A love letter to a great friend

Modern life is complicated, people. You need to figure out what you want to "do". You need to find a way to pay your bills and take care of yourself like a grownup. You need to negotiate the pitfalls of romance and social interaction. Add a family, with all the responsibilities that go along with them, into the mix, and, well! You may just need a doctorate in psychology to get through this obstacle course of life. Either that, or know one who will give you free advice.

Thank goodness I have one of these. A old friend who will talk me down from the tower when I'm ready to scream, go fetal and start eating my hair. This week, I sent a despairing email, and my friend promptly answered, explained that perhaps, I was looking at things from an inaccurate perspective, plus sent links to online resources. I don't think he really understands how much this means to me. So, I will try again to express myself.

Dear B,

It was 17 years ago, in the days of care-free youth, that we met in San Francisco. It has been a hoot from the git-go; sneaking vodka shots in the Castro, vast quantities of Chilean Cabernet by candlelight, freezing our asses off walking around the City in July, and more pork roasts than I could possible count.

You and I are in vastly different places now from the days of yore. You are doggedly pursuing your dreams in SoCal and I'm wearily pursuing a set of squirrelly twins on the Central Coast.

Through all my many tribulations, you have been a amazing source of unending support and much needed reality checks. When I landed a husband and a ready-made family, you were there to celebrate with me and gave me a book on step-parenting. When my kids are driving me up the goddamn wall, you patiently explain, again, how all this behavior is developmentally appropriate. And when the fecal matter really hit the fan, you offered your help and support anytime of the day or night, because "emotional crises do not always keep business hours".  When you manage to get the time to visit, my children jump on you with maniacal glee and you play with them, and chase them until they drop, then read 'em a story and tuck them in bed.

English doesn't seem to make the words to properly express gratitude for that kind of friendship. The best I can do is say, thank you, very, very much, my dear friend, for all you have done for me, and my family.

much love,
Jen

Banter at Oh-Dark-Thirty

It was very dark. Middle-of-the-night dark.

Miles woke up and got a drink from the water bottle he keeps by the bed.

Me, under the covers: "That for all the world sounded like you just pulled a cork out of a wine bottle."

Him, taking another swig: "Time to party!"

BIKE RIDE!

The Wee Lassies got new bikes for Christmas from their grandparents. They were very thrilled and promptly started agitating for a BIKE RIDE! with Daddy. Daddy, along with Uncle Trevor and one of the neighbor kids, organized an epic BIKE RIDE!, which took a couple of hours and involved a long stop at the park to work off all that sugar and excitement. Meanwhile, Mama and Gra-Maw had a nap and Papa collected all the wrapping paper that was flung all over Kingdom Come. So, you know, a win for everyone.

Daddy has been working from home all this week, which is fabulous. The commute alone makes it all worthwhile. Miles gets up, mainlines some dark roast java, puts on his Woobie and heads for the Bat Cave. One of the big pluses is Daddy's availability for BIKE RIDES! during the day. So, yesterday, Daddy AND Mama took the girls on a BIKE RIDE!

I haven't ridden a bike since approximately 2003, but it's true you never forget. I hopped on Cam's new mountain bike and we all set off for the park. As we wended our way through the neighborhood, we passed a house with a family hanging in the front yard. A dad, and a few kids just relaxing in the California sunshine. Then one little boy yells out a greeting, "Hi, Claire!"

Claire shrieks, "JOSE! Hi, Jose! Mama! That's my friend JOSE!!! Jose! I got a bike for Christmas!!!"

The whole family burst into smiles.

I rearranged the furniture

I'm one of those.

Some women won't leave the house without makeup. Some people can't stand even the suggestion of dirt on their floors.  Me, I rearrange the furniture. Move art around on the walls. Dig up plants and plant them in a different spot. Some people think I'm nuts. (hi, Terry!)

I got bored with the look of my blog and started dorking around with it. Also, the title, while venerable, is a bit wordy, so that got edited as well.

Let me know what y'all think.

Well. Glad I asked.

Great news! I am officially fused. Saw my surgeon today and he looked at my X-Ray, said I was doing excellently well and he never wanted to see me again. And since the only reason me and this fella ever hooked up in the first place was chronic, debilitating, agonizing pain, I am perfectly OK with him dumping me like this.

During question and answer time, and since the guy does have a medical degree, I asked, "So. Why do kids always barf in the middle of the night?" Without turning a hair, the nice neurosurgeon said, "Hormones".

Turns out, as part of the diurnal cycle, some hormone drops in the wee hours and this reduces some kind of pressure and if there is any inclination, then starts the horking. "They're not doing it just to be ornery."

Huh. Good to know.

Song stylings by Clairezie Clark

"Now we know our daily peril!
Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la la!"

Barfing at 4am

Of all the many joys of parenthood, one of the most wonderful is the Barfing Child in the Middle of the Night.

It must be a rule somewhere. They must start throwing up in the small hours. Under no circumstances is the sick child to start the barfing at a reasonable time, like, say 8pm. No, they have to wait until the parents are sleeping and defenseless, and perhaps, have had a glass of wine or two.

Early this morning, Aeron got out the Kid Playbook, and followed it, right down the line.

Miles and I had been to a Christmas Party with old friends. The girls had spent the evening with Kayla, attempting to make a gingerbread house. (A fail, unfortunately. Not enough structural integrity.) We were home by 9:30pm or so, and had put the girls straight to bed. All seemed well. Us 'rents had retired to bed, each with our own book and lights were out by 11pm.

Scruffy, the newest addition to our family, was being difficult, wanting love at the same time I wanted sleep. So, he got chucked out of the Boudoir and the door was closed behind him.

The first sign of trouble was the muffled sound of crying. Which then got a lot louder at the kid opened the door, and staggered into the bathroom, throwing up the whole way.  I will spare y'all the details. Let's just say, we needed to use the shop vac, and leave it at that. (Hi, Tom! We were thinking of you, but decided not to call...)

Poor Boo was sobbing and yucky. I got her cleaned up and changed into clean jammies as Miles attended to carpet-cleanup.  After the child was tidyed up, she was still upset and not sure she was finished barfing. So, I sat with her on the bathroom floor and tried to calm her down. I wasn't having much luck, even with the help of Blue Bear, when Scruffy came to see what all the fuss was about. He surveyed the scene and then crawled up in Aeron's lap, purring his brains out. She was instantly diverted, petting and snuggling the warm, thrumming teddy bear in her lap.

When I put her back to bed, the cat followed and jumped up to lay down on her bed next to her, purring loudly the whole time.

The poor kid has been throwing up every hour and a half or so since. She can't even keep anti-nausea meds down.  And then she looks at me and says, "Mama! I haven't even had breakfast or lunch and I'm soooo hungry!"