Things I am thinking about right now, in no particular order:

Things I am thinking about right now, in no particular order:

Breakfast.  Lunch.  Eyeliner- why does it always run? Discuss.  A broken washing machine.  The start of school.  That PTA thing I am supposed to get done.  Man’s own mortality.  Jackers McJackJack, the two front-toothed toddling cutie patootie booty.  How do you spell patootie?  Nursing.  Co-sleeping.  Knitting.  Remember that?  

In a glaring example of my overachieverness, I have taken on way more than I can chew at work, by taking on an additional consulting gig on top of leading my organization.  Because hey, what the hell, I am sure I can cram even more work into an eight hour day and still come home and be fully present with the kids and be a super cool mom who demonstrates healthy lifestyle choices and reads to them every night and never ever longs for a moment to herself.

Isn’t it funny how much trouble we have saying no to things?  By “we” I really mean “me.” If someone needs my help, I go through extraordinary efforts to be there.  If I see a need, I step in to fill that space.  It pains me to think that I can’t be all things to all people and that sometimes I just have to let things go, even if it means that it won’t get done.  Or that it won’t get done well (Egads, the horror!). 

I read somewhere that the state of our constant busyness is akin to practicing self violence.  That really spoke to me.  Are we being kind to ourselves when we are maxed out, running at full speed from one event to the next, our minds always on the next item on our to-do list?  A quick review of my blog entries reveal that I struggle with this.  I struggle with the pull of wanting to help others and to volunteer for everything and the need to succeed and to achieve great things.  I struggle with how that unbelievably strong pull is in extreme dissonance with my urge to simplify, simplify, simplify and to maintain balance.  My meditation and mindfulness practice helps a lot with this. It helps me recognize my habits and to notice when I am mechanically taking on projects simply because I have been asked, rather than basing the decision on whether I should or want to. 

Sometimes, when I am quiet and still, I can hear my inner voice say, “walk away from this one,” or “let someone else take the lead on this.” Sometimes, I even listen. 

The fact is, I hate being that harried friend who never has time to do fun stuff with girlfriends.  I hate being that busy daughter who can’t find a good time for a long phone call with my parents (does anyone else hear “Cats in the Cradle” playing?  Is that just me?) I hate being that wife that is always strung out and too distracted for a real conversation and I hate being that mom that feels pulled in too many directions to fully engage.  And yet, here I am. 

In recent weeks I’ve practiced saying “no” or at least, “not right now.”  It’s tough.  I worry that I am letting people down and that they won’t like me anymore.  I am learning to sit with that fear and sit with my feelings of discomfort around that.  When I do, I find that usually those feelings dissipate and I am no worse for the wear.  Not always and not always right away.  Depending on the size of the task I’ve been asked to volunteer for, sometimes I have to come back again and again and sit with those feelings of discomfort.  

After a while, I’ve begun to wonder if the reason I have taken on so much in my life is because I was afraid of these feelings of discomfort.  A fear of uncomfortable feelings is wholly different from actively wanting to help on a project I’d been approached about.  But there it is.  As I have worked through my feelings, I’ve realized that simply sitting with and feeling uncomfortable things is often so much better than living in fear of them.  It has helped me to better understand where I want to put my energy and where perhaps I should demure.  But of course, I still actively struggle with it.  I wonder if I am doing enough and whether it is good enough.  

I guess we all do. 

I’ll close out this entry as randomly as I started it.  Things I’ve learned this week:

§         Baking soda on a carpet freshens up a carpet.  But use a vacuum on too much baking soda on a carpet?  Dead. 

§         Cloth diapers are great.  But cloth diapers must be rinsed thoroughly before being thrown in the washing machine.  Because lots of solid material put into the washing machine equals lots of solid material clinging to the side of the wash basin.  I’ve never seen cleaner grape skins, though.   

§         Finally, American Robins carry bird poop in their mouths. They call them fecal sacs and they do this to keep their nest clean.  I got this last bit from a book I read to the kids last night called, “Nature’s Yucky.”  Good book.  I have never smelled a robin’s breath, but I probably will avoid kissing them in the future now that I know this. 

That is all.  Now I am going to give my mom a call.  I’ll have to ask her how she took care of diapers, because I ma not impressed with the robin's approach.  

Life is Good.

Crazy. Fast. Complicated. But good. Very good.

On any given day, I feel rushed. And stressed and completely overwhelmed and out of my league. I talk about it here on my blog. I talk about it to others. But mostly I worry about it quietly to myself. I worry that I am not doing enough of this or a good enough job of that. I worry that I can’t get it all done and when I do that it won’t be good enough. I worry about events in the past and I worry about the future and I worry and I worry and I worry.

And then all of the sudden, time and the universe collapse into one single, perfect, stock still moment and I realize that life is good and I wouldn’t change a single thing about it. Not a single thing.

Like yesterday when I crawled into bed at 4:32 in the afternoon with a fussy baby Jack and a good book and the two of us hid out under the covers and nursed until he drifted off to a peaceful sleep. Or this morning when Ella asked me to help her take off her “Pah gee jays”, and get her dressed into play clothes, or when she asks what Jack’s “knick-knack name” should be because we call her “Ella Bella” and we call Jay “Jaybird” but we just call Jack, “Jack,” and I think about how wonderful it is that she still mispronounces things. Or when she chased me down the hallway as I was heading to work for a second hug and kiss goodbye. Or when I drop Jay off at school and ask for a hug goodbye and two or three of his classmates wrap their arms around me in response. Or when I wave goodbye to him in the morning after helping get him settled into his kindergarten class and he looks utterly in his element in the classroom. Or when I pull two loaves of fresh homemade bread out of the oven, or when Chris and I play a late night game of cribbage and he beats me by a single point yet again. Or when I am hastily prepping for a community garden meeting and then I realize how lucky I am to be part of the movement that is making urban agriculture a reality. Or when I am frazzled at work and then realize how lucky I am to go to work everyday and feel proud that what I do helps make the world a better place.

I get it. I am lucky. And life is good. (o.k., and a little crazy… but I wouldn’t change a thing.)

Stupid Country Song

I used to be a fan of country music. I am still, actually, except when it makes me cry. There are enough crappy things in life, do we really NEED music that depresses us, too?

Jay’s school had its fall/Halloween dance tonight. Being someone who loves to dance (in public, at drumming circles, at weddings, in the shower, when trying on clothes in fitting rooms- yes husband, that is why it takes me so long when I disappear into a fitting room. For each garment I try on, I lipsynch Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” and strut back and forth in front of the mirror, as I assume most women do. Your suspicions have now been confirmed). Where was I? Yes, the dance.

So I love to dance. Of course, before coming I did make sure that parents were actually supposed to show up, because I have a whole lifetime to embarrass Jay, and I wanted to hold off just a little before getting started on that. So parents invited? Check. We arrive at the school gym and the DJ announces a dance contest. I am cool with that. I can throw down with the best of these parents. I am ready with my Electric Slide and Macarena and Funky Chicken. Bring it.

The DJ urges the kids to grab a parent and get out on the dance floor. Jay and I make our way out into the colored lights amidst the princesses and pirates.

And Then.

This:


Yes folks, “Don’t Blink” by Kenny Chesney. Seriously. Who the hell thought that this would be a good idea? In case you didn’t play the video, I’ll give you a little taste of the lyrics.

Don't blink

Just like that you're six years old and you take a nap and you

Wake up and you're twenty-five and your high school sweetheart becomes your wife

Don't blink

You just might miss your babies growing like mine did

Turning into moms and dads next thing you know your "better half"

Of fifty years is there in bed

And you're praying God takes you instead

Trust me friend a hundred years goes faster than you think

So don't blink

Oh, I blinked alright. I blinked a crap ton, because tears were streaming down my face and were totally ruining my mascara. I mean, why not throw a little Sunrise, Sunset in there, too, DJ? Butterfly Kisses? Some other song that makes us all despair over how fast kids grow up, and then finishes with a reference to our spouse dying? Jesus.

Jay and I danced, while I held Jack snuggled against me in the sling and Ella shyly hid behind Chris’ legs wearing her pink princess gown and hiking boots. I sniffled. I tried not to be one of those girls at the school dance who runs out of the gym and into the bathroom sobbing (there’s always one. Just like dancing in the fitting room, this is another truism of our gender.)

After that, things got better. The country music ended and we got jiggy with it. Turns out Ella can get down.



Which means that shopping trips for clothes with us will start to take a lot longer.

The Two Minute Post that turned into the Much Longer Post because I have no time management skills

I have emerged from the protective cocoon of maternity leave and have jumped right back into the fray of full time work. Crimini! We are presently consumed with trying to figure out school schedules, work schedules, nursing visits and more. Sleeping and eating are important, too, I guess, if you like that sort of thing.

Jay is enjoying school. Ella is enjoying life without Jay to boss her around during the day. She misses him from time to time, but not enough to actually, like, vocalize it or anything. But, I know that when she gleefully declares, “When Jay goes to school today I am going to play with his toys!” that what she really means is that she misses him. Or something.

Also, did anyone else know that we actually have a daughter? Like a whole middle child, who is not her older brother Jay or younger brother Jack, but an entirely different, and wonderful little person who says funny things and likes to dance around wearing pink sparkly ballerina slippers? Huh. Once Jay started school, Ella came into her own and I realized just how much she had been relegated to the role of middle child. Let the guilt trip begin.

Speaking of guilt, I find myself feeling a lot of guilt lately, especially now that work has started. I realized recently how hard I had been trying to meet my own and others’ expectations. Read to your children at least 30 minutes a day. Eat organic, locally sourced food. Exercise an hour a day. Floss. Write thank you notes, on time. Spend quality time with your family. Keep a clean house. Meditate daily. Work at least 8, but preferably 10, hours a day to make an impact on the world. Read the newspaper. Follow local politics. Get involved. Volunteer. Walk, don’t drive, it’s better for the environment. Always do what’s right. Tell the truth. Be happy- no one likes a sad noodle. Be calm. Women who aren’t are called bitches. Bake cookies for your neighbors. Vote. Donate.

The list in my head keeps going.

On any given day I am giving it my all to do all of these things, and do them well. I had it in my head that women everywhere were doing all of these things simultaneously and that I was just behind the ball. Then it struck me that no one person I knew was doing all of these things at the same time. The women who were fit and physically active and highly involved with their kids didn’t have full time jobs. The women who had high powered jobs didn’t have kids at home. The women who were calm didn’t have spotless homes or a fulltime job/small children one-two punch.
After realizing that I was striving for the impossible, I exhaled deeply. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to keep a clean house, cook all of your meals from scratch, take public transportation, exercise for a full hour, volunteer, work a full day, eat dinner together, read to your kids and still get the prescribed eight hours of sleep a night. I still feel guilty much of the time, but I am now conscious that I was pushing myself into the realm of near insanity, and now I can allow myself to scale back on my expectations. And, just like that, Ack! I am late for heading home! Guilt again!

Happy Mother’s Day

First of all, is it “Mother’s Day” or “Mothers Day” or “Mothers’ Day”? Plural possessive, right? Because it seems to me that it is a day possessed by mothers but there are a lot of us, so I think that means the apostrophe should go at the end, but then again, maybe we don’t own it, because, really, can you possess a day, or any length of time for that matter? Isn’t that like trying to own a gas molecule or a sunrise or an isosceles triangle? Screw it. I’ll just go consult a Hallmark card and we can move on.

Second of all, how did three weeks go by without a single post, because, seriously, I meant to. I mean, really, what the hell? I have been busy growing my belly, simultaneously feeling too large to move and worrying that I am not growing fast enough. I am eating too much sugar! The baby will be diabetic! No! I am not eating enough sugar! I need to gain more weight! Give me that stick of butter and a spoon! Too much working out! I need to take it easy and let this baby grow! No, not enough working out! I need to get exercise or I’ll go crazy! More rest! I need more rest! No, more cleaning! This carpet must get steam vac’d RIGHT NOW!
Probably it is best I haven’t posted for the last three weeks. You haven’t missed much.

Except that Jay toured his kindergarten class this week (sniffle). He was positively exuberant. I was a complete wreck. He went from classroom to classroom, interviewing the teachers. Which classroom has a train? What kind of snacks do you serve? What books will we read? I tried hard not to let my chin tremble as he coolly assessed each room and looked so… so much a kindergartener. I mean really. When the hell did that happen? Who let that happen? They didn’t consult me, that’s for sure.

The garden is open and we have garlic, strawberries and asparagus showing us that winter didn’t completely kick our ass. It only feels that way to our pasty, freezer burned, shell-shocked selves. We had two feet above average snow fall this winter. The sun is rumored to still exist, but I have yet to see the evidence with my own eyes. I need temperatures that start with the letter “S” and I need some humidity or things are going to get ugly soon.

Jay and I made doughnuts from scratch this morning. It was his first doughnut ever. I tried to convince him that only I have the recipe for these magical little cakes. Once he learns to read and we pass a Krispy Kreme for the first time, though, the jig is up. Then I’ll have to act all indignant, like, “What the HECK? How did they get my super top-secret recipe? Ah well, I’m sure they are HORRIBLE imitations. Blech, gross, and also, ick.”

Let's see. What else? Ella is potty-training. Sort of, ish. Mostly I am swearing NOT TO BUY ANOTHER PACKAGE OF DIAPERS, anymore, at all, no way, nu-uh. All the while looking directly at her and telling Daddy that we have to save the rest of the diapers for the baby, because Ella is a big girl now and she has to wear big girl underwear. Ella just shrugs, stips off her wet diaper and tells us to save it for the baby. Then she grabs a fresh one. I guess we have taught her a little too well how important it is to reuse...

Please go to sleep. Please go to sleep. Please. Go. To. Sleep.

It’s been a harrowing three days, fraught with danger, excitement and temper tantrums. Many, many temper tantrums. It turns out that the “terrible twos” are aptly named, actually.

I have been single parenting this weekend while Chris was up at the North House Folk Craft School in Minnesota learning how to make baskets out of ash trees, and let me tell you something.

Holy hell.

I never, ever, EVER want him to leave again. Somehow, he does this day in and day out. He manages to keep the kids, the dog, the fish, the houseplants and himself alive, on a regular basis, whether I am travelling or home. Me? I am now only a shell of my former self.

To whit:

- Three temper tantrums before noon today.

- I can not seem to remember to keep the fish fed, or to turn on their light when I am supposed to or turn off their light when it has been running for 24 hours straight, because look! I remembered to turn it on the first place, o.k.?

- I have cooked one meal in four days. It was meatloaf, and even Ella wouldn’t touch it.

- Jay has survived on crackers, fruit and atmospheric dust, as far as I can tell. I do not know what he has eaten.

- Ella has developed her own form of temper tantrums that I am ill equipped to deal with. I am a pretty mellow person. So when she starts slapping her head and screaming, red faced, at the top of her lungs that SHE! WANTS! THE! RED! SHOES! THEREDSHOES! THEREDSHOES! I don’t know what to do. Should I give her the red shoes? Is it even ABOUT the red shoes? If I give her the red shoes will it set a precedence for being a weak parent when I already told her that she can not wear the red shoes because they don’t fit anymore forchristsakes and plus they are for wearing with fancy dresses and we are just going to the sandbox? How do other parents deal with this age? Do they also secretly wonder if their child is possessed and start calculating how much Benadryl they’ll need to get a good night’s sleep?

- I have never dosed anyone with Benadryl who was not fighting an allergic reaction.

- But come ON. Am I the only who has wondered?

- And now you see why Chris stays at home with the kids.

Reasons why I haven’t written a blog post in nine days:

• I have been busy peeing. No, really. Forget what those lying prenatal books tell you about how “in the second trimester, the frequency of urination will subside, as the uterus moves higher into the blah, blah, blah.” I pee all the time. It’s what I do. It’s my new hobby. It’s my defining characteristic. So shove it, “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”. You lie.



• I have also been busy drinking coffee, now that coffee and I are madly in love with each other again. We’ve decided never, ever to fight again. I love coffee and it loves me. Me and coffee, coffee and me, together forever. I know that it totally treated me like crap for a while, but it said it was sorry and would never do it again, and I believe it because it loves me, and someday soon, we are going to run away together and have coffee babies and, and, and… What’s that you say? Coffee is a diuretic? A diuretwho? Hold on to that thought. I have to pee. I'll be right back.



• But really, my smart phone is to blame. I can access all of my friend’s blogs, read the news, check the weather, and lurk on Facebook without ever logging onto a computer with an actual keyboard. This is all well and fine, except that I need an actual keyboard to write blog posts. But now that I can check everyone’s blog while in line at the grocery store, pumping gas, and peeing (oh come on, like you wouldn’t), I don’t feel a real need to boot up one of those archaic machines called a “laptop.” I mean, I have to wait like three or four MINUTES to access the internet once I hit the power button on one of those things. What the hell, man?

Also, friends with blogs. I have been meaning to tell you that you are not updating your blogs nearly often enough. Now that I can check your blog while in line at the grocery store, pumping gas and peeing (oh come ON, you know you would, too) I have decided that your meager three or four updates a week are not enough. Get on the ball, people. I am waiting to be entertained.

And now, I have to pee.

Coffee! I Can Drink Coffee!

I guess the first thing I should report here is that I think I felt the baby kick yesterday. The first, little, tiny, kickety-kick, that makes you wonder… is that today’s lunch or a muscle spasm or is there a little creature inside of me who is finally big enough to karate chop my intestines?

But let’s be honest. The real thing that is noteworthy is that finally, after fifteen weeks of pregnancy, I have the stomach and nose for my beloved cup of coffee. Yes, small people kicking me in the gut are cute and all. But coffee will never grow up and shout “I hate you!” when it is fourteen and wearing black lipstick. Coffee likes to curl up with me every morning and ease me into my day. It likes to pep me up in the afternoon. It is a welcome guest when we get together with friends. And it totally hated my bitchy self when the worst of the pregnancy symptoms raged. And you know what? I hated it, too.

But we’ve made up.

Slowly, slowly, we’ve patched things up. First I could not even tolerate the smell of brewing coffee. Eventually that passed. After a couple weeks of not growing queasy at the stink of it, I poured a half cup and then set it back down, disgusted. Several weeks later, I tried it again. This time, I could lift the cup to my mouth, but couldn’t stomach the thought of actually swallowing it. Weeks went by. Dumb, but perseverant, I gave it another try. I took a meager sip and regretted it dearly. Horkville, USA. Population: me.

Finally yesterday, I woke up and wanted a cup of coffee. I actually wanted a cup of coffee. I didn’t just WANT to want it, like I have for fifteen weeks. I finally wanted it. What an awesome feeling. I am not up to drinking more than a cup a day yet, and may not for the rest of the pregnancy (and yes, yes, I know experts say to limit your coffee drinking during pregnancy and blah, blah, blah, but are any of those experts pregnant woman? Just the fuck wondering).

Yay, coffee!

Oh, yeah. And the baby kicking. Yay for small people karate chopping my guts!

So THAT’s why I hate coffee so much

Today was my first trimmester screen and as the ultrasound tech pulled up the first image on the screen, suddenly the pregnancy became so totally, completely real to me. Sure, I’ve hated coffee for months. Sure, I’ve been so tired it felt like my body was pumping lead through its veins. Sure, I’ve felt queasy at the merest hint of most of my favorite foods and have had to undo the button of my jeans the last few days, but until today it seemed… I don’t know. Easy not to think about it in terms of a small person growing inside of my body. The blob I saw on the ultrasound five weeks ago was just that. A tiny, indiscernible blob. Is that its leg? An arm? The head? Oh, that’s my right ovary. It’s cute though, right?

This sonogram was indisputable proof that there is a living, growing, healthy, active little person inside of my belly with an actual forehead and fingers and elbows. All I could say was, “Wow.”

Wow.

I know I’ve been through this twice before, but every time, it’s always the same. Wow.

Really? We did that? We made that? We created this little person who is, right this very minute, mawing on his or her arm and hiccupping? Turning around and flipping upside down and pushing on the sides of my belly to stretch their legs? Wow.

It's just... Wow.

Jay and Ella are looking forward to their new sibling. Jay is hoping for, and is convinced it is, another sister. Ella is only convinced that if she looks hard enough into my belly button that she’ll see the baby.

It was too early to tell the gender and I am ambivalent about finding out the gender this time. On one hand, what does it matter? We’ll be delighted no matter what. And plus, surprises! Yay! On the other hand, the more we can tell Jay and Ella about their new little brother or sister, the better. Despite their seeming lack of interest at my last prenatal appointment when we listened to the heartbeat, they really are very interested in finding out everything they can about the baby. When is it coming? Does it poop inside of you? How does it breathe? When is it coming out? Will it hurt when it comes out? Will we get to hold it? When? When? When is it coming??? Will you nurse it? Can we pick out a toy for the new baby? Can it sleep in our room? Can we rub your tired, sore, aching feet while you relax from a hard day at work, Mama? (I may have just imagined that last question.)

This week has been hard. Losing Tabasco was incredibly hard. It was fun to feel a smile take over my face and my heart lighten when I saw the images of our newest little one. Welcome! We can’t wait to meet you! And please end the coffee aversion soon.

Updates on all the stuff that I can remember to update you on:

• We start week twelve today, which means only one week before I can count myself in the second trimester, which means soon I will be able to look at a cup of coffee without feeling the need to vomit.



• Madison will get its first real snow tonight, with 2-4 inches predicted by tomorrow morning.



• We’re going Christmas tree hunting tomorrow! I love this about living up north. Back home, getting our Christmas tree meant setting up the ladder and ascending into the attic crawl space to pull out the boxed Christmas tree. True, we always knew it would fit in the house, and true, we didn’t have to brave snowy roads to get it, but there is really nothing like the smell of a real Christmas tree. Plus, I don’t have to pull cobwebs out of my hair.



• The update on Tabasco. I can’t muster any humor here. He’s in pain. It sucks. We know the time is coming when we will have to make The Decision. That time is not now, just yet. He continues to eat, he continues to seek our attention and from to time he seems his normal, happy, yappy self. We’ve got him on pain meds and watch him closely. He had a vet appointment yesterday, and although I went in strong, I came out weak. Be his advocate, get more pain meds, make sure they don’t touch him in that spot that is so painful he nips my nose if I get too close. Sure, he is slower these days and looks a bit more ragged, but he’s still… what? I don’t know. My puppy.
  
  I left sobbing. Talking to the vet made everything so real. This sucks.



• Jay told me yesterday that his tooth hurt.
  
  Me: Oh, I’m sorry, buddy. Which one?
  Jay: The one aight ere (pointing to a molar)
  Me: Well, let’s take a look at it. How long has it been hurting?
  Jay: Oh, about a quarter mile.



• I am looking for a good gingerbread recipe. Please send them my way. Christmas baking will commence this weekend.
  
  Bring on the Fatty McButter pants.

I’ve been working on this blog post for weeks.

Which is why I haven’t been posting. I have been writing and re-writing and trying to figure out how to best make the announcement that I sort of made last month, but didn’t REALLY make last month because there is protocol for these sorts of things and posting these announcements on your blog before telling people like, oh, say, your own mother, is generally not best practice.

Wait. Was that coherent?

Let me try that again.

We’re expecting!

There. That was easier than I thought. I get so anxious about making that announcement to people, it really makes me uneasy. I am not sure why. Maybe I don’t like the attention? Maybe I am worried that people won’t be supportive? Won’t care? Will make dumb jokes about us turning into the Duggers? Will know I sleep with my husband? Will think I need another hobby? What? I do not know.

Despite my uneasiness around making The Announcement, we are looking forward to having another baby. I come from a big family and really enjoy having so many wonderful brothers and sisters. I want that for my kids as well. Brothers and sisters rock. Who else can you blame for breaking that vase/ farting/ knocking over the trash can/ digging a hole and burrowing underneath the house and knocking on the floor under your mom as she sits in the easy chair reading the Sunday paper? (Mom, that was Mike).

Who else can you count on to listen to you agonize over teen drama/ job options/ moving/ money/ health concerns/ whatever? Your sibs. That’s who.

I look forward to bringing Jay and Ella to that first OB appointment when we can hear the heartbeat. I look forward to talking with them about their new little brother or sister. I look forward to bringing a new little one home from the hospital and into our family. I look forward to holding a smooshy newborn. I look forward to folding those itty-bitty onsies. I look forward to carting around a minivan of small people. I look forward to being able to have our own basketball team. I look forward to a day in which, when they are all grown up, they still love to hang out together (because some of my favorite people in the whole world are still my brothers and sisters). I look forward to seeing the three of these little guys grow up into whoever they will be and giving them the love and support they need to get there.

Right now, I also look forward to an end to nausea and debilitating fatigue. Week eleven ends on Friday, which means only a couple more weeks of Super Nose (don’t you DARE make toast! Oh my god, the smell from your tea is overpowering! Gah! I hate you!), only a couple more weeks of lead body (oh, I can’t move from the couch to my bed. Why is the bed so far from everything? How much would we have to pay to get a rickshaw in here? I am so tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiired… **jerks awake, wipes drool** Right. What was I saying?)

Only a couple more weeks of insanely strong food aversions. (Why did you cook THAT? I hate that. I will DIE before I put that in my mouth.) I eat a lot of crackers and cold cereal. I am kinda getting tired of it. There’s only so much Life cereal one person can take.

In the meantime, I’ll eat my saltines and take my vitamins and think about a day when my grown-up children guffaw as they play Barrel of Monkeys on my chest while I try to nap (Dad, that was Jimmy).

Leaving on a Jet Plane

I leave Florida today and leave my Dad in the very capable hands of my Mom, brother and sisters. He is a long way from full recovery, although he sleeps a little less and talks and interacts a little more everyday. He has slept most of the time since being discharged from the hospital. This was initially hard for all of us, considering his rapid gains right after surgery, but sleeping a lot is no doubt speeding his recovery. We haven’t always let him rest, though. Yesterday we played Barrel of Monkeys on his chest while he dozed. I am sure he appreciated it.

He woke up this morning hungry, another good sign, since he hasn’t wanted to eat much since the surgery. Everyday gets a little better. I wish I were staying long enough to see him fully recovered.

It’s been fun spending time with my family, and it’ll be hard to say goodbye. We live so far away and though we try to get together throughout the year, work and school and life inevitably get in the way. Sadly, it takes a crisis like this to get us to drop everything and get together. Here’s hoping for a happy reason to get together soon.

Homeward Bound

My Dad has been discharged and is out of the hospital and resting comfortably at my Aunt Fran’s house. He’s doing well, but tired. We’ve got bread rising, dinner in the slow cooker and we are monitoring the bird feeder out on the patio. Today will be a pretty low-key day, with perhaps a run outside in the nature preserve out back for us siblings and a board game or two. I introduced my sister Sandra to the art and science of bread making. What’s more fulfilling than baking your own loaf of bread? Which reminds me, it’s time to get it in the oven…

Updates from my Dad, the bird feeder and the bread later.

Hanging out with my Dad

They moved my Dad into a regular hospital room and out of ICU this morning. The room has a great view of a pond and a huge stand of pine trees across the street. There are snowy egrets, great blue herons, white egrets and snapping turtles. My Dad is still going strong. This morning he used the bathroom unassisted, strolled around the 4th floor twice, sat up in a recliner, watched a Dixie Chicks Youtube video (Goodbye Earl, by request) and is tucking into a BLT and Pepsi right now. The doctor and his nurses are extremely impressed with his recovery. He could have his choice of pain meds, but he has been told that he can’t drink wine while on pain meds.

So he requested Tylenol… and the wine menu.

Surprisingly, no wine menu. What kind of place IS this?

My Dad, Mom and siblings are in high spirits. I think the Universe must have been listening to my plan a few weeks ago, because this time around has gone off without a hitch. Thank you Universe, and thanks to all of you out there for the positive thoughts, good intentions and healing vibes. It’s been felt and we are in awe.

But, seriously. No wine menu? What kind of place IS this?

ICU

We're in ICU (no, I don't see you, I'm in Jacksonville. You're somewhere on the internets. Haw, haw, haw. That just doesn't get old). My dad, the brain surgery patient/superstar, is up and talking and joking. He just chowed down on roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, coffee and cranberry juice. Dad says, "That was good... Better than hospital food, really." He's even groped my mom. I guess 48 years of marriage don't change much. Even after brain surgery.

I can honestly say I have never been so ecstatic to watch someone eat roast beef. And he's placing his breakfast order for tomorrow.

I'll spend tonight in the ICU with him and make sure that he gets everything he needs (I know I needn't worry: the doctors and nurses here at the Mayo clinic are fantastic. Absolutely outstanding, seriously). Though it sounds altruistic that I am volunteering to spend the night in the hospital with my dad, the truth is, I feel so lucky to have the chance to hang out with him. With several states between us and six other siblings, I don't get many opportunities to do this. Bring on the CSI episodes and menu planning.

Success

The surgery is over and was a success. A success!!

We've just spoke to the surgeon, and things could not have gone better. They repaired all three aneurysms. They even found a small forth one, which they repaired while in there. The surgeon says my Dad is highly susceptible to aneurysms and we'll need to take care going forward that we are performing annual brain scans to catch them in time. He's in the recovery room now. He'll be in ICU for 24 hours and then it's on to a regular hospital room for several more days.

We are a hot, teary, mess here in the Mayo Clinic waiting room. It's over. And it was a freaking success.

Go team Dad!

The Big Day

1:06 pm EST:
Update from the operating room: "They are 'closing up' and everything's gone fine." We'll hear from the surgeon shortly in a conference room.

Big sigh of relief. More updates when we have them.

11:45 am EST:

Waiting in the waiting room is more fun than... well, what's more fun than a barrel of monkeys? I do not know. This game requires strategy. Skill. Leadership. Ingenuity. A lot of freaking time. Which we have, because we have no updates from the operating room.

I find that gently encouraging the monkeys with quiet "oooh, oooh, ahh, ahhh" sounds and promises of dark chocolate dipped bananas encourages strong bonds.

By the way, Kathy cheated. And mom abetted. Just so you know. Don't play for money with these folks.

9:56 am EST:
Update from the OR. (That's operating room, not Oregon. I do not know anyone in Oregon. Well, I do, but they aren't family. But my sister, Kathy, of the liberal waiting room media, has been to Oregon. Figures. Aren't they crazy liberals, too?)

The OR volunteer says: everything is "fine". I hate that word. "Fine" is so passive-aggressive. What does fine mean? They haven't really gotten started? My Dad's brain looks good? The surgery is almost done? The surgeon just locked on a tee time with his golf buddies? Why don't they blog from the operating room?

9:43 am EST:
Just got a text from my sister Kathy with an update on my Dad. Looks like the news from the next chair isn't any different from what I had. Wonder if Kathy is giving her news with a liberal spin?

Maybe I could be Fox news, my mom could be NPR and Kathy could be MSNBC. And I could talk about how the liberal media is skewing the updates and how it's really the fault of the Obama administration that my Dad has these aneurysms. I could also start TYPING IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE I AM REALLY, REALLY PISSED OFF ABOUT SOMETHING, RAR, RAR, FEDERAL TAKEOVERS, I'VE LOST MY FREEDOM, OBAMA, STATE'S RIGHTS, FISCAL SANITY, OBAMA IS THE DEVIL, BUY GOLD.

9:14 am EST:
Surgery has begun. The craniotomy is a 4-6 hour procedure. More updates around 10 am when one of the hospital volunteers gives updates to people waiting in the waiting room. She'll go back to surgery and get information on all of the patients and fill us in. In the meantime, it's Rachel Ray and People magazine.

7:45 am EST:
We're at the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, FL. My dad has checked into the surgery unit. I am eating greek yogurt and watching an ABC news segment about the new panda born... somewhere. San Diego? Washington DC? Missed that part.

No updates yet, though we don't believe he's in surgery yet. He is probably getting a really cool buzz cut on the left side of his head right now. Think good thoughts, everyone.

All in favor of chickens. say "Aye"

Aye!!

Is it bad that I sent the entire family out of the condo on a rainy Sunday morning? Dressed them up in rain slickers and snow pants and sent them on their way, ignoring their protests and cries of , “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! We want to stay with Mama!” and smiled sweetly as I pulled on their rain boots and told them to have fun catching frogs and newts or whatever else might be out there that would be sort of slimy and intriguing to the toddler/preschooler set.

Chris is always up for a walk outside, so I felt no guilt there. I felt a mild pang of guilt in shooing Ella and Jay out the door as the weather oscillates from a cold drizzly pitter-patter to a strong, gusty full-on downpour. But as I sip my coffee and sidle up to the computer for a good session of journaling, my guilt melts away. Or at least I can’t hear it ringing in my ears over Ella Fitzgerald on Pandora. Eh, we’ll put them in a warm shower when they get home and follow it up with a cup of chamomile tea. They probably won’t remember this experience in thirty years, anyway. And if they do, it might be because they are doing the exact same thing to their kids so that they can reclaim the tiniest schnibblit of sanity.

But hopefully they won’t remember it in fifty years when they are choosing my nursing home, and I’m all, “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo! I want to stay with YOU!” and they just smile sweetly and zip up my granny hoodie and orthopedic shoes as they shoo me and my walker out the door...

But who knows? Maybe they’ll actually have fun stomping in the rain puddles and catching frogs. And who knows? I might like Bingo and creamed corn.

So, really, I sat down to write about chickens. I want chickens. I have wanted to chickens for years. Egg providers, composters, entertainers, pets. Chickens are the overachievers of the animal world. And I want a flock of chickens so bad I can taste the fresh brown eggs.

When we bought the condo four years ago, it was understood that it was a starter home. Only a starter home. Something to earn us equity while we finished school and planned for our real home. A house. With a yard. Maybe even a small farm. With enough room for a huge, overflowing vegetable garden, berry bushes and some fruit trees. A bee hive and chickens would round it out. When Chris and I were both still in school, the condo made perfect sense. Who has time to mow the lawn or shovel snow when there are term papers to write and midterms to study for? And we’ve enjoyed being able to take off for an impromptu camping trip or day long road trip without worry about who will shut the hen house at night or collect eggs in the morning. We also haven’t had to worry about upkeep of the siding or replacing the furnace.

But lately our 1000 square feet on the third floor has seemed stifling. Incredibly limiting. Suffocating, almost. We crave more space, more room outside. The ability to fling open the back door and march the kids outside on a sunny day to play in the sandbox while we cook dinner or talk. The ability to step outside and pluck a fresh tomato from the vine or harvest kale or potatoes for dinner. And of course, the ability to collect fresh eggs for breakfast.

We have done the best we could with what we have. We have had a plot in the community garden a mile away every year that we have lived here. Our garden plot is bigger than our condo, at 1200 square feet. We spend as much time there as we can, but there is just something very different about having a mile in between your stove and your tomatoes. Sometimes that mile really makes a big difference. Plus, keeping bees and chickens there are against the rules.

We garden on our deck, the best we can too. We struggle since we have a very urban downstairs neighbor who abhors anything natural. She once called the condo association and complained because we had a hummingbird feeder. “ All birds poop,” she explained matter-of-factly to Chris.

We’ve had to take down our bird feeders, our bird houses and even limit what we plant on the deck because she has called the condo association more than once to report dirt falling between the cracks onto her patio from our upstairs deck.
Wonder what she would think about chickens roosting on our banister.
Wistfully, I pick up urban homesteading and simple living books from the library. “Get a set of chickens!” They advise. “They are cheap! Provide wonderful eggs! Easy to care for!” Urban chicken farming has really taken off the last several years. In many cities, it is quite common to see chickens picking their way through suburban lawns and roosting in backyard coops. Madison, Chicago, Seattle… urban chicks are chic. But trust me, I am not doing it because they are trendy (hey, don’t make fun of me. Trendy is relative, o.k?).

I want chickens because they just make sense. They eat your kitchen scraps and produce wonderful compost for the garden. They produce luscious, rich, colorful eggs. They are entertaining to watch strut around and peck at potato bugs. (Entertaining is also relative. We don’t have a T.V., ok.?) Did I mention the bit about the eggs? While Madison is chicken friendly, my condo is not. So, until the housing market picks up and we can sell this condo, I’ll have to continue to buy my eggs from the food co-op and longingly look though dreamy poultry catalogs (Hey don’t make fun of me. Dreamy is relative, o.k.?).

!!!

June 18, 2011.

Racing heart, sweaty palms, high spirits.

November 4th

Wisconsin will have a new governor, Madison will have a new congressman, and my Dad will have a new brain. Well, maybe not an entirely new brain, but hopefully a “good as new” brain. Maybe even a “better than new” brain. Unless that means he forgets everything from before, like who I am. That would be less than ideal. But then maybe I could reinvent myself and pretend that I never did shitty things as a teenager, like sneaking out… and getting busted for it. Or the many other things I’d prefer not to mention in case he still doesn’t know about them… Ha, ha. Kidding Dad! I totally never drank that bottle of gut rot gin that you kept under the kitchen sink! That would be really irresponsible! And also disgusting. And would make a person, fifteen years later, still puke into her mouth at the merest whiff of gin.

By the way, just want to say, very clever, Dad. Once Jay hits fifteen or so, Chris and I will be heading to the liquor store for the cheapest bottle of Nasty, and we’ll keep it, all innocent like, under the kitchen sink, you know for cooking and whatnot. And when he sneaks a nip late one Friday night after we’re asleep, and vomits on the living room floor, we’ll hold back our snickers, clean him up and watch him swear off alcohol for the next ten or so years.