To be destroyed in the event of my untimely (or timely) death

It’s been awfully depressing around here lately. Sorry ya’ll. Let’s liven it up by talking about more things that cause me some level of personal embarrassment. A few weeks ago, Swistle wrote about “burn boxes” – boxes of things that we will demand to be burnt after our deaths. Since I, too, was once an earnest young wannabe writer, I have plenty of material for a burn box. 

I think everyone has one (or more) of these – all of the flowered-material-covered journal books in my possession. Some have terrible poetry in them. One is filled with quotations I earnestly copied with my best pen in my best penmanship during a particularly angst-filled freshman year of college. All these quotations, you see, were so deep and meaningful and spoke to my very soul. 

All photographs of me smoking pot. Not that I ever did that. But if I did, and was stupid enough to take pictures of it, those pictures should be burned. 

The cd that holds the naked pictures of a very pregnant me. We thought it would be arty and beautiful. It looks like a fat pregnant chick laying on the carpet in front of the fireplace. Please. 

The taped evidence of our (conception!) vacation to Italy (no, freak shows, the actual conception is not on tape). I took Italian in college (eight years prior to this trip), and thought I could totally get us around on what I remembered. While I got us around even in a hole-in-the-wall Florentine trattoria where no one spoke English, listening to me trying to speak the language with our gondolier is so painful it’s (almost) funny. BURN IT. 

Various pictures of me doing embarrassing things – Doing the “Batman” dance  (a’ la’ Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction) at Pleasure Island in 2000 (with, of course, a beer in one hand); doing a fantastic side kick in the middle of Bourbon Street in 2001 (in a dress, panties showing… OMG it’s THE SAME DRESS from Pleasure Island); peeing outside someone’s hotel room window at Disney World’s Caribbean Resort in 1998; tying yellow police caution tape, sugar packets, streamers and a hot sauce bottle in my hair during a particularly spectacular Mardi Gras celebration at a bar in Evansville. Don’t laugh. There was a respected attorney there wearing shorts in February and dress loafers without socks. 

The 500+ page “novella” I wrote in the eighth grade about how me and my two best friends were going to meet the New Kids On the Block and fall in love with one (each), get married and honeymoon in Australia. There was also the beginnings of a sequel, but I think I grew out of that phase quickly. At the time I was reading a lot of Harlequin romances and Danielle Steele novels. Bet you can’t guess which New Kid I liked. (Erin, no fair giving it away).

So what about you? What goes in your burn box?

please top all this llama drama

So I feel like the time is right to address recent drama going on in my life. If you click over to my (step) sister’s blog there, she’s written twice now about something very sad that’s happening in our family. My brother, her stepbrother (and her friend for years before my mother and her father were married), has decided to cut himself (and his new wife) off from the rest of the family for reasons that none of us seem to understand. Or really know, for that matter.

The day of the big blowup, my brother called me to “apologize for anything he’d done to alienate me.” Which of course, didn’t seem like much of an apology to me. I told him I was hurt that he’d skipped R’s christening, when we had people show up from Iowa, Missouri and Florida. Our minister even commented on the fact that my brother was a no-show (noting how sad it was). Brother’s response? He’d sent a gift.  I told him I’d rather he had shown up without a gift. He’s also continually criticized my child-rearing and, oddly, my husband’s fashion choices. But I didn’t bring those things up to him.

I told him that I thought it was good that he was getting all of this out in the open. That he was having a conversation with our mother that would lead to a more healthy, adult relationship that acknowledges fault on both sides and moves forward to grow more close.

He gave me lip service at the time, but has apparently disregarded my advice, sending my mother an e-mail saying that they would not be purchasing Christmas gifts for them and would not accept any in return. If gifts were sent, they would be returned. And his wife returned the birthday card and check my mother sent earlier this month.

I try to excuse his behavior in that he’s young, but he’s really not that young (25).  He’s certainly old enough to know better. And old enough to know that when he refuses to show up for family events (not just mine, even those hosted minutes from his apartment), it hurts people.

Some of the reasons he gave me when we spoke were not outrageous, I even agree with some of them. But I told him we all have to make sacrifices and accommodations because we are family, and while we might not love certain behavior, we love the people. I told my mother basically the same things.

I’m not sure where this is going to go. It makes me sad that R won’t be around her uncle very much. But I think I’ve done what I can. It’s up to them to bridge the gap. And I think I’m going to stay out of it.

100th Post

In honor of my 100th post, here is some visual stimulation, taken exactly 22 months ago to the day, on the occasion of one month since R’s birth. I can’t believe she’ll be two years old in 30 days.

A few notes - we still have that book, but she’s torn out the page with the hippos, but unfortunately thankfully I’ve read it so many times I can repeat those pages without needing to look at the words. The cover is NEVER on that cute jungle-themed hamper. Dave has a slightly different hairstyle, though this one looks like it might be called “bed head.” She’s wearing this horrible full-body brace under that sack sleeper because her right hip did not form in utero. The blanket draped on the back of the rocker is now her blankie, or as she calls it, her “bee-ah.” I bought that t-shirt for Dave on my last business-trip-while-pregnant, to Kansas City.

And lastly, these two are the loves of my life.

Goal setting

I belong to this professional organization which I will not name for fear of outing my industry. I’m not sure what I truly think about professional organizations – a lot of them, this one included, seem to be more about who you know and how important you are than anything else. Nevertheless, I belong because it’s strongly encouraged at my workplace.

This year, the organization has started a new “FIT” program, in which participants must set a goal for themselves (not necessarily health and fitness) over the next year and report out the progress made toward that goal each month to a “team leader.” I have the misfortune good fortune of having a team leader three offices away from me and was heavily recruited for the project.

We were asked this month to “tell our story” to the other members. This is what I submitted:

I have a very modest goal over the next year – I want to try to take more time for myself. In the two years since my daughter was born, I feel like I have lost my individual identity, becoming more “R’s Mom” and less “Michelle” every day. I hope to reclaim a little bit of Michelle while still being the best “R’s Mom” possible.

The biggest obstacle I am facing is overcoming the guilt I feel every time I do something (or even think of doing something) for myself instead of for my family. The last haircut and color I had was in July because I can’t stand to spend three hours away from home on the weekend for something that seems so indulgent. So please don’t comment on my roots next time you see me.

I don’t think I’m that much different from any other working mom. I think in my heart of hearts I believe I can have it all – the family and the career and the independence from both I need to have a complete life. But every time I have to show up at day care with cash to pay the $2-per-minute fee for being late or rush out of work early to pick up a sick kid, having it all seems less and less attainable. I think this project will help me to strive for more balance.

Buon Compleanno!

I turned 31 today. God, I remember when 31 was so far in the future that I didn’t even have the capacity to dream of what my life would be like at that age. And now it is here. I am officially “in my thirties.”

I’ve never been one to worry too much about getting older. When I was 29 and had R., I knew that my life’s purpose was defined. Since then (and really before then, because who feels old in their twenties?), I’ve been at peace with the choices I’ve made in my life and where they’ve brought me.

For some reason, I feel a little different this year, and I’m not totally sure why. Perhaps it’s because I do want to have another child, and I hear the tick-tocking of the biological clock. Perhaps it’s because I’m not as fulfilled at my job as I used to be.

When I worked in my old job, the newspaper job I hated so much it made me physically ill, I had a wonderful co-worker who always took her birthday off of work. She called that day her “personal new year” and would always do something for herself that day. I had big plans for myself today,  but circumstances conspired against me. Instead of getting a hair cut and color and a massage, I spent the day grocery shopping, baking a Thanksgiving cake with R. and coloring in a Dora the Explorer coloring book.

All in all, I’m happy with where my life has led me. My almost-two-year-old can say “Happy” and “Birthday” and “Mommy,” though not all together (I just taught her “birthday” this morning!). My husband said he got me as close to the spa as he could today - with a monogrammed plush bathrobe off of Oprah’s Favorite Things list.

I’m pretty proud of what I’ve accomplished in 31 years. To me, the meaning of my life is the relationships I’ve built. And that’s what keeps me warm, even on a cold, rainy November day.

I heart Payton Manning

Yesterday morning, I sat by myself in the waiting room of the Payton Manning Children’s Hospital, thumbing through the pages of the outdated Allure magazine with Katherine Heigl on the cover and taking deep breaths so that I wouldn’t cry.

Just down the hall, my baby, my little girl, my sweet Angel Face, was having more tubes shoved in her and I wasn’t there to hold her hand (or hold her down). Her father was with her, but they only allowed one parent in the room. I

 felt so alone while I was waiting there. It was only 15 minutes, but so many thoughts raced through my head, even while I appreciated Dr. Izzie Stevens’ hot bod and beautiful face. I felt guilty for not being strong enough to fight Dave to stay in the room. I hoped R. wasn’t screaming and crying and fighting like she did last month. And, honestly, part of me wondered if all the other nurses and radiologists and play therapists in the room questioned what kind of mother I was that I would be the one to leave.

It seemed like forever and it seemed like 30 seconds later when Dr. Clark (the same radiologist who viewed dozens of R.’s hip X-rays after she was born with hip dysplasia) came to get me and explained what she’d found. It wasn’t the news we were hoping for, which was no kidney damage. But it wasn’t the worst it could be. On a five-point scale, her kidneys are damaged stage one on the left side and stage two on the right side. She’ll have to take medicine daily for a year, when the tests will be repeated to see if she’ll need surgery or not.

Dave said she did beautifully – no crying, just a little wriggling when the catheter was inserted. They sedated her this time, so she should have very little memory of the event.  

In the hospital lobby, as I held her tight and kissed her groggy little head, we listened to the Von Trapp family singers (great grandchildren of Capt. Von Trapp) and I fought off tears again. Because my kid was going to be okay. But to my right and to my left were kids in wheelchairs, kids hooked up to IVs and kids with no hair.

I felt like I had no right to cry for my kid, when so many other kids may not be okay, not for a long time, maybe not ever.

Tagging, part 3

Quick update:We got back into work Friday, with only a little residual smoky smell lingering in the air. Also, we got the vast majority of our cash back into our account on Thursday. So things are finally starting to right themselves in our world.  Marlee gave me a little tag! 

A Little About Us
The basic facts:
Who is your significant other? David How long have you been together? Since we were partyin’ in 1999

Dating/Engaged/Married?  Married.

How old is your S.O.? 33

What’s his/her middle name? William

Who eats more? He almost always eats more.

Who says “I love you” first? Regularly? It depends on who is feeling guilty….

Who weighs more? He does.

Who sings better? Singing is not in our repertoire of talents, though we’ve both discovered our inner songbirds through numerous renditions of “The Wheels on the Bus”

Who’s older? Him.

Who’s smarter? Book smarts? Me. Street smarts? Him.

Whose temper is worse? MINE. And it is so, so quick. I need to work on it, I know.

Who does the laundry? Me, but only because he doesn’t do it my the right way (stolen straight from Marlee)

Who does the dishes? The dishwasher. I only wash dishes if necessary. Same for him.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? He does. The left side is closer to the bathroom, so I get it.

Whose feet are bigger? Scarily, I think they might be pretty close in size. His might be a little bigger.

Whose hair is longer? Mine. He likes it that way, and I don’t really care much…

Who’s better with the computer? He is excellent at keeping our machine it the best shape a five-year-old machine can be in.

Who mows the lawn? He does.

Who pays the bills? I used to. Then I got pregnant and lost my mind and was officially removed from bill paying duties.

Who cooks dinner? I do, 95 percent of the time.

Who drives when you are together? He can’t seem to relinquish control of a moving vehicle. So whatever.

Who pays when you go out to dinner? It all comes from the same place, so whoever has easier access to their check card.

Who’s the most stubborn? Probably me. Only because I know I’m right.

Who is the first one to admit when they’re wrong? We used to be very bad about this (see above), but now we are both getting better. It still is difficult for both of us.

Whose parents do you see more? His mother. No question.

Who named your dog? He named Otis. I named Lucy.

Who kisses who first? Depends on the situation

Who asked who out? He asked me out. It was adorable.

Who’s more sensitive? I am

Who’s taller? He is

Who has more friends? He totally has way more friends.

Who has more siblings? I do, whether or not you include step-siblings.

Who wears the pants in the relationship? Like Marlee, it’s pretty well divided in our house. 

Erin? Are you up for it?

The hits just keep on coming

So as if this week weren’t already one of the most unfortunate on record, I arrived at work today just before 7:30 a.m. to a small gathering of staff that were already in the building… only they were OUT of the building.  

There was a weird smell in the air, weirder than the odor emitted by the factory across the park on every odd Tuesday, and my ultra-sharp reporter’s nose sniffed the air. Could there be… a fire? 

The arrival of approximately half the Indianapolis fire department, at least those assigned to our quadrant, confirmed the existence of the fire about ten minutes later. As more and more staff (and more and more fire personnel) started arriving, we were herded across the Canal and “to safety.”

Eventually, we were told to go away and “have breakfast” and return in an hour.   While our staff was enjoying a leisurely meal down the street (not me, I have no cash), we were notified to “work from home today.” I was instantly curious because no one is ever allowed to “work from home.” Okay, just the smart aleck in me was curious. When we got back to the building, we discovered the fire was in an adjacent building (we have three buildings connected) to the one we work in, but that the shared ventilation system had spread smoke throughout the complex. 

So, as firemen escorted 350 people, five at a time, into the office to gather personal belongings, I couldn’t help but think that maybe my bad luck was starting to rub off on everybody else. Because doesn’t everybody get bummed when they get what is essentially a free day off work?

The future, it is now

Not long after R. was born, someone took a picture of her, lying on my chest in the hospital, breastfeeding. I had one arm cradling her, and my other hand was resting near her face, in perfect view of the camera. The first thought that came to my head was, “my God, I have my mother’s hands.” 

It turns out, that’s not all my parents passed down to me. I find R’s full name (Mom loved to middle-name us) coming out of my mouth all the time. I find myself instituting rules because that was what my parents did. And honestly, I’m not too upset about the whole thing. I actually look forward to the day I can say “Because I said so.” Be afraid, R., be very afraid. 

I had a great childhood. I have wonderful memories of summer evenings playing wiffleball in the driveway, winter sledding trips to Philips Park and building leaf houses in the fall. I was raised with appropriate amounts of fear, love and respect for my parents – fear of disappointing them and a respect for their authority. They had high expectations, and I wanted nothing more in life than to fulfill them. 

We didn’t talk about politics and we never discussed major social issues like race or gender – we were left to form our own opinions on those subjects, based on the values they taught us. It was assumed we would go to college. So while a lot of people swear to God they will never become their parents (including me in my diary 18 years ago), I think that if I were as great at being a parent as my mom and dad were, R. will be in pretty good shape. 

Because I said so. 

This is in response to a writing challenge posted on The Mom’s Daily Dose Secret Awesome Group of Awesome Blogging Power posted by Jessica.

Wipe Out

$89.34.  

I swear to God I got paid on Friday, so did Dave. So why, this morning, did our bank balance read $89.34? We usually have a cushion of a couple of hundred dollars, so even if our checks hadn’t been automatically deposited, this would still look wrong. 

Then, mid-morning, Dave got the call from PayPal. His account had been hacked. His check card had been used to make purchases on gaming Web sites. We were wiped out. Merry F-ing Christmas. (Sorry Dad). 

Thankfully, PayPal will be reimbursing us, but they seemed rather vague on the timetable for that. Dave cancelled his check card account and they will issue him a new card in 7-10 business days. My card, with a different number, was unaffected – other than the fact that it now has NO MONEY to back it up.  

One thing the PayPal people were clear on – we must change all our passwords on all of our accounts immediately. So I spent a good 15 minutes this morning trying to remember every online purchase I’d ever made, every account I’d ever created (weather.com anybody?) and every email address I have. Oh! I just remembered another one… 

I knew this would happen someday. I mean, I’ve been merrily making Internet purchases for at least five years now, with nary a problem. The last two years, almost all of our Christmas shopping was done online. Oh, the convenience! But what do I do now? Do I still buy things online? It’s obviously not SAFE. But my GOD, the MALL at CHRISTMAS TIME? I’m starting to tremble at the thought…. 

I also feel strangely violated. Like somebody saw me wearing just my panties, in all my flat-chested, flabby assed wonder. And now, they are somewhere in Japan pointing and laughing at me.  

I truly believe the Internet is the greatest invention of my lifetime, if for nothing else than for its amazing capacity for bringing people together. I guess in some cases you don’t much like the people you come into contact with in Cyberspace.