10 photos for 10.10

On this tenth day of this tenth month, here are ten photos.

1. This is my favorite way to shop for children. Go by myself to the mall, then send photos of various options for approval. Which do you think she chose?

2. Devil Dogs continues to live up to her name.

3. One day I went to Beth's for a drink, and she presented the world's most adorable tequila and a brand new citrus squeezer. I love Beth.

4. I had the most delicious breakfast one day with a new friend who is moving away. Those eggs had tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, and other delightful things.

5. This summer my girl became enamored with "the snack," which she now sometimes enjoys in her lunchbox.

6. I tried several ways to caption this photo without sounding like my husband was bludgeoned on his birthday. Bloody Birthday Mary, Bloody Birthday Boy, Bill's Bloody, etc. That's salami on the garnish, for God's sake.

7. One day at Tower Two Beth's middle girl grabbed the camera and captured us exactly as we always are.

8. My boy's first high school project was called "Mapping the Self." That's Lebanon.

9. My girl's school came to my workplace one day to celebrate the International Day of Peace.

 

10. Here is me with my Grammy. Try to find one single thing that is not awesome in this photo. Just try.

Maybe she didn't hear me

I had an interesting conversation with the mother of a schoolmate of my daughters' last week.

My oldest two ride the bus with this girl. She falls between them in age, a fifth grader to my girls fourth and seventh grade statuses. She has ridden the bus with my oldest since she started kindergarten, at which time my girl would have her sit next to her so she wouldn't be scared. So, her mom and I have been acquainted for years. We don't know each other well, but I've dropped her daughter off at home after school before, and we have both hung out until the other arrives at the bus stop so as to not leave any kids waiting there alone.

Pretty standard stuff.

But last year we started to talk a bit more. She let me know that she was moving. She and her daughter were moving out of their house into an apartment that was only one block away from our OB rental. (Of course they were, because Del Monte Ave is where everyone goes when their marriage falls apart. But that is a blog post for another day.)

I didn't press for details at the time. But this year she has seemed more interested in talking, plus there was the recent afternoon when both she and her former significant other arrived to pick up their girl, and they stood there trying to hash out why it was that there were two cars to pick up one girl. Where was she going this afternoon? Which parent was taking her home? Where was the communication breakdown? How to better plan for future drop offs and pickups was discussed.

So, last week, having recently witnessed the drop-off mishap, and finding myself at the bus stop a few minutes early, I decided to disturb this woman's book reading with some nosy questions conversation.

I asked her about her child-sharing schedule, and well, that's all it took. To summarize, her significant other, legally her domestic partner, as they had been living together for 15 years but not married, took up with another woman late last year. The affair, which she unsurprisingly wasn't aware of, got serious, and he decided he would rather be with this woman than with her.

Ouch! I've been there. It's not fun. It knocks the wind out of you, and turns all that you thought was solid and safe on its ass. It's literally disorienting, like being held underwater by a powerful wave, flailing, tumbling, scraping your legs, your face, you soul against the gritty, sandy bottom.

But eventually you come up for air. You have to. It's life. And as they say, it goes on.

Her gulp of oxygen was moving out, and starting over.

I pressed for details because I'm nosy I'm curious, and because, of course, I saw some parallels to my own life. Come to find out that I really shouldn't have, because, well, it turned out to be a little, um, uncomfortable. But don't worry, she didn't notice.

As she talked it was abundantly clear that she was having a really hard time understanding how he could get himself involved with the woman that he did.

"This woman has three children. Three!" (Hey, so do I, I replied.)

"And not just from one marriage, no, from two. Two!"  (Um, yeah, so do I.)

"And, get this, the youngest, the one child from the second marriage is only five years old. He just started kindergarten this year! He'll be raising kids forever." (Huh, my youngest is only four. Not even in kindergarten yet.)

"I mean, who would get involved with a woman like this? With that kind of baggage? What an idiot." (Clearly! gulp.)

"And it's not like she's young or anything, she's like our age." (Our age, huh?)

She went on to talk about the woman a bit more, about her fake boobs (Hey, I don't have those!! Although there has been talk....) And her fake nails. (I will never have those!!!) And her desire to spend time by herself instead of constantly with her children! (Uh oh.)

She was on a roll, which I get. But as the bus pulled up and our gorgeous girls got out and the conversation ceased, I was pretty fucking relieved.

Let's Do This Thing

This is a good foundation, this Terri Brodeur Breast Cancer Foundation. We've talked about it many times before, here in these pages. How 100% -- that's a lot -- of the money raised by the walkers goes straight to breast cancer research. I mean, who does that??

Well, we do.

Mistah has helped me document the amazingness that *is* the walk in 2012, in 2011, in 2010, in 2009, in 2008, in 2007 we were in Florida and I missed it, and well, I didn't have a blog back then, either -- way back to 2006, the inaugural year.

It really is the best Foundation ever.

This year's Walk started, as they all do, with lots of planning and meetings and brainstorming. But the walk itself?

The walk itself starts with stretching.

Light stretching, kids. No one wants to pull a hammie before the festivities even start, now.

The start itself is such an incredible, emotional moment . . .

. . . I feel like a mama bird, sending my baby chickens off into the world . . .

. . . I'm always a blubbering mess.

. . . "be careful out there kids! Have a great walk."

Thankfully our walkers have Superheroes On Wheels looking out for them, all along the way.

[So, yeah. Next year I will take photos along the route, and I will take photos of my kick-ass lunch crew. Next year.]

But meanwhile, fast forward to the closing at Camp Harkness.

Can anyone say the words "Rock-'n'-Roll Superstar"?

Oh yes, I can. Thanks, Sue. You're a goddess.

And look! Look who has joined us!

That's right. Mistah has.

Martha once again proved herself to be her usual inimitable Walking Machine. In honor of her bestie, our founder, Norma Logan.

It is just a wonderful day . . .

. . . and a wonderful event . . .

. . . and an incredible cause.

And we are going to keep doing this. Until we find a cure.

Let's Do This Thing.

Who wants their teeth done by the Marquis de Sade?

not me. ps: happy birthday, babycakes!!

Poor Goldilocks

We really should have bet on it. My oldest suggested it, but it just seemed too cynical, or crass, or twisted, or something. I mean, maybe, maybe all three fish would last a long time. It's possible, right? We really shouldn't take the over/under on a sentient being's life, now should we?

But I was thinking 3 - 5 days in my head. I totally would have won!

We were not planning on getting any fish. It was not even a possible maybe. But then I took my girls and Jacquie's girl to a fun, outdoor, back-to-school event at Jacquie's girl's karate dojo. It was a regular carnival, except that everything was free, which never, ever happens at a real carnival. So when my girls all wanted a chance at winning the goldfish in the plastic bags, I let them have at it.

Everyone was a winner! (Another thing that never, ever happens at a real carnival.)

So, for the rest of the time we spent there, with the girls happily breaking wood in half with mighty karate chops and fierce side kicks, and eating hot dogs, and playing other carnival games, I carried those three fish around in their  respective plastic bags.

The first of the fish in its plastic bag home.

I spilled copious water from various bags every time I tried to set those fishies down. I propped them up between shoes at one point, but would invariably look over to see yet more water trickling out of one bag or the other. It probably didn't do them any favors.

When I could take the fish-sitting no more, and it was time for Jacquie's girl to go home anyway, we set off for home, with a quick stop at my older girls' dad's house to poach a fish tank and other fishy accouterments.

We set them up in their bowl, and talked about their names; my oldest chose the name Boobie (?!), my middle, Virginia, and the youngest liked the sound of Goldilocks. When Jacquie arrived we talked about how we should really call Virginia, Vagina, and the girls suggested Butty for Goldilock's new name.

Although Jacquie was very relieved not to have a fishy coming home with her, she did say it was in some ways too bad because he could have totally been named Penis. (We are nothing if not mature.)
 
So Boobie, Vagina, and Butty got accostumed to life in their bowl on the kitchen counter as this week wore on. But even though those fishes had food, and love, and their very own security guard:

This is the current state of ol' Goldilocks:

Poor, poor Butty. You almost made it to day 6.

Our Little Visiting Friend

Here's the thing about having a niece all to ourselves for three-days-two-nights in the summer.

It had never happened to us before.

And we loved it.

We showed our young friend *all* the New London sights . . .

. . . the murals . . .

New London is chock-full of outdoor art.

. . . the bars . . .

. . . shhhhhhhhhh, don't tell her mom . . .

. . . but she may have gotten a good education . . .

. . . the Book Barn . . .

Of course Uncle Mistah Blue Eyes took young Ms. Boogsie Blue Eyes to the Book Barn . . .

. . . very Alice in Wonderland, no?

. . . yeah, I know.

And, naturally, Ocean Beach.

Oh, how we adore Ocean Beach.

And the only thing better than going to Ocean Beach?

Going to Ocean Beach with our little visiting friend.

drive time

There was a time when taking my kids to school was a breezy, low stress adventure punctuated by conversations with crazy. Over the years, as schools and schedules changed for one or both kids, morning routines have varied and sometimes become slightly complicated, but we’ve always managed to make it work without too much angst. I mean, it’s been hard at times, but nobody died or anything. Yet. 

This year the kids are at two different schools in two vastly different locations. Gone are the days of naïve oblivion to the perils of the modern commuter.  I’ve now got a freeway to contend with, and have become a slave to the SigAlert. It’s inconvenient and stressful, but really wouldn’t be so bad if Bill could take over at least one kid drop off every once in a while, but he’s an early start bastard, and is gone before the kids and I are even conscious. Not helpful. Oh, and did I mention that both schools start at the same time?

It can’t work.

It’s impossible.

These are the thoughts that plagued me in the weeks leading up to Labor Day, spoiling my end of summer reverie and causing many sleepless nights. I joined the new school’s fancy commuter carpool website, where I created a profile for myself and entered the details of my route, explained what I could offer (free like birdie in the after school), and put myself out there for the proverbial taking. I got a few hits, which made me giddy with excitement like I’d found the match dot com of my dreams. At one point I thought I had a  ftf in the works, a bona fide date to talk about a carpool schedule. Squeee! But then she stopped calling. It wasn’t me, I’m sure it was her. And I was back to square one.

When Labor Day weekend was upon us, we had no choice but to find a way to make this work. Someone was going to have to go early, and someone else was going to be perpetually almost-late. At my girl’s school, you are technically not supposed to drop off before 8:10. Google maps says that I can get from her school to his school in 16 minutes, which would be cutting it VERY close since the people always insist on driving into each other on these San Diego freeways. There is a back way that involves one million traffic lights and trolley tracks and buckets of woe. This will not work.

On day one we brought the boy first. First day of high school! It was exciting, we left the house at 7:45 and agreed that it would be good to have a little extra time to figure out exactly where to go, and we thought we’d drop him at the end of the block so he could have a little walkie. We did our spiffy first day photos and set off. Freeway was okay, we took the most direct route, alongside every minivan that has ever been manufactured near or far. We crept along, I kept glancing at the clock as the minutes ticked by, and tried to maintain a calm appearance even when we transitioned from “we’re still okay” to “she’s going to be late” to “holy shit they’re both going to be late on the first fucking day!” We got within block and had a very special bonding moment to mark the momentous occasion I screamed at him to GET OOOUUUUUTTTTTT so we could peel off to my girl’s school.  I raced to the freeway and screamed to her exit and went east instead of west and made a u turn and got so so so close to that last traffic light and waited for that elusive left turn signal. And waited. And waited. And waited. Then raced around them to the right and into the alley and u turned again and hightailed it up the block and MADE IT. Cuz I am awesome. Then I went home to bed went straight to the bar went to work for the first day at MY school.

Stressful.

We’ve developed a better routine, we’ve found ways to make it work. We drop the girl off first now, as close to 8am as possible and leave her to walk up the block…slowly. We make it to the high school in justaboutalwaysalmostexactly plenty of time. It takes the better part of an hour, which sucks after the cushy commute I’d grown accustomed to over the years. We’ve got semi-solid plans to move closer to the high school we will be driving to for the next six years of mornings. In the meantime, we have resigned ourselves to this fate.

We drop off our girl, then we turn around and sit in the left turn lane for a minute, and we see her standing at the crosswalk nervously waiting for the light. Her brother offers kind words, encouragement she can’t hear but hopefully somehow feels in their newfound sorta kinda tolerating each other better relationship. He takes out his earbuds as we pull onto the freeway. He asks about something he overheard on the news before school. We talk.

We talk!  For sixteen minutes give or take a SigAlert, we talk.

I don’t feel quite as rushed to change this.

The circle of life

I had the opportunity to hang out with some friends that I haven't seen in a while on Sunday night. I met them all when my oldest daughter was wee. Their babies were all wee too. We'd all get together and watch our wee darlings crawl and drool, then, later, toddle and fall, then, run and shout. And now? Well, now these kids are all in jr high school. They are all now busy with their own chosen activities. It's no longer their mom's dragging them to Music Together or Baby Sign Language or some other mom-agreed-upon activity to keep us all from going daft during the years of seemingly endless diapers and mushy goldfish crackers.

Time moves on, kids grow up, it's the way things go.

Life marches on. It's good and natural, and I'm very much enjoying the ride.

But the sucky thing is that we lose some people along the way. While we are procreating and birthing our babies, the generation before us is losing its beloved parents and unlucky others. As our kids age, we age too, and as we age, there is inevitably going to be more sickness and death to witness, then one day, endure.

We know this is how it goes --it's  the circle of life, baby. Embrace it!

But sometimes this universal truth can be so in your face, ya know?

On Sunday, for me, it was the dichotomous news from my friend Kate. As I've already mentioned, I've known Kate for many years. In fact, our daughters were really quite tight for a while there, and I got to know Kate's parents and all of her sisters. We were also both involved in a co-op preschool program where you were able to drop off your kiddos for two mornings a week in exchange for working a third morning a week (and taking a night-time parenting class).

It was a lot of work, but the price of free was right, and we all ended up learning a lot, and getting to know many, many quality parents and preschoolers. The evening, adult-only meetings got emotional sometimes, and you often got a real and sometimes quite raw glimpse into the lives of the other moms (or dads as the case may be).

My first marriage fell apart right when my girl and I were leaving the program, she was off to kindergarten in the fall, so would not be returning. But once the news spread, I had the support of various co-op members.

One of those members was Paula, a skinny, funny, Irish woman who does not take any shit.

In fact, when she was having some problems with her husband at one point and he didn't seem to be getting the seriousness of the situation, she scooped up her two kids after he left for work one morning, boarded a plane for Ireland, and took an extended visit to mum. She gave her husband a cross-continent ultimatum, and some time to get his shit together.

It worked. He did get his shit together and she and the kids returned. And they all lived happily ever after.

Right?

Well, no, not really. She is dying. This is what Kate shared with me on Sunday. Paula was returning from Ireland a few weeks ago and didn't feel quite right during the journey. Once home she went to the doctor to see what was what, and was informed that she has stomach cancer and only a few weeks to live.

A few fucking weeks to live? But she has a 6th grade son, a 4th grade daughter, a reconstructed marriage. She is in her early forties. A few fucking weeks?

How is that fair? How is that a well functioning circle? How is that even possible?

It's not fair. And the circle seems a bit effed up to me in this particular situation. But it's reality.

Kate told me something else on Sunday night though. Something unexpected, but amazing. Something that tugs that circle in the opposite direction.

She is pregnant. With baby number five!

Wow, right? She's going for it again. Her oldest will be 12 years old when the new baby arrives. But that baby is on the way. That baby boy or girl will enter the world with the same angry cry we all did when pushed out of the womb into the world.

That baby will then grow up, and that baby will eventually die.

Just like we all will.

So, let's remember to love big, okay?

And to take care of each other along the way, alright?