I do not keep junk food in the house for the simple reason that I do not have an ounce of a shred of a teensy bit of self control. Like, none.
Note to self: do not buy Halloween candy a month before Halloween. Especially do not buy candy you like, because it will not make it to the 31st. It will not make it to the end of the week. You made a good, honest effort to keep the plastic wrap on the box, but really – do you want to be the house in the block that gave the nasty candy? Better taste it before passing it on to poor, unsuspecting little rugrats, right?
Yeah. Hi, Twizzlers? I’d like you to meet my friend, Fat Ass. Be sure to say hi to Mr. & Mrs. Jiggly Arms on your way down. And don’t forget Rolls D’Stomach or Ms. Birthin’ Hips, either!
How’s this for irony? The candy – Twizzlers Sourz, by the way – are just a foot away from the folded-up treadmill, which is six inches away from my sneakers, which I dug out of the closet and put next to the treadmill in the withering hope that I might once again get on the treadmill and not just use it to hang Sammy’s sling from.
It makes me feel better though, knowing that I spent the morning weedwhacking and raking and doing something physical and healthy. It made me feel even better to see a pack of the Twizzlers in Jay’s hand – Sammy in the carseat in the other – as he headed out to the store.
Wait. Jay took Sammy to the store. The house is empty. What the hell am I doing wasting perfectly good, quiet, magazine-reading bathtime on the computer? (Because, really – like I’m going to use this time to get on the treadmill? You’re funny.)
I’ll just be sure to leave the Twizzlers downstairs. Really.

So Little Einsteins is one of the few shows Sammy’s allowed to watch. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s ABC/Disney and they’re the devil and we should be boycotting them, but honestly – when Sammy’s fussy, sometimes the only thing that calms him down is the opening theme to the show. I walk around most days singing, “We’re going on a trip in our favorite rocket ship, zooming through the skies – little Einsteins!”
In case you haven’t seen it, it consists of four kids and a storyline centered around a famous piece of classical music and a famous piece of art. The four kids – Leo (a white redhead boy), his sister Annie (a blonde), Quincy (black, jazzy and plays the trumpet and the drums) and Annie (an Asian girl) – head on a mission every week that usually requires words like pianissimo and fortissimo – not too shabby for a kids’ show.
Anyway, Jay and I spend way too much time analyzing the show. Seriously, when you watch the same six episodes over and over and over, you need to inject some adult somewhere.
Is it any shock that Leo – the white male kid – is the leader of the pack? Or that they tell Quincy to “play it, Quincy!” in a tone that mimics, “Break it on down, brutha”?
So tonight, I decide that Leo doesn’t look very Catholic.
Me: White male, running the show – wait, he should be Protestant, right?
Jay: But he’s a redhead. Irish Catholic?
Me: He can’t be Episcopalian – they’re like the bastard child of the Christian faith, right?
Jay: Yeah, they get all the holidays without the guilt.
Me: Isn’t that what Universalist Unitarian is?
Jay: Yeah – but you get ALL the holidays with that one. You get the Catholic holidays without the Catholic guilt…
Me: The Jewish holidays without the Jewish guilt…
Jay: The Buddhist holidays without the path or the suffering…
Me: Do they even have Buddhist holidays?
Jay: Ummmm…. they might celebrate the birthday of the Buddha….
Me: Is Buddhism with a capital B?
Jay: (pause) We’re so not cut out for religion.
Ya think?

I ate a Lean Cuisine spinach & mushroom pizza for lunch. Of course, I picked all the mushrooms off – ick – and now I’m waiting for the e.coli to kick in.
I cut off the top of Sammy’s finger this morning. Now mind you, I NEVER cut his nails. I might bite them off if they’re long, but he’s getting pretty scratched up and I don’t feel like DSS showing up at my door, so I figured cutting them might be in our best interest. Apparently not. He squirmed, and before I knew it, there was blood EVERYWHERE and a piece of his finger in the clippers. And mind you – he’s on baby aspirin, so he bleeds a lot. So the poor kid has three bandaids on and a sock covering the bandaids so he doesn’t choke on them while he gnaws on his fingers (because he’s STILL teething with NO TEETH) – and he managed to bleed through the bandaids AND the sock. And I was worried about DSS showing up for some scratches? My kid’s running around with a bloody sock on his hand. I’m in deep shit now.
I cried more than he did, by the way.
So I’m a redhead now. I love my students, but when you come up to me and point to my hair and say things like, “Yeah, miss, that’s really got to go” – yeah, that bumps you down a few notches on my list of favorites. It’s gotta hurt, too, since this particular student was pretty high up on the list.
Not that I play favorites or anything. Really.
Did I mention that ALL of my students passed the required-for-graduation state standardized test? Rock on with your bad selves, my little “But miiiiiiiiisssssssss, the Great Gatsby SUCKS!” sweethearts. Sometimes Ms. L DOES know what’s best for you.
We have a dead bird in our pool, and the state really doesn’t care to test it for West Nile. They essentially told me to scoop it out and put it in a bag and throw it out. Anyone want to come do that for me? Because there’s no way I’m touching a dead bird, or a bag with a dead bird, or hell, I haven’t even gone out on my deck because the pool touches the deck, and did I mention? There’s a dead bird in the pool.
Yeah.
E.coli – check. West Nile virus – check. Chunk of finger-skin – check. I think I’m all done with the random now.

Here’s a statement that still feels weird coming out of my mouth: We went to church.
Now mom, before you fall out of your chair, it was a UU church. Growing up, my parents took us to your typical Roman Catholic church every Saturday evening, followed by dinner at Friendly’s. While I no longer consider myself anything even remotely close to a Roman Catholic, I do value the time we spent as a family, the ritual of Saturday mass, the sense of foundation, responsibility and expectation, and the concept that there’s something larger than ourselves – whether it’s a sense of social responsibility or a faith in a higher being.
I like the idea of being spiritual versus the idea of being religious. We are not religious, and celebrate most of the Catholic holidays only because it’s a time to spend celebrating family – and I like that even though we don’t subscribe to the same set of beliefs, we can support something that’s important to the people we love. If anything, Jay and I approach spirituality with a mix of Pagan and Buddhist philosophies and are exploring different ways to incorporate rituals and celebrations into our lives that have meaning for us – particularly ways to celebrate the inherent role of nature in the cycle of life.
One thing I really like about this UU – the religious education for children spans all faiths, with a different religion/philosphy being highlighted each month. Services incorporate different philosophies – from the Bible to quotes from Emerson and Thoreau – and prayers end with “Amen” AND “Blessed be”. I appreciate the acceptance of all faiths and walks of life and the idea that we’re all together in a common search for peace – both internal and external. I also really love that the church itself seems to have a strong commitment to social responsibility. They offer plenty of opportunities to take care of each other and the world – not to serve missions to convert others, help others find the “correct” path to peace and salvation or spending time and energy praying for those who are “doomed” because they hold a different belief. I believe spirituality is a very personal path – one that should be explored in a safe space with resources, support and tolerance – not fear or condemnation.
I want Sammy to grow up with a strong sense of community, tolerance, love for others and the understanding that the world is so much larger than just himself. I have a feeling this church is a perfect place for him to learn all of those things, and I’m excited about that.
It’s still strange, though, running into my neighbor as we got out of the car and explaining that we were dressed up because we had gone to church on a Sunday morning. Very, very strange.

Ok, so I know I’m his mom and everything, and I KNOW it’s in my genetic makeup to think my baby rocks so much more than any baby in the history of the world, but really – is he not the CUTEST THING EVER?
He’s so much fun – everything is such a blast for him! Spinach and peas for dinner? YAY! Fall over and bump his head? Hysterical! Poopies in his diaper? POOPIES ARE FUNNY, mama!
(Ok, does that not scream “MOMMY BLOG!!!” or what?)
I spoke with his cardiologist the other night. I felt a little silly – his oxygen sats have been in the low-90s a lot lately, and I wanted to make sure that wasn’t a problem. His doctor was thrilled. Not only that, we got the okay to do music & movement classes (we start this week!) AND… (I’m so excited) swimming classes! He was also surprised that Sammy doesn’t really nap – if I get 2-3 half-hour naps out of him, we’re having a good day. This kid has more energy than some non-”heart” kids!
On that note… I’m struggling with what to call things – I dread “heart-healthy” because it implies that his heart isn’t healthy, when in fact – take a look at him! He’s pushing 16 pounds, he plays non-stop, he sits, he stands, he talks, he eats everything. His heart is healthy – it just works differently. How do I distinguish him from other kids? I refuse to call them “normal” – he’s just about as normal as can be… and for that we are so, so lucky. So, so blessed. We know this, every moment, every day.
Gah. Ze cutest bebe EVER. The happiest bebe ever. I don’t know who or what thought we should have this particular little monkey, but we must have done something pretty damned fantastic in some previous life to deserve him.

It’s been a rough few days.
Alisa unexpectedly lost her ex-husband this weekend. They had spent ten years together – almost a third of their lives. Even after their divorce, they still remained amicable and worked together to help give Keegan the best, most loving, stable and supportive environment they could. Yes, he was her ex-husband, but he had been a large part of her life for so long, and was going to be a part for all of Keegan’s life. It’s an incredibly painful and shocking loss.
I’ve spent a lot of time the last year grappling with the idea of death. Having a child with a heart condition will do that to a person – the fear of losing him is something that’s always lingering just under the surface of all my thoughts. And perhaps it’s the act of bringing a child into the world that really forces us to face our own mortality, but up until this week, death had remained something of an abstract concept for me. To suddenly be faced with the loss of someone I knew, someone I joked with, who danced at my wedding, who was a part of the life of someone I love, whose little boy I hold so close in my heart, who is a part of my memories and my stories – it’s no longer something I don’t understand. The acknowledgement that our time is temporary, that we have no idea how long we have – it’s a tough thing to swallow. And for all my mourning – for Tom, for Alisa and Keegan – I can’t help but recognize that part of it is for me, too. It’s selfish, yes, but I guess something like this forces us to look inward and face the stark, sad realization that we’re not immortal.
There’s so much more I could say, thoughts I can’t let go of, but now isn’t the right time to share them. I will say this much: I would have preferred for death to remain an abstract concept for much, much longer. Tom was much too young for this.
Please keep Alisa, Keegan and Tom’s family in your thoughts and prayers.

Is it wrong that I tell Sammy that no woman in the world is EVER going to love him like his mama loves him?
Or how about the conversations we have about the little hussy he’s going to bring home when he’s fifteen and how it’s not going to be love, it’s just a crush, because she’s just not good enough for him and never will be?
Want to put money on how old he is before I need to drop him off at counseling for the afternoon?
I’m not going to link to anything Andrew Dice Clay (how’s that for a transition?), but when I was in tenth grade, some Clayman fan wrote out all the lewd nursery rhymes on my Chemistry desk, and honestly – which do YOU think was more interesting, the desk or carbon molecules? So I ended memorizing all these rhymes that are just so disturbingly, disgustingly wrong they make me giggle like a four-year-old running around saying, “Poopy! Poopy!”
Anyway, I’ve gotten bored with singing the four kid songs I remember, and while I was changing Sammy, decided to pull out some nursery rhymes.
“Hickory dickory dock… some chick, erm… a mouse ran up the clock…”
“Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to get her old dog a bone… when she bent over… erm…”
I gave up after trying to fumble Jack and Jill (each with a buck and a quarter, she came down with two-fifty) – I cannot remember the actual rhymes for the life of me! And while I secretly aspire to be the cool Stacy’s mom of soccer moms, teaching my kid to recite the iambic pentameter of porn probably isn’t high on the list of things that make a good mama. I mean, his first words already are going to be “You’re sooooo f*cking cute” – he doesn’t need to know just what Andrew Dice Clay claims really happened to Little Miss’s Muffet.
I’m a good mom, I swear. (And loudly, sometimes, too, but usually only when the @$#%! cuts me off. )

Randomness way too early on a Tuesday morning:
I swear, Sammy’s first words are going to be, “You are just so f*cking cute.” He hears it at least fifteen times a day.
Proof that my husband rocks: yesterday, he carried Sammy in the snugli so that I could try on shoes. And then, when I found two pair that were really similar and couldn’t decide, he held up Sammy and said, “This is proof of my manliness. Remember that. Now, one has a pointier toe, the other is more of a square toe. You should get both.” I didn’t, but he put up with shoe shopping AND told me to buy more? How did I get so lucky?
Every fall, I think of Alysha and how it’s just becoming spring where she is. I’m constantly amazed at how things are flipped elsewhere in the world. I grew up disturbingly geography-challenged and assuming everyone celebrated the seasons at the same times we did. Remember, I’m the girl who thought Kansas was in the south. It’s sad and a tad embarrassing, I know. (To make up for it, we bought a shower curtain that’s a map of the world so I could study it while conditioning the hair I haven’t had cut since Sammy was born. Who knew there was a country called Belarus? Not me! I’m still constantly amazed that there are these little tiny island countries everywhere, and people live there – those islands are their childhood experience. I’ve never heard of their country, and that country is their whole experience. I think it’s fascinating, and fascinatingly self-centered of little American me.)
Jay and I made a pact – we’re not allowed to buy any new clothes, save for two outfits for upcoming parties. I get to go shopping when I lose 8 pounds. I’m still not quite sure how I dropped 30 like it was nothing, but this last twelve is sticking to my ass like caramel on the lid of the Baskin Robbins sundae I had the other night.
But it was on sherbert! Low-fat sherbert! That’s gotta count for something, right?
I need a nap. Four hours of sleep just doesn’t cut it, especially if I’m deluded enough to think I might go for a long walk today. I wonder if I can get Sammy out of his swing and snuggled next to me without waking him up. I can’t help it. He’s just so f*cking cute.

Sometimes when I look at Sammy and think about his heart, I feel like there is a Taz monster inside me that is banging and spinning violently around, tearing at my insides and trying to figure out how to get out. I imagine it’s all at once something just like and something absolutely nothing like a parent whose child has gone missing. You’re just so beside yourself, and there’s this inner you that’s rattling and clawing and ripping at you to get out, while the outer you just so helplessly doesn’t know what to do, so it just goes on functioning and living as normally as it can – almost, strangely, to protect you in a way. This is how I feel sometimes.
Every so often, a few times a day, the thought of having to go through another surgery, of having to hand him over again, pops into my head and I feel like someone’s punched me in the stomach and I want to throw up. I remind myself that it’s a year and then some down the road, at least, but I know that day is waiting for us.
Most of the time lately, though, I go a huge chunk of time and completely forget that he’s a heart kid. He’s so energetic, you’d never know his heart works so completely differently than the way a heart should work. He barely naps, prefering to spend forever bouncing in his jumparoo and laughing his silly little head off. He wants to sit up all the time, and he wants to feed himself. He babbles incessantly. He gives kisses. He fits so perfectly on my chest when he sleeps.
He truly is the happiest human being I’ve ever met.
A mom tried to make me feel better by telling me that all moms worry about their kids, heart condition or not. I felt like jumping down her throat – has she had to almost perform CPR on her child because his oxygen levels dropped? Does she race to bundle him up after a bath before he gets too blue? Does she watch a monitor all night just to make sure his heartrate doesn’t get too low? Does she compare how mottled her kid’s skin is next to a heart-healthy baby and wonder just how poor his circulation is? Does she stare out the window while she washes dishes and wonder how he’s going to make it through another open-heart surgery? How she’s going to make it through that surgery?
Sometimes I’m so resentful of parents who take their child’s good health for granted.
But most of the time, we can feel and act normal. We’re blessed that he IS normal in every way, his heart aside. (Insert obligatory knock-on-wood here.) Not all heart kids and parents are so lucky, and I’m so deeply grateful each and every day that Sammy is as healthy as he is. I never understood parents who said they learned more from their kids than their kids have learned from them, but I’m starting to see it – Sammy’s teaching me to slow down and enjoy right now, to enjoy how precious and important and fleeting and amazing each moment can be. He’s teaching me other things I can’t verbalize right now – things about life and living and the impermanence of things – because I might start crying.
I guess I’m just having a rough night.

Robyn emailed me on Saturday to ask if she could name Sammy the recipient of this year’s “Bloggers helping Bloggers” portion of the Boobie-thon.
After I stopped crying, I wrote her back and told her we’d be honored. The first $359 raised will go to Children’s Hospital Boston. (Does anyone else think it funny – and slightly odd – that the money raised from boobies will go to a Children’s Hospital? Heh.) The remainder of the proceeds raised will go directly to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.
The fifth annual blogger “Boobie-Thon” launches on Sunday, October 1, 2006 and will run through 11:59 p.m. EDT on Saturday, October 7, 2006.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll share a boobie pic this year (in the extra-special password-protected section, of course). Jay’s already offered to be the photographer – how so very kind of him.