Breathe

When our little boy was a baby, we used to call him Archie.  It's not that we're big All in the Family fans, but that he had this odd habit of arching in his sleep.  Sometimes, he'd arch until the very crown of his head rested on the pillow.  Like this:

 As you might imagine, we found this slightly disconcerting.


He's eight now, and still hasn't quite outgrown it.


















It was his father, who has the infuriating habit of always being right, who diagnosed the problem: adenoids were constricting his breathing; he had to arch his neck to open the airway. We got a second opinion from the pediatrician, and a third from an ear, nose, throat specialist. The adenoids had to go.

At 6:15 yesterday morning, we headed for the Otolaryngology Center. My mind, however, had gotten up early and run to Starbucks for a few double espressos. By the time I caught up with her, she had already cataloged every possible scenario that could end in death, from anesthesia overdose to zebra stampede. She likes to be thorough.

Just as I was giving my mind a stern talking-to for being irrational and melodramatic, the nurse asked my son to step on the scale so they could calculate the anesthesia properly.

"See," I scolded. "They know what they're doing."

But then the nurse carelessly flicked the metal pointer into the wrong slot and announced my son's weight at a full eight pounds off. 

My mind smirked, smugly.  "Uh huh. Told you so."

The nurse handed my son a sticker, to lighten things up a bit.



 

   


Grave Digger. My mind nearly peed her pants. I was beginning to wish I left her home to make jello and put sheets on the couch.

When it was time for the surgery to begin, my little boy held the nurse's hand and walked right into the operating room. He got all the courage in this family.

It wasn't until it was all over and I got to hold him again that I could finally breathe easy.






Hopefully, he'll be able to breathe easier now, too.


 

Love is a Battlefield

I was pretty holed up inside my own head as I cruised along Cantrell to retrieve my son from school. The day had been intense—over two hours in a high-rise conference room coaxing old memories out of their comfortable shadows. I've never been deposed before, never been asked to transform dusty memories into legal testimony in an ugly custody case. If you've never been commanded to do it, count yourself lucky; it's miserable work.

"Do you recall, in 2004, when So-and-so did such-and-such?"

Ma'am, I don't recall what color underwear I put on this morning.

I did my very best to answer the questions, one more intimate than the last, as honestly as possible, the weight of the task bearing down on me relentlessly. I didn't fully appreciate the enormity of it all going in, the pressure of having actual lives depend on my fading memory, but it became painfully clear. Hours later, I still can't shake the throb between my eyes.  Like I need help deepening that groove, thank you very much. It's not fair, really, to put such a burden on a person, to ask someone to shoulder the weight of your mistakes, forcing them to hold the dust pan as shards of your broken past are swept out of the darkest corners.

The lawyers dredged up every lurid detail they could think of—sex, money, the most personal of personal habits. 

"Were you aware that So-and-so did this-and-that?"

A shiver went down my spine as scenes of my own sordid past bubbled up in my memory. What if the spotlight was shining down on it? How would I be reflected in the mistakes of my youth? How would you?

It seemed they wouldn't stop until they asked every question they could think of.

Except one.

"What do you think is best for the children?"

As I allowed my car to roll along on autopilot, I slowly became conscious of a familiar voice on the radio: Pat Benatar, belting out an anthem from my youth. I haven't heard the song in years, but the events of the day gave it new meaning:

You're begging me to go
Then making me stay
Why do you hurt me so bad
It would help me to know
Do I stand in your way
Or am I the best thing you've had

Believe me
Believe me
I can't tell you why
But I'm trapped by your love
And I'm chained to your side


Love is a battlefield




Yes, yes it is.

Please Pass the Sugar

If your child's a picky eater like mine, I have a recipe for Thanksgiving turkey that is guaranteed to be a big hit at the kids' table. And it only requires one ingredient: sugar.


Thanksgiving Turkey Pops

Ingredients



Lollipop-shaped Sugar




Barrel-shaped Sugar




Fruit Slice-shaped Sugar




Worm-shaped Sugar



Mix all ingredients well.




Sweet!


They'll gobble them up.

Changing of the Guard

Today is the last day of summer vacation.

More to the point, today is the last day I get to share all my time with my boy. He's been my shadow all summer long—like a puppy, following close on my heels. It's been indescribably sweet, and I'm savoring the last hours.



Good puppy. Sit. Stay!


I could get good and sad about this special time coming to an end, if it weren't for the fact that all my days are filled with special time just like this. Only the faces change.








Who says teachers aren't paid well? I'm rich, I say, rich!

The Office

With the exception of the kitchen and dining room, which fell victim to the tragic wallpaper plague of the '70s, every wall in our new house is white. And not hip, modern white, either. Dingy, old lady white.

Like this—




We've lived here nine months. While some women piss away nine months making people, I used my time to make something really important—my first paint decision.



Morning Fog—Blue and Gray's Beautiful Love Child

I was so happy to finally have a can of paint in my hand that I sprinted to the checkout before that temptress Martha Stewart could lure me back down the aisle with her siren song of samples. I was halfway home before I realized that I might need some way to actually apply my beautiful new color to the walls. Details. I figured I must have some crusty old brush lying around a closet floor somewhere, maybe a roller that didn't have too many chunky bits.

And then I found this—


♫ Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! ♫

I'd forgotten all about it. My husband's sweet nephew drew my name for the Christmas gift exchange. He knows me well enough to understand what my idea of a perfect present is. He also knows me well enough to anticipate that I'd be too cheap and/or flaky to remember to buy this kind of stuff myself.

Thanks for a great present, Joe. I love my new office. And now that the old lady white is gone, I swear my husband looks ten years younger in there.

Superdan

There were two things worthy of celebration at our house today—

1. I am now one semester closer to finishing grad school.
2. It's almost summer in Arkansas and we needed jackets.

I'm seriously not sure which is bigger news in my book, but they both make me very, very happy.

We decided a celebration was in order, and as luck would have it, there was a festival in town—the Jewish Food Festival. After soaking in the music, culture, and delicious aromas, we made our lunch selections and found a seat by the river, enjoying our meals as we watched the children burn off their blintzes in a bouncy house.

Like this one—




Apparently a little distracted by his latkes, some clumsy reveler tripped over the cord, taking a bit of the bounce out of the house.

Like this one—



Well, my falafel was really good. So good, that I just sat there, chewing and gawking, as the house collapsed upon itself, trapping all the helpless children inside.

Thank baby Jesus my husband uses his head for something other than food intake, because he didn't even swallow before bolting into rescue mode. He dropped his plate and ran to the house, propping up the flaccid door as children wriggled out around his feet.

It was like he didn't even care that his kabob cost eight tickets.

I'm One Lucky Mother

Facebook is overflowing with articles, poems, pictures, songs and salutes to moms today. But it was this one that really got me thinking.

A real woman always keeps her house clean and organized, the laundry basket is always empty. She’s always well dressed, hair done. She never swears and behaves gracefully in all situations and under all circumstances. She has more than enough patience to take care of her family, always has a smile on her lips, and a kind word for everyone. ... Post this in your status if you too suspect that you might be a man.

My house is clean and organized. My laundry basket is always empty. Additionally, my fridge and cupboards are filled regularly, my bills are paid on time, my checkbook is balanced meticulously, my coffee is ready minutes before I wake, and my meals are cooked and served with love.

In my house, the Mother's Day accolades aren't mine, they're his—





It doesn't make me less of a woman that I don't take care of these household chores. It makes him more of a man.

Especially when he wears that hat.

About Face

I sat for a long time this morning, considering the face in the mirror, surveying the damage like a landlord deciding whether or not to return the security deposit. When did all these spots get here? Brown and red, small and not so small. And lines. Long ones between the brows from years of reading with expression, small ones framing the lips from hours of shushing noisy children. Above the face, errant grays, below it, gathering jowls. I see my mother. Oh Sweet Jesus, right there, on the left cheek, my Grandmother.

Happy birthday?

Some people are gracious about aging, mature, grown up. They see their wrinkles as the reward of years of laughter and love. Their spots and splotches are badges of honor from time well spent.

I'm not one of those people. I just see middle-age. And I liked youth better.

I am 46 today. I can almost feel myself cresting the peak, beginning the steady descent. Let's just hope Frank Sinatra was right—the best is yet to come.

As I scrutinize this tired face, my son's voice intrudes on my self-pity. He is laughing and chattering like only children do. Beyond him, the familiar sounds of my husband, fixing lunches and pouring egg nog into my coffee, just the way I like it.

I'd trade this old face for a young one in a second. But not if it meant returning to a life before them. I may even take a new wrinkle or two, if that's what it took to keep them.



Happy birthday indeed.

Keeping His Head

.
My seven-year-old has a mind of his own. Even when he doesn't have a head.




He never wants to be whatever the popular costume is. Never a transformer or a superhero. Never anything Disney. And I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise. When your kid was watching Batman cartoons, ours was memorizing Michael Jackson's zombie moves in Thriller.

Last year he was a mummy. This year, The Headless Horseman.





He loved it, for about 12 minutes.

Then the shoulders started slipping.





And the layers got too hot.





So he ended up trick or treating in black jeans and his mom's white button down shirt. When people asked what he was, he called himself a cowboy.

But I think he's an angel.





Or a Muslim woman going to disco.
.

My Little Tiger

And he's still got that new cub smell.
. .