Isabella.

I've known Sonny since elementary school. We went to different high schools and lost touch--although we heard of each other's goings on through friends. Sonny met the Mister long before I did when they were both working in restaurants. It was while working as a bouncer in the bar portion of a restaurant that Sonny met his wife, Viola, who I knew from high school. Viola knew the Mister because she and her friends would go into T.G.I. Fridays, where he bartended, after they got off work.

We didn't officially all meet and become friends until Sonny called my dad who called the Mister who helped Sonny get a job at his company. Got that?

Sonny and Viola had there first set of twins 5 months after Mikey. Their second set of twins (yes, 2 sets of twins!) were born 11 days after Nico. We are decidedly outnumbered by children when we go out to eat, which is infrequent because we are all tired.


See that little one holding hands with Mr. Nico? That's Isabella. Not too long after this picture she got what everyone thought was a stomach bug. Except it kept coming back. She'd be fine for a few days, and then suddenly she'd start vomiting again. After a couple of days, she'd be fine again.

Three weeks and several tests later, nothing. Until today, when she had an MRI and doctors found she has a bleed in her brain and needed to be rushed to the emergency room. I don't know anything more than that, because that is all Sonny knew when he called. Bleed. Brain. Bad. Please pray for my little girl.

It's been an hour and a half, and my phone is silent.

Would you do me a favor? I told Sonny I would pray for Isabella and tell everyone I know to do the same. Hello, everyone. Please do say a little prayer for my honey-haired girl. And if you don't pray, we'll take warm wishes or positive thoughts, too. Just leave a little comment here on this post when you do so I can show Sonny and Viola how many people are rooting for Isabella.

Thank you.

xoxo,
Jules

The Fine Artist

The teachers at Mikey's school tell me often how gifted Mikey is when it comes to drawing. I have three theories regarding the nature of this praise.

1. They are trying to cushion the "we think your child needs 7 years of preschool" blow with a few compliments tossed in here and there.
2. Mikey attends school with the largest group of socially mature, yet artistically inept, preschool-aged children in southern California.
3. Mikey knows his way around a pack of Crayolas and I should encourage his creative endeavors.

Of course I'm going with No. 3. It's the option that fits best with my competitive nature and enormous ego. Besides, we have a few artists in the family, so if Mikey has talent he comes by it naturally. My brother is a video game designer (art! only animated! and with violence!) and my aunt is a fine artist in Argentina who spent a number of years in Italy restoring paintings for museums.

Oh, and one more reason I'm hanging my hat on No. 3? I have total and complete artist envy. Ever since I was a child, and still to this day, I wish I was artistically inclined. I suppose I can fight the passive voice and mend split infinitives as well as the next blogger, but what can I say? The grass is always greener and I wish I could draw. So to all you graphic designers out there: good job, keep up the good work, and try not to make it look so easy because I am totally jealous of your little mood boards and funny posters and cheeky Christmas cards you send out every year.

Back to Mikey. I had to take my mother-in-law had to the train station last night. I thought her 12+ hour ride would be more comfortable with a few snacks, and I asked Mikey to draw a picture of Gaga Pam on the snack bag. When I came back, this is what he handed me.

I know it doesn't look like much, but for a 4-year old it's pretty good, and for whatever reason, I completely fell in love with this little drawing. I didn't want to give it to my mother-in-law. I wanted to hand on to it and frame it. Something about those bright white earrings slay me in a million little pieces. (You can click on it to make it larger)

Courtney from My Sunset Road (so talented!) suggested I immortalize it with embroidery, and that she too wants to embroider some of her children's drawings. The only problem? We don't know how to embroider, and I don't even know how to transfer the pattern. Do I just use a light-box and use the picture as a color reference? I really want to try this. I have a family wall of pictures and love the idea of incorporating some embroidered portraits to the mix.

Any suggestions? Has anyone done this before with a modicum of success?

Things I Hope to Never Forget

When going for a drive meant a trip to the end of the street in a little red wagon.

A Mother's Love

Mikey is the boy who greets everyone with a hug--whether they want one, or not.

Mikey is the little boy who brings dinosaurs to school to show his principal the difference between an Apatosaurus, a Tyranasaurus Rex, and a Spinosaurus. Then he'll tell her how they lived in Center America and that's where paleontologists can find their fossils.

Mikey is the little boy who knows the alphabet, can count forwards and backwards, and does simple addition and subtraction.

Mikey is also the little boy teachers are suggesting needs a third year of preschool. For all that academic heft, he's a bit of a rascal. He is, as they say, immature for his age. He doesn't sit still during reading circle time, loves to wrestle and put out imaginary fires, and if it wasn't for his ability to hear the theme song to Lazy Town in the shower while the T.V. is set to mute, I would assume he is deaf. By the way, Lazy Town? Freakiest show ever.

Every day when I drop him off at school I remind him to put on his listening ears and to sit still and listen during Reading Circle. Every morning he looks at me with those gumball-sized gray eyes and says, "Of course, Mama!"

Every afternoon I pick him up and ask his teacher how he did. And every afternoon she says, "He's working on it!" Translation: you're lucky your kid is cute and friendly.

Last year, Mikey did better as the year progressed. By the time the school year ended, his listening skills were much improved--enough so that I had high hopes for this year. Right now, they are all but dashed. I'm at a bit of a loss. He doesn't have any problems listening at home. He behaves very well, minus a few typical 4 year old transgressions, and doesn't give me half the problems I hear and see my friends experiencing with their own kids. There is just something that happens to Mikey when he gets around a group of kids that makes him, literally, devolve into some quasi-hominid.

I explained all of this to his teacher on Friday. She suggested I cut out most of his T.V. time and encourage him to play cards, board games, puzzles, etc. Sounds easy enough. She then suggested I tire him out by playing outside and going on bike rides. Again, that sounds easy enough. Then she suggested that maybe, just maybe, he needs to be around more kids his age. You know, so he can learn what is appropriate behavior (i.e., quit hugging everyone), not get so excited every time he sees someone his size, and basically chill out when among his peers. She suggested we socialize. That didn't sound easy at all.

The Mister and I, we're home people. As I have mentioned before, we don't like big parties or crowds or organized clubs. We don't even watch reality T.V.--that's how averse we are to people we don't know.

Mikey, on the other hand, loves to be around people. He greets strangers with a handshake and a smile. "Hi! My name is Mikey K. and I love dinosaurs." He will play with anyone and lights up whenever he sees other children. He really is a people person.

So, on Friday, as I watched him run around the room with Benjamin putting out imaginary fires and then later hold Brooke's hand while her mom and I walked towards our parked cars, I thought to myself that if Mikey needs to socialize and be around more kids, so be it. If he is happy, I am happy. And that's when I realized they weren't lying when they said there isn't much a mom won't do for her child.

Dear The Mister,

You have been working all day and probably reading this during your client dinner tonight. Since I might be DEAD by the time you come home, I thought I might just jot down a few notes on how awesome my day is going right now, at 10:00am.

So, I'm still a little delirious from staying up the last 3 nights taking care of sick boys. Since you were taking care of them, too, I am imagine you are pretty exhausted, too. How's that coffee? Yeah. I don't drink coffee. But I do drink diet coke, and since I have to leave the house in a few minutes I might as well buy 235 gallons while I am out.

Why am I going out? Remember when we walked in on Nicholas last night with his feet stuck in the crib rails and choking on his own puke? And remember how we were all "AAAAAAHHHHHH HE'S DYING!! WHAT DO WE DO!!!!!!!!! HELP!!!!" and then we cleaned him off and put him in the tub and he was all, "Hey! A bath! My favorite! . . .What's wrong with you two?" And so you were so freaked out our kid almost went down like Jimi Hendrix you had to do something so you went and put his sheets in the washing machine but didn't remove any of the *ahem* offending material? Yeah. Let's just say I need to go to Target to pick up some laundry supplement with digestive enzymes to do the job Nicholas didn't get a chance to finish. Tomato skins in my washing machine, the Mister. That's all I have to say.

So Mikey got up at around 9:00am and {BONUS} didn't pee in our bed. I was so excited I had one less load of laundry to do, I decided to make everyone breakfast, including myself! I had just finished my 3rd bite when Nicholas decided to slip out of his high-chair straps and attempt to bungee jump to freedom. Naturally, I put down my bagel after only a moment of hesitation and decided while I was letting him kick me in protest, I might as well let him kick me in protest while I put on his clothes for the day. It was awesome. Since he is sick, his kicks are totally weak. So are his lungs. I barely felt or heard anything.

I have to say I was pretty bummed to come back and discover that the dogs ATE MY BREAKFAST. Oh yes, they did. And they had the nerve to lick their chops and burp delicately. I decided not making purses out of their ears should be enough to pay forward the pharmacy-tech's kindness from yesterday.

Mikey is perfecting his football throwing against various walls in the house. This is after he decided to fill his mouth with water, stick all his fingers in his mouth, and with water pouring down his shirt and onto the floor proclaim, "I'm brushing my teeth in a new way!" What the?!

I'm hot, my hair is a mess, and I think I broke my foot.

Well, I better go. Nicholas insists on playing with my old, rusty Buenos Aires license plate and I don't have the energy to take him to get a tetanus shot if he eats it. I'll update you on my day as it continues to deteriorate progess.

Can't wait until you get home. Drive safe. :)

xoxo,
The Mrs.

1st Day of Preschool

I miss him already.

ETA: The date on my computer is wrong. I just noticed the auto-date came up wrong and now his sign has the wrong date. Curses!

How I Met the Mister, Part II

(You can read How I Met the Mister, Part I right HERE)

About a week before I went to T.G.I. Fridays with Kara, my friend, Steve, and I were discussing our requirements in a boyfriend/girlfriend. Having ended a tortuous 4-year relationship two years prior, I was ready to return to the dating scene from my self-imposed sabbatical. I was smarter and more confident in what I wanted. In fact, I had it narrowed down to two requirements:

1. He had to like art and museums.
2. He had to remember I was lactose intolerant.

Steve was concerned my list of requirements couldn't weed out the riffraff, but there was a method to my madness. I felt a museum lover would be reasonably intelligent; less likely to spend Monday nights smashing beer cans against his forehead, if you will. More to the point, we would have something in common and share similar interests and hobbies. Someone who remembered I was lactose intolerant would be caring, attentive, and not self-involved. I was looking for the opposite of everyone I had ever dated.

I thought it was genius; Steve remained unconvinced. One week later, I walked into T.G.I. Fridays with Kara and unwittingly put my requirements to the test.

Kara and I were sitting at the table in the bar area debating what to eat while the Mister served drinks to the regulars sitting at the bar. I knew I had to stick with soda or water since I had class in less than an hour.

“So, ladies,” the Mister asked from his post behind the bar, “what can I get for you?”

I looked at him looking at me, opened my mouth and said, “I’ll take a shot of tequila, please.”

Kara grinned into her menu. A regular spun around in his seat, took one look at me, and chuckled.

“Well, alright,” and the Mister also chuckled. “What kind can I get you?”

I didn’t really care, so I asked for Cuervo 1800, which was on special.

“You don’t want that.” The Mister said firmly.
“Really. Is that a fact.” He had caught my eye, but not my tongue. “And why are you so sure?”

“Because it’s not good Tequila, so you’re just paying for a heavily marketed label. If you want to come over here, I can explain to you the different types of Tequila and how it’s produced.”

And that is when I left my perch in the safety zone and walked over to the bar, trying to ignore the smiles and elbowing going on by the regulars. The Mister placed several different bottles of Tequila on the bar and explained at length the production process. He explained the difference between silver and gold; añejo and reposado; American brands, Mexican brands; and the best climate for the agave plant. All of a sudden, the cocky, backwards-cap-wearing bartender had turned into a nerdy scientist, and I, who spent hours as a child reading the encyclopedia for fun, was immediately and hopelessly smitten.

I had one shot of tequila and maybe another drink. I never did make it to class. But, I did call Steve from the parking lot to tell him I met the man I was going to marry.

I spent the next couple of weeks going to T.G.I. Fridays with various friends, all of them curious to catch a glimpse at the first guy to ever make me gush. I made sure we sat in the dining room, far away the bar. We never saw him, until one night when I was there with my friend, Tiffany. I was walking back from the bathroom to my table, minding my own business when some rude bastard all but screamed in my ear, "MOVE IT, OR LOOSE IT!"

I turned around to watch the Mister rush past me with two arms full of hot plates.

I returned to the table and told Tiffany I saw him, but that it wasn't going to work out. "I couldn't possibly marry a guy with thighs thinner than mine." Tiffany agreed it was for the best.

A month or two later, Kara wanted to go to Fridays. I told her no way. She begged and pleaded and promised we would not go anywhere near the bar. I told her since I was wearing old jeans and a slouchy sweater plus didn't have time to do my hair or put on makeup that I would only go if she went in first and made sure the Mister was not working in the bar. Not that I was interested, but still.

To her credit, she lived up to her part of the bargain. He wasn't working in the bar and she waved me in. Almost immediately we were seated. The hostess handed us our menus, smiled sweetly and said, "Your server, The Mister, will be with you in just a minute." Our chins hit the table. I told Kara she was on her own and grabbed my purse to leave. When I looked up, there was the Mister. I could tell he recognized us immediately. I wanted to die.

I couldn't leave, so we ordered dinner and drinks. He was friendly and chatted with both us in between serving tables. Nerves kept me from eating anything more than the ice in my stiff drinks. I hadn't planned on ordering drinks, so I had to go use the ATM and get more cash. When I returned, the Mister was kneeling next to Kara talking, and it occurred to me he liked her and not me. He left immediately upon my arrival, leaving Kara grinning.

"I think that guy wants to..." Kara never got to finish her sentence because the Mister was back, and this time he sat next to me.

We had the world's most stilted conversation. Then the Mister looked at me and said, "Well, I like you. I was wondering if you would like to meet up someplace and have coffee."

To which I responded, "I don't drink coffee." What the??? That's all I could come up with? WHAT AN IDIOT!

The Mister looked a little surprised, but didn't miss a beat.

"Okay," He said, smiling. "Do you like art? Would you like to go to the LA County Museum of Art with me?"

Why, yes. Yes I would.

How I Met the Mister, Part I.

I grew up in a strict, conservative Catholic home, the Argentine-born daughter of two immigrants. I was not allowed to speak with boys, date, or wear makeup. No daring outfits, dangling earrings, or dark nail polish. I begged, at the age of 13, to read Seventeen Magazine. I think my mom might have allowed it, but my dad flatly refused to even entertain the thought, even after I explained to him that 17 year old girls don't actually read Seventeen. After college, it was assumed I would return home. And I did. I was twenty-one years old.

I didn't even think of getting my own apartment until I was around 24 years old. By that point, I was almost done with my Masters and my dad was finding it increasingly difficult to end arguments with, "Because I said so." I found a very nice apartment in a lovely woodland-like setting. I had money saved up (living at home doesn't cost much) and I took great pleasure furnishing my new place. As I placed furniture and hung poster art, I couldn't help but fantasize of all the parties I would be hosting, late nights laughing with friends, and grilled dinners on the balcony.

Here's the rub. Sheltered Catholic girls don't have many friends, and the friends they do have lead equally dull lives. My friends from college all lived out of state. Things were not going as planned. I was now poor, bored, and lonely. I started going home to have dinner and staying until it was time to go back to my apartment to sleep. Suddenly my parents and brothers seemed infinitely more interesting.

I'm a night owl, so I would often pull into the apartment parking lot between 10:30 and 11:00pm. I am also exceedingly cautious. Morning, noon, or night--whether I was in or out of the apartment I kept everything deadbolted. On my first night there I installed a security light. So I was on my toes when I stepped out of my car just before 11:00pm. I did everything right. I scanned the area. I held my keys in my hand, and even had one extended and ready to stab any unsavory penises that dared cross my path.

I bounded up the stairs, looked around, and seeing no one, unlocked the door and quickly went inside. I immediately locked all the locks, including the deadbolt. I put on my pajamas, washed my face, and was scrutinizing my face in a magnifying mirror when I first heard the knock on my door. I had been inside my apartment for less than 10 minutes.

It was a happy knock, if knock can be happy. The kind of knock you rap on a friend's door when they are expecting you.

Knock! Knock!

Who's there? I said without saying. I gently put down my tweezers and cocked my head, waiting for a familiar voice to call my name.

Knock! Knock!

Bill? Steve? Not Tiffany, we're fighting. Kara is already in bed. A little something inside me started to tingle. I quietly got up from my vanity stool and walked towards the knock. I didn't make a sound as I approached the door and stood before it, not knowing I was projecting my fractured image through the peephole to whoever was standing outside.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

A little more insistent. I softly pressed my fingertips against the door and looked through the peephole.

White male, or light-skinned hispanic. Early 20s. Average height, 5'8-5'10. Overweight and doughy, about 220 pounds. Dark hair slicked back, round glasses. Some acne. He must have sensed my presence or noticed movement in the peephole because he suddenly broke out in a huge smile and chuckled, like I should be happy to see a miniature version of him staring back at me. I did not say a word. I did not know him.

I reached down to release the deadbolt, and then changed my mind. Instead, I walked into the kitchen and pulled my chef's knife out of the block and walked towards the bedroom. I picked up the phone and debated calling the police.

And then he tried to kick down my door.

For a split second, I stared at the door in disbelief, wondering if perhaps I didn't imagine the deafening crash. But then the crash came again, and I knew by the way the window in front of me shook that he was rushing the door and trying to break the deadbolt. I called 911 and explained in bursts what was happening. I had to yell over my potential intruder, who was now screaming, cursing, and kicking the door, for the operator to hear me.

The operator was very nice. He took down all my information and told me someone would be there shortly. And then he said he had to go.

Please don't hang up. I'm scared. I could barely speak the words. My mouth was taking in short gasps of air like a fish out of water.

I'm sorry. I have to answer more calls. And it occurred to me the operator didn't want to stay and hear what would happen when my intruder made his way past my locks.

We hung up, and I called every person I knew and then my dad. Only my dad was home, and by the time I reached him the pounding at the door stopped. I daresay in the deafening quiet he didn't believe me when I told him someone tried to break into my apartment and the police were on their way. He showed up as I just as I finished giving the officer my statement. He thanked the officer and as I walked down the steps towards my dad, the officer called down from my stoop.

Your daughter is very lucky. There's someone going around. She would have been the 3rd.

We didn't ask 'the 3rd what?' because we didn't want to know. My dad never said a word on the way home, and I never went back to the apartment. My mom had a family friend clear it out and put everything in storage. I canceled my lease. I resumed my boring, sheltered life, only this time with great pleasure.

Two weeks later, Kara called me and invited me to eat dinner at our favorite restaurant, T.G.I.Fridays. Now that I was at home, I had plenty of money for such luxuries, and 30 minutes later we were in the lobby of the restaurant waiting for a table. I had a night class for my masters, but if we ate fast, I could make it in time.

I know you two ladies aren't waiting for a table!

Kara and I looked over to find a bartender leaning over the bar and looking in our direction. Kara and I turned around to make sure he was talking to us.

Yeah, I'm talking to you! You're not really going to wait for a table when you can have dinner right now with me, are you?

Kara and I looked at each other. I don't really drink. I don't go clubbing or dancing or partying. I certainly don't eat dinner in bars--don't people puke in there?! My eyes said it all: I couldn't possibly do that.

Kara looked back at the bartender. Sure, why not? That sounds like a great idea.

We both walked into the bar, Kara with a more lively step. I smiled weakly at the obvious regulars and they chuckled into their bourbon. I made a point to sit at a table in the bar, not the bar itself. I wasn't going to be there long.

The bartender smiled at my passive-aggressive defiance and walked around the bar to our table. He greeted Kara first and then turned to look at me.

Hello there.

I took in his hair, dark as pitch, hiding underneath a gray Kangol hat. Two eyes the color of money stared right through me, and for the first time in my life I blinked first.

Hello there yourself, Mister.

Poop Stories are Funny.

Mikey: Mama, come look at my big poop in the toilet and will you wipe my bottom?

Jules: Sure thing, buddy.

... ... ...

Jules: Wow. Good job, Mikey! Um, did that hurt?

Mikey: Of course not, mama! It doesn't have any thorns, you know.

A Missed Deadline

Hi. I know that you try to work when me and big brother are sleeping and that daddy is at dinner with clients and won't be back until late tonight and you have two really big deadlines for tomorrow but...but...but...

It's really dark in here! Even with the light on it's really scary and I'm lonely and I swear I heard something outside and none of the books you gave me to play with are remotely interesting and I have another tooth coming in and...

Everything is just really terrible for me right now.

Wait. What did you say? You'll sing my favorite song and rock me until I fall asleep?

Do you mean it? Are you sure?

That's just...that's just...

THAT'S JUST THE NICEST THING ANYONE HAS EVER DONE FOR ME!

Don't give it another thought, baby. You want to know a secret? Mama used to be afraid of the dark, too.

Homemade Hamburger Buns

You didn't think I would make them, did you? That's ok, neither did The Mister.

I didn't need to make hamburger buns from scratch; I could have easily bought them at the store. But, somehow, making these make me a better mom.

I'm always thinking, and I get bored easily. Because of this I often take on too many projects and over commit myself. I check my emails constantly and carry the cordless phone in my pocket. When I am out, my cellphone is either in my hand or within reach. I'm not important. There is rarely a call or email that couldn't wait a couple of hours, and, yet, I am always available.

But, am I available for my boys if I am already available for everyone else? I worry they pay the consequence of my frenetic personality, and I don't want them to remember me as the mom who was always working. I'm not all about work! Case in point, I love to bake. I always have, and after so many years (my Kitchen Aid stand mixer is 16 years old) I've become proficient enough to tackle any recipe that strikes my fancy. I want them to know this about me, and remember it fondly later in life. And so, I choose to spend a day with Mikey and Nico and make in a couple of hours what I could have bought in 5 minutes.

As a rule, it's not easy to bake with a 3 year old. You lose track of ingredients. Flour ends up everywhere but the bowl. There is a constant threat of boo-boos and burns. Sometimes it seems easier to just bake for them rather than with them. But, today I persevered, kept my mouth shut, and was rewarded when I suddenly feel a light touch and looked down to see this:

The Kitchen Aid can make all sorts of intimidating noises when kneading a large bread recipe, and sometimes you just need a hand to hold and a shoulder to lean on until all the commotion is over.

I was rewarded again when we pulled the dough from the mixer and a little voice beside me sighed, "Oh, mama. It's just soooooo beautiful."

And so we baked. And kneaded. And we rolled up our dough into balls and sprinkled them with sesame seeds. Lots of sesame seeds. Maybe one bun got a bit more sesame seeds than necessary when mom wasn't looking.

I hope the boys remember baking with me. I hope they know that when I look at them I am so filled with love that sometimes I can't breathe. I hope they understand that I am just trying to be a good mom they can be proud of. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, one day many years from now when they are both on dates with some little tramp I don't even like that they lean over and say, "You know, my mom bakes the best bread."

And that's why I made hamburger buns from scratch.

Feeling Tense

Raise your hand if you have an extremely overactive imagination and watch too many crime shows. Yeah, so do I. I've always been a supreme worrier, but something about becoming a mother really refines the paranoia. You go from worrying every now and then to staying up at night imagining all sorts of unspeakable horrors. I am especially famous for worrying when things are going too well. I tend to sniff out stress like a badger, and today was no different.

The Mister and I had a wonderful day yesterday exploring Los Angeles with the boys--so much so that we decided venture around our city's downtown to window shop and take some pictures of local architecture. Mikey and The Mister were a bit behind me, so I decided to wait with Nico (strapped in the double stroller) under the portico of an antique store we planned on scouring.

I wasn't really paying much attention, so all of a sudden I found a man and two women surrounding the stroller. The man started cooing at Nico in Spanish and--wait for it--started caressing his face and tickling him under his chin!

Back off my kid, pal.

He looked at me and said, in Spanish, "I love babies and he is the most beautiful little boy."

Uh huh. That's nice. I pulled the stroller closer to my body and the glanced at the women (one of them very pregnant) now fixated on Nico. The man then reached out to pick up Nico! He looked at me and said, "May I pick him up?"

"No. You may not." I promptly start shitting 5,000 bricks. The Mister appeared out of nowhere. Knowing him, he saw everything from 20 yards away and came running.

One of the women looked at Mikey and said to The Mister, "He reminds me so much of my son. May I give him a hug?"

What the Hell is going on here?

The Mister told them no, and they thanked us all left. We walked into the antique store and I just stared at The Mister and my boys, who I am now convinced were almost kidnapped. Then The Mister told me that they had already approached him and Mikey and that the women were caressing Mikey's head and trying to give him hugs. He had to tell them to take their hands off him.

Now the brick shitting is up to 10,350.

The rest of our outing was, essentially, ruined. I developed an instant migraine which has yet to leave. I kept imagining them blindsiding us from behind a corner and taking the boys. I told this all to The Mister who looked at me an said, "That wouldn't happen. I'd take them all down-- even the pregnant one. I'd roll her, too."

I'm sitting here writing, trying to put into words what only a mother knows. That once you have children, there really is no greater love than the love you have for your child. But it's not just love. It's fear, too. This immeasurable love is mingled with the most intense fear you will ever experience. Fear that wraps around you like a cold snake when you watch the news, watch certain shows, or take walks with your family on an otherwise quiet Sunday afternoon.

I burnt the chicken, tonight. It was a recipe for an orange marinade I developed and planned to share with you next week. My mind was on other things, and I set the oven to 375. Not a high temperature, but with all the natural sugars in the marinade the chicken skin is now black as pitch. It's perfectly edible, but certainly not appetizing. My parents should be here any minute, and all I have to offer is incinerated chicken. The Mister must have read my mind because he looked at me and simply said, "Look. Those people got to me, too."

Thanks, The Mister. It helps to know daddies get scared, too.

8 Years.

Today. And he can't say my dad didn't try to warn him.

On our wedding day, my mother in law turned to my dad and said, "All I want are grandchildren with your daughter's smile." He, without missing a beat, shook his head in agreement and said, "Yes, but watch out. With the smile comes the mouth."

Luckily, The Mister's heart is bigger than my mouth. Most of the time.

Favorite Moment

I thought for sure my favorite moment would when Mikey woke up this morning and said, "Mama, I am really hungry." This was music to my ears after trying for 3 days to get him to eat even the smallest amount of food. But, no. My favorite moment had to be when this hunk of burning love waltzed through the door after running errands with The Mr. and asked nonchalantly, "Oh. Hi, mama. Did you have a nice day?"

I can almost hear his mental check list before leaving the house wearing this little number.

Mickey Mouse hat? Check.

Mickey Mouse glasses? Check.

Mickey Mouse sweat shirt? Check.

Three feet and 29.5 pounds of sizzle? Oh yeah. Check, check, check.

About Those Christmas Cards

I finished them last night, shortly after 2:00 am, and was at the post office today by 9:00 am ready to mail them and a Christmas present for The Mr.'s sister in Florida. Whew! Just under the wire. What can I say? That's how I roll: fast and dangerous. "Take Chances" is my middle name.

Now, if you would care to step back into reality with me, I'd like to share something special that occurred while I was working on the previously mentioned Christmas cards. I started to really enjoy myself. As a creative writer, I had a blast thinking of different ways to incorporate the phrase "milk and cookies" in each of the Christmas cards.

"Hope your holidays are filled with all the good stuff--like milk and cookies."

"Wishing you a warm holiday season filled with peace, joy, and plenty of milk and cookies."

"We hope you Christmas is as sweet as milk and cookies with someone you love."

And so on. (Of course, I also signed off with all our names)

I not only enjoyed myself immensely playing with words, I started to really pay attention to whom I was sending cards. Hand writing something personal in each card allowed me to take stock of how many insincere cards I send every year. There were a few people where I picked up my pen and thought, "So-and-so?! But he's an ass and I hate his wife! Why the heck does he get a card?" At least 10 people were trimmed from the list, and it felt really good. If they didn't inspire me to write, they didn't get a card. I think this is a good rule to go by in the future, as well. I mean, really, why wouldn't you want to surround yourself exclusively by people who inspire you? I found the whole process very cathartic, even though I was tired and it was the dead-ass of night.

I think somewhere along the way I forgot what Christmas cards are really about. It's an opportunity to extend a warm wish to someone you care about during what is supposed to be one of the most benevolent times of the year. It's not about the best card, or the best picture. In my zeal to have both, I lost the spirit of Christmas. I'm so glad I found it this year, even if it meant having to lose those cursed cards.

Oh, Christmas Tree

Our Christmas tree isn’t the fanciest I have ever seen. I have seen trees that spin, play songs, and hang upside down. Our tree is crooked. It is too narrow. The boughs are sparse and cheaply made.

Our Christmas tree isn’t the prettiest I have ever seen. I have seen trees festooned with glorious, sparkling ornaments and lights that twinkle so perfectly that it all but takes your breath away. Our tree is quite empty. There are pockets of space in the front and the back has few, if any, ornaments.

Our Christmas tree isn’t the tallest I have ever seen. I have seen trees so tall they seem a never-ending fountain of light, percolating dreams and wishes. Our tree is short. At just under 6 feet, I can just stretch high enough to put on the star. The star is too heavy for our cheap, little tree so it frequently topples over and I use physics to keep from toppling to the ground.

No, our tree isn’t the fanciest, or prettiest, or tallest I have ever seen. Our tree is crooked, narrow, cheap, bare, and short. Our tree is a really bad blind date.

Until you get to know him.

You see, something happens to our tree after the first couple of ornaments. He begins to speak and suddenly takes on a beautiful glow. He grabs me and tells me a story and after it is over, I can’t help but love him. I’m a sucker for a good tale, and he gets me every year.

Our tree recounts the history of two people who, while dating, loved to visit museums. Their first date, in fact, was at LACMA.

She is creative, flighty, and thinks elephants are brilliant.

He is quiet, analytical, and a man of science.

She loves books.

He loves to play golf.

They live in California.

A couple of years go by, and they decide to get married.

They celebrate their first Christmas.

She is getting ready for law school and he is straightening his tie for work when the first plane crashes into the World Trade Center.

They have one son.

Then, another.

Here the story stops, because that’s as far as they’ve gone. Don’t you want to hear more? I do.

Each delicate, glass ornament captures a moment in our life. Not every moment is represented in our little tree but, hey, these ornaments don’t come cheap. We have time to add them as we can, so the Mr. reminds me.

It’s funny. Of all the ornaments we own, only one did I purchase on a whim. Every other ornament, including those we received as gifts, have a special memory behind it. As Mikey handed me the ornaments, this “no memory” ornament slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground with a crash. The irony did not escape me. Or, at least it didn’t escape me an hour later after I had cooled down. It’s as if the little ornament couldn’t handle the guilt of it’s own insincerity.

Our tree isn’t perfect and doesn’t look exactly how I wish it would, but that’s ok. I imagine one day it will be fancy, pretty, tall and perfect. When that happens we’ll know we lived a long and full life and our ornaments will soon find new homes sprinkled among the crooked, narrow, cheap, bare, and short trees of our children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.

Provided we don’t drop any more.

Hello Migraine, My Old Friend

Mickey love
Originally uploaded by poem gal

I've had a headache since last Wednesday, and it's all my fault. I haven't had a consistent run of headaches like this since I was pregnant. The brief respite was wonderful and due to eating a predominately raw diet (lots of fruits, vegetables, nuts, seeds, salads, etc.). I discovered my body functions best on whole, unprocessed foods, and really the results were miraculous. On top of living headache free, my stomach pains and heartburn disappeared and I lost 12 pounds in a matter of 3 weeks. Amazing!

So why did I stop? Several reasons. The primary reason is financial. Why does 1lb of raw macadamia nuts cost $12? That's a rhetorical question. I know why it costs so much, but it doesn't stop the sting of injustice when that 1lb of nuts lasts me a couple of days. Meanwhile, over on aisle 10 I can take my $12 and buy 7 packs of 5 Shrek-shaped Macaroni & Cheese. That's 35 boxes, people. 35! I could eat Macaroni & Cheese exclusively in December and still have enough to carry me into the middle of January. Eating healthy is expensive, and this year we had several thousand dollars worth of medical expenses that forced me to modify our food budget. Yes, I'm bitter.

The second reason is that I am a variety kind of gal, and while I love salads, they wear thin after a couple of months. There are loads and loads of delicious raw recipes out there, and that would certainly remove the monotony of the diet, but I just can't seem to find the time to make anything. Now I'm just whining.

The last excuse reason I'm not currently following my diet is the weather. Salads, fruits, smoothies, and the like are a blessed relief in the summer. Now that it's cold, though, I find myself craving something warm and cozy.

I can't help but look over my list and think these are some pretty lame excuses for not following a diet that makes me feel so healthy. The money one is pretty valid, but I can just skip the nuts for the time being. Headaches? Heartburn? Lethargy? Stomachaches? I don't get it. What am I doing?

Surely I'm not the only one who defies logic by eating or doing things they shouldn't?

...............

The Mickeys were a gift from Mikey. (In case you were wondering about the Mickey Love picture above) Yesterday I spent the afternoon on the couch in agony. I pretty much let Mikey run amok and put Nico in his jumper so he was at least contained and safe from any choking hazards Mikey may have left on the ground. I must have looked pretty bad, because Mikey came up to me with his beloved Mickey crew and said, "Here, Mama. This will make you feel better." He was right, it did.