October 30, 2006
It's dangerous to be 15.
He was my first boyfriend. Curly hair and long hands. Luckily for me, he'd been brung up right. All those hours, alone in his house - his bedroom - and he never let it get very far.
Though, oh, he could kiss.
It was just that his honor roll meant just as much.
I'd try to steal a few, but Guy would wave me back to my books. Tell me to finish my chapter and let him finish his.
I'd steal his highlighter. He'd laugh, and indulge me. I was a wild girlfriend, needy and unsure. He was grounded, and kind.
You look back and realize that there were those intense, lovely moments.
First boyfriends that win stuffed animals at the fair. Hold hands for hours and run out for ice cream on warm autumn nights.
Put away the breaking up. The heartache and the sad songs on the radio.
Remember the carnations bought at high school fundraisers, borrowing his sweater, and counting stars.
"Mommy," Bear asked me last night, stuffy with last of a cold and sick of television and Vick's Vaporub.
"Yeah, Bear?"
"Daddy was your first boyfriend, right?"
"No, but he was my boyfriend, first."
He looks at me as though I am teasing him. Freckles scrunched in thought.
"Was he nice?"
"Who?"
"Your first boyfriend."
"Very nice."
"But not as nice as Daddy," he informs me firmly.
"Well, Bear, he was only 16 or 17 years old."
"Oh," my son nods. "That's REALLY old."
"Well, not a good age to get married," I tell him. "But it was fun."
"Ew," he says.
Our eyes meet, blue to green. We will agree to disagree.
Soon enough, he will know.
Soon enough, it will be gone.
And soon enough, it will be his memories on a warm autumn evening. Old songs on the radio. And a smile in his eyes, that no one else will understand.
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October 24, 2006
My beloved grandmother told me this story when we were discussing the topic before Bear's birth: When her first son was born, she considered circumcision for him. Her father-in-law said "Leave the boy's foreskin alone and let him wear it off when he grows up".
Yup, I got all kinds of modest in my family.
Meanwhile, Icelanders as a rule do not circumsize. I personally believe it is because Iceland is damn cold and they need the warmth of the extra layer. My husband says it is because Icelanders are too smart to let anyone near their penises with knives.
So circumcision was a non-starter. Bear's got all his original equipment.
Except. It hasn't begun to be retractible yet.
At his last checkup, our new pediatrician (who we really like) mentioned that guidlines say that she should refer Bear to a urologist for a forcible retraction because it should be at least partially retractible by age 6.
Our reaction? "Oh, hell, no."
But there is a part of me that wonders - has anyone else gone through this? Are we just projecting our discomfort? (Notice the Wikipedia article cites that at least 2 mothers fainted watching their sons go through the procedure. That tells me it is major freaky bad.) Are we possibly imperiling his health?
CD seems more sure than me that we leave all Bear's private parts alone. But it's been 6 weeks since the pediatrician offered the referral, and I'm still going back and forth.
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CD has found a second job. Just a little something at his favorite IT store. But it means a lot.
First, because for months upon months no one would give him a second glance. Like the Goodyear blimp squatted on his head with an LED sign proclaiming "Do Not Hire Me!" in big letters.
Spots he was outrageously qualified for would blink at him slowly and then shout "next!"
As I forged a routine with Bear, CD splashed helplessly. Even his counselor growing confused. Not understanding that week after week with application after application bringing not even a phone call, not even an email... stung CD's thin hide. Finally, CD brought himself able to discuss it with her.
Like kids who mulishly push away homework complaining that it's dumb - when inside it is them themselves that feel overwhelmed. CD at first had complained that he hadn't ever truly signed on to being breadwinner. That he felt forced into doing something he just didn't feel he should have to do.
Then, the ball of frustration and fear began to unravel. And he was able to say the truth - I'm scared. I'm trying, and not getting anywhere. What if I never find a position, don't find a way to support us in time?
And just as we faced ruin, just as we started to cash in the future to pay for today, the phone began to ring.
Ain't that the way it always goes?
So the most important thing this part-time gig brings us is hope. CD was hired. Enthusiastically and happily offered paying work. And where there is one - there is more. He can believe again that others can see his worth. That the right new full-time position will follow.
Of course, the second - and most stunningly obvious - point to this second job is that it buys us time.
Bear and I can continue having "school" here at home in the mornings. I can continue to be the one to drive him to the afternoon Kindergarten at the public elementary. And late afternoons can continue to be cooking, and cleaning. And T-Ball, and karate. And Power Rangers and popcorn and cuddling on the couch. And errands. And Go Fish. And dancing to vintage John Mellencamp or Zap Mama. And raking the growing pile of leaves carpeting the lawn. And coming up with outrageous Wile E Coyote squacoon catching schemes.
I can continue to hunt freelance writing gigs instead of looking for a weekend waitressing job or even more frightening - heading back into the corporate jungle.
(Shameless Plug and Snoopy Dance of Joy - Orbitz just published the podcast I wrote about Roscoe Village, Chicago! It's here or copy the link [http://tlc.orbitzinsider.com/File/roscoevillage_chicago.mp3]. Yay, Orbitz! I love you and your puppets. Really.)
I can continue to make a fool of myself with story ideas for a book or articles. Hanging on to that little thread of hope that maybe I could actually be a writer on my tax returns as well as in my Glenda-laden fantasies.
We can hang on.
I worked two jobs for the first 3 months of this year. I was tired, wired, and quick to snap. Of course, I also didn't have a clone of me to support me, but snickering is unbecoming so I won't go too far down that road.
Instead I'll just say that all this makes CD a bit of a hero around here and Bear and I are doing everything we can to make the 12+ hour days as bearable on him as possible.
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October 22, 2006
Warning! Explicit Entry. Those who may be related to me may wish to SHOO!
It's my blog. But. I keep dancing around all these thoughts that I won't say.
It makes my legs hurt.
And....
Beth wrote this post last week. About which came first: the chicken or the egg? Except, in this case, the survey was about oral sex and not-just-oral sex.
And it got me thinking. And remembering. About chickens. And eggs. And how, despite all the years of foreplay and the protection and the reading up on it - all I could think that first time was "We can't possibly be doing this right."
Years later, I finally had that morning when I woke up with a smile on my face. I mean, a smile so big that made my dimples sore. And actually said out loud "so THAT'S what the fuss is all about."
(It turns out my main impediment to the glories of sex was having it with teenaged boys. Once I ended this ridiculous habit, things improved muchly.)
*breath*
I miss sex.
I miss sex.
I've missed it for so damn long that sometimes I want to sit in the middle of the driveway and just scream and cry.
Depression, the kind that attacked this family with its vicious apathy and gaping voids, kills the wants. The desires. The warm skin Sunday morning throw your leg over and be inside moments are snuffed out. Pressed flat into memories.
The medications that treat Depression are evil in irony. The happiness comes back at the same time that desire is surpressed. We can laugh now, and the laughter tickles my blood. I get drunk on eye contact, the big brown eyes and endless lashes that make me want to lick his face.
And then I have to hold myself still. Praying over and over in my head that he'll make the move. No pressure. No anger. It's not anyone's fault. It's not...
The doctor actually said "Do you want to be treated or do you want your sex drive?" As though this is the freaking choice. As though somehow bringing a soul out of the flaming chasm of gray nothing is a success even if the toll is their very bodliness, their skin and sensation and sweaty connection to the romance of their mate.
Every possible drug, every possible combination. Tried.
Hours of reasearch, visits to another new guy, and another.
I want MORE of my husband back.
I want my husband, most of the time.
I want so much that I'll lose track. That I won't be able to count that high. While I still have the youth and flexibility, I want to bend in the ways I can bend.
I want.
It's this undercurrent to my days. It is the remembing what it used to be.
It is the tingle to a Friday, to a weekend ahead. The sly hope of it, the wink of it.
Bombarded by a society that sexualizes every possible product purchase, leaving my tongue bitter and my mind assaulted. With all those lies. People aren't taped into their clothes and then airbrushed. We don't walk over cars to each other. That isn't sex, that's fantasy. That's pictures without pulse.
I want the pulse.
I want the real.
I want the bond of it, the uncontrollable of it, the not quite knowing where he's going to touch or how slow or how fast of it. I want the start and stop of it.
I want the real.
I want the backs of his knees and the hard line of his jaw. I want him to want me. I want his finger wrapped around a strand of my hair. I want his breath on my neck. His palm down the stomach, over the stretch lines that made room for our child. I want his broad shoulders as a pillow, our gasps quiet not to wake the boy next door.
I want the man I love. I want his wanting. Not in these small doses that strike with full moons and found money. No more sips.
I want gulps.
I want what is true between us. The memories of a hundred other times flared up again into our living days.
I love him. I love this man. I love each year of him, each limb. I love the hairs on his tummy, the accent in his voice, the dreams his soul flies on. Last year, I saw the cloudiness begin to fall away from his world. I saw jewel tones in his laugh again.
It is so much, to see this miracle.
I just want more. And often... 
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October 19, 2006
Jim, the original Genuine, the venerable ol' man of the BOB awards and noted DaddyBlogger, started out about 10 days ago with a sudden trip to the hospital with chest pains.
Over the next week, the downward spiral picked up speed. He has honestly documented what's happening and how it all comes down to facing his alcoholism.
As of today, he is home from the hospital and detoxing. His wife and children have separated from him during this crisis, indefinitely.
Some folks, when they hurt, wrap themselves up in their thoughts as they sort through the pain. In American Sign Language there is actually a sign for this - a movement that mimics an invisible wall around the mind.
It's hard to know the right thing to do - express sympathy, give a hearty "It will be all right!", or to stand back.
In Jim's case, I believe he welcomes any words of support. I had an email from him today, and it sounds very lonely where he is.
So, if you're of a mind, please stop by his place.
Thanks.
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In the spirit of all those that have gave me a hand up back in the day, I believe in linking it forward.
(It will take several days to see the changes, because it is my habit to verify, read and comment on each blog as I go along.)
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October 17, 2006
I admit, this is something previously I proved highly incompetent at.
But in the spirit of my 100 days - I decided to read a frigging manual and figure this out. I've got on my asbestos underoos and I've signed all the indemnity waivers....
Hope it turns out all right.
When I am done, I am going to mirror this to a Non-MuNu web home. I've had some email about how MuNu can have irritable bowel from time to time and be completely holed up, unreachable.
In the meantime, I beg patience. And feedback.
Please let me know what you think....
Thank you.
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D
I had a dream last night about an old friend of mine. More like a nightmare. I woke up desperately thinking that I had to call him, find him, reconnect, make sure his life was OK.
As the sleep fell away from my brain, I thought; "Which town did his parents live in?" "What was his middle initial?"... as though I would just spring into action, Google him, dial the numbers up.
The last time I spoke to him (or at least, I think it was the last time...) I was saying how CD was determined that we get married with a proper wedding. An "American style" one - poofy white dress and all. He laughed at the thought of me in a poofy dress, and swore if I ever put one on that he would come and see...
Of course, he never did.
We had that wedding, just as CD imagined. In the backyard, sure. With that poofy dress and a veil that added a good yard to my height.
[digression]And I should have chopped it off after the ceremony, the damn thing was a fire hazard around the tiki torches AND it looked ridiculous as it would just attempt from time to time without warning to flip back over my face like the ragtop on a convertible. [/digression]
Only a handful of beloved people, all dressed up like it was an inauguration. We danced to a jazz band that had neighbors swaying on the sidewalks. We ate wedding cake from Swedish Bakery. We drank from an open bar that sported a cute bartender-slash-actor.
During a lull, we gathered up under the stars so the photographer could get a picture of us all.
I look at that picture, it hangs by my desk. I see the people smiling. Some have drifted away from me. And some were already ghosts lingering in the in-between.
I think about that now. I think about how no one ever writes books about when friends break up. There are 3 dozen manuals about how to conduct a relationship with a guy you brought home from a bar and tried to make a go of it with...
There isn't one about what to do when someone you love, with all your heart... someone with whom you've shared your secrets and your faith, someone your kids consider family, someone for whom you have put up with a lot of shit - and given shit in return, someone who has grown more beautiful before your eyes over years of living and shared memories....
goes away.
We never say goodbye to old friends.
There is just that one Christmas when you don't send a card. A last phone call that you don't know is the last one - so you never say the things that might matter. The visit where you hug and say "see you soon" - but don't.
Pictures on the wall, and there they are - forever smiling.
What the hell happened?
There is no camraderie of a break-up night. Drinking and bad-mouthing your old friend, hoping that if you demonize them that somehow that will mean you miss them less.
There is no middle of the night ring of the phone, tearful attempts to put things right, meeting at a diner with no makeup on and old sweatpants and sneaking looks at each other as you try so hard to find the one thing that you can fix that will turn the tide from wane to wax.
I want them back.
Friends are the chosen family. The people we get to pick. The ones we choose, on purpose. And swear we will be floating with, in a retirement community's pool and wearing purple swimming caps with bright plastic flowers on top.
Friends aren't supposed to leave. They aren't supposed to give up, find someone or something else more important.
And if they do, then frigging hell, there should at least be a goodbye.
Some way of knowing, that the friendship has turned some final bend. That we're both OK, and it was a wonderful ride, but now it is done. No more "of course I'll be there - do you want me to come early and help?".... no more group pictures ... no more watching each other's kids grow up, and remembering when.
I need a time of death.
I need to know when it stopped being OK to call just because the sun came up. Again.
I needed to know.
I needed to know it was the last time.
I needed to know.
This was for C., and all the ones we used to love - and still do.
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October 16, 2006
Maybe.
In between karate and T-ball and permission slips and job applications and craft projects and making do with less, I think I am just about to scream... and then something else comes up and I have to reschedule screaming.
It's like I found my afterburners.... And there's a kind of empowering giddiness to it sometimes, especially as I implement the stuff on my '100 days of towards a change' list.
So (and here's the segue) have I mentioned that we have a young racoon living in our attic? And a squirrel? Yes, both have been spotted on occasion - ripping into our soffits and skittering above our ceilings.
Clearly, they are cohabitating in some kind of Jerry-Springer "Caught on Video" unnatural relationship but they are always careful not to be caught leaving or entering at the same time. Sort of implying a time-share thing. Much like the "unproven except everyone knew it was going on Brad and Angelina" thing way back, uh... last spring.
But whatever kind of Republican-baiting kind of lifestyle they are engaging in, it is time they stopped doing it in our house. So we borrowed a small animal live trap from a friend and set it up in the attic.
No joy in Mudville.
For a week of nights, the racoon-squirrel (squacoon!) outwitted us, folks.
So CD got the idea to leave the trap in the driveway just under their favorite soffit with a Mighty Beef can of cat food as bait.
You know what Mighty Beef bait catches you?
A cat.
Stunning, ain't it?
There it was. A big puffball of neighborhood cat. Blinking and shivering. Maybe feral. So we called the town's non-emergency police number specifically set up for animal control.
And got their voice mail.
Left a message.
24 hours later, they hadn't called back and Puffball was REALLY pissed. And thinking about pressing aggravated kidnapping charges.
We let her go.
It was either that or adopt her.
Undaunted in his squacoon mission, CD reloaded the trap.
This morning, on my way to drive Bear to school, we stepped out the back door to find... Son of Puffball. A little gray thing, scrunched up against the cold rain.
I sighed, and bustled Bear off to the van.
25 minutes later, I pulled back into the driveway. Son of Puff was dripping wet and watching me with big eyes. In the dark gap of the ripped-open (again!) soffit above us, I swear I saw golden eyes blinking - with smirk. Cheshire-cat kind of smirk. The kind of smirk that makes me want to buy a BB Gun. Yes, me.
I squatted next to the trap.
"Puffy," I said to the gray tribble. "Puffy, you picked the wrong can of cat food."
Puffy didn't say much back.
"I'm supposed to call the Police so they can put you to sleep. Kill you, really. 'Cuz you're not only homeless and probably rabid. You are also, clearly, stupid. Dumber than a squacoon, for damn sure."
Puffy shook his fur.
With a sigh, I slipped open the trap and let him run free.
I told myself it was because I am just too busy to be dealing with cats taking up space in a squacoon trap.
But it was nice to watch him run like a blur through the bright green grass of our backyard. For a place where no laundry needed doing, and no list needed checking off.
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October 13, 2006
T-96 days to go in my 100 days of Change and I've run into my first semi-major snag.
See these glasses? Well, if anyone finds them - please let me know. The reward is my sanity and my brain, which aches.
I think Flipsy stole them.
Flipsy is the stuffed Mammoth in the picture. He and his twin (yes, we have two) are Bear's favorite stuffed animals. Flipsy 1 and Flipsy 2 enjoy randomly attacking me. Like Kato from the Pink Panther movies, they're always flying out of another room or sneaking up on me.
Usually with a giggling 6-year-old running the show.
In the past, it has been known to happen that there would be the Flipsies, coquettishly cuddling on Bear's bed in their usually place of honor. One of them, oh so casually, wearing my glasses.
(Yes, my son mastered the art of the subtle snark before he could even talk the language.)
But not today. They are GONE. GONE, I said. I've looked in all the usual spots - including their rightful home on the bookshelf.
Man, oh man.
Now, I have often said that I don't really need glasses. My left eye is a little weak, always has been. "No big deal. I can get along without my glasses."
LIE!!
I miss .... my missing glasses.
I needed them to be on the computer 10 hours a day, back in the day. But when I left that gig, I got lazy about my glasses. I mean, besides writing articles and blog entries and helping Bear with his coloring.... what kind of strain did I really have ahead of me?
A lot, as it turns out.
See, Kindergarten is very paper-intensive. No one warned me about this. It wasn't true of Happy Montessori. But Public Kindergarten sends me home the equivilent of a small forest in paper each week.
With itty bitty tiny words. Which I am supposed to read and respond to.
And it is utterly freaking out my unglassed eyeballs.
There is homework, every night.
And an in-school project, every day. And then the 'required' forms - permissions for flouride and pictures and field trips and immunization record reminders.
And then the school notices - assemblies, closings, PTA meetings, athletic games, optional nighttime activities, police notices about safety; town meetings and ward meetings and "hang out with the mayor" meetings.
Don't forget the fundraisers. Oy! He went to private school for 4 years and NEVER did I see the likes of such fundraising. Book sales. Wrapping paper sales. Knick-knacks. And awards for highest sales, that are used to incentivize the children during even mroe assemblies. And deadlines. and daedline REMINDERS. IN ASTROBRIGHT COLORS. Don't forget the pleas for donations of ASTROBRIGHT PAPER.
And if all this wasn't enough, there is my 100-day plan. Which has me finally assembling, reading, and organizing the mountain of paper by my desk. And pitching article ideas. And begging for work.
The good news is - since leaving Mega I think I have popped maybe 3 Tums. DOwn from a dozen a day. The bad news? I am running riot on the Tylenol for my eye-strain headaches.
If this keeps up, I will actually have to break down and buy a new pair. Because to continue on my quest to change a life - I really must be able to read all the fine print.
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October 09, 2006
Thus began the saga of braces and headgear and rubberbands and retainers.
Once I fell down some steps in high school and my braces got stuck in the mesh shirt of the football hero in front of me. I tagged along behind him, begging Jesus that the guy wouldn't ever see me but of course about a million kids pointed and laughed and he figured out that he'd gone tandem with a dork in headgear.
We were separated by the heavy sheers of the Art Teacher, but I know he mourns me still. I carry a bit of his shirt with me always.
Oh, buy lovely teeth I finally had. For years upon years - straight and true.
Until that long day and night of the Childbirth.
After which, came the spread. My breasts, my ass, my feet, and... my two front teeth.
Lauren Hutton can carry it off.
I? Can't.
I sing the refrain to the Gorrilaz' "Sunshine, In a bag" with my son as we paint.
"You spit," he accuses, flicking indigo in my direction.
"I do not," I decry. But I do, dammit. I do. Sunshine, it fells me. And wets the paper.
The dentist laughs when I ask him what I can do.
He says....
braces.
Oh. No.
This is some kind of new age mysticism karma, right? And Matt Damon will man the drill? Please?
No.
Just braces.
At ... my age.
Well.
I made a decision, a few months ago, to become more - and less- than a raving corporate mommy. To step into the arena now, seeking the new knowledge of who it is to be, now.
In our travels, this summer. When road fatigue would hit. Bear would ask from the back seat... "Can we be where we're going already? Please, Mommy?" And I would pull over, and he'd climb up to the front passenger seat, and we'd look at the map and measure the distance and find the milestones. Until the blur of time again made sense. Until our purpose glowed in yellow highlighter alongs the squiggles and lines.
So I told him today. Over indigo and azure swirls. That I don't know where we're going. We'll be all right, as long as we're together. But the destination isn't clear yet.
"When will we know?" he asked, all serious.
"100 days," I decided. And we looked it up on the calendar. January 17, 2007. It looked like a nice Wednesday. Probably we'll have snow.
"In 100 days, I think all the pieces will have formed enough of a plan."
Bear liked the idea. So did I. So the goal is 100 days - of peace and pieces, of planning and trying, of preparing for the worst and pushing for the best. For honestly seeing who we are, and where we want to go from here. And finding that road.
And we started today, looking at a picture from Bear's first day in his new kindergarten. And with the gap in my teeth. If only I had had a steaduer hand that morning then I might have attempted makeup. Mascara! Big Tammy-Faye size antennae jutting out from my eyelids distracting the viewer from my gap-toothed grin.
But no. I was plain that day. Hell, even my bra strap was showing.
A true mirror. No dodging.
And in the spirit of the 100 days, I talked with Bear. And decided... what the hay. How bad can braces be a second time around?
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October 05, 2006
I'd never heard of it before. I was just so freaking glad to finally know the boogyman. After months of knowing I was not crazy, just sick. I had begun to feel... crazy.
After each battery of exams, we would learn - it was not this, it was not that.
I had just started a new career, and spent over 6months on a derailment. Living on my savings and the generosity of my family as I suffered from a host of bizarre symptoms (like falling suddenly - oof, the bruises).
It took about 3 months after my diagnosis to get me well. And to realize - oh, man, this is actually kinda a serious thing.
How obnoxious I became. They told me that infections and illnesses that are fine for people without Lupus could prove fatal to me. I started carrying Lysol with me and washing my hands like a fiend. I mean, at one point my hands were so red and chapped from constant washing that they became infected.
It was crazy-making.
It took a year before I had it all under control. I learned what set me off into a Lupus flare. I learned where to relax, and where to remain viligent.
I put down the can of Lysol, and stepped away slowly....
It will never go away. But eventually it becomes normal.
That's where we are with CD, now. In that place where he has been getting better since his most recent flare. But we don't yet feel normal.
He's been late to work twice this week. Sure, it could be a bad alarm clock. Or the effects of a new med. But it could also be the rain or stress triggering his brain to another dark flare. And if it is, how deep will it take him?
Will he be able to work? To take care of himself?
I live on pins and needles. Deep breaths and decaf tea.
I want to be a good partner. But most days I hum with a kind of low-grade fear. I just wish we could fold time to a little bit in the future, where we've learned what normal will be.
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October 03, 2006
After first wrote this, I realized what I'd written. Nothing, really. But everything....a little drama, a teaspoon of heroism, a sweet and curious son. But think about what a major difference it is, for us. After years of so much struggle and knife-edged cold war, we are living the swirls and patterns of life as a family.Between better treatment for CD and me being home, the last months have glommed together into a place where, well, we don't keep a bottle of Tums in every room.
And it suits us. This is what we risked it all for.
It is comfortable and normal to be having this life, now. Like an old blanket pulled from the dryer.
Even the little dramas of family life. We embrace them because this is how it should be - hard work. But faced together.
The one last night brought courtesy of the rain...
Oh man, the rain!
This global warming shit is really getting on my nerves. All those icebergs melting off the North Pole and raining on my house. Seriously, don't help me with the math - I know what I know. It is raining former glaciers on me and no one can prove different.
We haul the Thwacka door out to work on it. Then we quickly stuff it back in the garage as clouds darken. This has now been going on for 2 weeks. You wouldn't think it would take that long to get 2 coats of varnish on one side, 2 coats of paint on the other, and a new lock mechanism installed. And it wouldn't. If only I had a nice airplane hangar to work in.
CD picked up some overtime last night. One of the few beneifts of his working for LowCeiling -I'm so snappy with the pseudonyms, eh?- is that they were too cheap to make him salaried. Which means, ah, overtime. Sparkly, happy overtime.
He worked 6 hours of overtime last night on an extra project. Meanwhile, I was supposed to lightly sand the door between coats, so it was on sawhorses out back.
I was on the phone with my friend Cee when it got dark. Ominous dark. Possibly organ music was playing.
Into the rising gusts thinking 'Oh, Not Again with the Rain!' I went. Got a tarp and wrapped the door on the sawhorses. Closed up the windows. And then, someone took a chisel to the sky.
Rain literally dropped, like a wall of wet.
Off and on all afternoon, into the night. The winds rising and shivering against our windows.
Bear and I played cards, tackled computer games, snacked on popcorn, snuggled in for Scooby Doo movies. Everytime I tried to leave him and get something work-ish done, thunder would slam into the house and we'd end back up in a people-pile.
It was after 10 when CD came home. We were both up to greet him.
But he quickly changed and headed back out.
"What? Stay in, get dry. I'll heat you up some..."
He shook his head. "I've got to get the door in, the tarp is completely blown off. And I have to try and do something about the flooded street."
20 minutes later, picked my way through the mist and the wet and the really dark night to where my husband stood - literally knee-deep in water on the street in front of our house.
"Oh, God." The road was entirely submerged for about a 30 feet stretch. "Is it going to reach the house?"
"No," he told me. He had a long pole and was working at the sewer grate. "The leaves have caught in the sewer entrance."
We heard a lot of sirens in the distance. A cop drove by, slowing down as the water reached over all its tires. Up and down the street the water wasn't as high, but the asphalt was only visible in the middle of the road.
I went in and wrapped Bear, who was watching from the living room, in a long raincoat. Carried him on my back out into the slowing rain.
CD had miraculously cleared the sewer opening. A small funnel appeared in the water by his calves, as the worst of it drained. The water levels receded down our driveway, inch by inch.
"It'll clog up again," CD told us as we moved back into the house. "But the rain's pretty much stopped. I think we'll be all right."
This morning, we awoke to sunshine. CD already gone for work. Bear climbed into bed with me. "Mommy! The leaves are in the street and the water is gone! I saw a real flood! The biggest flood ever! Where did it go?"
"Mmmm, good question..." I yawned.
"It's a beautiful day," he insisted, nudging me with one of his little sharp elbows. "Let's go outside and see what the flood left!"
Pulling myself from under the covers, I managed to steer Bear towards the hallway without tripping over his excitement too badly.
"Mommy?"
"Yes, Bear?"
"Is Daddy a hero for fixing the flood?"
"Well, I think he's a really smart and good daddy to go out there in the cold and fix it..."
He gave me look. "No. He's a Hero Daddy. What if we had to swim to bed last night!"
And what else could I do...but agree?
Posted by: Elizabeth at
04:16 AM
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October 02, 2006
If you click on the picture, you will go to Lucinda's site (aka Her Royal Princess of Nashville Scene, Lindsay Ferrier). Lucinda is incredibly talented and has always been so very supportive of this site.
Some people, in the process of getting their dreams, decide that success is finite - and the more they can help others fail the more that will leave for them to win.
Lucinda? The opposite of that.
She decided that my last entry, "Wild Winds", should have this award: 
. The thing I like best about this award is that it is a grass-roots (that's a synonym for "Internet", right?) peer recognition campaign.
Which is really cool.
Kind of like Lucinda.
Meanwhile, I am gonna bask in the lift she gave me this cracklin' rainy Monday. And be grateful.
Posted by: Elizabeth at
07:49 AM
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