The Turtle

Years ago, my mother decided that she wanted a minivan. And in her typical fashion, she and my father went down to the local car lot and got a very non-descript white Dodge minivan. We dubbed it The Turtle - it puttered along, wasn't going to break any speed records, but was definitely going to get you there.

Two years later, my father decided that my mother needed another new car, so he went to the Chrysler dealership and bought her something. Another white minivan. It was almost identical to The Turtle.

So Dad took over primary custody of The Turtle. He plastered the back with Army stickers and World War II veteran decals. He eventually put a hand brake in it when his leg went numb and he almost hit the gas pump at Sheetz. His service in World War II, and his frozen feet, were repaid by peripheral neuropathy that danced around like the Devil for years, coming and going.

When Dad eventually lost the ability to drive, The Turtle stayed parked in the garage mostly undriven because you could only stand wrestling yourself into the van with the hand brake in the way every so often - it would scrape your kneecaps if you weren't careful. As I discovered later on, my father would sneak out for a drive every now and then when my mother wasn't home. One weekend, my mother went up to the church to water the flower beds and my sister and I were lounging around the breakfast table soaking up some caffeine and generally having a lazy Saturday. My father was gamely loping around the house doing one of the few chores he was still able to do - gathering up the household trash.

"Dad, let me go with you up to the dump, okay?" said my sister. He disappeared out the door with the trash, and she continued sipping her coffee and reading the newspaper.

The next thing I knew, I saw The Turtle go flying down the driveway and veer left out of the driveway, headed to the dump. "Well, I think you probably should've gotten dressed a little faster, Kath. Dad just took off in The Turtle for the dump." She spewed coffee all over the table and ran out into the driveway...but The Turtle was long gone.

"Oh Jesus...Mom is gonna KILL YOU!" I moaned. And we both waited at the window for him to come back. We flipped a coin and decided if he wasn't back in ten minutes, I was going to go after him.

He came back. And the smile on his face was a mile wide. Mom never found out. We were saved from her wrath.

The Turtle was more than just a minivan. It was my Dad's last bit of freedom. A man who had traveled the world, his body now torn apart by cancer, clung to a little white minivan that could still take him places.

My mother sold The Turtle today. A local man with four kids bought it and was tickled to death to get a 15-year old van with only 70,000 miles on it. While he was at the DMV getting new tags, Joey and I scraped off my father's stickers and used GooGone to make sure all the adhesive was gone. My uncle had already taken off the hand brake, my mother had cleaned out the inside, and all that was left was an anonymous white minivan.

Thank you, Turtle. I hope you have a wonderful new home. And I hope you take them on wonderful new adventures. Little did they know what a gem they were getting.

Wind in your hair

His movements now are slow and deliberate. There are days that he barely has the strength to get out of his favorite chair, and then there are days when he wants to go out for lunch and then walks laps around the house with his walker. He cannot bathe himself anymore, he can't shave himself, and can barely fix himself a bowl of cereal. His care has become all-consuming for my mother.

I had been gone to the Outer Banks with Joey and Monkey Man for a week - we got back Friday, I dumped some clean clothes into the suitcase and turned right back around and headed to my parents' house. I decided to drive our new toy down in the hopes that it would give my dad a chuckle at least for a moment.

When I arrived, he was dressed in an old stained t-shirt and shorts and looked like he hadn't shaven in days. He really didn't move around much at all. I sat by his side, talking to him about our vacation and joking about Monkey Man's latest exploits. He offered a few comments but was mostly silent. I worry when he is quiet.

Yesterday morning, he was dressed and had his hair combed when he came plodding out from his bedroom with the walker. He wanted to go out for breakfast, and he wanted my mom to follow us in her car. He ate sparingly, and started to look tired. I offered to take him back home so my mom could run errands in town unencumbered by worrying if he was bored or hot waiting for her.

I put the top down. And decided to go home via the highway so we could get a little wind in our hair. At one point I looked over and he had a faint smile on his face, looking so cool with his baseball cap on and his Ray Bans covering his eyes.

We got home, where he sat in the living room and talked to me about local gossip and family dynamics and money and all kinds of things. He walked at least 10 laps around the house, and then used some recumbent bicycle thing he got from the physical therapy place. He announced that he wanted to go to church on Sunday. I said fine, knowing that each day brings different challenges and that he probably wouldn't be up for going.

He never ceases to amaze me. He got up this morning, gave himself a shower and shave, and fixed himself a bowl of cereal. He's not dressed for church yet, but that will come since it's still early.

"Today is going to be a really good day!" he crowed as he plodded through the house.

I'll take all of the good days that I can get. I'm just glad I got to be here to see a few of them, because they are few and far between.

And suddenly, it all became clear

Yesterday, of course, was Father's Day. It was a really nice day, and I think Joey enjoyed being fussed over a little bit if I do say so myself.

The in-laws were tolerable. On a scale of one to ten, I'd rate it an eight. It would've been a seven, but since the visit only lasted 45 minutes I gave them a bonus point. The two major annoyances this visit:

*Calling us at 11:10 wanting to know why were weren't there yet. When the set time to meet was 11:45.
*Wishing that just once, we could make it through an event with them without my father-in-law yelling at my mother-in-law to "shut the hell up, woman!" Seriously, is that necessary? Yes, she is annoying as hell with her incessant yammering, but please - don't talk to her that way in front of Monkey Man. He doesn't need to hear that crap.

Good thing the restaurant has good yeast rolls.

*****

So my funk that I was in for a few weeks seems to have diminished somewhat. I've been trying to work out a few days each week (don't ask about last week, though) and we've had consistently sunny days which definitely helps my mood.

Yesterday, as we were riding back from our Forced In-Law Interaction (With Yeast Rolls!) it hit me like a brick. Why I've been so down in the dumps. Or at least a big reason why.

My dad's cancer is back.

It's not something that I've ever talked about much. My dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer back in 1997 - he ended up taking radiation therapy and has had a few flare-ups over the past eleven years that required different therapies. He's lived a pretty much normal life except for, oh, almost dying two years ago. And you know, it's rare that any man actually dies FROM prostate cancer - they die WITH it but with something else as the primary cause.

This time, though, the last known therapy has stopped working. He is currently taking an experimental drug that is supposed to enhance the effects of the current therapy he's on, so all we can do is hope for the best.

It makes me angry, dammit. Angry that someone so good just can't seem to beat this thing. Angry that my dad can't seem to catch a break these last few years.

And most of all, angry that a piece of shit like my father-in-law - who drinks heavily, smokes three packs a day, and pretty much hates everyone on the planet - is as healthy as a horse. "A medical miracle" is what his doctor calls him. Bastard.

I have found myself distancing myself from my parents over the last few months. Not because of the cancer, but because it's easier than having my feelings hurt over and over by my mother's manipulations. And that sucks. I've been trying to work through that because honestly, I don't want my father to die and suddenly not be able to remember the last time I talked to him. I don't want it to be that way.

We - our whole family except my loser Salsa King brother - are headed to Texas in August for my dad's World War II reunion. It will probably be his last big trip anywhere. He will be 86 at the end of July, and his last trip was pretty difficult for him to make. I think it's sheer will and excitement about having all of us together that's keeping him excited about the trip.

And me? Well, Texas in August isn't exactly what I'd choose, but I'd go anywhere for him.

*****

So poor Rufus was put on a diet by the vet a few weeks ago, right? Slight problem - he seems to be having an allergic reaction to the food, so bad that he has clawed his neck to bits and required a day-long vet visit. Poor guy was put under, shaved, and all kinds of indignities performed on him including a pedicure. He is not a happy camper.

And the worst part? He has GAINED three pounds since starting the diet. So we will be changing to another food and doing a little more exercise, I do believe. And we're getting his thyroid checked, which he thinks is a great idea because then he can always blame that for his fat ass. Little does he know that I spent most of my afternoon on Corgi bulletin boards discovering that Oh My God, I Have Been Overfeeding My Dog Like Crazy. Oops.

So I guess it's time for an update

I haven't really wanted to talk about it incessantly because I really like to keep this blog on the light side. Hell, life is hard and serious enough without reading about other people's problems, right? You want to come here and read about botched bikini waxing and Waffle House and all that other fun stuff, right?

I've had a few e-mails asking me about my dad. And I do appreciate everyone's concern and interest because it means a lot. So much that I can't even express it in words.

So, my dad is still in the rehabilitation center. Yesterday he met with his case worker and they've determined that he still needs to stay at least two more weeks. I thought he'd be pretty bummed out about it, but I think deep down he realizes that he really needs to be stronger before he can come home. Put it to you this way - if he was to fall in our house, my mom could not even remotely help him get up and they would be majorly screwed. So he needs to be able to negotiate through the house successfully (especially with the umpteen gazillion little Oriental rugs my mother has scattered through the house like a deathtrap).

He gets physical therapy at least once a day, but he's also been working on it by himself and has become a master of a wheelchair but can also slowly walk up and down the hall. He can get in and out of a chair as long as it has arms. He can get himself to the bathroom.

The one thing that has cropped up again is more fluid in his chest. He went Monday afternoon to have more fluid aspirated out of his chest and they got a liter out - and determined that there's some fluid in the other side of his chest but not enough to aspirate it yet. Blech. The thing is that they're not exactly sure if the fluid is new, or if it's leftover from the hospital where his chest tube was falling out and they went ahead and removed it. And of course, everyone is dancing around the subject that it's possibly congestive heart failure. I really wish someone would just freaking say it is or isn't, because it is hanging over my head like a dark cloud.

Every night when I talk to him, Dad seems so upbeat - he is just so determined to get stronger and healthier and come home. That attitude will come a long way.

I just can't help but feel like this is just the beginning, though. That this isn't a blip on the radar - that this will be just one in an ongoing series of health problems that will begin to plague him. I hope it's not true, but for God's sake - the man is 84 years old and has been through so much in the past 32 days that most people probably wouldn't have survived.

I alluded in one of my earlier posts that the day my dad fell into the coma, that I called a friend for advice that proved invaluable and I have such a huge amount of gratitude that he was willing to share one of the most painful experiences in his life with me.

Cat Door M, who is one of my best friends, went through the death of his mother almost three years ago from esophageal cancer - which is apparently a horrible way to die because you slowly strangle to death. Ironically, his mother-in-law and father-in-law died from the same type of cancer, so he knew from the diagnosis that his mother would not survive.

I asked him how he dealt with finding out his mother was going to die - that my dad had already made peace with God and had decided to put his fate in God's hands as to whether he lived or died and was at peace with it. But that I wasn't able to give it up to God at that point, and what did I need to do?

"Do you want your dad to suffer?" he asked. "No, of course not!" I replied. "Well, you have to realize that if your dad is at peace with things, that you are going to have to get over your own selfishness and allow God to take him if that's his will. You want him to live for you, but what kind of quality of life does he have?" he said. "Liz, this is the hardest thing you are ever going to have to do in your lifetime, but you have got to do this for yourself and you've got to do this for your dad. Go back in there and be strong. Hold his hand. Be there for him. Enjoy every second you have with him."

I took that to heart. I went back in the hospital, washed the streaked mascara off of my face, and went back to the Cardiac unit where I spent the next six hours by his bedside holding his hand. And I smiled, remembering how he let me have strawberry sundaes every night for a week when I was six years old. How proud he was at my first lead in the ballet recital. The smile on his face when I (finally) graduated from college. How much he smiled as he was walking me up the aisle on my wedding day. And his excitement to hold his grandson that shares his middle name and also his love of ice cream and books. And about a million other little moments that we've shared.

I knew at that moment that I didn't want his life to be defined by the previous two weeks. I wanted it to be defined by the 84 years prior to those two weeks.

He's come so far. He has a long way to go. And I think, in some way, I have come a long way myself at realizing what's important in this whole thing. It's not worrying about something we can't control. It's not mourning for the life that he had prior to a month ago.

It's enjoying the now. And being proud of my dad and his amazing will to live.

Today made me believe in miracles

When my mother and I arrived at the hospital this morning, we already knew from my sister (who had spent the night at the hospital with Dad) that he had been moved to a new room - in the Cardiac Care Unit. I felt pretty optimistic at the time that it was a sign that they were getting things under control...until I saw my sister's face. I whisked her away to one of the umpteen lounges on the floor and she laid it all out on the table for me.

It was going to take a miracle for our father to survive.

Without going into a lot of detail - because this may get ugly before it's all said and done - there was such gross mishandling of Dad's case on the floor he'd previously been on that by the time they got him to Cardiac he was a mess. The staff in Cardiac was so upset about what had been done that they filed a grievance against the other floor. Yeah, it was that bad.

But you know how sometimes a person walks into your life and without you even knowing it saves your ass? Well, there was this great nurse assigned to Dad in Cardiac last night that spent a ton of one-on-one time with him getting everything straightened out - meds adjusted, doctors consulted, all that good stuff. I only got to talk to him for a brief second since his shift was ending, but I gave him a huge hug and thanked him for what he'd done for Dad. At the time, I felt like it probably wasn't enough to save his life, but that he had given enough of a damn to fix all the fuckups that the other jerks had done and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Thanks to the nurse's hard work, Dad's blood thinner level was in "normal" range at last, his heart rate had stabilized, and we were given the go-ahead for surgery. They wheeled him down to the OR, allowing my mom, sister and me to come along and sit with him in the pre-op area until they took him in. It was freezing cold in there, Dad was fading in and out of sleep (or maybe consciousness), and the three of us were lined up on rolling chairs watching the anesthetist's assistant work up Dad's IV's and stuff. The guy was funny as hell - a dry sense of humor, he kept me giggling the whole time. And when he turned his back to us to look at some charts, we noticed it...

His scrubs were hanging halfway down his ass, showing his boxers.

My sister started to giggle. My mother started to giggle. I was practically wetting my pants. And finally my mom looked over at me and said, "Well, at least his underwear is coordinated to his scrubs." We all just cracked up.

We all gave Dad a last squeeze and he was on his merry way. We expected him to be in the OR for at least three hours or longer, so we decided to run out and get some lunch since it was 1:30.

At 3:00, we arrived back in the waiting area to discover that the nurse had come looking for us.

They were done. And they had finished quickly, which could mean one of two things - either there was nothing that could be done for Dad, or they were able to fix it quickly. Finally, the surgeon came out.

"Your dad is a lucky man," he said, "We discovered that it was simply that his intestines had looped over each other, so we straightened them out and sewed him right back up."

No serious blockage.
No scar tissue.
No cancer.

I am telling you, he is one lucky guy. And he seems to be doing well - he'll be in ICU for a few days and then hopefully shipped back to the Cardiac unit where they took such great care of him. He's still having a few heart issues, but I think they're monitoring it very closely right now so I can sleep tonight knowing they're doing all they can do.

Tonight after Mom went to bed, my sister and I sat in our living room so exhausted that we could barely even see straight. We got to talking about Dad and all the crazy things he's done over the years and started laughing so hard that both of us were crying.

My dad is an incredible guy. And I'm not a super religious person, but I do believe that someone, or something, saved his life today. And that makes me doubly lucky.

Thanks to everyone for all the e-mails, phone calls, thoughts and prayers. I can't help but think that the outpouring of love my family has received did a lot for making this miracle happen.

Packratitis

I'm a pretty sentimental person. I hold on to ticket stubs, postcards, greeting cards, little drawings that Monkey Man has done, stuff like that. Hidden at my parents' house in one of the drawers in my old room is a shoebox full of old love letters from two of my boyfriends that were written back in my late teens/early twenties. I fully admit that it's hard for me to throw these things away. Over the years, though, I have developed a system for what was being kept and what was being tossed and so far it's kept me from drowning in crap.

Back when I was pregnant and was put on partial bedrest, things at our house rapidly got way out of control. It was so bad when I came home from the hospital that my parents spent two days helping shovel the mess out - and even then, our bedroom was so bad that you could barely walk through it (and I was too embarrassed to let them in to clean it up). I decided that I had reached the end of my patience and decided that we were hiring a housekeeper to come weekly. The principle behind the housekeeper is that I'm one of those people that is mortified to have anyone see my clutter, so I keep the house picked up and straight knowing that Reyna is coming every Thursday.

The biggest problem is that my husband, who is a wonderful person, is a descendent from a long line of packrats. If you were to walk into his parents' house, you would be completely overwhelmed by the amount of crap packed into 1200 square feet of space. At one point, I was in their bathroom which has a magazine rack in it, and out of curiosity I started going through the magazine rack to see what all was in there. And believe it or not, there was a magazine from 1985 in there. I'm sorry, but that's just WRONG on so many levels I don't even know where to start.

Their entire operating philosophy is "I might need this someday." A roll of electrical tape with one inch of tape left on it and no electrical projects on the horizon? Keep it. A broken wooden spoon? Keep it - you never know when you might need it for...something. Pieces and parts for a lawnmower they haven't owned in 15 years? Yeah, better keep that too. I swear to God that when they ever move out of that house (not to mention the three sheds and one house on their farm that are all full of crap too) we might as well just set a match to the damn place because it will take the rest of our lifetimes to get rid of all that junk.

It makes me crazy because Joey is the same exact way. The top of his little dresser in our bedroom is covered in receipts, spare change, and little crapola he's picked up here and there. I bought him one of those little dresser-top organizers and it's actually sitting in his closet, unused. When we moved from our last house, the garage was filled on one side with little scraps of wood, wire, and miscellaneous stuff that he had stashed away because he figured he'd need it one day. MacGyver he is not - the guy can function just fine but honestly what in the hell he planned on doing with all that rusty wire and stuff I have no idea. We filled up a trailer-load of that crap and took it to the dump.

I've even been sneaky enough to take the times when he's out of town and go through his stuff and weed out the crap. I swear to God, the last time I did that I found a receipt from a lunch he had at Applebee's in 1997. That must've been some lunch for him to hold on to that receipt.

When we moved into our new house I promised myself that I wouldn't let things get junky...I had finally gotten our last house whipped into better shape the year after Monkey Man was born, and since we threw a lot of the shit away when we moved it was like having a new, clean slate. Well, this weekend I was out in the garage looking for something and came to the realization that Packratitis has set in already in the garage and I have a sneaking suspicion that it's in our home office as well.

Do they have a vaccine for Packratitis? Because if they don't, I am going to end up beating him with some pieces of scrap wood wrapped in rusty wire. It's not like I don't have any to work with.

Def Leppard is my emotional armor

I don’t know what it is, but over the past year I have submersed myself into the world of cheesy 1980’s rock music. It all started when we were at our favorite ice cream place, which keeps their XM station tuned to the 80’s channel and Def Leppard was cranking out while we stuffed our faces with mocha almond fudge. There’s just something about that song that takes me back to the days when “Pour Some Sugar on Me” first came out –I would crank that song up on the little Panasonic stereo in my bedroom at my parents’ house until my dad would come knocking on the door.

We had just moved back to my parents’ hometown, a place they hadn’t lived since 1961 when they built a two-story brick house on part of my grandfather’s farm and then were promptly transferred to Germany for the next two or three years. They finally settled in New Jersey, where I was born and lived until I was 17 years old. We lived in the same house, in the same neighborhood, with the same friends and neighbors for 17 years.

In 1986, my world came apart. My dad’s health began to deteriorate and the decision was made that he needed to retire. My parents worried that they couldn’t afford to keep our house with their retirement pay without reducing our lifestyle to the point of surviving on cat food and government cheese. The for sale sign went up in the yard and I prepared myself to move to a place that I’d only visited a handful of times in my entire life while leaving everything that I’d ever known behind.

The worst part was leaving all of my friends and my church and school. They were such integral parts of my life that I couldn’t figure out how I was going to cope without my support system. And one of the things I was going to miss the most was my music – I was a classically trained pianist and violinist and was extremely active in several orchestras and bands, sang in the church and school choirs, had the second lead in the school musical the year before we moved…it was a huge part of my life that I knew wasn’t going to be able to be duplicated when we moved.

We left New Jersey at the end of June. My boyfriend Rob, who was a student at UVA, volunteered to drive me down a few days after my parents left with the moving van – so I had a few blissful days with my high school friends. At the end of the week he and I got into his rickety old Volvo and started the long trip to my new home.

It was a great summer. My savior during this time was my cousin Laura, who lived right across the road from us and was going to be going to the same high school. My parents were moving back into their house they’d built back in 1961 (and rented out the entire time) but it needed extensive renovations so they crashed at my aunt’s house while I crashed at Laura’s for the summer. We had long, lazy days of sunbathing, drinking her mother’s sweetened iced tea, and lunches of Jif peanut butter with grape jelly on soft white Merita bread. That is still one of my most absolutely favorite lunches of all time, right up there with a bologna sandwich with Duke’s mayonnaise. At nighttime, we would load up in Laura’s VW Beetle and cruise the town, cranking up the music and trading sly looks with the boys as they drove by. The days were long and lazy and the sultry night air was thick with the promise of things to come.

When summer came to an end, I had already met a lot of the people that I would spend my senior year with at school, and with Laura by my side we burst through the doors of the high school as two girls who had big plans. Rob and I had long broken up, and I discovered how different Southern boys are. It’s kind of hard to explain, but in my high school in New Jersey I had been known as one of the nerdy kids who got good grades and played in the band and orchestra. In my new high school, I was magically transformed into The Hot Girl just by the factor of what I call “The Jersey Mystique”…the small-town boys were totally convinced that just because I came from New Jersey, that must mean that I would “do it”. And boy, were they wrong…but I never inferred otherwise for fear of losing that edge.

And that year was when I finally had a chance to be a kid. Gone were the days of dance lessons, 45 minute drives to orchestra practice, and all of the other things that had consumed my first three years of high school. They were replaced by football games, afternoons hanging out at Chick Fil A, going with my boyfriend Ron to all of his band’s gigs, and sleepovers at Laura’s house. I still went to church and usually would do double-duty on Sundays – playing piano for one of the small local parishes, and then driving like a crazy woman to make the services at my regular church so that I could sing in the choir.

And there was music. A lot of my time was spent hanging out with Ron and his band, who did cover songs and I learned about groups I’d never heard of before but were definite Southern Rock staples like Bad Company and .38 Special and Lynryd Skynrd. And while my Jersey friends were still worshipping at the Altar of Springsteen, I was captivated by the Cult of Whitesnake. I wanted nothing more than to have a white Jaguar and a black Jaguar in my driveway and hair like Tawny Kitaen.

The following year, I went away to college and left my newfound life just to start all over again. And it seemed just so unfair to give everything up.

After that night at the ice cream parlor, I went to Target and found the Def Leppard greatest hits CD and quickly snapped it up. It’s been a staple in my car ever since right along with Winger and Bad Company. And I can’t quite put my finger on it, but when I am driving in my car with the sunroof open and “Photograph” is playing, I’m almost magically transported back into my red Mustang with the windows down, the music cranking, and driving down the main drag in town into the hot and sticky night with my heart full of hope. Back to a time before responsibilities and stress, when figuring out what shirt I was going to wear that day was my greatest problem.

That year changed my life forever - I discovered that I could do anything and survive anything, and that’s the best feeling in the world. And sometimes, a little “Photograph” or “Foolin” reminds me that I can still do it even when I'm wracked by doubt.

Now, if I could just get those Jaguars in my driveway and still be able to do a split, I'd finally have the last piece of the puzzle.

American heroes

Barely out of his teens, my father was suddenly bound for basic training in Texas. Camp Berkeley, which is located outside of Abilene, was the destination and he spent the following months with his fellow soldiers training for war.

On a September night in 1944, the troops were loaded up in trains bound for New York, where they would be shipped to Europe. Over the next five months, his division tore across France, Germany, and Austria, beginning at the Maginot Line on December 5, 1944, and continuing without a break until the end of the war. Their toughest battle was at Herrilsheim, France, where the division was ambushed by the Nazis and lost over 6,000 men. Despite the tragic losses that reduced their numbers to under 4,000 members, they stopped the Nazis’ repeated attempts to break out of their stronghold at Gambsheim to head toward Strasbourg. It was at this point that the Germans began calling them “The Suicide Division,” and they became one of the most feared divisions on the Western Front.

They weren’t the “Suicide Division”, though. They were the 12th Armored Division, later nicknamed “The Mystery Division” as they came under the leadership of Patton who removed all insignia from their uniforms to keep the enemy from identifying them. And they might have been missing their insignia, but they weren’t missing their spirit.

After Herrilsheim, the 12th was loaned to the First French Army along with other U.S. Army divisions to help them succeed in eliminating the Germans’ last foothold in France – and this was the only time during World War II that U.S. forces fought under the command of a foreign country. The following month, the 12th added three infantry companies of African-American soldiers, which was a rarity at the time (most African-American troops at that time performed manual labor and did not participate in combat).

Later on, the 12th crossed into Germany to capture the only intact bridge across the Danube which allowed Allied armor into southern Germany. On April 28, 1945, they captured Landsburg, Germany and freed 2,800 Allied prisoners; however, it was the next five days that would leave most of them with memories that would haunt them for a lifetime.

They freed eleven Nazi concentration camps in five days. The images have remained burned in their memories. Most can’t even bear to talk about it.

By May 1945, the 12th had moved through Germany into Austria and then back into Bavaria, where they hunted down Nazis charged with war crimes.

My father has never talked much about his experiences during the war. It wasn’t until October of 2001 that I realized the part the 12th had played in the war, and also how much it must have deeply affected him. I was very pregnant at the time, it was only a month after 9/11, and I flew to Abilene with the rest of our family for the opening of the 12th Armored Division Museum. As I walked through the museum, I came to a heavy, crudely-made wooden door with a warning sign on it that sensitive material was located behind the door. I went inside, and was swept up by emotion as I entered a recreation of a concentration camp. Pictures on the walls of the suffering of the prisoners. An emaciated mannequin lying on a hard wooden bunk. Jars with pieces of the brown bread that was given to the prisoners.

I walked back out of the door and saw my father standing there, misty-eyed. He couldn’t go in.

Even after the war, my father remained in the military until the early 1960’s, serving in the Korean War and even after retirement from the Army he went to work for the Department of Defense and went to Vietnam seven times during the war. When the Gulf War broke out, you could tell that it was just killing him that he wasn’t on a military transport to join his fellow soldiers on the battlefields. I asked him one time why he stayed in the military so many years and his answer was, “Because I love my country.”

You know, I’m one of the lucky ones. My father came home. But there were so many that didn’t come home at all, and so many that came home in coffins. So many that have given up their families, their jobs, and even their lives to serve our country. And at a time when our country is divided over our involvement over in Iraq, it’s even more important than ever for us to take a moment today and recognize these selfless people who have given all of themselves.

To the soldiers serving today, to the soldiers who have served in the past, and to the soldiers who never came home – thank you. You are truly our American heroes.

Note: All background material on the 12th Armored Division used in this blog came from Sidney Schuhmann's article “To Hell & Back” that was published in the Abilene Reporter-News on September 30, 2001.

Bad day clothes

Working in an industry that is predominantly male can present many challenges. There are very few women that are able to rise in the ranks of upper management in the construction industry. It’s extremely hard to be taken seriously by your peers, especially if they are male. And there is a fair share of what most people would consider sexual harassment.

There are days, though, that I use being a female to my advantage. Those are the days that I break out the Bad Day Clothes.

I first discovered the usefulness of Bad Day Clothes last fall when I came back to the office from the jobsite. At that point, I had already begun to shed a significant amount of weight and started dressing in “girly” clothes versus the khaki pants and polo shirts that I had worn out in the field. Most of my cohorts from the project were still stuck out on the jobsite, but one evening we all agreed to get together for a celebratory dinner at a local restaurant. Since our client was one of the invited guests and we also had quite a few members of our company’s ownership group attending, I decided to dress up a little bit. I bought a really cute blouse from JJill along with a camisole and some bootcut pants.

My biggest mistake – not trying the outfit on before we went to the dinner. When I changed into my evening outfit at the office (I had been cleaning out files all day and was a filthy mess), I discovered an ample amount of cleavage was showing. And by ample, I’m talking Grand Canyon proportions. But since my work clothes were trashed, I shrugged it off and proceeded on to the restaurant hoping for the best.

As the night went on, I noticed that my two best guy friends had decided to sit across from me at the table and both of them would sort of glance at me and look away. After the dinner was over, they walked me to my car in the dimly lit parking lot, and one of them said, “Sorry about how I was acting at dinner, but I couldn’t stop staring at your boobs.”

Now, most normal people would have been totally mortified…but if you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know that I am anything but normal and most of the time I have zero shame. So it was at that moment that inspired the creation of Bad Day Clothes. Meeting with the boss to get your ass chewed for making a mistake? Wear a low-cut blouse. Need some of the guys to help move a bunch of filing cabinets to another building? Short skirts do the trick. And heels…whoo boy, do they love heels.

Yeah, I know it’s bad. I know I’ve probably set the women’s movement back at least a hundred years. But let me tell you – when I’m staring into the furious eyes of Eeyore, any diversionary tactic that I can use might make things a whole lot less painful. And it’s working miracles with the auditor that’s here all week…today he complimented me at least four times on my outfit, which was carefully selected just for the occasion. No cleavage, but a tight-fitting sweater, pants, and heels. I pulled out all the stops today.

So far, the audit is going well. I just hope that things don’t start going poorly, or I may just have to go commando.

I am going to kick some serious dinosaur ass if this keeps up

Three years ago, Andy the Dinosaur came into our lives. He belonged to my nephew, and when Monkey Man was old enough my sister gave him to MM to enjoy. I never thought he’d grow as attached to Andy as he has.

Andy received his name because when my nephew took him to preschool, my sister wrote his name on the little tag on the stuffed dinosaur’s leg. When MM received it from my sister we immediately dubbed him Andy.

Andy has been Monkey Man’s constant bedtime companion for the last three years. He’s none the worse for wear – I think his tail has been repaired several times, he looks a little worn, but still very lovable.

Until last week. Andy has become the juvenile delinquent of the dinosaur world. Either that or one badly spoiled dinosaur.

First, last Thursday night, Andy needed his own pillow. Fine, we got the little travel pillow out of the truck and gave that to Andy.

Then, it was a blanket on Friday night – it had to be a special Blue Blankie just like Monkey Man’s and nothing else would do. I tucked the boys in and wished them a good night.

On Saturday night, I kept hearing restlessness over the monitor several times during the night. I went upstairs to check on things and everything seemed okay….

On Mother’s Day, Monkey Man was extraordinarily crabby after naptime. I chalked it up to our trip to the monster truck show on Saturday. After an uncharacteristic trip to Time Out, I sat Monkey Man in my lap and asked him what was up:

Me: What’s wrong, buddy – are you feeling sick?

MM: (whimpering) No.

Me: You’ve been a little crabby today, are you okay?

MM: I’m just so tired.

Me: Tired? But you just had a nap.

MM: Andy kept waking me up last night.

Me: He did? Why did Andy do that?

MM: He kept waking me up because he wanted a juice box.

I have just about had it with Andy’s diva-like attitude around here. Next thing you know he’s going to expect weekly pedicures, an iPod, and perhaps a chauffeur-driven Bentley.

All I can say is that last night as I put the two of them to bed, I kissed Monkey Man on the cheek, patted Andy on the head, and said, “One peep out of you, Andy, and you’re going to be sleeping in the guest room. And by the way, we’re out of juice boxes so don’t even think about it.”

And all was quiet. I'm just waiting for his next demand and then I'm checking the bylaws of the Dinosaurs Union to see what my rights are.

Welcome to the insanity

If this is your first time visiting Builder Mama Headquarters, welcome. You must be wearing steel-toed boots, OSHA-approved safety glasses, and a hard hat to tour the site. All visitors must report to the jobsite trailer before entering the site.

It amazes me to see how some people end up finding this site. A few of my PIM friends have added me to their blogrolls so by luck I've gotten quite a bit of traffic from them. But occasionally, I get someone who has done a Blogger search and by some odd twist of fate, they end up here. Some of the searches have been:

“I am pregnant” Congratulations! Now, fasten your seatbelt, because you’re in for a bumpy ride…but so rewarding at the end.

"shoot me now, shoot me now" I have no idea why you’d be looking for this, but welcome to you as well. And let me say that if you worked for Eeyore, you’d be saying this too – on a regular basis.

“moms” Yup, that’s me. A great club to belong to. I just hope you weren’t looking for any inspiration or tips on how to be the perfect mom, because I’m just stumbling through all this with no blueprints or specifications and hoping for the best.

“summer intern” Sorry, no openings here at Builder Mama Headquarters. Not unless you’re male, over 6 feet tall and hot…then we might be able to work you in. Really. I might need someone to be the cabana boy for me at the pool this summer, so bring your sunscreen.

“infertility” I’ve been there, and if you’re searching for this, I’m sorry if you’re trapped in the never-ending cycle of hell. I hope it gets better for you and I send you endless hugs and good wishes.

“secret family-picx” Okay, I’m not exactly sure why anyone would post secret pictures on the internet, doesn’t that kind of defeat the “secret” part? The only secret family picture I have is my eighth grade class photo which is so eye-searingly horrid that I will die if anyone ever unearths it.

"grandmothers knitting transformers" If you can figure this one out, let me know because I have no clue.

“mom sucking” I sense some angst here. And searching for that on Mother’s Day, nonetheless. Your mother would be ashamed.

“granny panties” You really wanted to see some? That is so not hot. You might want to talk to someone about your problem, you perv.

Anyhow, welcome. We break for lunch every day at 11:30, and make sure that you turn in your timecard at the end of the day. Thanks.

Who's the fat chick?

During the years that I studied dance and played basketball, I was very lean and muscular – never bony, but toned and very athletic looking. For two years in college, I worked out at least four days a week and when I graduated I was in the best shape of my life. Over the years, I might have added 10 – 15 pounds at times, but was always able to get it back off again. It wasn’t until after Monkey Man was born that I really ballooned up and became truly overweight.

As I mentioned earlier, I have lost 40 pounds since last September. It actually wasn’t very difficult for me – I guess I’m one of those lucky people that have a decent metabolism, and as long as I’m eating OK and getting some regular form of exercise, the weight just falls off. I reached 40 pounds just before the end of December and have managed to keep it off. Honestly, I could probably stand to lose about ten more, but haven’t been motivated to do that because I feel like I’m “just right” for now.

On Friday I ran into one of my friends that I worked with out on the jobsite who has left the company. We hadn’t seen each other in several months, and the visible shock on his face when he saw me was pretty surprising. He grabbed me in a huge bear hug and kept repeating over and over how skinny I was and that he thought that I look great. I guess that it is pretty startling to see me now compared to how I looked last summer, but it’s almost disconcerting to have people commenting about it all the time. I mean, it seems like it’s every day that something about my weight comes up from my friends, family, and coworkers.

I think the unsettling part of it to me is that when I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t see myself the way other people do…I see the baby roll still on my stomach, the ass that needs a little more firming up, and the hint of a double chin that I am so self-conscious about. It’s not that I’m displeased about my progress or the way I look now, I guess it’s just that I’m so unaccustomed to the positive attention that I’m receiving that it almost makes me cringe when people say things. It’s not that I think that they’re being hurtful or saying anything cruel…it just brings me back to the realization of how much I had lost myself for a few years.

It was a really weird period in my life, because I was so focused on everything and everyone around me that I really lost my sense of self. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see someone that was overweight…I really didn’t see anyone at all except for the shell of my former self. Gradually as the pounds came off and I started paying more attention to my health and had some really good things happening again in my life, the “old me” came creeping back in again. I feel more like Me than I have in almost five years.

The weight loss scares me. It scares me because I don’t remember how exactly I got to that place. I weigh myself every day, hoping to stop the barbarians at the gate this time before I spiral out of control again. And it scares me that I really didn’t see myself as being out of control either – so how will I recognize it again without being a slave to the scale and obsessing over gaining half of a pound?

Will I ever be comfortable in my new skin? And will I ever be able to smile and say “thanks” when someone compliments me on my weight loss instead of mentally calculating in my head how many pounds ago I saw the person? How long is it going to take me to be able to walk past a mirror or a store window, catch a glimpse of myself, and not wonder “Who’s the fat chick?”

I love the new Me, I’m just not sure when the old Me will finally be silent.

Note: The top picture was taken in October 2005, when I was about 2 weeks into my weight loss journey. The second picture was from early December, with about 28 pounds gone. The third picture is from a month ago, and 40 pounds after I started.

The heron

Over four years ago, my life changed forever.

In November, I gave birth to the child I had been longing for and dreaming of.

In December, my sister lost her youngest son.

As time has gone on, the pain has lessened but never goes away altogether. I find it sneaks up on me at the strangest times, like when I hear a certain song on the radio or when I’m eating barbequed ribs at his favorite rib joint. He would have been 21 that following February, and I’d like to think he had one hell of a party up in heaven. He would’ve liked that a lot, especially if you had some David Allen Coe cranked up.

There are so many things that I could say about him. He loved to eat lobster. Soccer was his favorite sport and he was really very good at it. He adored animals and always had a complete menagerie in his room and doted on them completely, especially his dog Jeffrey. He loved to be outside and especially to spend time either fishing on the side of the river or out on a boat. One of my favorite pictures of him is standing on the deck of a boat with two of his best friends – they had just spent the entire summer sailing – and he is laughing with his head thrown back and that blond hair shining in the sun. He looks so very happy at that moment that it’s how I choose to remember him. He was very good natured, had a wickedly dry sense of humor, and was an incredibly laid back type of person.

He was a gentle soul and always took things to heart. Kids can be very cruel, and he struggled a lot especially in high school with the other students taunting him for one thing or another. He also struggled with depression for several years. But it seemed like in college, he had finally found his groove – he had joined a fraternity, his grades were pretty good, and the last time that I saw him (three days before he died) he was tired from having taken exams but talked animatedly about how excited he was for the next semester.

And something went wrong – we still don’t know what – and he took his own life.

The day of the funeral was one of the coldest days I’ll ever remember. We carried Monkey Man in the baby carrier and took him with us to the service. My sister and brother-in-law had decided to have his remains cremated and then we had a private internment in the memorial garden of their church. The church is a huge stone structure perched on a cliff overlooking the mighty river that runs through our city. As we stood in the memorial garden watching the priest empty the ashes into the hole, a stiff wind whipped up and grabbed the ashes and they blew all over us. It was almost unbearable to stand there and feel the grit cover my face and I wondered if it was a sign from above.

For several months, I went to the memorial garden every week to sit and think and pray. It was hard to be thankful for the blessing that I had received by the birth of my own son while watching the anguish of my sister and her husband as they mourned the loss of their son that they had loved with every fiber of their being. And after a while, the visits to the garden became less frequent and then became more of something that I would do when I happened to be passing through the area.

Today I had to drive past the church on my way to one of my jobsites. I felt compelled to stop, but I knew that I had a meeting waiting on me to arrive so I kept driving past the church.

As I drove across the bridge that traverses the river, I saw a lone heron slowly flying its way down the river.

And I thought of him.

And I thought about those ashes being whipped out into the cold December air over the river.

And I hoped that that he has found peace at last, happy out there on the river where he spent some of the best days of his life...laughing with his head thrown back, golden sunkissed skin, and blond hair blowing in the wind.

Two crazy kids in love (or at least one crazy kid)

Let me introduce you to Joey, the bravest man in the universe. Why? Because he married me.

We met on a blind date. It was his first blind date ever, and my second blind date ever. The first one was so bad that I almost had to be dragged kicking and screaming to meet Joey. A mutual friend set us up...he was supposed to meet us an an Applebee's after work and (of course) was late meeting us. I was highly pissed off and I was glaring out the window for my blind date that was sure to be a jackass of monumental proportions when I saw this guy sprinting across the parking lot. I turned to my friend Debbie and said, "Wow, that guy is cute!" and she looked at me grinning and said "That's him!" Seven hours and three restaurants later, he drove me back to my car and I gave him my business card with my home number written on it. Ask him about our first night, and he will always say that he was totally astonished that I didn't even give him a peck on the cheek when the night was over. I think he's still a little pissed off about that.

That weekend, I went home to be with my dad for Father's Day, and as I was standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes I announced to my parents that I had met the man I was going to marry. I believe there was probably a bunch of eye-rolling behind my back because as my track record would attest, Joey's chances were probably pretty slim in their eyes and they weren't going to get the family silver engraved anytime soon.

I believe it was our second or third date when I invited him to come to my apartment for dinner and ended up springing almost my entire family on him. He was such an amazingly good sport about the whole thing that I was immediately impressed. I mean, he ended up sandwiched between my two nephews and my brother-in-law, and if that isn't love then I don't know what is. I think it was that night that we did the deed for the first time, because after making him go through that ordeal I figured the least I could do was hook a brother up, right?

The next year flew by - we got to be not only boyfriend/girlfriend, but best friends too. I had never met someone in my entire life that I clicked so well with on pretty much every level. Of course, we did have a few rough moments like the night he didn't show up at my house after an office party and ended up banging on my window at 2:30 AM howling at the top of his lungs, "Liiiiiz, let me iiiiiin, I loooooove yooooooou...."

On the week of our one-year dating "anniversary", we took a vacation together to Asheville, North Carolina for a week. We hiked, played golf, did some sightseeing...and the whole time, I was convinced that he was going to ask me to marry him. I mean, come on - we'd been together a year, neither of us were getting any younger...but he didn't. We rode home in the car together at the end of the week and I barely said two words to him the entire time. Finally he asked me what was wrong, and I indignantly sputtered, "I thought you were going to ask me to marry you!" "Um, whatever gave you THAT idea?" he asked.

He did ask - about two months later when he found out that I was moving out of my shared house and was looking for a new apartment. I think it was one of the most practical proposals I've ever heard of...we were sitting in the Arby's across from his house when he looked at me and said, "Why don't we just get married?" "Um, okay," I said. And the rest was history.

Joey is an amazing person. He grew up in a home with an alcoholic father who some years was out on the road in other states working, a mother who worked full-time trying to keep the familly going, and a younger brother. They didn't have much in the way of luxuries, but they had everything they needed to survive. He paid for his own college and spending money the entire time he was in school. He was the first college graduate in his family and the first to have a white-collar job. He is now part-owner of a multi-million dollar company. He has done amazingly well for himself and I couldn't be prouder of him.

Back in 1990, he was almost killed in a car accident when he was hit head-on by a man doing over 60 MPH. They didn't think he was going to make it. And I'm not a hugely religious person, but I firmly believe to this day that someone up there saved his life so that he could be my husband and Monkey Man's dad. Well, that and the fact that he has a super-hard head that probably saved him too.

I think the one thing that has always set Joey apart from the rest of the world is his enormous heart. You will rarely meet another person with the same level of caring about everything and everyone in his life. And he has an infectious smile - the first thing I noticed about him the night we met was that he had laugh lines around his eyes, and as I told my mom later, "I knew when I saw those laugh lines that he had a big heart."

Now, he's not perfect. He's a bit of a workaholic, he tends to watch a little too much television, sometimes he can bring home a bad attitude from work, he has the whole toenail trimming thing...but honestly, I can handle all of that.

He is an amazing dad to Monkey Man. Who else will withstand being kneed in the balls by Little Hulk Hogan over and over again? Who will snuggle with Monkey Man and watch Power Rangers and discuss the social significance of Transformers? Sometimes I watch him and I am amazed at the qualities that Monkey Man brings out in him at the most unexpected times.

And most significantly, he puts up with me. Little Miss High-Maintenance, Never-Good-Enough-For-Me, Don't-Mess-Up-My-Hair. I honestly don't know how he does it. His generosity, kindness, and love are boundless, and I even though I don't say it every day, I am so thankful to have him in my life.

December 28th will be our ten-year anniversary. We have known each other almost 11 years and sometimes it seems like just yesterday when I saw that cute blond guy in the royal blue Polo shirt sprinting across the parking lot.

Thanks, honey. Thanks for putting up with all of my crap and being my bestest friend in the entire world. And also for never revealing our stupid nicknames for each other. Then we might have to talk.

The chair

Joey had a Rotary Club function last night, so I picked up Monkey Man and we headed out to Kohl’s in search of some jeans for him and a cheapo/cute t-shirt for me. He was so good that he didn’t even throw a fit when I told him it was time to leave the play area at Chick-Fil-A to get home for bath and bedtime.

He has terrible allergies to pollen and mold, and with the amount of sinus crap I had going on yesterday I knew that last night was going to be a doozy for him. Wednesday night we’d had to get up three times with him due to bad coughing fits. Last night he made it until 3:00 AM when he decided to try and cough up a lung. Finally, after offering him water and rubbing his back, I scooped him up and held him in my arms in the rocking chair.

I think I sat there for 45 minutes with him. It was so eerily quiet that you could just feel the universe vibrating, if that makes any sense. He nestled his head on my chest just like he did when he was a baby. I sat there and smelled the top of his head over and over again, rubbed his back, and listened to him breathe.

We’ve spent hundreds of hours in that chair. It’s kind of a cool chair because my mom bought it for me at a thrift store – it’s an upholstered rocking chair that looks normal with the rocker contraption hidden underneath. Whoever made the chair made it perfect for a woman’s body – just the right size and the seat isn’t so deep that your feet don’t touch the ground comfortably. She had it reupholstered for me in this very cool royal blue and white plaid to match the rest of the nursery, and everyone who has seen the chair remarks on how unique it is. I’ve often wondered – how many babies were rocked in that chair? It’s pretty neat to think about.

When Monkey Man was a baby, I would spend blissful hours with him in that chair nursing him. We had some rough times in the chair too, and the last time I ever nursed him we fought in that chair – Mighty Mom, with lots of love (and milk) to give, and Stubborn Monkey Man, who had decided it was oh so much easier drinking from a bottle versus a boob. I sat there weeping, realizing that it was never going to happen again no matter what I did.

Rough times aside, though, we’ve had mostly great times in that chair. We’ve read Dr. Seuss’ ABC book until the pages started falling out. We’ve read the children’s Bible together. We’ve told stories and talked out how our day was, we’ve tickled and wrestled and loved and hugged in the chair too.

When I remember back to the days when Monkey Man was so tiny I could hold him in one arm, I marvel at how much he has grown up before I even noticed. Last night, his feet dangled off of the side of the chair and even though there’s a lot less of me in the chair now, there’s a lot more of him now to fill the void.

As I held him last night and stroked his back until he finally returned into a deep slumber, I was completely overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment. The day that we can’t rock in the chair anymore together will be a bittersweet one. There will be many more milestones in Monkey Man’s life that will come and go, but the day that he outgrows being rocked in the chair will be the most significant and saddest one to me.

I know that day will come, but I’m going to enjoy these little moments while they last. And I hope that one day, Monkey Man might be rocking his little boy to sleep in the chair and have as many wonderful moments in it as I have had.

I love you, Monkey Man. Thank you for being my sweet boy.

No doubt about it, he is definitely my kid

Tonight at dinner:

Monkey Man: Mommy, did I eat a good dinner?

Me: Well, you did an okay job. Do you think you could try and drink some more milk?

MM: Ooookaaaaay.

He drinks a few more swallows of milk.

MM: Now did I have a good dinner?

Me: Um, I guess so.

MM: But my tummy is so full.

Me: Okay, then I guess you're done. Good job!

MM: Can I have some Oreos or chocolate chip cookies?

Me: I thought your tummy was so full!

MM: My tummy is never too full for cookies.

Yup, he's mine all right.

The Post-Cookie Hosedown:

Does life ever turn out like you think it will?

Springtime always gets me in a sentimental kind of mood. I’m not sure why, but it makes me think about my life and how it’s turned out.

Do I have a perfect life? No, and anyone who claims that they have a perfect life is probably delusional. But I am happy with my life about 95% of the time, most of my unhappiness stemming from my job situation over the past few years.

Just for fun, I was thinking today about what I thought my life was going to be like and what my reality is. Play along if you want to:

Career:
Age 6: I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to make sick people better.
Age 16: I wanted to be a dentist. I wanted to make people’s teeth beautiful and healthy.
Age 19: I wanted to work in Hotel and Restaurant Management. I wanted to own my own restaurant one day.
Age 20: I wanted to be a college professor. I wanted to teach college-level English or Linguistics.
Age 23: I realized that I needed to find a job or I was going to have to move home. I took a job in construction thinking it was just a temporary thing.
Age 36: I work in construction. I build big buildings. I guess the temporary job turned into a long-term job, huh? And I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

Personal:
Age 6: I wanted to marry Andy Gibb and have his babies. Lots of blond babies. And we will live in Australia and I will be BFF with Olivia Newton-John!
Age 7: I wanted to marry Mark who lived around the corner from us. I thought he looked like Davy Jones from The Monkees.
Age 10: I was never going to get married. I was going to dedicate my life to science.
Age 11: I wanted to marry Jimmy. He played the trumpet in the school band and was in my homeroom. And he had an adorable freckle right on the tip of his nose.
Age 13: I wanted to marry Neil. He was going to be a doctor and I was too and we were going to have lots of little Italian babies.
Age 14: I am back on the Jimmy train again. Oh, and did I mention his identical twin Mike? He would do in a pinch if Jimmy was booked.
Age 15: I am back with Neil again. And then with Jimmy. And then with the twin Mike. (I think I needed some serious professional help at this point. This whole scenario was just wrong in every way imaginable.)
Age 16: I am back with Neil again. And then with Rob. I will marry Rob and he will be a famous writer and I will be a dentist and we will live in a beautiful stone farmhouse. When I move we stay in touch and I end up carrying the torch for him for a long time and then he breaks my heart by marrying some girl named Corinne when I’m 22.
Age 17: I move South and discover beautiful Southern boys. I am going to marry Ron and be his rock star wife and we will have three children and travel around the country while his band is on tour. Oh, and did I mention that U2 is going to be opening for his band? My parents have a stroke since I am close enough to 18 that Ron is a serious threat that I will either get knocked up or run off and get married.
Age 20: I get engaged to Jody. He is going to be a rich investment banker dude and I am going to teach English at the local college. My parents are not happy because they see all that college tuition going down the drain if I get hitched or knocked up.
Age 22: I am not even remotely interested in getting married – I know I will someday, but I was enjoying playing the field. I briefly get back together with Ron and realize that being the wife of a starving musician isn’t what I want for myself. And then I try to get back in contact with Rob and discover the Corinne factor that changes everything. That bitch was going to live in my stone farmhouse!
Age 23: I am going to marry J. We are going to have a huge white house with a country front porch and three kids, two boys and a girl. He is going to be a hugely successful salesman and I am going to be a stay-at-home mom.
Age 25: I am never going to get married. I am never going to have kids. Men suck.
Age 26: I marry Joey. He is a vice president of a construction company, I am working for a construction company too. We never discuss where we’re going to live or what kind of house we want because frankly, it doesn’t matter as long as we’re together. I want three kids, he wants two.
Age 29: Mother Nature has an unpleasant trip to the land called Infertility planned for the next two years. I may never have kids at all, but hey – at least I have my “career”. And we have each other.
Age 32: I have Monkey Man. And I come to the crushing realization that my dream of three kids may never happen because my damn ovaries won’t cooperate.
Age 36: I am happy with Monkey Man and can’t decide if I want another child or not. But I would be okay without any more children.

How did I get here? I mean, to go from marrying Andy Gibb to some dude in construction is such a far stretch that my head is spinning. And to go from being a doctor to a dentist to a restaurant owner to an English professor to construction worker is even worse.

On the job front, I don’t think I ever knew what I truly wanted to be. My parents (translation: Mommie Dearest) expected me to be a doctor, dentist, or lawyer. And I honestly wanted to please them. The only two things that I’ve ever really fallen into and developed a burning passion for were teaching English and then my time I worked in a lawyer’s office doing research for him. I am an excellent researcher, if I do say so myself, and those are two times when I enjoyed plucking things out of oblivion to craft something. The whole construction thing was a total freak accident, and while I do love what I do, part of me still wonders if it’s not too late to try another career path. It’s something I struggle with every day.

As for the personal stuff, obviously things happen for a reason, and up until the age of 16 it was all just cutesy high-school crushes and stuff. After that point, I learned something from every one of them that shaped me into who I am.

Neil taught me that people will try to control you if you let them.
Rob taught me that love really can be pure and innocent and honest without any game-playing.
Ron taught me that a person doesn’t have to have material possessions to have endless amounts of love to give.
Jody taught me that sometimes friendship isn’t enough to keep a relationship alive and that it’s okay to walk away as long as you do it with respect for each other.
J. taught me everything that I don’t want in a relationship.
Joey taught me and continues to teach me everyday about unconditional love and what it’s like to find your soulmate. He restored my faith in trusting another person with my heart.

Well, you know what happened to me, but what about The Men? Let's see what happened to our cast of characters:

Neil is a doctor, married a girl that we went to church with, and has two children. Did I mention that his wife has a mustache that rivals Rollie Fingers'? (Sorry, that was mean...it's not quite that bad but the girl would seriously benefit from some waxing.)
Rob teaches English at our old high school. I heard that he and Corinne are divorced but have no confirmation if it’s true or not.
Ron is a professional musician in the mid-Atlantic area and started a small record label with a partner. He is not married and ironically enough wrote one of the songs on his band’s first album about me. It’s not a nice song but I’m okay with that even though he played it at our 10-year high school reunion (and of course everyone KNEW it was about me). I still think he’s a hell of a musician and he was an important person in my life for many years. I'm waiting for his new CD to come out so I can see if he's gotten over it or what. Our 20-year reunion is coming up, you know, and I'd like to be prepared.
Jody, last I heard, is a vice president for a huge bank. He married a teacher and they have two children. He ended up marrying someone just like his mother, how appropriate.
J. is married to his third wife that he met on the internet. He has one son with his second wife. He sells Amway (snicker).
And Joey? He is out in the backyard sitting in a pile of sand with our beautiful son playing dump trucks. I’m looking out our back window and listening to Monkey Man laugh and laugh at his silly daddy.

Life is good. I don’t know how I got here and it’s been a bumpy road filled with all kinds of twists and turns, but I wouldn’t trade any of it. Not one single second.

Easy like Sunday morning

Builder Mama and Monkey Man

I'll have some fries with that too, please.

Monkey Man is an only child. It wasn’t really planned that way, but that’s what we got.

Joey and I got married when we were both 26 years old. And you know how you grow up with this master scheme in mind – married by 25 in a huge ceremony with 20 bridesmaids and that huge tiered almond wedding cake, brand new house by the time you’re 28, two kids (a boy and a girl, of course!) by the time you’re 30…..that was me. So at 26 years old, I was already behind the curve.

A few years went by and we decided maybe it was time to start trying to have a baby. In other words, instead of saving for an early retirement we figured it made more sense to have a baby as soon as possible! Of course! So we gave it the old college try. Over two years later, we still hadn’t gotten pregnant and it was time to take a stronger stand in the whole baby-making scene. Not to mention the fact that the whole infertility thing was making me just a little nuts, to the point where Joey would dread me meeting him at the door with a beer and a leer on my face. A few doses of Clomid later and I was finally pregnant with Monkey Man. I was just a few weeks shy of turning 32 when he was born.

Honestly, the first few years of Monkey’s life were rough for me personally. My nephew died unexpectedly six weeks after Monkey was born and I headed into a vicious cycle of trying to be everything to everybody instead of taking care of myself like a new mom should. I don’t regret a second of it because my family needed me and I was glad that I could be there for them. I think it was about a year ago when I finally snapped out of it and emerged from my self-imposed exile to regain The Being Formerly Known as Me. It hasn’t been an easy time – there are times when I feel guilty doing things for myself, but then the little devil on my shoulder sticks the pitchfork into my neck and reminds me that it’s OK to do things that don’t involve making homemade lollipop cookies for 30 kids after working 40 hours in three days’ time. Really it is!

The other issue was my job. Two years ago we were really on the fence about having another baby, and I ended up with an opportunity that required a possible two-year commitment on a project in which a year was to be spent out on the jobsite. There is no worse place to be when pregnant than out on a jobsite, trapped in a trailer with six men, two bathrooms, and nowhere to hide when you’re barfing into your trashcan. At times we didn’t even have working bathrooms, so you can imagine what that would’ve been like when baby is doing the samba on your bladder. So I decided to take the project on and it gave us a two-year respite from anyone putting any pressure on us about another baby. The stock answer was “I’ve got a two-year commitment at work and I am not hauling my pregnant butt out to a porta-john every 15 minutes.” Strangely enough, people stopped asking. I think it was the porta-john comment but I may be wrong.

Of course, for the past few months since my project ended we’ve been grilled by relatives, friends, coworkers, my boss, and even the preschool owners about when we’re going to have another baby. I think Joey and I both agree that it would be really nice to have another one, but we’ve reached such a comfort level with our life the way it is right now that we hate to throw everything out of balance. (Not to mention that I was possibly the most miserable pregnant woman on the planet with a birth story that isn’t exactly epic but scared me enough to order a chastity belt STAT.) Yet we also feel guilty about Monkey Man not having a sibling. As Joey told me recently, “You finally feel good about yourself again and I don’t want to mess that up for you. I’d rather do a fabulous job raising one child versus a half-assed job raising two.” Before we make a decision one way or the other, though, we have a few business irons in the fire that need to be resolved. And hopefully none of them involve a porta-john.

If you ask Monkey Man, he would adamantly proclaim no interest in having a sibling. No hesitation whatsoever – a flat out NO WAY. However tonight, a small glimpse into his mind that made my stomach churn just a little bit:

Me: Did you do anything interesting at school today?

Monkey: I drew a beautiful picture of you and me and daddy at school.

Me: You did? What was the picture about?

Monkey: Daddy was picking apples off a beautiful apple tree, and you and I were watching him. And I drew a baby in your tummy.

Me: Y-y-y-ou did? Why did you do that?

Monkey: Because I want a baby brother. Not a baby sister, but a baby brother because they are cool. Megan at school has one too.

Apparently he thinks you can just order these things. I guess with as long as it took us last time, we better think about ordering soon if we’re interested in having seconds. Let’s see, we’ll take one baby brother, hold the pickle.

I think Victoria's Secret is missing out on a new product

About six months ago I started getting bikini waxes. I’m not sure exactly what drove me to that point other than the thought of being almost 36 made me get a little crazy for a while and if I’d been a guy I probably would’ve gotten myself a little red sportscar and started doing a bad comb-over with my hair. And I’m too cheap to get Botox or plastic surgery so bikini waxing was a good, safe, cheap alternative.

So the question – where does one go to get a bikini wax? Eyebrows are one thing because, well, your face is OUT THERE for the world to see. Your naughty bits are sequestered away from the world and you don’t want just anyone down there. Or maybe you do, in which case you might want to seek professional help.

I found a little day spa right down the street from my office – I figured that I could zip in, get the waxing stuff done, and be back at work in 20 minutes tops. Heaven forbid I actually do this kind of stuff after work or during lunch, but I digress. I decided to get my upper lip and eyebrows done first just to check the place out and as it turns out the girl was very cool and did a great job. I immediately made an appointment to come back in a few days to get my bikini area done. And I did some prep work myself, trimming things up a little bit so at least it wouldn’t be a candidate for French braiding or anything like that.

Now, I don’t do brazilian waxing. Nope, no how, no way. No one is getting that up close and personal with my nether regions other than Joey. Or maybe my gynecologist. I just get a little shaping up done so that it doesn’t look like Sasquatch down yonder. And I was very pleased with the job that the girl at the day spa did, other than the fact that I bruise extremely easily and I had some pretty nasty bruises for a few days. But I was hooked.

If you’ve never been waxed before, when you go in you have the option of either putting on these flimsy paper panties, keeping your own panties on, or going au naturel. Normally I would err on the paper panties side, but two visits ago the girl mentioned that she could get things a little neater if I went sans panties. I tried it out and it was a little embarrassing but she was totally cool and didn’t try to reenact any girl-on-girl stuff so I figured this was the way to go. And she was right – it really did look better. Or maybe that’s my way of justifying exposing my entire crotch to hot wax.

So that was in December. January rolled by and February was almost gone, and I realized with some horror that I hadn’t been in two months and things were starting to get out of control. I’m talking about something that you’d spray Round-Up on. So I booked my appointment for a Wednesday afternoon at 3:00 and steeled myself to go. Usually I will pop a Motrin or two, but I believe that day I took four just to prepare for the agony to ensue.

This is where things get kind of fuzzy. I was in total agony through the whole procedure – I guess maybe the Motrin didn’t get time to kick in because the first strip she pulled almost sent me through the ceiling. I almost asked for a towel to bite on, it was so bad. So she zipped and stripped and soon I was done. Except for…huge blobs of wax had gotten on the rest of the “keeper” hair and we couldn’t get it off. I had forgotten that important step of trimming things up so that the hair would be out of the way. Big mistake. She made a few game swipes at it and then doused a hand towel with the wax-removal oil, handed to me with a grim look on her face, and said, “Honey, it’s all you from this point,” and escaped out of the room.

I worked at it for a while, but no luck. It was totally gummed up in the hair and at that point I was so worn out from how much it hurt that I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So I pulled my panties on, got my pants and shoes back on and beat it on out the door back to work.

I should also add that I have a bladder like a camel, so I didn’t actually use the bathroom until I arrived home around 6:30 that night. And as I went to pull my panties off…they were stuck. I guess the wax had melted and taken hold of the hair and the panties, making a hermetic seal not to be replicated anywhere else in the universe. One pair of scissors was procured and I was finally liberated. The panties went in the trash and I ended up basically chopping the wax out of the hair. Nice waxing job, but the rest of my naughty bits looked like a badly plucked chicken.

Panties that hermetically seal to your crotch - available at Victoria’s Secret, five pairs for $25 now through April. I think I’ll be skipping that sale.