Reliving the past

I'm not sure what I expected from my 20th high school reunion. There were some people I was definitely hoping I'd reconnect with and just curious about the rest. Wanted to see how the crush I had in high school was looking twenty years later (more about him later), see if the nerds got better looking (they did), if the football players were fat and balding (some of them were), if the beautiful girls were still beautiful (yes, except that all that tanning and beach has given them some serious wrinkles), how twenty years of living can lead to so many different paths.

I went with my girlfriend Maria. I hadn't seen her in a long time and it was great to hang with her for a few hours. She was my date as her partner is currently in Italy and I had flown down solo. We were going to meet up with another friend, Christina, on the boat and hopefully we'd run in to some friends we were hoping to see.

The reunion was on the Queen Mary in Long Beach. I've been there before a few times, although not in a while; it's now a hotel/convention space permanently moored in Long Beach harbor. They have a Halloween event called Shipwreck-something-or-other, something for those who like to be scared, and there were lines of eventgoers trying to get in to the event. Plus on that night, the QM appeared to have wedding receptions and other events going on, so there were people everywhere. We made our way to the hotel concierge who gave us directions on where we needed to be. Just as we got there, we ran straight into Christina, so our threesome was complete. Dinner started at 8:00 p.m. (hey dinner was good, it wasn't rubber chicken!) and we wanted to have some time to mix before dinner so we got there around 7:00 p.m.

As we started running into people we knew, it was amazing to see how twenty years affects different people. Some people looked exactly the same, Dick Clark had nothing on some friends who looked like they hadn't aged a day in all that time. Then you had the other end of the spectrum, some people who looked so vastly different I had a hard time believing they were who they said they were. Everyone was dressed really nicely, mostly cocktail dresses for the women and suits for the men, a far cry from our plaid uniforms (twelve years of Catholic school, I still have a hard time wearing plaid!). Most came stag, the reason was the same -- the spouse stayed home to watch the kids, but lots brought their spouses and it was great to meet the person they had settled down with.

Now I expected most everyone to be on their best behavior. Most of us are parents with some having kids old enough to be freshmen at our old alma mater and some with little ones like me, and most responsible parents are always watchful of their actions, I wasn't expecting any fall down drunks. I wasn't expecting any melodramas resolving themselves twenty years later or settling of bets placed long ago. With the exception of a few people (there are always a few, aren't there?) who looked like they were still trying to work an inner circle kind of thing that night, everyone was really nice. The spouses were really nice. Pictures of kids looked really nice. Most everyone had nice lives, some a little nicer than others, but everyone seemed to be genuinely content with where they were with their lives on that particular night. And you can't help but be upbeat when surrounded with that much positive energy. Not that there weren't divorces, or deaths, or any of the other problems life can throw at you. But seeing how so many different paths converge on similar events yet still have different results is a fascinating study.

The room was full of teachers (preschool through university), accountants, policemen, lawyers, and trade workers. We've got some musicians, and doctors, a guy that owns some frozen yogurt stands, and a adult entertainment star. I am proud to say I was one of more than a few stay-at-home Moms (and Dads). Some of us have lots of kids and some have none. Some managed to get all their schooling and traveling done, and some are still wishing. Some are doing exactly what they want to do, what they have always wanted to do. And some are doing what they need to because they value the other things in their life more. And we have spread out all over the country.

Some great people I reconnected with that night--

• The guy who asked me to Prom junior year. Married with no kids, he's living in Texas now and happy with his life there.
• One of the class clowns, always a very sweet guy. He's married with a daughter, running his own private investigation firm, and still a very sweet guy.
• A friend who I haven't seen since graduation, still in love with Van Halen. She's married with kids and her best friend from high school is still her best friend.
• A friend I went to both grade school and high school with. He took over the family business, a mortuary. I've seen him over the years, but it seems like it always happens at a funeral. I told him it was nice to be able to chat with him at someplace other than a church or cemetery.
• The cheerleading guy I always suspected was gay before I had a clue about all that being gay entailed (and I am by no means an expert). A stay-at-home Dad with a daughter and a new baby on the way, he's been with his partner for nine years, living happily in San Francisco.
• A girl I always liked but didn't know real well in high school. She married her high school sweetheart and they are still together, raising their family.

As for my high school crush, he wasn't there for dinner (lots of people bypassed dinner and came later). He showed up in jeans and a loud Hawaiian shirt. And while I thought that the years had been extremely kind to him, the way he was dressed took him down a few pegs in my book, especially since everyone had made an effort to look nice that evening. Oh well.

I've got some street addresses and some email addresses, and I intend to try and keep in touch with some friends from that night. Hopefully I'll be able to bring the past into the present.

Safely back in 2004

My reunion was a lot of fun. The weekend itself was fun, but I wound up being more sleep deprived than I thought I would be. Too much to talk about, I'll write about the reunion itself later.

I arrived Friday night, 6:00 p.m. at the airport. I grew up in Southern California and was there until five years ago. Frequent visits often remind me of the differences between Boise and Orange County, but Friday night traffic jarred me into reality. I puposely did not take the freeway but streets to my Mom's house, looking for changes since my last trip a year ago, and was thrown into a a sea of humanity I was unprepared for. My drive took me through both affluent and less than affluent areas, and I noted that among the changes I saw (and there were many) was that those differences were more pronounced. I saw more and more fancier cars by South Coast Plaza, and more shady strip malls, liquor stores, and graffiti down by First and Bristol. It was hard to take it all in.

Went to dinner with my Mom and brother, my best friend and her Mom, and another girlfriend and her friend from out of town. Sat in the restaurant for three hours, just catching up and talking, enjoying a grown up dinner without "Mom, I have to go to the bathroom", "Mom, I don't like this cheese on the plate," etc. I rarely drink in front of my kids, had a nice apple martini with dinner and got to enjoy that, too. It was really nice to be single and grown up again for a few hours.

Stayed at my Mom's on Friday night. I don't have a room there any more, so my brother gave me his bed and he slept on the couch. He and I stayed up for a few hours talking about half a dozen things, going throught the latest acquisitions to my Disney pin collection, and about his new job, but I called it quits around 1 a.m. (2 a.m. in Boise), because I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. Apparently had no problem four hours later, when my body alarm clock told me it was 6 a.m. and time to get up. I stayed in bed but couldn't get back to sleep, and felt the headache coming on. Headache or hangover? Off one stupid drink? Just goes to show you -- I'm a tequila, rum, brandy kind of girl, the vodka must have thrown me for a loop.

And the best part of the weekend -- doing the girlfriend thing with my best friend. She wasn't going to the reunion, had something else going on in her life. I had to buy a new purse and some stockings. So she picked me up Saturday morning and we went shopping and had lunch. I miss being able to do that. I've got new friends here in Boise, and I enjoy my life here, but I miss my close girlfriends, the ones I've known almost my entire life. And it wasn't necessarily the shopping, but just being able to talk without interruption about all those girlfriend things, easily the best part of the weekend.

80's here I come...

In a few hours, I'll be heading out to the airport to catch a plane back to Southern California. My 20th high school reunion is tomorrow night and I just can't resist the lure of seeing formerly fit football players (too much alliteration, sorry) now balding and thirty pounds overweight, at least that's what I'm hoping. I've known about this for at least six months, but now that it's here, I'm trying to reconcile all these mixed feelings.

I'm the only one making the trip. David is at his Dad's this weekend. Had he been here this weekend, I probably would not have gone since I don't like to give up my time with him. Mackenzie and Dad are going to hang out all weekend here, they're taking in a hockey game tonight and decorating the outside of the house for Halloween tomorrow. So Mom gets a weekend by herself with her girlfriends.

It feels strange not to travel with the family. No "Mom, I have to go to the bathroom", no "Mom, I'm really hungry now", no last minute misplaced items, dropped bags of snacks, dawdling through security, it might actually be a calm, pleasant experience. And while I'm looking forward to that, it's been so long since I had that for more than a few hours, I'm kind of nervous about it.

I've been running around like an expectant mother all week. Trying to clean the house, finish all the laundry, make sure the bills are paid before I leave, the normal stuff I do, but I'm short two and a half days to do it. I told Keith last night that there was something about the fact that he was still going to be here while I was not, like anything incomplete or unfinished would be showing my flaws to him because I wouldn't be here to fix it. He gently reminded me he sees my flaws all the time (love that man!)

I'm off to pack. Yes I know, my plane leaves in six hours, and I'm leaving the house in three hours (trying to get more running around in before I actually leave) and I'm starting to cut it really close, but I'm assuming since it's a weekend trip I won't need all that much! Stuff to do, and never enough time!

The weight of it all

I recently decided to go back to Weight Watchers. I was on it once before, about two years ago, lost almost 50 pounds (something like 49.6 pounds) and then plateaued. Couldn't move the scale to save my life. Tried different things to jump start the weight loss, including a bad go around with Atkins, and have s-l-o-w-l-y gained the weight back. Not all of it, but more than half of it.

So this summer, we're planning next summer's vacation. And we've decided to take a Disney Cruise with the kids. Cruise. Food. Swimsuits. That was it for me. The gym became important again, but the fascination with the number on the scale is still there. So I walked back into Weight Watchers three weeks ago. I've lost 4.4 pounds since I went back. Not exactly earth shattering, but 4.4 pounds less than I had three weeks ago.

I like WW. It's not particularly difficult for me. I like fruits and vegetables, I can drink the water, I can even watch the portion size and not eat enough pasta for six and just eat pasta for one. None of that is my problem. WW works for me because I have to show up every week and step on the scale. I know I have to do this every Monday morning. Someone else is going to weigh me, and I know that person is waiting for me every Monday morning. Do I own a scale? Bought one during the ill thought out Atkins period of my life. Doesn't matter. There's something about the accountability of the scale at WW that makes me stop and think about what I'm going to eat, or makes me rethink the not going to the gym today, that my scale doesn't. And let's just not go down the "Well, I'll just have Keith weigh me once a week" road, shall we?

I've got two kids to keep up with. Diabetes runs in my family, like a straight line with all the women ahead of me. I hate needles, UGH! And I don't think I'm a cow (no offense to cows, wherever they may be), but I'm not a size four, and I'm not looking to be a size four (no offense to any and all size fours out there).

Last night I caught the end of the new reality show, "The Biggest Loser". OMG! Large sized people on TV, who would have thought? The show appeared to be a cross of Survivor and the Apprentice. The people involved are on teams, they have medically supervised diets and exercise each week, and at the end of each week, they get weighed and see how much each team member lost. Somebody got voted out at the end of the first week, and it was because (you're not going to believe this!) she DIDN'T lose enough weight and they thought since she wasn't as big as the rest of them, she wouldn't have the overall weight to lose to keep her team winning?!?! They kicked her out because she wasn't as heavy as the rest of them. Does that make sense? The show is promoted as helping these folks with their weight loss issues, but then they kick someone out and leave them on their own. Yikes! It's bad enough that "overweight" people are made fun of, and often treated differently than "thinner" folks, but to supposedly help them and then humiliate them on national TV is a new low, even for reality TV. Won't be watching that show anymore, the ten minutes I gave it last night was too much.

Lean Cuisine anyone?

Busy

So school is in full swing. Fourth grade is going well for David, he made choir again this year (love those early mornings) and is settled in. Mackenzie loves her school, too, but wants to go to David's school (two years to go). As for me, my PTA meetings and duties are OK, nothing outrageously difficult, and I was asked to teach Spanish to both fourth grades, so I do that on Friday afternoons, my schedule is OK.

When I first moved here, I knew no one but my husband, didn't work, and if David was in California (the whole back and forth custody thing we lived with the first six months of our marriage), I pretty much had the whole day to myself. And for the life of me, couldn't get dinner on the table at five, it would take three days to do laundry for two, yikes it was awful. Now, three days a week, I'm pretty much not here, but the sewing is getting done, I made a batch of fresh salsa today using everyting from my garden I grew myself, dinner's on time, coffee is ready in the morning, appointments are made and kept, the busier I get, the easier it is to do more things. Why is that and how can it be?

Sleep

One of the hazards of being a parent is that no matter how hard you try, you can never get as much sleep as you need. I'm hoping that it's not a permanent thing, and when my kids are eighteen I'll be able to sleep again, but then there will be so many more things to worry about, I'm trying to be realistic but there are some days that I really miss my sleep.

Now, I'm not trying to get twelve hours of sleep a night. I'd be good with about six, a solid six. I just can't seem to get it. Some nights it's really hard to shut down and get to sleep by midnight. Some nights I can pass out before I hit the pillow, but wake up and can't get back to sleep. And that's just me sabotaging myself. Adding Keith and the kids into the mix and I'm pretty much guaranteed that a good night's sleep is out of the question. And my poor husband has it worse than I do. Keith says he has always had cycles where he sleeps great and feels great when he wakes up. And then he can't sleep, for long periods of time.

My kids, however, have no problems in the sleep department. Mackenzie has the benefit of being three and is able to sleep, her problem is that she chooses not to want to. The word NAP sends her into a convulsion of despair over what she's going to miss while she's sleeping. And she has already mastered the art of the stall at bedtime.

David sleeps like a rock. Has always slept like a rock. He is my idol when it comes to sleep. As a baby, he gnashed his teeth, I'd could hear him from the other room. I'd roll him over and he'd never wake up, just reposition himself and keep right on sleeping. As he got older, the gnashing stopped, and then he picked up snoring. Never knew a child could snore as loud as he does. And though it all, he sleeps. When his dad and I were separating and going through the divorce process, a friend told me to watch his sleep patterns for any restlessness, a sign he wasn't dealing well with our situation. He started biting his nails down to his wrist, but he could still sleep a solid ten hours without waking up. (He doesn't bite his nails anymore.) Keith and I watch him with longing and envy, wishing we could be out ten minutes after we hit the pillow. But for the last two nights, David has been having problems going to sleep. Monday night, it took him almost an hour and a half to fall asleep. He didn't know what to do. He came into our bedroom asking for help. I put him back to bed, rubbed his back and his head, and it was all I could do. Maybe if I had had some more sleep, I could have come up with a better response.

Now that we're back in school, we're up at 6:00 a.m. On school nights,the kids' bedtime is 8:45, pushing either time just causes trouble, and on a good night if Keith and I are in bed by 9:30 p.m.. We're up early for choir practice and the twenty minute drive to school. After school, we have Cub Scouts meetings and guitar lessons, and let's not forget homework. We're still trying to work in gym time, and I have meetings back at school and at church for a variety of reasons, Keith will have occasion to stay at work and take care of things he can't get to during the day, I try my best not to overschedule the family, and yet there are days it just can't be helped. Any wonder why we can't sleep?

Schedules

I am trying to book airline tickets for a flight I don't want to take. For a flight my husband doesn't want to take. Why do I need to purchase said airline tickets? Because the holidays are coming and we know that we need to see our families, and we do want to spend time with them, but the hassle of the holidays, and running from one house to another, with two kids, I could keep going. I'd love to just stay home and cook for my family, but I'm 95% sure that's not going to happen. Add to that, David is with us for Thanksgiving this year (the whole one year here, one year there thing) and I'd really just like to stay home. I'd rather spend ten hours cooking, so it can be eaten in fifteen minutes at home than travel this holiday. We're trying to do the right thing.

But these airline schedules! David won't get out of school until noon on the 24th, so the earliest we could leave comfortably would be 1:30 p.m. (I won't pull David out of school for vacation travel, it sets up a bad precedent for his dad, and I'd hate to have that thrown back at me.) The schedules are for before 1:00 p.m. and then nothing really until 4:00 p.m. which gets us in late to our destination. The return flights aren't that much better, apparently the airlines feel that unless you catch a flight before 7:00 a.m., they're going to have to stick it to you in the pocketbook. So it looks like we'll have to pay top dollar, and travel either really early or arrive really late (the kids'll love it!, the parents will be frazzled!) for a trip we don't want to make.

Don't get me wrong. When I was single, I loved flying early, no one at the airport to get in my way. And I loved coming home late, squeezed in every last ounce of my getaway I did. But with kids there is decidely a much different take on things, it definitely is more along the lines of how-quickly-can-I-there-no-change-of-planes-please-can-I-bring-along-food-and-snacks-for-my-kids? I love our portable DVD player, the flights are much more quiet, for ourselves and our fellow passengers. But we still have to push them through to the gate and through baggage claim.

And the airlines are running only 80% on-time! What is the point of that? If they're going to be twenty minutes late more often than not, then let the flight leave at 1:30 and let me get to the airport without runnng a marathon.

How do you take your life with you?

As I waited in the doctor's office one time, they had a television showing medical videos and information while you waited. A woman came on moaning about her purse and how impractical it was for the things she needed to carry around. She then went on to a really funny comedy bit, pulling things out of that purse to show why she carried a huge bag. An overstuffed makeup bag gave way to a crammed wallet which gave way to a myriad of other things that had no business being in a purse, such as a bag of groceries (snacks), a complete encyclopedia (to answer the millions of questions her kids constantly ask her) and a full size pillow (so she could catch up on her sleep while waiting at soccer practice).

Mackenzie is not yet three and a half, and she is completely potty trained, and has been for about three to four months. Occasional accidents occur, but I haven't had to carry a diaper bag for about three months. When I did carry it, my wallet, keys, etc. went into a pocket in the diaper bag that was earmarked for my stuff only.

Since I've been diaper bag free, I haven't been able to find one purse that would work for me. Men won't find this amazing at all, since all they worry about is their wallet (and I'm currently wallet challenged as well), and they don't understand the logistics of carrying more than a wallet, but my husband has no problem asking me for a baby wipe, then if I've got a snack for our daughter, and if he can borrow a dollar so he doesn't have to break his twenty. How am I supposed to carry all this in one purse?

Today, I am kid free until 3:00 p.m. I'll be leaving here shortly to go to the grocery store and do some miscellaneous errands. I don't need to carry baby wipes, or snacks, or crayons and paper today. So I switch to a smaller purse, not nearly as bulky. That purse will work only today, since the weekend is coming up it will definitely need to hold more things tomorrow. But tomorrow, we're going to the fair. That requires free hands to hold drinks, ride tickets, food, so the backpack purse will be required tomorrow. Not the biggest purse I own, but it will work tomorrow, since I won't have to carry snacks and crayons, but definitely will need to carry baby wipes.

I am the PTA President this year at David's school. I've got two big binders filled with information that I need to know and have at hand, and occasionally will need to take to school for meetings. I've been looking for a decent bag I can use to carry them, something with strong handles and a strong bottom, very practical, nothing flashy or loud, and something that isn't going to cost $200. I'd like to get something I'd use after it doesn't need to carry binders anymore, I don't want a bag just to have a bag. I can't find one. They're not large enough for what I need, or I don't see them lasting more than three months. There are lots of neon greens and bright pinks, those hot colors are popular right now and they're not me. Even designer handbag makers such as Dooney and Bourke are using those colors right now and if I were 25 and single, I could make it work, but then I wouldn't need the bag I'm looking for, right. I'm 37 with two kids and while I don't feel particularly old, I get the idea that the cute pink bag would make me a laughingstock.

Practicality is necessary at this point in my life. The designer bags were great, and although I never had a crocodile bag, I admired them from afar, and the sleek, shiny, handbags were always spectacular. I see the very small, petite bags that can hold a pencil on the arms of a 19 year old and I think "Very cute!" But at that point, at 19, there is only the beginning of a life to be carried around and the small purse works. Could somebody please make a bag for me?

Quiet

One of the nice things about summer being over is that there are more opportunities for quiet. Life seems so fast, so loud and noisy, that it's hard to find the quiet times, and I appreciate them more. With kids, quiet is a rarity, as they try to make themselves heard in the grand scheme of things. Add to that fact that they start at a decibel level somewhere between rock concert and jet airplane, and throw in the TV, the video games, the music, multiply by a few friends and you're on the edge of hearing loss. I'm convinced if I did ever lose my hearing, I'd be OK because I can read my husband's lips from across the room without actually ever hearing what he's saying.

David is at his dad's tonight, and although I'll see him tomorrow after school for a bit, he'll be there this weekend. So I'm down one child. Mackenzie will more than make up for it, but she'll be in preschool tomorrow morning, and with David gone as well, there will be quiet. Will I curl up with a book? Maybe make a fabulous dessert for dinner? I'll be lucky if I can get the laundry done without interrruption.

Time passes...

Haven't written in awhile, I gave up after the time with both my kids became more important. With both home from school, I had lots of projects to do with them, and fun I wanted to have, but this became the nine year old's summer of discovery, and I wasn't ready for it. He went to summer camp by himself for a week, and wants to go for two weeks next year. Sleepovers with friends turned into two days without him every time they happened, and I couldn't tell him no. Plus time over at his dad's, including their eight day vacation, and now I feel like I really didn't see him. As a parent, you try to do the best thing for your kids, and now I'm watching him slowly grow and make those decisions I'd hoped he'd make, and I don't want him to.

School started Monday. Fourth grade. He's rather non-plussed about it. Wasn't he just a kindergartner? He had no problem with me walking him to class, I'm tearing up at the first-day-of-school kiss goodbye. I'm watching him set up his desk (from thirty feet away, where all the other parents were), he's unpacking his new backpack and getting comments from some of the other kids about how cool it is, and he's telling them how he paid for the backpack with his allowance money and saved for it most of the summer. That's my kid? He's asking others he hasn't seen about their summer and that it's nice to see them again. My kid? One of the other moms makes a comment. "David is so grown up now." I want to suddenly grab him and run from the room, go home, sit on the bed under the covers, and curl up watching Thomas the Tank Engine videos or Toy Story together. I've always been aware of the passing of time, and had a healthy respect for it, so I never expected it to slap me in the face.

That night, as we were going through notes from the teacher, and going over class rules and responsibilities, I knew there was something he wanted to talk about, but I couldn't pull it from him. We talked about his day, if he liked where he was sitting, what he was excited about and what he was nervous about and so on. After his shower, and some bedtime reading, it was lights out. He said good night to everyone and crawled into bed, and asked if I would crawl in with him for a minute. Not a strange request, he asks me once or twice a week. But when he told me he didn't think I would, now that he's in fourth grade, I grabbed on and didn't let go, well, when he started turning blue I did.

The Bad Day

Apologies to all, but only stay-at-home Moms (or Dads) are going to get this column. I mean no disrespect to the many working parents out there, I used to be one, too. And I know you're with your kids on the weekends, but you're just not going to get this column.

I have two kids, nine and three. David is from my first marriage, and consequently has some stuff to deal with, which has gotten easier as he's gotten older. Suddenly, in the last three weeks or so, the maturity level has gone up a couple of notches. Don't get me wrong, his room's still a mess, I get the eye roll at bed time, I still can't figure out how the water gets out of the shower when there are two shower curtains to keep it in the tub, etc., but he's become attentive, doesn't argue as much, accepts direction and finishes a project before moving on, I'm almost sad (I said almost), I think he's growing up right before my eyes.

Mackenzie is my three year old and from my second marriage. She is amazing to watch because she is so much like my husband and I, throwing back my own words at me can be sometimes hard to hear. Her preschool teachers constantly tell me that sometimes they forget she's three because she articulates her thoughts so well. She idolizes her big brother and he adores her, but they are brother and sister, and when that fact comes into play, it can be ugly.

David is home for the summer, school has been out for a couple of weeks now. Mackenzie is in preschool three days a week, mornings only. So today I had both kids home this morning. David had day camp at school at 9:30 a.m, the same time Mackenzie had her swimming lesson across town (Mom didn't have her organizer with her when she scheduled this mess). It therefore was imperative that we leave our house clean, dressed, and fed by 8:40 a.m. No one wanted to get up, no one wanted to get dressed, no one liked my breakfast choices. St. Vincent de Paul was coming by to pick up the remnants of the garage sale leftover for donation, and I needed to get that stuff out of the garage and leave it up front for them to pick up. The dog and parrot both needed attention. And for some reason, today was the day my phones started ringing at 8:00 a.m.

David has pulled himself together and I ask him to get himself and his sister in the car. Mackenzie is all over the driveway, running from flies (our newest fear) and not getting in the car. David has made the valiant attempt and I tell him not to worry about it, I'll handle her. At the precise moment he decides to swing the door closed, Mackenzie decides she better cooperate. Her hand didn't get caught, there were no broken bones, but she did get some skin scraped on the edge of her finger. She proceeded to cry about her finger for the next four and a half hours -- all the way to David's school (20 minute ride). All the way to the YMCA (25 minute ride). Through the entire swimming lesson (30 minute class). Over to dad's office (20 minute ride). At dad's office (a very quick ten minutes). Back to pick up David (35 minute ride) and drop him off at a friends house (10 minutes).

(Now here I must interject the next piece of good fortune. At dad's office, we utilized part of our visit in the bathroom, she is fully potty trained and I haven't carried a diaper bag or a change of clothes in at least six months. As she went to the bathroom, I noticed she had what I'll call RB (short for Runny Butt, I'm sure you get the idea). I'm surprised, she hasn't had RB in a while, and I'm chalking it up to the fact that she's made herself so upset this morning. I've tried a variety of things at this point to distract her from her pain and get her to smile and nothing is working.)

After the friends house, I decide to take Mackenzie to a local park close to the friends house, thinking I won't have to make the big loop around when I pick David up in a couple of hours. It was hot, so I decided to take Mackenzie to an ice cream store, counting on the sugar to give her energy at the park and make her happy and give Mom a break because the last nerve was about ready to blow. She smiled. Things were good. Just as the ice cream got to the table, we had major RB. She lost it again. I haul her into the bathroom and survey the damage. It couldn't have been much worse. I had baby wipes but that was it, no change of clothes, no diapers or underwear, and she's screaming the whole time. Chucked the underwear in the trash, not salvageable given my current situation. Washed out the pants from the inside, had her put them back on, and I slid baby wipes and paper towels around her bottom. Cleaned up the bathroom as best I could. Got my drink to go, left her ice cream (more screaming) and back home we went (25 minute ride). Changed her at home, caught my breath for five minutes and back for David we went (25 minute ride). Picked David up and now it was time to take him to his dad's house, he's there every Thursday (35 minute ride to dad's). Poor David, he pretty much sucked up to his sister every time he saw her, and she still wanted nothing to do with him -- he tried singing to her, making funny faces at her, telling her jokes, I felt bad when he reached for her hand and tried to kiss it and make it better, she completely blew him off. As I walked him to his dad's door, I told him not to worry about it, she'd be better tomorrow when he saw her. Let's hope that wasn't an extreme stretch of the truth.

When kids have diarrhea, the things you worry about most is dehydration. You've got to keep the fluids going down their throat, the idea is to get the fluids in faster than they come out. Of course, the job is twice as hard when they don't want to take them in at all. By 3:00 p.m., I was on my way to the doctor's office, she just wasn't right, the constant crying was starting to worry me even though it didn't sound like the pain cry, it was definitely the wimpy cry, but nonetheless, it was time. And going in to it I knew there was no medicine I could give her, nothing to stop the RB, but I had to try something. She blew twice while we were there. (Thank goodness I picked up a change of clothes.) While the doctor told me lots of stuff I already knew, he did mention something I didn't. Since he figured out her particular case is viral, he said it would be contagious and adults could get the same thing, but in a much milder form. Hmmmm, double extra hand washing for me. Called the husband to tell him what was going on, and was told he had left a little early, had said he was feeling a little tired and run down. Hmmmm, he hadn't mentioned that to me when I talked to him earlier in the day. We got home, and there he was lying down on the bed, said he didn't know why he didn't feel so good. I did.

Why do I direct this column at those stay at home parents? Because this was one of those days that all these things were going to get done and not a darn thing got accomplished. Now the health and well being of my child is paramount and my life can go to hell as long as my kids are OK. But what was shaping up to be a good day fell apart so quickly. My laundry is still on the floor. The dishwasher is still loaded with clean dishes and the sink has dirty ones in it. My kitchen floor is, well, let's not talk about my kitchen floor, OK? My coupons are still on the table waiting to be cut and sorted and my bed didn't even get made this morning (but I don't think the husband cared when he came home and rolled into it) and I didn't even cook dinner today (again, not high on Keith's priorites right now). I know I didn't do a damn thing today and I feel guilty and useless. So it was a surprise when David called me from his dad's, to see how Mackenzie was feeling and to thank me for taking him over to his friend's house today. And Mackenzie announced to her dad that she didn't want him right now, she wanted Mom because I had taken care of her all day. I went to bed thinking I had done a good job for today after all. And maybe if I get up extra early before she wakes up I can unload the dishwasher and fold the laundry, etc. And if she wakes up early, well then we'll just cuddle in Mom and Dad's bed for awhile.

The Meaning of Discarded Treasures

We had a garage sale this past Saturday and I'm happy to say we netted about $450 for a day's work. We have one every couple of years when there's too much stuff and not enough room. I'm sure as my kids get older the frequency will diminish, right now my kids are still young enough where we're trading up (crib for twin bed, big dresser giving way to smaller dresser plus desk, etc.), and my house is overrun with the small things of infancy and we're almost through toddlerhood at this point, so from time to time the expulsion of all these once needed necessitiies is paramount to ramaining sane. David had 343 remote control objects of various sizes and shapes, how many can a single person control with just one pair of hands? (David's original answer -- 343. His revised answer after my anger started fogging up his glasses from three feet away -- 342). Mackenzie had so many young child toys, stuff she got on her own merits plus some of the good ones I saved from David little kid days, they were everywhere. I had kitchen paraphernalia I don't have a chance to use anymore, Keith had a bunch of really nice polo style shirts with lots of big names on them, but since we've been working out his shoulders and arms don't fit in them anymore, plus other stuff that was once vital and alive, but now gathers dust waiting to be used again.

The decision to discard one's own stuff can be either heartbreaking or made without a second thought. Some of the kid's stuff was easy to put in the discard pile. Some brought back memories of a child's face, lit up like Las Vegas, and for just a minute, you think if you hang on to the item, you'll hang onto the look on that child's face, maybe you can bring back a better time, a happier time, an easier time, you choose the adjective. Coming to the realization that it's just stuff, and the past is just memories can be hard to deal with. Then you have to price the stuff, and it's agony again as you try to put a value on your memories, or worse, a value on your taste. Five dollars for that! I paid thirty dollars seven years ago when it was new and before everybody and their brother had one! I told David that whatever he contributed to the garage sale would be his money if it sold, but if I pulled items from his room and I sold them, the money would be mine. Even my nine year old suffered from the stress of his decision making, I could hear him rationalizing about the train he got for Christmas that year, or how that car was his favorite gift from his dinosaur themed birthday party. In the end, he did contribute about a dozen items, in a range of sizes and shapes and ultimately made $16.

I'm not much of a garage sale shopper myself. There's a time constraint involved, plus the fact that I can't do much shopping with a nine and three year old around, it puts the damper on shopping of any kind. When I lived in Southern California, a garage sale might net a great Disney find, or a piece of transferware to add to my collection. Here in Idaho, the chances of that Disney find are more rare, and while I might be able to find something of value worth my time, it's not high on my list right now. I wanted to sell my stuff Saturday morning, but it was a great way to watch people for awhile. Watch and see what they were looking for, watch them and see them criticize my stuff, and then of all the injustices, watch them as they turned their nose up at my valuable stuff. What do they seek among my discarded memories? I watch them and wonder -- what are they looking for? Are they trying to replace something they once had? Are they looking for a more inexpensive version of something? Having been on the extremely tight and fixed budget at one point in my life, I can certainly understand shopping with quarters and dimes, but was still taken aback when I actually saw my former self buying a small toy for a child. A two dollar toy with one dollar being scraped out of the ashtray holder in her car. I used to do the same thing for french fries for my child, and often couldn't scrape the lousy 99 cents together. And it wasn't that my child needed french fries everyday, but I wanted to be able to provide them. I took her money and put the toy in a bag for her, and as she was leaving I offered a couple of cookies to her child, who eagerly shot out a hand. They were cookies that I was selling, a quarter a piece. As she went to stop her child (she had seen the sign), I told her if it was OK with her, it was OK with me, it's hard to say no to a child and I had been giving them away to kids all morning long. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part, but I think she understood I had been there once, too, and let her child take the cookies. My husband said he thought I was going to just give her the toy. I told him that I wouldn't haven't robbed her pride from her for anything. To me it was a two dollar toy, but that child needed to see his Mom buy that toy and hand it to him, and she needed to buy it and give it to him. He was so happy in the back seat of his car, clutching his new toy and wiping cookie crumbs from his face.

A simple reminder that one person's trash is another's treasure. That toy brought my daughter joy and I'm glad to see it continues to do it's job elsewhere.

Headaches

I suffer from migraines. I have since I was about sixteen. So seeing as I'm well into over twenty years with them, I consider myself an expert on the subject. I've read everything I can get my hands on about them, I know all about the latest pharmaceutical inventions in order to seek relief, I have a personal list of how and sometimes why I get them, and how to deal with them when they attack. And yet with all my knowledge about them, and even what produces migraines in my own head, I still suffer their agony.

Sometimes, the pain is on one side of my head, sometimes it's the other. It can be in the front or in the back of my head. And that is where the differences end. My migraines are always an unrelenting throbbing pain, I literally can hear the pounding inside my head echoing through my ears. And while I wait to see if my medication will do me the favor of easing my pain, I assume gymnastic positions in order to put pressure on the offending part of my head. I'm in the dark, because the most miniscule drop of light on my eyes is nothing short of blade-like steel being pushed through my brain. My eyes are closed, I pull a blanket over my head, bury my face in the pillow, and yet I still see light -- damn that knife!

The medications are at once wonderful and frightening. I remember when I could take one Vicodin and blissfully sleep for twelve hours on just the smell of the drug alone; now, I take two Vicodin and stay awake long enough to feel the headache burner get turned down from scorch to simmer before I sleep for a couple of hours. I've been through a handful of drugs to help in easing my pain, some didn't work for me at all, some worked great until my body refused to allow them to do their job. My body, rejecting what could save it from the headache inferno, deciding instead to suffer the pain until something better comes along. At times, I am powerless, and I must seek the attention of someone with more power than I have, someone who can give me what I need and quickly. The doctors string me out often enough, having me answer their stupid questions (can't they see I am an expert in the suffering of migraine headaches?) before giving me the relief I seek. Their medicines are much better now, I feel the immediate effects of tranquility and know that when I wake later there will be no drug hangover for three days.

Why do I write about my migraines? Because I had one yesterday, a small headache that ibuprofen had no effect on, which through the course of the day started developing into something that could have undermined my plans for the weekend. I was at the point of the second to last step, when thankfully my medicine decided I had had enough for today and slowly eased its way back to wherever it is it comes from. And I think about my migraines and wonder why. Why did yesterday's migraine retreat after just a minor skirmish? Why didn't it stay and fight, like it has so many other times, and win? Did my body have something in it yesterday it didn't have before, something that turned it into a killing machine against the headache ravage? If so, can I figure out what it was and bottle it, to save for the next attack?

What possible use could there be for having a migraine headache?

Starting a blog

I've decided that I need to write. Like drinking water or getting sleep, it's something I have to do. I am better when I put words down, and while I prefer the act of longhand on paper, I'm going to try this medium in order to hopefully do it more frequently, more consistently, and more creatively than I have been able to do until now. My spiral notebooks have become coloring books for Mackenzie and scratch paper for David. The computer is safe, for now, and the idea that the blog is out there, even if no one knows about it (at least not yet), will compel me to write and add notes. What I plan to write about is completely up in the air. My husband, my kids, my life, what I hear and see and read, what I do or don't do, it's all food for the writer in me that I hope to channel into something productive via this medium.