Warts and All

I know I'm not coping well.  Life as a stay-at-home mom has been more difficult than I would care to admit.  Oh sure I can get dinner on the table, the house mostly straightened, and a few loads of laundry done with the best of them, but it's the mental work-out I miss.  Going from the Board Room to Board Books has been quite the transition.  I had a lot of assumptions about how life would be as a SAHM.  Actually "assumptions" sounds too unicorn and tulips.  How about "delusions?"

1)  My child will be normal or above normal.  Let's face it, every parent wants their kid to be the early talker, early walker, precocious problem solver with an early admittance letter into Harvard.  Seeing that H's Mom and Dad were on the higher end of the bell curve it was easy to assume our Mr. Man would be too.  Well, and whose to say he isn't.  However his theme song should be Mr. Rodgers "I Like To Take My Time."  H didn't crawl until he was 11 months, didn't walk until 17 months (literally 23 hours before the first physical therapy appointment), and we're still hanging on for his first enunciated word.  Although people mean well when they say, "Gee, I bet your little 12 month old is walking and getting into everything!"  You smile and say nope.  Inside you are beginning the running self-battery of, "If I was a better parent he would!  Maybe it's something I did/didn't do in or out of utero that's causing this.  What if I doomed him to special ed for the rest of his life?  Etc, etc, etc."  It's a pretty ugly feeling.  Oh we have speech therapy coming 1x/week, but we have had little progress and now they are talking about getting more experts weighing in on the matter.

2)  I am Freaking Mary Poppins.  Sadly I cannot turn medicine into cherry cordial or turn ordinary chalk drawings into animated singing sequences.  In fact, I've never prioritized my time to go to the fishmonger for a nice piece of cod.  We do play tidy up the house a lot to the point that H's favorite past time is to clean.  I literally right-sized the swiffer so he can dust the floors at will.  I suppose the best part of me not being Mary Poppins is no matter which way the wind shifts I'm still going to be here for him.

3)  We will be at play-dates or the library or the gym or the park every single day.  Um, no.  H has yet to see the inside of a library and he's just barely getting into the swings at the park.  Surprisingly that outing only takes like 30 minutes of your day.  I tried extending it once by making it even more fun and getting ice cream.  I have learned it takes 2 parents to manage a 19 month old and a dairy loving dog on a hot day with sticky running goo.  Since we are a one car family and Mr Man has unpredictable naps there are days when we never leave the house.  I've learned I'm not Julie, the cruise director on the Love Boat.

4)  Surely child development is an innate skill.  Somehow I missed this.  While I elected to stay at home hoping to give my infant the 1:1 care and bonding I thought to be essential, I've learned that a toddler needs a bit more.  I'm not a child educator and cannot imagine making crafts or science projects or whatnot that is age appropriate and stimulating every single day.  I'm beginning to feel a bit out of my comfort zone and now worry that I'm doing a disservice to Mr. Man by NOT having him in a structured daycare.  (Re-read #1 and add that last line to another ugly script running rampant in my head.)  On the other hand I watched the documentary "Babies" and saw kids in Mongolia and the savannah hitting their milestones without any age sensitive educational programming.

Monday Morning Quarterback on All Hallows Eve

After moving to Wisconsin almost three years ago, the State and city of Milwaukee have continued to woo me with it’s blue collared roots, multicultural festivals, and amazing integration of nature into urban settings. I am smitten until the last weekend of October.

The idealized and romantic notion of trick-or-treating has been decimated. Charles Schulz is rolling in his grave. I have inquired several times to our native friends of why trick-or-treating has been sterilized to city ordained set times of daylight that appear to be randomly chosen (Saturday vs. Sunday) and never on the actual holiday. The answer is typically unsatisfying. School nights? Nope, because Sunday afternoon falls into that category of unfinished homework and forgotten permission slips. Crime is lower during the day? Perhaps, but isn’t the concept neighborhood watch based on community awareness? One would think a street filled with lit up porches and adults patrolling their front doors at the same time would exemplify this requirement. Besides, I have yet to see an increase of police patrolling in my neighborhood during the current set day and time. What really upsets me are the children who run from their families minivans en mass without costumes to my door while their parents sit in the car waiting to drive them less than a mile to the next block. A costume isn’t expensive. A sheet as a ghost or a super cape would be appreciated as a token of homage before I give you a piece of the “good” candy.

This year I played Monday morning quarterback once again about how I would have handled the parents who were trick-or-treating for their 4 month olds in strollers, the grandparents who came to my door because it was too cold for their grandchildren who sat in the car curbside, and the children who proudly said they weren’t dressed up as anything but gladly took my candy. This year I even had one 40 year old male come to my door without children or a costume. At least the teenagers who were too old to trick-or-treat donned a Scary Movie mask. The parents have missed the point of this holiday. I found myself playing judge; a role I loathe. The kids who wore costumes got better candy and more pieces. The ones who actually said, “trick-or-treat,” and had manners got even more pieces of sugary loot. While I would have liked to have not given any candy to those who offended me, I didn’t mostly because I feared the consequences of property damage all because I didn’t give them a Snickers bar. But the real reason I didn’t is because penalizing the children wasn’t fair. It was their parents who made the poor choices and were terrible role models of entitlement and working the system.

The first year of living here I actually applauded the parents who brought their children to the safer neighborhoods for trick-or-treating. I even reframed the lack of costume as a lack of monetary resources to my neighbor who has lived in the same house for 70+ years. Go, social worker, go! Last year I became disillusioned when the first group of trick-or-treaters consisted of teenagers who had the audacity of opening my front door and taking the whole bowl of candy until J chased them down the street and they dropped it. This year I became bitter and feared what kind of role model I was becoming for my son.

What should be a fun holiday of community celebration has once again brought out my latent societal judgment of what is just versus what is fair. Most importantly it illustrates how the racial and social class differences are thriving and how each of us contributes to the divide, even if it is only in our thoughts. This frightens me as I mold and shape my son's evolving world view. I have lived in more segregated communities either by faith (Salt Lake City), social economics (Boston), and race (New Orleans). Only in Milwaukee have I ever had the concept of entitlement between the have and have-nots reinforced so strongly.

It is my plea to the elite neighborhood societies who organize their members-only trick-or-treating and the cities who publish their staggered approved dates and times to return to the roots of Halloween where children dress up, meet their neighbors, and become the ambassadors of community unity on the actual holiday during twilight and early evening hours. Or maybe I should have a get-off-my-lawn moment and suggest that if they want to regulate tradition of day and times, why not add in age limits (like Virginia, Seattle, and Illinois) as well as a costume requirement.

Cue the Beastie Boys

"Sabotage" may be my theme song, or so I fear.

This isn't a new topic for me, in fact, I've probably mentioned it a million times. Yes? No? If I haven't, it's only because I've written thousands of imaginary entries in my head about this topic. What might be called self-sabotage is what I like to call, "making life more interesting." But, unfortunately it doesn't. It just adds more problems I can obsess about which is not more interesting, but keeps the pharmaceuticals in business for my anxiety meds alone.

J and I have a host of expenses this month we were not exactly counting on hitting at once. Isn't this always the case? We had the renovation post-Rocky Raccoon's eviction from our garage (aka new roof). We are also finally painting the house in Salt Lake because our family painter/friend finally got an opening in his schedule after waiting 2 years. And we decided our house in Wisconsin also needed a fresh coat or two before the snow flies. And now we can wave buh-bye to the cushion in our checkbook.

The cushion has always been earmarked for one thing or another, but never spent. It also provided that false sense of security when making impulse purchases on Zulily or Amazon (damn those instant gratification websites.) Being psychotically optimistic, the large expenditures provided us an "opportunity" to actually construct a budget for the first time since residency.

Most of the day to day expenditures fall within my domain as Chief Family Officer. You know, groceries, vet bills, keeping H clothed, etc. Last week I offered to host a play date. Being budget savvy I baked a bunch of breads (banana, apple spice, and pumpkin chocolate chip) instead of buying snacks. Yea me!! But then I rationalized spending the money we saved on the vet bill and baking to then buy a bunch of pumpkins, gourds, and mums to decorate our house for October. Booooo! (Pun intended for the season and self-judgement.)

Needless-to-say, J was not impressed with my choices. And well, neither was I. $80.00 doesn't seem like a lot in the grand scheme of these things, but $80.00 here and $40.00 there adds up to things that we could do like go on a family vacation or buy a second car or make extra payments to our debt. Here's the problem: like the cushion, we have all these wild dreams of what is possible without any solid agreed-upon goals with actual time-tables. So as a result we look at one another at the end of a couple of years and wonder why we have this great safety net and possibilities, but are still in debt without a second car. I know, total geniuses, right?

Because most of the day to day stuff falls on me, I have a tendency to take the blame unilaterally and begin to spiral thinking I am self-sabotaging. I realize I cannot control things like sending J to the store for just a jug of milk and he comes home with milk, two loaves of bread, some fun bakery items, dried cranberries, and a can of malted milk. Problem is, I also come home with random items like mustard because I can't remember if we have anymore in the cupboard and God forbid we run out of it while I'm trying to make something like a vinaigrette. These things add up and now we have random malted milk and two things of mustard cluttering up the pantry. We'll just shove those next to the beets that we haven't eaten in 2 years and the canned pumpkin just in case we want to make a pie one day.

This week, to atone for my budgetary indiscretion we are eating out of the freezer entirely. So far we have had homemade chicken pot pie, pasta, and frozen vegetables. It's been healthy, balanced, and economical. We won't be able to keep this pace up because we will run out of random leftovers even though J would like us to do this every week for the next 5 months. And because I will become very depressed just eating out of the freezer and pantry for weeks at a time. The pharmaceuticals don't have enough SSRIs to cover that kind of depression.

I have no idea what else we will have for dinner. I'm trying to figure out how to get creative with things we have left. For example, it can be difficult to make a coherent meal with things like frozen butternut squash, blueberries, fish, tiny servings of multiple wild rice mixtures, and a small thing of spiced beef. In all honesty, I may lose weight just because the potential creations of my options sound less than edible. But I'm proud to say we've only bought milk and bread at the store this whole week.

Why My Mom is Awesome, Reason #8762

Mom: "Well, I have to get off the phone now. I'm at the annonymous-get-your-mobile-on phone store. They see my red Jetta with the clergy sticker on and think, 'It's that crazy woman again.'"

Me: "What? Why?" Thinking, Mom should either buy stock in this company or have her own private reserved parking outside the store.

Mom: "Oh, I didn't tell you? You'll love this."

I'm wondering if the following story could be better than the Easter lamb story.

Mom: "I was showing the social worker at work how to use your phone to communicate with our Dutch lady who doesn't speak English and I accidentally turned it on to only speaking Spanish. I don't know the Spanish to turn it back to English and so I can't work my phone."

Me: "Only you." As I begin to calculate how many years it will take before I do something like this. I came up with 14 months.

Mom: "Oh it gets better. Somehow I also switched it so now the Angry Birds theme blares every time I turn my phone on. Needless-to-say, it was a bit disrupting for our conference call."

Better Late Than Never - Birthday Post

Drafted October 2010, Finished August 2011.

Somehow I have Diana Ross singing in my mind's jukebox. You know the song. You used to hit the roller skating rink to it with your neon jelly bracelets and side ponytails. "Upside down, boy you turn me, inside out, and, round and round." We had it on vinyl. Pretty hip for a wonder bread family in Utah.

It pretty much sums up my life ever since Mr. Man arrived. That was August 10th. Somehow I lost over two months in the meantime. Here's the fun story of how it all went down.

On August 9th at my 38th week appointment our beloved OB stated, "You know, tonight would be a good night to go into labor. I'm on call and it's my last call before I leave town. Did I mention I'll be out of town on your due date?" Yeah. Out. Of. Town. Not what you want to hear. We replied it wasn't going to happen because my dear J was taking his Board examination the next day.

Boy we're we wrong.

Cue the Fates, God, and Beezelbub rubbing their hands together in delight at the silly folly some chick in Wisconsin made. It was too tempting and they had to intervene. I really don't know who to blame/credit, but I envision it going down as a winner takes all kind of a thing doing something ridiculous like rock/paper/scissors.

As you may remember, I'd been experiencing regular contractions (or "surges" as my hypnobirthing people call it) since 33 weeks. Nothing new on that front. J had taken the day off to cram last minute before the test day and somehow the familiar pressure in my belly was feeling a bit different about 4:00 PM. At 4:55 he asked if he needed to reschedule his exam. No, no, not to worry! I just headed to take a bath to reduce some of the pressure and eat a light dinner. We went to bed early, but did not fall asleep. You see, J had some massive anxiety heartburn and my belly was feeling like someone put a corset on it then cinched it every 5 minutes or so. However, I didn't want to worry him so I pretended to be asleep. Yes, I PRETENDED. By midnight we were still attempting to find Mr. Sandman.

Here's what I thought: if I could fall asleep I would relax and delay any labor advancement. Then all I needed to do was get J off to his test in the morning without having him worry anything was wrong and then I would take a cab to the hospital to check myself in. It was our first baby so certainly it will take a long time to progress and by the time his 10 hour exam was over, I'd be ready to push and he'd be there for the birth of his first child.

I realize this is flawed thinking. Now. But it seemed like a reasonable plan at the time.

At 2:19 AM J woke to find his charming wife on all fours on the bed and groaning like a dying cow. When I told him I think we should go to the hospital his response was, *sigh* "I know." As my cow impressions continued, J began packing for the hospital. Yes, yes, we were one of those couples who didn't have a bag packed even though I'd been in early labor for 5 weeks. I made my way downstairs and would instantly drop to all fours every time another contraction hit. I was groaning so much that I scared Edgar. I tried to reassure him by calling him over for pets, but another one would hit and I'd be moaning again and he would run away ears back and tail between his legs.

Off to the hospital where upon checking into the L&D, the nurse asked where the patient was. Don't mind me. I've just hurled myself onto the floor from the wheelchair for another on-all-fours mooing session. I made it to a 8 to 9 cm before I asked/begged for an epidural. The nurse (ex-miltary) was about to make J leave for the actual procedure due to potential fainting when I told her that he needed to stay. I don't think she knew he was a doc. About 20 min after the epidural I asked for the anesthesiologist to come back in and turn the medication dosing down. I didn't want my legs to be numb, I just wanted to dull the sensation a bit. He replied, "I don't know why you had me place it at all. You will call me back and ask to turn it back up." I didn't.

The nurse was, shall we say, "assertive," to say the least. Maybe more of a drill sergeant? The actual pushing began somewhere around 9:00 AM. I first tried to "breathe the baby down" a la our hypnobirthing method, but that was going nowhere fast. Turns out our child-to-be was sunny-side up and I had to rotate him in the womb. P-A-I-N-F-U-L. However I persevered. Dr. Safety OB-man was encouraging and pretty damn funny through the whole thing. I knew he had to leave his shift come 1:00 PM, so by damn I was going to get this kid out before he left the hospital.

At 12:32 our Mr. Man arrived into this world. 7 pounds, 11 ounces. 20 inches long.

Bed Rest

I absolutely love our OB doc. He's a goofy nerdy guy who is about our age and has a comb-over. He has no self-delusions, is wicked smart and has one of the funniest senses of humor. One of the reasons I chose him was his reputation for being Dr. Safety. I know this because I was assigned to work on a project with him assessing the culture of teamwork and patient safety in the department. I'd been working with him on the project for about a month when we found out we were pregnant. Part of my role on this project is to assess every physician on the service. With the ethics involved my choice of physicians was pretty much cemented, which is awesome because of the built-in rapport I already had with him. In fact when I called to ask if he would be my OB, he replied, "Thanks for your vote of confidence." He's imparted a few other gems during our visits.

31w appointment:

Me: "I really, really don't want an episiotomy. I also don't want to tear. What can I do to prevent it?" I was thinking more along the lines of perineal massage or something.

Dr. Safety: "You could start smoking."

Me: "What?"

Dr. Safety: "Well, at this point you are going to tear no matter what with a normal weight kid. Smoking to keep the baby's weight down is the only option, but I don't recommend it. We don't do episotomies anymore routinely, but you will tear. I'll sew you up."

28w appointment:

Me: "When will I know the results of my glucose tolerance test?"

Dr. Safety: "I'll call you tomorrow and then you can celebrate passing."

Me: "Celebrate? On what? I'm pregnant."

Dr. Safety: "I just wrote you a prescription for pain killers on your costochondritis. Take one of those."

I must have looked shocked.

Dr. Safety: "I'm kidding!"

33w appointment:

Me: "I'm swelling."

Dr. Safety: "That happens. Uh...how long have you been itching your belly?"

Me (mindlessly scratching the belly bump): "I don't know. It itches. I take benadryl."

Dr. Safety: "What about other places? Legs, feet, palms of your hands?"

Me: "Yeah, usually at night sometimes."

Dr. Safety: "Let's put you on the fetal monitor."

15 minutes later

Dr. Safety: "Um, do you know you are contracting every 5 minutes. Do you feel that?"

Me: "Yeah. Didn't know it was that close. It just feels like tightening."

Dr. Safety in disbelief: "Tightening."

I nod.

Dr. Safety: "You just bought yourself a pelvic exam."

10 minutes later.

Dr. Safety: "And you are now 50% effaced and 2 cm dilated. You win an admission to Labor and Delivery. I'm afraid to do anymore tests because you've failed every one I've given you."

Me: "Shut up! You're joking."

Dr. Safety: "Not remotely. You are in active labor."

Me: "You mean false labor."

Dr. Safety: "No. I mean active labor as in pre-term active labor."

Me: "But I just came in for swelling!"

I must have repeated, "I just came in for swelling," about 15 times to anyone who would listen as they wheeled me off to L&D. I told the transport person, the guy who held the elevator, the nurse, the tech, the desk clerk, etc. Think I was shocky? No, what would give you that idea?

Since Dr. Safety is by the book and literally quotes recent medical journal articles from his photographic memory he imparted that at week 34, there is no need to stop premature labor. Since I was still 33 weeks for another 8ish hours, they would give me the drugs to stop labor until midnight and then just stop. Stop? Yes, stop at the arbitrary cut off time of midnight when I turned 34 weeks. In went the smooth muscle relaxant drug, the antibiotic, and the steroids to quickly develop the kiddo's lungs. And there I sat for another 24 hours watching my contractions come and go.

By late morning of the next day I was contracting less regularly so they allowed me to go home. However, I was on strict bed rest. It's like a recurring nightmare from karma-land for me: how to be still and not do anything. It always involves something medical like an appendicitis or a back surgery and now a kiddo. I was also informed that any subsequent pregnancy I will automatically be considered high risk and put on bed rest. Oh Goody.

For the past 3+ weeks I've laid low. I've read books, surfed the net, tried to work clandestine from home, talked to girlfriends, and played the Wii. This was a challenge as the nursery still isn't painted, furniture is haphazardly relocated into other rooms, chaos reigns, the lawn continues to grow, and we're now considering anything frozen from Trader Joes as Gourmet. My exciting outings include car rides to the grocery store parking lot or the dry cleaners or to pick up Edgar's dog food. Seriously, they were the highlights of my weeks!

On Monday at my 37w appointment I was released off of bed rest. Now that I have a semi-greenish light to move ahead with my to-do list, my energy level won't cooperate. It's like revenge of the first trimester.

The Pre-Labor for the Labor

When we announced our pregnancy to our families in January we were met with unbridled enthusiasm. We were sent home with various items and well wishes including a set of gently used pregnancy and child development books. They proved to be extremely helpful roadmaps on this journey of ours.

Girlfriends, sister in laws, and other moms proved to be an extraordinary resource of advice and wisdom so far in my 7.5 months. While I was warned that the What to Expect book was written for the sole purpose of scaring the expecting mother to death, it was the sole choice my insurance company sent me once I registered with their pre-natal department. One girlfriend recommended I get The Girlfriends Guide to Pregnancy for the real scoop on what to expect. That was some wise advice. If I have any kind of odd question I go there first. While at Costco, we picked up Dr. Oz’s latest take on the owners manual of your body with bambino. That was the most unhelpful book thus far. This tv man assures me that the kid can taste what I eat thus learning to like the veggies or pizza I put in my mouth. Really? As J put it, “Why don’t you write to him and ask him to explain the pathophysiology behind that statement.”

One book went into the importance of a birth plan. When I mentioned this to the same girlfriend who suggested the Girlfriend’s Guide she said, “Oh. My. God. Please tell me you aren’t going to be one of those. They never work.” While every book suggests writing one, they also say be prepared for the hospital staff not to follow it. For the record, we haven’t written one yet. However, the book did spur me on to getting more tools under my belt when it came to labor. The one thing I fear the most is pitocin. That’s the drug they give you to speed labor along. I learned more than I wanted to know from a documentary and other readings. Once given, a vicious cycle ensues. The pitocin causes stronger and longer contractions that HURT, so you request an epidural and the pain meds slow your labor down which then leads to MORE pitocin and then more pain meds, etc, etc, etc. I want to avoid that drug like the plague.

As a result of my fear I looked into other ways of managing my labor. At first I looked into the Bradley method. This philosophy centers around husband as birth coach. While this sounds like an encouraging partnering method, I would like to refer back to 1992 for everyone to understand why it wouldn’t work for me.

In 1992 a combination of sucky genes and athletic overtraining landed me in the operating room with a cocky orthopedic surgeon. It was a complex surgery with a 7 inch scar to prove it. When I woke up from anesthesia, my wonderful patient mother was by my side. “Can I get you water? How about a blanket?” Instead of the soothing nurturing maternal voice, I heard a pitch like a screeching out of tune violin. It was so bad that I finally kicked her out of my room and had the nurse put a sign on the door that literally said, “No Moms Allowed. All Visitors Must Check In With the Nurses Station.” Aunts and other visitors paused to confer with my mom who was now banished to the visitors’ area. Mom had a great sense of humor about the whole thing. She got her last laugh when I was left to maneuver my groin to ankle bulky brace and crutches to my bathroom and then got stuck. I was so pissed that no one was coming to help me I finally threw my crutch outside the door while swearing at the top of my lungs. At that point Mom just looked at the nurses and said, “Yes, that is my daughter. Isn’t she lovely?” It wasn’t one of my finest moments. Somehow I just don’t think a coach will cut it when I’m passing a watermelon.

I then looked into Hypnobirthing. I will admit, it’s a little “out there,” but then again how could it hurt? Invoking the relaxation response seems natural enough. There have been studies about hypnosis/relaxation use in surgery as a substitute for anesthesia. I was worried my biggest hurdle would be J’s scientific nature. I was shocked to find he was open to the idea AND there was a certified instructor in our city! Somehow the stars aligned and we landed in a 5 week class with 2 other couples.

Let me introduce our cast of characters (names changed of course): Gary and Lisa are two PhD’s. Gary has his PhD in animal physiology biology and embodies the scientific method. Lisa has her PhD in something with the brain. She looks like she only shops at organic fair trade stores. How they met, got married and had a son is a little baffling. They embody the skeptic and Mother Nature. We also have Lindsey and Matt. Both are CPAs. She is a tri-athlete, Iron Man, marathon competitor. Matt is still traumatized by his ex-wife’s pregnancies and deliveries. They are more of the “Die Hards.” And then there is us: we’re treated as the medical experts and are go-with-the-flow.

Our instructors are a husband/wife dyad: Danielle and River. I think the name “River” is a dead giveaway. He too is a PhD in biology and specializes in invertebrate marine biology. Danielle has never had children, but is a licensed hypnotherapist, massage therapist, and Hypnobirthing instructor. River has 3 kids from a previous marriage. All were delivered naturally.

We began our first class with introductions and get to know you time, although most of it was spent with River and Danielle pontificating. There they were espousing the benefits of having a physician who is pro-hypnobirth/pro-natural and the power of belief and intention because it’s better for your baby. The computer used for the power point was propped up on the drum River uses for his male bonding drum circle and he went into detail about hormones and neuro-receptors. It was an odd juxtaposition.

We then went in to watch birthing videos where hypnobirth techniques were used. I was anticipating the other couples to squirm, but the only person making any kind of noise was the only physician in the room. It was a dead giveaway of his 100+ births he’s attended and the trauma that remains. His facial expressions were priceless as they put the blue limp baby on the mom’s chest. You could almost hear him say, “Hello? Where’s the resuscitation?!?” Yeah, we're going to be a good time.

Reconsituting Ambitions

I generally pride myself on being somewhat of a gardener. There is nothing better than digging in the dirt, feeling the warm sun on your back, and at the end of the day sitting on your porch with a refreshing beverage admiring the work you’ve done. I also don’t mind the occasional sore muscles the next day from reconstituting the soil and mulching. In a lot of ways, playing in the garden is my version of going to church. I feel whole.

When I was younger I remember the dreaded yearly visits to Western Gardens with my mom and Ginny. Mom planted formal gardens complete with alternating orange and yellow marigolds along the boarder. Ginny was more free flowing and tried her hand at veggies, herbs, and wildflowers. As a result of the two influences, I like a natural garden and I completely 100% without a doubt ban all marigolds. They always depressed me; kind of like 4:00 in the afternoon. I don’t know why I have an aversion to the 4:00 – 5:00 witching hour, but I always have.

I spent a ton of time trimming wild honeysuckle mounds and weeding my parent’s garden after break-ups. You could generally tell if I had hit a rough patch in my love life because the yard was immaculate. After one particularly ugly break-up in 2000 I weeded their lawn. Yes, their lawn. By hand. I’m not talking about just the dandelions. I’m talking the crabgrass, morning glory, violets, henbit, sorrel, and the dreaded spurge. My poor mom has been trying to get grass to grow in my weeded spots ever since.

When I bought my first house my first summer was tormented with boyfriend issues. As a result I grew fantastic zucchini, eggplant, broccoli, sage, thyme, basil, and tomatoes. I bought tons of good top soil and spent hours upon hours with my shovel tilling the garden. I had so much produce I finally had to invite random family friends to stop by and harvest their own. I bought my first lawn mower – which proved to be entertainment for all the men on my street to watch me attempt to maneuver it up the steep hill. I had never operated one of these things before given my brother’s penchant for the task. My neighbors would seriously come outside with a beer to watch. After that humiliation I practiced with my weed eater over at my parent’s house. As a result, my parent’s garage needed to be repainted because I had whacked all of the paint off.

Moving to Indy I had to downgrade my garden adventures to a small patch along our sidewalk and pots. That year we made a container Victorian twilight garden. It was magical. Think of tons of pots on a deck with highly contrasted and variegated foliage of texture and color – most of the colors being pale yellows, pinks, purples, and whites. As twilight would approach, the blossoms and contrasts seemed to float and glow. Add a little candlelight and wine or a homebrew for a perfect way to wind down from a hard day.

We haven’t had the opportunity to plant our pots again until this year. Selling our place in Indy then moving in and out of Boston mid-summer kind of put a damper on that. But this year? We’re ready to go! Or are we?

I didn’t exactly grasp how being 7 months pregnant would impact that whole gardening thing. After all, those pioneer women were still planting crops and trekking down the Oregon Trail in their third trimester! Being an ex-athlete I have a great ability in tuning out whatever might be aching until after the event was over. Come to think of it, maybe it’s not such a “great ability.” I typically overestimate my capabilities and pay the price later. I don’t notice that I’m limping, grabbing my ribcage, or stretching awkwardly to compensate for my 2008 back surgery until I’m almost done with the project. The rest of my evening is spent laying on ice with some sort of painkiller on board, barely moving while J either says, "I told you so," or "Why can't you just take care of yourself like normal people? I'd like my wife to be around when we're 70."

I’m trying to learn how to ask for help. What’s difficult is then realizing the timeline is out of my control. I realize I cannot reconstitute the topsoil, move the bags of potting soil, crawl around on my knees weeding, or lift the pots once their filled with flowers. It sucks. I try to sit on the porch calmly and fight the urge to pick up a rake or trowel on a daily basis. In order to calm my inner grasshopper I think I’ll go try and prep the nursery for painting instead. Really?!? Because moving furniture into the center of the room and crawling around with painters tape is easier?!? Ok, scratch that idea. What about doing the floors? You know, vacuum, swiffer, mop the suckers? Oh yeah! Because the vacuum is so light and easy to maneuver up and down the stairs. Ok, so I'll scrub the bathtub. Have you tried leaning over a basketball to scrub the bathtub recently? Add in a kicking squirming basketball. It doesn't work very well.

Today I had a whole conversation with J about limits and what constitutes being “active” during your last trimester. Sad to admit it, but I think I figured it out. We went to have lunch outside the hospital at the park which involves traveling down a hill. For one, my balance sucks. I almost fell a couple times. This is a new development. Then after lunch (the small lunch due to the compressed stomach) I had to get back up the hill…with limited lung capacity. It was a small hill. I sounded like I had advanced COPD by the time I literally heaved myself up it.

My dream for Memorial Day weekend was to conquer raking the yard of all maple whirligigs, getting the topsoil and grass seed in, planting more pots and flower beds, ordering mulch to be delivered, cleaning the house top to bottom, AND priming the nursery. I’m beginning to think I’m a little overambitious. Maybe I'll settle for doing a load of laundry...that is, if I can carry the basket to the basement without falling ass over teakettle.

The Two Extremes - A Preview

I always knew that we would fall into one of two parenting camps: the over-protective’s or the shake-it-offs. Given our pediatric medical backgrounds I could see us wrapping the kid in bubble wrap, helmets, various athletic pads, and using Styrofoam to seal off any gaps we might have missed. “Ok, honey, have fun getting the mail! Remember Stranger Danger!” I could also envision the opposite with us glancing at the kid scraped up and bones broken after attempting a new trick on the homemade skateboard ramp, “You’re fine! You have an airway, you are breathing, and you definitely have circulation! I mean look at all that blood! Just grab a paper towel and add pressure to that gaping wound to stop the bleeding.” I always worried we would swing like a pendulum between the extremes without any rhyme or reason.

Edgar gave us a little preview of our lives as parents. However, handling crisis and the art of preparation call for two different approaches. In the heat of the moment of a crisis, I completely over-react – see the entry about his frienemy. J handles things with logic and calm while I’m hysterical. It’s good to have a balance. Then we take the Boy Scout method of Be Prepared. J’s style is to completely over-plan and safeguard against the worst possible scenario. The planning effort can sometimes be completely overwhelming and gets us stuck with no movement what-so-ever. Whereas I figure you can only plan for so much and then just deal with it. If you want something done, ask me. If you want something done well, ask my husband.

Let’s skip to our crib shopping experience, shall we? After reading something in a baby book about how you need to get your crib ordered by week 20 of pregnancy, I now had black and white proof that we needed to stop pretending we’re ostriches with our heads in the sand. By week 21 we began to browse baby stores. It was over-whelming to say the least. Do you get a convertible lifetime crib that turns into a full sized bed for little Jimmy to go off to college with or do you do the standard crib? Will the lifetime crib stand up to Jimmy’s gumming and teething? Well, that depends upon the wood. If it’s pine, then forget it. Do you need dove tail joints on your kid’s dresser? Really?

Our first visit ended badly as J was on a verbal rant about how much crap do you really need for a baby? Really? Specific baby nail clippers? And don’t get him started on baby monitors! “We don’t need no stinkin’ monitor! We grew up just fine in the 1970’s without them!” he exclaimed. (Yes, however we also had higher rates of SIDS and my own mother’s sanity would have been preserved knowing my colicky self was just fine wailing away in my crib while she went outside to take a 5 minute mental health break.) I told him that he didn’t need to get a monitor, but I would be getting one thank you very much. (His tune has changed once he realized he could set up internet nanny cams on our wireless home network. Tech nerd porn at it’s finest!)

On the second visit to the baby store, we literally closed them out after 3 hours of browsing, taking brochures on the crib manufacturers, and asking about the manufacturers recall rates in the past 5 years. We were not your typical pregnant couple. Other couples looked at the cribs and remarked, “Gee, that one is pretty. Should we order it?” And then there was us. While I’m reading the consumer reviews about quality, customer service, and which brand had the largest recall in 2007 for lead paint from China, J’s shaking the crib all over the place to see how sturdy it is. We had three different sales reps come up and ask, “Can I help you?” Nah, we’ve got it. I think they were more worried about us abusing the floor models than customer service. Like I said, we closed them out. Music was turned off and they had to unlock the doors to let us out.

On the third visit, weeks later with my panic increasing about timeframes, we were determined to narrow our selections down. Again, it took us two or more hours to settle on 3 different possibilities and finally place an order for a rocker/glider. In my mind, this was a must-have. After all, it will be my tired butt that is playing dairy farm in the middle of the night. It better be damn comfortable, durable, and stylish in addition to all that quality stuff J prioritizes. Again, music was off and lights were also in the process of being turned off when we finalized the sale. At least we provided someone a nice commission check.

Our fourth visit occurred last weekend. We went directly after work on Friday. The same sales girl was there who sold us our rocker and she remembered us.

“Have you made a decision?”

“Well, we’ve narrowed it down to these three.”

“Are there any questions I can help answer?”

“Nope, we’re just debating.”

Fast forward through the next 2.5 hours where J is continually knocking on the two floor models to check on the wood density, crawling underneath to check on the mattress support, and opening drawers repeatedly on the dressers. I pretty much just sat in the floor model rocker watching him asking how I could be helpful. Our perky sales girl stopped by 3 more times before we decided we were ready. By the time I brought her over, J was interested in potentially ordering a crib from one company and the dresser from another as long as the wood finishes matched. This of course, prompted more debating about styles of furniture and philosophical references to how style trends come and go as she walked away. And then the music turned off…again. We made a quick decision – which would have been my original choice by the way, 2.5 hours ago. And then we had to decide upon the mattress. Really? Natural organically certified bamboo or the fancy spring/foam flip mattress? I chose the easy to clean in the middle of the night plastic covered one. J lovingly caressed the bamboo green mattress and conceded.

Prodgeny Returns

One of my dearest friends has a floor to ceiling framed reproduction of Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son in his office. Seriously it takes up a full wall. It’s ironic that he selected this painting considering all of the strife that later ensued in his relationship with his son.

When I stopped writing last year it was because I needed a moment of pause…or months of pause to be precise. The blog has been an outlet for me to process my experiences, thoughts, and beliefs. Most of these have been primarily shaped by my upbringing which is why my family makes many guest appearances along the way. The story I tell is mine. It’s my perception and what I chose to accept into my own mythological life story. It’s biased, one sided, and in that sense very self-centered.

It’s almost been a year since I traveled home to extend an olive branch to my father; my own version of the return of the prodigal son. But instead of following the parable in the Bible, my father did not slaughter the calf and celebrate my return. Instead he said I had a “poisoned pen,” told me he didn’t like me, I wasn’t a friend, and wished me the best of luck with my life. I was then compared to my brother and how he treats my father, thus adding to the distance and triangulation. Agreeing to his terms of playing the part of daughter where he would interact with me at Sunday dinners on a superficial level, we operated like this the rest of the painful 5 day visit. I had been emotionally disowned and abandoned by my father. In many ways I had created what I most feared. For the next 7 months we did not speak. Not on my birthday, not on Thanksgiving, and not on Christmas.

It was just too much for me to handle. I had hit what Seth Grogan calls The Dip. “Quit the wrong stuff, Stick with the right stuff, Have the guts to do one or the other.” I needed time to figure this stuff out.

And then things shifted big time for me. Not like I had enough on my plate by starting a new job and getting settled in a new town, we also decided to try for a baby. We succeeded.

10 weeks into the pregnancy we decided to return home, although with great trepidation. It was at that time we planned to announce the happy addition to our families. I tried to remain open and play out the moment of revelation with my parents. Would I get a cool congratulations? Another “best of luck?” I tried my best to keep my expectations low out of self-protection. I couldn’t have predicted what happened. My father jumped off of the couch with tears in his eyes to congratulate us, warm hugs, and, “Thank you. This seriously is the best gift you’ve ever given us.” They then commented that over breakfast that very morning they discussed how old my eggs were. If I'm lucky, I may even get a visit from my father when the baby comes in August. This would be a first ever since I married and moved out of state.

Since then things have improved. We send photos of my growing belly and ultrasound shots of the baby via email and Dad will actually talk with me on the phone when I call. It’s a nice change. I suppose we’re both testing the waters. In many ways its akin to dipping your toes in the ocean waves after living through a tsunami.

Mom in Milwaukee

Thank God Mom came out to Milwaukee. It was the first visit I've had in over a year where I wasn't on massive amounts of pain pills pre and post back surgery. Needless-to-say, hanging out with Mom is a lot more fun when you are lucid.

We had a mission: find an age appropriate professional wardrobe. Remember I'm now in a job where the professed dress code policy is "business casual," but everyone wears suits or at least blazers on Fridays. The last time I really had to play dress-up for a job was years ago. I mean, perhaps a decade ago. When I first became a therapist, I was fortunate to have my parents support to purchase a suit. At age 22 I needed that adult costume while people sat on my couch and poured their hearts out to me all the while I'm thinking, "Man, this person needs a therapist...oh my God, I AM the therapist!!!." The costume gave me a bit of confidence to really believe in myself.

When I got into medical social work, I realized the emergency department was NOT the place for suits. Somehow "dry clean only" doesn't really work with body fluids from sick kids. All of a sudden my J Crew chinos were considered upscale. There were several shifts when I went to work in one outfit and came home in scrubs after an unfortunate patient encounter. I was also a bit of a rebel by wearing open toe shoes and skirts. In hind sight, while I may have looked fabulous running to medical codes, it was pretty stupid to be in a trauma room with my little piggies vulnerable. Thank God I never got a needle puncture or something like that falling from the suture tray.

As I ventured into administration I kept my wardrobe of chinos and flouncy skirts. Now I just looked hip. Anthropologie was my go-to for fun dress up clothes that were age appropriate. Besides, everyone at the hospital knew me. It wasn't like I had to prove myself or fit into an unknown culture. I could pull off Anthropologie in my late 20's. There are still some pieces I can pull off in my 30's, but it certainly doesn't fit my current professional culture.

So like I said, Mom's visit had a purpose and a true mission. She is the one who I trust going into the dressing room with me and being 100% honest. I think the hardest part of looking for professional clothes is to not look old ladyish or too dowdy. I can't believe it, but we started at Talbots. This was the store just mere years ago I would pass mumbling something about conservative ladies with white hair and ugly scarves as "accessories." The sales lady, who may have just passed legal drinking age was about as dumb and as engaging as a floor mop. "I brung you more pants to try." Brung? Yeah, perhaps she would have been better off at Forever 21 not Talbots. It seriously took my Mom to go outside the dressing room to break up the conversation about church service and inform them we were here to spend money for a new wardrobe. They sent a more senior sales person in to assist.

As we were putting things on hold, another shopper stopped me and asked if I was starting a new job. I told her I had and needed to fit into the culture. Turns out she also worked in hospital administration. She left us with some great parting words of advice, "Always dress better than is expected." She also inquired if I had a teenager because they could be handy in helping select things that were age appropriate. I had to stop for a moment. Oh my God, I guess I AM old enough to have a teenager and yet I don't even have a baby yet! Good Lord that was a shocker.

After guzzling some cider at Alterra we ventured into Ann Taylor. Holy Batman, the 80's are back! Slouchy ankle boots? Skinny belts cinching over sized cardigan sweaters? I have a mantra: if you've already lived through the trend, you are too old to repeat it. There were a couple of tops that literally looked cross between what Laura Ingalls wore on Little House on the Prairie and a blouse I wore in the 2nd grade for class photos. While I found some good staples like blazers on sale I passed on the neon jelly bracelets. Just kidding. There weren't any jelly bracelets, but maybe they will debut with the holiday dresses! Just the fashion accessory you need for your office Christmas party!!

After 3.5 hours of power shopping we were starving so lunch at some ubiquitous American restaurant chain seemed quite reasonable. We went back for some of the clothes at Talbots. I have to tell you, spending money is exhausting. It's emotionally draining. I was pretty catatonic by the time we got home.

Having Mom around for a week was a lot of fun. We got to play tourist in our own town by going to a Fish Fry, seeing a play downtown, moseying around the old German section of town, and going on a distillery tour. There were several things we couldn't fit in, but there is always next time.

And yes, for the record, I actually bought a scarf but completely drew the line at broaches. Hey, I still have my standards.

Explicating Illusions

I have to keep reminding myself that I'm only on my third week of exploring this new role. Most of the time it feels as though I've been in the system for at least three months. The learning curve is large, but not in the way I thought it would be. Thank God I have my org development skills to really observe and diagnose what is going on in the institution.

Organizational culture is a funny thing. It is defined by the behaviors and customs that are normal for that group. It also may not exactly match what is written down in policy and procedures. I have become a sponge and cryptographer. Things are not always what they appear to be. For example, although the dress policy states that it is "business casual" most of the successful leaders wear suits or at least a blazer on "casual Friday." Although chinos may be acceptable, they are the bare minimum for professional standards. I had one person complain to me that someone had the audacity to wear corduroy pants.

Another example of cultural norms is that everyone leaves their doors open. Shutting an office door is a huge no-no. It sends the message that you are unavailable and not a team player. So privacy is compromised and what should be confidential conversations are usually held in public, but in a whisper. That alone doesn't exactly build trust. In fact, in my opinion it pretty much destroys it. Seeing that this is the norm, it is also not a surprise to know that direct feedback is rare. A team mate could be flailing in his or her performance, but no one wants to be rude and tell them why. Instead I get the feeling that it is perceived to be the kinder and gentler approach to just let them drown and fail in silence. I find this to be a bit appalling. So as I have taken the helm, I rather violated my own code of "observation only for three months." I actually gave feedback to both the person who was drowning in oblivion and the hierarchy about my conversation. I'd like to think that by taking that risk I showed I was a pretty trustworthy person. Well, either that or I just shot myself in the foot politically.

The term, "silos," was first introduced to me when I worked at another hospital years ago. It was a buzz word in most management book best sellers at the time. It's a catchy term for really saying, "you guys aren't playing nicely in the sandbox together, " or, "you have no idea who is in the sandbox with you." Comparing what I knew then to what I know now, there never was a silo problem in that particular hospital. All of the departments worked well together, but it gave a burning platform for change and the new leader to look very important. I can honestly say I now know what a silo problem actually looks like: team members who have no idea why they are in the same department and do not know how to access each other's talents. I'm working on that.

Then there is the generational gap fun. Gen X'ers (1960 - 1977ish) are now a large part of the workforce who are still reporting or colleagues with the Baby Boomers (1945-1959). Baby Boomers are all about company loyalty, getting that gold watch at retirement, and putting in long hours. Gen X'ers are more about home/work balance. Their attitude is, "why should you care if I'm here from 9-5 or 7-3 as long as my work is getting done and my objectives are getting met?" Baby Boomers see putting in more than the expected hours as a badge of honor. They truly expect a warm body to be available consistently during prescribed work hours regardless of the output. It's a bit of a nightmare to manage and negotiate expectations when the culture appears to be all open-door, but is really managed in whispers.

There is a long way to go with this organization, but I'm energized by the challenges. Let's hope they are willing to take a breath of fresh air.

So Far...

Here's what I know after my first day of work:

1) I share my office with the person who used to hold my position and I now supervise. Uncomfortable? No! What would give you that idea?

2) Virtual New Employee Orientation is a lot quicker than going in person. You can just fast forward through the slides demonstrating what sexual harassment is and why it's bad. I used to teach this class so I think I've got the scoop.

3) My boss is awesome.

4) I'm exhausted.

5) My office needs some serious decorating.

6) This whole carpool thing with J is barely squeaking by. I waited an hour for him to finish that whole pesky thing we call "patient care."

7) High heels are overrated.

8) Did I mention I'm exhausted? With blisters from those stupid high heels.

9) Badge photos always look terrible.

10) Even though I'm not clinical, I still got a pager within 10 minutes of me walking through the door. And here I thought I was free from that PTSD beeper sounds.

Rebirth

Three years ago this month I started a new job in a new city with an old sinking feeling.

I knew the job wasn't a good fit for me and yet I was enamored by the flattery of pursuit and nice salary. I tried to convince myself that it would be a "learning opportunity" even before I set foot into the building. I would expand my skill set. I could influence change. These are the lies I told myself as I sat in the 1970's wood paneled executive boardroom complete with office furniture that were hand-me-downs from the public school system. Every morning I would attempt to psych myself up for another day of cheer leading the disenfranchised staff, policing those who were skimming by, and deciphering the mixed messages from a messed up dual reporting system of divas who fed off of drama.

Looking back, there were two bright spots to my role: the CEO (whom I never really got to interact with but highly respected) and the office staff (who were jovial and made me feel welcomed). It was the longest 7 months of my life. When I accidentally quit during a meeting with the divas by blurting out, "I can't do this anymore," it felt as though the weight of the world lifted off of my chest. This unhappy journey was never going to have a happy ending. Intuitively I knew it from day one and yet I never fully listened.

I did gain something from this chapter of my life. It proved to be an amazing learning opportunity, but in a way I didn't expect. It confirmed I belonged in healthcare. That is where my heart resides. I confirmed my identity that I was an unconventional social worker. I confirmed my skill set as a leader of systems change. These were all things I already knew in my soul, but sometimes a little reassurance isn't so bad. I also learned the valuable lesson of happiness - don't settle for anything less.

I've been wrestling the demons of my past and old scripts that were shaped by this one work nightmare. The intensity of self-examination has increased this past week as I gear up to start another new position. However, I do have something now I didn't have before: clarity.

Once I quit, I renewed. I renewed a vision for myself based on my preferences, my style, and my ideals. I knew I wanted to be an organizational development consultant in healthcare. There is something about walking into a hospital for me that energizes me. I love the culture. I love the challenges. I love the humanity. I also love solving systems problems, working with teams, coaching leaders, navigating complex political systems, and focusing on the patient.

Last year I was one of two finalists for what appeared to be my dream job. It was at a prestigious healthcare institution under the OD department. However, my job would have been focused mostly on training. I didn't mind training. I was good at curriculum development, but what I dread is the monotony and boredom of doing the same thing over and over again. This is what this job would have been. It consisted of overhauling new employee orientation and implementing it...then repeat over and over again. I convinced myself it was a step in the right direction. It was a foot in the door. I could prove myself and then show them what my true skill set was. Again, I was telling the same lies to myself to see what I wanted to see and not what truly existed. I knew I wouldn't be happy there with the role they were filling. They wanted a trainer, not an organizational consultant. I didn't get the job and was very angry for a long time. I displaced my anger, my disappointment, and my perception of failure. It was yet another opportunity for me to really look at what the Universe was telling me.

I began to refine my professional vision and looked for opportunities to advance my dream. Call it synchronicity, karma, or just plain luck, but I found a graduate school program that seemed to speak to my soul. Within days of the deadline for application for admission, I sent off my information and was accepted.

I remember first meeting my classmates and professors. When asked what I wanted to do with this degree I was confident in my response: I knew I wanted to be a healthcare organizational development consultant. There was no one like me in the small class of 12. Some were already Senior VP's of international businesses. Others worked in foreign fields of bioengineering or retail. Every textbook was like drinking from a well after eating sand. Every project I did for my second masters was focused on my dream. My intention was set and I thank God my professors and team mates accepted my unconventional approach.

After graduating, my husband and I moved to a city where we knew no one. There were no ties, leads, or networks for support. I was intimidated by this at first given that somewhere around 80% of all jobs are landed through networking, not blind resume submissions. Weeks into settling into our new city, we were invited to a Sunday brunch for J's department. There I had a connecting conversation with one of J's colleagues. Like me, he was unconventional in his chosen profession and shared a passion for change. As the dialogue progressed we both became quite animated. The conversation ended with a request for my CV. I emailed it off without a second thought. As the weeks progressed, I actually embraced the idea of being the domestic spouse for the first time in my life. It was literally one day after J and I had this conversation about our new relationship roles did my phone start ringing off the hook. Ironic that once I let go of my intensity, my intention manifested.

I believe that once you set your intention, the Universe will conspire to make it happen. Tomorrow is the manifestation of this case-in-point. Tomorrow I step back into the world of a 40+ hour work week. I have the leadership component, the healthcare component, the systems perspective component, and mentoring component. I am officially a healthcare organizational development program manager.

"Projects"

I'm finding that the more you look at a house, the more "projects" you begin to see. It's a little like falling down the rabbits hole, to be perfectly honest. Folks I can officially say with confidence that the honeymoon phase of home ownership is over.

During the past three weeks I've pretty much lived on Angie's List and the phone. Angie's List is a pretty big operation here in the Midwest and I've found it to be quite helpful. Of course I do my part and review the businesses I've used. I give a lot more credence to reports written in the past 6 months than those from 2 years ago. I will say it bugs me that I pay for the service. A pesky $9 gets automatically withdrawn every month. This being said it does work in my favor when I call a company and let them know I got their name off of the list.

The home problems began one morning when my husband neglected to tell me that the hot water handle on our tub fell off. I came home from an interview to find it sitting on the side of the tub. Here's the kicky part: it apparently has fallen off in the past because it was GLUE GUNNED back on. Yes, you can see the glue they used to get the handle back on the stem. You know a simple hex wrench would have worked to tighten it back on, but apparently - and this is hard to fathom - I am more adept in tools than the yahoos who owned the house when it happened.

So, apparently we needed a plumber. I began the search. One guy who came highly recommended passed the job off to a buddy of his who is a handy man. The handy man came within the hour but admitted that plumbing wasn't his strong suit. At least he acknowledged that before attempting anything. He said we just needed a replacement part and he could take care of it for about a buck seventy-five. Sounds good, right? Well, knowing my husband and his fondness for being thorough, I called another plumbing operation who sent out a master plumber for an estimate. He said the whole kit and caboodle needed to be replaced which would run me about $200-$300 just for the parts and an additional $850 for the labor. I'm no mathematician, but there is a LARGE difference between this guy and the handyman.

We mentioned this to some neighbors of ours who are both architects and hobbies include things like Habitat for Humanity. Right now they are in the process of building a garage. I mean, pouring the concrete themselves, framing, installing windows, electricity, roofing and siding the sucker. Ed, out of the kindness of his own heart, said he would come take a look.

In the meantime I also wanted to get the opinion of our gutters. It's rather generous for me to actually call them "gutters" because really they are more like waterfalls over the edge. Here I'm thinking we just need to adjust the slope and clean them out. Oh no, no, no, no, no. Two companies come by and give comparable bids both showing me how these are the original gutters made of steel, well beyond their lifespan, and the best thing we could do is replace the whole system in aluminum. And we're on a time deadline as winter is coming. The old owners disclosed there was some ice damming, but we didn't realize the extent of the problem. The good news is the roof is great, but we may have some apron issues (whatever that means) in a particular section. Now I have tried to sit down with J to go through the bids but he'd much rather do practically anything else than discuss expenses for home improvement issues. So this project is on hold for now.

In addition to the landscaping project mentioned in my previous post, we have an arborist coming to look at the giant silver maple. Who knows when he/she will show up. And, just to be completely thorough, we had the insulation guys come this morning for a bid. See, the ice damming is caused by heat getting trapped in this particular section of the roof and then compounded by the gutter issue.

Tom, the insulation guy, came and gave me a true education about insulation. Hell, I had no idea what a R19 vs a R38 rating was. I can honestly say I do now. I also learned that spiders will build their webs where drafts are because that's where the bugs are. Interesting, eh? Who knew? While getting up in the attic, we needed to pull down the medicine chest in the upstairs bathroom. (Don't ask, it's just an odd old house.) Getting it back on was another matter.

Have I mentioned my husband's love affair with molly bolts? All I can say is thank God he has this odd infatuation because we're going to need it. The previous dumb-asses used dinky plastic anchors which pull right out of the drywall. I'm surprised that the medicine chest hasn't fallen yet. Let's just say it is happy in it's safe resting place on the floor right now.

I'm truly impressed with J's fearlessness when it comes to home improvements. We also had a lovely leaking cold water handle in the downstairs bathroom sink. This Saturday he consulted the Big Orange Home Depot Bible of Repairs and went to down dismantling things. It was a little surprising for me when I turned on the water and nothing came out. That's how I learned he had turned off the water main. We also learned that we have iron pipes. IRON. With severe atherosclerosis (aka, deposits making the hole very narrow for water to travel through). Not much we can do about that but eventually replace all of the pipes in the house - God help us. J was highly successful in fixing the sink.

However it does make me very very scared about the other house we own. Here we are thousands of miles away and the 1922 bungalow is just sitting there with renters. What home improvement projects lie in wait for us there?

Naked Ladies Kiss Me Over The Garden Gate

I feel like a student in Professor Snape's Potions class.

This morning I had a landscape artist come out to evaluate our new back yard. I'm normally quite handy with a trowel and trusty weeder, but in this back yard I'm pretty stuck. The first thing the landscaper said was, "Oh my dear, you don't have a back yard with a tree. You have a tree for your back yard." She's not kidding. Apparently this Silver Maple of ours is very very old. The bad news is they also have a relatively short life span compared to say an Elm. We also have a wild Mulberry tree which I thought was a kind of Oak. See? Mulberry tree, not Mulberry bush. Goes to show you what I know about this yard and how ill informed those nursery rhymes are.

The whole reason I had this person come out was to evaluate if they could till the soil for us to seed grass specific to shady areas. Not so much. Maples are also fastidious in their root structure by spreading out and only goes 2 - 3 feet deep. No tilling for us. Because the root structure is so close to the top it will leach all nutrients and water so this explains why our grass looks the way it does: clumps sparsely dispersed in clay dirt. Awesome. Her solution was to just put mulch down. This sounds like a terrible idea to me. A brown yard? Well, I guess that's what we have now so perhaps its not that bad of an alternative. The only prayer we have of doing grass is just putting top soil down - a lot of top soil - and seeding it with fescue, not rye. I learned more about grass root structure today than I thought I would ever learn. Rye is the main grass of all that sod people use. Fescue doesn't have a matrix root system. It's just one solitary blade per seed.

As I was getting more and more dejected about our options for the yard, the landscaper picked up on my mood and went to the truck to get her encyclopedias of botanical species. I was highly relieved to learn that my options were more than just hostas and ferns. Our conversation went something like this:

"So the horny toadalis is fantastic with it's feathery plumes, that is unless you want to get the limnanthus sacquaguia, otherwise known as Puffy Faces. As you can see it's broad leaf structure would be a nice contrast to the Mugwort with it's variegated leaf. I would steer clear of the hemlock, besides it's not indigenous to this area."

"What about this pretty purple flower?" I said pointing to the day lily looking bloom.

"Oh no, dear! Climaxius Epictus, or Man's Folly, will not grow in climate zone 5, which as you know we are right on the border of 4 and 5. But this lovely Witches Death would suit that corner nicely with fall blooms or the Snake Weed. I might consider planting the Japanese Blood Grass over there but it needs moist soil so perhaps the Viking Ship Heucharella. That one is a native plant. "

"What about hydrangeas? My husband loves the purple flowers."

The landscaper scrunches up her face to show her disgust. "If I see anymore of that Russian Sage and bourgeois yellow day lily I will just scream. Those hydrangeas were all the rage years ago. A burning bush might be a good alternative."

I'm guessing that is a solid "No" from her on the hydrangeas.

"But there's no accounting for taste, I suppose. Now these would be lovely by the rocks." She said pointing to a familiar plant on the page.

"Oh! You mean Lady in the Bathtubs!"

Double blink through her spectacles and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why would you call Bleeding Hearts, 'Lady in the Bathtubs?'"

"Because my grandmother grew them and if you pick off the blossom, turn it upside down and open it slightly it looks like a Victorian woman in a bathtub."

"Haven't tried that. And look at all these Rhododendrons in your yard! I'm surprised they've lasted this long with such an alkaline soil. Comes from the limestone. You must use quick lime once a year to keep them happy. My goodness, you can see these people had no idea about plants putting this peony in the shady corner. It is most certainly unhappy. And we must trim back these yews. Why on earth they would plant these here? I should also mention that we need to get a jump on this otherwise we'll have to wait until the last hard freeze of winter. That typically is May 15th."

Excuse me? May 15th? Did she really just say "hard frost" "typical" and "May 15th" in one sentence? Oh. My. God. How am I going to survive winter?

The conversation went on for 2 hours for a 20 x 20 space and I'm being generous with those measurements. Some of the names of these plants were absolutely ridiculous. Inky Fingers? Red Hot Poker? Scotch Broom? Love Lies Bleeding? Naked Ladies? Kiss Me Over The Garden Gate? Digitalis - otherwise known to me as the main ingredient for heart medication. Witch Hazel - which grows in the shade by the way. I vetoed the Hemlock for the record. Murphy, our second Scottie, ate some wild Hemlock and hallucinated. He landed in the doggy hospital overnight while his psychedelic trip wore off. One of my big requirements for the yard is nothing can be poisonous. I'm also against prickly plants.

In the middle of all this the movers show up to remove all of our boxes and packing material for a small fee, of course. They were exceptionally early. It took them about 10 minutes to remove the remnants of our two months of unpacking. As I drew up the check, the movers and landscape artist were in a battle about what to do with the mulberry tree.

"My wife makes jam with the mulberries."

"The berries also make a lovely wine, that is if you can get the berries before the birds. However, this one is a volunteer."

"Volunteer?" Man, am I glad the mover asked this question.

"Yes, it was a noxious weed that they let grow. However, it's not thriving and nor should it being in so much shade. Best to rid the yard of it before it becomes a larger problem."

"I'd rather have the wine than the jam, personally." Said the mover.

As for me and the rest of my morning, I've had 3 phone calls from the company for follow up and the landscaper came back for a second look at the Maple.

"They're notorious for dropping branches, these Silver Maples."

No kidding. I could have told you that looking at all of the limbs scattered across the yard from Sunday's storm. Rocket science.

"You need to call the tree people and point out the missing bark on the underside of that limb. Could be a bad sign that might call for the tree to come down which would be thousands upon thousands of dollars. Besides, it would alter my design plans then with more sun in the yard. Yes, yes, you need to call the tree people." And with that she handed me a sticky note with a name and phone number.

Inspired Completion

Last night my husband and I ventured away from our usual fanfare of animation movies and actually saw something with REAL people in it. We've been trying to see this particular movie for a couple of months now, but life gets in the way. Whether it's a good dining experience that takes 2 hours longer than anticipated or a family having to discuss treatment options for their loved ones, we just seem to miss all intended shows. Not yesterday. We actually made it to see "Julie and Julia."

I had particular interest in this movie as one of my dearest friends, "Martha," sent me the book a few years ago. I enjoyed the read while simultaneously thinking, "Good Lord this woman is mad trying to do 500+ FRENCH recipes in 365 days." But, she did it. On that level, it was quite inspirational for me. Like Julie Powell, I have a predisposition for starting things and not quite getting them completed. Take the quilt in my mother's basement for example. It's been resting there nicely for about 6ish years. Or my novel(s). Yes, potential plural on that, folks. I have somewhere around 3 novels on my computer. It was highly reassuring to hear from another dear friend that a lot of her set aside writing time was spent deleting what she already wrote. That is where I get in trouble with that project. Playing editor and author at the same time is highly unproductive. So at least Julie Powell succeeded in finishing something with a self-imposed deadline.

Don't get me wrong; I make deadlines, but typically these are deadlines that are externally imposed. I wouldn't have two advanced degrees without deadlines in place. But I play head games with myself (to my downfall) and see how I can rationalize skirting deadlines I make for myself. If you need any help in understanding how my brain works, just look for a post a few back about me with unstructured time.

I have to say I quite enjoyed the movie even if I left feeling quite hungry. All of a sudden I felt inspired to make boeuf bourguignon. I already know how to make it, but I've never done it the Julia Child way. Turns out I wasn't the only one inspired for French cuisine after seeing this movie. Mom told me that a few Sundays back they decided to embark on Julia's Duck with Cherry Sauce. Mind you the book in all of it's genius actually does teach you the art of French cooking in steps if you actually followed the steps in sequential order. However, Dad apparently decided to skip steps 1-4 where you first learn how to even roast a duck to making one with extravagant cherry reduction. He probably used the cherry pitter he inherited when his Mom died. I'm guessing here - we haven't talked in months so this is all extrapolated from my daily talks with Mom. She said it was amazing although they washed every pot and pan about 3x minimum during the 6 hours or whatever it took to make the dish.

J started thinking about making Coq au Vin this evening. Again, it's not complicated just time consuming. He also wanted to clean the house and plant somewhere close to 500+ bulbs in the backyard. I have a feeling we won't be dining on any pearl onions and succulent chicken this evening given the fact he's still in his pj's surfing the net. As for me, I'm going to go outside and find my trowel to lavish the last day of summer up here in the midwestern north. Getting those bulbs planted by sundown will be almost equivalent to making all those recipes within one year.

Reciprocity and Generosity

The whole concept of gifts is one where I personally struggle. There is a certain etiquette and decorum about a finely fashioned gift that begs the question: is it about the gifter or the receiver? It also makes me wonder where and how expectations get placed.

I know I've brought this subject up before in older posts, but background information is always key in understanding context. Growing up, my family culture had striking differences between my paternal and maternal sides. The maternal side usually had larger budgets for the daughters and grandchildren, but the spouses always appeared as an afterthought. I didn't recognize this when I was younger, but as a married woman I can now sympathize with what my Dad experienced. There is a striking message as your wife opens up gifts of expensive jewelry and you get socks. After awhile a request of socks and underwear as a present seems appropriate because at least you aren't going to be disappointed. So sad, but so true.

On my paternal side, the couple was recognized in a mutual joint gift and everyone got the same thing. On one of our last Christmases with my grandparents, my parents were absolutely ecstatic with a dolly. You know, the kind movers use to wheel around heavy boxes. Seriously. Ecstatic. I get it. But then again I love presents that are either completely practical or completely indulgent. The siblings on my paternal side also extended the small remembrances for everyone that didn't have to be elaborate, but made sure you were acknowledged and important. I still love the homemade chocolate dipped fortune cookies, The Dog calendars, and whatever glam fun I got from my cousin. Gifts for all of the dogs are also included, which makes my heart sing.

I realize I am not the most consistent gifter, which is difficult to acknowledge. Honestly it depends upon my wealth status as to what I can do, which I realize is a universal truth for everyone. One year I was able to bring everyone bottles of wine. That felt great. I also realize how important it is for nieces and nephews to be remembered. It always meant a lot to me when I got something from my aunts and uncles. I have to say that J and I aren't really great about this since we've been out of SLC with our own niece and nephew. Birthdays come and go in the time warp continuum and I typically beat myself up about forgetting them. So when I receive something in the mail for my birthday from my sister-in-law I feel pretty rotten about accepting it.

On the other hand, what do you do with friends who are also as flaky as you are in the gifting department? One year you get an amazing package and then years go by without birthday or Christmas remembrances even though you send things to them. Do you stop giving them gifts? Or other friends who are so consistent and you are the flaky one? Or what do you do with gifts that are so extravagant there is nothing you can do that would seem fair (a cookbook can't compare to diamond earrings)? Another dilemma is the gift that says, "I don't know who you are," or, "This is really all about me," or "You are an afterthought"? I've experienced all of these scenarios and I'm still at a loss of what to do about them.

I'm all about fairness when it comes to gifts. I'm also all about making sure the other person feels recognized for their uniqueness. When I give gifts, they are 100% from the heart and typically very well thought out. My one exception was last Christmas when I was in my fuzzy haze and sent family notecards to a girlfriend of mine who didn't take her husband's last name. That was a big faux pas. I know I made other mistakes last year in gifting and cards albeit with the greatest of intentions.

The last hurdle is giving things to your spouse. Is it really a gift when you are essentially using "our" money? Hard to surprise them with a luxurious gift and always wonder in the back of your mind if they will question the cost rationale. Or do you really believe them when they say, "Don't get me anything"? Anniversaries and Valentines are especially tough. One person gives something from the heart and the other comes up empty handed.

Gifts should equally reflect the giver and receiver in my idealistic view. It should say something about the relationship like a common interest or acknowledging that you really heard them when they mentioned they liked something specific. Although this seems simple, it is really quite difficult upon execution. If it wasn't, there wouldn't be a need for a post like this one. But, that is, I suppose, my gift to you.

Utah Man Am I

When I was younger my feminist side was rather pissed off that the Utah Ute fight song didn't use the gender neutral term of "person" rather than "man." I got over it. The song is catchy and it is part of my childhood inner jukebox. The season tickets was a tradition my paternal side of the family embraced. Grandpa would sit there in the stadium with his "special juice" and radio. I never did understand why he brought the radio as it echoed the live crowd and calling of the plays, but now I understand he was just needing the commentary.

In college I attended most of the games after "pre-partying" at one of the local fraternities. Because the family season tickets were near the student section Mom was often worried she'd see me passed down while crowd-surfing. For the record, that only happened once. Well, only once at a Utah football game. One other time at a concert in Reno, but that is another story.

The passion for the Utes and their recent switch to a the more politically correct hawk named Swoop, still runs in my veins. I do miss the guy riding the horse dressed as a Ute Indian riding around the stadium with a bit U flag, but I understand why they changed. As I've moved around the Nation I've tried to watch various games on television which is difficult when Utah is not a Big 10 school.

In 1998 I watched the NCAA tournament where Utah's basketball team seemed unstoppable. There I was in my tiny cement dorm room screaming at my tiny television set for the Utes much to the dismay of my other roommates. My boyfriend at the time thought it was amusing that I actually yelled and cheered.

Coming off of a Sugar Bowl upset and triumph last year, I was determined to find the Utes football season on our cable selection here in Milwaukee. That's when I discovered we actually had the BYU cable TV channel. Are you freaking kidding me? BYU? This tells me exactly what our community is comprised of...enough Mormons to command BYU television to be a staple on our cable selection.

I was raised in a family who cheered on the Utes and anyone who played BYU. It wasn't a far stretch for me to move to Boston and adopt a similar stance about cheering for the Red Sox and anyone who played the Yankees. In Boston there was a substantial Mormon community in Belmont, seriously just the next town over from us. The Temple rose along route 2 like it does along the Washington DC beltway: a shining imitation silhouette of Sleeping Beauty's castle. However, we never got BYU cable TV in Boston.

When I searched the official Utah athletic web page I noted that most of the games were being broadcast on some Mountain West cable channel and gave subsequent directions about how you too could call your cable company who would be happy to supply access for a modest fee. I decided it wasn't worth it. Besides, I'm the only one in the family who enjoys football. Somehow I married a guy who is not sports oriented. He understands the rules, but if given a choice of watching sports or doing something else, he'd take the latter. The only reason why he will watch sports is to be amused how much I engage and yell at the television.

Last night was another clear example of why I love this man of mine. He searched out the broadcast of the Utes playing San Jose State and set the DVR for me. There we sat with our ice cream: me yelling through most of the first quarter, J laughing at me, and Edgar cowering at his mother now turned wild screaming woman at the light box. I realize I have quite the potty mouth when it comes to my team and bad plays.

And then, there it was, a shining moment of connection with my family flashing across the screen: the Utah Pig Bus. One of my brother's fraternity buds created this tailgating icon that was even honored in the victory parade after the Sugar Bowl win. This is the same fraternity brother who convinced my own flesh and blood how it was a *good idea* to do a skit and jump into the San Francisco Bay from an oversize Styrofoam toilet (supposed to look like a helicopter) called "Snowy, the Hellaskier," for Red Bull. The same Utah Pig Bus where my parents trekked out to hang with the guys and meet their future daughter-in-law. The same Utah Pig Bus that I now see Facebook photos of children of the guys I used to pre-party with. Just seeing the Pig Bus on ESPN U made me miss my crazy brother.

On a sad note my other Alma Mater, Tulane, was absolutely humiliated by BYU yesterday, but at least the Utes remain undefeated even if they didn't bring their best game forward. How do I know it wasn't their best game? My sore vocal chords prove it.

Isn't It Rich? Aren't We a Pair?

I hate this song and yet whenever we end up ill, J strikes up the band. It's all I can do to cover my ears before he mentions anything about clowns.

I'm on day 4 of being bed-bound. Let me just say that this whole sick thing is beginning to wear thin. I've rescheduled somewhere around 6 interviews so I do not infect others. By mode of default, J and I have begun to think we have the dreaded swine flu. Fever? Check. Sore throat? Check. Wishing your head wasn't attached to your body? Check. Wondering if your swollen glands are going to burst through your skin like Aliens? Check. Debating about eating because the thought of chewing is exhausting and painful? Check. "Sexyish" flu bed head from all of the sweats and chills? Check. The oh so attractive look of pasty white death warmed over? Check. On the positive, both of us have the cluster of symptoms so at least we aren't alone in our misery but that does leave us at a lack of a caregiver when we're both moaning about how it hurts to lie still.

I think one of the worst parts is that guilt of duty thing. Unprecedented, J has been out of work for 3 days straight. This takes a lot and tells me exactly how terrible he feels. But every morning he pulls himself out of bed looking quite pasty and debates if he feels well enough to go in and take care of his patients. It usually takes a few calls to his boss and hospital ward under his care before he decides he really would be better off at home.

We are going stir crazy. What I wouldn't give for a nice trip to the grocery store. I hate going to the grocery store, but truly it sounds like a great exotic break from the mundane.

Last night I woke up from a dream that my head was being used as a dodge ball. I kept thinking I really needed Tylenol, but the thought of getting out of bed was more painful than just lying there in agony. Finally when my husband roused from sleep an hour or two later I mustered my request for the two magical pills that might stop the chills and ease the pain. He was woken up by a dream of having died in a car accident. I have no idea what time it was so suffice it to say I was highly cautious about dosing myself with more when I finally got out of bed this morning. I have to say my fingers hurt from typing. I guess the writing is on the wall: time for me to get back in bed.