Here's how I know I'm getting old

• I'm closer to 40 than 30.
• I'm closer to 50 than 20. (WHAT?!)
• I have a conversation about funeral planning and realize that it's not just theorhetical.
• I can tell when there's a front coming through.
• I suddenly have a pill case. And it's full.
• I understand the importance of life insurance.
• I'm bothered that we still don't have a will prepared. (Note to self: Find an estate attorney. Pronto.)
• I think that I'm listening to Top 40, but the album was released in 1995.
• I look forward to the seed catalogues coming each winter. I mean, a LOT.
• I don't think McCain is that old.

What's better than finding a forgotten 10 spot in an old pair of jeans?

Finding a favorite song you forgot you loved.

I found this one earlier today. So true then, oddly true now.
Ah, music.... it soothes the soul, no?

Tasty summer

For the most part I am not a big fan of summer. This is not to say that the idea of summer isn't appealing to me, because it surely is: all the beautiful colors, the sound of the cicadas, the fresh, home-grown vegetables, the sweet seasonal fruit, the never-ending supply of fresh cut flowers...

Bliss, yes?

And then there is the heat and humidity.

Bliss? No.

Somehow I managed to put my disdain for the weather aside these past two days and really enjoy summer. The main event this weekend was my Uncle Paul's fresh sweet corn. I realize that I risk offending many by saying so, but fresh Indiana sweet corn really is the very best on Earth. It is a double-edged sword, knowing what really good corn tastes like because once you've had it, you just can't stomach what the rest of the world eats. You know, that stuff they've got stacked up in the supermarkets or -- even worse -- what you get in the freezer case [shudder]. So it's a darn good thing that I've got my Uncle Paul in my corner, who puts out "a few rows" every year to share with family & friends.

"A few rows" is roughly equivalent to the size of my yard, FYI.

But in my world, sweet corn is more than just a tasty treat. This annual ritual is steeped in memories and traditions and, probably, a little bit of pride. It starts when we get The Call from Aunt Judy letting us know that the corn is ready. We truck down to Hope and after a bit of visiting head out to the corn patch to pull as much as we think we can handle (and then some). My uncle is a corn-pulling machine who seems to take great delight it filling our bags to the brim -- and then going back for more. After he's convinced that we have all that we need (and trust me, it takes a lot of convincing) we head back to the house for a little more visiting, which always ends with the invitation to "come back and see us." We always do.

Once we're back home the real work begins: Shucking, blanching, shocking, cutting, storing, and freezing. It sounds easy, and it isn't difficult, but a whole winter's worth of corn is a lot of work. By the end it I'm always tired and a little bit sore and overwhelmed by the mess and the dirty dishes. But the best part really is in the work, because this is when I get to think about all of the other years spent doing these very same things. Dad always helped pull and then shucked, going to great pains to get rid of nearly every last strand of silk. Being an engineer he was almost obsessed with counting the dozens as they were through, trying to figure out (every year) how many ears were going into each quart.

Then things moved inside, where Mom had her huge canning pots filled with boiling water and her sink filled with ice water, so she could blanch and shock in a futile effort to keep up with Dad. Next she got out her corn cutter & creamer, a barbaric looking device intended to both cut off the kernels and extract the cream, all in one pass. I remember the first time I tried to help Mom with this... and let's just say she was amused. An expert I wasn't. But then again she had a few years on me and after a few trial ears I wasn't doing so bad myself.

Ironically (or not), although you would think we had seen enough sweet corn to last us until next summer, we always had fresh corn for dinner that night -- just as we did yesterday. One of the funniest memories I have of Mom was an evening after putting up corn, and she ate what seemed like a half-dozen ears just herself, with butter dripping down her chin and wrists, content beyond measure. The conversation that night, just like every other year, always turned back to Mom marveling at how so many people ate such bad corn, and how they never would again if they had ever tasted sweet corn as good as this.

Sara was too small this year for much more than pulling and shucking an ear or two, but the tradition will go on. Rob has added his own twists, and over time Sara will graduate to helping with the blanching and shocking and cutting. As for me, I will always spend this one day a year being so grateful for the generosity of my family, so exhausted by the effort, and so happy to spend a few hours dwelling in the past with memories of my parents who instilled in me the sense that, somehow, this was important.

Truth be told, I was sort of dreading yesterday, with all of the work and the heat and the running around. But when it was all said and done, it really was one of the best days. I spent time with some of the people I love the most, lived out one of our family rituals, and got to remember a few of my fondest memories of Mom and Dad. And yeah, the corn was pretty fantastic too.

This is how I always imagine our lives to be: Full and happy, with memories both recalled and created. Come next February, when it is cold and grey and we are anxious for Spring, I will pull out some of this sweet corn and remember today and the time spent with those who helped make it such a great one.

I'm already looking forward to next year.

RIP Atlas

In the midst of our corn-storing day, Rob and I took advantage of nap time to run some errands, including a stop at the new Fresh Market on 54th street. Truthfully, the only reason we stopped is because Rob has been infatuated by the rooftop parking lot for months now. Plus -- a couple of hours to burn together while the child sleeps? Bring on the new store!

Actually, I have had very mixed emotions about the Fresh Market for some time now. As a Broad Ripple native I was beyond disappointed when Atlas closed and had pretty much decided to boycott whatever new grocer might try to fill it's void. Like almost everything these days, I have lots of fond memories of the place: it's ridiculously narrow aisles (no small feat wheeling a triplet stoller through that place, let me tell you), Sid holding court on the platform that allowed him to oversee the entire store, browsing the aisles for new treasures, knowing that, no matter how obscure the ingredient, I'd be able to find it at Atlas. And of course, the famous Atlas meat counter that was ultimately it's undoing.

But if I've learned nothing over the past few years, I have most definitely learned that life has a way of going on whether you like it or not. And so rather than begrudge the new kid on the block, I tucked away my fond memories of Atlas and stepped into the Fresh Market.

Well, I didn't actually "step in." To be more precise I "rode down" into the Fresh Market from the rooftop parking deck. It was kind of cool. And I have to say I'm glad I did. Although the place continues to be packed by people like me just wanting to check it out, there was plenty of stock ("fresh," no less) and all of the staff was helpful and pleasant. The new meat counter, while nothing like Sid's, was pretty awesome. I finally found a close source for fresh raw-but-already-cleaned-because-really?-who-wants-to-bother shrimp, which we bought & had for dinner last night (with... come on now.... sweet corn!). Their dessert case was just as impressive and could prove quite dangerous -- I told Rob he needed to move me along.

The place is heavy on unique/organic items, a lot like Trader Joe's or Wild Oats, but also carried a few token major brands (so if you absolutely must have your Doritos, you're in luck). They've got a case stocked with a couple dozen varieties of cold, quirky sodas (Frostie Blue Cream Soda anyone?) and the bulk bins are like nothing I've seen before. And to top it all off, Rob found - and quickly grabbed -- a bag of Peet's coffee, which you really ought to try if you haven't already.

So yeah, we'll be back. It's definitely not going to replace my staple shopping and I'm going to have to save my pennies before I venture back in (or down, whatever). But it's a nice place to pass a half an hour and grab a few things for an extra-special meal. You know -- one fit for my Uncle Paul's sweet corn.

No poker face here

Sara has taken to licking. Licking people, to be specific.

When asked she will tell you that she is allowed to lick ice cream cones and lollipops and candy and food. And when pressed, she will eventually admit that no, she's not allowed to lick people. (Though she will say this with that look on her face and tone in her voice that implies that surely I must be kidding.)

But every night, pretty much like clockwork, when she so tired that all of her very shallow reserves of self-control are spent, she licks me. She tries to be sly about it -- and maybe that's where I fall down -- but every night, pretty much like clockwork, I crack up from the licking. I can't stop myself. It's so random and goofy and slightly gross, and she seems so utterly incapable of keeping her tongue in her mouth... I am slain. And then she is too, and before too long she's laughing and licking and we are one hilarious, albiet soggy, mess.

So fun. Some day I'll gross her out with this story, but for me it will always be an awesome memory of what a fun, silly, fabulous kid she is.

Have I mentioned how much I love that girl? Yes? Just checking.

Among the many things that I shouldn't let myself do...

...looking at this probably falls close to the top of the list.

I want to take them all.

Damn spoons

The walls started coming down in the dining room today, which meant that the furniture had to be moved/removed and the few things on the walls needed to to be taken out. One of the things that had been hanging up in there, for what seems like forever, is a collection of a dozen little demitasse spoons that Mom had. I assume that she got them from her mom. Now Sara thinks that they are hers. And to be honest, I don't mind her playing with them. They're just her size.

So, Sara found the spoons in the kitchen tonight, and she stood there happily stacking them and rattling them for a few minutes until I told her to put them away (three or four times, but who's counting) so we could go have dinner.

Two hours later I was in a heap.

I am really missing Mom tonight. I mean, a LOT. It took me a bit by surprise, at least the intensity of it, but once I thought it through it really made perfect sense: As I was rocking Sara tonight I started thinking about those spoons, and how I'd like to do something with them but I'm not quite sure what -- maybe pair them up with this awesome, vintage-look picture that Elaine took of Sara playing with an old tea set. Then I started thinking about pictures that I have and where I'd like to put things when the house is built; how I have a definite favorite of Dad that I'll use, but how I needed to think about one of Mom... and then I remembered one of her and I that Dad took out in the yard. I was probably six or seven, at an age where my mind has sort of frozen my family: Mom & Dad in their forties, CJ & Nanci in their twenties.

But the memory of the picture led to others, good times and laughing and Mom as I will always remember her: trying in vain to teach me to hit a softball; learning how to identify her beloved birds on the feeders outside the kitchen windows; lying on the sofa with my head on her lap while she stroked my hair; sitting at the table and laughing about who-knows-what until we were crying.

I remember her beautiful, crooked smile SO well.

And the more I remembered the more the tears came, and I sat there rocking Sara hoping I wouldn't wake her up. "Mama, are you sad?" I don't think I could have taken it.

I have become pretty adept at postponing whatever this thing is that they call "grief." Sure, I have waves from time to time, just like tonight. Frankly I just don't want to deal with it. I don't want the exhaustion or the anger or the disappointment or the wallowing that I know will come with it. I lived with all of that for over three years; I've had my fill.

But I guess there's no escaping it. If I'm honest with myself, the loss is never far from the surface. It resonates every time I have hard conversations with families at work, so much so that there are times I'm afraid I won't be able to get through it. Rob brought a nightstand down from the attic the other day, and I couldn't even touch it. It had been sitting there, right by the side of their bed -- right next to where I sleep now -- through both of my parents' illnesses, full of pills and dressings and lotions. I couldn't even really tell him to take it away, but he knew.

I don't know what to do with these things. I don't like being so out of control and I don't understand why it can sometimes still feel so raw, and the thought of deliberately opening up this box of pain and wading through it? No thank you. But ignoring it hasn't, thus far, made it go away. And so here I sit, in a heap on a Tuesday night for no particularly good reason.

Damn spoons.

Oh, Mom. I miss you so. You would love Sara -- she's cut from your cloth, full of spunk and funny and beautiful and so loving. She would love you, too. Peas in a pod, the two of you.

I really, really wish you were here and that I didn't have to miss you and that Sara could have known you. Really, so much.

Probably NOT the best reason...

All of a sudden I feel like I MUST have another baby girl so that I can fill her room with this woman's prints.

LOVE.

Don't be surprised if you see some of these cards coming your way some day soon....

LOVE!!

All the world's a carnival in the Wal-Mart parking lot

I hate Wal-Mart, I really do.

Back when I was a kid (a moment of quiet reflection as I realize that I'm now old enough to say that), Mom and I used to go the the Wal-Mart in Franklin, IN. We'd stop by on the way down to the lake. And the crazy thing is I LOVED it -- it was so big, and everything was so cheap, and Mom would always get me something, I'm sure. But then again I was young and it was the only one I'd ever seen... Wal-Mart had not yet taken over the world.

Ah, the good old days.

Now, I hate it. It's always crowded and understaffed and dirty and filled with low-quality crap that I'm pretty sure some four-year-old in Taiwan had to make in a closet without access to electricity or running water. Even the smell, that Wal-Mart smell... how do they do that?

But from time to time, when push comes to shove, there are those moments when sadly -- oh, so so sadly -- Wal-Mart is the only alternative. Tonight was one of those occasions. The pisser is that they always have what I need. And cheap.

Man that annoys me.

But despite what you may be thinking, this is not diatribe against the menace that is Wal-Mart. No, in fact it's quite the opposite. This is an ode to the wonder of the Wal-Mart parking lot, that magical intersection of races, creeds, genders and abilities, socio-economic classes and criminal histories. Not quite the Promised Land that I think Dr. King envisioned, but a fair cross-section if you take the time to really look at it.

Yes tonight, as Rob and I trucked out to the car loaded down with bottled water, composition notebooks, and lots of chocolate (don't ask), and out into that asphalt expanse surrounded by neon signs and glittering headlights, we were overcome by the unmistakable smell of reefer. And a LOT of it. The three happy black guys chilling in the SUV had be be really mellow -- I'm guessing their fourth was inside picking up a boatload of snacks.

Having picked up a contact high on the way past the doobie cloud I spotted a single woman pushing her cart sort of erratically to her car. I assumed she just wasn't quite sure she remembered where she parked, but as I watched I realized that she was somehow distracted by the planes flying overhead. She actually stepped away from her car to watch them fly by, and I would swear she was talking to one of them.

I wonder if she talks to the helicopters, too.

Shortly after this I got in the car and waited for Rob to load up the goods (he's such a gentleman that way). Thinking the show was over, I sat back to contemplate whether or not I really did get a buzz from the fumes rolling out of that SUV. And then I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, what appeared to be a child riding some kind of bicycle across the parking lot... except it was moving a little wonky and too slow for a kid that big. I decided to take a closer look and realized that it wasn't a bicycle, but a TRIcycle. A big one -- I mean, really big -- and candy-apple red. And the operator wasn't a kid at all, but an older gentleman with rather long, flowing grey hair who most definitely suffered from at least one physical handicap, as the very large basket on the back of his "bike" (??) was holding his walker.

I kid you not. The dude was weaving around the Wal-Mart parking lot on a giant red tricycle, toting his walker on the rear and hell-bent for something on the inside -- maybe some snacks courtesy of the second-hand hemp haze, or maybe just shelter from the incoming air traffic.

I was done. I fully expected the carnies to start streaming out of the store and had an overwhelming urge to eat an elephant ear. It was quite charming, really... sort of like the state fair come early.

Good times. Good, good times.

It's more than just oatmeal, people

I confess: In the past, "Quaker" never meant much more to me than oatmeal. The big hat, the grandfatherly gaze, Wilford Brimley... It's all so very comforting in a hot-filling-breakfast on a chilly-fall-morning sort of way.

And then Google came into my life, and I would never, ever be the same.

A few months ago I stumbled across a mention of a "Clearness Committee" on another guy's blog. There wasn't really an explanation of it so off to Google I went. At first I was a little uncomfortable with what I was reading: an "inner teacher" and "focus person" and "mirroring" and all that silence... I wondered when the crystals were going to come out and what kind of special brownies were going to be served up in the name of all this "clarity." But as I am learning to do, I opted not to discard it out of hand just because it was outside my box. I kept reading. And much to my surprise? I was a bit smitten.

Now, I'm not going to go into all that I learned about Clearness Committees. I'm sure my knowledge is barely rudimentary, so if you want to learn more you can read up on it here or here. Or Google your brains out -- you'll be at it for days, I'm sure.

What has happened, of course, is that my curiosity about Quakerism (also knows as The Religious Society of Friends) is piqued. This time I turned to my new best friend Wikipedia, where I learned about the Friends' beginnings in England, their strong presence in Africa (where I left my long-standing image of the Quaker Oats man at the curb), and some comtemporary movements maneuvering to take Christ out of the equation altogether. It's fascinating to me, really.

I don't know... the crux of the whole thing seems to be simplicity and yet - silly, silly me - I find that notion to be so complex. Like there certainly MUST be a catch, right? Right?

But then I read about these concepts -- to "hold in the light," to "proceed as the way opens", "leading," "that of God in everyone," and yes, "clearness" -- and they are so lovely to me, so cozy and familiar. It's as though I'm hearing some of my own beliefs, thoughts that I'd never really had words for, in a lexicon that's existed for hundreds of years. How very strange and wonderful.

My friend Amy commented in my last post that she thinks our little church community is more Quaker than we realize, and I think she's right. Certainly not in practice (because us, sitting for more than even 2 minutes in silence - really?), but I think perhaps in spirit. And I suspect that very few of us ever would have thought about it because, you know -- Quakers are all about the oatmeal. Right?

So here I am living with this whole new framework for "Quaker*" and it's the craziest thing: It's just as comforting as it was before, only I've traded in the whole grain goodness for Christ-centered promise.

Neat!


*An interesting, if not exactly ironic aside? Type "Quaker" into Google and the first thing that comes up is... you guessed it: Quaker Oats.

Another day, another blog...

I stumble across them in the strangest of ways: This time it was in a Google search of Quaker Clearness Committees. Yes, yes -- Clearness Committees. How did I ever hear about those? Another blog, of course! (PS, now I think I'm really a closet Quaker.)

Anyway, I've only looked at a couple of her posts but I think I like. (Here's her story.)

I wish I had the discipline to think about life actively -- most days I feel like I'm barely hanging on as time flies by, and at the end of each day I'm asking myself how I ever managed to _________________ (wind up in this job, marry this man, have this child, gain all this weight, let the cell phone bill get past due, let the pile of laundry get THIS big, etc etc etc). It's starting to bug me, if you want to know the truth.

Perhaps I will get her book. I like the cover, so it must be good -- right?

Happy Birthday, you big blue hunk of metal

We have what I can honestly say is a rather odd relationship with our car.

First of all, we named it. This in and of itself is not completely unusual for me, as I can mark entire eras of my youth by which car I was driving:

I took the Cherry Bomb, my great-uncle's Mercury Monarch, to Butler and drove it until it caught on fire one night as several of my friends & I were headed out to Houlihans for Blue Whales after work. Oh yes, those were good times.

Next was the Cherry Bombette (original, yes?), a bright red Renault that also happened to be my first stick shift. Several friends still remind me of my poor upkeep on that car. Just because the breaks were metal on metal, guys -- come on. What's the big deal?

That car, I might add, also went up in flames. But that's a story for another post.

The Blue Bomber (detecting a theme, are you?) was a favorite, but I sure couldn't tell you why: No power steering, no air conditioner, and a really awful smell that came about after I spilled a LOT of hot chocolate in the back seat. (Had to keep my box office crew warm in that cold Butler Bowl ticket office!) I guess it was because it was a Jetta and I felt tres chic for having a European car.

Next came the Golden Chariot. Ah, the Golden Chariot... the first car I ever bought for myself, and I got it new. A 1995 Mazda 626 with manual transmission and a sun roof. Now this was living. And know what? 194,000 miles later we've still got it. I won't drive it any more, but we've got it and it hasn't failed us yet. (YET.)

Which brings us to Blu, the other woman in my marriage and a source of great solace for us all. At some point or another Rob started referring to Blu as "she" and there it was -- his second great love. She's a good car, Blu. She always runs, she smells good, and she can play Dora for 12 hours straight and never complain. She's lots better for road tripping than any of my previous vehicles as you can actually lay down in the back without having your knees in your face for hours at a stretch. She can tell you how to get where you need to go and, if you're snackish, will help you find the nearest spot to stop for a nosh.

Blu will never, ever, leave you without a place to put your drink.

She'll open the doors at the push of a button and let the back seat listen to Elmo while we in the front listen to XM radio. She gently reminds you when she needs an oil change but is like a dog with a bone until you get it done. (OK, that is a little annoying -- but a girl's gotta look out for herself and I can't fault her for that.)

Blu even has two glove compartments. Who knew that could be convenient? (Blu knew, that's who.)

So Happy 1st Birthday, Blu. Here's to many, many more. Because let's face it -- we'd be a mess without you. Seriously. A mess.

metamorphosis

lately i am struck more and more often about how sara is turning into, i don't know -- herself, i guess. she's funny and she's clever, and her likes (vegetables, chocolate milk, and salty snacks) & dislikes (doughnuts - what?!) are becoming evident.

she's a climber more than a runner and prefers a cozy pool to a big one, thank you very much. she's loving but not cuddly. she is very precise about what she wants to say and has no qualms about saying what she thinks. ever. the other day i said "sara b, you're just so beautiful." "i'm gorgeous" was her reply.

seriously? oh, my.

she's rough and tumble but sometimes just must wear a pretty dress. and don't worry, she'll tell you exactly which one she wants. the girl loves her shoes but spends as much time kicking them off as she does picking them out.

want to wind her up? get her out of bed in the morning. want to calm her down? water, water, and more water.

she loves music and is known, on infrequent but wonderous occasions, to be overcome by it and bust a move. there is no sweeter sight, let me tell you.

she loves animals, especially dogs, and cats, and most of all pete. (the feeling is mutual.)

she is a big kid with a big heart and big ideas and she's frustrated beyond words to be trapped in her little body.

simply put, i love this child. more and more desperately every day, if you want to know the whole truth. and it's so fun getting to know her.

sara b, you're just the greatest. yes, yes -- and gorgeous, too.

Such a wordsmith I am

A graphic representation of my word choices over all my 2008 blog posts.

Clomp? Really??

So lame

Do I dare admit how excited I am that someone commented on my shower favors over at Flickr?  You know, I played it cool in my response to her.  Very casual, no exclamation points.  

But on the inside?  I was thinking "Yippeeee!  They like me!  They really like me!"

Seriously.  The geek-o-meter is at tilt.  I absolutely must get a life.

Tap, tap, tap

I'd like to say that I've always been skeptical about people who claim to have heard God speak to them.  It's more truthful to say that I have felt robbed that it didn't happen to me.

Really though, I suspect that it has.  Lots of times.  I just didn't know what I was listening for.  I guess my simple, simple mind expected (wanted?) something obvious, a la Jacob's dreams or burning bushes.  Well, so...  no.  Not so much.  God does not operate like Sara in that "MAAAAMAAAAA, COME HERE RIGHT NOOOOOW!" mode of communication.  He is more like my cat Pete, who sits quietly by my feet while I do the dishes, then talks to me while I put them away, then eventually gets caught up in my feet while I'm trying to cook dinner -- all in an effort to let me know that I really need to fill his water bowl.  Now, please.  

What it boils down to is the whack versus the tap.  The choice isn't as easy as you might think really.  The whack is painful, yes -- but hard to miss.  The tap?  Ugh, the listening and the patience and the faith.  It's just so hard.

The good news is that very slowly, over lots of time and many trials, I'm starting to learn to listen.  Sometimes it seems so very obvious, other times it takes me banging my head into a wall (again and again and again) to hear it.  And recently I've realized that there's no harm in asking for it.  Still no burning bushes, but you know -- He speaks up eventually.

Last week I was heading to work, dreading a conversation that I needed to have with my boss because it meant admitting that maybe obviously I had made a mistake.  And it was funny, because as I climbed into the car and turned the engine over the radio came on, and the voice I heard said "It's OK to change your mind."  That was it, then straight into a commercial.  I don't know...  God could have a lot flashier way to reassure me but let me tell you -- to me, that was Him.  Maybe that's corny?  I don't care.

Tap, tap, tap.

Today I heard Him again, this time via an essay I found in a magazine I heard about from my good friend Amy.  It's like it was written for me, in language and concepts and contexts that I not only understand but in which I'm immersed.  And the message?  Right on point, painfully so.  

Tap, tap, tap.

I'm starting to get used to the tap, tap, tap.  I'm here to tell you:  Although it's a hell of a lot more effort, I'll take a tap over a whack any day.  Those whacks, they smart.  A LOT.  And I've had my fair share of bruises lately.

Tap, tap, tap away.  I'll be listening.  Or at least trying.

Once upon a time...

...there was a beautiful princess.

Lately, every night when I'm rocking her Sara asks me to tell her a story "about da pawk."  It always features a beautiful princess (you'll never guess what her name is) and her Papa and her Mama.  The beautiful princess climbs and swings, slides and runs and jumps.  She has the best time ever, as you can imagine.

The story always ends with the princess coming home for supper, then taking her bath.  She and her mama rock and say prayers and then it's time for sleep.

Amazingly creative, I know.

Oh -- and so you don't think this is just a fairy tale, you can see here what I spied out the window this afternoon.

Lovely, yes?  I'd call that a beautiful princess to be sure.

Here's the veg

Huh?

That's what I said. But evidently it means something to someone in Hagen, Germany. And oddly enough if you type that phrase into Google, mine is the very first site to pop up.

Again -- huh?

Google Analytics... so fun. I'm not sure why I ever even started with it except I was curious to see if anyone besides Rob and a couple of gluttons for punishment friends ever read it. Now I know that, through the magic of search engines, I've been visited not only by these faithful few but also web surfers from California, New York, Michigan, Illinois, Kentucky, Virginia, Georgia, Texas, Alabama, North Carolina, Arizona, and Vermont as well as an international crew representing the UK, Canada, India, and Germany. My favorite keyword search? "Diaper potty." An accurate assessment of my life to be sure -- at least if my blog posts are to be trusted.

Fascinating.

Oh, and a big shout out to Gas City, IN -- I seem to have a regular following there, as well.

The most humbling job on Earth, or why this vacation sucks already

This is my girl.  And this is how you will normally find her -- happy, talking, and on the move.

She challenges me every day.  EVERY day.  I have no idea how I should be parenting her but I hope against hope that keeping her alive and growing is good enough for now.

And then I opened the door after her nap and found her playing in her pack and play, licking some lozenges and shaking a bottle of prescription meds.  At least a dozen other miscellaneous pills were scattered around her feet.

I wanted to die.  Suddenly, what I'm doing is no longer good enough -- in fact, it's no where near close.

Thankfully God seems to have an override on maternal instincts, because while all I wanted to do was grab her and sob, and hide her away from the danger that had already come, what actually I did was get her to the hospital.  I tell her calmly that no, we're not going to the park, we're going to see a special doctor.  "I don't wanna see a special doctor.  I wanna go to the park."  I tell her that maybe we can go to the park tomorrow.  

It's not until the nurse in the emergency room asked me what she took that I found it hard to talk and the tears started to fall.  In truth I don't really believe that she took anything but that's not the point -- she could have, and that's the hard truth.  That's the proof that despite my best efforts, this day they just weren't good enough.

I saw the social worker at the nurses station.  We hadn't met yet -- we had an IV to put in first, and a catheter, and a trip to radiology too -- but I knew it was him and I knew why he was there.  Confirmation that I hadn't met the mark that day and that The System had to step in.  He was apologetic, but he had to do his job.  I understand.  But I'm used to being on the other side of the patient chart and I knew what was being written.  In a blink I was just another lousy parent.  Just another one that screwed it up, big time.

He was apologetic, but he had to do his job.  The protocol is the same for everyone.  He had to notify the State.  CPS would be here tomorrow.  He would do his best to get us home as soon as possible, but now we had to wait on them.

A night on the pediatric unit, the CPS investigation looming large over our heads, the monitors and IV hooked up to our daughter alarming over and over -- it was a long night for Rob and me.  The only comfort was knowing that Sara really was OK.  If she did indeed swallow anything there was no evidence found in her labs or behavior.  Sara was fine.  

We were not.

    

Sara's pediatrician came in first thing and assured us that, never mind this, we are good parents.  Our daughter, despite this mistake -- a terrible, scary MISTAKE -- is thriving.  She is smart, and strong, and now also so brave.  We're not bad.  We're human.  We're going to be OK -- she would help to make sure of it.

And we are OK, or will be.  As it turned out the investigator was a very nice, normal woman.  She was quick and kind, and made what is without a doubt the worst day in my mothering career as painless as she could.  And it's over.  We're home, together, healthy.  That's all that really matters.

This child, she challenges me.  EVERY day.  Her little tiny life is a force to be reckoned with and this job of being her mother...  it's hard.  And humbling.  And painful.  

Thank God it's mine.

April showers bring may flowers, and obviously June showers bring...

...babies!

My cousin Kristin is expecting her first baby later this month. They've decided to roll with it and wait until the wee one's grand arrival to find out if it's a girl or boy. So -- a yellow, green, and orange shower it would be! I think everyone enjoyed it and Kristin took home a lot of nice things for her new little bundle.

Oh -- and the surprise hit of the day? Lucky bamboo! Everybody loved it. Who knew?