This is not Going to Help

Paralyzed yet buoyant

Paradox

I write the least when I have the most to say.

I tend to be both depressive and optimistic.

We had a fantastic trip to Arkansas to "help" Aunt Robin with her new baby.  Here she is with her torpedo belly:

 

And here's what shot out of that torpedo belly. 

Fuh-fuh-fuh-freezing

OK, even I cannot write three posts in a row about the weather, but the weather has completely taken over my personality.  I am freezing people out.  I'm giving them the cold shoulder.  I'm the ice queen.  I'm frigid? 

Seems like it has been ages since I've posted gratuitous photos of the children.  You know why?  Because it is too damned cold to take pictures!  AAAAAAAAAAArrrrrrgh.

Here we are making our way from the car to the house after school today.

 

 

In the mud

I know I've been complaining about the weather, and it is still too damn cold for my taste.  It has, however, gotten warm enough that Franny is back to digging in the dirt beside our garage for critters.  She finds these little salamanders I never knew existed.  I finally got around to looking them up online for her, while she was standing at my knee.  They are called red-backed salamanders, and they don't seem to live as far south as where I grew up digging in the dirt.

Anyway, we clicked through a few results and found one that showed a young woman who was literally armpit deep in sludge.  I don't know where exactly she was, but it looked like a small river of mud.  She was covered, hair, shoulders, everything in this mud.  She was looking for something.  Just as I was about to shudder and recoil, Franny says breathlessly:  "Oh!  I wish I could do that!"

Bless her little heart.  Or something.

So, apparently, at some point I need to send her to some sort of summer camp where she can be surrounded with like-minded folk who want to swim in mud looking for slimy creatures to coddle, adore and release.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid of getting dirty or of letting her get dirty.  And I'm not squeamish in general, but I do have my limits.  And our yard only has so much to offer. 

Deafened by adorableness

Can we puh-leeze just break 50 degrees fahrenheit for one motherfucking day?  Shit!

Welcome to my blog, where I shake my fist at mother nature and the universe and am rewarded with four separate rounds of the stomach virus since October.

It was about a week ago when I saw the first signs of a forsythia budding, and I let myself smile.  I shouldn't have let my guard down.  When the weatherman claimed that it was going to be 52 today, I wore only an insulated vest instead of my down coat.  It never got above 43.

This was the winter I coughed from Christmas until nearly St. Patrick's day.  The worst, most gagging, strangling, body-contorting cough.  A cough that made me wet my pants and throw my back out and that improved in only infinitesimal increments over the course of, oh, ten thousand days.  I experienced one of these coughs today, in fact.  But one per day is a vast improvement.  And, in fact, I think there wasn't a single one yesterday.

I've been listening to children all day long.  Happy, lovely children whom I adore.  And it has made me so, so tired.  I'm going to take a shower, finish my book, count my many blessings.  And tomorrow, or very soon, I'm going to write something less whiny.

Block

Each time I sit down to say something to you people, I stop, because I feel like I should be writing to you about our trip to the inauguration and not about how Henry told me last night that I was going to get older and older and taller and taller and that I would get witch hands and then went to get a book to show me what witch hands looked like, and then gestured to my hands and looked at me apologetically. 

I don't have anything important enough to say about the very important event I witnessed.  But, in the interest of giving the kids some record of what I witnessed, I'm going to tell you about it anyway.

Just after Obama was nominated, Adam booked our hotel room.  He's a planner, that guy. Then, after the election, when everyone was scrambling for rooms, there was nearly some sort of snafu where the hotel attempted not to honor our reservation. Adam was able to persuade them that this was not the ideal course of action.  I was reminded anew that I'm glad to be on the right side of Adam.

Adam went down a couple of days earlier than I did, which means that he got to spend two nights alone in a hotel room.  Bastard!  My train got in on Monday, but not quite in time to go to the Illinois State Society ball with him.  He took his childhood friend, the gorgeous Danielle.  See?

 

Yes, I took that photo.  You see, I got in late, and then I took a bath and put on my pajamas.  Just as I was climbing into bed, Adam called and asked me to come down to the lounge.  I attempted to demur, referring to my attire.  He told me just to put my coat on over my pajamas and just come down for a minute.  I said OK, forgetting for the moment that the only coat I had was my grandmother's mink, which is so conspicuous and looks so ridiculous on someone my age.  So, I met my husband and his beautiful date looking like this. 

 

I'm not proud.  And I realize I'm at great risk for sounding like oh-look-at-me-I'm-so-eccentric-and-adorable-in-spite-of-myself.  I just wanted my kids to know that you cannot go unnoticed in a mink and that it only draws attention to the fact that you're wearing pajamas in a bar.  If you do this, you are certain to run into both Jim Lehrer and Bob Bennett, and if you then sit down at a table where your husband is wearing a tuxedo and sitting with a similarly-attired female friend and your husband stands up and kisses you on the lips?  People will stare at you and then take your photo with their iphone. 

I forgot to mention that Adam's aunt Christina and uncle Fran stayed in the room with us on Monday night, and it was so much fun.  Poor uncle Fran had to sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag, but I was consoled by his snoring that he wasn't faring too poorly down there.  Hi, Fran!

So, the next morning was the big event.  The inauguration.  It is true.  Everyone was in a good mood.  Even on the crowded metro, even in the freezing cold.  And, most impressively, even when standing, squeezed tightly, shoulder-to-shoulder in a throng of people that stretched for blocks and blocks, through a dark, cold tunnel in a line that did not move one foot for hours and hours.

If you haven't heard of this, it is because the mainstream media didn't want to blemish what was a great day that went off nearly without a hitch.  Nearly.  The hitch was called Purplegate.  We had purple tickets.  We were crushed together with some other merry souls, and I was afraid.  Seriously, if folks hadn't been so damned joyous, it could have been dangerous.  We were squeezed so tightly together that when an ambulance came down the street, I had to brace the girl in front of me slightly so that she could lift her feet up and back so that they wouldn't be run over.  The side of the ambulance was just a few inches from my face, and, obviously, even closer to that poor girl's.

After standing there for a couple of hours, Jesse Jackon squeezed past us.

 

We decided if Rev. Jackson was having that much trouble getting around that there wasn't much hope for us, so we started trying to squeeze our way out of the "line" to find another place to watch it -- you know, like on television.  But about a block after we emerged from the crowd, there was a little sign saying "purple gate" with an arrow.  We shrugged and took the turn, and we were through the gate within an hour.  It was another large crowd, but it was moving and orderly.  We learned later that none of the literally thousands of the folks in that first line got in.  Again, I felt guilty.  It was blind luck that we managed to get in. 

Of course, our view was pretty funny once we were in position.  So close -- yet behind a giant bush.

 

We had the good sense to hightail it back to the room after the swearing-in and watch the parade from bed, with a giant room service cheeseburger.

That night we went to the health care ball, which was not one of the official balls.  So, while we didn't get to watch the Obamas dance, we also didn't have to endure all the security and crowds that would have been involved.  And, the best part?  Jackson Browne.  Seriously.  Do you know how much I love Jackson Browne?  Some of you do.  And I got to see him play an intimate and surprisingly lengthy set in the National Museum of Natural History.  I would have made the trip just for this.

 

You see my crazily shining yellow head up there?  That picture looks just how I felt.  It was just dreamy.  And, speaking of dreamy?

 

Merry Christmas from the Vandervoortex

 

 

 

Photographed pre-dishevelment.  Thank you to Grandma and Doo Dad for the painfully adorable Christmas attire.

My niece

In case any of you out there were in doubt about who was the cutest, sweetest, most delicious niece in the world, I give you baby Annie.  Enough said.

Dear Uncle Jack

You've now been dead for a greater portion of my life than you were alive.  I find that so hard to believe, because you are just right here, you know.  It is still pure reflex to me to wonder what you would think of something.  I frequently find myself looking at things through your eyes. 

When I was a kid, you were Christmas.  And I guess, no matter how old you get, to some extent Christmas is always what it was when you were little.  I remember one Arkansas Christmas in particular. It was snowing like hell and it was beautiful.  I can still see you coming through my front door, the snow coming down behind you.  You're walking toward me with your smile and big snowflakes on the shoulders of your navy cashmere coat.  You were so handsome, so young, and so happy to see us. 

I'll never forget the boxes of presents shipped from New York and the excitement of collecting you at the airport.  Or the time you bought me a red leather mini-skirt in 1986, when I was 13 and built like an 8 year-old boy.  I looked up at you to say thanks and you weren't watching me, you were watching my dad, your brother.  You just loved pissing him off, especially if it also meant making me happy.

I wish you could have met Adam.  You guys would have had a substantially serious connection, I think.  And probably a few rows, too, because he's just as clever as you were, and that would have really annoyed you and thrilled you.  You'd be happy to know it is now his job to scoff at my provincial ways. 

I remember how, on your death bed, you called the hymn-singing Mennonites "Mormonites" and asked if they could do "Stand by Your Man."  You were a riot.  And you were so brave in those final days.  I hope that I can do that for my nieces and nephews some day -- make them laugh while I'm dying.

After you died, I wished we had an audio recording of your laugh.  Then I had Franny and Henry, and, when they really get going, I can hear your laugh in theirs.  I wish you were here to dote on Franny and Henry the way you doted on me, and to keep them in (and out of) line. 

I live here, now.  I have for five years.  Adam works in the city.  Hardly a day goes by that I don't feel in the pit of my stomach how you would have been here, and we there, all the time.  We would have been laughing and laughing and talking and arguing, and my whole family would have been better off for it.

Did you know that HIV is no longer a death sentence here in the first world?  Do you know how very narrowly you missed the antiretroviral treatment that makes this possible?  I do.  And it breaks my heart.

Rats

I typed a long post, and it evaporated.  That's never happened to me before.  Would you believe me if I said it was a really good one?  Well, you shouldn't.

We are in Christmas mode here.  I let the kids decorate the tree this year, so all the ornaments are about three feet up and set in little tableaux.  I started to supplement with my own version of tree-decorating, remembered that we're going to Arkansas the day after Christmas and decided to leave it as is.  I love when being a generous, good mother conveniently intersects with doing as little as possible to get by.  Sigh.

The kids are happy and healthy and driving me nuts.  Also, they are cute.  See infra.

 

And now they are gone

This has been a great week.  Mom and Sammie have been visiting and just left this morning.  Sammie (my grandmother) has not been well since my grandfather Debs died last year, and one of the things she kept regretting aloud over the course of the past few months was that she hadn't gotten to visit us since we bought our house.  So, my mother, angel that she is, whisked her up here for a five-day visit.  (She was able to tear herself away from her house while they were sheet rocking it.)

Thanks, Mom.  The past five days were a gift.

Caroline

My old friend Caroline has been taking care of these kids every Friday, and last night she stayed while Adam and I went to see the new James Bond.  (It was just OK, but what's not to like about 90+ minutes of Daniel Craig getting all dirty and changing clothes.)  Anyway, Franny painted everybody's face while we were away.  I'm told that Franny and Caroline were eagles and Henry was a mean pirate.

 

 

We got word yesterday that we get to go to Obama's inauguration, which is very exciting and means that we will spend two nights away from home.  Caroline has agreed to stay at our house and take care of these children and dogs and frogs.  Sucker!

Language and some other crap

So, Henry is still learning to talk.  He has cute pronunciations of things.  All "F" sounds come out as a hard "T" so he calls his sister, plainly, "Tranny."  Sometimes the letter "S" is also a "T" so tonight when he got out of the bath himself and ran across my bedroom floor, he looked behind him and said, "Mommy!  Tee my toot trints!?" 

When he counts, he regularly leaves out "ten" and skips right to "elenen."  I recall that Franny used to skip a number as well, but I think she skipped "thirteen" so perhaps she was just precociously superstitious.

Franny can pretty much pronounce everything now and is learning to describe things.  She was telling us a story the other day and said that she had "whistling ears" and "fainting eyes."

I was feeling fairly terrible recently when I couldn't remember Henry's first word, yet I had a crystal clear memory of Franny excitedly telling everyone:  "Henwee's fuhwst wuhd was ___!" I asked her if she could remember, and, at first she couldn't.  Then about a week later, she came running up to me and said "Down down.  Henry's first word was down down."  And she's right.  I remember it now.

Franny woke us both up for the day at 4.30 this morning, which might explain the fascination quotient of this post.  She was clutching her left ear and crying.  She is an excellent self-diagnostician, but we've got to go in to the doc in order to get meds -- they are never willing to take her word for it.  The doctor looked into her ear and then told me that Franny's ear was terribly infected and she was probably in agony.  Poor thing.  She's much better now, the dear little girl.

Our dishwasher ist kaput.  Glenda, our sweet cleaning person, has called to say she won't be here tomorrow.  I have a cold and a headache.  I'm really tired. My hair seems inconsolably fuzzy.  I even paid $$ for a "treatment" at the salon. The End.

(For those of you who know me well, please don't panic.  Glenda will be here later in the week.  OK, she'll be here Thursday.)

Rahm

I feel compelled to make this completely uninteresting confession.  In spite (or perhaps because of) being described by Paul Begala as having an aggressive style that is a "cross between a hemorrhoid and a toothache" I'm a tiny bit hot for Rahm Emanuel.  (He reminds me a little bit of Adam.) Do with this information what you will.

Franecdote

On Friday, Franny asked our friend and babysitter, Caroline:  Are you Jewish or Episcopalian?

  

Nablopomofo

So, maybe I'm posting every other day?  I must be busier than I was last year?

We were supposed to go to Deerfield Day at Adam's high school today, but it is looking rainyish outdoors, and we're a bunch of lazy bastards around here.  So, instead we are still in our pajamas, taking recreational baths and trashing the house.  And Adam almost passed out when he stood up from bed this morning, so he might be busy croaking today or something.  (He seems fine, but I'm sure I've got his mom fired up now!) 

Robin and baby Annie are gone, which has left a giant, sad, gaping hole in our lives.  Both kids are complaining about it.  She's already called me this morning to tell me about a particularly fine fit Annie threw on some errands.  It was pretty funny, began with my sister and Annie being trapped in a checkout line for 45 minutes trapped between chocolate and breakable glass lights, and culminated with my sister standing outside her car at a Christmas open house and stage whispering "mother fucking god damn cocksucker" something or other, which is a bit out of character for her.  Not that she doesn't curse in general, but that particular string of words is not something we've come to expect from St. Robin. 

 

Oh, man

I'm just going to gloss over the fact that I'm 30 minutes late with this post and continue as if I didn't actually miss a day of Nablopomofo.

I was driving all day, kids to school, niece to the plastic surgeon in NY, errands, kids from school, then Robin and I went into the city to have a birthday dinner (belated) with Adam.  Adam, darling that he is, let me choose the restaurant. 

I am very happy to be home, and I'm eager to catch up on all that I missed in news and comment today.  I am also very, very sleepy, and for some reason my teeth feel like they are wearing tiny sweaters.  And I swear I'm not stoned.  Not even a little bit.  Maybe I forgot to brush them?  But I think I remember brushing them like twenty times today.  It is an occupational hazard, though, the not brushing.  Or so I'm told. 

Twenty is a really funny number, for some reason.  You know what else is funny?  Making up terrific gross-out words and texting them to your friends late at night.  Robin and I have had ourselves in tears this evening doing just that.  I cannot repeat any of them here, because that would just ruin my reputation as an upstanding citizen.

You know, I should have just lied and said that I wrote this earlier and forgot to hit post before midnight.  That would have been a pretty easy lie to tell.  I hate not lying.  Just kidding.  I just love not lying -- also known as telling the truth.  It is the very most fun thing in the world.  Night night.

I just re-read this, and it really would appear that I'm stoned, with all the denials and punchiness, but I'm really not.  Sometimes I am.  That's believable!

Live-blogging the election results

9.22 p.m.  OHIO

9.11 p.m.  I think someone gave Axelrod a haircut in the past 30 minutes.

9.01 p.m. This is going so well for Obama that I feel a little bit dizzy.  Like it might not actually be happening.  And CNN just projected a win for Jeanne Shaheen.  Yay Marissa!

8.49 p.m. 

 

8.39 p.m.  PENNSYLVANIA

8.28 p.m.  They just asked Axelrod what Obama was doing.  Adam said he was sitting in a hot tub with three blondes, talking to Hugo Chavez.  Axelrod says he's at home with his family.

8.23 p.m. I've been so cautious about permitting myself to feel excited about this election.  If I force myself to look back to the primary, I can remember how I was excited about a McCain v. Obama race -- it seemed almost win-win to me, especially compared with the choices I've been presented in my voting life.  Then came Palin, and the bottom really fell out for me.  I have felt really freaked out (to use a technical term) since McCain made that insulting, disappointing selection. 

But Florida is looking promising, right?

7.51 p.m. I'm laughing as I type the heading above.  I've always wanted to live-blog something, even if it is only to comment upon how creepy it is that all the female newspeople look like they are on their way straight to the discotheque after work -- all short skirts and blow-outs and shiny charmeuse. 

We've got Franny's fantastic godparents here watching the results with us, and I at least wanted to post the drawing that Franny made, sua sponte, last night.

 

Cousins

The theme for this month, so far, is:  WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH.  We live too far away from each other.

An ear-ripping good time

One of the benefits, for me, of having Robin and Annie here, is that when my children wake up at the crack of dawn, they just can't wait to get upstairs to see their aunt and cousin.  This permits me to sleep at least ten or twelve extra minutes in the dark morning, and if that doesn't sound like heaven to you then you're not a mother of preschoolers.  Just in case it makes me sound like less of an asshole, it is usually Annie's endearing morning baby screams waking my kids up anyway. 

This morning, Franny came into my bedroom at 6.30 with her legs shaking.  She told me that baby Annie had fallen off the bed upstairs and was bleeding.  I was expecting a fat lip but found a partially severed ear.  I could actually see the cartilidge.  It was freaky.  Poor girl.  So, we packed my kids off to Pearce's house to play and Robin and I took Annie to the ER in Greenwich.  They called in a plastic surgeon from the city, who was there in less than an hour.  He did three layers of the teeny tinest stitches I've ever seen.  Little Annie was papoosed to a board, and I tried to cheer her up by telling her I'd give her some chocolate when the doc was finished.  That wasn't soon enough for her, so the second half of the procedure she spent wailing:  "chocolate, sob, sob, CHOCOLAAAAATTTTTTTTTTE..."  She seemed not really to notice the fact that she was immobilized and being sewed up by a Lebanese doc singing in beautiful French. 

Annie was and is aces, as is her mother.  I wish they'd never leave, even though Annie's been instructed not to bathe for the next two weeks.