LOST A SOCK

Family Outing

Since forever, my sister Sant has been a very close member of my little family.  She and I are three years apart in age, and growing up we played and argued like normal sisters.  We shared a small, yellow, bunkbedded bedroom until I was twelve and then suddenly I needed my (sigh here, loudly and dramatically) space, even though at the time as the oldest child in a family of six, the only space I could find was in our hot, unfinished attic where I slept two nights with pillows and blankets spead out on large plastic-wrapped packages of fiberglass insulation.  (All I can say is that I was so twelve, and move along.) 

Of course, I took Sant to the attic with me.  Do you really think I was going to sleep up there alone?

My parents guessed correctly that with all the drama that is a twelve year old girl, possibly I did need my own room, and they allowed me to paint the basement storage room gloomy grey (which met me half way since I was unbelievably twelve and deeply desired to paint it black) and move down there.

Where a good percentage of the time, I invited my sister down with me to sleep throughout all of high school on an old black leather couch handed down from my grandparents, which she will someday blame for back problems.

In 1996 we moved from Chicago to Northwest Indiana, and four days later I went away to college. 

Upon returning home from college, the summer before my wedding, Sant was again formally invited to join me in slumber on my new bed, purchased for my new house.  And there we spent summer evenings watching episode after episode of Who Wants to be a Millionare, as well as chick flick movies to infinity, with my window air conditioner cranked to high, under mounds of blankets.  Also we used our family's trampoline to work on our tans that summer, and ate lots of cheese and mushroom pizza.  (Which subsequently helped neither my sister nor I fit into a wedding gown and maid-of-honor dress.)

Finally I moved out of my parents house permanantly, just as I began my first teaching job and Kevin and I purchased our first house.  It would be two months until Kevin moved in, though, and if you've noticed a trend by now you can probably guess that I invited Sant to come stay with me at my new house.  And she did.

In 2001 Sant went away to college and I called her and emailed her and bugged her to death.  In 2002 KJ was born and Sant was the obvious choice for his godmother. 

She stayed with us again, on random weekends from time to time, in order to play with the baby and save my first-time post-partum ass.  Kevin, Sant and I passed that non-sleeping constantly-vomiting baby from person to person, day and night, and always wondered how that tiny precious boy could turn upside down the lives of three grown adults with sleep deprivation.  (Heh, we were quite unskilled back then, for sure.)

Then three years later when I was pregnant with Jack, on bed rest for several months to his birth, Sant came to stay with us for a few months to help.  She had just graduated from college and had yet to find a job, so she, KJ and I watched Elmo dvd's and cranked the air conditioning all summer, and snuggled up in blankets. 

She stayed with us for the next several years for most of each week, heading to my parents house on weekends in order to give everyone the proper amount of space.  We avoided the pizza this time, deciding that we should lose weight together, and collectively lost nearly two-hundred pounds.

Late one night during that two years of great weight loss and taking better control of our lives, Sant revealed to me that she was gay.  She didn't just think maybe she was gay, or simply hadn't dated enough guys (whom she always thought would make good friends, but alas, no spark,) she was sure and had been for a while.  She said that for the sake of avoiding the whole "outing" herself to everyone we know, and for fear of being shunned or rejected, she really thought for a while that she could hide it forever, and maybe even marry a nice guy and try to conform.

It wouldn't have worked, though, because we were well into realizing that a person gets one shot at life, so it might as well be good.  It was the bravest thing she would have to do, I think, when she one-by-one told friends and family over months' time, having no idea how anyone would take it, fearing that she could even lose important relationships.  But thankfully, it didn't change anything for anyone.

 

I was so excited for her to be exactly who she is.

And we celebrated at Chicago's Pride Parade that summer with jello shots.

And then a little while later she met Leslie online. 

And a little while after that, about a year ago, Leslie moved here from the west coast, and we all got a Leslie.  (Who happens to be one of Marin's best pals.)

They've stayed with us a couple days each week for the last year, and KJ, Jack and Marin have had the chance to bond with Leslie, too.  It is always the hope that your "person" fits in with all of your other people, and I say with much honesty that Leslie is not only the perfect person for Sant, but also a perfect fit in our family. 

And though I cannot yet post pictures of all of the fun projects my mom and I concocted for the day, tomorrow we will host a shower for Sant and Leslie, who will close on their first house this week.  Their first house, seven minutes from my doorstep.  Let the new chapter begin, where I my three children my three children and I on seperate occasions venture over to their house for sleepovers with icy cold air conditioning, cozy blankets and relaxing movies.

Where I will happily sleep on the couch.

With the deja vu and all

Tomorrow is Kevin's 33rd birthday, and late last night I found myself wasting a fantastic amount of time clicking through all of the pictures I've taken in summers past. 

I stumbled onto this one, out of a set from Kevin's birthday two years ago. 

 

My oh my, what a sweet little midget Jackson was, perched on my hip in his stripey summer onesie.  I could eat him with a spoon, right out of the picture.  Right after I polish off that french silk pie.

Then I realized that, already, we are almost to this baby age with Marin.

Then I realized that this was a mere six months before I would learn of my pregnancy with Marin, just after we moved out of the little house we were standing in, during the process of not selling it, just as I was trying to lose my final ten pounds in order to declare myself thin forever.  

Boy what I would write to this girl in a letter.  

Time really does move amazingly fast the older you get, doesn't it?  I wonder where we will be in two more years from now.  I wonder if today will feel like just yesterday, then?

Happy Birthday, Kev. 

(Green jello cake as requested this year.  Nineteen pounds heavier, good gift, next house, different baby eating from my fork.)

Wherein Jillian Michaels drives me to try crazy things

Hi friends.

I know my blogging has been spotty lately, and don't you worry, I surely have hang-ups about it.  But I think we all need to walk away from the finger pointing for now, and hop back to it.  It is time to discuss evil.  Or, the Diet Coke of evil.  (Just one calorie.)

(Doctor Evil, Austin Powers, yes?)

(No-no Mini Me, we don't gnaw on our kitty.)

Onward.

So! I am still shredding.  

Level Two, Day Thirteen.

Okay, if you do the math that's like six days missing in there or something from my very first shred.  One time I was passed out on the couch when Kevin finally made it home from work to join me, therefore being forced to decide between Evil Sergeant Ponytail Kicking My Ass, or Sleeeeep.  (Duh.)  Several days later I pulled a muscle in my lower leg and gave it time to heal, on Saturday I walked a 5K and I took a pass on double duty exercise, and tonight I write. 

Wait, did I say a 5K?

These are the things that yuppie hippie somebody-or-others do with their Saturday mornings, and Kevin once, three years ago, but not me.  (Ok and Breain.)

Not me, that is, until we signed up for the race the walk to raise money for Make A Wish Foundation, which happened to wind through our favorite zoo in the world. 

Apparently even my lacksidasical commitment to the Shred is beginning to pay off, with a dive down into a lesser size of khaki shorts (thankyouverymuch) and the return for my willingness to try new things once again.  Apparantly I need nine full months to gestate and nine full months to embrace recovery from all the gestating.  Who knew?

 

So we woke our kids at six a.m. on Saturday morning and whisked them off to the zoo.  We figured KJ would never make the entire race walk without whining, crying, dragging, falling, hating and certain death, especially on an eighty-eight degree day, so he happily took the stroller option when we offered.  (No shame, that boy.)

We missed the official start by a few seconds as we spent too much time pilfering free peanut bars from the radio station table, and that sort of set the standard for our personal time.

Following the path of orange cones, we passed a volunteer every now and again who would cheer for us and holler something about a great job stopping to visit with the animals every twelve feet.  I never got over feeling goofy about that, all of the forced cheering while we hauled our offspring around the course, daring them to eat the peanut bars and just chill for a while.

We knew to stay to the left so that the real runners (who actually jog with their jogging strollers and not just occupy too-large boys) could pass as needed, and after a while of our brisk walking, then stopping, and more walking, we began to wonder how it was that all of these sweaty runners and their jogging strollers were coming from behind us.  Because, people, for sure we cleared off the peanut bar table so what could be left to delay their start times? 

Oh right, the panting fools were the supahstahs on their second lap. 

(Yeah, well wait until you're finished.  And starving.  Because my kids have eaten all the protein so now look where your sweat and speed has gotten you.  Hungry, that's where.)

Finally we made it around the first time, and then we started in for part two just as our boys were sooooo hottttttt and our baby was ready for a nap and a bottle.  Jackson made sure twelve times that we would be stopping at the playground this time around, and KJ vehemently hated the sun, the heat, the bumps, the path that failed miserably at passing through the reptile house and the entire idea of lap two. 

We, too, had worked up quite a sweat pushing strollers, though enjoying our morning exercise for a great cause. 

More thirsty now, smelly and definitely hot, I sort of lost my parental shit reached a breaking point a little ways into the final lap.  We were off to the side of the road again, mixing up a bottle for our fussy, overtired baby and trying to convince Jack that he needed not visit every bathroom that day, when KJ began objecting to seeing The Same Animals Againnnnnnnnnnnn, as if this were the new worst thing in the world just next to whole wheat bread and crust, when one's blackened hearted parents drag children from their early morning slumbers to have fun! exercise! charitable family time! glean vitamin D from the sunshine! 

Awful indeed, and all at once I became every mother that ever lived because I was TURNING THESE DAMN STROLLERS AROUND, totally finished with the grumbling, complaining and child misery.  Not until, however, I snapped at my husband right in front of three zoo staffers whizzing by in a golf cart, because couldn't he at least offer to help?!  Help me shake up this bottle that I've done ten thousand times?!  Couldn't he hold my hand or offer some sort of support or something?  Are you the one causing this boy to complain?  Your offspring?  Surely you have fault here, man! 

How pretty of me. 

Kevin convinced our crew to calm down and carry forward until we finally reached the playground, where we would then dump our children from their respective chariots to just run it off already as we cooled down.  Then we called it a day on the 5K 4K and quietly wished for the deodarant left back at the car.  We made peace with each other, and visited the reptile house. 

As we headed towards the gate my eye caught a family of five, just like ours, with two boys the ages of our boys, and a baby girl.  I smiled immediately because I so love seeing families like mine, and I always wonder what their daily lives are like and how they handle the highs and the lows.  And just as I turned to alert Kevin to our selves in another life, I clearly overheard the father say to his oldest son, "You know, why don't you think of something FUN about this day instead of constantly complaining?!"  

And in that moment I wanted to run up and shake that man's hand.  Or kiss him, even, if not for being so smelly and tired and married and whatnot.  (Oh how misery does love company.)

Our next walk, which surely we will attempt again, shall involve a babysitter.  And a crisp fall afternoon.  And ear buds.

***

Miracle of miracles, I caught up on uploading recent pictures today.  They live here.

Sis on the move

Just this morning I was explaining to someone that my sweet little nine month old Marin could travel anywhere in the room she wanted to without crawling at all, using some magical combination of rolling, pulling up to her knees and super baby body contortions.  And that she has this amazing silent ability to get anything she wants.

So then this afternoon as I sat with her on the living room floor, I half processed the idea that she up and crawled across the room to her toy basket.

Then the double take, because SHE CRAWLED ACROSS THE ROOM TO THE TOY BASKET.

(Look out, sleeping dog, you're next.)

I do not remember there being an exact day that either KJ or Jack crawled.  One day they were rolling, then army crawling, and then somewhere in there each of them realized they could stop buffing our hardwoods with their bellies, and crawled.

But today I got an exact first with this baby, how fun!  The world, or at least the main level of our house, is her playground, for sure.

As is her new table toy,

and apparently the paparazzi equipment, as well.

Use the force, Luke

It's summertime, which means there have been infinitely more activities available to our little crew lately.  We've visited our favorite part of Michigan, taken long walks all over town & fed the ducks at the lakefront, and spent days at the Museum of Science and Industry and the zoo.  Last weekend my girlfriend Jenny was installed as the Pastoral Associate of a parish in Chicago, so the boys and I attended her Sunday afternoon ceremony.

It was at A Church, which Kevin and I don't really cling to the concept of, so I found myself pointing out lots of unknown people and ideas to the boys during the ceremony.  That is, just after we snuck in late and Jackson threw up his hands and proclaimed in a thundering three-year-old voice, GOD IS HERE.  Thank you, son, for that.  (Stop the ceremony folks, we have arrived.)

Forty-five minutes later when Auntie Jenny was official and it was clear that my young son might never grasp the concept of a whisper, it was off to locate the hors d'oeuvres.  But not, of course, before we allowed her a few prized photo opportunities.  One of which was with Cardinal George, who is the head of the Chicago Catholic Church and President of the US Bishops. 

We waited in a good line for her turn to come, and then it did, and as her photo-op ended my child also took the opportunity to meet the Cardinal.  Jack introduced himself very matter-of-factly and shook the Cardinal's hand, and then he did the only logical thing for a person who meets the Holy Hierarcy to do.  He wove a little tale for the Cardinal, saying it was his birthday, and the Cardinal wished him a happy day.  Fantastic.

An interesting pair, indeed.

Now, this weekend was a little different, though we somehow still ended up in a traditionally quiet place with a three year old and the whole whisper thing wait your turn no wait stay here let's not clobber anyone, m'kay?

At the library in the next town over from us today, there was an afternoon event with many of the Star Wars characters.  And being as how just in the last several weeks Kevin and I have begun exposing our of-age children to the Jedi Saga of six Lucas films, we thought it a great opportunity to meet the real life Darth Vader.  Or a guy dressed up just like him, whatever people.   

And I realized as we moved from character line to character line, that Jack introduces himself to The Sith exactly as he does The Archbishop.  Except for the part where he told Boba Fett he would kick his butt.  That, thankfully, he reserved from church, miracle of all miracles. 

As we pulled up to the library event early this afternoon, we noticed that the parking lot was extremely full and people had even resorted to parking on the lawn.  Too bad this is what it takes to get people to a library, we mumbled as we pulled in.  And as we walked around I wondered briefly how many of the attendees ever bring their children to borrow books, or even read to them at all, because in my experience as an at-risk preschool teacher, it is far less parents reading to children than one would assume.

I stopped all the back patting quite abruptly, however, when it was time for us to leave the event.  Jack began insisting that we check out books and I explained that we currently have books checked out, at home, that are due on Tuesday.  No more than three books out at a time for you, three-year-old son.  We will be back on Tuesday!  And again after that!  And after that!  No books on Saturday when the place is packed and the lines are long and there are BOOKS at HOOOOOME!  

But his wails only grew louder, somehow echoing through the packed building with its cathedral ceilings and cold tile floors.  

"I WANT BOOKS!" my child screamed.  

I moved from kind reminders to pulling out all of the emergency parenting tricks I'd ever called my own, speaking through gritted teeth with promises of time-out and early bedtime and no dinner ever again and triple rent after college to just make the screaming stop until we would reach the safety of our vehicle. 

It didn't work, of course, any of it.  My son continued, over and over, screaming and crying louder and louder, "I WANT TO TAKE BOOKS OUT!  I WANT TO TAKE BOOKS OUT!"

Mobs of Star Wars fans turned around to look at the parents who no doubt never read to their children or took them to a library other than on Star Wars day, and now weren't even willing to get a book out for the poor neglected screaming child.  We were probably headed out of there to drop him off at his under-age full-time job from here for a little Saturday overtime, they thought, and his hard hat and steel toed boots were back in our car.

He melted to the floor screaming the same thing again and again at the tops of his lungs, and began kicking his feet as even KJ attempted to cover his mouth and save us all from sure embarrassment.  "I WANT TO TAKE BOOKS OUT!" he continued on and on.  Where the hell was Obi Wan when we needed him?

From off the floor Kevin picked up our stiff, reddened, screaming offspring and carried him towards the door as quickly as possible, though not before every parent in the place began whispering about someday failing the standardized tests, and tiny work boots. 

All the way through the spilled-over parking lot and to our car my son continued with an anger meant for armies of grown men, "I! WANT! BOOOOOOKS!" and there was nothing that could bring him back down from it. 

Across the way I locked eyes with a mother who laughed, and I knew for sure, so thankfully, that she had been there too. 

I've decided that next time I shall carry a sign that exclaims, AVID READER, CRAZY CHILD.  I'll carry it folded up in my pocket right next to the note that reads, PLEASE FORGIVE HIM, NOT REALLY HIS BIRTHDAY.  AND DO PRAY FOR ME.

As if I needed a reason to rearrange furniture

I spent the entire week thinking it was Friday. 

Nervously I shall admit to you that as a stay at home mom I do lose track of the days frequently from time to time, generally knowing it is Wednesday because I get custody of my husband on those evenings and Saturday because he wakes up in our bed and I do a quick check-in with him to find out if it is actually Saturday, or if possibly it is Friday as I have believed for most of the week and he has been fired. 

Don't bother re-reading that twelve times to make sense of it.  You'll only waste your time.  And it is indeed Friday, now.

Hoo-ahh!

I dressed and fed the crew early Friday Wednesday morning just as I always do, and hurried them all out the door in order to have KJ to school by 8:34 8:30.  It was his last day of kindergarten and without really planning to make anything of the last two-child morning, I returned home and decided to get to work.  Suddenly I had the urge, sensing the change in the air, to tear apart the boys' bedroom, followed by our family room, followed by part of the kitchen.  Finally it was time (though, okay, not actually time) for me to get this homeschool show on the road, because after this very last day of kindergarten I was getting my kid back from the local school system. 

I sent upstairs all of the miscellaneous toys that cluttered our family room- the designated soon-to-be school room, and I organized shelves of teaching materials, homeschool references and workbooks that I've collected.  I dusted and vacuumed and pulled all of the picture frames off the main wall for good measure, deciding in the moment that I should do something school-ish with the space.  And I rearranged the furniture.  (The second set of living room furniture we bought, that is, to fill the second living room we have at this house.  The room I knew we didn't need, and we don't use at all.  But these damn houses come with these rooms, and the next thing you know you're clearing the extra stuff you bought to fill the extra space in order to bring in a giant family heirloom table at which you shall now educate your children because why not, for Pete's sakes, you've got the space.  And isn't THAT the American way?)

I spackled nail holes and touched up paint, and then I spackled everywhere else and touched up more paint, and the children ran around filling backpacks with wooden castle blocks and crayola markers playing homeschool all afternoon, also sensing that it was finally time.  (Or sensing that their mother had finally slipped, time to pack.) 

**

I woke up yesterday morning, Friday for the third time, and realized that I no longer had a routine.  I made coffee and jabbered at the baby and allowed the boys to lay around in their pajamas until it was time to leave for our playdate.  I was sort of lost without the morning drop-off and kept asking the blonde-haired little boy what he was doing here.  It was very much like standing with toes at the edge of a mountain cliff with all familiarity behind you and the unknown before, at the moment you speak aloud, Now What? 

I wondered briefly if I was sure of what I've gotten myself into with all of this Pull Your Kids From School business, and the answer, of course, is no.  What I do know, however, is that I am up for the challenge, and for fun with my kids, and that I really enjoy having the three amigos around all day.  This morning KJ told me that he wished we could do high school and college at home too, because this is going to be so great.  (I kindly declined taking on some sort of professorship, but thanked him for the vote of confidence just the same.)  I think that there are a million effecive ways to raise children, and this happens to be ours for the moment. 

**

This morning, finally the actual Friday, I got up at 4:30am with Marin.  Then I put her back to bed just as the boys got up at ten til seven.  I wished them well with legos, markers and notebooks and morning cartoons, checked that the doors were locked and crawled back into bed for another hour and a half until I heard the baby again.  No alarm clock, at last.

Today is the third day Jackson sits at the the table making his own dot-to-dots and cutting feverishly, and the third day KJ has built and rebuilt armies and aircrafts for lego Star Wars characters.  As we sat around the table with bowls of oatmeal this morning Jack asked twice if we had to finish up so we could go.  And I said no.  When I showered he asked what I was getting ready for, and I said nothing. 

Well, except to repaint the main family room wall.  The color I used to retouch was a shade darker than what was there and it seems I've created my own dot-to-dot.  Oopsie.

Favorite

 

You thought I was going to call this baby girl my favorite child, didn't you?  (Okay now that you mention it with the better sleeping and all of the excellent behavior in Target...  Nevermind, nevermind.) 

What I meant was, we've reached my favorite baby age. 

Marin turned nine months old last week, and with all of the kids, this is my absolute favorite part of baby days.  I love this grouping of months that begins here.  She naps pretty well, sleeps at night, waves Hi and appropriately uses the words Mama and Baba.  We have conversations all day long mimicking each other's sounds.  She loves peek-a-boo and baby dolls, and insists on feeding herself.  She's mastered the art of Sippy Cup Stealing and thinks her brothers are the bees knees.  Although she has yet to technically crawl, Little Missy can pull herself just about anywhere, and she rolls, rolls, rolls and has recently learned to lay herself down and sit herself back up (repeat repeat repeat, three hundred times daily.)  She prefers to eat her books as opposed to reading them, as well as everything else she can get her baby fingers on.  She loves the Good Morning song, and is exactly this happy all day long.

I know for sure that this will be one of those things in life that I will forever love, a baby at this age.  I'm so thrilled to do this again.

Revisit, Reflect, Retell

As a college senior, one of my student teaching assignments was to a third grade gifted and talented classroom.  And for whatever reason I often recall one of the books we used with the kids, called Revisit, Reflect, Retell.  I hated it. 

I hated reading comprehension exercises as a child (because, one, I read and comprehended pretty quickly so it was terribly boring, and two, I was a handwriting nut perfectionist, so composing paragraphs threw me into fits as I trashed sheet after sheet of paper thanks to perceived illegibilities.)  (Also, I was not nearly as environmentally conscious as a child.) 

I disliked reading comprehension activities as a kid, and I also disliked teaching them.  And grading them.  And anything else they required of me to infinity.

What does my penmanship and Revisit, Reflect, Retell have to do with the cost of eggs?  Why nothing, but the random title fit the post. 

Aaaaaaaaand there's two minutes of your life you'll never get back. 

(Three if you're a slow reader.) 

(Six if you didn't comprehend and had to read it twice.)

What I am Revisiting, Reflecting, Retelling, however, is a post from the first of this year, about my vision board and New Years goals.  (Alas, A Point!)

When I first posted about my, then most recent, vision board six months ago I felt all weird and strange and goofy as hell telling the internet to cut stuff out of magazines and stick them onto something- to seriously change your life, man.  How Oprah-esque of me.  (I love Oprah; kiss my ass.)  But apparently something has changed in this six months because when I realized, the other night, that we were exactly half way through the year already I suddenly felt the urge to update you, internet, and to tell you to just cut stuff out of magazines already, what are you waiting for?  

I've been making these things for years, and taping cut-out phrases and images to my fridge, mirrors, shower and walls forever.  And by this point?  I can practically use these things as a checklist.  And I love it!

Bottle dyed my hair (black) (then back,) check.  Read both Martha Beck and Suze Orman books, moved my bedtime back far enough to incorporate more rest into my life, and - AND! as of the last couple weeks my eight-month-old is finally sleeping through the night.  Check THAT, baby.  Have also been strict about saving money, and have really gotten a handle on the stock market as I man the guns in my IRA account.  Still planning to pay off our smaller vehicle this year.

Purchased a treadmill, cook dinner six-ish nights a week, still working towards marital bliss, grill plenty of lunchtime paninis, utilize Weight Watchers points, and even served the damn deli spirals at a party earlier this year.  Also have eaten a medium rare petit filet and parmesan asparagus spears at a fancy shmancy restaurant.  More than once, even. 

The important thing to say here is that while this board is always the last thing I look at each night as I drift off to sleep, I do not stand and stare and plan from it which should be my next move.  It is ridiculously coincidental the way these things just sort of make their way to life, and before I know it I'm laying in bed at night realizing that there were indeed?  Deli spirals.  And that is the part I love so much.

Excitedly welcomed my presidential candidate into office, have really put my heart into taking care of the Earth and preserving its resources, even doing away with the convenience of paper towels and disposable baby wipes; figured out what it was I needed to do with my blog and have put forth a good conscious effort for being an authentic person.

Got Mah New Camera.  (As well as nifty new bathroom towels, barely pictured.)

***

Things were going so well with my 2009 board, in fact, that I got down to business a few weeks ago and created something that would carry me through the summer.  

And the first one down...

 

(Nope, not the second round of fabulous asparagus.)

I allowed my crazy girlfriend to drag me into shredding with her, of all things.  (What was it with our discussion the other night that had me so convinced?  Her lacking ability to breathe?  The promise that every muscle would burn and bleed and beg to die?  And then of courrrrse I turned around and convinced two more people to join me.  It's that misery-company thing, for sure.)  

And so the girl in the above picture?  God forsaken lunges.  I really only put the damn picture on there because I sort of had half the intention to get in shape when I had the time and when I wasn't so hungry for french bread.  Not for real get in shape, ya know? 

So what has your year been like, and did you think it close to this when we rang in the New Year six months ago?  (You can totally knock me outta the park with a big fat No, too, you know.  I never thought I'd spend 2008 exhausted and pregnant.)

And all at once there was much ado about the universe, longevity and the damn treadmill

My website, it needed a little tweaking.  And I am still working on it, FYI, should you find the place a mess.  (Don't tell me you're looking at my half-finished mess, eh?)

So last week was...well...just what you would expect when this sort of thing happens.  I hope she was satisfied with everything, and that she is happy and free from suffering now.  I will never again hear Nat King Cole's "Smile" without thinking of my Aunt.  She chose the song herself to be played, and we did, several times.  And several times since.  So fitting a last message from her, it was.

And also as things go when this sort of thing happens, or for me when it is an average Tuesday afternoon with blue or even grey skies and I'm washing dishes, it leads to the sudden overwhelming realization that, Damn, We Don't Get Very Long Here.  Just like that, we are here and then we are gone. 

Then of course I proceed to over-analyze all that falls in the middle of Here and Gone, and pinpoint the places where I know I fail to push myself to my greatest potential and how I plan to accomplish all of those quiet little enormous goals I find so appropriate for Some Day.  Next thing you know I've got myself fifty-six years old publishing my third book, having raised seven children, three or four of whom we adopted from far-away Africa and oh wait, reality returns as I suddenly notice three-year-old Jackson sauntering around the kitchen with khaki shorts around his ankles, waiting for his mother to snap out of it and pull his damn pants up already.  He needs a green popsicle, too.

All of my tumor tests came back fine and well in the middle of everything last week, so we carry on cheerfully for another three months.  In the wake of it all I also decided it was high time I increase my own life insurance, having not done so since KJ's birth almost seven years ago.  And knowing full well that we've been unneccesarily paying terribly inflated premiums all these years for the sake of convenience, I gave our Insurance Everything Agent a jingle for a quote. 

Now, all those years ago when I initiated the policy I was, as you may remember, quite a bit more overweight than I am presently.  And because Joe Insurance worries mostly about whether his clients help themselves to heaping bowls of cookie dough ice cream in hard times, and not so much whether they drive drunk, whore around on weekends or smoke heroin, I was rated higher than average in terms of my premium.  I lost almost a hundred pounds a few years after that, of course, mostly by pushing our double stroller up and down the main streets of town right past Joe Insurance's office window, but I don't think I quite got over the humiliation of having the man call my twenty-three year old self out onto the stage carpet about my obesity back then, because even when I lost the weight I still lacked the gumption required to march in and drop a digital scale square in the middle of the office's red carpet, demanding my effing premium back. 

So I'm on the phone with the man this afternoon, racing through the house to find the nearest quiet room with locking doorknob as he's explaining to me that I am doomed to shell out more cash because of my super-deathy-risky weight problem - of course having not seen me in years he is now sure that I am terribly fat and thirty (and have probably panicked and dyed my hair black at least once) (not) and suddenly I am reliving the awful conversation all over again.  Heh, I lost a whole ton of weight after I had my second child, I explain, but then quickly offer that I (JUST!) had another baby, though, and decide in my mind that I am in no way prepared to wade through this discount-no-discount bullshit again, I really could have been the Biggest God-Blessed Loser a couple years ago IF I ONLY WOULD HAVE JUST ADJUSTED THE RATES THEN. 

I had no idea if I would have been categorized as Just Fine this afternoon or Practically Crossing Over in his book, but I didn't want to know.  What I did want to know, however is why my premium for the exact same coverage as Kevin should cost more than double what his does.  Never might one refer to my husband The Little Guy, either.  I asked, and he referenced the weight factor again (hey man, do you have a wife?) and I kindly instructed him to go fly a kite as I combed the internet for a new company for the both of us.  I found more than one, thankfully, who did indeed ask my weight and it turned out to be not a big deal, even though I continue to carry more baby poundage than I'd prefer at this point. 

But I stewed (you bet your next bowl of ice cream I stewed) for quite a long time after that, deeply feeling the injustices of being obese whether I am or not or somewhere in between.  I was so mad about the whole thing- about that disconcerting conversation all those years ago; about the fact that food was, and still is so many days, my crutch and my comfort, and about not having the courage to correct things when I should have.  I was so angry and frustrated and sad today, that I worked so hard for so long to finally lose so much weight only to put half of it right back on during pregnancy and to now struggle again to get it back off.  I was terribly mad this afternoon for all of the overweight people who are mocked and stared at and looked past simply because their bodies become physical evidence of their coping with whatever life has thrown their way, when there are so many other addictions and problems that are simply not obvious at first glance. 

I was so damn mad this afternoon that I eventually marched down the stairs and turned on my treadmill.  I ran, allowing my feet to proudly pound the belt, over and over as hard and as fast as they could, daring myself to keep quiet the emotions I thought might cause my chest to burst- that I do deserve decent life insurance, and I will get this baby weight off.  And this time I'll march right in to Joe Insurance's office, slap my Other Company's life insurance papers on his desk and do ten - no - fifty - push-ups with one hand behind my back and one leg in the air, however that works.  And then I'll tell him...to pay for my rental house, and also the one I live in, should either of them ever burn to the ground.  Because I can imagine it a real pain in the ass to completely change insurance companies with that kind of stuff.

Hallelujah.  Holy Shit.