Rox and Roll

We've been punk'd

We returned home from Vermont yesterday to find that a prankster had placed saran wrap around and between our two front porch columns, effectively barring entrance to our front door.  We might have found this riotously funny were we not in the process of selling our house.  Did any potential buyers pull down our cul-de-sac to look at our house and turn away, thinking that the place was being held together by toothpicks, glue and saran wrap?  We have no way of knowing.  We also don't know for how long the stuff was there.  I've called around to the neighbors, and no one noticed the bright, shiny wrap -- which I find a bit hard to believe since our house sits atop the cul-de-sac.  You can't avoid looking at our house when you turn down this street.  I'd like to think that if the neighbors would've noticed, they'd have taken it down -- or maybe they've collectively decided not to care anymore since we're leaving the 'hood. 

Of more concern than the what-ifs is the fact that at least two realtors did show the house in our absence; did the potential buyers have to duck under the plastic, wondering all the while what kind of freaky people live here?

What really puts me over the edge about this joke, though, is that our au pair arrived home on Friday night, walked into the saran wrap, and did nothing about it.  She left it up there until Sunday night when we came home.  I asked her, "did you think you should have called us about that?"  And she looked blank.  Her response was "I didn't know why it was there."  And that's why you should have called, honey... Two fewer days might have been important.  You never know when a potential buyer is driving past.  But, I'll let her off the hook for that error, since that's the biggest one she's made in her time here.  She knows better now.

In any event, should the pranks continue because we're selling the house, we did file a non-emergent report with the local police.  I hope that this was just a teenager up to no good and not someone really trying to mess up our house sale, because that -- that would really suck.

The guinea pig divorce

When we brought home our pair of guinea pigs from a fabulous rescue agency, we thought we had adopted a pair of brothers.  Sure, they had different coloring, but we thought they probably just had different fathers.  A month later, when we had them checked out by our local vet, we learned that there's no way that they could be brothers, as they're completely different breeds (Cinnamon is most likely a Teddy-Crested mix; Oreo is straight-up American).  The vet said not to worry, though; a bonded male pair could live together in harmony, and, since they were herd animals, they really needed each other.  If we saw that aggression was building between the two, though, we should consider neutering the animals, or we might even need to keep them together but in separate cages.

Now, we had seen little skirmishes in their shared cage, which is nearly eight square feet in size, but adding a second guinea pig house so that they didn't have to share seemed to ease the fighting for a while.  Back then, it wasn't fighting, even; usually, the younger guinea pig, Oreo, would growl a little, and the older one, Cinnamon, got the message to stay out of his way.

Oreo

Over the last couple of weeks, though, their fighting has escalated.  Oreo chases and bites Cinnamon mercilessly.   We thought that maybe they were just having a Brokeback moment, but no -- they were drawing blood, especially under each other's chins.  While we never saw Cinnamon bite Oreo, Oreo has some marks that indicate otherwise.  The time had come, we decided, to separate them, at least until we looked into neutering -- which I did, on the web, and, apparently, there's little likelihood that the operation will help, although I will follow up with the vet again.

Cinnamon

So, we now have one eight square foot cage and one five-and-a-half square foot cage sitting side by side on the living room floor.  Cinnamon seems to have chilled out entirely post-separation; Oreo cries for Cinnamon a lot and often climbs up his cage wall to see into his "brother's" cage.  We let them out onto the floor to play together, but the growling and gnashing of teeth starts pretty quickly.  The Guv shakes his head in near-disgust; he has tolerated our adoption of these pets and has even commented on how they're teaching Dash to be gentle, but now they're taking up more space than a pair of Mastiffs.  I committed to caring for these pets for the duration, and I will continue to do so, because we -- well, most of us -- have grown to care a lot about them.   But my mom's comment that they seem like as much work of a dog may be closer to true with two cages to clean... though I still don't have to get up in the wee hours to let them outside to pee, thank God!

Dash update

Round One in Dr. Mom versus Big Medicine goes to: Dr. Mom!  I begged, pleaded and cajoled our back-up pediatrician in NJ until she called in a prescription for Taylor's ear infection.  Two doses later, his fever's gone, and he's acting normal again -- meaning that he's running all over the house like he's being chased by a pack of wolves.  Normal!  Normal is good. 

Raging against Big Medicine

For some reason, I am unpleasantly surprised each time this country's health care system fails me.  I think I'd be better off accepting it now: our health care system sucks, and it's just going to suck more until "someone" does "something" about it.  No, I have no solution.  I just have a sick kid.  He had a fever Friday-Saturday, got well Sunday, started developing another fever on Monday, and today -- tah dah! -- has yet another ear infection.

So here's the problem: we're in Vermont.  His pediatrician in NJ -- who knows that we're waiting for Dash's ENT appointment at the end of April, who likely would call in an antibiotic for us since she knows that I know when he has an ear infection -- is on vacation.  Dash has a 102 fever.  He is cringing left ear-to-left shoulder.  His left eye is watering.  He is telling me that his ear hurts.  I have put in a call to her back-up doctor, who has seen Dash before with an ear infection, in hopes that she'll believe me and call in his beloved FiFi medi (Omnicef).

Meanwhile, I have been calling all over the states of Vermont and New Hampshire trying to find a pediatrician who will take care of my son.  And I am FURIOUS at the pediatrics department of Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, who told me last summer that "yes, of course we see seasonal patients" -- and then changed their policy in December, such that the only place my son can be seen there is in the ED (what they call an ER) - even though they have appointments available all day.  So, instead of a super-quick doctor's office visit that bills to my insurance at around $70 a pop, we have to go to the ER, likely wait for a long time, and then my insurance company gets billed north of $300.  THAT is what's wrong with health care in America.  Why don't we all just start using the ER for our health care needs instead of having doctors at all?  That's basically what Dartmouth Peds is suggesting.  I understand that there are people who have no other choice.  Our family is fortunate to have top-notch health insurance that allows us to see any doctor we wish.  What I didn't account for is that doctors might not want to see us.

In any event, Dash will be alright, as ever, and, if I can't talk our NJ back-up doc into calling in meds for him, I found a place nearby that might be able to squeeze him in tomorrow.  Of course, they also don't see "seasonal people."  But this time, I'll lie.  The Guv would be proud, as he's always saying I'm too process-focused and need to be outcomes-oriented instead.  In this case, at least, he's right.  My son needs a quick doctor's visit, and I'm not going to subject him or my insurance to another ER visit.  

Pride and Panic

ILOVERMONT.  I even love Vermont when Dash wakes up in the middle of our first night of spring break with a 103 fever.  He'll get over it quickly in all of this great mountain air.

Today, the Guv dropped Petunia at ski school first thing, and, soon after, I had my first-day-back-in-Vermont frolic.  My first stop was The Farmer's Diner, a.k.a. localvore heaven, for the cup of diner coffee that I'd been dreaming about for three months.  And when I walk in, the waitress greets me with, "Hey, welcome back!  You guys up for Easter?"  And I was home.

After a couple more stops, I moseyed on over to the ski school to watch Petunia for half an hour before pick-up.  As I pull into the parking lot, I do a double take.  Riding the t-bar in front of me BY HERSELF is my seven year-old child.  I park, stunned, and head into the lodge to watch Petunia descend the mountain -- and that's when it hits me.  Petunia is about to descend the mountain.  Not the bunny slope -- the MOUNTAIN.  I can't watch, so I grab a bowl of chili and a seat by the window, in case I change my mind and decide to take a peek.  When I finally look up, she is almost at the bottom and in one piece.  I figured they might be done early, so I wolf down my chili... and wait!  What are they doing? 

And then I see my seven year-old child get onto the chair lift with her instructor.  A lot of thoughts are going through my head, foremost among them is: "What in Sam Heck is some dumb-assed teenager ski instructor doing taking my kid to the top of the double-black on the chair lift???!!!"

So I start praying, because let's face facts: this was Petunia's approximately seventh day on skis, her first day in three months, and I just didn't think that this was going to end well.  And I'm an optimist, and I remembered that I'm an optimist, so I got even more freaked out.  So I wander over the to ski school office.  My conversation with one of the instructors goes something like this:

Mama: "Dude!  I saw the young'uns going up the chair lift!"

Dude: "Yeah, the ones that could hack it went up for their last run!"

Mama: "What if one of the kids freaks out at the top and doesn't want to come down?"

Dude: "Naw.  The kids beg us to take them up." He pauses, thoughtfully.  "Well, there was this one girl, she wasn't sure about it, but her instructor gave her a gold medal and a pep talk."  He looks out the window and adds, "They're starting down now."

Mama, having to ask: "The girl, was she in a pink jacket and purple pants?"

Dude: "You mean Petunia?  Yeah.  She yours?  She's a great kid."

Mama, gulping: "Yep, she's mine.  Wow.  I think I should probably head out to see this." 

Skiier

Thus, I processed, funereally, to the bottom of the hill.  I'm asking myself if I told her that she should never do anything outside her comfort zone.  Then, I'm beating myself up, because she'll never accomplish anything if that's my standard.  And before I can get through all of this rationalizing, I look up, and, lo and behold, I see one of the most amazing things that I've ever seen.  Crouched ski-racer style, Petunia is coming down the mountain.  Periodically, she slows down, but she's actually skiing -- turning from side to side, gliding over the snow.  By the time she gets to me -- a long, somewhat slow ride later -- I'm jumping up and down, throwing up "You Rock!" signs and yelling "Whoo-hoo you did it OH MY GOD YOU DID IT!"  Her little skis pointed straight for me, I start trying to get out of the way.  She does a pizza stop right in front of me and says, "Mom, relax.  I know how to stop."

And, apparently, she knows how to ski.  I get a big thumbs-down for doubting the girl -- and for doubting the instructor, who, as it turns out, was not a teenager but, rather, the director of the school.  He saw my baby down the mountain, and that lesson will stick with me as I see her confront other challenges that I'm not so sure are surmountable.

Tonight, on the eve of Easter, I'll say a little extra thanks for Petunia and Dash, the gifts that keep on giving.  My people believe that hundreds of years ago, a Jewish carpenter was nailed to a cross, died, and rose again from the dead to sit at God's right hand to save us from ourselves.  To some people, belief in Christ is like belief in the Easter Bunny -- magical, but surreal.  Though I do Believe, I can't define my faith adequately except to say that something holds me up when I'm standing at the bottom of a mountain fairly sure that my baby soaring down it is about to meet a bad end.  Happy Easter, and may you and yours also find renewal on this blessed day.

Keeping the magic alive

Today was Petunia's last day of school before spring break.  As usual, I picked her up and gave her the go-ahead for a half-hour of playground time, and I enjoyed hanging out with a couple of other parents doing the same thing.  Petunia had an ear-to-ear smile pastered across her face, spent much of the extended-to-45-minutes time running herself ragged playing tag, chase, and general wilding.  So when the time came for our quick walk home, I was surprised to see that she was almost in tears as soon as her friends were out of sight.  Finally, we had this conversation:

Mama: "Petunia, what's wrong?  You look so sad!"

Petunia: "Mama, is the Easter Bunny real?"

Mama, pausing: "What do you think?"

Petunia: "Well, I think the Easter Bunny is real, but my friend said that he's not, that it's just your parents who bring the treats."

Mama: "Uhh, Petunia, do you think I would ever actually give you as much candy as the Easter Bunny gives you?"

Petunia: "No.  But Daddy would.  But then you'd be mad at Daddy, and I don't remember you being mad at Daddy on Easter." 

Mama, stifling laughter: "That's right, Petunia.  I wasn't mad at Daddy last Easter because he did not bring you loads of candy.  And if he did not bring you that candy, then who did?"

Petunia: "THE EASTER BUNNY!"

And the smile returned, ear to ear, and, honest to God, she started skipping.  Of course, then we had to talk about what the Easter Bunny might bring this year, and would he find us in Vermont?

I know that someday, Petunia will stop believing in the Easter Bunny, and in Leprechauns, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and all of the other magical creatures in which she still has faith.  So, I was careful not to lie to her, but I am also happily clinging to these days of youthful fantasy... for they are fleeting, and, while I enjoy watching my kids grow, I will miss their wide-eyed wonder as it fades.

A post I thought I'd never write

For a host of reasons, mostly because our families who have their own very strong political beliefs read this site, I have been close-lipped about my political identity and the candidate for whom I will vote this autumn.  Knowing that it will cause me much trouble, I proverbially come out of the closet today, nonetheless.  I am proud to declare that, come November, I will cast my vote for the next President of the United States, Barack Obama.

In my entire life, I have never told anyone for whom I have voted, and that is my right.  I am fiercely independent politically, and I remain committed to being uncommitted to a party.  This time around, though, I feel that I need to wear my vote on my sleeve and to tout (or defend) it with knowledge of campaign issues.  I am tired of discussion among moms about whether or not to vote for Hillary Clinton only because she is a woman.  That is sexist, and it is as wrong as voting for Obama just because he is black.  I support Obama because I feel he has a better grasp of the broad array of issues facing America today.  Case in point, with his awe-inspiring speech yesterday morning, Obama helped us all to step toward a future in which there is actually hope for the healing of America – not just the ending of senseless wars or the repair of the racial divide splashed all over the news the last few days, but also real hope that our political parties can reach consensus over what needs to be done in order to secure a better future for our children and their children.  

I read the speech this morning and watched the video this evening.  If you support Hillary Clinton and are still going to support her no matter what Obama said, you should STILL read or listen to this speech.  If you support John McCain and are still going to support him no matter what Obama said, you should STILL read or listen to this speech.  You are cheating yourself if you do not.  Perhaps it is too much to ask as a professed supporter of Obama, but I do hope that, after reading or hearing this speech, you ask yourself if your candidate has these same high ideals, and if your candidate understands that the issues before America are far from black or white, rich or poor.  (And if you don't know how your candidate stacks up, then, please, go to your candidate's web site and make sure you know your candidate.  Don't guess based on hearsay or advertisements.  Too much is at stake!)  Barack Obama, he gets it, far better than any candidate I have ever seen.

This great speech, it will go down in history alongside those of Kennedy and King.  (Don’t just take my word for it; all of the pundits have said the same thing on the morning news.)   And if, by now, you still haven’t read the speech or watched the video, watch the video from minute 33:40 on (it’s about 37 mintues long).  If you’re not moved, your heart is made of stone, and you’re probably voting for Hillary Clinton.  (Sorry, I couldn’t help myself!  I won’t do it again.)

If you are interested in more information regarding what Barack Obama actually stands for, click here for the issues part of his campaign site.  If you wish to compare him to the other candidates, click here for Hillary Clinton, or click here for John McCain.

Uh-oh, Mama...

... I hope there are no house showings today, because the leprechauns made a real mess!

DSC06710

That was Petunia's reaction to finding these green footprints running from the front door, through her leprechaun trap, and out the window. (The trap is the yellow construction paper, which is folded, stapled and has a ribbon web at the far end.)

The white piece of paper was a happy note to the leprechaun from Petunia and Dash (nice of Petunia to include little brother!).  He wrote back "You are good kids, Signed, Seamus the Leprechaun" and left some great treats.  All in all, it was a festive St. Paddy's day, complete with a shepherd's pie dinner and green-dyed pudding for dessert.  Petunia was extra-hyper, though, leading me to fear for the day when she and her frat-boy-already brother discover green beer.  Somedays, I'm glad that they're small!

Leapin' leprechauns!

Two years ago, Petunia's kindergarten teacher introduced us to the concept of a "leprechaun trap."  The kids left them on their desks on the eve of St. Patrick's Day, and, when they came to school the next day, much mischief had occurred in the classroom.  Chairs were upturned, papers were everywhere, and no leprechauns were trapped -- but there were gold-wrapped chocolate coins on each child's desk.   (Candy in school!  The horror!)

Last year, in first grade, we played along... Again the kids made leprechaun traps at school, but, this time, we set one at home, too.  Petunia left the leprechaun a few coins and a note that read something to the effect of, "Here's some money, now don't make trouble for us."  (In other words, she's probably going to have an excellent career in venture capital.)  In return for Petunia's good will, the leprechaun left a couple of shamrock cookies and a note thanking her for not trapping him. 

The kid has the memory of an elephant.  Had she not reminded me, I would have forgotten that in addition to playing Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny, I am supposed to be a leprechaun, too!  Fortunately, I scored some awesome shamrock cookies, gold chocolate coins, a fantastic Tomie de Paola book and even threw in a few golden dollars for good measure.   Then, I decided to up  the game a notch.  I cut a tiny shoe print out of a sponge and used washable (God, I hope so!) green finger paint to make shoeprints from the door, through the trap and out the window.  I can't wait to see her face in the morning!  Since Dash has no idea what St. Paddy's Day is, I doubt he'll care much and even bet that he'll be freaked out by the tiny green footprints.  (Watch, he'll end up horribly afraid of vertically-challenged people just like the Guv's old roomie Alex!)

I'll report tomorrow on how this adventure played out... and will end with the footnote that I was initially irritated that the school was wasting my kid's time on things like leprechaun traps, making more work for me at home in the process, but then I thought it through... It's a really cool thing when creative teachers think up something that will foster a kid's imagination.  Sure, it's a little silly, but the Guv and I have long said that if there's only one gift that we can give our children, we'd like to give them the gift of curiosity.  There may be a line somewhere between curiosity about leprechauns and curiosity about space travel, but, either way, the kid is chewing on something that makes her talk, write and think outside her normal parameters (not that "normal" is really in her realm yet), and that's pretty awesome.

Happiness is...

... sixty-degree weather forcing my daffodil bulbs out of the ground.  Spring has sprung!

... my former neighbor and friend Adrienne, now a Chicago resident, popping by for a surprise visit.  I miss her and her terrific family!  We will see them and their renovated abode on our cross-country trip from Vermont to California this summer.

... my parents taking the kids to a local hotel overnight to eat, swim, jump on beds (actually, Grammy won't allow that, though Dash will try!) and, best of all, let us sleep for an uninterrupted night.

... the Guv remarking favorably on my much-improved tennis game.  I only trounced him a little!

... a very romantic dinner out with the Guv, with real conversation but, alas, no wine... sometimes I forget that we live in a dry town.  (Palo Alto, here we come!)

... the realtor in California calling to tell us we may be able to work out an extended close for the house that I've virtually fallen in love with on-line.

... a movie, SnoCaps, a handsome man, and two snuggly guinea pigs waiting for me on the couch.

Today's heart attack with a side of borscht

Normally, I am a calm and rational person.  Today, though, I spent most of the day asking myself if I possibly could be having a heart attack at age 34.  I looked and acted like a ball of stress, right down to my beet-red face.  I’ve never had a beet-red face, so I must’ve been dying, right?

This was realtor open house number two, and, for some reason, I was miserable going into it.  First of all, before each of these things, I have to clean like the Queen of England might deign to take tea on my bright-white kitchen floor.  And since I’d rather do anything on earth other than clean my house, having to do so is enough to send my blood pressure skyward.  Secondly, after the last open house, we received a lot of feedback.  Most of this feedback was positive; realtors felt that the house shows well, is feature-rich and is priced right.  But then there are the few who woke up that day and decided to be annoying.  They complained about the paint colors, since on HGTV all homes are painted in various shades of taupe before being listed.  They complained about the beautiful master bathroom we designed and built a few years ago, as it is on the small side – because, after all, people live in their bathrooms.  Some loved the kitchen with its light cabinets; others found it dated.  Some thought the house flowed well; others found it not open enough.  It’s a 28 year-old Colonial house, and some of these realtors are trying hard to make it into something that it’s just plain not.  So today, I wasn’t looking forward to the feedback from Open Season On My House Part Deux.

Since I have loved this house, since I have raised my babies in this house for four years, I do not take criticism of it lightly – and hearing what our realtor calls “feedback,” which is usually prefaced by “They aren’t going to put an offer in on your house because…” pains me.  The Guv offered to take over this process from me, but really, that’s unrealistic – e.g. today, when he is somewhere over Middle America on a plane.  I just have to grow a thicker skin and know that with dozens of people coming through it in the first week alone, we’re going to sell it for a good price to a good family who will love it as much as we have.

Simultaneously, I have fallen in love with a house out Left that we cannot yet buy.  The Guv, out there again this week, drove the neighborhood today and shares my positive vibe.  Jumping the gun, perhaps, I called our realtor and asked her to find out that family’s timeline, hoping that they, too, are aspiring for a school year-end close.  I will try not to get my hopes up, but somehow, shopping for houses out there brings my blood pressure down back here… which doesn’t make much sense, since our mortgage likely will quadruple.  But that part of the deal is the Guv’s to worry about, also known as his heart attack waiting-to-happen. 

So, does anybody know how to rebuild cardiac muscle?  We’re going to need some advice.

Eliot Spitzer jokes

I am having way too much fun with this Eliot Spitzer scandal.  Click here for a collection of late-night jokes about the situation.  It probably shouldn't be funny to me that the Governor of New York has been caught with his pants down, but he deserves it since he used to prosecute guys like himself.  Of all people, he should've known better -- and should've known that he would get caught.  At least he had the decency to leave running the Empire State to David Paterson, who becomes the state's first black governor and is rumored to be an upstanding citizen (if there are any left in politics, anyway).

On to the next thing: Cubes & Crayons

A fascinating place called Cubes & Crayons recently opened in Menlo Park, California.  It is a novel concept: flexible scheduling of shared workspace for parents with shared childcare on site.  For freelance writers, entrepreneurs, and a host of other self-directed worker-bees, this place sounds like a dream solution come true.

However, founder "Felicity" got my Irish up a bit when describing her new venture on the Silicon Valley Moms Blog in a post called Mommy Guilt.  She offered the following: "Being a mom is the most important thing to me... At the same time, it is just as important to me that my girls grow up seeing women as professional, intelligent, and successful individuals who do more than just wipe noses and give hugs."

After reading that, I took an overnight to calm down, for engaging emotionally in the mommy wars is nothing but destructive.  Waking up this morning, I'm still upset.  Why is it that women who work for pay outside the home find it necessary to belittle those of us who have chosen a different path?  My own path to at-home mommyhood has been indirect.  With my first child, Petunia (now age 7 and in second grade), I returned to work when she was six weeks old out of necessity.  Fortunately, my job was flexible.  From then until she was three and a half, I worked sometimes full-time, sometimes part-time and seasonally; I also attended graduate school part- and full-time during those years.  The semester of combining full-time work and full-time school nearly did me in!  But I scheduled my work and chose a graduate program that fit into my goal of raising my child in my own home.  Clearly, it worked for us: my daughter is exceptionally smart and well-adjusted, and I have an Ivy League graduate degree with a 4.0 transcript hanging on my wall.  One family member asked once if it was merely collecting dust, though, after my choice -- our family's choice -- for me to remain home after the birth of our second child, Dash (now age 3). 

I have given various responses to that "what are you doing with your life" question over the past few years, and now, in a sense, I've stopped trying to find a solution that pleases anyone but me and mine.  Like the founder of Cubes & Crayons, I am concerned that my daughter view women as "professional, intelligent, and successful" -- and this is why I volunteer to serve on boards of local activities, why I take time to (and why I can) explain the "why" when she asks a question (why do volcanoes erupt?), why I remain informed about the world and try to take steps to leave this earth a little better than I found it.  By my work in and (though unpaid) out of the home, I am showing my children flexibility and optionality.  I do not know that I will ever step back into a traditional career role -- but I am far from retired.  (Don't worry, Guv, I see tuition bills rapidly approaching...) That said, I firmly believe that jobs in the future economy will not be bound to a desk or a clock.  This is why I am excited about Cubes & Crayons, as it offers a spot for the untraditional. 

So, when I show up next fall to rent my space, I'll be wearing a t-shirt that says, "I'm a mom who wipes noses and gives hugs -- AND is professional, intelligent, and successful."  Because me?  I'm not making that either/or choice.  It's just plain not necessary.

Swamp zebras update, and ruminations on the Spitzers

The plumber arrived in time to drain the swamp bathtub, but, alas, our injection pump motor is shot.  Of course, he's never seen a motor die so quickly (it's two years old) in his 22-year history as a plumber.  It's a $500 repair, and it'll be fixed on Thursday.  Until then, au pair Maria has to clog use the other three water closets in the house. 

So now, instead of talking about raw sewage in my basement, let's talk about how I'd like to be flinging poo at Eliot Spitzer right now.  And I wouldn't mind if a little got on his wife, too.  [Gasp!  Did I just write that?]

Seriously, wouldn't it be ever so delightful if just once, one of these political wives refused to stand alongside her husband as he delivers one of these "I've shamed my family" speeches and, instead, reared back and kicked him in the nether-regions, and hard?!  Call me childish -- call me whatever you'd like -- but I would MUCH rather my daughter see a woman refusing to stand by a cheating husband than one who stands there and looks defeated.  Wake up, sister!  This isn't the 1950s anymore!  I take my marriage vows very seriously, as does the Guv, so fortunately I am quite certain that I will never be in her shoes... but let's imagine that I were Mrs. Spitzer.  I would have been the one giving the speech, and I would have made it clear that it didn't matter that my husband was the damned governor: wrong is wrong, and he could pack and leave.  As he left with his likely soon-to-be-indicted tail between his legs, I would run for his seat, more than anything to show a certain other political wife that a woman actually can get there by doing the right thing, which is standing up for abused women everywhere and not just taking it with a well-made up frownie-face and a suit chosen just for the occasion.

But that's just my [not so] humble opinion...

Swamp zebras

The Guv is fond of telling me that when I hear hoofbeats, I should think horses, not zebras.

Well, Guv, the zebras have arrived, and they're pissed.

Moments before a scheduled viewing of our house today, the sewage injector pump in our basement bathroom decided that it didn't want to work anymore.  Scratch that: it probably stopped in the night at some point, or maybe during the power outage over the weekend... the au pair isn't sure (to her credit, she feels really bad about this, even though it's probably not her fault at all).  So, if you flush the basement toilet, it comes up through the shower.  I did everything I could do to fix this: plunged, reset the breaker, rebooted, plugged, unplugged, tested outlets... Nope.  We still have a tub full of sh*t.

Fortunately, the super-capable contractor who built our basement immediately contacted the also super-capable plumber who has donned his red cape and is en route. 

In the meanwhile, the morning house-hunters were no-shows, but there are two more showings later today... So let's hope that both the zebras and their waste are out of here by then.  In the meanwhile, can you help me think of some good excuses?  Here's what we have so far:

- EVERYONE composts in their basement bathroom in New Jersey.  They don't do this where your'e from?
- He who smelt it dealt it!
- Don't go in there!  That's where the au pair keeps her python!
- We're, umm, cooking something in there.  Sniff, sniff, cough.
- It's for moonshine!  I'm from West Virginia, where y'all from?  (that was Wonder Boy's idea)

A weekend to reset

To say that moving is stressful is akin to saying that root canals hurt.  These things are simple truths that pretty much anyone can understand.  For me, personally, listing our house last week brought out both my best and my worst sides.  

On the up-side, I cleaned up in the proper way, recycling years worth of magazines to which I am canceling many of my subscriptions, as it came to my attention more than ever just how much of a paper waste they are.  I pared down toys and clothes to donate locally.  The kids got into the act willingly, and I feel that we’re heading in the right direction: when Petunia opted to use her allowance for a new bracelet and necklace set at a museum yesterday, she said right away, “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll chose one of my old necklaces and a bracelets to give away when we get home.”  And she did.

On the down-side, I’ve found myself more quick-to-anger than normal, sometimes with the children but, more often than not, with the Guv.  He walks around smiling, talking of how great this move West is going to be – and for him, it’s all sunshine and roses.  He’ll wake up one day and  go to work in a new place, not worried about who our doctors, dentists, hair cutters, etc. will be.  He already knows his way around, since he’s been out there a hundred days a year for the last few years, and he has a million friends.  Thank God, I have a few, and even some family, out there, too.  But on occasion, the panic sets in, and I get snappy.  How is this all going to come together?  Will we sell our house this spring?  Will we be able to find a good one, albeit for a ridiculous price, in the right neighborhood out there?  How will I know if it’s a good neighborhood?  And does my nav system even work in California?

The funny thing about these stressful days is that it’s usually the Guv who tends to "what-if" himself so much that it takes years off of his life.  He’s the cynic, and I’m the optimist – but our roles are reversed these days, so I have to take some time out for a full-scale reset.  This worry, it’s ridiculous.  The move is going to be a great one, especially for our family life, as the Guv will be around as the rule instead of as the exception.  We all stand to be healthier, as New Jersey’s been anything but a healthy place for us (case in point: last summer in Vermont with nary a sniffle).  And in the end, this mom needs to remember that being well and being together are the most important factors in helping us to address any obstacles we face.  Not that I’m expecting any…

This post brought to you by Ore-Ida

As we sat down to dinner tonight, Dash decided to tease au pair Maria a bit.  The two of them love Bob Evans mashed potatoes, which are sold prepackaged in the dairy section of our local market.  As Dash took a heaping spoonful, he said, "Au pairs do not eat potatoes."  We've never heard him say "au pair," and he said "potato" with a British accent, so we all had a chuckle.

Then, I asked him, "Do au pairs eat french fries?"  He replied, "Yes, au pairs do eat french fries!"

"But Dash, french fries are made from potatoes!" I retort.

He laughs and zings me with, "No, silly Mama, french fries are made from a box!"

Happy Birthday to Dash

Today, Dash turned three, or "free" as he told anybody who'd listen.  "I'm free!" he told the cupcake lady at the market at 8:00 a.m.  "I'm free!" he told the teacher, who asked me if I rushed out this morning to buy cupcakes.*  "I'm free!" he told the landscapers installing $3000 worth of mulch, etc. just to make our house look pretty enough to buy.  And now that Dash is sleeping off the stress of the day, I, too, am free. 

It was fun day, complete with McDonald's and mall rides with both the Guv and I at lunch, lots of boy-themed gifts, and, best of all, our neighbors the Cleavers celebrating with us.  It was a long day, though, and a grueling one trying to bring the house closer to "in order."  The "For Sale" sign goes up tomorrow, and the first realtor open house is Wednesday. 

But tonight, even after all of this work and with so much more to come, I'm basking a bit in the glory of having a three year old, as three is easier than two, and four will be easier than three, and some day they'll both be off to boarding school, college, and their own lives.  And I won't have all of these toys to pack anymore.  Forgive me, world, because I might miss the smell of post-nap sweaty-head baby, but the stuff?  I won't miss it at all (and shouldn't have bought it in the first place).

* Note regarding the snarky teacher: I decided to just smile and nod instead of telling her that I couldn't manage to create a gastroeconomic delicacy for her class of TWO AND THREE YEAR OLDS because my house is going on the market this week... and didn't even bother to mention that my baking days are also pretty much over now that I'm gluten-free.  This is the part of motherhood that I'm just not down with and will never be.  Take note: preschoolers don't appreciate fancy cupcakes.  They eat off the frosting, leave the cake, and have no idea if it came from a frosting tub, the market or from Martha Freakin' Stewart herself.  Maybe I'll bake again when they're old enough to actually appreciate it.

To market, to market

It is Sunday evening.  This coming Wednesday, our beloved home in New Jersey hits the real estate market.  We have spent the weekend getting things in order, and we're almost there except for the last-minute details, like making our beds every day.  It's been grueling, and it's been amazing that the Guv and I haven't killed each other in the process.  We took many of the realtor's suggestions, like painting the kids' black walnut bathroom cabinet so that it's now cream-colored.  We've added lamps everywhere, taken some curtains down, decluttered... in other words, our house looks like a normal family's house.  Yawn.

This colonial house was not our dream home when we moved in, but over the past four years we've made it as close to that as possible.  We finished the basement and painted it brightly, installing fun features like a magnetic wall (Benjamin Moore magnetic primer under the paint!).  Since we have a sizable eat-in kitchen, our dining room is in use as a nautical-themed media room.  Most people are surprised by that room (read: few of our friends "get it"), and we probably should've painted it in the same still-bolder-than-normal but closer-to-neutral colors of the attached formal living room.  The realtor suggested that we also stage it as a dining room.  And to all that, we said: screw it.  A bathroom vanity we can change, but the way we live in our home until the end of the school year cannot -- and I plan to enjoy every last minute of this great house in this great neighborhood.  People are going to do what we did: move into this place with its great bones and make it their own. 

In the end, I thought it would be easy to leave this place, but it's very much not.  I hope that I am gone for every showing and that I never hear what the next owners really think of the sunny yellow exterior and bright-green trim, the colors that I always wanted to paint my "forever" house.  I had none of these separation issues when I left our townhouse, but this place?  This is where my babies grew together for a while, and I'll remember the great times like walking Petunia to her first day of kindergarten and greeting the neighbors rushing over as we brought Dash home from the hospital.  And the kids will still be growing in California, and we'll make more memories there... but they'll never be quite so small again.  Maybe I can't take this house, my neighbors, or the town with me, but these great memories, some of which already are packed away, will remain fond and permanent.