Update for Thursday visitors: I don’t know what happened, but the text of my Collecting Favorites post disappeared yesterday, with all the links to your favorite posts. I’m spending tonight trying to recreate it from the comments (they are still there) and your e-mails. Please check back in the next day or two and make sure your links are still there and that they are in working order. If they aren’t there by Friday, let me know.

And in the meantime, please pay a visit to Stephanie, who wrote this amazing post for her daughter’s first birthday.

I’ll have a new post up late tonight.

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We spent our Memorial Day afternoon enjoying the company of friends at an impromptu picnic in a nearby park. There were eight kids under five in our group. I know it sounds crazy, but the atmosphere was very laid back. We were just all happy to be out of our houses.

At one point Rachel and I were standing near a one and a half year old boy (Hannah’s buddy), who was babbling away. I believe he said, “Shoeba, Shoeba, Shoeba, dooba…..” or something in that vein.

Rachel heard, “Are ya sad?”

“Mom, he’s really talking now? He said ‘Are ya sad?’”

“Oh, yea?” I responded.

“So he’s almost two, right?” Rachel deducted, “He talks better than Hannah.”

In fact, he is one month younger than our nineteenth-month old Hannah.

But this brings us to the subject of the day, Hannah’s speech development. The girl is talking. Really she is. She’s just a little, let’s say, different. She’s got her own thing going in the words department.

For instance, let’s take the word “wa.” It might not sound a lot like cup, but it’s close enough to water, which is a liqud that goes in a cup, right?

We’ve got a clear “No” for no. Of course, that also means nose. When she means nose, however, she’ll point to her nose. She used to stick her finger up it whenever we said nose, but she’s way too advanced for that now.

Also audible are : shoe, bye-bye, dada, mama, dog, mine, down, diaper, poo-poo, bath, chair.

Everything else falls in this grey area, somewhere between da-da and shee.

Juice, cheese, vitamins, and who knows what are either sheee, or shoewa.

Rachel is didi, and sometimes Ridi.

And yesterday, she settled upon a word for her blanket. She moved from didi, to the more sophisticated, “danky.” Hey, we’ll take it. We’re talking two-syllables with two different consonants. Genius child.

There are a lot more words that I can’t remember and I’m sure I’ll be editing this post all day tomorrow to add them so I don’t sell miss Hannah Banana short. (Or maybe I’ll be sane and just give it a rest.)

The point is folks, she’s really talking. She might not be asking me if I’m sad, but she’s making progress. She’s trying so hard to form the words. It’s quite touching to watch. I’m also proud of her skill at making ‘didi’ sound liking a hundred different words by putting the right emphasis and drama on each syllable. The girl has rhythm I tell you. The soul of a musician. She understand the essence of the word’s sound. There’s an artist for you. And now she’s starting to combine words right and left. Most of the time these word combinations involve the word mine, but that’s okay. She’s also been saying “Mama shee,” which perhaps means “Mama,see” (look). I don’t know. We’re working it out.

So if you ask me how many words she has, I’ll say at least 102. They may all sound like didi to you, but I’m sticking by my number.

And the survey says……

my blogger buddies (yes, that’s you) want me to talk about my travels (among other things). The truth is some of these traveling days were so long ago and my memory is so shot that I don’t remember a lot of the details. Fortunately, I have always had the soul of an archivist (translation: been a packrat) even when I didn’t know I wanted to be one (an archivist, not a packrat), and therefore have lots of materials to look through like journals and letters.

The first time I traveled abroad I was nineteen years old and was participating in a foreign study program in Jerusalem, designed to teach us about, among other things, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I spent the summer before going to Jerusalem with my parents who were living in Manhattan on the upper west-side, near Columbia University.

This morning, I found my journal from that summer and fall. There is a lot in there. Some of it is hilarious, and makes me look pretty silly. I might give you a peek into that kind of stuff at a later date.

Today, though, I want to focus on something that I found very poignant and interesting. I wrote in my journal while I was flying to Jerusalem from New York via Paris. At the time, I don’t think I was aware of the significance of that entry, but now I realize that I documented myself becoming a world traveler so the entry is pretty neat in my opinion.

The first part of the the entry rehashes a panicked search for my passport that morning. It wasn’t where I thought it was supposed to be, so my Dad had to drive me out to a farmhouse about an hour outside of the city that my parents were renting that year. My Dad drove me. This is what I wrote about the drive: “”In about an hour Dad and I were on our way out to the farm. It was a nice ride out with Dad, who was very relaxed….We talked a little bit but I was quiet….Thinking…Dad asked me what I was thinking about and I said, “everything” which was a change from the usual “nothing.” I explained that I tend to drift a lot when I am thinking. ” [yes, the older me is smiling at that.] Obviously, I found the passport.

On the flight from Paris to Tel Aviv there was a couple sitting next to me that spoke only Spanish and Yiddish: “they are both very friendly and seem excited. When I said that the window seat was mine she said “Si-Si” and “un momento.” When I sat down she said something to me about Tel Aviv in Spanish….She seemed eager to talk to me and asked “Do you speak English?” I said, yes. She said, “only English?” I said, yes. She seemed very disappointed and said that she didn’t speak English. I acted (and was) disappointed, too. Her husband then leaned over to take part in the conversation….They then asked if I spoke Yiddish. When she offered me gum I said gratias and then al three of us tried to communicate. It didn’t work. They sat back disappointed and then started to speak Yiddish with each other.

“When the plane started she started to say “oieee” and moan….Her husband was calm, helping her out.

“And here we are now. In front of me si a man reading a Hebrew paper. Now the pilot is telling us that we are about to fly over Geneva. The women has recovered and is very excitedly looking out of the window and pointing. She is almost in my lap. She said “I’m Sorry” and then later, “Wonderful, ay?” The mountains are beautiful!!! I want to stop everything and hike in them now. Seriously….”

After lunch:
“There is so much ocean!!….I can imagine the big ships on the trade routes. Even more I can see how attached the traders must have been to the sea….I don’t think I’ve ever experienced oceans and water the way that I’m experiencing from the airplane. ….It seems so old and so big and so wise…..The water seems to have power over the land. It seems to be guiding it with gentle hands……..”

So that’s what I was thinking. Who would have remembered? Not me. I had completely forgotten about any of these thoughts until I read through the journal today.

My Dad told me later in life that he had his first profound thought when he was in the army on a ship looking out on the ocean. He never said what this profound thought was. (Why, oh why, didn’t I ask him?) He would have been about the same age I was when I wrote this journal entry. At nineteen I was closer to the ages that my children are now, than to my thirty-six year old self. (But not much closer, mind you)

……..to be continued.

I’m going to make these posts about my travels a regular thing, beginning with Jerusalem and taking it from there. My photos from these days aren’t the best quality but I promise to post some once I get the hang of using our scanner, which is very temperamental. I will also answer your other questions in future posts.

And you know I can’t resist talking about my girls. My mommy-blogging will continue.

If I were to write a few posts that had nothing to do with my two children (imagine that!), what aspect of my life are you most interested in hearing about? (husband, other family members, and love-life excluded from options) If you are stumped, you might try looking at my 100 things list on my sidebar.

I am taking this survey because I have become aware that I am very happy writing about others, but do not write about myself very much. The point is to start getting a little closer to that mirror I mentioned I was uncomfortable standing in front of too closely. I’m not inspired to write about myself, but maybe I would be if I could get some direction from you.

Or should I just give it up and stick entirely with the mommy blogging?

Thanks for your input.

Do they have palm trees in India? I’m assuming not. (Update: There are palm trees in India. Silly me. Did I tell you I love my daughter’s pre-school?)

I’m asking because my daughter asked me this question on the car ride home from school today. Then she asked me if I wanted to go to India. I said, “Sure. Do you want to go together?” She said, ‘Yes. I mean, no. I want to go to Europe…no, I mean Scotland, so I can do the lassie dance. Do you want to go to Scotland and do the Lassie dance?” “Sure” I said wearily, noticing that my sprained foot was throbbing a little bit as I was driving.

When Rachel was two I bought her a plaid skirt at a rummage sale and hung it in her closet, never thinking she’d wear it that much. She discovered it one day and yelled, “Mom! A lassie skirt!” She quickly put it on and started doing her version of Scottish highland dancing, while singing “Did you ever see a lassie..” (We have a video with a scene like this in it.) After that it was called the “lassie skirt” and we always got to watch some “lassie” dancing whenever she wore it. It still fits it, but she doesn’t dance for us as often. Maybe when we got to Scotland, though, she’ll dance again. I’ll have to get this foot healed and start practicing my lassie steps so I can join her.

(Pause) How many times did I use the word lassie in those last two paragraphs? More than necessary, I’m sure.

Happy weekend everyone! We’ve got a nice long one coming up, and I sure need it. Thank goodness May is almost over. It has been a whirlwind of a month and I’m tired.

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Tip of the Day: If you have eaten half of a cookie while baking a batch for your kids to enjoy with a babysitter, it is best to eat the other half, to hide the evidence. You might also want to try a glass of milk, to make that task a little more pleasurable.

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Thought of the Week: I don’t know if “Moon Cycle” tea did anything to alleviate what was ailing me last week, but it sure tasted like crap.

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Amy tagged me with the “Power of Three” meme. I’ve looked at it several times, and am just not inspired by it. Therefore, I’m going to buck the meme and just list three things I love about Amy:

1. She’s got two adorable little kids extremely close in age (two and one), including one that is facing surgery next month, but her spirit is incredibly refreshing.
2. She calls herself a whiner, but she most definitely is not.
3. We’ve got a lot in common. See her 100 things.

See sidebar for details.

Last week I was tagged to do two memes. I think I might be the last left to do these two: the music questionaire and the “10 things I’ve never done.” My translation of these particular memes is: How to make me appear to be a complete dork. This is not intended as an insult to the people creating the memes, but more of a statement about me.

I do like the two people who tagged me very much, so I am going to do my best here.

Kismet tagged me with the “10 things I’ve Never Done” challenge. I’m going to add my own twist. After each thing I’ve never done I’m going to add a “but……”

1. I’ve never taken illegal drugs, but I don’t judge people who have. If you are under the influence around my children, though, don’t expect to get near them.

2. I’ve never danced with a lampshade on my head, but I can see myself doing it one day to entertain a group of kids.

3. I’ve never jumped from an airplane, but………nothing. I never will…unless the plane is taking a nose dive, and then I’m still not sure I would.

4. I’ve never sung the blues with a good band behind me, but that would be a dream fulfilled.

5. I’ve never been to Australia or Brazil, but my sister has. Hi Sis!

6. I’ve never liked goat cheese, but I love feta cheese and use it as a substitute.

7. I’ve never broken a bone, but this recent sprained foot I acquired is driving me nuts.

8. I’ve never given a talk/lecture without getting a good case of the nerves first, but…..there’s always the hope.

9. I’ve never liked standing really close to a mirror and looking at myself, but maybe that would help matters. I’m more of a big picture person. I stand a good 3-5 feet away.

10. I’ve never been comfortable at large parties, but I like hanging with a small group of friends.

Now, the next to tackle is the dang music meme, which really isn’t going to make me look good. Vicki tagged me for this one because she wanted to get to know me better. I’ve decided to be a little free-wheeling with this one, so I don’t look as bad.

First of all, I have three songs on my computer. Most of the CDs I listen to are store bought, unless my husband (who loves burning music and is the one with the ipod), makes one for me.

Second, I haven’t been listening to a lot of adult music lately. I’m not sure if this is because I’m too lazy to put a CD in or I have been enjoying silence when the kids are sleeping.

The last CD I bought was the soundtrack from the movie, Ray.

Some of my favorite artists: Bonnie Raitt, Carole King, Suzanne Vega, Joni Mitchell, Van Morrison, Mary Black, Ray Charles, Ella Fitzgerald, Tom Waits, Carly Simon, Fleetwood Mac, The Chieftans… I like singers with soul.

When I was a kid, I loved musicals: My Fair Lady, West Side Story, Sound of Music, and Fiddler on the Roof were some of my favorites. I wanted to play Annie on broadway…..like every other 10 year old girl. Now that I am older I have a huge appreciation for The Music Man and Singing in the Rain.

When I was a teenager I was a huge Billy Joel fan. My favorite album was The Stranger. I believe I owned all of his albums until 1985 and then I stopped collecting. My family was also big into Simon and Garfunkel. I went to their concert in Central Park when I was 12 years old. Their music still makes me happy.

When I was in college: James Taylor, Carly Simon, Traci Chapman, Joni Mitchell, Cat Stevens. Groovy stuff.

I’m a sucker for any song with a good melody–whatever genre. I don’t like anything that sounds too noisy. Not a fan of electric guitar solos.

My husband is way cooler than me on the music front, but I just can’t seem to get into Neil Young and the Grateful Dead in a real way, as much as I respect his taste in music. I do enjoy Young’s later stuff a lot. If you listen to Neil Young, answer this question: Do you think man needs a maid?

Okay. That’s it. I’m not going to tag anyone, but If you want to pick either of these memes up, please do, and tell me that you’ve done it so I can read about you. Off to listen to music while I clean my office.

I learned in a conversation with Rachel today that I am to call her (Rachel) sweetie pie, but may call Hannah cutie pie.

“I don’t like it when people call me cute.” She explained. “I’m fancy.”

She was very disheartened when I giggled at this. I have to remember to keep my poker face on during these very serious conversations that are not cute.

Honestyrain is very sick and has been all week. Will you please pay her a visit and wish her well? She has been in and out of the hospital.

(click on title bar to go there)

I just got off the phone with my mom, pleased that I had been able to have an uninterrupted conversation. Then I took a minute to concentrate on what Hannah was doing. She was pushing around a toy shopping cart. In it was a wastepaper basket, a roll of toilet paper, a rolling pin, and a toilet plunger. How’d that happen? I swear I was right on her while I was talking.

Does anyone else’s child have an obsession with toilet plungers? Maybe it’s time to find a better hiding place for it. What do you think?

Which reminds me. I think the real reason mothers of toddlers are a bit on the bitchy side (besides PMS) is that we never get to go to the bathroom without someone grabbing for a plunger, the toilet paper, or the box of tampons under the sink. You try going potty while someone stuffs toilet paper in the gap between your bottom and the back of the toilet seat. Or tries to get on your lap. Or tries to push you off the seat so they can get on. It might just make you a little grumpy.

“After you say you are sorry you have to hug so you know you still love each other.”

(Concerned that Hannah wasn’t letting her hug her after Rachel said sorry for something.)

I honestly didn’t think about the significance of the after-sorry hug until she explained it to me.

It’s American Idol night and therefore, a good night for a random toughts post. I can’t focus.

1. Resolved: No blogging after 10 PM. Computer closed. My head must be on pillow by 10:30. Can I do it?

2. What a great final three on American Idol. I have a soft spot for Vonzelle, but Bo, who was my initial favorite, was amazing tonight. Carrie had more spark than usual. Vonzelle was stronger in the last two songs than the first. She is an incredible talent. Bo should win this, but they are all wonderful.

3. It seems simplistic to me to blame the rioting in Afghanistan on the error in the Newsweek article. I don’t mean to defend Newsweek, I just think to make that the focus of the story isn’t going to help us understand what is going on in that part of the world. Just my opinion. Looking at history, riots are usually caused by deep resentments that have built through a series of events. I’m not going to get all political on you here, but it just rubs the historian in me the wrong way. Why is there little REAL analysis being done by our journalists. It frightens me. Our country needs real journalists. The health of our democracy depends on it. Our journalists need to be independent and brave. Our journalits are scared to tell the truth. I’ll get off my soapbox now.

4. I started exercising again today. My foot still hurts a bit, but I was going crazy without real physical activity. I am not a very good mother without it. I exercise because without it I have no patience.

5. The week that I was on bedrest for my sprained foot, I became a little depressed. It’s amazing how quickly that can happen when you are injured or ill. I think it’s because your confidence gets hit. You just can’t do things the way you want to do them and you feel like you are letting people down. It made me sad to think of all the people who experience pain or dehibilitation on a longer term basis.

6. You have all got me surfing jewelry sites. I’ve never been a big jewelry person, but am having fun.

7. Is there any question who will be the next Apprentice? Kendra, of course. She’s got brains, guts and is willing to do the hard work. She’s likeable, too. Tama is all show.

8. My dog has clean teeth and decent breath now. However, she continues to stink up our bedroom with her atrocious gas. Sigh. I guess it’s better than having that AND stinky dog breath.

9. I’m going to post my own interpretation of last night’s dream in the comments section of my last post. Going to do that right now. I’m putting it there to spare those of you who really don’t care. Not that you would necessarily care about any of this other stuff posted here.

Okay, I’m adding another today: Has someone taken over Honestyrain’s site. What’s going on over there?

In the middle of the night, last night, my oldest daughter woke me up to ask me impatiently to please not close my bedroom door at night. Then she ran back into her bed. The reason I had closed the door was so our dog wouldn’t wake her at 5:30 in the morning in an attempt to get the household moving and closer to putting some grub in her foodbowl. Needless to say, my plan backfired.

When I was so urgently woken up, I was in the middle of a dream. In this dream, I had two free hours to kill and decided to spend it in Paris visiting our dear friends. I believe in the first part of my dream I was by myself, moving closer to our friends’ apartment building (I think I was flying–not in an airplane, just flying). Somewhere along the way I was joined by my husband and kids which slowed things down considerably. We were in some old building that was a fancy bank or something elegant and stuffy like that…I was getting impatient because I didn’t want to be there, but my husband was waiting to talk to someone. I got sidetracked at the jewelery counter and when I saw a necklace, which I really did see yesterday on Zee’s site, I proclaimed that it was a sign from above and I was meant to buy the necklace with the matching ring and earrings. At this point I heard “Mommy, will you please not close your bedroom door at night!” and the dream ended.

Anyone care to interpret?

Oh, and go visit Cybervassels and use the Word of the Week in a sentence. The word is holster. It’s the last day for this week’s competition.

One more thing. I have not forgotten about my archival cataglogue description feature that I promised you, but perhaps you have. I’m working on it.

I don’t have time to write a post tonight. Rachel’s turning four tomorrow (Thursday) and we’ve got a party at school. It’s the last night to finish that %#@!! scrapbook. Her birthday party is on Saturday.

I haven’t baked a birthday cake since Rachel’s first birthday…..and that didn’t go too well. See illustration below. (Yes, you may laugh.) I made that cake entirely from scratch. Rachel liked bananas. Therefore it was a banana cake. I also made the frosting entirely from scratch. That was banana also. The problem with homeade banana frosting made by me is that it doesn’t look appetizing. The cake itself was delicious, but it was unappealing. My nephew ran around the house saying, “I refuse the cake.” Then I had this great idea to cover it up with strawberreis and what not. Rachel was delighted by it. The adults (all relatives) were probably not. I did also provide a really good chocolate torte that was also from scratch. I’ll give myself credit for that.

After that I didn’t attempt to make birthday cakes anymore. Or using Hoss’s terminology, I always voted against birthday cakes made by me. This year, however, I’m tempted. We bought unicorn figurines and all Rachel wants is a simple pink cake to put the figurines on. I don’t want to spend $50 on a plain cake. So I am asking for cake tips. My cakes tend to break apart…..and then I have trouble getting the frosting to look right. Please tell me what I am doing wrong.

I will post a more appropriate birthday post over the weekend when I have time to catch a breath.

In the meantime, I am reposting something I wrote a few months ago. Rachel was born the day before mother’s day. The morning after I became a mother, everyone was wishing me Happy Mother’s day.

This post is more about me becoming a mother than about Rachel. I’ll write something specifically for Rachel later.

THAT SLAP

You know that image of the doctor slapping the newborn baby to help it breath its first breath? Well, I’ve been thinking about it lately. Although the practice of slapping the baby is no longer current, the image seems profoundly appropriate to me.

Before kids, I lived a very full life. I had a challenging, but positive and nourishing childhood. After leaving home I went to college and I travelled the world. I married in my early twenties and had this great sustaining relationship. Together, we lived in several different countries and had adventures. We had no money, and we had many challenges, and ups and downs, but we grew together, not apart.

Despite all the adventures and challenges, before becoming a mother I had this tendency to freeze up and become numb at the defining events in life. I remember being 8 and learning that my cat had been hit by a car. I sat in my a room by myself thinking, I should be crying, I should be feeling more and I tried to cry. It continued that way as I got older. I remember when I got the phone call that my father died, it was like I left my body and observed myself for an hour or so, willing myself to respond appropriately, to feel appropriately.

Therefore, when I was pregnant and approaching my due date, I had this nagging fear that I would see my baby and freeze. I would get to that moment and observe myself rather than being in the moment.

When I think back to the giving birth to Rachel, I think of the dark and explosive experience of my body taking over, of giving up control while fighting to stay in control of the labor, of the frightening aspect of losing control and falling into a place of pain and panic, of having an urgent need to push when the nurse was telling me not to, of having the nurse discover that the baby WAS coming and hearing the panic in his voice, of the relief when I could finally push. And I think of that moment I turned Rachel around on my stomach so we could face each other for the first time. I remember seeing her and being yanked so absolutely into the present—like a big slap, helping me to finally breath fully, to feel fully.

The rawness of early motherhood. The physicality of it. It takes you to past your limit and when you feel you are at breaking point, sometimes it opens you up to magic. The sharp pain as you heal from childbirth contrasting with the adrenilin that sustains you for a time as you survive on little sleep. The feeling each night that you’ve been hit by a truck every time you have to wake up and feed the baby. And how that moment can suddenly lead to witnessing something glorious as you watch the light reflect off the rosy glow of the baby’s sleep when you are nursing. Fluids everywhere: leaking milk, spit-up, blood as your uterus empties out, tears when you’ve hit the wall. The stinging, foggy, heavy tightness behind your eyes due to sleep deprivaion. It’s all intermingled with this born-again feeling that life suddenly has endless dimensions, endless possibiliies. As the children grow older, the monotony of cleaning messy floors and fighting battles of will. This ordinariness is broken by the extraordinary. The unexpected moment that makes you catch your breath. Your child surprises you with something that she’s said, or learned, or done.

I am in the present. I am breathing fully. I am sitting still but having the adventure of a lifetime.

Rachel has been gettng very excited about her birthday, which is on Thursday. Tonight after dinner she started singing, “Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you.” Then she stopped and said, “I have something to say and it rhymes with you.” “Moo?” “Shoe? ” We asked. She walked over to her dad and whispered, “I have to go poo.” and ran off to the bathroom laughing. We’re always telling her not to use the word poo when she’s joking around, so she was relieved that we were laughing along with her.

One more. Rachel came out of the bathroom this afternoon with her finger touching the inside of her mouth. “I have a canker sore.” “I wonder how that happened?” I responded. “It’s from boogers.” She said very seriously. “The boogers got in there and then I got a canker sore.” Then she started demonstrating how her “boogers” from her sniffly nose would get into mouth when breathing in.

I don’t use the word boogers.

She’s also starting to say the word “awesome” a little too often for me. She used to say, “I really love my blanket.” Now she says “This blanket is really awesome.”

This should be an interesting year.

I could start this post with a long list of excuses to explain why there was old food in Hannah’s car seat, but I won’t. Just trust that I’m not a complete slob. My car is often a pit, but my house is decent enough if you give me an hour (on a good day less, on a bad day so much more) warning before you stop by.

Today we were in the car (yes, I’m driving again) and Hannah found a good sized stash of old dry toast and cereal in her car seat. She proceeded to munch on this food on our ride and there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it. (Okay, I could have gotten off the highway and cleaned the back-seat, but I didn’t.) When we were getting out of the car Rachel said, “Mom, Hannah is eating junk food again!”

Get it? Junk food? I was so tickled by (and even proud of) her logic that I didn’t tell her that she was just a little off.

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Without getting into the details, I will say that all last week after I hurt my foot Rachel was extremely difficult to be around. Now that I’m driving again its like a weight has been lifted from her. She’s calm and manageable again. (I did not say perfect, because that she ain’t, but neither am I.) A sensitive soul, my firstborn, and as independent as she is these days, still very tied to me.

On the other hand, Hannah who is normally a big time mama’s girl got quite bored of me last week and started preferring her daddy. Interesting how quickly things can change. It did hurt the ego, but I must admit, it made things a whole lot easier that way.

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Thank you blogger friends for sending get well wishes this way last week. Thanks also to my husband for picking up the slack big time–including taking care of the night-time barf clean-ups.

There’s a part of me that would like to thank, here, my non-blogger friends who offered help, dropped food at my doorstep, and phoned me, but that would be a little silly because none of them know about this blog. Is that strange? I feel more comfortable writing to people I don’t see frequently. Only a handful of family members know about this blog. It does make me feel like I lead a double life sometimes. When they ask me what I’ve been up to I want to them what I’ve been reading.

What about you? Who have you told?

That’s how my Mother’s Day started. Two kids throwing up today with the stomach flu. It wasn’t horrible–just a drag, with some sweet moments mixed in.

I hope your day went well.

6:15 PM: Conversation while getting kids ready for bed.

Mom is lying down in the hallway while Rachel is getting a drink in the bathroom.

Mom: Wow. That was a hard day for all of us.

Rachel: Oh. I don’t think so. (Pause) Maybe it was. (Pause) (Everyone giggles) Maybe it wasn’t. I don’t know.

Top Ten Reasons Why I love my Mom.
10. She has always listened to my dreams.
9. She insists that I was never a troublesome child, even though I distinctly remember being horrible to her at times.
8. She thinks everything I do is wonderful.
7. She is always a good one to talk to on the phone when I am feeling down.
6. She doesn’t live through me. She just enjoys me.
5. She has lived her life with a clear purpose and calling, but has never expected me to have the same purpose or calling.
4. She is affectionate.
3. She loses her patience, like me, and then forgives or says she’s sorry.
2. One minute she is having a deep conversation about the state of world, the next minute she is giggling hysterically to a Jim Carey or Peter Sellers movie.
1. She is extraordinary, and yet still a small-town Minnesotan at her core.

She is my mother.

Happy Mother’s Day everyone!

On Monday, I bring our dog Charlie to get her teeth cleaned. I had to cancel this week’s appointment because our vet is thirty minutes away and my right foot is sprained. Charlie’s breath is REALLY bad, so I am counting the hours.

I do have a slight dilemma, though. Have you ever seen the Seinfeld episode where Jerry has been going to this really bad barber for years and wants to start seeing a new barber? He finally arranges to have another barber cut his hair in his apartment, but gets caught by the old barber. Well, I’ve changed vets (that’s why I drive 30 minutes), but have not completely broken it off with the old one. And now I’d like to get my records from the old one. The problem is every time I talk to the old vet, I feel like I’m a school girl getting scolded, which is why right now I feel like a silly school girl afraid to pick up the phone.

I never chose the old vet. We had a perfectly nice veternarian, but then she had to go and retire and this new vet came into her practice. I never really thought much about it before Charlie got sick, but she has a really bad bedside manner. And then we were at their doorstep one Saturday morning without an appointment with a dog that was nearly dying, and I was talking to the receptionist, and the vet came in the backdoor, called the receptionist back to her and proceeded to bitch at her to just send us away. I don’t have a problem with being sent to the emergency room, but I could hear the whole unpleasant conversation and if you are going to talk that unpleasantly in front of us, why not just come out, say hello ask a few questions and then suggest we go to the emergency room yourself.

We did go to the emergency room and spent lots of moola over the weekend to only have them tell us that our dog was going to die unless we put her on dialysis at $15,000 a shot, and if dialysis was successful, her kidney’s would probably be severely damaged. So, distraught, we took Charlie home that night with us to spend the last hours with her. I called a friend who grew up on a ranch in this area and knows animal and vets, and she recommended a vet. The new vet suggested that Charlie might have leptosporosis and suggested we bring her to her for a few days. And within two days Charlie recovered. It turns out she did have lepto and somehow came out of it without her kidney’s damaged. The vet calls her the “miracle dog.”

After this episode, I decided to change to the vet that, you know, saved our dog’s life. Now I have to break it off with the old vet once and for all. Sadly, I think this post is just a way of procrastinating.

Let me procrastinate a little longer and tell you five more things about Charlie:

1. Charlie likes it when I sing. If she’s upstairs and hears me singing I hear her jump off our bed and come downstairs. If she’s lying down and sleeping when I start singing, she’ll wag her tail with her eyes closed. If I sing the song “Old Mother Hubbard” in the style of Bach (a diddy I learned when I used to take voice lessons), she knows that she is going to get a treat.

2. I volunteered at a dog shelter before we got Charlie. That’s how we got her. When she first came in there was a sign on her pen that said, “Escape artist.” Now she unlocks our backdoor when we leave the house. I’ve resorted to just leaving her outside because I know she’s going to go out anyway. I’ve given up worrying about what our neighbors think. We do have a good fence and I never am gone for long, as pitiful as that sounds.

3. Charlie once won first prize in an agility training class. She’s very smart. We don’t have time to take her to agility classes any more. Someday maybe we’ll pick it up again. When she’s an old geezer, I guess.

4. Charlie loves the kids, but loves me more. I feel very unworthy.

5. Charlie is a girl dog with a boys name. That was the name she had at the shelter and we didn’t change it. Everyone refers to her as a he. It’s mildly annoying but I can’t complain because we kept the name. Before we took her, a police department was looking at her as a potential police dog. She would have made a really bad police dog. Think submissive and neurotic. Not your typical confident German Shepard.

I grew up with a neurotic cat. Is it me?

Alright. Gotta go make that phone call.

By the way, speaking of rescuing dogs, these greyhounds need help. I hear that rescued greyhounds are the sweetest dogs ever. They are always so grateful to be finally getting attention and are very affectionate. It’s true. That’s what I’ve heard. Please go see if you can help in some way.

Charlie, on a hike. Happier days. I don’t find as much time to hike with two kids. When this foot heals, I promise you, Charlie, we’ll go again.

Update: I called. It’s done.

Since I am tired of talking about my foot and you are tired of hearing about it, I’m going to take a stab at this game.

Choose five of the professions and finish the sentence…

If I could be a scientist… If I could be a farmer…
If I could be a musician… If I could be a doctor…
If I could be a painter… If I could be a gardener…
If I could be a missionary… If I could be a chef…
If I could be an architect… If I could be a linguist…
If I could be a psychologist… If I could be a librarian…
If I could be an athlete… If I could be a lawyer…
If I could be an innkeeper… If I could be a professor…
If I could be a writer… If I could be a backup dancer…
If I could be a llama-rider… If I could be a bonnie pirate…
If I could be a midget stripper… If I could be a proctologist…
If I could be a TV-Chat Show host… If I could be an actor…
If I could be a judge… If I could be a Jedi…
If I could be a mob boss… If I could be a backup singer…
If I could be a CEO… If I could be a movie reviewer…

If I could be a farmer I would initially put all my German farming ancestors to shame. I would turn my land into a mess of weeds even though I’d be enjoying the dirt on my hands and the sweat on my brow. All the neighboring farmers would talk about the silly woman who turned a perfectly good field into weeds, but I would attend every church supper anyway and become friends with them and then I’d start learning how to farm. By the time by girls were teenagers we’d have a crop of who knows what and they’d be helping alongside me making their great-great-great-great-great grandparents proud.

If I could be an athlete, I would never do a triathalon. I’d play tennis. I would play the Wimbledon tournament all year round and every other week I would win it and people would bring me strawberries and cream and write about the American that just wouldn’t go home. NBC would be so annoyed because they’d have to keep airing the tournament. I would wear a white classic tennis outfit, until I got bored. Then I might look into other fashion statements. But I would never, ever wear anything designed by Serena Williams. Just not attractive. Sorry Serena.

If I could be a back-up singer, I’d sing for Ray Charles (time-travel I guess). But I would make him stop taking all those drugs first, so his life-story wouldn’t be quite so turbulent and sad. And I would tell him that it wasn’t his fault that his brother died and he would cry on my shoulder. And I would sing my heart out on the stage with him, yes I would.

If I could be a backup dancer, you would laugh me right off the stage. Perhaps you would think you were watching a Saturday Night Live skit or something. Or the I Love Lucy show, with me as Lucy dancing for Ricky and the audience going wild with laughter. It would be a classic episode. One of the top ten funniest sitcom scenes ever. Better than the chocolate factory scene.

If I could be a writer, I would want to find a place where I would be motivated to write every day. And I wouldn’t want to worry about sending what I write out to publishers, because I’ve spent too much of my life waiting to get approval on what I write. I would want to find a small group of readers that I could feel safe with…so even when my writing was REALLY bad they would say “Hey, how’s it going?” and pat me on the back. And they would come again to read the next post.

I hope.

By the way, look what Elle picked out for me. Timeless is the word she chose for me in the Image game. Thanks, Elle. I am truly flattered.

Hannah is with a babysitter for the next few mornings so I can get at least a bit of a break while my foot heals. She actually seems to handling it quite well. Rachel, however, who has always had a hard time with transitions is unraveling somewhat. Yesterday when she was in the bathroom I heard her crying and saying to herself, “I want mommy to get better, so she can take me places again.”

One perk about all of this, is that yesterday my husband and I had a good half day together without the kids. We were sitting in the hospital room together feeling lighter and younger and chatting about really nonsensical things, the way we used to. I have to admit, though, I was so tired I couldn’t stop looking at the clock and watching the minutes tick away while we waited. I wanted to get home in time to get a nap in before Hannah came home. Finally, I got up and laid down on the hospital bed. If they were going to make me wait, I was going to take advantage of it. When we did get home, the two of us had a good hour together alone in the house. Can you believe the only other time we have been alone in the house together is the night before we moved in. That’s a sobering thought.

I love hospitals. I think this is because as a kid I never broke a bone or got sick enough to go to a hospital. I wanted my tonsils taken out so I could stay overnight and then get ice-cream. It was this little fantasy of mine. So yesterday, as I lay on this hospital bed I couldn’t help thinking about how nice it is even now to think about staying in a hospital. When I’m home and on bed-rest I can’t quite relax, but there’s something about all that white that makes you just forget about the world. Time just stops. When I had Rachel and was in the hospital I loved that red button that I could push whenever I needed something. It made me feel so pampered.

One strange thing about hospitals, though, is the night staff. First of all, why do they need to wake you up and have you do all of your paperwork at 2 AM? Why do they need to take the baby’s portrait at 2:30 AM? And why does someone need to come in and check your vitals at 2:45. And why are the night nurses a little..ahem…strange? With Rachel, one kept waking me up and telling me that I needed to feed the baby (who was sleeping very well and would just fall asleep as soon as I started feeding her anyway). And then after taking her portrait, she told me that she thought she had jaundice. In the middle of the night she told me this and there was absolutely nothing yellow about her. Then with Hannah, a nurse was trying to do vitals on her in the middle of the night and couldn’t check her eyes, or something like that, because Hannah was crying so hard and she came back and said nastily, “She’s very aggressive, you know?” Okay, thanks for sharing. Now can we get some sleep.

The other thing I noticed when Hannah was born is that nowadays even though by law insurance has to cover at least two nights in the hospital, the hospital wants you out after one night. As soon as I checked in they started asking me if I thought I would need the second night, which I did. And then when the second night came around, they completely ignored me, except when they needed to get me to fill out paperwork at 2 AM. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had a bruised tailbone and it was incredibly painful to sit up to pick up the baby. Everytime I mentioned that to a nurse, he/she would ask if I had a c-section and when i said no, they would give me a “that’s strange” look and just leave. As if pushing a 9 pound baby out in two hours of intense labor with no pain reliever shouldn’t be causing much pain the next day.

But I still like hospitals. It’s nice to be taken care of, even by strange night staff. And it is really probably all tied to those hospital fantasies I had as a kid. And of course the nostalgia from giving birth. We also have a really lovely hospital with private rooms and beautiful views from most windows.

After Hannah was born, I remember, during my first day home from the hospital, feeling incredibly sore from my bruised tailbone, and being tired because of being woken up for stupid things like paperwork the night before. And I remember looking around my home and suddenly being overwhelemed by these two children and their needs. I think it was the only time I really felt nostalgic for the way things had been before two kids. And I remember at one point that day having this out of body experience and suddenly hearing myself crying and pleading loudly to my mom and husband (who WERE helpful by the way), “Just say, yes! When I ask you to do something, just say yes!” And Rachel was the only one at that moment that didn’t think I was unreasonable. She sat with me and wiped my tears away, saying “Don’t be sad, Mama.”

I could have used just one more night in the hospital, don’t you think?

+++++

Just found this via Road to Crazyville. Maybe there is something to this astrology stuff after all.

My foot fell asleep….and then I got up to walk on it. I don’t know what I did since I couldn’t feel it, but I heard three conseqeutive cracks. Then five minutes later a big lump started showing up on my foot. It’s the size of a very large walnut now. Now it’s in ice. My husband is coming home from a work-trip later tonight. All I can say is thank god this didn’t happen last night.

Damn.

Ouch.

Do I laugh or cry?

Crying will probably come first.

I think I’m about to have a little adventure here. I’ll let you know what happens.
We’re either about to find out that I’m not indispensaable….or we’re not.

Update: Okay, I laughed first. I mean REALLY laughed. And this is why.

Update #2: I’m in bed this mornng and will be going to get x-rayed after my husband drops the kids off. My guess is when I got up last night and my foot was asleep I had no feeling in it and I unknowingly put my full weight on it when it was turned under or something. I’ve never broken a bone before….I think this is probably just a bad sprain. I’m addicted to the treadmill, so I hope it heals fast. Not to mention having to drive kids around all day….it’s my right foot.

If you have time head over to Cybervassals and tell Tamara hello and good luck on her new direction. I’m excited to see where it takes her.

Update #3: I have a few torn ligaments in my foot. If it had been broken I would have cried. I probably won’t be able to drive for a couple of days. If I don’t post soon it means I’m scrapbooking and sitting with my daughter looking at the unicorn partyware on the internet for the 100th time. (Yawn) I better order the stuff today though. The good thing about her fascination with the partyware is that she isn’t focused on presents at all. All she wants is a little stuffed unicorn with a rose on its collar. And a littler one for Hannah, without the rose. I think they’re really meant to be party favors.

Before school Rachel climbed into bed with me and asked me to read her fairytales. I was dying for some sleep. Then she, Dad, and Hannah brought me toast and a bowl of cereal. Rachel ate the cereal before I got to it, and she and Hannah ate half of the toast. Now there are crumbs in my bed.

Charlie (our stinky face dog) has an appointment to get her teeth cleaned tomorrow!!!! Yippee. I will call and see if I can move that to next week, since I can’t drive.

I put Rachel to bed the other night after a day full of negotiations between the two of us and I suddenly wanted to curl up in bed beside her and hug her and tell her how much I love her but she was asleep.

I never seem to have enough one on one quality time with her. I feel like I’m either nagging her not to do something, or distracted because I’m trying to get a room clean, or playing with Hannah so Rachel can play in peace. And when Rachel does crawl into my lap, Hannah is always there trying to get in with her.

So, the other day I mentioned to Rachel that maybe I could get someone to watch Hannah and I and/or her Dad could spend some time alone together. She thought about it for a minute and said, “Or, we could ALL play together….or we could just all snuggle togther.”

She’s always been like that with Hannah. When Hannah was a newborn I was always trying to find alone time with Rachel and she’d just spend it searching the house for Hannah. That doesn’t mean they don’t fight and drive me crazy. It just means she wants the family to be together, anyway.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about conversations I had been having with Rachel in response to her question: “Why do you love me?”

Well, here’s another answer.

I’ve written here a lot about my parents. We didn’t have a lot of money, but they did a great job parenting and raising us to be confident, happy, and independent women with a sense of purpose. Two posts that I’ve read recently have made me think about what it means to be a parent when you have NOT had a positive role model or a happy relationship with your own parents.

Kismit, before raising her twins, struggled with confidence about her ability to parent. This is because she was told that someone without a good role model can never parent well. Go read her post. It is really exceptional.

Elle has been struggling to understand the legacy she carries with her from her mother. In this post she describes her struggle to have confidence as a mother, in light of her mother’s history. It seems to me, she is her own person, and succeeding beautifully as a mother.

And I know so many others who have overcome a painful childhood to parent well. To me, this is simply heroic. I am so impressed and in awe of people who are able to overcome their past in this way.

Go read these posts and come back and tell me what you think. Is there anything from your childhood that you have had to struggle to overcome?