Single, Sleepless Sac-Town Mom.

The Beach, The Whale and The Escape Artists

2011-08-18T15:10:00.000-07:00

Ben and I just returned home from a long weekend in Santa Cruz with my mom, my sister and my brother-in-law.

It was a great time. We had really good food, amazing weather and lots of belly clutching laughs, mostly at the expense of my mother and her choice of accommodations which my sister and I swore never to talk about.

We spent our second afternoon at Twin Lakes Beach. Gorgeous location. Perfect area for Ben to wade and swim and dig.

Prior to the trip, I scoured the greater Sacramento area for beach umbrellas. At this last moment, I scored two - deeply discounted - and I told everyone that they could thank me later for protected skin. So, with my two umbrellas and my SPF 110, we were set.

Except that I only sprayed the SPF stuff on Ben and instead of sitting under the umbrella, I sat kinda to the right of it.

I never want to see that shade of red on my skin again. I wore a jean jacket for the rest of the trip and winced out loud every time I took a shower. That's how bad it was.

On our third day, we drove north of Santa Cruz and my mom and I took Ben on a walk up the bike path. It was breathtaking. I was so in awe of the view that I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the sound of a blow hole from beneath the drop-off next to us. Ben's eyes widened and he exclaimed, "It's a WHALE!" I love this age. I love it, love it.

Monday night at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk is the time to go: most rides are $1.00. Ben's not a fan of rides, in general, but he did point out the "Fright Walk" on the Boardwalk web site and he asked me over and over, during the course of the weekend, when we might go. And so, that is why, against my better judgement, I entered that damn thing with Ben in tow.

It was pitch black. Skeletons and goblins and all sorts of bloody creatures jumped out at every turn.

Do I need to tell you that Ben was a mess? Just a few feet into the dark hallway and I knew we were screwed. Not even the light from my phone could illuminate the way as my terrified child clung to me and screamed bloody murder.

For any parent who is stupid enough to take their tentative child into a haunted house, I offer these two words to you: Emergency Exit.

Ben and I sprinted the short distance to the door, flung it open and found ourselves in the middle of some kind of employee lounge. At the other end of the Boardwalk.

I will say this: that Fright Walk is one long adventure. You certainly get your money's worth.

The only way to redeem the night was to take Ben to laser tag and actually play with him. I never thought I'd have so much fun strapping on a heavy vest and chasing down 10-year-olds and I have to say, I think I'm hooked.

We came home the night before school started and this I do not recommend at all. I did have the foresight to have one of Ben's ink tattoos placed on his shoulder so that he could keep it for school but the giant, black skull on his forearm had to go.

Not only did I not purchase any shirts, or shoes for the lad, I also did not have requisite school supplies ready nor did I cut his long and unkempt hair.

But I do have the whale story.

Put It Down

2011-08-11T15:32:00.001-07:00

One of my yoga teachers offers this instruction at the start of every class:
"Put it down. Put it all down; the thoughts, the chatter, everything."

Oh, if it were only that easy.

I've been trying, though, to put it down if even for a few seconds every day.

My best opportunity for this is in the early morning. These days, I'm waking up super early (don't even ask) and starting my day with the requisite email check and facebook review, followed by some reading in my meditation book. I even write in my gigantic journal.

After that, I'm generally awake enough to roll out my yoga mat and practice for 30 or 40 minutes.

Ambitious, I know. Plain crazy, definitely.

Then, I come back to the idea of mediation by closing my eyes (whilst reclining in bed, of course) and by taking some deep breaths.

This is how things went this morning:

6:40am - Complete yoga practice, roll up mat, slip back into bed, throw on the covers, throw off the covers, turn the ceiling fan on, flip the bedside lamp off, drop the remote, curse loudly.

6:43am - Close eyes, commence meditation.

6:43am - Notice that the garbage trucks are uncharacteristically loud this morning. Wonder if it was my recycle can that was just dropped. Worry that I do not have time to call the utilities company if my recycle can is broken. Or worse, lost. Send good karma vibes to the neighbor who sometimes pulls the cans in for me.

6:44am - Hear very loud owl outside my open window. Contemplate putting an owl house in the backyard for Ben. Remember ex's failed attempt at this. Decide that Ben can visit his grandpa's owl colony.

6:44am - Try to slow down breathing and notice that my stomach is starting to hurt. Is a half a pot of coffee before 7am, on an empty stomach, really necessary? Flip onto belly. Uncomfortable. Flip back.

6:45am - Pony tail is crushed against pillow. Ouch. Release the elastic band. Ahhhhhh, so much better. Why have this long hair anyway? I've been growing it for a year and half and it is lovely and full and practically an ad for Clairol, but what good is all that when it's back in a pony almost all of the time? Oh right, my young clients say men like long hair. Best not to cut it just yet. But what about the color? Every-five-week salon visits are a killer. Speaking of the salon, I need a facial. And my eyebrows are in bad shape. I could use some Botox, too. Everything's feeling wrinkly. I really am high maintenance. I'm a nightmare. God, I hate camping. I could end up dating a man who loves camping. Camping might be a deal-breaker. I think it is.

6:47am - Stomach is insanely growling. On my dietitian's hunger scale of 1 to 10, 1 being famished, 10 being in a food coma, I am a 0. Totally empty. Weak. Depleted. I don't think she has me on enough calories. Just as I was starting to get used to all these curves, I'll be a toothpick by Christmas. Maybe by next week, at this rate. What's for breakfast today? Oh yeah, the meal plan says high fiber cereal and nuts. Fail. Where's the meal plan with blueberry pancakes? That's the meal plan I want!

6:48am - The indecisiveness of the men in my life is making me C-R-A-Z-Y. And I am making everyone else C-R-A-Z-Y with my rants on this subject. Why am I cursed with dating C-R-A-Z-I-N-E-S-S? Why? I'm the nice girl who's getting it all together; I don't even do crazy. Is my head starting to hurt now? No, it's just my heart: I'm used to that.

6:49am - Glad, oh-so-very-glad that I bought two beach umbrellas to take to Santa Cruz. My mother is going to insist on riding in the backseat with Ben all the way there, and all the way home. Not quite sure how the umbrellas are going to fit into their back seat accommodations, as I'm sure there will be discussion of safety, decapitation. Decapitation. I need a working house alarm. Umbrella? Where is my leopard umbrella from last winter? I'll be seriously pissed if I've lost it. I might have to go back to NYC for another. Maybe I'll take whomever I'm dating.

6:50am - Crazy dating again. GET OUT OF MY HEAD, you, you and you, too! I'm not in control! Everyone else is! Give it up, Janeen. Surrender. This is way bigger than you.

6:50am - The owl and the garbage truck are back, in tandem. How can anyone get any meditating done around here with all this racket? Oh, and there goes the broken sprinkler too. Hundreds of dollars into a new sprinkler system and the faulty one is next to my bedroom window. Figures. Good thing I can't sleep in past 3:30am.

6:51am - Breathe. Ignore rumbling tummy. Don't think about pancakes. Mmmmmm, Kashi cereal and cantaloupe in 9 minutes. Mmmmmmm.

6:51am - Can't believe that my stomach is going to turn itself inside out from hunger pangs. Who knew that yoga revved up the old metabolism so efficiently? Because it's not like I just did a 5 mile run.

6:51a - Kevin. Fall Ball. Ugggghhhhhh. We need a closer (better) League. Wondering if our local league is more normal than that *other* league we played for? Maybe I'll actually meet some nice mom friends; scope out better looking guys. Why is the dog barking? This can't be good. Someone is breaking in. Even though it's morning and seriously bright, the bad guys have found the single girl on the block. I'm toast.

6:51am - Mmmmmm, toast. Whole grain toast with real butter. French toast. Tower Cafe French Toast. Why don't I ever go there?

6:52am - I never go anywhere. I'm relegated to reading and journal writing and yoga. OMG. I need three cats for this existence. Ben is riding me hard for a cat. My mom is publishing, "1o1 Reasons Janeen Should Not Get A Cat." She's already lecturing on the topic. Caught between the boy and the mother. Is there any Valium in the house? Oh right, of course there is. Now, who gets it? The mother or the daughter?

6:52: I just heard a kick from Ben's room. Damn, I hope he's not in a foul mood this morning. I've been up two hours already and he'll be firing up any second in God knows what kind of mood, which will inevitably lead to me making more coffee and bribing him with time on my iphone.

6:53am - My iphone! Where is my iphone? Is it possible that I left it in the garage when I was scooping up Molly's breakfast? Ohmygod, I have been up too long. Where in God's name is that Valium?

6:54am - Is today a nap day? For me, not Ben! Who's canceled? Who's coming? Oh shit, oh shit, OH.SHIT. I forgot about my early morning client. How many days has it been since I've washed my hair? Five? Six? Thank God for the ponytail. I have camping hair.

Then...

6:55am - MOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYY! Come get me! I am ready to get up! Where's my girl, Molly?

Thank you, sweet Jesus for little boys in great moods and for 12 minute meditations and please, for the love of all things holy, let this writer's block pass soon. I promise I'll meditate and pray more.

Let Me List The Reasons

2011-08-06T14:53:00.000-07:00

I can't write. I CAN'T WRITE!

It is too soon for me to have writer's block. It's unacceptable at this early stage, and it's kinda freaking me out. I'm thousands of words into my essay and I'm so stuck that merely launching the document makes me want to fire up the vacuum cleaner and go into my catatonic-dog-hair-sucking daily meditation.

I'm screwed?

The way I see it, my right brain is getting totally squashed by the left side. Really.

All the logical stuff that I need to ruminate on is encroaching on those creative channels that need space to breathe and to express. The finances of my house and the logistics of Ben's school and sports are jamming up the expansive, sentimental and not-at-all-linear brainwaves of the right hemisphere.

Damn you, left brain. Stay on your own bleep-bleep-bleep side.

"Impossible," left brain is telling me. "Because there's all this..."

(I know that my right brain is still in control, somewhat, because what you are about to read would be considered "stream of consciousness.")

Ben starts school in a week and a half. That's it? Summer's done? We never even went miniature golfing. Or to ExploreIt in Davis. God, we didn't even make it to Fairytale Town and now he's probably too old and I'll never get to set foot in that cute park with all its sweet memories again. I am the worst mother of all time.

But we did go to Six Flags and it sucked. My shoes were hurting my feet and I was tired and Ben wouldn't ride on anything that moved. Except the parking lot tram. I'm not kidding. Ask him. He'll tell you that we had fun but I know better. One giant bowl of Dippin' Dots on the way out and all he remembers are good times with Mom. And the fact that I had to literally sugar coat the event to make it OK makes me cringe all the more. It worries me that I'm not stepping up more on "fun mom" stuff. I'm great at the logistics of motherhood, but when it comes to fun, I'm not always on par with the expectations of my 7-year-old.

Ben's dad and I got some kind of email notification about Fall Ball. I deleted it. Worst mother of all time confirmed.

Golf lessons proved to be a fantastic investment, and what a bleep bleep bleep investment it was. Ben spent the first week with the "Wee Swingers" and quickly advanced to the 10 to 12 year old group by the second week. The coach suggested that we pursue year-round lessons next year for Ben. Of course that means something else needs to go and after three long, muddy years, I'm happy to say that it's soccer. And maybe Fall Ball if no one sees that email. No love lost there.

My beloved OAR released a new album this weekend but I streamed it all last week because it was so bleep bleep bleep great and I got all psyched about their Fall tour until I visited the band's web site and saw that there are no West Coast stops. How much does that suck? Quite a lot. Bleep bleep bleep. And for the record, yes, they are playing up and down the East Coast but repeat Florida trips are not even a remote possibility.

I dredged up a whole lot of BS known as "experience" and attempted to re-create my resume. Just in case the perfect "marketing/pilates/writing/wear all my cute clothes" gig presents itself. I even sent it out to twelve, yes twelve companies for positions that I am seriously not qualified for. Is it really possible that my big career re-entry might be in the form of an administrative assistant? Is it too much to ask for a cute boss at least?

I have a new girlfriend. But she's in Texas. Still, to me, she's "awesome Angie in Austin." We talk a couple of times a week and message each other daily. I love instant friendships but I wish I saw more of my local girlfriends. Why is everyone so busy? Or is it just that I'm not busy enough?

My longtime BFF is still moving to Boston. Her house sold in just three days so I guess it's official: she's really going. Bleep.

With school starting up again, it's time to start wondering how I will contribute to the Montessori school that my son attends. Will I get the lofty title of "Environmental Coordinator" again this year? It's a great title for my resume and this will be my second year in the position. I just hope I don't have to disclose the job description: "Clean the classroom at least once a week." I am so not kidding. I only volunteered because it gets me out of doing "jobs" with the kids. Unless you have a Montessori credential or you are a NASA engineer, those jobs will cause you to furrow your (normally smooth) brow, show your right brain ways, and hope to hell that a teacher will rescue you soon.

So it's pretty safe to say that our Montessori children will likely grow up to do great, left brain things and it's very safe to say that they'll have colorful language skills to boot. Ben learned, in the K/1 class, some of my favorite, yet off-limits words in rapid succession last year. At the beginning of the year, the "S" word was "stupid" and the "F" word was "fart" and we didn't even discuss the "H" and the "B" words. All that has changed now as he has been schooled on every word in the book. To say I'm dismayed by this early learning is an understatement. The same kid who knows nothing about Justin Bieber or Miley Cyrus has way more words than I'd like, thanks to a few "bad apples" in the classroom. To that I say, "what the bleep?!?"

This child rearing stuff is keeping me up at night and so, caffeine is becoming more and more of a vice. These days, it's more common to see me with a Coke Zero can in my hand, than a water bottle. Case in point: I lost my Sigg and I never replaced it. I didn't peg myself as a 40-something, diet soda addict, until, at Six Flags, I actually inquired as to whether their diet soda product was Coke Zero or Diet Coke, or worse yet, Diet Pepsi. It was Coke Zero, thankfully, and I drank four. I have also discovered that Coke Zero is even better with Bacardi.

What's really bad is that the stuff doesn't really give you a decent jolt. I fell asleep on a conference call yesterday. Dead asleep. I woke up to very loud beeping from my phone, followed by a text: "Wasn't that speaker GREAT?" Clearly, I need stronger substances if I am to maintain a (conscious) presence on conference calls. Bleeping embarrassing.

Why are the tomatoes so slow this year? I didn't plan seven tomato plants to scamper off to the Farmer's Market each weekend.

We are off to Santa Cruz on Saturday. "We" meaning Ben, myself, my mom, my sister and my brother-in-law. Our accommodations might be questionable. My mom made the reservations. We'll blame it on her if things aren't on the up-and-up. And then I'll write about it here and she'll give me "the look."

I have an appointment with a dietitian - not a nutritionist - to figure out what is driving my cholesterol numbers up. I'm scared that the outcome will involve a bunch of pricey supplements (which I don't take much of anymore). Actually, I'm more afraid that she will tell me to eat oatmeal, almonds, salmon, fruit and vegetables and then I will have truly wasted my money. I have a mere two months to get those numbers down. Blllllleeeeeeeeep!

On Wednesday nights I teach yoga in my neighborhood. It's the one group class that I teach and we're up to 25, 26, even 30 people in our group fitness room. It's very, very difficult to receive compliments from the crowd that gathers each week when I know that I can't - and won't- be their instructor forever. I try and teach for the moment, and in the moment; and the time has become something that I covet and look forward to.

This evening, I was playing games with Ben. We played three rounds of Dominoes and we built two Jenga towers. I posted a picture of Ben with the leaning stack of Jenga blocks on Facebook and another parent texted me: "Being a single mom with one child must be like dying a slow death." Really? What the bleep? I often feel like I don't play with Ben nearly enough. I rue the day he hides in his room and mutters one-word answers to my questions. He still calls me Mommy and I wouldn't want it any other way. (And he doesn't know that popcorn isn't part of the typical movie experience or that his car bad is far too young for him. Don't out me on these!). I often think that the time I spend resting is gas in the tank, so to speak, for my time with Ben. I didn't think this was such a bad thing until this other parent inferred that I have no life. But I don't think I bleeping care.

My client/friend treated me to a great experience on Friday. She booked manis and pedis at the uber-swanky Pedicure Lounge downtown. We had wine and spent the afternoon getting seriously pampered. I sometimes wonder why I am so lucky to have such generous clients, whom I can easily call friends. The idea of not having my business is a tortured one, from that perspective. I am indeed very, very blessed.

On that note, I'll end with this comment. Life is so much easier when there's no complaining. I've made this huge and very concerted effort to reduce my whining, bitching, and overall bouts of verbal unhappiness lately. So while it was fun to write this post, after re-reading it, I realized how out of character it is for me. There are days when I can't think back to my last complaint. That's a good feeling; I like it.

But I'm still stuck on my article. And I may have to complain a bit more to unblock this case of writer's block!

J Lo and My Girlfriends

2011-08-06T13:16:00.000-07:00

Disegard formatting issues. Blogger doesn't like me today.

What does J Lo have in common with a handful of my girlfriends?

"She loved herself enough to walk away," People reports.

And several of my friends apparently feel the same way.

I'm talking about Jennifer Lopez's failed marriage, in case you're just crawling out from under a rock. I'm also referring to the unsettling number of marriages that have crumbled around me in these short summer months.

I believe I'm swimming in fairly safe waters here by mentioning the demise of these marriages. It's not like there are any big secrets that I'm sharing; only an influx in invitations for "GNO", otherwise known as "Girls Night Out."

Sadly, for my newly single friends, I'm more of a fan of "GNI" these days (Girls Night In") or "GMY" (Girls Morning Yoga) or "let's just do coffee or a pedicure."

At any rate, I can't help but be puzzled and alarmed by the divorce rate of my friends right now. And you know what they say: these are just the friends I know about; God only knows who is just one fight away from calling it quits. I hope it's no one. I seriously do.

Because divorce makes me sad. My own divorce nearly crushed me and I have tremendous empathy for anyone who is experiencing marital difficulties. It tears apart your whole psyche. Short of having a sick child, I don't think that there's anything worse.

I get asked for advice on this topic. A lot. Sometimes I give it; sometimes I don't.

But what I do say is this: "If you're asking for advice, particularly from someone who's already been married twice, I don't think you should strap on those 4-inch cage heels quite yet for "CGNO" (Crazy Girls Night Out).

My sage advice continues: "Cancel the table service at the Mix, stay home, cool your heels and think about how all this is really going to feel in a year. Two years. Five years. Then, let's have coffee tomorrow. Or a pedicure. After yoga, of course."

So far, the girls haven't canceled any of their wild nights. But I will say that I've had three pedicures in merely three weeks shameful, indeed and my own body is thanking me for all those weekend mornings of yoga and no hangovers.

I don't know what's going on with my friends right now, but I sincerely hope it's a phase. Not only because I can't afford to have my toes painted every few days, but also, I think there's a lot of fight still in these marriages that are in question and even though J Lo walked away, it's not always the right thing to do. I'm always a fan of staying until the bitter end. Because you just never know.

It's hard to be a go-to girl on serious topics like marriage. I'm honored that I have the opportunity to listen, but I'll be glad when the tides turn a bit and when the trend skews back to: unique but not obscure baby names, "this Pottery Barn couch or that cute futon from Target" and "yellow Lab or Pug puppy" (Lab, always Lab!).

And in the meantime, there's Yoga In The Park, The Pedicure Lounge, more yoga at Padme and Whole Foods, my favorite coffee, people watching and post break-up place in town (the cookies make anything and everything seem better!).

Yet Another Reason To Love The FedEx Man

2011-07-29T14:13:00.000-07:00

Stay or go? Stay or go?

This has become the question that I've asked myself nearly every hour of my day for the last two plus years. This same question has plagued me at night. It's driven me to make countless calls to Bank of America; it's even caused me to break down in tears on more than one of those calls.

But thanks to my sexy Fed Ex guy and early Friday deliveries, I know my answer and it's all good...

WE'RE STAYING!!!

At least for now. The trial period is not a guarantee of a permanent loan modification and even if it was, I'm not certain that we're meant to be in this house for years to come. But at least in the short term, I can quit worrying about run-down rentals, lack of studio space and how Ben would survive without his sweet Molly dog.

By Christmas, I should know more about our new loan. Having some breathing room between now and then is a very, very good thing.

I can't end this post without adding that I definitely believe in the power of prayer and in faith, too. Now more than ever in my life, I'm all about conscious contact with God and it is a good, good thing.

We are indeed very, very blessed.

Writing In WordPress

2011-07-28T13:03:00.000-07:00

I'm going to get this out right now: I.hate.Wordpress.

Around the time that I ran out of business cards (two months ago!) I decided that it would be a good idea to develop a more professional web presence with a predominant theme. Friends told me that WordPress was the way to go and after following many, many blogs in the last few years, I agreed that the WordPress format was definitely superior to Blogger in many ways.

User functionality is not one of those and I only discovered this when I was midway into the project, with many ideas in my head and in my journal and no place to put them because there are widgets and tabs and all kinds of craziness that I simply cannot get my creative brain wrapped around.

So I seriously struggled for about two days and walked away from my computer more than ten, twenty, eighty times in sheer and total frustration.

Since Ben was out of town with his dad, I had no excuse to avoid the project although I did get a pedicure and while I'm not happy yet with the "finished" product, at least I have a functional URL and new business cards in my studio.

I have a few objectives for this site. First, I want to get back to writing about wellness. I dispense so much "advice" on this topic throughout my day that it makes good sense to have it accessible to more people. I also want to give my clients, and potential clients more resources on trends that I see in my industry, particularly in the areas of nutrition and exercise. Lastly, I want to figure out how to get Mr. WordPress off my Comments and also how to make my picture larger without it becoming a complete blur!

For the time being, I'm keeping the two blogs separate so to access the new blog, please use the following link:

http://tulaliving.wordpress.com/

And if you have any WordPress secrets, please message me! Soon.

Committed (and trashed)

2011-07-26T15:11:00.000-07:00

Recently I've been trying to be more disciplined about certain areas of my life.

I certainly don't need any more discipline in the exercise department, but I have been making a fairly good attempt at reading, downloading music, hanging out with the dog and just unplugging, in general. It's working fairly well, I think.

One area that I've been neglecting is my writing.
I developed a new web site for my business and I wrote a few hand-written cards last week. I also opened up a brand new (and enormous) journal and filled up three pages. And obviously I've had a few things to say here, too.

But I've been wanting to do more - something that pushes me a bit.

When I happened across a contest in one of my favorite magazines, "Real Simple," I knew that I had found my project.

Real Simple is doing a call for essays on a topic that I think is actually quite trite. In fact, the topic was a bit of a deterrent initially, until I realized what I could do with it, in a way that's totally different and maybe somewhat unique to the editors there.

I have no idea what the prize is; I only noted the submission date (September) and the length of the essay (no more than 1.500 words).

I'm committed. I'm going to do this. With the help of my sister, I hope.

Which brings me to my next point. My sister and I were talking to another writer this weekend about how many words a writer "should" write each day. The general consensus was 1,000 words. My sister said that when she writes any more than 2,000, she's exhausted. But I bet my dad could write 3,000 words and not bat an eyelash.

Well, I can say with certainty that 1,500 words has done me in today. I'm completely trashed and it's only 3:30pm. Not sure how anyone could sit down day after day with a novel unfolding and keep this pace without copious amounts of caffeine, but maybe it's like anything else. I suppose you build stamina.

Nevertheless, I'm stocking up on the iced coffee and will press on with this essay with plans to post it here by September.

Hopefully by then, I'll be pounding out 2,000 words a day with no problem, but until then there are always pool breaks. I think I hear a chaise lounge calling me now.

11 Years.

2011-07-24T15:24:00.000-07:00

Recently, I met an engaging and bright woman at a party. She was my age, exactly.

We talked about how hard it was to turn 40, and we talked about our kids and Kindergarten and the fact that boys generally mature later than girls and eventually she shifted the conversation to work. And to me, specifically.

I told her the short version of my marketing turned mother turned Pilates instructor story. She seemed intrigued.

The details of "What do you do?" turned into "What do you want to do?"

I went on about career limitations in Sacramento. I gave her the same speech I'll give anyone who will listen: "Marketing jobs almost never come up in Sacramento and even if they did, I'm not sure how I'd handle the logistics of my son's out-of-the-way (but amazingly great) school. I'll probably teach Pilates for the next 11 years, and then figure it all out."

"Why 11 years?" she asked.

"Because Ben will graduate high school by then and we'll pack him off to whatever school gives him the best scholarship (I can hope, right?)."

She pressed on (I'm telling you, she was engaging!): "That's a long time - 11 years - but, what would you do then?"

I replied, "Sell shoes at Nordstrom, get my Nursing degree, teach more Pilates...who knows?"

"Well," she continued, "what were you doing 11 years ago?"

"Wow, she's good - no pregnant pauses in this conversation," I thought to myself.

And then I was the one who paused.

Eleven years ago? How do I even begin to tell her what was happening at age 29?

How I had just landed a highly visible and very coveted position at Visa and how my team there was charged with rolling out the Visa Check Card and how we had the most cache in all of Visa as the ambassadors for this fine new product that would hit the banking market with a frenzy and how the team manager would work me to the bone and how I'd make my way to the women's restroom at least once a day to cry my eyes out and how I'd never sleep because I'd be thinking of all the things that could go wrong with the damn card and how I'd fly to Chicago every few weeks and meet our agency there and how the Travel Department always booked me into the Monaco but one time reserved The House of Blues and how lucky I felt to have such a prestigious job but how I knew that if I stayed, I'd be popping Prozac by 30 and how I walked in and quit one day without another job lined up and how I didn't want to bail out but how was there another choice?

Or how, with all the physical risks I was taking, I was on the fast track to a major injury and how it felt when, flying down a ridiculous steep hill on my roller blades, in the remote hills, I snapped my pelvis - twice - and had to walk six miles to my car and how I drove myself to the ER and how the doctor was stunned by the severity of the fractures and how my mother, upon hearing the news, asked: "Can you still have children?" and how my dad had to drive to the Bay Area, pick me up, and keep me for two months - on his couch - while my bones healed and how I had all this downtime to seriously scrutinize my values and how I was not happy with myself at all.

How life in the "dot com era" was changing me and how everything was about money and how everyone was about money and how my friends were all "rich on paper" and how the outings were unbelievable and how materialism was affecting me and how I was going through a new car every two years and how I wildly spent everything I made on new suits and new make-up and therapy and how I went to the Canadian Rockies with thirty of my friends and how we all spent crazy amounts of money on food, wine and spa treatments and how I didn't like the person I was becoming and how I knew I needed a major change and how very scared I was of leaving the Bay Area and how I was even more afraid to stay.

And how, at 29 going on 30, I knew that life was going to be different, how it had to be different, how the move to Sacramento was oh-so-lonely but how I felt calmer and how the people I met here were down-to-earth and accepting and how my circle of friends would slowly grow and how the consulting work I was doing would become stifling and how my world would be altered forever with marriage and motherhood in just a couple of short years and how quickly my life in the Bay Area was forgotten and how blessed I was to close one chapter and open several more.

In response to this woman's probing question, I took the easy way out: "Oh, you know, at 29, I was working and having fun. 40 always seemed like a long ways away."

The woman looked at me intently - and with marked curiosity - and then we were interrupted by our children again. And in a way, I was relieved.

It's not that I don't appreciate the experiences that I had in my late 20s and 30s; on the contrary, I believe that the opportunities I had, especially professionally, were nothing short of amazing. I can remember being in many business settings, literally reminding myself that yes, indeed, important people wanted my opinion.

But things have changed so much.

Now, when I think of my career, I think of Ben first. That's why it's so easy for me to imagine myself teaching Pilates for another 3, 5, 11 years.

And when I carefully look at myself today, I see someone who wants to grow, someone who wants a healthy and fulfilling life that is rich in relationships and not necessary in wealth, someone who will make every concession possible to eek out just a few more minutes each day with her son, even if it means that there won't be a corner office, spendy client lunches or a stay at The House of Blues.

Although my convictions are strong on this, it's not always a comfortable topic for me to discuss freely.

So, naturally, after the kids were attended to at the party, I shifted my attention back to the woman and intentionally turned the tables.

"Enough about me," I started. "What do you do?"

"Oh, I'm a therapist," she replied.

Of course. Because no one is that interested in a perfect stranger at a party. And no, I did not save myself hundreds of dollars by monopolizing her time with tales of my divorce, parenting and dating.

But I was tempted.

Hurry Up, Life.

2011-07-22T15:13:00.000-07:00

Recently, it was pointed out to me that I may have less patience than my 7-year-0ld.

Moi? Really?

In fact, I was told that it was an area - this impatience - that I needed to work on.

"But I don't understand," I protested. " I don't push people out of line at the store. I don't drive
aggressively. And I never read the last page of a book before I get there. In fact, I can barely manage the fast forward-ing function on the DVR. It drives my impatient 7-year-old crazy!"

"So," I ventured, "other than wanting to know exactly how my life is going to turn out right now, I have no issues with impatience."

Denial is a lovely thing.

I do admit that I experience impatience at times:

I'm certain that my blood pressure increases when Ben procrastinates at bedtime.
I can't stand loose Legos, our sucky vacuum cleaner (no pun intended) and Molly's hair; the three together are like a daily rite of passage that makes me question why Legos have to be so tiny, why I skimped on an appliance that ultimately would rule my world and why we had to choose "exploding fur dog" as a breed for our household pet.
I have the typical scavenger hunt/obstacle course of lost socks, half-brushed teeth, forgotten lunch money, spilled yogurt and "leave the fur alone on that damn dog right now and get into the car before we are both late for everything," also known as "mornings with small children."

Daily impatience is definitely a part of my world.

After careful consideration, I suppose what I am feeling is global impatience. It's not so much that I tire of the coffee maker's slow pace each morning, it's more about the demands that I place on life to deliver on its promises: a warm and healthy family life, consistently good health and a home that will be ours next week and next year.

Being the spiritual - and religious - gal that I am, I do believe in trusting God for signs and direction. And I also know that patiently waiting for a plan to unfold is much, much smarter than pushing for a hasty - and often messy - outcome.

So it was affirming - and somewhat serendipitous - to open up my workbook of daily "lessons" this morning, and have this passage present itself for today's contemplation:

Or need to control can manifest itself as a need to know what's going on. We cannot always know. The lesson, the purpose, shall reveal itself in time - in its own time. It will all make perfect sense - later.

Today, I will stop straining to know what I don't know, to see what I can't see, to understand what I don't yet understand. Today, I will not be in such a hurry to move on.

Point taken. Adding to this, I will let my son be the impatient one. And maybe by doing this - just maybe - he will actually teach me about patience.

Everything And Nothing.

2011-07-20T16:46:00.000-07:00

For my 200th post, I vacillated about what scintillating topic to write about and I came up with...

nada.

So, to commemorate countless hours of brain downloading on this blog, I'm going to write about what's been going on in our lives for the last six months. Don't hold your breath; it's not all that exciting and really, unless you're a blood relative you may just want to stop right here because - spoiler alert - this might be very boring.

Ben is seven and eight months now. But who's counting? Apparently, he is because the chatter in our house is all about the 8th birthday and whether or not an iPad will make an appearance in his birthday gifts.

His father and I decided that there would be no birthday party this year as we are really, really tired of the birthday excess (mind you, this was a conversation about Ben's birthday, NOT mine).

So since the birthday party is nixed, Ben wants to know if we can apply the birthday party funds to an iPad. His dad's answer was a resounding "N-O" but I'm a little more soft on the subject given the fact that my *second* Acer laptop is about to die.

I thought I had solved the problem free and clear for us, when I suggested that we both forgo Christmas gifts and instead ask for an iPad from the family. This went over like a lead balloon. Ben simply could not fathom the idea of giving up Lego sets from his Grandpa. Suffice to say, we will probably finish out the year with the cranky Acer and maybe Ben will settle on an iTouch.

Now, the reason that the iPad has become so coveted is because the iPhone - my iPhone - is the hottest commodity in our house. Admittedly, I was beyond excited to get the iPhone earlier this year. Elated even.

But then Ben got his little paws on it, and I'm lucky to squeeze a phone call in. Actually, it's not that bad as I limit his usage each day to whatever time I need to get things done without being accompanied from room to room hearing complaints of how boring it is to stay at home and when when when might Angry Birds come out because there are new seasons, new levels, new worlds, all these grand new experiences that enrich Ben's life so very much.

God help me.

All this inactivity certainly isn't stunting Ben's growth or hindering his appetite. He's almost up to my shoulders and he eats twice, sometimes three times as much as me. His new game, anytime I'm sitting on the couch, but especially at bedtime, is to pin me down and keep me there.

And since he's got me beat on physical strength, my only leverage are those damn birds. At 9pm each night - sometimes later - here's the line that gets me an hour or so of uninterrupted adult time: "Benjamin, get off me right now or there will be no Angry Birds tomorrow!" Don't believe me? Ask the neighbors. Ask anyone in Carmichael. They'll tell you.

During the day, Ben is currently going to two camps: golf camp in the morning and day camp (at my club) in the afternoon. You'd think he'd be too tired to hold me down each night in what always results in a major physical tangle (so not my thing!).

Recently, an acquaintance with a 7-year-old daughter used her Facebook status to report the following: "Seven is heaven." Seriously? Because I was thinking that one was heaven. Really. There wasn't all this attitude and brute force. Granted, there were a lot of diapers and sleepless nights but the pay-off of having a sweet baby who would curl up for hours in my arms was well worth all the inconveniences of babyhood. Those days are so gone.

Now my sweet baby boy is tripping me when I walk by him. He plays "chair gymnastics" each night at the dinner table, and I'm certain that he'll split his head open any day now. He won't take a bath unless I bribe him. He gets into my dark chocolate stash. He shoots at me with his Stampede. He plays "fly the ottoman" across the wood floor and smashes into the glass slider repetitively. But he still asks me to cuddle nearly every night, so I guess there's some semblance of heaven here. Oh, and he'll still hold my hand in the parking lot, too. That's heavenly, for sure.

On the subject of heaven, I believe that Ben and I have broken up with my church. It pains me to write this, but, we - or I- am just not fitting in and I think that church is a place where you have to feel welcomed, or at the very least, comfortable. It's not happening. I don't know why. I really hate that I feel this way.

Also on the subject of uncomfortable things, my childhood BFF is moving to Boston. I'm totally crushed, but also elated for her. It's not like I didn't see this coming. She and her husband have maintained a very jet-setty lifestyle of flying back and forth for months and I believe that the breaking point was finally reached. I can't say I blame her: who wouldn't want to trade the Central Valley for downtown Boston?

Nevertheless, I'm still reeling from her news. This is, after all, the girl who picked up the phone at 10pm over eight years ago, when I called with a positive pregnancy test and 1o months later, in the delivery room, exclaimed, "He smiled! I swear, he just smiled at me!" I don't think I can continue on this topic without crying so I'll move on.

Dating. Now there's a happy topic. Not. The general consensus among my friends is is that "it's time for Janeen to start dating again."

Le sigh. Repeat. Repeat.

It's not that I don't want to date, I simply do not know where to begin and I don't think that the answer lies in my computer (ie - Match, eharmony, etc). Soooo, the friends all have other friends who could be potential set-ups. UGH.

God help me. Again. Please.

There's a single dad in my neighborhood. I've known him for nearly five years, maybe more. He's taking the old 'cat and mouse' game to a new level. "Drive by my house," he texts, "and I'll go out and get the mail and we can talk."

Really, God? REALLY? Is this punishment? I'm sorry I broke up with the church. I'll go back.

I think I like my world of Netflix and Molly time better. It's served me well for months. I sleep better in this world and I don't have to worry about blind dates with gills and the single dad who is scared to be seen with me.

I can't believe that dating, at 40, has come to this. Or maybe I can. Because nothing, in the area of my love life, shocks me anymore.

But a routine visit to the doctor does. It's never good when the doctor barrels in to the exam room saying: "Your cholesterol jumped 101 points this year. Your total number is now 301! You're going to die!" Well, he didn't say the last part, but of course that's where my brain went.

Just in case you didn't read that correctly, let me clarify: THREE - OH - ONE!

OH MY FREAKING GOSH.

The doctor went on to explain the breakdown; that the "good" number wasn't good at all, and that the "bad" number was indeed very bad and did I know about oatmeal and vegetables and fiber and nuts and Cholest-Off and heart disease and stroke and clogged arteries? I asked him to please refer to the occupation listed in my chart (that would be "Wellness Consultant") and to kindly get off my back because my favorite relative lived to 93 and had cholesterol in the 300s and no, I do not eat red meat. Or eggs. Or butter.

Needless to say, there is a Lipitor prescription waiting for me in three months if I don't get my numbers down. So now instead of four vegetables a day, I'm eating eight and instead of a small bowl of oatmeal each day, I'm filling a horse trough. And suddenly dating doesn't seem so concerning.

On a final note, after months - and I mean months - of applying, re-applying, begging, and crying, my mortgage file is finally on the desk of an underwriter. What does this mean? It means that I run to my nearest B of A branch at least twice a day with paystubs, W2s, letters from my ex (really!), and bank statements from last week, last year, last decade.

Last night, the underwriter sent a message marked "Urgent" in the middle of dinner. "Urgent" in B of A terms means that someone lost the fax and could I please send it for the 9th time? Now. You can bet that I did not leave my prime seat outdoors at Zocalo's with three of the loveliest ladies I know and excellent conversation about love, sex, Paris and Viagra to attend to B of A's idiot-ness. No way.

Suffice to say, I've had a bit of anxiety as we come into this final step of the modification process. I figure that at best, I could know the outcome in a week or so, but definitely by the middle of August. I guess the situation was easier to stomach before, because I was just another file hanging in limbo, but now there is a very real possibility that we could be packing next month. Everyone keeps asking me if I have a gut feeling of how this will go. I really don't. And maybe that's what makes it so hard.

What also makes it hard is that I've been unable to shield Ben from the process. Each day he asks me what will happen to Molly if we have to move. I think he has overheard too many adult conversations on this topic and given that his love for Molly is so over-the-top right now, her whereabouts is a top priority for him. I don't have an answer for this - obviously - and can only re-assure him that everything will be fine.

So, while we hang out in this weird space of total uncertainty, I'm trying to keep us both busy. Ben has another week of golf and more day camp, and we'll head to my sister's, and also to the beach in the next few weeks. I've found that pool time is great to calm the persistent thoughts and so is time with my wonderful friends. Molly has become a sweet companion when Ben is away, and when the house is quiet, she must sense my need for company because she never leaves my side.

I will be grateful when things are more solid for us. Being on unsteady ground isn't easy, particularly for someone like me who thrives on planning and known outcomes. But, I still hold on to the notion that The Plan is in the works, and that it will unfold in due time on all fronts: with work, our home, health and love.

Often, in the classes I teach I'll play something that comes directly from my heart. Tonight's choice was "Let It Be."

And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be. Let it be.
There will be an answer
Let it be.

I'm letting it be. What other choice do I have?

Alice and Me and the Journey Down The Rabbit Hole

2011-07-07T16:00:00.000-07:00

I've been working on this post for months. Months!! It's been re-written a dozen times. Two dozen times. Too many times. The content has been expanded and altered. I've vacillated between saying too much and saying too little. I've been in that space between "Publish" (Go!) and "Save" (No 'effing way!) nearly every day for the last five months. I'm making myself crazy.

I don't think this post is perfect now, but that's okay. The story is here and it needs to be told and I finally have the courage to do it.

Here goes.

Back in December, I turned 40 with very little fanfare.

I was surrounded by my family. My dad took me for a drink at the same place we celebrated my 21st birthday (The Desert Marriott). We rode the Palm Springs tram. I didn't have a cake. But I did have a deluge of birthday texts and calls. My sister and I laughed so hard that our stomachs hurt. I redeemed my free Starbucks drink for a Venti Cappuccino (low fat, half caff, light foam, extra hot). It felt like it was just the right amount of celebrating. I felt lucky. Grateful. Loved.

And tormented. Conflicted. Scared.

While writing this post, I was reminded of a childhood favorite, "Alice In Wonderland." I've always been fascinated about the rabbit hole experience. It seems to me that the rabbit hole was so symbolic and yet so overlooked. Innocent, pristine and lovely Alice, tumbling into a dark abyss of fright and terror. Such a juxtaposition. And yet a perfect comparison for my own sordid story.

I told everyone that I was gracefully stepping into a new decade. But in reality, I was actually losing my foothold and had been for quite some time. Nothing was eloquent about my transition from 30-something to 40. Nothing at all. In fact, the whole segue way was downright ugly.

But you wouldn't know it. Not by how I looked or what I said. I became extremely practiced in the facade of "everything's fine."

I weathered a tough divorce and my ex still wants me back. But everything's fine.

I can't afford my home anymore and, in fact, I'm months behind on the mortgage. But everything's fine.

I can't sleep at night. I lay awake for hours on end. But everything's fine.

I don't know how to be a "good" single parent; I fear I'm failing my sweet son at every turn. But everything's fine.

My heart was broken in Florida last year and I don't know how to fix it. But everything's fine.

I don't think that God loves me anymore. Why else would my prayers go completely unanswered? But everything's fine.

Nothing was fine. Nothing at all.

On the day of my 40th birthday, I was staring down my own rabbit hole and by January, I was falling into it. Rather quickly.

In another moment down went Alice, never once considering how in the world she was to get out.

The mid-life crisis that everyone warned me about - "You know, Janeen, it's coming. No one makes it to 45 without one"- that midlife crisis, indeed had found me.

And I fell further. And faster.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well.

Despite the rapid descent into an inky black space, I knew exactly when it all came apart and I knew precisely what I had to do. I honestly don't think that there is a better gift from God then the knowing - without a doubt - what your work is and when the time is right to do it. My work was very clear, and the timing was as simple and as urgent as "now."

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for Alice had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything.

When you are falling down something as dark and dirty and dismal as a rabbit hole, there is a horrible sense that you are moving away - very quickly - from everything you knew to be true, everything you knew about peace, resiliency and hope. And even though the fall can seem so very long, there is time, so much time - like Alice explains - to peer around and to not know; and it was in that unknown space where my own fear began to emerge.

I don't want to get into the details. Not yet anyway. We all have financial issues, disappointments in relationships, challenges with our children. Life sometimes feels like a lesson in crisis management, and I believe that it is, to some extent.

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end? `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' Alice said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--.'

The rabbit hole is like a vortex; you quickly lose sight of the light and the journey to the bottom seems so very endless. There isn't room for anyone else in the confines of the rabbit hole. The tunnel is narrow and harrowing and a place that no one else would voluntarily want to be.

Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, when suddenly, thump! thump! down Alice came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.

I too, landed on the bottom - after the longest tumble of my life - and it was only then that I could appreciate the eager, willing and loving hands that would be there to scoop me up. Like Alice, I knew that the most painful part of it all - the fall - was over. I felt the "thud" of my own rock bottom place and when I looked up, there was a circle of people who handed me tissues, who picked up my son from school and who told me that everything would be okay, that it really, really would be.

Now, in the midst of my own personal ascent, I'm realizing the payoffs of simplifying and the rewards of quiet, reflective space.

I've stopped putting pressure on myself to practice my writing, to be at the gym every day and to eat eighteen varieties of fruit and vegetables at every meal. I haven't rolled out my yoga mat in weeks. I'm saying no to most social invitations. I'm avoiding Target. I'm making some new friends who are in similar life situations to mine. I'm letting go of the burning need to accomplish everything and to settle for nothing less than perfect execution.

I'm feeling - at last - a calmer mind, a more settled sense of being. And I'm sleeping. A lot!

But I have a long, long way to go. The rabbit hole has become my own metaphor for strength and resiliency in the darkest of days. This was no mere gopher hole.

It's such a long way, that when I'm closer to my destination, I'm convinced I'll have a story to tell. And although I don't know quite how that story will unfold yet, I do know that I'll want to share the experience.

In the meantime, I know that what I'm doing is going to make me a better mom, sister, daughter and friend. I have all the faith in the world that subtle shifts turn into big changes and that every day and every moment of progress equals big steps toward becoming the person I want to be. I believe that God has a hand in all miracles and that I'm witnessing my own. And it will be amazing.

Indeed, year 40 will go down as one that is permanently etched in my memory. It will be the year of sisterhood between Alisa and me. That part is way overdue, yet so very welcomed. It will be the year that Ben saw me the least. That's the part I grapple with most. But there is so much goodness, so much truth to be had on the other side. And my Mom is an awesome stand-in for me.

Now I can look up to the small space where light sparingly peers its way into the rabbit hole and there is solace in the sweet glimmer of of its rays. I'm coming into the warmth. It's closer - every day the narrow space becomes a little wider and I'm starting to believe that the way out is right before my eyes. I just keep looking for the light.

And then Alice opened a secret door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: and she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw.

PS - If you got this far in the post, congratulations! And thanks for hanging in. The next post - my 200th - will be lighter in nature, I promise.

Mea Culpa, Mom

2011-01-06T17:42:00.000-08:00

My mom has always told me, "Kids take their moms for granted."

She's never stated this in a discouraged or disappointed way; it's more matter-of-fact, as in: "this is how it is and not only am I OK with it, I'll also never complain about it." And she never does.

Because that's the type of person she is.

My sister and I can emotionally throw-up all over her and my mom will be there, holding the space and offering empathy. We can toss just about anything at her - and we have.

Because that's the type of person she is.

My mom can babysit for hours on end and never once turn on the television or resort to the Nintendo player. Instead, she'll bust out every crafty thing imaginable and have Ben collecting leaves and rocks. She's better at getting Ben to do homework than I am and she's quick to volunteer to drive across town to retrieve him from school so that I can have a little downtime at home.

Because that's the type of person she is.

Our dog is forever bonded to my mom because she is the one who walks her every day. She also dog sits when I'm gone overnight and I so don't deserve this but she also treats the dog's ears and picks up the dog poop.

Really. Because that's the type of person she is.

On Friday mornings, I usually hear the garbage trucks rumble by and sit straight up in bed, panicked. Then, I remember that I have no reason to panic because my mom always drags the cans to the curb on Thursday nights.

Yes, she does. She really does.

When I optimistically plant a garden in the Spring months, my mom is the one who waters the whole project all summer. I also catch her vacuuming on occasion and she has a real penchant for Cloroxing my sinks. And if you ever have a moth problem in your kitchen, my mom's your girl. She knocked out a whole colony for me. Twice. It was pretty remarkable.

Because that's the type of person she is.

I get headaches. A lot. My mom brings over medicine, she cares for Ben, she makes food. Last month, when I missed the school holiday performance, my mom took the treats I had made to the classroom and stayed for the show - in my place.

Because that's the type of person she is.

A busy month like December means that there is constant movement and quite a bit of chaos in the background. Ben needed to be watched when I rushed off to my birthday dinner. He wanted constant entertainment on cold weekend days when I had stacks of cards to address and piles of gifts to wrap. The Christmas tree would still be standing in my front window had my mom not stepped in, with Ben's assistance, and dismantled the whole thing while I closed the books on my business for the year.

Because that's the type of person she is.

I should have done a little shout-out to my mom in the previous post because most of December would not have been possible without her. Right up until the last day of the year, when she came over to help with Ben before she volunteered at a homeless dinner, her presence gave me just a few short hours to begin the conversion of a new invoicing system.

In the midst of my divorce, I never would have imagined the crushing responsibilities associated with maintaining an older home, running a small, service-oriented business, carting a child to and from an out-of-the-way school and still carving out time for everyone to have a good meal, clean clothes and a little fun once in a while. The daily tasks are still daunting and only do-able with the extra set of hands that belong to my mother. She is, indeed, the backbone of this whole operation.

So, I'll say it now and I'll keep it simple:

You rock, Mom. You really do. I couldn't do all that I do without you. It just wouldn't work. I may always take you for granted, a little, but I'll always appreciate you - more than you'll ever know.

Thank you for being the village that we desperately need. You do it so very well.

Love,
jan.

Blessed January

2011-01-01T14:19:00.000-08:00

Hello, New Year's Day. You have no idea how glad I am to see you. Not that the last two weeks weren't brilliantly fun, but I am toast. Supremely exhausted. Genuinely and positively wasted.

You did this to me, December.

All fatigue aside for a moment, I want to re-cap the last two weeks of the year because they were, despite all the chaos, perhaps the greatest two weeks ever.

In the middle of the month, my girlfriends threw their annual birthday dinner party for me. I am wickedly lucky - I know - to have a group of lovely, lovely friends who plan this for me especially during the busy month of December. The food is always yummy, the wine is great and they bring extremely thoughtful gifts. Having spent my entire life with a birthday that's completely overshadowed by Christmas, I'm always moved by the generosity of my girlfriends. I'll say it again: I am oh-so-very lucky!

The weekend before Christmas, I celebrated a high school friend's 40th birthday at a winery in Livermore. We played bocce ball, drank wine and lamented the fact that we're all "on deck" for the 40 club. My childhood girlfriend came with me and we took an entire day to shop in Pleasanton, while my dad and stepmom took care of Ben. It was a great time.

The week before Christmas started with opening a big Nordstrom box containing the Uggs that I wanted. They are even better in person. I still don't feel deserving of such a great gift.
Following the Uggs was a deluge (really!) of sweet gifts from my clients. I never, ever expect presents from any of my clients and when they come bearing gifts at this time of the year, I'm always taken completely aback at their generosity. The gifts ranged from a massage certificate to a Costco sized bottle of really good vodka. Did my holiday stress really show that much?? What always touches me is the gifts that come for Ben. (Those do not include the vodka! Or the masssage, for that matter).

I started my vacation mid-week with Ben which made for uninterrupted reading, drawing and movie time. The morning of Christmas Eve was perhaps the best day with hours of pajama time, opening a few client gifts and enjoying the anticipation of Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, we went to Mass with friends (their child was singing in the service) and then had dinner at their home. Ben set a new record among the kids by wolfing down two whole burgers (buns and all) and asking for more. God help me when we get to age 10. What's next? Three burgers??

Late on Christmas Eve, Ben set out chocolate chips for Santa and I worked hard to draft a letter "from" Santa, explaining the issue of traveling on Christmas morning and the whereabouts of our gifts. The letter, I have to say, was quite good. All bases were covered.

Early Christmas morning, Ben awoke to chocolate chips scattered all over the living room, his letter from Santa and two gifts to open. He read the letter carefully - eyes widening with every word - and he bought it all: hook, line and sinker. Even the part about Molly eating most of the chocolate chips. We then set off for Palm Springs.

One airport shuttle, one ride on the (very full) airplane, one trek in the rental van (with a few tears from the backseat) and six hours later, we were, at last, in sunny Palm Springs.

We were joined the next day by my brother, my sister, her husband and his mother. I hardly ever get to see my brother. He lives in Orange County and I adore him.

In just a few short days, we managed to go to Christmas services, shop, walk the desert, go up the tram - hike a bit - and then come down, shop some more, celebrate my birthday, dip into the cookies - the cake - the wine - the chocolates - the vodka, drive to Joshua Tree National Park for a hike, open gifts, shop again, open more gifts, and return to the site of my first "legal drink with my dad: the Marriott.

I also opened my second pair of Uggs. Thank you, Alisa!!

The addition of my sister's mother-in-law was seamless and welcomed. She took care of Ben in the early morning hours so that I could sleep in, she cooked my birthday dinner and she told us how much she loved our family. We rode back to the airport, wedged into the back of my sister's Acura. The entire way, Ben leaned into her. When we arrived home, Ben asked me to guess who is new favorite person was. I didn't have to; I already knew that she had won him over and vice versa. We love you, I. You are our family. Please come again.

It was indeed a great trip, thanks to my Dad and to my stepmom and to everyone who made the long journey to the desert. The best birthday celebration ever. In retrospect, I think that everyone should be lucky enough to have a 40th birthday celebration like mine. I will always treasure the memories from my 40th. Thank you again, Dad. Let's go back to the Marriott in another 10. In the meantime, we have your now infamous birthday comment about getting the dog's "claws trimmed" or as you said it: "the dog needs her traws climmed!"

Ben and I ended our month, and our year together with my stepmom and her family. We were invited, or we invited ourselves - not sure which - to their home in North Sacramento for a traditional New Year's dinner of posole. Posole is a stew that cooks for hours. It is a basic, yet very core part of Hispanic celebrations. We enjoyed the company of my stepmom's extremely gracious family and we were home by 10pm and asleep by 10:30pm.

At midnight, I woke up to what sounded like the entire neighborhood setting off every explosive imaginable, but I'm sure it was all contained in my neighbor's - the Griwalds - yard. To my own surprise, I was supremely pissed off at the racket.

I really must be old.

Lastly, I have dozens of photo files to upload and download and unload. Our time in Palm Springs was well documented by everyone but me and I'm anxious to share the images from our trip.

But first, I need a nap.

Happy New Year!

Damn You, December

2010-12-22T21:36:00.000-08:00

As per its usual course, the month of December is kicking my ass.

This year it's a little more intense because my ex "gifted" me an extra twenty-three days with Ben. Not that I mind the extra time with my son. However...

Ben is totally amped out over Christmas, even more so than in years past. He is incessantly dipping into extra Advent calendar candies and into my own private stash of Hershey kisses. He's also ripping into my coveted Christmas cards the second the mail comes through the mail slot and he manages to tear at least two-thirds of the cards before I even see them.

"Who's that in the picture?" I'll ask. "I don't know; I ripped their head/heads off," Ben informs me.

Grrrrrr.

As for other fun December antics, Ben's already peeked into his stocking when he thought I wasn't looking and when I offered to pay him to help wrap client gifts, he spent the better part of three hours crouched behind the couch - sniper style - aiming the Nerf gun at me. At my butt, to be more precise. And then he wondered where his payment was once I finished wrapping twenty-three presents. When I denied him payment, he shot the dog. In the butt, of course.

Tonight, he's threatening to sneak out of bed and eat all the Advent candy. And if I hear the words Nerf Stampede Gun (which is an extreme upgrade from his current Nerf gun) one more time, I swear I'm going open up all the wine in the house and drink steadily until December is over and that's a lot of wine: I'm well stocked.

Yay, Christmas. How I've missed you.

My family and friends know that I can't stand the holidays.

Christmas went south for me back in my early 20s when I had a relationship with someone whose family glorified the gifts to no end. I never recovered.

But now, since I have a kid, I can't get all Grinch-y every year.

So I drag the tree out of the rafters right after Thanksgiving and make a big fuss over the ornaments and then we make cookies and gingerbread houses and this year, a giant gingerbread man, and I make a fuss out of how creative my child is when in actuality I know he's going to be sneaking bites out of all the culinary projects and we'll all suffer from the imminent sugar highs and lows.

I send out 75 Christmas cards and then freak out because once again, I don't have enough. I take Ben to see Santa and wait in a long, ghetto mall line and pay too much for a picture. I agonize over what to buy my ex "from Ben" and open his gift to me "from Ben" (to me) before Christmas to get an idea of what to spend and then hurriedly re-wrap the gift so Ben doesn't notice. I worry about Ben getting too many presents because last year was a complete fiasco and I had a wickedly spoiled child on my hands come January.

And for what? To commemorate Christ's birth? I do that quite well on my own, during every month of the year thankyouverymuch. If anything, the consumerism and sheer excess in December detracts me from the essence of the season and that realization puts me in a very bad mood.

Over the Thanksgiving weekend, I stayed at my dad's and went shopping on Black Friday with my stepmom. We left the house at 4am, something I vowed I'd never do. Admittedly, the ads sucked me in.

It was a manic experience, to say the least. So manic, in fact, that I got a make-over at the Clinique counter at 5:30am (hey, a full face of make-up is always great on Black Friday!) and I bought two pairs of leggings, three shirts, a sweater and a skirt. All this for the girl who could give the Kardashians a run for their money in the clothes department. But hey, it was Black Friday; the motto for the day being: "More! More! Even More!"

I wound up taking half the shit back the following week. Because Black Friday is a big seduction for evil December. Yuck.

Well, apparently that's what my body thought too because as soon as we came home from our manic shopping trip, my body was burning with hives. And so it went into December. Shopping = itching. Wrapping = more itching. Merely flipping the switch for the tree lights each morning caused my body to immediately flush.

The Urgent Care doctor said to wash everything in the house with special detergent, change to Ivory soap, lay off the scented lotions and perfumes. To no avail. Itch, scratch, itch. Steroid pills. Steroid injections. Bendadryl around the clock. Good times.

You did this to me, Black Friday. I know you did.

So last week I saw a third doctor who is sending me to an allergist. The allergist is a friend of the doctor, who made a special call on my behalf, and of course he's not on my insurance plan

Because it's December and I'm cursed.

My theory is this: I'm allergic to Christmas and to the entire month of December. How else can the sudden onset of itching hell on Black Friday be explained?

I'm envisioning the prescription to be something along the lines of:

Patient must refrain from most holiday related activities including, but not limited to:

Stringing lights on her house (like I would ever do this anyway, I've got tacky neighbors who put enough crap up for our entire block)

Destroying her kitchen with homemade cookies (yes, that happened last weekend with Ben; don't let the 7-year-old loose with the flour)

Battling long lines at Wal Mart (I only went because I was desperate for Benadryl, but then I saw the brown leggings and the matching shirt and the sale on Weight Watchers frozen entrees).

Patient may steal Advent candy from her child's calendar on the days that the child is with his dad (great, that gives me two whole candies).

Patient may also dip into wine that is otherwise reserved for client gifts (started that on Dec 1)

Patient is excused from all holiday parties (there were none to put on the calendar anyway) and also from constructing a gingerbread house that caves in immediately upon completion (it's a yearly tradition, and an annual meltdown).

Why? Why do we do this to ourselves? Help me understand. What happened to the quiet, peaceful, somber spirit of the manger and the clear, starry night, and the wismen and the advent of new life? Now all the advent that's celebrated in our house is the daily fight over 5am Advent candy. And it's not even that good.

Come January, I'll have gained several pounds from the discarded gingerbread walls and the copious amounts of wine (but not from the Advent candies). We'll have a tree that hangs out in our living room far past its welcome. I'll still be apologizing to the friends who didn't get our Christmas cards.

All the while trying to discern our friends' identities from the headless Christmas cards. (And those of you who used Shutterfly or Tiny Prints totally wasted your money at this address. Just so you know).

The horrific gifts will go into the horrific gift box, otherwise known as The New Client Welcome Kit. Ben will shoot the dog with his new Stampede gun and I'll take "that damn gun" away for a week. He'll shoot me and I'll roll my eyes and wait for the next dart. I'll dip into his college fund for the fourteen "D" batteries required to fuel "that damn gun." We'll all suffer from my anti-carb diet.

Ah yes, this is what is known as The Christmas Hangover.

Last week, Ben began his daily plea for a dreidel and I couldn't be happier. Judaism, at least during the holidays, is looking pretty good. We'll light a candle each night, open a dollar store gift and eat matzoh ball soup. F the tree, the lights, the POS gingerbread house, the overpriced toys and the neighbors who think they're the Griswald family.

I know my mom and my sister will be on board. They both recently said, "Christmas should only come around every four years."

God bless my family. They are so smart and logical. Mazel tov. Or whatever.

If this were to happen - this Christmas every four year thing - my skin would "cool down" (as the dermatologist says), my jeans would fit all month, my son wouldn't whine and I might even enjoy the tacky lights and the annoying music. I could even be convinced to bring a dead tree in and let it shed, along with the dog, all over my living room.

In the meantime, word from the North Pole is that there isn't one Stampede en route for Ben. No, there's two which means someone should shoot me now.

Oy vey.

Coveting

2010-12-11T15:35:00.001-08:00

When one of my clients walked into to my home wearing these last week, I knew I'd found the perfect boot. It's hard to believe that Ugg makes these and it's also hard to believe that merely seeing this style actually took me to a whole new level of Ugg obsession.

The same client who owns these fabulously stylish boots also accidentally forgot to take her very expensive and also fabulously stylish black BCBG coat after our session a couple of weeks ago. I can't say how it happened, but that lovely BCBG coat made an appearance in our Christmas card photos. It is likely the most expensive coat I'll ever be photographed in.

I can only hope that she'll forget her boots one day...

What A Pro Can Do

2010-12-09T20:42:00.000-08:00

More to come. :)

Santa, Santa...

2010-12-09T19:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa

We're not even within the 12 Days of Christmas window and you're already getting my orders all screwed up.

Let's review for a moment.

First, I said "Prius," not "printer." There's a huge difference, like to the tune of $24,929. Yes, I know that my HP was a POS (that's 'piece of shit' in case you don't know the lingo up in the Northern areas) and really, the Dell is quite nice and once I figure out how to work it, I'm sure I'll appreciate its scanning, copying and otherwise "office-y" functions. But let's get back to the Prius. Say it with me: Prius.

I also told you that I wanted Botox injections. Lots of them. What I did not want were steroid injections. In my ass, nonetheless.

So while we're on the subject of the steroids, please bring several containers of the uber-expensive detergent that I've had to use to launder every piece of fabric in this house since I am apparently allergic to cheap detergent. Then, maybe I can lay off the prednisone for awhile.

In the meantime, I'm going to need an entire new wardrobe to accommodate for the steroid puffiness (read: weight gain).

Also, please include several bottles of high grade vodka and some nice red wine. The doctor said that alcohol consumption might help with the crankiness associated with prednisone. I think he meant "daily" consumption.

That 24 Hour Fitness membership from Costco would sure help out too, both with the mood and the ever-expanding butt.

I also think that a pair of UGGs are certainly well-deserved after the bout with endless itching, especially since my feet are the only parts of my body that haven't suffered the prednisone aftermath.

On a good note, my Blackberry has been well behaved lately and only malfunctions when I try to use the camera. You can still bring any of the Droids though.

Lastly, can you please visit the Home Retention Department at Bank of America and lavish the employees there with expensive gifts? Lots of them? Maybe then, I'll have a chance of getting someone on the phone who doesn't blow me off or cut me off or transfer me to an innocuous department like "Simple Assumptions" or my own personal favorite, "Quantifiable Assumptions." Obviously those folks need some serious cheer. Although they clearly need more of the year-round variety.

In closing, I'd like to reiterate that I've been very good this year. I haven't gossiped past 10pm each day, I haven't been unkind to my mother except for my daily impatience, I haven't let Ben play too much Nintendo but we won't mention the TV hours, I've been to church twice since the summer, and I've made a marked effort to stay in better touch with my friends through texting and Facebook-ing.

Yours truly,
Janeen.

Three Girls, Two Boys and One Seinfeld Moment

2010-11-23T12:10:00.000-08:00

Three girls go into their favorite neighborhood bar on a Friday night.

Two of the girls are sisters. The sisters are both married. The third girl is not.

The girls sit at the bar and sip cocktails. Eventually, they have dinner.

The bartenders joke about "the great view at the end of the bar," referencing the two (gorgeous) sisters and, perhaps their single friend who the girls have dubbed "our cousin."

The girls are flattered by the attention.

Two guys walk in and sit kitty-corner to the girls. One is wearing a baseball cap (this is a critical piece of the story).

The single girl tells her friends that she has seen one of the guys in the bar before; in fact, she remembers him from last summer because he is tall and cute and he has a great smile. She is referring the guy without the baseball hat.

The married girls encourage the single girl to make eye contact. "Five seconds minimum!" they say.

But the single girl is somewhat shy in these types of scenarios and can't even muster up the courage to look over for one second.

Time passes and two of the girls have children to tuck in, so they settle up their tab and start to make their way toward the door (which is around the corner from the bar).

The girls notice that the guys are finishing their drinks and also paying the check.

The married girlfriends tell the single girl that the tall, cute guy has watched their single friend make her way out of the bar area. "He even turned around in his chair," they add.

The girls pause at the restroom and one goes inside while the other two brainstorm ideas for meeting the mystery guy.

It is decided that the most outgoing of the three girls will go back to the bar and ask the bartender what the story is on the tall, cute guy. The single girl does not volunteer herself for this task.

The two girls wait near the restroom for their courageous friend, and as they are waiting, the two guys emerge from the bar area together and leave the building.

The third girl then returns. "Yes, he's single," she confirms.

But the guys have already left so there's nothing to do except for button up coats, pull out umbrellas and leave.

As the girls are moving toward the exit door, the tall, cute guy runs back in.

The girls smile at him. He pauses for a moment and says, "Ummm, this is kind of awkward but the bartender told me that one of you is interested in my friend."

The girls look at each other in confusion. "The guy with the hat?" they ask.

"Yes," tall, cute guy confirms.

The girls can't contain their laughter.

Tall, cute guy doesn't understand.

The girls look at one another. Who is going to break the news?

The single girl steps up. "Wrong guy," she says.

Tall, cute guy looks around at the girls.

"Well, this is awkward," he says again.

The girls burst into more giggles, as tall, cute guy look begins to look more perplexed.

Finally, one of the girls makes an indication that the single girl is the one who is interested. Something is said about exchanging phone numbers but there isn't a pen or paper available, so single girl blushes eighteen shades of red and fumbles for a business card.

Tall, cute guy says goodnight and leaves the building, with the intent of breaking the news to his buddy that the single girl isn't in fact interested in him at all.

But that doesn't quite happen.

Two of the girls dash to the single girl's car in the pouring rain. Single girl turns on her car.

Both girls notice a guy running quickly to single girl's car. The guy is wearing a baseball hat.

The girls look at each other. What do do?

Being the ever pleasant girl that she is, single girl rolls down her window and says hello.

Baseball cap guy wastes no time. "The bartender said you are interested in me."

The girls look at each other. Married girl falls silent. It's all on the single girl.

Single girl starts with "don't take this the wrong way." She goes on to stammer about a small misunderstanding at the bar. She apologizes fifty-four times and wonders if this story will best be told in the beginning, middle or end of her forthcoming book on dating at 39.

As baseball cap guy walks away, deflated, single girl looks at her married girlfriend who apologizes profusely for not speaking up. She only has to say one word: "awkward" and the girls are regaled with laughter, again. Same story the next day when they exchange text messages with the subject of "awkward."

So what happens next? Single girl goes home with one of the married girls to have cookies and say hello to her children. She then goes home to read to her own child and slip him two cookies in bed. The other married girl picks up single girl for a yoga class in the morning. All the girls finish their weekends, respectively, and vow to go out again soon with their new "cousin." The Friday night story is re-told among their circles of friends and serves as good material for single girl's blog.

THE END.

40 to 40

2010-11-17T14:36:00.000-08:00

I will be 40 years old in 40 days.

A few months ago, I had ambitious plans for my "countdown to 40." I thought I would attend a yoga class each day - even on Thanksgiving and Christmas. I planned on meeting a different friend every day for coffee or drinks. I even conjured up ideas of attacking my stack of books, and completing one each week.

That is so not going to happen - none of it.

Instead, I likely have 40 days to figure out where Ben and I will be living after the first of the year since Bank of America refuses to help me keep this house. There are a lot of layers to that problem, including the studio I use for clients, the dog that we love and the simple fact that this house has been home to us for all of Ben's childhood years.

I hate you, B of A. I really, sincerely do.

On a lighter note, I saw that Time magazine printed its "Most Influential 30 under 40" list and I noted - with disappointment - that I wasn't on it. Now it's safe to say that regardless of what amazing invention I come up with or how outstanding my forthcoming literary piece will be, I won't be on it next year. Or any year. Because I'll be in the "over 40" club. Where we wear Uggs and shoot up our faces with Botox and exercise like demons so that we can look like we're still in the "under 40" club.

Dear God, help me. I am not accepting this aging thing well. And I really hope I get a pair of Uggs for my birthday.

As I count off the days to 40, I've also given some considerable thought to my career path, including lots of online research on potential jobs that work with a wacky custody schedule and daily commutes to Fair Oaks for school and sports activities. It's shocking what I've come up, given that none of the professions I've researched actually take into account my degree.

Even more shocking (and depressing) is the fact that the jobs that do require a Marketing degree are gone. At one point a MBA might have been a good idea but opportunities at that level have disappeared, too. At least in Sacramento, that is.

I like what I do. It works for me. And for Ben, too. I don't want to give it up. Not just yet.

So really, there's not much to do except to sit back and let things unfold as they're supposed to.

That means, it's 40 days of being quiet, being contemplative, being thoughtful. Which is what I've been trying to do lately anyway.

I read a great article by Martha Beck, one of my favorite authors. She wrote a recent column about what to do when you have have no idea what to do. Her advice was simple, straightforward: "When nothing's working, do nothing." I am really good at doing everything and in the last couple of months, I've noticed that when I've slowed down to the point of doing nothing - or almost nothing - everything in my being seems to come down a few notches. And that's when things begin to get clear.

I've promised myself that for the next 40 days, I'm going to continue to do nothing more than I really have to - which, during the holiday season, should prove to be a huge challenge - in the hopes that I can start the new decade and the new year with some much-needed clarity.

But don't count me out completely. I'm always up for yoga, a cappuccino or wine!

And, I Quote...

2010-10-27T05:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it's nice to sit back and observe what everyone else is saying. Which is what I've been doing a lot of lately.

Here are just a handful of comments - those that I'm allowed to write, that is - to catch you up on our what's happening in our lives:

Oh yeah, and it's 4am. Anybody else anxious about anything???

Last month we had a get together at my dad's house. I can't divulge everything from that day but I could write an essay about the politics that flew back and forth during dinner (Meg vs Jerry), (my dad vs. NPR), etc. But the best comment was from my mother when I jokingly tucked my hair into a Raquel Welch-style wig:

"Wow, that hairstyle really brings out your nose!" My nose? Perfect. That's exactly the part of my face that I want people to notice as I march on up to 40. At least she didn't mention my wrinkles.

Because my dad did. "That wig takes 10 years off your face. Have you thought about Botox? It's supposed to help with migraines."

Ouch. Isn't 40 supposed to be the new 30?

Well, maybe so. Because just last month at the O.A.R. concert, I met a fun guy who danced and sang with me for most of the concert. Then the lights came on. And he was young. Like, dangerously young. *After* I gave him my card, (he was cute and a huge fan, after all), I asked his age. "I'm (insert absurdly young age here)." I was horrified. And flattered.

Back to the concert for a sec. I saw O.A.R. twice on this tour and I'd give almost anything to see them a third time. During both sets, they sang about God during the refrain of the chorus of the best concert song of all time -"Crazy Game of Poker:"

"May God be with me. May He watch over me." Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Which enforces my belief that if music is indeed spiritual, God should be mentioned once in a while. In a reverent way. In a compelling way. Thank you for nailing it, O.A.R. I'll marry any of you. Tomorrow.

We had a parent-teacher-child conference last month. The teacher pulled up a chair for Ben. Academically, Ben is doing great, however there were a couple of behavioral issues that she wanted to discuss. She engaged Ben in the discussion and had him sign the progress report. She then looked him square in the eye and said, "I'm only doing this because I love you, Ben." Straight and to the point. It's our second year with her and I'm eternally grateful for the compassion that shines through her no-nonsense ways. We are damn lucky. A teacher who brings the hammer down and shows some heart all at the same time? We'll take her through high school.

On a lighter note, my dog might win the prize for most lethargic Lab of all time. A client said it best: "My fish has more energy than Molly." Her fish probably sheds a whole lot less too.

While at a client's home on Halloween night, her hyper and heavy black Lab - Hank - jumped into my lap. "You have a calming effect on him," she said. I refrained from saying, "I'm truly not a dog person and I only keep Molly for Ben and Hank must sense that I am really mellow from that bottle of wine that we just consumed."

"Oh, were you waiting for this (insert exercise equipment name here)?" My ever constant experience at the gym, waiting on the 88-year-olds to finish their leg presses, their hammer curls and their hamstring extensions, while they read their magazines, their novels and their newspapers. I need that 24 Hour Club membership. Soon.

"That's depressing." My comment to no one after finally yanking out every last false eyelash and seeing the final result. So much for va-va-voom eyes.

"That's really depressing." Same comment, much more emphatic, earlier in the day at my doctor's office, during the weigh in. Wasn't I just wearing Victoria Sercret bikinis a couple of months ago?

"Welcome to 40," the nurse replied.

"eharmony died." My update to my mother as to the status of my online dating. The service may as well have died; I haven't had a good match in weeks.

And even more shocking: "I don't really care."

With apologies to all our little friends and the moms, Ben's favorite line from his Halloween book is, "My mom's gonna whup your butt." Yep, that's "whup" and not "whip." He can't stop saying it.

But in all fairness, any child who frequents the McDonalds on Watt Avenue is bound to say something equivalent or even worse so I'm taking myself off the hook here. Besides, it's the cutest book. Really.

Now the You Tube video that we accidentally stumbled on, while looking for dancing skeletons, I take full responsibility for. Achmed the Skeleton Terrorist is definitely not appropriate for the first grade crowd. I promise that Ben didn't watch much.

As we waited last Saturday for the soccer game status (it was raining), Ben tells me, "I don't like soccer. I don't like baseball either. Don't tell Daddy. When can I do golf?" Greeeaaatttttt. Then, a 45 minute drive across town so that we could trek through the mud. Ben ran half-heartedly towards the ball with his stellar team that's been moved up in their division. He repeatedly kicked the ball the wrong way and only showed any excitement when the half-time snacks came out. With apologies to my friends who love team sport participation at this age, I'm so over it.

Since I didn't have Ben for Halloween this year, I took him to an art gallery for Dio De Los Muertes. We went after school - to a gallery downtown - then had yogurt and stopped at the play structure at McKinley Park. When we returned home, I started to put away the decorations from Halloween. Bad idea. "DON'T TAKE THE SKELETONS AWAY! I LOVE THE SKELETONS! I WANT THEM TO STAY OUT ALL YEAR LONG!"

The skeleton obsession has continued with refusal to wear anything to bed or to play that does not have a bone on it. We are talking t-shirts, pajamas, hats, gloves, you name it. While clad in the skeleton gear, one of Ben's favorite expressions has become, "My bones are clattering!" He does a little shimmy and shake and it's really, really funny.

At our play group this week, Ben interacted more with an electronic dancing skeleton than any of the children. The skeleton had bright red eyes, grinding hips and sang one Ricky Martin song. "Do you think anyone would notice if we snuck him into our car?" Ben asked.

God help me. And I thought that the Dio De Los Muertes exhibit was a good idea. Is it just me or is seven a really weird age?

I've saved some of the best for last.

My own personal favorite quote from the ex: "I fell into the greatest, sweetest deal. I couldn't pass it up. I'm taking Ben to one, no wait, I mean two Giants championship games. He only has to miss three days of school. It's such an amazing deal, I just can't pass it up."

Followed by Ben's summary of the experience, upon returning home: "Don't tell Daddy but I think that baseball is boring. When can we go to Fairy Tale town again?"

The ex struck again, a few days later: "I just bought a new SUV. No, I didn't sell the new Mini Cooper. Or the dead Corvette. But I got the greatest deal on the SUV..."

I just came off a 9 day stint with Ben because the ex was away. Ben's behavior tends to get a bit, shall we say, challenging, during these times. I don't think I've ever heard as many loud sighs or watched the eyes roll back in exasperation as I did in the last week. But the best - or worst - was Ben's response to my third request to "get your shoes on and get in the car before we're late for school." He looked me square in the eye (how often does that happen with a 7-year-old boy?) and said:
"BLAH BLAH BLAH, MOMMY!"

I can't tell you what happened next because CPS is probably lurking nearby. Rest assured, Ben's punishment was swift and severe and he will not be "blah blah blah-ing" me, or anyone else, for that matter anytime soon. He was also late for school because recovery from said punishment was not quick. Or easy. For either of us.

But I do think that at seven, it's still sweet that he calls me "Mommy."

And I'm also becoming concerned with the frequency of the "Don't tell Daddy but..." statements. I guess that means Ben trusts me. But I need him to trust his dad too.

Finally, I am pulling a little rank around here as the tides seem to be turning, with regards to Ben's affection. "I love you more than I love Molly," he announced last week. After two years of practically giving his heart to that damn dog, Ben has seen the light when in fact, I am the one who buys the Cheetos, organizes the play dates, gives in to the Lego purchases and allows for "just one more" book before bed. He quickly clarified by saying, "But I only love her a little bit more and I only love her more on some days."

And there you have it.

Free Range At Fairy Tale Town

2010-10-15T20:02:00.001-07:00

I'm not supposed to be blogging. But I did something really cool with Ben yesterday and I wanted to share the experience.

Last year, a controversial book called "Free Range Kids" came out and boy, did it stir up a media frenzy. Basically, the gist of the book is that we are hovering way too much over our children, and denying them the independence and autonomy that they need to grow into self-reliant adults. I believe the term "wimpy" was used, in regards to how kids today are turning out.

Ouch.

But what really got the media's attention was this:

The author put her 9-year-old child on the NYC subway. Alone.

But she did it carefully and strategically and with a good, solid plan. A lot of parents called her out as being negligent. "The Worst Mom of All Time" was her identity among some camps. She appeared on all the major news networks. Time Magazine picked up the story as its cover feature. I should know, my own dad bought me a copy and told my mother to make sure that I read it.

I did read it, and I agree very much with the author's position. In fact, if we had a reliable public transportation system, I'd probably empower Ben - in a few years - to ride downtown. Alone. But we don't, and that's a whole other issue.

So yesterday, another mom friend and I took our kids to Fairy Tale Town, which is a lovely and delightful park here in Sacramento. It is entirely gated and geared toward small children. In fact, adults who try to enter the park without a child are denied entry. I should know - Ben rode with the other mom and I met them inside the park. But not before I could prove that I indeed had a child who was waiting on the other side of the gate.

My friend, who has also followed the Free Range parenting concept, suggested that we let the boys (who are the same age) "do their own thing." With a couple of rules: don't go out the turn styles and check in with us periodically.

I had no idea how this was going to go because Ben has been dealing with some pretty significant issues around separation and just last week, had a minor panic attack when he discovered that I had left the house (I was pulling the trash cans to the curb). Nevertheless, I have encouraged Ben for a long time to explore the world on his own, even during those moments when he so clearly needed me to be in clear and constant site.

Contrary to what my dad might believe, I am not a helicopter parent. Nor do I want to be. Ben gets enough hover time from the adults in his life. More than enough.

Fairy Tale Town isn't Disneyland but it's not your average park, either. Most of the time, the boys were in places where we couldn't see them. Doing God knows what. But having a great time, nonetheless.

The "experiment" went beautifully. The two times that I checked in, they were obviously loving their new-found independence. At one point the other boy told me, "Ben got a little nervous a couple of times but I calmed him down."

I loved that.

Because, beyond the freedom that they experienced during our time at the park, the boys were also able to communicate with each other about their own perceptions of the experience.

Not once did Ben cry.

This victory from the child who, just days ago, freaked out in the Trader Joe's aisle, while getting his own sample, because, "I need to see you all the time, Mommy!"

I know a lot of moms - and I do mean a lot - who would not be on board with the "cut the kids loose" idea. Not even at our innocent little slice of paradise called Fairy Tale Town.

But it worked for me and it worked for my child. And I'll do it again, hopefully soon.

Of course, it goes without saying that this is just one more sign that my young child is getting older and gaining more confidence and will eventually not need me at all when he goes off to play.
I'm fine with that. I'm more than fine with that; I'm happy about that.

But this is also one more sign that Ben is on his way to being a self-assured boy who can navigate his own way through a very scary world. And I'm very, very happy about that.

The Great Big Blog Break-Up. And The Little Birthday List.

2010-10-08T13:02:00.000-07:00

I so love to be dramatic.

No, I am not breaking up with my blog but I am stepping away from it for awhile to focus on "other projects." The blog and I are going by way of Ross and Rachel: "We were on a break!"

To be clear, "other projects" does not including dating (here or in Florida), changing my hair color (although I'm tempted), getting a tattoo (not tempted at all) or promoting the release of my long awaited book: "How To Not Screw Up a 7-Year-Old While Having Some Semblance of a Swanky, Yet Sleep Deprived Life."

Actually, the reality is that I DO have too many projects to focus on and not enough time. Starting with continuing education, which hasn't been so continuous lately. And the broken garage door. And the leaking roof. And keeping my house despite multiple failed attempts to convince B of A that I'm an ideal candidate for a loan modification. And creating a web site (because everyone says I need one). And spending some time in my son's classroom. And keeping up with all those Facebook posts, pictures and messages.

But before I sign off for awhile, there are a few things that you should know:

First, Ben turned 7 last week.

I cried. A lot. I say this all the time: his childhood is going too fast. It was a quiet birthday; we had nacho cheese sauce, eaten on the couch, in front of a Mario DVD. We both were coming down with colds. After I put him to bed, I noticed a giant arrangement of skeleton cupcakes on the front porch. My friends do the kindest things. Ben was elated to wake up to such a grand display of "skull treats." The proper birthday celebration was on Sunday with all his friends. Eventually, I'll re-visit my space here to post some pictures of his party.

Second, I saw O.A.R. again and I think I might be officially obsessed.

My friend, Cab and I went on Saturday night. The show was at the beautiful Fox Theater in Oakland, which as the lead singer of the band said, "is hands-down the best and most proper venue for a concert." Got that direct from Twitter - via the band's web site - on Sunday morning. Yes, I am obsessed. And no, I do not and will not Twitter.

Nevertheless, the Fox Theater rocks and O.A.R. rocked it again. I am physically sore from dancing so much and am already in full panic mode over news on the fan sites that the band is taking some much needed time off (years!) to have babies and other nonsense. That being said, I think I need to go to their last hometown show on Dec 17th in Maryland. It's perfect timing for my birthday, don't you think? And I've never been to Maryland...

Speaking of which...my birthday list is growing by the minute.

Do you have a pen? Never mind, you can just print this post.

I've decided that a Prius would be a great- and very appropriate - gift, given that I drive nearly across the county several times on select days for school and for soccer. It's not that I mind the rising cost of gas so much; it's more about the major hassle of always having to fuel up. It's also about my identity: in my 30s, an all wheel drive vehicle seemed like such a good idea. But how many times have we actually used the all-wheel feature? That would be zero. I am not a camping, skiing, snow-sledding mama and I don't think that's going to change any time soon. Urban mom needs a Prius.

On a more realistic note, I've got UGG lust. I have one secondhand pair from last year and I need more. More styles. More colors. More UGGs. Size 9. Love. The. UGGs.

I want to have my best friends and my clients and my students over. Sometime in the winter. I'm a little scared by the prospect of the daunting task of feeding dozens of people but I have lots of wine so maybe we'll all just drink a lot and have Papa Murphys. Would that be tacky? It's good wine, at least.

Ben needs a new dresser for his room and of course that wasn't on his birthday list. So I'll put it on mine. If there is any chance of him learning the F word from me, it will be over the dresser. The drawers stick so badly that he can't remove any of the contents without major tears. Having me retrieve all the clothes isn't doing much for his independence either. I don't want to put a new bed on this list, so when you see him, reinforce the idea that the car bed is REALLY COOL and that he should keep it until he is at least 18. Or when he goes off (and I mean off as in 'gets his ass out of Sacramento') to college.

Athleta. Athleta has been so very thoughtful to keep me on their mailing lists and to send me lovely catalogs with items that I covet and deeply desire. It's horrific to admit but I find myself often perusing their catalog and web site, fixating on an item and repeating the following mantra, "I would be a much better person if I owned this (insert dress, pants, top, pair of boots). Anything Athleta. Anytime. Size Medium. The prices are appalling; the styles are not.

The barrista at the Starbucks near Ben's school knows me. By name. He also makes fun of me when my Starbucks card is declined because, despite re-loading the damn thing all the time - it seems to always have a zero balance. And it's not like I'm a fancy coffee drinker, but my little iced coffee habit is getting kinda pricey. Starbucks calls it a ritual, I call it an expensive addiction. I need an infinite Starbucks card. Or more sleep.

I am thisclose to buying the 24 Hour Club membership from Costco. I love the gym that employs me but I do not love sharing equipment and space with the members there. I do not love to fight over the one leg extension machine or the lone pair of 25 lb free weights with the 85-year-old crowd because they are a super slow and chatty bunch. I do like the new 24 Hour Club location near my house. I like that it takes up practically an entire city block. I like that there is certainly not a soul in that club who knows me. I also like that it is next door to Luna Lounge, my favorite (and only) neighborhood haunt.

On the subject of Luna, I need to be there more often. Let's go, girls. Fun, swanky, interesting people, good food. Why aren't we there once a week?

I need the Droid. Soon. The Blackberry now refuses to take pictures and won't upload anything to Facebook. Tragic, I know. I'm up for an upgrade on January 1oth. Not that I'm counting the days, or anything, but if the guy in Verizon tells me to update my phone software one more time, I'm going to clock him with the Berry.

Lastly, I want to celebrate my 40th with my family in Palm Springs, and I do not want to have to take out my ex for "forgetting" that this was my week after a year of reminders. I want to have a drink at the Marriott with my Dad, the same place I ordered my first "official" drink on my 21st birthday. I want to go shopping with my stepmom and buy some new lipsticks. I want my helpful family to watch Ben while I go to yoga classes. I want to go out to dinner on my actual birthday. I want anyone who feels inclined, to jump on a plane and join us. I want the weather to be good.

Speaking of planes, I do not want to jump out of one for my birthday. I also don't want to be tattooed. Nor do I want to pull a single mom celebrity act and pluck a child from a third-world country and attempt to raise it with Ben. I certainly don't want to arrive to a friend's house and have 50 people jump out of dark corners in what is known as the worst birthday celebration ever: the ambush, surprise party. And on the subject of surprises, I don't want to see any "surprise" people from my past. Florida, are you reading? If you do want to indulge me with a lavish getaway, know that Rancho La Puerta is my top pick and any city in Florida is not. In fact, anything east of Texas is pretty much off my radar right now expect for Maryland. Bethesda. December 17th. Alisa? Please?

I'll certainly update here periodically with photos and any earth-shattering news but for now I'm going off-line to enjoy my last days of the 30s decade.

As for the birthday list, that about does it.

Oh, and if someone could please send an oxygen mask to my father; I'm sure he's needing it right now after realizing what a self-indulgent 39-year-old he has raised.

And he'll most definitely need it when the full impact of having a 40-year-old offspring hits.

40th Birthday List:: Item #2

2010-09-27T15:48:00.000-07:00

I know I wrote in my previous post about my wishes for long, lustrous eyelashes but I'm really thinking that I'm on the slippery slope of superficiality if I go on and on about a permanent solution to my not-so-permanent, "come hither" lashes that are slightly augmented becoming very high maintenance.

Yeah. So. Now the secret's out. I do wake up looking like this, thankyouverymuch.

The great thing about the lashes is that they withstand a lot of daily abuse, including showers, swimming, work-outs, and tears.

Which there have been a lot of this summer thanks to Florida.

But, great music can also make me cry and I'll need good lashes when I go to see O.A.R. for the second time this year!!!

I blogged earlier this summer about wanting to see O.A.R. before I turned 40 and that wish came true earlier this month.

Ten minutes into the show, I turned to my (friend?) concert partner and said, "I'm gonna have to see these guys again!" Without the "concert partner."

Fortunately, O.A.R. is playing on October 10th at a super cool venue in Oakland and my good friend, Cab said he'd come with me. I found great tickets on ebay, convinced him to drive us and once again, the house is filled with O.A.R. all-the-time (thank God for Napster!).

Most people don't know who O.A.R. is, which is understandable since they've had just one Billboard hit. But this is a band that can pack a venue like Madison Square Garden and rock a three hour show. This is a band that keeps everyone on their feet - dancing and singing - with the energy of U2 or Bon Jovi but with a far more unique sound. This is a band that is so lyrically talented that every song hits home, on so many levels. This is one special band and I am (almost) doing back-flips over the chance to see them not once, but twice, before my 40th birthday.

Can you tell I'm excited?

I can't think of better music to commemorate the last decade of my life; music that celebrates life, honors heartbreak, inspires hope.

I'm going to love this experience so much more the second time around. Even if I AM the oldest O.A.R. fan!

40th Birthday List: Item #1

2010-09-22T21:23:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be 40 in December.

Damn.

My parents are going to have a 40-year-old daughter. Just seeing that in print is probably making my dad shudder.

Anyway, it's time to start thinking about what I want.

And just for the record, I don't want world peace, a solution to global warming or legalized marijuana (although a few "loaded" brownies might be nice to pass around at family gatherings). Just for the record, I'm also not looking to be the next 40-something female who has a crazy, biological clock and insane inclinations to have another child. I'm out - as in O-U-T - on that one.

Nope, someone else can use their birthday wish powers to make those things happen; I'm all about the material items that I know will make my life better.

So, hence, "the list."

First up is quarterly Botox injections.

Or Dysport injections. I don't really care what kind of poison goes into my forehead; I just want something beyond Oil of Olay to relax those deepening lines between eyes.

Just in case you're wondering, Botox (or Dysport) has to be injected regularly to maximize the benefit of the investment. But it is also an "approved" method of easing headaches and with some creative finesse of the Health Savings Account, injections could easily be categorized as necessary medical expenditures. Since I do have those nasty headaches.

Nice.

I'm all about full disclosure, so if you're completely disgusted by my 40th Birthday List and you're thinking, "what a materialistic, indulged brat," you may not want to be open the next post as it contains information about my specific wish for long and lustrous eyelashes.

Consider yourself warned.

And get the syringes ready!

August And Everything After

2010-09-05T08:41:00.000-07:00

In the words of one of my favorite musicians, Adam Durwitz, here is our own version of "August and Everything After."

I came home from Florida and turned around almost immediately for a vacation with Ben. Talk about switching gears.

Ben and I embarked on a nine day road trip to LegoLand/San Diego. Nine days is a long time to spend on the road with a 6-year-old. But Ben had a great time; LegoLand was so age appropriate and he was enchanted!

Ben spent nearly an hour gazing at the Daytona Race Track, constructed completely out of Legos, of course!

I talked him into one ride: the slow moving boats.

I bribed him - at the end of a very long day - to pose with the Lego family and the Lego car:

He decided that Bionicles might be the next big obsession.

No trip to LegoLand would be complete without a round - or three - of miniature golf. What I loved about the course was the Lego structures that were placed at each hole.

The highlight of Legoland was definitely the water park. Ben spent a full three hours in the water structure on our second day.

After four days of Legoland (two of which my sister took on), we went to science museum at Balboa Park. Ben knew my dad would appreciate "San Diego's Water, from Source to Tap" exhibit and he posed accordingly. I'm sure Grandpa will fill him in on the details once he's a bit older.

There was an entire room of blocks in the museum. We built - and destroyed - several structures.

Finally, a beach day! Our condo was a mere block from the beach but we were too busy with LegoLand and San Diego to get there before Day 6 of the vacation. Big mistake. It was our best day, by far.

Then it was home for a few days and back to So Cal for the wedding a dear friend's daughter. I took my best friend, Kathie. The wedding weekend started in Old Pasadana at a champagne bar...

...and continued on to other bars!

Then to Malibu the next day where there was not a dry eye on the lawn, as the father of the bride walked a stunning Lindsey down the aisle. The mere fact that he could walk her down the aisle was an act of God, as he has been very, very sick for a long time. But the day of his daughter's wedding, he was well. He, along with his wife (my friend) were almost as radiant as the bride. Many, many tears of happiness were shed that day. They should have given Klee-nex as favors. Seriously.

Can you imagine a better backdrop for a wedding? It was spectacular! Perfect weather, heartfelt sentiments, re-connections with old friends and a strong sense of spiritual love. Except that the caterer noticed that I went for "thirds" on the food. She was flattered, I was mortified.

And now, we move on to the "everything after" phase.

What's next for us?

A day at my sister's to celebrate my dad's birthday, a fast trip to St. Augustine to see my beloved OAR, a long weekend in San Francisco, creative "costuming" to accommodate Ben's wish for me to be Tinkerbell for Halloween (can I get a collective "yikes!" on that one?), Halloween itself and mountains of disgusting candy that I will throw away gradually each night, Thanksgiving weekend which is wide open and kid-free at the moment but who knows how long that will actually be the case, Christmas and the long-awaited celebration of my 40th in Palm Springs with some of my favorite people: Ben (of course), my dad, Teresa, Alisa, Alec and Alec's mother.

In this house, "Everything after" = never a dull moment.

His Tears And Mine

2010-09-02T20:48:00.000-07:00

A bad morning is one where your child acts out, lashes out and has to placed into the backseat of another adult's car (the adult in charge of the morning carpool) while in full meltdown mode.

Then I drive away and shed my own tears and carry the horribly yucky feeling of our not-so-happy goodbye all day long.

It all started with Ben's lack of sleep. After nearly seven years of battling his difficult sleep habits, I'm almost resigned to the fact that he takes after me in the insomnia department.

Two weeks into first grade - with a longer school day - and soccer, - with a super long commute to Orangevale, I know he's damn tired. Add the fact that no one would describe Ben as "easygoing;" in fact, I think that the transitions from here to there and everywhere else are really hard on him.

So he takes it out on the one who he knows is the softest. The one who represents the cushy place to land. The one who he can be most vulnerable with.

That would be me.

Me.

Me, again.

I called up my ex in desperation today. "His behavior is really out there," I said. "He's pushing the limits on respect. He won't sleep. I think I need to see a parenting specialist; maybe take a class. I don't know what else to do."

"Spank him," my ex said.

"Do you know how many times he would get spanked in a day if that was my first line of defense?" I asked.

I've done the spanking. It doesn't work. Ben meets me emotionally and physically: if I yell, he yells back. Louder. If I spank, he attempts to hit back.

My best leverage is his DS time. Which he covets. It's his currency.

So, today was a major loss of DS time and a big sit-down to review courtesy, manners, respect and listening.

Is it wrong to hope and pray that your child will someday become easier? That you won't have to yank him out of the backseat by his arm because he's ignored your request to "get out of the car!" five times? Is it okay to wish for more peace, more resilience, less resistance, less rudeness?

I guess it's not so wrong to pray for those things in the space of a day because when I picked Ben up, we had a sweet afternoon of coloring, trekking out to soccer, returning home to (edible) grilled chicken, a bath without complaints, a later bedtime (the rational being that maybe he'll actually sleep later in the morning!), and Ben's request "to spend our last minutes on the couch together, cuddling and talking about our day."

I'll take an easier back half. I'll take easier whenever I can get it.

OAR - Check That.

2010-09-01T21:26:00.000-07:00

I'm crossing a huge to-do off my "Holy Crap, Going-On-40-Bucket-List."

No, I am not jumping out of an airplane or getting a tattoo (my dad just let out a huge sigh of relief; did you hear it?).

I am, however, going to chase down my favorite band of all time because they are touring RIGHT NOW in the Southern states and I have the amazing help of my fantastic and beloved sister to help with child care for the two days that I'll be away.

OAR came to me when I was creating a yoga playlist a couple of years ago. And when I say that they "came" to me, I mean that they descended on me with their incredible music and lyrics and I thought at that moment, "I must see these guys live before I die."

Or before I turn 40.

If I ever get married again, I want the guy to serenade me with the words from "Hey Girl." Or at least play the song for me in a special way. Every time I feel unsettled, I listen to "I Feel Home" - the live version, of course - and I want to share that song with all my friends who ever feel less-than-grounded. And how many times has the gut-wrenching, "Shattered" seemed like the mantra for my life? Too many to count.

Yes, OAR has been played and re-played over heartache and hope, and is even my constant "go to" music source for easing pre-date jitters.

The logistics of the OAR event came together easily. Chris, from Florida, offered to pull together the details. A flight into Tampa on Thursday, a five hour drive to St. Augustine, the show, back to Tampa, home. Four clients happened to be out of town on the two days that I'll miss. Ben will be with his dad for two days and my sister is stepping in until I get home on Sunday. In fact, my sister's words to me as I second-guessed the decision to go were: "If you don't leave him (Ben) with me, I'll cry. I'm that excited."

I hope he's sleeping by then.

Two weeks from tomorrow, deja-vu, back to Florida.

This time, it's OAR that I'm psyched about.

And St. Augustine too; the oldest city in the US: I'm told it's a delightful mix of colonial and European flare with Southern charm.

I especially like that my heart's not so much on the line this time; it's more about going after a special experience that I know I'll never forget.

In the meantime, it's OAR, All The Time at our house for the next two weeks. And I'm canceling all my social engagements to concentrate on getting plenty of rest and being in a great space to see my all-time favorite band. Besides, I need to learn all 37 tracks of their newest album...word-for-word.

Reality Knocks...Are You There, Janeen?

2010-08-28T20:13:00.001-07:00

This week has been a hurricane of back-to-school madness, soccer practices that we never seemed to make, re-convening the carpool and refereeing from the front seat, negotiating and nearly snapping over two ungodly early wake-ups (a la Ben, of course), ending with two meltdowns at the pool, a heel split open (Ben's, of course), a missed opening day of soccer due to the heel, an ear-full from the ex and one major puke from the dog.

On Saturday night, I pulled out the Legos, fired up my best calming Napster playlist, grilled some chicken and lit a candle. Ben and I assembled Legos, we played three rounds of a game, I served up dinner and everything seemed to come into balance, at last.

And then I caught Ben slipping the dog chunks of his chicken ("Because it's not nuggets and it tastes like slime!")

And then the dog began to hack.

And then I said, "Quick, get her outside before she throws up again!"

And then the dog started to puke.

And Ben said, "No, keep her in! I want to watch! I don't want to miss this!"

And then, after the dog reconciled her stomach issues and the world settled down again and Ben ate the rest of his "slime" chicken, he somehow convinced me to have a sleepover.

The sleepover that consists of him.

And me.

And endless games of 'rock, paper, scissors' and a claw that got interjected into the framework of the game and wound up Ben to no end.

Was I really in Malibu at this time last week? Staring at a moonlit ocean, surrounded by beautiful people, with a strong cocktail in my hand?

Last Saturday night, it was a super comfy Marriott bed and black-out shades.

Tonight: ear plugs and Ambien.

And please God, no more dog puke.

The Pact

2010-08-24T07:34:00.000-07:00

Summer of 2010, thank you for kicking my ass. Now go away and let me properly compose myself before I go and turn 40.

It's time to re-group, take stock, do some laundry, walk the dog, color my hair, pay the Visa bill, read a book and set some good pre-40 resolutions.

Enter The Pact.

I'm always so inspired by my friend, Michelle, who is a sage in my eyes and quite possibly the most God-like creature on this earth, that I've decided to borrow some of her ideas. You all have heard me rave about Michelle; here she is in "real" (or virtual?) life:

http://blogasana.wordpress.com/

I am going to spend less time blogging for awhile and more time actually writing about things that really matter to the rest of the world. Or at least the things that I think should matter, like good nutrition and health.

My beloved and wise friend, Michelle, has dropped the word, "busy," as in: "I'm sooooo busy and that's why I have seen/talked/emailed in ages." I'm doing the same. So, from here on out, consider me not busy. In fact, I might be so not busy that I could be bored. Which just might be a good thing.

I'm also abandoning my own personal favorite daily mantra: "I'm SO tired" just to see if maybe I don't say it out loud, if perhaps I might just feel a bit more rested.

Also, Michelle has a good point in that the word "like" is totally misused. Like, I totally agree.
Right. What am I? 14? Unless I like something, I'm not using that word. "Totally" is just going to have to go away, too. Like right now. Can I still say that? Totally. Last time; that's it. Gone also is "stoked." I was re-introduced to that word earlier this summer and I'm done with it. What happened to just plain "excited?"

Along with not saying things, Michelle has taken a vow not to talk about other people. As in not to GOSSIP about them. As someone who enjoys spreading a good story, I've noticed that recently, being the victim of inappropriate gossip (isn't all gossip inappropriate?) is no bueno. It hurts, it's shallow, there's no reason for it. So it might be a little quiet around my house and quieter still on the phone line. I'm again following Michelle's lead on this one.

Along with my great pact, I promise to post pictures from Lego Land and the wedding (not mine, did you skip a few blog posts???). I vow to write one more entry about my lovely and amazing sister (because she is so worthy and she needs to hear what I'm going to tell her).

Lastly, I need to write up my birthday list in a post (as in what I think I need to properly turn 40, aside from good eye cream and a smaller butt) so that the Universe can properly deliver all my requests on time (I'm calling on the Universe in this instance because there's no way that God will grant even half the list!).

And last, last, last...I absolutely will try my hardest to not talk about Florida anymore or any of its after effects. There, I said it. That's my own closure on the topic.

Please don't challenge me to give up coffee, or vodka, sleeping pills or false eyelashes. I really don't want to give up carbs again either because I'm rather enjoying my brown rice and my oatmeal.

Fair enough?

Good. Pact on!

Where To Go From Here? Malibu, Of Course.

2010-08-16T16:05:00.000-07:00

Ben and I arrived home yesterday with a trunk full of sand and the shortest of tempers. I blazed through my afternoon - unpacking, starting laundry, sorting mail and calling clients. I finally took a few moments to get into bed with him and talk about our trip. He was too tired to talk. So was I.

This morning found me with back-to-back clients and a general feeling of being completely overwhelmed.

I'm compressing my clients into four work days so that I can leave again this weekend. More on that later.

Mostly, I'm feeling overwhelmed because I'm emotionally tired.

I haven't quite sifted through my thoughts on Chris yet and am trying to muster up the courage to write the final chapter on Florida. Which basically goes something like this: "You're there, I'm here. It doesn't seem like we want the same things. Call me if you wind up on the West Coast."

That should be easy enough to compose, right?

Then, there are my regrets over this recent vacation with Ben. Did I ever have a relaxing moment with him? Was I so dialed up that I sabotaged my own happiness on the trip? Could he sense that?

My only take-aways from our road trip are: Six-year-olds are, by and large, too young for long road trips. Six-year-olds like long stints on sandy beaches and they only need a bucket and one or two shovels to be completely happy. Southern California sucks. Who can relax with all that damn traffic?

And my take-away on Chris is that it's probably not going to work out. At least not in any way that I would like.

To add another layer to the complications of my already delicate emotional state, my mom signed me up for eharmony. Actually, she didn't sign me up but she did pay for it, in hopes that I can actually revive my dating life and meet some quality guys. Who live here.

So now I have all this eharmony distraction. If you know anything about eharmony, you're aware of the "Guided Communication" process which is a really lengthy way of getting to the stage of "Open Communication," where actual email messages can be traded. The whole thing makes me tired.

I finished my work day today in a bit of a daze. I ran through Target. I ran through Trader Joe's. I returned a Redbox movie. I thought about going to the bank and decided that it was too much output.

I let myself miss Ben for a bit. The laundry sat, unfolded. I allowed myself to feel a little displaced.

Then, I let go of all of that nonsense and thought about what's happening on Friday.

My best friend and I are getting on an airplane, bound for LA. That's already a good sign, right? No driving!

We're picking up a car and headed to South Pasadena to a super, super, super cool reception dinner for my super, super, super long-time friend's daughter's (did you catch all that?) pre-wedding dinner. Our hotel is in stumbling distance of the super, super, super cool champagne bar.

The next day, we are checking into the Renaissance in Agoura where we will catch a shuttle to the wedding site, which is in Malibu. And when I say "in Malibu," I mean directly on the PCH at a private residence, with tons of ocean and, I'm told, the best food possible.

The shuttle will take us back, so again, I'm super, super, super thrilled about no LA driving! But the highlights will be seeing my old friend's daughter get married (finally, after 10 long years!) and facilitating (in part) my best friend's escape from her children, who have never been apart from their mother (not one single night, except when she was giving birth to each of the others!).

Oh, and I'm super, super, super excited about seeing my old friend! I haven't seen her in over two years.

By the time I get home, it will be time to kick into 1st grade mode, drive to soccer practices, re-organize my work schedule to allow for back and forth driving to school and stock up on ham, cheese, white bread and juice boxes. Oh, and I have to turn 40 eventually, too.

But for now, there's Malibu!

Road Trips: Overrated.

2010-08-14T20:53:00.000-07:00

We're on the home stretch and we're about to kill each other.

The day started with very little sleep (thanks to Ben being a complete maniac last night for no good reason).

I packed up the bedroom, the kitchen, the freshly folded laundry, the towels, the beach toys, the electronics, the legos, the books. I packed it all down the stairs, across the courtyard and into the car. Ben watched me from the stairs and yelled frantically, "MOMMY! WHERE ARE YOU? I CAN'T SEE YOU!" This went on for about eighteen rounds of up the stairs, gather a load, go down the stairs, hear Ben's shriek, tell him to shut up - for the love of God - most of North County is still sleeping! I didn't exactly use those words.

Then I packed the vodka bottle in the back corner of the ice chest. What was I thinking?

We finally loaded up and landed in Laguna where I drove through to see if the best restaurant in the world from the worst date of all time still existed (it does). We made a brief stop at the 24 Hour Fitness in Laguna Niguel where I logged the shortest workout in history. The sea of tanned, augmented bodies was a bit much, even for me!

On to Laguna. Guess everyone else in LA planned on coming to Laguna today too because there were cars and people everywhere. We finally found parking and the meter took credit cards! How cool is that? I gave Ben 90 minutes.

Although I should have given him 60 minutes because then we would have missed the tidal wave that took out my entire set up of magazines, towels, misc beach toys, camera, purse (and contents), and cell phone. As I was thinking of wrapping up Ben's sand transport mission, I heard a shriek next to me and looked up from behind the camera - where I was snapping candids of Ben - to notice that I was utterly enveloped by water. And so were all my belongings. Right now, I have a purse full of sand, a sticky Blackberry that has keys that are not working so well, and two soaked beach towels.

On the long drive to Bakersfield where we encountered traffic in every single city you can mention along the I-5 corridor, Ben went on a mission to find MORE sand and announced several sources that I really didn't need to know about. Back to the traffic: what should have taken maybe four hours, took six.

I was so hashed when the sign "Welcome to Bakersfield" popped into my vision.

My visions of a leisurely swim and a nice dinner out were gone. It was already 6pm and Ben was begging for McDonald's. So he had his nuggets, I had ice cream and we found our hotel.

I don't think I should be this tired at the end of the vacation. This is not a good sign.

After an hour of swimming, we needed more sustenance. Thank God the good people at the Sheraton sell Zone bars at the front desk.

I just found out that the car has to be returned by 1pm so we are going to be beating feet tomorrow with minimal bathroom stops.

I say we wait a few years before trying the long road trip again. I'm thinking that an airplane, a quiet place free of amusement parks and a much, much slower pace is the way to go!

God Said "You"...

2010-08-12T20:55:00.000-07:00

...and then he pointed right to me.

That's how I feel about parenting Ben right now.

This has been brewing for awhile. I'm out of my element with Ben. He confuses me, he frustrates me, he makes my head ache.

I'm all for honesty. This is just how it is right now.

Actually, it's been this way since he turned one. I remember the early months of parenthood being remarkably - and surprisingly - easy. Even though my ex wasn't around much, I embraced the process of being Ben's primary caretaker and I became really, really good at it.

And then the years slid by and my confidence began to falter.

I told my sister today: "I don't know what I'm doing half the time. There's no one to bounce things off of; no one to tell me that I should have done this, could have done that."

And of course these issues become terribly underscored when you are on vacation. Alone. 400 miles from home. With a long agenda of things to do and short nights of sleep.

I was never under the illusion that Ben was (is) an easy child. At three, his pediatrician had him tested for autism. The psychologists concurred: no autism, but a highly sensitive and remarkably bright child.

During Ben's preschool years, it was rare that I could leave the school. For two years, we practiced effective separation tactics. I sat in the parking lot. His teacher gave me the thumbs-up through the window to leave. But not in my car. Oh no. I could only go for a walk. With my cell phone in hand. In case he melted. Which he did. Often.

My girlfriends dropped their preschoolers off for school and then met each other for coffee. That was so out of my element. Ben has always kept me on the shortest of leashes.

Then on to two years of Kindergarten. Issues with anxiety. More sensitivity. Suggestions from the teachers to keep things as routine as possible; to promote predictability at home. We did the two year plan for Kindergarten. It was the only possible choice.

Now I am dealing with the fact that Ben can tell time and will not leave the house (or the vacation rental) without his beloved watch. He can tell time to the minute, which is great, and he can also tell you when you are a minute late from coming out of the restroom, which is not great. He can time the trip - mile by mile - and he's a ticking bomb when traffic on I-5 in San Diego comes to a screeching halt and any idea of being anywhere at any time is out the window.

Tonight, when we finally arrived back at our rental condo, he yelled to me no less than forty times: "Mommmy! Where are you?"

We are not staying in a mansion. It's a small one bedroom condo. I could only be in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the bedroom or on the porch. But still, the panic: "MOMMY!"

Then when he does find me, it's usually with the force of physical exertion. A body slam, a punch to the arm, a death grip on my ankle to get me to fall.

I don't know why Ben pushes me as hard as he does. In the past, he knew that he could. But I've made it pretty clear in the last few months, that those days are long gone. We've introduced "consequences" and he has a firm grasp on the "bad choices" program (especially when the DS is involved).

While we were at the museum today, he again pushed. I got down on my knees, grabbed his face and said, "I just spent $40 for you to come here! Get ride of that attitude or the vacation is over." I meant it. He was being that difficult.

There were a million other six-year-olds running around the museum, captivated with the science exhibits, and mine was having his own personal soap opera - with pouting, sniveling and a complete sense of entitlement. My blood pressure was high. My patience was at an all time low. I swatted him - hard - in the back of the head as the uber-liberal San Diego moms looked on in surprise (disgust?).

My sister suggested that I go to the cafe and have a cup of coffee.

While I totally appreciated her offer, I also felt like I was once again failing at whatever it takes to be Ben's caretaker. I did get the cup of coffee. I came back. My sister had him engaged in an exhibit involving a spinning wheel and disks. We saw the new IMAX film. The day was salvaged.

Then, the death march up I-5 and the battle to get him into his pajamas. He snapped his t-shirt at me - hard - and I grabbed him and hit him as hard as I could. Knee-jerk reaction, I know. But still. He physically hurt me and my instinct was to hurt him back. Which I did. He talked about it today. We both talked about it. I doubt he'll do it again. I feel horrible, yet I don't regret doing it.

The fact of the matter is that I have to parent Ben alone for now. I don't have the benefit of having input, suggestions, validation. I also know that this is what I was meant to do. At this point in my life, I'm not supposed to be a stellar wife, I'm not intended to have a killer career. God picked me for this child and I have to rise up to the challenge. And he is a wicked challenge.

But today, we went to the beach. He skipped rocks in the tide for hours. He delighted in my reaction. We collected shells. And ate frozen yogurt. He sat through an entire Pilates class, while I participated. We watched two movies. I packed up our things for the next leg of our journey. We played a Lego pirate game. He didn't snap me with his t-shirt. He willingly allowed me to brush his teeth. I drank my Grey Goose. He ate all his carrots. I didn't yell. Not once. I can't begin to articulate how peaceful it was. Today, I realized how much I appreciate days like these.

So I was given a difficult child. So I'm a single mom. So vacations might feel like a death march, on some days. So this might be my most challenging task in life. So I may likely pray the same prayer every night: "God, grant me the wisdom to do this right."

So, yes. Always with eyes wide open - looking square at the face of reality - I know this all to be true.

But it still doesn't make it any less hard.

The Way Vacations Are Meant To Be

2010-08-10T21:49:00.000-07:00

I was having some serious misgivings on Monday. About this whole solo vacation thing. I don't know how the ex totes the child to Italy and around the world. Three days in So Cal and I was feeling all my pre-botoxed lines begin to deepen considerably. And that is not good.

On Monday, I was exhausted. Grainy-eyed. Short. Irritable. Wanting to put a big piece of packing tape over Ben's ever moving mouth for just a few short moments.

Enter Aunt Alisa on Monday night.

Ahhh. Bliss.

Alisa jumped in the backseat with Ben and had him laughing hysterically on the 40 minute drive to Carslbad. She bought me a beer and she cut up his pizza.

At 5am, she took him into her bed with her. And they both snuggled up and slept until 9am! 9AM!!! Ben never sleeps past 6am. I hid in the bedroom and prayed silent prayers of gratitude (whilst surfing the internet!).

I went to the gym and left the two of them with a Lego set. When I came back, they were ready to go to LegoLand on their own which was truly a beautiful thing because I have done my time at LegoLand over the last two days and I was ready for a break from the crowds and all those damn Legos.

Off they went and I went off to the local boutique where the lovely 20-somethings outfitted me for next weekend's wedding festivities in Southern California. I grabbed a coffee, a frozen yogurt and enjoyed the quiet solitude of the warm sun and the quiet moments.

Alisa and Ben returned at dinner time with a new Lego set. We all ate dinner together, then I modeled some of my new "So Cal clothes" while they assembled the Lego set. Then, they hit the yogurt shop and I hit the local bar (yes, in my new super short romper that was waaayyyyy out of my comfort zone but so is getting a drink by myself!).

We all came home at the same time, with promises of Ben getting to sleep with Aunt Alisa in the middle of the night and something was mentioned about the two of them stealing away to the new water park. Which most certainly does not mean that I will spend more money at the local boutique. But it may mean that I'll drink many more coffees and ingest more frozen yogurt than I should!

I love my vacation.

Oh, and my mom also called and said, "Stay an extra night. I don't want you driving 10 hours home. I'll pay for it."

I'm thinkin' Harris Ranch. In the spirit of an adventurous vacation...

In the meantime, I have such respect for my sister! How did she captivate Ben so quickly? Her love for him is undeniable but his love for her is so transparent. I love it.

This Is Why We Fly

2010-08-07T21:17:00.000-07:00

We are on Day 1 of our Southern California road trip. About two hours in, I decided that we are not going to be a road trip kinda family. Here are just a few reasons why:

Ben made it to Stockton until he decided that he had to go to the bathroom. "Now, now, now!" he yelled from the backseat. Matters escalated when he urgently cried, "I'm gonna pee my pants!" How does this happen without warning? Where does one find a safe and clean restroom in downtown Stockton? How far could I push him? Apparently, not far because then I heard this:

"My pants are wet!"

Did I mention that we were only in Stockton?

After a lengthy conversation about bodily signals and cues (which I thought we had mastered a couple of years ago), we were back on our way.

With Mario on board, of course. Ben became so animated in the game that he began kicking my seat. How annoying is that? Verrrryyyyyy. He could do that on an airplane just as easily and someone else could suffer while I pretend not to notice behind my Us Magazine. I'm just sayin'.

We made it to Coalinga and stopped in to McDonald's before lunch. Wanna silence the lunch crowd in central California on remote I-5 during the Saturday mid-day rush? Just walk in carrying your own cooler with spinach salad and grilled chicken. That outta do the trick.

What also silenced me was the line for the women's restroom. It easily wrapped around the building three times. In an effort to be efficient, I attempted to deploy the divide and conquer approach, which was more like the divide and panic approach and I will probably never hear the end of "when my Mom almost left me at some hot, dusty Mcdonald's."

Back in the car, I silenced Mario in favor of a Hot Wheels movie on the portable DVD. Not sure which was worse because Ben mastered the volume dial quite proficiently.

At some point, the battery died on the DVD player. It's old. What can I say? Not much except for, "no, we are not there yet." Ben commenced whining for a good fifteen minutes straight and I handed him a full, unopened bag of Cheetos (organic, of course) which otherwise occupied his mouth for a whole twenty minutes. At which point I realized that the bag was nearly empty. Oops. Clutching his belly, he began a new whine/mantra, "Ohhhh, my stomach hurts so bad!"

Another talk ensued about bodily cues. Functions too, because we AGAIN had to stop and deal with divide and conquer or divide and panic on the restroom front. I-5 needs more toilets. Clearly.

At the base of the grapevine, I relinquished Mario. Mario was with us for mere minutes when Ben let out a blood curdling scream and dissolved into tears. "ARE YOU HURT?" I asked. "BLEEDING?" "Nooooo," he wailed. "I lost my level." "You also just lost your Nintendo," I snapped and plucked it straight out of his hand, while careening into the next lane. "You are so done with this," and I waved the Nintendo wildly before hurling it into the opposite side of the backseat. He's damn lucky that I didn't chuck it out the window.

Oh yeah. Road trips are good times.

Things calmed down enough to have yet another long conversation about gaming and addictions and obsessive compulsive behavior.

Mid-way into the grapevine, we hit big-time traffic which pretty much put us at a stand-still next to Magic Mountain and kicked off another whine fest, entitled: "Why Aren't We Stopping There???"

Fortunately, I shut down that situation super quick by saying, "Do you see any kiddie rides or boat rides?" Ben doesn't partake in anything that moves more quickly than a kayak. A slow moving kayak on a placid lake.

We crawled into the LA basin.

At one point Ben asked me, "Why didn't we fly?" He then punctuated the issue by saying, "Daddy and I would have flown."

I replied: "C'mon, Ben. Let's think about this. Italy with Daddy or Legoland with Mommy?"

No brainer. Point taken.

Eight hours later we "I spied" the Embassy Suites, our home for the evening.

The Embassy Suites at LAX was, according to Ben, "the best hotel in the world!" He was enchanted with the lobby atrium, he swam a good, long time in the indoor pool and declared the hotel restaurant's nuggets: "amazing!"

He then proceeded to kick me all night long, causing me to wonder why in the world I got a suite when he would totally insist on being sharing my otherwise very comfy king-sized bed.

Now, we're about to get back on the road for the final sprint - or two hour haul - to Lego Land.

As I negotiated a hairpin turn out of the ridiculously engineered hotel garage structure and I told Ben for the tenth time to "please turn the voice off while Mommy gets us out of the clutches of garage structure heinous-ness, Ben piped in with one last suggestion:

"Let's park the rental car in San Diego and fly home."

He is most certainly my child.

Lessons From The Gulf

2010-08-05T15:04:00.001-07:00

I'm home from Florida. At least I'm home physically, although I think that my spirit and my heart are still adrift somewhere in mid-air between Tampa and Houston, or perhaps, they are lolling about in the Gulf of Mexico.

I'm home for a mere two days and then Ben and I will jump into the car and trek to LegoLand/San Diego for eight days.

I should have been home a couple of days earlier but a drunken conversation, followed by a drunken phone call to Expedia resulted in an extra day and a half on the Gulf Coast.

Lesson number one: I probably should have had that conversation, the one about changing the ticket, before my date and I uncorked the second bottle of wine. Before we went to a DIY wine tasting bar that operated like a DIY frozen yogurt shop, minus the yogurt. Before we hit a great restaurant for more wine and then a fun dance club for vodka concoctions.

Maybe I would have given some thought to the masses of piles of laundry that awaited me or the long list of "To Dos" that come with any and every trip involving one single parent and one six-year-old.

Perhaps my date would have had an easier week planned, one that didn't involve seminars, and graduations, and family, and parties.

Anyway.

I'll blame it on the Gulf.

The Gulf had me on Day One of my trip. Actually, it was the first night of my visit that the warm water enfolded me, made me buoyant, caused me to wonder why the ocean water in Maui was never this warm?

I made my way back to the Gulf each day, either in a kayak, or on a boat, or just simply laying on my back with my ears under the water, reveling in the blessed silence that lulled my body and my spirit into a dreamy existence. An existence where I did not once hear any words that had to do with Mario or horrible grilled chicken or dreaded day camp. Blissful, it was.

Can you see why I didn't want to come home?

Then, there was my friend. The one I went to see. The friend I knew so little about yet wanted to know so much more of. The friend who captivated me on a warm, Sacramento night. A chance encounter. So many words. So little time. That was nearly two months ago.

When I arrived, I felt the same gravitational pull to him. After leaving the airport, we left reality. We went straight into our own world of delicious wine, amazing food, languid afternoons by the pool, sun-on-our-backs kayaking. I escaped to bikinis (one for each day), little sundresses, glittery make-up, scented lotions, curly hair held back by the tiniest of headbands, floppy sunhats.

He held my hand constantly. I don't think I stopped smiling. Minutes blurred into hours, days slipped by. I think I was sleepy but I know I was too happy to care.

Nights were late with local bands. I told the lead singer of one band to take off her sunglasses and show her gorgeous face. We were both thrilled when she did.

We danced. We shared food. We sat on the veranda and ate the biggest Gulf shrimp I've ever had in my life.

And then it was time to come home to reality. But the logistics were scattered and I found myself with an extra day to soak up the Florida sun. I made my way to the Gulf. I sat in the shallow, warm water and covered my legs with sand. Then my arms. I laid on my stomach where my warm, salty tears met the warm, salty Gulf waters.

I called my sister. I called my friend, Ruth. I called on my internal strength to help me walk away from the Gulf. To help me fly away from this friend who I had grown, over just a few short days, to care deeply for.

My friend is carrying on this week - seemingly, business as usual - to graduate from his PhD program. His family arrives in town today. He'll be "capped" by his professor on Saturday with a commencement ceremony and then he will celebrate at a beach house with all of his family and his friends. They'll be together all weekend and they'll be with him next week when he turns 41.

I started to cry before I even left the Gulf. I cried in the Tampa airport. I cried on the plane. I cried in Houston. And I cried the hardest when I slipped into the passenger side of my mom's awaiting car in Sacramento.

I'm responsible for this lesson and I've told myself that all along. "You might come home in tears, Janeen." I had this conversation dozens of times with my friends before going. "No expectations, just fun."

But the fact remains that I'm horrible at compartmentalizing. If I care about you, then I want you to know it. I not only want you to know it, I want you to feel it. I want you to swim in that assurance and let it consume you, just like the warm, clear waters of the Gulf can do.

As for the future with my friend, my guess is as good - or as bad - as anyone else's

I asked the dreaded question before I left: "Do you think we'll see one another again?"

Even having to ask the question gave me a general sense of what the answer could be.

But it wasn't that clear, not clear at all.

I will say that no one pulled out their calendars to search for an opportunity to come together again. No one said, "Call me later." Maybe one of us said something about texting, or email but I'm not clear.

What I am clear on is how easily I can let myself escape and how seductive it is for me to momentarily forget my responsibilities, my day-to-day routine, my sense of who I am as a single mom to a lovely child in Sacramento, California.

And then when I "re-enter" and it all comes back, I'm keenly aware of how much I want this person - maybe not my Florida friend - but the man who pulls me close and says, "I don't want you to go, I want you to stay with me forever and we'll do whatever it takes to make it work and you're so worth it and I want to know you as a mom, as a friend, as a daughter, as the divine spirit that God put on this earth to reign down your compassion and your grace and I want to swim in that amazing, warm and deep ocean of love that flows through all the layers of your being."

Do I want too much?

It doesn't have to be my Florida friend. But I'm ready for it to be somebody.

My "somebody" for now is re-entering his own little world, fresh off a trip with his dad. He'll spend a night at home with me before we pack the car and make the journey to his own personal happiest place on earth: LegoLand.

I've added a fun side-trip to the itinerary with a stop-over at the Embassy Suites in Los Angeles for some late afternoon swimming. I already know that he'll love having dinner in the lush and tropical atrium and that I'll be ready for a cocktail before we pounce on the OC in the early AM.

He has one more surprise in the wings. His Aunt Alisa is going to fly down for a couple of days. I eluded to that fact on the phone last night and he shrieked with excitement. Bless Aunt Alisa. She knows how hard it is for me to manage Ben for days on end in an environment that is ever-changing; one that is hugely demanding for one adult to handle.

As I un-packed and re-packed for this next trip, I had to stop and laugh at how the contents had shifted. Gone were the cute Victoria Secret bikinis; instead I'm taking one Target swim suit. But it's likely that I won't need it, because unlike the 90 degree Florida heat, San Diego is weather is going to be downright chilly. Sundresses, sandals and board shorts were cast aside for khakis, jeans and not-so-cute walking shoes.

Sometimes, the best thing I can possibly do is gaze at my life with wonder. My sun-drenched Florida week, filled with anticipation, nervous energy, the cutest of things to take; to be followed with a road trip adventure with my small son, involving nine hours of drive time (at least) and mandates of "If you're good, you get to decide what we do EVERY SINGLE DAY and if you're bad, we're going to the MALL instead of Lego Land!"

Back to back.

July to August.

Extreme to extreme.

Being taken care of to being the caretaker.

Vodka to coffee.

Laughter to tears.

Tears to laughter.

Prawns to nuggets.

Backless to jackets.

Gulf to Pacific.

Single "cute" mom to single mom with a million things to juggle and "don't you dare do that one more time or so help me, that Nintendo player is going straight out the window!"

Lessons to blessings.

Lust to love.

Fantasy to reality.

Appreciation for living in two worlds for now. Two worlds that afford me two different perspectives and sometimes, two very different identities.

It's time to go being my favorite character: Ben's mom.

Au revoir, Gulf of Mexico. Until next time...

The Art of Doing Everything

2010-07-24T14:30:00.001-07:00

One time someone bought me a copy of the book, "The Art of Doing Nothing." I took one cursory glance at the photos of ladies doing, well, nothing, and I tossed the book into the Goodwill pile.

Then I went about my quest to master everything.

This last week, I was supposed to settle down. Calm my mind. Rest my body. Rejuvenate my spirit. It didn't quite happen like that.

Because I had a million things to do.

But I really didn't.

I needed to keep Ben entertained for the week. I needed to pick up a few things for my upcoming vacations. I needed to exercise moderately and eat regularly. I needed to keep my client schedule flowing despite last minute cancellations. I needed to get some sleep.

I'm not even going to tell you how crazed I became just with the tasks listed above. Put it this way: if there was Xanax in the house, I would have popped a pill each hour. If there was anything green in the house, I probably would have smoked it. If someone came in with a syringe full of Botox, I would have offered up my forehead. It's a wonder that I didn't dip into the vodka or uncork a bottle of wine.

Instead, I escaped each night with an episode of "Rescue Me." I don't even know why I watch, except for the fact that I laugh out loud at the raunchy FDNY firehouse humor. And I thank the good Lord above that I am no longer a fire fighter's wife. And, truth be told, Denis Leary has a strange, sexy-like appeal that I can't quite put my finger on.

I digress.

Now it is Saturday and I have gotten up early, cleaned out my shoes, picked up a friend for yoga, killed myself with 75 minutes of ungodly hard yoga, eaten egg white omelet and two delectable bites of peach pancake with two of my favorite yogi ladies, dropped off my friend, stood in an ungodly line at the ATM, deposited business checks for the week, stood in an ungodly line at the pharmacy, picked up endocrine pills that I probably don't need anymore, stalled out in the Whole Foods supplement section, selected vitamins to help with the sore throat that is lasting an ungodly length of time, stood once again in ungodly line to pay ungodly amounts of money for said vitamins, greek yogurt, fake cheeto-s, and organic brown rice, searched car for dry cleaning ticket, waited an ungodly amount of time for the dry cleaning gal to track down my white pants and my black pants, fuel up the car, return ungodly Cover Girl lip stick to RiteAid, contemplate quick trip to Macys to buy a decent lip stick, decide instead to go home and lay on couch for an undetermined - and perhaps, ungodly - amount of time.

And I wonder why I look so darn tired all the time.

Part of me thinks that I still can't quite handle my time without Ben so I create a million and one excuses to stay on the move.

Part of me says that I am a perfectionist at heart and every day needs to be filled with productivity, exercise and multi-tasking.

Part of me knows that I need to slow way, way, way down and get a little more centered.

So rather than take apart the above statements to find out the root cause of my busy-ness, I'm going to sign off and go supine for a while on my beloved couch.

Besides, I have to rest up for tomorrow, which starts with an early Reformer class that I've already signed up for.

Old habits are going to die hard, I'm afraid.

All or Nothing

2010-07-17T14:34:00.001-07:00

My dearest and most treasured friend, Kathie, made an interesting observation about me recently. She's always brutally honest and generally, spot-on with her comments. So, I try to listen. And take heed.

This particular insight hit close to home. Really close to home. She pointed out an issue that I've struggled with for a long, long time and distilled it down to a couple of sentences. Here is what she said:

"Janeen, you have no middle ground. You're are either taking life by storm, running at a hundred miles an hour, or you're completely downshifted into low or no gear."

There it is again, that elusive sense of equanimity that I simply cannot wrap my brain around: balance.

This week is the perfect example.

I was supposed to lay low while Ben was on vacation with his dad. Brush up on continuing education. Write some sample pieces for potential online gig. Finish a book. Organize Ben's school projects from last year. Troubleshoot the printer. Take a nap. Or two. Or three.

I also thought about doing a little bit of nothing or as the Italians call it, "far niente." My big vision of nothingness included a blanket to lay on, a book to read, maybe an Italian glass of wine to sip. I can almost feel the lines in my forehead relaxing every time I conjure up this image.

Well, anyway.

Here it is, Day 6, and none of the above happened.

Here's what did happen:

I took two Body Pump classes and two Body Attack classes and two Reformer classes and two yoga class. Don't do the math. It's too many damn classes.

I met up with four girlfriends one night for dinner and wine. I'm glad I had the foresight to pass on the wine because...

I then connected with my online friend, L, for more dinner and drinks the following night.

Then, the next day, I taught a late night class.

Are you still with me?

I took one whole workday and went shopping. Most of my clients were out on vacation and I needed swim suits and rashguards for an upcoming vacation. If you looked in my bags after I came stumbling through the door, you might also think that I needed sundresses, white pants, sandals, a purse, two long sleeve sweaters and a new lip gloss, too. To set the record straight, I did not need any of these items. And I came home with zero swim suits. Thankfully, REI saved the day by making kids rashguards big enough to fit female adults so I scored a pink, girls rashguard.

Then, this morning I went with 106 other people to a yoga fundraiser in McKinley Park. My girlfriend and I sweated through the 90 minute practice, then we hung out to register as bone marrow donors, which required multiple swaps of saliva and rather lengthy paperwork. We hiked it across the park to the Farmer's Market, then took the long way around, back to the car. Once we got back to her house, I went through of all of her clothes (because she is an amazing fashionista), trying on multiple dresses for multiple events this summer. Then it was on to her jewelry.

Arriving home, I realized that I had no food for Ben tomorrow - since he will not eat chicken, fish, vegetables, or flax - and those are the only things on the menu here theses days. So it was off to the grocery store to get the necessary items for his arrival: nuggets, hot dogs, mac and cheese (obviously "Operation Adult Food" is not going well).

Glancing around the house that I've hardly seen this week, I also realized that it was in dire need -especially the studio - of a major cleaning. And that all the yoga pants I own were in the laundry basket.

So now it's Saturday afternoon, the house is (relatively) clean, the pantry is stocked, most of the laundry is folded and put away. Is it time for a nap?

Oh yes, you're probably saying. Lay down. Close your eyes. Rest.

But no. There is one last thing and that is church with my Dad tonight and dinner after, which I've very much been looking forward to.

My friend Kathie is almost always right. I knew it this morning when I woke up with a sore throat.

So next week, next week will about slowing down. Not over-scheduling Ben. Not over-scheduling myself. Getting to bed before midnight. Spending some time in the home that we love.

It's so very hard for me to throttle back, to take the much-needed time of caring for myself. But I feel so much better when I do.

If there's one place I'd love to find, it's the middle ground. The place where I can manage my energy and my expectations and reality.

I'm still looking for it.

In the meantime, there are gym classes and nights with friends and yoga in the park and shopping. So many things to tempt me.

And, likewise, so many reasons to say "no," "no," "no" and "maybe next week."

I'm going to blog a week from today. We'll see how I did.

Where To Find Happiness? On An Old Blue Pool Slide.

2010-07-13T13:31:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, this last weekend we went to my sister's home in the East Bay. We spent two days by the pool, lathered up in SPF 70 sunscreen (I am the sunscreen Nazi).

I love going to my sister's house for many reason.

One, it's not in Sacramento and it's in a gorgeous part of the East Bay. When I'm at her house, I can briefly forget about my life in Sacramento. It's cooler there, it's prettier there, the shopping is better, the yoga studios are plentiful and Peet's is within walking distance.

Two, her house is big and comfortable. Not big and pretentious. When I don't have Ben, I go to her home and sink into a couch, a love seat or a chaise lounge and sit for hours with a book. I'm so relaxed there that time has no relevance.

Third, she has a great pool and a spa. The pool is warm, or as she likes to say, "open" all summer long.

And last, there is an old, plastic 70s style pool slide. The slide is probably on its last legs and if she's smart, my sister will have anyone who ventures into the pool sign a waver so that she doesn't get her ass sued when a 200 pound "friend" attempts to climb the rickety ladder and the whole thing comes apart.

But I digress.

I am not 200 pounds (yet) and Ben isn't either. Never mind about Ben though because he wasn't having anything to do with the slide. Which is fairly typical, given that unless he has a baseball bat, a glove or a soccer ball, he will not take on any physical risk.

His mother, however, will.

On Sunday, I was all over that slide. My mission was to get a Facebook worthy profile shot which was really quite hard to do. I probably went down the slide 30 times, with my sister behind the camera. There were quite a few belly flops and painful landings on my back.

Nevertheless, here is what our day looked like:

Fueling up for the slide with an Otter Pop. Ben consumed about 83 of these over the weekend. Don't look at my hair. One dip in the chlorine = one bad idea for expensive (and extensive) highlights!

The big prepare. I'm holding on for dear life here.

This is right before the first belly flop.

And my best imitation of Superman. Another belly flop.

I laughed so hard after the Superman plunge that I couldn't swim in. My sister snapped this picture once I had my footing; never mind that I was practically drowning!

Last time down. Ben requests "the french fry." Body straight, arms extended. Thank God for my mommy swim suit. A bikini just wouldn't have worked for this one. Hardest landing yet; right on the back! Ben's favorite photo, by far.

Then I took over the camera and caught some sweet pictures with my awesome sister and her favorite nephew. She loves Ben so much.

We have to go back. Soon. Before that 200 pound friend takes down the slide and takes away all our fun.

Thanks, Alisa for a beautiful weekend and for being the amazing sister and aunt that you are.
We love you!

Parenting On The Periphery

2010-07-10T20:59:00.000-07:00

July of 2010 is not going to go down as a stellar month in hands-on parenting for this mom. And for that...

I'm sorry, Ben.

We did have some Blackberry camera worthy moments:

But for the most part, I have been not quite the mom that I want to be.

Sometimes, it's good to share; to let it all out. So, here it is; my confession.

Time pulled on my heartstrings and I wrote "One Third" and it tore my heart up and healed it, all at once.

I started this crazy nutrition program. I went through the ups and the downs of extreme carbohydrate deprivation. I was crabby for several weeks.

Then, I got this idea that it was time to push the envelope on my writing. I researched opportunities; I talked to people "in the know," I started to devise a plan.

I pushed myself back into the social realm of life.

I took on Tahoe for the 4th. I came home too tired.

I scheduled more adult time, in the way of trips, happy hours, yoga classes, and other social events, than any other previous summer.

I have been killing myself at the gym.

Did you notice all the "I" statements above? Normally, I'm a big fun of the "I" statements; in this case, not so much.

Consequently, there's been more DS time and less nighttime reading in Ben's bed.

At playdates, Ben's drifted to his friends, without any interaction from me.

I can hear myself being dismissive and impatient.

I can feel myself being more passive; less engaged.

I don't like this.

I, I, I.

This weekend, my sister swam with Ben while I huddled under a blanket. Granted, I'm still battling some endocrine issues that make swimming in anything less than 80 degrees totally uncomfortable.

However.

I had all afternoon to swim with Ben.

Instead, I enjoyed cocktails with the adults. I do believe that Ben had a great time with the other child in the pool but I also know that he would have keeled over in delight if I had climbed the ladder of my sister's 70s style rickety slide and let it rip. On my belly. Face first. Oh yeah. What 6-year-old wouldn't love to see his mother do that.

I must tell myself eighteen hundred times a day, every day: "You are not going to get this time back!" It's become my own personal mantra; my threat to myself, an ever-constant reminder of time pushing me out of its cruel way. But right now, I don't seem to be listening.

I know that it's a natural evolution for parents to start to drift, ever so slightly, into the background of a child's life. Kids make friends, they begin playing sports, they want autonomy. Some children make this transition sooner than others. Ben is not one of those children.

He's always leaned on me a bit more. He's sought me out for comfort, for input, for guidance. And in turn, my attention for him has mostly been unbridled and enthusiastic. I've always reasoned that I only get Ben half the time so I better damn well do my best for the short days that I have him. Besides, I may only do this once. I can't take one moment for granted.

So, why is this summer so different?

In all honestly, this has felt like the first time, since my divorce, that my adult life has really evolved. I have trips to look forward to and events to attend. I have a life outside of single parenting that is starting to emerge. That's exciting.

But I'm not a mom who has a sense of entitlement, as in: "I work so hard as a single mom that I deserve time away from my child." The thing is, I already have plenty of time away from my child, thanks to the State of California and a very modern parenting plan.

I have too much time away from my child. There are so many nights when it's dead quiet, when I wish he was chattering at me about all his six-year-old notions; so many mornings when I wait for him to call me from his bed, then realize he's not here.

Time with adult friends is fun, it's an escape. But I always come back missing Ben.

This is also the first time, since my divorce, that I'm really starting to take a hard look at my work and my passions. Bringing those two together, merging them into something that resembles a career, is going to be damn hard. It's going to take a lot of work. And time. I'm also going against my philosophy, ever so slightly, of not putting my career in front of my child.

To that end, Ben might have to stay in after school care next year so that I can start to get my arms around this project. I'm trying to get used to that possibility. It will be a first for both of us.

For now, there is an opportunity to salvage this month. To have some "we" instead of "I."

We're spending weekdays together after early pick-ups from camp. Saturday nights are chicken nuggets and Tom and Jerry and books. Sundays at the pool. And I am very much looking forward to the eight days in August that we have together - just me and Ben - to take on Lego Land and San Diego.

Yesterday, we had the pool slide. I know I went down at least a dozen times. My sister caught it all on my camera. I swallowed a lot of pool water from laughing. Ben's still talking about it.

Tomorrow, he goes to his dad's for six days. Gulp.

As a mother, I know all too well that there will always be guilt. There will never be enough time. I will forever second-guess myself. It will never be easy.

The tightrope I walk. The fine act of balance. Just as I feel like I'm about to tumble after a couple of weeks of autopilot parenting - and as the rope careens wildly - an afternoon of countless times down an old pool slide brings me right back to my center.

Pictures to come, I promise.

This (So Called) Writing Life

2010-07-07T09:40:00.000-07:00

I have been writing all my life.

I come from a long line of writers: my dad, my sister, my grandmother. Each are and were amazing in their own literary ways. I'm not as talented as any of them. Not by a long shot.

Nevertheless, I wrote through every grade of school. I wrote for every yearbook, for each newsletter, for any essay contest. I wrote for the Journalism Club. I wrote letters, I wrote in journals.

I went on to to college and wrote for my degree. I wrote for the debate team. I wrote for the college radio station. I tried to write my way into graduate school.

I found jobs where I could write. I wrote for publicity. I wrote for business development. I wrote for marketing. I wrote for the Visa Check Card. I wrote for co-workers. I wrote for clients. I wrote for advertisers. I wrote for focus groups.

I tried to write my ticket to grad school again. But it wasn't meant to be because...

I had a baby.

I became a single mother.

And I started a small business.

Then, I woke up one day and I missed writing.

I wrote a blog. I wrote another. I wrote a third.

I wrote in Google documents.

Every night before bed, I would write. About everything. About nothing.

I figure that over the last two years, I've spent more time with my laptop than any one person, except Ben. Is that bad? I don't know. I think sometimes, that instead of giving my heart out, I've focused on writing my heart out.

I've written a lot. Blog posts that I never publish. Letters that I never send. Dreams that I can never articulate. Fears that I can only share with my beloved friend, Google.

For me, writing it coping. Writing is therapy. Writing heals. Writing doesn't judge. When everything else is amiss, writing brings me back to my center.

It's been eating at me, this sense of not quite doing what I should be doing with my love for writing. So...

Last week, I had a phone interview with a national journalist. He knows about my background; he's read my work. We talked for ninety minutes. "This is your passion, isn't it?" he asked.

I think it is. But I have a lot of passions.

He shared some ideas, gave me some input, scared the shit out of me.

I could go anywhere with my writing. I could?

I could go to San Francisco. I could go to Los Angeles. I could go to DC.

The journalism field is as crazy as any other industry right now, but there are opportunities. Good opportunities. Right now. Like as in, next week.

I could write for a major publication. I could go to a newspaper, as he had. Work my way up to splashy freelance assignments. Hit the coup de gras of journalism: Vanity Fair.

Or not.

I don't want anything that grand. I still want to be a mother. I still want to have a hand in wellness. I still want to teach. Vanity Fair writers are never home and when they are, they're always writing. There's not much time for anything else.

Besides, I'm here in Sacramento for while. The Bay Area, I might be able to swing. Maybe. But it would be hard.

We talked about the current economic landscape in Sacramento. "A desert," we agreed. A city with a decent newspaper that's about to fold. Not the best place to be for an aspiring writer.

I hung up the phone feeling a little disheartened. I experienced a brief moment of anger, over the fact that I am here and that the writing jobs are there, there and there. Then, I let it go and focused instead on the online opportunities that I could pursue.

This morning, I got a text from a client. "My friend (who owns a local PR firm) wants to see your writing samples."

I called her up. Yes, the PR firm is here. Yes, they need writers. Yes, they are interested. "You're such a great writer," she said. "I thought it might be a good chance for you."

When I had to go back to work after my divorce, it would be an understatement to say that every door relating to pilates, yoga and wellness opened up for me. I felt like mountains were moved and opportunities were practically served up on a silver platter. People gave me training, they gave me resources, they gave me chances.

I have always looked back on that time in my life with complete amazement. And more than once, I asked, "Why me? Why do I get to be so fortunate?"

Now it feels like it's happening all over again.

Not long ago, I read "The Alchemist." I was about fifteen years overdue in reading it, but it probably takes a "late 30s" mind to really absorb the messages that this little book imparts. My takeaway from it was this: The Universe - or God - wants to give you what you want. Whether that's a rewarding career, a loving family, eight children or just a pile of treasure in the middle of the desert, it's the Universal way to reward those who really work hard for the thing (or things) that they most desire.

But there's a caveat. Most people back away once they get thisclose to what they want. It's too scary. It's too real. It's outside of their own personal "status quo."

We all know someone who has bowed out of a wedding, last minute, or who has bailed from the seemingly perfect relationship. I know people who have been offered long-awaited, killer promotions and they've walked away. I also have friends in my life who want children but are terrified of taking the step toward parenthood.

Getting what you want is scary.

I so get that. I'm right there. I can feel the edge of the jumping off point. It's not a soft surface to stand on and it will likely not be a soft place to land.

But I need to do it. As I push up against this milestone birthday (30, thanks for asking!) I'd love to have one more "real" accomplishment crossed off my list. Not a new haircut, not a new car, not another trip and most certainly, not a new outfit!

Something I can call my own. Something that is separate from everything else. Something that could lead to other things. Something that I pour my heart into and bust my ass for.

I have a few friends who are pushing the envelope this year. One is moving to New York City. I'm terribly envious and proud of her, all at the same time. Another is training for her first Ironman. I'm not envious of her in the least bit. Yet another is taking on a live-in boyfriend with his small daughter, in a home that she is purchasing. I tried to talk her out of it.

When I surround myself with people who take healthy risks, I feel inspired. I'm not the most aggressive girl on the block, but I don't like to back down in the face of fear either. It's always a difficult balance to strike. The friends around me who do great things push me to see that I can too and that the discomfort associated with being a go-getter who also allows for a healthy amount of surrender, is okay.

So, I'm off to write for the rest of the summer. I have a list of assignments - the biggest one being the creation of a web site for wellness - which is a huge and daunting task.

I may go nowhere with this. I may go everywhere.

Being the person I am, I may find somewhere in the middle -someplace that feels really good - and stay a long, long while.

Party Like A Rock Star

2010-07-05T21:38:00.001-07:00

I went to Tahoe this weekend. And I found out what 30-somethings do when they have no children and access to a great lakefront home.

They party like rock stars.

Holy shit.

I feel so old.

My client has a friend who has a fabulous home at Emerald Bay. She invited me months ago to come with their group for the 4th of July weekend.

Since it wasn't my year to have Ben, I readily agreed.

We went up on Saturday, my client and I, and a couple of other (younger) girls.

By noon, we had found the house (mansion) and scoured every level (five, total), all the while taking in the full-on view of the lake, just steps from the house.

By 12:30pm, we had drinks in hand.

By 1:00pm, we were on a boat, in the middle of the lake, where the partying definitely went up a few notches (if you know what I mean).

By 2:00pm, we were all pretty much gone.

By 4:00pm, I was drinking coffee to clear my head for the task of cooking dinner. For fourteen.

By 8:00pm. dinner was served (I seriously underestimated how much time it would take to feed that many people!)

By 9:00pm, I was in bed.

On Sunday, we got up and pretty much repeated all of the above. Except that I only had to cook breakfast and I slowed my wine consumption up enough to actually read "Cutting for Stone." I finished 20 pages and threw it in the lake. I didn't actually, but I wanted to!

The only difference between Saturday and Sunday were the fireworks. Oh, and the fact that I didn't have to cook dinner!

The fireworks were 'effing amazing. How have I lived my entire life here without seeing the famous Tahoe 4th of July fireworks?

From our vantage point (sprawled out on blankets on the boat dock), we watched several shows across the lake. Music blasted from the Ipod. Various substances were passed. As for me, I didn't need anything mind-altering to appreciate the already mind-blowing show that was taking place in front of me.

The reflection of the fire works against the calm lake was unlike anything I've ever seen. Every color that illuminated the sky, also had an effect on the water. It was one of the most beautiful illusions. I found it to be more captivating than the vividest of sunsets on Maui. I didn't want it to end.

I came home not necessarily feeling like I'd partied like a rock star, but I felt like I'd lived like one.

Would it have been more rewarding to stay at home with Ben, tossing water balloons with his friends, grilling hot dogs, sharing beers with my best friend and watching the kids delight in their sparklers?

I don't know.

But I do know that 4th of July fireworks in Tahoe was one of the coolest things I've seen in a long time. And that there's a reason that people pour into the Tahoe basin each year at this time. It's that great.

And as for hot dogs and water balloons and sparklers and beer with friends, there's always next year.

Literary Acquiescence

2010-07-02T20:33:00.001-07:00

I'm about to give up on this book.

I hate giving up on books. I make it a practice not to quit a book unless it is a chick lit story that completely insults what little intelligence I have left over after parenting a small child. Outside of that rare occasion, I commit to any book I've opened. I really do. It's either a great trait or a questionable compulsion.

Nevertheless.

I have really had it with "Cutting for Stone." In fact, I'm sensing a big break-up.

I had such high hopes. Some of my clients recommended the book. One actually gave me her copy. The author was just in town last week. Another client went his reading. My clients are not literary lightweights. They make great recommendations.

But then I started the book. And it seriously kicked my ass.

For starters, it's over 600 pages long. I'm about 250 pages in.

The story takes place in Ethiopia, not a bad thing, but I've had to really keep up with the cultural references.

Then, there's the whole cast of characters. Good Lord. It's like the author was on a mission to develop as many entities for the story as he could, just to see if readers could keep track.

As with most of my commitments, I've given the book time and energy. My Netflix envelopes are still sealed. The TV remote is getting dusty. I have yet to power up the DVR.

I am giving so much! Yet all I am getting back is frustration. And a big ass-kicking.

Maybe I'm just not that smart.

Maybe I am not a "literary heavyweight" like my Mensa clients.

Maybe it's time to start shopping in the paperback section at Costco.

Maybe I should listen to another client - a smart client, I might add, who said to me: "Dear, that book is just too hard. I had to put it down."

Yet, I can't walk away just yet. It will bug me for days if I do. I'm terrible at turning away from things (and people) that I've committed to. I just can't do it. I get too invested in the outcome.

Then again, perhaps this is another lesson that I need to learn about letting go and lightening up, a bit. Cutting myself some slack (no pun intended). Saying "it's okay to put the damn book down and pick up a trash magazine."

So, that's what I'm going to do. "Cutting for Stone" is going on the shelf tonight, and it may stay there for awhile (sorry, Mary!).

If you need me, look behind the People magazine. Or the Us Weekly.

And if you've read "Cutting For Stone" and it was a literary cake walk for you, do not leave me a comment to that effect. It'll only make me feel worse.

Likewise, if you also have had your ass kicked by "Stone," do share. Please.

The Details I Don't Want To Forget

2010-06-29T20:44:00.000-07:00

I live for weekends with Ben.

Weekdays are so crazy that I sometimes forget to have fun. And having a six-year-old can be pure fun. Don't we look like we're having so much fun?

On the weekends, we take things a little slower. We spend more time on the couch, less time in the car. I generally don't schedule nights out with my friends; it's all about Ben and his activities. Weekend time is family time, even if "family" is just him and me.

I always want to remember how sweet the weekends days were at this age. Because before long, Ben will be begging to go off with his friends and he'll be staying out late and doing God knows what else.

But for now, it's just us.

This last weekend was a slice of heaven, perfection. Albeit, a little tiring.

I love Saturday morning pick-ups. I love to see Ben's face when he races from his dad's car to mine, his smile widening with each step. I even love the inevitable greeting: "Mommy! Did you bring my Nintendo player?"

Target, with a six-year-old, can be totally entertaining. We take our time; there's hardly anyone in the store at 8am. Ben points out hats for me and stops to try on adult sunglasses. He laughs at his reflection. Then, he carefully examines each pair of flip flops, finally settling on the gray pair. He gazes from the red swim shoes to the black. "Red is the best, right Mommy?" Red it is.

We look at t-shirts, but he rejects every design because nothing is "cool" enough. The grocery aisle is next. "What's Jell-o?" he asks. I forgot. He knows how to read. Last stop is the aisle where the nutrition supplements are located. What kind of Zone bars this week? "Fudge graham," he says. "Can I have one now?" I still have him convinced that a Zone bar is a treat.

On to Starbucks. Americano for me. Chocolate milk for Ben. The barrista looks down at him. "You are a cutie, aren't you?" she says. Ben shyly looks away.

Next stop is the gym. Negotiations commence. "OK, Ben, you go to the kiddie room for 30 minutes and I'll give you your Nintendo player." "I'll go for 45," he counters. It's a done deal.

Back home to change. We strike another deal: "I need 30 minutes to get ready. I'll take you to the Lego store this afternoon if you play quietly." I get a distraction- free shower (but of course I can't wash my hair!).

I am impressed with my young son's ability to reason and to understand give-and-take situations. On the weekends, we have time to work on this. It makes a huge difference.

Unfortunately, Ben's mastered time quite well and can call me on any and all delays. As I'm vacillating between a skirt and a dress, he pops in my room, points to his watch, and says, "You're late, Mommy!" Yes, I am. The dress wins.

I'm walking down the hall, he trails me. Then, he body slams me from behind and I trip over my high-heeled sandals. He grabs the back of my dress, pulls it up and bursts into laughter, as I make a mental note to myself to start wearing board shorts and tank tops for the rest of the summer.

After a short discussion of appropriate behavior around girls in dresses, we head to the movies. We're meeting a group of friends for "Toy Story 3."

Ben has never had movie popcorn. I know, I know. But he didn't have a donut until he was five, either. I'm into delayed gratification. It's how I was raised. He has his whole damn life to ruin his arteries with movie popcorn. Besides, I always whip out a Zone bar and he thinks it's the best thing since sliced bread.

But today, we are seated next to other kids and other adults; parents who believe that super size popcorn buckets and giant Cokes are okay for young children. Somehow a bucket gets passed to Ben. Ever the permission seeker, he turns to me and whispers, "Mommy, can I have some?" Of course I relent because I'm not going to be that mom who is a total pain in the ass about what her kid eats.

We love the movie. I love the way we look at each other and laugh over a funny line. I love when Ben leans into me during the darker parts of the movie. I love how he gets the humor of "Big Baby," the purple bear and the Ken doll.

After the movie, we head to the Lego store in the mall. We're hurrying because we're supposed to meet more friends downtown in just an hour. I tell Ben that he needs to make his selection quickly and he glances at his watch and says, "OK, Mommy. I'm on it!" I love that he has an appreciation of schedules, that he knows the importance of arriving on time.

Lego set in hand, we make our way downtown. We're joining friends at McKinley Park for Pops In The Park.

We park about 18 miles away from the park, or at least it seems that far, given the temperature and the proximity of the car to the park. I hand Ben his McDonald's happy meal (see, I'm not that mom) and contemplate having him carry the wine. Decide instead that he can handle the blanket and we're off on the death march to the park. I figure I'm in for a slew of complaints about the heat, the walk and his hunger but he carries on without a peep. Except for, "Mommy, are we late? Are you sure we're not late?" He is so my child.

I love that Ben is me, through and through. Cognizant. Aware. Conscientious. Eyes wide open.

We're not late but our friends are. In fact, they won't be there until much later, according to the text message.

Not to worry because all of a sudden the park envelopes us and we are surrounded by friends. Old friends. New friends. Facebook friends. Out of touch friends. Friends of friends. And friends I don't know. "Hi! I've been in your (insert 'yoga,' 'pilates' or 'spinning' here) class! Remember me?"

Everyone oohs and ahhs over Ben. "He's so big! He's so grown up!" And my own personal favorite: "He looks just like his dad!" (Not!)

We settle into our spot, blanket spread with the friends-of-the friends because they have lots of kids and because they make room for us and because they have the best wine. Which they quickly offer up.

What's great about age six is that finally, I can set Ben somewhat free and enjoy adult time. He runs with the kids; I enjoy the friends-of-the-friends who I'm deciding need to be elevated in status to "good friends." Because they are cool and they are not boring me with small talk and their wine is damn good.

The band is great. The music is great. Sitting in the shade with my new friends is great. Watching Ben release four balloons is not great. Going back and forth to the balloon vendor four times is not great. My son dissolving into tears over the loss of the orange balloon is not great.

Fortunately, there is ice cream and ice cream is the greatest bribery tactic of all time for good behavior. Until the ice cream melts and the cup goes sideways and all of the contents (ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, nuts and a cherry) slide into Ben's lap. My new friends are uber-resourceful, shoring up tons of wipes.

Midway into the concert, Ben runs to me and does something that he's never done: he asks me to dance. Certainly, he must have gotten this idea from someone else because never would my child do this. Ever. He does not dance. Not at home, not at school, not with friends, not even in the car when I blast Lady Gaga.

So off we go - front and center - on the dance floor. The band has just started, "Ride, Sally, Ride!" I start to dance; Ben goes rigid. He stands as still as a tree. I move his arms. Nothing. I grab his hands. Nothing. I lean down and get him to at least call out, "Ride, Sally, Ride!"

The Twist is next. I'm intent on getting him to move. I stand behind him, twisting his torso. He gives me a mortified look. I twist next to him, in front of him, all around him. He doesn't move a muscle. Then he takes my hand and give it a gentle tug. "I'm done with dancing. Let's go back to the lawn."

I think to myself how quickly he's become self-conscious. He gets it from me, I'm sure. It makes me a little sad.

Back at our spot, our other friends are just arriving. They have brought a five-year-old, Cheetos and wine. Ben immediately embraces the other child and they are fast friends. I love that he offers his friendship so freely. We are all happy for the next hour.

Ben and I don't arrive home until late on Saturday night. We're tired. Sticky with ice cream and spilled wine. My dress has hot fudge smears and his clothes are covered in orange Cheeto dust and grass stains. We both fall into bed, exhausted.

On Sunday, we negotiate another work-out for me and a play date for him.

Ean, Ben's best friend joins us for a day at the pool. They swim for four hours straight, taking quick breaks for lunch, watermelon and Popsicles. I sit in the shade and melt. 106 degrees. Occasionally, I jump into the pool and, to their delight, pretend to be the "Mommy Monster."

When I load up the boys to take Ean home, I notice how tired they both look. But that doesn't stop the banter in the backseat. I turn up Lady Gaga and try not to listen to the "poop" and "butt" references.

Eventually, their banter goes too far and poor Ean's image of me as the "nice mommy" is forever shattered.

When we get home, I make dinner and attempt another negotiation. Chicken - not in nugget form - is being served. I offer up Ranch dressing as a condiment to help take the edge off of "the disgusting, slimy, yucky, gross, ew-ew-ew chicken." It works. But I still have to listen to "disgusting, slimy, yucky, gross, ew-ew-ew" with every single bite.

Ben survives the plate of chicken and goes on to demolish a plate of ravioli, carrots, tomatoes, a yogurt, a handful of Cheetos, a scoop of cashews, a cheese stick and two cookies. "I'm still hungry," he tells me after I've done all the dishes. I toss him a Zone bar which goes down in about three bites. I think to myself, "Is he too young for protein shakes?"

Ben goes to bed early and I stay up late.

By Monday morning, he is off to camp and I am ushering clients into my home.

I looked at the calendar just tonight to see when I can look forward to another weekend together. To my shock - and amazement - he and I have only one weekend left before our big trip to Southern California. In August. The way that custody and vacations line up this month is crazy. But it makes me reflect and appreciate weekends like this past one.

Knowing that we have only one summer weekend remaining, I gave Ben the power to decide what we should do. He immediately asked to visit my sister in the East Bay. He wants to swim in her pool, terrorize her cats, play hide-and-seek in her house and master her old pinball machine. He also wants my sister to spend countless hours reading "I Spy" to him.

I can't think of a better weekend plan.

One-third.

2010-06-24T13:25:00.000-07:00

About six months ago, a friend (who has a child close to Ben's age) made this incredibly poignant and heartbreaking statement to me:

"Janeen, our time with our children is one-third over. They've just turned six, and then they will be twelve and then, eighteen. And then, (if all goes to plan), they will be gone."

Whoa. Whoa. WHOA.

Truth be told, I've wanted to write about this, this passage of time, since my friend uttered those words to me. But I haven't been able to. The realization of my baby boy marking one-third of his time with me was sobering. It haunted me. I was in complete denial. I still am, to some extent.

One-third.

Just a few short years ago, I was wishing away the messy diapers. I negotiated the banishment of binkies. I spent my days on the floor with toys that blinked and beeped and animals that bellowed. Nights were in the blue rocking chair, singing lullabies and softly pushing the hair away from my baby's face. I said a prayer of gratitude every time I managed to run the neighborhood streets with a baby, a jogger stroller and a dog. I cried outside the preschool for two years, while my child sobbed for me inside. I yearned for orderly mealtimes, restful nights, a day without tantrums. Truth be told, I wasn't much in the moment.

One-third.

Then my husband and I separated. Life became more about survival and less about funny faces in the rear view mirror. Time on the floor with Matchbox cars was traded for time learning a new trade. My days as a "hands-on" mom were fewer, my nights missing Ben were more frequent. I was in the moment, but I didn't like it much.

One-third.

I don't have any regrets; like any single mom, I did what I could and I did it the best way that I knew. I had to spend more nights away than I wanted. I had to travel for training. I had to study. I had to build a business.

Ben had my mom, thank God. We had resources. We also had stress. We had moments of complete frustration, total helplessness. One time, while entertaining my then two-year-old in the backyard, I fell to my knees with my head in my hands, overcome by emotion. When I glanced up, mere seconds later, he was in tears too. I was so in the moment.

One-third.

I re-tooled my career so that I could have complete control over how much time I spent at work. I chose quiet nights at home with stacks of kids books over a spectacular social life. I scheduled vacations for myself when I knew Ben would be with his dad. I tried to maximize every moment.

One-third.

I taught myself how to re-create this entire single mom life by embracing what I have and not holding on to ideas of what I don't have. It's a learned practice. Admittedly, I'm not all that good at it. I take it moment by moment.

One-third.

I have a brief snippet of time to enjoy this one child. There are fleeting chances with him, almost daily, when my heart hurts from experiencing the closest thing possible - in my life - to divine love. I have to send this child away more than I want, and because of this, I have enormous gratitude for the time he spends with me and I hold onto those moments tightly when he is not here.

I have an inherent sense of my purpose - to guide, protect and nurture this child until he doesn't need me. But I hope that he always needs me. I want motherhood to be my moment; my moment to shine.

One-third.

As we transition to the second block of six years that Ben will be with me, I pause and wonder what will change.

More time at school, more hours on the soccer and baseball fields, more friends, more video games, more appetite, more homework, more attitude, more awkwardness, more opinions, more choices, more words.

Less pitter patter, less McDonald's outings, less innocence, less structure, less tears, less gentleness, less shyness, less reliance, less precociousness.

One-third.

Will there be early mornings in bed, with his body curled into mine? Will there be rainy afternoons and countless games of Uno? Will there be spontaneous hugs? Soap sundaes in the bathtub? Long, languid summer nights of swimming? Impromptu trips to the Lego store? Sick days on the couch with movies and 7up?

One-third

Will he be as loquacious, as loving, as silly? Will my mother's presence inspire sheer delight? Will he still call my dad, "Grandpa Bop?" Will he know that I'll always be his soft place to land; his shelter from the storm of divorce? Will he still want to be with me as much as he does now? Will he count off the days until he's here again?

One-third.

Will he raid my jewelry box, looking for the most sparkly ring, and then squirrel it off to his room? Will he try on a leopard vest of mine and call it his "raccoon suit?" Will he rush out of class with a worried look on his face, then spot me and break into the biggest grin possible? Will he run to me, despite warnings from the teacher, and press some little object into my hand; some "treasure" he's found for me on the playground at recess?

One-third.

At Little League games, will he seek me out with his eyes and make sure that I see his big wave? Will he call the dog, "my girl" in his high, baby voice? Will he sweetly stroke the dog's head and comment repetitively on "her soft, soft ears?" Will he greet every person who enters our home as his new friend?

One-third.

Will he stare at the tomato plant, willing it to grow? Will he jump and down in excitement over the first zuchini of the season, even though he hates zuchini? Will he collect rocks for me? Pick flowers for me? Push a twig behind my ear and say, "Awww, Mommy, you look so pretty!"

One-third.

Will we walk through Trader Joe's and pick out groceries together? Will he flirt with the checker? Will he give her a coy look? A small smile? Will he charm my clients when they walk through the door with his giggle, his tousled hair, his references to "the girl?" Will he fight me over going to church? Will he sit with me in the pew and color quietly? Will he call himself a "church mouse?" Will he say about the after church donut treat, "it's the biggest bagel I ever saw!"

One-third.

Will he know that half the time - at least - I don't know what I'm doing, but that my love for him is the most undying thing on Earth? Will he conspire with me about the ways of the world? Will we share conversations about the injustices of relationships? Will I be able to teach him about forgiveness? And about rising above things that don't matter? And that diplomacy does matter so very, very much and that being right isn't always very gratifying? And that politeness will get you everywhere? And disrespect will get you nowhere? Will he rest his head on my shoulder when we read together? Will he be on of those people that "gets it?"

One-third.

Will he still be introspective? Will he worry like me? Will he look at me pensively when he isn't sure of something? Will he have many, many layers of understanding, compassion and warmth? Will he trust? Will he keep his mind and his heart open to any and all possibilities? Will his brown eyes be as big? And as sparkly? Will he look at me like I'm his heroine?

Will he? Will he? Will he?

One-third.

And will I be able to do this? Sheppard my son into his boyhood years? Help him find his way? Establish accountability and boundaries? Nurture his spirit? Cultivate his own truths, his own values, his own presence in the world? Co-parent in a way that fosters respect and empathy? Make him believe that he is capable of anything, everything and that optimism will bring endless potential?

Can I? Can I? Can I?

One-third.

So there, it's done. I needed to have this closure; this sense of moving into the next phase with complete appreciation for where we've been, where we've come to and now, for where we're going.

I don't know what the future holds. I have my intentions and I keep them close, and then I set them free when it's appropriate. I have my goals. I have my dreams. I have this crazy, wild ride called Single Parenthood.

And I have this incredible child who has taught me so many things, who has blessed me in so many ways, who has given me more reasons to open my arms to possibilities and to open my heart to the amazing current of love that flows through every single moment of our days together.

Thank you, Ben. You delight me. You inspire me. Your laughter makes our house a home. You give your love so graciously and freely. You complete the entire world around me.

Welcome to "The Two-Thirds" phase!

A big thank-you to my friend, S for imparting such words of wisdom. Sage advice, my friend!

OK, Why Didn't I Think Of This???

2010-06-21T21:35:00.000-07:00

This gorgeous girl on my left is doing something really sweet for Sacramento!

Read all about it here:
http://luscious-ness.blogspot.com/

And then come back here and tell me that you're coming!

The (Pathetic) Cable Report

2010-06-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

It's been two weeks since I upgraded our household to Expanded Cable and so far, here's what's happened:

AT&T decided to hold on to my land line for dear life (or long enough to bill me for another cycle) despite the fact that I authorized the release to Comcast three weeks ago. Since cell phone service in my home stinks, there hasn't been much in the way of telephone communication. Meanwhile, I'm certain that my text charges will be at an all time high.

It took my mother exactly one day to bring down the whole cable system. She mistakenly picked up the wrong remote (there are only 42 of them now...) and jabbed at it repeatedly. We lost channels, volume, everything. Fortunately, she has a daughter who is very tech savvy. Unfortunately, that daughter lives in the Bay Area and this daughter had to curse her way through the process.

Despite having a comprehensive line-up of childrens' programming, Ben's watched all of one show. Actually, it's the same show over and over and over. The one that comes on at 7:00am and allows me to have 30 minutes to change my clothes three times, try out three lipsticks, put my hair up, take it down, select a necklace, decide on earrings instead, blend a protein shake with the lid off, curse loudly, slam down a cup of coffee, break a plate, burn an english muffin, unwrap a Zone bar, and forget to brush someone's teeth (his or mine) adequately prepare for the day.

The DVR sits untouched. I haven't recorded one episode of anything. After all these years of longing for a DVR, the one I now own is very useful as an added surface to toss one of our many remotes onto.

Showtime entertained me late one night when I couldn't sleep with the movie, "Sea of Love." Ellen Barkin is smokin' hot. I first saw that movie before I was a single mom. Now it has an entirely new meaning although I doubt that my ex would stalk any guy I date and cut him into small pieces. But it did get me thinking about the inverse situation with an ex-wife or ex-girlfriend. Clearly, I should have tuned into The Nature Channel that night.

Speaking of The Nature Channel, we have so much wholesome programming that it's a little nauseating: The Discovery Channel, The History Channel, The Outdoor Channel and The Spanish Channel. But the only channel that I want to dial into is the one that has the Housewives of all major cities and those Kardashian girls. But I can't find it in the line-up.

To my dismay, Rachael Ray has practically taken over Food Network. She needs to go away. Bring back Nigella!

To my further dismay, the Style Channel has disappeared. Gone.

So that's the cable re-cap, thus far.

Of course, the whole investment would be worth every penny spent if I could just catch one episode of "Mad Men," Season 4. That Don Draper is damn elusive. Perhaps that's why I love him so much.

Even "Weeds" doesn't release its next season until August. August!

So maybe the whole cable thing is overrated. Maybe I haven't been missing much all along. Maybe someone will comment here and tell me where to find the Housewives. Maybe the DVR will magically program itself to spit out multiple episodes of Dr. Oz.

Maybe I'll just take one more look through the channels before I go to bed.

The Never-Ending Weekend

2010-06-13T07:04:00.000-07:00

We got a lot done this weekend.

Ben graduated from Kindergarten. Again. After two years in the K program, he's going to 1st grade. And I'm going to quit blinking because every time I do, my sweet boy grows a foot, learns a new (naughty) word and becomes THISMUCHCLOSER to shedding his endearing, little boy innocence (what's left of it anyway).

On Friday morning, Ben calls to me from his bed: "Mommy, I need to come in and talk to you." There is still some semblance of pitter-patter on the wood floors and I think of this while he runs down the hall. I consider how enormous his feet are getting, and how pitter-patter is so very short-lived and how if I could do it all again, I'd listen intently each time those feet come down the hall to me.

I shed my first tear of the day.

He jumps into my bed. "Ohhhhh, you are so warm, Mommy. I want to stay right here next to you."

I want you to stay right here next to me too, Ben. Forever. Please.

It's moments like these when I realize that being a mother requires constant and easy access to Klee-nex.

"It's your last day as a Kindergartner, sweetie," I tell him. You are graduating today! He looks at me with wide eyes. "I'm done with school? That's it?" "Uh, no. You know you're going to 1st Grade now." And then: "But I did Kindergarten twice. Do I have to to all the grades twice?"

I knew this question would come up sooner or later. "Do you know why you did Kindergarten twice?" I ask him. "Because you were conceived at a very bad time. October birthdays are horrible when it comes to starting school. Especially for boys. No way were you ready. You'll thank us later!" What I actually say is, "You got to do Kindergarten twice because you are so very good at it." He seemed to buy that.

So when we finally got out of my bed, our Friday began and the weekend was unleashed. Along with a few tears.

We started with a photo-op in the front yard with our ginormous hydrangea plant before school.

Then to school for the Kindergarten completion ceremony, followed by treats - and a few tears - in the classroom.

Then, with Ben off to his dad's, I grabbed my friend Wendy for a much needed girl's night downtown. The details of the evening are top-secret, suffice to say we had way too much fun and I won't be drinking vodka again anytime soon!

After a long recovery from Friday night's events, my mom and I headed out to a party at my ex-husband's house. My ex and his girlfriend had been planning the party for months and our presence was very important to him. I'm actually still close to my ex-in-laws and I enjoy most of my ex's friends. Likewise, my ex is amicable with my family and with a few of my girlfriends, too. It's a great deal, all the way around. Plus, yesterday, I got to steal a little time with Ben.

This is Ben with his cousin, Lili. They are exactly one year apart. They adore each other.

And here I am with Lili's mother, Denise. Denise was married to my ex's brother. They divorced right after us. I think Denise is wonderful; deeply compassionate and the most engaging person you could ever meet. We always shed a few tears when we see each other. When we were married, we traveled together, we shared books, we divulged our secrets about marriage, our children, our dreams and our fears. Denise has always been like a sister. I cherish her.
I stayed at the party until late and came home with a heavy heart. It's always hard to send Ben off on a trip with his dad but harder still to process the inevitable tides of letting go, moving on, making peace, and feeling the unsteadiness of life.

So for now, there's girls nights, quiet Sundays, newly installed cable, stacks of books and my Napster playlist.

Death By Cable

2010-06-06T21:30:00.000-07:00

The final nail is about to be hammered into the coffin that contains my social life.

Expanded cable is being installed on Tuesday.

I will officially have absolutely no reason to leave the house. Because it's summer and Little League is over and Ben's day camp is a short walk around the corner.

Yes, it's very un-yoga-like, this excitement over getting 200+ television channels. But before you go judging me for choosing Don Draper over meditation, it's probably best to have all the facts, yes?

I have never had this many channels in my entire life.

There was a brief period of about five years when I had some semblance of "Expanded Cable" because someone who no longer lives here (my ex) messed around with the cable line and got us a free upgrade.

My "Somewhat Illegal Expanded Cable" provided access to Food Network, Style and Playhouse Disney, all of which helped me to cultivate necessary single mom skills: cook to impress, dress to kill and entertain my child in the process.

And all was well and good until the channels starting going away.

First, it was Style. I desperately missed the annoying, yet fashion savvy Elizabeth Hasselback and the 30 minutes of frenzied shopping to come up with the perfect outfit for under $100.

Then, Food Network disappeared and so did our nightly ritual of watching themed cakes teeter, and sometimes tumble. The program, I could take or leave, but Ben completely delighted in the mishaps of the bakers. He learned the word "crap" from that show. I can only imagine what the new line-up will teach him.

Then, last week, all hell broke loose when the morning babysitter - aka: The Cartoon Network - didn't show.

After frantically calling up the cable company, I learned that I've probably paid way too much money for all my "a la carte" services (phone, cable, Internet) and that by bundling them all together, I'd save a little and gain a lot. In the way of couch time, of course.

Did I mention that I talked the guy into a DVR? A few months of free HBO? Showtime, too?

Yeah, I'm looking at a long summer with Dr. Oz, Oprah and maybe Ellen. And my new friends, The Tudors.

I'm not the selfish type so I made sure that Ben would have something to kill his brain cells too enjoy. He gets upwards of 15 channels. Fifteen! How times have changed. I remember adjusting the rabbit ears over and over, praying for clear reception for my one allowed television show each week: The Brady Bunch. Deprivation is clearly a word that we don't throw around much in our household (case in point - my son's bedroom is starting to resemble the Lego Store).

My only dilemma now is how to react when the cable person comes to my home to re-wire the lines and notices that things aren't exactly on the up-and-up in the backyard. Fortunately, I do wide-eyed innocence pretty well.

By tomorrow night, we'll be full swing into the cake or as Ben calls it, the "crap" program again, I'll be purging my closet from ingesting too much fashion advice and Ben will be settled into back to back rounds of Sponge Bob and God knows what else. Family life at it's best, no?

As for my social life, is it possible to spend more time at home? I'm not sure, but I think I'm about to find out!

Pray For Me.

2010-06-04T21:51:00.000-07:00

It's Friday night and I'm spent.

My child was awake from 12am to 3am, then we were all up early for 8am clients. I blended my protein shake without affixing the lid tightly. Then I dropped - and shattered - a dinner plate. My mom ordered everyone around the shards of glass, then shuttled Ben off to school - as my first client arrived - ten minutes early.

I re-organized my entire schedule so that I could go on the field trip today, the Teddy Bear Picnic, which involved a last minute scramble to produce a stuffed pelican. I have always abolished stuffed animals of any kind in my home.

The field trip rolled into a play date across town, which turned into dinner and meant that bedtime was pushed out by an hour.

Ben fell into bed; and after last night's antics of "I'm too hot," and "My head hurts" and my personal favorite, "Let me try sleeping with you," I should be fast asleep and giving the lines in my forehead a big break.

But I'm not. Because I seriously agonizing over the afternoon activity that I have scheduled for tomorrow (Saturday).

I have to work a three hour shift at the Little League Concession Stand.

Oh, but it gets better. I am the Shift Supervisor.

And to top that, my ex is working the shift with me.

The only saving grace is that this is the last game day of the season. In fact, it's also the last concession shift of the season.

Since I have absolutely no food service background whatsoever, I have the whole thing planned out:

Nachos? Sorry, we're out of cheese. And the chips are stale.

Soda? Nope, carbonation is done for the season.

Tri-tip? That's only served on Mondays.

Two red ropes? No way, that's far too much sugar for one child.

Hot dog? Only if you let me tell you what the ingredients are.

Capri Sun? That's not really juice. You may as well have a red rope.

Cheet-os? Sorry, can't find them. But here's a Zone bar. You'll thank me later.

The tall, dark and handsome guy? Yeah, he's single. But let me tell you a few things. You'll thank me later, too.

A homerun? My son just hit a homerun?! Here, take him a bag of Cheet-os! Oh, and Pepsi too!

Hamburger? You don't want that. Aren't they serving hamburgers at your end-of-season party that's happening RIGHT NOW?

A cup of coffee? Starbucks is down the street. I'm pretty sure we've been out of Folger's since Opening Day.

And so it goes. The price of Little League participation.

I can guarantee three things at this point:

1. I will screw up royally on a transaction with the cash register. Hopefully, only once.

2. My ex will make at least one comment that will make me blush, while everyone else doubles over in laughter. And at some point, someone will ask - incredulously, "You guys aren't married? But you act like you are!"

3. Missing my son's last game will be disappointing but any lingering sadness will be quickly forgotten with a girls night out (if I don't collapse from exhaustion).

Wish me luck.

If You're Happy And You Know It...

2010-05-31T13:46:00.000-07:00

Somehow, the book "The Geography of Bliss" ended up in my looming stack of books to read this year. And I'm not sorry that it did because it is really, really good.

How can you not love a book that tells the adventures of "one grump's search for the happiest places in the world?" In fact, after my last two reads, both of which centered on life in Afghanistan during the Taliban reign, I was certainly ready for something more uplifting.

In the first chapter, the grump - or the writer - finds himself in the Netherlands which he describes as being pretty dreary, on the surface. Despite the uninspiring landscape, the author explains that it's the "freedom" of the culture in the Netherlands that really makes people happy there. Freedom, according to the author, is legal access to "soft" drugs and prostitution.

You can see why this book is a little addictive, no pun intended.

Along with rampant drugs and easy sex, one can also find The World Database of Happiness, or the WDH in the Netherlands. The author, who set up camp for several weeks at the WDH, had access to all of humanity's accumulated knowledge of happiness. I wondered, when reading about this place, if the smiley face sticker was born at the WDH.

(It wasn't; I checked. Although the US isn't as happy as the Netherlands, we created the happy sticker. Go figure.)

The research findings on happiness from the WDH are interesting; both expected and surprising; some are completely counter-intuitive.

Here are some of the points, and my thoughts:

Extroverts are happier than introverts.
Does having an active Facebook life count as being extroverted?

Optimists are happier than pessimists.
Really? I never would have guessed.

Married people are happier than singles.
Sometimes. But not always. I'm happier now.

Republicans are happier than Democrats.
No comment.

People who attend religious services are happier than those who do not.
There are a lot of happy people at my church. I wonder if I'd be happier if I went more often?

People with college degrees are happier than those without.
Finally, that damn BA is paying off.

People with advanced degrees are less happy than those with just a BA.
Thanks, USC for saving me from years of debt. I didn't want your damn MA degree, anyway.

People with an active sex life are happier than those without.
Do ya think?

Women and men are equally happy.
Really? Men seem happier perhaps because...

Women have a wider emotional range.
Wider? That's a kind way to put it.

Having an affair will make you happy but will not compensate for the massive loss of happiness that you will incur when your spouse finds out and leaves you.
No personal experience on this one. But good to know, nonetheless!

People are least happy when they're commuting to work.
After commuting for endless hours in the Bay Area with Xanax in my glove compartment, I can attest to this.

Busy people are happier than those with little to do.
So true. What's the saying about an idle mind?

Carbs are the cornerstone to happiness.
OK, I made this one up but if you're wondering, click here: http://luscious-ness.blogspot.com/ and see how "Atkin's Lite" is going. Can happiness really be found in a chicken breast, a head of lettuce or a daily protein shake?

As for "The Geography of Bliss," I'm captivated with the destinations and the author's quest. It's a page-turner and quite enlightening, as well.

Sadly, it also makes me want to move. Switzerland, anyone?

What Not To Eat

2010-05-24T20:19:00.000-07:00

I had an idea earlier today about what I wanted to write about and I was going to fashion the post after the show, "What Not To Wear."

But, frankly, all that's in my brain right now is the deluge of information that I'm getting from my nutritionist (who's help I've enlisted in getting through this thyroid "storm"). For someone like me, that is, someone who is somewhat obsessed with health and wellness, having access to a nutritionist is a great thing.

It's also a significant investment that I want to leverage. If I can help my clients, my colleagues, my friends and my family with new information and help myself in the process, then it's money well spent.

I'll be posting each week here: http://luscious-ness.blogspot.com/

And I'll be coming back to that "What Not To Wear" post. But it has to do with summer and since the sun has yet to shine for two consecutive days, I think I have some time. Which I'll need, because having to tackle a subject like what some females deem appropriate attire for inferno temperatures in this town will take some tact. On that note...

Shots of flax oil await.

Doing Time In The Dugout

2010-05-20T19:50:00.000-07:00

As much as I love Ben's dedication to baseball, I do not love what he is learning from the older boys on his Little League team.

The fact is, Ben is the second youngest on his team and he is totally and completely enamored with the team troublemaker. Ben seeks out this boy in the dugout (despite the rules about sitting according to the batting line-up) and repeats everything this child teaches him, much to my horror and shock.

This week, we had a game in the rain. I was huddled with the other moms on the lawn, near 1st base and a good distance from the dugout. We were discussing important details of one mom's upcoming getaway to Napa - sans kids - when I heard this:

"BEN'S MOM TO THE DUGOUT!"

I furrowed my brow (which is why I need that damn Botox) as the other moms immediately ceased their discussion of how fabulously romantic Silverado would be - and looked at me, wide-eyed.

No other mom has ever been called to the dug-out. At least not on our team.

As I silently cursed my ex for missing the next few games (due to work), the command was repeated. Loudly.

"BEN'S MOM TO THE DUGOUT! NOOOOWWWWW!"

It was one of those rare moments in parenthood where I momentarily lost my identify. Who is Ben's mom? I'm Janeen. Am I really someone's mother? Then, I snapped back to reality and sheepishly made my way to the dugout.

The dugout was mayhem. Little boys and helmets and bats and gloves were everywhere. One mother peeked around the corner and quickly backed away. "It's a hurricane in there!" The mom in charge of the dugout threw up her hands in exasperation. "You need to sit with him," she ordered, as she pointed to Ben.

Ben was in the eye of the hurricane. Next to, of course, the team troublemaker. Between the two, there was a flurry of pokes, jabs, and body slams. I also saw a kick and a good drench from a water bottle.

I planted myself between 60 pound Ben and the 75 pound troublemaker but the physical exchanges continued. I realized - after the tenth body slam - that the two boys combined outweighed me and that they needed to be much farther apart - like one boy in Fair Oaks and the other in Carmichael. I settled for opposite ends of the dug-out and settled myself on the bench for the rest of the game.

On the way home, Ben and I had a little chat about appropriate behavior in the dug-out. What Ben must have heard was "wah-wah-wah" because as soon as I finished my lecture and asked if he had any questions, the conversation went right to the troublemaker:

"When can we have a play date with him, Mommy?" "He's my very favorite person on the team."

Right then, I realized that I might as well leave my lawn chair in the trunk for the duration of the season. I think I'm destined for the dug-out. Which might not be so bad. Because...

Yesterday, I emailed a friend who has coached for years, which makes him somewhat of an expert on Little League matters, since he has two boys who also play. I relayed the dugout story to him.

And then he told me what happened in the dugout of his 11-year-old's son's team this week.

His son's team is comprised of one 4th grader and several boys from each grade up through middle school. During this week's game, the older boys tested the knowledge of the younger boys with this question: "Do you know what a BJ is?"

Dear Lord.

So there is yet another benefit to Little League: my son will get schooled on activities that I do not want him to know anything about until he is, say, 30.

My friend went on to relay all the rewards associated with team sports: boys learn to channel their physical energy in a collective way, they are exposed early to team building and the character building that comes with supporting one another both on and off the field, and the "pack" mentality that boys generally gravitate toward is fostered and strengthened.

As a bonus, they also learn about BJs. From their teammates. Which gets me off the hook for that conversation. Unless the boys get the information wrong.

I'm staying in the dugout. Indefinitely.

Inquiring Minds. Or, Fun on a Friday Night

2010-05-14T20:15:00.000-07:00

It's a contemplative day. I've resisted the urge to update my Facebook status with the questions that have been burning in my brain all day long. I'll do it here instead.

How have I lived an adult foodie life without a "real" food processor?

I drank two Kombuchas today. I am:
a.) so healthy that I can fend off any and all diseases (hey, that's what the bottle says!).
b.) a fermented fool. Who spends a lot of money on health fads.

Why is there a whole case of wine in my closet? Why has it been there since Christmas?

Bad idea or good: my ex-sister-in-law friended me tonight on Facebook.

Speaking of Facebook, how many stalkers do I have since my information, my wall, my pictures all have been accessible to THE WORLD until this evening. Am I the only idiot on earth that didn't secure any of this stuff? Thank, C!

Has a Blackberry ever broken from excessive texting?

Should guys who are jerks - and who re-surface - be given second chances? Does sincerity count?

When you go into Jiffy Lube with a 50% off coupon, why do they convince you that your engine will fall out if you do not spend at least $100 on transmission/battery/coolant/blah-blah-blah/stuff.

When did it become common for the person providing your waxing service be of the male gender? And why is this so weird, even with just a simple brow wax?

Is it really pathetic to be genuinely bummed out that I have to wait an ungodly amount of time for Season 4 of Mad Men to release? Am I crazy for loving Don Draper as much as I do?

Is there any other mom who is NOT looking forward to the long, hot and unstructured days of summer?

Now that I've added the Visual Bookshelf application to my Facebook page, have I convinced anyone that I am a literary affection ado?

What will it take to get my son to eat "adult" food? Will we ever share a meal that doesn't involve a nugget, an egg, pizza or a Zone Bar?

Why does Costco sell a three month membership to Lego Land for just a few dollars more than a one day pass? What am I missing here?

What happened to good pick-up lines? If I'm in the store with a zillion pound bag of dog food, is there a better opener than: "Soooooo, do you have a dog?"

Is it true that when you stop looking for something (a job, a date, a dress, a purpose), it finds you?

Would it be in bad form to not return a borrowed food processor? Can I at least keep it for a really, really long time?

Who are the geniuses at Trader Joe's behind the dark chocolate, sea salt and turbinado sugar almonds?

Can there be anything sweeter than a 6-year-old jumping up and down with excitement over a $9.99 set of sheets with skulls and cross bones?

When the 6-year-old hits the ball so hard, that it lands square on the face of the second baseman, is it in poor taste for mom to jump up and down with excitement? Not that I did.

Does blogging on a Friday night - at 9pm - whilst sipping warm milk basically mean that I have no life whatsoever?

Is the end of "Duplicity" worth watching?

When the insurance company sends me the MRI bill, will it be $2,000? Or closer to $4,000?

Should I care about who wins "Survivor?" Or "Idol?"

If 40 is the new 30, should I get the Botox going now?

And finally...

Whose idea was it to throw out all the chocolate and all the cookies and anything that resembles dessert, except for that damn agave and the unprocessed honey?! Does a Double Fiber English Muffin, slathered with agave, qualify as dessert?

Mom Is (Almost) Always Right

2010-05-13T14:55:00.000-07:00

I may have the upper hand when it comes to nutrition and exercise, but my mom certainly does know her way around a stack of MRI slides.

"Looks fine," she said on Monday, as she held the images up to the sunlight.

And on Wednesday, that's what the doctor said too. Of course he said a few other things as well, the main issue being that the stand-off in communication continues with my pituitary and my thyroid and that he will continue to throw a boatload of synthetic hormones into my body in an effort to foster good feelings between those two glands. I guess it's true: I really do avoid confrontation at all costs, and on all levels.

As for my mom, I have a renewed appreciation for her optimism and intuition. I left the house this morning convinced that I had a malignant tumor the size of Canada in my head. She shook her head again. "I just don't think so."

I hardly ever say this, but it's certainly a profound statement today: I should listen to my mother more often.

Life Goes On.

2010-05-12T19:30:00.000-07:00

Here's Lookin' At Ya

2010-05-11T20:58:00.000-07:00

I came home from work tonight to find my MRI slides relocated from their place in the dining room to the family room couch. My mom was holding one up to the sliding glass door, which faces west. As the end-of day light streamed in, she gazed at the slide she was holding.

"I can see your pituitary gland," she said. "It looks fine to me."

My mom can now expand her resume: doting mother, amazing grandmother, consistent dog walker, occasional chef, daily vacuum-er and board-certified radiologist.

Nevertheless, she made me feel better since I've been staring at that huge envelope of slides for two days now.

She shuffled through several more slides. "I have to show you something really interesting," she said. "OK," I replied, "but bear in mind that you have several thousand dollars worth of images in your hand and knowing how persnickety a-hole-ish Dr. C is, he's going to have a shit fit if there's even one slide that's out of order." "Yeah, but this is really funny," she said. "Call Ben in."

I acquiesced. "Ben, come in and see Mommy's brain pictures before dinner!" Just another normal night at the Thompson home.

Ben raced in. "Are you gonna show her the EYEBALLS?" he inquired. Obviously, my mom had already provided a lesson in Radiology 101 while I was at work.

Mom threw a sheet of film up on the slider. And there, in each image, were my eyeballs. Huge. Cartoon-like. I did a double-take. We all dissolved into laughter. I wished my sister could have been there. I couldn't decide if she would have laughed the hardest or shrieked the loudest. Nevertheless, it was one of those priceless family moments when levity overrules anxiety and everyone lets go. Even for the briefest moment.

"Let's see it again," Ben demanded. We admired my eyeballs for several minutes. My mom pointed out my nose. "You can't miss that ski slope nose." We debated the "bright" spots on the pituitary gland and the dark spots. She said it again: "Looks good to me."

Although I could easily Google MRI images pertaining to the pituitary gland and match up that information with my slides, I'm not going to. It's way more fun to laugh about my enormous eyeballs with Ben and to know, with absolute certainty, that the rest of the information will come in time and that it will be all be okay. Because it is, it always is.

Ben's class is studying the brain this week. He ran out of class to greet me yesterday with a brain - fashioned like a crown - and affixed to his head. Why is life so ironically weird sometimes?

How I Put The "Happy" in Mother's Day

2010-05-09T20:32:00.001-07:00

Having a MRI smack dab in the middle of Mother's Day didn't make for a cheerful household. I could lie, but truth be told, everyone was glad when the super low dose Valium was consumed, followed by the proper elixir (two wine coolers smuggled in from the AM/PM next door. oh, and a straw too).

Knowing that Sunday was likely to be a complete stress-fest between my mother and myself (which it was, although I am solely to blame), I took Friday morning off so that I could go to the Mother's Day Brunch at Ben's school. Being there more than made up for every anxious moment on Mother's Day.

Can you tell?

P.S. I tried every possible angle and worked every card I had (Mother's Day, single mom, 'my endocrinologist hates me and is going to make me wait until Christmas for these results'), to no avail...the MRI tech wasn't divulging any results from the scan. I do have, in my possession, about a hundred slides of my brain which Ben found incredibly fascinating. His reaction to the ink pumped into my veins to "light up" my brain was priceless.

Just What I Wanted For Mother's Day

2010-05-06T09:36:00.000-07:00

This Sunday, I have scheduled a very expensive and much-needed treatment for myself. It's happening downtown, in the middle of the afternoon. Ben isn't coming with me; it's definitely an "adults only" event. Mind altering substances will be served. Then, I get to come home and take a nap.

Before you begin cursing me for having the gall to check myself out of the most honored day of the year for mothers, let me tell you a few more details about my "treatment."

It is short - in terms of duration - 45 minutes for a couple thousand dollars (at least I'm not paying the bill).

It is not relaxing- unless you enjoy traveling into a small, narrow tube (which I don't; I even hate airplanes).

I'll have an IV - and it won't be filled with great drugs. Instead, it's used to pump dye into my veins. (Yay. I so love the idea of synthetics in my body.)

The irony is this: last year I spent Mother's Day alone. In a hotel room in Reno. Sick as a dog. Trying to get better for a training session that I never did muster up the energy to attend. Did I mention that I was in Reno? Alone? I told myself that the next Mother's Day would be different. Little did I know just how different.

So instead of doing the traditional Mother's Day outing that I had envisioned - dragging Ben to church, rewarding him for good church behavior with a donut brunch, and maybe letting him humiliate me with a long round of miniature golf - I am going for the dreaded, yet necessary MRI.

My pituitary gland is finally getting the look-over that it very much deserves.

I did some reading on the internet to anticipate worry about the details of the procedure. Specifically, I really wanted to know about the drugs I'd be getting. The drugs that would keep me from freaking out in the tube. The drugs that would make it just a little bit okay that I have to go into the tunnel, instead of golfing in the sunshine with Ben.The drugs that would help me be a bit more zen with the whole experience. And I realized, that's gonna take a whole lot of drugs.

I learned that some MRI centers have a "BYOB" policy as in "Bring Your Own Benzos." I called my facility this morning and to my relief, they dispense Valium. But only on weekdays. Yikes. "Feel free to bring your own," the receptionist said. Oh yes, you bet I will. Then, she hit me with a list of screening questions.

1.) Are you claustrophobic?
"Uh...YES. Why else would I ask you about THE DRUGS?"

2.) Will you be bringing a child with you?
"A child? Is this like, a field trip? I would bring my small child...WHY? So that he could explain to his therapist in a few years that the reason he suffers from anxiety is because he had to watch his mother go into a small tube and freak out for an entire hour and it just so happened to be Mother's Day???"

3. Do you wear a pacemaker?
"How old do I sound to you?"

4. Are you allergic to iodine?
"How would I know? I only eat sea salt."

5. What is your diagnosis?
I search the paperwork. Do I know my diagnosis? "My doctor's not terribly communicative. But, oh wait, here it is: Patient has Pituitary Dependent Hypothyroidism." Huh. That's more than he told me. In three visits. I need to hang up and get on Google.

But first, I have a few Valium waiting at the pharmacy. Maybe they threw in a few extra. In honor of Mother's Day.

It's Complicated. Really Complicated.

2010-05-01T14:13:00.000-07:00

I didn't see the movie "It's Complicated" because I thought that the story line would hit too close to home. My ex and I are still close. Not in the physical sense (at all!) but in the sense that we know each other so well and can still easily share our feelings and frustrations. We can (and do) make fun of each other, we can lament stories of our families and our work. Mostly, we can come together and make sound decisions on Ben's behalf. All without drama. We are, for all intents and purposes, Bruce and Demi. Except that I haven't found my Ashton yet.

I'd be lying if I said that ideas of reconciliation never bounce into my head. But here's the thing: those thoughts might jump into my brain every now and then but then they're gone as quickly as they came. And they NEVER make it down to my heart. Because I know what I know. And honestly, what divorced person has never had thoughts of "what could be" from time to time? Particularly when a small child is involved. And when everyone gets along so swimmingly.

So because my ex and I are still pretty tight, we have these complicated situations arise occasionally. Situations that my friends and family find great humor in because they are soooooo typical of my ex.

Like this morning. It's K' last day in Thailand. He told me last night that he had spent all of his money (and he took a boatload) and that he was even buying another piece of luggage "to bring the loot home." So I was between and an email shows up from K. This is the subject line:

Wanna do me a favor?

Ahhhhh, no. N-O. Favor Department is closed down. Gut instinct tells me to carry on with the errands and ignore the message. I put the phone away.

Five minutes later it beeps again with another message alert:

I know you get your messages on your phone.

Damn.

So I read the first message.

"Last day here and I want to do something really great but my credit card isn't working." (duh, you spent too much!")
"Please go to my bank and deposit $400!"

Ugh. Why? So that K can saddle up an elephant and ride into some remote village for a Thai massage? With a happy ending?

Because I am such a NICE stupid ex, I re-read the details of the email to find out where he banks these days.

W-T-F?

Bank of El Dorado? Headquartered in Placerville? Limited Saturday hours?

I am on the other side of Earth, at this point, and needing to go to B of A - to make a deposit - so that I can go to BFE to make his Thai fantasy come true.

Email back to K: "Huge inconvenience. Nowhere near your bank. Switch banks."

Reply email: "Please?????????????? I'd use my card but it's not working."

Email back: "I wonder why. Fine. I'll go but you owe me big time!"

I'm thinking that all of a sudden I have some decent leverage for an upcoming Tahoe weekend when I need child care.

I make it to the wood paneled Bank of El Dorado - where the tellers are dressed in gingham and remind me suspiciously of my mother - with just a few minutes to spare.

Pulling out my checkbook, I have the teller - who is a dead ringer for Paula Deen - access my ex's account. I don't know why she cares but she asks, "Oh, is this your husband?" - all friendly like, "Take two cubes of butter, 12 eggs, a bucket of sugar, and a little flour and ya'll have yourselves a cake!"

"No," I say. "It's my ex-husband."

She goes on in her Southern grandmotherly way, that starts to become a little inquisitive): "Ohhhhh. Well, it's certainly nice of you to come in and make a deposit for him."

"Why yes," I agree. "It is. Especially since he's in Thailand and he's just run out of money and he has to have ONE MORE EXCURSION." I leave out the part about my happy ending massage theory.

Then she does a double-take at her computer screen. "My gracious, it does look like someone is having a very fun time!"

Whatever.

"Bye-bye," the teller says. I see her turn to a Caucasian version of Aunt Jemima. "That was the nicest girl...ya know what she did?"

"Why am I so nice?" I asked a friend, whom I called upon leaving the bank. "Because you love Ben," she replied without hesitation.

I know, I know - Ben is the happiest kid of divorce that I know and it's because we (K and I) keep it that way. Still, all that niceness can be very, very complicated.

The State Of My Buns

2010-04-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

There are two things that I like about my new thyroid medication (which is totally a misnomer because I don't have a problem with my thyroid). It has two side effects (two that I read about with great interest, anyway). They are:

Increased appetite
Weight loss

Brilliant! All my life I've waited for this combination. I'm envisioning less treadmill time and lots of full fat lattes. No more fat-free scones from Peet's, either. Pizza? Bring it. Oh wait, we did. Tonight. Soda, too.

On the flip side, Ben had a new line for me today; one that I found a little disconcerting:

"Mommy, you have cuddly buns."

Now, my buns have been called a lot of things but "cuddly" isn't one of them. "Cuddly" makes me think of J. Lo (before she get all ripped with her triathlete training). "Cuddly" is an adjective one might use when asked: "Does it look like I'm gaining weight? "No dear, you look cuddly." (Which would drive me straight to Atkin's and marathon training.)

"Cuddly"- in the derriere department - is not svelte, it is not sleek, it is not good.

Granted, Ben is going through a phase called "being a male" which will likely last his entire life and he is obsessed with "the buns" (and the toilet). I have much more to say about this phase - and its downfalls - in my next post (which is all queued up and ready to go but I'm slightly terrified to hit the "Publish" key for fear of losing all 12 of my readers).

Given Ben's personality, I'm entirely certain that any day now, a note will be coming home from the teacher with some sort of reference to "cuddly buns." He's already taken to "petting L's silky hair when she isn't looking." Next, it's a bun cuddle.

I have three thoughts on this:

1. I'm glad we're closing in on the end of the year.

2. Clearly, he is is dad's boy.

3. Forget the meds. I need to get back to Spinning.

Carrying On

2010-04-28T11:37:00.000-07:00

At last, I saw my endocrinologist this morning. At 6:45am. Yeah, he's a workaholic or just plain crazy and after this morning's visit, I'm kinda leaning toward crazy. I'd already been warned about his bedside manner, or lack thereof. But still, it's always a little surprising to me when I encounter doctors who are so wrapped up in their rhetoric that it seems as if the patient, as a person, is totally forgotten.

Nevertheless, the long and short of the appointment was this: my lab results are still pending. After eight days. In the age of modern technology, all I can think is that those must be some pretty sophisticated tests.

The doctor did display a brief show of sympathy by noting that I obviously didn't feel well (not that he asked - the down coat which I was huddled under, despite the downright balmy temperature of the office, must have been a great indicator) and that we needed a short-term solution.

Of course the mystery is still unsolved in that my thyroid appears to be doing its job quite well but there are such decreasing levels of T3 and T4, even my blood pressure is remarkably low. In an effort to bring up T3 and T4, I am starting a high dose of thyroxine, which is a synthetic hormone. The thyroxine takes weeks and months to reach a therapeutic level if I can even tolerate the stuff. "It might make you jittery," the doctor warned. "Anxious, too."

Oh goody.

We will re-convene, the doctor and I, when the lab work is in. I expect that I will know before then whether or not the thyroxine might be a good solution for the short-term.

Thankfully, after a few weeks of calorie restriction, the weight gain seems to have stopped and I'm sliding back into "normal" range and back into my jeans, too. Dieting sucks though. I really hate it.

There is still a strong possibility that my pituitary gland is to blame for the absence of hormones, but for now, I'm glad to have a lifeline in the thyroxine.

Monday Musings

2010-04-26T20:00:00.000-07:00

My thoughts today were swirly and more random than my six-year-old on a basketful of Easter candy. In fact, my morning sessions with clients went something like this:

"Drop your tailbone, please, and... pick up an organic chicken from the farmer's market this weekend."

"Big inhale, prepare and...when is the next baseball game anyway? That damn Little League is running our lives!"

"Rotate from your core and...what am I going to do with Ben this weekend? No Little League game? Damn. Gotta find some long and tiring activities."

I think you get the point.

So, here I am in my "free time window;" that is, the chunk of highly coveted time between Ben going to bed and calling out to me at 6am. Or 6:30am if I'm lucky. And my thoughts are still ping-ponging. Time to download...

THERE ARE 22 SWEATERS IN MY CLOSET
Most of you know that I suffer from a serious obsession with my clothes. I think it's getting out of control. Granted, I do a ton of secondhand shopping but really...I'm at the point where I could outfit all of Carmichael and parts of Fair Oaks too. My friend had a clothing swap this weekend. We all brought clothes to share and left with "new" things. I found some amazing pieces. Two enormous bags worth. Which is all well and good except for the fact that I don't have the space or the lifestyle to have as many clothes as Paris Hilton. My closet is seriously this big. I figured out the problem today: I have too many clothes and not enough occasions. To wear all this stuff, I'd need to become a socialite. Or date one. Neither of which is looking to be an optimistic prospect.

ACCUMULATING (GREAT) WINE
I have the same problem with wine as I do with clothes. Right now, I have at least 2 cases of really yummy reds and whites and no occasions to consume it. I keep telling myself that this "break" from a social life is short-lived; that I'm only temporarily side-lined from all the fun, Spring activities and that I could potentially have all my energy back - and then some - by the time the real fun kicks in over summer. Which brings me to my next point...

LAST MINUTE INVITES TO LAKE-SIDE HOME IN TAHOE
4:30pm on Saturday. Beep, beep. New text alert. Fun client/friend and her friends are headed to amazing home in Tahoe and I'll be kidnapped in an hour, returned the following evening. The last time I went on an outing with this group, I was hungover for a week. Had to decline - since I have Ben for 2 weeks - and beg for a future invite. They sent me a photo from the boat doc, cold beers in hand. What. a. view.

DIY NUTRITION
I talked with a nutritionist today about getting some thyroid support. I wanted to like her. I really did. But I didn't and here's why. She told me I need to go on a NO CARB DIET. To which I replied, "I don't have a weight problem. I have a THYROID problem." She explained that I have too much "toxicity" and that by weighing my lettuce and eating chicken and almonds, I could restore my body's balance. "Yes, well," I said, "my body might get balanced that way but giving up carbs (and wine and coffee, I might add) would cause a serious chemical imbalance in my head." So I went to the internet and began to research myself. Seems that the Zone diet- which is low carb - is all the rage for thyroid issues. I like Zone bars. Do those count?

LOSING MY MOJO
I had a string of bad dates. Really bad dates. The kind of date where the guy is convinced that I should re-consider my stance on not having any more kids. "Because you don't even look 39," he says. "And I could totally support you!" Did I mention that this was the first date? So I bowed out of the whole scene for awhile, intent on focusing my attention on myself. And my wardrobe. I was in Whole Foods last week and a good looking guy began to flirt with me. In a really creative way, I might add. Normally, I'd have a fast and cute comeback; that day, I stood there and as Ben would say, "I was out of words." Upon realizing that I was most likely a cute girl with absolutely zero personality, the guy made a beeline for the register as I stood there wondering if I should chase him down with a business card or slink off toward the produce section. I went and found some good strawberries. But seriously, what the H? Maybe it's this:

APATHY
One of the top symptoms of thyroid disorder is apathy. Don't laugh. It's true! Even the Mayo Clinic says so. I knew that apathy had truly set in when I realized that Don Draper has been sitting - and waiting - in my living room for over a week. My beloved Don Draper of Mad Men. I was so excited for Season 3 to release and now poor Don has to wait for me to shore up some passion for his quick wit, his intensity and oh, that strong and sexy jawline! I've made him wait for days. Appalling. I wonder if I'd do the same to Hank Moody.

MY 6-YEAR-OLD IS DOING DISGUSTING THINGS
Ben has come into the age of poop. And butt. Also butt-h***, which got him a big thump on the head. He started calling me Mamma-Mia a couple of months ago. Which was really cute. Now it's morphed into "PooPoo-Pia" which is slightly less endearing. I will elaborate on this - and a particular horrific bathroom incident - in a future post. You may want to skip that one.

ONE NIGHT IN BANGKOK
My ex, as I mentioned earlier, is in Thailand. He was moved out of Bangkok sooner than planned due to pre-cautions taken by the tour company. Yes, he is on a tour. Yes, he is in his 40s and most of the other travelers are seniors. Yes, he is traveling alone. No, I do not know why he went there. Yes, he does in fact work. Anyway, he hasn't been able to call much because I think they've moved around more than planned but he has sent quite a few emails. I sometimes wonder if it's weird that we're on such good terms. He can go off and send me a daily email with all the details of his day and I reply - to most - with the details of Ben's day. I think it helps him to feel more connected to Ben. I'm glad for that. But it still feels strange.

TWO WEEKS IN SAC
I have Ben for a 16 day stint. He is pretty excited about being with me. Likewise for me. Although the weekends can be hard. I was exhausted yesterday afternoon but I had a big - and completely irrational - case of mommy guilt. Ben had gone to a birthday party without me in the morning and was carrying on about how bored he was in the afternoon. I offered up some suggestions: movie, swimming, or miniature golf. He chose golf. We played 18 holes with Sacramento's finest families (seriously, where do these people come from? the F bomb is NOT okay at mini golf!). 18 holes was the most cardio I've had in a month except for clothes shopping. As a reward for the golf "death march", I bought the extra large Sierra Mist. Ben's eyes widened with surprise. I'm sure the nutritionist would have some things to say about that choice. Now I'm staring down another weekend. I think my dad's due for some bonding time with Ben.

BOTOX CLINICAL STUDY
After carefully studying the lines on my face this morning, I decided that if there is ever a Botox "volunteer" opportunity anywhere in Northern California, I'm tossing my name in the hat. Enough said.

NO HAYSTACK FOR YOU
I had to go to training on how to run the concession stand at Little League. Stop laughing. A Shift Supervisor gets double hours; thus, less time in the Snack Bar. Sounded good to me. I went to an orientation last week. I learned how to make nachos (pull the lever and smother with cheese), serve tri-tip, hamburgers and hot dogs (find a guy to man the BBQ), make popcorn (best to say "we're out" instead of attacking that machine) and run the register (for the love of God, please let someone else take this task). I also learned how to make a "haystack." The supervisor explained: "Take a bowl of Fritos, cover them with a scoop of chili, then top with nacho cheese sauce." "Got it?" she asked. "Wait," I said. "You lost me at Fritos." She looked me up and down and then said, "Yeah, you don't look like the type who would eat a Haystack." But that got me thinking tonight. Take away the Fritos and you have a no-carb-Haystack. Most logical line of thinking I've had all day long. I'm just saying...

Here Is The Truth; This Is What I Know...

2010-04-23T12:54:00.000-07:00

I was walking on the beach with Emma. It was cold and very foggy. She let go of my hand. I stopped to photograph a baby seal, then glanced up toward the Great Highway. When I looked up, Emma was gone.

Do you want to know what happens to Emma? So did I. Which is why I bought the book, "The Year of Fog." And why I finished it in two days. And why I hugged Ben a little tighter when he came home from Maui with his dad - and "the girlfriend."

Imagine my surprise - and sheer delight - when I noticed that Michelle Richmond, author of "The Year of Fog" posted a comment on my previous blog. Cool! Except that I wish I had said something different about her book, other than my warning to any mother of a 6-year-old who might consider reading it.

So Michelle, if you will grant me a do-over, I will tell you this:

I liked your book very much and I loved your writing. Yes, the story line - a child, who happens to be six-and-a-half, disappears while in the care of her father's girlfriend - is a bit daunting for obvious reasons: I have a child who is six-and-a-half, I have an ex-husband who has, on occasion, left my child in the care of his girlfriend and I have lived in San Francisco and can visualize almost every landmark and neighborhood that you reference. I've even been to Costa Rica, to the small town where the story eventually leads to. I felt like I've been Abby, "the girlfriend," in a couple of dating scenarios; situations where I knew that the father trusted me implicitly with his children, yet I also knew that was taking on enormous responsibility just by taking the kids to ice cream or by picking them up from school. These scenarios still play out heavily in my mind as I imagine myself as a stepmother, possibly, in the future. Indeed, Michelle, your beautiful book hit me on many different levels.

And that's the thing about a great book. You walk away from the story, but the characters stay with you. Sometimes they haunt you. In a way, Abby, "the girlfriend," is doing that to me now, even though I've finished two books since reading "The Year of Fog." I could see so much likeness: our age, our values, our commitment to relationships, our willingness to take on and love a child that isn't biologically ours. I kept putting myself in Abby's shoes and I could only shudder and wonder: "What if it were me?" Yes, Michelle, you had me at the first chapter. I loved Abby.

I also loved Nick. Certainly you must have based his character off of a real person. I think you created all the elements of a near-perfect gentleman. Is he in San Francisco? Where can I find him? Better yet, send him right over!

For several months now, I've been toying with the idea of pulling my book club back together and sharing the great experience of reading with my good friends. I'm thrilled to have such a fabulous author to share; maybe Michelle will make the short drive to Sac-town and share her extraordinary self with some of us.

In the meantime, thanks for posting, Michelle!

Reading and reading and reading and reading and reading

2010-04-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

Since T3 and T4 hormones have officially "left the building," I'm left on most days with a heating pad and a couple of sweaters, a wool blanket and a stack of books. The diagnosis coincided with my ex's 16 day tour of Thailand, which essentially means that my mom is on shift with Ben every day after I wrap up my morning sessions with clients.

This is a new thing for me; this laying around and relying heavily on other people to help with daily activities, particularly those that involve Ben. I understand very much that it's a time of being in limbo, a time to wait patiently on my doctor, to wait on the technicians who are generating results and image slides, to wait for the next appointment, the next test. I'm waiting on 40 and I'm waiting on an outcome. I might be getting used to waiting.

What's helping is this stack of books that I've collected for a few months now. I've always loved to read but after my divorce, I went through a long, long period where I couldn't focus on characters, story lines, or words. Sometime in the last year, I fell back into the literary world. Maybe the blogging had something to do with it.

In any event, I've discovered two tremendous authors - Lisa See and Kelly Corrigan - who are definitely book club worthy. Kelly Corrigan is my new heroine; I want to go to San Francisco and have a long lunch with her. I know I'd need a whole box of tissues because I would simultaneously laugh and cry my eyes out. She's THAT amazing.

In the last month, I've also read "The Alchemist" (finally!), "The Mommy Wars" (sad commentary on our expectations of mothers), "The Reliable Wife" (fabulously racy and entertaining) and "The Year of Fog" (no mother of a six-year-old should attempt this).

Realistically, I'm probably looking at more couch time and less gym time in the next few weeks. Please send me any book suggestions you might have. A good read definitely beats scouring the internet for pituitary information! It's also a little more rewarding than Facebook or People.com. But I still make time for those too!

Is It All In My Head?

2010-04-19T20:05:00.000-07:00

After battling six weeks of fighting extreme fatigue, a gushing nose, constant lethargy, and weight gain that happened so quickly that not one pair of pants will fit, I finally have some answers. I blamed my thyroid initially - seemed like a good culprit - but I've come to find out that it's all, quite likely, in my head.

My fabulous doctor who I pay big bucks to see agreed to run blood tests. I went to the lab and then went to my sister's in the Bay Area. That night - at 8pm - my doctor called me. (I was at the Pleasanton TJ Maxx, shopping for bigger yoga pants - sigh.). She said that my thyroid was fine but that my T3 and T4 levels were abnormally low. Way out of range. Low enough to be flagged by the lab tech. She encouraged me to rest, and to call her when I came back to Sacramento.

When I came home, I felt worse. The pants that I had bought were no longer fitting and it had only been 4 days. Remember the movie, "Shallow Hal?" I felt like Gwyneth Paltrow in the fat suit. A total stranger in my own body. It's a horrible feeling.

Because I have a PPO that I pay dearly for, I was able to find an endocrinologist who would see me without a referral. As luck would have it, he saw me at 7:30am the day after I called. Dr. C - I've come to find out - is highly reputable in the endocrinology field. And almost impossible to get into. "You had an angel on your shoulder when you called his office," my own doctor remarked, upon hearing that I had an immediate appointment with him.

Dr C did a full exam and then he spent some time talking with me. "Your pituitary gland isn't talking to your thyroid gland," he told me. I don't like confrontation and I guess my glands don't, either. "You're not making enough of the hormones that you need for energy or metabolism." He went on to tell me that the pituitary gland is likely diseased. He used the word "tumor."

I left his office with referral slips for more lab work, an ultrasound and a MRI. Dr C doesn't mess around. A nurse client of mine said, "Do you know how lucky you are to have all this happening so quickly? " And that's how I feel: incredibly fortunate to have the system moving swiftly and in my favor.

Treatment options for pituitary disease are all over the map, depending on the outcome of the MRI. I'm really not afraid at all; just anxious to have a treatment plan that will be effective in getting me back on track.

In the meantime, I gave up all my group classes so that I can concentrate on saving my best energy for my private clients and for Ben. The hardest decision was whether or not to suck it up and keep Wednesday nights at the club. It's one of the happiest hours of my work week; when 25 to 30 of my favorite people come together to practice yoga. I've been with them for almost three years. My director promised to step in temporarily and I can come back when I'm better, however long that takes.

I bagged a meeting for Little League tonight. Driving 45 minutes plus - in each direction - and an hour and a half of concession talk just didn't fit in with my body's plans for energy expenditure. Lying on the couch with Ben, reading books and watching youtub, did.

It is likely that I may not exercise for a long time. I thought about it today. It got bagged too. So not like me. Maybe I'll try for a walk tomorrow.

There is too much information on the internet. I've stopped reading. Too many unknowns. One thing I did learn is that coconut oil is extremely beneficial for the thyroid. I bought a jar of the good, good stuff. I mix a lot of it into my oatmeal and in my smoothies each day. I feel like I've discovered the world's greatest treat.

I need some help with my diet. There are foods that suppress the thyroid - like green, leafy vegetables. There are foods that help the thyroid. I don't know where the pituitary gland fits in and how to support it, from a nutrition standpoint.

Yesterday, I went to my favorite second hand store and spent $78.00 for a whole new spring wardrobe. Nothing from last year fits. I hit Target and got a new swim suit, too (because I just cannot buy one secondhand, NO WAY). I still refuse to sit on the side of the pool while Ben splashes around and begs for me to come in. The two piece days may be over, but that's OK.

So now the process has begun. I had my ultrasound today. Lab tomorrow morning. MRI will be scheduled soon. Back to see Dr C. Then, the answers that I'm desperately wanting.

I called my best friend after the ultrasound today. "Ultrasound - check" I told her. "It takes a lot of licks to get to the center of the lollipop," she replied.

Indeed, it does. And while this might not be very easy - this hostile stand-off between my glands - my life - the lollipop - is still pretty darn sweet.

Wordless Wednesday

2010-04-14T13:52:00.000-07:00

I'm borrowing my friends' post title again because I am, again, wordless...

I have an explanation for my tired, draggy, sluggish, and heavy state of being. It's called hypothyroidism. My lab work came back, my doctor called me, and I'm off to see an endocrinologist.

What's interesting to me is that I've spent most of my adult life downplaying the role of the thyroid. I think people, in general, often suspect their thyroid as a cause for weight gain. I think it's also often used as a scapegoat for weight gain and as a deterrent for weight loss. I think that if you've never had a thyroid issue, you should never underestimate how crappy an underachieving thyroid can make you feel. Lesson learned.

I also learned that its almost impossible to get an endocrinologist to see you without a referral. Even with a PPO. I learned that cruciferous vegetables and soy products can suppress the thyroid and that selenium can help to restore its function. Tomorrow morning, I'll learn more about my own solutions, both in the short and long term.

Although I still feel like I'm in a perpetual and cloudy haze, it's nice to know that there is a reason that I've felt so bad lately. And the fact that it's treatable, makes me all the more optimistic that some clarity and focus will return again very soon. Wish me luck.

Yet Another Reason to Live Vicariously Through Yours Truly

2010-04-10T20:32:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know...sometimes it seems like I live a glamorous life of half-time mommy and full-time single girl. There are the dates, the last minute cocktails with friends, the day trips of wine tasting, the travels...blah blah blah.

But what I really appreciate - when my son is away- are those simple moments of sleeping past 6am, or sitting down to back-to-back Netflix deliveries, or even starting a huge house project and actually finishing it with no interruptions (except to change musical artists on last.com).

This post is not about the pure (emphasis on the word "pure") and sweetness of my life as a single, suburbia mommy. In fact, Dad, stop reading right here. Please. You'll regret it if you go further. Fine, don't say I didn't warn you.

Last week, I got an invitation through Facebook from an old...um, let's call him an acquaintance. Someone I met several years ago. At a retreat. That I went to with my husband at the time. His idea. Let's call it an intimacy retreat. I'll let you use your imagination. What happened at the retreat may not have been on the "up and up" in my book, but rest assured, some of the people who I met there were not so naked weird and I actually kept in touch with a few. By keeping in touch, I mean that we are Facebook friends which doesn't really count as truly keeping in touch. And yes, I did stay fully clothed throughout the weekend.

I sincerely hope that my Dad has stopped reading. Oh well.

So the invitation from this acquaintance comes through on my email and I happened to be on the treadmill at the time which is dangerous but efficient whilst "Facebooking" and as I read the details of the event, I had to hit the Emergency Stop button to keep from falling off. Here is what it said:

Erotic dinner and party in very elegant historic San Francisco home with hardwood floors, grand piano and erotic art collection. Come dressed with class as your favorite fetish: dom, sub. freak, business man, prostitute, Cinderella, slave, master, nurse, doctor, policeman, judge, prisoner, psycho, French maid, priest, doormat, invasive parent, etc. Please go for it and express full-out ! No limits on your fantasy.

No sneakers in the building please. Please bring toys and attributes if appropriate for your persona and bring a beverage/bottle of wine/juice/ other. Delicious Food will be prepared and served.

There is no agenda or specific limit regarding the erotic play part. Whatever happens happens. Everything is a choice and everyone is at choice about every experience. This is a conscious respectful environment.

Obviously not your normal Evite invitation, but wait, this is Facebook and anything goes. Nevertheless, a few things stand out here - at least from my perception:

No sneakers in the building? But whips are OK?
Elegant historic San Francisco home happens to be located in Pacific Heights. So let's say I plan on going and choose to dress as a prostitute as my sexual fetish. It's not exactly around October 31st and I'm not much in the mood to be arrested...perhaps French Maid would be a better selection?
A doormat? Really? How fun is that?
No agenda or specific limit regarding the erotic play part? What erotic play part? Is the piano somehow involved? Because why else would it be mentioned? I'm just saying. Really, I thought we were going to eat oysters, sip champagne, laugh at each other's costumes and ogle the erotic art. Maybe there would be some lovely piano music? Again, why else mention the piano? Which brings me to my next point...
Is it just me or does the post read like a real estate ad? Hardwood floors, elegant, historic? I don't know about you but I need to know what kind of floors I'm going to be standing on before I can RSVP to a party. Carpet? Forget it. And lighting is critical. I simply can't attend a home party if they don't use CFLs. No freakin' way. Don't invite me to a party in a dive either - it's elegance or nothing, same for post-modern - deal breaker, for sure! I'm all about things being nice. And old.

I checked the RSVP list on Facebook. You know, because if you want to know anything about the attendees for a Facebook event, it's all there, in plain view. And now I understand clearly: they're all females.

Now my dad can let out a huge sigh of relief (if he's still reading which I undoubtedly assume that he is) because I won't be going to the party. Not that it doesn't sound like an entertaining way to spend my Friday night but if you read my last post, you'll know that I'm on recess right now and whilst on recess, I refuse to commit to anything that requires a lot of effort and I don't see how dressing up as a dominatrix, driving to the city, chatting with people who I don't know and potentially off unwanted sexual advances as the cocktails flow into the "erotic play" portion of the evening could be very relaxing or restorative.

Not that being a dominatrix is very suiting to me, by the way. Just for the record.

Ben Is Going to Maui and I'm Going to...Sleep?

2010-04-06T19:51:00.000-07:00

Ben is off to Maui with his dad tomorrow. I know. He JUST came home from Italy. The charmed life of a six-year-old. What can I say except for...

If he comes home with jet lag and pneumonia, there will be hell to pay!

We've had two weeks of unstructured spring break time and I'm happy to have a little time to decompress from single mommy-ing. Actually, I'm pretty darned relieved because after ingesting the poison, I mean, medication for migraines last month, I still haven't found my way out of the fog.

I saw my doctor about it. She ordered up a full run of lab tests to see if the medication might have kicked my thyroid out of commission or depleted my kidneys of their ability to flush toxins. I'm THAT tired.

Looking at my schedule, I noticed that there were some opportunities to take time off after Ben left. At first I tried to talk myself out of it. But by this morning, when I hauled myself out of bed, only to put a movie on for Ben and go BACK to bed - on a weekday, no less - I knew that I needed to do this. I'm THAT tired.

We had a full day together - Ben and I. A friend took him to Bounce Town this morning while I worked. I picked him up and we went to the aquarium. Then to feed the ducks at the park. Then to Peet's (because at 2pm, I was THAT tired), then to my doctor. The doctor walked in. "You look exhausted," she said. "Really?" I asked. "I put on eyeliner and curled my eyelashes. Are you saying that I didn't need to?"

And then it was back to work for me. My clients said, "Ohhhh, time off? You must be going for more training!" "Well, no," I said. "I need a little rest, I think." One of the clients looked right at me. "Do you think?!" she retorted. Am I THAT tired in front of my clients?

I think that sometimes it's good to take a little time off with no expectations or plans. No promises or commitments. I told myself that I would do exactly would I would like with this time, as the moment dictated - without any "shoulds" (as in - should find a major house project to attack) or "coulds" (could take three pilates classes each day and drive to the city for yoga at least once). None of that.

A teacher friend of mine recently took a month off from teaching and called it her recess. I like that. In fact, I hear the bell ringing right now...

The Dark Side of Medication

2010-04-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

I blogged over here today:

http://luscious-ness.blogspot.com/

I'm directing you there because I think it's an important topic. And because I think that we can all learn from eachother's experiences.

Wish I could say "April Fool's" on this topic, but I can't.

In good health,
janeen.

Enlightenment is in the Air

2010-03-25T21:45:00.000-07:00

Can't write much tonight. I'm 40 pages from the ending of "The Alchemist" and perhaps 40 minutes away from total enlightenment. I'm not even kidding.

So, this book's been an international bestseller forever and it's been published in dozens of languages. And just this year, it made it into my self-imposed pile of "Requisite Reading." Right behind "The Mommy Wars" and after all the mud-slinging THAT book, I felt like I needed a little soul cleansing (more on "The Wars" in a later post).

I'm down to the wire here on this lovely little book. The shepherd is in hot pursuit of his treasure. The omens on the vast desert are appearing right and left. God keeps popping up in the story in different personas. The universal messages are starting to crystallize.

The book has so much brilliance and wisdom that I think I'm going to have to go back and read it again. This is one Ben will read when he's a teenager. I might read it to him earlier.

Have to go now. The treasure is waiting. Whatever it is.

P.S. Alisa, the book jumped into my bag during our last visit! Don't know how that happened. But thanks, nonetheless!!

Rite of Passage

2010-03-23T12:49:00.001-07:00

We went to Ben's Little League kick-off party last night.

God help me.

13 boys in one small Round Table room. 12 boys were older than Ben by a year. Boy energy pulsated through the building...rambunctious boy energy that is punctuated by impromptu jabs, tackles and kicks. Is this what first grade looks like? I'll say it again...

God help me.

We are in store for 2 practices each week (the practice field is just under an hour from my house in commute traffic!), one weekly game and several hours of parent volunteering. I tuned out after I heard the words: "everyone WILL work the concession stand!"

The list of gear alone was enough to make my brain go completely numb. I looked at Ben's dad. "You're on that. Right?!"

It's hard to say where Ben's excitement level is on the baseball spectrum. Particularly in a game where the coaches pitch and T-ball is "for the little kids."

When it comes to sports though, Ben continues to surprise me. Just last weekend, his dad took him skiing. I truly believed that he would hate it and to my shock, he loved it. L-O-V-E-D it to the point of asking incessantly when we can go.

So into the Little League season we go, where we'll join the hundreds of other area parents who turn out excitedly for Opening Day and then we'll come together several times each week to see what kind of talent our kids possess on the field and we'll sell a few hot dogs and sodas and then we'll look at our calendars and see that half our summers have slipped away. Did I mention that we have to sign a code of conduct? For parents? Not for the kids...

Oh yes, this is a whole new ballgame for us indeed.

Wish us luck. And see you all sometime in July. :-)

And The Award Goes To...

2010-03-03T21:16:00.000-08:00

Finally, my hometown of Modesto, California has something worth celebrating. No, we haven't inched past being #298 on the "300 Best Places to Live" list but we do have a "local boy makes good" story. My classmate, Jeremy Renner, has been nominated for an Oscar for his role in "The Hurt Locker."

Modesto, in my opinion, hasn't had anything to celebrate since "American Graffiti." Certainly, it didn't help our fare city's ratings to have David Letterman mock our junior college while displaying an image of the school's marquee which read: "Congratulations to Acadamee Award Nominee, Jeremy Renner!" "What do you make of that?" Letterman asked Jeremy. "Don't they know how to SPELL in Modesto, California??!"

As for Jeremy, well, gosh, where do I start? I had the pleasure (?) of spending an evening with Jeremy and 100 of our classmates at the 20 year reunion for my graduating class this summer. Jeremy's attempts to be charming were sloppy, at best, perhaps from all the alcohol he was ingesting.

We chatted for awhile at the bar and then at my table. I asked him about life in Hollywood and what it was like to make movies. He was interrupted frequently and he bought a drink for everyone who stopped to say hello.

Ironically, Jeremy and I were the only "singles" at the reunion. So I guess it seemed natural to have the most conversation with him and he seemed game (and drunk enough) to play the "so what do you want out of life" game. Only his answers weren't very charming or precise and to be honest, I kept thinking that if I didn't know better, he could still be the short kid who worked the cosmetics counter at our local Macys. Really.

Still though, Jeremy is a super sweet guy who undoubtedly will go far in his Hollywood career.

And maybe at our next reunion, he'll have some deeper and more profound comments on Hollywood life. Or, he might bring an interesting date. Just last week, People.com reported that Charlize Theron was his newest love interest. In any event, I've heard that "The Hurt Locker" is pretty brilliant and that Jeremy's character is spot-on. I wish him all the best in the Oscar race this Sunday!

The Great Itallian Fall-Out

2010-03-02T13:22:00.000-08:00

We went from jet lag to the hospital.

After two more sleepless nights after his dad's shift, Ben woke up with a 104+ fever on Sunday morning. Three hours of waiting in Urgent Care and the same diagnosis as last fall: bronchial infection with possibility of pneumonia.

Since Ben has already missed a LOT of school this year due to the first round of pneumonia and then for various trips with his dad, the doctor went straight for the hard core antibiotics, as in the five day treatment that knocks out everything quickly.

But there was still fun to be had! Especially at 2am, 3am, 4am and 5am. With a sweaty boy who can't breathe and a frustrated mom who desperately needs some sleep...

I downed a couple of cocktails on Sunday night while on a quick Mommy break. Bad idea. Guess who spent the entire day in bed on Monday? Call it extreme fatigue, exhaustion, stomach flu, and headache.

So where's my ex in all this? He is in Maui. That's right. One week in Italy, one week in Maui.

The ER doctor looked at me rather sternly and had the classic line: "Do you really think that Italy during the school year, during the winter - even - was a good idea?"

"No," I deadpanned. "But, his dad thought so."

You Don't Have to Travel to Europe to Have Jet Lag

2010-02-22T15:42:00.000-08:00

Just co-habitate with a 6-year-old who spends one day on American soil before catapulting back into your home for 4am wake-ups.

Netflix on demand anyone? Melatonin? Kiddie Xanax?

I'm not surprised that this is happening but in the dark hours this morning, I was, admittedly, pretty frustrated. Frustrated enough to call my ex - at 4am - and demand that he take Ben for four nights to re-set his internal clock. I feel guilty sending Ben back a night early and Ben was disappointed when I told him. He let out a big, "awwwwww" and I said, "I'm sorry, little dude, but you are going to kill me."

I can't explain to him that the "cocktail" of sleep meds I take each night really doesn't allow for coherent and rational experiences at 4am. I can't explain to him that I am worthless at my job when I've been up for hours on end. I can't explain to him that this is his dad's damn fault and that it stupid to take a small child out of school for an international trip and expect everything to be "just fine" on the return.

We're going on 12 hours of being awake and Ben is melting on the half-hour. In fact, he's pushing 15 minute increments now. It's really not pretty.

His teacher confirmed at pick-up: "He is one tired boy."

We still have a report to finish - on Italy, of course - which entails at least two hours of sentence writing.

Oy vey.

Or as they say in Italy, "Buona fortuna" - or "good luck" to us!

Drinking It In.

2010-02-20T20:30:00.001-08:00

Ben came home to me last night. At last.

He seems to be adjusting back to Pacific time just fine. 11 hours of sleep last night and judging from the way he slurred his words and rubbed his eyes at bedtime, we're probably looking at another long stretch of slumber. Hooray!

Today we had a very fun playdate with friends at a really fabulous park, followed by ice cream treats at McDonald's and more play.

He requested pizza and a movie for tonight. He can usually eat one half of a Papa Murphy's Delite Pizza in one sitting (yes, it is astonishing) but this evening, he petered out after a mere three slices and told me that the pizza isn't as good as what he had in Italy.

On the way to Italy, his dad let him watch "Home Alone" on the airplane. Interesting judgment call on that one. Needless to say, Ben demanded that it be turned off about 15 minutes in and his dad ordered up "Tinkerbell" instead. And my boy - who's all Hot Wheels and Monster Trucks and dirt and grime - loved it. In fact, it was his pick for tonight. The second showing did not disappoint. I decided - about 10 minutes in - that Tinkerbell is a great representation of tasteful glamor and femininity and that she is going to be my inspiration for next Halloween. But I doubt that I can get Ben to be Peter Pan.

Throughout the movie, Ben lay sprawled across me on the couch. It was complete and total sweetness. At one point he reached for my hand. I wanted to take a still frame on that moment. Make it last forever.

Tinkerbell will probably last all of two weeks; likely until some knuckle-head boy on the playground lets Ben in on the notion that Tinkerbell is "for girls." But I hope that this innocence lasts just a little bit longer.

I could spend so many more Saturday nights just like this one and not have one regret; only the feeling that my heart will crack open for all the love that I have for this boy.

That's Amore

2010-02-14T19:26:00.000-08:00

I got my Valentine's call from Ben at 8:30am this morning. He had just eaten homemade raviolis for dinner and they had spent the day at a local carnivale. And this came through on email, right before the call:

Valentine's sentiments all the way from Italy. I can't think of a nicer way to start my day. It was all I needed.

The Irony of Ironies

2010-02-13T21:42:00.000-08:00

I saw a neurologist last week. She expressed concern over the frequency of my migraines and with the fact that the migraines seem to be worsening.

"How many days of work did you miss last month?" she asked.

"Four," I told her.

"That is too many, dear," she replied.

And she wrote out a prescription for a daily preventative medication. It's not something I have to take long-term; just an interim solution so that I don't miss any more work or time with Ben.

Because when you have a "true" migraine, you miss out on life. Most migraines come on in the middle of the night (I've never had one "sneak in" in the middle of my day) and the pain is so excruciating, that there is no possibility of standing upright. Generally, there is a fair amount of vomiting due to the intensity of the pain. Light sensitivity is a given as is a full day in bed.

In my experience, the best way to get rid of a migraine is to grab a ride to the nearest ER, curl up in a ball in the waiting room with a towel over my head (to block the light) and beg for a Demerol shot. Does the trick every time.

Lately, I've been self-medicating. Trading meds with my dad (he's also plagued with the migraine curse and the one person who can really sympathize with me) and combining opiates with ibuprofen, aspirin and Aleve. The doctor didn't much care for this strategy.

Thus, the daily medication.

But here's the kicker. The number one side effect of the migraine med? Headaches.

Oh yes, they aren't lying about that. I doubled the dose last night (per the doc's instructions) and woke up to a dull throb in the back of my head.

But at least I didn't have to puke or miss work.

Headaches. Un-freakin'-believable.

The Roller Coaster Is Waiting...Step Right On!

2010-02-12T11:54:00.000-08:00

Today has been a day of highs and lows.

Starting at 4am. No messages or texts from Kevin and Ben. Send a note off to my dad to ask what to do. He says to sit tight.

I "sit tight" for a couple of hours, train clients, try not to go "THERE" in my mind.

At 10am, I check my email. There's a message from Kevin's girlfriend. Yes, she's heard from them. They are exhausted, but fine.

I am relieved.

And I am pissed.

My sister calls and I break down on the phone with her.

44 hours after I've said goodbye to Ben, the phone rings. They are in Sorrento and all is well. Kevin says they have slept more than half the day away and I can hear Ben in the background: "Ciao, Ciao, Ciao..."

There was an eight hour delay at Heathrow. Ben passed out on a bench in the airport, with a sleeping mask over his eyes. He slept for four hours. Kevin didn't sleep. I guess Heathrow doesn't have public phones.

Kevin feels like crap, as well he should. He must have apologized twenty times. I told him to bring me a nice pair of Italian shoes and I'd consider forgiveness by next Christmas. IF I like the shoes.

Meanwhile, the mail came through the door while I was chatting with Ben. I retrieved it at the end of our conversation and found a pink envelope with my name on it. My dad sent me a Valentine's card with some cash. He usually sends me a funny card. Without cash. This one wasn't funny. It made me cry. As if I hadn't cried enough all morning.

As with the proverbial roller coaster, when life takes us down, really down, we don't always have to wait long to go back up again. Sometimes, it happens in moments. I'll close out this adventure by sharing the card with you. Thanks, Dad.

Although I've known you since before you were born, somehow you still continue to amaze me.

I've watched you go through change after change.

And I've seen you navigate through some pretty rough times with your heart as your compass and your strong, resilient spirit to carry you through.

Simply put, I couldn't be prouder of you.

You've grown from an adorable girl to a remarkable woman.

A woman I admire, love and respect more every day.

When I held you as a baby, I knew that you were special.

When I see you as a woman, I realize just how special.

More so than I ever could have imagined.

There Is A Lesson Here Somewhere...God, Help Me Find It!

2010-02-11T20:32:00.001-08:00

I have been scolded a few times over my "release" of Ben to Italy. Several people have questioned the judgment of my ex to take my young son to a country that is not particularly hip to Americans. Alone. In turn, my judgment has been questioned. I have staunchly stood by my opinion that, while it might seem totally outlandish to take a 6-year-old to the Amalfi Coast, I believe that my ex only has Ben's best interests at heart and would take every precaution necessary to keep both of them safe.

Yet, 30 hours into the trip, I'm questioning my own actions.

You see, Kevin promised to call me when they landed at Heathrow. Or at the very least, to touch in from Gatwick (also in London). Worst case scenario, I'd get a call from Italy. Which, by my calculations, would have occurred by 2pm today. But in reality, I should have had a call or a voice mail by early this morning. Because they would have landed in Heathrow at midnight, last night.

Excuse me here, but: WHAT. THE. FUCK. ??????????????????????????????????

Now my ex can be inconsiderate, narcissistic, and selfish. But he knows how much I crave contact with Ben. And he's usually quite good at facilitating that.

In an act of desperation, I sent an email off to Kevin's girlfriend. I don't even care, at this point, if he's contacted her. I just need to know that he's contacted someone, anyone so that I can go to bed without the image of Kevin's rental car in a ditch and Ben sitting alone in some Italian police department.

I have no idea how I'm going to sleep tonight. Today, I went from feeling a little pissed off and hurt this morning, to full blown anger and anxiety by this evening. I would never do this to Kevin.

My best friend has been checking in on me all day. "Have you heard anything?" She made a very astute comment earlier: "I don't know if it's easier being married to Kevin or being divorced from him." I don't know either. But I do know that Kevin's chances of taking Ben on another overseas adventure are decreasing rapidly by the hour.

And speaking of hours, I think I found my darkest hours of parenting. I guess I'm getting an early glimpse of what the teenage years could be like - when Ben is out until all hours and I'm sitting at home - watching the clock. I will say this: Kevin is lucky that he's not anywhere close to me right now. Hell hath no fury like a mother without her child...

A Special 70

2010-02-09T20:47:00.000-08:00

Today, I was honored to attend a luncheon for a client turning 70. I was one of eight women who came to celebrate the birthday of a very special lady, with a delicious lunch and really good company.

I had to leave the party early to pick up Ben. As I drove to his school, I reflected on the sweetness of life's relationships - specifically, how I could have traveled another path and never intersected with my client, and friend. I never would have known her grace, her generosity, her unexpected wit, her steadfast dedication to her family, to her grandchildren and to her friends. I would have missed so much.

So many times, I choose to ruminate on the road(s) that I didn't take, with regrets and a whole lot of second-guessing. Today, it felt really good to think about my friendship with this client in terms of, "Having her in my life is just another benefit of the choices I've made."

Ben leaves for Italy tomorrow. He lay on the couch tonight with me, his head resting lightly on my shoulder and his fingers intertwined into mine. We talked about gellato. He said, "I'm going to miss you, Mommy."

Sending him off feels wrong. It's a heavier sadness that I've experienced before.

Life delivers so many injustices. But at the same time, I've finally figured out that there are equal amounts of goodness, if you pause and sit still enough to let them in.

My wisest friend says this all the time: "Reality eventually catches up with everyone. EVERYONE."

Isn't that the truth.

I'm glad that my own reality includes clients who become friends and birthdays to celebrate and friends who share their infinite wisdom with me.

Thank you, M and K.

This Is What Denial Looks Like

2010-02-07T19:29:00.000-08:00

The ex is taking Ben to Italy. They are leaving on Wednesday. First thing in the morning. Basically in two days.

I have known about the trip for months. I have also known that in order for the ex to take the child out of the country, the mother needs to provide her consent by providing a letter, a notarized letter, with said ex.

So here we are two days before the departure date. Have I written the letter yet? N - O. Have I done a search on notaries in my area? N - O. Have I looked at my schedule to figure out when I can cram a mid-day notary appointment in? I think you know the answer.

Every time I think about Ben jetting off to Italy, I get sad. I'm not thinking about how much he'll enjoy eating daily gellato with his dad (which has been promised over and over), nor am I thinking about how his little eyes will get very big when he sees the actual Sistine Chapel, which he made a replica of last year. In Kindergarten. But I digress.

In all honestly, the thought of Ben being on the other side of the world for nine whole days is making me feel like a displaced mom. And I'm using this forum to admit that because I think it's an important step in the whole process of embracing single parenting. Blah, blah, blah.

To counteract those oh-so-crappy feelings about the imminent Italian adventure, I decided to make a list of all the things I want to do while Ben is away. I started the list and was actually enjoying the direction it was taking: purge the toys, separate the business and the household files, frame prints, organize the photos from last year, watch hours of "Californication," cleanse my soul from hours of "Californication" by tackling the growing stack of literary gems I'm collecting, pen my own memoir, landscape the 1/4 acre backyard. You get the idea.

I distilled the list down to a few basic tasks: cleaning the car and cleaning the closets. Maybe the garage, too. Then I realized that I still hadn't written the damn letter.

If the letter doesn't get written, then nothing's gonna get done around here and Ben won't get his daily gellato and I won't get some extravagant gift (Italian boots, maybe?) from my ex. I think I'm motivated now.

Ciao.