special-event gift-giving deficits. I have difficulty figuring out what to get the man, and the few gift ideas I had, have not yet come to fruition at this late hour. In our respective homes, my dad and I each have a drawer full of cards that we purchased with good intentions for specific people and celebrations, that never got written out or sent (this drives our wives crazy.)

Chip-Block.
Apple-Tree.
I couldn't be luckier.
Happy birthday, sweet papa.
'Tis a day to celebrate indeed!!!

Powering up

Today, I woke up draped in Ruggies. There are only two of them, but somehow it felt like I was sleeping with a litter of puppies.  They were not just near me, but on me- covering me.  Their weight and breath was everywhere- all satisfying comfort and reassurance; like a heavy sweatshirt and a haze of sweet smelling sugar cookies in the oven.

Jake fell out of bed at about 1am and the only reaction I had to the sound of his noggin slamming into the hard wood floor was to JUMP UP, run in there, lift him into my arms, and tuck him in between katy and me.  He was there for the night because we all fell asleep swift and hard after that.  Then at some point in the pre-dawn, big moonlit morning, Milo came tottering in.  I turned onto my side, reached down and scooped at him with my drowsy arms.  He burrowed into the cavern between my chin, ribcage, and knees.

I woke up facing that same general direction, but he had turned over.  Mouth-breathing into my nostils, Milo's legs were draped across my abdomen.  I was all gumby'd up: Milo was on my front, but Jake was (impossibly) laying across my upper back. 

"How are we laying like this? One on the front of me, one on my back?" was the first conscious thought of my day.  I attempted to roll again, slightly, but instead forced myself to freeze: to appreciate these clinging, loving, needy (but quickly growing independent) mammels.

Milo all breathy on my face.  So soft, so curly and wispy in his solidness.  He's as sensitive and trusting as can be despite his "tough-guy" persona.

"You are my favorite." I caught myself thinking as I stared at him.  The thought surprised me, but not really; the way soda bubbles up the back of your throat after that first sip...every time. I think maybe I think this about each of them, every time I watch them sleep. Not "you are my favorite (son)" but "you are my favorite (person)."

I remember a crisis-of-faith type story my dad once told me about when my mom was pregnant with my sister. Turning to his mother for advice, he wondered to her how he could love any other child as much as he loved me.  He relayed to me that she told him not to worry- some version of: "Your heart will expand"...  In my memory, his voice trails off and the "old soul" inside the child-me is left wanting to ask, "Wait, who did you end up loving more?!?"

We all shift in the bed and Jake is somehow even closer to me- pressed up against me tighter than he was before.  I am a pretzel... my hips are mostly facing the ceiling, but my shoulders are pressed mostly into my pillow.  Right arm under my own body and the young one's neck.  Left arm reaching awkwardly back, pinned between my back and the elder.  These boys are not floppy beanbags anymore.  They are pointy bags of bones.  Already in their posture and gaits, Katy and I see the teenage boys they are intent on morphing into approaching us.

I think, "I can't move!"

Then I realize I don't want to... We all have a full day of work ahead of us, but this part of the day... This is like plugging in my batteries so I will be fully charged for the rest of the day.  There is a time to untangle and get into the shower.  There's a time to stay tangled up in the covers for a few more minutes with your babies...

"That's not true!"

We've spent the better part of the last month spinning.  (Not the exercise class...)

Katy's dad was here for almost a week.  Before he arrived and during his time here, Katy was working mostly12 hour shifts to support the Electronic Health Record implementation at her hospital.  At the end of that week, Jake had his dance recital.  Two adorable numbers this year, tap and ballet.

 
During all that, softball started.  Anyone that reads this blog knows how much I look forward to Softball starting.  But truthfully this year, I am not yet mentally prepared to be out of work, kids fed, suited up, and at the field at 6:15pm.  Fortunately, there has been a lot of rain, so we've only played (I think) 3 times in the last 4 weeks.

Last week, Katy's moms came for a little over a week.  They kept the boys out of school, walking and gardening, doing puzzles and coloring and reading... They stayed here for the weekend while we headed out of state for a(n awesome) wedding.

Aside from fairly consistent whining, the boys seem to be doing great... Thriving in the chaos.  They sometimes need 2 or 3 tries- but they seem to get the rules when we remind them: "You can't get what you want if you are whining or crying."  This house rule is for their own personal protection as much as any convenience on my part... I cannot be held responsible for my actions if these jokers can't shake the easy-to-pick-up, hard-to-shake habit of WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYNING.

Milo also has a special gift for completely ignoring us.  If he is doing something we don't want him to, it is no use calling to him or asking him to stop from across the room.  To communicate a correction of some kind, you have to walk right up to him, and usually take his hands or cheeks into yours.  If you don't, he will just act like your voice is inaudible.

He has, though, really turned a corner with his command of the language.  He is speaking so much clearer and trying to say more.  It's been so long that we've been answering every one of his questions or statements with "What did you say? Can you say that again?"  That he's actually started to believe that is a part of regular communication.

"Milo, can you pick up your socks?"  And if he's not ignoring us completely, he will say, "What did you say?  Can you say that again?" While he's in the midst of picking up his socks.  He just thinks it is something you say after someone else talks, like a little British toddler, might say, "jolly good, ol' chap."

Also, he says "no"... A LOT.  And sometimes he gets confused when he means "No" but wants to switch it up, he starts to object like a lawyer:

Me: "Milo, please don't put your hand in your milk."
Him: "THAT'S NOT TRUE!" 
Me: "ORDER IN THE COURT, MATTLOCK!"

It's a funny thing when language develops- trying to piece together not just sounds and definitions, but context and various degrees of emphasis.  I'm like, "Dude, 'that's not true' does not mean the same thing as 'I don't want to'... those phrases are only interchangeable if you are running for public office."

Happy Birthday, Jimbo

Summers come and summers go.  Summers fly by.
But these last few summers have been some of the best of my life.
Having kids- even little kids that aren't in school yet- has made me realize how ingrained in our memories a concept like "summer" can be. And how important "living" (spending time with people you care about, splashing and playing and trying not to get sunburned) is to learning about the world.  The experience of "summer" is a blessing that I am proud to be able to share and pass on to my kids.

I imagine if we didn't know Jimbo and Sue, we would have figured out another way to create a summer for our children.  But I'm so grateful that we have these friends.
Jimbo and Sue open the pool in May and close it well into September.  The pool is heated and I mean to at least the mid-80s.  There's a full size refrigerator, a shaded TV area to watch the Red Sox, and enough seating for at least 25 on a daily basis.

There was a "TBR pool" in my childhood (that was owned and operated by Jimbo's parents).  The rules at that pool were simple:
- Please come to the pool
- Come to the pool anytime, day or night
- Bring anyone to the pool that you wish
- Bring anything to eat or drink
- If you do not bring food- some will be provided for you
- Please don't even call- just come over if you want to swim
- If we aren't home, you know how to get in (to the pool and the house) no need to wait for us to take a dip or have a beer out of the fridge.

When Jim and Maizie (Jimbo's parents) sold their house and the pool of my childhood memories sometime around 2000 or 2001 (I think), my mom called me:
"I don't want to forget to tell you," she started, "The TBR's sold their house.  They are moving next month."
My mouth went dry.  I was a little sad in that "end of an era" kind of way, but mostly, I was stunned into the realization that had my mom not made this call in a timely fashion, I might have been on the business end of some handcuffs and fingerprinting ink.

As I walked into their new pad, the experience of greeting total strangers who were acting completely "at home" in the TBR's house would not have tipped me off.  I can imagine the change in furniture might strike me as surprising, but it wouldn't stop me from checking out what beverages might be in the mini fridge on the porch.  They would have had plenty of time to call the cops as I laid my towel on the fence, disrobed, and dove into their new pool...

Fortunately for my family, Jimbo and Sue continued on the "mi casa es su casa" tradition.  Same pool rules with at least one bizarre addition: No plastic cups or dishes at the pool.  (What can I say, Sue really likes to wash dishes and clean up broken glass, poolside...) With 4 children age six and under, my sister and I have negotiated our way around this regulation.

I've known Jimbo my entire life. I've actually known him longer that that.  He and my dad were best buddies in high school.  When we were young, my parents didn't do that surrogate "aunt" and "uncle" thing that Katy and I are inclined to do as a way to introduce our very close friends to our children.  As one of 8 children and one of 4 children, respectively, I guess Mom and Dad figured, there were enough uncles and aunts to keep straight without adding more titles.  If Jimbo was like an uncle to me, it was mostly because his sisters were like aunts to me and by the power of the transitive properties, the brother of an aunt has to be an uncle...

But I was so shy when I was little, and Jimbo is not exactly a chatterbox.  I'm not sure I said more than 20 words to him until I was in high school.  His kids were in need of babysitters when I was just exiting that "babysitting age", so for a couple of decades, our 2 families had very little in common, except some cherished holidays that we spent together. 

Fast forward 20 more years.  In some ways assisted by the "staggered" generations, there is an extended family here that we have chosen, and it is as strong as any family forged in DNA or bonded by blood.  When I think of my dad eulogizing his parents, I see Jimbo and Sue in the pews behind us in a church that was foreign to them, and then scampering about, helping with food, acting as a protective presence after the services as well.

When I think of our children being born, I look right past the huge gift basket that Sue presented us to the beaming, excited smile on her face, and the chiding "My little dog
comes first, but I am going to love these kids!!!"

So similar to his dad before him, Jimbo is successful and proud- yet, humble.  He is quiet yet fun.  He is generous as to make generosity seem obvious.  I've never seen him lose his cool.  Even when I've seen him in tumultuous situations and/or embroiled in conflict, I've never seen him riled up or contemptuous or even the slightest bit indignant.  He's not particularly religious (that I can tell) but he generally acts out the "do unto others adage" without giving it a moment's thought.  He has fed and clothed and bathed (and offered a pool to) not only me and people he loves, but any stranger that any of us leads onto his property. 

Last summer we watched Jimbo's mom slip mostly away- deeper and deeper into Alzheimer's. I'd sit by her with the kids explaining over and over who we were. Even under a veil of memory loss, she was who I've always know her to be: polite, full of smiles and gentle laughs, occasionally opinionated and strong-willed. She'd sit poolside in the evening and when Jimbo walked in, she'd light up.  She'd go straight to him or call him over... It became clear that Maizie frequently thought Jimbo was her husband.  Son or husband, she wanted to just be near him. And there they often sat, hand in hand for a bit of time.  It was hard to watch but harder to look away from: Heartbreaking but thoroughly endearing.  As he ages, it is impossible not to see why his mom would be confused.  If you didn't know G'pa Jim (Jimbo's dad), it won't mean as much, but the apple did not fall far from the tree, as they say.

Whether golfing or riding a motorcycle, or watching a movie, a ball game, playing a board game, just being in his presence helps me appreciate the healing powers of socialization, of community Rest and Relaxation.  To be with him is to see a man SIT and experience joy and contentment, to appreciate the little things (and the big things). Spending time by his side, I feel I have learned to be better at relaxing at having fun.

Because of Jimbo and Sue, our recent and current summers are not just long and lazy, they are full and rich.  They are not trite.  The pool is where we bring our laughter and silliness, but also where we bring our stresses and sorrows, where we share and try to swim away our anxieties.  It's where I bring my boys to cool off and learn to swim and to experience a certain civility that might be dying out in the world; and where we are lucky enough to watch a lot of our dreams come true. 

Happy Birthday, Jimbo!  We love you!

Brainwashing and programming of summer memories

Pizza: Sally's
Major league baseball: Red Sox
Minor league baseball: (a tie) Dayton Dragons and the New Britain Rockcats
Pool or ocean: both!
Hot dogs: Blackies (though Glenwood is totally acceptable)
 

 

Milo: (takes a bite of hot dog and spits it out) I NO LIKE IT!
Mommy: (in the voice of a snake oil salesman) Yes, you do like it, of course you like it! That's a Blackies HOT DOG! We don't spit out Blackies hot dogs!!! Take another bite.
Milo: (takes another bite): I LIKE IT!
Mommy: Hooray!!!

 

The president wishes me a Happy Mother's day

 I know it's election season, but this guy gets me every time

The week in review

In the last 7 days, Obama freed the gays*, North Carolina outlawed them, we've celebrated/endured nurses' week, mother's day, and gone through a 12 pack of ginger-ale**.  In the last seven days, the boys have worn their raincoats, their winter coats, and their bathing suits- so swings the weather in these parts at this time of the year...

The Ta-bar pool opened today at a crisp, cool 76 degrees. (We all went in but Katy). And I predict both these boys will be swimming without "swimmies" by the end of the summer (Mac and Cam are already there).  Softball starts tomorrow.  I have a lot to write about, but I'm so very sleepy.

The new job is absurd.  Good, but a little like being a lost kid at a big fair... Except, I'm not a kid, and I have a map, but they change the fair grounds every night... and there are a lot of emails... And I keep staying awake every night wondering if I should suggest to my bosses that maybe they should keep the fair grounds looking like the map they hand out.  Also, I find myself wanting to shout a lot, "THE EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHES ON!" 

*OBAMA did not actually free the gays, but he did publicly state is personal support for marriage equality which as Joe Biden would say, "...is a big fucking deal."

**Jake was vomiting last weekend and I spent Friday night wondering how my body could eject the contents of my stomach with such force that jet engine blasters seem comparatively ineffectual and weak.