Tag Archives: Sometimes I’m Serious

Two Reminders and an Apology

The first reminder is to enter my fabulous giveaway for Lisa Leonard Designs:

I see plenty of names that are new to me in the comments, but many of my frequent commenters are missing. Do you not like jewelry? Do you not have holiday gifts to buy? You have no excuse. Go comment now!

The second reminder is for all of you DC readers. Don’t miss my favorite designer, Kathlin Argiro’s Sample Sale this weekend!

If you have a need for an event dress, this is a great opporutnity to get designer dresses for a fraction of the original price. I know that some of you DC bloggers out there are getting married soon (Heidi and Liz). Here’s your chance to get something very special for one of the related events (maybe even bridesmaid dresses). This annual sale will be held at the Georgetown Visitation Bazaar, November 7-8. See my post from last week for details.

And now my apology. I feel like I have to say SOMETHING about the election – or rather about the fact that I haven’t said anything about it. It’s not that I don’t have views or opinions. Or even questions. But in the end I felt that this wasn’t the appropriate forum for them. I’ve enjoyed reading what others have to say and commenting on their well written thoughts – but in the end, I was a chicken decided to post about some childhood memories instead. If I have come across as disinterested, I apologize for that. To make up for this lack of courage to speak out, I’ll just direct you to some people that I found interesting or entertaining (or both). Please visit Anastasia, Kacy, Insta-mom and Melissa (there are so many more – but I just picked a few that came to mind). I admire them and thank them for their candor.

And I’ll be back tomorrow with my usual frivolity. It’s just what I do best.

Guest Post from Kate Coveny, Age Nine

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*Don’t forget to enter my jewelry giveaway from Lisa Leonard Designs! Click here for details.

My friend Jozette of Regardez Moi was supposed to guest post this week, but she had to postpone due to a busy weekend and an unexpected business trip (translation: she was too drunk/hung over this weekend and is using a business trip excuse to give her vague “too busy” plea a bit more credibility). Hi Jozette!

So you will have to wait a couple more weeks to hear from her. But it will be worth the wait. Aside from her obvious lack of priorities (I guess she didn’t get the “Kate is #1” memo), she’s a doll and I’m looking forward to seeing what she sends me.

Since Kate Coveny Hood isn’t feeling all that inspired… I thought I’d ask someone else to do a last minute guest post for me. Welcome to Kate Coveny, the nine year old I used to be. As I’m typing this I have no idea what she is going to say, but I’m fairly certain that it will be incredibly embarrassing for Kate Coveny Hood. Because you know – I was odd.

(Weird sepia tinted effect courtesy of the scanner at my office.)

Hello! Kate Coveny here. Before I tell you a little bit about myself, I’d like mention that I’m being translated into “thirty-six year old woman.” We felt that this would be more appropriate for the given audience. Plus – at nine years old, my vocabulary is limited and my spelling is atrocious.

That out of the way, I will now attempt to write a “blog post.” I have no idea what a blog is of course, but it sounds like the pen pal letters that we sometimes write in school. You tell me a little bit about you, I tell you a little bit about me…that kind of thing. I’m hoping that you don’t decide to tell me anything about [whispers] s-e-x because I just found out about that in the recent past and I’m still recovering from the shock. Please – there are some things that nine year old girls just don’t like to think about.

What I DO like to think about includes my dolls (yes – I still play with dolls, what of it?), art projects, cute small animals, and my favorite books. I love to read, and at the moment I particularly like anything written about “the olden days.” This would include All of a Kind Family, Betsy-Tacy, Little Women, anything illustrated by Tasha Tudor, and the Laura Ingalls Wilder “Little House” books. There are so many more – but these are at the top of my list right now. I found most of these books during “Library” at school while the boys were looking up dirty words in the dictionary (they are gross – feel free to talk to them about s-e-x).

At the moment, I have two best friends. I met both of them at my school, Annunciation. My first friend at Annunciation was Sheridan. Sheridan’s mom and my mom met at a school function shortly after we moved to DC last year. They set up a play date for us which is great for me since I’m really shy. Sheridan doesn’t like to play with dolls, but she does like cute small animals. Actually, her favorite animals are not small. Sheridan rides for the Rock Creek Park show team and knows EVERYTHING about horses. She is teaching all of this to me. Sometimes at recess, she quizzes me on horse anatomy and riding terminology. She is a strict teacher – but she says that I’m learning very quickly. Then we play horses using a jump rope for “reigns.” She likes to be the horse, which is fine with me because in my head I pretend that I’m Laura Ingalls Wilder. We play other things too, but right now, horses figure prominently in our friendship. We decided that we were best friends right away – even though I have a lot to learn about horses.

The next best friend I made at Annunciation was Madeline. She was new this year, and Sheridan is in a different classroom. When Madeline’s mother saw that I lived a few blocks away, she invited me over for a play date. Madeline is not interested in horses. Which is a nice change of pace. I think that one horse-crazy friend is enough. Madeline likes to play with dolls (like me!) She has two older sisters and two younger brothers and they all eat dinner at 5:00. This is REALLY EARLY! But Sister (the housekeeper – as in “keeper of all things in the house, including children”), is very strict about this rule. Sometimes, I am invited to stay, but sometimes I have to go home since she has enough to deal with already. Madeline’s sisters are teenagers and they’re both really, really pretty. They have lots of boyfriends and get dressed up to go out every weekend. Sometimes when they don’t go out, they put make up on Madeline and me. They say that Madeline will be the most beautiful of all of the sisters. Truth be told, this makes me a little jealous. I want to be the most beautiful of three sisters, but I just have one brother – and he doesn’t talk about which one of us will be the most beautiful.

I am not beautiful. But I have a lot of imagination. Madeline likes to play games with me because I am very good at pretending. At the moment, our favorite game is to pretend that we are The Borrowers, and that we are tiny. There is one tree that we like to climb and pretend it is a flower. Another game that we like to play is that we are orphans looking for our parents. As I write this, I realize that it doesn’t make any sense – but that’s the game. In the game, we both wear lockets that have pictures of our parents so that we will recognize them if we find them. I think that we may have gotten this idea from Annie, but I’m not sure. Sheridan doesn’t have much patience for these games, but she does like to play other pretend games like “School.” Guess who gets to be the teacher?

I like having two different best friends because they are fun in different ways. Someday I hope they like each other more, because it’s hard to have best friends that don’t like each other as much as they like me.*

(sepia tint with new and improved “lipstick” effect – again compliments of the scanner at work.
But I think I would have liked it at age nine – very “old fashioned” no?)

Well, I think that’s enough from nine year old Kate Coveny for now. As you can see she doesn’t really know how wrap it up (not that Kate Coveny Hood is much better). When I started this stream of consciousness inspired exercise, I didn’t plan to focus childhood friends. But it’s a topic that’s still very relevant to me. I have always believed that your friends say a lot about you as a person. I placed a great deal of value on my friendships as a child, and I still do. Instead of getting caught up in the group politics so common to young girls, I preferred to spend more time with individuals and focus on those friendships. The associated groups of friends were simply a byproduct.

I like to think that I had fun back then, but at the end of the day, I was a fairly serious girl. I gave a lot of thought to my choices, and generally chose to surround myself with interesting and amusing people. I’m happy to say that this is something that hasn’t changed. My current daydreams are less fanciful (I can promise you that I’m not wearing a bonnet or a tippet in any of them), but I still have them. And I choose to spend my time with people who help to inspire them. Hi there friends that are reading this! Just want to say that I love you.

*This was an unfounded concern of mine when I was nine. Once we were all in fifth grade together, Sheridan and Madeline became best friends. While I may have lamented my downgraded status at the time, I had some other best friends to fill the void. Relationships are complicated when you’re a nine year old girl. Almost thirty years later, these two women are still very dear to me. I don’t see them often, but they are like the sisters that I never had as a little girl. Those short paragraphs only provide a few details about their own little nine year old lives. I could easily write a book about either of them.

Out of Context (The Beginning of The Big Piece of Cake: Part II)

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Tuesday was my 100th post. I’m celebrating by not actually writing anything new this week, and instead, re-publishing some posts that I wrote for a friend last Winter. This is the second of three.

Recently another twin mom I know mentioned that she saw me out shopping and tried to wave, but realized that I didn’t recognize her. She kindly suggested that she was out of context since we really only see each other at playgroups, and we didn’t have our kids with us. Then she laughingly said, “and I generally feel out of context when I’m not with my kids.” She is wonderful and I hate to use her comment as a negative example; but the truth is I never want to feel out of context without my children.

It would be so easy to just drift into the ongoing whirlpool of need that they generate. I could lose myself in that quite happily given the rewarding existence of being loved more than anyone by children who are for me, the bright, shining center of the universe. But then I remind myself that Eleanor won’t feel out of context without me when she starts high school, and then college, and then goes to Cancún for Spring Break, and then gets a beach house for the summer with her friends. I can’t lose myself in my children now, because I’ll be needing that identity back when they leave me to find theirs.

I’ve increasingly found that a major element of my motherhood experience is being both a mom and just me at the same time. “Just me,” being the side of me that watches me deal with melt downs and tantrums and dance with the Wiggles and walk out of the house wearing unflattering clothes because I’m in a hurry and I’m just going to the Safeway and I don’t have time to indulge in a wardrobe crisis. It’s the objective side of me that does the laughing and the storytelling and remembers to notice every detail of George’s 14-month-old smile because his face will have changed again by the time he turns two. The mother in me focuses on what needs to be done and really lives in the moment. I need her to take care of my children, but I also need that observer in me to appreciate them. And if I need to have “just me” to laugh about their daily antics now, I’m going to need that same part of myself to help let them go when they inevitably start to grow up.

Full Hands (The Beginning of The Big Piece of Cake: Part I)

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Today is my 100th post. Considering the fact that I started this blog in late June, that seems to have crept up on me rather quickly… What can I say, I’m an enthusiastic poster. To celebrate this milestone, I decided to devote the next few days to the first posts I ever wrote.

They were written last Winter when The Big Piece of Cake didn’t exist, and my neighborhood friend Tricia, ask me to contribute some guest posts as a mother of twins to her blog, Reston Mom. I enjoyed this so much that after several months spent mustering up the courage, I decided to start my own blog.

This is the first of the three pieces I wrote for Tricia (this first one was broken in to three parts for Reston Mom, so it’s longer than the next two):

Full Hands

Recently, Tricia asked me if I’d be interested in contributing to her blog with some reflections on being the mother of twins plus a first child that was only 18 months old when they were born. This is a question that I get all the time: “So you must really have your hands full – how do you manage?” The answer to this would be that I have no idea. People say, “I just don’t know how you do it,” and I think, “me neither.” As my husband, Chris likes to say, we’re just trying to survive and our only real job right now is to keep the three of them alive.

Now that we’re out of the marathon phase of three-hour feeding schedules for infant twins (including three to four wake up calls each night), I think we can get past survival mode. Newer priorities include herding, refereeing, and keeping anything weapon-like out of reach. They’re not violent children – just very physical. The oldest probably sets the tone by initiating games that tend to involve knocking each other down on the floor and seeing who can hold the others down the longest (and as a 40 lb. two year old that looks like a 4 year old, he has a gross advantage over the other two pee wees combined). Honestly, after about six months of feeling like I ruined Oliver’s life by bringing home not one, but TWO unwanted siblings, I’m just glad that they all seem to like each other.

I just never considered that I might end up with twins. I knew twins and I babysat for twins. I listened to my friends muse that it would be so nice to just have twins the first time around and then be done with pregnancy. But I never had those daydreams myself. I always knew that this would be too much chaos for my orderly existence. When Oliver was born, I couldn’t believe how exhausting and all consuming he was; and I have a very clear memory of saying to Chris, “I don’t know how people have multiples – I just couldn’t do it.” But here we are, and somehow we’re all alive, and I find that I don’t need to have everything in order anymore.

It’s impossible to predict what a weekend day at home with the kids will bring: how many battles of will I can expect, what moods I will encounter when I enter their bedrooms in the morning, who will have a runny nose, or when they will actually start the day (it could be anywhere from 5:00 to 7:30 a.m.). What I do know is that I will have a pile of laundry that will never be completely folded until everyone goes to bed, that I will never get around to that vacuuming that needs to be done and that I will very possibly not even leave the house or put on shoes. But I also know that I will witness a developmental leap in speech or motor skills, I’ll receive innumerable hugs and kisses, both requested and offered, and I will discover yet another amazing skill that I didn’t know I possessed, such as fixing matchbox cars or leaping over hurdles Bionic Woman-style to reach a 2 year old attempting to push his little brother down the stairs (all in good fun of course).

The truth is – everything about my twins was unplanned. I’m one of those controlling types that prefer to keep things logical and organized. I knew for a fact that I wanted a three to four year age difference between my (two) children so that I could get the first one out of diapers, into pre-school and engaged in some kind of intelligible communication before embarking on another round of sleepless nights with a second newborn. Well that didn’t work out. Instead, we ended up with three babies under the age of two, all in diapers, in daycare, and nowhere near the ability to communicate clearly with words.

Life was simple with just one baby. There was always one answer for everything: whatever is best for him. If there was an earthquake and a giant crack opened up in the ground, I could pick him up and run in the other direction. Now I’d need to get the stroller, strap in both twins securely and then convince Oliver to actually hold on to me while I carry him and push the stroller with my free hand. At this point, we’ve all been consumed by the giant crack; and trying to climb out with all three of them is beyond even my disaster planning skills.

I spend less time making future plans now (and forget disaster planning, I can’t even watch movies like War of the Worlds). Instead I focus on the next few weeks, days, hours. I’ve found that no one is on board with my preference for sticking to a plan (not even my husband), so I’ve given up. I just do the best I can to keep things organized and try to be ready for anything. But then – isn’t that the case for all families?

Make Mine a Double: Part II

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*Don’t forget to enter my giveaway for a beautiful clutch from Bee Gee Bags! Click here for details.

We last left off the evening of October 9, 2006, with me driving to the hospital with amniotic fluid soaking through my pants and into my car’s upholstery. How’s that for an opener? Didn’t catch the “Part I” post? Maybe you should read that first.

Back to the story. 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 since I was definitely going to have a c-section (George, “baby A,” was breech). And Chris had to drop our 18 month old, Oliver off with friends 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-razy! 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. Born at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) 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, “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 is a birthday. And while I’ve never been one to get sentimental 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.

The First Mommy

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What pregnant mother doesn’t imagine a day when her baby will look into her eyes and say “mommy?” It’s one of the things that we most anticipate and most take for granted. When we think about our unborn child, we don’t consider any of the potential obstacles and challenges that he or she may face. We just picture that cherubic face, shining with love for us and a sweet little voice saying “mommy.”

My babies of course did not select “mommy” as their first word. I was pre-empted for “ball” and “teeth” and “daddy.” You would think that out of three children, at least ONE of them would humor me with an early “mama.” But apparently, that’s not the way they roll.

As I’ve mentioned before, my oldest son Oliver has had some speech delays. While he did start using words at the usual age, his progress was a bit on the slow side. After having him tested at age two, he qualified for a county funded pre-school (so while you say “oh no – speech delays…” I say “oh yeah – free preschool!”) And his teachers have worked with him on some of his more quirky habits like jargoning (which basically means speaking in gibberish) and making up words.

An example of these quirks was his bizarre tendency to say “yo-yo-yo” before something he wanted, like “yo-yo-yo cookie!” During this phase we called him a little rapper and spent countless hours amusing ourselves with imitations (because that’s the way WE roll). He’d also replace real words like “mom” or “mommy” or even “mama” with made up words like “mo.” So, yes – for about a year, my first born son called me “mo.”

Chris, of course thought this was hilarious and encouraged it: “Oliver – where’s Mo?…Oliver – listen to Mo…Oliver – keep calling your mother ‘Mo’ even though she doesn’t like it – because I’m sadistic and like to torture her when all she ever asked for was to be called ‘mommy’ by shining cherubic faces…” You know – that kind of thing.

While I didn’t exactly encourage “mo,” I lived with it and just hoped that he’d grow out of it someday. At the very least, I would not allow “mo” to become my official name in the family. Dammit – someone was going to call me mommy!

The first day that I brought Oliver to school was pretty hard on both of us. He was so little (only two!) and I had never left him anywhere new before. He’d been going to daycare since he was three months old. It was unthinkable for me to just hand him to strangers and then walk away. But I had to. And then I had to listen to cries of “Mo! Mo!” as I took the longest walk of my life away from him.

The end of those three hours could not arrive fast enough. Even though I was busy at my office less than a mile away, I felt like I hadn’t taken a breath since I had let go of his hand (something I hadn’t experienced since the first day I left him at daycare). When it was finally time to collect him, I raced into the school wildly scanning the crowd for his little blond head and orange jacket.

When I finally did spot him, he sat with the other little kids, looking confused and forlorn. Not crying – but heartbreakingly unsure of what would come next. Then his eyes met mine, and his cherubic little face broke into the brightest, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. And then he said “Mommy!”

I have no idea what changed. Maybe the teachers referred to me as “mommy.” Maybe the other kids talked about their mommies. But for some reason, I finally stopped being “mo” and started being “mommy.”

Thank god!

As for George and Eleanor? Eleanor is a typical girl in her constant chatter. She started calling me mommy once she really began talking. And apparently, it’s her favorite word. It’s also the soundtrack of my life: “MO-MEE! MO-MEE! MO-MEE!” Be careful what you wish for – right? George is only just starting to call me mommy, but chooses to pronounce it “Ma-MY!” Of course he also calls Chris, “Da-DY!”

We find this insanely adorable. Weird. But adorable. Which I personally find to be an apt description for all of my children.

*This is part of the “Writing Motherhood” writing challenge and giveaway over at Mommyvents. Post a link to your own post in the comments section and you can win a copy of “Writing Motherhood.”

If You Can’t Take It, Then Don’t Bring It

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This is something that I often hear myself saying to my daughter when she tries to wrestle with one of her brothers, and then ends up crying and wanting to be held and soothed. The fact that she’s not quite two years old makes me a little sympathetic – but I also know that this is a life lesson she needs to learn. She can’t always win, and she has to know that this is okay. And that she should keep trying. So far, she does keep trying – and I love seeing that. I wish I had been more like her growing up. In my usual late-to-the party-style, I’m only just starting to do this right.

I recently heard from a good friend and previous co-worker that my blog came up at the weekly directors meeting. Obviously I did not spam myself out to everyone there – but I do keep in touch with a few people. One of them brought it up to another one in the meeting. You know – in front of male V.P.s with whom I’ve only ever had professional relationships. Because of course they are the first people I would want to read my posts about my husband’s slovenly habits or see that I actually said “once you go black…” online.

My initial reaction was to be horrified by the idea that one of them might actually look me up (and I’m sure that at least one has). But then I remembered that I don’t work there anymore. I don’t write negative things about that organization or the people that work there. And even if I did, what are they going to do – fire me? Why would I care what they think if I don’t keep in touch with them? What kind of power do these people – or any people – have over me?

When you set up a website with your name on it (your real name), then you have to be okay with anyone reading it. I’m sure that primarily women are reading my blog – but that doesn’t mean men can’t read it too. And I can’t assume that everyone that visits my site is a friend. There are just as many new visitors each day as there are return visitors. And most of them are strangers. I’m sure some of them are men and I know some of them are perverts. And yes – a handful of them will probably be people that I used to know.

So it’s really all or nothing. If you want to put yourself out there, you have to stand behind anything you say. There is always the option of using a pseudonym, but I think even that has its complications. You can’t fear what people think about you. You have to be willing to be associated with what you write. By anyone.

I spent most of my formative years being cautious. I tended to have very close friends in whom I knew I could confide. I could be myself with them and I didn’t censor my thoughts or feelings. But to the rest of the world, I stayed neutral. I didn’t seek out the spotlight and didn’t break the rules. I actively tried to be (for lack of a better word) safe. And on the few occasions that I was forced to take a chance or try something “scary,” I found any failure or rejection devastating. I wasn’t ready to risk that. That part I knew. I knew that I couldn’t take it.

But now I can. Now I can say what I want. In the out loud voice. Online. I am not outrageous or crude – but I don’t censor myself either. I have taken a few chances (my husband is still mortified about my posts about Mormon bloggers) and I’ve even had to experience a little hate mail (regarding my SUV). But I can take it.

I don’t regret the person I used to be. But everyone can change for the better. I used to think I was nice – but now I think I was just scared. And as a result, I made myself small. The fear will never completely go away – but now I really can take it. So it feels good to try to be big. Notice I didn’t name my blog The Small Piece of Cake. I’m finally ready to take some chances in life.

And if I get hurt? I can take it. So bring it.

Weird on So Many Levels

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(Now with Eleanor update at the end.)

I was planning to post this quick sound byte from our weekend (already written below) but I need to do a little venting first (and I’ll TRY to keep it short since don’t want to be an online whiner).

I sometimes really wish I just wanted to (okay – that’s 50% that we could afford for me to) be a stay at home mom. Sometimes this is just too hard. Work is incredibly stressful right now. We have a seminar taking place tomorrow and the President is speaking. She’s notorious for finding SOMETHING wrong every time she does a seminar, and I’m just bracing myself for this one. Too many things were going wrong at the last minute today…

THEN at 4:00 I got a call from daycare that Eleanor had a temperature. Not too high – just 101 – but she has been having this off and on for the past few days, and it was up to 103 on Saturday. I only sent her to daycare because she seemed fine this morning.

When I picked her up, I planned to leave the boys there and bring her to the store to pick up a few things before the regular 5:15 pick up time. THEN while I was getting details about her day from our daycare provider, she threw up ALL OVER ME. The good news is that while it drenched my top, it somehow missed my skirt and I had just picked up the dry cleaning this morning. The bad news that there wasn’t one of my own tops in the dry cleaning. So I ended up wearing one of Chris’ dress shirts.

By the time I got Eleanor and myself somewhat cleaned up, it seemed ridiculous to leave and come back, so I packed everyone in the car. We carpool with Chris, so even though I called and told him to leave early, we had to circle the metro for almost 30 minutes. Thank god for portable DVD players, and Curious George, and the fact that my kids didn’t feel like watching the WIggles since their songs are already haunting my dreams.

Fast forward an hour – we decided that we wouldn’t wait until tomorrow to see a doctor since she gave us a 105.2 temperature scare last summer due to a UTI. I had a feeling that this might be another one and I’d rather not relive waking up at 3:00 a.m. to find my daughter having a seizure. We agreed that Chris would take her to our local urgent care center since the boys are both convinced that the world comes to an end when I leave the room (and because we naively thought that it would only be a couple of hours).

Now it’s 9:30, they’ve been there almost four hours and it will probably be another two. Eleanor has an IV, a catheter and has had blood taken for testing. Poor Chris has a phobia of needles (he passes out when he gives blood) and has had to be there for all of it. I did it last time and it was hard enough for me!

I’m not worried about Eleanor for anything more than her immediate discomfort. I know that this is another UTI. It’s not the end of the world. I certainly know people that have experienced worse – but it doesn’t make it any less scary for her. It doesn’t make it any less disturbing for my husband. And it doesn’t make it any less frustrating for me. I want to be there. I want to hold her and comfort her and let her know that I will ALWAYS be there if she needs me. That’s my real job. I’m the mom.

This time I will have to go to work. I’ve already exceeded my current vacation time by making the last minute trip to Key West. Chris can stay home with her as necessary tomorrow and I can’t. It’s just not a good day. I hate even thinking that. How can it ever be a bad day to take care of my children. If Chris was traveling for work, I would have to rearrange my schedule. But he can manage taking the day off – so there is no reason for me to stay home. Other than the obvious reason that I WANT to.

Don’t get me wrong – on good days, I like having a job. I won’t go into the history of that because I’ve gone back and forth on the subject. But I don’t want to give the impression that I don’t want to be a working mom. It’s just not working for me today. And I’m feeling a little sorry for myself. And I’m feeling guilty for that since I know that I have so much to be thankful for.

I just wish I could trade for a minute. I want to be at the urgent care center right now. I want to be home with my daughter tomorrow. And I want to feel like I’m giving 100% of myself to my children.

Okay that’s it. Sorry – didn’t keep it short. I did try though.

Back to our regularly scheduled program. This is some dialogue from this weekend that I found “weird on so many levels”:

Conversation over lunch at Chipotle:

Oliver (3 years old): OFF! OFF!

Me: No. Boys don’t take off their shirts off at Chipotle.

Chris: Yeah – what do you think this is? Your mother’s favorite gay bar at the beach?

8/12/08, 10:00 p.m. Eleanor Update:
Okay – so she’s fine. We have no idea what was wrong with her – but she woke up this morning like, “psyche!” (I’m feeling very 80s). But she really did seem to be very sick last night – so we don’t regret the ER drama. I mean they hooked her up to tubes and all…so it wasn’t like they were just humoring us. Anyway – it doesn’t seem to be a UTI like I thought, she hasn’t had a fever in 24 hours and she was tearing around the house causing as much mayhem as ever up to the minute we put her to bed. So for everyone that has been sending words of support – all is well. One last thing. Chris told me that when they were in the ER, she kept asking for her twin brother, “where George?” How cute is that?

Insecurity Blankets

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In a previous post, I mentioned George’s obsession with his blankie. This started a few months ago and has recently peaked in an ongoing power struggle that more often than not concludes with George doing a victory lap around the playroom with said blankie wrapped around his head.

In the beginning, the blankie didn’t leave his crib. It was for sleeping only. The first sign of our current descent into madness was when we would get him out of bed and he refused to put it down. But we were still able to hide it before leaving for daycare or weekend plans, so it was just a matter of transporting it back up to his room. Then he had to start this irritating cognitive development thing where he puts two and two together. That’s when he realized that when the blanket wasn’t in view, it still existed somewhere in the house, and that the sight of one of his parents racing up the stairs with something stuffed under their shirt was a clue as to where it went.

Now he’s onto us. Just try to coax him to hand over his blankie and and he’ll give you a look that clearly says, “you’ll have to pry it from my cold dead fingers.” Trickery is now the only option, and I have a new item on my daily to do list: “steal blankie from George.”

In all honesty, I do understand George’s love for his blankie. I had one myself. Even when I was a teenager, I would put the pathetic little scrap that remained over my pillow at night because I still liked the feel of it against my cheek. Then I left it a my friend, Alyssa’s house right before she left to spend the summer with her father in California. By the time she returned, it was nowhere to be found. I can only assume that its value was not recognized, and someone threw it away. It was a little sad – but I let it go without too much remorse. My blankie had lived a good life – much longer than most.

I think this cuddly object obsession that is so prominent a theme for small children (blankets, stuffed animals, special pillows and the like) is just an early shade of something very basic and human. We live in a chaotic world and we all need something to help us stay anchored. We battle insecurity every day – mainly over where we fit into society. Whether it’s high school, the boardroom or the neighborhood moms group – we often need something tangible to make us feel safe or connected. As teenagers we have strong connections to our friends, at work we get identity from our achievements, and with other moms we define ourselves by our parenting. George just wants his blanket.

Sometimes I think it sounds very appealing to go back to this simple set of priorities. If just holding a blanket made me feel good about myself, I’d drag one around too. But as I’ve grown up, my security blanket has become my family, my marriage and children, my sense of self worth. A piece of fabric is no longer enough. But what I do have is more than enough, and my anchor is just being able to remember that every day.

I Am Kitty Wheat

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At my last job, I worked with a woman named Kitty. She was quite a bit older than me, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable actually assigning an age to her…let’s just say she was probably old enough to be my mother. One of the reasons that it is hard to pinpoint her age is that she is Asian and I’ve always found that Asian women (as well as most black women I know) tend to age beautifully and look far younger than they actually are. She was also very elegant and managed to look well put together even on casual dress days.

Okay – so none of this is really that important. But I suppose I’d like you to picture the woman as I knew her, and that would require some visual clues: older, Asian, and impeccably dressed. Her actual position isn’t all that relevant either – but she headed up a department and previously worked as a college professor. So you can add a successful career and higher education to her profile as well.

Kitty was pleasant, considerate, quiet and dignified, and the woman couldn’t let anyone else end an e-mail correspondence if her life depended on it. She would always reply. No matter how final you made your closing statement – she would have a response. It took me a little while to notice this, but when I did, it was impossible to deny. She really did have to have the last word.

I don’t think that she was aware of doing this. In fact, I suspect that it was simply a byproduct of being incredibly polite. But that didn’t make it any less bizarre (or hilarious).

I started testing her. I would say, “I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear something.” And she’d reply, “thanks Kate.” And I’d reply, “anytime.” And she’d reply, “I appreciate that – I know you are busy.” And so on and so on. I wish I had saved some documentation of this because I know that I had great examples in my old e-mail archives… In the end – I could never stump her. She was the master.

Recently, I was reminded of Kitty when I typed most of a reply to an e-mail I had received and then deleted it. I felt compelled to respond, but in the end, decided that in the mind of my e-mail correspondent, the communication ended with his last message. Even though I had much to add – it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to hear it. The conversation was over.

Then it came to me. I’M Kitty. I find it hard to leave things hanging – I fill in awkward silences – I don’t want to leave any conversational stone unturned. I don’t know if I’m polite – but I sure do like to talk. And I suppose I also like to have the last word. This would account for why most of my posts are SO LONG (yes – I’ve noticed that too). But somewhere along the way, I realized that I can’t always control the conversation, and that I sometimes have to let someone else decide when it’s over.

So I wonder… Did I pick up this life lesson from my e-mail correspondence with Kitty? Or did this understanding of my own impulses allow me recognize them in her as well? I think I’d put my money on Kitty. I believe that we learn quite a bit about ourselves through our interactions with other people. We see our reflections in them and decide whether we like what we see or if we want to change it.

Personally, I’m honored to share Kitty’s quirks. I have fond memories of her – and I hope that my own odd habits have provided others with just as much amusement. But I will continue to reign in my urge to reply. To do otherwise would be like returning a gift. So this is for you Kitty – and to any of my readers and prior co-workers that know her – thanks for the memories.