Category: It’s all about me

Insuring We Never Forget

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http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2009/09/11/schools_grapple_with_how_to_teach_911/ I read this article this morning and I could only shake my head in agreement.

Mim was not even 18 months old on September 11, 2001. She has no recollection of the fear, the panic and the tears that surrounded that time. We were fortunate not to lose anyone in the attacks, but we were directly impacted by the events of 9/11. We lived just outside of Boston, the origin of two of the planes. We heard the jets overhead in the hours that followed and in the days that followed, my husband’s company would be adversely affected as a result of the attacks.

I wrote a detailed journal entry for her that night, but I’m not sure she’s old enough to completely process what happened. She’s an anxious kid and she stews on things, chews on them and ponders every angle of a situation. She worries. She’ll want to know about all the the dead, how they died and what happened to the families they left behind. Details, she’ll want the details.

Make no mistake, I want her to have this information. I want her to know the villains who committed the heinous act and more importantly, know and remember the heros “who died, just doin’ what they do”. The challenge is knowing what to say and how to present it in a way that makes it real, but not overly threatening.

The topic came up at dinner recently. A-man, said something and the questions started coming rapid fire. We weren’t prepared and her little brother was right beside her. The age difference added yet another layer to the discussion. I think we did ok, but out of respect to those who died, and lost so much, we both want to do better.

What have you said to your children?

Time

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Summer is over; I have to wear my watch again.

Over summer vacation time was more or less relative. There were a scant few times when punctuality was required, but now that school is back in session and both kids are gone for at least part of the day, timing is everything.

Time is of the essence especially in the morning. Time to wake up, early enough to make the bus, but late enough, to savor every last precious moment of slumber. Time to eat, time to get dressed, time to GO! Our bus stop is early on the route and our bus driver is prompt. Mr. C. is at the bottom of my driveway at 8:11 every Monday through Friday excluding holidays. At 8:12 they are off to school, where their schedule is thankfully beyond my control, and I am off to my day.

Kindergarten is only a half day so I have a brief three and one half hours to myself. This may sound like a lot, but let me assure you it is not. We’re only eight days into this school year and I can already tell if I’m going to get anything accomplished, I’m going to need a solid plan of action heading into the day. And, I’m going to have to eliminate all distractions. Otherwise, those three and one half hours will slip away and I will be back at the bus stop not having accomplished a single thing.

Time after Noon moves at a different pace depending on what is on the agenda and if Mim is happy to play by himself. If the afternoon is consumed by errands, time is compressed. If there is nowhere to go or Mim is pining for his sister’s companionship, time passes at a speed comparable to ketchup oozing out of a glass bottle plop by agonizing plop.

Eventually, four o’clock will roll round and Fish will join us. Then, time speeds up. There is downtime, homework, dinner, lunches for the next day, tubs and showers, reading, and bed. By then, I don’t need a watch to tell me that it’s almost my bedtime. I remove my watch, crawl between the sheets and set the alarm so I can get up and do it all again.

I’m already looking forward to June, when I can once again lose track of my watch and the time.

Stepping Away

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Fish: “Momma, it’s kind of embarrassing, I mean, I’m in fourth grade, and it is kind of embarrassing that you have to meet me at the bus everyday.”

I knew it was coming, I just wasn’t sure when. Truth is, I thought she was ready, but didn’t want to push her before she thought she was ready.

You have to understand, the bus stop is the end of our driveway, but I can’t see the bus stop from the house. It takes us almost three minutes to walk down there in the morning. I’m not complaining, I’m just pointing out, that it isn’t right outside our front door.

In kindergarten and first grade, it is district policy not to let the kids off the bus unless there is an adult present. She wasn’t ready to walk by herself in second grade. Halfway through third grade I finally told the driver he could leave her if I wasn’t there, that someone was on their way (her little brother occasionally made me late). Now, she wants to walk up by herself. It has to happen. She has to take these steps towards independence and I have a feeling there will be many more coming very quickly in the next few months. I’m excited for her and I know she can do it. I am ready to let go, just a little sentimental about it.

Her: “So do you think that we could pick maybe one day a week when I can walk home by myself?”

Oh good, ready, but not running. That’s my girl.

Edited to Add:
This morning I asked if I was to meet her at the bus this afternoon. No, a few seconds passed “unless it rains”. Ah it is good to be useful :).

Pain free computing on the way!

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This is a typing test with my new keyboard. It was a pain in the a$$ for my husband to install in 85 degree temperatures and 99% humidity, but I LOVE IT, I LOVE IT I LOVE IT! Here’s hoping that my shoulder improves and I can spend pain free time at my computer (maybe I’ll even update this blog more often).

Grief Sucks!

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It is amazing to me how grief can sneak up on you and stop you in your tracks, even when you are expecting it.

It was Monday July 21, 2008. I had just dropped the kids off at their summer program and pulled out my cell phone to make a call.

I’d missed a call from Becky. Oh shit. If Becky calls me, something is wrong with Dennis. Something was indeed wrong with Dennis, he’d ruptured his achilles tendon. Ow. Ow OW OW OW!!!

Dennis was my emotional father. My biological father was not really a part of my life until I was well into adulthood. Dennis and I didn’t share genes, but a bond much stronger. Even after he and my mother parted ways on less than pleasant terms, Dennis and I stayed close. For many years, he was one of the few sane people in my life. He was a giver and never a taker and so much of who I am can be directly traced to him and his influence on my life.

He was incredibly funny and a gifted writer. He could put anyone at ease, but if you crossed him, he’d let you know with a smile on his face. He was a ‘call ‘em like I see ‘em kind of guy’ and that set me straight more than once. He was not perfect, far from it (he’d be the first to admit it). He was terrible at taking care of himself and eventually, that caught up to him.

He went into the hospital to have surgery to repair the torn tendon. He had type II diabetes and had already survived a kidney transplant and an amputation. To say he was not in great health would be an understatement.

When I saw the voice mail from Becky, I knew it couldn’t be good. I tried to track everyone down to find out what was going on, but was unable to reach anyone. He HATED hospitals and hated having a fuss made over him, so I held out and called his cell phone only as a last resort. He answered sounding awful. I got the details and was able to say “I love you.”, before we hung up.

Through the day I got updates from Becky and his sisters. When the phone rang at Midnight, my first thought was my daughter and her grandparents who were driving across the country, but as I crossed the floor to the phone, I knew it was a call about Dennis. Still, I had to ask the sobbing Becky, “Are you telling me he’s gone”? I knew the answer, but I had to be sure.

Yes, he was gone.

Oh shit. Oh shit OH SHIT!!!!

The surgery to repair the tendon was successful. Becky spoke with him post op, but shortly after that, his heart gave out. If I’m being truthful, it was a better way for him to go. The transplanted kidney was failing and he was facing a grim future. I am sorry he’s gone, but I wouldn’t have wanted him to suffer.

It’s been almost a year. The date isn’t marked on my calendar, but it doesn’t have to be. He died Monday, July 21, 2008 at the age of 59.

I thought the anniversary of day itself would be hard and scheduled myself pretty tightly in an effort to keep the demons at bay. Turns out, this, week, the week before has been brutal. Everywhere I turn, there is a reminder. My iPod and the radio have ganged up on me.

He wouldn’t want this. He would want me to remember the good times, like when he read me Little House on the Prairie, when he tried to teach me to fish, the infamous New Year’s day brunch that went on all day, my wedding day (he walked me down the aisle and we danced to Because You Loved Me by Celine Dion), the Father’s day weekend he came to visit and met my daughter and we hung out in Rockport eating lobsters and drinking beer or the fall weekend he came to meet my son and he and I had third row seats to an amazing concert.

I remember all those times and more, but there have been too many times in the last twelve months where I could only shake my head and think “Dennis would have loved this.” I hate that he’s not here to share those things with

I have no pithy ending. Life will go on and as is customary, the grief will ease with time, but IT WILL ALWAYS SUCK!

This says it all I Still MIss You by Keith Anderson.


The Age of Independence

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This weekend we undertook some family fall projects.  It was really a lot of fun and provided a bit of perspective at the same time.

Fish is 8 and Mim is 4. Fish had just hit the age of independence when Mim was born and I can remember wondering what the hell I was thinking having a second child!  I wanted two kids for the kids’ sake, I was an only child and really missed that family connection.  Having them four years apart wasn’t my choice, but in hindsight I think that worked out for the best.  Even with four years between them, for me, two kids was a LOT of work.   Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for both of them, and to those who can, and choose to have more than two I say more power to you, but I am D-O-N-E done bearing children.

I love newborns, so snuggly and soft, but holly crow are they a lot of work!  Then they grow in to infants and toddlers and the work grows in some ways (they don’t stay put anymore). Now that Mim has really moved into that independent stage of life, I can really breathe a sigh of relief (It only took eight years). He is now daytime potty trained (WHOOP “O JOY).  He functions very independently (dresses himself, feeds himself etc. doesn’t need a nap) and plays blessedly independently.  That means that we can finally start scheduling our time as a family unit and not have to divide and conquer because he needs a nap or a diaper change and she is raring to go. The kids will always be 4 years apart, but the impact of the age gap on family operations has lessened greatly, so the breadth of activities we can attempt has increased exponentially.

This weekend we tie dyed t-shirts on Saturday and Sunday we went apple picking AND made 5 Gallons of apple sauce on Sunday.  Previously, I would only have dared tackle one of these activities in a weekend never mind all three.

My kids still need me, but as they grow, the need is more about guidance and direction than survival.  There was a time when I thought this stage would never come.  Yes, conventional wisdom says ”Enjoy them when they are young.“, and I think I did as much as I could, but I am finding I really prefer the interactions as they get older.  It is less about strained carrots and smelly diapers and more about living our values and having fun, and I like fun.


Runner’s High, it’s the real thing

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I have friends who run marathons (Hi, K&E).  Not only do they run marathons, they raise thousands of dollars for charity in the process. I’ve always thought they were nuts. Good hearted and generous, but nuts all the same. Lately, thought, I’ve begun to experience the rush, that comes with running (and exercise in general) and I think I’m starting to get addicted.


I have PCOS (a hormonal imbalance that reeks havoc with my endocrine system) and as a result, I collect weight in my mid-section.  That plus two c-sections and a passion for chocolate, has lead to being 40 and 40 pounds overweight.  I’ve tried to lose weight before but only ever half heartedly.


Last spring, I was diagnosed with diverticulitus, not a huge shock, my mom had it too.  It is an inflammation of the intestine and when it strikes, it is damn painful.  Avoid seeds, nuts, popcorn and eating high fiber diet can help stave off, attacks, but I’ve recently learned that a tight abdomen that supports the walls of the intestine is also a plus.  It was time for the weight to go.


I eat fairly well already (chocolate aside).  I don’t drink a lot of soda, I use wheat bread, and I like fruits and veggies. I use Splenda in my tea and avoid an excessive amount of carbs (a must for the PCOS), still, I’ve been maintaining the weight for the last 4 years.  It was time exercise more.


Slowly but surely, I’ve been getting more active. I hate to admit this, but it feels good.  I genuinely feel better mentally and physically.  If I’ve lost 2 pounds, I’d be surprised, but my clothes are fitting a smidge better and that’s a nice feeling.


I exercise right after I get the kids off to school. If I don’t do it then, it never happens.  Typically I wake up and I think “Nah, not today, I’m  not in the mood, I can skip a day.” But then I get back from the morning drop off and something is nudging me to move. Yesterday was just such a day.  It was gray out, so one voice was trying to talk me into staying in, but I finally decided to go for a walk.  I wasn’t walking 2 minutes when another voice was urging me to run.  The body grumbled as I set into a light jog, but the mind was flying.  I’m in better shape than I was, but still can’t run full time, I  need to resort to intermittent  walking, but I’m told this is the way you build a running habit. Wow does it feel so good when I run.  It clears my mind and I am able to truly think about some of the projects I’ve been working on lately.


By the time I get home, I’m red faced and a little winded, but my mind is clear and I feel exhilerated. I guess that’s what they call the runner’s high.  Personally, I always thought that was a term the exercised nazis used to lure in the naive, but I’m here to tell you as a recovering couch potato, there is something to it.


I’ve been alternating wogging (walking and jogging) with biking and even free weights. Someday, I hope to move on to rogging (running and jogging), but I’m taking it one day at a time. The reality is that very soon, the outdoors here won’t be fit for woman nor beast, but I have a plan B.  If mother nature cooperates and gives us some snow, I’m going to finally invest in some snow shoes.  If she doesn’t I’m going to get a six month membership at the local indoor pool and work out there (I love the water, so I may do that anyway).


I’ve started down this road before, but never have I felt so compelled to exercise, as in I’m edgy if I miss more than 2 days in a row. I really hope this is the start of new habits for me.  I don’t need to be Hollywood thin, nor do I need to run marathons  I just want to be in better physical shape.


Wish me luck!



Right after I wrote the draft of this entry, Kathryn posted her story and I got the warm, fuzzy, oh-I’m-not-alone-feeling. So, here’s to us may we both be on the way to better health!

Where Were You?

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Every generation has that moment. That one event they all share in common.  One that can immediately bond you in conversation, even with the strangest of strangers.

For my mother it was “Where were you when John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated?”
The teacher’s room in a staff meeting with a cranky principal.
For me, coming of age in the 80’s it was “Where were you when the space shuttle Challenger blew up?”  Hovering in the doorway of a high school classroom where the launch was being shown.  I’d seen every launch and I wasn’t about to let something as pesky as an AP history class stand in my way this time.
September 11, 2001, was a beautiful, crisp fall day. I had just returned from dropping my daughter at her in-home day care. I was in my home office filtering through email and to-do lists making a plan for the day.  The newsman from the morning show on the country station broke in to 30 minutes of music to tell us that a plane had flown into  the World Trade Center.
I shook my head.  Oh boy some schmuck really did it this time.  The music started and I went back to my tasks.
The newsman came back again.  Seems he was somewhat of an aeronautics aficionado and he really thought the tail sticking out of the North Tower was too big to be a Twin engine plane as first reported.  It looked to him to be a commercial airliner. That’s it, it was time to head downstairs and turn on the TV.
I had no clue. No one did.
Before I could get downstairs, and get the TV on, a second plane flew into the South Tower. Oh my God.  This wasn’t an accident.
A friend called just to chat.  Turn on NPR I told her.  This is bad.  She didn’t believe me but obliged me.  I watched the TV, she listened soon we were sharing bits of information.
I disconnected from her with a promise to call, her back.  I had to tell my husband.  I knew he was heading into a meeting.  I caught him just in time.  My voice broke as I told him the news. It was a small office and they tried to load web pages, but the Internet was brought to its knees by the sheer volume of requests.
We disconnected so he could learn more with a promise to stay in touch.  He worked in Boston and by then, we knew that both planes had originated from Logan International Airport.  Were we next?
Shortly after that I screamed at the TV as I listened to Peter Jennings babel as the South Tower collapsed. PAY ATTENTION I screamed.  It was all happening so fast, I needed SOMEONE who knew what was going on.  No one did. No one could have.
Husband called. They gave up on the Internet and were headed to Foley’s, the  local watering hole to watch the coverage on TV.
Oh my God there was a third plane and it hit the Pentagon.
There was talk of a fourth plane. But no one could confirm it.
Got my friend back on the phone.  We didn’t say much, but occasionally shared bits of data from our alternate sources. I sat in the middle of the coffee table tears streaming down my face hugging a pillow. We were making lists of people we knew in New York City. Hers was much  longer than mine.
In what was the only bright moment of the day, my MIL called.  Looking for Husband.
“He’s gone to Foley’s”.
“It’s a little early for a beer isn’t it?”
I laughed.
“Yeah, but that’s the only place with a TV.”
“Oh right. I want the three of you to come up here.”
I’m was not going anywhere until we knew what is going on.
Husband called.  He was on his way home.  Would I pick him up at the subway?  Not long after that, the MBTA, announced free service and the Mayor encouraged businesses to release employees to go home to their families.
As I’m made my way to the car, a black thought occurred to me. My husband just got on a subway.  We are under terrorist attack. No one knew what is really happening.  The military had scrambled every jet on the East Coast.  The FAA had grounded all flights. Police forces and Fire Stations everywhere put all staff on high alert. My mind did cartwheels as the possibilities banged around my head.  I forced the maybes out of my brain and focused on getting to the station.  It was a zoo and I’ll admit, my heart was in my throat as I waited. Finally his blonde head appeared.  He was on the phone with  his mother, assuring her we’d be up as soon as it was safe.
We picked up our daughter on the way home.  By then, it was nap time.  We sat on the couch watching the coverage until she woke up.  Then, the TV went off and we went for a walk in the local park.
It was a beautiful, crisp fall day.

The Tides The Are A Changin’

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… with all due respect to Bob Dylan.

For the past two weeks I have been light and airy. Motivated to exercise and eat well. My kids have been their normal selves and when the dust kicks up, I’ve been able to deal with it.
Oh, and let’s just say my husband has found the last seven days or so to be to his liking too.
No more.  In the language of two year olds “All Done.”
Without even looking at a calendar I can tell you I’m on the down side, headed towards the Red River.
There are the two rocks sitting at the base of my spine, within 5 days they’ll feel like oranges. There is my short temper. I’m annoyed by people talking (not even to me).  Oh and then there is the craving for sugar and salt. Oh those dark chocolate covered potato chips just hit the spot.
I have polycystic ovarian syndrome.  Time was it would 3 months in between my periods, but ever since the birth of my second child and the subsequent remove of a cyst from my ovary, BOOM! My cycles have been like clock work and the PMS has been equally as predictable.
I can control the pain with Motrin, but I can’t seem to control the crankiness. Please don’t suggest The Pill, been there done that with disastrous results.  I’ve been exercising more regularly and I’m going to TRY and keep that up this month.  My doctor says soy, might help, but I have a hard time with soy.  It makes me want to gag.
I’m of the age were peri-menopause is on the horizon and my biggest fear is that when my hormones burn themselves out that I will be stuck with permanent PMS.
Oh well, it’s time for a big glass of water and maybe a little TV.

Summer’s over

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This year more than others, I’m really noticing the end of summer.  Thus my documentation of the subject here.

I looked down the other day and realized that indeed summer was over.  The polish on my toes was in serious need of removal.

I’m not a girly girl by ANY stretch, but I likes me some painted toes in the summertime.  I’m so fair skinned, I enjoy the contrast of bright or dark colors.  I don’t have time for a real pedicure, so I just do the polish myself.   I can usually sneak a coat or two in between emails or phone calls while I’m in my office working (note, I work from home so I’m not asphyxiatingiating my co-workers). I am pretty good about staying on top of chips and growth but clearly I’ve fallen behind.  No touch up would save these toes.  It was going to have to be a complete removal and re-polish.  Ahh, but what’s the point, I probably only have another two to three weeks in sandals tops.

This morning, I broke out the polish remove and did away with the “Back to the Fuchsia”.  I was all set to go O’natural for the rest of sandal season, but then I looked closely at the poor piggies.  Seems summer wasn’t quite ready to go.  “Back to the Fuchsia” had left behind a light tint that even straight acetone wouldn’t remove. So I whipped out “Made You Blush” just to get me through the next few weeks.
Don’t look too close M’kay?