Vacating Success

Measurement is a funny thing.

For example, how do you measure waiting? Not time, but waiting. And love? And how in the world would you measure vacation success?

I'll tell you how. An easy way to tell if a vacation is a huge smashing success, is by how much time is spent in Emergency Medical care. The more time spent, the more successful the vacation.

We had just landed in Denver. Land of the Rockies, sunshine, exciting hikes, open air. 24 hours pass, the sun shining, picnics had and playgrounds visited, mountains viewed and smiles turned somber. My toddler started getting sluggish, lethargic, didn't want to walk.. then didn't want to talk, eat. Or drink. Or do anything. (You understand if you know him. If you don't, this is NOT NORMAL.)

Altitude sickness, we immediately think, seeing as we haven't spent a single hour in medical school or done an internship in pediatric care. We bribe him to try liquids. It blows up in our face (just use your imagination with that one. I don't want to discuss vomiting.)

Something is terribly wrong with our otherwise perfectly healthy angel, so we decide he needs care. Off to Urgent Care we go, to see a PA who has--allegedly, as much time in medical school as we have. (But he was a Dad. So, there's that.)

Then, 24 hrs later, my sweet, chubby faced infant, with the dark eyes and lashes that draw you in and hold you there for as long as he cares to gaze, got hot. He started to cry.

An adorable baby is still that when he's crying. But when he's wailing, whimpering, wallowing in the midst of sleep, grunting with discomfort, and looking at you with tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, it literally makes you want to reach down and lift up a Rocky mountain to make him feel better. So, we did.

Off to the pediatric Emergency Room we went, just me n' my miserable cherub. I rocked him in triage. He cried. I rocked him in the ER waiting room. He cried. I rocked him after the triage nurse told me to lay him down on the exam bed. He cried. Pink cheeks, scared eyes, in only a diaper, he cried and I rocked.

Upon check out, the girl was nice enough. We had to stay a long while after we were done, since they got us right in, cared for, and discharged. And then .. the paperwork. She entered information in her computer as fast as the very fastest paint can dry, but we didn't mind waiting. My cherub and I. She collected what she needed and said I was all set. "Have a good night!" She said brightly. She was nice enough, but I couldn't resist:
"I really can't imagine anything else I'd rather be doing on vacation then checking out of the pediatric ER." I was joking, lamely. I should have resisted.

So, first ER visit? Check. A baby hospital band for the baby book? Check. Vacation? Check. Sleep, relaxation, rest, exploring new places, basking in the glow of nothing to do but relax? All banked for next time.

**Note: the most important element of our vacation was that we stayed with and had incredible support from two very understanding and very good friends, for whom we are very thankful!! Thanks TKB!!!

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Constant Gardening

Remember that fish (Nory?) from "Finding Nemo"? The one that couldn't remember anything?

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming... Just keep swimming, just keep swimming..." This is my theme music this week.

When I was out in the neighborhood for a run this weekend, in between dashes to the shady part of the street and wiping of sweat out of my eyes, I found myself noting something important.

Some of my neighbors keep incredible gardens.

Some are in front of the house, right next to the sidewalk, so all passers-by can enjoy the color. Some of them are side yards, or a carefully tended patch of flowers by the front porch or walk. Name it, and I saw it. And these gardeners, mind you, range from original owner (from the 1950s) to the young couple who moved in last week, still trying to conceive their first child and kiss Previous Listless Life goodbye.

There is one particular flower garden of spectacular hue, with a half dozen rose bushes bursting with light, color, delicate petal tips, and thorns, just next to the sidewalk on a fairly well-traveled road, for all to enjoy. I've marveled at it many times on family walks. My husband and I have commented how amazing the roses are. My toddler has pushed thorny branches out of the way of the stroller's path. Never knowing the danger of a tiny pinpoint prick on his little finger.

To my surprise, along my run this weekend, I saw the toil. The tired shoulders. The sagging sunhat. The work. I ran past the set of multi-colored rosebushes as the owner of the house was out among the bushes, tending weeds. Plucking unwanted visitors. Examining leaf health. Trimming back unwieldy branches. Tending, tending, and tending. I smiled at him, knowingly. He nodded in agreement. I ran on.

As I ran, I realized the significance of what I'd viewed, what I'd seen on this blinding hot day.

Tending a garden is much like raising children. Time. Attention. An amazing end result, blinding in its beauty.

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Frenetic Calm

Fascinating.

I approached the Giant food store, recycled bags in hand, free as a lark with no larklings. As I approached, heading towards the front door, something struck my eye that was fascinating. A woman.. girl... lady? An ageless female, who had clearly and very recently purchased quite a large number of items at said store, was outside with her cart of groceries. And oodles of plastic Giant bags.

Someone had forgotten her recycled bags.

She was pacing. Literally pacing. Hands in her pockets. Back and forth, forth and back, back and forth again, from her own made-up starting line to her turnabout spot, back to the starting line, and repeat. As I approached, I was struck at this shark-like behavior.

For what was she pacing? Was she nervous? Bored? Scared? Were her feet asleep, was she was trying to re-engage them in the world around them? I got so taken in by this steady, pragmatic foot-falling, I completely lost track of myself and wandered into the store, bypassing the carts.

I went back outside. I needed a cart, duh. But the shark, clad in her yellow v-neck and large, dark sunglasses, was impeding the way. I arced widely around her, as I noticed others did.

Other people, strangers to this strange dance, were avoiding her. Her shark infested waters.

How delightfully bizarre! I couldn't get over this conundrum.. people needed carts. She was impeding access to carts simply by pacing back and forth in front of them. I love the study of human behavior. I silently cursed myself for not taking more sociology courses in college, and got a cart. Finally.

Once the cart was gotten, I then needed to go through her pacing path to gain access to the Giant store. I had a twinge of guilt, then sudden excitement as to what her counter-move would be.

She paused in the pacing. Stepped back, tilted her chin slightly down. I, and another lady who didn't share my curiosity, curtly walked past.

I went inside and immediately looked for a window, to gaze out into this other seemingly tormented soul. Or, at least the soles of her shoes.

For my good fortune, and for everyone who later had to deal with me on this important day of my eldest son's 3rd birthday party, there was a Starbucks inside this store. And it was just inside the store, affording me the opportunity to check out the Mystery Pacer's next move.

She was still pacing!! What--in the world, could she be so anxious about? And who was she waiting for? And where were her recycled bags??

Then, I kid you not, what happened next was the most unexpected turn. As I pulled over to a Starbucks table, grappling for my pen/paper to make some blog post notes, as we all know I did, I glanced up.

She turned her head and met my gaze.

I was flabbergasted. The pacer knew her pacing was being tracked. I had the sudden urge to race outside and join in her pacing, up and down, back and forth, just for the pure and simple freedom of it. Freedom Pacers. And also, mostly, to find out why the hell she was pacing.

It was so deliberate. So unnatural. So .. creepily calculated. Every step was purposeful.

And only she, Yellow-Shirted Mystery Pacer, held the key to unlock those steps.

If my toddler had been with me, he would have fallen into step alongside her, looked up, and instantly unlocked the mystery. As he, as a general rule, holds all those keys.

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Painting a Revelation

I know there are so many blogs to read and so little time. But I had such a revelatory moment today that I had to share.

Six or seven years ago, I was in an elevator. I was in a high-flootin' finance job, up to the 8th floor in a somewhat respectable high-rise building, in the somewhat-respectable field of corporate&investment banking. I was probably dressed in a blue button down and gray pants. It was the uniform.

The elevator was packed, and, as was customary on a busy morning, stopped at nearly every floor on the way up. Two people were talking behind me, a man and a woman. They were talking about painting. I got excited and nearly turned around.. painting? Was there a budding Van Gogh behind me? What did she paint? When did she paint? Was she in an artist's body, or did she just hide this side of herself? How cool was that? What kind of medium, I wanted to ask.

"Yes, we've finally finished the guest room. Now I have to get the kitchen and dining rooms done... arrgh, it just takes forever to paint a house."

Oh. (sigh)

Fast forward to today. I am walking back to my car after picking up some delicious Lebanese food - with a 7mo-old infant and 2-3/4 yr old in tow. Yes, my toddler ate it too. There were two women, dressed in casual yoga gear, chatting just behind my car, blocking our entry back into the car. I said "excuse me" as I inadvertently heard most of the end of their conversation. One woman was cajoling the other, saying,
"You need to get back into that!"
"Oh, the painting? I am! I started a few weeks ago. Ah, it feels so good." I happened to know that they were talking about art.

Painting, for the beauty of it. For the pure joy, the unfettered feeling of creating something beautiful with every stroke of the brush, of pausing, reflecting.. clearing the mind. Making art.

A beautiful thing. **


** For the record, I do not paint. I'd rather create beauty through words. Plus, my brother got that talent in the family.

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Time. A New Frontier.

I know. Seriously. What could I possibly write about time that is new, different, innovative, obscure? We'll see. Keep in mind, there's no guarantee in the blogosphere.

But here's what struck me: In no other time in life than after having children, does time forever change. It speeds up, it slows down, it pauses and waits for you at times... other times leaves you on the side of the road with the car door open, speeding away. Taillights in the dust.

When I was charging through my 20s, time was just time.. it kind of ticked away. I looked forward to things, I looked back fondly on things, and everything seemed appropriately spaced. I'd say things like, "in a few months, we're going to the beach." Or, "in a few months, I think I have a doctor's appointment." "In a few months, I think my parents are coming to visit."

"I think", because who cares? It was a few months away!

Now a lifetime is contained in a single, solitary, well-chosen moment. In a moment where my almost-3-year old bends down to help his baby brother pick something off the floor, then hands it back to him, sealing my faith that he does listen. If a single moment can contain such magnitude, imagine a whole day?! A week? A month?

And whereas a few months previously might mean a different number of miles on the car, or temperature outside, or a different vacation destination, now it's the difference between my baby squirming helplessly on the floor and being able to give me high five.

That's right. Baby A gave me high five yesterday, for the first time ever. (For those who've lost track--and trust me, I get it - he's 7 mos old tomorrow.)

And what got me - really got me, about him doing it, is that I was just kidding! Time has done a number on me, too, and I forget how fast they change. I was joking! I sat him up, grinning from ear-to-ear just to be alive, and held up my hand and said in a voice excited enough to wake Sleeping Beauty, "GIMME FIVE!"

He looked at my hand. He looked at me. He raised his little hand and met mine. Ka-Ching!!

You could hear our collective giggles four miles away.

This is the thing. A few months isn't what it used to be. It's so much more...time. It's so much more documented. It's so much more change. It's the change of change, the derivative of life itself. Interestingly enough, when you derive a life equation, you get a more concentrated life.

And time is the remainder.

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Life. In A Painful Nutshell.

I really don't have time to post now. Naps are being gentled tugged away from my little guys... I should be doing prep work for the cookout I'm hosting. But I just really need to write this post. And I think I'll be glad later.

In the College of Arts and Sciences, we were treated to a whole neat selection of electives like "Asian Religions" by incredible professors. My Asian Religions class had a profound effect on me.. especially the section on Buddhism. Imagine, life being All Pain? Really? Like.. ALL life is suffering. Just have to get through the suffering; without it there would be no joy.

When I was gazing at my adorable cherubic infant who is currently experiencing sharp little razor blades coming through his bottom gum, I thought.. this is fitting. Isn't it?

Here is this little guy, just barely here. Barely six months old. He looks around, he sees a brand new world. Everything is great. Everything is fantastic! Everyone is so nice. Everyone is so accommodating. Everything I need, I am given!! Such joy, in this place called The World.

And then.. the pain.

It starts, probably, as a faint little ache in the gums. (Right? How the hell would we know?) Then it probably moves up to the jaw a little, a constant, dull aching.

Cutting teeth. Ouch! How painful is that? Imagine for a minute how that must feel. Didja ever get your wisdom teeth out? Yeah.

You just barely arrive here, happy as a baby, and then the pain begins. (And then, later, it really begins, when someone steals your toy and won't give it back, or you fall off the playground, or nobody wants to be your friend, or you get your heart broken. Or you forget you left the emergency break on when you start to go and smell an awful burning rubber smell.)

But look. We get through the pain. The constant-ness of it. Never ending, never a break until that tooth pokes through and one kid goes off to school (or college.)

The pain... then the joy... we like all of it.

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Timing is Everything

As the moon waxes and wanes, so goes my impulse to write. I feel sudden urges, much like my toddler who is learning how it feels when he has to "go". And I do believe this is a learned behavior, a skill, he is developing.

Take yesterday. On a generous whim, I decided to let him make the decision whether he walked through the grocery store (as opposed to riding in the cart. A much safer enterprise. Less bolting. And broken ketchup bottles. Et cetera.) We piled up the stroller basket with items, my infant eagerly watching how this was to unfold. All was going great. We had probably, oh, 20 or 25 or 50 items in the basket including all the baby food jars.

Time to check out. I was nervous. With my attention focused on loading all the grocery items onto the little conveyor belt, my toddler could seize upon the opportunity to bolt back into the store ("I'M FREE!!! I'm FREEEEEEEEEE!")

But, I come from a strict "Don't Fire Until Fired Upon" Philosophy, so I held the whistle and waited patiently while the chatty, well-meaning grocery clerk checked out the person in front of me. Very. Very. Slowly.

The Chatty, Well-Meaning grocery clerk finally looked up and started checking me out.
Beep! Beep! She starts scanning the items, bagging them, chatting all the way. Beep! My toddler looks up at me, and starts crossing and criss-crossing his legs.

Uh oh.

"Mommy, does this store have a bathroom, do you think?"
Hoo-boy. "Yes, sweetheart, they definitely do. Do you need to... ?"
"Yes, I need to go potty." Legs criss-crossed again. I glance at the conveyor belt. Only 49 items to go.
He shifts his weight and looks up again. "Mommy, I need to make a 'whoa'." That is his word for #2.

We are trapped in the grocery store checkout line with 3 people behind us. And my toddler has to go make a whoa. Right then.

I rattle off the situation to the grocery clerk. With lightning fast reflexes, she speeds up to 100X her previous speed. I run my card through the thing, pick up my toddler, push my infant in the stroller to the back of the store; way, way back. Where he does go. And wow, did he have to go.

Then, (and I'm sweating now) I race back to the front of the store to find out what happened. Do other people do this? I wonder as I run past shelves of cereal boxes I forgot to buy. Am I the first? I think to myself, knowing I am not.

Finally, we make it. Back to the line. Back to back of the line. The Chatty, Well-meaning grocery clerk recognizes me and smiles.

"Did we make it?" She winks.

We made it.

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Unbending the Straw

Life is so unfair sometimes. No, really, it's the clock that's unfair. I do not have time to post, yet it's all I want to do at times, write. Lunch is unfinished. Naps are over. I still have applesauce on my shoulder.

So the question really becomes, for me: Does not blogging kill brain cells?

I say yes. All day long, I have to maintain the highest energy level possible, explain every nuance of life from why strangers smile at you when they walk by, to why a cement truck turns the big thing on its back, to what constitutes a picnic.

None of these tasks are difficult to explain to an almost-3 year old. But sometimes I find myself diving a little deeper into the concept, like when I was trying to emphasize why the washcloth sank after it got wet. Or how hot food cools off, the principle behind this. Or why heavy things fall faster than light things. Or why Mommy doesn't want to prop the door open at Starbucks longer than one or two full minutes while my toddler casually saunters through, carrying his milk cup all by himself.

I do feel cliche, at times, especially when I'm rushing around. To fight feeling cliche, I find myself doing things that could only be categorized as uncliche. Or... another word might be... crazy. Wanting to avoid a nearly unavoidable toddler tantrum, I didn't let us sit down in Starbucks recently, instead telling my toddler that we could have a car picnic with our drinks! A picnic in the car! Allll we had to do was get back to the car. Ya with me, parents?

I loaded us in, infant in infant seat. Toddler in car seat. Stroller away. Library books away. Phew. Then, a little voice called me out on my own innovation:

"Can we have a picnic with our drinks.. in the car?"

Of course we can. I got everyone out. I popped the trunk. We spread a blanket in the bed of my (mini)SUV's trunk. Had our drinks (and our pound cake.) A picnic. I answered many questions that came up.. like the foretold cement truck.

Maybe it's cliche to attempt the uncliche. Yet, I feel it's my greatest endeavor to educate my young mind(s) at every opportunity.

And keep educating my own.

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Catcher in the Wry

I figured it was time for a fun story. Well, it's a story. And .. I'll make it fun.

And a word of warning. I just finished Catcher in the Rye for the first time in my life. It's my new lifelong favorite and he is my new hero, Holden. I'll try to limit the references, but can't be held responsible for what comes out of my fingers. If you want to know the truth.

Where was I? Oh yes. Being funny.

We try to mix it up around here, in terms of playtime. I took my toddler out to a little kid's play place for drop-in play, and he played and had fun. Didn't want to leave. I finally got him to leave by suggesting we go out for a boys-n-Mom date to a little local pastry shop that happens to serve sandwiches. All you have to do is mention "pastry" to my eldest. He gets it.

We made our way down to said pastry shop (that happens to serve sandwiches.) I have my toddler, who has promised me he'll stay with me. I have my infant, too heavy to lift in the car carrier, but loaded in the car carrier. I'm not Super Mom, you know. I need carrying vessels for the ol' out-and-about.

I order us some sandwiches, my toddler and me. Let me take a moment and set the stage. It's a nice pastry shop, in fact it has "European style" in the heading of the store name. It's locally owned. It's close by. And it has pastry. Did I mention that? So it's popular, but not popular with the toddler-set. Popular with the gray-haired and retired set. Not that there's anything wrong with that. They're just a bit more...demure, that we are.

We take a seat, my toddler, infant in car carrier, and me. It's not a big place. But all the tables are full. You know, with the quiet, demure, retired folks. Who are quiet.

They are quiet and my toddler is tired from the playtime. Do you see where this is going? Oh, just fasten in.

The chairs are gorgeous. They have a beautiful little design on the back, which happen to be wrought-iron, and the design includes a little circle. Our sandwiches come. I get my toddler to take a bite. I take a bite. My toddler is up on his knees, relatively safe. (Relative to, say, the elder statesmen nearby.)

My infant squeaks. I bend down to tend to him. At the same time, my toddler sticks his entire arm through the little hole in the back of the chair. He then shifts his weight back, and CRASH!--over goes the chair. But remember, his arm is stuck through it. So his little arm is pinned under the chair, which is knocked over backwards. He starts screeching. I would too, but remember the demure setting I described? Shattered. I'm that Mom.

I jump up, to right the chair as I disentangle my toddler's arm from the hole in the back of the chair. I don't care what everyone thinks. He's screaming, really in pain. I'm thinking of taking him to the emergency room. Then, several things happen.

I examine the arm, which does not appear to be broken. Several pastry shop workers rush over, one with ice, one with a towel. A towel, she explains politely, to mop up the water gushing over the table?

Wait. Water? What water?

Oh, the water that gushed out from the vase of flowers that got tipped over when I jumped up. The same water that is gushing over the edge of the table and into the car carrier, where my sweet, innocent infant is strapped in. Helplessly trapped. The nice, calm pastry shop worker mops up the table, then smiles at me and mops up infant. And his car carrier.

Back to the arm. I'm holding ice to it, and the owner steps out from the kitchen, where she single-handedly made the hurt go away by presenting four delicate little butterfly cookies. Just for him. He takes one, and stops crying because he no longer remembers he is in pain. I check the arm. It's a little red, and they'll probably question my mothering skills at preschool Monday when they see the bruise, but he's okay.

He's okay. I'm okay. My infant is okay, smiling actually, and the butterfly cookies are good.

I don't actually remember leaving. I'm pretty sure we did, though. And I'm pretty certain my toddler got whatever else he wanted that day.

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In Memory

Three years ago today, we lost a dear friend of ours to a tragic and sudden car accident.

Just a moment. And all the world changed, forever.

I'd like to observe a moment of silence, virtually and reality. (No comments here please.)

We miss you Rachel.

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