Missives From Suburbia

So Long

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 02:18:00 +0000

One of my friends recently wrote me a breathtaking email, telling me that she looked forward to this blog and that I'd helped her make sense of parenting more than once. I read that email in tears, flattered and humbled. I started this blog to help me make sense of parenting. I had no idea that my quirky stories about poop and groceries would speak to anyone else. It took me becoming a mother to understand how many of life's experiences are truly universal.

Despite that, and even though I've changed my mind a dozen times--back and forth, back and forth--for many reasons, I've decided it's time to put Missives to sleep for just a bit. I'll revive her (the blog is, without question, female, no?) when the time is right, so please keep me her your readers and in your hearts as the blog goes quietly underground very soon.

To be clear, I'm not turning the volume down because I've stopped trying to make sense of parenting or because I think I have it all figured out. Quite the opposite. My family is in a new city again, with many decisions ahead of us, and I need to lighten our load just a bit. Doing that requires jettisoning some things I love (like this blog), even if it means reeling them back in later on.

There was a part of me that read my friend's email and thought, "I could process all of this aloud, on my blog, and perhaps make someone else feel less alone. These are universal experiences all mothers have at one time or another. Or...." Or I could sit in my sometimes-quiet corner of the world with my little family and dissect the decisions before us and return another day, hopefully with more wit and wisdom than I possessed prior.

My family's little project will continue to live on, so check in with us over there when you have time. If you miss the poop stories, you can always friend me on Facebook.

Thank you for the past four years, my friends. This isn't goodbye. It's just so long.

Love,

Miss Sue Burbia

He Says, She Says

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 00:12:00 +0000

Guest post! No, wait, TWO!

Meet my friends the Johnsons. Brett should be on your top ten list of Funny, Real Life Guys With Whom You Want to Have Dinner. (What? You don't have a list like that? Get on it already. You don't know what you're missing.) But the real credit goes to his stunning and oh-so-fashionable wife, Megan, who plays the eye-rolling straight man in the relationship, setting him up perfectly for his punch line every time. The reality? She's every bit as funny as he is, as you're about to find out, and in this case, it's her who gets in the punches.

Meet the Johnsons.

Brett's Turn

Fatherhood provides many opportunities for a fellow to step up, be a man and show he can handle the task of keeping his children alive and relatively healthy, at least for a weekend. When tasked with taking care of the kids without mom around, I have learned a key lesson–never show her up in the parenting game.

Here’s the scenario: The wife has her coveted girls weekend come due. She deserves it and cannot wait to relive her youthful, energetic years with her closet friends. They doll up, get hit on by an assortment of twenty somethings and sad divorcees, laugh hysterically, and most of all, sleep in. Sleep. In.

Before she can depart for Nirvana, she has to provide a thorough overview to her hapless husband as to what the children require in terms of sustenance, sleep patterns, minute-by-minute activity, transportation logistics, and of course, a smattering of household chores that must “magically get done while you are at work”.

For some reason, the children tend to behave better when overseen by only one parent, especially Dad. Maybe it’s the lack of opportunity to play “Mom vs. Dad: Armageddon”. Sociologists around the world are still puzzled by this phenomenon. It’s hard to say why, but the kids just seem a bit more manageable. Mom does not want to know this.

The weekend commences, and Dad has good times planned. The kids stay up a little later, discard their clothing like freshmen in college, and eat like them as well. Good times are had. As the weekend comes to a close, Dad gets the domestic chores handled like a meth-fueled maid. Laundry done. Dishes (what dishes?) done. A few ‘honey do’ list items punched out. The house is spotless. Ignorant Dad thinks to himself, “She is going to be so happy when she comes home, it’s not even funny.”

Sunday night. Mom returns to her castle rested and ready to resume her life. Cries of “Mommy!” ensue and hugs are liberally distributed. Mom surveys the landscape, looking for some sign of disaster, only to find her home in better shape than she left it. The look on her face morphs from joy to inquisition. A few questions are asked: “What time did you go to bed? What did you eat?” The answers are not adequate.

Dad makes the fatal mistake. He utters, “We had the BEST time. The kids were great! We had so much fun.” Then the napalm comment is deployed…"This isn’t so hard!”

You can hear the record needle scratch, and the music stops. Mom’s eyes turn green like the Incredible Hulk, yet she suppresses her rage. She calmly says “Really. It’s so easy, huh?” She excuses herself to unpack and mutters a few obscenities under her breath.

The rest of the evening is unpleasant for all involved. The kids return to their crafty ways, and bedtime is a disaster. Dad is offended that his efforts will not only go unrewarded, but he feels punished. Mom
cannot believe that he had the gall to undermine her orders and then throw it in her face! “Who does he think he is? He wouldn’t last a week in these shoes!”

A few days pass and all is back to normal. A lesson is learned.

So gentleman, I offer you this important wisdom: Never show up your wife.

My revised strategy is as follows. Upon her departure I give her thelook of a child on the first day of school. My eyes scream, “Don’t leave!” The weekend plays out as normal, except for a few key details. I make sure to take care of the heavy lifting. The laundry and dishes are done, but I purposefully leave a few loose ends. An article of clothing here, a half-eaten yogurt cup there. An unmade bed and some toys scattered hell to breakfast.

When Mom arrives home, the first words out of my mouth are, “Thank God you are home. Another day and we might not have made it. I don’t know HOW you do this every day. You are amazing.”

Mom predictably will say, “I told you so. This is not a walk in the park. I have to fight this battle daily. I am glad you can appreciate that now”.

Dad swallows his pride, winks at the kids, and the night ends as it should, with happiness and gratitude all around.

Megan's Turn

Ahhhh, my beloved is so good at gilding the lily. But enough of that. Now for the REAL scoop:

Ladies, you know how it goes down. You are out at bunco, book club, dinner group, etc. with good friends, savoring that precious “recharge the batteries” girl time that comes all too rarely. After a couple glasses of wine, some laughs, and some bonding, one wise soul glibly says, “We need a getaway…a girls’ weekend…as far away from home as possible”. In a nanosecond another friend has chimed in, “Vegas!!!”, and before you know it, all six women are onto this idea like a dog on a bone. The excitement in the room is palpable…Sun! Spa! Cocktails! Staying up too late, then sleeping in! No kids! No husbands! Then, with the seriousness and focus of a military operation, the planning begins. This should be doable. You CAN pull it off. It will just take about six months of advance logistics planning to make it work.

You promptly head home that night and do one of two things: 1) Offhandedly tell your husband of the trip you are planning six months in advance. He happens to be watching a football game and hears about 5% of what you are telling him. It’s anyone’s guess if he knows you are headed to Vegas in October. 2) If you are in a marriage such as mine, you send your husband an Outlook meeting request informing him of the upcoming girls’ getaway. Said husband prefers the “admin” model of domestic logistics, and fondly calls you “Director of Homeland Operations”. Endearing, I know.

Fast forward six months. You have been tirelessly tending to your family’s needs all this time. Now it is Mama’s turn! Girl Getaway Week has finally arrived. Now, when a single gal gets ready to leave town her checklist goes something like this: Get manicure/pedicure, schedule bikini wax, plan outfits, last minute Target run for sunscreen and trashy magazines. When a mom/wife gets ready to leave town her checklist goes something like this: Stock refrigerator with enough groceries for a month, put together three-page printed itinerary for hapless husband which lists pertinent info such as the kids’ pediatrician (since he would probably not know this offhand), line up an arsenal of babysitters to handle the kids while husband is at work, wrap gift for kiddie birthday party that will inevitably occur while you are gone, and remind husband to make sure the kids brush their teeth every day (brushed hair may be too much to ask).

And off you go. The weekend is great! All you thought it would be. You lounge by the pool, dance to cheesy music like you’re eighteen again, have the time to shower and apply makeup uninterrupted, and enjoy a million laughs with your girlfriends. Sunday departure arrives and you catch the flight home, your mind full of great memories, yet looking forward to a wonderful homecoming with your family. The kids will greet you at the door in clean clothing, your spouse will embrace you, telling you he has newfound empathy for the role of the at-home mom, and you will be able to unpack in peace while the family plays a board game downstairs…

Yeah, riiiiiiiiiight. Back to reality. You arrive to the front door. The kids scream and run to envelop you in big hugs, but they have semi-dreadlocks from three days of uncombed hair. Both kids are wearing only underwear, and have marker drawings on their legs. The first words out of their mouths: “Daddy gave us Gatorade, chips, Sprite, and candy! We stayed up way past bedtime! We played a video game with guns in it at the birthday party! And Daddy said shit twice this weekend!”

Trying not to become annoyed and still show spousal goodwill, you proceed further into the house…the family room, the heart of your home. Or at least what used to look like the family room. It now looks like a fun zone complete with couch cushion fort and every single stuffed animal your kids own inside this fort. The cat runs up to greet you, meowing nonstop—and that's when you realize the cat is meowing because it has not been fed since you left town.

You schlep your forty-five-pound suitcase upstairs, assuming the radio silence you receive after asking if anyone wants to help you carry it means "no". The beds are made, um, abstractly? All the sheets and pillows are at least on the beds, albeit in a haphazard fashion. The laundry is half-done in a large pile on the couch. Three days of mail is still overflowing from the mailbox. School backpacks have not been opened for three days.

Amidst all this, your spouse is proudly trumpeting the fun and absolute merriment that occurred while you were gone, how wonderfully everyone behaved, and how there was nary an ounce of chaos. Husband then puts a final nail in the coffin: “This was such great bonding time with the kids. It even made me wonder how things might run smoother if you went back to work and I stayed home with the kids…” My friends, guess who’s not getting any nooky that night??

As you finally lay your head on the pillow to go to sleep, you feel a jumble of emotions. Exhaustion after a weekend with too little sleep. Annoyance that things on the home front weren’t run as you would have done them. Indignant that your husband thinks he could possibly do a better job as a stay at home parent than you. But most of all, you must admit, is contentment…a feeling of happiness at being back where you belong, with the crazy brood that is uniquely yours.

Postscript: This sense of contentment will last approximately four days. At which point you promptly email your girlfriends, saying “We need to start planning our next girls’ trip ASAP!”

Editor's Postscript (You honestly thought I wouldn't have an opinion?)

Part of what makes motherhood appear so deceptively simple is that the women who assume the role tend to undertake the incredible volumes of minutiae and tedium with grace and a good dose of humor. The big stuff of feeding, clothing, and housing children is work, no doubt. But the grind of the job is really the little stuff: juggling pediatrician appointments, finding paperwork, managing bills, running errands, and making sure the kids can swim, read, and occasionally remember to say please and thank-you.

Raising good people from the seeds of infancy is breathtaking and romantic about twenty percent of the time. The other eighty percent, if done right, is mind-numbingly boring (drama = bad in parenting) and filled with little things that will alternately make you tear out your hair and laugh maniacally. Best. Job. Ever. No, really.

When Reality Becomes Real

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 13:03:00 +0000

The big news? Sorry Jay, it's not twins. It's not even a singleton. No, no...we have taken permanent steps that greatly reduce the chances (i.e., make them nil) of a Burbia #3. We didn't want to take the chance on the third one not being as cute as the first two, because then we wouldn't be able to say things like, "Well, at least they're cute" when they're driving us crazy.

We're moving. Yep, again. I started this blog after our ill-fated move from Portland to St. Paul and the haunted craphole house we left a mere year later (almost to the day, in fact), and I kept on blogging through our move to Minneapolis, where we've been fortunate to be the owners and caretakers of a history-filled home in the sweetest location in the Cities. And now that we've run out of twin cities to inhabit--there are only two, it's not our fault--we're moving on to another state altogether.

The great state of Illinois, home to Wrigley Field and Rod Blogojevich, is our next stop, and as fate sometimes does work, we'll be living in actual suburbs. Crazy, I know. Hubby kept telling me he had another interview in "Chicago", and when we knew a job offer was imminent, I began scouring the real estate listings for apartments in downtown Chicago (I do love concrete and tall buildings). It wasn't until after I showed Hubby the amazing penthouses I was scoping out that he a) laughed uproariously at my fantasy housing budget and b) informed me the job was located in the 'burbs. It was disappointing, to say the least. Who wouldn't want a twenty-four-hour doorman and two deeded parking spaces?

So here we go. For the first time in its bloggy history, Missives From Suburbia is moving to the suburbs, and I don't think it's a coincidence that Blogojevich includes the word "blog". He's innocent, I'm sure. Well, okay, he's as crooked as they come, and there's probably no one less innocent except OJ Simpson, but Rod's name has "blog" in it, and...well, to be honest, I don't know where this is going.

Uh...where was I?

Oh, right. We're moving to ~~Chicago~~ the North Shore. No, not Hawaii, Illinois. The s is silent, by the way.

Packing has not begun, nor will it until the movers arrive to do that. (Always hire professional movers. Trust me on that.) Our house in Minneapolis is not on the market yet. In fact, I had barely begun to absorb the fact that we are moving in two short weeks, despite the fact that June is rapidly coming to a close, and I had barely scribbled out a to do list*...until today.

A couple years ago, I hung a gallery of family photos above the stairs in our home. We'd lived in the house for over two years, but once I hung the photos, everyone who walked through the door said the same thing: "You finally moved in." Last night, I removed the gallery, and today, I had my favorite contractor at the house repairing the damage done to the wallpaper while hanging all of those pictures. She worked all day like Charlie Sheen on coke, and she quietly left while I napped upstairs with the children.

I awoke from my nap and headed toward the stairs with the intent of going down to the main floor to do dishes and check messages. I stopped short on the second floor landing and held my breath when I saw the wall with all of its photos and flaws removed. It looked precisely the way it did when we moved in almost four years ago. It was as if we'd never lived here.

As with all the houses I've owned, I've become attached to this one. I am madly in love with the rose garden across the street and have an equally strong love affair going with the extraordinary Lake Harriet, just up the block. I have spent my summer evenings listening to the Minnesota Pops at the band shell on the lake, rejoiced in the deep, powdery snow that covers the rose garden during the silent winters, and relished the history of the house we brought our second baby home to and in which we have watched our eldest spend the bulk of his five-year-old life. We even renewed our wedding vows twice on Lake Harriet; both times we strolled leisurely from our own front door to say those sacred words, "'til death do us part".

People ask us if we're excited about our move. We are. We love it here, and we're certain we'll love it there. But when I saw the wall today, and when I saw the tangible signs of our family and our last four years erased, our new reality landed squarely in my heart and left a jagged hole. We're leaving this home, and we'll never live here again. The photos and memories are ours to take with us, and we truly are looking forward to the next adventure, but this evening, as the sun sets over the rose garden, I can barely stand to walk up the stairs to my own room.

There are ghosts in the house, and they linger in the form of a clean, unmarred wall.

*Except for the part about always hiring pros, that entire paragraph is complete crap. There are thirty boxes already packed in the garage, and despite the house not being officially on the market, it's already had three showings. I not only have a to-do list, I also have the mother of all spreadsheets put together. No one does moving better than I do, and one of these days I'll get around to writing about how to handle a flawless cross-country move. Maybe I'll even do it before our next move, which seems inevitable, doesn't it?

Actual Conversation

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Mon, 30 May 2011 20:20:00 +0000

ME: Do you really want to save all of these VHS tapes no one has ever watched?

HUBBY: You said you knew someplace where we could get them converted.

ME: You really want to spend money to convert VHS tapes of videos that no one has ever watched to DVDs that no one will ever watch?

HUBBY: (SHEEPISH) Uh...yeah. I hate your logic.

ME: What about that one over there? You want to convert all of these tapes no one has ever watched, but you don't want the Letterman show from 1993?

HUBBY: No. (INDIGNANT) I was in the audience!

ME: Were you shown on TV?

HUBBY: Uh...no.

ME: Um. Okay.

(MINUTES LATER)

ME: It's going to cost sixty bucks to convert those tapes. With my coupon it will cost twenty, but we paid twenty-five for the coupon, so the total is more like forty-five. Still want 'em?

HUBBY: I'll go through the photo boxes instead.

ME: Okay. What day is it?

HUBBY: The 30th.

ME: You have until tomorrow. The coupon expires tomorrow.

HUBBY: (GRUMBLING AS HE WALKS TO THE BASEMENT)

Curly

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Fri, 27 May 2011 20:29:00 +0000

That dapper little man in the tux? That's Curly. I met Curly six years ago at the office of a gentle veterinarian who had the sad task of putting to sleep my eleven-year-old dalmatian, Bailey, a couple weeks after we moved to Portland. That gentle vet was our friend John, and Curly was his dog. Together, in a tiny exam room, they comforted our family and made our loss easier to bear.

During our eighteen-month stay in Portland, Curly, John, and his warm, bubbly wife, Karen, took care of our remaining two dogs and welcomed our new puppy into their lives as if they were caring for their own animals. When our cat Benny died, it was Curly, John, and Karen who took Benny home from the clinic overnight to watch over him, and it was Karen who held him as he took his final breaths. We were sad that we didn't get to say goodbye, but we were grateful that he left the world surrounded by so much love and by such wonderful people.

When Hubby and I renewed our wedding vows in Minneapolis the following year, John flew in and performed the service with Karen and the snappily-dressed Curly by his side. Curly was a bouncy little dog who went absolutely everywhere with his people. He wasn't terribly dog-like. I don't think I ever heard him bark, and once I even ate side-by-side with him at the dinner table (I think we shared Mexican food). Curly was a gentleman, but more than that, he was good people.

I will never, ever forget the kind words, gentle hugs, and wise advice Karen and John have given us over the years (even long distance after we moved to Minneapolis). Today, I'm deeply saddened for them, because their amazing friend and son Curly is gone. I know Karen and John are devastated by his loss, but I hope there is some comfort for them in the knowledge that Curly is inextricably attached to them our hearts and minds and, because of that, his spirit will always live on in our home.

Rest well, Curly. Much love to you and yours.

Life is Too Short

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 18 May 2011 20:15:00 +0000

Source: enlightenyourday.com via Christine on Pinterest

Book Review: The Thousand Hour Club

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Mon, 09 May 2011 22:18:00 +0000

About a month ago, my brother-in-law asked me if I would review his friend's book. It turns out his friend is an English professor at Boston College. I have to say the nice thing about freelancing as an editor for a publishing house a couple thousand miles away is that I never meet my authors, nor do I usually know their backgrounds. It's a lot less intimidating that way. Ditto for the book reviews I've blogged prior. So there I was, some punkass blogger and sometimes-editor-usually-mom, suddenly thinking, "What have I done here?" after I did a little Googling on George O'Har, the author of The Thousand Hour Club. It's even more intimidating to say, "I have some suggestions" once you're done reading said English professor's book. (But say it I did, because that's how I raised myself. Did I mention Boston College? "Decent school in case you aren't familiar with it," says the public school girl, with her tongue solidly placed in her cheek.)

Yeah, so...anyway....

The blurb on Amazon reads: America is at war in Viet Nam. Tom Betz drops out of college and is drifting about northern New Jersey, doing drugs, getting into trouble, when he receives his draft notice. Tom decides to enlist in the Air Force. Eventually, after spending some months in Texas, Tom finds himself at the Army Language School, in Monterey, California, where he is taught Arabic at the hands of an Iraqi ex-patriot. Tom is then sent to Winter Survival School. What happens to him after he finishes Survival School turns Tom into a latter day Huck Finn whose observations on life in uniform, and life in general, fuel this peripatetic, unpredictable and humorous road novel.

All of that is true. In fact, I'm going to give the book some of the highest praise I can possible give it when I say that Tom Betz is a slightly older, less worldly version of Holden Caulfield. Betz is lost and facing some serious trouble (the book starts with a murder, for which he is the lone witness), but instead of running away from prep school, Betz escapes from his Nowhereville life by enlisting in the military. Betz's voice is dry, sarcastic, and full of knowing little winks, and O'Har doesn't let him break character through the entire novel, which I find rare in a book from a small press. I spent the entire book wondering what was going to happen to Betz and when he was going to smarten up--always a good thing, right?

But if you're looking for a riveting, plot-driven book, this isn't it. The Thousand Hour Club is strictly character-focused, which means it's going to move very slowly for most readers. Some peaks and valleys in the storyline would benefit it greatly, particularly since the main character is compelling. Betz's love interest is a sub-plot that feels a little weak. I get the feeling that what O'Har is trying to do is show that Betz is in love with the idea of love, rather than truly in love with his girlfriend, but that might just be me reading a little too much Salinger into the story, because the sub-plot isn't as ripe as it could be. Overall, the story falls a little flat.

The bottom line? I'm not recommending it for most readers (there goes any shot I had at a Masters in Arts from BC), but for my writer friends who want to get a good look at a solidly built character, this is an educational piece. When I edit a manuscript and the storyline isn't working, I'll back out a quick outline of the story. Doing that, I can usually get a sense for where it's falling flat. I'm looking for the following things: Are there peaks in the story? (We can debate three-act stories another day.) Are the peaks big enough? Do the chapters sufficiently support those peaks? Does each chapter create appropriate tension? What's cool about a character-driven story like The Thousand Hour Club is that the character is so neatly drawn that he isn't a distraction from the plot, so if the plot has any weaknesses, they're easier to spot.

I want to thank George O'Har for the lovely gift of his book. I learned from it, and I found a lot of things to enjoy about it. He promised me he wouldn't toilet paper my house if I wrote a bluntly honest review, and he even offered to give away two electronic copies of his book. So if you've got an e-reader and you're interested in checking it out, leave me a comment or drop me an email at missivesfromsuburbia@gmail.com. I'll draw two random winners this Friday, May 13th.

Overheard Part VI

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 00:28:00 +0000

THE AMBASSADOR: You're a poo-poo face.

WEEBO: I an not. (Yes, she said "an".)

HUBBY: What did you just say to her?

THE AMBASSADOR: Nutting. I said nutting. (THEN, SOFTLY) Poo-poo face.

WEEBO: He say I POO-POO FACE! I not poo-poo face!

HUBBY: We don't call names. You need to say you're sorry to your sister.

WEEBO: Don't call names!

THE AMBASSADOR: You're not the boss.

WEEBO: You not da boss! You not da boss! You not da boss!

HUBBY: I'm the boss! And you're driving me crazy!!

So It's Come to This

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 20:22:00 +0000

There are a million and one things I'd love to blog about, if for no other reason than to clear my mind and process everything. But I can't. There are so many things happening in our life or on the verge of happening, and I can't talk about any of them. So if you're wondering why I'm not blogging, that's as close as I can get to an explanation, as mysterious as it all sounds. It's hard to talk about nothing when you want to talk about everything.

There is this one thing I can share: Spring has sprung. I hope it has where you live, too.

Yes. This.

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 23:37:00 +0000

There really isn't much more to say about this post. Read it. Live it the best you can.

Boy Love

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 21:07:00 +0000

Here's where I am today, guest posting on my friend Katerina's blog.

Breathe, Baby, Breathe

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 16:13:00 +0000

One of the most touching birth stories I've ever read:

http://www.cnn.com/2011/HEALTH/02/18/delivering.baby.levs/index.html

Because I am Lucky

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 13:03:00 +0000

Happy Valentine's Day, P.

i carry your heart with me

e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Another Conversation with Weebo

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 02:21:00 +0000

This morning we were driving to the vet to get the cat's nails clipped and to ~~put him down for yowling during naptime~~ update his rabies vax. The Ambassador had been dropped off at school, and it was just me, Weebo, and a meowing cat in the car on the way to the clinic. The following conversation commenced:

WEEBO: Momma, why he meow?

ME: Because he's in his cat carrier.

WEEBO: Why?

ME: Because we're taking him to the doctor.

WEEBO: Why?

ME: Because he needs to get his nails clipped and get a shot.

WEEBO: Why?

ME: Because his nails are too sharp, and we don't want him to get sick.

WEEBO: Why no sick?

ME: Because we like him, and if he became sick we would be sad.

WEEBO: Why?

ME: Because he's our friend, and he's a nice kitty.

WEEBO: Why?

ME: Uh...because.

WEEBO: Buh cuz why?

ME: Why do you think he's our friend? (HA!)

WEEBO: No, Momma, I ast you. (DRAT!)

(ME POUNDING HEAD ON STEERING WHEEL)

What If

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 02:46:00 +0000

Jeanette Halton Tiggs's Mother of a Monster is good reading in the aftermath of the shooting in Tuscon. And Lisa Belkin and her readers have a thoughtful discussion going on over at Motherlode today.

Do you still think we don't need health care for every citizen of this country? This is me, shaking my head, wondering when everyone is finally going to get it and wondering what kind of tragedy it will take for that to happen.

Because It Can't Be Left Unsaid

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 03:36:00 +0000

I can't put into words the crushing blow the news from Tuscon was this weekend. Setting politics aside (which isn't easy), I am overwhelmed by the enormous swath of heartache that has been cut through that community and the country and by the consequences of one man's unchecked mental illness.

I was left speechless by the heroism displayed by the people who stopped the gunman from reloading and continuing to fire, as well as the countless parents and spouses who protected their loved ones with their own bodies, even to their own demise. I am moved to tears when I consider the young intern who ran toward the shooting and toward his new boss--his actions saved her life. And I cannot stop thinking about the parents of the little girl who lost her life that day. Their pain and their loss is unthinkable. I don't know how they'll go on-- I don't know how I would.

There's no particular reason this tragedy should be affecting me so deeply. While my extended family does live in Arizona, I'm the lone Democrat among us, so even if they lived near Tucson (they don't), they would have had no reason to be near that rally. I don't fear that such a thing would happen to my own family, even though we have attended high-profile political events with our children. The odds of an event like that occurring are astronomical, and I don't borrow trouble. It's not in my nature.

But it's there. The story is there, in my head, and try as I may, I cannot put the pieces together. It feels as if there's a word on the tip of my tongue that I cannot release from its perch or like there is a to-do item I set out to check off the list, but a short jog to another room has placed the next step out of my mind's reach.

There has to be a reason why this happened, why it matters so much to me. But I can't find it. Nor can I let the ache go unexpressed.

Overheard Part V

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 02:41:00 +0000

Despite my protests, Hubby used Santa as a threat this winter. The amusing part of the whole thing has been how long past Christmas it's continued, because The Ambassador has turned the tables. Even funnier? He thinks he can communicate with Santa just by yelling to the heavens, like he's talking to God.

THE AMBASSADOR: Santa?! Papa is picking his nose!

HUBBY: What?! No!

THE AMBASSADOR: Santa! Papa is picking his nose!

HUBBY: Santa! The kid is picking his fingers!

THE AMBASSADOR: Santa!!

HUBBY: You know what they call this? Mutually assured destruction.

THE AMBASSADOR: Santa!!

Cha-Cha Chapstick

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 01:07:00 +0000

Little known fact: Weebo actually goes by the nickname Cha-Cha around our house. So it's only natural that when she secures her first sponsor as a future Olympic skier, it would be Chapstick, right? Right. And thus, Cha-Cha Chapstick was born:

Cha-Cha Chapstick from Missives Suburbia on Vimeo.

(And, no, this has nothing to do with my novel, and yes, I still have to do my day one assignment for my 100-day challenge. Bite me.)

100 Days

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Sun, 02 Jan 2011 02:44:00 +0000

“Though I procrastinate worse than anybody. I need eight hours to get maybe 20 minutes of work done. I had one of those yesterday: seven hours of self-loathing. I used to write in the middle of the night. I suppose I was surprised by the sedentary nature of writing: like, wow, most of this is sitting down and typing! So I used to add a bit of adventure by starting at midnight and working until five. That was excitement!”

“Writing is a deep-sea dive. You need hours just to get into it: down, down, down. If you’re called back to the surface every couple of minutes by an email, you can’t ever get back down. I have a great friend who became a Twitterer and he says he hasn’t written anything for a year.”

-Dave Eggers (The Guardian, March 2010)

I emerged from NaNoWriMo physically and intellectually drained, pumped for having discovered that a few hundred words a day isn't that big of a deal*, and farther behind on laundry than I have ever been in my entire life.**

I also came away with a keener understanding of myself than ever before, and one of the things I've always known, but has become even more clear to me since, is that I need a goal. In order to make progress on something that would otherwise be back-burnered in favor of the daily lives and work of the four people who comprise my beautiful family, I need a date. To prevent myself from putting me and my dreams last all the time, I need a looming, moaning, dark-eyed beast breathing down my neck. I need a deadline.

The witty and talented (a published author, people!) Tammy Kaehler and I have struck a deal. Starting tomorrow, we're working for one hundred days on our manuscripts. Not necessarily writing. We both have ample research to do, and blogging and Twittering may have to do on the days when our real lives interfere with our writing lives. But we're doing something--something writer-like--for the next one hundred days.

So I'll see you sometime in April! Or maybe not. Blogging does count, as long as I blog about the book. Now won't that be interesting?

*Because, let's face it, after writing close to 2,000 a day or even 5,000 or more in a couple of monster catch-up days, writing 500-700 is easier than changing a poopy diaper and takes less time.

**You do the math: Four people wearing at least one outfit per day plus pajamas while the sole keeper of the laundry is heads down on a computer for anywhere from one to six hours. And do we think it's farther behind or further behind on laundry? While I can see the argument for it not being a true distance and therefore meriting the use of "further", I can also make the case that laundry is a very tangible mountain one climbs and that use of "farther" to denote distance really does make sense. I liked the way the latter sounded, and it's my blog, but I'm open to detailed rationale either way.

Image credit: Vivienne Westwood and Lee Jeans, 100 Days of Resistance http://ar100days.com/index.php/todays-image/?fadein=true

What I've Learned

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 15:37:00 +0000

I love this post from Mighty Girl about Esquire's "What I've Learned" column.

If you haven't already discovered Mighty Girl, check out her archives. Beautiful photography, some great advice about creating your own Might List, and some downright funny and touching posts.

Our First Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 20:52:00 +0000

I don't write much about my husband, aside from a few teasing posts about his toilet paper habits or the time he lost our car. For two weeks.

I leave Hubby's life largely undocumented, because he is a grown-up with a good job who needs and deserves his privacy. But for the past few weeks I have been reminded over and over again why an entire blog could be devoted to his crazy antics and generous spirit if he didn't mind me exploiting every possible second of his life. (Like when he free-falls off our backyard play structure into the snow or intentionally does doughnuts in the fresh snow on the way to Christmas Eve services.)

Hubby and I met around tax time about eight years ago. As we started our relationship I watched him closely. I watched him spoil his dogs, and I thought, "Oh, if we had a family, I would have to be the disciplinarian most of the time." I watched him maneuver his way around life and occasionally bend the rules of polite society, and I thought, "Hm. He goes after what he wants, and I will be the beneficiary of that, but sometimes I will have to be the good guy and smooth ruffled feathers." I watched him bend over backwards for friends, and I thought, "His friends are his family. He's just like me." And none of those things posed a hurdle for me or made me nervous. On the contrary, I needed someone who could be soft, who could be my spine occasionally, and who shared my need for deep ties to an extended family.

A few months into our relationship, we had already traveled together and shared so many unique experiences that we had a good sense for how each other lived and loved. He had a habit of bringing me gifts--some of them were little trinkets like a bag of peanuts from a ballgame, and others were over-the-top like a dress he had delivered to my office (he lost a bet). I turned to him one day and said, "I wonder what it's like to spend Christmas with you." And he suggested I find out. So we created our first Christmas celebration. In July.

Mind you, the internet then wasn't what it is now. So hunting down Christmas decorations wasn't as easy as popping onto eBay or Google or ChristmasDecorations.com. But we pulled it off. When he arrived at my place on the day we were slated to celebrate, there were snowflakes hanging from my fifteen-foot ceilings. My account assistant, the brilliant and talented Jamie, made us a Christmas tree. She must have stayed up all night for days on end, building the most extraordinary tree from cardboard, painting it, putting on a trunk, and delivering it to my office. (Don't get me started on Jamie. Some day she may require her own post, as well.)

The gifts Hubby and I chose for each other were exceptionally thoughtful. They were big and small. Some of them I remember, some of them I don't. But the gifts weren't what stood out for me that day. It was the lengths each of us had gone to for the day to be right. For it to feel like Christmas. For the gifts to be something the other person would love. For the wrapping to be just so. For the holiday spirit to prevail in the middle of July in San Francisco.

I want to say I knew right then he was the guy I was going to marry. I didn't. I didn't know he was going to be the guy who did craft projects with our kids. Or the guy who snuggles his little ones close in the night and changes diapers or goes grocery shopping (with two kids!) without complaint. I didn't know he was going to be the guy who raced me to the hospital around twisting Portland lanes and over snowy Minnesota roads to give birth. I didn't know he'd be the first person to hold our children or nurse me through postpartum depression and humor me when I said I wanted a third. I didn't know we would cry with each other and laugh so hard so many times. I didn't know he was going to be the best husband and father a woman could ever hope to have.

I just watched him, and on that day in July, the only thing I knew was that he was the guy I wanted to spend Christmas with every year. And that was enough for me.

The Eve

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 00:03:00 +0000

2010 has had some ups and downs for the Burbia family, but I'm grateful all of the downs have been minor and all of the ups have been comprised of the small glories of life--the kind that make a person thankful for the little smiles and giggles that surround us all. I am grateful to have my beautiful family at home tonight, with everyone happy and healthy, a fresh coat of snow on the ground to ensure the whitest Christmas on record, and the love of many wonderful friends.

Happy holidays, everyone. See you in 2011.

Two. You're Two.

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 15:50:00 +0000

My dear Wee Bitty One,
I am late. I have sat down several times to write you a letter for your second birthday, but the magic drifts away the moment my fingers hit the keyboard. I am distracted, distracted by you, your brother, the animals, your father, and the dozens--make that hundreds--of things waiting to be done for all of you, for the house, for the holidays. I so want to make your world as perfect as you have made mine, and the three of you are the best distractions from that effort that I could imagine.

So instead of plunking out the words I want you to hear, I close my ears to the world around me as tightly as I can, which isn't tight enough, and what I get are flashes. Flashes of brilliant moments filled with you. They look like this...

The calm quiet night settles around us as you snuggle on my chest. I intentionally slow my breathing to relax you, and I am rewarded for my Zen as I feel your tiny body sinking into mine, your hands stilled, and your fluttering feet patter to a rest. We are two parts, rising and falling on the tides of my breaths, as close to one as we have been since you lived in my belly.

---

"Hello, hello, hey, hey," the sweet, high voice sings in the background of my dreams. A fuzzy dawn--fuzzy as much because of the soft morning light breaking through our blinds as because of my own blindness--crackles open with your wickedly charming energy as you sing me awake. I wonder where you learned to toodle so softly your hellos and heys, then I realize you're imitating me. That is how I wake you if I don't sing you a song.

---

"How can there be a story that has no end?" I sing, "How can there be a baby...." And you reply in your tiny singsong, "Wi no cwyin'." A voice like a bell. That's what you have, love. A voice like a bell.

---

Belly laughs peal from the back seat of the car on our way to baby school and preschool. Your brother proudly says, "Look, Momma! I'm makin' my sister laugh." His sister. That's you. Those are your burbling giggles and chortles I hear, and you are his sister. That link is so magical to me that to hear him claim it warms my heart and fills my chest with a love so great that it can't be contained and spills from my eyes.

---

You walk alongside me, your steps growing more certain every day, but still wobbly here and there. You reach up for my hand. I don't have to bend down. I don't have to stretch, nor do you. We fit perfectly.

---

You are two. You claim you are four, much to the teasing chagrin of your brother and father. They say you are two. You say you are four. I suspect you are more right than they know. That taunting is too old for two, and I sigh with the recognition of myself in you--with the recognition of a girl who is too old for her age and the knowledge that it will be a long time before the world catches up to you and realizes you are who you say you are.

---

Fear. Scalding, shivering fear of losing you. Of loving you more than you will ever know (for what greater sin is there than a child not knowing how much they are loved?) Of someone else not loving you enough. Of someone else not knowing where the boundaries lay. Of the world not recognizing your beauty, both inside and out. Of Jerks and Losers and Assholes who will rend your heart. Of being too far away to rock you and hold you when the inevitable happens.

---

Aching joy too big to describe with words. So big that all I can do is sit back, close my eyes, and watch it flicker on the screen behind my eyelids. Feeling you move for the first time. Watching you kick from inside. Holding you for the first time in my arms--your face too perfect to stare at for long and too perfect to look away from. Your tiny baby cries. Nursing you in the moonlight on cold winter nights. The tub. The table. The pool. The grass. Your cries, your giggles, your voice. And on and on and on.

---

And that's only two years.

Happy birthday, little girl. I love you more than you will ever know, but I promise to spend the rest of my life trying to make you understand.

Love,

Momma

Répondez S'il Vous Plaît 101

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 22:58:00 +0000

To me, this post hardly seems necessary, but to about fifty percent of the world, it should probably be required reading, so to those insensitive souls, here goes: Didn't your mother ever teach you people how to respond appropriately to party invitations? I'm sure she did, but here's a quick review.

When the Invitation Arrives
It doesn't matter if it's paper or an electronic invitation, you read it and respond to it. Just trust me on this--do it before you forget.

You're not sure if you have plans or not that day? You probably don't. Go ahead and say you'll come. You can change your mind later (I'll cover that shortly). Electronic invitations usually have a "maybe" choice. Select that. Husbands, check with your wives, but in the meantime, you can still say "maybe" on an evite. (Note: the host knows if you've read the invitation and when, so respond somehow.)

Waiting for a better offer to come along? Let's all be honest, that means you're not going. Just say no. Sure you can say maybe, but the reality is if you're not enthusiastic about the party from the get-go, you're not going to go, so you might as well just break the news to the host immediately.

When You Forget to Respond
Oops! It's okay. It happens to the best of us. (Well, okay, not me.) When you unearth a long-forgotten invitation, call the host immediately, even if the party has passed. Call, say you're sorry, and move on. If the party hasn't passed, respond! I mean, sure, you could just huddle in your bathrobe in your dark bedroom with the blinds pulled and live out the rest of your years in morbid embarrassment, but why not just call? Oh, you're not the huddling type? You're the person who just shrugs it off and moves on with your life? Apologies aren't your thing? Popular, aren't you?

When You Change Your Mind
Did you respond yes, and since then you got a better offer? Or you responded yes, but now the idea of spending three precious hours of your life with screaming, boogery children is striking you as a poor use of a Saturday afternoon? I can hardly blame you for the latter. And you know what? It's all cool. Let your host know. (Are you starting to see a common theme here?) You don't have to tell the truth (yes, I'm advocating lying. So what?) Better yet, you don't even have to provide a reason. You just have to say you can't make it. Preferably before the party begins.

Did you respond maybe? Make a little note on your calendar a week ahead of the party date and re-examine your commitments. Can't make it? Say so. Coming after all? Say so. Just commit one way or another, Captain Wishy-Washy.

Something Suddenly Came Up
Now it's party day or the night of the big dinner, and you've come down with a raging case of acne. Or your dog vomited all over your coolest shoes. Or a blizzard has hit. Or...well, you get the idea. It's okay. Really. But.... Please tell me you know what I'm going to say here--please! Right. Let your host know. Prompt communication solves ninety-nine percent of problems, and the other one percent are probably resolved by prompt communication if you're not dealing with a total jackwagon. Call. Email. Text. Carrier pigeon. Com-mun-i-cate.

Why Does This Matter?
Because your host is making plans. They're trying to figure out how much food to make or order, how much booze to buy, how many juice boxes to purchase, or how big the cake should be, and all of those decisions are based on how many people are attending the party. If you say you're coming, but you don't, you're wasting your friend's money and time. If you don't respond at all, your host does assume you're not coming, but why wouldn't you take the sixty seconds or less required to respond to the kind gesture that's been extended to you by your friend? I'm placing special emphasis on that word "friend", by the way. You like your friends, right? And you want to keep them? Respond. It's that simple.

Many of you (ahem--all my mom friends, most likely) are reading this and thinking, "But isn't this all common sense?" You would think so. But the most common complaints I hear in the months of July and August--when many of my friends celebrate their children's birthdays--are that half of the people to whom they sent party invitations didn't respond, and of the people who did respond and say they were indeed coming, some percentage don't show up, and--here's the most egregious part--they don't call or otherwise communicate their change of plans.

While I've considered writing this post many times over the past few years, it probably bears mentioning that I am indeed finally writing it on the heels of Weebo's two-year birthday party, which was bereft of guests due to a major snowstorm. The people who braved the storm will forever hold a warm place in my heart, because it was unnecessary but very kind of them to come. The people who called or emailed and said they wouldn't be coming or that they tried to come but couldn't make it will always have a hallowed place in my mind as thoughtful, considerate people. The people who didn't do any of the above despite responding yes to invitations...well...suffice to say I've spoke to Santa. He says your mother is very disappointed in you.

Don't get me started on thank-yous. Well, okay, while we're on the topic, say thank you. You don't have to handwrite notes (although I do, and I am teaching my kids to do it, because I think if someone has the time to pick out a gift for me or my child, I have the time to scribble out a little nicety.) You don't even have to send an email. But how about a quick phone call, acknowledging the gift and thanking the giver? Yes, even if you hate the gift and plan to make use of the gift receipt (which I hope we all include in our packages).

Okay, I'm done. Lay it on me. What's your etiquette pet peeve? And when's the last time someone triggered it?

And With That, It's Over

noreply@blogger.com (Deb) — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 03:20:00 +0000

Today is December 1st. The day after November 30th. Obvious, right? It's also the day after the last day of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Over the last thirty days, I have:

- Finally (or is that "again"?) grown to understand the value of good planning;
- Twittered with people all over the world about the words in their heads and hearts;
- Given encouragement and kudos to people I will never meet;
- Received heartfelt encouragement and kudos from people who will never meet me;
- Been humbled;
- Composed a car theft scene that at first glance seem to have no earthly business in my manuscript but somehow works (thanks to a fellow NaNoer for suggesting that gem on a slow night);
- Taken three days off;

And best of all,

- Written 50,000 words (by the 28th, no less).

It was my first attempt at NaNoWriMo, and while there were days when I wondered if I really could finish (at one point, I was 15,000 words behind, people) and afternoons of incredible frustration (my Facebook friends all know about the mouth-breather in the otherwise quiet library), I won. That's what they call NaNoWriMo finishers, by the way--winners.

I have written stories for most of my life. I've been told since I was a child that I had a talent. Okay, sure, that was the opinion of my mother who still thinks I was an angelic kid when I was cutting school nearly every day in my senior year of high school, so maybe she's not the most unbiased source. But I never struggled in creative writing classes or was at a loss for words on essay tests.

Even in college writing classes, I stood out. On the dry days, the days when the words won't come, I fall back on what one of my professors once scrawled on a bit of writing I did: "Sometimes your work comes very close to being genius." Over the top? Sure. But when someone calls your work genius and they're not being sarcastic, I defy you not to store that in your pocket forever and bring it out on the rainy days.

The funny part was that I wrote that piece two hours before class, despite having had weeks to put it together. I thought it was worthless, a truly bad bit of writing. When I say that, I'm not being self-deprecating for the sake of humor--there aren't very many things I've written that I think are worthy of reading. But I have looked back on some of the things I wrote during that period, and they're good. In fact, they're so good that it's almost like reading someone else's work. Because, you know, these days all I write is crap.

There's a lesson in here somewhere. I'm pretty sure it begins with "Thou shalt not slather a child in overblown praise" and ends with "You're better than you think you are" and maybe even "For the love of all that's holy, stop procrastinating on Twitter and get to work". I don't know for sure. I mean, I'm still figuring this out as I go along, and I'm older than most of you reading this, but all I can tell you for certain is that handling the ego of a child is a very delicate job and it's easy to make them afraid of their talents.

Well, no, that's not entirely true. I can also tell you this for certain: I'm a winner.