Meeting Rose

Last week there was a volunteer meeting at Chaparral House, and a woman from hospice came to talk about death and grieving. I was looking forward to it. A few times on our Wednesday visits Kate and I had gone to Rose’s room and found the door ominously closed. I panicked on my walk to the nurses’ station with my heart rising up in my throat, but each time one of the nurses has bluntly told me something along the lines of, “Rose is in the activities room watching a movie.” Okay. Phew!

I’ve intentionally avoided asking anyone about the state of Rose’s health, even when she was briefly hospitalized a month ago. I don’t even know how old she is, but I assume somewhere in her eighties. For a while I told myself I didn’t want to invade her privacy, but I knew I really just wanted to be in denial about Rose’s age and frailty. So, I figured this meeting might push me towards a reality check, and help to gird me for what inevitably lies ahead.

The hospice woman, Karen, was amazing. Kind and articulate. I savored every word she said. She was the kind of person who you wish you could go up to after an inspiring lecture or concert and say something to them that would make them like you as much as you like them–make you stand out in the crowd amidst all their other admirers. You just wanted to be her friend.

So, cool Karen talked to us about the people who we visit at Chaparral House, and the fact that they’re at the end of their lives, what that means, how we can talk to them about that when/if appropriate, and how to handle those conversations in the moment and in our own heads. All really good practical stuff that got me a bit more geared up to some day deal with these things with Rose.

Then she opened the meeting up for more of a conversation, and asked us (about 10 volunteers and a few staffers) to share what experiences we’d had, if any, with grief. A few people spoke, then the woman to the left of me offered up her story. She said when she was 20 her 45-year-old mother died. As a result she and her sister had to care for their six younger siblings (including two–yes two–sets of twins). The woman said she was so overwhelmed by having to take on all that work that she never had time to mourn for her mother. Understandably, in the course of saying all this, she broke down.

Here she was crying for what seemed like one of the first times about her mother’s death over 30 years ago. And then she started talking about her work at Chaparral House—that she’s visiting with women who are around the age her mother would be now. It doesn’t take a shrink to see why she’s there and what she is doing. Her story was so tragic. I couldn’t imagine being in her shoes so I couldn’t quite empathize, but my God I felt for her. How great that she found Chaparral House, I thought.

And then I started to piece together my ‘grief experience’ in my mind, and considered whether I wanted to say anything aloud to the group. I also thought about how I’d explain what brought me to Chaparral House.

This is essentially what I said:

“My mother died a little over two years ago, and she said she never wanted my sisters or I to care for her if her illness got to a point where she was really incapacitated. And it ended up that her descent was really sudden and rapid. One day my sister Marie called to say I should probably fly home.

At one point during that first visit Rose muttered something that sounded like Polish to Kate. Yes, she said, she was born in Poland and left after the war. My mother was also Polish–well, born to Polish immigrants.”

So, it seemed somewhat fortuitous that Kate and I found Rose. She needs a grandchild. Kate needs a Polish bopchi. And so in that way that it’s easy to make a crack psychological diagnosis of the person sitting next you but seems impossible to diagnose yourself, it became more clear than ever to me in that meeting why Rose is so special to us. Because of my mother, it will be extra hard for me when Rose is gone.

I’ve lamented before that without my mother here I miss being able to call her to drone on about Kate’s many wonders—and to know that avid grandmother that she was, she’d share my enthusiasm for every small thing.

This past Wednesday I was holding Kate on my lap and Rose leaned in to look at her and said, “Ah, you see that? Her ears.They are so tiny and so perfect.” I shot back, “I know! Aren’t they?” And for the next five minutes we talked about Kate’s precious ears. It was great.

Have You Hugged Your Brother-in-law Today?

Yesterday was my brother-in-law John’s birthday. Well, I have two brothers-in-law named John. The one who’s hitched to Mark’s sister Lori is the one who’s now 31. We decided to take on generational guardianship of the thirties, since at ages 31 and 39 we are bookends to the decade. I’m not exactly sure what our responsibilities will be in these self-assigned posts, but we determined they were no doubt quite weighty.

So while attempting to bathe Kate last night, I called John to say happy birthday. He and Lori had young Gavin asleep and were enjoying the end of their meal–upholding his lifelong tradition of having lasagna as his birthday dinner. They’d also dug into a bottle of outstanding Surh-Luchtel wine, as they are wont to do. Say what you will about Lori and John, but you won’t go thirsty at their house. Those two have taken the at-home happy hour to all new levels.

During some of those very happy hours we’ve gotten calls from them. “Heeeeey!,” John will say. And you just know he’s been dipping into some single malt or a bottle or two of his home brew, and has made the wife a Manhattan.

It’s excellent having a brother-in-law and sister-in-law who presumably like us enough to dial our number under the influence. In those calls Mark and John talk about some baseball event or other that has them all fired up, or we swap stories about the kids. Maybe Lori and I will deconstruct some not-terribly-dramatic-but-fun-to-talk-about family episode. It’s all good clean fun, and frankly leaves Mark and I wishing A) we were drunk too (just seems like it’d double–or quadruple?–the fun), and B) that we lived closer to those guys.

John is in the Coast Guard, and is reassigned every 2-3 years. So, with them moving all the time and us generally staying put, maybe we will live close-by at some point. I defer to the language of my people (Rhode Islanders) when I say if that were to ever happen it would be “wicked awesome.” I would love love love Kate and her future sib(s) to get to know Cousin Gavin and his future sib(s) in the way you only can when you grow up alongside someone and come to look out for them through life’s adventures and mishaps. With my cousin Nancy as living proof, the cuz bond can be as strong as the sibling one if nurtured appropriately.

But also, Mark and I would love to be able to sit in the same room with Lori and John for happy hours, instead of doing them over the phone and in different time zones.

Last night John and I chatted about nothing special. He’s someone who I can get a good smack-talk workout with. He’s funny and quick, and is as happy to make up shit on the fly and run with it in the course of a conversation as I am. And I guess one thing I’ve always been curious about and impressed by with John is his Coast Guard thing. Before his and Lori’s wedding, I don’t think I’d ever met a Coasty(?), and that’s too bad. What a group of good eggs those boys are! John’s little nephew was the ring bearer and was really into hanging out with the big-guys in the wedding party. Many twenty-somethings would be more interested in focusing their energies exclusively on hitting up the bridesmaids (and I’m sure there was plenty of that going on too), but these guys were genuinely patient and sweet with the kid. And you could tell he was so proud to be in an inner circle with them. Maybe it’s just John’s friends who are that cool, and I’m giving credit to the Coast Guard on the whole, but I’d like to think it’s a trait that goes beyond John’s posse. All this is to say it’s been great getting to know someone from a world I knew nothing about, and being so pleasantly surprised by what a cool world it is. [Insert Coast Guard high-five here.]

Mark has an orange Coast Guard t-shirt that he wears fairly often. I know he’s also thrilled with his sister’s hubby choice, and wears that shirt with a bit of pride. I assume so at least, since the shirt is kinda bright…

So, my hat off to you, John. Happy birthday, sir! I am happy to be part of the same family with you, and not just because I get to be part of the Christmas gift swap that you enjoyed lording over me, or because we’re the only ones who know the true pronunciation of the word aunt.

Head-Banging, Baby J, and Gratitude

When Mark got home from work tonight and was playing with Young Kate she leaned forward, biffed her cheek against the coffee table, and started bawling. After comforting her he started to berate himself (aloud) for being a negligent parent. Yeah, yeah, I thought, and casually interrupted him to say she’d managed to somehow bang her head about six other times today, so he shouldn’t beat himself up over it.

I realize that if I only had an hour a day with her, as Mark sadly does on weekdays, I’d probably be right there where Mark was, tossing on a hair shirt and cursing that I’d ruined a few precious minutes of quality Kate time. But one of the glorious things about being home with Kate is that I have a front-row seat to all the dramatic, tedious, and mundane events of her life. I have behind-the-scenes access to the super-stinky diapers, thrilled-to-see-you post-nap smiles, car-seat babble, food fights, whining, puking, drooling, farting, and everything in between. So to me, a small contusion to the head–even one that’s due to not diligently guarding her noggin–doesn’t really rate. I need to be sure to remind myself regularly how fortunate I am for that.

Earlier today, Kate and I had some fun in the sun with Lisa and beautiful bedroom-eyed baby Jackson. Lisa is one of my favorite humans and friends. She was one of the brave gals willing to wear a flamingo pink dress at my wedding, to grapple with fastening the 2,137-odd buttons on my gown, and to have known throughout our friendship when I’ve needed a sympathetic ear versus a slap upside the head. And yet today, here we were with our 8- and 9-month-old babies who have probably been in the same room a total of four measly times.

Part of the reason is general life busy-ness. Part is geography. When she and Alex left SF they settled to the south of the city, and despite their fervent lobbying, when Mark and I left years later we went east. But the most significant reason why we haven’t spent more mom-’n'-babe time together is that Lisa took the swan dive back into the work world after having Jack.

Unlike me, Lisa found one of those Holy-Grail-like “Jobs You Like to Go To.” Granted, it came after years of crying in the parking lots of jobs she hated. So, when young Jack came on the scene, there was a reason that exceeded sheer finances that bolstered her return to work. As much as she wanted more time at home, Lisa feared that if she didn’t reinstate herself at her job, she’d never find a plumb workplace like it again. I hope for once that her usually stellar intuition was off there.

How does the story end? Well, after 5 months of giving the mother-and-commuting-professional balance an impressive fair shake, Lisa traded in the office job to report to lil’ Jack. She told me today how she realized that at times she was just going through the motions with the baby since she had so many things to do to get through each day. She didn’t have enough time to just hang out and enjoy him. You know, watch him hit his head a couple dozen times in the course of the day and think nothing of it.

Hooray! I’m teary-eyed with the thought that Lisa and Jackson will be able to enjoy life as best chums and partners in crime. It’s such a treat for me, that I can’t help but wish that all my mama friends have as much fun in this job as I do.

Granted, the weeks when you’re housebound from rain, and the days when the half-pint wails incessently for no good reason, can make the thought of a 3-hour conference call or developing a spreadsheet with pivot tables seem like a party. But those times are few and far between. And even with them in the mix, I need to remember to remind myself (a meta-memory task) how lucky lucky lucky I am to have all this time with my little love-bug. And remember to thank Mark for bringing home the bacon (and thereby marginalizing his own Kate-time), so I can be with her.

I’m also happy to report that Lisa, Jackson, Kate and I now have a regular date. We’ll be seeing each other every other Monday (alternating visits between Burlingame and Oakland). And hopefully those dates will breed more gatherings—maybe even an occaisional grown-ups-only night on the town.

Yippy doodle. Life is good.

Greetings Summer

It’s extraordinarily boring to complain about the high cost of Bay Area real estate. Yet, at times you’re compelled to nonetheless.

To combat the urge, I generally say “Insert real estate rant here,” when I’m talking to someone and I feel the need to kvetch come over me. It’s not that I’m avoiding being labeled a complainer. I have no issue with that. It’s just that everything that has ever been said about it all has already been said. It’s like you’ve been married to the person you’re talking to for 50 years and can finish their sentences, but in this case it’s about finishing the whole conversation in your mind before you even have it. So why waste the breath.

Well, we’re just back from a simply glorious weekend in Santa Cruz with Sacha of mother’s group fame, and her hub Joel and baby Owen. It was a great Memorial Day weekend kick-off to summer. Aside from the fact that both babies reverted for three nights to newborn sleep patterns, and managed to at times wake each other up to double the fun, Santa Cruz cast its spell on us. There is something about the place that’s relaxing in a very unpretentious way–little houses, beautiful beaches, surf shops, and restaurants with ocean view decks serving drinks and overpriced, mediocre seafood. You get the feeling of “real summer” there that you just don’t get in the Bay Area.

Within a few hours of our arrival we’d all started fantasizing about having a vacation home there. Joel said maybe they should get a place for a month. I was determined to own the very house that we were renting. It was architecturally head and shoulders above most of the other places, the gardens had intimate sitting areas that felt very European, and the oversized mismatched wicker chairs had a shabby chic, relaxed elegance. Perhaps Stan, the owner, would take a liking to the little McClusky family, determine we needed the house more than he did, and in a great act of charity… Well, I can dream.

On Saturday while Mark was riding his bike and the Grippando clan was napping, Kate and I took a stroll through the ‘hood. There were 2 open houses that we wandered into. The first was a spectacular 3-bedroom 2-bathroom house with an amazing gourmet kitchen, large sunny rooms, an immense hot tub, and a small artist studio in back. It was $2 million. Okay–getting an idea for the market here, I thought. But what floored me was the 600-square-foot bungalow–and I mean bungalow–further down the street. The place had one tiny bedroom and a kitchen so minute that the stove wasn’t even a standard size. It was one of those dinky ones with 4 mini burner coils on top, about half the width of a normal stove. There was nothing special or interesting about the place, and it wasn’t even *on* the water. It was selling for $945,000. Staggering! Well, I guess in the future we’ll be enjoying Santa Cruz from the comfort of a vacation rental.

Of course, vacationing with two wee ones is a new adventure in and of itself. We were tied to the house at nap times, ventured out for happy hour drinks at 4:00 before the babies’ bath times (and melt downs), ate all our dinners in, and our “night life” consisted of heading to bed at 10:00 and tending to crying babies at 3-4 hour intervals. This morning, Mark and Kate started their day in the living room (while I endeavored to finally sleep) at the painful hour of 5:15. Joel and Owen joined them soon after. A year ago 5AM would have marked the mid-point of a 10-hour night’s sleep.

Despite the sleep deprivation, we did have fun. Mark commandeered the kitchen and grill and turned out some fabulous meaty meals. Cousin John McClusky and wife Jenn came down last night and brought some great wine and Fred Steak along with their fine company.

And if you forget that it’s 7AM and that you’ve barely slept the night before, a walk on the beach at that hour is nothing short of glorious–clear blue skies, the smell and sound of the ocean, and friendly locals taking their dogs for their morning walks. It’s also a quiet time to hug your baby, tell her all about the ocean you grew up near, and marvel at how grateful you are to have her in your life.

A Luxury I Can’t Afford

What do you do when your baby is crying unless you’ll hold her, your stomach is growling for a long-overdue breakfast, and you have to pack for a long weekend–including gathering BBQ food, wine, baby food, and clothes for you and the wee one, and somehow get it all into the car so you can pick up your husband from work in two hours? Write in your blog, that’s what! I don’t have the disposable income I once had, nor do I have the unfettered time to check email or get into more than 3 pages of a book at a time, so writing has become my Calgon-take-me-away bath. Even when I should be doing a million other things. (Mark, assume I’ll be late to pick you up.)

I’ve been thinking a bit about communities lately. For many many years one of the most dominant ones in my life was the office. The people I worked for and with, and who–big-girl as it seemed–worked for me. By virtue of simply spending so much time in that world, and being so tired after departing it each day, it was my default community (family, Mark, and friends aside of course). And sadly those folks often did become parenthetical when work demands occupied my psyche.

Like a dinner party where you invite people who don’t know each other and everyone hits it off, it’s nice when someone from one realm of your life makes the move into another. Work is becoming a distanter and distanter memory (a grammatical joke the likes of which my father and I make), but yesterday I had the pleasure of having lunch with someone from that world.

John can not only order sushi in a really good Japanese accent (though, what do I know), he’s a kick-ass creative director and all-around good guy. We didn’t work together for all that long, but did get thrown into one of those understaffed, impossible-deadline plumbs of an account together. And amidst the mayhem, John was always a joy to work with. This is a guy who has not only redesigned and revitalized websites for dozens of Fortune 500 corporations, he’s also a Buddhist monk who has fasted for weeks at a time, and, more incredibly, not *spoken* for several-month stints while meditating. It’s not often that you’ll find these qualities housed in the same human. So, John is also no longer working at The Former Agency, so we were able to talk about Life After as though we both swam across a river full of leeches and got to the other side without a single one sticking to us. Our lunch was essentially us double high-fiving each other on the banks of the new shore, and thumping each other on the backs. Hooray! I am happy that John is now on this side with me. The Former Agency had a lot of issues, stresses and politics, but it also had some extremely talented, smart and funny folks. I’d hate to lose them just because my new job doesn’t require me to have a building security badge.

In my moving-to-Oakland-after-13-years-in-SF, leaving work, and having a baby time (when I go for change, I go all out), my need for new communities was nothing short of desperate. The one that has saved my emotional hide, welcomed me with bleary eyes, and been a haven of humor (and food) is hands-down my Oakland mother’s group. (Hello mamas! I salute you!) This is one extremely fab group of women who Kate and I have spent at least one afternoon a week with since Kate was 3-weeks old. It’s made up of 11 baby-mama couples, and there’s not one rotten egg in the bunch! And I realized a while back that we’re comprised quite amazingly of all straight women, who are even married to the men we had kids with. Did I mention we are in the SF Bay Area? This is astounding. Not that it’s better or worse for us to be this way, just *weird* in these parts. Hell, we could all pick up and move to San Diego or something and no one would bat an eyelash at us. Well, maybe some Republicans would. At any rate, it’s wonderfully affirming to have a group of people you feel comfortable enough around to talk about cracked bleeding nipples (not mine, thank God), the challenges of career and parenting, and the wonders of so-and-so’s head circumference being in the 95th percentile. Whatever your concern, quandary or need for celebration, these women have your back. THANK GOD I found them.

The other community I’m proud and happy to say I found is at Chaparral House–the nursing home Kate and I hang out in on Wednesday afternoons. It’s home to Kate’s wonderful adoptive Grandma Rose, Gladys, and Dorothy, the other volunteers, like Janet, who have so much respect and interest in the residents there, and a caring nursing staff–especially the Tibetan nurse who whisks Kate out of my hands the second she sees her and says, “Tell Mama bye-bye. You come with me now!” This week as we were walking out, I peered into the activities room to see that Sandi was custom-making sundaes for everyone. “Come on in! What topping would you like?” Why, don’t mind if I do, I thought. The grocery store and Kate’s overdue nap could wait 10 minutes. As I ate my sundae with Kate grabbing for the spoon, I looked around at some women in wheelchairs and a volunteer setting up a large-print Scrabble board (who knew?) and realized how at home Kate and I were there. Four months in, Chaparral House has become a super-cool new place that Kate and I are lucky to be part of. Thank you volunteermatch.com!

So here I stand on the far banks of the river barely able to see The Former Agency any more. And the bonfires on this side are blazing. I’m holding on my hip the most important young member of my new life, sweet Kate. At one fire the super-cool mamas and the babies from my mother’s group are gathered. At another the gang from Chaparral House are hanging out in their wheelchairs, with Rose admonishing them to not give Kate the evil eye. And by my side is the love-of-my-life, the one I’ve been luckiest to manage get on my team, Mark.

I’ve made it to the other side, and it rocks here.

Christmas in May

I ventured down to the basement today in search of my bag o’ bathing suits. Our basement is pretty big for a California basement–or at least everyone who sees it seems all surprised by it. And of course, when there is space to fill with crap, one tends to find crap to fill it with. Mark and I excel in pack-rattery anyway. So there are about 25 boxes of books we have no room for upstairs, bulky kitchen appliances we don’t often use, furniture from my mother’s house, boxes of out-of-season clothes that we never unpacked when we moved but are maybe now in season again (hard to tell), and a new layer of baby-related gear and clothing.

So, I was spelunking through it all. Within 4 seconds I’d forgotten why I was down there and just started checking stuff out, and trying to cull through and organize it a bit.

I’ve always liked to store things properly, but with my mother gone, I feel especially protective of the things that were hers. A) It’s old and/or valuable, or just something I really like, and B) it was hers and even if it was an old sock I’m sentimental about it. (I truly have held onto pairs of socks that were hers. Wait for me to show up on Oprah with some psychiatrist who is guiding me through throwing out theadbare tennis peds while I’m cry convulsively.)

After focusing on the clothing situation (piles to bring upstairs, piles to donate, oops–this goes in the maternity box), I A.D.D.ed my way over to the holiday section. With all my Christmas stuff plus my obsession with Halloween costumes, it’s practically a holiday “department.” I realized that some Christmas boxes could clearly be condensed. One just had bubble wrap in it that had once protected ornaments, and two long cotton tubular sacks with pink closure ribbons at the ends. I had no idea what the hell they were for and was going to (uncharacteristically) throw them away, when I noticed a paper note pinned to one that had “12 days of Christmas” written on it.

Oh my God. How cool. They were the custom-made storage bags for the Christmas wall-hanging and Christmas tree skirt Mark’s great grandmother, Grandma Kohl, had made. For some reason, standing there in the basement, I wanted to almost cry. Thank God I didn’t throw them out.

Mark’s great grandmother is long gone. I’m pretty sure she’s Mark’s mom’s mom’s mom. And as far as we can tell she’s the red-head who is genetically responsible for Kate’s strawberry blonde locks. The women on Mark’s mom’s side of the family LIVE FOREVER. I mean, these women have amazing staying power–into their 90s most of them. And I think they have tended to be pretty on top of their games into their dotage.

So, somewhere in her 90s, Grandma Kohl, crafty woman that she was, made Mark and his sister Lori (and likely all her other great-grandchilden) these amazing Christmas tree skirts, and wall-hangings that depict each of the 12 days of Christmas. They are tacky and flashy felt-and-sequin things that are truly exquisite. I have loved them dearly since Mark’s mom sent them to us this fall. (In his bachelorhood Mark never had need–and likely desire–for them.)

Both pieces have incredible detail–depicting everything from lords a’ leapin’, to Santa and a chimney, to partridges in trees with little porcelain pears hanging from them. They were assembled not only with flamboyant artistry, but with incredible care and attention to detail. The Christmas tree skirt even had a line marked with loosely-sewn white thread indicating where to cut so the circle could be wrapped around the tree. They stir up something in my inner Martha-Stewart soul. I guess it’s respect for such quality work, together with a love of family, traditions, Christmas. You don’t spend so much time on these things unless you love Christmas, and the people that you are making them for. And to think that the woman was in her 90s!

When Peggy sent them to us, it was oddly like getting a gift from the grave for Grandma Kohl. Here we were, still newlyweds and with a young baby, setting up house. It was clearly time for us to have and love these pieces. They are now part of our family’s Christmas tradition. Something Kate’s red-headed great great great grandmother made for us without even knowing Kate or I would be there to enjoy them.

I managed to easily find the tree skirt and the wall-hanging and to carefully move them from the box and garbage bag they were in to the cotton storage bags. Thank you, thank you, Grandma Kohl. I promise to always use the proper storage bags to keep your hard work safe, and when she is old enough, I will tell Kate about how special these decorations are that you made for us long ago. I’m also saving your hand-written tag–it’s something that seems to connect you to these things, and to us, even closer.

The Evil Eye

One thing Rose says to the other people at Chaparral House when they come up to visit with Kate and Rose wants her all to herself is something in Yiddish that translates to (as Rose puts it), “Not to give the evil eye.”

I’m not sure why Rose would think someone else who is clearly enjoying Kate’s company would wish ill will on her. I think it’s really just Rose projecting–giving the other person the evil eye so they go away and stop butting into her Kate time.

Next time she says it I need to write it down. I think it could be helpful barking that at people every once and a while. You never know what unsuspecting person could be lobbing the evil eye your way.

The Slippery Slope to 40

Yesterday I turned 39 with little to no anxiety about aging, and a good dose of fancy tequila.

The day was glorious, sunny, and warm. Kate took a long nap and when she got up we went to Chaparral House for a quick visit. It was torture sitting in a dark TV room with about 15 women sleeping in wheelchairs in front of a videotape of some highbrow play. (Less depressing than if they’d been watching crappy sitcomes, but still.) Rose was not in her room and her door was closed. Of course, I always panic that maybe she’s gone, as in gone. She never seems to enjoy socializing with the other “inmates” but when I asked a nurse where she was, she said she was in the TV room.

We hadn’t seen Rose last week because of our road trip. She was thrilled to see Kate and even remembered her name calling her Katie, but often still referring to her as him. I think because she has twin sons, and her memory is so sporadic, she thinks of all babies as being boys.

She did ask her favorite question, “Does he look like his father?” The first hundred times she asked me that I answered honestly saying not really. But it seems to me it’s an unsatisfying answer, so recently I’ve taken to saying yes. I tell her (and it’s not really that far-fetched) that Kate has her father’s eyes. “Oh he must love her,” she says. It’s interesting that she talks about how Mark must love Kate, but we never talk about my experience as a mother.

At any rate, I busted a move out of the nursing home pretty quickly because Sacha and baby Owen were going to the UC Berkeley pool and it seemed like a far nicer way to spend my b-day afternoon. Sacha had an extra swim diaper so I was able to attempt to get Kate into the wading pool, but she would have none of the chilly water. No fool, she.

Kevin, and our neighbors Cat and Andy (friends from before having moved to Oak-Town), came over for din din. It was warm enough to eat outside, and Mark did ribs on the grill, with baked beans, cole slaw, and corn bread. Kevin made kick-ass margaritas, and we had a peach strudel/pie thingy for dessert. It was a really relaxed and fun night.

Hooray! I am 39, with cool friends, a nice little house where it’s warm enough to eat outside, a husband who I adore, and the best little baby ever born, who slept peacefully as we ate, drank, talked and laughed the evening away. Lucky 39-year-old me.

Back Home

The road trip with Kate was soooo great. From the moment we pulled away from the house it was clear we were on an adventure. The fact that it was a sunny weekday when the rest of the world was toiling over hot computers made it all the more liberating and indulgent. I intentionally didn’t pack a lot. Megan had some baby stuff of Ella’s she said we could borrow, and I figured what we didn’t have we could do without.

On the three-day sojourn Kate was a wonder-baby. She was so easy to be with and care for–she seemed incredibly centered and happy. On our drive home when she started to cry, I realized that she hadn’t cried for days. It sort of jarred me into the reality, “Oh yeah, she’s just a baby.”

It’s cool being able to take her out of her usual surroundings and routine and see her not only adapt, but thrive. She loved meeting people, and seeing new things–all the amazing foliage and birds around their house, Katie the dog. She made her own connections with people too. Despite their year age difference, Kate loved rolling around on the floor while Ella marched around her and handed her toys. And from the moment we pulled into the driveway, Megan’s baby-lovin’ dad, Rog, wisked Kate into his arms and chatted with, tickled, and smooched her up like she was his own grandchild. She loved the attention and genuine affection, and never once acted tentative or needed to check in with me.

It makes me sad for the parents who don’t want to take their kids away from home because they fear they won’t do well in a new environment. Sure, I was worried that her great sleep patterns were at risk, and she did wake up more than usual there. But Kate is all the better for having gotten to know the fabulous Heathcotes, for having slept in a foreign Pack ‘n Play in an incredibly quiet rural house, and for having bathed in an inflatable tub with a whole slew of different bath toys.

For all the time we already spend together, our little trip was a bonding experience. Oh how I love that little girl! (Yes, I’m planning to go off to college with her and live under her bed.)

As Rose from Chaparral House mutters–somewhat fragmentedly–when looking at Kate, “Not for a million dollars.” I’m not sure what the complete thought there is, but I assume it refers to Kate’s pricelessness. Indeed.

Hittin’ the Road

Tomorrow Kate and I will break in her new big-girl car seat on our first ever mother-daughter road trip. No, we will not be wearing matching goggle sunglasses and chiffon scarves. Though she would look pretty darn cute in such. Then again, I think she looks cute smeared head to toe in sweet potato.

Our friends Megan, Jason, and wee Ella are moving back to the Bay Area after a 3-year(?) sojourn in San Diego where they experienced good weather, new friends, and real estate dreams-come-true. Alas, the SD job market isn’t what Jason hoped/wanted/liked–combined with other factors, including all their SF friends incessent whining for their return since they left. At long last, we won. Hooray!

Unfortunately the transition back here is a mite more complex. They have 2 more sentient beings on their hands than they did when they left–the aforementioned wee Ella, a sweet blondie about 18 months old who can sign like the dickens. And an equally adorable pup named Katie who knows commands in Spanish (something Megan and Jason found out days after bringing their “trained” dog home from the pound).

Tangent: Kate is clearly destined to be surrounded by dogs with names like hers. Perhaps we should have just thrown in the towel and named her Scout?

Further complications include renting out their house, moving in with Meg’s parents while Jason interviews, and the sordid fact that Megan recently broke her leg. Her thigh bone. Ouch! In one of those not at all sporty maneuvers which included stepping off a curb.

Even with her mother’s help, caring for a toddler while dependent on a wheelchair/walker/crutches has got to be tough. So Kate and I are pinning on our Florence Nightengale nurse caps and heading south to help out. Even if it’s just by having some good clean fun by calling out “Katie!” and watching the baby and the dog turn around.

Megan’s folks live in Nipomo, near Pismo Beach. It’s down south along Scenic Highway 101, and apparently takes about 4 hours to get to. So a warning to those who live along 101: Shutter your windows and turn up your stereos. We’re comin’ through and I’ll be singing a constant stream of loud senseless kiddie songs.