May 31, 2005

Memorial Day; Ribs & Construction

I can't explain what it's like to have the construction started again on this old house. Even though he began the project in his usual impetuous way, it is so satisfying to look over and watch my husband measuring and hammering.

I flirted with the idea of not doing anything for Memorial Day, but I always do something for Memorial Day. We had three friends stopped by in addition to the four of us (my mom is visiting from out of town).

The parade in the morning was very sentimental. We stood for the flag, for veterans, for banners commemorating those who gave their lives in defense of America. Bear especially loved the bands and the muskets going off, but then he started to feel kind of puny. Once we got back home, we tucked him in on the couch with a nest of pillows and blankets and cartoons on the TV.

For the barbeque, I started cooking on Saturday. We had baby back ribs (dry rub overnight, baked, and then smoked with homemade sauce), my potato salad (which always comes out pretty good), mom's onion & roquefort salad, baked beans with sausage, sliced teriyaki steak, a roasted pepper and oil salad, grilled corn on the cob, sliced cherry tomatoes, and Dee brought cole slaw. We drank rum and punch, and had apple pie (store bought) and frosted brownies (Dee's) for dessert.

Afterwards, we did that thing I hate - split up in gender groups. The guys tucked pencils behind their ears and got to work on my office while I had the company (and help) of my girlfriend while gardening. But we came back together to drink and all push the new window into place before calling it a night.

Bear spent the afternoon cuddled with his Nana. Him not feeling well was the only dark cloud in a day of glorious, perfect weather and wonderful eats and fellowship. A great, great day. I wish it hadn't had to end.

In the extended entry, see the "before" and "during" pictures of my office! more...

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May 27, 2005

New Beginings

Like an internal alarm, I've been realizing lately that there are things in my life that have been going on too long. That I have been letting slip and slide. Thinking about changing but never really getting a foothold.

So I made the decision to get moving. After New Year's I began slowly putting my shoulder to the roadblocks in the path of my happiness.

I had my bookkeeper separate our finances, so that we could each shoulder a fair share and I could stop feeling bitter about having to go back to work. And it is begining to help, emotionally.

I told my management that I wanted the luxury of off the promotion track, and they agreed.

I put a deadline on how long I would work in this house, under these conditions (this place has been stalled "in the middle of a rehab" for years and it is a miserable place to spend 20 hours a day). And CD agreed.

And finally, I looked down at my overweight body and decided I needed help. Real help. So I found a new GP, and we came up with some strategies. She's a wonderful doctor, and supportive of what I've done so far and the goals I have (which are reasonable).

I came out of her office pumped up but then I immediately began wobbling. For 3 months now, I have been wobbling. Toes in the pool, but still undecided.

This morning I made the call. In 10 days, I begin down the path that will ultimately have a rubber band tied around my stomach to help me lose this weight. (Note, this is NOT Gastric Bypass. This is something called "Lap Band" - reversable, adjustable, and much less invasive, less risky, and less drastic than gastric bypass.)

I'm nervous, and scared.

I feel weak for needing help.

But I want back the energy and health and attractiveness that I had. It's been 5 years since I began gaining the weight, and I have to give up this idea that somehow it will melt off if I just eat right, or try a new diet, or just excersize a little more.

So even though I am scared, I'm going to put one foot in front of the other.

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May 26, 2005

Because You're Beautiful: One Day Only Answers

My Blogiversary is tomorrow today over!

Thank you.

You crazy people have honored me with almost 40,000 visits. 1300 1457 comments. You are amazing, amazing, amazing.

All my life, I wanted to be an author. And you made me one. Because of this blog. Because I wrote, and you read.

So, thank you. Thank you for listening. For allowing me to get to know you, for this dialogue, for this community.

In my gratitude, I'm going to answer the 3 most popular questions I get and leave this answer up until the end of tomorrow. So without further ado:

1) What do I look like?
2) Am I really a senior manager in a Fortune 400 company?
3) Can I read the SciFi story you wrote?

Words can not express my affection and indebtedness to the folks who have stopped by and commented. You've made this year, you beautiful nutty wonderful people. You ....complete me.

Now I'm all sniffly.

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May 25, 2005

In offense of public schools

One of my closest friends in the world, Dee, and I are in an argument.

She strongly believes in public schools. That Bear should attend them and that CD and I need to join the PTA and be agents of force to help address their problems and make them places of learning, respect, and safety.

She tells me that change won't be possible unless we're all in it together. Unless all parents wade into the public school system and take up arms against the sea of mediocrity. She tells me that until then there is little hope. The teachers can not do it without the parents.

She's right.

An inner-city child living at the poverty level is just as worthy as my son to an outstanding and effective education. My son is not smarter, better, or more worthy.

And it is not fair that because I can afford better, my son gets the advantage of a great school. Both families pay taxes and both families love their children.

But the Public School system isn't built on a level playing field.

I love being an American, but that doesn't mean I wear blinders. So let's call a duck a duck, ok?

Our public school system is the worst of any industrialized nation. And it's not going to get fixed anytime fast - the problem is too big.

It is in disrepair, inconsistent, and run by legislators who keep throwing new standardized tests at the problem as if we can fix things by training the children to test better instead of finding ways to educate them better.

Yes, I do see the shades of gray. The public school teachers that are amazing. The ones that are bailing the ocean with a teaspoon. The ones that invest in their kids, spend their own money on supplies, stay late and head in early, think outside the box, rage against legislators making policy when they have devoted their lives to studying and experiencing and responding to how children learn. The ones who are noble, and will not stand by and allow a school to damage the very children the are designed to serve.

John Taylor Gatto was New York State's Teacher of the Year when he quit. In his open letter of resignation, he railed against the American school system, closing with "If you hear of a job where I donÂ’t have to hurt kids to make a living, let me know. Come fall IÂ’ll be looking for work."

Men and women like this are heroes, role models, and survivors. They are in an alley fight to save our children and my soul leads me to them, into the trenches to fight by their sides. To have their backs.

But I know in my heart - it is a bad war. The system needs to be overhauled in a way that is radical, and child-led.

Does my disallusionment come from personal experience? Yes. Absolutely.

Bad things didn't just happen to me on the bus. Despite being in "outstanding school districts", I was warehoused and cataloged and suffered from public school experiences and graduated out of the system without the skills or knowledge that a basic education supposedly provides, despite my innate love and ethusiasm for learning.

But my bitterness doesn't make me wrong.

There are good schools, thousands of them. But not enough.
There are good teachers, thousands of them. But not enough.

The system is designed to the lowest denominator, and each day it is a crapshoot for each student - Will the school be safe today? Will they learn or will they be labeled? Bullied? Abused? Shot? Will the adminstration gear the lesson plans to the kids or wedge the greatest number of kids into a standardized plan?

Every parent knows that every child born has the capacity for greatness in them.

For them, I agree with Dee that is my responsibility to fight for changes.

But for Bear, it is my responsibility to do what is uniquely right for him.

He's staying put in Montessori. more...

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May 24, 2005

Die, Gerbils, Die! (Midnight Ramblings)

It's 1:04 in the morning and, well, I don't know how to break it to myself but sometimes a woman's got to do what a woman's got to do...

Self? You're not asleep.

*sigh*

Yeah, excuses, excuses. But we both know the terrible truth. It's those damn gerbils again. more...

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Asleep at the wheel

CD's still out of town, which means I'm not getting any sleep.

No. Not "awwwww". Not sweet.

I lay in bed thinking thinking thinking ... the demon gerbils in my mind don't stop. "Was that a noise? What if there's a robber?! I've never been good with physical confrontation. If it's a robber what will I do? Oh, dagnabbit. I'm not in good shape, I'm overweight, I've got high blood pressure, what if something happens to me in the night? Bear doesn't know how to call 9-1-1!!!"

Yeah, need some kind of medication, yo. I get that. Years of this self-imposed opressive sense of total responsibility has meant that I get myself twisted up around the axle sometimes in a really bad way. I forget to let go of those things I have no control over. Or maybe just forgotten how.

In less freaky news, I'm making paella for dinner. I bought a clothspin for Bear's nose. A little aromatic hardship for Mr Snarkypants won't hurt the boy. Not my job to make his life a walk through the park. No, need to prepare him to live in a world that does, from time to time, STINK. And? I need some seafood. I need it now.

I'm also on a househunt. More on that later. Althought I can promise you right here and right now that mine is not as interesting as Helen's - who is bidding nearly $1Million American dollars on a lovely fixer-upper outside London. *swoon*

I haven't been this tired since Bear was a baby. I think I've had a total of maybe 12 hours sleep since Saturday. The gerbil in my brain spinning, spinning, spinning.

"Nick and Jessica, Good God. Are they a sign of the apocolypse? Is RP right? Should I balance my retirement portfolio more heavily at the expense of Bear's college fund? Am I a bad mommy if I have the dry cleaner hem Bear's karate pants? Gotta find a new family dentist. Are the long-term needs of the tsunami victims being addressed? I have to get my expenses submitted, have to, have to...."

Someone, please.

Kill the damn gerbil.

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May 23, 2005

The Chocolate Bar Caper

OK, I'm going to call one of my current projects Operation Chocolate Bars.

I'm doing it in addition to my regular day job because its a pet project of my Exec VP. Operation Chocolate Bars is like a high-profile charity gig for the company. And? A pain in the ass.

Right now, I've got to refit a Chocolate Bar Factory to manufacture these special Chocolate Bars to be sold.

Last week, I headed into Chicago to tour the factory and sit down with the guys. The agenda was to drill down on the plan I'd drawn up, review the budget, and hash out where the risks were against the schedule.

I brought with me the Marshmallow Guys. It had been decided, on high, that the Chcolate Bars would be filled with flavored Marshmallow.

The Marshmallow Company, elitists but in a good way, would be actually setting up a piece of the assembly line to their own special specifications and staffing it themselves. This was to protect the secret recipe of their Marshmallow Fluff and ensure their excruciating standards of quality.

So we all got into the conference room; a group of us that included the Plant Manager of the facility and two of his minions, the Kitchen Manager, myself, and the three preppy guys from the Marshmallow Company.

We all sat down. They looked at me; I looked at them. The Marshmallow Guys started handing out business cards and introducing themselves and we all went around shaking hands.

And sat down again.

Then the Plant Manager took a deep breath, looked at me, and said, "Elizabeth. Explain to me why we are using Marshamallow."

I gave him a look that clearly telegraphed that a Plant Manager has about zero input on the ingredients.

The Plant Manager sighed again, leaned back in his char, and said sadly; "We have a problem. This factory was originally designed for peanut butter filling. My guys, they've worked with peanut butter. It is a much better filling choice than Marshmallow. I must insist that we use peanut butter."

The Kitchen Manager exploded, and said that the Plant Manager's job was to make chocolate bars to specifications. That it was outrageous that the Plant Manager would be so inappropriate.

One of Plant Manager's minions started badmouthing the Marshmallow Company in a mutter.

Oh yeah, then the Marshmallow Guys brought it.

Since I don't know how to wolf whistle, I just slapped the table. I asked Plant Manager if he was refusing to implement Marshmallow. He said he wanted an executive order, because he felt that peanut butter was the better choice. Then he walked out.

Meeting sandbagged, hijacked, and adjourned.

It took me 3 hours to get out of the building to my car. I was pulled into hallway corner after hallway corner by folks with a deeply felt need to express their STRONG opinions. I nodded so much that I'd become a human bobble-head.

Pulling on my headset as I finally began swimming upstream against Chicago traffic, I called the Plant Manager's manager. Who went through the 7 stages of grief in about 15 minutes. He couldn't believe his guy had headed off the reservation at supersonic speed. That he'd been such a pain in the ass, especially in a vendor meeting.

PMM: Elizabeth, my guess is that he's very concerned for his guys. They're all highly trained peanut butter technicians.

Me(groaning in frustration): We'll cross-train them in Marshmallow. It will expand their skill sets.

PMM: This was a disconnect between me and him, I was on vacation when the Marshmallow decision was finalized. I'll fix this, Elizabeth. Give me the day.

We hung up and a few minutes later my cell rung. It was the Vice President of Chocolate Affairs, who'd spoken with the PMM. He was forwarding me the Decision Memo that confirmed the Marshmallow Company as the vendor choice.

Another couple of minutes and the Director of North American Chocolate Production Factories called me, confirming Marshmallow and assuring me that the "local resistance" would be promptly resolved.

Then the Director of Recipes called me to say that Peanut Butter is not evil and it shouldn't be maligned. I told him that at no point had anyone bad-mouthed any other filling products. That the closest we'd come was to say that Peanut Butter had the market cornered and it was nice to be doing something different.

For the next two days it was a tempest in a Venti cup.

Last night, I got a message in my voice mail. Informing me that the peanut butter decision is being revisited.

You know, when I was growing up, my father sometimes worked from our home office. I can remember listening to the rumble of his voice through the door. The briefcase he carried, full of Very Important Documents that we were Not Allowed to Touch. I used to wonder what it would be like, to be "in the room" and having such serious discussions and making such hard decisions.

Well, now I know.

And I'm here to say: Dorothy? Head back! Oz is really run by lunatics and it's just a regular guy pulling all those levers!

*Thus pauseth the insanity. I'm taking a sick day.*

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May 20, 2005

How to gross out my kid

Have I ever mentioned that I cook? I am not great at it, but I love to do it and someday I am going to go to culinary school. In the meantime, Alton Brown is my love object - although I am ok with sharing him.

Have I ever mentioned that Bear hates to eat? He is incredibly picky not only about the food he'll put in his mouth but also about the food he even is willing to look at or smell.

Wednesday night, CD was late coming home and it was just Bear and me for dinner. So I made him Dinner #2 (Kraft Macaroni and Cheese) in the rotation of the 5 dinners this boy will eat (the others are: ramen soup, meatballs from IKEA, orange chicken from Panda Express, and pancakes and sausage).

Myself? I had bruschetta.

I cut up the remains of a loaf of french bread on the bias and threw the pieces under the broiler. Then I "whir-whirred" (in a clean coffee grinder) half a tomato, a quarter yellow onion, some basil leaves, olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper. Then I flipped the bread to toast the other side. Chopped up the other half of the tomato and stirred it in with the whirred-up mixture. Then I took the bread out of the oven, and spooned the mixture onto each piece. Shaved some romano on top (cuz, really, cheese makes everything yummy). Stuck it back under the broiler for about 2 minutes. Voila.

Rinsed the grinder. Put my meal on a plate, put his meal in a bowl, stuck it all on a tray with things like spoons and napkins and glasses of milk and presented the fine repast to Mr Snarkypants.

Who wrinkled his nose and sighed.

Bear: I can't eat now. My tummy hurts.

Me (Sputtering): Why?! It's your favorite Mac 'n Cheeese. I followed the directions just like Daddy.

Bear (A little whiny): Yeah, but you made my nose hurt. 'Cuz you made stinky food. AGAIN.

Me (Outraged): Bruschetta is NOT stinky food!

Bear: Mommy, just don't cook stuff, OK?

Me: Then what am I supposed to eat?

Bear (After a long moment of thought): Fruit gummies. And peanut butter. And you can have some of my Mac N Cheese after I'm full.

So we ate on opposite sides of the room. With him pinching his nose and making faces at me when he thought I wasn't looking. Afterwards, we made up and cleared dishes and made chocolate pudding together for desert. 'Cuz by then the "stink" of my food had settled down enough for him to handle being in the kitchen. That and the lure of running the mixer and licking the bowl.

P.S.: Funniest caption of the week: HERE!

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May 19, 2005

PARENTAL WARNING: Revenge of the Sith

*SPOILER WARNING SPOILER WARNING!!!!!!!!*

PARENT ALERT!

In the extended entry is a SPOILER for the movie. I'm posting it because there were a LOT of young kids at the movie tonight and this part was SCARY for them. I kept the spoiler as short and to the point as necessary so I don't ruin the movie for you, but if you're thinking of taking someone under 17 to this movie, please read! more...

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Death by Details

I'm begining to fall behind in everything.

Driving Bear and his babysitter to all the play dates and such, tracking all the end of the school year stuff, and not getting enough uniterrupted time to do my job means that I'm missing deadlines, skipping steps, running late, and feeling squished with all the stress.

CD shares his cubby at work so he keeps the personal stuff to an absolute minimum. That means he's unplugged from 8:30AM to 6PM every day. And, unfortunately, he hasn't built up the organizational effort to track the details that swirl like snow around a family - especially those that include Bear.

And because "I'm home", it is expected that I am both mom and employee - able, somehow, to juggle financial audits while convincing a screaming, overtired 4 year old that he HAS to take a nap while his adoring but non-confrontational babysitter murmurs gently beside me.

Yesterday, I discovered that CD hadn't yet made arrangements for Bear's summer care. This was the one thing I really needed him to do. Bear's school ends in 2 weeks. I am proud to say that I didn't scream or lose my temper. I did, however, cry with disappointment and stress.

Like planning a lovely night out at the movies for us but not getting a babysitter for Bear, CD's gestures can be sweet but incomplete. So I have learned this habit of hunting the details like a pig for truffles. Agressively seeking the minutae that will bitch slap my family if not tended.

But I often fail. It is too much. Things slip through the cracks. Like that contract we didn't sign and return on time - which precipitated a crisis about putting Bear into Kindergarten next year.

My job is high-profile and demanding. One of my mentors warned me, after my last promotion, that if I looked around at the successful people in my strata I would find they had one thing in common - a domestic situation that actually supported their careers.

She said: Elizabeth, a single shining performance or two will get you the promotion. But without a supportive home environment, you won't get there from here.

And she's right.

I try to see the forest for the trees. To accept my limitations and own that I'm dying in the details. That for my own sanity and health, the juggling act I've been doing as senior management and primary homemaker has got to STOP. But the person who needs to hear it most and do something about isn't listening -

me.

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May 18, 2005

In a day

Last night, about 1AM, we awoke to Bear calling to us from across the hall that he was thirsty.

Being the responsive, loving parents that we are, we both pulled pillows over our heads.

Bear's wail grew progressively louder and more insistent.

I nudged CD.

Me: Rock, Paper, Scissors?

CD: Mutter mutter mutter.

Me: What?

CD: Uh, Brick.

I peered tiredly at my hand in the dim. Me: Paper.

CD (groaning): Uummm clearly peas television.

Me: What?

CD: I'm exercising my nuclear option.

(Note: unfortunately for him, the nuclear option was not available. He ended up fetching the drink for Mr. Thirstypants.)

******************************************************

This morning, as CD was chasing Bear around trying to get him out the door for school and I was still lazing in bed (after all, my commute has been sharply decreased from ALL THE WAY DOWN THE HALL to: the other side of my bedroom).

Bear scampered into bed with me with a defiant glare at CD.

Bear: I want to stay here in bed with you. I like you best.

Me: I like you, too, but you have to go to school.

Bear (outraged): But they don't let me bring my favorite pillow!

******************************************************

Driving Bear and Elia to a playgroup this afternoon, we came to a congested intersection where a long funeral procession was streaming against the light. (This sparked a whole conversation about 'What is Dead' that I'm still having the shakes over.)

Then, just as the car snarl had grown completely outrageous, an ambulance tried to crash through on their way to, I dunno - save a life or make the day-old sale at the Sara Lee outlet store.

But, Alas!, the hillbillies in the funeral procession decided that the little orange flags on their windows trumped a lights-blazing ambulance and refused to give right-of-way.

All the cars surrounding this little show-down, having seen too many episodes of 'American Idol', thought they should vote on who should win and began chiming in by leaning on their horns. Into this cacophany, the ambulance decided to press the point by turning up its siren to ULTRA SCREECH setting.

As the blood began to gush from my ears,
I muttered: Oh, for heaven's sake! No amount of loud is gonna cure stupid!

From the back seat, Bear: Mommy! You said 'Stupid'! That's a bad word!

Me: Yes, I'm sorry honey. I lost my patience.

Bear: Well, that's no excuse. You should control your words!

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May 17, 2005

I dream of rooms with closets...

We bought this house full of dreams and energy. We knew we got an impossible deal in a great neighborhood, and rolled up our sleeves to make this neglected bungalow a lovely home.

Then the dark clouds pressed us back, and a couple of years ago I gave up on so many of those dreams we once had and just learned to tolerate things as they are. I often surprised myself with how much I could get done, considering the state of things. But nothing comes free and the toll has been on my soul.

Now that things seem to be getting better (knock wood), CD and I finally had a real conversation about the house. Not just one of our usual drive-by not-quite-talk-about-it email exchanges where I send him links to Realtor.com and beg him to think about how miserable I am working and cooking in rooms that were literally falling apart around me.

I pointed out that we live in a fixer-upper that neither of us has felt like fixing upping in a long, long time. And we can afford a house that fits - all it would take is making the decision to move.

But CD made the case for one more try. Because he and Bear love this little, rickety house on this wonderful verdant block in Pleasantville and don't want to budge - even to a house nearby. Then, to put his money where his mouth is, last night CD moved my desk and equipment into our bedroom so we could gut and rebuild my office/guest room.

It was a tangle of wires and screws and plaster dust, but I am now settled in next to the bed. My morning commute is, quite literally, 3 feet away from my pillow.

I still want, desperately, to move into a house that fits. With a kitchen that isn't stuffed into a hallway, closets, and a second toilet for those times when Bear has GOTTA go.

And frankly, it may not even be in our power to fix up this house. A contractor must be used for the big stuff (like putting in the dormer for the second floor addition) and renovations will cost as much as a move. But maybe more importantly - we can't even get contractors to return our calls.

(At a birthday party for one of Bear's classmates on Sunday, one of the fathers recommended his contractor to us.
"Can I ask about how much you're planning?" he asked.
"70 grand," I responded, factoring in everything we plan to do.
"Oh," the father replied, grimacing. "I don't think the contractors I know do jobs that small.")

But as he passionately explained - CD's and Bear's eyes don't see the tight quarters, failing plumbing, bad wiring, blown fuses, bugs, mold, dust, and clutter everywhere. No. They see the dream we all once had, of making this little house our home.

And I could see it, too - if only reflected in them. So I agreed to work from this corner and sleep in that one. For a little while longer.

CD thinks we're in a place now where we can start again on so many long-neglected things. He has been working hard, and it costs me nothing to give him - and us, I guess - this chance.

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May 12, 2005

What It's Like (my side of the story).

* Note, this entry is PG-13 for language. The topic is close to my heart, and I'm not in a mood to censor my words. Also, this is MY side of the story - not his. It has taken me a year to figure out when and how to finally write this and and I have tried to write in such a way that doesn't violate his privacy.

On NPR, Brooke Shields was talking about her bout with postpartum depression. About finally getting medication and therapy, and then when she felt a little better deciding to go off the medication. Of visions of death and blood and a feeling of disconnectness from her child and hopelessness about her life.

Briefly, she touched on the reaction of her husband Chris. About how the experience still affects him. Them.

Yeah, from this I know.

Not that I have her book deal. Or her legs. Oh, her legs... Or her situation.

No, I had her husband's.

After the birth of our son, I had this life. This husband. This baby. This house. And then a dark cloud rolled over the sky. I didn't understand. I kept expecting my husband to "snap out of it".

Not so much.

So I got a clue that it wasn't just a bad mood. But even then I was still a mushroom in the dark about what was to come.

So maybe, OK, that cloud wasn't going to float away. Yeah, a storm was rolling in. But then, THEN things would eventually return to ... this life, that I was loving so much. My husband would awake one day and be once again that amazing, strong man I'd married.

So I faced the storm and did what I could to respond. If my life had been a house, I would have been boarding up the windows and putting sandbags on the perimeter.

The equivilent was to join a support group and gamely take on my husband's responsibilities on top of the ones I already had. Something bad was happening to us, and I couldn't stand idly by. So I went back to work and pumped my milk into bottles a caregiver could administer. I bought a suit, balanced the checkbook, and made all the sacrifices necessary to be two people.

Looking back, I realize I was living in a fog of just "get through today".

That is what it is like to be married to someone with an illness or a dependency. It happens not just to the them, but to everyone around them.

I had no idea how bad it would get.

One afternoon, I called our religious marriage counselor guy from a parking lot in tears, begging for advice. I told him about the dark cloud that only seemed to grow. I asked for help.

But even with his wisdom, by the time Bear was a year old we were broke, miserable, and in deep trouble. Yes, despite all our best efforts. Despite the counselor, the help, the constant battles to make each day the turnaround. Despite the compassionate support system of friends and family and neighbors all in the siege with us.

Not that he could see any of that goodwill. As I learned later, CD was completely isolated by what was happening inside his mind. There's a sort of tunnel vision of being the one going through it.

As he was striking out and hurting, he couldn't process his environment in any productive way. The pile of bills, the collection calls, the unwashed dishes were all just additional pain triggers if he saw them at all.

I'd grew tired of trying. So I kicked him out for a while. And he stayed away a little while more.

I did it because I was a heartless bitch whose internal alarm clock had gone off. I couldn't understand why everything wasn't better already.

The horrible, agonizing thing, was; neither could he.

The anger and frustration and pain were grew like a demon. The love and forgiveness and faith were all exhausted and hiding under the bed.

Fighting endlessly to keep the darkness from consuming every fucking thing. Watching all the good and light in your life fall under the shadow of what's happening to your partner.

I missed Bear's first steps, while on a business trip. Endlessly on the road trying to make enough money to keep us afloat while impotent against the cloud that was pressing us all flat. I was selfishly, endlessly frenzied. And screaming inside. I kept saying "This is IT. This is bottom. I won't take another step." But then I would.

And sometimes, he would reach out. A heartbreaking smile. A sympathetic expression. "How are YOU holding up?" I was asked. And it was my cue to put on a brave face and be ever so grateful that for a few fleeting moments when I was actually remembered in all the drama.

And as Brooke said in her interview, the weeks quickly become months. There are no quick fixes when you're talking about the human mind. Not medication. Not therapy. Not group meetings or behavioral change. No. It's gonna be a slow climb and it's going to be full of steps backward.

I was in therapy for over a year just to deal with MY anger and hurt. My counselor and I were able to cobble together enough coping mechanisms and skills to help me live my life without always being in reactionary mode. To live with reasonable expectations so I wasnÂ’t constantly feeling disappointed. To drain away enough of the bitterness to allow my soul to breath. To teach me that I absolutely couldn't fix HIM and had to keep my focus on what was in my control instead of what wasn't.

And there's no happy ending. A corner has been turned, but it is a shallow one. There is no moment when the doctor comes in and says everything is going to be all right. The best you get is that everything is better - for now.

And just like in Brooke's marriage, where her husband still holds his breath waiting to see what the mood of the day is, still hunts for signs that darker clouds are rolling back onto the horizon - I, too, have had my facility, my lightness of being, shattered and taped back together. Nothing is clear anymore.

The full cost of what has been lost is only just beginning to be counted. There is no way to go back to that time when I had that life. And so very, very much was lost.

Not that life stopped when the clouds rolled in. No, it continued. And there were still good days and even good weeks. Moments of subdued but very real joy. But it was life under a cloud, shrunken and colder from what it had been before.

And I still mourn those early, sunlit days of being a mom and a wife living such a halcyon dream. I am more fragile now. I am still angry. I have to remind myself to exhale.

Trust and forgiveness (of us both) are coming back in tiny, teeny steps. Feelings of love, long since roped back, aren't reawakening in a burst like the magical last 15 minutes of a movie.

So far, I am deciding to stay. There is no right answer, although many may tell me otherwise. And often do – and on both sides. But there is no right answer.

Things are better, and that gives hope. And hope is a powerful elixir. It can get you through the day. When I canÂ’t picture next year, or next month- I can surrender it to hope.

A day at a time.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:29 PM | Comments (19) | Add Comment
Post contains 1304 words, total size 7 kb.

Where the Year Ends?

So the calendar year ends on Dec 31. And that time is slam-full-busy with the holidays (and all the holiday letters, the creation of the family calendar, celebrating the Scandanvian Yule traditions as well as my American Christian Christmas traditions, family visits, cooking, decorating, cleaning, and gifts -buying wrapping giving receiving and acknowledging.

(Breath Deep. Cleanse. Celebrate the gift of Jesus. Eat peeps.)

The fiscal year ends on Mar 31. Slam-full-busy with end of year financial reconciliations, audits, tax work, final deadlines for several submissions: travel vouchers, medical and child-care receipts, program cost-center invoices, and not the least it is also review time - for me from my managment and for my team members.

(Breath Deep. Switch summer and winter wardrobes. Attend a Memorial Day parade. Enjoy the lilacs.)

The school year ends on June 3. Slam-full-busy with year-end plays, rehersals, board meetings, recitals, projects, last payments for school, goodbye parties, finding summer programs, paying for summer programs, completing annual volunteer requirements, student assessment meetings with teachers, decisions about next year.

(Breathe Deep. Take a summer vacation. Plant some tomatoes and herbs. Take a nap in the hammock with Bear.)

And people wonder why, from November thru June, I babble to myself like a crazy person and repeatedly find refuge hiding under my desk.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 10:09 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 222 words, total size 1 kb.

May 11, 2005

UPDATED: Which way do we go?

UPDATE:

Well, we got the contract and gave our deposit. We are putting Bear into Kindergarten in the fall so he can stay in the same class with all his friends and the teacher he's had for the past 2 years. We've decided to decide next year whether he's ready for 1st grade or if we should keep him a second year in the Kindergarten. This idea came from you guys, and it was a fabulous one. Montessori combines the 3,4 and 5 year-olds so it wouldn't be confusing or hurtful at all to keep him back next year since he'd just be returning to the same class with 2/3 of the same kids.

Some folks asked, so here it is: Tuition is about $6,750 for preschool, about $7,500 for Kindergarten (which is an extra 3 hours/day), and about $8,000 for 1st thru 3rd grade at this well-respected Montessori school in a decent suburb just outside Chicago. Plus activity costs, supplies, and a minimum comittment of volunteer time on the parents.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Because Bear's birthday is the first week in September, and he'll be 5 this year, we are deeply torn about whether he should start Kindergarten next fall.

On the one hand, since he is in a Montessori classroom, it doesn't matter - he is in a blended environment with other 3, 4 and 5 year-olds and there is no diferentiation on which ones are the "Kindergartners".

But then at 11:30 every morning, most of the kids go downstairs and get picked up to go home. Except the Kindergartners, who go out to the play area for recess before lunch and then to merge with the other Kindergartners for afternoon class.

There are so many arguments about whether it is best for a child to be the youngest or oldest in the class and this is exactly where we are stuck with Bear. He will either be one or the other.

His teacher says he's almost ready for Kindergarten, and that she could support whichever decision we make.

With some allowances made so that kids can stay with their favorite teachers for all 3 years if they want, there are quotas for each class with a third percentage of the population in each age group. Bear's current teacher has only has a few spots open for next year and they are all for Kindergarten kids. Another teacher has some non-Kindergarten spots.

We missed initial enrollment but the director has kindly offered us our choice of these two remaining spots. But of course, we need to decide quickly.

Yikes.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 12:53 PM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
Post contains 441 words, total size 3 kb.

May 10, 2005

Heart Sick

I came down with a fierce cold Friday that persisted through today. I feel ucky and swollen and drippy.

It has been a sick, long, and - did I mention sick? - winter. I am glad that it is now officially spring, and my lilacs are in bloom.

With the flowers comes an unbearable sweetness of Bear. He offers me piles of freshly plucked dandelions and handfuls of fallen petals from the fruit trees crushed in his chubby hand.

I savor them all, carefully putting them in water. In the garage, I have a bags of "special fertilizer" that will obliterate these weeds to a chemical hell from wence they best not return. In my office, however, they're drooping bouquets that we pretend are soup and make me all better.

He sings to me, and pats my hair, and tucks the yellow buds behind my ear.

I pull him tight until he squirms and I thank him sincerely. Pleased, he runs off to gather more. To heal me.

And I don't let him see me cry, the crushing fleetingness of these moments doped up on Dayquil and pressing my heart.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 05:54 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 194 words, total size 1 kb.

May 04, 2005

Anniversary Plans

Hi there,

My Blogiversary is coming up in a couple of weeks and to celebrate, I am going to hire someone to overhaul the look/feel of Corporate Mommy. I am desperately seeking suggestions - won't you? Please? Be my neighbor? Er, I mean, give me your ideas?

(Please, no, really, - leave a comment even if you think it should just stay the way it is - as you may tell, I'm not big on changing what isn't broke. Maybe I should spend the money on a spa day instead?)

1. I'm thinking of changing the color scheme. Is black text on white backround the easiest to read? Should the text box be wider? The sidebar easier to read? Less cramped full 'o stuff? What grade do you give the color and layout now?

2. Should there be a picture of me? A different banner?

3. How do folks feel about a a midi of "Dream the Impossible Dream" that would play every time you loaded the page? Maybe not? Maybe "Wind Beneath My Wings"? *heeee*

4. What kind of gin can I use in a celebratory appletini if I really don't like vodka?

5. Recommendations for designers? Packages?

6. After all this time, should I bring over the old blogger stuff? Because I got TONS of old blogger stuff.

7. How do you feel about the "100 things" and the "About" - would a list of "Best Posts" do a better job of introducing newbies to Corporate Mommy?

8. Should the Bear Stories have a button all their own?

Thanks! Have I told you lately that I love you?

Posted by: Elizabeth at 10:17 AM | Comments (21) | Add Comment
Post contains 274 words, total size 2 kb.

Post-Script to Constipation Nation

Picking Bear up from his Montessori morning preschool program (when did we stop calling it 'Nursery School'?) this morning, I swung into the carpool lane listening to my most recent homemade CD*.

Bear marched up to the car with his teacher, Miss HotChick, holding his hand.

"We heard Bear had quite a morning," she said with a grin as she helped Bear into the van and into his car seat.

"Yes!" he agreed enthusiastically. "Remember, Mommy? I had a stuck POOPY and it hurt a little but then it was ok and then I medicine in my boom-boom and then it came RIGHT OUT and then I watched it in the potty and I was all better!"

Miss HotChick tried to keep a straight face at this recitation as she pulled on the seatbelt to get enough for Bear to click it into place. She was careful of her 1-inch purple sparkly fingernails.

Bear informed me, "You know what? Miss HotChick has a Tongue ring! A red one!"

"Really?" I asked.

"Five years I've had it and Bear is the first student to ever notice," she admitted. She stuck out her tongue at Bear with a smile. It is a red enamel stud - about as low-key as a tongue piercing can get.

Bear stuck out his tongue back and giggled.

She told me that she'd been honest with the kids once Bear had announced her piercing and explained that it had been done for decoration and only by a doctor when she was a grown-up. And that it had hurt a little when the needle had gone through.

"You know what, Mommy?" Bear asked as we pulled away from the curb. "I told her the medicine for her owie tongue!"

"What, Bear?"

"Just like my boom-boom - a 'POSSITORY' !!" more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 07:59 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 437 words, total size 2 kb.

Early Morning Constipation

I was dreaming of living in a NYC penthouse, with - and I don't understand this - Ashton & Demi and clan in the other apartment on the floor and sharing the large deck. I wore gorgeous gowns and amazing shoes and smelled like Coco by Chanel.

I was twirling into the apartment, in a striped silk cocktail dress that would make Sarah Jessica Parker weep with envy, when I heard it:

Bear: It won't come out.

CD: Well sit some more and keep trying.

Bear: It's hard and it won't come out.

*Pulled a pillow over my head. Reminded myself that it is definitely CD's turn to deal with this. I have taken off two mornings from work in the last couple of months when over-indulgence in goldfish crackers or molasses cookies caused this problem before.*

In my dream, there were tall trees providing dappled shadows into my lovely apartment. And a view of Central Park. A riot of sunset on the horizon. Count Basey was providing the soundtrack.

CD: We have some pills. They go up your boom-boom and will make the poopy soft and come out.

Bear: Do they hurt?

CD: They shouldn't. They feel funny, though. Can you be brave?

Bear: Yes, I can be brave, Daddy.

*Rolled over and pretended I was still asleep. Reminded myself that last month CD had been happily sitting in his cubby while I had been rubbing Bear's back and speaking in soothing tones while he sat on the toilet and waited for the orange juice to work.*

CD: I can't find the suppositories.

ME: I bought new ones, in the medicine cabinet in the kitchen.

CD: What's this other stuff?

ME: Oral medicine that does the same thing.

Bear: (After tasting it) Uh, that's yucky. Can we do the other one that goes in the boom-boom?

CD: (Tasting it himself) Gross.

ME: Cod liver oil and flavorings.

CD: (Making a face) No amount of flavorings can help cod liver oil.

I dig back under the covers and try to recapture my sepia dream. The light, the breeze, the music. I change the neckline of my dress to more low cut, night falls and the lights of New York come alive on the other side of the floor-length windows.

I have a martini, and stroll out on the deck. A tall, dark man (maybe CD? Maybe Clive Owen?) is there, smoking a cigar. I hear the faint sounds of a party from the other apartment.

He looks at me, and grins. I grin back. He leaves the cigar in a large crystal ashtray and walks towards me, holding out his hand. The moment we touch, I get shivers.

Bear: The poopy won't hurt?

CD: No, the medicine will make it soft.

Bear: OK.

CD: (Trying to hide his grossed-out expression) Now let's put it in your boom-boom.

ME: (Sighing, opening my eyes and getting out of bed) Let me get a towel, this could be messy.

All's Well That Ends Well: Sure enough, while CD ran to Dunkies to get us some coffee and bagel, Bear had a successful run to the potty. Grinning, he explaimed that the poopy had been soft and had come "right out"!

Mysterious guy on the deck, however, has drifted away for good into the mist of dreams. Ah, well.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 03:29 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 561 words, total size 3 kb.

May 03, 2005

Viva la Blog-Linking Revolution!!

Grace over at I Am Dr. Laura's Worst Nightmare has started a love-fest by announcing that she will not be party to any link-cliques. Huzzah, huzzah.

I understand link-cliques. I do. There's only so much room in a sidebar- and if you belong to a whacko-boffo-rocking blog colony like Munuviana then half of it is already spoken for. Also? Sometimes long-haired freaky people* step on the grass AND link to you and then you ask yourself; must I link back?

Well, everyone must swing the way that fits them best. Some people prefer to keep their linking policy to themselves, but I'm not the shy and retiring type. So to be loud and clear, here:

The Corporate Mommy Blog-Link Policy is "If you link to me, then I will link to you".

Despite that "Marauding Marsupial" title from TTLB, 'Corporate Mommy' is just a little blog in a big kalaidescopic electronic pond. I write because to stop is to go bonkers, and not in a good way.

It is amazing to me that despite my little footprint, people think that I am worth visiting. And whoever you are, whatever your walk, if you take the time to link to me then you have honored me. And I thank you. And I will reciprocate.

*P.S. Personally, I dig long-haired freaky people. Just saying.

** P.P.S. If you HAVE linked to me and I haven't linked back, for heaven's sake - tell me! Thanks.

***P.P.P.S. My borderline Obsessive/Compulsive personality dictates that I mention that I reserve the right not to link to you if you are abusive, cruel, exploitative, or spam-for-profit.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 03:56 AM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
Post contains 277 words, total size 2 kb.

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