A Beautiful Day

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens

Here in Boston yesterday, Mother Nature set the mood for the upcoming season:

10 points to whomever can guess where the title of this post comes from!

***

And now, a shot of a WIP from my studio:

Twelve of these log cabin squares should make quite a happy, girlie lap quilt, no? I think so.

***

Tomorrow is cook-eat-and-clean-while-your-husband-watches-football-which-is-okay-as-long-as-he-holds-two-of-the-babies-day. Smacky and I have come down with a pretty bad bug - I'm hacking up a lung while he's been burning a mild fever. We're set to go to the outlaws for dinner tomorrow - feeling this way, it should be interesting getting everyone out of this house. I was going to comment about Thanksgiving and my prior posts and how this will be my fourth Thanksgiving as a blogger, but I just remembered I have to somehow find time to make a pumpkin pie today...which means I'd better jump in the shower while the littles are still snoozing.

Happy holiday to all. Go slow, be safe, nap if you can.

January 18th

Interesting responses to my last post...all supporting my initial instinct. Had these women not been serious contenders for the award for MOST CONSIDERATE PERSON EVER, I wouldn't have paid much mind to their advice. I do believe circumstances dictate what and how much action a parent should take (yeah, um, taking a wee one to dine at the Four Seasons? - uh, NO), and yes, definitely - a toddler acting up is a different ball of wax from a crying infant. Wessel makes an interesting point in that raising polite children sways society to favor children. She's 100% on the mark there. Please know ladies that I am not suggesting that I ignore Simon's impact on those around us, but rather the salient point I erroneously omitted was that I'm no longer going to be so uptight about it. Instead of scurrying to another room when he's crying I'm going to walk. Instead of apologizing profusely I'm going to say I'm sorry and be done with it. And I'm going to dare to take public transportation and book that train trip so Smacky can see his cousins. Fear of my son acting up is no longer going to dictate my plans. I'm no longer going to feel apologetic just for showing up with him.

A priest at my church (my God even typing that phrase was surreal) told me that he has no problem at all with crying, fussy babies at Mass. What tries his patience are the bitter old ladies who complain about them.

I kind of like that.

******

Things have been changing at work lately - our unit was dismantled and the staff mixed in with the masses. Our core unit has been together for more than 10 years, so this change was significant and met with much trepidation. I now report to new people who have issues with people working from home. After a long meeting and some compromise, I've agreed to work from the office one day a week (the day is at my choosing). Today was my first full day there and I have to say it is so different and in so many ways better. Though there is an insane bureaucracy and lots of procedural redundancy, my job just got 10 times easier and taking a lunch and leaving on time are strongly encouraged. If you leave management to become a sheep, this is the kind of pasture you're looking for. It's quite serene, and the people in my new unit are downright lovely. Though I left a bit teary this morning (Smacky's mastering the arms-stretched-out-but-we-just-woke-up-where-are-you-going-look), after a 40 minute commute, I wound up working hard, laughing a lot and having a great day. I kind of can't wait to go back. Wait...did I actually just write that?

*****
Tomorrow night our old house is on TV... at 7:30 on Channel 5 in the Boston area. Anyone looking to send us some good selling vibes is encouraged to do so. We need mega-good karma to move that dinosaur.

*****

Smackeroo turned 7 months old on Monday. This of course calls for a recent photo (or three):

Cioa!

The New House

These were taken last month...I so love days like this, when the snow makes everything quiet and soft. Sal ran out and took a picture of the front of our house...it's so, well, New England.

After the snow stopped, we saw a magnificent sunset in our backyard.

This Old House

Our realtor called today. Have I reminded you lately that our old house still hasn't sold? Despite 3 price reductions? Have I told you that though I'm managing the anxiety of two mortgages rather effectively - that though there is a smile on my face - this issue is like caustic acid on my well being - the slow burn waking me at night in fits and starts?

Anyway, there's reason to hope.

Our house is being filmed tomorrow, to be featured on an upcoming segment of Chronicle. For those of you unfamiliar with New England television, you can get a better feel here:

http://www.thebostonchannel.com/chronicle/index.html

(I'm using the ancient laptop, so an actual link will be created tomorrow when I'm on the PC - I'm too glazed over for HTML right now).

Here's the thing...I haven't been to the old house, well, since we moved. We left our dining room and living room furniture there, and Sal and the realtor assure me everything is clean and looks great but...you know...that's what THEY say. Type A Day isn't so relaxed with that, but being that I'm working tomorrow and the house is a 45 minute drive from here, it looks like the tv cameras will be rolling without my nod of approval.
And so I've reverted to breathing exercises.
And to sending Sal over there tomorrow morning with a to-do list.

I have no idea if the feature is on old Victorian homes or on the sad state of the current real estate market or what. We'll find out tomorrow.

I just hope, hope, HOPE that someone out there sees it and decides they have to have it. And a few more do as well. And suddenly there's a bidding war. And we get more than we're asking.

Oh I'm lucid, ya think?

Stay tuned.

Down with Down?

Our move is next week, and what with Thanksgiving swiftly approaching and our calendar swiftly filling up, I just can't believe I'll be available much for blogging. I'd like to wish you all a wonderful, safe, non-dysfunctional, low-stress holiday which leaves you feeling full and content and grateful.

In lieu of my annual "Things to Be Thankful For" List, I will do an edited version, with one single entry:

(duh). Simon, and everything about him.

*****
Before I go (albeit temporarily), I'd like to leave you with some food for thought. This article published in today's Boston Globe (not the Op-Ed section mind you; here in the People's Republic of Boston the personal beliefs of those with connections to power and media are regularly fed to us as "news" ) initially got my goat but then had me thinking really hard. Ms. Beverly obviously assumes that all Down children are functioning and healthy and that the women who choose to terminate Trisomy 21 pregnancies don't agonize over their decision or aren't scarred by the experience. Down children have shortened life spans, are susceptible to chronic infection, leukemia, cardiovascular problems and may need multiple surgeries to prolong their lives. Though they tend to be happy children, many live their adult lives severely depressed due to the stresses brought about by their low IQ and developmental problems. I'd assume most women in this position who have done it have made the decision to terminate out of true concern for the well-being and future of the child. I can't imagine anyone using first trimester screening as a convenient way to ensure their babies are "perfect." Yet I get the feeling Ms. Beverly is kind of suggesting that. Clearly she adores her 2 year old grandchild and is taking a position of protecting the unborn Down children...and I get that, because Down kids truly are awesome. But I'd like to hear what you all think about it. For some reason this piece got me all riled up.

BEVERLY BECKHAM
An extra chromosome isn't awful
By Beverly Beckham | November 20, 2005
The words are ugly in the 1952 Funk & Wagnalls Standard Encyclopedia. Trisomy 21, called Down syndrome now, was called mongolism then, and the description of the condition was graphic and cruel and wrong.
But that's the way it was. The smartest people -- scientists, doctors, writers of encyclopedias -- agreed that babies with Down syndrome weren't worth the effort it would take to teach them because, insisted the best and the brightest, they were not educable. ''Put him in an institution. Forget you ever had him. It will be the best thing for you and your family," Marian Burke's doctor told her in 1965, when she gave birth to her son Chris, who would later star on the television series ''Life Goes On."
Walls were coming down everywhere in the United States. But not this wall. Babies with Down syndrome were almost always institutionalized when Marian Burke ignored her doctor's advice and took her son home.
Of course, doctors today would never suggest institutionalizing a baby with Down. Today's trend is to abort them.
Since screening became a routine part of prenatal care in the early 1990s, 80 to 90 percent of babies considered likely to be born with Down syndrome (the tests are not perfect) have been eliminated.
Now comes another screening test that women can have sooner in their pregnancy. Announced this month, a $15 million study funded by the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development, six years in the making, found a first trimester screening test to be a better indicator of Down syndrome than the standard second trimester test. (Imagine if this money and effort had been spent helping instead of identifying babies with the syndrome.) The lead author of the study insists that this is ''not a search and destroy mission."
But experience suggests that's how the information will be used.
''The Down dilemma: Is life with the syndrome worth living? A first trimester test raises the question earlier than ever," is a question Time magazine poses in its Nov. 21 issue. The Washington Post recently ran an essay by a 42-year-old woman who aborted her baby after she was told he had Down.
What is it about babies with Down syndrome that frightens people and that makes science want to eliminate them? When did having a child with Down become the worst thing?
My granddaughter Lucy has Down syndrome. We didn't know before she was born. Her mother declined the test. And we didn't know until 12 hours after she was born.
So all we saw when we looked at her was perfection.
And then a doctor said the words and how we saw her changed.
SHE didn't change. She was still perfection. We changed. We saw Down syndrome. Not our beautiful Lucy Rose.
Here's what we have learned since Lucy was born: That life is a challenge for everyone. But there's no prenatal test that tells most people what's to come, that forecasts that at age 1 a baby will contract cancer. Or that when he's 4, he'll be hit by a car. Or that she'll develop mental illness, or become a drug addict, or die in a fire when she's 25. You can't test for these things.
But if you could? What makes a person dispensable? Is being slow to walk and talk a reason for execution? Blindness? Deafness? A propensity for aggression? Homosexuality? Death at a young age?
What is so awful about an extra chromosome? Maybe it's fear of the unknown. Most people don't know anyone with Down syndrome. All they know is that there's a test that screens for it and there's the worried look on the doctor's face. And there's the hard reality of mental retardation.
In the United Kingdom they don't use this term. They say learning difficulty. It's inclusive, not exclusive.
We all have learning difficulties.
Lucy is 2 now and the only difference between her and other 2-year-olds is that she looks a little younger. She sits, stands, walks with a little help. She tells you how old she is: ''Two!" And what a cow says: ''Moo!" And whom she loves: ''Mama!"
She reads books and listens to music and watches ''Mary Poppins" and plays with her cousin Adam, and likes going on rides, and walks to school, and church, and the library.
The latest scientific advances work against children like Lucy. All the polite words -- ''peace of mind" and ''informed choice" -- don't disguise this.
We used to institutionalize babies with Down syndrome. Now we kill them.
Canton resident Beverly Beckham can be reached by e-mail at bevbeckham@aol.com.
© Copyright 2005 Globe Newspaper Company.

Retail Bitches

Most times when I shop for clothing around here, the greater Boston area, I am treated impeccably by salespeople. There's something about this area of the country where strangers can't say good morning or hold a door for each other, but flash some spending money and voila! - kindness rules the day. Even the clerks at the uber-chic boutiques on Newbury Street are gentle and unassuming. Having lived in the city for a while, I've grown used to being able to walk into a store, tell them what I'd like and, well, get it.
Don't get me wrong- I rarely boutique shop, simply because my hard-earned money goes toward my (now two) mortgages and son...I'm not one of those super trendy women who dresses up in heels to shop at all. I'm all about sales and flat, comfortable shoes. I stay away from Saks and Neiman's to avoid temptation. But for a special occasion I won't skimp if I find the right outfit.

The christening is coming up. I need an outfit and found this
link at anntaylorloft.com, Ann Taylor's cheaper, less refined sister store. It's so very me, and so very perfect for a 40-year-old mom who wants to look young and fresh without offending the conservative sensibilities of the God-fearing Catholics at the church. I decide I want the entire outfit- the whole enchilada, shoes and all. I'm proud of myself for resisting the urge to browse the more expensive stores. I head over to my nearest ATL to try it on to be sure of the sizes, as after the pregnancy my body has just become very strange as far as size goes.

After 10 minutes of searching and being completely ignored by the help, I locate two saleswomen chatting it up and ask for help.

"You had this great fur-trimmed cardigan on your website-"

"We don't carry it," interrupts a woman in a tropical summer bolero (hello, it's 50 degrees and rainy outside).

"Uh, okay - it was brown, and I really would like to-"

"WE DON'T HAVE IT HERE."

"All right, but I really want it, and so I need to find out the nearest store that does. Is there a way you could look it up and call-"

"WE DON'T DO THAT. YOU'LL HAVE TO ORDER THROUGH THE INTERNET."

"But I need to try it on as I'm not sure of the size-"

"YOU'RE A SMALL."

"No, uh, no, I wish I were a small but I promise you I'm not, you see I -."

Tropical Bolero scunches her lips as I'm talking, and I notice she's wearing a cheesey peach color to match her hideous jacket and repeats to me slowly as if I were dumb and a bit deaf: YOU WEAR A SMALL.

Because I'm neither deaf nor dumb (nor am I a small), I've already realized I'm dealing with an uninspired, passive-aggressive ignorant lazy-assed bitch who never had any intention of helping me or anyone else who came into that store today. I would absolutely not give her the satisfaction of engaging her. Her attempts to alpha dog hump me begin to amuse me as I let her really dig in at me -

"Soooo, I have to order this cardigan from the internet, and just kind of guess what size I am?"

Her response is no surprise: "NO, you order TWO- one, ahem, MEDIUM, and," she rolls eyes for effect, "a LARGE," pauses for more effect, lips scrunching, "and you RETURN the one that doesn't fit you."

"Well, then, can I try these on?" I give her my dumbest look possible as I glance down at the skirt and camisole I had found.

Tropical Bolero rolls her eyes once more- "RIGHT THERE." And she walks away from me. Not here, let me take those for you. Not here, let me escort you to an open room. Not let me try calling corporate while you're in there to see who might have that cardigan you want.

You get that I really really want this outfit, right? And that I don't have time nor energy to create a scene and storm out of there to find another ATL store, right? And because in this store I was no better than the toilet paper under anyone's shoe, I waited for an eternity for someone to go in the back to let me try on the shoes...she threw the box down and just stood there watching me while I struggled to undo the straps. Then I waited in line for an eternity more, only to be checked out by yet another associate in tropical clothing who was equallly as bitchy and clearly only worked there to get her discount. She called out to Tropical Bolero for some help at the register. TB (she was the manager?!) replied coolly, "No, I'm busy." And proceeded to continue chatting it up with yet another worker in a blazer far too bright for the season, oblivious to the 6 customers waiting to be checked out.

To say I was astounded by how badly I was treated doesn't quite cut it. It amazes me, what I put up with for a stupid outfit.

And so I took my defeated and abused ass out of there, came home, fed Simon and relaxed. I then dialed 1-800-DIAL-ANN, asked for the head of customer relations and calmly ratted out each and every one of those lazy, mean bitches with names, times, quotes and all, including my receipt number. I'm drafting a follow-up letter this evening to the president.

Needless to say, this will be the first and last outfit I ever purchase from said Loft. My dear readers, the next time you're out shopping at some sleepy suburban mall, beware the bitches in bright blazers...they'll take your money and your spirit too.

What Happens When Momma Feels Threatened

Yeah, things just got even a little bit more insane around here...we're taking it up a notch.

Yesterday, while waiting on the on-ramp to enter Route 1, a very nice man behind us with his daughter in the car was too busy checking for a clearing in traffic to notice that we had not yet started up from the stop sign.
This Very Nice Man plowed his car directly into the rear of ours, creating an impact which tossed our bodies forward and pushed our car forward several feet, sparking an adrenaline rush in me which was unlike anything I have ever experienced. This rush translated to immediate rage which evidently scared the pants off my husband. PULL OVER I commanded him. Sal immediately complied and moved our minivan into a car dealership parking lot adjacent to this on-ramp. I proceed to announce to Sal that I was now going to physically rip the other driver to shreds. Before he came to a stop I was out of our car, angrily directing the very nice man to pull over next to us. Shaking, I fumbled with the passenger side rear door handle - my baby...MY BABY HAD BETTER BE OKAY...I have been in several auto accidents before but have always assumed the role of the organizer- the one who stays cool, organizes the exchange of info, assesses the damage, etc. Yesterday, this part of me was evidently unavailable.

While I'm fumbling with the door, I scream to the very nice man MY BABY IS IN HERE! To this, he can only shake is head as he gets out of his car. I finally stop trembling enough to get the door open and find Simon to be sound asleep- he slept through the whole thing. He was as peaceful as I was enraged. In the background I can hear Sal coming around from the other side saying soothing things but I'm not hearing it.

Now I'm pacing in the parking lot, my chest heaving and my face flushing red hot. Very Nice Man rushes over and apologizes profusely, looking in on the dogs and sleeping Simon and shaking his head. "I'm so sorry...I didn't mean it, I should have been more careful...are you okay?" I'm still trembling and heaving and can't get my thoughts together.

"I don't care about me, I care about HIM." I point to the baby, still pacing. I was hot. Feeling very HOT.

"He seems okay," says Very Nice Man, very gently.

"Yeah," is all I can answer, as the tears start pouring down my face while I start a search for a pen and paper. It's all I can do not to break into an outright sob.

"I didn't mean it," says Very Nice Man. At this point I'm calming down enough to realize that all I'm doing is making this guy feel terrible. We were all okay - Sal, me, the dogs, and especially Simon, all cozy and sleeping soundly in his puffy strappy safe car-seat. As I take down VNM's information, and as I'm feeling calmer, I manage to tell him "I know you didn't mean it - that's why they call it an accident...we'll be okay."

I ask him if his daughter is all right and he nods. We check the rear of our car and see that the bumper is pushed in and cracked, and the rear hatch cannot open. It's driveable though, and after some more talk and assessment we're ready to move on and head over to MIL's for dinner. As we pull out, Sal comments to me that he's never seen me like that, and that I was scary.

I agree with him and wonder what sparked such antics in me. I explain to him that I couldn't remember ever feeling such blind anger, and that it was like my body went on fire after the impact. I tell him I'm concerned as it was defintely out of character for me...maybe I'm just stressed out with the move and all that is going on?

When we get to MIL's house, I tell my SIL what had happened. She nodded and knew right away - "You had mother's rage," she explained. "You know, you've heard the stories of women lifting up cars to save their babies and things like that - it's the adrenaline that moms get when they sense their babies are in danger...it supposedly makes you really strong. Have you ever seen a bird go nuts on a person for just walking too close to her nest? It's natural...it really is."

Here I was worried that I was turning into a lunatic. Instead, I had just experienced a very normal, primitive, visceral and instinctual response to my perception that Simon could have been hurt.

"I'd be worried about you if you DIDN'T go ape-shit after getting hit by that car," she assures me.

God bless that SIL of mine...God bless her.

Anyone ever experience this?

Update

Thanks to all of you who shared such warm sentiment. I'm doing my best to pass the boy to capable people while I steal breaks during the day...it's working.

I'm better now, though still tired (but that's from closing on the new house, my parents' visit, preparing for the open house on our existing home today, etc.). My esophagus is still a bit weary but on the mend as my blood regenerates. Life will wind down soon (I hope). Once our house sells I know my stress will immediately be cut in half. Once the christening is over it will be cut in half yet again. Before I know it I'll be once again sitting pretty in the quality of life department. It's just that these rough patches can get so, well, rough. But seriously, thanks so much. You, my friends in the computer, have grown to mean so much to me.

I so love our new house...after dropping my folks off at the train station today we headed down to measure and plan and just hang out and absorb its karma. Sunshine flowed through the windows and we felt warm and happy. Simon napped on the new sectional we had delivered there yesterday while Allie and Lola explored the ample fenced-in yard. It felt like home, and I'm so anxious to get in there. We're moving Nov 3-4, a month later than originally anticipated. Our real estate agent is urging us to keep our current home occupied until it sells - seems the buying public would rather not work to visualize how furniture fits in a room or how a painting would look on a wall. We agreed to delay our move 30 days. Do you know how hard it is to pack up a house while keeping it looking pristine and fully lived-in? It ain't easy people.

Simon the linebacker is growing by the second. The other night he slept from 9 PM to 7 AM, ate quickly then fell back asleep until 9:45 AM when my mother, who was kind of freaked out by this marathon, announced that she was GOING TO WAKE HIM UP and nothing was going to stop her. She did, and he smiled and ate some more. I guess babes going through growth spurts go through heavy sleep/eat periods. Smacky is clearly deep in one of these cycles. I sorted through and packed away forever his 0-3 month clothing today while tiny little mommy daggers stabbed my heart. How did my fragile little preemie become a sumo wrestler? How did my wee tiny boy turn into such a sturdy, hardy, well-padded medicine ball?

Smacky's asking for me. Gotta run!

So...very...busy....

So sorry internets - it's all I can do to get to bed on time lately!  We've got closings, house showings, visitors (yup, my Mom & Dad are coming Wednesday with my brother and his girlfriend showing up on Friday- they're all staying until Sunday), doctor appointments, a christening to plan, Lola's neutering (poor thing is getting fixed today) and all sorts of various and sundry punchlist items assosciated with our upcoming move.  It feels like mayhem.  It IS mayhem.

I'm thinking I can resurface sometime next week.  In the meantime, I'll be thinking of you all.  Love ya.

My Girls

Often people ask me how my girls are doing. And that makes sense. Because long before Simon arrived on the scene, I indulged my maternal yearnings on my two black furry daughters. And they love me for that. Or at least they used to.

I kind of don't have much time for them anymore. Don't get me wrong - I still adore them and find them delightful creatures. But as of late there's a certain human who supercedes all earthlings in the cuteness department:

And I just can't get enough of him.

Allie and Lola seem to sense this; before Simon came home from the NICU we dutifully followed our canine trainer's instructions - you know, bring a blanket which smells like Simon home every night so they get used to his scent, give them extra attention, etc. And I suppose that all worked. Our dogs have neatly accepted little Simon into their world. They are cautiously curious, as if they know on some level he's more fragile than they. I'll often keep Simon on the floor in his rocking calming vibrations seat while I'm cleaning up or cooking - neither of them can resist taking in his smell; they will gently assess him head to toe and then lick his naked feet. When he cries they will both come to the room to investigate with Lola sometimes becoming clearly upset (she frets when Sal and I argue loudly). She's also gently approached while Simon is on his back on his baby gym mat and placed her chin on his belly. Lola is certainly fascinated by him, and I'm sure the bits of dried formula which forever adorn his onesies are the main draw for her. But other than that, they both truly know he's off limits. They seem to instinctually understand that he's too young and too helpless to cause them any grief. I also believe they are keenly aware that should any of them push too far with him, Sal and I will come down on them like a ton of bricks.

No, we never leave the dogs alone with access to Simon. Ever. The dogs, as gentle and loving and protective and sweet as they are, are indeed still DOGS. You never know. You just don't. Allie and Lola have their mother/daughter dynamic between them, and Allie is highly political with other dogs - she's a confident alpha. She's taught Lola the pack heirarchy thing and my biggest fear is that one of these days Lola will get fed up being the omega dog and start to assert herself on Simon (Allie wouldn't dare). As I can't outright ask her how she feels about this stuff, I just have to assume that Ms. Lola has that potential. And so I watch...closely. I doubt we'll have problems but you just never know. My hope is that they protect him but only time will tell.

Sal is currently in DC on business, and Lola's decided to take his place on the bed. Though I loathe the dog hair, she's been a good girl, keeping me company and helping me watch Simon. I'm letting her stay.

***

Chest xrays today showed my lungs to be clear. My EKG was slightly abnormal...which could be something, or could be nothing. I've got an echocardiogram scheduled for next Monday. Fingers crossed...we need good health around here.