Underfoot

Yesterday as I was moving around my kitchen making dinner for myself, I stepped on something.

Usually if I'm going to step on something small on the kitchen floor, it's a piece of kibble that the cat knocked out of his food dish and swatted around. He'll do that occasionally in protest of the brand of cat food or as a reminder that he needs a fresh can of tuna.

He's very thoughtful that way.


What I stepped on, however, was small and hard and did not go *crunch* underfoot.

It was a tiny, hard plastic cherry from one of the girls' games Hi-Ho-Cherry-O.

The game board has long since disintegrated, but the girls hung on to those little cherries tenaciously, first in a ziplock bag, then in a plastic pencil case. Eventually, I thought that the cherries had finally made it to that Great Toy Land in the Sky where missing checker pieces and Barbie's socks, stilettos and scrunchies spend their eternity decomposing.

Somehow that little guy survived and ended up, like so may other things in this house, underfoot.

Spunky Critters Underfoot:

Stepping on the cat is usually fraught with greater peril since he has a full set of claws and teeth and will use them as needed.

The kids are bigger now, so I'm not likely to stomp on them; they're more likely to tackle me these days, but they still manage to get in my hair.

Special "Offerings" Underfoot

The girls are pretty good about letting me know if they've thrown up somewhere so I'm not likely to step in it. Unfortunately, kids tend to throw up in the wee-est of wee hours of the morning, like, say, three in the morning, at which point all they want to do is cuddle with Mommy. At three a.m.

The cat, on the other hand, is not quite as diligent about keeping me informed, regardless of what time he pukes. He's just as cuddly though.

Scattered Toys Underfoot:

The catnip toys don't pose a huge danger, although the kitty-drool that saturates them may be fairly high on the Ick-o-Meter.

Stepping onto one of the kids' toys, whether it's a teeny-tiny Barbie accessory or the most dreaded of toys: the Lego, is excruciating.

Ok, so it might not be as painful as childbirth, but those Legos hurt! They just might be indestructible.

On the list of the worst children's toys to feel under your feet, I think that Legos have to be at the very top of the list, although when I was a kid, I think that jacks would have taken parents' vote for the least favorite toy to step on when they're navigating a dark house in the middle of the night.



Do kids even play with jacks or marbles anymore? I loved them. One of my most vivid memories of playing with jacks involved flushing them down the toilet to see if they'd get whisked away.

They did, in case you were wondering.

Better that than impaling your foot on one and then having to go to the Emergency Room for a tetanus shot, right?

Right. :)

Poop, Glorious Poop

I swore I had blogged this here once, but as I perused the archive, I did not see it anywhere. Hmm, such are the perils of opening 678,953 blogs all over the internet. I really need to consolidate them, because truly, it would be a crying shame if this fine bit of family history were lost forever. My kids still ask me to tell them this story.

This comes from way back in March, 2001, when I was rather pregnant with my son. My older daughter Natalie was not quite 2 at the time and totally uninterested in potty-training. That was ok by me. Frankly, I'd rather just toss a dirty diaper into the trash than have to follow a half-naked kid around the house with a spray bottle of Murphy's oil soap and a roll of paper towels. Also, consider all the money, water and time saved on laundry just by tossing a soiled diaper in the trash, right?

Well, this one day, I had put Natalie down for her morning nap and decided that I would take one too. I'd been sleeping pretty poorly, being preggo and all, so I thought it would be a fantastic idea. Sure. I woke from my nap feeling refreshed, and from the gentle babble coming from her room, heard that Natalie was up too. She was just talking gently, so I wasn't expecting any sort of disaster when I opened the door.

But really, who ever expects disaster? It's a lot like the Spanish Inquisition.

First, some background. At the advanced age of not-quite-two, my darling daughter did not like wearing clothes. I didn't really mind; she would just run around with a diaper on at home. She managed not to strip in public, so I hadn't thought it would hurt anyone. Up until that fateful March day, she had been good about keeping her diaper on. Can you see where this is going?

I opened the door and this is what I saw: Natalie, curled up in a ball on her security blanket, a sodden diaper in one corner, her wet clothes, wadded up in a ball in another corner, and right next to where she lay, a big pile of (for lack of a more colorful word...) poop. I closed the door and gave my husband, the cleaning wizard, a call at work and asked him what the best cleaning strategy would be.

Some minutes later, armed with a bucket of hot, soapy water, a sponge, some carpet stain remover, roll of paper towels and baby wipes, I trudged back upstairs. Again, I opened the door and Natalie, pointing a poop-encrusted finger at the stained carpet, chirped, "Hi Mommy! Mess!" I opened the windows, got the ceiling fan going and went in for a closer look. The pile of poop had been trampled into the carpet. I think she may have even danced on it.

First step: I cleaned her off. It was caked on her legs, between her toes and fingers, on her cheeks and in her hair. Maybe she rolled in it like a dog, who knows? At this point I was not ruling anything out.

Second step: I started in on the carpet. My darling daughter tried to "help" Mommy, but I'm afraid I wasn't very appreciative. She wanted to help with (read: play in) the bucket of water, and shake the carpet cleaner, and unroll the paper towels. Oh yes, a big help indeed.

I'm afraid that the whole neighborhood knew that I could swear like a sailor on occasion- ok, so not my proudest moment, but there it is. I knew that if Natalie ended up swearing in her temper tantrums in the following week, that it'd be all on me. Oh well.

Once I got the carpet as clean as I could, and let the stain remover soak in, I hauled the child off to the tub. Somehow, I did manage to get her clean. Don't know how I did it, but I did. I took her downstairs, put her in the highchair and gave her some food while I did some dishes. Turning my back on her was, as ever, a huge mistake, because after I finished the dishes I saw that she had taken huge mouthfuls of juice and spit them out onto her tray and was splashing it all around. I couldn't even yell anymore. I just cleaned it all up, did some more laundry- her clothes, blankets, bedding, and put her in the play pen.

Next, I put some deep-cleaning foam carpet shampoo on the stains (I bought the stuff once on a whim- I'm glad I did), let it dry and vacuumed it up. I had a little lunch and logged onto the computer to tell my internet friends about Natalie's recent exploit. My head throbbed and my back ached and I felt like crying. Afterward, I had to apply yet more carpet stain remover. Still, it didn't really work.When my husband came home from work that night, he checked out the room. I had done a good job, but there was an aroma of kennel lingering in the room which was there even when we moved later that year. Some messes have a way of sticking around.

I no longer shudder when I tell this story. I smile at my kids' unholy glee at hearing this story old over and over. I suppose that a distance of 9 years is enough for even the stinkiest story to sweeten up a bit. After all, life goes on, and, as any parent will tell you, it is filled with poop

June 18

Forgive me if I'm not responsive today to messages or phone calls. I may not even answer the door.

Today, all is ashes in my mouth, and I can't see through the tears.


I received this not long after my son's death 7 years ago:

Oh Mother, my Mother

Oh Mother, my mother
I touch your tears
invisible fingers
soothing your skin
I know you think of me often
in the day, in the night,
in your dreams
going into an empty nursery
knowing I'll never be there
but I am... in your heart
in your soul, I shall always be
for you gave so unselfishly
of yourself.
Inside of you, you created
such a world for me
a world of laughter, of love,
of sadness, of sorrow
every emotion people come to know
you shared with me.
And even though I may never
feel your arms around me
I felt your heart beating,
like a lullaby, singing me to sleep
and your spirit giving me a safe haven
already protecting me
nurturing me
preparing me of things to come.
But sometimes the journey
of life pulls souls apart
and yes, I had to go on
to another place.
I wish I could stay
I wish this was a decision
I could make
and I know you do too.
Know this wherever you are:
I will always remember
that yours was the first love
the first joy, the first soul
I will ever know
you gave me courage to
go on in my journey
I hope I can do the same
for you
Your heart beat will always
call me to you

Love, your child

Happiness is three pairs of fuzzy socks

Yesterday, in the final blow-out of our extended pajama-party/lazy-slug-fest that was Christmas vacation, the girls stumbled upon the bag of stocking presents I'd hidden away so cleverly that even I'd forgotten where I'd concealed it. (Note: not the first time that has happened...) Kids' noses are extraordinarily keen at sniffing out those presents, and my 8 year-old seems to be especially adept at it.

She went into my room for some made-up reason; I heard a rustling and then, "Hey Mommy! I think I found something that you forgot to put away!"

Well, I knew that could only mean a box of feminine hygiene products or the bag of stocking gifts which I'd been unable to find in that mad dash to pack and get the hell out of the house and on the road to my parents' house. I did a quick inventory in my head and realized that I'm very good at concealing the first items and figured she meant the gifts.

I bellowed back, "Get out of that bag! And get out of my ROOM! ARGH!"

The wretch sneaked back out with the hugest grin on her face, so I knew that she'd seen the Hello Kitty purse I'd bought her. Lucy, now aware that something was afoot, then got up off the couch as unobtrusively as a 5 year-old could manage (read: not at all) and tip-toed into my room to have a look for herself.

By her squeal, I judged that she'd found the Dora purse I'd gotten her.

"Get. Out. NOW!!" I hollered.

Giggling, she ran out. The two of them looked at me with those twinkling eyes and any hope I'd had of keeping the bag of gifts as a fall-back for Natalie's birthday in April had crashed and burned. Monstrous children.

"Ok," I sighed. "Go get the damn bag and let's see what we've got."

We had: a purse and a locket for each of the girls, some ordinary socks (hey, I'm a mom and a practical one), some Hello Kitty glamor pens, a bag of chocolate coins, a colony of chocolate santas, and three pairs of fuzzy socks. We divvied up the chocolate among the three of us, and looked at the fuzzy socks.

"Hmmm," I thought, "How do I split up three pairs of socks among two kids," when Natalie said,

"Hey Mommy! You get a pair too!"

Cool. Problem solved.

We all put on our fuzzy socks and giggled. I swear, I think we were high on chocolate, or maybe it was hypothermia, it is pretty cold here after all. For some reason, it tickled all three of us that we each had our own pair of fuzzy socks. We sat all snuggled up on the couch and admired our feet clad in slippery, fuzzy, shiny socks.

"OMG, Mommy! Take a picture!" shrieked one of them.

So I did.



I'm amazed at how happy I am lately.

Maybe I'm just high from some sort of radon leak in my house. Who the hell knows.

I do know that my times with the girls the past few months have been better, happier, more content. Sure, they still push my buttons and I send them to their rooms, but we've had so many more times all snuggled together on the couch watching cartoons, movies or reading books. On occasion, they even like to nap with me now, sucked up to me like a remora on a shark.

Could it be that they've finally adjusted to the separation and consequent bouncing back and forth between two houses? Now they're happy when they're here and not missing their dad as much as before because they know that they will see him in a few days and that they'll be back here after that and so on.

Or maybe, sometimes happiness just comes in the form of three pairs of fuzzy socks.

It's indescribably beautiful

My lovely older daughter woke me at 3:30 am with repeated kicks to the kidneys, just like when she was still in my womb. Now, 8 years older and some 70-odd pounds heavier, she really packs a wallop. Long after she'd settled back into that heavy slumber only children can attain without drugs, I lay there wide awake, my mind a-whirl.

I got up after a fruitless hour of trying to re-enter my dreams and found my little Lucy awake on the couch, stuffed cheetah under one arm, and the real life, purring Cheetah on her lap.

"Mommy! You're awake!" she chirped at me.

Nodding, I plunked myself down next to her and she gave me a smack on the cheek followed by that famous Lucy Smile. She reached up and petted my hair, a sweet quirk of hers she's had since infancy and one which she reverts to in our quiet moments together. I shivered in the early December morning air, looked out the window and saw that winter had come in the night and covered the ground with pristine white crystals. The air was still thick with silent falling snow. I gave Lucy a kiss and got up to make my Marine-strong pot of coffee.

Natalie came out of my room holding her blanket. "Mommy? Is it still night or is it morning?"

"Both, actually honey. It's early," I replied. "Do you want to go back to bed? I'm just making some coffee and then I'm going to put in a movie for me and Lucy."

*yawn* "Nope. I wanna sit with you on the couch."

Some ten minutes later, there we were, all three of us girls and one content orange tabby snuggled together on the couch with a pile of pillows and a heap of blankets, afghans and comforters, watching "A Christmas Story."

No matter how many times I watch that movie, and I watch it dozens of times during the build-up to Christmas, I laugh to the point of crying, and cry to the point of hiccuping. My girls have seen that movie so many times that they rattled off bits of the dialogue with me perfectly and giggled in anticipation of favorite moments.

Lucy hooked her little arm in mine and rested her silky-haired head on my arm while Natalie looked over at me and grinned the same face-splitting smile she's had since she first gazed up at me and laughed as a fat and happy baby.

This is the color, shape, smell and touch of contentment. If I never do another great thing in my life, I know that I helped bring these two sweet, loving creatures into the world.

Life is hard, but indescribably beautiful.

Giving up the dead

The rituals and rites of funerals and grieving are not for the Dead. Whether they are in an Afterlife or simply cease to exist, what we who are left behind do, we do for ourselves.

Why is it is hard, then to give up the Dead?

Yesterday was as bad as the day of my son's memorial mass the week he died.

Do I hold onto his memory so hard because he was a baby no one knew?

Adults and people who have lived a life and made friends and memories are etched into people's hearts and minds. What memory is there of a tiny doll-like figure in a satin-lined casket? For most people, it is a fleeting image or a sad note sent in an email.

For me, who remembers every kick and hiccup, and bought little boy clothes, it is so much more: a loss of what should have been, but though some cruel twist of fate, a toss of the dice by some heartless god, was not meant to be.

I have not yet accepted the unfairness of it. In the grand scheme of things, when so many people suffer and die every day, what is the tiny spark of one small infant?

To me, it was everything, and still has a hold on me at the most unexpected times.

At the gravesite, I saw the same small toy someone had left at his headstone last year. We'd asked family and friends if they'd left it, but they all denied it. It was a random act of love, understanding and kindness, possibly from a parent who also lost a child nobody else grew to love and cherish.

I cried again when I saw the little Transformer toy; exactly the sort of thing which he would be playing with now, had he survived the delivery. I get a shiver when I hear some mother call out to a little boy, "Nathan, come here," or if I see a little boy about his age and wonder what he would have been like.

I am afraid that if I give up the Dead, it will be as though he never existed. That hurts me more than anything - that those nine months of dreams and hopes were for nothing. Now, with our family disintegrated, I feel as though I have nothing on which to anchor myself.

Yesterday, of all days, was the day when I most needed a pair of loving arms around me, and someone whom I could comfort as well, but I tend to shrug off offers of solace, instead reaching for my movies, books, my laptop, and a pitcher of Gin and tonics to help ease me to sleep.

I am drained of tears. I wept all day yesterday- in the morning while writing my first blog, on the way to the cemetery, at his grave, on the way back from the graveyard, even in the grocery store when I went to buy limes and a sandwich.

Now, a day later, I am utterly numb.

How do I give him up and let him and me go? Should I do that? Is there a right answer?

Nobody can give me a definitive response. Again, I have to forge my way through this alone. SO how do I accomplish this? By writing; by vomiting out every emotion I possess in the hopes that I will purge myself of it all.

Harder Than I Thought it Would Be

June 18th, 2001 fell on a Monday, one day after Father's Day, just like this year.

June 18th, 2001 was the day that changed the lives of everyone in our small family.

June 18th, 2001 I went into labor with my son Nathan.

June 18th, 2001 was the day that my son died.



As I do every June 18th, I woke up at 4:30, and began reliving the events of that day which are still as fresh in my mind, heart and soul as they were 6 years ago.

For the first time since it happened, we are going off to the cemetery separately, not as a family. A sure sign that this family is irrevocably broken.

Natalie was talking about him all weekend, and now Lucy is asking me these questions that are impossible to answer to a 4 year-old. I start crying and she says, "Mommy, don't be sad." She's holding his picture and looking at him, trying to understand why we are having no birthday party for him and why he is flying in the clouds with Jesus.
It feels every bit as bad as it did 6 years ago.
By my reckoning, right now, at 7:48 it was about the time that the nurses realized that there was something wrong. I can't stop reliving it in my mind. I'm watching the clock tick by and remembering the sequence of events. I can even almost detect the sterile alcohol smell of the pristine hospital corridors.

How many more years until it gets bearable on this day?


This is the poem on the back of Nathan's mass card:

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glints on snow

I am the sunlight on ripened grain;

I am the gentle autumn rain

When you awaken in the morning's hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush,

Of quiet birds' circled flight,

I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Crouching Tabby, Wretched Children

Crouching Tabby

Cheetah has allied himself with my enemies. No longer content to spend his days sleeping on every available soft surface in the house, he has taken to "crouching" and "perching."

He perches on top of the fridge and waits for me to open the door. Then, with a yowl, he lurches forward toward my head just enough to make me jump out of my skin. I swear, the furry bastard laughs at me afterward.

He crouches on the counter by the phone, waiting for me to walk by. Then he reaches out with a paw (claws sheathed, though) and bats at me. If I turn and bat him back, he sits up on his hind legs and bats at me with both paws until one of us gives up.

He perches on the headboard of my bed after the girls come into my room in the middle of the night to snuggle. He perches, purring, until we're lulled by the sound, and then he launches himself onto me, chasing my feet under the blankets.

He crouches on a dining room chair, hidden and forgotten as I sit, typing on my laptop. When I shift and put my feet on the chair across from me, he latches onto them and gnaws...gently.

It's either cabin fever for housecats or a kitty mid-life crisis as he rediscovers his inner tiger.

Wretched Children

On nights when I have them at my house, they come down in the middle of the night, 3 am or so, and climb into bed with me. I know I need to nip this in the bud, but I keep rationalizing it by saying that it's still early in the separation and if they feel that they need my comfort, then I'll let them. It works, too... as long as they sleep. Half the time it seems as though they view this time as "Playtime with Mommy." Hell no. Not at 3 am. Despite my inability to get back to sleep, I still don't need to deal with the two monsters arguing over who got a better piece of mommy that time.

Last night I had to kick them both out of bed, fix the blankets and the pillows and then get back in bed, this time, in the middle, and then ordered them to pick a side. Just as they'd settled down, the cat came waltzing in. He batted at my hair, and chased my toes, to the delight of the girls. Finally, all nestled up against me, he snoozed, purring; my girls nodded off, clutching their blankets; I, on the other hand, lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the shadows on the ceiling until it was time to get up and start another day.

Cease-fire

The Axis of Impishness and I have maintained a cease-fire this week, though I fear an outbreak in hostilities will be forthcoming this weekend. There was a slight incursion at 5 o'clock EST this morning when the 4 year-old kicked me repeatedly in the ribs as she tried to get "comfortable." The furry one attempted to take over my pillow and distracted me with numerous tail-lashes to the face. These events are likely to increase, since the s2bx has a conference down in DC, leaving me with the girls all weekend. In a pre-emptive strike, I am predicting early bedtimes for all small mammals in the vicinity (yes, I'm a Mean Mommy), although I suspect that the Axis will be launching an assault on all fronts sometime in the wee hours of Sunday morning in retaliation.

For your reference, here is a photo of 2/3 of the Axis: Lucy and Cheetah. Cheetah is the one with the whiskers. Don't let their cute and fuzzy exterior fool you: they are pure impish evil.

A battle won, but the war is still up for grabs

Caving unexpectedly much to my surprise, Cheetah ate all of his new cat food.

A-ha! I emerge victorious, or... did I? Could this be simply a strategic withdrawal to give me a false sense of superiority?

In a bold move, Cheetah has allied himself with Natalie and Lucy; Bush has his Axis of Evil, I have the Axis of Impishness. Late last night, they all crept into my bed and pestered me for hours until I banished them. Nevertheless, their plan worked, and sleep eluded me. Those wretched beasts know no mercy. I may retaliate later on with more banishments so I can get in a quick nap.

They count on their youth, boundless energy, extremely sharp claws and a proclivity for perching and pouncing, while I must rely solely on my superior size, the craftiness that comes with age and my ace in the hole- the fact that I am the One Who Feeds Them.

What is their aim in all of this? As I said yesterday, I suspect that Cheetah has his eyes on my luscious liver. But my girls... what could they possibly get out of this? Perhaps they just enjoy being wretched children.

Stay tuned, more updates from the front to come.

Guess who's back to his old shenaningans?

He's at it Again!

"Who?" you ask. "The s2bx? God? The Mailman?"


No, its Cheetah, of the Crouching Tabby fame, the furry little bastard.

Forgive me the anthropomorphizing here, but this cat has a real personality. Now we're down to a true battle of wills, and I, for one, am not going to cave to some green-eyed, ginger-haired devil, no matter how nice it is to have him lying against my stomach when I nap.

He doesn't like his new dry cat food. I bought it specifically for the health of his teeth and gums, since he's prone to problems, and he's "resistant" to having his teeth brushed. Ok, you little jerk, eat this special food since you don't want me to slip on that toothbrush condom-thingy and scrape your teeth. Believe me, I have no desire to do it. If I'd wanted to be a kitty-dentist, I'd have gone to Kitty Dentist School. Yeah. The furry menace tried to bite me the last time I attempted it. Ok then, new food. Ha!

Well, he finds the new dry food offensive. He knocks one piece of kibble out of his dish and then bats it around, chasing it through the kitchen, living room and dining room. I think he purposely aims it at my feet just to annoy me. I ignore it, much like I ignore my 4 year-old's whininess. When that doesn't work, he knocks a few pieces into his water dish, where they bloat up like revolting sponges - ok, I can't really blame him for not wanting to eat it, but I bought it, so tough. With the disgusting little kibble-balloons bobbing in his water dish, he can't drink his water.













Still, I do not take the hint as he sees it, so he perches on the counter right behind where I'm seated, green cat eyes boring holes into the back of my neck, and meows plaintively from time to time, just to remind me of his plight. Whenever I get up, he's there, weaving a figure eight between my ankles as I dash to the thermos for more coffee. Is he hoping that if I trip and knock myself unconscious I'll wake up ready to go to the store for some Friskies or MeowMix or something? Maybe he's planning on snacking on me. *shudder*

Sorry, buster. I'm digging in my heels. Eventually, you will get hungry/desperate enough to eat it, just like my girls' hunger eventually outweighs their distate for the green veggies I put in their pasta. I'm a Mean Mommy, and and I'm a Mean Cat Owner. Suck it up and deal, kids. You're not winning this battle.

God help me, I'm turning into my parents!

I just uttered the following words:

"You two are this close to spending the rest of the day in your rooms!"

It's official: I have become my parents.

This is the last day of the school's winter break (THANK GOD), and I'm beginning to understand in a real and very frightening way why it is that some mammals kill and eat their young. It's not because they're hungry, oh no; rather, it's because the little ones are a pain in the ass at times.

Gee, you're thinking, what a simply awful thing for a mother to say about her own kids!

Yep. Go ahead and call CPS. I dare you. I double-dare you! Call them. I'll even give you the number.

I had to take them to the grocery store with me this morning, and the two of them just would not stop poking each other and whining. Oh my God, I swear I thought I was going to blow an aneurysm in my head. The cashier was laughing at me, but in that "Hey, it's ok, I have a couple of bratty kids too" sort of way, so I could deal with that and not rip her throat out.

Even now, after they've been breakfasted and are watching Dragon Tales, the whining has not ceased. Now, I know that their bad behavior lately is largely a ploy for negative attention. The therapist says that they're likely more badly behaved for me because they feel more secure in my love for them, blah-blah-blah. I'm sick of it.

Every time I sit down with my stack of journal articles (now culled down to 6), to begin fleshing out my research paper, "something" happens. Whether it's a mini-flood in the upstairs bathroom, to a shower of 378 Cheerios all over the living room floor, it's always something that requires my immediate attention, a scolding, and an appropriate punishment.

I ask them if they behave like this for their dad. They say no. He says no. Nope. Mommy is the lucky beneficiary of this misbehavior, so once again, for the umpteenth time, I have to stop what I'm doing, making sure to hit ctrl-s to save it, get up, and kick some ass. Ok, so maybe not that severe. There is always a loss of privvies and time spent in their room, reflecting on their misdeeds. (ok, that bit was pure sarcasm)

I always try to take a break from what I'm doing to spend some "positive" time with them, reading to them, sometimes just cuddling with them on the couch, coloring with them etc. But lately with all of my coursework, I've had more to deal with and less time, but I still make sure that the evenings they're here are 100% Mommy-Daughters time before they go to bed. Still, I get the constant misbehavior when I'm doing something else, reading, writing, studying. It could get worse, too.

Anyone know a good babysitter?

Today for lunch, being the Good Mommy that I am always conscious of my kids' nutritional well-being, I made the girls grilled ham & cheese sandwiches (or sammiches for the purists out there), tomato soup and a side of fresh fruit, with their choice of milk, water or chocolate milk.

Mommy's lunch, on the other hand, consisted of a Diet Coke with Lime, 5 200-mg tablets of Ibuprofen and 1-mg of Klonopin. If that doesn't kill my headache or at least make me ignore it, then nothing will. Later this afternoon, I plan to bribe my children with the promise of ice cream after supper if they will just let me nap for a bit this afternoon.

I'm sure that the child-free of you out there are appalled at my parenting techniques.

Ok.

Some parents out there must be equally disgusted.

Um, ok.

While you're muttering about my horrendous abilities, if you could shoot me over the name of a cheap, reliable, non-pedophilic baby-sitter in my neighborhood, that would be swell. Believe it or not bribery has its place. I used to be anti-bribery, thinking that kids ought to do what was right because it was the right thing to do.

Ok, stop laughing.

Now, if the promise of a pre-bedtime movie, a small dish of ice cream or 2 homemade chocolate chip cookies can guarantee me two hours of relative peace, then I say screw the naysayers... unless they're volunteering to babysit my kids for me.

The wonder of Lucy

Things my youngest baby has done recently:

Two days ago, she was marching around the house, inexplicably chanting something that sounded like, "No more peacocks in my room!"

Yesterday and today, she took off the caps to all of her no-mess magic markers whose ink only appears on special paper, and put them on the tips of her fingers. She is wiggling her fingers, entranced by the colorful caps and then tapping them on every surface she passes.

Any time I do something for her: get her cereal, put the marker caps on her fingers, make her a PB sandwich with extra pb, she says, "T'ank 'ooo, Mommy. You the best. Mommy. Evah!"

When she has to go to the bathroom, she waits until the last minute so that she jitterbugs the Pee-pee dance, legs crossed, holding her butt, yelping out, "Oh no, Mommy!! I gotta go PEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Daily, she makes some mess with her Cheerios, but then always says, "I sowwy for the big mess, Mommy." Then she gives me a kiss on my cheek and all is forgiven.

When I ask her to pick something up, she stomps around, shouting, "I not do dis...EVAH!"

The kid eats as if she's got a tapeworm. I can't wait for this growth spurt to end.

She was born 18 months after our son died during the delivery. Part of me knows that I can deny her nothing, but I don't want to turn her into a spoiled brat. Her whole existence to me is proof of something almost miraculous: that I could go on and have another child after burying one; that life goes on despite how badly we are hurt; that we can pick up the pieces of our broken souls and live, love and feel again.

The Mystical Power of Loss

I can never think of 9/11 without first thinking of the death of my son Nathan. On that bright September morning, I was still wrapped in grief over the loss of my son in childbirth 3 months earlier. Then, seeing the devastation of that morning, I remember feeling that now the entire country tasted the fuzzy-headed despair that had been my constant companion since the previous June.

Grieving a death can change everything: common objects shift to mystic talismans, routine actions become sacred rituals, regular dates are elevated to holy observances, and ordinary places are transformed into hallowed ground by the power of loss.

Mystical Talisman: I have a pair of sneakers which I can no longer bear to wear, nor can I toss out. They are perfectly ordinary sneakers, a little worn, maybe, but their importance stems from the fact that they are what I was wearing that morning I went to the hospital in labor. A tiny smear of blood on them prevents me from wearing them any more, not because I'm grossed out by it or that they are now ritually impure; rather, I imagine that mixed in with my blood there might be tiny fragments of my son's skin or hair. I can not bear the thought that these pieces of him might be washed away, either by accident walking in the rain, or by design.

Sacred Ritual: Even now, I mark my Monday mornings according to the schedule of that awful day. At 7:25, I think to myself, this is the time my water broke and I saw that it was bloody; at 7:35, I picture myself half-waddling, half-lurching into the ER; 8am brings the panic as I remember the nurses talking about reading my pulse, not my baby's, on the fetal monitor; 8:30 is when my OB came in and broke the last bit of my bag of water, saw the rush of blood and ran out of the room, directing the staff to a waiting OR, uttering that terrible word, "abruption;" 8:45, was when I, in the grip of a panic attack, struggled with the anesthesiologist, certain that I would die if put under; then, blackness until 10 am when my husband answered my anguished question, "Is the baby ok?" with "No, honey, he's not. He died."

Holy Observance: June 18 will always be a day for us. No school, no work on that day. We have a leisurely breakfast, go to the cemetary, and take our other children out for a nice spring drive, and do the things with them that our son will never get to do. Outsiders are not welcome on this holy day.

Hallowed Ground: Our former house, in Maryland on the Bay will always be special to me; first, because it was our first house, and it was the place where we brought home our first baby Natalie. All of her early milestones were celebrated there; it is a place filled with happy memories. What sanctifies it for me, is that it is the place where for 36 weeks, my son lived, safe and loved, in my body. The morning we left our house and moved back north, I cried, thinking that we were leaving some part of our son behind.

Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat

Ok, yesterday's post got me reminiscing about all the fun involved in owning a cat. Here's a story from last year, not too long after we'd gotten Cheetah from the local SPCA.

One night I was up to my elbows in dinner preparations, when Natalie, darling child that she is, comes running in saying, "Mommy! The kitty pooped in my playroom!" Gag me. So, I turn off all the burners, grab a roll of paper towels and, like, 3 different cleaners/disinfectants and go to work.

Natalie had taken the cat into her playroom with her and closed the door so he wouldn't run away from her. She still doesn't get the fact that when the cat has to go away for a bit (to poop, pee, eat, or nap) that he will come back to her. That poor cat. *sigh* What made things worse was that Natalie's toys were scattered all over the place, and the poop was interspersed with them, so once I cleaned up the major areas, I had to inspect each stupid block, lego, stuffed animal, puzzle piece etc for poop. Darling Natalie also had some on her feet *shudder* -oooh, so gross- so I was a cleaning maniac. I even managed not to swear too much, but occasionally, the word "Shit!" did pop out of my mouth. Natalie would then respond, "That's not nice, Mommy!" Grrrrrr!

The house rule now stands, "No cats in closed rooms- ever!" I think Natalie finally understands the significance of that one. It was super-stinky stuff, not that cat poop normally smells divine, but I think that huge bag of Econo-Kat Fud from Sam's Club didn't help matters any. Add to that the fact that Cheetah is an orange tabby cat, and I have heard from many sources that orange cats stink the worst of all housecats- that is merely anecdotal, of course.

Stop Eating the Cat Food!

I have always known that small children will experiment with "exotic" foods; in particular, foods not meant for human, but rather animal, consumption. Sure, the child might sneak a little kibble, give it a tentative taste, find it offensive and loathsome in her sight and then spit it out. That was the case with my older daughter Natalie when she scarfed down a handful of cat food. The look on her face was priceless. It ran along the lines of, "Holy Mother of God, what have I just done?!" I naturally assumed that meant that cat food, all cat food, was vile to small children.

Three years later, along comes Lucy, who defies this rule. For some reason, this child of mine can not pass by the cat's bowl of Meow Mix without a little sample. She eats it, too. She doesn't simply roll it around in her mouth for a bit and then let the fishy ooze dribble down her lip, ohhhh noooo, she swallows it and goes back for seconds! I never thought that the words, "Stop eating the cat food," would come out of my mouth, least of all directed at the brilliant fruit of my womb. I know that we learn something new every day, but some of these lessons are beginning to scare me, just a little.

The Deed is Done

My first baby is officially a Kindergartener. I think I held up pretty well. Watching her walk down the sidewalk in her brand-new school clothes, stiff leather shoes and over-large Hello Kitty packback tugged at my heart. The backpack was so big I could probably stuff my younger daughter Lucy, now 21 months old, into it with room for the requisite school supplies. Natalie looked so little and defenseless, yet so proud of her new status as a Big Girl.

Although I did not cry, as I had feared I might, I was feeling wistful and sad as I walked back from dropping her off at school. I had hoped for a tiny show of trepidation on her part- proof that she still needs her Mommy, but no, not my fearless daughter. Her words to me after I kissed her good-bye? "Go home, Mommy!"

T-Minus 1 day and Counting...

Natalie is determined to drain every last drop of worthless-tv-watching as she can before school starts tomorrow and the dreaded Cable guy comes by to shut off all but the broadcast channels.

Good-bye Spongebob Squarepants! Farewell, Kids Next Door! Sayonara Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! Perhaps we'll meet on another shore.

Seriously, my kid has watched too much television this summer. We slid into this awful habit of using the tv as constant entertainment, and most other activities: making collages, painting, reading etc have fallen by the wayside. We were way too lazy this summer, though I doubt that she has been irreversibly harmed by my failing. She has been protesting this decision to cut the cord mightily, but we are confident that, in a week or so, she'll not even notice it. She'll be at school most of the day anyway. Perhaps she'll come home, bursting with play ideas. We shall see.

Kindergarten...

My first child starts Kindergarten this week. How is this possible? Wasn't it only last month that I was pregnant with her? Didn't she take her first steps just a few weeks ago? How can 5 years pass so quickly?

Being a mom is a greatand scary thing. it reaffirms life for me, yet it makes me ever more aware of my own mortality. I can no longer make up stories in my head where I remain 20-something forever. Now, mychildren are the focus of my life. I measure my age in terms of theirs. As they age, so do I. With each new aggravating exploit, I gain three more gray hairs. Yet with each slobbery kiss, I feel younger.