The Best Medicine

Tommy suffered through two shots and a photo session yesterday. He was unpleasant today, to put it mildly.

So, we played on Mom & Dad's [unmade] bed, tortured the cats, and engaged in other such foolery in the hopes of avoiding a total meltdown. Yes, foolery...

and Tylenol.

Then tonight, just as we were about to put his pajamas on, I said "I love you little baby."

And he laughed. Not the odd kind of hardy chuckle he's been offering from time to time [particularly to my parents' dog]. This was a real little laugh, like he meant it. He continued laughing until he drifted to sleep.

I do love him. More than anything.

The Gotcha Paradox

Mike and I are very different people. Like everyone else, we have our strengths and our weaknesses. He maintains a BigLaw paycheck, for which I am very grateful, what with my particular weakness being a supreme inability to do so.

I think part of the reason that my sense of self imploded at the old firm was that I couldn't handle feeling as if I was set up for failure time and time again; where meeting ninety-nine completely unrealistic requests with some measure of success means less than nothing when you've met the hundredth with mere sufficiency; where extinguishing a metaphorical fire is overlooked if you're thirty seconds late for a monumentally insignificant conference call. Where the word 'failure' manifested itself in my internal dialogue.

This morning Mike called, exasperated. One partner, long ago cementing her status as a thorn in his side, trapped him in this Gotcha Paradox and he was... angry.

Angry.

I never got there at Old Firm. Instead, I internalized every slight, real or not, intended or not. I validated every negative implication or imagination by dwelling on them, letting them dwell in me. In doing so, I gave those power. Toward the end, I couldn't look at some of my colleagues, those senior associates and partners who derived some pleasure in putting me in that situation, without wincing at my own incompetence. And so I gave them power.

What I am coming to understand is that whether this was really happening or whether it was all in my mind doesn't really matter, because it's how I felt, and there's no escaping that once it's taken hold.

But my husband can face this monster day in and day out, the one that bested me in a matter of months, really. And then come home and make me brownies.

Spaghetti Tuesdays, Part I

Working for the family business was important to me. It was something I needed to do. After all, each of my siblings had spent time in that house on the corner of Prince Street, brimming with hand-written records and myriad cartographical treasures. I had to complete the circle. And the time had come.

I'd quit my BigLaw job [which is exactly what it was - a job - because it certainly wasn't any kind of career I'd imagined]. I wasn't yet pregnant. My father's staff had trimmed to himself and one assistant. The one assistant was my brother. I figured I wouldn't have much trouble fitting in. [I was right.]

So, over dinner at a seafood place where, week after week, Mike and I met with my parents for Sunday Dinner Specials [nevermind that the only menu item I could stomach was Chicken Parmesan], I announced that I'd be joining his little outfit, just as soon as I could pack up my desk and burn my monthly train ticket [tickets, really, because getting to work involved two trains and a subway].

My father could rip up the business cards he liked to hand out about town because they had my name [chosen, of course, by his lovely, departed mother] under the fancy logo of a firm whose name he'd never correctly pronounced. I was now in the family business.

I don't think he was disappointed. Probably because he still had a box of my sister's business cards on his desk, and her name was in larger print anyway. He shrugged and got up to fetch a plate full of shrimp cocktail from the salad bar.

18 Minutes

8:45 PM: Asleep enough for his crib? Nope.

8:55 PM: Definitely asleep. Brace yourself, woman.

8:57 PM: Stand up. Phew... still asleep.

8:58 PM: Silently contemplate searching for long lost pacifier, missing since 5. Immediately abandon pursuit.

8:585:30: Proceed through kitchen and dining room. Confront gate.

8:58:45: Ease knee into gate, walk through, close [but DO. NOT. LATCH.] gate. Proceed to nursery.

8:59 PM: Kiss on forehead, place in crib, cover with blanket. Project confidence; slightest hesitation will be detected and seized upon.

9:00 PM: Curse bootleg trousers that "swoosh" at the ankles.

9:01 PM: Creep through master bedroom in search of cotton sweatpants. Avoid traps: shoes, toys, laundry basket. Put on sweatpants. Ahh.

9:02 PM: Re-enter nursery. Delight at the sight of baby sleeping soundly, as an angel. Heart breaks. Grab diaper pail of horrors.

9:03 PM: Hasty retreat from nursery. Quick stop at kitchen garbage can. Land on couch; watch Biggest Loser; eat brownie; drink soda. Lament stomachache.

Veteran's Day

When I was a kid, Veteran's Day was about tagging along with my parents to a few memorial services around our county.

When I was a kid, my brother and I used to make pretend that we owned a radio station. He would be the DJ, and I was the weather girl [my line in every 'show' was: You want the weather? Look out the window!].

It's different now.

Now, my brother is a Marine [veteran, bracketed because I get the distinct impression that once you're a Marine, you're always a Marine, active service or not]. He saw combat in Afghanistan, his boat being deployed there from Australia moments after the September 11 attacks.

He's different now.

Now, my brother is racked with memories he can't talk about. Now, he struggles with alcohol [even though he would beg to differ]. Now, he wants his life back the way it was before the war, before the combat.

Life's different now.

Since he's been home, he's been married. And divorced.

He's been to the funeral of his best friend [killed in combat days after he was finally sent home]. And held my newborn son.

He's lived in California. And New York.

He's worked for the family business. And not worked for the family business.

He's been jovial. And depressed.

But mostly? He's been different.

Veteran's Day now, for me, isn't about ceremonies and Taps and a day off from school anymore. It's about remembering that as frustrating, talented, infuriating, charming, awful and wonderful as my brother is, he's even more than that.

He's a Veteran.

Doggone It

I've got a happy baby. Perpetually cheerful, he's always willing to lend a smile to friends and strangers alike.

But it's hard to get this kid to laugh. And you never know what will strike his fancy [which is especially frustrating when you've been standing on your head in a clown suit for half an hour, and he decides that his father simply walking into the room is utterly hilarious].

We've got two cats, and Tom smiles at and 'talks' to them all day, and is even learning to gently pet them [instead of making a mad grab for their fur, causing them to hide under any available furniture].

But my parents' dog? Apparently, is the funniest. thing. ever.

It would be cute if anything I, his long-suffering mother, did could provoke even a chuckle.

The Sneaker Story

So, I mentioned earlier that I'd tell you guys the shoe story. Well, it's 11:28 PM and I've got to get this post up pretty quickly because 1.) I'm trying to keep up with NaBloPoMo and 2.) seriously? It's 11:28 and someone's got to get the baby to bed and I don't think it's going to be the man singing along to Celebrity Don't Forget the Lyrics - En Vogue Edition and dancing around the living room, baby in hand.

So, the backstory: SIL has, by far, the worst case of Keeping-Up-With-The-Joneses of anyone I will ever meet. Example: She moved 2 hours from where she and her husband lived to "beat" us to our chosen suburb - she'd never even been to this place before the day she bought a house here. I kid you not, my friends. This is what we're dealing with.

The shoes:

SIL1 had obsessively purchased Stride-Rite shoes for her son every X number of days since he could walk. Whatever, right? I figured she had an affinity for the brand (and style - because that little boy wore exactly the same color and style shoe for the first four years of his life) and left it at that.

Then he got to kindergarten, and SIL convinced herself that her son was about to be tortured on the playground. The reason? His shoes.

So SIL? Spent $105 on a new pair of shoes for her son. Who's in kindergarten. With completely unremarkable feet. $105!

I know, I know: mind my own beeswax. And I do. I've never mentioned the shoe story to anyone, except, oh, the whole internets.

Who Could It Be, Now?

Albert Einstein?

The Quaker Oats man?






No, gentle readers...


It's a boy who loves his Papa.



I think the feeling is mutual.

In Memoriam

Two of my beloved aunts have passed away recently, and I... miss them, for lack of a better phrase.

Most recently, we gathered around the grave of a truly remarkable woman [who struck out from the small town where she was raised and where each of her four brothers [including my father] remained to raise their families], who dedicated her life to children as an accomplished pediatric cardiac care nurse. We, her extended family, knew she had no children of her own.

We soon realized how very wrong we were.

A young man, probably my age really, offered a graveside eulogy that day. Long ago, his mother came to live with my aunt and uncle as a housekeeper, bringing along this little boy into a house where no children had ever lived. And into that house the little boy brought so much love that the four grew into a family. With more eloquence and wisdom than I could ever muster, he said:

I was born of one mother, but two gave me life.

How beautiful, and profoundly true.

Daddy's Boy*

**











*Apologies for the blur.
**Apologies to Husband, for this is not his best angle. But no one's looking at him with that little SCHMOOPY WOOPY NOM NOM in sight.

Restart Later

I hate it when my computer demands an update. Even after I comply and choose 'Express Install,' it's not done with me. No, sir. For the next infinity days, it will implore me to 'Restart Now.' But I don't give in that easily. Instead, I click 'Restart Later' every five minutes until one day the computer loses power/spontaneously shuts down/asks the Husband to 'Restart Now' [ever the diplomat, he bridges the gap between me and machine].

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I choose 'Restart Later' in a lot of other ways, too.

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The in-laws surfaced yesterday. For a lot of reasons, the Husband and I have limited contact with his immediate family. We see his Grandmother and extended family pretty regularly [who can resist when we're greeted with off-the-boat Italian deliciosity?], but since we married, our relationship with his parents and sisters has been... strained, to say the least.

How cliche.

But maybe it takes a life-altering moment like that to put things into perspective. Simply put, it became clear to the Husband that his participation in his family was completely one-sided. Husband mulled this over on the beaches of Costa Rica during our honeymoon [how romantic!], and decided that, instead of phoning them, we'd wait for them to call us upon our return [he did let them know that we'd arrived safely home]. They didn't call and, predictably, the situation deteriorated and that was that.

The situation isn't a happy one, but we [especially he, Husband] are markedly happier now that we're not jumping through hoops all the time. Our legs are recovering nicely as well [really bad, awful joke].

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Of course, as they say, a baby changes everything.

When addressing our baby announcements [I hear you snickering! Yes, it took me nearly two months to get them ready to be mailed, OK? Mother of the year, right here.], Husband decided to send one to his parents, largely to placate his beloved Grandmother [whose relationship with them is as, or more, strained as ours, and for many of the same reasons... but do as she says and all that, right?].

This prompted a response, in e-mail form. I won't repost it here, but I will admit that it was not combative. On its face, at least. They want to know what to buy for the baby. [Not that I think any gift is necessary, but that is most definitely not a response they would accept. Trust me.]

Sigh.

It's fine, I guess. We'll suggest a savings bond for college and there will be some exchange; I don't know if we'll see them or they'll mail it.

But the can's open and there are worms everywhere.

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Where is that button when I need it?