September 30, 2004
Without further ado:
"Well, my tummy wants pocorn. And my mouth wants yoghurt. So I think I need chocolate."
- Bear, to Elia and I, on his choice of snack.
"No, Bear. No. Although, I like your thinking...."
- CD, To Bear, as he insisted that Elia didn't actually have to go home last night and could spend the night in the lower bunk of his bed.
"What are we supposed to do? Duck?"
- CD, to me and Bear, as we drove past a sign on our way home that said 'Beware Low Flying Planes'.
"Quack!"
-Bear, in response.
"*big sigh* Pajama Sam needs a time out."
- Bear, on being foiled at his computer game.
"That's OK, Mommy. This is a hard song."
- Bear, last night, on correcting my air guitar to Genisis' 'Follow You Follow Me' as we bounced on the daybed during a work break.
"Mommy! I love this song! Dance with me, baby!"
- Bear, to me, in response to the opening bars of "Carry on Wayward Son" by Kansas.
"Dance with me, baby, PLEASE!"
- Bear, to me, upon being told that the previous was unacceptable language.
"No more Doody Brothers, Mommy! I mean it!"
- Bear, on my choice of music.
"This is for Daddy, so he will get better."
-Bear, on giving me a cracker yesterday that he'd 'cooked' in his play kitchen, for CD who was sick in bed.
"Mommy! Don't yell at the squirrels! They aren't eating the flowers. They are sniffing the flowers. See? *SNIFF!* Be quiet to the squirrels, they don't like yelling."
"Bear, they are NOT sniffing. They are eating. They are eating our flowers and our tulip bulbs. That's naughty."
"Mommy, they are sniffing. They TOLD me."
- Bear, as we were outside this morning.
"Mommy, I think you need a nap now."
- Bear, interrupting my 4th chorus of "Ding Dong the Meeting's Dead"
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September 29, 2004
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September 27, 2004
Well, this is it. *ahem* So.
Hello, my name is Elizabeth.
I'm new here. To Munuviana, I mean. Uh, did you folks from Bloggerland find this place OK? Sometimes I'm not great at directions.
As I was saying. Cheryl, who was the first non-real-life person I ever "met" through the internet - she was the first to congratulate me when my old wedding site won an award in 2000 - well, anyway Cheryl recently came back from hiatus. And she did this thing where she made a deal -
You show me yours, and I'll show you mine.
Just leave me a note (comment, email) with something about you and any question you want for me. (Scroll down to bottom of entry to see/add your comment. Please.)
Update 9/28: Well, gee - only 5 questions. C'mon, please. Let me have it!
I promise, within my rat rule*, to answer. Really. I hate being the new kid. Hopefully, this will break the ice. So.....
Question #1, from the Cheryl herself.
Question: Without giving a cliche answer like "The Bible" what book has most affected your life?Answer: Well. I was going to say the Bible. Instead, I'll say Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice". I read it for my own pleasure in my teens and it a hard read - the vernacular was unfamiliar and Colin Firth had not yet made Mr. Darcy a household icon *blush*. It took several passes, and it was pretty liberating experience. After that, I tackled all sorts of books out of the pulp stream. Great question, thanks!
Question #2, from Fredette.
Question: As a corporate manager, do you love working or do you long for free days at home with Bear? Or, since you do work at home a lot (or always --I don't know) are you happy with the best of both worlds?Answer: If I won the lottery tomorrow, I would quit my job. I would spend the rest of Bear's childhood raising him - that is my dream job.
Otherwise, I love my career (I manage long, large IT programs). First of all, I work from home about 90% of the time - that's amazing flexibility and access as a working parent. Second of all, it's challenging and it gets my brain really pumping. I do have the best of both worlds. Thanks Fredette! Great Question.
Question #3, from Helen, lovely Helen.
Question: My question-if you could be a superhero, who would you be?Answer: Well, here's the problem. I like being a woman and there are really too few female Superheroes to choose from. WonderWoman was SO hung up on that 'Steve' guy. Plus? She couldn't fly. And, Brrrr! So, I think I would want to be a female SuperMan. I want all his powers and a really cool cape. Thanks, Helen, for a great question!
Question #4, from RP (Who hates cucmbers).
Question: What is your favorite food and what do you dread seeing on your plate at a dinner party?Answer: Favorite food? Don't have one. Fresh summer tomatoes come close. I enjoy entire meals; my mother's ham casserole, Dee's chicken salad, Thanksgiving, a steak at Morton's! I love FoodTV. Jaime and Alton are my heroes. I do not like liver, although I can handle pate if it's good. And pasta in red sauce in public is a recipe for disaster - there inevitably will be some on my shirt before the end of the night. Thanks, RP - great question. Now I'm hungry.
Question #5, from Tammy(Who is not boring).
Question: Why do you write? What is the driving force behind your blog?Answer: My best explanation is this: I write for the same reason I married CD, for the same reason I had Bear - because the alternative is unthinkable. I don't know how to NOT write.
The reasons I picked the blog format were; the freedom and the feedback. On my family site, I censor my words very carefully. I realized last spring that miss the column I used to write, the give-and-take with the people who read it, the responsibility I had to write what was true to me. Going back to deadline writing isn't an option, with my life. So after years of reading the blogs of others, it occured to me one day "Duh!" here's an outlet. I'm still finding my voice - I wobble back and forth between rip roaring honesty and precise gentility. There are no rules here. Which is a plus. Thanks, Tammy, for stumping me with a great question!
Question #6, from Mrs Darling .
Question: If you hadn't had children. Do you think you would have very many choices differently?Answer: If I had known that I wasn't going to set up a home and have kids... if all hope of that had been removed... then I wouldn't have come back to the United States. I left for England in 1994, and took myself on a long world tour. My returning to the US and begining my corporate career was all very deliberate to build stability and a foundation for a family.
Otherwise? When Dinos had said to me, in lilting English, that I should spend my winter with him on the island, spending our days working at his family's tavern and our nights in lust - I would have said yes. In a heartbeat. Thanks, Mrs. Darling, for a great question!
Question #7, from Miss (I think)Anonymous, who didn't vote for the E.R.A..
Question: (And I am paraphrasing) Do you believe that the career woman is the ideal?Answer: No.
Here's my ideal:
That every parent gets to make the right decision for their child's (or children's) wellbeing.
I think Stay At Home Parents - moms and dads - rock. I will say, with glaring bias, that the SAHM's I know tend to do more homemaking - meal planning, cleaning, financial organization, decorating, etc - than the At Home Dad's I know (or been married to). But no matter the gender, the parenting full-time thing? Really really hard, and really awesome. I wish there was a way to make these choices more feasible for more families. Thanks, Anon, for a great question!
Question #8, from Mr. (I think) Anonymous.
Question: (And I am REALLY paraphrasing) Am I a bitch like every other woman boss?more...Answer: Not Anymore.
Bitch bosses come in both genders. And when I got my first taste of power, I was a royal pain. I made some bad decisions. I fired a guy because he wouldn't respect my authority, instead of fighting harder to earn it. I expected mind-reading employees. I didn't mentor. I pulled away from people who didn't treat me warmly, until they ended up quitting or transferring.
And I'm sorry. Those first 9 months, I met all my corporate goals and lost a little of my soul in doing it.
But I have improved since then. People request to work for me, so I guess that is a good sign. I have had some GREAT mentors - of both genders - and I use a lot more respect, kindness, tolerance, communication, praise, and trust. I write recommendation letters before I lay someone off. I promote folks who earn it, and have ended up working for them sometimes. It's a matrixed world. In any given year., I will manage about a dozen people who, in turn, will be managing several hundred more. I keep an open door to all of them. I'm learning. I'm trying. Thanks for the question.
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My question-if you could be a superhero, who would you be?September 25, 2004
The sentimental fool don't see
Tryin' hard to recreate
What had yet to be created once in her life
I'm driving down the highway and it's late, singing along loudly and off-key to a compilation of songs meant to be played with the volume up and the bass on high.
The highways in Chicago turn into the Autobahn after midnight. We stream along at high speeds, blinkers flashing in the night as we slip from lane to lane.
New Yorkers take note: the turn indicators are usually activated from the left of the steering wheel.
Wondering. How many times did I make this trip in the Years Before? Racing home, a different home then, in the deepest part of the night. Belting out songs I know by heart. Minutes away from being asleep in my own bed. Crosswise. Alone.
But what a fool believes ... he sees
No wise man has the power to reason away
What seems ... to be
Is always better than nothing
And nothing at all keeps sending him ...
Remember that cab driver? He was so beautiful. That accent. Those chocolate eyes. He was going to take me to Africa to meet his family. So sweet. Such a bad kisser.
Heading into the city, where I lived for so long. I miss living in the city. There's something about knowing you can get good Thai at 2AM.
I've driven into that skyline in the dark of all seasons. Wild hair, chapped lips, driving without shoes because they hurt too much after a night.
No, I can't stay.
I've got to be up early. For Church. For work. To visit a sick friend.
I have to get home.
She had a place in his life
He never made her think twice
As he rises to her apology
Anybody else would surely know
He's watching her go
I'm doing a crazy 8, switching from one expressway to the next. Cautiously merging into the lanes and then bringing the speed back. The windows cracked down to catch the cool air. The music louder over the wind.
What do these lyrics mean, anyway? Well, what can you expect from a band named after weed?
What was that guy's name? Dee would know, but she's asleep by now. She was drooping even as she hugged me goodbye.
The one who drove a station wagon while he was still single? He would make up the sofa bed for us because he'd bought his bed with his ex. We'd wear sweat pants and big t-shirts and he'd put on cartoons and plan elaborate weekend brunches. I kept expecting him to tell me he was gay.
What was his name?
The expressway is moving tonight. Fast, flying.
Bostonians, take note: Offsetting the on-ramps and off-ramps. It's a concept. Makes the whole right-lane more of a road and less of a parking lot.
I'm just saying.
But what a fool believes he sees ...
No wise man has the power to reason away
What seems ... to be
Is always better than nothing
He used to call over and over, that guy I met at work. It would be ringing as I was walking in the door. "What?!" I would demand, out of breath and irritated from fumbling the keys in the lock and diving for the phone.
My neighbor, he cracked to me one Saturday morning as we were in the garden - he said "You sure get a lot of late-night phone calls lately". He had a wicked smile. I mean the neighbor. That other guy, he didn't last the month. The neighbor I crushed on from across the hall for seven years.
That side job I did with the swing band. The backstage passes. There were the shows and then the after parties. 3AM at some amazing loft with preppily dressed men and women in short skirts. Plotting coffee runs and rendez-vous.
I'd escape alone. By the time my date was out of the bathroom, I'd be home. I would dive into my bed, still partly dressed. Raccoon eyes the next morning, too tired to wash off the mascara.
Dee used to ask me when I'd be ready. I'd put on the disengenuous, and ask: Ready for what? Some of us just like to sleep alone, I'd say with a shrug. Don't like sharing the blankets. Haven't met the guy worth sharing my blanket.
She'd say 'whatever'.
There's a stalled car in the breakdown lane. 3 guys huddled by the hood of the car. Each on a cell phone, with an eye on the road behind. The tow's coming, wonder if their ladies will wait.
I restart the song. It's good to have music that throbs the car.
Smooth exit up the ramp, left at the light. The moon is bright and full. The streetlights reflect that rock on my hand, hung around my finger in platinum.
Slower, darker, closing in. I'm smiling as I flick the indicator for a last turn.
That was then. This is now. Everything's different, I'm driving to him and not away.
I said yes.
I said yes.
I'm home.
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September 23, 2004
Since we got this, I have discovered that there is a massive industry in mangling the Bible for children.
See, in Bear's Parragon-published book not only is there a page with a pretty cartoon of Moses (who is strangely albino) with "Ten Commandments" tablets displayed to round happy (albino) people who have never spent a day in a desert in their LIVES - but worse, there is a whole NEW version of the story that I got to believe was made up late one night over a couple of bottles of Blue Nun.
And? BRAND NEW COMMANDMENTS.
Hot off the presses!
Number 8: "Husbands and Wives should love each other and be nice to each other".
O-kayyyyy then.
Don't get me wrong. Nice sentiment. And Exodus and Deutoronomy both contain guidelines that push the concept.
But - and I think you're with me on this, right? - isn't the point of indoctrinating people to have them educated in the, you know, actual doctrine?
Not just nice ideas that go well with the pretty pictures?
This book is messing with its little audience. These kids are going to grow up and head over to the clubhouse and all the other Christians are going to LAUGH at them when they try and show off their Commandments.
And how cruel is that?
So if the Commandments seemed to the publishers to be too adult for a kid then ... and this may seem radical but work with me .... they shouldn't have put them in a children's book. Not rewritten them for a "G" audience.
I'm just saying.
On the other hand, if those publishers are going to continue getting all creative with Biblical canon, they just may want to hire my 4 year old. He has the distinction, unlike some, of being both imaginative and of not knowing better -
"Mommy, Can you tell me the Jonah story again? About how the Rescue Heroes came and told him that he had to help save the Power Rangers but then he ran away and a whale named Carl saved him and then his mommy gave him chocolate and kisses and he wasn't scared any more and also he had a flashlight?"
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Enough already.
George?
We get it.
You are resolute. You're the kind of guy that would drive to New Brunswick and into the ocean before asking directions. You're the kind of guy that "stays on target". When you think you're right, which is always, nothing can sway you. You're a rock.
And you are passionate about being an American, and beating the crap out of the bullies on the schoolyard. Not because of the other kids who limp along without lunch money all year. But because they are a threat to us. Because the USA gets to be the only big bully on this schoolyard. Right, George?
Be nice if, just once, you realized that might doesn't make right, dude.
Whoo-hoo! Cowboy George is here to kick some butt. All the other kiddos better get out of his way.
John?
You might want to get off your moral high horse. We see you smirking up there. You think we don't have your number, too?
Yeah, dude. We get you.
Face it John - you're the Horschack of the Senate. You've got an answer to every question and you want everyone to know it. Ooh! Ooh! Call on John! Call on John!
With a brain like yours, it is too bad that you're sliding by only paying attention about 20% of the time. Oh, you think we don't know that sometimes you change your opinion because you weren't listening too good the first time around? Yeah, John - you've got a vision. But dude, sometimes you walk into walls because you've got one eye in the mirror checking your own bad self out.
Yep, here comes John and his big head to tell us the right answers.
Now, Both of You.
This isn't a junior high popularity contest cloaked in a student body election. This is your interview for the leadership of this country.
And frankly, most of us are a little weary of you two polarizing the country with your accusations that the other guy is going to be the doom of us all. In case you hadn't noticed, we are already scared. No need to start ennumerating the monsters under the bed. I don't care if you're doing it because you feel you have a legitimate response, or because you're posturing. Stop it.
We all have 9/11 burned into our hearts. Shame on you both for trying to capitalize on it.
Shame on you both for villainizing each other. You're NOT each other's enemy. The terrorists are the enemy. You two are fellow Americans.
So enough name-calling and pouting and whining. Enough sneaky mud balls. Stop embarrasing me in front of the whole planet.
In case you've forgotten, I've got a 4-year-old of my own to deal with. Not to mention an entire executive commitee who's the boss of me every freaking workday. You think I'm going to tolerate this from YOU?
Shit, no.
I've got a VOTE and I'm not afraid to use it.
You want it? You want my pretty vote?
Then here's how it is going to be. You two are going to go on the positive. You're going to sit back down in your chairs and write me an essay: "Why I want to be President." You are not allowed to refer to each other. Not once. You talk about yourself, and you be honest. You don't think I know when you're lying? Boys, neither of you is gonna win a poker contest anytime too soon.
So you ready now? For real? No more bathroom breaks. OK, George - just this once. But don't dawdle. Fine. Now, you got your pencils? (John, sit up straight. Stop slouching!) Remember, this is going to be graded by every citizen in the country so make it worth reading. (Yes, George, spelling counts.) Shoot for content. For heart. For clarity. For vision. No curves, no extra points.
Got it? All right, then. You've got six weeks.
Start.
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September 22, 2004
Well, it's late September again. Fall is finally here, but you wouldn't know it - we have the air conditioner going. I know, I know.... a waste of money. Right?
Bear is 4 years old now. Grandma - you would be so proud of your great-grandson. He's such a good kid.
He's polite, and considerate, and bright, and loving. He likes to trace our faces with his hands and look into our eyes. He likes to help out around the house. He isn't into sports yet, but he loves to be at the park and ride his bike.
You won't be happy to know that he watches too much TV. But he's also a whiz with painting and crafts, and very advanced in the computer games we let him play. He recognizes letters, and speaks 2 languages and understands a smattering of 2 more.
You can see the me in him - in his cheeks and his eyes, and his articulate conversations. You can see the you in him, too - in his quirky humor and coppery freckles.
Grandma, it hurts so much that you aren't here to share him with us.
Do you get the news where you are? Your guy is running for reelection. He may just win, too. A 2-term Bush, who would have thunk it? The Dems put forward John Kerry. Oh, stop laughing Grandma. It's a tight race. Really.
What else?
more...
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September 19, 2004
This is my photojournal of the day.
11AM Off we went from my place, in C's Expedition. We rolled through a Dunkin Donuts for coffee. I started making fun of the way Bostonians give directions... "Go to the Dunkie's, bang a left. Now you're on Route 3 South going west. So go another - one, two, three Dunkies - the one with a drive-thru - bang a sharp right."
The highway bled into the city and we decided to swing onto Lake Shore Drive up to Roger's Park, a lakeside neighborhood to the north. It took about 30 minutes to untangle our way through the downtown streets because of setup for the Celtic Festival and the ongoing hordes for the AIDS Walk. The delay didn't bother us in the least. We agreed that it was a perfect September Chicago day - deep blue skies, soft breeze, about 70 degrees.
12PM Found us in the most northern part of the city at Berger Park. We sat on the rocks and watched a guy throw sticks for his chocolate lab to retrieve from Lake Michigan. We listened to the waves, talking in fits and starts about life, dreams, men, women, children. We agreed that the guy from Highlander - the TV show, not the movies - was serious fantasy material.
12:30PM We walked over to a local diner. We found a booth and ordered, trying not to be obvious the way we stared at the Elvis impersonator. The food was forgettable. The jukebox was fine, fine, fine. We played the Beatles and Santana, we sang along with Earth Wind and Fire. The diner was a run-down local institution, full of people from every part of the social spectrum. We dawdled, soaking in the moments.
2PM We parked on Clark at Division and walked towards the beach past all the bars and night clubs shuttered to the sun. I remembered that fantasy guy's name was Adrian something. We decided it was the ponytail, the accent and the body. Well, C liked the sword. OK, we all liked the sword.
A bride and groom rolled by in an horse-driven carriage. In the tunnel under Lake Shore, a violinist played. Up on Elm Street Beach, there were only a handful of people enjoying the glorious afternoon. Another friend joined us, and we dug our toes in the sand and took pictures of the afternoon sun across the skyline.
3:45PM We drove south to Millenium Park, the newest attraction in dowtown Chicago. Yet another bride, this one dashing in front of the Prudential Building with an attendant holding her train.
4PM Despite its name, Millenium Park opened just last year. The cost overruns, delays, and controversey over the art and architecture are by now legendary. This is Mayor Daley's baby, his vision for bringing even more recognition to Chicago as a world class city. The park replaces an old trainyard that was a blight for years - smack dab in prime real estate adjoining Grant Park and the lakefront.
We explored the paths, landscaping, and sculptures. There's one we called "Coffee Bean" - a silver sphere that cast all sorts of interesting reflections. We joined the tourists at an open air restaurant and drank martinis from plastic cups and munched on a light, yet overpriced, dinner. Our waiter was a cute guy, young. But no Adrian-from-Highlander. I'm just saying. Plus? Bad service. The sun streaks had turned golden in late afternoon. We talked about our jobs, the politics of our careers, our plans for the future.
5:30PM We headed north for a mile or 2 up Michigan Avenue. At each intersection, the east-west crossing street would be aglow. We'd stop and gaze into the deepening sunset.
The city was bursting. We wiggled and clapped for the buskers - drummers, guitarists, and a horn section. We admired the skyline, pointing out buildings to each other. We were yelled at to repent or vote for LaRouche by street corner evangelists.
We walked in different configurations, changing partners, slowing down here and there and then speeding up, running against a yellow light. Eventually we ended up at the Water Tower and headed into Ghiradelli's for hot fudge sundaes.
7:20PM By the time we were done, it was dark. Riders in the stream of horse carriages now had blankets. We walked a block or so and then hailed a cab back to Millenium Park.
7:30PM We'd left ourselves a pair of sculptures to investigate. Two towers with water flowing over them and into a shallow pool. The towers alternately glow different colors or have faces of Chicagoans on them - they are best appreciated at night.
Every few minutes, one of the video faces "spits" - a stream of water projected from the mouth. You got wonder about the pitch session for this purchase. Spitting Sculptures? But they were a lot of fun. There was a crowd milling about, children playing in the shallow pools.
8PM We dug out the car from the garage and headed for home. We passed under the 'El" train - each of us used to commute on that train once upon a time. We looked up at it in silence, comfortably ensconced in leather seats and climate control.
The ride slipped by too quickly. I think we all wished the day could last a little longer. I was grateful it lasted as long as it did.
Total tally:
Statistics of party:
4 women representing -
Combined age of 145 years old, 5 kids, 2 husbands, 2 ex-husbands, 1 live-in partner, 4 cell phones, 4 dogs, 6 cats, 1 SAHM (and Partner in family-owned business), other 3 Careers representing 2 senior positions and 1 executive with combined salaries of over a quarter million. Average salary when we met in the early 90's - $5/hour (we worked at the same place).
Other Statistics:
Number of Brides seen: 5
Number of pictures taken on Canon Digital by me: 127
Number of shampoos it took to get the sand out of my hair: 3
Hours slept, in blissful exhaustion, afterwards: 10
Costs of the day (per person):
Dunkin Coffee: $2
Brunch at Diner (with tip): $7
Parking: $2
Buskers: $1
Dinner at Millenium Park: $20 (with Martini)
Sundae at Ghiradelli's: $7
Cab: $2 (We all pulled crumpled dollars from our pockets)
Total, per person: about $42
The Perfect Day with old friends? Priceless.
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September 17, 2004
I was in my office working, door shut. CD was at his computer. He was about to head out for the day so our babysitter of 3+ years, Elia, was over and taking care of Bear.
CD's cell phone rang. It was Elia. On HER cell phone.
CD: "Hello??"
Elia: "Hello, CD? Could you come open the door please?"
CD: "Where are you?"
Elia: "Outside on the front steps."
CD found this news fascinating because Bear, well Bear was INSIDE the house watching cartoons.
Turns out? Bear was pissed off that Elia has come to watch him because he'd wanted Daddy to stay home. So while he and Elia had been playing outside, he'd waited until Elia was just out of range and then raced into the house and, yes, LOCKED.THE.DEADBOLT after himself.
The one that can NOT be opened from the outside.
Close your eyes and just imagine the Armageddon that ensued once CD had put together the scenario in his mind. Yelling? Yup. Steam from ears? You betcha. Stream of consciousness lecturing that would do an Oxford scholar proud? Aye, man! Preschooler over Daddy's shoulder into his room and into the corner for the world's most incredible time-out? Oh yeah, you know it.
But punishment just upped the decibel level. Once he was freed from the corner, the unrepentant Bear lay on his bed - rejecting Elia's attempts to talk to him and throwing a force-10 tantrum. He was kicking the wall and crying and gnashing and wailing "I don't LIKE you and I don't LIKE Daddy!!".
Oh, it was drama to beat the band here at CorporateMommy Central, my friend.
I ejected myself from the office to see if I could help.
In the den, I found CD. He was apeshit.
He stood in the middle of the room with his hands outstretched in supplication and his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
"What?" I asked.
"It's just... it's just... I thought we had YEARS before he started locking his babysitter out of the house. "
He's a flipping prodigy, I tell you. more...
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TV being a fairly universal reference point, let me say - CD reminds me of "Luka" on the TV show "E.R.".
There's the superficial likenesses. Foreigners living in Chicago. Big dark eyes and oozy sensuality that comes, in part, from intent listening skills. A great sense of humor and a razor dry wit.
Then there's the deeper things. Like the "Luka" character, CD has a gravitas that comes from tragic events in the past mixed with a brilliant mind and an honesty that makes him unable to "play politics".
That's probably why most people quickly trust and respect CD, even though he is slow to trust others and is a very private person.
Our love story isn't tidy. It was uncomfortable at times, and overlapped other lives. Too much drama.
When CD and I met, it was an explosion of chemistry. After the dust cleared, we agreed - looking at our goals and our situations - that it made sense to keep it casual. It was to be dinners and a movie. It was to be conversation and long walks. It was to be lighthearted. No hard feelings. No strings, no profound expectations, no exclusivity.
About 3 or 4 months into it, I rented my spare bedroom to a guy who was relocating to Chicago.
My new roommate, "Harry", was a co-worker of CD's . I'd met him about a month after I'd met CD. I'd had 2 or 3 dates with Harry and it had been "meh". He was more enchanted by my circle of friends than he was with me. So it was with a little relief that I stipulated that we would NOT date if he was living in my apartment. Completely platonic. He said he understood.
Of course, he immediately began acting as though we were married.
He wasn't in my place an hour before I noticed that every other freaking word out of this guy's mouth was "us".
With sinking anger, I realized that I had gotten myself into one of those sticky interpersonal situations that are so agonizing for me. I was going to have an honest "come to Jesus" with Harry. A serious confrontation. Just thinking about it made me want to cry. I started hiding from my own apartment. more...
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September 13, 2004
I haven't been sleeping well. I have been hugging and snuggling my son within an inch of his life. I have set up a little workstation in my office and I've been having him "work" next to me when CD is doing other things. I don't care what that does to my job.
I am becoming even more overprotective, and I'm probably doing all sorts of un-good things to my son's psyche. It won't last; it's just for now. Until I find a way to buffer myself from this reality, and believe that it won't happen here. That it can't happen here.
I've done it before. Columbine. 9/11. I've seen the horrors before, and been afraid, and found a way to find again a sense of safety - real or imagined - in my little world.
Soon, I will once again blithely bring my son to the little schoolroom with the aquarium full of goldfish and the clock that tweets the hour and believe he is in a safe place.
But for now, I am haunted by adults who plan to harm children. I keep thinking about how it wasn't one screwed up homicidal sonofabitch that accidentally killed some kids. I keep thinking that these adults, these holy warriors, planned it. Looked through lens of a weapon and saw chubby cheeked little faces, and felt vindicated in squeezing the trigger.
I am nauseated with confusion. What cause is more important than the moral imperative as a species to nurture and protect the next generation to be better than ourselves?
How do you deny humanity and target the most innocent, most vulnerable amongst us?
I keep thinking, those kids. Those frightened kids.
Kids who believed in fairies and superheroes. Kids who believed that mommy kisses magically make hurts all better. Kids who believed that monsters could live under the bed. And then the monsters came into their classrooms and tortured them And the monsters looked like adults - the kind that checked their teeth at the dentist's office or coached their football teams.
Kids who died, after suffering hours of pain and fear and learning that their protectors - teachers and parents - were helpless to save them.
I have been haunted by Beslan.
How? When did killing children - deliberately, painfully - become a group activity aimed at any purpose? When did this become our world? I thought 9/11 was the depths of depravity, and now I no longer have the imagination to know how low we will go.
I have been haunted by Beslan.
I am afraid. more...
Posted by: Elizabeth at
07:23 PM
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I have always felt God near. I have always thought the message of Jesus Christ was that of love. I've always, as far back as my memory reaches, been involved with my church and faith (Episcopalian, for those keeping score).
And I've always wanted to be part of the solution. So when I moved into the city (Chicago) when I was 25, I took myself over to the Episcopal Cathedral office building and said "OK, what needs doing?"
I was immediately tackled to the ground by a horde of understaffed employees.
After the dust settled, it was decided that I could start by interpreting, into sign language, the Bishop's next sermon. (Me and sign language is another story.)
A few Sundays later, I showed up early for services and was outfitted, rather crudely, into a spare cassock hemmed with duct tape and told to stand next to the lectern.
They had me start out there, so I just interpreted the whole service rather than look like a human statue. The place was full as you can imagine - a real turnout because Frank, the bishop, was presiding for the first time in months.
I felt obvious, and a little embarrassed. Was I was interpreting for the sake of the Church seeming "inclusive"? I would have bet there wasn't a deaf person in a 5-mile radius. But I grimly pressed on.
Finally, Frank stepped up and began to speak.
His sermon that day was about his recent trip to Israel and the Middle East.
I was struck by his warm, compelling voice. Frank, it was immediately clear, was incredibly sincere. As he talked, he revealed a deep sense of humor and a profound aura of faith. I was blown away.
He talked about his trip. About meeting people of many religions and beliefs. Of being gutted with the tragic reality of the region - the clashing, bomb-ridden screams of incompatible righteousness. Frank talked about wearing a pilgrim's ring and a pilgrim's eyes and seeking for the concrete symbols of his inner spirituality.
As he talked, and I was woven into his spell, my hands grew more and more eloquent and pure. Sign language lends itself to picture-stories.
Finally, Frank reached a moment in his journey where he decided he could no longer be a pilgrim. He removed his ring, and laid it as an offering beneath an underground fissure said to be a Holy place.
As Frank said the words, my hands drew the pictures. I slipped an unseen ring from my hand and gently placed at the base of Frank's pulpit.
We both grew still.
I could not interpret words that had not been said.
And he was so caught up in my interpreting that he stopped speaking.
We looked at each other, in a full church, and the moment swelled. The congregation didn't know if they should chuckle or cry.
Finally he reached out and touched my hands with his. Letting go, he said "like that. Exactly".
And he was done.
I was shivering. I don't remember the rest of the service. Except that, as everyone was leaving, an elderly lady signed to me from the doorway "Thank you."
Later, Frank called me into his office overlooking Chicago in the twilight afternoon. We had the first of what would become a series of conversations about faith and fundamentalism; about journey and calling.
We signed some papers, and a few weeks later I had a job description and a locker at the cathedral and a cassock to put in it - one that was tailored for me by one of the volunteers. This was involvement on a whole new level, and it consumed a great part of my life.
It was many years later that I surrendered the cassock willingly and left for another path and another destination. Frank had been promoted away from the bishopric and with him went my desire to work for the diocese.
I became a civilian, and had to relearn living. It was a long, painful change that took years. But I must have succeeded because people now never guess at my life before.
That suits me fine, most days.
But I'm not "undercover" pretending to be something I'm not. I changed careers and lifestyles, but I didn't change my fundamental belief system. I neither hide nor shout my faith - I live in it.
But sometimes, sometimes I remember when.
Posted by: Elizabeth at
09:30 AM
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September 07, 2004
This is the worst of the trip, the part we were awake for... Boston to Pennsylvania, the longest 580 miles. Ever.
Massachusetts
Start time: 6AM, Sunday Morning
Route: Mass Pike - 134 miles
Time: 5 hours 15 minutes
Our alarms were set for 5:30AM and it was still dusky dark when we pulled out of my mom's driveway. We hit Dunkin Donuts (CD - "Can we get going already?") and then put our backs to the sunrise and hopped the highway towards the Mass Pike.
As soon as we hit 50 mph, the antique door that we had bought at New England Salvage and strapped to the roof rack started making a horrible noise; "thwacka thwacka THWACKATHWACKA!"
We pulled over and rearranged the door. Bear, almost asleep in the back, groaned.
20 more miles. 30 more minutes of "THWACKA thwacka THWACKA!"
Holy crap, we were barely to Worcester and we couldn't go over 50mph without rendering ourselves senseless with the noise. We stopped to readjust that ^(*&*$#@! door about a dozen times. We came thisclose to hucking it into a drainage ditch.
There are some serious hills on the Mass Pike. The road is forcibly wedged into rock cliffs, the striations from the dynamite blasts still visible. As the road narrowed, the 'thwacka' noise would increase - it was like having a giant thudding vibrator strapped to our heads. The only relief would come on the open upward stretches, when the van simply buzzed around us, quietly.
By Sturbridge, we were all bonkers. We pulled into the service center and had breakfast, got gas, and ran like banshees in circles. Bear's backseat nest was rearranged and his new Digimon DVD restarted. CD battled the door (again).
"Thwacka! ThwackThwackThwackTHWACKA!" for another hour as we gritted our teeth and made for the New York border.
New York
Hit the border on: Sunday Morning, 11:15AM
Route: NY State Thruway - 442 miles
Time: 11 hours 45 minutes
The first 125 miles of New York state passed in stupor. We were 3 numb bunnies, staring with glassy eyes at the miles of asphalt.
We'd passed through miles of construction, beautiful scenery, and glorious weather and never noticed a thing.
Thwacka. Thwacka.
By Utica, CD had passed back into anger and defiantly pulled off the thruway looking for a Target or something and some kind of solution.
What we found instead was a place called Big Lots. We'd never been to a Big Lots before. Oh. My. Stars. Have you ever been to a Big Lots? This is like a nice clean flea market.
We found a bunch of Rescue Heroes action figures and stuff for Bear's birthday! We found snacks! We found a bra! We found a cheap, streamlined boombox for Bear! We found a garden sprinkler thing! And best of all? We found a foam egg crate mattress liner!
All this, for like 5 bucks.
Out in the parking lot, CD and I pulled the %^#@@! door off the van roof, wrapped it in egg crate, and put it back on. We got back on the road.
Silence.
Oh, the blessing this was. I can't begin to explain. Nirvana.
I stuck the cruise control on 72mph and we tried to make up some of our lost time.
The next 200 miles spun by in a blur. Other than some bathroom and gas breaks, we sailed into the sunset on wings.
In Buffalo, we asked the toll booth guy for directions to his favorite hot wings joint. He sent us to Duffs. Wowza. CD, who is a hot wings gourmand of the highest caliber, purred like a kitten. Bear and I played in the grass with his new action figures.
Then we decided, what the heck?! Let's go to Canada.
After about 15 minutes waiting about a mile from the border in traffic, we decided that Canada? Not so much.
We turned around and headed to Niagara Falls. We pulled into the park just about sunset.
The lookout tower over Niagara
It was a 3-hour detour, give or take. We were all physically exerted, fed, and awed by the time we clambered back into the car. The plan was to drive to Erie and spend the night at a hotel.
40 miles later, we pulled into the Angola rest area - which actually sits in the grassy thruway median, accessible via a walking bridge from either side of the highway.
We took over the family bathroom (I love family bathrooms) to wash up, brush teeth, change into soft clothes/pajamas, and whatnot. Then we made a family decision - we were feeling strong, it was only around 10 PM. Erie was about an hour or so away - but did we really need to stop? Why not just keep driving until we got tired?
So we picked up some coffee and juice, cleaned up the car some and rearranged Bear's nest back into optimal sleeping position. The cool night air was good for a few stretches.
50 miles to the the Pennsylvania border, 550 miles home, a full tank of gas, a sleeping (wait - what time is it here?) 3 year old, a cooler full of juice and snacks, and a quiet door strapped to the roof.
Hit it. more...
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September 05, 2004
Once upon a time....
After 120 days of bedrest, we went in for a second Level 2 sonogram. 30 days earlier, we'd discovered you were a boy and that you were not thriving quite the way all those nice people in white coats would have liked.
The same technician again, measuring and computing. Finally, we asked "How is he?" She told us you were "Perfect. And very adorable." (well, of course!)
"How are his lungs and his weight?" I wanted to know. Your lungs were hard to measure, but your weight was about 1lb, 13 oz.
"Is that good?" we asked.
The technician smiled and told us that you were now in the 53rd percentile - 3% larger than the average fetus of your gestational age. She was telling us that you had come from behind to the middle of the pack.
She could have told us you also had won a special congressional medal of honor for kicking so good and we wouldn't have been happier.
At 128 days of bedrest, we were back in the emergency room. They triaged me pretty quickly - after all, we were frequent fliers - and did a fast sonogram. Your heart rate was fine.
I was the sick one.
I had a virus, and like everything else - moving, eating, filing my nails - it had set off a spike of high blood pressure and contractions.
Another visit to Labor and Delivery. We were really scared this time, because they started saying that it might be time to let you finish your great escape.
How would you ever survive?
Your dad and I sat in silence, and Bear - we prayed. We prayed so awfully hard.
And they dripped me full of stuff, and after a few days your dad sprung us - you still safe and sound in your mommy-shaped home.
By 236 days of bedrest, the nice people in the white coats decided that it was time, really time, for you to be born.
So we called everyone, packed up the car, and then dawdled at home for a long hour discussing the day ahead. It was our last moments as a family of two.
They induced at 5PM and from then on the Pitocin contractions never let up.
By 9PM, the gang was in place - your dad was excited, your nana arrived from Boston, your Aunt Dee was there, and even El. They were cheering, I was huffing through the pain and walking in circles, and you were tucked in for the long haul.
At 1AM, we took a long hot shower. It didn't help. But it was worth it to see your dad looking silly in wet clothes.
At 3AM, I was given a narcotic and it knocked me out. Your dad and Aunt Dee would giggle as I would wake up and shout "ow ow ow" with each contraction and then fall back asleep.
At 9AM I got an epidural. I turned human again just as it was time to push.
At 11AM, I was told I was pushing wrong.
At 11:15AM the doctor told us your head was turned the wrong way to be born and manually worked you around to the right position. Your dad was able to see the head the next time I pushed.
At 1PM the doctor said "great pushing but Bear hasn't turned all the way and was well and truly stuck."
2PM, and you were jammed in my pelvis. In case you've forgotten, let me remind you: Neither of us liked you there.
At 3PM, the emergency C-section began. It took 52 more minutes to free you. That epidural? Not so effective. I would slurringly announce things like "Gee that knife is sharp. Could you stop hurting my right side like that?"
That didn't make the doctors very happy. Didn't make my body happy either. My blood pressure was 220/160 despite the medication.
Almost simultaneously, you were born and they knocked me out.
As they took you out of my tummy by your feet, you stretched out into the world. The doctor turned you right side up and you surprised her by lifting your head. Then you reached out and grabbed her around the neck. (Yes, Bear, like a hug) She had your handprint there for hours.
Your dad cut your cord and they harvested your stem cells to be donated for someone who needed them - because you didn't anymore. (You see? From the very start, your birth was a blessing.)
The people in white coats rubbed you, measured you, and wrapped you cozy in a blanket. Then your dad grabbed you up. I was almost able to register your birth before falling into the black place. Your dad held you militantly at my side.
The hovering white coats, eager to finish their protocols, just had to wait until I was stable before your dad consented to leave my side. Because, he was never about to leave yours.
Hours later, when I woke up in Recovery, your dad brought you to me again.
Finally, we met.
I smelled you and touched you and memorized your face. It was primal, instinct, necessary. We imprinted on each other. For a long, long time the three of us rested on that bed together quietly, the way we still do so often, as a family.
It was the beginning.
Happy 4th Birthday, Bear
more...
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September 02, 2004
Fenway Park, from Sect 18, Box 39, Row G, Seat 1
Game 67: Ana 7 - BoSox 12 (Yeah Baby), 09/01/2004
My old friend Kevin was into baseball in a very big way and infected me with it when I was in my 20's. I lost count of how many games we caught together.
I remember one night, Kevin and I drove around Chicago looking for a somewhere quiet we could talk. It was a melancholy night, just before he moved away.
Finally he pulled over on Addison, and I looked up at that old sign over the stadium. "I think this," he told me quietly as we gazed at Wrigley Field, "is about as Holy a place in Chicago as you could find."
I understood.
Baseball is a language that has given me common ground with other people as well. Like my dad.
Last night, he took CD and I to the Red Sox-Anaheim Angels game. Dad surprised us with amazing seats, and we lucked out with weather - warm with a cool breeze and a bright moon.
Johnny Damon got 5 hits for 5 at-bats and made it home 3 times. Millar got a 3-run homer. Manny got walked a couple of times. Red Sox spanked Anaheim. It was a rollicking boisterous game, and a great time.
It was the second Fenway game I've been to with my dad.
Aug 18, 1993 was the first time we'd taken in a Red Sox home game together. We got same-day SRO tickets, White Sox/Red Sox and grabbed some programs and some beers.
Danny Darwin, #44, was the starting pitcher. Usually, the Red Sox go through pitchers in a game like a cocktail nuts at a bar - but this day would be different.
It was a sunny summer day and my dad and I found a piece of railing with a good view. As the first outs were made, Dad and I got into a rhythm - he held the beers while I scored the game. He'd look over my shoulder once in a while, correcting my marks - "That was 9 to 3" he'd say. Or, "I'm not sure they gave him the error on that play."
Midway through the top of the 3rd, and a hush began to spread around the stadium. Dad peered at my box scores and asked, "Is that what I.." and I nodded. We shared a long look, and then held our breath.
Darwin, that inconsistent pitcher, was pitching a perfect game.
The full stadium was riveted. We watched in absolute silence.
5th inning, into the 6th and we still had, unbelievably, a no-hitter on our hands. Danny was throwing strike after strike. The catcher, Tony Pena, had practically crawled out of his shorts. Darwin was cool. We were praying, pulling, with glistening eyes and bated breath.
The Chicago White Sox were swinging with everything they had. And theirs was a roster of power hitters.
But no one could get a piece of Darwin.
Finally, in the 8th, with one out, Dan Pasqua connected and ran hell bent for leather before settling on 3rd. Darwin retrieved the ball, ready to pitch to the next batter. As though nothing had happened. No sign of disappointment, just steady focus.
But the fans had were not about to let the moment slide by. Before he could throw the next pitch, we stopped the play.
The noise erupted all at once, overtaking me with emotion. My eyes were puddled with tears. I looked around and saw that every man, woman, and child was up. Dad put out beers on the ground and we joined in pounding our hands together in a beat that shook the walls.
"Darwin, Darwin..." came the cheer. We screamed ourselves hoarse for long minutes, while the refs let the man have his due. Darwin stood alone, tall on the mound.
This wasn't Ripken, or Williams, or any of the guys who I've cheered for before or since. This wasn't Ramirez last night, used to the pounding affirmation from stadium full of admirers.
This was Danny Darwin. Traded around, stats up and down, the oldest guy on the team. You think he'd want to bust out in the Macarena. But there's an unwritten code in baseball. It's dictates a calm, unruffled gratitude to appreciation. A stoic's approach to the boiling emotions of the game. Darwin embodied all the class and grace of that code on that August afternoon.
He simply nodded in acknowledgement.
And I joined with 30,000 fans to peal a last hoot of frenzied joy and appreciation before allowing Darwin to finish his day's work- a 5-0 shutout that was much more than the stats of the day.
It was the best game I've ever seen.
Last night, my Dad driving out of Boston and we look back at the park, windows open and the night breeze still soft and cool.
I got a chill watching Fenway recede. It's as Holy a place in Boston as you could find.
Posted by: Elizabeth at
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