365 Days Down: A Photo Journey

First day: May 27, 2008

First time meeting the dogs

First swingin'

First overalls

First blessing

First rice cereal, yo!

First chilly pumpkin patch

First Halloween (spent in the hospital)

First Thanksgiving

First eyebrow-raise

First Christmas

First kiss

First time on wobbly legs

First word: buh (not really, but favorite)

First fish

First Easter

First beach

May 27, 2009: First Birthday

Maybe an Avocado

I held a banana up to my ear in front of T Junior, who was waiting quietly in his high chair for a snack.

"Ring, ring!" I chuckled. "That's silly!"

I got nothing. No reaction. Just a blank stare. Blink.

He just doesn't get it yet, I thought, and I sat down in defeat to cut up the classic phone-shaped fruit. But then, as I was making T Junior-size bites, it hit me like ... *ahem* a ton of bunches.

He will never get it. I don't even think they make phones that look like that anymore. I can hardly come up with a good equivalent fruit for my cell.

If you think of a good one, call me on my avocado.

***

Does this mean that he'll never get this?

A Baby Story: Making Peace with Pain

"I want to go to the hospital NOW."

Mr. T, who was kneeling at the side of our queen-sized bed, glanced at the mini yellow legal pad in his hand and then looked at me. "But, they're not close enough together."

I hobbled into the bathroom in pain once again, and when I came out, I announced: "There was blood."

Mr. T ran downstairs to retreive the instruction card on who to call when in labor.

I waited.

My thoughts swirled. An hour ago, I was watching a "Seinfeld" re-run. Now, I felt like I was going to die...at least every 5 minutes or so.

After he returned, I panted out the situation to the ER nurse. She seemed bored with me. Annoyed, even. "Yeah, come in; we'll check you."

I pulled on my most comfy maternity jeans and ducked into my favorite oversized WSU t-shirt while Mr. T let the dogs out to potty in the back yard. I went downstairs, stopping once for a contraction, then grabbed a couple of old towels from the laundry room before sliding into the Odyssey. I sat in the garage waiting for Mr. T.

I felt surprisingly calm in between pain-induced moans.

It was almost midnight, and the streets were shiny black from the rain earlier in the evening. I willed stoplights as to turn green as we approached intersections, and with each piercing contraction, I squirmed and squeezed the car door handle.

Mr. T pulled the minivan up to the emergency entrance and tossed the keys to the valet. He ran around to help me toward the the ER. Outside in front of the electronic sliding door, a woman was on her knees and hunched over, a fuzzy cream blanket draped across her shoulders. She was heaving into a construction bucket. I felt sorry for her.

Inside, a jovial police officer with pink cheeks gently sat me in a wheelchair and led us to a bed in one of the trauma rooms. The faces of the two nurses on duty were kind, but guarded. One of them had, "Stop being such a drama queen; you're probably here waaaaay too early," written on her forehead. But that changed when she checked me.

"Whoa! Well, you're not going home tonight!" She picked up a phone, "Seven CM and completely effaced. Yeah. Yeah. Okay."

Mr. T, eyes wide, said he'd run to get our luggage out of the van. "Be right back!"

I don't remember much about being moved to the maternity wing, just that I worried about how Mr. T would locate me when he came back to the ER and we were all gone.

I was 8 centimeters dilated by the time they wheeled me from one room to the other. I'll spare you the details of the rest of the night, because, well, they are quite boring...and I think I blocked a lot of it out. But, once I got the epidural, everything slowed down and T Junior wasn't born until about 10 in the morning.

May 27.

In a week, my baby will be one.

I have a feeling the day is going to be just as painful as it was a year ago.

Shuffle Shuffle vs Click Clack

Kate was wearing naughty shoes.

Let me explain.

We buy wipes at Costco and Pampers at Sam's Club. We were in need of diapers, so this day we were at the latter. And, it was unusually crowded. A thick line of people snaked in through the entrance, around a corner of orange plastic Tide bottles, and up the main aisle.

"What the heck?" I looked at Mr. T. "What is this? Disneyland?"

He frowned. "Yeah, what is this?"

We pushed T Junior in a jumbo cart and rubbernecked, looking for clues as to why this slow-moving mob was here. Just about every person was holding a similar something. Something colorful. Something that looks like...yes, a book!

Duh.

Now we wanted to know what book. It didn't look like a novel.

"Is it a children's book?" But Mr. T was too far ahead of me, peering around the laundry detergent.

He turned around, excited. "It's Kate!"

Kate. Kate, who? I caught up to see for myself and I spied familiar spiky frosted hair. Oh, Kate. Jon and Kate. Plus eight. Gotcha.

"She wrote a book?"

We shimmied through a break in the herd and turned up the middle between computer games and DVDs so we could get a better look at her, like we spotted a deer in the woods. When we reached the end of the row, we were directly to the left of where she sat behind a pink-draped table.

Kate looked tan and tired as she autographed a book for a mother and pre-teen girl. Then I noticed her shoes.

They weren't the type one would expect a mother of eight to wear. They weren't sneakers or flip-flops or sensible flats.

Nope.

They were girls-going-clubbing heels! Tan leather straps criss-crossed over the tops of her feet, which rested on wooden platforms with, I'd say, 3-to-4-inch heels. Suddenly, I was aware of my New Balance cross-trainers.

It threw me, this choice of hers. They made me wonder about this mom we all think we know. Is she kinda crazy sometimes? Does she have a wild side? Does she party?

I decided she probably is and does. I think you'd have to. Considering, well, you know.

You go girl.

Do you ever get to wear sassy shoes? Or, did you used to? Do you want to now? Or, are the tennies way too comfy to give up?

The Case of Too Much Wicker: Part I in the No More Somedays Series

My mom came in with a stack of books six hardcovers tall.

She set the small tower on the glass-topped white wicker coffee table in center of my room. "I used to like these. Thought you might want to read them."

I leaned out of my matching wicker chair and snatched up a now-familiar glossy blue and yellow cover.

"Nancy Drew?" I snickered the way high schoolers do.

She put her hands on her hips, "You'll like them." Plus, she thought I should know a little about the series that was so popular when she was growing up. Sort of a pop culture lesson, I guess.

She was right, of course. I stayed draped in that chair for hours, a wicker pattern reached a near-permanent state on the backs of my bare thighs. These stories were simple, yet they could hold my teen-age imagination.

And, so I was holding "The Hidden Staircase" in my right hand and twisting a lock of long brown hair around and around my left index finger, when I made up my mind.

"Someday, I will write a book."

I dreamed about it for a few minutes before getting back to Nancy.

This is the first in an unknown-number-of-parts series on being a mother and attempting to accomplish unrealized goals and dreams. Since this is a reoccuring theme in my life, I decided to officially make it a regular topic called No More Somedays. Got tips, stories or inspirations to share? Please do.

Mean Girls in the Family

Yesterday, I felt like going for a walk after a full day of working in an office, click-clacking on the keyboard, false light stinging my eyes.

I fed T Junior some string cheese before I strapped him in the jogging stroller at 5:30 for some de-stressing time. We set off along the concrete sidewalk, me taking my tiny, limpy steps and T Junior slurping the three middle fingers on his right hand.

Mountainous white clouds with black bellies passed over us. I could tell they were harmless, but they were scary enough that I suspect most people were staying indoors for fear of rain. Plus, it was cool and windy. It felt like October actually.

We turned down the main drag in our neighborhood and I smiled at the three sisters across the street taking their chances with the weather in their front yard. They looked like they were about 10, 7 and 3.

As I got closer, I could see what was really going on. The oldest girl was using her 10-year-old strength to keep the middle one on her back in the grass as she encouraged the 3-year-old to kick her in the side.

"Harder! Kick her harder!"

I listened. Was that laughter or whimpering?

What should I do?

I considered my options. I could holler, "Hey girls! Stop that!" through the wind gusts and the big girl would probably snap her head up and glare at me thinking, "Whatever, lady."

Or, perhaps I should cross the street to make my mommy presence known. At least if I was on the other side, I could say, "Girls..." on a down note to imply disapproval. I was sure to get the "whatever lady" look that way and from all three of them.

I kept walking and I kept my mouth shut. "They're fine," I thought. And then I felt like a hypocrite as a home video of me tripping my younger sister over and over flickered behind my eyelids. And then me whipping her with a dish towel. And then me hiding so I wouldn't have to play with her. And then me intentionally ignoring her.

Okay, I think I'll stop there.

So, what would you have done?

Say It Forward

It's a small blogosphere out there.

When I started blogging a little over a year ago, Ashley of The Veater Family Adventures was one of the first bloggy friends I made. I'd never met her, but she found Sanity Department somehow and let me know she liked reading it.

I couldn't believe it. Really?

We've been sharing mommy experiences through blog posts and comments ever since. Every blogger loves comments (at least, all the ones I know), and Ashley always has something meaningful to say. After a little while, we discovered our husbands knew each other because they work in the same office!

Ashley's been missing from my comment forms lately because she just had her second girl! In her last post, she reminded me and all her readers how very stressful it is to have a newborn but I know it won't be long before she's back to her well-rested and cheerful self!

I just wanted to send some appreciation your way, Ashley! Hope you and your family are getting some rest and relaxation, and Happy Mother's Day!

Oh, the Noise, Noise, Noise, Noise!

I woke up at 3:45 drenched in sweat and without Mr. T snoring at my side. I hobbled to the front window in our room and pulled a corner of the curtain to the side. No car, which meant he wasn't downstairs on the couch, either.

I called him and he was still at work. Something really geeky and computerish broke and they were all still there fixing it.

At 7, Michael Bolton woke me up. Not a good sign. And, Mr. T still wasn't home.

After a mug of coffee and a couple of high-fiber pieces of toast, I went in to get T Junior out of his bed, expecting to hear the rattling of the garage door any minute. But, I didn't.

I carried the baby in just his diaper down the stairs, the three dogs nearly knocking us down as they barreled toward the sliding door to the back yard.

I called Mr. T as I let them outside.

"We're almost done," he promised.

"I just wanted to make sure you are okay." I felt sorry for him, up for 24 hours and then some at that point.

I let the dogs back in, hung up and got to T Junior's breakfast. He screeched at me in his bossy new 11-month-old language, "BUAHHHH, BAH, BUH, UHHHB!" ("HURRY UP MO-OM. I'M STARVIN' HERE!")

"It's comin', it's comin'. Ho-old on."

The dogs were just as bad. There's a line and they were crossing it.

The metal strip between the kitchen linoleum and the living room carpet is the boundary and they were not minding it. Instead, they tap-tapped their nails around my feet as they did their walk-in-place impatience dance. "HURRY UP MO-OM. WE'RE STARVIN' HERE."

"GET OUT!" I pointed my right index finger and they all scrambled. But then Annie started doing this thing where she constantly licks her nose, acting like she was going to puke.

"ARGH. AN-NIE. GET OUTSIDE!" I slid open the glass, she ran out to the lawn and started ripping up grass with her teeth. I shut the door with a bang. "ANYONE ELSE?" I shot narrowed eyes at the other two now sitting at attention next to the couch.

"DAH. OUH!" T Junior slammed the palm of a hand on his tray. Awesome. Great example, Mom.

"They're being good now, honey." I sat down to feed him.

But Annie was back at the door, green blades and saliva bubbles clinging to the underside of her boxer lips, her back hunched in the heavy drizzle out on the deck.

"Just a second, kid." I set the baby food jar and yellow plastic spoon on the kitchen table and got up to let the dog in.

"AAAAHHHHHB! BAH, BAH, BAH, UUUHHHHB, BAH, BAH, BAH!"

"Hey. Stop. I'm coming back. Just a second...DOGS, OUT!"

"DAH. OUH!"

The next one hour and 15 minutes went around and around just like that.

At 9, Mr. T was just leaving the office and Annie was acting like she was going to throw up and T Junior had a grape-sized piece of poo in his dipe that he wanted out NOW.

T Junior goes to day care for a few hours on Wednesdays. It's the day I get a few hours to write and clean or run errands or just sit. I wasn't really planning on having Mr. T home all day asleep upstairs.

At least I know it will be quiet.

Ever have one of those mornings?

It Feels Like We Were Just Marred

We were only a couple of hours from being married.

Seven years ago today.

That morning, there were tuxedo pants that were short enough to be considered knickers, a flower bouquet that wasn't right, and no rosebuds to dress up the cake and table centerpieces. I'm sure there were a whole mess of other problems, but I stopped paying attention.

I didn't care.

In fact, it all seemed to go by in a colorful blur. What had I been worried about all week?

And, in the evening seven years ago, me and Mr. T left for Maui via San Francisco in our silver Toyota 4-Runner with rose petals on the hood, streamers on the antenna and "Just Marred" written on the window thanks to my 10-year-old sister and her little friends. (Yes, "Just Marred.")

This morning, I rushed to feed the baby and said, "Love you," to Mr. T in a blur on our way out the door. And tonight, we will eat beef stroganoff with whole wheat egg noodles and T Junior will be cranky and get a bath before bed.

But I don't care.

It's been seven years. Today.

Puttin' on a Show

I've been in a lot of pain this week. I think my back relapsed. Or something.

So, I took a little longer in the therapy room at the chiropractor appointment this morning.

Normally, T Junior stays in his umbrella stroller behind the receptionist desk and spins the extra office chair around and around like the teacups at Disneyland. Lately, however, he cannot be contained. Monday, when I came out of the room, he crawled up to me with a face that said, "Hi Mommy. Where you been?"

Today, I returned to quite a scene in the small square waiting room.

I heard laughing first and when I rounded the tall desk, the scene was revealed. There was my son in the middle of the floor. The wooden blocks from the "stuff to keep your kids busy" basket in the corner were scattered evenly across every square foot. Two adults on opposite sides were sitting in the front row seats at his show. They all smiled up at me. "Oh, is he yours?" "He is so cute." "So smart." "Such a happy baby." "Can I buy him?"

He waved a half-sucked block above his head: "Look at me, Mom! I'm awesome!"

I got down on my knees. "Oka-ay. Let's clean up the mess."

"Oh no, no, no," said an aging man, leaning out of his chair to pick up a board book. I waved him off and smiled. "Thank you. He has to learn to help, though."

I looked at T Junior. "Oka-ay, let's pick up our toys." Mom's always the bad guy. Always ruining the fun.

"Oda-ay!" he hollered from center stage. The audience laughs.