Little Mitzy, R.I.P.

My dear friend Shelley, with whom I rented a Victorian in San Francisco for some seven or so years of single-gal debauchery, had a childhood dog named Mitzy. In that way Shell and I have of happily talking non-stop whenever we see each other, we’ve covered a lot of conversational ground about everything from current life issues to childhood tales.

Shelley grew up in the frozen tundra of Minnesota. One day she and her mother discovered that little Mitzy, who was but a wee Chihuahua, had somehow been left outside. Being out in a Minnesota winter can be physically devastating for an adult human. Temps drop to absurd sub-zero levels, and in no time eyelids can seize up, snot can freeze in your nose… Well, you get the point.

When the little Mitz-sicle was discovered by the back door, a forlorn young Shelley snatched her up, carried her carefully inside and planted her on a heating pad, while likely weeping and assuredly whispering heartfelt apologies.

Miraculously, little Miss Mitz warmed up and bounced back. And yet Shelley never did dedicate her life to the church. Go figure.

Anyway, I’m a huge dog person. I adore the beasts. Yet I always found that story hilarious. Maybe it was more about them having a lap dog–one named Mitzy no less–that just slayed me.  That coupled with the fact that as an adult Shelley and her husband Don are so not Dog People. Somehow all those things, along with my sick sick sense of humor, have led me to razz Shelley mercilessly about Mitzy whenever anything about the cold, or small dogs, or forgetfulness, or heck even heating pads, comes up in conversation. (Yes, it’s a tough job being one of my friends.)

Well last night at dinner Mark mentioned that when he’d gone in to get Paige that morning a window in her room had been left open all night and she was–yes, you got it–a little Paige-sicle.

Thankfully Paige didn’t require the “To the heating pad, STAT!” treatment that Mitzy did, nor did Mark have to cradle her carefully to prevent possible cracking. He just closed the window, put a little hat on her, hugged her up, and moved her to a warmer part of the house.

We’re in this Indian Summer season here in the Bay Area. During the day in the sun it can get well into the 70s, but at night the temps drop 20 or more degrees. At any rate, the window staying open was decidedly my fault. I’m the one who puts Paige to sleep at night and closes her curtains. I should have checked the window then, and somehow didn’t.

And of course yesterday the little dumpling woke up with a runny nose and sneezing the cutest saddest little sneezes you ever did see. Today she’s no better. At nearly nine months old, she’s got her first cold, poor dear.

Guess who is fretfully whispering “I’m sorry” into little ears now?
  

Sisters, Sleep, and Yard Sales

At 6:40 on Sunday morning when Paige babbled her wake-up call, Mark and I cracked our eyes open, smacked opened and closed our bone-dry mouths, and softly groaned as we remembered the day that stretched ahead of us. We were having a huge yard sale.

For all we knew, early birds were already prowling around our front porch with the hopes of finding some ignorantly-priced Noritake china. Having to lug everything out of the garage and around to the front yard seemed torture enough, then then Kate’s tiny voice joined the chorus with Paige. “Mama! I woke up!”

My God, we also had children to tend to. And in the wake of a supremely fun party the night before–where Mike and Myra renewed their vows on their 15th anniversary and treated their friends to an exceptionally fabulous throw down–here we were, heads throbbing, lying tangled in our sheets like some suburban American version of Sid and Nancy.

Not pretty.

It’s just more validation that my on-the-fly early morning nanny service would catch on like wildfire. If I could have picked up the phone for urgent back-up, I would’ve paid $100 an hour for childcare. Easily.

Anyway, at least I’d consumed a vat of Don’s superb pinot the night before and had good reason for my state of disarray. Whereas this past Friday, I had no alcohol-related excuse for my behavior.

So Friday. When I arrive at Megan’s house for mother’s group, she’s in her garage bent over two ride-on cars she’s assembling for the twins and she mutters between clenched teeth that she’s been in a fantastically crappy mood. It’s such a gift that Megan A) admits to her foul mood but still throws a yard party worthy of the Smith & Hawken catalog, B) is the kind of friend who doesn’t sugarcoat life when she’s bedraggled, and C) manages to do her hair in cute braids despite it all. Megan is rarely off her game, and with three kids under three, no nanny, and a hubbie with a time-sucking job, I’d be enjoying the creature comforts of a sanatorium if I were her.

Anyway, aside from her admission of it, you’d never know the woman was crabby. But then in some weird transference that we tried to make sense of later, the bad mood somehow leeched over to me. There was either some fierce ‘power of suggestion’ energy out there, or maybe some as-yet-undead part of my childhood Catholicism urged me to take it on like some priest in an exorcism. More likely it was the exhaustion that’d caught up to me from waking-in-the-night children and not sleeping well with Mark out of town.

After lunch, with some help from Mary, who impressively coaxed naked Kate (long story) back into her clothes and even her car seat while I wrangled Paige, I drove home, nearly slumping over the steering wheel, hoping the day’s excitement would warrant Little Miss Never Nap into even the smallest kip. I never sleep when the kids do, but since I caught Megan’s mood like a bad cold and was generally haggard from the night before, I’d have gladly done a swan dive into bed.

No luck. Kate invoked reserve stores of energy and refused to even play quietly in her room. So when I staggered in to feign some active parenting, I was all over her suggestion that “you be the baby and I be the mommy.”  This involved her even tucking me into her bed (bliss!). And the next thing I remember, Officer, I was fluttering my eyes open after having totally conked out. D’oh!

Thankfully the curtains were not on fire, Kate wasn’t out on the sidewalk chatting with strangers, and Paige was still safely snoozing in her crib.

The rush of maternal negligence that surged through me went unnoticed by Kate who was tootling around in her room and came over to me saying, “You woke up now, Baby! You want some milk and a snack, Baby?”

And just as I was settling in to thinking “Okay, I dozed off for a bit here but everything’s okay…” I remembered that I’d taken a sleeping Paige out the car earlier with the thought that I’d come back, grab my bag, and lock up. Which of course, I never did.

“Mommy?” I said to Kate, because God knows when she is Mommy and I am Baby I can never mistakenly call her Kate. (The house could be burning down and if I called her Kate she’d sit on the floor and scream, “My name is not Kate! I’m Snooooow Whiiiiiite!” And refuse to budge.) So I’m all, “Baby forgot something in the car. I’ll be right back, Mommy.”

I’d parked on the street, since our garage might as well be in the next town over. And from the second I set foot on the porch I notice I somehow managed to park with the two right wheels on the sidewalk. My God. Had I been sleep-driving? Then I walk around to the street-side door where Paigey’s car seat is, and of course, it’s open. Not wide open, mind you, but still. And on the front passenger seat? My bag with my wallet, iPhone, yadda yadda yadda. This may be okay in say, Bristol, Rhode Island. But this is Oakland, people. Thankfully–mercifully–it was all still there.

I mean, imagine if I had been drunk how ugly that scene would have been.

Not one to stew silently in my own shame, but to share it (see: this blog) I immediately call my friend Jennifer who lives next door. And she says brightly, “Hey I saw your great parking job!” Oy! Nothing like being beaten to the punch on my own self-flagellation.

But it really was an odd day. Thankfully, no hangover was associated with this not-drunk-but-acting-like it afternoon. I also didn’t don a lampshade, call any old boyfriends, or snarf down a whole sleeve of Chips Ahoy cookies. (Not that I call old boyfriends these days, Mark…) Worst of all, Mary reported late yesterday that the Bad Mood Virus had somehow been passed on to her. I can only hope that its course of destruction ended there.

And thankfully, yesterday when I truly was hungover, my two sisters arrived to valiantly pitch in with the yard sale–merchandising items, setting prices on the fly, convincing people they needed our old crap, and collecting cash with the efficiency and security of a Swiss bank.

At the end of a long and exhausting day I looked at Kate and Paige across the dinner table and smiled thinking that they’ll be there for each other for all the good times, and for all the hung-over yard sales.

The Deep Dark Hours

Pre-Kate, one thing I heard mothers talk about that I was sure was complete crap was that in the middle of the night they’d wake up moments before their babies needed to nurse. That there was some weird groovy connection between them that they just naturally operated in synch that way.

It’s not that I thought those women were lying per se, maybe more that it was unlikely that I could ever muster something so fine-tuned. I mean, I’m the one who’s sneezing and hacking for five days before I get the first inkling that ‘Oh! Maybe I’m getting sick!’ I guess I’ve come to accept that there’s a missing link or two in my mind-body connection.

So I was stunned when Kate was an infant and I found myself–the woman who takes pride in the fact that I never get up to pee at night and sleep deeply on airplanes, lumpy couches, and alongside train tracks–waking up suddenly in the middle of the night, only to hear Kate seconds later squirm around in the bassinet and start her soft “ah ah ah” feed-me noise.

I felt a huge rush of belonging. I was part of that super-connected Mommy-baby club. I was normal!

I haven’t asked other mothers about this, but with the second baby I think I was less attuned to those wake-ups. Or maybe just less thrilled by them. In fact, Mark and I had forgotten what noisy sleepers newborns are, and in Paige’s first nights home managed to tune out the menagerie of wheezing, retching, and choking noises that might have alarmed us with Kate. With Paige we just rolled over, dragging our pillows over our heads.

These days Paige is decamped down the hall in her own room, and for a while I needed a monitor to be sure I’d hear her wake up. But I’m on the verge of tossing that onto the garage sale pile. When Paige gets up in the night now, the monitor first picks up the rustle of her moving around in the crib. Then she starts in with her alarmingly loud monotone vocalizations.

“AAAAAHHHHHH EEEEEEEEE AAAAAAHHHH. EEEEE-UH!! EEEHH!? EEEHH. EEEHH. EEEEEEEEE!! EH.”

You’d think she has a little bullhorn in there.

And hey, it works. Around here, nighttime–and especially early morning–is Operation Don’t Wake Up Kate. I mean, if Paige gets up at 5:30, I can stick a boob in her mouth, whip her around in the rocking chair a bit, and eventually coax her back to sleep, if only for a precious hour. If Kate were to be awakened at that hour, after several rounds of walking her back to bed and pleading with her to “Please lie down and get some more sleep, it’s not morning yet, honey,” Mark or I would eventually find ourselves blearily assembling the 101 Dalmations floor puzzle in the living room, while Kate launches into her endless waking stream of banter. (“This is fun, right Mama? We got this puzzle from Ari’s yard sale, right? He’s a big boy. Where do you think this piece goes, Mama?”) Not exactly how I like to spend my pre-dawn time.

Of course, I have no one but myself to blame for my daughters’ excessively talkative natures.

So, when Paige starts her middle-of-the-night blaring babble, exhausted and cozy as I may be, I dive for the door and stumble down the hall to grab her. Even though we go through this, well, every night, I still always expect that once I’m in the room with her and start frantically, hopefully-soothingly hushing her, she’ll pipe down. But even when I pick her up she’s still at it, and at the same top notch. That girl’s got a story to tell, and when I enter the room there’s not even a pause or flicker of recognition that she’s got company. “EHHHHHHHHHH. iiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeee UH?? EEHHHH EHH. LAAAAA!!!”

Last night I was just settling into bed with my book. I’d even read a page or two, and was relishing it, since it seemed I might have enough wakeful energy to read one or two more pages. (By Christmas, perhaps I’ll get through the chapter!) And then Paige started in. An odd time for her to awaken, before Mark and I have even gone to sleep. So, feeling sorry for myself that my simple-pleasure Friday night was being interrupted, I tossed my book on the pile of also-barely-read magazines and ambled to her room.

What’s incredible is how quickly my maternal chagrin can turn into a near-weeping lovefest. I picked up Little Miss Loudmouth and thought about the time not long from now when I wouldn’t be able to hold her to me in one easy swoop. And as we rocked she flapped the blanket I’d snugged around her off her arm and started waving it up in the air. Reaching for my face, swatting at my hair, and eventually settling her pudgy paw awkwardly behind her back where she could grip my arm. It’s those kinds of things that reel you back in when you’re parental reserves are hitting rock bottom.

But I’m no fool. I’m already bracing myself for the day 16 years from now when Paige storms out of the house screaming that she hates me because I’ve refused to give her $800 to fly to LA for the weekend with her 21-year-old creepy deadbeat boyfriend so they can go to a beach party that Skylar’s mother is letting her go to, then stay at guy-who-should-be-dating-someone-his-own-age’s cousin’s house, where there’s allegedly adult supervision. Riiiiiiiiight.

I guess when that day comes I’ll just have to comfort myself with the thought that there was a time when she was just seven months old that Paige gave in willingly to a nice long cuddle, and I was the one she saved all her best stories and secrets for.

Halloween’s in the Bag

Halloween is like black licorice–you either love it or hate it. I personally loathe black licorice but I ADORE Halloween.

What can I say? It’s a legitimate day upon which my inner showman can shine. If you’ve known me for more than say, three minutes, this I’m sure surprises you not in the least.

Hey, materialists get Christmas, romantics get Valentine’s Day, and folks like me get Halloween.

I don’t consider myself terribly competitive, but on Halloween no last-minute Walgreens caliber witch costume will suffice. In fact, if it ever got to me going that sad route, I’d rather just not participate. And unlike some folks who specialize in the gory, scary, or sexy, I don’t like to limit myself. I’ve dappled some in the scary realm, and intentionally steered clear of the costume-as-excuse-to-show-leg. I mean, anyone with a nice pair of stems and a little imagination can find a way to expose their assets. But the sexy pirate, the tavern wench, the 80′s slut, or the naughty devil get-ups not only offend me with their lack imagination–they’re just plain tacky.

Though bad taste comes in many forms. And some would argue that in my career of crafting costumes I’ve teetered on the brink of it myself. But as my old friend Andy Robinson says, “I’m not for everyone.”

If there’s any one theme, I’d say my costumes are most often reflective of the times. Like in 2004, I couldn’t resist a snarky ‘tribute’ to The Gipper. Wearing a sensible dark wool dress, a scalloped gold necklace and brooch, and a fluffy brunette wig in an effort to make my head appear as large as humanly possible, I was a mourning Nancy. I walked through the streets of the Castro—San Francisco’s dearly-departed Halloween epicenter—clutching a tri-folded American flag, sobbing into a hankie and crying out occasionally for “My Ronny.” Those gay boys who hated Reagan loved it.

My engineering masterpiece wasn’t a terribly original costume, Janet Leigh showering in Psycho. Its merits revolved around its construction. I rigged a piece of PVC pipe in a halo high above my head, from which I hung a plastic shower curtain and a large dummy arm clutching a bloody knife that swung at me. Mark–a non-lover of Halloween who graciously endures my antics—made a soundtrack loop of the famous “WAAH WAAH WAAH” sound effect and secured a micro cassette and little speakers somewhere along my back. Try listening to that for more than  five minutes without wanting to stab yourself. But, hey, that’s the kind of commitment I’m willing to make for a costume.

Which is to say I’ve also suffered my fair share of physical pain. Sure as kids we all had that annoying condensation build-up inside our plastic masks, or costumes that made sitting and certainly peeing an impossibility. But try lugging a hand-crafted sandwich board-sized Wheaties box with a oval cut out for your face to an evening of hi-jinx and debauchery (while trying to look cute and meet men). This I endured for my Olympic gymnast Kerri Strug costume, complete with the bandaged injured ankle she still vaulted her way to gold medal glory with. (Am I dating myself here? She made all the news back in ’96, trust me. Michael Phelps may we remember you 12 years from now…)

Anyway, all I can say is that costume delivered a facial ring of fire the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I also did a decent job of whacking people with the side of the box whenever I’d turn even slightly. Though my friend Kevin, dressed in a hastily-made but hilarious Bela Karolyi costume—which he perfected by sadistically barking heavily-accented gymnastic directives at me—did his best to guide me through crowds to avoid injuring innocent bystanders.

Some time in that same late 90′s era, horrified Noe Valley mothers pulled their children close to them on the sidewalk when they realized my blonde wig, pink satin dress, lace ankle socks, and Little Miss Denver sash was an overgrown imitation of recently-deceased pageant-rific JonBenet Ramsey. Young girls walked up to me cooing about princesses and their mother’s smiled, then blanched, and steered their innocents clear of me. And I don’t even think they noticed my excellent strangulation-bruising make-up job.

Ah JonBenet. That one was a classic. Those patent leather Mary Janes are still around in a box somewhere.

But really, the costumes over the years are like one’s children. How could you ever say you love one more than another?

Last year, more than 7 months preggy with Paigey, the timing was perfect for me to become one with Buddha. (Ask me if I’m still bitter that it didn’t garner a prize at the company party.) Needless to say, my rotund midsection fit the Buddha bill to perfection, but despite my best efforts at Ace-bandage bondage, I think I was a bit more buxom than would have been ideal.

So often it’s the timing that makes the difference between a good costume and a really offensive great one. Which is why while watching Kate and Paige playing from across the room yesterday I nearly squealed with excitement at the thought of two costumes that were spot-on for them.

All it’ll take is a brown dress, a little black hair dye on Kate, and maybe a bit of a trim–otherwise she’s ready to roll as a perfect Piper Palin. Of course, she’ll be cradling Miss Paige, playing Trig, and I’ll coach her to do that little spit on the fingers and hair-smoothing maneuver we saw at the RNC.

It’s perfect, right? I mean, how many people have kids the right age for this? Not to mention a mother with the utterly unflinching poor taste to pull such a thing off.

Of course, I wouldn’t ever really do this. For the costume to be truly authentic I’d need to surround the girls with a convention center’s worth of 9,000 or so utterly deranged mis-informed and asinine Republicans. And thankfully I couldn’t find that may conservatives in Northern California, even if for the sake of a damn good costume I wanted to.

Hopefully-Not-Evil Twin

I fear I’ve somehow found myself at the beginning of a Stephen King short story. At least I hope it’s a short story. I really don’t have the patience to see what’ll unfold in the time it takes to get through a novel.

It all seemed so innocuous. A few weekends ago, Kate, Paige, and I ventured out to some yard sales on our street while Mark was on a bike ride. We hit what appeared to be the kid-crap jackpot–a family with some older children was purging some great books, puzzles, and Kate’s favorite thing–dolls. We actually scored three dolls, doll clothes, and even a mini Bjorn-type carrier which caused Kate to nearly weep with joy when she first laid eyes on it. Kate staggered away from that sale with the greedy satisfaction that rich kids in Manhattan have after an FAO Schwartz spree.

We got home and I tossed what was washable into the hamper, then grabbed some Lysol disinfectant wipes to kill whatever Ebola or Junta type viruses might be lingering on the dolls’ hard plastic faces and extremities.

That’s when, standing over the sink, I stared into the face of one of the dolls and recoiled to see none other than my own baby, Paige, looking back at me. I mean, it’s UNCANNY how much this doll looks like Paige. I nearly did one of those Looney Tunes head shakes followed by a close-up peer and squint to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

I brought the thing over to Paige and held it up next to her. Aside from the doll’s Buddha-like man breasts, the thing is essentially Paige in inanimate plastic form.

Even Kate saw the freaky resemblance, but was nonplussed. As if coming to acquire your baby sister’s doll doppleganger is a perrrrrfectly normal thing to happen on a Saturday morning. Ah the sweet innocence of childhood.

So then. What next? Exactly my question. I mean, something like this doesn’t happen and then the family lives happily ever after, right?

Thus far I’m thrilled to report that it’s been life as usual at Casa McClusky. Though if something would happen I’d at least be relieved of this brutal state of suspense. But I guess that’s why Stephen King is so good at what he does, right?

At any rate, if anything weird goes down around here I can tell you right now, the doll did it.

Dermal Drama, Act 17: The Good Doctor

Whenever we were leaving my grandmother’s house when I was little, she’d trundle into the back of her little apartment and come out with a couple grocery bags for us to take home. You know, full of non-perishables like napkins, coffee, toilet paper.

Thankfully we weren’t in a financial situation where such a gift was needed. I think it was just Bopchi’s way of mothering her daughter. And like so many well-intentioned acts, it bugged the shit out of my mother.

“Ma!” she’d groan. “They have grocery stores in Rhode Island, you know.”

I doubt my mother really thought my grandmother considered those of us dwelling over the Massachusetts border lived like savages. But there was some element to the act that in my mom’s eyes bespoke her mother’s small-mindedness.

Which wasn’t to say my mom didn’t have her own small-minded opinions and high-minded attitudes. The baby in my family, I was the first of four kids to venture beyond the East Coast for college. To my parents who’d done their fair share of travel, the Midwest represented a No Man’s Land. We knew no one from there–save a distant cousin of my dad’s–and never had need or desire to go there. And certainly, though it was never verbalized, there was an attitude I’ll admit I shared that certain goods or services hailing from those parts were simply, well, inferior.

So as it turned out, my first episode with my eye going all jenky took place my sophomore year, in Ohio. It was the first day of a long weekend when I woke up and literally couldn’t see straight. By random chance I was boarding a plane to Boston that very day. But it seemed clear that if a trip hadn’t already been on the books–and even if I had to feel my way blindly through the airport–I was going to be seen by a doctor back home.  

Anyway, as it turns out now, I have a father-in-law who is a doctor in Ohio. Funny how the universe works, isn’t it?  And the thing is, I’m sure he’s a fine fine doctor. (See how much I’ve grown?)  

Here in the Bay Area, we’re blessed with many world-class doctors and medical institutions.  So if you’re someone with any lingering medical snobbery issues like myself, it’s comforting knowing that you’re in the presence of pros. But God help you if you need to see any of them in a timely manner. With my most recent eye outage last summer, my Cycloptic episode had passed in the many weeks it took for me to get an audience with San Francisco’s Grand Poobah of Migraines. So really, net/net I’m not sure what you have to gain here.

This past week, our number came up for Paige’s long-awaited appointment with a pediatric dermatologist. Of course, her eczema, once lush and thriving, is barely visible now. (Thankfully.) But she still enjoys some vigorous and bloody scalp scratching at times, so I figured I’d bring her in.

The morning of the appointment I was lying in bed strategizing about how I’d explain to the doctor why my peaches-and-cream skinned baby required her super-in-demand professional attention. Then Mark came in from getting Paige from her crib and said, “Poor thing scratched the shit out of her cheek in her sleep.”

Indeed it looked like she’d wrestled with a badger and lost.

“Oh awesome!” I shouted, thrilled I wouldn’t be arrested for Munchausen’s by Proxy after all. We might even seem legit amidst the other skin-plagued kids in the waiting room.

At the doctor’s office the resident who saw us first asked me to undress Paigey to her diaper. As I did, revealing nothing by healthy glowing skin–I nervously blathered on, assuring her Paige was looking more lizard-like than cherubic just weeks ago. And I positioned Paige so her scabby, scratched up cheek caught the light of the bright overheads to look optimally atrocious.

Turns out I had no reason to worry. I guess there are others like me who suffer from the same “inability to replicate the noise for the mechanic” type problem at the doctor’s office. Or maybe these docs just took pity on me.

The resident, and the doctor who later joined her, could not have been any nicer. I mean, after our first five minutes of pleasantries I wanted them to come home and join us for dinner. Truly.

First off, they just loved little Paige. And sure, that only means they’re mortal. But despite how easy it is to adore her, I still appreciate when people gush, especially those who are awash in babies and by no means are required to.

Second, they informed me Paige actually still has some eczema brewing. On her legs! It’s pretty mild at this point, but it’s there. And the head scratching is something they said we need to handle before she has permanent scarring. Quel horreur! Here’s the baby I wanted to do the eye-cream-at-infancy test with to make up for my own youthful sun worship skin damage, then someone mentions something about scarring. Thank God it’s not too late to intervene.

The treatment? More of the same kinda lotions and salves I’d already gotten from the pediatrician and the Big Girl Dermatologist–stuff I’d feared I shouldn’t be using on a baby and wanted some validation around from a specialist. But get this: They also want us to give her an antihistamine before bed every night so she’ll relax, sleep deeply, and won’t scratch, which triggers the itch-scratch-eczema vicious cycle. Yes, actual medical professionals are telling me I need to give my baby meds that will make her sleep through the night. Pinch me!

Next they’ll tell me that my fantasy product–2-Hour Ambien for Toddlers, a foolproof nap in pill form–actually exists and I need to start Kate on it immediately.

At one point in the examination the doctor undid Paige’s diaper and took a look at the skin yonder. “Wow. You are doing a great job with her diaper area,” she clucked. “Look at how nice that is. I mean, I see a lot of babies, and believe me, this looks great.”

I’m ashamed to admit I immediately flushed with pride. I take a shine to compliments anyways, but this feedback was the closest thing to a positive corporate performance review that I’ve had in months. And the thing is, I didn’t even know I was excelling in that area!

After handing me prescriptions and info sheets, and sending a few more ‘ga ga goo goos’ Paige’s way, the doctor actually thanked me for bringing her in, and encouraged me to come back if she ever has a flare up, or if I have any concerns.

As doctor’s visits go, it was a ridiculously positive end to a several-month-long ordeal. Solid medical advice, relaxed and attentive service, and super friendly to boot.

They must be from the Midwest.

Hi Ho Silver, Away!

When my mother was sick and started losing her hair, my sister Ellen went online to find her some turbany hat-type things. I was home in RI when the package arrived, and since Mom and I didn’t know Ellen had ordered them, when we saw the return address—Chemo Savvy—we weren’t sure what to expect.

But when you’re relegated to spending day after day indoors, a mysterious package like this represents a small adventure. So, sitting on the edge of the bed, I knifed the tape off the box and handed it to my mother to open.

Not one to beat around the bush, when she saw what was inside were hats for her balding head, she rolled her eyes. “Oh God. Look at these,” she said, holding one up. Then looking at the label, “Ellen sent them.”

Complaining, especially when she was sick, had become somewhat of an art form for my mother. In fact, she could be ruthless, and many was the time my sisters or I would chase after some kindly nurse or visitor who’d been worn down by my mother’s crabbiness, to convince them while standing in the driveway that she didn’t mean it, she was really just angry at the cancer not them, and tomorrow would be a better day.

From here now I can see that the complaining, and the brutal sarcasm—which had always been her hallmark—must have been a kind of last-ditch form of empowerment. Making fun of the hats distanced her from the unwelcome reality that was upon her. Made it somehow seem like wearing turbans when your hair falls out from chemo was something other people do, not you. Even if it was just for a moment before having to give into whatever it was, she liked to exercise some resistance.

Thankfully, my mother’s sense of humor managed to thrive alongside her grumpy-patient persona. So after the initial, “Now why did she buy these?” remark, followed by an eyebrow raise and an approving cluck that they were at least all cotton, she pulled out one of the hats, put it on, and looked at me while intoning, “Chemo Saaavvvy!”

We sat on the bed for God knows how long, both trying on the hats, commenting to each other, “Kemo Sabe? That hat is Chemo Savvy!” and laughing until we cried.

When all else looked bleak, these moments provided enough of a respite to fortify us for the next gut-wrencher lurking around the corner.

This morning Chez McClusky we had some excellent family time piled into Mark and my bed, reading books, playing with Kate’s new yard sale doll, and kissing the bejesus out of Paige. Since Paige’s favorite alone time activity is clawing at her head, I’ve started putting her to sleep in those cotton skull caps intended for newborns. And since she’s outgrown most of them by now, they don’t fold up at the brims like they’re supposed to.

When the hat’s pulled down low on her eyes, the resulting look is at best like a flapper girl. With her ears sticking out–or more often than not, one ear–she looks slightly Smurfish. Or, if you catch her at just the right angle, as I did today, hat snug around the forehead and loose but crumpled down on top, she looks a little Chemo Savvy.

Oh Miss Paige, who we love so well. You will never know your grandmother, I’m sorry to say. But take it from me, she had a wicked sense of humor. And I just know that if she saw you this morning, she’d be calling you her little Kemo Sabi.

Paigey Scissorhands

We think that Paige might be participating in some sort of underground Baby Fight Club.

I know. I know exactly what you’re thinking. Serves us right for raising our kids in Oakland.

Be that as it may, it’s still distressing to put an otherwise unmarked baby to sleep, then fetch her in the morning to see that her face and head are covered in scabs and bloody scratches. It so terribly sad, until Mark makes some comment like, “Yeah, but you should see the other baby.” Then you can’t help but laugh at your little cherub’s expense.

And before you suggest that we clip her fingernails, we have. On a nearly hourly basis.  In fact, several times we’ve considered taking her to a vet to get de-clawed. Unfortunately our insurance doesn’t cover that.

But seriously, it’s a bit of a mystery. Sure, there was a time when Paige had legitimate reason to scratch. But the eczema and cradle cap that for so long plagued her appear to be–please please don’t return just cause I’m writing this–gone. Is there some kind of phantom limb phenomenon at work here? Is she clawing at the memory of a dry itchy patch?

Or worse, is this some sort of compulsive behavior, like that sad polar bear at the Central Park Zoo who spent day after day swimming back and forth in the same exact rhythmic pattern? Sure, he delighted scores of schadenfreudian New Yorkers who came to gawk at something who was clearly more miserable than themselves. Despite the community service he was providing, I still wouldn’t want to be that poor bear’s Mama.

Call me a silver-lining seeker, but I can’t help but wonder whether all this self-mutilation means Paige is poised for greatness. I mean, take Angelina Jolie. She was a cutter in her younger years and look at her now.

I love you, my little dumpling

Dear Paige:

Here we are in Harrisburg, PA at Daryl and Christian’s house
on the third leg of your first East Coast Tour. It’s getting late and I really should be sleeping since it’s
my turn to wake up early with you and Kate tomorrow. But instead I need to write you a love letter.

Some people thought it was ambitious of us to travel with a
five-month-old and three-year-old for over two weeks and to four different
places. (So, if the train travels at 80MPH and makes three stops, how many miles did it go?) Of
course it’d be easier to just stay home, but we’re parenting with the educated
guess that giving you and Kate new experiences will be enriching even if
Dad has to stagger though endless airport terminals strapped with carseats,
bags, and overtired babies, and we have to pack and unpack a really-too-small-for-us rental car every few days.

You know. Nothing
ventured, nothing gained. Besides, we were really excited to show you off, Little Miss
Paige.

Going to Rhode Island each summer is more than a good
vacation for me. It’s like a pilgrimage that refreshes my spirit. Aside from it being home, and beautiful
and beachy, and the setting for the beloved historic Forta of July parade, many
of the people who I love most in the world happen to live here.

So, take a trip that I look forward to all year, and add
you, my new little Love Dumpling, who most everyone has yet to meet, along with
your big sis and Dad. I get the Del’s Lemonade, the garlic-icious spinach pies,
time with my father, Aunt Mary and Mimi, and my Big Sis, Marie–all this and I
get to present to them this beautiful sweet sweet sweet baby–you!–and tell
them, “So, here’s my baby. Don’t you just love her?”

Sure, I was proud of the leather jacket I got when I
was a kid that had a real-fur collar (yeah yeah, throw some ketchup on me), but
I’ve never experienced pride in something–or the desire to show something
off–in the way I have with you and your sister. As a parent I now understand
my father’s “Did I tell you about my daughters…?” M.O. that always slightly embarrassed me.

Don’t worry, I hope to some day refrain from the “My kid is on the honor roll” bumper sticker. I’ll just have to let everyone know about that verbally.

So this trip. On this trip you have traveled like a champ, Paigey,
sleeping through long car and plane rides, teetering on awkward, cramped and God
knows immodest places to get your diaper changed. You’ve camped out in various
porta-cribs in home offices and guest bedrooms, and sweated through hot nights
with staggering humidity, insufficient fans, and ear-splitting firecracker
blasts without waking up once. You watched two-plus hours of an Independence
Day parade, sitting contently through loud marching bands, over-crowded
streets, and being handed from cooing friend to cheek-pinching relative. You
even rocked two different red-white-and-blue outfits, because at one’s first
July 4^th parade how can you wear just one?

Through it all you’ve flashed your huge mouth-agape smile over and over. Never once have we had to say,
“She just woke up” “She’s jet-lagged” or “She must be hungry.” Your default
setting is Sweet/Easy/Happy. It’s incredibly fun to introduce you to
people because as sweet lovable babies go, you’re pretty damn bulletproof. Thank you for that.

I wish our cable signal was as reliable as you.

Does it go too far to also point out the ripple effect your
smile has? That whatever happy dumpling-ness makes you all shiny and
bouncy gets passed on to other people who I love so very much? Let’s just
say seeing a smile-and-laugh-fest between you and my 94-year-old Godmother is
reason enough for two 6-hour plane rides.

Thank you, sweet Paige, for being the little beacon of joy
that you are. I’m truly honored to be your Mama. To be the one that doesn’t
only get you for a visit, but gets to come home with you, be the last to kiss you before you sleep
at night, and drag my sorry ass up in the morning to fetch you gurgling from your
crib. You manage to turn bleary-eyed 6:30AM into a nice
time to be awake with someone.     

Thank you for all the blissed out Mama moments I have with
you, doing everyday things like changing your diaper or feeding you, when I have a few just-you-and-me
quiet minutes to squeeze your ham hock thighs, blow raspberries on your belly,
or kiss kiss kiss your delicious neck.

Sweet Paige, you dazzle me. How lucky we are to have you. And how blessed we are
that you are you.

xoxo,

Mama

The Blue Ball is Dead! Long Live the Blue Ball!

Peggy and Gary, Mark’s mom and stepfather, left today after a great visit packed with NorCal sightseeing, eating and drinking, and excessive granddaughter adoration. One of those visits that make you wonder why we all live so damn far away. I wasn’t at the airport this morning for the final farewell, so I don’t know exactly what took place. But even before Kate and Paige were on the scene, Peggy was known for getting teary-eyed at goodbyes, especially when she didn’t know when she’d see Mark next.

If my memory serves me, my mother and I used to cap off most visits with a rousing argument. It made parting so much easier. Even without a separation anxiety spat, my mom was hardly the crying type.

There’s actually a famous story in Mark’s family about when his mom and sister dropped him off at college for the first time. When they left to head home, Peggy was crying so hard she somehow managed to drive off the road into a corn field. (Mind you, they were in rural Minnesota where such fields are abundant, not Manhattan.)

Needless to say, Mark and Lori will never let Peggy live that down. But now that I’m a Mama myself, I can totally empathize. How in God’s name do you deposit your beloved sweet baby at college–off in another state or even a different time zone–to not see them again until Thanksgiving, if you’re lucky? I’m hoping by the time Kate turns 18 homeschooling will be a popular collegiate option. Or that she’ll insist on living at home and attending a nice local costmetology school so she can be near her Mama.

Even though the kiddies are still so young I’m finding I’m already nostalgic about things. At the park the other day there was a three week old baby I was mesmerized by. “A baby!” I thought to myself, as if it were such a novel thought–an unattainable object of desire. All this while I’m holding my own four-month-old. But, you know, Paige seems so big already. And the thought that she’s probably the last of the little McCluskys makes it that much harder to watch her mini milestones pass by.

Mark, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to share my sentimental streak. Nor does he share my on-again off-again yearning for another baby. In fact, after a long evening of bouncing Paige on the big blue yoga ball–our favorite method for getting our fussy babies to sleep–he turned to me and said, “God I’ll be happy when I never have to do this again.” And despite how my own lower back was crying out for an end to non-stop bouncing, my mind was aghast at the thought.

When that ball goes away, that means Paige will have grown up a bit. She won’t be a teeny newborn who needs the motion of her Mama’s movements replicated to soothe her. She’ll nearly be independent!

And another thing. When that ball goes away after Paige, it’s retiring. It will never be called to serve again–at least for anything other than yoga. And still for Mark there’s no looking back. I think he mentioned something about gleefully taking an ax to it…

Well, unbeknownst to him, the other day as I was vacuuming the house I lamented that that huge ball, wedged under the lip of the TV stand, was taking up too much space in our small living room. And really, we hadn’t had to use it for weeks. So I figured I’d stick it down in the basement where we could always grab it if we needed to.

The impulse to stow crap in the basement comes up often, so it wasn’t until I was walking up the stairs that I thought, “My God. We are now officially finished with the baby-bouncing segment of our lives.” May the big blue ball rest in peace.

No, no. I didn’t cry. But hey, it’s on to a new phase and goodbye (forever) to an old one.

Another thing that Mark doesn’t know–not that I’ve actively been hiding it from him–is as Paige has been outgrowing clothes I haven’t had the heart to give them away quite yet. For now I’m taking some comfort in just putting them back in the age-labeled plastic bins on the shelves downstairs. (See? The basement is my enemy and my best friend.) How can I let go of the soft froggy jacket with the satin bow that Lindelle got for Kate? Or the brown cable knit sweater-suit Mark got at his office shower?

In part, there’s just so much cute stuff. I can’t just give it to Salvation Army. But there’s also the thought that there won’t be another baby here to wear it some day–a thought I clearly haven’t gotten my head around.

And for the record, I’m not planning to do some soap opera poke-a-hole-in-the-condom move for a third child. In my rational, non-emotional moments I truly agree with all the reasons why we’re better off as a family of four. It’s just–babies are so sweet!

Is this how my brother-in-law’s parents ended up with 15 kids? Perhaps.

Maybe I just need to reflect more on my neighbor’s deadbeat 37-year-old son who’s just moved back home. Oy! Imagine finally being back in the swing of what life was like without kids, then being tossed into telling your grown son to pick his socks up off the floor. Even for a crazy love-addicted Mama like me, that just seems wrong.

I’ll have to remember that when I’m veering off into a corn field 16 years from now.