Leaving the stroller in the car - an unexpected milestone

"Oh, you don't need that."M said to our friends, gesturing to the stroller they had just pulled out of the trunk and were snapping open.They looked at him, confusion written on both their faces.

"Uh, honey, yes they do. Their kid doesn't walk yet, and she's heavy." I gestured to the one year old perched on her mother's hip, struggling to be put on the muddy ground.


Our own two kids were standing nearby, patiently waiting for everyone to gather their things. M looked down at them, light dawning. Little L has been a good enough walker and listener for months now that the stroller has truly become more of a hindrance than a help. A year ago we would never have dared leave the house without making sure that we had a) the stroller, b) the sling, and c) another back-up mode of transportation with us. Today we've finally reached a point in our lives where we can just grab our keys and dash out the door. No diaper bag, no stroller, no sippy cups and snacks, nothing but the kids and us.

It's a bittersweet milestone to have reached. A sign that my little one really isn't a baby any more. As she's so proud to proclaim, she's a "big girl" now. We've moved on from being a family with a young child. We're a family of four; two little girls and two grown-ups, no more babies here.

I've been sad these past few weeks, seeing how big Little L has gotten. She's wearing 3T clothing, talks a blue streak, and does a million other things that prove that she's no longer a baby. But I mainly notice it when I hold her in my arms or cuddle with her on the couch. She's all arms and legs. There's no way to tuck her against me the way I've always done. She's outgrowing her toddler body and morphing into a preschooler and it's been killing me to see the last of her babyhood slip away.

I grabbed Little L's hand, C grabbed her daddy's hand, and the four of us headed towards the entrance of the Marine Biology Center we were there to visit. Both girls skipped along, excited to go pet the star-fish. I clasped the little hand tucked tight in mine and smiled down at the little girl bouncing by my side as she chatted about the fish we were about to see and the massive whale skeleton we passed by the front. As we moved onto the paved sidewalk I heard the rattle of my friend's stroller behind me. Little L squeezed my hand and pulled me towards the door. I smiled even wider. Going from baby to little girl isn't all bitter, some days it's downright sweet.

This post was inspired by the Sunday Scribblings post Milestone. I hope you'll take time to go over and discover how other writers were moved by the topic.

Friday Flashback: Some days it's all about perspective

Friday Flashback is all about bringing to light some of my favorite posts from my archives to breathe new life into them. I was going to repost this because I'm having more asthma med issues and I desperately need to place an order to the Canadian pharmacy. But then I saw this one and I realized that this weekend is the first anniversary of Tuesday's death. This is for her. And for me. Because once again I needed the perspective reminder. This was originally posted in January 09. 

Some Days it's All About Perspective

I woke up to an email from an editor saying that the publication for which I was writing my first print article was going on an extended hiatus. For a year or so. She said this in reply to an email sent by me the night before, letting her know that I was on track for my Monday deadline. I salvaged the situation as best as possible, but to say that I was disappointed would be the understatement of the year.

I checked the rest of my email and found out that a dear friend's new baby is terribly colicky. She's going insane what with the no sleep and non stop screaming. Right then my disappointment seemed petty.

I checked some more email and learned that somewhere in the blogosphere two parents brought home their 2 year old daughter so they could watch her die. Her cancer has become so aggressive treatment isn't an option. What's a missed writing opportunity in comparison to the death of a child?

I hugged my children close and took them to school and daycare. Then I sat down to salvage my day. I sent emails and worked on some projects. Then I answered a call from my husband. He was delirious, hardly making any sense. He sounded like he was crying and laughing at the same time. He'd thought he was better from his flu and had gone to work. He was on his way back home, freaked out by the incessant chills.

I dropped everything, rushed to pick C up from school so I could take her to daycare early. I hurried home to see what was wrong with M. I found him shaking in bed, burning up, lethargic, completely out of sorts. One frantic phone call later to his sister, our internist, and we were in the car headed to see her. Shortly after that we were headed to a nearby radiology office, script for lung x-rays in hand. We didn't learn until later that he didn't have pneumonia, just a terrible case of the flu.

I took him home and put him to bed, I went out to get his meds, and then I sat on the couch to try to get a tiny bit of work done before going to collect the girls. Unfortunately, I was too riled up from my pharmacy trip to get anything worthwhile done.

It was a long and very frustrating day. It was filled with disappointment, sadness, fear, and frustration. The kids sensed all this and were extra challenging tonight. In fact, it's 11pm and for some reason Little L won't sleep. Instead she just keeps crying and fussing.

But I just learned that that little girl passed away today. So I'm going to take my tear stained face and go cuddle gratefully in bed with my grumpy daughter and sick husband, because even though I had a truly terrible day, I know it could have been so very much worse.

The Prednisone side effects are killing me

I really wanted to write a tongue in cheek post with all the Prednisone side effects and how many of them I had, but then I actually found a full list and a) was horrified at the sheer length of the list and b) relieved that I actually have so few of them.

That said, blegh. Seriously. Just blegh.

Because even if I don't have 90% of the truly horrible side effects I am dealing with my fair share. In fact, I think that this stuff might slowly be killing me.

My body is being randomly attacked by violent flushing. One moment it's my left cheek, the next it's my right thigh. This afternoon it was my right upper arm. The skin turns bright red and starts to burn. Then it slowly radiates out. It's hard to say if the face flushing or the leg flushing is worse. I hate both.

I've been taken over by insane mood swings that keep making M duck for cover. He has no clue if he's going to have super happy cheery Jessica or down in the dumps bluesy Jessica. Neither do I. I don't enjoy not controlling my moods like this. It's one of the reasons I don't use hormonal birth control.

I'm tired, I'm sluggish, I'm grumpy and irritable. I'm just not myself. I feel flu-ish and gross, my mouth constantly tastes nasty, and there's no way I can drink enough water to make the taste go away. And to make matters worse I can't sleep. I want to sleep. I'm tired. The girls are even cooperating. But all I can manage is a light doze. It's not helping with the grumpy, irritable thing. At all.

But, all whining aside, the meds seem to be working. The bumpiness of the rash has started to smooth out, and the spots seem to be fading. I'm pretty sure that what's being left behind is some hyper-pigmentation of the skin, but I have hope that in time that will fade. Or it will if I can survive the next 9 days on this poison without bursting into flames.

A little Coco Chanel Flashback - SV Moms Bookclub

It was at the end of a street near the Champs Elysees. I walked by it all the time on my way to the movies, to a restaurant, to meet some friends. It was a fixture in my life, a fixture I rarely looked at let alone went into.

Why would I? Chanel was a store for old ladies. Old fuddy duddy ladies. All those woolen suits. All that bling before bling was hip. At times I would note that the suits were a tad more purple than the last season, or that pink was particularly prominent that year. But I never, ever felt the urge to go in.

It amazes me that something that felt so distant to me is something I remember clearly whenever I walk down that street in my mind. I couldn't tell you what the stores around that Chanel boutique contained, but I remember that store so clearly.

It is for me one of the landmarks that portray my home town to me, so much so that when I see a picture of Jacqueline Onassis Kennedy, wearing one of her trademark Chanel suits, or when I actually see someone in the street with one (rare, but not unheard of) I'm instantly transported back to that street corner and feel like I'm walking towards and evening of fun with my friends.

This post was loosely inspired by the Silicon Valley Moms Blog bookclub pick of the month Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh. Be sure to visit the Silicon Valley Moms Blog to see other posts inspired by the novel.                                                                                 

Wordless Wednesday: Birth of a Rock Star

Can't stand it! What is it going to be?

Oh! Yes! Oh! Yes!

(She's kissing it...)

 

Pink!

For Debutante Rock Stars

Who really feel the music.

Daddy's going to teach me!

If he can share the guitar that is...

Happy Wordless Wednesday!

Write of Passage: Dialogue in the night

"Here." I snarl, thrusting the screaming pink bundle at the bewildered girl. She shies away from me, but I insist, dropping the hysterical child onto her lap. "You woke her up. You put her back to sleep."

The girl gapes at me, looks at me like I am the crazy woman I must appear to be, but she leans forward, one hand on the baby, and puts her beer down on the porch. She throws me an unreadable look before awkwardly scooping up the infant. Her two friends have yet to utter a word.

"Shhh shhhh. There there." She says hesitantly. She places the baby on her shoulder like it's a loaded gun. The infant takes that as a prompt to scream even louder. The girl's eyes roll wildly and she tries shhhing a hair louder while frantically looking at her friends for guidance.

They shrug helplessly and she looks at me, standing there, with my arms crossed in front of me.

"Don't look at me. You do this every night. You sit out here with any number of people, laughing and talking all night long. Every single time you laugh, you wake her up. It takes me hours sometimes to get her back to sleep. This time you deal. Got it?"

She nods weakly and tries to pat the baby's back again. But I know my child, that's not going to do the trick. Nothing is going to do the trick. It's going to take hours of rocking, crooning, bouncing, humming, and eventually a feed to get her to stop shrieking and go back to sleep. But I'm not telling her that. Not yet. I'm going to make her sweat a little first. Going to let her feel a little of the misery she puts me through every night.

She stands up and jostles the baby a bit, trying to rock her. "It's ok baby. It's ok. Go back to sleep baby." The movement and the unfamiliar voice infuriate the baby even more and the screams reach an unholy pitch.

She pulls the infant away from her shoulder and holds her out towards me.

"Please. Please, just take her back." Her eyes are filling with tears and I start to take pity. I reach for my writing baby who is so relieved to be back in my arms that she settles down instantly, snuggled deep in the crook of my neck, peering out intently at the crying girl.

"Every night you do this. Every. Single. Night." I turn around and walk away, taking my now peaceful child into our home across the street. As I step back into my bedroom I hear the girl sobbing through the window that looks out onto her porch; I don't feel an ounce of remorse.

For twelve months my second daughter slept in our room which overlooks the street. On many nights the girl living across the street would stay up until all hours of the night having loud, gleeful conversations with her friends on her porch. Their bursts of laughter often woke my very light sleeper and as I rocked her back to sleep again, and again, and again I fantasized about walking across the street and making her take over for me while I went back to sleep. I might have danced a jig the day she moved.

This post was written in response to a Write-of-Passage prompt. click any one of the links below to see how other writers handled the prompt "Dialogue." 

Home of childhood dreams

It's was a pretty nondescript house about an hour south of Paris. It sits in the suburbs of a small town, nothing around for miles except for other nondescript homes. The house itself sits at the top of a pretty big lot, surrounded by trees.

It was my grandmother's house, though she didn't live there. My aunts and my mother took turns using it as a weekend getaway. It's still sitting there. My mother an her sisters all inherited it. The plan is to sell it, but it's hard to sever the connection that we all have to it.

For my aunts and my mother it was a place to escape every day life. To us it was paradise.

From the attic - packed to the gills with a zillion odds and ends that my grandmother had accumulated over the years, to the ends of the overgrown garden, my sisters, cousins, and I spent countless hours playing, exploring, discovering treasures.

I know exactly where I lost a molar under the pine trees. I can tell you exactly where the beautiful crystal champagne glasses can be found in the attic. I can recall countless games played on the dining room table. And endless books read curled up in the mismatched armchairs in front of the fire.

I remember chopping wood for the fire, and the creaky swing set in the back yard. I'm willing to bet some of our toys are still buried in the sand pit, long since covered with wild grass. I can picture myself sitting in the windowsill, basking in the sun, watching the cat play in the tall grass.

Every inch of that place holds a memory from my childhood clear through to the weekend before I left France to come live in the US. 

My children have never been there, nor will they probably ever go. Their weekend get away is in a different country, a different world.

Where my home was all clutter, dust, knickknacks, and collective memories, off in the French countryside, their weekend home is on the beach, spotless, neat, organized, and completely different.

I watched them there this morning, sitting at a round table, coloring and giggling, the sun glinting off the water in the background. These will be their childhood memories. Playing on the beach instead of hide and seek in the pines. Coloring at a marble table instead of playing with mosaics on a tile floor. Bunk beds instead of ancient double beds.

A part of me wishes that I could take them back and share with them what made me love that place so much, and another part of me realizes that I'd never be able to bring it to life quite well enough. We don't live near enough for them to learn to get to know its nooks and cranys the way I do. It's not something that could happen during a one week stay.

I'll have to be content with letting them discover this place through my stories, and they'll just have to spin their own childhood memories.

We have a diagnosis!

At long last, after dealing with this rash for five months now, I finally found a doctor who was willing to bite the bullet and diagnose my condition.

Lichen Planus. 

I know! I could hardly contain my excitement either. (Don't Google it. Trust me.)

And get this, the nice doctor even prescribed the drug that I was asking for... well, actually, begging for from the last doctor. Same doctor who, it's true, did hypothesize that I had this very condition, but followed up her diagnosis with a dour "But that would really be a shame because there's no cure."

This doctor did not have the same negative attitude at all. She actually seemed quite upbeat about the whole thing, despite mentioning that this was a pretty bad case as bad cases go.

We start with a two week course of Prednisone. If that doesn't do the trick we move on to something a bit more hard core. And if that still doesn't work we move on to light therapy treatment.

I didn't walk out of there with a rash free body. But I did walk out with the conviction that someone was going to help me get there and maybe a few tears in my eyes. It's just such a relief to know that the end is in sight.

Some days you have nothing

Some days you really want to write about something deep, something that's troubling you, a thought or ten that have been playing around in your head, chasing its own tail. Some days you really feel that you could open up that blog browser and really write.

You have the topic. You know what you want to say. But when you finally go to type what comes out is flat, soulless, uninspiring, even to you.

So you play around with it. Then you walk away to see if when you come back you'll be more inspired. 

And then you're not. So you ponder what to do. Do you post something blah? Do you not post at all? Do you table the thoughts you had because you know they're leading to something, you just don't have it in you right then to dig deep enough to make them sing?

Is nothing better than nothing good?

It's important for a writer to write every day, to exercise those creative muscles, no matter what you put down. But it's one thing to write drivel in your private journal and a whole other to impose it on your blog readers. And yet, knowing that you're going to hit publish might be the one thing that really pushes you to dig to the place you were loath to go.

And sometimes even the publish button won't be able to get you there. And on those days you're faced with the question - do I deal with this topic lightly or do I just wait?

Tonight I waited. Instead you got this. Sorry 'bout that.

Wordless Wednesday: From Pretty to Messy

How do cupcakes this cute...

Become a mess this big?

I dunno!
Wait? Is there something on my face?

* Edited to add: Delicious cookies came from http://www.sibbyscupcakery.com. My baking skills aren't up to par with her amazing talent!

A quiet week at long last

Chaos has reigned for weeks. Good chaos. Bad chaos. Constant chaos. I've been going non stop with my eye on this week. This week has been getting me through like a beacon.

I have no appointments. No urgent deadlines. Nothing to fill my mornings.

For the first time in weeks I'm going to have time to work on my novel and deal with other projects that I've sorely neglected. And yes, I'm also going to have time to take my rash to yet another doctor. Though at the rate it's fading, by the time my Thursday appointment rolls around there might not be anything left to biopsy. Reducing stress has its merits.

Before I go to bed tonight I'm going to write a few emails and put together a to do list of the things I'm going to work on in the morning.

Wait. No. Let me do that right now.

1 - Work on novel.
2 - More of the same.

I can't wait. It's going to be a glorious morning.

(And if this post is prompting you to email me with a zillion things you need me to do, please don't. kthnksbai.)

It's not about our need for information, it's about their need for safety. More on the Bresma Orphans of Haiti.

For many reasons I've been beyond overwhelmed these last few weeks, so when I first heard about the Haiti earthquake I refused to focus on it. First, I can only handle so much earthquake disaster information before I start to get paranoid and wonder how much water we have in the house and where I should stash extra diapers, Second, I selfishly didn't have the emotional bandwidth for it.

Plus, I'll admit it, I didn't quite realize the damage an earthquake can cause on a poverty stricken island.

Then, late Thursday night, a friend pointed me to this site and despite being exhausted I stayed up way too late reading everything I could about the plight of the orphans of Bresma.

I just keep thinking of the parents who were weeks away from flying to Haiti to go collect the children they have been in the process of adopting for years. They love these babies. And they're a world away from them, unable to stop their suffering. As a mom it kills me. If C and Little L were starving, parched, and sick, not to mention terrified and in mortal danger, and I couldn't get to them? I'd be going insane.

This story tugged at my heartstrings. I did what tiny bit I could for these 150 orphans and their two American caregivers. I donated money to their church and started spreading the word on Twitter and to all the online mom's groups I'm a part of.

By the next day information about the orphanage was flying around the world. People were rushing to do their part - big or small. For a while it seemed like we were helping - planes were found, CNN went to visit them, politicians and Hollywood stars were getting involved.

And then news stopped arriving from the orphanage. People started wondering at the lack of information, at the cloak and dagger actions, at the conflicting reports. People hungry for news spread any information they heard, whether it was accurate or not. And sadly much of what was reported was inaccurate. Even what was reported by CNN.

The problem with the Internet is that it makes us used to instant gratification. We order books and get them the next day, we order movies and get them that very second, we even reach out to a friend and get a speedy reply. So the frustration of not seeing efforts rewarded with instant fixes leads to unrest.

I'm not saying I know what's really going on either in Haiti or at Bresma. I can't fathom what's happening over there. But I can wrap my brain around the fact that the #1 concern of the people over there isn't to reward the Internet with play by play reports of what's happening., it's to keep themselves and the kids safe.

So if texting, tweeting, or blogging their location, their status, what supplies they have, or any of that might put them at risk from looters, I'm fine with not knowing. This isn't about my need to know, this is about kids and people struggling to stay alive in a world that is getting scarier by the moment.

We all just need to be patient and do what we can to help, even if that means sitting still, not sharing information that hasn't been verified, and not spouting off when our curiosity isn't instantly  fed.

Key Bresma Links: 
To learn more about the Bresma Orphans:  That's Church
To stay updated with verified information as it becomes available:  Jane Pitt's Twitter Stream or the Let's Help Them Get Out of Haiti Facebook page.
Very recent interview with a person who works with the orphanage: http://www.wpxi.com/news/22261745/detail.html

Grassroots Social Media saving Bresma Orphans. HELP!

If you follow me on Twitter or are friends with me on Facebook you might have noticed that I've been obsessing about the Bresma Orphans since last night.

I can't help it. They're babies. They're in danger. And we can help.

You can help.

Read all about the situation and see what you can do (yes, even without getting out of your chair.) here: http://www.svmoms.com/2010/01/saving-the-bresma-orphans-of-haiti.html

It might just be a tweet, an email, a facebook message that tips the scale in their favor. What if it were yours?

When the door shuts look around to see what windows have opened.

I've always believed that there are no "right" decisions in life. You weigh the pros and the cons. You decide. And you move on. Spending the rest of your life thinking that you maybe made the wrong decision and regretting your choice is a waste of time.

I believe that the only way to get through life is to decide and then make that decision be the right one. You deal. As Tim Gunn says, you take what you have and you make it work. And if it doesn't turn out quite right, then you make a new decision and you move on. Not back. On.

My sister fully believes that everything in life happens for a reason. And there are people who will tell you that God shuts doors to make you look around to find open windows. Now I'm not the most religious of people (In fact, it might be possible that I'm still on a break from religion. Working for a synagogue for six years does things to your faith.), but I like that notion. It means that when things don't go quite as planned, you can look around you and see what other options and opportunities have materialized instead of wailing about the change.

I've made a ton of changes to my life in the last year and a half. I've entertained more than half a dozen new careers. I've thrown myself at challenges and obstacles. I've piled on the work, at times making myself sick from exhaustion. And now that I'm at a place where I'm finally able to start sifting through the wreckage of what I've made of my life, I'm having to fight the notion that this past year and a half was one big failure and a waste of my time.

Just because it's not all turning out to be worthwhile doesn't mean it didn't serve it's purpose. And just because none of it made me rich doesn't mean it didn't have value.

I wrote a book. I tried a few careers. I learned a ton about myself. I matured. I made some great friends. I regained my sense of self worth and self appreciation. I've extended myself in directions I didn't know even existed.

Sure I'm stressed. Fine that stress has caused me to break out in an undiagnosable rash. But I'm OK with that. It's my body's way of saying "OK, enough with the experimenting. It's time to close a few windows and focus on what's in the room."

I chose a door and opened it before stepping through it.It might not be the room I thought I'd find myself in, but it's a good place and I'm going to stay here for a while, see if I can make it mine.

On the fringe, even in the middle

I watched her hovering near the back door. Snowballs were flying fast and furious and she was clearly torn between staying away, where it was safe, and throwing herself into the fray.

With a final longing look at the warmth and safety of the kitchen she leaned forward and scooped up a handful of snow. She threw it blindly at her little brother and dashed towards the swingset.

"This is home base!" She called as her hand connected with the swing. "You can't get me here!"

She was now closer to the action, but her declaration had once again set her safely away from the thick of it. The smile pasted on her face as she ran faded and was once again replaced with longing. But this time she didn't let go of the swing, didn't put herself in the middle again. She was safe. Alone, isolated, but safe.

I watched her sadly. She so wanted to be in there having fun with everyone throwing snow around, laughing hysterically as it dripped down their backs into their pants. I wanted to go over and encourage her, tell her it would be ok to relinquish control for a moment, to let herself go.

Instead I lifted my camera to my eye and snapped a picture of her sad face.

C came into blurry focus in the viewfinder just as I was about to take another, snow filled mitten raised, aiming directly at me.

"No! Not me! I have the camera!" 

Her face fell for a moment, then she shrugged and turned, pelting her uncle in the back.

I smiled and raised the camera to my face again. Snow and laughter whirled around me and I looked longingly at the powder at my feet. Maybe I could find a safe spot to put down the camera and join in the fun... But every surface glistened with wet snow.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I was drawn to my niece's plight because it was the same as mine. I knew how she felt because it was how I felt - wanting to be in the middle of the fun, not knowing how to bridge the gap between the fringe and the inner circle. Wanting to play, not wanting to get wet and messy.

Snow swirled around my island of safety. With an expensive camera in hand no one would dare pelt me with a snowball. I was not languishing by the house or near the swing set, but I was no less holding back than the child I framed in the shot. Just as the shutter closed she let go of the swing with a shriek and threw herself into the snowball fight with complete abandon. Her giggles filled the yard, joining her cousin and parent's giggles.

I just took another picture.

Wordless Wednesday: perspective

Happy Wordless Wednesday.

The moment just before change

I drove towards the new doctor's office focusing hard on both my breathing and the speed limit. Being stopped by a cop would do nothing to ease my anxiety or to get me to the medical office faster. I waited patiently at the light and tried hard not to finger the lump in my neck.

To the world I was going to the doctor to see about the rash that has plagued me for months. To myself I was going to see about the lump that was increasingly worrying me.

Don't Google "Lump in Neck." It's not good.

As I peered at the street numbers, I took in the trees and the people walking by. It all looked so ordinary. So normal. My hand stole to my neck and I wondered how it would all look tomorrow if the doctor's diagnosis were life changing. Would that tree still look so ordinary? Would those people still be nondescript?

I thought about my life and wondered what I would regret taking for granted. I thought about the hugs I had gotten from my kids when I dropped them off, the kiss M gave me as he headed off to work. How would I feel if I knew they were numbered?

The lump turned out to be nothing. A swollen lymph node. Probably inflamed in response to the rash. And when I left the doctor's office the trees were still ordinary trees and the people were still nondescript. But the kisses I got from the girls at pick-up tasted sweeter and the hug I got from M when he got home did too.

There are so many things that we take for granted every day. And while it's impossible to always live in the moment and to be hyper aware of every little detail, I'm glad I got a brief reminder to take notice of the important details in my life.

My lymph node is still inflamed and I'm finding myself fingering it just as often as I did before I knew it was benign. I touch my neck when I get irritated at the girls for taking too long to get dressed or to eat their meals. I poke at the lump when I'm annoyed at being in traffic. It's my constant reminder that life could be much more complicated, that it could also be much more fleeting.

Elusive brilliance

The idea always strikes at a moment when neither pen nor paper are handy - in the car, in the shower, while changing a diaper. You swear you're going to remember, you chant it like a mantra for a few minutes to make sure the idea sticks, you even start to write the post in your head.

You smile to yourself, sure that you've hit on the great blog post. The one everyone is going to rush to comment on, the one that you're going to share with pride on Stumble Upon, momShare, Kirtsy, Facebook, and everywhere. The one that you'll mention with pride when people ask you about your best post ever.

Then you finally get a moment to sit in front of a computer. You launch the browser and...

Nothing.

Complete and utter blank. No brilliant post. Not even a mediocre or piss-poor post. Just nothing.

You search your brain desperately for that spark of brilliance. Some nights you catch a glimpse of it and you pick at it until the idea comes back to you. But all too often there's just nothing.

So you write something, anything, whatever comes to mind. And you swear to yourself that you'll be better about taking notes next time. Then you post and lament the fact that once again the perfect post has eluded you, that the world will have to wait for your brilliance.

Pat on the back to the people who guessed that, yes, tonight I blanked on the perfect post that I spent much of the afternoon compiling in my head. Now where's that notebook again?...

A night off

For well over a year now I have stuck to a very strict blogging schedule: Sunday through Friday. Every day without fail, except for some Fridays. It's good for me. I love ending my day with a blog post. I love the discipline it takes to be so consistent. And frankly I just love blogging, so it works. Plus, I have a bit of a touch of the "if I stop I might never start again" syndrome. Just ask my journal. Oh, my poor neglected journal...

For the most part, this blogging schedule isn't a hardship, it's more of a reward, the carrot on the stick that gets me through my day. But I can't lie, some nights I scramble for something to post. The day has been hard or long or just draining and I have nothing.

Those are the nights I post a picture or a cute quip.

And then there are days like yesterday where I couldn't even come up with that.

I drove home late from a Mom's Night Out evening where I had joked and laughed with a group of women who don't blog, don't Facebook, and don't Twitter. It was an evening in a different world. And when I got home I faced reentry into virtual land and I couldn't do it. Couldn't pull out my computer, couldn't open the browser, and most importantly, couldn't find a single thing about my day that I wanted to share online.

Over the last month or so the need to unplug has gotten stronger and stronger. Before working at Tiny Prints I had gotten into the habit of keeping my weekends as computer free as possible. When I had to ad an extra 25 hours a week of work into the mix, much of what I was doing during the afternoon got bumped to the weekends, so I was back online 7 days a week.

And even for an addict like myself that's neither healthy nor pleasurable.

This week I quit one of my many jobs (not the Tiny Prints one) and I gave myself the breathing room I was craving. In two weeks or so I'll be back to being able to unplug every weekend. I really can't wait. Both so I can get back to really enjoying weekends with my family and so I can go back to enjoying being online all week.

Last night when I stepped away from the computer without turning it on I took a step back towards blogging for pleasure and not as a chore. I'll still be blogging as regularly as usual, but if I miss one night here or there I won't feel like the world is about to spin out of control. It seems like a healthier approach all around.

No, it's not contact dermatitis

Some three months or more ago I had an itchy scratchy patch on my belly. I did nothing about it. Then it grew. And I still did nothing about it. Then there was a second patch. And a third. So I went to see a dermatologist.

I know, you're going to be shocked, but she told me I had contact dermatitis*.

I took the cortisone cream she prescribed and went my merry way.

A month later I was back in her office. The rash was now all over my stomach and back. 

We graduated from "contact dermatitis" to "Huh. I don't really know what that is, let's try this steroid lotion."

Cost of steroid lotion: $375.
Coupon helpfully handed out by dermatologist: $50.
Cream bought by me: none. 

A month later I was back in her office. The rash was now all over. Back, stomach, legs, arms. The works.

A tube of steroid lotion to the person who guesses what the dermatologist said...

That's right! Good job. Sorry, I never bought the lotion, can't have any. 

She said: "Wow. That is interesting. But I still have no idea what it is. Let's try this other cream."

I didn't go back to see her again. That was over a month ago and, surprise surprise, my rash is still as bad.

So tomorrow I'm trying something new. I'm going to see an Internist. I'm not holding my breath, I doubt I'll come home miraculously cured, but at least this one might resist rolling her eyes when I mention that I might need a blood test or something. I mean, a girl can hope, right? Because if things progress at this rate I'm going to be a shoo in for a role as a lizard in the next season of V.


*Dermatologist speak for "you have a rash."

Wordless Wednesday: Hair yesterday, gone today.

Sunday Noon.

(Pardon the terrible picture taken from my phone.)

Sunday afternoon. Poof.

Swirly.

But seriously, whatcha lookin' at?

Move on now please.

Or my sister is going to show you her scary face.

Eeeeeeee!

Happy (not so) Wordless Wednesday!

Starbucks - my island of sanity

Most people run into Starbucks to grab a cup of something that will help them kick start their day or pick up their afternoon. They head straight for the counter, glancing at the pastries hiding behind their glass bubble, order their usual, move to the end of the bar, collect their cup, and rush out.

Not me. I walk in and instantly look for a table. I sit down, set up shop, and wait for the line to thin so I can get my cup of drip coffee - grande, half caf/half decaf. My coffee moment isn't about the buzz. In fact, it's not even about the coffee. That's just a perk. I go to Starbucks because it's my haven, the place where time stops, and the world stops spinning long enough for me to catch my breath.

When I'm there, in my corner table, with my laptop, my coffee, my to-do notebook, I feel calm, in control. I'm working towards my goals, I'm working for me. I don't feel pulled in twenty directions, I don't feel like I'm scrambling to finish something so I can get on to the next ten tasks.

It's my little island of sanity. The place I can surface, breathe, look around, replenish myself before gulping some air and diving deep again. I'm there for a chunk of uninterrupted time. I can't really talk on the phone and there are no children vying for my attention. I can crack open my to do notebook and work my way down the list. In an hour I can feel like I've accomplished a ton, and I feel in control again.

Outside the glass doors the demands and needs of others swirl like a vortex threatening to catch me up and toss me around. I rush to work, dash to pick up the kids, hurry to the store, the gas station, home, always trying to stay three moves ahead while at the same time keeping everything from escaping my brain. My to do list lives in my head until I can find a moment to jot it down. I live in fear of forgetting something crucial.

The irony is that the constant noise and commotion inside Starbucks is what keeps me focused. Maybe it's a reminder of hours spent in school libraries, though my mother would be the first to tell you that I never did much work in those libraries. Or many it's just comforting being surrounded by so many people enjoying their own brand of comfort. It's a happy place. Most people come to hang out with friends or work on exciting projects. It's a positive space and it feels good to be immersed in that energy.

Then, when the clock ticks and it's time to leave, I gather my things, slide my computer into it's case, pack up my to do list, my favorite pen, my glasses, and slip past people pushing to get in for their afternoon caffeine fix. And I smile when I get into the car because the smell of roasted coffee beans clings to my shirt and my hair, allowing me one last hit of zen as I turn to face the rest of the day.

Getting my geek on

On my suitcase I have a luggage tag that reads "Everyone loves a Geeky Girl." I got it from someone at BlogHer this summer and it makes me smile, because while I've always been a geek to a certain extent, it's only now that it's somewhat becoming cool to be a geek.*

I'm loving it.

Yesterday I proved my geek to M by going on Facebook to find a sitter so that we could go see Avatar again. Yes again. It's that good. And shh. I'm a geek. That's what this whole post is about.

The traditional calling around to all the usual suspects had failed us and we were a tad desperate to get a sitter, so I jumped on Facebook and sent out the following message:  

Any of my fave sitters who might still be in town want to make a couple bucks before heading back to school? We want to go see Avatar (again...) tonight! Lemme know!

Twenty minutes later we had a sitter lined up. Ironically it was one of the girls we had called on the phone. She checked her Facebook before her voicemails.

So there you go, to go see a geeky** movie you have to use a geeky technique to score childcare. The fact that we completely failed at getting tickets to what turned out to be a sold out show does not negate the total and utter geeky win for the afternoon. Even though we could have used the Internet to buy said tickets, thus turning the evening into a trifecta of geekiness. What can I say, you just can't win them all.


*My brother-in-law contends that only geeks believe that this is true, or at the very least that this is only true in the San Francisco Bay Area, but really, what does he know?
**We saw Avatar before it became the hot movie of the year to see. When it was still geeky and not cool. And for the record I also saw Titanic before it became the cheese icon of the century.