March 31, 2006

UnPause

I used to sit at this desk. For 5 years, I sat at this desk. Except on vacation or business trips. I sat at this desk.

I responded to instant messages in 3 different languages (and all with my infamous bad grammar). I spent hours on the phone. I planned projects that spent millions of dollars on equipment maybe a handful of people would understand. I smoothed the feathers and organized the efforts of hundreds of people.

I compiled succinct PowerPoint slides to present to executives, with words like: deliverable, return on investment, risk factor, earned value, escalation, customer facing, business driver, gain, break-even, up, down, strength, challenge. My friend M used to say I spoke the "corporate language" - as though you could take a Berlitz class in it.

And this was, 50 hours a week, this was reality. When people asked "what do you do?" this is what I did, therfore - this is who I was.

7 weeks ago, I walked away. The piles of paper in this room remain where they were that day.

When I was a little girl, my dad travelled all the time. On the rare days he wasn't on the road, he worked from home in a tiny office over the stairs. I remember watching him punch the numbers into a calculator as he analyzed his quarterly reports. His forehead crinkled, his pencil sharp.

I am a second-generation Corporate Brat. I was learning to take phone messages at 6. I was helping choose my father's ties at 8. By 10, I knew most of his employers and employees by name.

There isn't the panache, the tradition, the identity in being a corporate kid like there is in having a military or political or religious family. We aren't a tight-knit clan like those in a union. We don't do 21-gun salutes. Or honor codes.

In fact, there are many who think, in fact, the the "suits" eat their young.

We don't. Well, not often.

You want to find a pack of free-ranging corporate types? Walk into any airline club in any airport in the world. We're hanging at the bar drinking imported beer while we tap out responses to our overstuffed Blackberry email inboxes.

And I miss it already. So badly, in fact, that I have spent a lot of time over the last 7 weeks wishing I could go back.

Wishing I could sit down again at this desk, click a button, and see my own overstuffed email inbox.

Which is maybe why it has been so hard for me to sit down at this desk for any other reason. Knowing I can't. Knowing that I would see a little gray box that said "access denied".

This isn't self-pity.

This is change.

It is slow, like a cruise ship pulling a u-turn. It is painful, like running in the cold. It is necessary.

So yeah, I had alot of my self-worth tied up in my corporate status. And I've been afraid to look at who I am without it.

Dancing around the issue, and crying for it all.

My friend Laura says it took her 6 weeks to stop crying.

Took me 7.

Today the sadness didn't reach my eyes. And this chair, this desk, didn't pang me quite so much.

Time, finally, has salved the worst of the wound. Time, now, has arrived to let go of the tears.

Time to find out, what's next.

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March 30, 2006

If I loved you

They did "Carousel" at my high school, junior year. I liked to build things, so I crewed it.

The story of a brute of a man, who in this era would be plastered in restraining orders and a long rap sheet, who falls in love with a sweet, kind woman. Of course. She gentles him, he inspires her to marry well below her prospects. Then she's left a single mom who spends the rest of her life pining for the dead guy who never treated her quite well in the first place.

It's like a Law and Order episode. Only, set to music. With a merry-go-round.

Oy, and that music. Check it out sometime. My personal favorite was "June is Busting Out All Over" - but that's because I had a friend named June who, at that time, was indeed busting out. Ahem. Drove her nutty when I hummed it.

Hee.

My bitchiness aside, the worst of it all is the cliche-driven "If I loved you". One of those declarative ballads all about how I love you but I don't. Get it?

And of course, I thought I was in love at the time.

I wasn't.

I asked him to sing that song to me.

He wouldn't.

I was so very sad, because I so very, very much wanted to be that girl. The one some guy is agonizing over. The one he says "I Love You" too in that strangled, sincere voice.

Hey, I was 15. Give me a break.

And he so didn't love me.

The guy when I was 27 didn't love me, either. We were walking, holding hands, out to the pier at Pratt Beach. It was night, and warm. Lots of people out, under a full moon that almost felt like day.

He leaned in to whisper something in my ear, our bodies bumping as we walked, and some guy steps of the pier. Drunk or high and loving life.

"Hey! You guys in love?" he asked as we passed.

I smiled, but my date shook his head. "No," he answered. "We're just friends."

Yeah, well. Loose interpretation of friendship aside - he was right. But it made me sad the way he said it so easily and casually. Like, "no way, dude". I look back at that moment and wished I'd listened - and left.

For all the times I thought it was love, I was wrong a lot.

One of the things that Jane Austen novels and popular television dramas and Saturday afternoon theater tickets DO teach - Love is more precious than that. It should be sacred, you know? Cliches and bad lyrics aside - It should be rare. It should grip a soul, and make you gasp out loud.

Anna of Between Stupid and Clever described something the other day as "I feel like I've ridden the train through the tunnel long enough: it's worth staying on a little longer to see what might happen on the other side."

That's how my marriage has felt for a long time. Lost were all those feelings of ticklish lust and dizzy admiration. I was surviving. My worry lines carved deeper, my body swelling, my heart squeezing. My partner was ill, and I was carrying him and our son as well and...

Sometimes at night I would wonder if I still loved him.

Yeah.

I cried in my therapist's office, begging her to tell me if I was numb or if my love for him was truly dead.

But I didn't know, and I didn't know how to know.

I fought back my own memories of love and the temptation to surrender to the terror that I might be in a marriage with someone I would never love again.

One of the reasons I left Mega was for this very reason. A choice. It enraged him at first, when I explained it.

That if I didn't stop martyring myself and build something new and equal and healthy with him that our marriage would die.

But I think he's beginning to see. As I fall apart, finally. As he steps forward, more and more.

Love isn't dumb musical plots. It wasn't that guy who wasn't deep enough to know better. It isn't Jane Austen novels or the first guy who really kissed me, either. And yet, Love is what inspires all of that.

I used to confuse the sentiment with the reality.

I'm wiser now.

Love was CD, tonight, collating my family's calendar. The one a dozen people are waiting for but that I have just had disaster after disaster trying to get done. Around and around our dining table as I watched, curled up on the couch. Heading back to the office with a sigh to keep fixing misprinted pages. And back again to collate some more.

And then as I looked at him, sad and lost. He said "I want you, Elizabeth."

"Body and soul? " I teased.

"Body and soul," he promised.

And something else was healed, between us. I want to walk with him, up at Pratt Street Beach. I want that guy to show up.

I have a new answer for him.

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What to do with a Sunny Thursday

1) Cry a little and yell at husband for no reason I can remember

2) Feed child a fruit rollup

3) Let child watch Pokemon on his portable DVD player. Cry a little more

4) Freak out about all the undone things, the disaster of a home, the paperwork, the nagging sense that back at Mega - things are falling apart

5) Catch the last half-hour of the Charmed Piper and Leo wedding episode while re-printing the very last months of the family calendar (the old one runs out in ... oh,... 48 hours)

6) Decide enough is enough and head into a long, hot shower (Digging up somewhat clean towels and making way through landmine path to downstairs drier for clean clothes)

7) Grab some stuff, don't let self panic about money, breathe, take 3 Ibuprofens

Buckle child in car

9) Make it to McDonald's at 10:31AM. Bastards have stopped selling breakfast. They agree, after much begging, to sell us some sausages and juice and french fries. Decide this counts as a meal

10) Have a picnic in the parking lot listening to a souther fried rock CD and arguing the benefits of Megatron turning into a good guy on Transformer Planet

11) Meander up and down the mall. Duck into the dollar store for cheap craft supplies. Duck into Marshalls for kid underwear, socks, and t-shirts

12) Drop off Blockbuster movie, buy phone charger for new cell phone, explain to Bear why it is not nice to call the cashier "old"

13) Visit with Elia for a few minutes to wish her well on her vacation. Let Bear cry on my shoulder at the thought of not seeing her for a couple of weeks

14) Pull into the do-it-yourself car wash. Vacuum the hell out of the interior and rake out all the detrius

15) Zip Bear into a knee-length bright yellow slicker, drop 8 bucks of quarters into the machine, and run hell bent for leather out of reach. Cheer him on as he scrubs and sprays everything

16) Use cloths meant for drying car for drying kid

17) Head to park with bag of bread heels and scraps to feed the ducks. Gently correct Bear's duck-feeding style as he windmills his arms in gigantic swoops and then beans Mrs. Duck on the head with a partial loaf of stale French Bread

1 Sigh of relief when Mrs. Duck appears irritated but not concussed. Allow Bear to join a herd of like-sized little boys up and down the playground on the understanding that we are leaving in 5 minutes

19) 2 minute warning, given 5 minutes later

20) 1 minute warning

21) After 20 minutes of frustrated "time to go's", shout Bear's full legal name and to COME HERE in Icelandic, firmly

22) Try not to grin at sweaty, grinning boy who presents himself begging for more time. Must act like responsible parent and get child to his nap

23) Arrive home, unpack car, tuck child into bed with 27 bazillion stuffed animals and pillows. He's asleep before I leave the room

24) Breathe

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Sunshine, on my shoulders

The sun came out this morning.

We were supposed to head out to the zoo, but we blew our spring break budget on the Field Museum to hang out with dinosaurs.

So now we're brainstorming what comes next.....

No corporate templates for this, huh?

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March 28, 2006

Merrily, Merrily

(As I slip back behind the keyboard)

Last Friday my soul was officially sucked out.

I signed up for Unemployment.

It took more trips to more government offices in one week than I have ever, in my life, done before. It was hours and hours over 4 days... waiting for my name or my number or my turn. It was bad fluorescent lighting, worn chairs, metal tables.

Funny how I have read so many descriptions of it and heard second-hand but I was still surprised as I walked along the thin-pile grey carpet at what I experienced.

In the meantime, I have quietly been trying to put my pieces back together.

Some sweet souls may suspect that I really, really miss having minions to boss around. After all, I was once teased as being the Evil Queen of the Empire. (As a joke. Really.) It's probably true. Let's face it, as minions go, Bear is a much better Emperor. ("Mommy! Make me a peanut butter and honey sandwich! With raisins! Uh... please!")

There's the added aspect that this is spring break from his school. I have been filling the hours with tons of activities - trips downtown to the museums, library, zoo and crafty things like starting the seeds for this summer's garden and painting home-made magnets.

It all sounds so good and yes, we have wind-flushed pink in our cheeks and we hold hands and Bear announces, as fill up his milk cup or fork over the extra 5 bucks for the additional exhibit at the museum that I am the best mommy he has ever had.

But in the shadows, don't tell....I feel utterly inadequate, all around. I catch my reflection in the mirror, in a window on the train. I look away, slightly repulsed. This is me?

I keep expecting CD to look me up and down and dial up the hotline for Wife Swap.

Did I mention that the house is a wreck?

The family calendar I publish each year is about 3 weeks past deadline. The dishes are piled up in the sink.

But the days are begining to pass a little easier. I think.

Merrily. Merrily.

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March 21, 2006

Breaking it off with those other guys

My crushes have matured. It makes me sad.

When I was a teenager, I was ga-ga for Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy. OK, I am STILL ga-ga for him. Talk, dark, brooding, loyal, confident, good, rich, and able to see beyond all the superficialities to fall in love with someone who the rest of the world would deem less than him.

Ooooh.

I cheated on Darcy with that guy from Highlander. Talk, dark, talked with an accent, wielded a sword, and had a bitchin' ponytail. Poor Darcy, with his chaste kisses, had to stand on the side while me and Highlander guy did all sorts of naughty things in my dreams....

I can't remember the actor who played Highlander guy, but to be honest it's never been about the actors. Actors are guys, with the foibles and flaws that all human beings are prone to. My fantasy crushes stay just that... fantasies. Characters from imagination.

I dumped Highlander guy for Mr. Darcy when the BBC did that amazing mini-series. I was reminded of my long-lost crush and found a battered old copy of Pride and Prejudice to re-read (again and again).

Then I discovered the television show "Farscape" and fell utterly for John Crichton. Tall, tanned, passionate, strong, honest, and all about the teamwork.

But I am fickle, and behind John's back I was melting for Josh Lyman from the "West Wing". Others may point out that Sam Seaborn was more my type - tall, dark, etc... but it was Josh's enthusiasm and intelligence that had me giggling on my sofa.

John and Josh continue to delight, but recently I have been thinking about breaking it off with both of them in favor of Leo Wyatt. Again, a television show - this one called "Charmed". Leo is tall, tan, a good listener, a healer, strong, and passionate. His is the wisdom of 80 in the limber good looks of 35. And he cleans up, watches the kids, comes when he's called in a flash, adores his partner loyally, makes the right moral choices, and.... serves tea.

This? Is a character I can get hot for.

I'm just saying.

I was never one of those who had teen idol posters on my walls or swooned for an autograph. I have always been grounded in reality so deep that even suspending my disbelief to get through a 1-hour show took some doing. CD long ago got used to my desire for new magazines or how-to shows.

But everyone has a sweet tooth of some kind, a guilty pleasure. And right now? Mine is Leo.

*sigh*

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March 20, 2006

In The Middle of the Night

So Bear likes Calvin and Hobbes. I am not sure he understands all the concepts, but he digs the tiger.

I gave CD a Calvin and Hobbes book last Christmas, and Bear will bring it to me and ask we read some of it together.

He loves the "unique" snowmen.

His favorite is the one where the one snowman is made to look like he's just bowled a strike with the other snowman's head. He giggles so hard at the one that he starts to snort.

Or the one where one snowman is eating snowcones and the snowman is lying face down with an ice cream scoop in his back.

I was checking on Bear just a minute ago, tucking his comforter around him. He's wearing his Spiderman jammies and then over it, one of CD's t-shirts (magical Daddy shirts made good sleepers). I stroked his still-a-little-chubby cheek and kissed his head.

He blinked up at me.

"Did it snow tonight?"

"No, sweetie. I think the clouds passed over," I whispered back. "No more snow this year."

"Poor Calvin," he mumbled. "No more snowmen." And he gave me a ghost of a grin before burrowing back to sleep.

God, thank you for my miracle Bear.

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How to eat an elephant

As the old saying goes - "How do you eat an elephant?"...
"A bite at a time"

I have a new cell phone and a new cell phone number. It is this thin thing, and now I have to program it.

I have to get a temporary social security card for the nice people at unemployment, and fax in the papers for CD's new (used) Passat, and file the remainder of my 2005 cafeteria plan, and FedEx the last of my equipment back to Mega.

I have to....

a bite at a time.

CD has begun to show a wisdom and gentleness that surprises me.

And it is helping.

An astrologer friend once told me about something called a "Saturn Return", this life-changing process human beings go through every so many years. We reinvent ourselves.

I wasn't sure I believed that it was real, although I could tell it was real for her.

But right now, I think that is a good explanation for what is happening.

I am excited and terrified and - oh, everything - all at once. There is a mountain of things to do to get me from here to where I think I want to go. A pile like an elephant.

And I am tackling it, a little bite at a time.

And smiling.

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March 16, 2006

Guilty

Once I got into management, headhunters started calling me. The odd job offers and requests to interview would come my way. Vendors I hired for my programs would usually make overtures to me. And because it is the smart thing to do, I would show interest up to a point and leave the doors open.

But there had never been anything serious that I would consider.

Except for a government consulting job that I wanted, offered about 3 years ago.

Based back on the East Coast, managing the kind of programs that really give my brain a thrill, working with some great people.

But, I would need to be vetted for Top Secret clearance for the job and in order to get Top Secret clearance you need first to be an American citizen and, if married, then married to an American citizen.

Aha.

I am married to a foreigner, you see. From the seditious country of Iceland. Ya, I know - they don't even have an army and their political agenda consists of codfish. But tell that to the fine people at the Department of Defense. Rules is rules.

So I convinced CD when the overture was first made to me to promise he would get dual citizenship (apply for American citizenship) if ever Iceland would allow it. And like a Muppets movie that will always have a happy ending, a few months later Iceland passed a law allowing dual citizenship.

Yesterday, in the flurry of final goodbye-ing and paperwork, I received a phone call from one of the guys who'd been part of that offer about 3 years ago. He warned me that I had no reasons left not to come over to the dark side - er, the government sector.

I agreed, but admitted that we hadn't finished dealing with CD's citizenship thing.

"It takes time," I sighed.

"Right-o. Then it is going to be on to the lie detector test. Are you Catholic?"

"No, Episcopalian. Why?"

"Guilt. It will trip you up."

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

I sat back and thought about it. Not that I am going to run out tomorrow and apply for this job, but it is a serious 'what if' in my back pocket.

Is there much in my life to feel guilty about? Oh, I suppose there is the regular amount. I have not always been kind, or scrupulously honest. There are lovers I have hurt. There are friends I have let down. I have turned my back on God more than once in frustration. I have used legal pads from work for my own personal grocery lists.

When I think of it objectively I know I meet criteria. There is a government tolerance for things and my experiments with life fall within them.

But lie detectors are decidedly not objective. They can not measure what you have done - they measure more how you feel about what you have done.

"Guilt?" I repeated.

"Yes," he said. "This is why many folks go through it twice."

I laughed nervously. The truth is that I would need that second chance, too, if it ever comes down to actually doing this thing.

Exhibit A: I am up at 5:30AM with a knot in my gut. I am about to apply for unemployment after 20 years of working hard. And I feel guilty, horribly guilty, about it.

Yeah.

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March 15, 2006

Good news...

I wrestled with it for over a week. I wrote blog entries that I .....then erased. I wrote out lists of budget numbers and pro's and con's. I sat on the couch, staring at the wall.

Couldn't fight reality, though. CD hasn't been able to come up with the better/second job that was needed to support us without my income. And my little second gig (as a Blogger 4 Hire for the irrepresible and amazing Genuine) has been tottering on the edge of being cancelled.

It was time. To walk into this office and, regrettfully, pick up the phone. Mega had given me 30 days "unpaid sabbatical" before formally terminating me. They paid my benefits and everything for those 30 days, time for me to reconsider if I wanted to come back.

I was so confident that it would never happen, but I didn't say no to a month's free benefits.

But today, I swallowed crow (munch munch) and called them.

I didn't want to do it.

I left a message and my manager called back quickly. He sighed when I told him I was ready to report for duty.

"We've been told to make cuts," he replied. "So..."

And then he laid me off.

48 hours before my resignation was formally executed.

I'm not kidding.

I am crying with relief. Unemployment! I am eligible for unemployment!!!!

(Yes, I thanked him profusely.)

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March 09, 2006

It will be OK, even if it's not OK

So, in between walllowing and my Charmed re-runs *cough*, and the regular stuff - like my little part-time writing gig and cooking 3 meals a day and being a Bear cab service and whatnot, there's been the ongoing matter of Happy Montessori.

After all, one of the reasons I walked off the job was to attend to my son. And Happy Montessori was glad to oblige with becoming more and more high-maintenance.

They insist that Bear has some kind of attention problem. And are now saying that there is nothing more they can do for him if I do not get him tested.

They will not be specific on the problem, I have since learned that it is considered unprofessional if they label him or attempt to diagnose.

Which means the whole thing is a communication farce.

They tell me, over and over, that they have "concerns".

I ask what they mean.

They tell me all about his "symptoms".

Monday, the headmistress told me all about how Bear yawned 16 times and picked his nose twice in the 30 minutes she'd spent observing him the week before.

I'm like... "well, was he tired, maybe?"

And she was like "I don't think so," in a tone of voice that clearly called me a dim bulb.

All righty then.

The specialist (who no longer speaks to me) sent home a note that informed me that Bear had become too distracted to complete his assignment after 15 minutes, and that he was to finish it at home.

I thought 15 minutes of focus from a 5 year old working independently was pretty good. I was informed that I thought wrong.

Finally, I gave in and called Dee. Unloaded that things since our meeting at the school last month have gone from bad to worse.

So she came over this morning and I repeated everything they have said - I estimate that between the school, his teacher, the headmistress, the specialists, the pediatrician, the OT intake person, etc. that I have spent roughly 20 or 25 hours on the phone talking about this in the last 3 weeks.

Not including internet research time - that is, when the dang link is holding steady.

So.

Where was I?

Oh, right.

Over homemade cinnamon rolls and coffee (bribery is a good thing) she listened to the whole song and dance from the beginning (It's turned into the "Alice's Restaurant" of tales).

"Sounds like they've think he has "ADHD-Inattentive Type"," she told me.

I went from 0 to 60 in about a nanosecond. "Bear is NOT Hyperactive!!" I roared.

"No, he's not," she agreed. "ADD or ADHD Inattentive Type means that they suspect that he's got something in the way of him focussing, sustaining his attention, and resisting distractions from his task. That he's not choosing to be distracted but that he can't help himself."

"But he's only 5!"

Dee nodded. "Yes, one of the conditions of this diagnosis is that symptoms appear before 7 years old."

"But he's great at home, or at karate!"

Dee nodded again. "Often, the symptoms aren't obvious until a child starts school. That's where he would be put in settings that would really showcase his challenges."

I leaned against the counter. This is Dee. About a dozen years' experience in the area and a wall full of accolades. I would trust her with Bear's life or future without thinking twice.

I felt all my rejection of the whole situation drain down into the floor. 'This is real,' I thought. Like it was the first time.

God.

The last 3 weeks, all these phone calls and meetings and research. I have been consistent in my insistence that there is nothing wrong with my son. I refused to even consider the idea. I clung to his lack of hyperactivity and his ability to focus well at home and at karate as a sign that the school was terribly wrong.

And the truth is, Bear isn't the only one in trouble. CD is struggling and while he wants to be part of all this - he must renew his efforts with his own demons. My lack of employment has knocked the stuffing out of him, and he's trying to get back up.

So. I had decided, in my vast imitation of a Divine Being, that nothing could be actually wrong with Bear because CD was struggling. Only one at a time, right?

Heh. Cause I got all that Power. (When I was a chaplain, we used to help each other remember our limitations with little jokes like "Hey, Elizabeth. God called. He wants the car keys back.")

Remembering that helped. I'm here, whole and healthy.There is nothing stopping me from doing what I can for Bear and letting go of what I can't.

I looked at Dee and nodded. "No medication," I said firmly.

"Absolutely not," she agreed. "He's 5."

I nodded again.

"So have him tested," she touched my arm. "And remember that it is going to be OK. Even if it's not OK, it will be OK."

"It will be OK?" I repeated, disbelieving. "He can still live like..."

"Yes," Dee promised with enthusiasm. "If this is what he has, then remember - it is a common diagnosis. You wouldn't believe all the amazing people who have lived with it."

"We were thinking of moving anyway.... now, for sure we need to find a good school district for him. Especially if we can't afford a Montessori program next year..."

"One step at a time," Dee warned. "One step at a time..."

I hugged her for a long moment. And then she drank more of my bad coffee and I nibbled another roll.

-----------------------------------------------------------
Here are the symptoms of AD/HD (known as either/both ADHD or ADD) Inattentive Type. The key is that they have to be consistent, persistent (not triggered by something like a parent's divorce or an illness like a cold), start before the child is 7, and impair the child from expected developmental levels:

# often fails to give close attention to details or makes careless mistakes in schoolwork, work, or other activities;
# often has difficulty sustaining attention in tasks or play activities;
# often does not seem to listen when spoken to directly;
# often does not follow through on instructions and fails to finish schoolwork, chores, or duties in the workplace (not due to oppositional behavior or failure to understand instructions);
# often has difficulty organizing tasks and activities;
# often avoids, dislikes, or is reluctant to engage in tasks that require sustained mental effort (such as schoolwork or homework);
# often loses things necessary for tasks or activities (e.g., toys, school assignments,pencils, books, or tools);
# is often easily distracted by extraneous stimuli;
# is often forgetful in daily activities.

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March 08, 2006

In the sunbeams, with the violins

It was years ago that my Aunt Martha and Uncle Mike bought the red Victorian house on the hill. From the balcony, you could see the Boston skyline. Still can, when I visit each summer.

There is an old intercom system, and my Aunt would set it so that a classical radio station would broadcast through the rooms. On visits, I would listen as I would wander the hardwood floors and stare out the tall windows at the trees.

Because of her, I was exposed to the baroque music I love so much.

The romantic notes of violin, piano, and guitar like breezes.

My parents both love music. Our home was filled with folk and Broadway. With rock and jazz. They always had the stereo on. By junior high I had formed favorites of Buddy Rich, Simon and Garfunkel, Carly Simon, Elton John. I could sing along with Patti LuPone and Mandy Patinkin through the entire score of Evita .

But at the red house on the hill, the voices faded away. Curled up in a sunbeam I would drift along with the harmony and counterpoint of Bach, Handel, and Vivaldi.

Over the past three weeks, I have been stalled. Emotionally, physically. I thought that once I didn't have the 50-hour-a-week distraction of my job that all the things I'd been delaying - like exercise, writing, cleaning, grieving - would slip into the vacuum.

As usual? Me. Wrong.

Well, I have been crying a lot, but otherwise - yeah, still wrong.

I have spent unknown hours watching Charmed reruns, calling people, and an amazing amount of energy avoiding things.

And feeling guilty about that. Don't underestimate the amount of time a person can spend feeling guilty about avoiding things. Boy, howdy. I tell you what.

Yesterday morning, as I was driving Bear to school, we got held up in traffic. While we were waiting, I turned on the radio to our local classical station and they were playing a piece that was so pretty that it made me pause.

Dust played in the morning sunbeams as Bear and I sat listening.

"This is nice," he said.

"Yeah," I agreed.

And I remembered how it used to be at my Aunt's and Uncle's. How they would leave me to my thoughts, and my daydreams. How they understood the importance of staring off into space, with music drifting in gently.

There was something in that memory that I still haven't figured out.

But the baroque piece tugged at it, yesterday morning. Suddenly here was this reminder of... something. I pulled over, and turned around to face my son. He smiled at me. I smiled back. We each rested our heads and listened to the song.

There was something begun in that music, that goes back to the time before. Something in the music. But I haven't figured out yet what it is or was.

Bear and I paused, and then went back on our way. I think like everything else that is going on inside me right now, I will have to be patient with myself.

Or at least try.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 05:45 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 530 words, total size 3 kb.

March 06, 2006

Countdown to 100,000

WOOO HOOO!

Can I get a timpani roll please?

Sometime today or tomorrow - this blog will have been "hit" 100,000 times. How whacked is that ("whacked" is good, right? Aw, man... Is my uncoolness showing?)

Since its creation about 2 years ago, I've treated this space as much like my journal as I could- only holding back to save possible harm to someone else.

I didn't think for sure anyone would read this except my mom.

But you did.

Through 22 months of juggling executive deliverables and a preschooler. Through a crumbling/rebuilding marriage, a spouse's demons, a son's illness, gaining and losing the same 20 pounds. Through raises and professional accolades, disappointments and possible lawsuits, writing awards and failures, war, faith, a miscarriage, four therapists, three kinds of happy pills, a resignation, and one small housefire... this blog has kept me sane - and the people who read and comment have made it a blessing and a joy.

So.... not exactly Three 6 Mafia's acceptance speech but...

Wow. 100,000. Who knew we'd still be here? Um. I'd like to thank the Academy. Also my Mom, my Dad (Go Red Sox!), and my brother for razzing me every step of the way. No. Seriously - you all rock. Thanks to my guys - CD and Bear - for making every day and adventure and for believing in love. And for believing in me in all ways.

And most of all, to the readers - friends - who have made this place a dialog. An exchange of thoughts and ideas and support. You all are living proof that the world is full of good people with kindness and intelligence and grooming tips and snark. Thank you.

Thank you!!!!!!!!!!

(Did I mention that the 100,000th visitor will get the official CorporateMommy mug... and if you could send me a screen cap - please!!)

Posted by: Elizabeth at 10:21 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
Post contains 317 words, total size 2 kb.

March 05, 2006

Somebody's Going to Emergency

This is my best recollection....

Friday, March 3, 2006.

2:30PM and I was racing around the house dripping wet from the shower. Holding the towel closed. Looking for who only knows... 15 minutes left to leave the house to pick up Bear from school.

2:35PM and I felt a 'crunch' under my left heel as I walked near the front door. Picking up my bare foot, I see a flash of metal and feel a sting. I wondered what I'd stepped on, and hopped to the kitched to find the first aid kit.

2:36PM oh, yeah. It really hurt. And I think I'm bleeding.

2:37PM Deep breath. Dial CD at work to ask him if he knows where the Bactine is. Look down as I am dialing and see a thin river of blood flowing down from my heel, across my foot, and onto the floor. As CD answers, the puddle on the floor grows and trickles with the slight slope of the floor towards the stove.

2:38PM the sound of CD's voice startles me from my fascination with the red stream. I begin to feel the pain and start crying. "There's so much blood," I tell him when he answers. "You have to get Bear from school. I don't think I can drive."

2:39PM CD reaches his car in the parking lot 25 miles from home at a dead run. He is asking me for details, but I've become light-headed at what's going on South of my knees. CD and I hang up so he can call Bear's school. I tug the towel off my body and drop it under my foot to catch some of the blood. I am still wet from the shower, naked, and injured.

Not a lot of people I can think to call in this situation. Times like these, a woman's mother would come in handy - but she is about 1000 miles away. Dee is stuck downtown, at least 45 minutes away. She tell sme to call my neighbors or even 911. Maybe, if my bikini line was cleaned up. Heh. Did I mention the light-headed?

2:45PM and I am sitting on the floor of the den, with my foot up on a stool. The bleeding slows. I look around and try and figure out how much blood I've lost. Who knew heel wounds bleed so much?

2:50PM I pull myself up to a stand and hop to the bedroom.

3PM and I realize that after 10 minutes of puffing breath and whimpers that I have managed to put my underwear on inside out. No way I am going to the hospital with inside-out underwear. Plus, they got blood on them now.

3:15PM the bleeding slowed enough, I managed to pull on underwear and some clothes. Wrapping a fresh towel around my foot, I hop to the front room.

3:20PM leg propped up, watching a Law & Order rerun. Pretending there is no pain, no hurt.

3:50PM CD and Bear come racing through the door. CD says it looks like staples in my heel. Bear crawls next to me and kisses my foot gently. I beg CD to clean the kitchen floor before we go to the hospital (I have visions of the cats running through the puddles and leaving rusty-brown pawprints through through the house).

(Yes, CD wisely decides to indulge the crazy person who is me and cleans it up before hoisting me into the van for the trip to the hospital.)

4:15-4:25PM CD wheels me into Emergency to the nurses station. I sit and fill out the paperwork, my heel throbbing. I have no idea why it is so important to me to be polite and pleasant, but it is. Thus it takes about 10 minutes before the nurse realizes that there is something wrong.

4:26PM I am in ER bay 7 with 4 nurses looking at my foot. I am, it seems, the chief attraction in the zoo. Show and tell, anyway.

"Ooh," says one. "That must hurt." I start calling her 'Nurse Obvious' in my head.

4:35PM lovely ER doc pulls 12 quarter-inch steel staplegun staples from my heel in one swift motion.

"You want these as a trophy?" He asks, cleaning my wound and getting ready to superglue to the wound shut.

I shake my head violently. I have no idea how this clump of metal got on the floor by my front door.

In the background, you can here Bear at the nursing station insisting that they take him to his mommy right now. My little baby is channeling Shirley MacLaine from Terms of Endearment. The doc wraps about 300 bagazillion feet of gauze around my foot. I give the OK to Nurse Obvious to go bring Bear back to me.

5:30PM after an X-ray (to make sure nothing else was in the wound) and an antibiodic (my tetnus is up to date, thank the Lord) and some bemused advice from the doc ('think shoes...") and a hushed 'where did these staples come from?' discussion with CD and a couple "don't do wheelies in that wheelchair!" to Bear - we are dismissed.

After picking up Thai food (the doctor said "treat yourself as if you had just donated blood - good meal, lots of fluids, rest" - I decided that meant I could have chicken satay. Even though it was a Firday. In Lent) and getting back home, safe and sound, I decided that it was all right to cry and be a big baby.

And then I was like 'Gee whiz, as if I haven't been doing this every day since leaving Mega anyway....'

But I guess now I had a pretty concrete reason. Two long gashes that are superglued shut on my heel and the embarressment of being the talk of the Rush Hospital's ER room. Dork. Me.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:25 AM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
Post contains 982 words, total size 5 kb.

March 01, 2006

I need advice... the Laura Project

Dear Laura - DON'T READ THIS!!

Ok, seriously. Stop now.

Is she gone?

Good.

"Never let him watch you put on pantyhose" was one of my favorite pieces of advice from my Grandmother. I was young, and thinking about marrying my boyfriend at the time, and ripe for all kinds of marital advice.

I used to have all sorts of nuggets like that.

But I lost them. Maybe one day while I was sleeping. Stuff seems to fall out of my brain as I get older. Seriously.

Which is monumentally bad timing, because I am compiling a scrapbook for a friend of mine (cough *Laura* cough) (see my most favorrite of her recent posts here) that is getting married. You know, as a bridal shower gift.... pictures of her and her intended, and anecdotes, and especially advice (serious, old-fashioned, or just plain funny) on marriage.

The problem is that in my current space, which is vaguely hopeful and seriously guarded, what with the great brain drain going on ... all that springs to my mind is - "Got Prenup?"

Which, let's be honest, won't look good even if I put it in a nice font and maybe a picture of flowers next to it.

So I am soliciting, begging, pandering for the words here. Please. From those jaded or joyful, religious or not, older, younger, whatever orientation ... I am desperately seeking advice on what makes it work, when you vow it all for life.

And it occurs to me that advice may be helpful to one who already vowed it, long ago.

Yes, me.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 08:37 AM | Comments (26) | Add Comment
Post contains 277 words, total size 2 kb.

Pack of dogs kill crocodile!

My mom sent this to me today, and though I usually disregard these "sendalongs" this one had me chuckling out loud....

Sometimes nature is cruel but there is also a beauty in that cruelty.

The crocodile as one of the ultimate predators can fall victim to the
kind of implemented 'team work' strategy which is possible due to the
pack mentality and social structure of canines.

See the attached and remarkable photograph courtesy of Nature Magazine -
but not if you're squeamish!

image0011.jpg

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:45 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 92 words, total size 1 kb.

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