It seemed innocuous enough. Just a backache. No big deal. And I could explain exactly how I got it. I had been in Phoenix for a conference, and had schlepped my big old suitcase, overpacked as usual, through airports and baggage claims. Sure, I was pregnant, finishing my second trimester and heading into the home stretch of impending motherhood. But I felt good, and I’m a stubborn-ass-control-freak. If I can do something, I’m going to do it. And so I must have just pulled a little something in my back hauling that bag around.
I was six months pregnant in the fall of 2001 and it was lovely. There were a couple of not-so-normal but nothing-earth-shattering things cluttering the landscape, not the least of which was the discovery of a large fibroid tumor (benign) when I had my first sonogram. Shouldn’t have any negative affect on the baby whatsoever saith the doctors; I was at a high-risk obstetrics practice, due to the fact that I was an “older” first time mother, and I knew they had seen all this before. The baby was a boy (which made my husband unbelievably happy), as evidenced by a clear-as-a-bell sonogram picture. Discussions about names had begun in a very casual manner. I was starting to waddle. Our lamaze classes had been scheduled. I was still craving Wendy’s hamburgers on a daily basis. Standard pregnancy stuff. Frankly, I was more preoccupied with the turmoil sweeping the country after 9/11 -- that wound was still so fresh and dominating. I figured the best was yet to come in my role as a to-be mommy.
And then that backache just wouldn’t go away.
I had meetings after work that week -- I was the president-elect of a women’s volunteer organization (the reason for my conference attendance) and there were plans to make and projects to oversee. As I sat in the living room of a friend for one such meeting mid-week, she commented to me that I didn’t look like I felt well. I thanked her for her concern, chalking it up to being tired from travel and that darn backache. The next evening brought more of the same -- concerned comments from other friends and an increased exhaustion coupled with an aching back.
Finally, Friday came, and we -- my husband and I -- were in the market for a new television set. Opting to take his ancient, shock-absorber-deprived Jeep Cherokee, we ventured out, only to have me ask him to take me home because I just wasn’t feeling well. Rather than a backache, I was beginning to suspect that I had a kidney or bladder infection. That made sense. Pregnant women get those all the time. A call to my OB/GYN’s service connected me with the doctor on call, who suggested I take Tylenol PM and try to get some sleep. Impossible instructions. The pain finally became too much, and we drove down foggy early morning streets to the Emergency Room.
That’s when everything changed. Turned upside down. Inside out.
A quick examination by a very kind on-call nurse determined that it wasn’t a backache or kidney infection or bladder problem. I was in labor, had been for several days, was fully dilated and barring a miracle, would deliver that baby -- my little boy -- very shortly. Way too early. Medical personnel started moving at the speed of light. I watched the color drain out of my husband’s face. The gravity of the situation landed directly onto my chest.
And that’s when I started screaming.
Loud.
Primeval.
Straight from the core of my soul.
Morphine was quickly administered. My husband made frantic phone calls to track down family (my parents and brother) and friends, who came immediately to the hospital, leaving their own families as the sun was coming up. While I was under the benefit of anesthesia, he was not; the presence of loved ones provided his pain relief. As much as they could anyway. It was a losing proposition, trying to asuage the horror of the situation.
What was really terrifying at that moment was the determination of my due date. It had originally been figured that I was about 23 weeks along. The survival rates of babies born that early is practically nonexistent. And the obligatory legal visit from the hospital social worker made that fact very clear. Fortunately for us all, I was in fact two weeks farther along than originally thought, giving the baby better odds. However, I still remember, even through my morphine-tainted memories, that very clinical discussion with the social worker and her, matter-of-factly telling me, a woman scared completely out of her drugged mind, that the chances of my baby boy surviving were minimal at best. It haunts me to this day.
I’m not sure precisely what happened over the next couple of hours; morphine will do that to a girl. I know I was given several medications to try and stop the contractions; to try and develop the baby’s lungs (the primary concern) on warp-speed; to try and manage the seemingly unmanageable. I was hung upside down, and endured a parade of observers assessing my situation. I was strong; the contractions were stronger. The only saving grace was my obsession with the fact that because I had not felt well all week, I had neglected to shave my legs. Which, along with every other part of my anatomy, was on public display. Never mind all that -- I felt compelled to apologize to every. single. person. who came to check on me for my hairy legs. It became the only remotely funny thing in this theatre of the absurd.
Four hours later, my will was no longer enough to stave off the inevitable. My doctor, who lived an hour and a half south of the hospital, was unable to get to the delivery room in time. The doctor in attendance was a resident; I could not have asked for, or received, better care and attention from any practicing physician. As they wheeled me to the delivery room, I was perhaps the calmest civilian there. I saw faces of family and friends overhead, encouraging me, talking to God, providing comfort. My dear, dear friend Judy was there, to give support to her dear friend, my mom. Judy has since passed away after a valiant fight with cancer, but the fact that she is part of this memory is a poignant blessing. Holding hands, my husband and I entered the delivery room, feet first and breech, anticipating everything and understanding nothing.
Once in the delivery room, events happened quickly. One calculated push was all it took to send my baby boy literally flying into the world, as if I’d shot him straight out of a cannon. Capable trained medical hands were there from the right-next-door children’s hospital to tend to him. It was only a matter of seconds before he cried.
Loud.
Primeval.
Straight from the core of his soul.
He was healthy and functioning as normally as a 25-week-gestational-aged baby could. And I breathed solidly for the first time in hours.
We named him for his two grandfathers -- he would be called William, Will for short. Such a prophetic name. And just as quickly as he was launched, Will was whisked away immediately under the protection of machine and man and heavenly father through an underground tunnel to the NeoNatal Intensive Care Unit at the children’s hospital.
And I somehow knew, at that moment, that everything would be all right.
But what I didn’t realize at the time is that all right.
Is always all relative.
5.30.2006
My New Mantra
From postsecret.com
This is the latest thing I want to achieve:
To the undoubtedly fabulous 44-year-old woman who wrote this:
Thank you, from a I-can't-believe-how-much-I-still-struggle-with-my-body-image-after-all-these-years 41-year-old woman.
This is the latest thing I want to achieve:
To the undoubtedly fabulous 44-year-old woman who wrote this:
Thank you, from a I-can't-believe-how-much-I-still-struggle-with-my-body-image-after-all-these-years 41-year-old woman.
5.29.2006
Time to Tell the Tale
I ran into an acquaintance of my mother’s the other day in the grocery store. Not an unusual occurrence in our community, where both my mother and I were born, and therefore just know people simply because we’ve lived here so damn long. She asked me how “that son of yours is doing," commenting that she followed his early days of life thanks to a e-mail chain that sprung up from my daily little missives to close friends and family apprising them of Will’s condition. My e-mails ended up having a greater circulation rate than some small town newspapers, and while that still boggles my mind, it always makes me feel humble and grateful to know that so many people cared enough about my family to share this information and our simple, yet direct requests for prayers on Will’s behalf during his hospital stay in the NICU. I have no doubt that he is where he is today thanks to the power of prayer, the wonders of modern medicine and the capacity for caring of many, many people.
This little grocery store encounter got me thinking about what I call “Will’s story." It’s been a while since I’ve visited it. I mused upon this during my morning walks over the last couple of days, taking the occasion to gauge my emotional reaction to thinking objectively about it. I've been a long time coming to this place. It's only been recently that I've been able to read my e-mail journal, finding the documentation of Will's ups and downs, particularly the weekend when we didn't know whether he would in fact survive, too much to process and handle. For the longest time, I couldn’t watch any medical show on television, fictional (aka ER) or reality (you name it). Too painful, too close to home. Too many memories. Things are better now -- I’m currently addicted to House, although I swear that at least every other patient of the week on that show ends up having some sort of seizure (which I’m all too familiar with). And if that patient is a child or young person, I find that it’s still a little hard to watch, fictional aspect notwithstanding. It’s still tough for me to see any sort of neurological procedure (how ‘bout that drill!) shown on a tv drama -- although if I put my mind to it, I could probably tell you just how close to reality they are (again, that all too familiar thing...)
I may be in a place, finally, where I can write about this life-altering, life-giving experience, for which I was completely unprepared, yet immediately thrown into without my consent. One doesn’t make a middle-of-the-night emergency room visit at 25 weeks pregnant, suffering from an excruciating backache, only to have a nurse tell her that she is fully dilated and will deliver her baby an entire trimester early into unknown circumstances and not come out a transformed individual. Can’t happen. Didn’t happen.
I would be lying if I said that I didn’t wrestle with a big old passel of guilt about Will’s premature birth, despite what the words of the doctors say and the protestations of family and friends. I can’t shake the fact that it was my body that failed my baby, causing him to come into this world way too soon, forcing him to be more courageous and resisiliant and willful than any human should have to be, asking him to endure unknown, untold problems, obstacles, pain. Every achievement and milestone is gloriously bittersweet, always celebrated and encourgaged -- yet constantly swathed in the haze of "what if?" and "why?" and "what will be?"
He is a modern miracle. I believe it. Doctors have confirmed it.
"Wow," they say upon hearing my Cliff-Notes version of his health history. "He looks so great/is doing so well/is an amazing success story. You must be very proud." Proud? Sure. I'll take proud. It beats the hell out of the deepest, darkest, most self-deprecating things I usually think when medical reality usurps my parental pollyanna rose-colored glasses and jacks up the always-simmering-under-the-surface guilt. Wow indeed. (Hmm. Not sure I'm ready to go here just yet. Can you tell? This one's gonna be tough...)
Writing has always been my catharsis, my way of exorcising demons and finding clarity. I think that I’m ready to begin this process with Will’s story. I owe it to my son to get his tale on paper, before the details -- good, bad, happy, sad and yes, funny -- slip away.
But mostly, I owe it to myself.
It’s time.
This little grocery store encounter got me thinking about what I call “Will’s story." It’s been a while since I’ve visited it. I mused upon this during my morning walks over the last couple of days, taking the occasion to gauge my emotional reaction to thinking objectively about it. I've been a long time coming to this place. It's only been recently that I've been able to read my e-mail journal, finding the documentation of Will's ups and downs, particularly the weekend when we didn't know whether he would in fact survive, too much to process and handle. For the longest time, I couldn’t watch any medical show on television, fictional (aka ER) or reality (you name it). Too painful, too close to home. Too many memories. Things are better now -- I’m currently addicted to House, although I swear that at least every other patient of the week on that show ends up having some sort of seizure (which I’m all too familiar with). And if that patient is a child or young person, I find that it’s still a little hard to watch, fictional aspect notwithstanding. It’s still tough for me to see any sort of neurological procedure (how ‘bout that drill!) shown on a tv drama -- although if I put my mind to it, I could probably tell you just how close to reality they are (again, that all too familiar thing...)
I may be in a place, finally, where I can write about this life-altering, life-giving experience, for which I was completely unprepared, yet immediately thrown into without my consent. One doesn’t make a middle-of-the-night emergency room visit at 25 weeks pregnant, suffering from an excruciating backache, only to have a nurse tell her that she is fully dilated and will deliver her baby an entire trimester early into unknown circumstances and not come out a transformed individual. Can’t happen. Didn’t happen.
I would be lying if I said that I didn’t wrestle with a big old passel of guilt about Will’s premature birth, despite what the words of the doctors say and the protestations of family and friends. I can’t shake the fact that it was my body that failed my baby, causing him to come into this world way too soon, forcing him to be more courageous and resisiliant and willful than any human should have to be, asking him to endure unknown, untold problems, obstacles, pain. Every achievement and milestone is gloriously bittersweet, always celebrated and encourgaged -- yet constantly swathed in the haze of "what if?" and "why?" and "what will be?"
He is a modern miracle. I believe it. Doctors have confirmed it.
"Wow," they say upon hearing my Cliff-Notes version of his health history. "He looks so great/is doing so well/is an amazing success story. You must be very proud." Proud? Sure. I'll take proud. It beats the hell out of the deepest, darkest, most self-deprecating things I usually think when medical reality usurps my parental pollyanna rose-colored glasses and jacks up the always-simmering-under-the-surface guilt. Wow indeed. (Hmm. Not sure I'm ready to go here just yet. Can you tell? This one's gonna be tough...)
Writing has always been my catharsis, my way of exorcising demons and finding clarity. I think that I’m ready to begin this process with Will’s story. I owe it to my son to get his tale on paper, before the details -- good, bad, happy, sad and yes, funny -- slip away.
But mostly, I owe it to myself.
It’s time.
5.25.2006
The Whammy Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree
If there was any doubt that Will is my child -- and I know there's not, as I was there, morphine haze and all, when he came flying into the world three and a half months early -- his behavior this week makes it abundantly clear that he takes after his mama.
He's home on a little break between the end of the regular school year and summer school. For my special needs pre-schooler, summer school is a great thing, as it is a venue to allow the continuation of the reinforcement of all the skills he was developing and mastering when school ended. He is achieving so many accomplishments -- he is thisclose to walking all on his own, which thrills me to no end. He has the ability to walk now, but insists on holding my hand as he toddles around like a little drunken sailor, searching for his balance to counteract his cerebral palsy. And his yucky eyesight also has something to do with this delay, I'm sure. Poor kid inherited his mother's blinding nearsightedness, which is compounded by his prematurity. It figures that for the one thing he could use a genetic boost on to counteract the effects of his health history, I bring nothing to the table. At least he doesn't have my hips.
He is now feeding himself his meals, which is a messy marvel all on its own. He is communicating more and more everyday ("I want to swing!" "Let's take a bath." "Time for night-night."), actually expressing his needs and wants to me in a way that doesn't involve a banshee scream. Which is great for my mommy heart and my aching head. Kid's got some lung power on him. You could never tell now that his little lungs were so underdeveloped when he was born. Damn. When he can win a "Who's Loudest" contest with a Shop Vac, you know that he's gifted vocally.
Anyway. Since he's been home, we've slowed down our routine a bit, choosing to take a mini-vacation from bi-weekly therapy sessions he takes as an out-patient at our children's hospital. And, natch, we've been watching tv. Sometimes together, sometimes not. He now has three favorite programs that qualify as Must See Will TV -- two of which warm the cockles of my couch potato heart.
1) The Wiggles. The sun rises and sets for Will with the Wiggles. Oy. It could be worse. He could be obsessed with Barney. *Shudder* So, we wake up every morning "ready to Wiggle, Mama."
2)The Price is Right
3) Lingo
Go figure. I'm raising a game show fanatic. And who says this stuff's not genetic...
But there's a legitimate reason behind his choices. And it's a good one.
Like many preschoolers, he's learning his alphabet and how to count. Loves to randomly bust out with a rousing rendition of The Alphabet Song or will simply begin counting away. He can get up to twenty-nine, but insists that next comes twenty-ten. Actually, that's pretty good logic, if you think about it.
Now, what is the primary component of The Price is Right? Why prices, of course. And prices are made up of numbers.
Likewise, the objective of Lingo is to spell five letter words. It's all about the alphabet.
Will's affection for these shows is based on what he's learning in school. And that makes me prouder than I can ever imagine.
It's really funny to see him, scooched up to the TV, watching Bob Barker and Chuck Woolery do their things, sometimes chiming in with his suggestions of a number or letter.
I'm hoping this game show fascination continues. Because what childhood would be complete without a crash course in witty bon-mots, double entendres and the perils of drinking on national television. I'm talking, of course, about that all-time classic and my very favorite game show ever -- Match Game! Can't wait to share that one with him.
And then, there are the myriad incarnations of Password...
Announcer: The password is "Ridiculous".
Oscar (in angry tone): Aristophanes!
Felix: Ridiculous.
...and the venerable black and white versions of What's My Line and To Tell The Truth. And all those Pyramids.
I figure he can work this out with his therapist when he gets older. Right now, he's all mine.
He's home on a little break between the end of the regular school year and summer school. For my special needs pre-schooler, summer school is a great thing, as it is a venue to allow the continuation of the reinforcement of all the skills he was developing and mastering when school ended. He is achieving so many accomplishments -- he is thisclose to walking all on his own, which thrills me to no end. He has the ability to walk now, but insists on holding my hand as he toddles around like a little drunken sailor, searching for his balance to counteract his cerebral palsy. And his yucky eyesight also has something to do with this delay, I'm sure. Poor kid inherited his mother's blinding nearsightedness, which is compounded by his prematurity. It figures that for the one thing he could use a genetic boost on to counteract the effects of his health history, I bring nothing to the table. At least he doesn't have my hips.
He is now feeding himself his meals, which is a messy marvel all on its own. He is communicating more and more everyday ("I want to swing!" "Let's take a bath." "Time for night-night."), actually expressing his needs and wants to me in a way that doesn't involve a banshee scream. Which is great for my mommy heart and my aching head. Kid's got some lung power on him. You could never tell now that his little lungs were so underdeveloped when he was born. Damn. When he can win a "Who's Loudest" contest with a Shop Vac, you know that he's gifted vocally.
Anyway. Since he's been home, we've slowed down our routine a bit, choosing to take a mini-vacation from bi-weekly therapy sessions he takes as an out-patient at our children's hospital. And, natch, we've been watching tv. Sometimes together, sometimes not. He now has three favorite programs that qualify as Must See Will TV -- two of which warm the cockles of my couch potato heart.
1) The Wiggles. The sun rises and sets for Will with the Wiggles. Oy. It could be worse. He could be obsessed with Barney. *Shudder* So, we wake up every morning "ready to Wiggle, Mama."
2)The Price is Right
3) Lingo
Go figure. I'm raising a game show fanatic. And who says this stuff's not genetic...
But there's a legitimate reason behind his choices. And it's a good one.
Like many preschoolers, he's learning his alphabet and how to count. Loves to randomly bust out with a rousing rendition of The Alphabet Song or will simply begin counting away. He can get up to twenty-nine, but insists that next comes twenty-ten. Actually, that's pretty good logic, if you think about it.
Now, what is the primary component of The Price is Right? Why prices, of course. And prices are made up of numbers.
Likewise, the objective of Lingo is to spell five letter words. It's all about the alphabet.
Will's affection for these shows is based on what he's learning in school. And that makes me prouder than I can ever imagine.
It's really funny to see him, scooched up to the TV, watching Bob Barker and Chuck Woolery do their things, sometimes chiming in with his suggestions of a number or letter.
I'm hoping this game show fascination continues. Because what childhood would be complete without a crash course in witty bon-mots, double entendres and the perils of drinking on national television. I'm talking, of course, about that all-time classic and my very favorite game show ever -- Match Game! Can't wait to share that one with him.
And then, there are the myriad incarnations of Password...
Announcer: The password is "Ridiculous".
Oscar (in angry tone): Aristophanes!
Felix: Ridiculous.
...and the venerable black and white versions of What's My Line and To Tell The Truth. And all those Pyramids.
I figure he can work this out with his therapist when he gets older. Right now, he's all mine.
Driven To Tears
I just read an item on Yahoo News that makes me surprisingly sad. Ian Copeland, brother of Police drummer Stewart Copeland, has died at the age of 57. The Copeland brothers, including eldest brother Miles, were responsible for shaping my musical taste and for providing the soundtrack for my college years and thereafter.
The International Records Syndicate (I.R.S.) label, founded by Miles, produced many of the albums that I discovered as a college student, and still listen to even now -- The Police, the B-52's, the Bangle, the Go-Gos, the Cure, the Smiths and R.E.M. Ian, in conjunction, helped to bring the British band Squeeze to the states -- and I ironically just listened to Singles: 45s and Under just today.
These guys had an major impact on my life, and it's not until you read about something like this that you really can appreciate it. And it's also a sign that an era truly is ending.
So, thanks, Ian. This fan is truly appreciative.
The International Records Syndicate (I.R.S.) label, founded by Miles, produced many of the albums that I discovered as a college student, and still listen to even now -- The Police, the B-52's, the Bangle, the Go-Gos, the Cure, the Smiths and R.E.M. Ian, in conjunction, helped to bring the British band Squeeze to the states -- and I ironically just listened to Singles: 45s and Under just today.
These guys had an major impact on my life, and it's not until you read about something like this that you really can appreciate it. And it's also a sign that an era truly is ending.
So, thanks, Ian. This fan is truly appreciative.
5.24.2006
Off the top of my naturally curly head of hair...
No matter what the tv ads tell you, Lean Cuisines don’t taste all that great. Trust me. Necessary but meh. And Quaker Rice Cakes? Cardboard with seasoning. Damn, I hate being on a diet.
I finally took the time to update that profile thing that the lovely Blogger people so graciously provide. Not sure why, but it just seemed like the thing to do. Guess I can't stand to leave a question or survey unanswered. And it reminded me that I have a lot of old favorite movies and books that it's time to revisit. I'll just add that to my list...
For the first time in months, my Tuesday night was not spent furiously dialing and texting for my man Elliott. Didn’t even watch the AI final. Bittersweetly liberating.
Favorite new songs/group of the moment: “Over My Head (Cable Car)” and “How to Save a Life” by The Fray. Very much like Ben Folds Five minus a bit of brooding. Highly recommended.
Will has to have his adenoids removed and tubes put in his ears this summer. I scheduled his surgery after our week-long beach vacation in late June. It’s hard enough to wrangle him without having to worry about getting water in his newly-tubed ears. Gotta make sure the vacation stays as relaxing as possible. I understand that this is a relatively simple procedure, which makes me feel a bit better. And when compared to the fact that Will literally had brain surgery in an emergency room two years ago to remove his malfunctioning shunt, it should be fairly standard stuff. I hope.
Latest fun objective: To see Tom Jones in Vegas at the MGM Grand. My friend Susan DiPlacido, she of the fantastic blog Neon Fiction, and I have talked about doing this. How quintessentially Vegas, don’t you think? It’s not quite seeing the Rat Pack at the Sands, but it’ll do.
Top Chef finale tonight. If Harold doesn’t win, it’ll be a damn shame. He’s cute, surly, cranky -- but boy if he doesn’t know his way around that kitchen.
Le Creuset cookware? Worth every bit of the seemingly outrageous price. My osso buco has never been more succulent, and Julia Child’s French Onion soup recipe that I’ve been making since I was 13 years old has never ever tasted better. I’d like to think that my cooking skills have escalated, but in reality, I think it’s the cookware. Now if only I could get the timing on my risotto down...
Just heard from my soon-to-be-ex-regular babysitter (she’s going off to college in a couple of weeks, to Florida State no less. I still love her, although her choice in schools is very questionable...) that a young woman, who I babysat when she was a baby, and who just recently got married, is thinking about having a baby herself. That tidbit made me run, not walk, to the mirror to analyze every single wrinkle and tell-tale age sign on my 41-year-old face. Very sobering. I don't need to do that on a regular basis. It's not good for my fragile self-esteem. I'm just sayin'.
There is no household chore I hate more than cleaning out the refridgerator. Especially the inevitable discovery of some mysterious thing in a tupperware dish that has evolved into something that could possibly be toxic or the link to the cure for cancer. I've had to sacrifice a lot of good tupperware dishes to the cause. Ah, the delightful tedium of being a domestic goddess on the skids.
I just realized that I've been rambling on about a lot of kitchen-type stuff today. Weird.
My summer project: to archive and scan all the family photos that somehow have ended up in my garage. I have become the de-facto family historian, which is fine, because I’ve been dabbling in genealogy for years. I got stuck with all this stuff, though, when my parents moved from our family home of 35 years to a condo. In the transition, they needed to “temporarily” store some things in our garage. When they finally came to collect everything, they left with far less than they came with. Hmm. Most of it was stuff that my mom didn’t want, but couldn’t bear to throw away. Again, hmm. But, I’m having fun going through all the old photos, and once Will goes back to summer school (a preschool mom’s best friend), I will become one with my scanner and iPhoto. I'm looking forward to unearthing and dusting off some of my long-dormant skills. Although layout and design just aren't the same in the electronic age. No X-acto knives, no rubber cement balls, no t-squares. Sigh.
I finally took the time to update that profile thing that the lovely Blogger people so graciously provide. Not sure why, but it just seemed like the thing to do. Guess I can't stand to leave a question or survey unanswered. And it reminded me that I have a lot of old favorite movies and books that it's time to revisit. I'll just add that to my list...
For the first time in months, my Tuesday night was not spent furiously dialing and texting for my man Elliott. Didn’t even watch the AI final. Bittersweetly liberating.
Favorite new songs/group of the moment: “Over My Head (Cable Car)” and “How to Save a Life” by The Fray. Very much like Ben Folds Five minus a bit of brooding. Highly recommended.
Will has to have his adenoids removed and tubes put in his ears this summer. I scheduled his surgery after our week-long beach vacation in late June. It’s hard enough to wrangle him without having to worry about getting water in his newly-tubed ears. Gotta make sure the vacation stays as relaxing as possible. I understand that this is a relatively simple procedure, which makes me feel a bit better. And when compared to the fact that Will literally had brain surgery in an emergency room two years ago to remove his malfunctioning shunt, it should be fairly standard stuff. I hope.
Latest fun objective: To see Tom Jones in Vegas at the MGM Grand. My friend Susan DiPlacido, she of the fantastic blog Neon Fiction, and I have talked about doing this. How quintessentially Vegas, don’t you think? It’s not quite seeing the Rat Pack at the Sands, but it’ll do.
Top Chef finale tonight. If Harold doesn’t win, it’ll be a damn shame. He’s cute, surly, cranky -- but boy if he doesn’t know his way around that kitchen.
Le Creuset cookware? Worth every bit of the seemingly outrageous price. My osso buco has never been more succulent, and Julia Child’s French Onion soup recipe that I’ve been making since I was 13 years old has never ever tasted better. I’d like to think that my cooking skills have escalated, but in reality, I think it’s the cookware. Now if only I could get the timing on my risotto down...
Just heard from my soon-to-be-ex-regular babysitter (she’s going off to college in a couple of weeks, to Florida State no less. I still love her, although her choice in schools is very questionable...) that a young woman, who I babysat when she was a baby, and who just recently got married, is thinking about having a baby herself. That tidbit made me run, not walk, to the mirror to analyze every single wrinkle and tell-tale age sign on my 41-year-old face. Very sobering. I don't need to do that on a regular basis. It's not good for my fragile self-esteem. I'm just sayin'.
There is no household chore I hate more than cleaning out the refridgerator. Especially the inevitable discovery of some mysterious thing in a tupperware dish that has evolved into something that could possibly be toxic or the link to the cure for cancer. I've had to sacrifice a lot of good tupperware dishes to the cause. Ah, the delightful tedium of being a domestic goddess on the skids.
I just realized that I've been rambling on about a lot of kitchen-type stuff today. Weird.
My summer project: to archive and scan all the family photos that somehow have ended up in my garage. I have become the de-facto family historian, which is fine, because I’ve been dabbling in genealogy for years. I got stuck with all this stuff, though, when my parents moved from our family home of 35 years to a condo. In the transition, they needed to “temporarily” store some things in our garage. When they finally came to collect everything, they left with far less than they came with. Hmm. Most of it was stuff that my mom didn’t want, but couldn’t bear to throw away. Again, hmm. But, I’m having fun going through all the old photos, and once Will goes back to summer school (a preschool mom’s best friend), I will become one with my scanner and iPhoto. I'm looking forward to unearthing and dusting off some of my long-dormant skills. Although layout and design just aren't the same in the electronic age. No X-acto knives, no rubber cement balls, no t-squares. Sigh.
5.19.2006
5.18.2006
I'm in an Excellent State of Mind...
People striving for excellence want to serve more, to give more, to improve at whatever they’re doing. I believe the choice to be excellent begins with aligning your thoughts and words with the intention to require more from yourself.
-- Oprah Winfrey
I’m one of those people who is literally always thinking. My mind is constantly jam-packed full of ideas, thoughts and theories – some productive (How many projects will I actually be able to tackle on my to-do list this summer?), some mundane (How long will bell peppers stay fresh in the crisper?), and some totally ridiculous (I think it’s obscene that Heather Mills might get up to one-quarter of Sir Paul’s fortune after only being married four years). One of the more constructive things I’ve been mulling over lately, in my quest to re-define myself is the notion of excellence – what it is, and what it isn’t. A old issue of O magazine (Oprah’s publication) spurred this particular line of thinking, and after reading a number of articles that focused on cultivating excellence in one’s life, it seemed to me that there were lessons to be learned from it.
The dictionary definition of the word excellent is deceptively simple: of the highest or finest quality; exceptionally good of its kind. Its synonyms include brilliant, exceptional, first-rate, admirable, tremendous, and outstanding.
That being said, here are a couple of personal conclusions I’ve drawn about the idea of being excellent:
Being excellent is not synonymous with being perfect.
Excellence isn’t about outdoing, outperforming, or outshining someone else.
To embrace excellence lets you discover what you can accomplish when you are curious, passionate and excited about whatever you’re doing.
To do your best in any circumstance and to be happy in who you are – that is the true essence of excellence.
Excellence is best judged not in the spotlight of success, but in the face of adversity.
So -- where do I start this quest for excellence and how does it reconcile with where I am right now... I suppose it means striving not to be perfect in my efforts, but instead aiming to make a difference in everything I do; to be enthusiastic and committed and effective; and, perhaps most importantly, to dream big and plan creatively in every appropriate aspect.
I’ve got one more thing to add to that summer to-do list: to discover the passion in all areas of my life, and to in turn channel that passion into whatever is necessary for me to be the best I can be. I’m going to work to be excellent to my loved ones, to my community wherever I roam, and most importantly, to myself.
Every job is a self-portrait of the person who did it. Autograph your work with excellence.
-- Anonymous
-- Oprah Winfrey
I’m one of those people who is literally always thinking. My mind is constantly jam-packed full of ideas, thoughts and theories – some productive (How many projects will I actually be able to tackle on my to-do list this summer?), some mundane (How long will bell peppers stay fresh in the crisper?), and some totally ridiculous (I think it’s obscene that Heather Mills might get up to one-quarter of Sir Paul’s fortune after only being married four years). One of the more constructive things I’ve been mulling over lately, in my quest to re-define myself is the notion of excellence – what it is, and what it isn’t. A old issue of O magazine (Oprah’s publication) spurred this particular line of thinking, and after reading a number of articles that focused on cultivating excellence in one’s life, it seemed to me that there were lessons to be learned from it.
The dictionary definition of the word excellent is deceptively simple: of the highest or finest quality; exceptionally good of its kind. Its synonyms include brilliant, exceptional, first-rate, admirable, tremendous, and outstanding.
That being said, here are a couple of personal conclusions I’ve drawn about the idea of being excellent:
Being excellent is not synonymous with being perfect.
Excellence isn’t about outdoing, outperforming, or outshining someone else.
To embrace excellence lets you discover what you can accomplish when you are curious, passionate and excited about whatever you’re doing.
To do your best in any circumstance and to be happy in who you are – that is the true essence of excellence.
Excellence is best judged not in the spotlight of success, but in the face of adversity.
So -- where do I start this quest for excellence and how does it reconcile with where I am right now... I suppose it means striving not to be perfect in my efforts, but instead aiming to make a difference in everything I do; to be enthusiastic and committed and effective; and, perhaps most importantly, to dream big and plan creatively in every appropriate aspect.
I’ve got one more thing to add to that summer to-do list: to discover the passion in all areas of my life, and to in turn channel that passion into whatever is necessary for me to be the best I can be. I’m going to work to be excellent to my loved ones, to my community wherever I roam, and most importantly, to myself.
Every job is a self-portrait of the person who did it. Autograph your work with excellence.
-- Anonymous
5.17.2006
...And the greatest of these is love
What a grand thing, to be loved!
What a grander thing still, to love!
-- Victor Hugo
There was a scene on the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy between a young woman, fighting the recurrence of her ovarian cancer, and her uncle, who is the chief of staff at a hospital. They are dancing, and during the conversation, in talking about her boyfriend, the young woman tells her uncle not to worry about her and what may lie ahead, because she has been loved.
Poignant, isn’t it. I’ve thought a lot about that scene since watching (and sobbing through) that episode. There is truly nothing like the feeling of knowing that you are loved by another -- and not via parental love or sibling love or agape love -- but via full-fledged, full-on, passionate, blinding romantic love.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
-- William Shakespeare
I am blessed because I not only have been -- and am -- loved.
However... I have loved more than I have been loved -- and find that the sting of unrequited love still twinges even today. There is part of me that wonders about those long-ago loves and why they were not susceptible to my charms. Who’s to say why my affections were not returned, or even acknowledged. I always did fall in love too easily. One of the greatest unrequited loves of my life turned out to be gay, coming out long after my affection had subsided. In retrospect, all the signs were there -- but at the time, many tears of frustration and hurt were shed. And yes, it does still hurt. Rejection, overt or unintended, always does.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
-- Elizabeth Barrett Browning
To be loved is empowering, exhilarating, emboldening.
To love is to be courageous, vulnerable, defenseless.
And come what may, I go forward, knowing that I am who I am today because I have been loved, and because I have loved.
And that, for me, is enough.
What a grander thing still, to love!
-- Victor Hugo
There was a scene on the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy between a young woman, fighting the recurrence of her ovarian cancer, and her uncle, who is the chief of staff at a hospital. They are dancing, and during the conversation, in talking about her boyfriend, the young woman tells her uncle not to worry about her and what may lie ahead, because she has been loved.
Poignant, isn’t it. I’ve thought a lot about that scene since watching (and sobbing through) that episode. There is truly nothing like the feeling of knowing that you are loved by another -- and not via parental love or sibling love or agape love -- but via full-fledged, full-on, passionate, blinding romantic love.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
-- William Shakespeare
I am blessed because I not only have been -- and am -- loved.
However... I have loved more than I have been loved -- and find that the sting of unrequited love still twinges even today. There is part of me that wonders about those long-ago loves and why they were not susceptible to my charms. Who’s to say why my affections were not returned, or even acknowledged. I always did fall in love too easily. One of the greatest unrequited loves of my life turned out to be gay, coming out long after my affection had subsided. In retrospect, all the signs were there -- but at the time, many tears of frustration and hurt were shed. And yes, it does still hurt. Rejection, overt or unintended, always does.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
-- Elizabeth Barrett Browning
To be loved is empowering, exhilarating, emboldening.
To love is to be courageous, vulnerable, defenseless.
And come what may, I go forward, knowing that I am who I am today because I have been loved, and because I have loved.
And that, for me, is enough.
5.02.2006
Silly Pointless Musings Straight Off My Chest
I'm going to attempt to wax my eyebrows and upper lip after Will goes to bed one night this week, at home, by myself. What in the hell am I getting myself into...
Best thing I've read recently, hands down.
From E!Online:
"I can safely say I have no interest in Lindsay Lohan, nor do I understand anyone else's."
--Nick Lachey, in a radio interview with the Charlotte, North Carolina-based Ace & TJ Morning Show
I asked Will to "give Mama a kiss" last night. He took one look at me, came in close, pulled away and said "No thank you." I've never been rejected by a man quite that politely before. Still, aren't boys supposed to be older than four when they begin to shun their mother's affection? Men. Meh.
How crazy am I that the most urgent thing on my mind today (save for the basic family stuff) is what Elliott's going to sing tonight on American Idol and, more importantly, what he's going to wear and how is his hair going to be styled. The AI stylists have turned that boy into a head-turner. Yowza.
I'm hoping that the TB Bucs did better in the draft than I think they did. Yeah, offensive linemen are always needed to lend a hand in support of Cadillac and Simms, but that defense is aging (RIP John Lynch.)
Best thing I've read recently, hands down.
From E!Online:
"I can safely say I have no interest in Lindsay Lohan, nor do I understand anyone else's."
--Nick Lachey, in a radio interview with the Charlotte, North Carolina-based Ace & TJ Morning Show
I asked Will to "give Mama a kiss" last night. He took one look at me, came in close, pulled away and said "No thank you." I've never been rejected by a man quite that politely before. Still, aren't boys supposed to be older than four when they begin to shun their mother's affection? Men. Meh.
How crazy am I that the most urgent thing on my mind today (save for the basic family stuff) is what Elliott's going to sing tonight on American Idol and, more importantly, what he's going to wear and how is his hair going to be styled. The AI stylists have turned that boy into a head-turner. Yowza.
I'm hoping that the TB Bucs did better in the draft than I think they did. Yeah, offensive linemen are always needed to lend a hand in support of Cadillac and Simms, but that defense is aging (RIP John Lynch.)
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