Shhh! Okay, I did it. I don't want to jinx myself, but...I never got the stomach virus. Not full blown at least. I was lucky. But despite a really bad diet lately that includes Lays sour cream potato chips (my fav) and Diet Pepsi, this week I pulled the plug and did lots of praying, I never threw up and made it out of the woods only slightly shakey.
My secret: I didn't eat anything for a few days, not Mia Farrow trying to save Dafur (bless her), but eating bland things like baked potatoes and bits of bagels and pretzels, vanilla yogurt and I popped Acidophilus health pills to sick the good bacteria on the bad bacteria in my stomach.
It worked.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Motherhood -- at a million miles a minute
Melanie couldn't sleep so good last night. That meant, I couldn't. She woke me up three times. I can't sleep. I'm still the only one who didn't get the stomach virus and have been gingerly dancing around that not eating full spicy meals and trying to take extra care.
But apparently my old dictum of "unless your hair is on fire, do not wake me up," has fizzled these days. Sick is one thing, I'm there in a heartbeat, but just I can't sleep -- what do I do with that? I'm a former insomniac who's spent many a sleepless night both as a kid and an adult. Been there, try to avoid it.
"Put your light on and read a little," I loud whispered out the door because I'm trapped. If I get up, the dog is up. It was only 3:00 am. Ain't no sane number to get up now. Daisy has been Cujo, again lately biting and tear-assing through the house. The only peace we get is that crate overnight which she whimpers and all out barks to get out of during the day now and in a bold weaning move, the crate's been evicted from our bedroom into the hallway. You see the problem. The minute someone's up, she's up.
I feel like I have no life. Between kids on three different sports, preparing for the spring concert, freelance hoofing for every job, trying to put together a website where money is going out at this juncture and not coming in, Tom working at home questioning my every move: I'm going crazy. I haven't played the guitar in weeks or written fiction or had a moment's break. And it rolls around in my head, I should just go out and get a real job. I'm piecing together patches of a life and not striving in any one given place. Can I ever get time to do one thing and focus? My parents did. My father worked, never cooked, never dealt with my school stuff other than an occasional teacher conference. Mom was much younger having kids so by my age, she focused on work and I dealt with my own stuff. By my early teenage years, I was independent but living with them. Motherhood today is insane. I'm expected to do it all!!! What about my dreams? What happened to all those things I wanted to do? and what do I teach my daughters by being frazzled and incompetent. Life sucks!
I rolled over tossing and turning, trying successfully not to wake up Tom. Finally 5:30 after much clock ticking and problem solving and bitching in my head, I got up let the dog out, "Go pee where ever you want, Daisy cakes," sat here and vented.
Gonna be a good day!
Later....
Melanie stayed home, again. Maybe it's this flu thing. We'll be schlepping her to buy a new Honda Odyssey mini-van that we've put off every day this week due to one illness or another. Life goes on... a million miles a minute. Tonight's the spring concert!!! Need black pants for Robert.
Later still...
Kid, here's a bucket. Melanie, holding onto the blue garbage pail, went on the adventure with us to finally, finally get the new 2009 Honda Odyssey.
even later...
We all survived a gruelingly long day. The spring concert was a smash hit. Robert wore a cool black tie I'd bought from ALL Music. It was black with sheet music and a giant upright bass silk screened on it. Finally not a Sears clip-on or Daddy's too big substitute.
But apparently my old dictum of "unless your hair is on fire, do not wake me up," has fizzled these days. Sick is one thing, I'm there in a heartbeat, but just I can't sleep -- what do I do with that? I'm a former insomniac who's spent many a sleepless night both as a kid and an adult. Been there, try to avoid it.
"Put your light on and read a little," I loud whispered out the door because I'm trapped. If I get up, the dog is up. It was only 3:00 am. Ain't no sane number to get up now. Daisy has been Cujo, again lately biting and tear-assing through the house. The only peace we get is that crate overnight which she whimpers and all out barks to get out of during the day now and in a bold weaning move, the crate's been evicted from our bedroom into the hallway. You see the problem. The minute someone's up, she's up.
I feel like I have no life. Between kids on three different sports, preparing for the spring concert, freelance hoofing for every job, trying to put together a website where money is going out at this juncture and not coming in, Tom working at home questioning my every move: I'm going crazy. I haven't played the guitar in weeks or written fiction or had a moment's break. And it rolls around in my head, I should just go out and get a real job. I'm piecing together patches of a life and not striving in any one given place. Can I ever get time to do one thing and focus? My parents did. My father worked, never cooked, never dealt with my school stuff other than an occasional teacher conference. Mom was much younger having kids so by my age, she focused on work and I dealt with my own stuff. By my early teenage years, I was independent but living with them. Motherhood today is insane. I'm expected to do it all!!! What about my dreams? What happened to all those things I wanted to do? and what do I teach my daughters by being frazzled and incompetent. Life sucks!
I rolled over tossing and turning, trying successfully not to wake up Tom. Finally 5:30 after much clock ticking and problem solving and bitching in my head, I got up let the dog out, "Go pee where ever you want, Daisy cakes," sat here and vented.
Gonna be a good day!
Later....
Melanie stayed home, again. Maybe it's this flu thing. We'll be schlepping her to buy a new Honda Odyssey mini-van that we've put off every day this week due to one illness or another. Life goes on... a million miles a minute. Tonight's the spring concert!!! Need black pants for Robert.
Later still...
Kid, here's a bucket. Melanie, holding onto the blue garbage pail, went on the adventure with us to finally, finally get the new 2009 Honda Odyssey.
even later...
We all survived a gruelingly long day. The spring concert was a smash hit. Robert wore a cool black tie I'd bought from ALL Music. It was black with sheet music and a giant upright bass silk screened on it. Finally not a Sears clip-on or Daddy's too big substitute.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Mind over Matter
I will NOT get this virus. I will not get this stomach thing. I'm Doomed. It's been lurking in the house for over a week. Melanie had it twice, once last Sunday, then I had to get the Kenyan Safari Guide James from Jersey City and sent poor Melanie to school the next day -- Sweetie you gotta get on that bus -- mommy's on an adventure. She relapsed on Thursday. Stayed home Friday.
Went to a Communion on Saturday, all was fine. Then Kelly had it into Mother's Day morning... now Robert and Tom have it.
I refuse. It's a mindset. I'm just working and writing and trying to keep my head above water. But, secretly I'll tell you, I'm not eating anything I'd like to see again -- meaning no peanut butter, soy nuts, nothing hard to digest. I'm picking on pretzels and pieces of bagel. Coke syrup does really help, too. But that's after you puke a few times. You gotta let nature run its course. And DO NOT Drink. This is the stupidest thing people do. I'm gonna dehydrate and they drink water. I've had this sucker most of all of my life just about every spring or if not that next fall -- sometimes even on Christmas morning. Don't drink. It just sets off the dry heaves. Sweat it out a few hours, lick a lollipop if you have to. It'll finally calm down.
I gotta say though, as the kids get older, it gets easier. Melanie literally carried the bucket around with her, paused, did her business and carried on. Robert cleaned up after himself. The endless hours of monitoring toddlers and re-changing them over and over is gone. One consolation.
I refuse...
Went to a Communion on Saturday, all was fine. Then Kelly had it into Mother's Day morning... now Robert and Tom have it.
I refuse. It's a mindset. I'm just working and writing and trying to keep my head above water. But, secretly I'll tell you, I'm not eating anything I'd like to see again -- meaning no peanut butter, soy nuts, nothing hard to digest. I'm picking on pretzels and pieces of bagel. Coke syrup does really help, too. But that's after you puke a few times. You gotta let nature run its course. And DO NOT Drink. This is the stupidest thing people do. I'm gonna dehydrate and they drink water. I've had this sucker most of all of my life just about every spring or if not that next fall -- sometimes even on Christmas morning. Don't drink. It just sets off the dry heaves. Sweat it out a few hours, lick a lollipop if you have to. It'll finally calm down.
I gotta say though, as the kids get older, it gets easier. Melanie literally carried the bucket around with her, paused, did her business and carried on. Robert cleaned up after himself. The endless hours of monitoring toddlers and re-changing them over and over is gone. One consolation.
I refuse...
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Happy Mother's Day--Same As It Ever Was
You may ask yourself...this is not my beautiful LIFE. How did I get here? My God What have I done? Letting the days go by....
Woke up at 2 a.m. Kelly threw up in bed. Melanie had already had the stomach virus last Sunday. We thought we'd made it out of the woods when no one else in the family got it, yet. Till this morning.
Poor kid threw up 19 times. Kelly's always the healthiest, has the most diverse diet--fish and veggies--and has the longest endurance for swimming and sports. But that tiny bug takes down even the strongest.
All plans were cancelled: to buy a brand new Honda Odyssey that'll last us into the last leg of middle range parenthood from elementary school kids thru middle school and HS. Then, I'll get my red Corvette in time for my 50s. WHERE IS MY LARGE AUTOMOBILE??? Hon -- ask yourself??
So for now, Mother's Day is another lap in motherhood: Dunkin Donuts coffee, my favorite coffee cake muffin, watching old tapes of the kids when they were babies and... no brunch, no new mini-van.
What Mother's Day? Same as it ever was... and yet I'm right where I love to be.
Woke up at 2 a.m. Kelly threw up in bed. Melanie had already had the stomach virus last Sunday. We thought we'd made it out of the woods when no one else in the family got it, yet. Till this morning.
Poor kid threw up 19 times. Kelly's always the healthiest, has the most diverse diet--fish and veggies--and has the longest endurance for swimming and sports. But that tiny bug takes down even the strongest.
All plans were cancelled: to buy a brand new Honda Odyssey that'll last us into the last leg of middle range parenthood from elementary school kids thru middle school and HS. Then, I'll get my red Corvette in time for my 50s. WHERE IS MY LARGE AUTOMOBILE??? Hon -- ask yourself??
So for now, Mother's Day is another lap in motherhood: Dunkin Donuts coffee, my favorite coffee cake muffin, watching old tapes of the kids when they were babies and... no brunch, no new mini-van.
What Mother's Day? Same as it ever was... and yet I'm right where I love to be.
Friday, May 8, 2009
The Sky's the Limit
James from Kenya--First of two
It all started last Wednesday when Robert offered me up in his 5th grade class as a guide to James, an African man visiting from Kenya.
Robert came home in his usual exasperated, somewhat tired, low blood sugared spray of: this happened and that happened and you forgot my permission slip and can we go to the All Music store again, today…
Then he stopped. Paused.
“Mom, Mom, Miss Shampanier said she needs someone to get James from Kenya and bring him to the classroom next week.”
Wait a second. Kenya? I called the school to corroborate. Miss Shampanier talked me through her plan and I agreed to do it. Kind, was the word she’d used—Nuts was what my husband muttered. But Tom knows better after 12 years of marriage than to say he’d “let me do something.” He’s learned to embrace my many adventures which sometimes take me to places like climbing over the guardrails on the Southern State parkway picking through roadside memorials for an article I’d been working on or sharing my sexual fantasies on Dr. Ruth’s television show. Tom just charges my cell phone and holds the door open for me like a stray cat, “be home for dinner, hon.”
James Onsare, a tribal man from the Kisii village East of Victoria Lake in Kenya was indeed here in the States for the first time ever staying with his brother. John is a computer whiz still holding onto his job and sworn to secrecy at Merrill Lynch living on the edge of industry in Jersey City. I would be James the Safari guide’s guide for the day and drive in, get him, bring him out here to speak with the 5th grade, turn around and drive back to Jersey and come home. I was tired just thinking about it but jumped at the chance.
You see, I’ve had a secret love affair with Africa for a long time since I’d seen Out of Africa decades ago and spent many a night poring through a coffee table book filled with photos of regal, wild animals standing at attention on the plains of Africa. Isak Denesen’s poetic prose painted a picture of a life completely different than mine. AND I’ve been developing a charity Mothers Emerge Worldwide to help women get pre- and post- natal healthcare they need across the globe. So timing is everything.
Monday morning, I left 7 am thinking for sure I’d be through the LIE, Williamsburg Bridge, Holland Tunnel to Jersey City by 9:30 pick up time. I was wrong. I spent 3 hours in touch and go traffic inching along, crawling over the bridge and snaking through the streets of lower Manhattan. I called and pushed all the arrangements back to an afternoon speech.
James’s brother John owns a townhouse in Jersey City’s gated community Society Hill. It was this pocket of lovely Washingtonian looking quaint, well kept streets behind a mall in the middle of the dirty oiled machine of Jersey City.
James was smaller and slighter than I thought, with a thin, compact muscular body, his vehicle. he would later tell the 100 children who gathered ‘round him like celebrity signing autographs—because in Kenya you run the 8 miles to school, without shoes on your feet in rain or sunshine. Your body is all things, tool, plow, vehicle and brain. It’s the only way to get stuff done. In fact in the seven hours I accompanied him, a most fascinating experience hearing kind of Queen’s English Swahili mixture gentle voice of a man from a quieter world who need not raise his voice over the machinery of man made noise. It was James’s lilting voice I was at first struck by. Miss Shampanier explained that his accent was heavy and yet I understood his every word, even while we made business plans: he wanting me to help gain Safari travelers and me explaining “James I’ll do what I can, but I’m not a travel agent. I’m a writer.” But I did offer him space on my new website and we would work together to help build water towers for clean sanitized water for surrounding villagers and children.
As soon as I arrived, John waved me down while standing on the steps of the townhouse. With immaculately clean hardwood floors and solid muddied colored brick red bathroom, there wasn’t a decorative anything on any walls and paper towels to dry your hands. It indicated one thing and one thing only—there were no women here. No towels, doodads, nothing.
John graciously offered me a large glass brimming with orange juice. James less tall and more serious minded, was clearly one sharp cookie. He had a box of stuff for me, business cards, DVDs, brochures. He was more prepared than any Apprentice in Trump’s world. He would continue on to question me as to any limitation with or level set on my authority in opening my own website. He seemed grateful to meet people but always questioned their influence: how many people live in this town, and area of this state how many will he be speaking to?
He wasn’t sure Miss Shampanier had the authority to invite an outsider into the community’s school and was more ridged and all business when speaking to the principal shocked the authority figure is a woman. It was not disrespectful, it was his world where each step up hits a roadblock, level of authority--every move calculated and trust is key.
He was immaculate in his appearance with a beige Safari tee-shirt with his company’s emblem sown on the left lapel and Khaki pants. In fact, I was embarrassed my minivan was messy, typical mom-van stuff. While decorating the room with Wild animal posters, he made sure no edges curled.
“I am all my time, putting the thing back into the thing,” he told me in growing his business. "Here, the sky is the limit." It started as an off shoot from college where he made phone calls from his home, then shared a desk with his lawyer friend in an office. Now he lives and works in Nairobi with a staff of three.
And eloquently, better than any media-trained professional spokesperson that I’d ever accompanied on photo shoots or network interviews, this 30 something year old son of a primary school teacher father and farmer mother, who’d gone to a school with dirt floors and no running water, told a room full of 10 and 11 year olds all about Africa equating Kenya to the size of Texas. That’s something I’d like to do, drive James down to go two-stepping.
It all started last Wednesday when Robert offered me up in his 5th grade class as a guide to James, an African man visiting from Kenya.
Robert came home in his usual exasperated, somewhat tired, low blood sugared spray of: this happened and that happened and you forgot my permission slip and can we go to the All Music store again, today…
Then he stopped. Paused.
“Mom, Mom, Miss Shampanier said she needs someone to get James from Kenya and bring him to the classroom next week.”
Wait a second. Kenya? I called the school to corroborate. Miss Shampanier talked me through her plan and I agreed to do it. Kind, was the word she’d used—Nuts was what my husband muttered. But Tom knows better after 12 years of marriage than to say he’d “let me do something.” He’s learned to embrace my many adventures which sometimes take me to places like climbing over the guardrails on the Southern State parkway picking through roadside memorials for an article I’d been working on or sharing my sexual fantasies on Dr. Ruth’s television show. Tom just charges my cell phone and holds the door open for me like a stray cat, “be home for dinner, hon.”
James Onsare, a tribal man from the Kisii village East of Victoria Lake in Kenya was indeed here in the States for the first time ever staying with his brother. John is a computer whiz still holding onto his job and sworn to secrecy at Merrill Lynch living on the edge of industry in Jersey City. I would be James the Safari guide’s guide for the day and drive in, get him, bring him out here to speak with the 5th grade, turn around and drive back to Jersey and come home. I was tired just thinking about it but jumped at the chance.
You see, I’ve had a secret love affair with Africa for a long time since I’d seen Out of Africa decades ago and spent many a night poring through a coffee table book filled with photos of regal, wild animals standing at attention on the plains of Africa. Isak Denesen’s poetic prose painted a picture of a life completely different than mine. AND I’ve been developing a charity Mothers Emerge Worldwide to help women get pre- and post- natal healthcare they need across the globe. So timing is everything.
Monday morning, I left 7 am thinking for sure I’d be through the LIE, Williamsburg Bridge, Holland Tunnel to Jersey City by 9:30 pick up time. I was wrong. I spent 3 hours in touch and go traffic inching along, crawling over the bridge and snaking through the streets of lower Manhattan. I called and pushed all the arrangements back to an afternoon speech.
James’s brother John owns a townhouse in Jersey City’s gated community Society Hill. It was this pocket of lovely Washingtonian looking quaint, well kept streets behind a mall in the middle of the dirty oiled machine of Jersey City.
James was smaller and slighter than I thought, with a thin, compact muscular body, his vehicle. he would later tell the 100 children who gathered ‘round him like celebrity signing autographs—because in Kenya you run the 8 miles to school, without shoes on your feet in rain or sunshine. Your body is all things, tool, plow, vehicle and brain. It’s the only way to get stuff done. In fact in the seven hours I accompanied him, a most fascinating experience hearing kind of Queen’s English Swahili mixture gentle voice of a man from a quieter world who need not raise his voice over the machinery of man made noise. It was James’s lilting voice I was at first struck by. Miss Shampanier explained that his accent was heavy and yet I understood his every word, even while we made business plans: he wanting me to help gain Safari travelers and me explaining “James I’ll do what I can, but I’m not a travel agent. I’m a writer.” But I did offer him space on my new website and we would work together to help build water towers for clean sanitized water for surrounding villagers and children.
As soon as I arrived, John waved me down while standing on the steps of the townhouse. With immaculately clean hardwood floors and solid muddied colored brick red bathroom, there wasn’t a decorative anything on any walls and paper towels to dry your hands. It indicated one thing and one thing only—there were no women here. No towels, doodads, nothing.
John graciously offered me a large glass brimming with orange juice. James less tall and more serious minded, was clearly one sharp cookie. He had a box of stuff for me, business cards, DVDs, brochures. He was more prepared than any Apprentice in Trump’s world. He would continue on to question me as to any limitation with or level set on my authority in opening my own website. He seemed grateful to meet people but always questioned their influence: how many people live in this town, and area of this state how many will he be speaking to?
He wasn’t sure Miss Shampanier had the authority to invite an outsider into the community’s school and was more ridged and all business when speaking to the principal shocked the authority figure is a woman. It was not disrespectful, it was his world where each step up hits a roadblock, level of authority--every move calculated and trust is key.
He was immaculate in his appearance with a beige Safari tee-shirt with his company’s emblem sown on the left lapel and Khaki pants. In fact, I was embarrassed my minivan was messy, typical mom-van stuff. While decorating the room with Wild animal posters, he made sure no edges curled.
“I am all my time, putting the thing back into the thing,” he told me in growing his business. "Here, the sky is the limit." It started as an off shoot from college where he made phone calls from his home, then shared a desk with his lawyer friend in an office. Now he lives and works in Nairobi with a staff of three.
And eloquently, better than any media-trained professional spokesperson that I’d ever accompanied on photo shoots or network interviews, this 30 something year old son of a primary school teacher father and farmer mother, who’d gone to a school with dirt floors and no running water, told a room full of 10 and 11 year olds all about Africa equating Kenya to the size of Texas. That’s something I’d like to do, drive James down to go two-stepping.
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