Strolling with Wolves

I have emerged from the woods, hairy and disheveled, to write this post.  It was just too good not to tell immediately.

This summer, being that it is the first one where I don’t have a job or a colicky baby, I have decided to spend the majority of my time out at the lake. Buddha comes with me, of course, along with the Dogs from Hell. Practical Joe stays at home slaving away at his job during the week (and his video games in his oh-so-free evenings.)

The other day, in an attempt to shake off a case of cabin fever, I decide to take Buddha and the Hellians for a walk down the gravel road that leads to our cabin. It’s a remote road bordered by thick foliage and wild flowers. We've (very creatively) deemed it The Quiet Road because of it's desolate nature. On it you might see the odd frog or turtle crossing the road, but other than that there's not a whole lot of activity. 

Or so I thought.

I am nearing the end of my walk and suddenly a strange feeling comes over me. It’s the kind of feeling you get when you’re being watched. Most of the time when I get this feeling in the city, I quickly pick out the culprit, usually an old man leering at me for no apparent reason or a snobbish lady judging me and my screeching baby. Both of which are manageable.

But here I am alone. Here, in the middle of nowhere, this feeling is downright creepy.  Shivers shoot up my spine. I look around me, but there is not a person in sight.

I breathe a sigh of relief .  A leering man out here would be far too much to handle. I continue walking.

About a minute later I see something emerge from the woods up ahead of me. I squint to try to make out the dark figure and quickly determine that it’s probably someone’s dog. Relieved, I continue walking.

But as we get a little closer my rambunctious Dogs from Hell freeze in their tracks.

“Come on guys!” I try to coax them along but they are too zeroed in on the dog up ahead.

I take another look at its dark coat and piercing eyes and my skin begins to crawl with fear as the realization sinks in: that’s not a dog… that’s a big effing TIMBERWOLF!!!

I freeze in the middle of the road, frantically trying to think of something to do. Buddha points to the wolf and happily chirps the word, “Dog!” for the first time ever.

“Shhhh!” I tell him.

The wolf takes a few steps toward us and I start to cry. I am completely helpless. Stranded in the middle of the woods without a single way of defending my baby or myself from a 150 pound predator. I don’t know how I’m going to get us out of this one but what I do know is that that wolf will be well matched by me if he tries to harm my child. 

Desperate to try something, anything, I slowly reach down into the bottom of the stroller and grab a container full of cheese that I had carefully diced up for Buddha that morning. I open the container and very, very slowly empty in onto the road.  I turn around and begin walking in the other direction, away from the wolf.  The dogs from hell don’t follow me, which is sad but in a way, still okay with me. Those dogs becoming wolf meat is a small price to pay for my child's safety.

YIP! YIP! YIP! YIP! YIP! The dogs go baserk.

“Guys noooo!!!!” It comes out automatically as I turn around to see my little lap dogs running toward the giant wolf.

For a moment I am frozen again but decide that this time I need to run. I run until my chest is on fire and I am gasping for air.  I run and run and run until I realize that my dogs from hell are running beside me. My Dogs From Hell are okay!!!

After a joyous reunion with my dogs and about an hour of waiting to make sure the wolf is gone, we head back.

When we get home, Dog from Hell One pees on the couch and for once I don’t really mind.

Namaste,

Playgroup allergy

I’d heard about them before and they sounded pretty awful: bored housewives who get together to teach their wrangy children how not to steal each other’s toys. (“Jacob, what did I tell you about sharing?” they’ll say in that naggy mom voice that I’m sure I myself am slowly inheriting.)

“You shouldn’t be so judgmental,” says Mommy Ventura over the phone. “Aren’t you a bored housewife?”

Damn best friends and their astute observations.

“Well yes, but I don’t think the commiseration of others is going to do me any good. It’s just not my scene.” I shudder again at the thought of the forced chitchat about loose teeth that would surely transpire.  

“But what if you just went to a really big one?” MV tells me about a playgroup that she’s gone to. “There are so many people… I swear, it’s not awkward at all. You barely have to talk to anyone.”

I mull it over. “I suppose that could be okay,” I mumble, feeling like a grumpy old man. (What kind of person am I that the selling factor to a playgroup is that I’ll barely have to talk to anyone? I decide not to further analyze.)

“It’s really fun. You should try it!” MV continues.

I look over at Buddha who is staring slack jawed at an episode of Sesame Street.

•••

I arrive at the playgroup.  A feeling of dread overcomes me as I open the door to the community center. My mind is flooded with imagery: a sharing circle, women who look like June Cleaver, sandwiches cut into perfect animal shapes. (“This is an orangutan,” June will say as she passes her child a tuna sandwich.)

But when I enter the room it is nothing like what I had pictured.  The large hall has more toys that an FAO Shwarz. It’s a kid’s dream. Buddha immediately busies himself with a toy motorcycle and I follow him around the room, smiling at other parents and making sure that Buddha doesn’t run over their children.

A few minutes in and Buddha is having the time of his life. He squeals with delight every time he discovers a new toy.  I decide that playgroups aren’t so bad.  I even find myself yearning to talk to some of the other moms. I look over at a group of women who are enjoying coffee and laughing together in the corner. That’s when it hits me. Behind my judgment and harsh prediction of what a playgroup would be was the secret fear that I would not, or perhaps could not, fit in.

As soon as I realize this I make a b-line for a mom who is standing at the inflatable gym.  I introduce myself to a woman named Rea and we have a lovely chat. We talk about nothing in particular but it doesn’t matter. It’s just good to make even the smallest connection.

But my June Cleaver moment is short lived.

“I’m sorry. I think I need to sit down for a minute,” I tell her as a wave of nausea hits me. I've never been morning sick before. It must be the playgroup.

I sit down on a chair and put my head between my knees.

“Are you alright? Do you want me to get you something?” says poor freaked out Rea.

“No thanks. It’s just morning sickness. I’ll be fine.” I wave my hand trying to downplay the extreme nausea that’s set in, but I quickly realize this is no small matter.  I have to leave.

I peel myself off the chair and hurry over to Buddha. He’s enthusiastically banging together a toy spoon and pot. I pry them out of his tiny hands and he starts to scream. 

Now the whole room is looking at me but I can’t be bothered with that small fact. I’m about to puke.

After speedily strapping Buddha into his stroller I hightail it for the car. I buckle him into his car seat and drive off, my tires screeching on the pavement. I drive maybe a half a block before frantically pulling over, opening my door, and getting sick all over the pavement.

After I am done, I look up. Standing on the sidewalk is a mom pushing a stroller. She is frozen, gape mouthed.

“I’m so sorry,” I say before slamming the door and driving away.

I guess I’m going to have to find another playgroup.

Namaste,

Balls and Umbrellas

It’s Saturday afternoon and I get a frantic phone call from Heels.

“Do you have a minute?”

I glance over at Buddha who is dangerously perched on the coffee table.

“Sure... is everything okay?”

I’ve become accustomed to asking this question the moment I hear Heels’ voice. Ever since she got engaged last Christmas there has been flower drama, sister drama, hair drama and even shoe insert drama (“If I use my Dr. Scholls inserts my Manolos don’t fit!” she told me last week.)

But this time she calls with a real problem.

“I want you and PJ to come to a baseball game with us tomorrow.”

A real problem for me. I scramble to think of an excuse, thinking that I’d rather scrape dried baby food off the kitchen floor than go to a sports game of any kind.

“Can’t. We don’t have a sitter,” I say. It’s an obvious cop-out, but worth a try.

She doesn’t buy it. “Get your mom to look after him! Come on, it’ll be fun!”

“I don’t know if I want to go out…”

PJ saunters in gnawing on a piece of sausage. “Go out where?”

 “Baseball,” I roll my eyes.

“Awesome! Call your mom!”

***

The next day we wait for Heels and Draggy Feet at the stadium entrance.  The smell of concession food wafts through the air and my mouth starts to water. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Suddenly, through the crowd they emerge. Heels is never hard to spot. No matter what the occasion she comes dressed to the nines and today is no different. She’s wearing a Reiss sundress and six inch heels. 

I give her an exaggerated once-over. “You going to the prom after we’re done here?”

She smiles as if she’s just received the biggest compliment. “You like it? Kate Middleton has the same one.”

“I heard they make those in a Romanian sweatshop,” I say, bitterly looking down at my jeans and t-shirt.

She ignores me and pulls out a large floral print umbrella.

I look out at the clear blue sky. There's literally not a cloud in sight. “You think it’s going to rain?”

Heels launches in to a long-winded explanation of the sun’s rays and the damage it can do to a person’s skin. I am sorry I asked.

After loading up on mini-donuts and climbing over a sea of legs we are at our seats. Heels settles in, opening up her enormous tent of an umbrella.

“Put that thing away,” says Draggy Feet. “You’re going to block other people’s view.”

I don’t often agree with Draggy Feet (last I heard he wanted to have a wrestling themed wedding) but today he’s making some sense.

“Yeah, Heels. You really should listen to him.”

“I can’t sit here in the sun. I’ll roast!” she wines.

“I can’t see!” says a kid in the row behind us.

“Be patient, she’s putting it away,” says his father.

“See, you’re blocking people. Put the umbrella away!” insists DF.

Heels glares at him as if to say “shut the F up” and he does. It's an outright abuse of female power if I've ever seen one. 

***

It’s the third inning and finally someone taps Heels on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”

She turns around, eyebrow raised.

“Could you please close your umbrella. We’re having trouble seeing and it’s not even raining!”

Heels calmly explains that her skin is very sensitive.  She tells the woman that she wouldn't be saying that if she had an obvious skin condition, but since she has unblemished skin she gets unfair treatment. She turns around and continues to watch the game.

For the next two innings people aren’t as polite.  In fact, they become downright infuriated which is made clear by the wide array of expletives used to describe Heels.  This includes the father and son duo behind us who have now threatened her life.

I bury my head in my hands, genuinely humiliated, but also as a way to show that I do not agree with this sort of behavior. Heels can be stubborn at the best of times but this is just over the top. 

Suddenly I hear shouting. I look up, expecting to see angry people with batons, but instead I see a baseball heading right toward me.

A fly ball.

It all happens in a flash. PJ jumps in front of me using his body as a human shield. The ball zips past him toward the angry father’s son. Quickly, Heels holds out her umbrella and the ball bounces down into the row in front of us.

Heels turns to her enemies. “How do you like me now?” she says smugly.

For the rest of the game we receive free drinks and snacks from the people behind us.  I feel entirely undeserving, but hey – free food is free food.

And the best part: I finally coax Heels to put away the stupid umbrella by offering her my sweater. Guess I could have thought of that a little sooner.

Namaste,

Clenched

When I found out that I was pregnant again, I must admit, there was a momentary feeling of pure dread. It wasn’t because I knew I’d have my hands full or the fact that it wasn’t planned.  The idea of having another baby, planned or not, was and is very exciting to me.

What I dreaded was the bottom sickness.

DEFINITION: Originally coined by Practical Joe for purposes of making fun of me, bottom sickness is a term to describe an event opposite to morning sickness. This event would (hopefully) occur in the bathroom at an opportune moment (when at home), but unfortunately, most of the time, the need to be “bottom sick” tends to occur when stuck in traffic, or at the store with a screaming baby and a cart full or groceries. Bottom sickness is the worst possible pregnancy symptom and, lucky for me, I have it.

***

2 Days Ago:

It’s a beautiful spring day. The apple blossoms cover the trees and the grass is a pristine shade of emerald green (aside from the patch where Dog From Hell 1 likes to pee). I decide it’s the perfect day to take a nice long walk.

I am halfway through the walk (the furthest point away from home) when suddenly it hits me.  I need to get home.

I begin walking toward my shortcut when my bottom sickness suddenly disappears.  Excellent. It was only a false alarm. I continue on my longer route.

Moments later, it hits me again. How could I forget? It comes in swells – everyone knows this! I really need to get home.

My leisurely pace turns to a brisk power walk. An elderly fellow smiles at me from his porch. “Beautiful day isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” I tell him, wondering if it would be weird to ask him if I could use his restroom. I picture myself chuckle as I sheepishly explain to him that I’m pregnant and have awful morning sickness. Of course I’d be busted once I left his picture perfect home smelling like a sewer exploded in it. I keep walking.

Another up swell and my power walk turns to a desperate canter. A woman pushing a stroller stops in the middle of my path to let her toddler smell the flowers. MOVE IT!!!!

“Hi there,” she says with a warm smile.

“Hi,” I shout as I zip past her. 

Finally I am two, maybe one minute from home. THANK YOU JESUS!

That’s when I look down at Buddha and realize that he’s lost his hat. (I am about to make a critical mistake.) Being that I am on a down swell, I am feeling over confident. I could easily return for the hat a little later but for some reason I decide to turn around and seek out the three-dollar baseball cap. (Must be Practical Joe’s thriftiness rubbing off on me.)

I turn around and within about five minutes I’ve found the hat. I place it back on Buddha’s head and continue back toward home.

And then it really hits me. I have no choice but to run.

CLENCH, M. CLENCH LIKE YOU’VE NEVER CLENCHED BEFORE!!

I finally reach my doorstep, fumble with my key and suddenly as if from out of nowhere, I hear someone say my name. I turn around to see my elderly neighbor pointing to my garden.

“Those plants are poisonous you know.”

I do know. I know this because you’ve told me about a thousand times.

(CLENCH!)

 “Oh hi George! Thanks for letting me know!” I unlock the door.

“You should really get those things removed.” He shakes his head disapprovingly.

(ALERT! ALERT! DOUBLE CLENCH!)

“Well then what would my dogs have to eat?”

A look of horror sweeps across his face. I smile before slamming the door behind me.

This is going to be so much fun…

Namaste,

The Probe

I’m baaaaack!

After a couple of months of “rest” I am thrilled to be back in the blogging spirit. I put “rest” in quotations, because I didn’t actually do all that much resting.

I’d like to tell you that I spent my days luxuriating in bubble baths and doing crystal therapy, but the truth is that I can do that for about a day before I want to prod my eyes out with a baby spoon.

So instead of “resting” in the traditional sense of the word, I decided to take some time to work on a writing project that’s been on the back-burner for a long time. I’m happy to say that it’s almost finished! (I'll let you know the details when the time comes…)

Other than that I’ve just been hanging out with Practical Joe and Buddha, cleaning, cooking, going for walks, getting knocked up, etc.

Oh did I mention I’m pregnant? Yep, I am officially going to be one of those lunatic women with two kids under two. Go figure.

When I find out I am in complete shock.

It’s a typical Wednesday morning… well typical in the sense that I’m at yet another doctor’s appointment.  I had been having some odd symptoms lately, so my doctor sent me for an ultrasound to make sure it wasn't anything serious.

I sit nervously in a hospital waiting area, contemplating my own mortality. What if it is something serious? What if I’m dying? And if I am, who will take care of my family? Who will make lunch for Buddha (PJ still doesn’t know what to feed him) and make sure the Diaper Genie is emptied more than annually?

My eyes dart around the room anxiously realizing that if the cancer doesn’t kill me, the germs in this hospital will.  Between the woman clutching her abdomen, the hacking man, and the gurney full of unknown fluids being wheeled by, I’m sure to catch some sort of debilitating disease that will lead to my demise.

Suddenly I hear my name called out in a nasal tone. I look up at a woman holding a clipboard.  

“That’s me,” I admit.

She raises her eyebrows at me as if to emphasize mundaneness of the task. “Follow me.”

I follow the nurse and her squeaky sneakers down a long corridor, my palms sweating.

“Beautiful day out there, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” she mumbles.

(That’s fine. Who really cares for small talk anyway?)

We reach the ultrasound room and I am instructed to put on a gown and lay down on a table.

This is when I notice Squeaker lubing up what looks to me like a very large probe.

“What’s that thing for?” I ask unsuspectingly.

“It’s for your internal,” she tells me.

Good God, no one said anything about an internal! I brace myself.

***

After some prolonged “hemming” and “hawing”, Squeaker informs me of a cyst in my uterus.

“Nothing to worry about,” she tells me.  “Wait a second…”

My heart leaps into my throat. I KNEW it! I AM dying! This is really it!

“You see this?” she asks me, pointing to the monitor. She’s tracing a large oval shaped thing inside me. Probably my tumor. 

"Yes," I say, my voice trembling.

“This is either a very large cyst or you’re harboring something.”

Something? What kind of something?

“What could I be harboring?” I ask her, thoroughly freaked out.

 “A baby!”  says Squeaker. “It would have to be pretty early on and I can’t say for sure, but it looks to me like you might be pregnant!”  She smiles for the first time.

I race home and take a test. Sure enough, it’s true.

I am harboring a baby.

Namaste,

I am a fraud...

Well, sort of.

I did tell you that I am the furthest thing from "meditative", but lately I've been feeling like that was an understatement.

For those of you who had been reading my blog religiously, you have likely noticed that I have vanished.  After my cousin died, I decided to take some time for myself to heal and reconnect. In taking this time, I came to the realization that I haven't done so in a very long time.  I have taken breaks now and then but have done so half-heartedly. You know when you rest but you feel guilty about it?  Well I am the Queen of that.

Over the course of the last month or so I've felt SO GUILTY.  I've thought about  my blog and all the lovely people who have supported me to make it grow (in such a short period of time!) and then just felt bad for being so "lazy" in not posting. Then I read an article in none other than O Magazine that talked about the concept of resting like you mean it. The article explained the need for real, guilt-free rest, especially when you feel like you are blocked or are at a low point.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not depressed or anything like that. I'm fine.  I just feel like I need to recharge my battery.  (See The Secrets to Surviving Life's Low Points) I have no idea how long this will take, but when I am finished, I will be back and I look forward to posting and interacting some more. If you'd like to be notified by email when I am back, please feel free to leave a comment with your email address. Also, if you're new here, please feel free to browse through some old posts.  There are some doozies in here that promise to get you laughing (if I do say so myself!)

Furthermore, I cannot even put into words how grateful I am for your support. I have made many friends and have enjoyed every interaction I've had through blogging. I wish you much love and hope to talk to you again soon.

Namaste,

Say 'I love you'

If you're a dedicated reader of mine, you may have noticed that I've been absent over the past week or so. I just wanted to do a quick post today - on Valentine's Day - to tell you why.

Last week we had a very tragic loss in the family. My baby cousin, who was only 19, passed away. On Thursday, the family raced to the hospital to find him on life support. Devastated, we all gathered around him to say goodbye.

As I told him that I loved him, I realized that this was the first time I'd ever said it. I'd adored him as a baby, changing his diapers and holding him for hours on end, and then watched him grow up, worrying about him as he faced the trying and sometimes dangerous teen years, but had never actually told him that I loved him. I found myself wishing that I could just tell him that, for once, while he was conscious.

I'm posting today to ask you, whoever is reading this, to please think of someone you love, but have never told, and use this day to tell them just that.

You never know if today might be your only chance.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Namaste,