When I was a sophomore in college, my roommate and I stole a 4-foot-tall cardboard standee in the shape of an animated dust ball. It was an ad in the student union bookstore for some brand of vacuum cleaner, but we thought it would look much better in our dorm room, and it did.
I remember the night we stole that thing like it was last night. After my roommate and I worked the standee into our elegant dorm décor, I slipped out to catch up on a little assigned reading. There was a window seat opposite the dorm library where I liked to camp out, and as I got settled in, I had one of those reflective moments. You know, the ones where you freeze-frame your life for a second and make a concerted effort to take in everything and store it in your memory because some wise part of you knew that you’d want that little piece of your life to look back on someday. As I breathed it in -- the heavy, varnished mahogany walls, the whispers and muffled laughter from the library, the mixed scent of leftover pizza and old library books, -- I felt a little pang of fear go through me; fear that my life was zooming by and I had no control over how fast it was going. Fear that I was already a sophomore in college – college! – and that soon I would graduate and leave the football games, the 400 seat lecture halls, the line at the bookstore, my roommate, and our 4-foot-animated dust ball behind forever. I was afraid of getting old. Which I defined by being 22.
On July 7th, 2008, I turned 40.
I never thought it would happen. Not like I thought I’d die before I got here, but I just never considered that I’d actually be 40. Years. Old.
The Esposo threw me the most lavish, fabulous, thoughtful, generous and totally fun 5-day, multi-event birthday weekend anyone this side of Paris Hilton could ever hope for. So the transition was actually a blast. But it was sad too. After the festivities died down and my visiting friends and family flew back home, I was left to drive to work and contemplate just how far away I have traveled from that evening in the dorm.
But as I glanced in the rear view mirror to change lanes, I caught a glimpse of Peapod’s car seat, which was littered with cracker crumbs and a deflated yellow balloon. And I felt much, much better.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Zoom Zoom
What happened to my baby?
You know the one I’m talking about. She used to be dinky with a giant head and was known to topple over onto her face into a stack of pillows, if not propped up just so.
Now she knows the difference between her Crocs and all her other shoes, stuffs fist-fulls of cherry tomatoes into her mouth, and walks around barking out commands like “Mama, sit!” and “Milk, glass!”
I was paying attention the whole time, I swear. But sometimes it feels like it all happened while I glanced away, just for a second.
I notice it at night, mostly. While I’m feeding her that one remaining bottle of milk – the one after the bath, before the bed and during the book – and cradling her in my arms as our end-of-the-day ritual. She used to tuck neatly into my arms. Now her head sits on one armrest and her feet dangle like wet spaghetti over the other. She looks so tall to me in the dim glow of the nightlight and it makes me a little sad.
But during the action-packed-baby-pool-trips-to-Target-grapes-in-a-baggie days, I forget all that and just crack up while she smears mango smoothies into her hair at breakfast. And I’m thankful for what fun it is just to have her around.
You know the one I’m talking about. She used to be dinky with a giant head and was known to topple over onto her face into a stack of pillows, if not propped up just so.
Now she knows the difference between her Crocs and all her other shoes, stuffs fist-fulls of cherry tomatoes into her mouth, and walks around barking out commands like “Mama, sit!” and “Milk, glass!”
I was paying attention the whole time, I swear. But sometimes it feels like it all happened while I glanced away, just for a second.
I notice it at night, mostly. While I’m feeding her that one remaining bottle of milk – the one after the bath, before the bed and during the book – and cradling her in my arms as our end-of-the-day ritual. She used to tuck neatly into my arms. Now her head sits on one armrest and her feet dangle like wet spaghetti over the other. She looks so tall to me in the dim glow of the nightlight and it makes me a little sad.
But during the action-packed-baby-pool-trips-to-Target-grapes-in-a-baggie days, I forget all that and just crack up while she smears mango smoothies into her hair at breakfast. And I’m thankful for what fun it is just to have her around.
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Butterfly Effect
Reporter Melissa Block’s NPR coverage today of the devastating earthquake in China was so poignantly horrific that, at least for this mom, it managed to translate the quake’s physical shock waves into crushing emotional ones, from half a world away.
The report tells of parents rushing to the Juyan Middle School after the quake, and hearing the voices of their children trapped in the rubble and unable to escape. Rescue workers had trouble accessing the remote area, and by the time the cranes had arrived many hours later to lift the massive slabs of collapsed masonry, many of their children’s voices had gone silent. Here is an excerpt:
Parents built makeshift shrines and placed the bodies of the dead on pieces of cardboard or plywood as they grieved over the small lifeless forms. Some lighted red candles or burned paper money to send children into the afterlife. Others set off firecrackers to ward off evil spirits. The grim ritual played out by dozens and dozens of families as they kept watch over their babies one last time.
I think it was that last line that started the tears flowing as I sat in traffic on the 405. One last time. It’s a phrase that resonates with me so deeply since becoming a parent that on occasions like this, I can barely speak it out loud without choking up.
As parents we don’t even dare contemplate outliving our children and so a ‘one last time’ like this one becomes unspeakable. But how many of the little bittersweet ‘one last times’ will there be for those of us blessed and lucky enough to nurture our children well into adulthood? A hundred? A thousand? A million? I suppose it depends on what you deem worthy of counting. One last jar of baby food, smeared on her giggling face? One last ride in the car seat? One last time holding your hand up the porch steps? One last “Mama” before you become “Mom?” Some of these occasions we’ll mark with photos, journal entries or, if we're lucky, crystal-clear visions seared into our memories. Others – probably most – will just slip into the past and one day we’ll wonder wistfully, “When did that stop?”
I can’t imagine the pain those parents in China are feeling tonight, and there is nothing I can type here that would help them feel any more at peace. My helpless heart aches deeply for them. But I did sneak an extra peek at Peapod tonight as she slept, and took a moment to listen to the miracle of her breath. Maybe this little entry will remind one other Mom to do the same.
The report tells of parents rushing to the Juyan Middle School after the quake, and hearing the voices of their children trapped in the rubble and unable to escape. Rescue workers had trouble accessing the remote area, and by the time the cranes had arrived many hours later to lift the massive slabs of collapsed masonry, many of their children’s voices had gone silent. Here is an excerpt:
Parents built makeshift shrines and placed the bodies of the dead on pieces of cardboard or plywood as they grieved over the small lifeless forms. Some lighted red candles or burned paper money to send children into the afterlife. Others set off firecrackers to ward off evil spirits. The grim ritual played out by dozens and dozens of families as they kept watch over their babies one last time.
I think it was that last line that started the tears flowing as I sat in traffic on the 405. One last time. It’s a phrase that resonates with me so deeply since becoming a parent that on occasions like this, I can barely speak it out loud without choking up.
As parents we don’t even dare contemplate outliving our children and so a ‘one last time’ like this one becomes unspeakable. But how many of the little bittersweet ‘one last times’ will there be for those of us blessed and lucky enough to nurture our children well into adulthood? A hundred? A thousand? A million? I suppose it depends on what you deem worthy of counting. One last jar of baby food, smeared on her giggling face? One last ride in the car seat? One last time holding your hand up the porch steps? One last “Mama” before you become “Mom?” Some of these occasions we’ll mark with photos, journal entries or, if we're lucky, crystal-clear visions seared into our memories. Others – probably most – will just slip into the past and one day we’ll wonder wistfully, “When did that stop?”
I can’t imagine the pain those parents in China are feeling tonight, and there is nothing I can type here that would help them feel any more at peace. My helpless heart aches deeply for them. But I did sneak an extra peek at Peapod tonight as she slept, and took a moment to listen to the miracle of her breath. Maybe this little entry will remind one other Mom to do the same.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Bad Vanity Plates
So there I am driving on the 134, minding my own business, when I spot one of those customized license plates -- you know, the ones where people use cutesy spellings interspersed with numbers to express how much they love their dog (Gr8Dane) or the extent to which they rock at suing the pants off people (out2sooU). You may rightly assume that I do not like these plates. They compel gullible drivers like me into tailgating close enough to read them, regardless of whether we are all pushing 85 in the hail. And then after all that effort, they usually suck anyway.
So today's plate was no different except that it shed such light on the extremely delusional state of the driver that it was worth noting. And worth calling my friend V-Train to register my disgust on her voice mail. The plate said "PRDoll." First of all, I know plenty of people in PR and none of them -- to their credit -- could be accurately classified as 'dolls.' These are people who have to do things like try to get the "Access Hollywood" crew to show up at Leif Garret's book signing. Persistent and aggressive? Probably. Tired and grouchy. Likely. But akin to a doll? Doubtful.
Of course I could not just let this go. No, I had to speed up enough to get a decent look at the woman behind the wheel, whom I expected to be bubble-headed, petite and chatting on her Blackberry. Wrong. This woman was obese and drinking coffee. Maybe she borrowed the car, I don't know. But fat or thin, cute or plain, NOBODY should run around town, publicly proclaiming one's self to be a doll. I don't care if you look like Jessica Alba and have just baked a turkey lasagna for your sick friend. You should not declare yourself a doll unless you are prepared to get "bR8ted."
So today's plate was no different except that it shed such light on the extremely delusional state of the driver that it was worth noting. And worth calling my friend V-Train to register my disgust on her voice mail. The plate said "PRDoll." First of all, I know plenty of people in PR and none of them -- to their credit -- could be accurately classified as 'dolls.' These are people who have to do things like try to get the "Access Hollywood" crew to show up at Leif Garret's book signing. Persistent and aggressive? Probably. Tired and grouchy. Likely. But akin to a doll? Doubtful.
Of course I could not just let this go. No, I had to speed up enough to get a decent look at the woman behind the wheel, whom I expected to be bubble-headed, petite and chatting on her Blackberry. Wrong. This woman was obese and drinking coffee. Maybe she borrowed the car, I don't know. But fat or thin, cute or plain, NOBODY should run around town, publicly proclaiming one's self to be a doll. I don't care if you look like Jessica Alba and have just baked a turkey lasagna for your sick friend. You should not declare yourself a doll unless you are prepared to get "bR8ted."
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Sweetest Thing
We’d been prepping Peapod all week for her first ever Easter egg hunt.
Our drills included egg finding, basket holding and candy grabbing. But these did not prepare her for the emotional roller coaster that is the Great American Toddler Easter Egg Hunt.
Resplendent in her yellow Easter dress and white (for now) leather sandals, Peapod weathered the actual Easter service with the poise of someone, oh, twice her age… The highlight occurred during communion, when she caused an outburst of church giggles 5-people deep as she urgently pointed and grunted at the minister holding the wine chalice to please bring it back so she could double-dip her holy wafer.
After mass, we headed to the toddler play area where the under-four set would compete for the plastic egg bounty. But nobody else was there. We peered into the windows of several adjacent classrooms only to find a few families milling around with their youngsters, seemingly unaware that the big event was about to start. Clever girl that she is, Peapod used the opportunity to case the joint, which she did mostly by picking up rocks.
Then suddenly out of nowhere, the masses were unleashed and the play yard was teeming with tiny people wearing seersucker suits and frilly pink dresses and grabbing every unnaturally colored plastic orb they could get their sticky hands on.
Peapod froze, the sudden rush of kids causing her to momentarily panic. Moments later, she gathered her composure and wandered slowly to an orange egg about three feet away. She put it lazily in her basket. The Esposo and I jumped up and down, flailing and yelling “Eggs! Eggs! Get the Eggs! Hurry!” She regarded us as though we’d never met, and unhurriedly sauntered off toward the next egg, which was quickly snatched away by some little poacher in a fairy dress.
Our flailing and her sauntering continued for some time until she arrived at a little green egg at precisely the same moment as a young boy – maybe a year older – in a little khaki jacket. The boy picked up the egg, but upon making eye contact with Peapod became wracked with indecision. He looked at the egg, looked at his basket, looked at Peapod and then repeated the whole pattern once more.
With a mixture of pride and resignation, he plopped the egg in Peapod’s basket and scampered off. And off all the Easter treats we collected that day, that one was The Sweetest Thing.
Our drills included egg finding, basket holding and candy grabbing. But these did not prepare her for the emotional roller coaster that is the Great American Toddler Easter Egg Hunt.
Resplendent in her yellow Easter dress and white (for now) leather sandals, Peapod weathered the actual Easter service with the poise of someone, oh, twice her age… The highlight occurred during communion, when she caused an outburst of church giggles 5-people deep as she urgently pointed and grunted at the minister holding the wine chalice to please bring it back so she could double-dip her holy wafer.
After mass, we headed to the toddler play area where the under-four set would compete for the plastic egg bounty. But nobody else was there. We peered into the windows of several adjacent classrooms only to find a few families milling around with their youngsters, seemingly unaware that the big event was about to start. Clever girl that she is, Peapod used the opportunity to case the joint, which she did mostly by picking up rocks.
Then suddenly out of nowhere, the masses were unleashed and the play yard was teeming with tiny people wearing seersucker suits and frilly pink dresses and grabbing every unnaturally colored plastic orb they could get their sticky hands on.
Peapod froze, the sudden rush of kids causing her to momentarily panic. Moments later, she gathered her composure and wandered slowly to an orange egg about three feet away. She put it lazily in her basket. The Esposo and I jumped up and down, flailing and yelling “Eggs! Eggs! Get the Eggs! Hurry!” She regarded us as though we’d never met, and unhurriedly sauntered off toward the next egg, which was quickly snatched away by some little poacher in a fairy dress.
Our flailing and her sauntering continued for some time until she arrived at a little green egg at precisely the same moment as a young boy – maybe a year older – in a little khaki jacket. The boy picked up the egg, but upon making eye contact with Peapod became wracked with indecision. He looked at the egg, looked at his basket, looked at Peapod and then repeated the whole pattern once more.
With a mixture of pride and resignation, he plopped the egg in Peapod’s basket and scampered off. And off all the Easter treats we collected that day, that one was The Sweetest Thing.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Decisions, Decisions
Choosing a site key for a new bank account I just opened turned out to be quite taxing.
In case you’re not familiar with it, a site key is a picture of something – anything – that must appear on the screen before you type in your final numeric code to gain access to your account online. It’s just another layer of security, but choosing from the hundreds of pictures they offer begs multiple questions that I was not prepared to answer in the short time span before my online session automatically timed out.
Questions like, “If I choose a cat, will people think I’m lonely and pathetic?” or “If I choose that Italian villa, will people assume I’m some self-important, jet-setting wind bag?”
And who are these “people” anyway? It’s not like I’m logging into my bank account amidst throngs of observers just waiting to cast judgment my taste in site key images. But I still can’t shake the notion that somehow by selecting this stupid little picture I am solidifying The Image by Which I Wish to be Represented For All Time.
So I chose the box of Froot Loops.
The Froot Loops were in one of those white Chinese food boxes, but they were unmistakably Froot Loops. And somehow they are also unmistakably, frootfully me. The only trouble is now that I've posted it on my blog, I should probably go choose another image. But which one...?
In case you’re not familiar with it, a site key is a picture of something – anything – that must appear on the screen before you type in your final numeric code to gain access to your account online. It’s just another layer of security, but choosing from the hundreds of pictures they offer begs multiple questions that I was not prepared to answer in the short time span before my online session automatically timed out.
Questions like, “If I choose a cat, will people think I’m lonely and pathetic?” or “If I choose that Italian villa, will people assume I’m some self-important, jet-setting wind bag?”
And who are these “people” anyway? It’s not like I’m logging into my bank account amidst throngs of observers just waiting to cast judgment my taste in site key images. But I still can’t shake the notion that somehow by selecting this stupid little picture I am solidifying The Image by Which I Wish to be Represented For All Time.
So I chose the box of Froot Loops.
The Froot Loops were in one of those white Chinese food boxes, but they were unmistakably Froot Loops. And somehow they are also unmistakably, frootfully me. The only trouble is now that I've posted it on my blog, I should probably go choose another image. But which one...?
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
The Big Question
There must be some weird mist released into the air when your child turns 17 months old. Something that seeps from the pores of the toddler and into the brains of friends, family, casual acquaintances and fellow bus passengers that prompts them all to ask
“The Big Question.”
“So, are you guys going to try for another one?”
Before I go any further, let me just answer it right now because this powerful pheromone, or whatever it is, has probably seeped right through your DSL and is prompting you to ask it now. And the answer is….
Dum ta da duuummmm…
Maybe.
Since the medical community has so delicately categorized me as “AMA,” which is short and rude for “Advanced Maternal Age,” our window of opportunity may be closed for all I know. But that’s ok. We’ve already got one baby that works fine and matches our color scheme, so we don’t feel obligated to collect the whole set. In short, if we can hatch another one, great, if not, that’s ok too.
Now that that’s out of the way, let’s take a closer look at what’s going on here. When you ask someone if they’re planning on trying for another baby, aren’t you asking the most personal of personal questions? I mean, why don’t you just ask the woman ahead of you in line at Safeway if she plans to continue having well-timed sex with her husband? Or ask your next-door neighbor if she feels confident that she’s got enough cash to diaper, feed, educate and eventually put braces on a whole extra baby human?
It’s even worse if you’re dealing with someone who's AMA, like me, since you could potentially substitute in something along the lines of “Hey, so have you starting getting hot flashes yet or do you still actually think you can slip one past the goalie?”
Maybe it’s just me, but I’m always taken aback with the frequency and boldness with which this question comes up. And I chafe a little each time. It’s weird, too, because I was one of those pregnant women who did not mind people – even complete strangers – putting their hands on my expanding belly. Nor did I mind other women asking me intimate details about every physical aspect of my pregnancy.
I suppose I shouldn’t let it bother me. At least they’re not eying me up and asking it a different way. Like, “Umm, you’re not planning on having another one… are you?!”
“The Big Question.”
“So, are you guys going to try for another one?”
Before I go any further, let me just answer it right now because this powerful pheromone, or whatever it is, has probably seeped right through your DSL and is prompting you to ask it now. And the answer is….
Dum ta da duuummmm…
Maybe.
Since the medical community has so delicately categorized me as “AMA,” which is short and rude for “Advanced Maternal Age,” our window of opportunity may be closed for all I know. But that’s ok. We’ve already got one baby that works fine and matches our color scheme, so we don’t feel obligated to collect the whole set. In short, if we can hatch another one, great, if not, that’s ok too.
Now that that’s out of the way, let’s take a closer look at what’s going on here. When you ask someone if they’re planning on trying for another baby, aren’t you asking the most personal of personal questions? I mean, why don’t you just ask the woman ahead of you in line at Safeway if she plans to continue having well-timed sex with her husband? Or ask your next-door neighbor if she feels confident that she’s got enough cash to diaper, feed, educate and eventually put braces on a whole extra baby human?
It’s even worse if you’re dealing with someone who's AMA, like me, since you could potentially substitute in something along the lines of “Hey, so have you starting getting hot flashes yet or do you still actually think you can slip one past the goalie?”
Maybe it’s just me, but I’m always taken aback with the frequency and boldness with which this question comes up. And I chafe a little each time. It’s weird, too, because I was one of those pregnant women who did not mind people – even complete strangers – putting their hands on my expanding belly. Nor did I mind other women asking me intimate details about every physical aspect of my pregnancy.
I suppose I shouldn’t let it bother me. At least they’re not eying me up and asking it a different way. Like, “Umm, you’re not planning on having another one… are you?!”
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