We’re Skipping the Anniversary This Year

After almost 13 years of marriage, Thomas and I have decided to go our almost separate ways (we have kids, people--tied for life). We officially separated in early January and expect that everything will be final in mid-August, less than one month after what would have been our 13th wedding anniversary.

We’re trying to stay amicable throughout the process, but there’s a good reason why divorce is of the five most stressful life events. I think that selling a house should also be on the list, so we decided to get that one out of the way at the same time. And, as Thomas says, after 14 years you get pretty good at pushing each other’s buttons. In fact, those buttons can get pretty worn with use.

The girls are taking it better than expected. Well, Hannah is. Charlotte, not so much. Her temper tantrums increased for a while, and she asks, almost daily, if Mommy and Daddy are both going to be home for dinner. The pediatrician says this will get better as she adjusts. She is only five, after all, and the apraxia also limits her ability to communicate her displeasure.

Hannah, on the other hand, was initially excited at the prospect of finally getting her own bedroom. She assumed that one of them would live with me for a while, the other with Thomas, and then they’d switch. Um, no. Sorry. Then when she saw a book on divorce she asked, “What if every page said, 'Don’t do it?'” That called for a very long hug.

And then she began to imagine other, more interesting possibilities.

The next day, when I asked if she wanted to talk about it some more, she thought about it for a bit and then asked if I was going to get married again. I assured her that I wasn’t thinking of that right now. In fact, I wasn’t even thinking of dating right now. Then she asked, “Is Daddy going to get married again?”

I said that I didn’t think he was thinking of that right now, either. Next up was “But you both might get married again?” Me: “Yes, I suppose so.”

Hannah came back with, “So that would mean two weddings.” Small pause. “So I’d get to be a bridesmaid twice?!”

A short time after that, she sighed and said, “Well, I guess it’s almost dating season.” I laughed so hard that I choked on my coffee (we were at Philz, natch). (Later, Thomas and I wondered just how many you were allowed to bag in a dating season.) But she wasn’t done. Less that five minutes later, with an incredibly sly look for one so young, she offered, “Well, when you’re ready to date, I know a couple of boys you can get down with.” I had to leave the building. After regaining my composure, I asked what, exactly, she meant by “get down with.”

“You know—get some lovin.” I startled quite a few people with a shout of laughter. And then I said that I hoped she was talking about one of her teachers, though all are happily married and of no dating interest to me, and not one of her classmates. That’s taking Mrs. Robinson a bit too far. A lot too far. And she’s SEVEN. She is not supposed to know these things yet, right? Right?

This is a life change that, of course, neither of us had really expected or planned for. It’s also the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do—after all, Thomas was such a good friend for so many years—but I know that, in the end, both of us will be happier for it. We are committed to making sure that Hannah and Charlotte always know how much they are loved and that they will always come first. I hope that he and I are able to become better friends and learn, one day, to stop pushing those damn buttons.

Oh, and, Thomas gets custody of the dog.

In My Garden

It's already beginning to look like summer here. Well, if you ignore the seemingly interminable rain. And that fact that we have yet to turn on the sprinklers. And the grass is still green. Oh, fine. My garden is already beautiful. (Don't ask me what these plants are; I can't remember and only know that the last one is lavender.)











No, I do not need to mow the grass again--I'm pretending that letting it grow is part of the plan.

A Quick Tour of MoMa

A really quick trip. Two minutes, in fact.

I found this through Refinery 29's Daily Diversion. Amazing.

You know what they say about big feet . . . .

Big sticks.

A Bit of Random Grossness

Want to know how you get the smell of dried dog poop out of your nose after you accidentally snort dried dog poop while trying to see if it was actually dirt or chocolate*?


You don't.


You can blow your nose, wipe the inside with a wet Q-Tip, snort half a bottle of nasal spray, inhale deeply after spraying perfume, think about snorting a line of baking soda . . .


Try whatever you like. It's not gonna work.


Happy Thursday!



* At the time it seemed to matter if it was chocolate or dirt. If it's dirt, the dog is in trouble. If it's chocolate, the girl's are in trouble. It was poop. It's in my nose. Everyone is in trouble. Because I am an idiot and not a happy camper.

More Randomness

And now a random, ridiculous and probably rhetorical question:

A group of men spend two years doing a little military-style training. Learning to shoot and how to make and detonate bombs. They plot the murder of a police officer apparently for the sole purpose of setting off a bomb at the funeral.

The charges include plotting to wage war against the US, possessing a firearm during a crime of violence, teaching the use of explosives, and attempting to use a weapon of mass destruction—that would be the homemade bombs.

The indictment reads, in part:

"It is believed by the Hutaree that this engagement would then serve as a catalyst for a more widespread uprising against the government."

Guess what "Hutaree" is supposed to mean? Christian Warrior.

And that's why it isn't still front page news. Which it would be if this group of men were Muslim. They would also be labeled as "Terrorists." Not "Militia."

Why is that?

File Under: I Don't Care Who You Are, That's Funny

And yes. Yes, I did just quote Larry the Cable Guy.

Completely Random

I was making a bagel for breakfast this morning when it occurred to me that I had no idea where the sesame seeds came from. As I was pretty sure that they couldn't be a McDonald's creation, and because I can't help myself, I ran to Wikipedia.

Given the size of the seed, I had surmised that it must come from a grass of some sort. Alas, I am not always as smart as I should be--particularly when it comes to plants. The sesame plant is not a grass, but a flowering herb. The seeds grow in the plant's pods. While there are many wild varieties, usually found in Africa, sesame was probably first cultivated in India, where it has a long history and is used in many rituals.

Other things I didn't know about sesame seeds and/or plants:

• According to Assyrian legend, when the gods met to create the world, they drank wine made from sesame seeds. (yep--stole that directly from the Wikipedia page)

• The phrase "Open sesame" came from "Arabian Nights" and refers to the pods of the plant opening when mature.
• The seeds are really good for you: "exceptionally rich in iron, magnesium, manganese, copper and calcium (90 mg per tablespoon for unhulled seeds, 10 mg for hulled), and contain vitamin B1 . . . and vitamin E . . . They contain lignans, including unique content of sesamine . . . with antioxidant and anti-cancer properties. Among edible oils from six plants, sesame oil had the highest antioxidant content."
• It's easier to absorb the nutrients if you grind then up before eating. Tahini is a delicious example.
• The plants are very pretty.

Curiosity. It's a beautiful thing. Well, for me, anyway. Even if you didn't want to know anything about sesame seeds, at least check out the video link in the first paragraph.

Escape from Louse Mountain

I hate bugs. Ever heard me mention that? I. Really. Hate. Bugs.

And now one of my biggest bug-related fears has come true, not once, not twice, but thrice: Head lice. Head LICE. Not on me, which would be horrid enough. On my children. I thought we were going to escape them altogether. After all, I never had lice. Thomas never had lice. None of our siblings ever had lice. Hannah didn't get them at camp last summer when all of her friends did.

But two weeks ago, she started scratching. I didn't see anything the several times that I checked. But then, as I was holding the shower door for her, SOMETHING fell on my arm. It looked like a little bit of fuzz. But a more solid bit of fuzz than fuzz normally appears to be. And it fell from her head.

I have spent the past seven years hiding, as well as I can, the fact that I don't like bugs. That I'm pretty much terrified of spiders. I hide it because I don't want Hannah and Charlotte to have my ridiculous fear of these tiny creatures.

Leetle sidebar: My fear stems from an incident when I was very young: I learned upon kicking a log in my grandparents yard that said log was infested with now-angry Daddy Longlegs. Angry Daddy Longlegs swarm. Did you know that? I did not. Hence my life-long fear of spiders (do NOT tell me that "technically, they are not spiders." I know that. I get it. It doesn't matter), and other bugs. On contact, they all tend to cause the same creepy crawling of the skin.

And I think I've done a pretty good job not infecting them with my bugophoboa--in fact, a couple of years ago, at Happy Hollow Park and Zoo, Hannah actually held an African Giant Millipede--which, Jeezus Edith, some people keep as pets. So when the little bit of oh-dear-god-please-let-that-be-fuzz fell on my arm, I quickly and calmly-ish slapped my hand over it, ushered Hannah into the shower and ran to ask Thomas "What the hell is this?!" We had to Google it. It was a louse. It had friends. Lots of friends. My head began to itch. Not bugs--just psychosomatic.

We treated it with Nix. Twice. I made her wash her hair every day. We did the fine-toothed comb. Every day. We [[insert sound of shudder]] picked nits. Every day. I washed in hot water and dried on hot for 70 minutes all bedding, stuffed animals, pillows, clothes and anything else that would fit in the washer and/or dryer. Vacuum, vacuum, vacuum. The floor. The beds. The dog, for good measure. Finally, a little over a week later, they were gone.

And then they came back. Two days ago, first thing in the morning, she started scratching again. "No no no no! Oh please, no!" The universe turned a deaf ear to my pleas. Somehow, I missed at least two and those fertile little fuckers were at it again. Did you know they can hold their breath for an obscene amount of time, which is why just shampooing won't kill them? I did not.

Back to the pharmacy. Everything back in the washer and/or dryer on the hottest setting. Vacuum, vacuum. Bleach the sink and tub after the treating and [[insert sound of shudder]] nit picking sessions. Everything I've read says that lice are not an indication that you or your house are lacking in cleanliness, which is small comfort when the treatment is to clean yourself and your home harder than you probably thought possible.

Throughout all of this, I've been giving myself a mental high five because, as much as I hate bugs (have I mentioned that?), I haven't freaked out in front of the girls. Even when Hannah made me leave a live louse on a tissue for a couple of minutes because she wanted to see what it looked like. I almost offered to let her look at one online, but wasn't sure if the magnified images would, in a nanosecond, undo seven years of my not freaking out.

This morning all of our de-lousing efforts--not to mention Hannah's incredible patience with the fine-toothed comb in her very thick hair--were clearly paying off. There were very few nits left! And then, from the kitchen I heard, "Um, Mel? Bad news. Charlotte has them, too."

Frickemfuckemfrackem. I need a bigger washing machine.

Random Observation

Skirts and dresses in the Spring? Love wearing them.


Skirts and dresses in 30-40 mph wind gusts? Not so much.

There's an App For That

It was a moonless night in late summer and I was stretched out on the path near our campsite, just beyond the canopy of the trees where I had an uninterrupted view of the sky. We were at Tuolumne Meadows, high above the Yosemite Valley floor, a place that, in the daylight, would seem more closely related to the surface of the moon than to the vast forests and meadows and waterfalls that lay sweltering in the valley below.

The closest actual structure (unfortunately the bathroom) was ¼ mile away, so after the campfires started dying away, I could easily imagine that there was no light between me and the stars, and I had never seen so many in a single sky. I kept having the vision of a small girl with a bottle of glitter in one hand and a bottle of sequins in the other, throwing them up against black velvet. In some places they lay so thickly you couldn’t tell one from the other. In others, they were much more spread out, but not a single portion of velvet was left unadorned.

And, although the moon was not up, the stars and planets themselves were bright enough that I had a dim appreciation for what it must have been like in Galileo’s time, when the sky was dark enough that Venus cast a shadow on the earth. As I lay there, I felt no more than a speck in the cosmos, as small and far away from everyone on Earth as those stars were from me, completely alone and yet content.

For the past couple of weeks, Mars has hung like a ruby in the Eastern sky, a more vivid red than I can recall seeing it. Naturally, I had to look it up and, on January 27, Mars was the closest it had been to the Earth in almost two years. I mention this because, when I have to take Kairos out at night, I’m often caught for a moment or 10, mesmerized by the astral display and curious as to whether anyone I know is looking at exactly the same place at just that moment.

I don’t know the names of all of the constellations, just that I can lose myself looking for them and at them. And I like knowing that, right now—this actual moment—Saturn has risen, chasing the moon and Mars, all following my Gemini constellation. And I don’t even have to take the dog out or try to see through the clouds because, guess what? There’s an app for that: Planets 1.6 for the iPhone.

Charlotte-isms? Sure, Why Not?

Also known as, "Oh great, another smartypants in the family."


Charlotte's big pink box of Legos serves two main functions: They're an excellent fine-motor exercise for her, and they keep her amused and engaged for at least an hour--no TV required! This is a huge endorsement, as Charlotte generally lives for two things: Chocolate and television.

After playing quietly for a few minutes, Charlotte asked me to help her take apart two of the bricks.

Me:
Do you know why you can't get them apart?
[[Note: the correct answer was "Because I bite my fingernails down to the quick."]

Charlotte, with an exasperated sigh:
Because it makes me tired.

Little Kids Should Not Have Seizures. Not.

Charlotte has been on medication to control seizures for more than two years. Before her fifth birthday, she'd had two EEGs and an MRI, both of which have risks--EEG requires sleep deprivation and, for younger kids, the MRI requires anesthesia. I'm not going to equate sleep deprivation with the risks of anesthesia in general, but anyone who has ever seen me sans sleep will understand why there is risk attached. If you haven't had the pleasure, let's just say that that particular irritability trigger is one which Charlotte comes by honestly.

Over the past two years, we've gradually had to increase the medication to adjust for growth spurts. The last time we did this was between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We spent 10 days on the East Coast for winter break, and, not long after we returned, Charlotte had a seizure. And then another. And another.

I should mention that her seizures have always been very small. In fact, for a long time, we didn't know she was having them. But I perfectly remember the first time I saw one. She wasn't yet a year old. She was wearing a navy blue outfit dotted with little white anchors, with a white sailor collar. She was on her stomach on the floor and had just pushed herself up onto her arms when she started shaking. Part of my brain thought, "That looks like a seizure." The rest of my brain rejected that thought outright, insisting instead that it was the exertion of pushing herself up. It wasn't a seizure. No one else saw it. It didn't happen again. The pediatrician thought it was, yes, the exertion of pushing herself up.

Charlotte was born six weeks early and very small--three pounds, 11 ounces. She spent two weeks in the NICU to get her weight up to FOUR POUNDS. They send them home at four pounds. Jeezus, talk about scary. But she never needed any other intervention--no lung, heart, or other issues. Nothing to explain why she wouldn't walk until she was almost two or talk until she was almost three, or why, at five, her fine motor skills would be below average and she'd still be in speech therapy.

In the week after we got home from the East Coast, Charlotte had three or four seizures. We noted it, but decided to take the "watch and see" approach, as she typically has more seizures when she's over-tired. And then the day after her fifth birthday, they started coming, one after the other after the other. Over the course of the morning, she had ten. Ten. She'd never had that many in an entire day. Ever.

A quick, slightly (ha!) panicked call to the neurologist resulted in a new medication that had to be started that very day, plus an urgent request for an MRI through Lucile Packard Childrens Hospital--they are the only place to go if you need to put a kid under for an MRI. We couldn't get in for the MRI until yesterday, almost 10 days after the episode, but they had to bump someone else, so I couldn't really complain about it. Loudly.

The MRI was scheduled for 10:00am, but we had to arrive at 8:30 to complete registration and all of the pre-op stuff--basically to make sure she wasn't sick and to get a current height and weight. Other than me accidentally getting a few deep breaths of the anesthesia (more on that later, perhaps), the whole thing went well. The hardest part of both MRIs was waiting for Charlotte to wake up. She likes her sleep anyway (again, comes by that honestly), and so uses this as an excellent opportunity to get in an extra hour. Both times the nurse had to wake her up after I sat for the hour, watching that tiny body, making sure of the exhale and inhale, happy to see the slight flush of pink that kept her suddenly, amazingly translucent skin from looking too doll-like.

But awake she finally did, and recovered as well as she has from anything before: from the previous MRI, from getting stitches in her head, from various colds, hives, bumps, bruises and scratches--none of which she ever complains about. In other words, she rejected outright Nurse Jenn's instructions that she have nothing but clear liquids and popcicles for a few hours, then maybe yogurt or ice cream before moving on to toast or rice or crackers.

No. Charlotte wanted Goldfish. And chocolate. And pizza. After several minutes of "discussion," we "compromised" on the Goldfish: she got one bowl instead of two. And then we agreed that if she felt as though the milk was going to make her vomit, she knew where the bathroom was. I did get her to stick to toast with butter and honey for dinner but was completely unable to convince her of the potential dangers of running, leaping from the furniture, turning cartwheels and dancing with the dog--all of which were also discouraged by Nurse Jenn. I think Charlotte took Nurse Jenn's lack of specificity as a series of very large loopholes ripe for exploitation.

The neurologist promised to call as soon as she heard anything, and she was true to her word. She called me tonight, at 8:00, because she didn't think I'd want to wait the entire weekend to hear that it was unchanged from the MRI a year ago. She also apologized not being able to give me a better answer to "Why did this happen?". Apparently, "Sometimes it just happens" is all they can give you.

So for now, we're back to "watch and see." I get to go back to trying to suppress the instinct to catch her the minute she begins to fall. And Charlotte gets to keep being Charlotte: Funny, tough, sweet, indomitable. And definitey not ever in the mood to have someone catch her if she falls or even notice that anything happened.

Hannah-isms

Hannah's new "OMG-MOM-WHY-CAN'T-I-LISTEN-TO-IT-AGAIN" favorite song is Green Hills Race to California, from the Emerson Hart album, Cigarettes and Gasoline.

A single misheard word led to a discussion awkward enough to make me glad she was sitting directly behind me. I'm not sure I would have been able to explain why I was cringing and crying with laughter at the same time.

The lyrics in question:

How do I go back to California

How do I leave the green fields here

Warm nights and your sweet magnolia


Hannah:
Mom, what's a magnolia again?

Me:
It's a tree. It has a beautiful flower.

Hannah:
So when he sings "Warm nights IN your sweet magnolia . . ."

Me:
Wha . . ?

Hannah:
So, how did he do that, exactly? Did he just peel open one of the petals and slide in?

Me:
Um, I'm not sure that's . . .

Hannah:
Did he make himself really small to do that? Or was it a really big magnolia?

Me:
Hannah, I don't think . . .

Hannah:
Did he spend all night there? I wonder what it felt like.

Me:
Hey! It's time for Marketplace! Let's talk about this later!

January in the San Francisco Bay Area

Tough life, eh? The only bad thing is that I'm allergic to god knows what. Hopefully not these. Not ready for that.

Mommy's Little Metal Head

Ever seen a kid hanging upside down over the back of a couch, laughing her little head off because the dog is licking her feet? Did the kid you saw have what looked like a piece of metal growing from her gum? No? Yeah, we thought that was pretty weird, too.

A few weeks ago Hannah lost two of her top, front teeth: the big one in front (technical term is “the #8”) and the little one to the side of it (technical term is “I forgot to ask”). The #8 tooth was growing in and seemed to be taking up the majority of the space created by the loss of both teeth. The dentist said the tooth being crowded would eventually make an appearance, but it would be forced to go in front of or behind its pushy sibling.

A week ago, it seemed as though the heretofore-missing tooth was indeed emerging—directly behind, and seemingly glued to, old #8. Hannah said she could feel it, but that it didn’t hurt and, as it was just the slight swelling of the gum, I thought I’d give it a couple of days before calling the dentist.

The next day I saw what looked like metal. At first, Thomas thought it was just that second tooth with spit on it. So he wiped it off. Not spit. Metal. Well, could it be tin foil from a burrito wrapper? But it didn’t move or tear when we wiped it with a napkin. So I had my friend, Andi, look at it. “WTF?? How did she get metal in her mouth?!” Exactly.

Now, most people might have only thought “What on Earth did she eat?” I always like to run a parallel search, so my second—and temporarily dominant—thought track was “OMG—when she was two and tripped in the playroom and got her very first black eye, did she ONLY hit her cheek?” And “Was there ever any other time when she fell and hit or cut her mouth . . .” Fortunately, sanity returned—after all, something like that would have shown up on an X-ray at some point, right? (Turns out, the technical answer is “probably.”)

On Monday, I spent 20 minutes on the phone with the dentists’ office, trying to explain why we needed to be seen, and why it wasn’t going to wait until next week. They couldn’t get her in until Wednesday, so I took a photo just in case the thing suddenly disappeared and they start thinking mommy’s a little crazy:

[[photo deleted.]]

On Wednesday afternoon, as we waited for the dentist, Hannah kept picking at her tooth. For a moment, I thought that it really had been tin foil and that she’d finally managed to remove it. But she had just pushed it further up under her gum, adding to the time it would take Dr V to extract this:

No, not the pencil. That's a 3mm metal disc. Not a sequin. A rigid, metal disc that had been wedged between her gum and tooth. We still don't know how it ended up there, but have to assume that it was in something Hannah ate, and that somehow she hadn't noticed it .

Dr V said we were fortunate that there was no infection, just a little swelling and irritation. Apparently she sees a lot of kids who wait too long before coming in and end up with a massive infection--but this was the first time she had to remove a metal disc.

And it's not just Hannah. One of these days, I'll post the photo of the broken key that Charlotte found in her Jamba Juice.

The Morning Ritual

I am not a morning person, as many of you already know. But, as I have children, I have to get up early whether I like it or not (NOT!). To save a lot of strife so early in the day, there is a ritual that the girls have known since infancy.

And now you are so unlucky as to get a peek at it:

Bedhead, or, why I don't go to bed with my hair wet.

Jeezus Edith! Do NOT ask me to do algebra in my head before I have coffee.

Strike that. Do not EVER ask me to do algebra in my head.

Seriously. Not yet. Fine, yes.
Luke Skywalker can come to dinner.

You know the rule! Two cups! Mommy needs two cups of coffee.
Wait . . .

No really. Wait!

Almost there. . .

All better!

Mwah!
Time to go and scrape out the curls!

Why Do I Get the Crazy Dogs?

I'm starting to think it's me.

Argus was afraid of lightning. Thunder. Fireworks. The vacuum cleaner. All fairly normal for a dog. But he also disliked rain, snow, chirping smoke detectors and the occasional Chihuahua.

Kairos is taking it a leap forward, turning almost overnight into Crazy McTwitchypants. He seems to have hit some weird fear stage--which typically occurs around eight weeks (he's now one year plus)--and the list of things he's afraid of grows almost daily.

First it was men. Not Thomas, but pretty much every other man he came across, even those we had welcomed into our home and introduced to him as friends. Like Scott, for instance. He stayed overnight and every time he managed to leave and return to Kairos' line of sight, he was greeted with renewed barking and growling.

The first time I noticed Kairos being fearful around men was at the dog park. I was sitting at the picnic table when some random guy came up and sat down. Kairos ran over, pressed himself against my leg and started barking. At the time I thought, "Oh! How sweet. He's protecting me." But no. He growls at the man who comes to school to pick up his son. He shies away from men on the street, and those hanging out in their own yards. He doesn't lunge or jump at them; he would just prefer that they take themselves elsewhere.

And then there's the shrub. The same shrub he's seen every day since he was six weeks old. It's in our front yard and he has to pass it every time he goes out to pee, to get Hannah from school, or just to go on a walk. Same shrub, but now he tries to run out into the street to avoid it. I thought, "Well, is it touching him? I wouldn't like branches in my hair, so maybe that's the problem." I trimmed the shrub. No luck. He still doesn't like it.

Kairos also won't go outside by himself. Not even for a romp around the back yard. We put him out; he hops up on a chair and barks at the window until someone opens the door again. And now he won't cross the playroom to get to that back door. He won't even cross the threshold into the playroom.

But hey, I’d rather have him freaking out about the shrubbery and demanding to be carried across the playroom to the back door than have him poop out socks, headbands and other random bits of fabric twice a day.*

Good thing he’s really cute--and sweet. I guess he’s growing on me.

* I’m assuming you’ve already heard enough about that particular quirk!

Hannah-isms

Me, in response to Charlotte whining about wanting to turn the TV on "all by myselk!" [sic]:

"Dude, stop whining--I said I would give you the remote!"

Hannah:
"Um, I thought we agreed that you would not be calling anyone "DUDE" anymore?"

Me:
"We agreed that I wouldn't call you "dude" anymore."

Hannah:
"Yeah, well, I don't think Charlotte likes it, either."

Noted. I'll add that to my List of Things to Stop Saying by New Year's Eve.

Military Spouse Appreciation

Yesterday, Veterans' Day, I was thinking that there should also be a day of appreciation for military spouses. I was very happy to find that there is--it's just not well publicized--well, not to the general public, anyway.

I know that the men and women of of the military truly appreciate the work that their spouses do to keep the family together--often through long deployments, to pack up when it's time to transfer again and a thousand other little things that have to be done to just survive the rigors of the military life.

The date for 2010 hasn't been set, but it'll be some time in May, which is Military Appreciation Month--which I also did not know.

So if you have family or friends in the military, plan to send a little thank you gift in May. An Army may march on its stomach, but it needs someone to make its food*, wash its clothes and take care of its children.



* Obviously when deployed, someone is paid to do the laundry and cooking.