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Make Mine A Double.

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This is a repost of something I wrote a few months after starting this blog. In honor of my twins’ birthday, I shared their birth story – which started with a trip to the hair salon and ended with my husband almost passing out.

I think it’s a good one. So here it is again. Hope you enjoy hearing it as much as I love telling it. To everyone. Pretty much anywhere. No matter how disinterested they may be…

Exactly five years ago (give or take a week), I looked like this:

And yes – it was just as uncomfortable as it appears. And what is even more outrageous is that I remember looking at that picture and thinking it was “flattering” – that it made my stomach look less gigantic than it actually was. So apparently, I was even bigger in real life. People who have never been pregnant before can pick themselves up off the floor now. It’s not like that happens overnight. You do have some time to get used to it.

Enough about my enormous stomach though. I am showing embarrassing pictures of myself as an opening for the story of the birth of my twins. It’s their birthday! On October 9, 2006, at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) I gave birth to George and Eleanor Hood. They looked like this shortly after they departed my body:

And no – they were not nearly as angelic as they appear. Actually, they were perfectly sweet babies – it’s just that there were two of them. And having had one newborn already – I knew the difference between one screaming baby and two screaming babies. It’s simple math: 2 x 1 baby = 1 seriously deranged mother. But that’s another story.

On the morning of October 9, 2006, I had a feeling that the end was near. While my scheduled c-section (my “baby A,” George was breech) wasn’t supposed to take place for another week, I just didn’t feel right. And of course I was already four centimeters dilated and showing some “signs” that are TMI for even this blog. Also, we had just moved into a new house three weeks prior and I was still carrying my 35 lb. 18 month old up and down the stairs. This probably helped to speed things along.

The bags were packed and waiting by the door and I was finally resigned to the fact that George was not going to turn over for me, and I would have to have my first experience with surgery. Awake. One word: barbaric.

We were as ready as we were ever going to be – and I decided that I would spend the day trying to wrap things up at work, even though it was a federal holiday and the office was closed. It’s like I knew…

I won’t get into the details of the day – mainly because I barely remember them. But at about 5:00 p.m. I was ready to leave. I felt the urge to do some errands, so I called Chris and told him that I would be running late, and that he’d have to do Oliver’s bedtime routine (which he was more or less covering already in preparation for my post surgery limitations). Then I was off to the mall.

First stop – the cosmetics department at Nordstom. I was running low on concealer, and you know – this is a huge priority for someone that expects to be sequestered to their house for several months. I have to look good for the mail man and all. Then I headed over to Suissa, a hair salon where I had a history of success with random stylists (I’m notorious for being a walk in client).

When I arrived, the receptionist smiled at me and told me that I was the third expectant mother to come in that day. My first thought was that I hoped the others were as far along as I was and also sporting ill fitting maternity clothes that hinted at a penchant for inappropriate belly baring. I didn’t want to be “the big one” when they talked about the run on pregnant ladies that day. She told me that Giamcome would be able to take me immediately. (I don’t remember his name – but I once had another stylist named Giacome, and I think it suits my no name guy.)

Giacome? Not that much of a talker. But that suited me well enough, as my mind was racing in fifty different directions, and I didn’t mind NOT playing 20 questions with him as he pretended to be interested in my pregnancy. But one persistent thought running through the rest was that I was starting to worry about incontinence (don’t worry – this isn’t a story about incontinence – but it’s relevant in context). All day, I had been feeling a little…well, loose – for lack of a better word. I had never experienced incontinence before, and I was wondering if this was an early sign.

It was while my hair was being washed that I had the first pang of concern. There was definitely something going on down there – and I was feeling extremely grateful for the long black gown that covered my legs. At this point, I was thinking that I might look as if I had just had accident – or more accurately, that I HAD had an accident. But at the end of the day, I’m an optimist, and I hoped that it either wouldn’t show once I was standing up – or that maybe it would be dry by the time I had to unveil myself.

The haircut was uneventful. It was looking exactly like what I had requested and Giacome continued to play the strong silent type. But about ten minutes into the blow dry, something rather significant happened. I suddenly knew that I was not experiencing incontinence. I had my water broken for me in the hospital when I had my first son, and while this was not the same, there were definite similarities. It finally dawned on me: I wasn’t peeing my pants – I was going into labor.

I had never spontaneously gone into labor before. My 9 lb. 2 oz. first born was a week late and I had to be induced. And I was expecting a scheduled c-section for the twins. So I was completely unprepared for the slapstick situation of having my water break during my blow dry at the Tysons Corner Suissa where I was a goddamn walk in for god’s sake. Oh my god! Damn!

But I’m nothing if I’m not practical. And I never panic. So I quietly weighed my options as Giacome continued to smooth and straighten my hair. I had done this once before, and I knew that I had some time before I actually went into real labor. At this point I wasn’t even having contractions. Oh what the hell – my hair was only half done, and I figured that it wouldn’t hurt anything if I just let him finish. I deserved to have perfect hair for my first surgery. Awake. BARBARIC I tell you!

Plus – I kind of needed time to figure out what I was going to tell Giacome. I couldn’t imagine that this was something that happened every day at Suissa. So when he finally finished his last flicks and fluffs, it was time for me to break the news. I said, “so Giacome…I have to tell you something. I THINK that my water may have broken.” He looked at me blankly – and if he did say anything, I don’t remember what it was. At this point I was beginning to wonder if he was actually mute.

Then I stood up and he removed the vinyl drape. And that’s when I realized that my water hadn’t really broken yet – it was just starting to break. It was only when was vertical and gravity took over that it really BROKE. All over. With sound effects. I was truly in a sitcom from hell. And as an added bonus, that morning I decided not to wear the black pants that I had sported every day for the past two months. No – I was feeling “khaki.” And there was no camoflauging the river of amniotic fluid running down my legs.

Giamcome looked me. I looked at him. And then as if we had the same thought at the same time, we both looked at the chair where I had been sitting. Thank god it was the usual fake leather. I can’t even imagine the humiliation of leaving a soggy chair in my wake. I guess I expected more of a puddle – but maybe my pants absorbed most of it. All that was left was what you might find after a very sweaty person in shorts got up from a vinyl seat. And in silence, stoic Giacome switched on the hair drier and commenced to cleaning up my mess.

The receptionist’s desk was conveniently located directly behind me, so I grabbed her attention and explained that I’d have to settle up rather quickly. And I would have to use her phone because – of course – I left my cell at home that morning. I called Chris – told him to get the bags, make the necessary calls, take Oliver to our plan A person, and if she wasn’t home, to our plan B person. And then I was ready to go.

The receptionist was incredibly sweet and asked if there was anything she could do for me. I couldn’t really think of anything… She wasn’t a doctor, and she had already helped me with the walk in appointment… And a pedicure was definitely out of the question. So I said that I thought not. But then she offered to get my car for me – and that sounded like a great idea since I seemed to be losing gallons of amniotic fluid with every step I took. And I was pretty sure that I’d needed to keep some in there for another hour or two.

After some discussion about where I may or may not have parked (pregnant women NEVER remember where they park), I handed her my key chain and told her to “walk in that direction and just start clicking.” Eventually she’d hear the “beep-beep” noise.

While I was waiting outside for her, strategically covering my soaked pants with my purse, it occurred to me that I hadn’t called my doctor. Rookie mistake! And I didn’t have my cell… so had to again rely upon the kindness of strangers. The only person in speaking distance was a touristy looking guy who I think I remember as being Japanese. Either way – he definitely didn’t speak much English, and I could only hope my appearance made up for any confusion over the translation for “broken water.” Apparently it did since he handed the phone over without any questions.

Just as I signed off with my doctor’s answering service, the receptionist peeled around the corner in my car. I handed the man back his phone and realized that I had never said goodbye to Giacome. Seems like we should have hugged or something. But it was too late, and it didn’t seem appropriate to hug the Japanese tourist. We didn’t have quite as much of a history, and you know – I was really wet.

With effusive thanks to the receptionist and the tourist, I was finally on my way to the hospital.

I was very lucky in that I didn’t start having painful contractions until I arrived at the hospital. It was only when I was sitting in some light traffic, that I started thinking about the fact that I might not be able to drive if my barely perceptible contractions became more intense. I was definitely rethinking that decision to let Giacome finish my blow dry before leaving for the hospital.

Ideally, Chris would have been driving me – but it was important that I go to the hospital immediately. And he had to drop Oliver off before coming to meet me.

It was a little anti-climactic when I first arrived. I drove around for a bit looking for a good parking place, and then I stopped to give someone directions on my way into the building. Once I reached the reception area, I had to wait in line behind people who were interrogating the receptionists about whether it was possible to order vegan meals from the cafeteria. Okay – I just totally made that last part up. But I did have to wait in line behind a bunch of people that did not have blood pouring out of a gunshot wound OR amniotic fluid streaming down their legs.

Eventually I was sent up to Labor & Delivery where I finally got a little service! Actually – it was a bit disconcerting because when I provided my name, the nurse said, “oh – your doctor just called. She’s very worried about you.” I asked if I should be worried about me. She clarified that since surgery was necessary, they wanted to check me out right away. So off I went to triage.

Here is where the pregnancy crazies come into play. The young nurse who “checked me out” said, “oh yes – I can feel that head.” Now – this made me very excited because last I heard, George (who was positioned to be the first one to come out) had his little heiny jammed firmly into my birth canal. Could he possibly have turned? Could I skip the whole major abdominal surgery thing and have the twins the old fashioned way? I was really getting psyched about this.

Then my doctor arrived. She is great and I trust her implicitly, but that woman is strictly no nonsense. I told her about the miraculous head sighting (or feeling), and she gave me one of her famous looks. “Kate,” she said, “it is almost impossible for that to happen now. They have very little room to move at this point.” But I wanted my fantasy to be real, so I begged her to check – just to make sure. She agreed to go get the ultrasound equipment, and I could literally feel her eyes rolling as she walked away from me. Long story short, the nurse gave me false hope. She felt George’s butt, not his head.

Shortly after my disappointing news, Chris arrived looking like he had just parachuted onto the front lawn of the hospital. He was excited though and I needed some positive energy in my little corner of triage.

Then I noticed that he only had one bag with him. I had packed two. Was it the bag with my skincare products and my toothbrush and my comfy socks? No – it was the bag with my DVD player and my books and magazines. I asked him if the other bag was in the car, and he said, “what other bag?” I said, “um, the one sitting right next to this one?” Nope – didn’t ring a bell. I expect that when I called to tell him my water had broken, he didn’t register anything more than, “water broken…blah blah blah…hospital…blah blah blah…Oliver…blah blah blah…bag.” Oh well – at least I could watch some Gilmore Girls if I got bored.

As much as I really was dreading the surgery part, I was happy to see my anesthesiologist and get the news that it was go time. The contractions were becoming more than uncomfortable. And Chris was starting to get on my nerves, all windblown and positive with only one suitcase… Men.

Since I had expected to have a c-section, I knew what to expect. I kissed Chris and told him that I’d see him in the OR. He had to scrub in. Then the anesthesiologist and I walked down the hall together. Which seemed weird. I was kind of expecting to be wheeled in on a gurney. Or to at least be pushed in via wheelchair.

The next thing that I remember finding a little unnerving is that when I lay down on the operating table (which was so thin I thought I might fall off – is it me or do you picture something more along the lines of a dining table?) I was completely stripped below my chest. I don’t know why this would surprise me since I’m familiar with the area where they make the incision. But I just didn’t picture being naked. Especially with strange men wandering around talking about sports. Everyone seemed a bit too jovial for my liking… What did they think this was, Gray’s Anatomy? Were they going to be too busy flirting across my blood and guts to notice that I was bleeding out? No – I wasn’t overly fond of the banter. I wanted them to come to MY surgery with their A game.

Anyone who has had a c-section before may have noticed that I skipped the part about having a needle poked into my lower back to administer the spinal block. It wasn’t my favorite part – but it was over quickly enough. Let’s leave it at that. But the actual effects of the spinal block made me want to jump up and run screaming out of the room (if I could actually move my lower body that is). They had positioned me so that my knees were up in the air, and then suddenly my lower body just disappeared. But I knew that my feet were on the table and my knees were bent. BUT I couldn’t feel them. This made me ca-ra-zy! But once they moved my legs back down so that they were on the table again (couldn’t feel it – but I knew they were doing it – eeeeww!), I felt better.

I also noticed that the numbness reached up to my chest and I was finding it hard to breath. Of course that could have been due to the general sense of panic, but the numbness didn’t help. Finally I couldn’t stand the jokes and the sports and the numbness and the tiny table and that fact that I was AWAKE for all of this, and I pulled off my oxygen mask and clutched the arm of the closest nurse. I dragged her down so her face was right next to mine and said, “listen – I just need to tell someone…I’m REALLY SCARED.” She kindly patted me on the shoulder, replaced my oxygen mask, and told Chris who had just entered the room to come hold my hand.

And then it started. I of course couldn’t see what was going on since there were about ten inches of sheet screening my view. But Chris had to actually avert his eyes since he was sitting up. He was given instructions to stay facing me if he didn’t want to “see anything.” Chris and I are pretty much in agreement when it comes to the inner workings of the human body. We never want to see anything.

Most of the procedure was a blur – but suddenly, there was George with a full head of dark hair. He was pink and screaming – and he looked nothing like my first baby. So it was kind of like having my first baby – if that makes sense. I had never seen anything like him. Chris went to go look at him as they started to pull Eleanor out. She looked a little bizarre since she was up in the top of my uterus and didn’t get washed off the way George did when my water broke. She was covered in vernix – but she looked more like Oliver did when I had him (just a little light brown hair on her head). But she was a girl and that was new to me. Chris watched them clean her off and saw both babies get weighed. George was 5 lbs. 11 oz. and Eleanor was 5 lbs. 12 oz. They were so tiny.

It was at this point that Chris decided to come back and talk to me. Big mistake. Or it wouldn’t have been if he turned back the way he had come: facing me. Instead he went in the other direction, and got a perfect view of the intern inspecting my uterus (outside of my body) and then shoving it back in. A nurse had to grab his arm as his legs started to buckle. He didn’t actually faint, but he almost did. Now that’s an image that will haunt your dreams. And he wasn’t too keen on what he saw during the “regular” birth of our first son. You know how the doctor says you have to wait six weeks before you can have sex? Six weeks after I had Oliver, Chris looked at me, and said in complete seriousness, “I’m not ready.”

Stop making faces Chris – that last line is crucial to the story. Well maybe not – but it’s really funny.

So that’s it! We got to hold our babies and take a picture and then all kinds of drama began the next day. But that is a story for another day. Today (or Sunday) is a birthday. And while I’ve never been one to get sentimental about the miracle of birth – I’m VERY sentimental about the birth of my own little angels.

Happy Birthday George and Eleanor. I love you so very much.

Hope Hurts

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A while ago, a friend of mine wrote about how mothers of autistic children cry all the time. She explained that the tears of happiness are just as plentiful as those of sadness. And to be honest, I had never really thought about it before.

After considering this idea, I decided that I almost never cry about my own “Spectrum” son, Oliver, unless I’m happy. And I wondered why. Why would I be more likely to burst into tears over one of Oliver’s triumphs? I’m not exactly known for being particularly emotional or effusive. I never cry at weddings. Expressions of love from family and friends make me smile, not tear up. I don’t really cry that much in general.

I’m definitely one for the frustrated tears though. It’s the reason why my children refer to my recent attempt to travel solo with them to Florida as “Remember that time you cried in Key West?” So wouldn’t it make far more sense for me to fall to pieces when faced with adversity?

And maybe that is the case most of the time…but not when it comes to Oliver.

I literally can’t think about scary “what ifs” when it comes to my son. If I allowed myself to actually go there…to imagine the worst…I wouldn’t be able to function.

We all have different reasons for our emotional reactions. We’re different people—our special needs kids have different challenges and levels of potential. We adapt to all of that and don’t look back. Or at least we try to focus on today. We don’t make plans for a future if it seems uncertain.

Certainty plays a significant role in the emotional life of a mom with a special needs child.

Some know exactly what the road ahead holds for them. I recently read a heartbreaking accountof one mother’s sorrow over her severely bipolar son’s life as “Pinocchio.” She only gets to see him as “a real boy” a few times a year, when his true personality randomly—miraculously—emerges to initiate meaningful conversation. To hear him talk about his hopes and dreams is a gift that comes with the terrible price of knowing the truth. She knows that he will always be dependent on her. She knows that he will never get married or have children. She knows that she will have to live for mere moments in her relationship with him. This certainty hurts.

But others—like me—don’t really know what the far future holds. We are allowed to dream a little. Or a lot…

Oliver’s processing disorders make him very delayed, but slow progress is better than none. I see how different he is from the other kids his age—and that’s hard—but I also see how different he is from the boy he was last year. He speaks in full sentences now. He doesn’t roll around on the floor while the teacher is reading a book (or at least that’s what she tells me). He’s more interested in other people. He wants friends. He participates in the world at large.

So I focus on that. I compare him only to himself. And as I marvel at how far he’s come, I assume that he will continue to achieve. That he’ll eventually catch up. I fervently hope that this will happen when he’s young and won’t remember being so different. As a six year old, he views others through his own eyes. He doesn’t view himself through theirs.

I rarely imagine what life will be like if this doesn’t happen. It hurts too much. Uncertainty has it’s own price.

Instead, I conjure clear images of the near future; of him learning to read and being able to have real conversations with friends. I throw money at therapies that seem to work for him. I look him in the eye and tell him he’s totally weird, and that I like that about him. I’m fairly certain that he won’t eventually grow out of his quirkiness. So I want him to embrace it, see it as something that makes him, “him.” I imagine him a little older and a lot more confident, possibly befriending other kids who seem a bit lost.

I hope a lot. And I believe that it’s all possible. That anything is possible.

And that hurts. Because if anything is possible, then it might not work out the way that I’d like it. He might not catch up. He might not be confident or embrace his otherness. Or he might never see the difference and just feel like an outsider

Every day, I encounter lovely people who are just a little strange. They seem to be off tempo with the rush of humanity swirling around them. They miss beats, they smile too wide. They seem somewhat odd and make others feel slightly uncomfortable. And I do what we all do. I smile back. I respond positively to their a-bit-too-muchness. I’m kind. I set a good example for my children.

I don’t like to think about the fact that an uncertain future may hold something similar for my own son. The image of him being someone who inspires people to be kind in spite of their discomfort shouldn’t make me sad…but as long as there are other possibilities, it will. If this is what the future holds for him, we’ll all be fine, and we’ll be happy. But for now I just hope for something else.

My heart clenches when I think about those “what ifs.” And I do feel some guilt over this because I am SO LUCKY to have been given the option of hoping and dreaming for my child—a very basic element of parenting that’s not afforded to all. And as much as I may have more worry and heartbreak than some parents of typical kids, there are just as many who would take offense to my attitude. How dare I feel anything but grateful for a sweet, loving boy with all of this potential? He smiles at me. He talks to me. He can run and play. He’s healthy.  He’s alive.

But in the darkest corners of our hearts, we allow ourselves to be selfish, to want more, to push aside gratitude and make way for secret fears.

This hurts more than anything—to hope so much, knowing that it may be for nothing. To feel the shame of not fully appreciating the gift of a precious child—my son who has made me a better person for knowing him.

So I don’t give the scary “what ifs” very much of my attention. I acknowledge those feelings from afar. Then I stuff them in a box and place them out of sight. I focus on my hope.

I don’t cry when I see Oliver struggling with words that come so easily to his younger brother and sister. I don’t cry when I see work coming home from school that is so obviously behind what he should be able to do at his age. And I absolutely DO NOT cry when he does. I smile and help and tell him he can do it. That it’s O.K. It will all be O.K.

All the while, that box or fear and worry and sorrow and anger fills up. And it gets harder to swallow the lump in my throat, to draw air into my lungs when it feels like all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. To move when I feel paralyzed at the sight of demons lurking in our uncertain future.

And then something wonderful happens. I see him playing a game with other kids, maybe even leading them for brief moments. Or I hear him singing a recognizable song. I witness him correcting his father’s misstep in complicated Lego construction, actually saying “No Daddy, that’s backwards.” To be given a view into the future reflecting all of my hope brings tears to my eyes.

I can cry tears of happiness when my hope is validated. It’s safe to open the box and air out my fears. I can let myself cry when I’m happy, when I know that I’ll be able to stop crying.

And that is why. For me, there is no option of angry or defeated tears. I simply can’t go there. If I did, I don’t know if I’d be able to come back.

And I’m needed here. My hope is important. I believe in the power of it. I will make good things happen through sheer willpower alone. At the very least, I’m going to try.

So if you ever see me crying over my son, yes, there are a lot of emotions involved and I’d be lying to say that they didn’t include the dark and scary ones. But I’ll be smiling. And I’ll be hoping.

Originally posted on Health News, HERE.

Raise Your Glass for…

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At the start of each new year I think about what I want to do differently this time around. Not necessarily in the way of actual resolution making though. Just a few, “what the hell am I doing with my life?” soliloquies. Only in my head of course – I mean, I don’t hang out on balconies assuming the presence of a sympathetic yet invisible audience. So I say, that is…on my blog.

But back to my initial train of thought.

The great thing about having kids is that they are happy to answer that “who am I?” question for you with their, “me, me, me, me” vocal warm up. Once they start their opening number about wanting it now – SOB! – him doing that again – SHRIEK! – her not doing it AGAIN – SMACK!…I cut them off after the second chorus of CONSTANT WHINING and think, “right, okay – so purpose in life covered.”

For now.

But eventually that purpose gets downsized, and the five extra hands you could currently use are exchanged for two frequently aimless ones. Not useless – just not as much in demand. And the excellent excuse that children once provided for a lack of personal ambition loses it’s relevance. And what then?

Don’t get me wrong – this isn’t some stay at home mom angst I’m addressing here. I was a working mom until two years ago and it was the same story then. I had a job that helped pay the bills – but personal identity was always a hazy spot on the horizon of “maybe someday.” That’s all well and good when you’re in school, in your twenties, and even in your thirties, but at some point you have to say, “wait a minute – I think I’m actually a grown up now…so that means I should probably know what I want to be when I grow up…” And then we get very busy with a project or a committee and cover our ears to la la la la ourselves into a state of sorrytoobusycan’tthinkaboutthatrightnow.

Unless of course you’ve actually figured it all out and have a crystal clear image of who you are, who you want to be, and exactly how you’re going to get there. If so, then please go away and write a book about it or something. I can’t even look at you right now. But hey! Let’s do lunch soon and maybe you can give me some free coaching, okay?

No… I’m nowhere near even beginning to figure this out. But I do plan to carve out some time in my schedule to start thinking about it. Between avoiding reality and drifting aimlessly, I’m fairly booked up. But I think I see an opening sometime in…oh, May of 2020. Just kidding of course. That’s far too ambitious.

Wait! Hobbies! That’s right – I can have fulfilling hobbies. Writing a blog, yoga, gardening, baking, suduko, binge eating, TELEVISION WATCHING… The options are endless. But here’s the problem with that: these options are just hobbies. Hobbies are filler – fun activities that can be dropped when real life dictates. They aren’t a true statement of self. They’re just current interests that require a higher level of goals and achievement to have any serious role in personal identity.

And THAT is really what I think I’m getting at. I won’t always be defined by motherhood and I doubt I’ll ever be defined by a career – but I CAN’T be defined by a hobby either. It needs to be something enduring.

Deciding what that something will be may come easily to some. But not to me. I have a long, rich history of forgoing personal ambition for general daily survival. And I attribute this to the fact that I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer.

Sadly this didn’t apply to not being the tallest girl in the class and getting my first bra a year before everyone else. It’s just that I was never quite ready for the next big leap into the future that everyone else my age was making. I wasn’t ready for high school. How do you go from PG-13 movie watching sleepovers at the end of August to weekend keg parties in early September? I never did understand that. And I wasn’t ready for college either – leaping again into a real unknown without all those familiar faces to provide even a little bit of security. Then I wasn’t ready to graduate college…to move to a new city…to…well, ANYTHING. And it continues on, even now that I really am grownup.

I was never a misfit or an outcast for this pathological aversion to anything new, but I never quite felt like I was in step with the rest of the world. Time moved more slowly for me and ultimately, I could never truly keep up.

But then we all seem to have our own memories of feeling like we’re on the outside looking in to the way things should be. That’s why again and again people write stories about underdogs. We love them – can’t get enough. Hell – I once even had a BLOG devoted to underdogs. Those stories are OUR story. The one we whisper to each other in shame and then laugh loudly about when we’ve had too much to drink. We take solace in each other’s company and discover that suddenly EVERYONE’S an underdog. We’ve all been eating the same Breakfast Club bagels and had no idea. Not even after SEEING The Breakfast Club. DUH!

But I don’t know that I’m buying it completely – there have got to be some golden children out there… Or at least some deluded enough to believe in their own mythology. And I’m sorry – but they don’t really get it – this feeling of missing beats and falling behind. They’re the ones setting the pace.

Here is where I blast Pink’s Raise Your Glass and say DAMMIT – I DO fit in. I DO have a perfectly fine pace. And I WILL figure out who I’m going to be when I grow up!

I don’t think I’ll dye my hair pink and pierce my nose…but “rock star” was never on my bucket list anyway.

I’ll happily settle for knowing that others out there get it (even if “it” rambles on to the point of incoherence at times). That they’re feeling the same way and pursuing the same dream. That they are looking for what “me” means to them. Not the parent me, the office me, the high school alumni committee me, the PTA volunteer me, the neighbor who feeds your cats while you’re out of town me… The “me” involving no external responsibilities. The totally selfish, I know who am I am and where I want to go and how I want to get there me. The “it’s NOT a hobby!” me. The who I want to be when I grow up me.

I may not find her this year. But I’m committed to making a start. And I think I’m going to do it here.

It’s true – I don’t have the time or money to take a writing class. I don’t even know if I have the talent to justify the time or expense. But I do have an idea or two…and both started here. I’m going to pursue that, and I’d love it if there were maybe one or two or two hundred of you who were around to make me follow up on that commitment. I’m happy to do the same for you.

While I’ll fervently dedicate my whole life to my children – my family – I’m also adding myself to the priority list. 2011 is going to be the year of “me.” And in case you didn’t notice, I added those quotation marks to denote a broader sense of the word. One that absolutely includes any other underdogs who would like to join me.

So in honor of the new year and all of its possibility – the dream of underdogs everywhere to finally catch their stride and know where they fit in – the straight up fact that I need to get off my ass and do something with these ideas already…I’d be honored if you and you and you and oh, especially you, would all join me in a toast to 2011. And raise your glass. For “me.”

Old is the New Fat

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Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent most of my life obsessing over my size. Which is kind of ridiculous since I’ve always been rather medium about everything. Medium height, weight, hair color, popularity level, dance floor talent, parking mojo… I’m actually very average. So really – why all the worries about “looking fat?”

Well – I think it was because EVERYONE worries about looking fat. It’s just something women do. Except for the skinny ones I mean – who I guess worry about being skinny when they’re not busy eating double hot fudge sundaes in front of the rest of us. Bitches.

Seriously though, if I calculated the amount of time and money I put into working on my weight – gym memberships, exercise videos, personal trainers, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, diet foods – and the constant discussions about losing weight, exercise plans and laments over things that I literally cannot change (I’m looking at you hereditary knee pudge!), it would have to be… Well, I’m not much good at math, so let’s just say it would be A LOT of time and money.

What would I have done with all of it? I’m guessing I could have single handedly adopted a Third World village. All of that fat talk may have stood between me and a Pulitzer prize! Or at the very least a wildly popular QVC line of conversation piece jewelry. Who knows? I certainly never will since I was too busy feeling fat to do anything else.

But I’m over that now. No more fat talk. If my pants feel tight, I’ll just make a few lifestyle changes or buy new pants. As long as I’m still my healthy medium size, it just doesn’t warrant the mind space. I’m finished with feeling fat.

Now I’m all about feeling OLD.

Because that is a far more worthy focus for my mania. Have you seen my crows’ feet? I sprout two or three new laugh lines every day! And I can even blame some of that on the fat obsession since you know, being tan makes you look thinner. Why didn’t I take SPF more seriously? Mom told me that too much sun would give me wrinkles…

But I never used to worry about wrinkles because by the time I got them I’d be OLD!

Well, now that I’m “old” I do care. And since I wasted my youth on feeling fat, I missed the boat on the whole Pulitzer Prize/QVC opportunity. So now I’m fully committed to wasting as much time as possible obsessing over looking old.

I’ve written before about my skincare routine. It seems to be going well…but I have of yet to find anything that I’d call the fountain of youth. I just do what the experts (multi-zillionaire celebrities endorsing the products) say and hope for the best. I mean, I have a lot of time to make up here. I’m already 38 and I didn’t even know about eye cream until a few years ago.

A new source of concern for me is the décolleté area. Did you know that Cindy Crawford says damage to décolleté skin can never be repaired by surgery? Do you have any idea how many times I’ve purposely sunburned that area in an attempt to get an early summer “base?”

I’m so screwed…

And to make matters worse, I have even more unexpected age-related issues to contend with. Apparently having three babies in 18 months in my early thirties wasn’t so great for my vascular system. As a result, I’m now showing early signs of varicose veins. Like those things that the grandmas at the pool have all over their thighs and calves? Someone grab the smelling salts – I’m about to pass out from the horror of it all. Now, those CAN be repaired with surgery. If you have thousands of extra dollars lying around that is. Kids – say goodbye to the college fund. Mama needs a new pair of legs.

I’ve never actually felt old before. I can easily find common interests with younger people. And even if they do throw retro parties featuring styles made popular the year I could legally get into bars, they don’t seem to find me boring. Though that may have something to do with my conversation choices…like that time I told a 17 year old lifeguard all about my c-section (21 years later and I STILL don’t know how to talk to teenage boys…)

Bottom line – up until now, I’ve been in serious denial about my age.

But if anything put the final nail in the proverbial coffin, it would be a recent conversation I had with my friend Lacey (a pseudonym for protection against any bodily harm she may inflict on me for putting this on my blog). She was complaining about upper arm flab which automatically made me feel privileged and smug since that is ONE part of my body that has never given me a moment’s worry. I may have inherited Italian peasant legs, but my long slim arms have been rocking sleeveless styles since I first layered neon tank tops in the ’80s.

What I didn’t initially understand was that Lacey wasn’t talking about fat – she was talking about the “loose skin” that develops on your arms as you get older. She said that when she holds out her arms and shakes them, the loose skin flaps back and forth. This description conjured up scenes of a Silver Sneaker exercise class I’ve observed at the YMCA. Then suddenly, those imaginary Golden Girls turned on me. The sassy old ladies in jazzercize outfits waving their arms to Party in the USA morphed into Hell’s minions mockingly shaking their loose skin at me in cackling glee…You thought you were better – firmer – but it all turns to arm flab in the end! You can run, but you can’t hide…

I was appalled. Aside from the fact that the term “loose skin” makes me feel like fainting again, it really never occurred to me that I should be monitoring this. And sure enough, when I gave my my extended arms a tentative shake, there were definite signs of flapping. I guess it’s all downhill from here.

The good news is that while I wasted approximately 30 years on fighting fat, I’ll probably only spend 20 on battling old age. I do learn from my mistakes you know. And I’m about five years in – so only 15 more to go. Then what? Ten years of obsessing over something else…then five… Then maybe I’ll finally give in to the inevitable and just embrace all of it and myself in the process?

I have no way of predicting this. Only time will tell. But there is one thing that I can say with complete certainty. Mother nature is a cruel bitch.

The Buzz Around the Baby Pool

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This summer, I’ve been going to the community pool quite a bit during the week. And as I toss, swing and ferry small children who seem determined to pants me with kicking feet, I look around and experience this strange wave of everything in my life coming full circle.

I’m in my late thirties, and sometimes I still can’t believe it. I don’t think that my age is “old,” but it’s definitely older than I feel. And the increasingly laugh-lined face that looks back at me in the mirror each morning jars me with this obvious discrepancy. Only yesterday, I was looking at smooth teenage skin and lamenting imaginary cellulite on my thighs. I valued a tan over a clean bill of health from the dermatologist. Unwanted facial hair was for aging crones – not the likes of pink cheeked me.

I thought people over thirty were grownups…middle aged…parents, uncles, aunts…a far off future where so many things shouldn’t matter anymore. Because, they’re too old for that. Gross.

And now I’m here, in the heartland of not old, but not young anymore. In general, I really like my age and the humor, confidence and better priorities that I’ve picked up along the way. But getting older doesn’t necessarily translate into getting wiser, and anyone my age is susceptible to their fair share of heartbreak, disappointment and selfishness.

Within the past month I have sat by the pool and talked to two different friends about their husbands cheating on them – even leaving them for other women. What once shocked and disgusted me as a young girl has now become a possible reality for my contemporaries. Something people gossip about. What must the young lifeguards think when they overhear bits and pieces of these conversations… Him? Her? Eeew. Too old.

When you’re seventeen, you don’t want to think about older people that way. I very clearly remember being horrified by the idea of affairs – of people leaving their husband or wife for someone else. About the scandal of it all. From my perspective they really were too old for that kind of thing. They should have been more responsible, and their aging bodies just made the behavior seem all the more sordid and repulsive.

I spent the summers of my high school years lounging around pools where my friends were lifeguards. I never actually worked at a pool myself as I’m a mediocre swimmer at best, but I took full advantage of the visitation rights we all assumed. And during that time, I saw a lot of “old” people embarrassing themselves.

When you’re thirty eight, a nice thirty three year old unmarried man with all of his hair and a good job is a catch! When you’re seventeen, he’s just some old guy trying to flirt with you. Again – gross.

My husband has often remarked on his reluctance to hold overly long conversations with the long legged beauties who lifeguard at our pool. Even if it’s about swim lessons for our kids or their own college plans, there is something about this half-dressed contact with them that makes him feel like a dirty old man. Like he has no business even peripherally glancing in their direction, lest he actually notice how attractive they are. He has a daughter now and automatically thinks of her. What if it was a teenage Eleanor on display for the middle aged men at the pool. Someday it will be…

We’ve even had conversations about whether we think the lifeguards are aware of their varying effects on the pool parents or if they’re totally oblivious. Based on my own experience, I would guess that the girls know, and can tell the difference between friendly dads and leering lechers. But we both agree that the boys are probably clueless.

Chris swam competitively through college and did his fair share of lifeguarding. Looking back, he can remember a few incidents of what may have been slightly too friendly attentions from a mom or two, but not much beyond that. Maybe it wasn’t common. Or maybe it just didn’t register.

From what I’ve observed, the mommies around the baby pool are far less likely to notice the lifeguards. We’re too busy changing swim diapers and organizing snacks during breaks. And of course, teenage boys are so obviously “too young.” We may not be able to tell whether they’re seniors in high school or freshmen in college – but it’s all the same. Many (if not all) of us are old enough to have been of legal drinking age when they were born. And the much younger man relationship is far less typical and acceptable in current society than the much younger woman variety. For most of us, any physical attraction associated with these guys is a cringe worthy concept.

Well… With one exception. Because any woman from my neighborhood who read this would be thinking the same thing: um – what about Scott? [A pseudonym of course.] This young man has the community pool moms abuzz. Because yes – he is just that good looking.

It started with a few tentative remarks: “so did you see THAT guy?” But it’s escalated to joking comments about his days off: “Yeah – so disappointing news…Scott’s not here today. I mean really, what’s the point of even coming…”

I know – I know… It sounds silly. But he really is nostalgia inducing. He’s that super cute guy you knew in school who was also really nice. He has that same effortless confidence (and tattoos!). He’s tall with broad shoulders. He has black, shaggy surfer hair and a perfect tan. He’s what your grandma may have once called “a tall drink of water”, and what the cougars refer to as “almost legal.” It’s impossible not to notice him. And maybe even giggle a little at the ridiculously immature (and largely universal) reaction to his impromptu games of water Frisbee.

It really does make me laugh just thinking about it. And the first time I saw him, I couldn’t contain my guffaw of amusement. I was watching an actual cliche dive into our boring, suburban pool. The hot lifeguard indeed.

But just so you know, Scott is also a very nice boy who is great with my kids. From afar, “the hot lifeguard” is a two dimensional reminder of our own often forgotten youth. But up close in conversation, he’s just a good looking high school boy. Just as goofy. Just as ordinary. And yes – I think just as oblivious to the effect he has on the old(ER!) ladies. Or at least oblivious to the extent of it.

My husband, Chris finds the whole thing endlessly entertaining. It also holds a little nostalgia for him since he claims that he was once on the other side of the whistle. Of course that’s what he says. Even the other men in the neighborhood have noticed Scott, and when Chris casually commented, “that was once me,” my neighbor, Rich dryly retorted, “THAT was never you.”

Seriously! Grown people are having these conversations. This summer’s hot lifeguard is quickly gaining legendary status…we may be talking about him for years.

Because we’re all very affected by the young people around us. They remind us of who we were. And who we weren’t. In fact, I think those missed opportunities in life often hold more power over us than the accomplishments do. When you’re young, there is all of this time ahead. All of this possibility. Even if we’re not the best, brightest or prettiest – things could always change. Then we’re not young anymore and that ship has sailed.

At this point, I doubt many of us have serious regrets about not being the most popular person in our class or dating the super good looking, nice guy that Scott seems to be. But we might regret thinking we didn’t deserve it. Looking back, would I say that the most popular people were also the best looking people? Nope. Really, it all comes down to confidence. And I think we all have some regrets for not exhibiting more of it when we really should have.

When the subject of Scott first came up, my friends talked about how he reminded them of old boyfriends. Me? Not so much. I never dated anyone like that. Nor did I try. I “didn’t really care about looks” when I was a teenager. Which probably stemmed more from insecurity than well placed priorities. I’m sure that on some level I just assumed “that guy” was out of my league. Now I realize that this was far from true. When you’re in high school, a little confidence (and a loose moral or two) can go a long way.

So when we see the carefree lifeguards spending their summer in the sun without any plans past that evening’s keg party, we do feel a twinge of nostalgia for a time when anything was possible – even if we didn’t realize it.

Life isn’t so carefree anymore. Every day you hear another rumor circulating through your friends and acquaintances. This one lost his job. That one left her husband. Those two have been secret alcoholics for years… Ironically enough, it’s these stories that have endless possibilities.

It all makes me look back with bittersweet fondness for the girl that I used to be and the simple life I led. I really don’t have many regrets. Ultimately, those unnecessary insecurities allowed me a little more time to be innocent.

And I don’t regret the loss of that time in my life either. I’m ready to be older. To be a mother…a wife…a friend who listens and understands. Youth doesn’t corner the market on everything lovely. There really is beauty in aging gracefully – even if we do stumble now and again.

But it would be nice to send a little wisdom back in time. A message in a bottle to the shiny, new people we were once becoming. Mine would say:

Dear teenage Kate,

You have the rest of your life to not care about looks. Go flirt with the hot lifeguard.

Fondly,
Your older and slightly more jaded self

Youth really is wasted on the young…

Broken English (Alternatively Titled: Fixing Oliver)

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When our children are first starting to put sentences together and use multi-syllabic words, we are gifted with hours of amusement and endless family anecdotes. My three olds make up words and butcher syntax like any other kids their age, and of course we think it’s all hilarious.

Within the past hour, George asked me if a knife was “only for peoples” (his way of saying grownups), and after ranting at me about something, claimed that he didn’t scream, he just “yellowed.” Eleanor doesn’t just wear dresses – she wears “ballerinas.” And for a long time, she would announce in her best ring master voice, “ladies and Jaqueline!” Sorry Jaquelines of the world, but I think my daughter just called you a ho.

From George’s vehement, “YES I are!” retorts to Eleanor’s newest addition to the dictionary: “lasterday,” we revel in their audacity – their uninhibited assault on the English language. And we never tire of recounting these stories to both doting grandparents and graciously indulgent friends alike.

She is something else…

He is quite a character…

But I’ve realized that we don’t tell as many dialogue-related stories about my oldest son. And this isn’t surprising since his delays have made him much slower to experiment with language.

Where the twins, like other children, fling new words like confetti, five year old Oliver holds them close, tucks them into pockets and puzzles over them like foreign currency. The concept of language is understood, but the values attributed to the various elements still elude him.

Of course, he has made us laugh over the years with his own grammatical missteps and mispronunciations. In fact he charmed me just the other day by telling me that I “misappeared.” But these moments have been fewer, farther between and always overshadowed by the worry over what the future may hold.

I’ve been thinking about that more and more as I see the unbalanced ratio of blog posts dedicated to the funny things my children say. Oliver is not very well represented – and that makes me sad.

Because he is just as much of a delight to me as my twins. But who would know it?

I guess we just assume that others won’t appreciate these stories as much as we do. They don’t know how hard he works for what comes so easily to other kids. His funny stories would be more common to children two years younger and don’t seem quite as cute in the context of a boy his age. For those of us who know him well and love him just the way he is, there is no difference. We laugh and beam with pride and find him just as entertaining as his siblings. It’s like an inside joke that only we understand. So why bother?

But that’s not fair to him at all. Especially since there actually are other perspectives or contexts in which anyone can appreciate anecdotes about Oliver.

For a long time, I’ve likened his more unusual social anxieties and his tendency to disengage at times to that of a tourist who doesn’t speak the local language. Or at least not well – possibly due to dialect. He may understand a little of what is said, but the nuances might give him the slip. He doesn’t feel safe much of the time. He doesn’t know what people want of him and what their intentions are. New people could seem nice but really have nefarious plans for him (hello, good natured lab technician who performs pediatric blood tests!) So often, when he feels unsure of himself or the situation he’s encountered, he’ll wander off – withdraw into his imagination.

I’ve frequently remarked that it sounds like he’s speaking second language – like he’s a tourist or recent arrival here. His conversations are more stilted and formal. There are more pauses and confused expressions. And much like an Ellis Island alum, he communicates through rather imperfect English. It’s not baby talk and his diction is quite good, but he mixes up his prepositions and tenses like an immigrant mixes his metaphors.

Just today at the pool when the the lifeguard called “Break!” he looked at me and said, “time to get out Mom, the pool is breaking.”

I imagine Cousin Larry Appleton and I could share many a laugh over these little gems. It’s funny! It’s adorable. And it’s worth documenting and remembering.

He’s something else.

He’s quite a character.

Now don’t get me wrong. We are doing everything we can to help him improve his communication skills so he’ll eventually catch up with his peers and engage in more intuitive, spontaneous conversation. And he’s making some amazing progress with both existing and new therapies this summer. But we’re certainly not in a holding pattern, waiting for the results.

We enjoy every day with Oliver. We think he’s spectacular. We couldn’t imagine life without him. Exactly the way he is.

“The way he is” has changed quite a bit over the past year and continues to do so at a rate that even I – the eternal optimist when it comes to Oliver’s potential – wouldn’t have dreamed possible. And just like a parent does with a typically developing child, I’m simultaneously thrilled and grieved by his advances. Probably a bit less of the latter since these changes are triumphs that can’t be taken for granted. But what can I say? I’m a mother. I miss my babies as much as I admire the people they are becoming.

Because we really do focus so much on helping Oliver gain skills, this is a common topic of conversation with people close to our family. And in that conversation, people sometimes say rather thoughtless things.

I typically try to hear these things as they are intended and don’t take offense – but I have to admit to one exception. On several occasions, different people have made a reference to “fixing Oliver.” As in, “once we get him fixed…“

I KNOW that this isn’t supposed to be degrading to my son as a person, but I can’t help it…it upsets me. And I can’t just say “ah well – semantics!” and move on. Because I know that on some level these same people do consider him defective. Broken.

And I’m not faulting them for that because technically, they aren’t entirely wrong. But I don’t take the same broad perspective. I don’t see him as needing to be fixed – I see delays or disconnects that need to be addressed. He’s not broken, but he’s different. And it’s holding him back. And we can help him.

But I don’t think we help Oliver by seeing him as a thing that needs to be repaired. Because there is one area in which he is incredibly advanced. He is very aware of how he is perceived. He feels our disappointment, our dissatisfaction, our displeasure. He knows when he fails – even if he doesn’t know why. And the wounded look in his eyes tears my heart to pieces.

My son is not a vacuum cleaner or a DVD player. He’s not useless until repaired.

Even if he didn’t make one single advance in therapy this year, he’d be just as precious – just as loved. He is kind and intelligent. He’s funny and full of charisma. He challenges us and teaches us. And he makes me a far better person than I ever would have been without him. He’s helped to heal many of my own broken pieces. He’s mended cracks and made me feel whole. And I would never dare to presume that he is any less for his differences.

So I marvel over what a beautiful boy I have and enjoy big belly laughs over his quirks and crazy English. And I hope that even if he does get fixed in the end – and no one would ever know that he was once “broken” – he’ll still retain some of his otherness. Because it’s the nicks and cracks – the rough edges and battle scars – the unique imperfections – that show our depth of character.

BlogHer 2010 Voices of the Year Were Announced Today! My Reaction: The Good, The Bad and The (Sad but True) Ugly

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Quick disclaimer for all of my non-blogging friends reading this: you will probably be incredibly bored by the subject…but if you skip down to the “ugly” part, I think we can all relate to some extent.First the good!When I glanced through the list of finalists this morning, I was thrilled to see that some of my very favorite bloggers (and even friends) will actually present in a couple of weeks at 2010 BlogHer Voices of the Year. I can honestly say that I’ve read pretty much every post from some of these writers (I mean – since I’ve been blogging…their pre-2008 material is before my time), and to think that they have been honored for words that made me laugh and/or cry makes me feel part of something bigger than my own little piece of Internet real estate.So the very first thing I want to do is congratulate…

Jill from Scary Mommy – Social networking and design dynamo – just try to match her. You can’t.

Marinka of Motherhood in NYC – one of the the funniest women online, hands down.

Amy of The Bitchin’ Wives Club – a perfect storm of creative talent and undeniable charisma.

(By the way – both Marinka and Amy are two out of three for the humor category. Apparently, I have very good taste in funny people.)

That’s three out of fifteen presenters. And believe me, I’m not nearly plugged in enough to be familiar with even 20% of the people whose posts were submitted. So I’m feeling quite proud on their behalf.

I can’t wait to hear them read their words on stage AND to see the art that will be auctioned off reflecting each piece.

And that’s part two of “the good!” Kirtsy has teamed up with BlogHer to curate an exhibition of works of art – each of which will represent one of the 75 posts that were finalists. These pieces will be auctioned off to benefit The Nature Conservancy and help in the long-term healing of the Gulf Coast.

One of my favorite photographers, Robin of Around The Island, will be there in spirit as her own work is shown and auctioned. Again! My friend! So proud… (She writes more about the reception HERE.)

But what about the bad? What could be bad about that?

Well – here’s the bad.

One of MY nominations that I was so confident would be in the top 15 didn’t get picked. But it’s not all bad… Anymommy (of Is There Any Mommy Out There fame) was still a finalist for Matching, and I very much look forward to seeing the art created to represent her breathtakingly poignant writing.

I could say the same of Ann from Ann’s Rants, Jessica of Bern This, Sue of Laundry for Six and Renee of But Why Mommy who were also finalists. I’m thinking it was a hard call on their entries (and I could even say that “they were robbed!” but I won’t go there…)

So yeah – many wonderful blog friends have been recognized in one way or another. I’m really happy for them – and can’t wait to tell them so in person.

But.

There’s the ugly…

I’m sorry – but I’m trying to keep it real here because…well no reason really – I just feel like it today. And lucky you – you get to hear about it!

Before I get into the muck and grime, I’ll start with a little tale about a three year old angel of a girl named Eleanor. Eleanor is a delight. She’s lovely and full of fun (and – cough, cough – my daughter) – and she is at a very impressionable age.

The other week, we were in California on vacation with my in laws who had a fantastic time being a very bad influence on my children. Late night baseball game outings…unlimited snack food that they never get at home…special presents just because they want them… You know – grandparent stuff. And one evening my sweet little girl was lucky enough to have their undivided attention. They played a kids’ bingo game with the odds drastically stacked in Eleanor’s favor.

And then the sh*t talking started.

Mama Sue: Eleanor – we’re not going to let Papa win! YOU’RE going to win.

Eleanor (very much liking this line of thought): Yeah! YOU’RE not going to win Papa. I’M going to win. You CAN’T win!

And so on and so on and so on [insert uproarious indulgent grandparental laughter here].

SO CUTE, right?

I actually thanked them at the time for my own future hell to come when faced with the next preschool gaming situation.

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and we are playing another bingo game at home (what is it with us bingo anyway? We may as well hustle on over to the community center for seniors’ night out this Friday…) Anyway – we were playing a very fair game that included Eleanor, a semi-involved George and a completely disinterested Oliver. Eleanor immediately started in with her “I’m gonna win” talk, even though her brothers couldn’t have cared less. Since no one was getting special treatment, George (who may have been in the kitchen looking for snacks at the time) won.

Chris said, “Hey look! George is the winner!” And…Eleanor fell to pieces. She really believed that she would always win. No one ever talked to her about the reality of losing. So after some piercing glares and and semi-subtle head tilting from me, Chris took Eleanor aside to talk about what it means to lose.

And as I listened, it occurred to me that the bottom line is the same for everyone regardless of age. If you lose – you have to keep trying. Don’t get mad – just try again. It’s not anyone’s favorite answer. In fact, it’s tedious at best…but it’s very simply true. You really can’t win them all. In fact you might lose them all – but you have to try to have a chance.

SO that brings me to the ugly involved in this year’s BlogHer Voices of the Year selections. As much as we are over the moon excited for the winners – it’s unavoidable that some others were very disappointed.

Because you know what? I’m one of them. And I’m hideously embarrassed to admit that.

When a good friend asked if I’d like her to submit anything for me, I honestly hadn’t considered even trying. I mean, I like what I write, and my small circle of friends and readers give me positive feedback – but I’ve never been the one picked out of the crowd. Always a bridesmaid and never a bride and all that… And really that’s been kind of fine with me because I’ve always felt far more comfortable in the faded perimeter of the spotlight.

But just the idea of submitting something of mine gave birth to “what if.” And that is a very powerful concept. So for once I was bold and asked for recognition. I forwarded two links to posts that mean a lot to me – ones that fill me with emotion when I read them – and said “send them in.” Doesn’t sound like much – but it’s a BIG deal for a mild mannered girl such as myself.

Then time passed and my “what if” was put into the proper perspective. It was a “wouldn’t that be nice – but it’s highly unlikely” (the overcompensating, insecure hope of “what if”).

Most of the time, I really didn’t consider it, but every once in a while something would be mentioned about Voices of the Year, and I’d notice that pretty little “what if” sparkling on my right hand ring finger. I’d taken it for granted, but was happy to admire it now and again.

At some point last week, I read that the 75 finalists as well as the 15 winners would be announced today. And I did something previously unthinkable.

I hoped.

I dreamed.

I even planned.

Why not? I typically live so small – what would it hurt to think big for a little while. Even knowing that disappointment was probable, couldn’t I weigh the universe in my favor with my longing? The Secret said it totally works! Ah well…I think we all let our imaginations get the best of us sometimes.

Last night when I was talking to Chris about BlogHer and the agenda (he’s in the conference planning world, so he’s actually interested), I explained how the Voices of the Year session was planned. I mentioned that I had a couple of posts submitted, “but – they’re two out of a thousand – so you know…”

His reaction was a little more positive though. He said “why not you?”

And that small part of me that wants to be bigger than I really am thought, “that’s right! Why NOT me?” So for one whole night I believed in myself. Not just “what if” – but “why not?”

Well – I don’t need to give too much detail on the obvious outcome. Even if you’re not familiar with the list of finalists, you can pretty much guess that I wasn’t one of them.

And I was disappointed. Not so much that I wasn’t one of the top 15 (remember – I like the peripheral area of the spotlight), but more so because the words that once poured directly out of my heart weren’t even an almost.

It’s not pretty – but it’s the truth. And we’ve all experienced this at some point in our lives, so I’m not afraid to put it out there. I would be very surprised if there was anyone who couldn’t relate to this on some level.

But you know what? I don’t think disappointment or jealousy or envy are so bad. They’re just feelings. And at the very best, they are a sign of trying. Of wanting. Of putting ourselves out there and risking rejection. There is honor in that. And I’m proud of my battle scars.

Envy isn’t a particularly attractive emotion – it’s even classified as a sin (one of the top seven!). But a little green eyed monster never hurts anyone if kept on a short leash (and kenneled as quickly as possible). At worst – it shows our ugly. At best, it keeps us real.

So for anyone else who felt a little “why not me” today (or even “why never me?“), I’d like to honor you for trying. It takes courage to try. You’d be surprised how many people never do.

And in return, I’d like to ask you one thing. Please read my own small attempts:

I am so proud of those words. This blog is the first real writing that I’ve ever done outside of work documents and personal e-mails. I always lived so small – never tried to be noticed. I had ideas but didn’t bother to recognize their value.Then I started a blog. A small thing really – but so big in my own cautious little world. Putting words online is literally putting yourself out there. Asking to been seen and heard – and it’s opened my eyes to endless possibility for me.I may never win anything – but I’ll keep trying. Because “what if” holds far more power then “why bother.”And what about you? I want to hear your voice too. Did you submit something there or elsewhere? Did you find out that a friend did so for you? OR did you not even try for fear of disappointment or exposure? E-mail me at bigpieceofcake@gmail.com. Send me a link to the words that make you proud, the ones that make you believe in yourself – or should. I will read them.

I still believe in myself. And I’ll probably submit something of my own next year. I hope you do the same.

Have courage. Be bold. Keep trying.

Hey – it worked for Susan Lucci.

The Worst Fear (Alternatively Titled: Oliver’s Grandmothers Probably Shouldn’t Read This)

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Since I’m fairly certain said grandmothers have not heeded my advice, I’d just like to put it out there that everyone is OKAY.

With the exception of maybe me… Though my robotic ability to shut down emotions when they threaten to render me unable to cease crying for the rest of my life did kick in about five minutes into my nervous breakdown. So that’s good.

This talent of mine serves me well because at the core, I’m a very fearful person. I worry about everything. When I was little I would worry about tidal waves and twisters. I worried about nuclear war and my parents dying. I had night terrors and no matter how irrational, I couldn’t stand next to my bed after dark without imagining a hand reaching out from under to grab my ankle. The world was fraught with danger and I was keenly aware of every awful thing that could possibly happen to me. I saw shark infested waters – both literally and figuratively.

So now, I disconnect. I just don’t think about it anymore. I simply don’t have time. I have too much to juggle and it’s made me very practical. I’m a good person to have around in a crisis. I’m calm and analytical. I wait to hear all the facts before forming an opinion. And I don’t consider the worst until the truth grabs me by the neck and slams me against the wall. Even then I’ll hold it together. For me, it’s a matter of survival.

But we all have our breaking point. And I hit mine yesterday when for about five to ten minutes in the late morning, I lost Oliver. Meaning, I searched my immediate neighborhood and I couldn’t find him anywhere.

One minute I was walking in my front door to get Eleanor a cup of water and the next I was racing around our block, frantically calling his name.

When I left him, he was sitting about ten feet away from our house in (of course) a patch of dirt. He was drinking the first cup of water I brought out for Eleanor since he drained his own so quickly that I just gave him hers and ran back in to get more.

When I stepped back outside, I found George engrossed in turning on the water for the garden hose and the absence of Oliver. A yellow plastic cup lay on its side on the patch of dirt. No spills – no mud. He drank all of it.

Ignoring Eleanor’s constant chatter behind me, I asked George to turn OFF the water – he knows that he’s not allowed to play with the hose – and WHERE did Oliver go.

My younger son pointed vaguely down the block and said, “down the hill.” It was obvious that George had no idea where his brother went, but I started walking in that direction. It was as good as any other.

Oliver tends to wander off. Never far, and typically to predictable locations, but I always have that brief pang of “what if?” The one that we barely register since it borders on unnecessary drama and fully crosses the line of unlikely. And by the time it could possibly gather momentum, the child appears – blissfully ignorant of the big bad world and its predators lurking behind every theoretical corner. Then we yell or hug or get distracted by another child. But the resonance of that pang stays with us long enough for a glimpse of perspective. What truly matters in our lives. Those lost earrings become a welcome price to pay – the trade off for this moment of relief. So lucky…a charmed life I’m living, really.

But when I reached the end of our townhouse row and turned the corner, my child wasn’t there.

And when I turned the next corner, he still wasn’t there. Or the next corner. Or the next. And suddenly, I was back where I started.

I looked at the strange men doing landscaping and noticed for the first time that they all drive vans. Then I asked George again, “WHERE did Oliver go? Is he inside?” Before even hearing his answer, I crossed the street to look in the good climbing tree. Then I doubled back to try the path to the bridge where we throw rocks in the water. Our neighbor was walking his dog there and said he hadn’t seen Oliver. So I went up another set of steps that would lead me back to the area behind our house.

Then I quickly returned to the front and ran into the house, still calling for him. Eleanor said he wasn’t there but I kept calling. At the door to the basement, I heard how hoarse my voice sounded. I didn’t notice that I was still holding Eleanor’s second cup of water until I hurled it down the stairs.

Back outside. More searching.

Too much walking and running and calling “Oliver…Oliver…OLIVER…OLIVER…OLIVEROLIVEROLIVER!” The twins echoed my calls and I realized that they were now both on the front lawn, trying to aid me in my search. Within minutes they would be lost in the neighborhood too, so I pushed-dragged them to my friend’s house two doors down, and barked, “stay there I don’t know where Oliver is stay THERE!”

We had all been at this house earlier for a casual brunch, and several other mothers were still there. My friend asked if she should call the police and I think I said yes – but I may have just showed her the yellow cup in the patch of dirt. Because he was JUST there a minute ago.

But more than a minute had now passed. Many minutes. Too many. And with each one, the vapor of “unlikely” continued to gain substance. I ran back across the street and through another cul de sac, distantly aware of other voices calling my son’s name.

It was only when I was looking down a hill at the nearby creek that I heard my name. Someone (or everyone) was calling for me. And that meant they found him. It never occurred to me that it could have been anything else. Anything else would be unbearable.

As I rushed back up the street and my house came into view, I saw another neighbor helping Oliver step out of my car. MY CAR. He was in my car.

Me – the city girl who once never left her car unlocked for a single minute. Not even to run into the house for forgotten sunglasses. Because leaving a car unlocked meant that strangers could get in. Maybe steal it. At the very least, pilfer the meter change hidden away in the glove compartment. That city girl, now lulled by her quiet suburban neighborhood and distracted by multiple children let locked car doors fall off the radar. Constant vigilance was reserved for boiling pots of water on the stove and cleaning fluids locked under the sink. Not the car.

And my five year old son climbed into a black Ford Expedition with tinted windows and child safety locks in 90 degree weather.

If one of my friends hadn’t seen a flicker of movement, who knows how long it would have taken for me to find him there. And what that could have meant.

Let’s play hide and seek mommy! Where’s Oliver…

That is real fear. The vampires and sharks of my childhood look like Smurfs and Care Bears when pitted against the fear of losing my child.

I barely said thank you to the people who helped me search for Oliver as I silently led him into the house. And the minute the door closed, I burst into tears. I was SO scared. I couldn’t find you. You were LOST.

I could have yelled or spanked him. I could have sent him to his room for the rest of the day. I could have held him tight and asked if he was okay, told him everything would be alright. I’m here now. Mommy’s here.

Instead I sat and cried and said I was scared. So scared.

At first he laughed. The nervous laughter we’ve all experienced when faced by something impossible. It wasn’t just a crack in his mother’s composure. I dissolved before his eyes. I fell to pieces and I couldn’t help myself.

But I think this probably made more of an impact. If he was scared while locked in the car, he didn’t show it. He has his own walls – his own habits of disconnecting with reality. But he too has a breaking point, and apparently, it’s me. We both cried and said we were scared. And said we were sorry.

Then joined by the twins, we fell into a teary, sweaty heap in front of the TV and decided not to leave the house until it was time for Oliver’s therapy appointment.

I sat with all three of my children and basked the luxury of knowing that they were safe. Nothing bad could happen to them in that moment – I could protect them with four walls, air conditioning and the tedium of passive parenting. With my physical presence. As long as we could see each other, nothing could touch us.

Hours passed, therapy was received, and commuter traffic was endured. And when we returned to the slower speed limit of our neighborhood, the last traces of our anxiety dropped away. I opened the windows and turned up the radio. Warm air rushed in to remove the chill of fear.

In my side mirror I saw Oliver putting his hand out the window to feel the breeze. Part of me thought, “keep arms and legs in the vehicle at all times…” but I remember pushing my own palm against the wind when I was his age. No tree limbs or other cars ever came close enough to hurt me. I never worried about that. Earthquakes maybe…but not losing my hand to swerving motorcyclist.

So I decided not to worry about it now. I put my own hand out the window and felt the pressure of wind. My own flesh and bone, solid and invincible against the blast. With a little tension and concentration, I couldn’t be moved. I could even push back.

The what ifs will never go away. They linger on the edges of our every movement, decision, omission… And sometimes they catch up with us. There is always a terrible story to hear. To simultaneously feel sorrow for others and immense gratitude for our own luck, grace, karma.

I once read a brilliant line about what it means to become a parent. While the source left my memory long ago, the sentiment stayed with me – that someone’s child was born and “fate took a hostage.”

Every day I feel the truth of this. And it humbles me. I have to take responsibility for my power and accept my powerlessness and ultimately just hope that my luck will hold.

And I do that every day. I guess we all do.

It’s a charmed life I’m living. Really.

The Shooting Range

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As a parent of three small children in a townhouse community FULL of children, I’m only just starting to experience the anxiety of letting them play outside the safety of our front lawn. At one time, they would happily stay close to home and never considered crossing the street to interact with the older kids. But now that my oldest is five and my younger two are three, I suddenly find myself lapping our block and crossing into the next cul de sac to hunt down escapees.

They’re still a bit young to seriously join the roving gang of elementary schoolers on bikes and scooters. But when the games involve running through the woodsy common areas with plastic guns and gun-like sticks, the possibility for blending in with the crowd becomes more likely.

And as usual, my first concern is how my five year old with communication delays and all of the awkward social behaviors that accompany them will handle this. I worry that Oliver will opt to disengage and continue to play by himself in the dirt. I worry that he’ll try to play with the other kids but be rejected. I worry that he’ll manage to stay with the group but take their game too far and come across as aggressive.

There are so many things to worry about… So ultimately, I just don’t. I follow Oliver’s lead and try not to interfere. But when I see an opportunity to help him figure things out – I do make the effort.

So I recently bought some cheap dart guns from the grocery store. Then one quiet afternoon when the twins were napping and the other neighborhood kids were scarce, I set up a little shooting range for us. I showed Oliver how to cock, insert the dart, aim and pull the trigger. I, who have never expressed any interest in hunting, paintball, popular college “assassin” games or war movies, yet again had to push my own preferences aside to help my child be normal.

And what at thing to teach him! I mean – aren’t we supposed to discourage guns? Or at the very least, tolerate them within limits? I’ve never heard any experts suggesting that you teach your child to be the quickest draw on the block to help him fit in. But at the end of the day, I have little concern for my son’s future of wielding guns on clock towers or in convenience stores. I’m a bit more focused on him not getting pantsed in Kindergarten.

To be honest though, it doesn’t look like I have much to be worried about anyway. When I suggested that we turn our guns on each other (cringe), he didn’t much like that idea. My little pacifist! We compromised by shooting at our reflections in the windows. And a good time was had by all….sigh.

While I can’t say that I think he’ll be quite the gun fanatic that I see budding in his three year old brother, George…he does now have a clue about what to do if he encounters a pick up game of Armageddon with the guys.

I miss the days of watching Oliver toddle around. Of being oblivious to the future of special needs hurtling at us with a speed and force that would literally knock us flat. But you can’t look back. In fact, I’ve found that you can’t look that far into the future either.

It may sound short sighted to say that I’m not worried about the long term effects of encouraging what most parents consider “inappropriate toys,” all in the name of a short term goal to help him fit in. But just as I had no idea that my seemingly typical baby and then toddler would develop such complicated learning and social delays, how could I possibly predict the person he will eventually become? I personally think that he will be someone pretty wonderful. And a few unorthodox parenting strategies will not greatly impact the the bigger picture of his future as a law abiding citizen.

Like I said – he doesn’t seem to be all that gun crazy anyway. In general, he largely ignores the war games going on around him. But the other day while we were standing outside, he actually picked up a stick with the rudimentary shape of a gun and pointed it at one of our neighbors, a very enthusiastic war mongering six year old. He even made a little shooting noise.

I nearly burst with pride.

That same evening I witnessed something truly amazing. My Oliver, who has a hard time figuring out how to even be a follower with the neighborhood kids, actually took the lead.

Our next door neighbors have a cat named Tony. He’s a sweet black and white kitty who lounges around on various front steps and cars. He’s friendly and more importantly, extremely patient with the grasping and groping hands of the local tots.

Oliver loves this cat. He will lie down next to Tony on the sidewalk while petting him. He will follow him around when Tony tires of his advances and tries to leave. I’ve even found Oliver’s little feet sticking out from under our car where Tony had taken refuge (I can’t take my eye of those kids for a minute…) And there was no exception that evening when Tony came strolling around the corner. He was immediately attacked by my adoring son.

After a few minutes, Tony decided that it was time to extract himself from all of that suffocating love. And of course, when the poor cat darted away, Oliver followed. As luck would have it, this grabbed the attention of our six year old neighbor friend and another little boy who was standing nearby. They ran up to see what Oliver was doing.

Oliver just said, “want to go get Tony?” and out of nowhere, a wild chase ensued. Now joined by my twins, the three boys ran like crazy after poor Tony all around our side of the block. They chased him under back porches and crowed with delight when they saw him streak by in another attempt at escape. I would have been happy to just see Oliver joining in the game, but this time he was actually calling the shots, “this way!…there he is….get him!“

I have never been so thrilled to see children torturing an animal.

Okay – “torturing” is a rather gross exaggeration… But I think it’s safe to say that Tony would have preferred to spend that thirty minutes sunning himself in the last few rays of daylight.

Of course, none of the children actually hurt, let alone touched Tony. And he’s still fond of us, willing to let Oliver pet him for limited periods of time. But that evening, he was more than just the neighbors’ friendly cat. He was the catalyst for what would be the first time Oliver played with a group of children for that long without losing interest and wandering off. I almost cried to hear him say “follow me!” and then to actually see the other kids do just that.

So yeah – yet another example of allowing behavior that should probably be discouraged. I admit it – I make some iffy calls…but I generally stand behind my choices.

I don’t look too far ahead. It’s simply too much for me to take in. Too many unknowns. Too much worry…too much hope… Instead I try to aim for the more attainable goals in the here and now.

I don’t know much about shooting, but my guess is that you have to keep your range realistic. Anything can happen – sometimes the easiest target might give you the slip. But it goes without saying that you should take your chances when you’ve got a clear shot. One that’s close enough to touch. Even if it seems a bit risky. Life is always risky, so why not take our chances when the odds are in our favor. You take a risk every time you walk out your front door. Just ask Tony.

Until I’ve Walked a Mile in His Shoe…

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My husband, Chris is finally coming to the realization that he’s not as handy around the house as he once made himself out to be. Every time something would go wrong with a small appliance or if a minor repair job materialized, he would scoff, “Oh I can do that – that’s simple to fix.”

But funny enough – those simple things never got fixed. Or more accurately, they stayed broken a long time until he finally admitted that he wasn’t going to get around to it and I should just call the plumber/repair man/contractor.

Sometimes he would attempt to fix something but lose steam after a trip to Home Depot to buy the necessary materials. My favorite example of this is “the rock.” A couple of years ago, he decided that we needed to fill the gaping hole that was starting to develop under our cement front steps. It began as somewhat of a crack that was there when we first bought the house in 2006, but after two years, it was getting noticeably wider. Apparently, this fell under the DIY label for Chris, and he said he would take care of it himself.

Knowing nothing about this kind of thing, I gave him my usual, “okay,” and promptly forgot about it altogether. A week or so later though, he came home with a big bag of cement claiming that he would get started on the project that very weekend. Unfortunately, it was rainy, so the bag of cement stayed out on our back deck. (You can see where I’m going with this…) And within a few short days it solidified into a completely unusable rock.

And of course, time passed and other priorities got in the way, and the bag of cement was largely ignored. But in Chris’ defense, it had become invisible as most of his unfinished projects (and dirty clothes on the floor and piles of papers on every surface and crumbs all over the kitchen counter…) are wont to do. So we lived with the solid bag of cement on our deck for a while.

One day I stubbed my toe on it though and went storming into the house to ask my husband what he planned to do with the boulder wrapped in paper that we had been pretending not to see for a year. He promised that he would remove it by the next trash day, but then the excuses started. It was really heavy and he’d need to borrow a dolly to transport it…he wasn’t sure if he could actually put it out with the trash since it was so heavy…he needed to find a dumpster where he could deposit it.

But after a while, I just couldn’t take it any longer (as I am wont to do) and decided that I would at the very least, get it off of my deck.

The first thing I did was try to drag it. But when I grabbed the end of the paper sack, it ripped right off. A fiber once strong enough to hold the amount of dry cement necessary to replace a significant portion of our front steps was now so degraded by the elements, that it hung as weightless as tissue paper in my outstretched hands.

For some reason this enraged me – the indisputable proof of the amount of time that bag sat around without anyone thinking to do something about it. And I became even more committed to my mission. I would get that rock off my property if it killed me.

Luckily, I didn’t have to die on principle. Instead I decided that the rectangular slab could probably be lifted end over end and slowly pseudo-rolled out the back gate. This process took some time, but I did it. And the rock was finally out of my life. Or at least, it was out of my line of sight. It now gathers moss in the grass outside our back fence.

This is just one tale in the epic story Chris’ attempts to be handy around the house. Some are minor, many are comical but few are ever seen through to completion. Which is why he has finally admitted that he is worthless when it comes to home projects. Whether it’s an issue of him not having the skill or not having the attention span – it’s just not worth it for him to bother trying. He’s always meant well, and they say that it’s the thought that counts…but after 10 years of unfinished projects, I beg to differ.

Which is why Chris recently enlisted the help of friend who moonlights as a contractor to replace our rotting back deck. And he had no problem acknowledging that he would be nothing more than a manual labor assistant performing simple tasks as instructed.

Unfortunately, in the process of one of the MOST simple tasks, unloading the lumber, Chris was injured. We’re not sure whether the wood was loaded incorrectly or if it just shifted during transport, but when they opened the back gate of the truck, it all came sliding out and landed directly on Chris’ foot.

Several hours, one ambulance ride, a few x-rays and 11 stitches later, we left the hospital and picked up a much needed prescription for pain killers. Chris would have to be on crutches for at least two weeks and while his foot wasn’t broken, it would take a long time for it to recover from that trauma.

OF COURSE, this all happened two weeks before a large annual conference that he personally runs. And when it came time to pack his bag, I found a great opportunity to crucify him for YEARS of DIY hubris. It occurred to me that he really didn’t need to bring any of his left shoes since his foot was far too swollen for anything sturdier than a tube sock. And I had a good long laugh about how he could pack twice as much footwear, conjured up images of a hopping Lowly Worm from the Richard Scarry books and made up shoe-related conversations we could have about his suitcase:

Kate: Are you sure your bag isn’t too heavy? Your shoes will add a lot of weight…

Chris: No – it should be fine. I’m going to wear my cowboy boot on the plane.

Now I realize that there are plenty of people out there without one of their feet who don’t wear a prosthesis and only require one shoe… But if I was going to be all PC about it, then I wouldn’t have the fun of rolling around on the floor laughing at his expense. And I’m kidding about rolling around on the floor of course. It was on the bed, as I don’t vacuum as often as I should.

I know I sound somewhat mean spirited, but you have to realize that I have rarely given him a hard time about anything like this. In fact, when we were in the emergency room, the doctor stitching up his foot alluded to the many times he “got in trouble” for attempting home projects instead of hiring someone who knew what they were doing. And it was like a lightning bolt hit me. I never even realized that was an option. I could actually be annoyed with him for being stupid. Amazing!

So if a little derision over his one shoe status is all he has had to put up with from me…well I think that’s fair enough. And I couldn’t seriously be mad about his refusal to give it up already all these years. Being the “man of the house,” is an iconic role that runs deep in the male half of the species. There is a good amount of pride tied up in protecting and providing for your family. And even if it ultimately mystifies me – I have to respect his daily struggle to live up to his own overly high expectations. I’ve always tried to see things from the other person’s point of view – so why would I deny that courtesy to my own husband? I figure it’s only fair to put myself in his shoe (omission of the “s” absolutely intentional) on this one.

The good news is that I don’t think we’ll be seeing many do it yourself construction projects in our future. We try to be glass half full people. To look for the silver lining and to learn from our mistakes. And as far as I’m concerned, the lesson here was loud and clear: people who wear flip flops while unloading lumber should hire professionals.