Hoping next time I will be cc’d

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Date: September 09, 2005

To: Stella

From: Toddler Headquarters

Re: Revised Napping Schedule

It is being suggested that any interested toddlers at or around the age of 21 months cease all scheduled napping. You are encouraged to pursue any methods that you find effective. If you find yourself at a loss for ways to successfully thwart napping attempts, the following list of suggested activities may prove useful:

  • Kick the wall incessantly as though you were trying to tunnel out through the side of the house.
  • Get up and walk into the hall, be sure to have some sort of prop in your hand to use as a tool of distraction.
  • Play in your room for an extended period of time in an attempt to make it seem as though you are actually sleeping, then emerge from your room saying “woke up!”
  • Run from your room yelling “Poopie, Mommy! Poopie!” (whether it is true or not).
  • Cry.

Feel free to utilize these or any other tactics you can come up with on your own.

Although it is expected that you will eventually succumb to exhaustion, be sure to drag the process out as long as possible. The whole point is to make sure that the parental unit in charge is not able to accomplish A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G productive throughout the afternoon. This is your goal.

You should continue on this schedule as long as you are able.

1,060 miles of fun.

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Just as much as they don’t prepare you for how UN-magical a newborn can be, they also don’t prepare you for how TOTALLY AWESOME a toddler can be. “They” being all those sappy-licious parenting books that always look at the brighter side. Those books that need to come with a warning that says: “Beware. The person who wrote this book was high on hormones and may not always portray an accurate depiction of pregnancy, parenting or the miracle of birth.”

As a parent, your sense of the well-being of others becomes freakishly heightened whenever you are about to put yourself and your child into or near a physical space shared with another human. So you can imagine the outright panic that set in when Dore offered to suffer the slings and arrows of a road trip down to the valley with Stella and I. It was hard to discern whether this was the selfless act of a true friend or just plain old-fashioned stupidity. I mean come on – 10 hours EACH WAY, the death heat of the valley, sleeping in a trailor on the back 40 – who would willingly volunteer for this? This trip had merit badge written all over it.

The whole purpose of the trip was for us to make the rounds through Phyllis’s house in preparation for the estate sale. It is a strange and invasive process – going through someone else’s possessions. You feel like an intruder and wish that each and every item in the house had been designated to someone specific. Instead we had to play this uncomfortable guessing game of “Do you want this? No? Do you mind if I take it?” You feel like you are one step away from being a looter.

I did get the fortunate opportunity to go through years worth of photos of Phyllis, her sisters and their circle of friends. They were all so close with one another, and there were photos of the four sisters together all the way through until the ends of their lives. You could almost hear the laughter as they goofed around in the kitchen making Christmas dinner, modeled their new bathing suit, or sat on the back patio drinking cocktails. You got the very real sense that it was a time when life was good, and I am so glad I got the opportunity to have a front row seat.

When we weren’t busy at Phyllis’s house, we were tolerating moderate heat (miraculously, it was in the low to mid 90s) and watching Stella run non-stop. The Anderson Compound provides a lot of roaming room and plenty of things to check out. As per usual, she is drawn to fountains as if there is a secret voice calling to her, “come, dip your sleeves in me, ignore all arguments otherwise.” It is, undoubtedly, the same voice that tells her to loiter suspiciously around the toilet.

This was the first actual travel experience since transitioning to the big-girl bed and as such, we weren’t sure how to best anticipate the sleeping arrangements. I took the pack ‘n play just in case, but figured I would let her sleep with me.

Night 1:
Stella kidney kicks Natalie every 30-40 minutes and insists upon sleeping perpendicular to Natalie the entire night.
Night 2:
Stella is banished to the pack ‘n play and wakes regularly at 30 minute intervals until Natalie moves her back into bed with her; Stella kicks Natalie every 30-40 minutes and insists upon sleeping perpendicular to Natalie remainder of the night
Night 3:
Stella sleeps on the floor, stirring only once, but wakes up with her body a full 180 degrees opposite her initial sleeping position
Night 4:
Stella sleeps over at Grammy Judy and Grandpa Bill’s – for all Natalie cares, she slept on the ceiling.
Night 5:
See Night 3

Sleeping issues aside, Stella was downright Stellarific. She transitioned from location to location without even a whimper, she was cute, charming and ever so patient during the endless days in the car. She was able to charm everyone with her unique renditions of Rock-a-Bye-Baby, Happy Birthday, Twinkle-Twinkle and 5 Little Monkeys, often creating new and catchy medleys such as, “Wock a Bee Bee, Twee Top, Happy Booday to Woo!” One of the more memorable moments came when I asked her,”Can I have a kiss, Stella?” and she responded, “How ’bout tongue, Mama?” [Indicating I should kiss her on the tongue.] Classic.

From all reports, her two days with Judy and Bill were equally pleasurable. Judy got to play show-and-tell with Stella at two separate schools, where Stella even got to play at Kindergarten recess. (When you are a pint-sized giant you can get away with such things.) They survived a trip to the grocery store where Stella got her very own cart and, as Bill put it, she was a much better at the shopping part than at the steering part. And miracle of all miracles, they left the store with only ONE must-have item that wasn’t on the original grocery list.

It was a fairly uneventful drive home, aside from the one cheese incident wherein she mistook it for playdough and managed to work it skillfully into the plastic mechanism that fastens her seatbelt. New rule: cheese is no longer an unsupervised food.

Note to Dore: You certificate of completion is in the mail.

Weighing In

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Although I have been doing a lot of watching and listening, when it comes to our nation’s recent tragedy – Hurricane Katrina – I have yet to take the time to actually say anything. Looking ahead in my life, I can already see my puzzled expression when I look back through these volumes to realize that I never took the time to really articulate the profound impact this has on our lives…on our society…on our humanity.

As I have watched the endless hours of footage of a city underwater, people wandering aimlessly on freeway offramps or trapped on rooftops – houses entirely submerged – there is a certain amount of shock that settles in. You are horrified and saddened and wonder how – in America, in 2005 – we are so quickly reduced to a third world nation. Is this really happening? Is this really as horrific as it looks on tv? Was this storm really that much more powerful that all the others that sweep this region every single summer? And why, days and days later are there still people without food, water or a place to sleep?

The shock wears off quickly when it all of a sudden arrives on your doorstep. The stories of your friends and coworkers who have friends or family who no longer have homes or jobs – and in some cases no reasons to go back. Today, in a department-wide staff meeting, we were updated as to the status of various coworkers’ family members and told of the CSU’s commitment to provide educational refuge for any of the displaced students from the Gulf Coast Area (in doing rounds today I also noticed that Andrea actually put together a post outlining which other campuses were providing similar relief.)

The ultimate reality check occurred today when I went to get gas today to find a line snaking probably 50 cars long. In one 24-hour period, gas prices jumped 25 cents a gallon, and I heard unsubstantiated rumors on the radio that they would rise a full dollar by the weekend.

The ripples of this tragedy have left no one behind.

One of the things that I find most frustrating right now is the incessant need of newscasters and “concerned citizens” and even the president to spend this precious time and energy trying to blame and point fingers. I guess that is what we – as ‘murkans do. Someone’s gotta pay.

Thousands and thousands of people are still without water, shelter or food and the heads of relief agencies are sitting in interviews with perfectly coiffed news anchors having to answer questions that basically boil down to “whose fault is this?” WHO CARES?! PEOPLE NEED YOU HELPING THEM RIGHT NOW! The national guard can’t seem to get it together to keep people from looting, supplies aren’t getting where they need to go and people are now 5 days without water. The questions shouldn’t be “whose fault?” it should be “what else can we be doing to help?”

When it comes to helping, I heard an interesting piece of information when it comes to donating – specifically in regards to the Red Cross. When you make your donation (cash is really the best way to donate right now) don’t specify Katrina. Just make a general donation. The agency becomes limited in its ability to spend funds when monies are specified for specific purpose. The story goes, that after 911, there were hundreds of millions of dollars surplus that were only allowed for 911 recovery efforts, and that due to regulatory issues it has been difficult to use those monies for other relief efforts.

I can remember so clearly our travels through the gulf coast – the hurricaine evacuation route signs scattered along the highways. I remember picturing what it would be like – people dutifully following these signs escaping to safety. The images of motionless packs of cars clogging every exit route was so far from that vision.

We stayed in the New Orleans french quarter and drove down canal street. We visited those old buildings that pre-dated any history we could conjure from our depleted memories. We saw the cemetaries with the crypts holding bodies above ground, because burying them in earth that lies below sea level does no good. We were educated about the architecture that has been adapted over the years because of all the floods and fires that have plagued this city. This place had seen its share of hardship.

We drove through Biloxi Beach – I clearly remember seeing those floating casinos that ultimately ended up ashore. As we drove along the highway the water was right there. The thought of a 20+ foot seawall surging forward is still baffling to even concieve.

I know the area will recover…eventually, but if there was one thing that struck me about this area was it’s authenticity. It was old. It was historic. It hadn’t become ‘anywhere, America.’ There were stories to tell about every building and every street. It is sad to think that has been chipped away, even a little bit.

In loving memory of my old lady friend.

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A year ago today, a little over 5 months shy of her 90th birthday, Phyllis died.

She survived three older sisters, each of whom died in the month of September, and she used to joke, “I just need to make it through September, honey.” I guess she just decided that she had endured all the Septembers she could, and was ready to rejoin her sisters for some long overdue beer and tacos.

Phyllis

This was the first time I ever experienced the death of someone I loved so dearly. My friend, my confidant, my sassy “old lady friend” (her term), I never hesitated to describe her as family. It felt awkward to say anything else. Our family had become the kids and grandkids she never had. And way back on that rainy morning in December, she was the first person I called to tell that we had a daughter, and decided to name her Stella. She was finally a great grandmother.

phyllis and stella

Phyllis was the real deal. She swore, she drank and she always called it like it was. I can still hear her adamant proclamation of “bullshit!” as I tried, tirelessly, to tell her how I would go back to school and finish my degree – I swear! Somewhere along the line it became her mission to make sure we didn’t blow our opportunities. And when it came to our education, she was relentless. She did everything she could to make sure it happened. I am just so glad that she got to bear witness to the completion of my 12 year odyssey through college. See, Phyllis? I told you I would do it…eventually.

Something you could either love or hate about Phyllis is that she was always brutally honest. She was quick to point out the truth – whether you wanted to hear it or not. A typical conversation between Celene and I on our way over to Phyllis’s would go something like this:

“Which one of us do you think she will tell has gained weight?”
“I think it was me last time. It’s probably your turn.”

No visit was complete without her looking at one of us and pointing out the size of our ass. I guess when you are an octegenarian you aren’t held to the same rules as everyone else, and it is considered completely okay to smack someone on the butt and say, “well honey, looks like you packed on a couple of pounds there!” What exactly do you say to something like that? Nothing – you just suck it up and respect her for the fact that she has lived this long and can, damn well, say anything she wants. [I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that she also would be kind enough to point out those rare moments when we had actually lost weight.]

There have been many, many times over the last year where I have wished I could just pick up the phone and called her. I have tried hard to keep myself from falling into the I-wish-I-would-have whirlpool of regret. There are a million ways I could have done more, been more, tried harder. But then I step back and try to remember that she loved us regardless of how many times we called or wrote. She was always happy to hear from us, and I loved the fact that all the way up until the last time I spoke with her on the phone, she knew my voice instantly. I miss her great laugh, her awesome stories and above all, her enduring friendship.

Phyllis

I miss you terribly, Phyllis, but wherever you are, I hope you are happy and healthy, with a beer in your hand and a cat at your side. You deserve it.