Sassy Sisterhood Syndrome

Philip was the first one to document it. Marlowe confirmed it. Clayton was relieved to hear it and glad to propagate it. Seth was keenly aware of the syndrome. It seems that when my three best friends from high school and I are planning or anticipating or actually getting together to see one another, we get a little sassy with our husbands.

I think they also may have described us as bossy, domineering, unwilling to listen, impertinent, and feisty. I might have even heard the word diva floating around.

Over the several days that we were together for Amy's wedding, Molly, Erika, Amy and I all shook our heads or smiled when this subject came up (or was harped on), but none of us protested. We all know that on some level it is true. 98% of the time, we are each members of full-fledged partnerships with our husbands in separate cities around the country. But when we know we are going to be in each other’s presence some sort of fever overcomes us. I have been trying to break this one down and here is what I have come up with:

We grew up together and we grew up sharing our dreams and best hopes with each other. I'm not talking about the grade school or middle school growing up--I am talking about the hard part--when we started to do grown-up things like fall in love and marry and have babies and move around and have jobs. Through it all we had an unspoken pact between us that we could do anything. And we've done a lot of those things. At 21 I think we thought it was going to be a much quicker trip to those best hopes and terrific dreams. We were pretty sure of ourselves and getting surer.

At 30, part of us knows that life is a long, hard process and that we will be growing up forever. Of course now, unlike at 21, our husbands are part of that building, molding, and refining process. We love each of them dearly, but when the girls get together we are reminded of the feeling we of growing up. Together we are each other’s growth charts. Living, walking, breathing benchmarks. It isn’t a competitive thing. It is a checking in thing. Like when we were sitting at Erika's cabin talking about how "My Best Friend’s Wedding" could be us (at Phil or Seth's weddings) or at the Blueberry Cafe wondering if this med school thing was ever going to end (it has) or at in Amy's parents' new and still to be furnished home studying for a World History exam and dreaming about college and Europe and boys. We have always bolstered each other and that is a good thing. We remind each other that although we are works-in-progress that we are moving somewhere. When we see each other only about once a year--if that--we are reminded of where we've been and where we're going. And that makes us sassy.

Don't worry boys, it is just for a few days. When we separate, we return to your grounded arms and are better because we are bolstered.

Finding Oregon

What is Oregon like? Well, it is like no place on earth--except for Washington (State, that is, for you Easterners).

Oregon is the place where a couple hours after arriving in the state Phil said to me, "I am already getting annoyed at how efficent everything is and how nice and helpful everyone has been to us."

You see, the night we arrived, we were beat. We set out from our home in Jamaica Plain at about 4:00PM and took the bus, two trains, and another bus to the airport. Then we flew to San Fran. On this flight our children slept most of the time and Phil even managed to fall asleep until I shook him awake when Ramona stirred so that I could lift Sumner's pillow from Phil's lap and hopefully keep Ramona resting. The Ramona disaster was averted, but at the cost of a Philip disaster. He didn't get any more sleep, but not for lack of trying. In SF, the now-rested kids woke up and cheerfully led us the our gate to Portland.

As we got on the plane to Portland I turned to Phil and said, "These are my people." Oregonians abounded. Simple hairdos, lots of t-shirts, a few grungy punks, and everyone looked like they would enjoy hiking.

Once we got to Portland, 12:30 AM Portland time, 3AM Philip and Emily body clock time, our kids were really ready to start partying. We made our way to baggage, were we split up. I took Ramona to get a rental car and Phil took Sumner to get the luggage. I soon realized that I had left my wallet on the plane and Sumner's car seat had gone missing. It was about 1 AM. Trying to remedy either of these situations in Boston at that late hour would have been like trying to start a fire without matches in a rainstorm. But not so in Oregon. In the United Baggage Assistance Office, there was not only one or two, but THREE smiling, helpful, awake woman ready to help me out with my two problems. First the wallet, one of the three counter ladies asked for a careful description of the item in question and my seat number. Then she called to yet another helpful, jolly woman who was waiting in the back room on bended knee to scurry out to the plane immediately and retrieve my wallet, which she did in less than 8 minutes. Meanwhile, I was given a loaner car seat for Sumner and promised that they would get our seat to us at our ocean hotel--a two hour drive--by the next day. Problems solved. No need to get frustrated. Philip and I could hardly contain our tired selves--where was the person or reason for us to get mad? No where in this friendly place. To add insult to injury, they found the seat within minutes, paged us, and then ran the seat out to us the rental car counter. It was about 1:45 by then.

Not only are the people nice in Oregon, but it is just breathtakingly beautiful. I am not sure I have ever appreciated this until this trip. As a kid, it was just what it was. I didn't drink in the beauty, because I was used to it. But on this trip, I was amazed. Driving from Portland the the Oregn Coast, the car wound its way through mountain forests, thick with pine trees. We did a lot of winding on Oregon highways. It seems as though the land has to be wound through. A direct route could never do it justice. There are no strip malls from the Oirtland burbs to the coast--only a few Dairy Queens and homestyle family resturants. Although I know that much of Oregon has been logged and reforested, it seems untouched and underdeveloped. I felt like I was discovering something that I had forgotten and everyone I knew in other parts of the country and world were missing out. Then we hit the coast. The air felt cleaner; it was cold and I could taste it with my nose. Driving on cliffs that in some places drop a hundred feet straight to the beach, I couldn't decide if I should be focusing on the mountain to my left or the ocean to my right or Sumner driving in a sports car with his Papa directly in front of us.

Oregon. Nice. Efficent. Clean. But mainly: beautiful.

Out of Contact

This is not a blog. This is the first time I have been able to get online in more than a week. It is hard to blog on vacation, but several new blogs will be up this week. Keep checking. Aarti, you are probably my only reader left. You will not be disappointed (I hope) with the forthcoming catch-up blogs.

Ode to Philip

Love to Be Loved, Peter Gabriel

I am married to a really fantastic guy and I want ya'll to know how great he is. I don't always think of him with a halo. Sometimes he seems to be such a niave oaf. These days there are many more halo days than oaf moments. I need to treasure these moments and i kind of want to proclaim them from the mountain top. Here are just a few of the amazing things he does:

1. He tells me most days that I am doing a great job at whatever I am doing.
2. He is terribly funny in a sarcastic and self-deprecating way.
3. He loves to grocery shopping and meal plan and he makes great sandwiches.
4. He likes to talk to me when we get into bed and doesn't get mad when I just want to read.
5. He is tall and smiles down at me.

Can you believe it?

A haiku:

calling to check in
asking how i am hanging
in. now i am fine.

Calming Down

Ramona has a tendancy to get excited about things. She doesn't really forget things. She can't quite "move on".

This morning after breakfast Sumner settled into his perch in the Living Room to play with his lego nights, puling apart their limbs and rebuilding them in new ways. Ramona, in just her underwear, sat in bed with four dolls lined up and sitting along the wall across from her. She was talking with her big eyes to them about something that seemed urgent. Phil and I scurried around, not wanted to squander the few minutes they were "playing nicely", which is what Ramona calls entertaining herself.

Soon enough, the dolls were not enough for Ramona and she came to pester me. She told me about her plot to have a candle for every child at her birthday party (in six months) so that no one will try to blow out her candles, because "that would frustrate me if they did that." I agreed to this plan and then Sumner came in to ask who wanted to make a tower out of their fold-out tent with him. He was really asking me, but I was folding laundry and couldn't oblige. Ramona wanted to help, but she wanted to make a princess castle. He insisted on his idea and they ran to the site of the tent to battle out. Within the minute, there was shouting and wailing. I went to the scene and was able to peacefully negotiate a bargin where Ramona used the tent for the princess castle and Sumner used his bunk bed for the tower. They were satisfied and he went to collect the materials (paper, tape, and scissors) that he needed to build his tower.

Ramona lasted at the tent in the Living Room for about three minutes, while I swiffered the kitchen floor. Then she was drawn back to Sumner. He just wanted to make his tower in peace. She demanded that she be able to make her princess tower on the lower bunk. Soon, her squeaks turned into more shouting and wailing. Again, I intervened and they agreed to split the bunk bed. Then, for about a half hour they played together--nicely. The bunk bed was on its way to being transformed. Sumner weaved paper, made paper pockets, lots of triangular shapes with plans to tape them all over his bed. I am not sure what Ramona was doing aside from chirping and running to get stuff for him. I mopped the floor and caught the end of Weekend Addition.

The creating cullminated with Sumner up on his bunk taping furiously and then stopping to cut and throwing the scraps down to Ramona, who was once again screaming and crying. I tiptoed over the wet floor to reach them. She wanted his black scissors, but had worked herself bast wailing to a low grade tantrum. Sumner had the best scissors in the house.

Doesn't every house have a best scissors? We've got the useless (but safe) plastic kid scissors and kid's zig zag scissors and sewing shears (off limits to kids) and some crappy scissors (I picked up from some retiring teacher one May) and even meat scissors and then: the good ones. The Good Ones are used for pretty much everything from cutting open a bag of shelled crawfish to cutting off loose threads on clothing to kids' art projects. Ramona, understandably, wanted the Good Ones. So, I intervened again (should have stayed out of it) and brokered a deal where I would retrive the Zig Zag scissors and Ramona could use the Good Ones. They were amiable to this judgement.

But as soon as Ramona had the Good Ones and Sumner had the Zig Zags, she started screaming. "Those [the Zig Zags] are so special to me. I want them." She had really lost it this time. I couldn't talk to her. Sumner just went on working safely out of her way on the top bunk. She went from wailing to frenzy to near seizure. I tried to break in and talk. Sumner's paper scraps were landing on my head. She screamed. I tried to hold her and then rubbing her. Rubbing her gave me a word in edgewise.

I explained to her that it seemed that she just wanted whatever Sumner had and that she should just get down to using the Good Ones and get over it (dammit). I ackowledged that I thought she must want to play with Sumner, but that he was focused and she needed to let him do his thing (this part of the word in edgewise was much shorted than the dammit part). I asked her what we could do to calm her down. I suggested a book or a drink of water or listening to music or praying. She stopped crying. She furrowed her brow. I thought I was making headway. She had an idea. She said, "Having the scissors that Sumner has would calm me down."

I give up.

Make My Day

Coconut Telegraph, Jimmy Buffet

It is summer and we are loving it. After the boards, first step, and 12 months of third year medical rotations, in June we slowed for the first time. We found how totally exhausted we were. Philip has the whole month of July off and we are resting up (going to New Hampshire and NYC). This week resting and relaxing includes little agenda and lots of free flow. So, today, we all piled in the van around 3:30 and headed to a Boston public pool to swim.

When I take the kids swimming (or anywhere else), I like to travel with a light load. Philip, on the other hand, values comfort and ease above the convenience of having little on your back. To swim, the kids need a change of clothes, earplugs, goggles, suntan lotion, and a towel. I can't go much lighter than that with them, so I cut corners with myself. As we set out, I had two small bags with these items for the kid and Phil had a giant backpack for himself. For myself I had the swimsuit on my back, my shorts, and my Tevas. No towel (I can share), no goggles (for wimps), no shirt (one more thing), no hairbrush (I like to look natural), and no change of clothes (who needs it!).

The swimming was a blast. Ramona is learning to push off from the wall and is willing to get her head wet, a huge breakthrough. Sumner is a fish. The water was just right and we always make friends at the pool.

When we got out, all of my family members, like normal people, dried off with their towels and changed clothes. I even facilitated the process for the kids. Still dripping, I took Sumner's damp towel and wrapped it around my waist and got into the car, with my wet hair in knots. Somewhere between the pool and the van the kids and Phil decided to go drop by Dunkin Donuts for a pre-dinner snack. Since we are on a home-vacation, I was up for it and we headed to the nearest one.

When we parked I jumped out of the van in Sumner's towel, swimsuit and Tevas started for the door. When I turned back to see what was taking the rest of them so long, I saw Phil was shaking his head at me.

"What?" I asked.

"Don't you think you should put your shorts on?" he pointed out. It must be hard to be married to such a carefree person who rarely feels shame and embarrassment. I am more likely to embarrass people--even strangers around me--than embarrass myself.

I followed his advice and put on my shorts. We had some munchkins (which he had to pay for because I didn't bring my wallet) and then we stopped to get a few groceries for dinner (which he had to buy because I couldn't go into the store). Then we can home and Phil started making a tasty dinner. I fed the kids a quick dinner, bathed them, gave them their meds, and read to Ramona. While our dinner simmered, Philip played a game with Sumner. I still had not found a moment to change my clothes and really had forgotten that my hair was in snarls and that I was only wearing a suit, shorts, and my Tevas. So, I sat down at the computer to contemplate this blog.

Then the doorbell rang. I thought it must be one of three visitors: Julie and Aaron (our neighbors), Greenpeace, or Mormon missionaries. I was hoping for the neighbors. I went to the door and asked who it was. No answer. So I opened it. Standing on the porch was one of these cute little college students canvassing the neighborhood for something I guessed he really believed in. On first glance, he seemed to be half my age and size.

He smiled at me and said, "Are your folks home?"

I didn't know what was happening. Was Ramona behind me? No, she was in bed. Was he high? No, I realized, he was just a diligent, civically minded youth who thought I, too, was a kid. I didn't know if I should kiss him or slap him.

"I am the folks," I replied and grinned a toothy grin. Then I helped him with his letter writing campaign, invited him in, and got Phil to write a letter too. I celebrated this mishap by eating dinner (I was starving) and wrote this blog. Now I am going to take a shower.

Still Students After All These Years

Most of the time I am so happy and proud to still be living a student lifestyle. I like to think that the simple life is for me. "I don't need all that stuff or those mere conveniences that other people my age have." And then I realize that I really do like to buy books instead of always checking them out from the library. I would like to go out more often and not worry about the arm and a leg I need to pay the babysitter. I want to have a little more tucked away. But, we're almost done. Real salaries are in our future and so I think I need to glorify the student lifestyle while I still can. Plus, we get tons of time off.

Phil and I have been planning a trip to NYC, the scene of our young friendship. We wanted to go for a romantic getaway, but we also didn't want to spend too much money--after all, last time I was living there it was mainly my parents' money I was spending. And Phil, well, he wasn't spending much money at all; he is more careful.

Saving money is always a fine balance. You must weigh the costs you may save with the suffering you must endure to save it. So we decided on the following plan. We would skip an airplane, train, or regular Greyhound bus. We would take the Chinatown Bus, $30 roundtrip. We debated a bit about lodging. Of course we could bunk with some of our friends, but then we would miss out on some of the "romance". So we decided to opt for a one star hotel on the Upper West Side. Orbitz described it as a standard room with a double bed and a shared bathroom down the hall. Phil called and discovered that there was no AC. We could handle that. $62 and I threw my flip flops into my backback on top of my library book, just in case the bathroom was wet when I needed to shower. We were off to a frugal start.

The Chinatown bus seem great at first. I pulled out a book and with my feet resting on my backpack I got into it. I made a couple calls. Philip and I chatted a bit. Who cared that afer about 45 minutes my neck and back started to tighten. They would have on some dumb (and short) plane ride. Then I started to feel queasy, a case of good old-fashioned car sickness. No more reading and Philip was asleep and it was dark and there was nothing worth looking at out the window anyway. I gritted my teeth and with a stiff upper lip endured. No vomitting or anything.

As advertised, we were dropped off on a seemingly random corner in Chinatown at about 12:30AM, but the city was alive. Really awake and moving and working. There is just no other city I have lived in that works this way. The 1/9 subway was crowded with all types: three medical students, Chinese speaking biracial African-Chinese-American and his Chinese-American friend, lots of Latinos looking like they were on their way home from work, some punky teenagers of all races, a handful of preppy Columbia students, and us. We got off by our hotel and checked out about three busy bars before settling into one that had outdoor seating. A pint later, in the middle of a summer downpour, we sprinted to out "hotel". The lobby looked legit and we innocently took the key and bouned upstairs, still excited from running in the rain.

When we opened the door to the room we didn't quite know what to do. My mom would have described it as a flop house. I told Phil it looked like a set from Law and Order. Phil had no words. And so, we laughed. Let me begin with the things this room did NOT have: a mattress cover, a chair, a lamp, a light cover for the floresent light, a mirror, a hook, a closet, a phone, or a floor I could put my bare feet on. It did have stained (but laundered) sheets, a sink, a microwave, lime green paint, a peep hole, a window fan, a eight inch hole in the ceiling, an air shaft view, and several locks. We had been imagining dorm room, not shit hole. So we laughed some more and changed into dry clothes. It was nearly 2 AM and we had no lead on another room, plus we had already paid for this one. So we laughed some more and climbed on top of the sheets and played cards (I won) all the while wishing we had hooded pajamas to sleep in. Fatigue finally overcame the creeps and we slept for a good 7 hours before checking out and finding a hotel one block away that gave us a real hotel room--attatched bathroom and all--for not that much more.

Travel Log Preview

We have been out of town for since June 30 and that is why things have been so quiet. Never fear, I have collected quite a few stories that will be uploaded over the next two days. Some of them include:

Just Getting out the Door
Ribs for Dinner
Vacation: Skelding Style
Hide and Go Seek
Living Like a Student at 30 and Proud
Flossing on the Upper West Side
Ground Zero
New York V Boston

Flossing on the Upper West Side

Philip and I were walking down the street on the Upper West Side between Broadway and Amsterdam towards the Park when he stopped abruptly and took off his backpack.

"I am have an emergency," he said plainly, as he opened his dop kit*, which he had quickly slipped out of his bag. He cut off a long, large piece of floss from his floss box.

"What are you doing?" I protested, as he started to floss bits of his breakfast out from between his teeth.

"You just can't understand. I am in pain."

I jutted out my chin indignantly.

"Physical and mental pain."

I rolled my eyes.

"Combined physical and mental pain," he whined for emphasis, as if I didn't know the meaning of the word "and". With this and the floss hanging out of his mouth, he started to walk again, at a New York pace. I jogged to catch up.

Now, I have had some strange flossing experiences. My family and I regularly flossed as a group activity while watching TV and then marveled at the interesting ways we found to fold and tie up, even crochet, our used floss. Philip has always puzzled at this ritual. In college, I once flossed with a 5 foot piece of floss with both Phil and our friend HaYoung at the same time while listening to "You Sexy Thing". But, COME ON! Walking down the street! Waiting on the corner! Crossing Amsterdam! It was a new low for both of us.

*I had to look up this word for this blog, as I was not sure if it was dob kit or dop kit. I could not find it in the abridged OED we have at home or at dictionary.com. I googled it and found many dop (not dob) kits for sale. Now Phil and I are very curious about the origins of the word. Any ideas?

Hide and Go Seek

Sumner, Ramona, and their grandfather, Pop, played a lot of hide and go seek while we were in New Hampshire. We were staying in a suite--two rooms, two closets, one table, four doors, two bathtubs, some beds with blankets, and a couple of chairs. Not a lot of hiding spots. But for Sumner and Ramona, it was as good as four acres of wooded brush.

Philip learned how to play Hide and Go Seek from his dad and this is how they play: When someone is hiding, you let them look for you for a minute or so. Then, you start to peep. That means you make the tiniest "peep" sound. Once the peeps begin, the race is on. The Seeker(s) gets closer and closer and then, the climax: the Hider jumps out and scares and tickles and grabs the Seeker(s).

They play this over and over again. They love all of the anticipation. The thrill is tremendous. I can remember waiting in hidden spots when I was a kid and using all my energy not to giggle or pee in my pants from all of the excitement. The knowing something and getting to reveal it or not knowing something and getting to discover it is pure fun. When they hide, they get the rush of "tricking" Pop and making him react to their surprise attack at the end. When they seek, they love getting closer and closer to being shocked (yet again) by Pop. And then there is the embrace at the end, the comfort of knowing that the world is reordered as you want it to be. It is very sweet.

Vacation: Skelding Style

Ain't No Mountain High Enough, Aretha

I have learned a lot of lessons from my husband and by extension my in-laws. But I have always been suspicious of one of Phil's vacation values: vacation to the MAX. Is that really vacationing?

Well, I just spent 5 days on a jam-packed, activity vacation in the White Mountains and it felt like vacation. I relaxed. I enjoyed nature. I did not feel pressure or rushed. I biked, cannoed, opted to read for an afternoon, slept a ton, swam with the kids, played in the river, ran, worked out in the gym, climbed through a bunch of caves, rode a gondola to the top of a mountain, ate some fabulous meals, got robbed when Rick and I faced off with Phil and his mom in a game of Catch Phrase, had some good talks with the grown ups, played with the kids, and didn't blog once.

So, I guess you can do a bunch of stuff and relax. This does not mean I am not abandoning one of my vacation values: vacation is slowing down and not having to do stuff. It is relaxing. But like most of marriage, we are blending and I am learning.

Ribs for Dinner

Tired of Being Alone, All Green

There is a phenomenon that I believe many co-parents are familiar with that I will call the Ribs-for-Dinner phenomenon. We will call these every parents the Home Parent and the Otherwise Occupied Parent. In the following situation several things are going on. It is not a regular weekday or even a regular weekend. This is a vacation scenario. The Home Parent can't wait to spend some extra family time with his or her children and the Otherwise Occupied Parent. He or she has been looking forward to sharing even more of the daily joys and burdens of parenting with his or her spouse. The Otherwise Occupied Parent is also all revved up to share the daily grid and the daily giggles. During routine weekdays and weekends the Otherwise Occupied Parent has complete faith, trust, and admiration for the Home Parent. He or she says thank you daily and alternately marvels "how do you do it?" and "you are doing a great job."

Then, the 24-7 togetherness begins. The OOP sees some suspect interactions between the HP and the children. Perhaps bribes are given or too much sugar is condoned or too much whining is tolerated. The OOP wants to jump in, help out, and give advice. The HP parent wants the back-up, but feels a little sensitive about the only thing he or she has really being working on--some little people that will never be a final product--being questioned in any way, shape, or form.

So here is how it may play out:

OOP: You just ordered Child X ribs for dinner?

HP: Yeah.

OOP: He isn't going to eat them.

HP: Really? I think he loves them.

OOP: I don't think so.

HP: He ate them that one time at Restaurant X.

OOP: I don't think he's going to eat them.

HP: He will.

OOP barely shakes his or her head.

HP smiles as if he or she isn't irritated.

What can you do? I guess (not that this has happened to me or anything) HP needs to let down his or her shield a little bit and the OOP needs to continuing trusting a little bit and then they run with it together.

Just Getting Out the Door...

when we are leaving on vacation is really difficult. I have spent a lifetime of racing to be the last to board a plane and leaving on road trips three hours after the appointed departure time and therefore pitching a tent in the dark. I hate this. Part of me wants to be one of those people who pack a few days ahead of time and waits at the gate for 45 minutes before the boarding begins. But part of me hates the idea of being so type A about just getting there. I hate to leave a cushion of time. If I was "together" (such a wonderfully clear and ridiculous euphemism) and spent 45 minutes at the gate before boarding, what would I be missing out on? Talking with a friend? A bubble bath? Sleep? Reading on extra chapter with Sumner?

On Thursday Phil and I were planning on picking his parents up at the airport and heading up to New Hampshire. It was Sumner's last day of school and we thought that we were in pretty good shape to pick his parents up in the early afternoon. We made lists, long ones, all week long. We assigned times to the tasks on the list. We slotted them into time periods. These are our best strategies for getting stuff done. My bag was nearly packed the night before and Philip had done what he calls his "mental packing". That means he knew what he was going to put in his bag and was ready to approach his closet and get to it (versus approaching his closet and at that moment start pondering what it means to go on vacation and what he might need to wear for the experience). We had pulled out all of the stops--we thought.

We used to not employ all of these fail safes when we were heading out on a trip and the result was that we would leave a messy house in hurry and a panic and leave several key things behind every time. But we are getting better. Since we have been improving, we see how horrible things used to be and what we can aspire to be. Now that we have our eyes on the prize, which was once an illusive phantom, we want it desperately. So when we fail, we take ourselves more seriously.

Stuff came up. I probably shouldn't have done a craft with Sumner's class on Wednesday morning or gone shopping to fill in a few holes in my wardrobe. It may not have been the best idea for Phil to IM with Ajay late Wednesday night. Did I really need to sleep that extra half hour on Thursday morning? We also kept missing slotted times to get the van cleaned and so it was left until Thursday morning. One more thing to fit into a full morning.

I dropped Sumner off at school, while Philip tried to take care of some businessy-things at home and execute the actual pack. The detail shop that usually cleans the van was busy, so, running out of time, I overrode my preference to get the car taken care of just so by my shop. I took it to a regular car wash that happens to vacuum interiors. They did it in no time, but as I drove home I realized the interior was hardly cleaned--sand was still all over the place. So I took it back to have them give it another go. After another 10 minutes with it they returned it to me still dirty. So this picky white woman asked them to do it a final time. Finally it was done right and I rushed home. I digress.

This fiasco ate up most of our morning and we both still had long lists of things to get done. We fed the kids and plopped them in front of the TV and ran around the house trying to get everything done. At one point I saw Phil sprinting past the window. I thought he must be racing to save a standard poodle from the jaws of a lion, but then it dawned on me that he was just trying to get the bikes on the back of the car in a speedy way. Meanwhile I was trying to put away every little bit of clutter that remained out and pack food and finish one last load of laundry and pack all of our meds and toiletries. It was the usual rush. We were 30 minutes late to pick up Lynn and Rick. Neither of us had showered for two days. Ramona wouldn't wear the cute outfit I had planned for her. But the house was picked up and I only forgot a few major things. This was a small victory. Will we ever avoid the rush? Will we ever see "together"? And truly, how together do we want to do?

Classy

What does the word classy mean? What do you need to have to be classy? I don't think I've quite got it down.

This morning I told Phil that last night there was nothing good on T.V. Usually, the next statement out of my mouth would be a description of the terrible, awful show I watched (until the bitter end) when I should have been doing something else. I told him that I turned off the T.V. and listened to classical music while I folded our laundry. Of course, this was a boldface lie.

I fessed up (I watched "You're Fired" and some sort of real life mystery-documentary) and this somehow led to a conversation about classiness. I know my mom is reading this and thinking: Emily, you are classy. What are you saying? Why do you question this? Mom, I go to the bathroom with the door open. That's not so classy. I plop down into a chair, instead of sit nicely, as you do. I dunno, the grace thing just kind of passed over me. And the classy thing did too.

But is it a good thing to be classy? I mean class is the root of the word. Are you are classist if you are classy. No way. Can't be true. Please weigh in.

What is class? Who has it? Is it a good thing?

Not classy:

bad TV: CSI
clutter
kitsch
forgetting to pluck mustache or unibrow
leaving your dishes undone
forgetting to return calls
being too blunt
trendy colors
donuts (spelled that way)

Classy:

Mystery on PBS
clean line
expensive plain things wit no personal meaning/history
waxing
neat and tidy
timely thank you notes
reserve
navy blue
croissants

Blood

While shopping with me at the drugstore, Ramona stumbles and falls into a card rack. She immediately sits down and examines her injured knee.

Ramona: Mom, it's bleeding. Mom, there is a little bit of blood.

Me: (Without looking) Ramona, I don't see anything.

Ramona: I think you need a flashlight.

Crying women

In college, Chris, Ajay, and Phil had a club called FLEE. It may have stood for something, but I don't remember if it did. This club bonded them together at its inception as sophomore males who took the opportunity to flee situations where women were overly emotional, especially when they were crying. By the middle of our junior year, Chris and Ajay had learned a thing or two by living with me and my depression. They learned to stay instead of flee. One day I started talking to them and crying, a normal occurrence, and they both just listened and nodded their heads. Then Ajay bravely slung his arm over my shoulder. At that moment Chris and I caught each others' eyes and started giggling. It was a preposterous moment. How could the founder of FLEE have become such a good listener? It was beautiful and hilarious.

It took Phil several years of marriage to really get good and responding to the cry. He gave up fleeing long ago. Here are the rules: 1. Be like Amy Hudkins. That means: Just listen quietly. 2. Don't try to problem solve unless advice is solicited. 3. Tell me everything is going to be okay. 4. At the beginning of the crying, don't try to make me laugh. Phil handles general crying like a pro. General crying is when you are crying over something other than your partner. He can see that I am being irrational and that I will move past it soon enough. I admit that I am being a little nutso.

But what are a girl and boy to do when there is more to it? Today I blew up at Phil over a juice box. A Welch's Fruit Punch juice box. I was wrong. I yelled and then cried. I felt like a crazy person and I was acting like a crazy person. I screwed up.

Yet, I think there was a tiny grain of rational thought in what I was saying (yelling) and some reasonable emotion in what I was feeling (blubbering). How is a woman to get her feelings and rational points across when she is a screaming banshee? When I lose it with Phil, he shuts down. He is probably right to do so. Then all is lost. I am a maniac, he is spinning and needs some ice cream from the carton to calm himself, and we get nowhere.

I need to calm down. I need to speak up more often. I need to avoid the volcano and the downpour and keep the emotion. I need to share it in an honest way. Please, Lord, help me to do this.

More on the mind of a blogging fisherwoman and her reader

So Aarti and I were out for dinner on Saturday and I told her the fishing story. When I got to the point in the story where I was walking towards Sumner and trying to get his attention at the cooler, leaving Demo alone with the hook and pole, she interrupted me. She asked, "At this moment where you mainly wanting the fishing pole for yourself or were you worried about Demo with the pole or were you already forming today's blog in your head?" She was three for three.

There were also several times during the conversation where I started to tell her something or she started to ask me something and then we stopped. She had already read about it. Weird.

Aarti also expressed concern that she would be deprived of my live performances of funny stories because I wanted to save them for my blog. No worries there. I am too much of a glutton for attention to miss out on an opportunity to have all eyes and ears on me. So what if she has to endure the same story twice?

Gone Fishing

Rapper's Delight is playing.

Today the fam went to one of our summer hang outs, the Hale Reservation, with some of our friends to swim, canoe, and fish. Sumner and I love to fish. After several hours of swimming and boating, he and I decided to go fish.

For me, fishing is a constant gamble and I love it. Each time I cast the line, I believe that this time I will catch a fish. When I get a nibble, my hopes grow. If we don't reel it in, I can't wait to get back in there and risk some more bait.

I handed Sumner his half-size Scooby Doo pole and grabbed some of our friend's left over string cheese for bait. The Hale Reservation is a stocked pond and last August we caught fish every few minutes (except for the one time when Phil turned on the video camera last summer to document the phenomenon). I usually use worms or hot dogs for bait, but we caught fish with bagels and corn at the Hale, so I figured string cheese could work.

Sumner is a patient fish man. When I cast my line, I am already looking for a reason to reel it in and cast again. Did it catch on some seaweed? Did the bait fall off? Is it in the sweet spot? Sumner has a different chemistry than me and all of the other six year olds in the world. He casts his line, once, and sits down on the edge of the pond and just waits. This kills me. I want to know I am doing something to catch one; Sumner the Wise knows that it is best to just wait.

We were the only people fishing, so Sumner picked a spot, cast his line and plopped down on the sand, getting his shirt all wet and sandy. I painstakingly made no comment on the muddy shirt and tried to settle in to wait a minute or two, before I started to pester him about reeling it in and casting again. About half a minute later, a little girl in a Strawberry Shortcake swimsuit, who was about Sumner's age, approached us. This bold little stranger asked Sumner if she could try the pole.

Sumner said light-heartedly, "Sure." He immediately reeled in his line and passed it over to her. I was so proud. Sumner is not always the best sharer, but here he was giving the little girl his pole selflessly. I was mused that people watching us must think he has great parents.

This little girl had quite an arm. She grabbed the pole and got down to business. She was my kind of fisher: quick, conjecturing about the fish and bait, and not waiting or pausing just to see what might happen. She was casting out further that Sumner and I ever dreamed of casting. Sumner just smiled and watched. 

Then she cast again, flipping off the string cheese with the full force of her little arm. She demanded more bait and kept going. She was taking over the pole. She cast about 10 times. Sumner was still smiling and chatting with her about the fish that were nibbling whenever the bobber bounced. Finally, I had to jump in. I was not here to be a hook-baiter for some strange child.

"Um, Lillian," I said (We had become familiar), "I think Sumner wants a turn. He has been waiting to fish all day and he just got started before you came. Why don't you let him have a turn?"

"Okay," she said to me, and turned to continue casting and conversing with Sumner.

A couple of casts later I said, "Okay, Sumner's turn."

Sumner took the pole, cast the line, sat down, and said to Lillian, "We can take turns. You can go next." 

I wanted to scream at Sumner. Couldn't he see what kind of a little woman he was dealing with? She was not going to take one turn for his one turn. She would take seven. She was taking advantage of him. She would never let him be her equal. She didn't know how to share. She was trouble. I knew her type. He smiled at her more.

Sure enough, after one measly cast, he passed it back to her. After instructing me on how to bait the hook again, she took control of the pole and cast the line a bunch more times. Sumner was not bothered, but I kept nagging her, "Sumner really should take another turn. Lillian, I actually want a turn too. I think you have had enough turns."

Finally she got the message or got bored with manipulating my precious son and went back to swimming. At that very moment a whole gaggle of kids and a parent came up. Now one thing about fishing that is worth some thought is: there is a hook involved. It kind of worries me sometimes. Whenever someone, myself included, flings the line over his or her shoulder, you never know how the Scooby pole will do. I have visions of the hook catching on someone's shirt or nose ring or belly button. So, when these spectators started flocking to us, I got worried. One unknown mother and her sons waded into the water in front of us, which is strictly prohibited at the fishing part of the pond by one of the Hale's rigid water rules. I politely asked this mother to move, while looking over my shoulder to see where a vicious rule-enforcing lifeguard was when you need one. I also told Sumner, who is totally unaware of personal space issues, to move down the beach further to avoid catching a toddler's pigtails. These vulnerable spectators moved with us.

After a couple of casts, while I was baiting the hook with more string cheese, a 10-year old boy with little evident social graces, demanded, "Let me have a turn."

"Hello," I said, "What's your name?"

He muttered something unintelligible. I asked again. "D-E-M-A, Dee-ma," he said with one hand on Sumner's pole. Sumner let him have it and said, "I'm going to go get some of that turkey bacon that Kira brought. It will work better for bait," and he turned and sauntered towards our towels and cooler.

Meanwhile Dema had taken control of the pole. He has the naked hook over his shoulder and is about ready to cast it. "Do you know how to do this?" I checked as the bobber drops onto the sand behind him. "Of course I do," he snapped.

As I untangled the line, I gave D-E-M-A a few tips. He nodded, softening for the first time, and had at it--wildly flipping the pole in many directions. Every couple of casts he realized that he had no bait and turned to me, waiting at a safe distance, for help. We untangled the line several times; once I even removed the hook from his shirt.

Sumner was no where to be seen. I told Dema that I'd be right back and left him with our pole to hook some poor person's eyelid. I started out towards our towel. About 25 steps from where we were fishing, Sumner came into my sight. He was examining every corner and pocket in our cooler, not Kira's, for the bacon and stumbled onto some breakfast bars. His eyes lit up with this discovery. I called him name about 15 times in my best, booming, middle-school-teacher voice as I walked towards him. "Can I eat this?" he eagerly asked once he finally saw me, as I was in spitting range.

I agreed and sent him over to the special eating area, because I follow the rigid rules of the Hale Reservation in fear that the omnipresent lifeguards might get me, although they never seem available to help me. He chowed the bar in about two bites and I got the bait bacon. As soon as Sumner saw it, his eyes lit up even brighter, "Can I eat that bacon Mom? Please can I have that.”?

"Sumner," I scolded, "We are fishing. This is bait. We are going to go catch a fish." With that I started to walk back to Dema and our possibly damaged pole. I turned back to a baffled Sumner and waved a quarter of the piece of bacon at him. He scurried to catch up with me and gobbled it up.

Back at our sweet spot, I ran Dema off and took over the pole for myself. Sumner found an abandoned bucket and filled it with water for the fish we would catch. I handed him the bacon and told him that he could bait the hook. He cooperated, but it is difficult to bait a hook when you don't want to touch the hook. I got to work, trying to get just one damn fish before someone else bothered us. The next time I looked at him, he was crumbling up our bait into the bucket of water, probably taking a few bits for himself. He caught my glance, grinned, and said, "I'm filling the bucket with food so that we can fed the fish when we catch him. Can I have a turn?"

I wanted to scream, "NO, can't you just let me fish!" But I held it together and passed the pole back to its owner. For what seemed like the third time that day, he cast the line. While he was patiently waiting and daydreaming, I saw the bob go underwater and watched the line move from the left to the right. "Bring it in," I shouted and he calmly did. I took the hook out with my bare hands and we watched it eat the bacon bits together for awhile. When he was ready he threw it back in, still smiling.

Why don't doctors listen?

Friday night I posted a blog that was the longest to date. Saturday morning I took it down. Basically it was a very long and gruesome history of my hormonal ups and downs from the time I was 15. It was not my best writing; it was a little gross. I was working through some things as I wrote it. I do know that a few of you read it and that it ended with a "to be continued". Just talk to me personally and we can discuss.

The one story I set out to tell in that blog (and never got to because I got stuck giving background) was about a visit to the doctor's office I had on Friday. I have had bad experiences with hormonal birth control: various types of the pill and the patch. So about 9 months ago I decided to get an IUD, with only topical hormones. For the first few months this form of birth control worked great, but over the last three months I have been extremely tired during the last two weeks of my cycle. So tired I have had a hard time just getting done the things I need to do. I have also become moodier. This month I also have felt a little sick to my stomach. These are all side effects I have experienced with other types of birth control. I also was finding that a lot of my hair seemed to be falling out when I washed it, brushed it, or put it in a ponytail. This was new.

So, I made an appointment to see my ObGyn doctor. I told her how I was feeling. She told me that she did not think these symptoms were from the IUD. She testified that she puts three of these in a week and that only one other patient has ever complained of side effects: breast tenderness and moodiness from Patient X. She told me that she checked with the makers of the IUD and that we, Patient X and I, should not be experiencing any side effects with this IUD. I don't know what "maker" she spoke to, but at www.mirena.com it lists all the side effects I have mentioned except for hair loss and tiredness. Those side effects ARE listed at www.familydoctor.com and www.mayclinic.com.

In an effort to appease me she said, "Why don't we check your progesterone level, your thyroid, and to see if you may be pregnant?" She also told me that she didn't think we would find anything out of the ordinary. Thyroid was a good thing to check just in case my hair loss was legit and may be related to a change in my thyroid. With her other patient, her progesterone level was normal. She doubted that mine will test abnormal. Then I asked, "What about pregnancy?" She said it is very, very unlikely that I am pregnant (www.mirena.com claims that the IUD is 99.9% effective). Then she advised me to keep the mirena in until next week, when the tests come back.

As an after thought, she told me that if I wanted it out, she would take it out. Every bone in her body was advising me to do otherwise.

I went and had my blood drawn. I did not feel good. The nausea was frustrating and irritating, but I could handle feeling a little queasy. But extreme exhaustion is not easy to deal with when you have two little children and a medical student husband to keep up with. It is not really an option to nap and sleep 8 hours a night and still be tired. Moodiness is also not really an option. I think it is hard for a lot of people to understand what I mean by moodiness. It is something that comes over me and it is beyond my control.

Take for instance the other day. On my dresser I found an address label from the Humane Society with the name Rosie Kamal on it. Rosie and her husband Sajed teach at my children's preschool, The Corner Coop. No doubt I love Corner Coop and my family has been and continues to be nurtured by Rosie and Sajed in an amazing way. But when I saw this label, which Ramona probably used while doing an art project at school, I got all choked up thinking: one day (gulp) we will have to say good-bye to Rosie and Sajed (sniff) and that is going to be (cry face forming) hard. Then my voice of reason realizes, "Yeah, but not for at least a year!! Get a grip." A crying fit avoided, moments later I am ready to pour milk on Ramona's head when she uses her regular (and quite squeaky) voice to say, "Would someone pour me some milk?" I am thinking: And who, Ramona, you demanding little CHILD, might that someone BE? Me. Me. ME. I am nothing but your milk-pourer, the martyr and doormat for my family. I know, after or even as I am experiencing this, that I am feeling irrational things. It makes me crazy. If you can't recall what it was like to be at the mercy of your hormones as a teenager or pregnant lady, this may be hard to understand. I want to be Zen about things, but I feel on edge. I hate feeling like I am teetering on the edge of an outburst.

So, as my blood was being drawn I was on the verge of tears, again. It wasn't the needle or the friendly manner of the woman drawing it. It was that I felt my body was telling me that something was not right. It was that I wanted to do something to make myself feel better or feel that I was making progress to feeling better. I thought taking the IUD out might help, as stopping hormonal birth control had helped before. I had a lump in my throat because it is frustrating to not fit into the clinical experience of my doctor, and thus be made to feel like an oddity. Since three very unlikely explanations were given for how I was feeling and no other ideas floated or promised to be generated, I felt a little angry--gypped. Did my doctor think I was crazy? Did she think I was making these things up? Does she think I was describing symptoms that were just par for the mama course? Did she not hear me when I said that these symptoms were different from my baseline?

I will never know, but I had to trust myself. I went back into her office and asked to see her again. The bottom line is: I felt uncomfortable with the IUD. I was pretty sure it was affecting me. I needed to take it out.

As I write this, it is two days later. My energy has returned. I do not feel queasy. I am a little moody still. We'll see where that goes. Tomorrow I will get the blood test back and see if any of my "numbers" are not in the normal range. I am happy that I listen to my body and I just wish that my doctor had listened to me.

Blog Back

Only the Lonely, Roy Orbison

Over a two hour breakfast of cinnamon French toast and cranberry, walnut, blueberry pancakes with sour cream, strawberries, and warm apricot syrup (Doesn't my life sound luxurious?)with one of my faithful readers a blogging issue came up: Do you want me to blog back? The answer is yes, yes, please yes. No pressure. I’d love to hear from you.

Many of my regular readers (all five) have personally emailed me and others have called in responses. Part of the reason I began this blog was to keep my family and friends in touch with me. I'd love it if it helped me to stay in touch with you. I'm new to this blogging thing, but you can comment on the content or style (spoken like a true English teacher)...whatever you think. Free associate if you choose.