I was told...

...that I posted a bad picture of Joel. Here's some cute ones to make up for it:

Six Months

Joel is six months old today.


Six months ago, it was muggy, the kind of day where the air feels like damp curtains. Today, the sky is blue, and the snow crunches under your feet.


Six months ago, Paul and I kissed our only child goodbye, and left him with his grandparents. Today, Owen wakes up, runs downstairs and asks, "Where is my baby brother?"



Six months ago, Paul stopped at Starbucks on the way to the hospital. The man has his priorities straight. Today, Paul stopped at Starbucks on his way to work. The man still has his priorities straight.



Six months ago, I was the first of my pregnant friends to have her second baby. Today, Joel, Austin, and Evan lay on the floor next to each other, wiggling and squirming, while their older siblings play.



Six months ago, I wore elastic maternity shorts. Today, I wear a size six (if I don't mind marks on my tummy).



Six months ago, I fretted that I couldn't possibly love another like I love Owen. Today, those fears seem comical.


Six months ago, Michael Phelps hadn't won eight gold medals. Today, people ask him, "Now what are you going to do?"




Six months ago, there was an earthquake in Chino Hills, CA and a smaller, but much more meaningful earthquake in a delivery room in Prince Frederick, MD. Today, my world is still shaking.



Six months ago, I did not know Joel. My boy. My love. Today, my heart is full, my dream is here, and I thank God every day for changing my world...six months ago.

My Son, the Caveman

Kids can be embarrassing. That's all there is to it. No matter what you do, or how you do things, at some point, you'll want to pretend that your kid belongs to somebody else. Today was one of those days with Owen.

I had a good friend over, who knows me very well, and is very forgiving. It's a good thing, too. Owen felt the need to lay on his brother, snatch toys from my friend's daughter, and just generally be rotten. My favorite action---pulling a stool out from under my friend's daughter's feet. I was ready to sell him on the street corner for a bottle of Merlot.

It goes back to pride. Owen's behavior, while annoying and not OK, is textbook toddler. They don't like to share, they do like to grab, and they basically act like little cavemen. Well, I choose not to live in a cave, eat leftover saber-tooth tiger or wear a loincloth. I have my pride, meaning that I want Owen to be kind, to be a person that other people enjoy. I want this because I love him, and because he embarrasses the hell out of me.

I'm afraid that if I don't help him shape up and be kind, people will not want to be his friend. Although this arrangement would work out wonderfully for Owen---his toys and his mother all to himself---it is a disservice to him. He needs to learn how to share, how to move beyond his basic caveman tendencies.

My hope for him is that he will be welcomed into other people's caves, be invited to sit, share in some delicious saber-tooth tiger ribs, and play together by the light of the fire. My fear, if he doesn't shape up, is that he will be out in the dark, alone, as the wind howls and the dinosaurs roar.

***PS---I know that early man and dinosaurs were not on the planet at the same time. I just like how it fit into my metaphor. So there.****

Snowy Images

It's snowing. I'm looking out the window and seeing actual fluffy snow, falling down from the sky and sticking to the deck. This is a big deal, because Maryland is cold, windy, and gray, but rarely provides residents with the pay off of pretty snow.

Here are some pictures of our day:





Owen's preparing to go outside. No, he's not channeling Heath Ledger. He licks his lips constantly, and despite our arsenal of lotions, chapsticks, and creams, he has two smiles.







Even though Owen will turn three in a month, this is the first time he has played in real snow. We attempted to play with a dusting of sleet last year, but it just wasn't the same. My mother has purchased snow suits and ski bibs for him since he was a baby. This is the first time he has ever worn one. He called it his "snow costume."




We don't have a sled, because we just don't. I called Paul asking what I could use as a makeshift sled (since I'm no longer at college, I couldn't use a tray from the dining hall). He suggested a storage box. Genius.




I think he liked it.

Finally, a shout out to Joel, who slept through the entire snow adventure. Yes, he is a second child, because Owen's in the picture, too.

Mantras

I'm running on three hours of sleep. Joel decided that he needed to cry from 10 to 3 AM last night. I have no idea why. Everything is extra hard this morning---normal behaviors are annoying, normal annoyances become a crisis. I really, really need my sleep.

As I write this, Owen is banging around in the upstairs bathroom instead of napping in his bed. It is taking a supreme act of will to not go upstairs, shake him, and yell, "Go to sleep now, you little bastard!"

It does not make me proud to write this. I know that my thoughts, are just that, thoughts. But I don't even like thinking them. I don't condone child abuse in any shape or form, but in my sleep-deprived haze, I can understand how people get to that point of frustration. Crossing the line into action...that I cannot understand.

Like I said, everything is hard. There's a funeral today for a local girl Owen's age that died choking on a carrot. Owen eats carrots all the time. Like a rabbit. I cannot fathom such a loss, and it makes me feel especially guilty that parents are grieving, and I'm calling my child a little bastard (in my mind, anyway).

Choosing to live, hope, thrive in the wake of such a loss is the most heroic thing I can imagine. And here I am, missing a few hour's sleep, allowing myself to fall apart.

I just finished a book about the New York City Marathon. The woman who won in the race in 2007, Paula Radcliff, had her daughter ten months before the race. She is a gutsy, steely competitor, and at the end of her grueling race, she repeated a mantra, the one word that could get her through the tape and lead her to victory. That mantra---her daughter's name, "Isla."

Today, in the wake of true trauma, true loss, and real hardship, I need to slog through the marathon of this day---with grace, dignity, and forgiveness (for myself and others). My mantra needs to be, "Love Owen, Love Joel, Love Owen, Love Joel."

Bad poetry

First a definition:

doggerel  (adjective)
1.
(of verse)
a.
comic or burlesque, and usually loose or irregular in measure.
b.
rude; crude; poor.–noun

My brother got all the poetic genes in our family. But, the muse comes when she comes, so enjoy the following bits of doggerel below:

Ode to Coffee

Coffee, coffee, I love you so,
I treasure my daily cup.
You pick me up when I feel low,
With each sip, my pulse goes up.
Even though I only drink half-caff
So Joel doesn't lose his mind,
What once caused agony now makes me laugh,
I'm much more calm, more kind.
The pleasure of my daily drink,
Makes me feel a bit more sane.
When kids howl, and I'm on the brink,
This elixer removes all pain.
One may think that that I go too far,
But coffee, Oh, coffee, you're my shining star.

Wasn't that awful? Here's one more:

There once was a mother named Nancy,
Her life was anything but fancy.
She drank a glass of wine,
Then everything was fine,
Even though the boys remained antsy.

Still reading? God love ya! This is it, I swear.

Clutter-A Haiku

Owen's crap--begone!
It's all going in the trash.
Good boys pick up toys.

I used to teach, edit, and grade poetry. Really.

Technical Feminist?

When it comes to things technological, Paul and I decided a long time ago that it's his problem. Setting up the computer, the stereo system, cell phones---that is strictly Paul territory. He gets it in a way that I don't, so there you have it.

Paul is a very patient person, and can explain things well. A big part of his present job is teaching and mentoring other people, and he has an endless reserve of patience. He used to man the help lines for TurboTax (I imagine the calls now go to India instead of Tucson, AZ). Just imagine those calls. Frantic people ready to toss grenades at their PCs during tax season. I cannot imagine the vitriol angry people have flung his way. Nevertheless, he received positive feedback and was asked to work for Quicken full-time.

He declined, and now deals with angry government contractors, instead. The point of all this is that he can explain complicated technological things to most people respectfully, thoughtfully, and in a way that is easily understood.

Unless he is talking to me. Whenever I ask him a technological question, the response is always the same: "Move." He'll then quickly do some voodoo on the computer or DVD player, or whatever. Problem solved, he'll turn to me, and as if it was the first time I've ever heard it, he'll say, "Ohhhh, and you're welcome!"

This line is from a Saturday Night Live skit circa 2002.

For quite some time, this arrangement worked well for me. Then we had children. Understand that my parents live in Colorado and only see the boys three or so times a year. My mother, in particular has a need to see updated pictures of the boys---to then print, slap in "Grandma's Brag Book," and show to innocent, Croc-wearing bystanders. While it makes me happy to know that there's a person in the world who coos over each droplet of drool and every wide-eyed smile of my progeny, it does complicated the technological relationship Paul and I have fostered over the years.

Mom needs pictures like an addict needs her fix. Paul and I keep her withdrawls at bay by posting digital pictures to Snapfish. For the longest time, I had no idea how to do this. So, I would ask Paul to do it, and he would say, "Later." Clearly, he did not understand the urgency.

I, on the other hand, would get daily phone calls from my mother. She would attempt to talk about other things, but she would, at the end of every call, oh-so-casually ask, "Have you had a chance to post any new pictures yet?" With each "no," the sighs grew deeper and longer, and I felt guilty for depriving my mother of such a small pleasure.

So, I took the leap and learned how to post pictures to Snapfish. It's not hard at all. If it was, Snapfish wouldn't make any money.

However, just today, I was talking to Mom. After I got off the phone, I attempted to download some shots, only to discover that I needed to log out of my account and get onto Paul's in order to do it. That was just too much work, so I decided to write this instead, and let Paul do it.

Sorry, Mom. Despite my attempt to bring our technological relationship from a traditional patriarchy to a modern partnership, the struggle is still there. Someday, maybe, I'll make the final crack in that glass ceiling, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy the pictures I'll send you soon---from when Owen was a baby.