April

Health Inequities Stemming from US Imperialism

2019-12-03T14:53:00.000-08:00

I know that this post will upset some people. It looks like I'm a bleeding heart liberal blaming the United States for the people seeking asylum along our southern border. I know that the US isn't the only player in this mess. We would not have been be able to do what we did, and are continuing to do, without the destruction of societies that began with the colonization of the Americas. It is a long arc to get where we are today and I'm only addressing events after World War II to current day.

Summation of Actions and Ensuing Health Inequities

The United States has a long history of intervening in the affairs of other countries. The official message is that we are the world police, looking to restore order to these destitute places and preventing corrupt governments from swindling their people. In reality we are looking out for our own best interest. Maybe our best interest is in controlling the Panama Canal, taking care of obstacles for large corporations like United Fruit Company which benefits a few very powerful Americans. We fight for policies that lower the price of the consumer goods we purchase, that give our exports the best rates. We also cause our manufacturing jobs to migrate south in a race to the bottom – who is willing to work for the least amount of money and give the least amount of resistance? As manufacturing costs go down, profits for shareholders increases.

While we do have, at long term cost to job stability, benefits from NAFTA and CAFTA, we inflict great harm on Mexico and Central America and we also hurt ourselves by allowing manufacturing jobs to go off-shore.

Because of our many interventions and free trade agreements people are coming to our southern border who are fleeing violence and destitution that, while not 100% the fault of the US, we bear a great responsibility for the instability of our neighbors to the south.

For over one hundred years the US has been actively meddling in the politics of Latin American countries after they gained their independence from their colonizers. Instead of assisting the people in rebuilding their countries, we assist in the destabilization of their countries through our fear of the spread of communism, through our belief in Manifest Destiny, through our belief that we are better.

When these citizens of central American Countries flee the violence of their homes for which we laid the groundwork, they are met with open hostility at our borders. The Trump Administration is slowing the asylum seeking process which is causing a bottle neck at the checkpoints which leave migrants susceptible to criminal elements who prey on the vulnerable.

Immigrants who cross the border and detained are treated inhumanely. Children are torn from their parents. Parents are being tricked into signing away their right to be reunited with their children. Babies and toddlers have court hearings without legal representation. The chain of custody is broken and the link to the parents is lost – children are put in foster care and some are at risk of being adopted to American families.

The trauma of being separated from caregivers and being denied comforting touch causes a sequence of events to unfold that lead to many poor health outcomes. These traumas are called toxic stress. Toxic stress leads to increased inflammatory processes and immune system changes. These adverse childhood events (trekking hundreds of miles in a hostile environment, being separated from parents, being caged like animals) are all adverse childhood events which lead to a 3x risk for developing lung cancer, 3.5x risk for heart disease and up to a 20-year reduced life span.

To make matters worse, the children who experience these traumas and develop these diseases and suffer from poor mental health perpetuate the cycle when they pass on their trauma to their children.

As these groups of people are vilified in the media, by our leaders in government, it leads to strengthen structural racism against immigrants that further leads to their devaluation and poor treatment which further impacts social determinants of health that continue to drive inequality.

Primary Care Providers in Massachusetts noted an adverse effect of ICE on immigrant health and noticed that a theme of fear emerged. Fear of deportation impacted: emotional health, interrupted care, familial separation due to detention/deportation, and perceived barriers to access.

A 2017 study of detention centers in the New York City area found ICE denied medical treatment for serious conditions like dialysis. People needing surgery faced unreasonably long delays and requests for medical care stemming from serious health complaints were ignored. Denied and delayed care often led to greater interventions being taken later: delayed cancer diagnosis, emergency surgery for malfunctioning pacemaker and emergency surgery to take care of gallstones.

Government lawyers argue soap and toothbrushes should not be mandatory for immigrants in detention facilities. In some detention facilities that hold 300 children to one cell there are flu outbreaks, lice infestations, no diapers with children sleeping on the floor. The Customs and Border Patrol, who run detention facilities have no plans to administer flu vaccines. A group, Doctors for Camp Closures, offered to give the vaccines to the detainees free of charge – there would be no cost to CBP – but were ignored.

Children are being kept in squalid conditions in many facilities. Too little food that is not nutritious, lights on 24/7, sleeping on the ground in frigid temperatures with no blankets.

There are two policies aimed at deterring immigration. One was declared an official policy by Trump and his then Attorney General, Jeff Sessions: family separation. They asserted that by separating children from parents that parents would not make the dangerous journey to reach our southern border.

The other, unofficial policy to deter immigration appears to be standard operating procedure: keeping migrants, children and adults, in squalid living conditions.

We have a moral obligation to help people fleeing the violence and destitution because it is our imperialistic hands of interventions, our meddling, our trade agreements that helped to destabilize their homes. Our policies, official and otherwise, helped corrupt governments take hold. It was our fear of communism that lead to the scorched earth campaigns that played into the devastation of whole societies through guerilla warfare and civil wars.

We must face our role in the influx of asylum seekers. Until we see what led to this situation, we will continue policies that perpetuate corruption and power imbalances that leave the average citizen of these countries in dire circumstances, looking north to the land of opportunity for help.

US Imperialism - "Free" Trade

2019-12-03T14:41:00.001-08:00

The last post dealt with how the United States used its military to influence policies that benefitted its own political and economic interests. This post will look at how we used "Free" Trade to benefit US shareholders at the expense of our poorer partner countries and how the deleterious effects of the agreement were almost immediate, long lasting and devastating.

NAFTA – 1994

The North America Free Trade Agreement between Mexico, the United States and Canada was passed in 1994. It promised to reduce immigration from Mexico to the United States because wages would increase as tariffs between the countries would be reduced or eliminated.

For Mexico to be a party to the trade agreement they had to change part of their Constitution. After the Mexican Revolution, plots of land were given to farmers. The land could not be confiscated or sold to pay off debt. Mexico was made to change that provision. Going forward land would be able to be bought and sold, parceled together in large plots and be made available to purchase by large corporations.

NAFTA cut tariffs on Mexican corn, but the US maintained their subsidies on US grown corn which led to Mexican corn prices falling by 66%. This devastated small farmers. From 1993-2005, 1.1 million small farmers went out of business and 1.4 million jobs that depended on the small farm sector also went out of business. That’s 2.5 million jobs lost in one sector. Farm wages are a third of what they were pre-NAFTA. To add insult to injury, the cost of food increased. In the first 10 years of NAFTA the price of tortillas rose 279%. According the World Bank the number of Mexicans who could not afford a basic diet grew by 50% in the first 4 years of NAFTA.

Small farms folded and people moved to urban areas to fight for low paying jobs in manufacturing. Those jobs were short lived because those manufacturing jobs that paid around $5/hour moved to China after it entered the WTO (World Trade Agreement) in 2001 where hourly wages were $1/hour.

In the first 7 years of NAFTA migration to the United States increased 108%. In 1995 there were 2.9 million undocumented migrants in the United States. At the peak in 2007 there were 6.9 million undocumented people. It leveled off after the Great Recession.

CAFTA – 2006

Despite seeing how negatively NAFTA affected Mexico and ignoring the warnings and protestations of Central American advocacy groups and the prediction by Oxfam that 1.5 million livelihoods related to rice production would be lost, the US pushed forward to create another trade agreement. CAFTA was passed in Congress in the Spring 2006 by one vote.

Recently the CAFTA-DR, a free trade agreement between the US, Dominican Republic and 6 central American countries has worked to significantly deteriorate working conditions and wage stability for workers in central America.

Ben Beachy, Public Citizen’s Global Trade Watch said, “Under CAFTA, family farmers in El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras have not fared well, the economies have become dependent on short-lived apparel assembly jobs–many of which have vanished, and economic growth has actually slowed.”

Agricultural imports to El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras has increased 78% since CAFTA was enacted. Is it a coincidence that those three countries that are experiencing economic upheaval and instability are also suffering through great violence and migration?

Summation of Actions and Ensuing Health Inequities

While we do have a great many benefits from NAFTA and CAFTA, we inflict great harm on Mexico and Central America and we also hurt ourselves by allowing manufacturing jobs to go off-shore.

US Imperialism - Military Forces

2019-12-03T14:35:00.001-08:00

My final assignment in my Health Equity and Justice class is going to be a series of blog posts wherein I address US Imperialism in three Central American countries: Guatemala, El Salvador and Honduras. I will detail how the United States encroached on sovereign nations to further its own political and economic interests. These actions our government executed in the Cold War and beyond have lasting effects on Latin America and the United States to this day. It is my hope that I can connect the actions of our past to the current events affecting the influx of migrants to the US. I will also explore how our actions have led to great health inequities for the migrants coming to the United States. Laying the framework will take up the bulk of these writings. I think it is important to understand how we got where we are today if we are to have any hope of addressing the problems. If we do not understand why the migrants have come to the United States it is easy for our politicians to dismiss these destitute people as lazy opportunists looking for handouts at the expense of the hardworking American taxpayer.

I am looking at a couple of ways in which the US’ policies and actions have worked to undermine several countries in Latin American. After World War II the United States was fearful that communism would spread to our neighbors to the south. To prevent the spread of communism, any actions or ideologies that appeared to lean socialist was squashed. The United States was also interested in advancing its own economic interests. The advancement of economic interests was often supported by US corporations, like the United Fruit Company. More recently there has been the North America Free Trade Agreement and the even more recently, the CAFTA-DR that involved the US, Dominican Republic and six central American countries.

Guatemala

Guatemala held its first democratic elections in 1945 after a revolution ousted the military dictatorship of Jorge Ubico. The newly elected president, Juan Jose Arevalo, granted voting rights, instituted a minimum wage and built 6,000 public schools. In 1951 Guatemalans elected Jacobo Arbenz to succeed Arevalo. In a time of growing fear of communism, Arbenz allowed communists to participate in the political system; in the country of 3 million people, 4,000 registered as communist. This made the US very wary of Arbenz’s political ideology.

Arbenz proposed Decree 900 which would redistribute undeveloped lands held by large property owners to landless farmers, who at the time, comprised 90% of the population. He was looking to end what was essentially a system of feudalism and serfdom but to US eyes it looked suspiciously like socialism. By 1952, Arbenz appropriated 225,000 acres and gave it to 500,000 rural workers and farmers. The Guatemalan government compensated the landowners from whom the land was appropriated based on the tax assessments of that year. This displeased the large landowners because they had been undervaluing their land to lessen their tax burden.

Up until that point in time, 72% of useable agrarian land was owned by 2% of all landowners. Of that 2% of land owners was the United Fruit Company, a US based business. The UFC controlled 42% of Guatemalan land and paid little to no taxes or import duties. 77% of UFC’s crops went to the US.

UFC had powerful connections to the Eisenhower Administration. The Secretary of State, John Foster Dulles, was an attorney whose law firm represented the UFC. The Secretary of State’s brother, Allen Dulles, was the CIA director, on the UFC Board of Trustees and a shareholder in the company. Ed Whitman, the husband of the president’s private secretary, produced a film, “Why the Kremlin Hates Bananas,” which depicted UFC as fighting communism. A result of that film, many journalists went to Guatemala, an expense that UFC paid for, and wrote pieces that showed UFC as fighters on the front lines against communism. Those articles were circulated in the US press.

In the wake of the redistribution of land, Eisenhower feared Guatemala would succumb to communism so Eisenhower used the newly formed CIA to back a coup, which was partially funded by the UFC, in Guatemala in June 1954. The CIA broadcast propaganda and jammed the airwaves. American pilots bombed portions of Guatemala City. The goal was to give the appearance a major invasion was going to take place even though the number of operatives was relatively small. Ten days after the assault began the democratically elected Arbenz stepped down. The CIA installed the dictator Carlos Castillo Armas.

This ushered in a civil war that was fought along the old Colonialism lines that pitted the poor majority of indigenous Mayans against the smaller faction of rich Guatemalans of mixed European and Mayan descent. The civil war started with the exiled remnants of the Arevalo/Arbenz governments who fled to the mountains to start a guerilla insurgency. As the government’s responses to the insurgency became more brutal, the more Mayans joined the fight and the further left they moved. Guatemala received millions of dollars from the United States during this period and tens of thousands of people died. When oil was discovered in Guatemala, efforts to remove Mayans from their land increased. Cattle ranching (primarily exported to the United States) increased, too, which placed further demand on Mayan lands.

The US had a scorched earth policy when it came to rooting out communism. By mid-80s over 150,000 civilians had been murdered in acts labeled genocide by a UN commission. For a detailed timeline of Guatemala through the years please follow this link.

El Salvador

In the continuing effort to root out communism, the United States provided the Salvadoran military support in the form of advisors and hundreds of millions of dollars to their army and other forms of military aid to help fight their Civil war in the 1980s. The war pitted leftist revolutionaries vs oligarchs and US backed generals. US provided training for the Atlacatl Battalion at the United States’ School of the Americas in Panama for 3 months. When the battalion returned, they massacred over 1200 men, women and children in El Mozote in December 1981. Of the 75,000 people killed during the war from 1980 to 1992, 85% was attributed to the US backed Salvadoran government. The US was so focused on stopping the spread of communism that it encouraged or looked the other way at human rights abuses. The Reagan administration denied involvement and tried to cover up the atrocities committed by the Salvadoran government.

Honduras

In 2009, democratically elected president Manuel Zelaya was forced out in a coup. Zelaya angered powerful elites in Honduras by pushing to settle land disputes. The United States turned a blind eye to the ouster of Zelaya, whom they viewed as a leftist in line with Hugo Chavez, and instead of trying to re-install him, they pushed for new elections. In the months leading up to a new election, protesters were silenced through torture, disappearances and murder. After the elections, the new government sold off natural resources and over 100 environmentalist activists were murdered. The Honduran economy plummeted as curfews were put in place, murder rates skyrocketed, and the cocaine trade saw as much as 80% of the smuggling flights pass through Honduras.

US Backed Alliance of Dictators

Another stain on Latin America and the United states is Operation Condor which was described by Al Jazeera as the Argentinian base of “a U.S.-organized alliance between the dictatorships of Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Paraguay, and Uruguay, created in 1975 and operational until around 1980.” The United States provided military training, financial assistance and intelligence briefings to the involved countries in its effort to stop the feared spread of communism. This alliance led to the disappearance and murder of up to 80,000 of dissidents and civilians.

This post examined the primarily military aspects of US interventions in Central and Latin America. My next post will look at the ways in which trade agreements led to the current crisis of thousands of people seeking asylum in the US.

Anti-racism Workshop

2019-11-26T15:42:00.000-08:00

If you know me, you know that I’m in school. If you don’t know me, now you know: I am in school. I am nearing the end of my first year in a public health program – next year I’ll *finally* earn my bachelor’s – only 20 years later than I originally thought I would. This quarter I am taking a class titled Health Equity and Justice and it is one of my absolute favorite classes.

At the beginning of the quarter we were given an assignment to do some form of community engagement. I chose to attend a workshop put on by CARW, the Coalition of Anti-Racists Whites, an organization that “educates, organizes, and mobilizes white people to show up powerfully for racial justice and collective liberation.”

I will admit that I was very nervous about this meeting. Was it going to be four hours of being lectured on why white people are terrible? It was not. It was four hours of learning to recognize what institutional racism looks like, how we can use our privilege to disrupt the perpetuation of racist speech and ideology and how to have conversations around hot button topics (reverse racism, All Lives Matter, profiling…) in a calm and respectful manner.

The event was kicked off by three volunteers within the all-volunteer organization recognizing the land we were occupying had once belonged to the Duwamish. Then recognizing the church, Plymouth Church, that was hosting our meeting has been fighting for social justice since it first opened its doors in 1869. Those two callouts were significant to me, and likely others in the room. We acknowledged we were on land where we pushed the original occupants out. We were in a building whose founders were part of the group that took the land and yet, they still sought to work to protect Chinese laborers and hosting women’s suffrage events.

For the first half of our time we worked through “Structures and Strategies of Hierarchy” which was broken into six components. Basic Hierarchy – someone is in power. Everyone is dehumanized, those at the top with the power and those at the bottom without the power. It is the scaffolding that keeps some people in power via racism, sexism, wealth inequity, etc.

The second structure is labeled: Control and Contain. Means for this are slavery, genocide, colonization and bordering. I know there is a mindset that slavery was so long ago that for anyone to bring it up now as something that is holding them back is just an excuse. This exercise shows that the repercussions of each event (enslavement, genocide, colonization….) didn’t disappear when slavery was banned, small pox blankets were no longer distributed (click here to be linked to letters stating the mission to inoculate Native Americans with small pox via blankets) and the West quit colonizing. The repercussions just became less obvious and they flowed into the next form of attempts to control.

Do you ever wonder why there are areas of cities that are predominantly made up of black people? Why are those areas poor? Is it a sign of racial inferiority? No, it is the continuing legacy of bordering – think redlining and the answer to when redlining was outlawed: steering. Redlining – the practice of keeping minorities within certain geographic bounds, while always a problem, became a legal practice with the Housing Act of 1934. While it was outlawed in 1968 it is a practice that continues to this day. The NY Times published an article last week about minorities being directed, “steered” towards “black neighborhoods” or away from “white neighborhoods”.

I’m not going to go into the rest of the structures of the hierarchy because that would make this post longer than anyone would read.I want you to actually read this whole post. I think if the understanding around why minorities are poorer and marginalized reflected reality – they were prevented from buying homes in affluent areas (more tax dollars = better schools) and were directed towards poor areas (fewer tax dollars = underfunded schools; greater distance to “good jobs”, poorer infrastructure – think lead in the water which leads to permanent cognitive impairment and poor behavior which further reinforces the false narrative that minorities are inferior) – all of these factors are pieces to a puzzle that shows a picture of a people who can not easily get ahead because the system is stacked against them.

Here is the difficult transition for white people. We can recognize how those practices are unfair – they are immoral, unjust and keep people from advancing. Those examples illustrate how the saying that people should pull themselves up by their bootstraps only works when bootstraps are available to everyone. White people can recognize that we have bootstraps by which we can pull ourselves up, but we can’t recognize how us having the bootstraps gives us power, or White Privilege.

Having the bootstraps is the white privilege. Acknowledging we have advantages is acknowledging our power. Having that power doesn’t make white people evil but it does force us to confront the privileges we have.

Did you read about the little white boy playing with a toy gun in a park who was shot by a cop two seconds after the cop arrived? Speeding cop car, screeching halt, one count, two count, dead. You didn’t. That was Tamir Rice, a little black boy.

What about John Crawford III who picked up a toy rifle off the shelf in a Walmart? A man called 911 saying a black man was walking around the store pointing a gun at people. Video shows that was not true and the man who called 911 changed his story after the fact. Police arrived and almost immediately upon seeing John, shot and killed him. Ohio is an open carry state.

Jemel Roberson was a good guy with a gun. He stopped a shooting and was detaining the shooter. When the police arrived, people in the crowd told the cops that Jemel, wearing clothes that said “Security”, was in fact, security and not the shooter. Jemel was shot and later died from his wounds.

Here is a video that shows how two men are treated very differently for doing the same legal behavior, open carrying an AR15. A white man is politely questioned by a skeptical police officer. The black man is forced to the ground at gunpoint and back up officers are called.

White people are given the benefit of the doubt, black people are viewed suspiciously. Sitting in a Starbucks while waiting for a friend, moving into an apartment, killed by police in home while playing video games , barbecuing in public park. It just goes on and on.

After breaking into groups and discussing all of the ways the rules and laws are written for everyone but enforced or not enforced depending on who it applies to. We discussed two ways of confronting statements that perpetuate racism.

First, we can call someone out which often is shaming and causes people to move further apart. It can be necessary to call out in a moment when there is violence or angry, hateful speech being directed at someone.

The other strategy is to call in and connect. It is a softer approach that seeks to build relationship and invite other white people into the movement for racial justice.

Here is an example of a woman using her white privilege to stand up for a woman of color that falls somewhere between calling out and calling in.

We were given guidelines for calling in.

· Ground yourself and stay connected – racism disconnects; don’t set yourself up for failure by letting a

· Ask questions, seek to understand. Be comfortable with the quiet. Let the other person speak

· Tell stories of your change. Show ways you have grown. Don’t shame.

· Stop when you’ve reached an agreement. This isn’t stop when you agree. No one changes a lifetime of thinking in the span of one conversation. Stop when you come to AN agreement. Maybe you both acknowledge black people proportionally more affected by police profiling. You don’t need to soldier on. End on a good note.

· Remember the goal is not perfection – for yourself or anyone else. Racism is rooted in perfectionism – white is superior, better than…. We are all flawed and on this journey for the long haul.

After going over the tips for calling in and connecting we broke into groups of three to discuss hot button topics. A gentleman in my group – who turned out to be a mutual friend from my old parents group – ran through a scenario he encounters at work. I practiced the Black Lives/All Lives matter narrative. I sought to clarify that the Black Lives matter movement isn’t saying, Only Black Lives Matter but rather, Black Lives Matter Too. When black people, who make up around 13% of the population, yet account for 33% of the prison population, it is clear black people are treated differently than white people.

Here is a graphic from the Washington Post that breaks down how many people are shot and killed by police:

It is hard to deny the disparity when looking at these numbers and I think knowing information like the graph shows it will be easier to make an argument that isn’t based on feelings. I am not going to be persuaded by someone’s impassioned argument if there aren’t verifiable fact to back up their statements.

The challenge is to be calm and rational when we are sitting at the dinner table at Thanksgiving and these topics come up.

At the end of the workshop we were challenged to keep growing in our efforts to continue interrupting systemic, institutionalized racism by acknowledging we all have prejudices, we all participate in the systems that oppress other people and to extend grace to people who are not aware of their own privilege and power by gently calling them into conversation.

Viaduct Farewell

2019-01-12T02:30:00.002-08:00

Nate and I took a little cruise over the viaduct last weekend after having breakfast with a friend at Hudson. I took a video so I would remember the views from that drive I used to take every morning when I worked on Capitol Hill. I was content with that being my last run on the "nostalgic deathtrap" as my friend Heidi called it. Then I thought about the boys. They don't remember living in Seattle and I wanted them to have a memory of driving on this iconic structure; so, even though we were exhausted, we loaded up the boys for a final, final drive.

The questions started as we ascended the Spokane Street on ramp to the West Seattle bridge. The boys were asking, "is this the viaduct?" and "are we on it yet?" G asked questions at his normal rate, like two or three for the whole trip from West Seattle to the end of our northbound drive. Likewise, Mr. T, asked questions at his normal rate, like two or three per thirty seconds.

How old is it? Why are they shutting it down. What if an earthquake happened at 10:01 pm? Why, why, why, how, why, how, who, where, why, why, why..... Nate pulled up the Google machine and answered as many questions as he could.

We got off at Mercer and snaked our way down to the waterfront to eat at Red Robin. After shared mozzarella sticks and the rest of our dinner we were all dragging. G was talking about how he was looking forward to resting in his bed. Amen, young man. Amen.

We were only steps outside of the restaurant when we heard the honking. T asked why was everyone honking. Everyone is saying goodbye. As we crossed under the viaduct he looked up at me and kind of giggled and said, almost shyly, "it kind of sounds like music." I thought about it and agreed. It did sound like music.

I looked back at Nate and mouthed, "southbound?" He nodded. At least I think he did. It's what I wanted to see. Now was my turn to be giddy, "who wants to go southbound and honk our horn?!"

To get from Western by the Art Institute to the end of the viaduct took about thirty minutes. It was the happiest I've been just crawling along in traffic.

Nate was giving new Seattle/viaduct lyrics to old songs. The boys were cracking up and joining when they could. At one point Nate was dramatically saying goodbye to the viaduct and he turned the camera on Gavin and asked for his best theatrics in his farewell. After a moment he turned the camera on Theo and said, "okay, Theo. Your turn to fake cry."

"I have real tears," said a little voice with no shame. Seeing the Great Wheel, the cranes, downtown in all of its sparkling glory and all of the smiling faces in the cars next to us tugged on his heart strings.

When it was my turn I just waved to the camera and blinked back my real tears. I felt silly being so nostalgic over a hunk of elevated concrete that was a quake away pancaking and killing everyone on it.

Nate leaned over and layed on the horn much to the boys pleasure. I did a call and answer with the horn like you do when you knock on a door - and someone answered back! It really shouldn't have been surprising that someone answered but I was pleased with this weird little bit of camraderie we were experiencing with other motorists.

People were pulled over on the shoulder, standing outside their cars, taking pictures and just reveling in the party atmosphere. Gavin saw the people leaning over a guard rail taking pictures and he said, "that's dangerous. What if they dropped their phone?" Kid has his priorities straight.

When I was tucking Theo into bed he told me what a great day today was. It was way past bedtime and he was still glowing. It's so much fun to see them understand the significance of something even if it was just a silly nighttime drive. I hope tonight becomes a treasured memory for the boys - the party on the viaduct with strangers who felt like neighbors.

Lover of Words

2017-03-11T08:21:00.000-08:00

I just finished listening to The Book Thief and my tear stained pillow is a testament to the power of words and a wonderfully crafted story. As the gravely voice of the narrator is still echoing in my head I have begun to reflect on my long love affair with words.

My family can tell you that I always had my nose in a book from about 5th grade on. It started with Where the Red Fern Grows. I think it was the first book that caused me to cry. Bridge to Terabithia in the sixth grade was the first to elicit a sob.

In the seventh grade there was talk about a book in the library that was full of sex so, naturally, I checked it out. It must have been in the Spring because I remember reading it on the back patio. My mom was sitting near me reading her bible while I sat there with eyes as big as saucers reading Clan of the Cave Bears. I just knew she would find out what I was reading. How could she not see my eyes darting from the book to her? She had to have at least heard the loud beating of my guilty heart - my tell-tale heart.

In Junior High books were an escape. An escape from the anguish of a life I felt I had no control over. Fear and dread and loathing melt away when you can immerse yourself in someone else's story. If that story was filled with fear and dread and loathing it was at least not my own.

All throughout high school I devoured words - essays, poems, autobiographies, novels, cereal boxes, sugar packets. Seriously, anything with printed words that was within reach I consumed. Eventually, I started to let words spill out of me and into a diary and timidly into letters to my grandma Opal.

During my first stint in college I quit reading for pleasure - I was reading textbooks; so many dry textbooks. Unwilling, or unable, I'm not sure which, to read things I enjoyed I had one small outlet: writing. My friend Wendy and I got our first e-mail addresses which was perfect because Wendy was going to school in Bellingham. Our chats on her bedroom floor and under the large maple in her front yard moved to the computer labs at our respective schools.

These last two years since Mr. T started Kindergarten I have hungrily read (listened to) what feels like countless books. Everything from The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy to Les Miserables.

It has been in the last couple of months that I have taken to writing again - just for me. There is something so cathartic about seeing your words turn blue at the end of the pen as your hand helps give them shape. With a friend, sometimes two, I share even more words in the form of long emails. I am giving a little piece of me that I keep hidden from most everyone - it is the chaotic and messy truth. As the swirling thoughts in my head and ache in my heart make their way to paper, to my journal, to this blog, the confusion clears and the aches of my heart dull a little.

Sometimes I'm the one receiving the words from a friend. As they speak or write their truth to me and I try on their pain or shoulder a bit of their burden, just as they have done of mine, we are building and reinforcing the foundation of our friendship.

I wish I was more articulate with the spoken word and didn't have to rely so heavily on writing my feelings down to feel heard and understood. When words fall from my mouth they do just that: fall. Flat and one dimensional and incomplete. I usually say too much as I think if I throw out enough words I will eventually utter the right ones or I say too little as words elude me. At least with the written word one can write and erase and delete and perfect and polish the thoughts before bundling them up and gifting them to a friend.

Comedy of Errors

2017-03-06T17:32:00.000-08:00

I went to our rental house this morning to wash windows and to power wash a balcony and the fence. While Ryan has been patching holes and working on electrical outlets I have been doing my Cinderella best to clean the two years’ worth of accumulated grime. Last week I exfoliated the bathtub. *shudder* It went from a sickly grey to an off white by time I was done with it. The downstairs bathroom was too horrific for me to describe here.

So, today was an easy day.

With my audiobook, All the Light That Cannot Be Seen, keeping me company I washed the windows.When the windows were done I moved the power washer to the tiny balcony and went to put on my rain gear.

After retrieving my rain boots from the car and I turned the doorknob to go back in the house to get something.

$*%^#! It was locked! Dread engulfed me. My purse and BOTH sets of house keys were in the house. All the windows were locked and we don't know the code to the garage's key pad.

I called Ryan - he usually has good ideas. He asked if either sliding door was unlocked. "Yes. To the master bedroom. I was just on the balcony." Good. There was a tall ladder outside I could use to get to the balcony.

Sweet! Ryan wanted me to find a neighbor to hold the ladder but I was confident the ladder would hold because the ground was level with crushed gravel.

I climbed to the top of the ladder and I saw it move a little. It slid down a little. Not enough that I felt it but it took me no time to scramble back down the ladder to re-position it a little higher.

At the top of the ladder I examined the railing. It seemed sturdy enough for me to haul myself over. Once safely on the balcony I exhaled deeply and went to the sliding glass door.

Locked!

Dear Lord, I am really good about locking doors.

Oh. No. I would have to climb back down the ladder.

There are two things you should know about me.

1) I hate jumping into water - anything other than a pencil dive from the side of the pool. As a kid I loved jumping from a hay loft into a piles of hay but I just couldn't do the pool. Still can't.

2) I hate climbing down ladders. Going up? No problem. Going down? No, thank you.

When I was 4 or 5 my brother Ike, neighbor Mundi and I climbed to top of the play house our dad built in our back yard. Everyone climbed down except me. Mom had to come get me because I wouldn't get on my belly and swing my legs over to the ladder

In second grade Ike and I climbed to the top of the old chicken coop on the property of the house we were renting. I was on the edge trying and failing to build up the courage to jump down. Ike helped me down with a shove to my back.

So, I peer over the edge of the balcony. I may as well be on the high diving board. I call Ryan. Again. "We have to call a lock smith. I can't get down."

We try to think of the neighbors who would be home. The neighbors wouldn't do me any good except act as a witness when I plunged to my paralysis. They couldn't get me to climb on the railing and swing my legs over.

"No. I'll try," I tell him as I'm imagining falling and cracking my head open on the first ledge of the retaining wall. I took off my clogs and set my phone in it - Ryan was still connected and listening for screaming or too long of silence.

I swung myself over the balcony and with my toes on the ledge I slowly and surely made my way on to the ladder. Positioning myself as close to the wall as I could I climbed down.

Alive!

On to plan B. Ask a handy neighbor two doors down if he had any ideas or a hammer. The lock needed to be changed anyway and it would be cheaper to buy a whole new door knob than call a locksmith.

Neighbor wasn't home.

Plan C.

Find a big rock.

About 10 cracks with the big rock and the knob came off and no one came to look to see who was making all of the noise.

More hitting with the rock before the door would open. Once inside I find the drill and unscrew the other side. The door closed. The knob comes off and the inside thingy fell out. Onto the porch.

Recap: I'm in the house. The door is closed. Both knobs are off.

I can't disengage the latch. The part that would pull it back is on the other side of the door. The door is stuck again.

Gah! This is the only door in the house. There is no back door. Ryan suggested going out through the garage and using a putty knife to disengage the latch.

He sent me a text: "Don't close the garage door behind you." I sent him back a special emoticon.

I packed up everything I wanted to take home and put it in the car and made sure I had the house keys and car keys in my pocket before I closed the garage door.

The putty knife wasn't working. I examined the piece in the middle and found something to pull back on which disengaged the latch.

Finally. Take off strike plate and remove latch. Stuff hole with napkins because? I guess I just don't like the big gaping hole in the door to let in bugs and cold even though bugs and cold will get in regardless.

Rather than stay and do more work and see what else I could bungle I pull the door shut, engage the deadbolt and go home. The power washing can wait another day.

Insanity

2017-02-22T19:43:00.004-08:00

It is so exhausting trying to understand conservative Christians who support Trump. Who, with their actions, hate the earth that their God created.

I can hear it now, "April, we don't hate the earth."

Really?

I've seen you take pride in your big rig that spews pollution in the air.

I've seen you give me a smug smile when you throw a recyclable item in the trash.

I've seen and heard your contempt for tree huggers.

I've seen you enthusiastically support the current administration who is doing their best to dismantle the EPA.

I used to be you. I know the disdain and contempt for the hippies in the cities who don't understand the plight of the fisherman, the logger, the miner (granted, I didn't grow up around coal miners).

For the conservative it is: God > Jobs > People > Environment

That doesn't mean that for the liberal it is: People > Environment > Jobs > God - just kidding, they are all going to Hell since they are a godless lot. The liberal, with the bleeding heart, of course, cares about people and jobs. Lots of jobs are being lost to automation but focusing efforts on growing the clean energy sector could lead to loads of new jobs.

Recently, I was talking to some girlfriends about how we just don't understand how people who profess to love God and consider themselves followers of Christ don't, with their actions, care about the poor or live up to their pro-life stance (pro-gun, pro-death penalty and for the shame they heap on a woman for having a child out of wedlock - if you didn't have such loose morals you wouldn't be in this mess; don't use tax payer money to feed your bastard children; don't use tax payer money for birth control).

We were talking about how we have to choose our words carefully when talking to conservative Christians when talking about things like the environment.

We don't talk about saving the earth. We don't talk about climate change. We talk about how God gave man dominion over the earth and He charged us with taking care of it.

Then the message might get through a little.

I recall one conversation with a conservative Christian who didn't believe there is climate change so who cares about vehicle emissions? Okay, let's ignore the science - I did get him to agree the exhaust coming out of the car is bad for the human body and for life in general.

Shouldn't that be reason enough to care? To do something? To support legislation that aims to keep our air clean?

I don't know why this particular issue struck a nerve with me today but it did. I feel like I'm becoming numb to the insanity that is the White House.

How is it that the people who hated Hillary Clinton with every fiber of their being (email! Benghazi!) aren't up in arms over Trump's association with Russia? With his disdain for freedom of speech? With his conflicts of interest? With his ban on people who have already been vetted to come to our country in the first place?

This is just exhausting and demoralizing.

Alki

2016-12-28T15:13:00.001-08:00

Here are a few pictures from our short trip to Alki this morning. It was cold and windy and perfect for collecting beach glass. As we were leaving the beach, G was leading the way and telling me I was taking too long. Theo, on the other hand started helping me find beach glass. And shells, and rocks and seaweed and cigarette filters.

Overlooking downtown Seattle at Anchor Park on Alki

He is as mischievous as he is cute

Anchor Park on Alki

My sweet goofy boy

One of the fifty plus pieces of beach glass I found. My hands were freezing by time I was done but it was worth it.

Looking for treasures

The boys were running from the water.

Like Labradors

2016-12-11T23:59:00.001-08:00

We just spent the afternoon and evening at the annual Christmas Party that Ryan's soccer buddies have every year. I felt so comfortable with this group of people that I was able to fall asleep in a comfy chair in the living room while everyone else watched the Seahawks v Packers catastrophe. There is something I find so comforting about sleeping in a noisy room with activity going on all around. I wonder if it calls to something that is so deep, so old that it is embedded as a feeling rather than as a memory. Like being in the womb - warm and safe, or being a small child and falling asleep on your grandparents couch while surrounded by aunts and uncles and noisy cousins. This comfort is something you experienced but can't remember other than in this way of feeling.

Over the years this group of people has become special to me. When I first met them I felt like I didn't belong - not because of anything they said or did - it was me being hyper aware of how different we were. Or so I thought. They played soccer and I didn't. They enjoyed athletic pursuits in general. While I enjoy watching football and have come to enjoy watching soccer I don't do so much of the playing of the sports.

As I was able to get over my self imposed feelings of inadequacy I started to think of them as not just Ryan's soccer buddies but as my friends, too. With each wedding, each Lamb Day, each random gathering I felt more and more like I belonged. And to feel like you belong in a group like this, a group of people who grew up playing sports, who have that camaraderie, is special to someone like me; someone who didn't grow up playing sports. I am not lacking in friendship - I have some kick ass friends - but this group of people is different from any other group I've been a part of. They are also some of the happiest people you could hope to meet. Seriously, they are like Labrador Retrievers, always running and chasing balls.

This past summer the Morelli's opened their home on Orcas Island to the group. It was such a fun weekend that the collective group made it clear we wanted to be invited back en masse the following year. The kids put on a talent show one night. The kids were hilarious and not always on purpose; there was dancing and joke telling and lots of improv. The next night the kids had the adults put on a talent show. While the kids got to choose their talent the adults had to draw their talent out of a hat. Ryan had to dance, Brad had to sing an opera, someone got to show off their sick break dancing moves and I got to tell a joke. Everyone laughed at ~~my joke~~ me because I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe let alone tell my super awesome joke.

Wanna hear it?

Too bad.

"Why couldn't the witch have babies?"

"Because her husband had a halloweenie!"

Ha! Get it? See - I told you it was hilarious.

I may have had a little bit too much to drink that night. Maybe.

As I sit here, having looked through some of the photos from tonight that people posted on Facebook, I noticed how people were sharing their own appreciation for this group. Instead of limiting myself to a few words on Facebook - and instead of going around to each person at the next gathering and telling him/her how much I appreciate him/her (because people would think I was dying or something and it just seems kind of creepy) I'm doing it here. So, soccer peeps, if you are reading this: I appreciate you.

Hope

2016-12-06T17:03:00.000-08:00

The kids are in bed and the house is quiet. The Christmas tree, in its imperfect glory, is a colorful focal point in the dark room. I'm sitting next to the fireplace, my right arm is getting quite warm but I don't want to change positions because that would involve turning away from the warm glow of the Christmas tree.

I have been sitting here off and on throughout the day trying to write this. I sat at the dining room table earlier and last night I was in the basement staring at my computer screen, unable to write. I can't find the right place. I can't find the right words. Nothing about what I'm trying to do is coming easily to me and I can't understand why so I'm just going to muddle through this feeling of not capturing what I want to say with just the right words.

This exercise in what feels like futility is to tell you about Jason. To tell you that he was a great guy. That when I think about Jason the first thing that pops in my head is his smile. His smile could light up a room. He was kind of quiet and unassuming but you could sense a deep well of contentment in him. Physically he wasn't a very big guy but his - I don't know what to call it - his aura? his being? The thing that was Jason was big. His calm, his happiness and his love, were all larger than that could be contained in him. He kind of just spilled goodness because there was so much of it in him.

I was talking to Ryan at Starbucks a day or two after Jason died. Ryan told me he used to think Jason had the best luck - he was always winning something at office parties and at industry events. I said that maybe so many good things happened to him because he wasn't given a full life. Whatever good that was to be had needed to fit into his thirty-eight years before cancer claimed him.

But talking like the cancer was predestined and that all of Jason's goodness had a finite amount of time is kind of lame. His goodness didn't have to be snuffed out. If he had a treatment that would have worked for him his goodness could have filled up many more decades. His kids could have had a dad to be there for the big life events and even more important, for the minutiae that is life.

This is where I'm looking to you for help. I'm trying to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society by doing the Big Climb. Your contributions will help further the research that is needed to find effective treatments for the Jason's out there who do not know cancer is lying in wait for them.

If you want to learn more about the LLS and the Big Climb please click on this link: http://www.llswa.org/goto/apriljahns; and if you are able to please consider contributing to this great cause.

Jason Holdridge

1977-2016

Love Letter to Meg

2016-11-23T13:50:00.000-08:00

Ryan took the boys to Cub Scouts last night. I was no use. I looked quite the sight, horizontal on the couch, under a blanket, eyes half shut. This cold and ear infection have kicked my butt. So it was there, in the warmth of the living room, with it's fire in the fireplace and lights turned up a little too bright, I lay scrolling through Facebook.

I caught a name that doesn't pop up in my feed very often. Meg McKennon. It was her sister's post that Meg was tagged in. I sat up. No! This can't be real. Meg died this weekend. How? No!

I read her sister's post. Then I read it again. I went to Meg's page and there was an ex of an ex with whom she was friends posting how much she was loved and going to be missed.

The years she was my team leader and boss and then friend came rushing back to me. I think the last time I saw her was at the now defunct Cupcake to a Tea with Sugar cafe. She started her own company, Dwellings, and it was doing well. Or was the last time I saw her at Bud's funeral? Or was it JB's funeral?

Meg was such a light. Writing about her in the past tense is kind of surreal. She is a light. She is funny. She is loving. She is protective. She is. She is. She is.

But she's not. She's gone. She was so young, too.

All last night and this morning I have been thinking about her. She was unlike any boss I've ever known.

She was the most inappropriate boss. Like ever. In the best possible way. And the most encouraging. She believed in me. I didn't always believe in me but she saw through my insecurities and had faith in me.

I'm just going to ramble on now with my memories of Meg, Meggers - NOT Megan - McKennon.

When I told her I was going to send my license back to the state because I was not a good enough salesperson to make a go of real estate she said, "No. Give it a little more time." When I told her that I didn't have more time to give she said,"Wait. We'll find you a job here. I'll make one up if I have to."

So, I became the receptionist. I told her I would take the job but only if my official title would not be "Director of First Impressions". Gag. Really, Keller Williams? That is about the worst. Sure, it's true that the smiling person in the front office is the first impression of the company many people get but it is such an awful title.

She thought I was being cheap when she would put together a coffee order and I said I wanted a short latte. She would bring me back a grande. I wasn't being cheap - I just think the short latte has the perfect ratio of espresso to milk. I told her I preferred the smaller size and she just rolled her eyes at me. One would think that would have been my job to go get the coffee but I think she loved getting out of the office.

For Christmas she gave me a thong - a bright pink thong by Hanky Panky. Those really are the best. They really are the only kind of thong to be worn. How's that for too much information? So, now when I see Hanky Panky anything I think of Meg. I think she would have laughed if I told her that. Maybe I should have told her.

She called me into her office. She was laughing hard. "April! Come here! You have to see this!" I don't remember the email but it was a totally inappropriate forward that was sexual in nature.

I don't recall how this came about but we were talking about languages and I told her I took German in high school and it was a big waste. I could have studied a more useful language. She asked me to say something in German but I was having a hard time remembering so I went to Google a phrase to make sure I got it right. Not that she would have known if it was right or wrong. I don't remember the words I entered but the I do remember the search results. They were not what I was expecting. Lots German porn came up. I shrieked and was trying to close all of the windows and erase my browser history. I told her why I was freaking out - I don't think I ever saw her laugh so hard as she did at that moment.

When I came to work the day after my step-grandfather died she sent me home. I told her we weren't that close but she sent me home anyway.

She was one of the first people I told when I was pregnant for the first time. I'm not one to wait 12 weeks to tell the people I'm close to. She was also one of the first people I told when I was no longer pregnant. She shared in my joy and in my sorrow.

One day I answered the phone in the early morning at work and it was Meg telling me she wasn't coming into the office because she wasn't feeling well. I asked her if the traffic coming from Renton was too much (she lived less than a mile from the office in West Seattle). *crickets* I knew she probably stayed over with Jeff who lived in Renton. They were trying to keep their relationship quiet and I probably wasn't supposed to know they were dating as they held the same position but in different offices. She told me later that she had me on speaker phone and that she couldn't believe I didn't hear Jeff laughing. She said she also flipped me off. I can only imagine how red her face was. She could light up a room when she blushed.

Keller Williams has a company wide gathering called Family Reunion. It was held in Las Vegas every year, maybe it still is. I assumed I would stay in Seattle and hold down the fort while everyone was gone. Nope. Meg and Christi thought I should go. I told them I was fine staying but they insisted I go and take classes. So, I went. I learned a little more about the company and a lot more about myself. And Meg. I can't share all of my memories from that trip there because, you know, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Just kidding. Nothing super crazy happened. Just intimate conversations that I cherish.

The house she rented was cute as a button. Adorable. Everything about it was cozy and comfortable and reflected her warmth. I don't remember anything specific about her house other than one felt at ease and comfortable in it. When she moved in with Jeff I helped her pack a little. Looking back at the house after it was emptied of everything Meg I stood there and took it all in. There was nothing special about the house. All of it's warmth and charm was gone; she is what made the place special.

Sometime after she left and I was gone from Keller Williams I learned that one of our agents, JB, died. He was a large part of the company and I knew Meg would want to know. Part of me thought she might already know but I couldn't think of who would have called her to tell her. I called her when I was without Gavin - which happened to be on a trip to the Home Depot in West Seattle. So, I wandered the store for an hour talking to Meg about JB and his sudden passing, about life and about hopes and dreams.

It was at Bud's funeral (another real estate agent) that I realized we still had a connection. We laughed and cried together. We told Estella, one of Meg's super close friends and fellow agent at KW, stories about Bud since she didn't know him that well. The three of us huddled together in the bathroom fixing smudged make up and blowing noses. Meg used the toilet while we were in there. I laughed and thought, "Well, if we weren't close before, we are now."

I think Bud's funeral was one of the last times I saw her. I think Meg understood Bud's pain. How he had a smile for everyone but that there was a sorrow just below the surface. I know Meg had pain, too. She had a smile for everyone but in quiet moments she would let me see. Her hopes. Her fears. I don't know if she knew she was showing me or if I drew it out - or if everyone can see the pain others try to hide. She didn't give words to her hurt but it was there. Maybe we all have that pain and it is through our own experiences with suffering that we are able to recognize it in others.

Or, I'm just full of it and feeling super emotional and reading more into my memories because a woman who was dear to me many years ago is gone. I could write more but I won't. Even though she is not here, the things she told me in confidence will remain locked in my heart. The things that made her blush - aside from Jeff's story - the stuff that pissed her off, the things that made her cry - will be my memories.

Everyone who met Meg was drawn to her. She had a pull and we all went to her; wanting to be special in her eyes. I hope she knew how special she was in our eyes. How so very special.

Goodbye, Meg.

Warm Fuzzies

2016-11-15T22:02:00.000-08:00

Do you have a favorite Season? My favorites are summer and autumn. Winter is too cold and Spring isn't much better aside from those couple of glorious teaser weeks in April and May. Summer, with it's heat and sunshine and days to be spent complaining about the heat and going to the beach chasing children with sunscreen makes me happy. Maybe it's the vitamin D. Maybe it's the blue skies. Maybe it's the heat and driving with the windows down.

Autumn is lovely, too. And not because of pumpkin spice. Enough already. If I liked pumpkin pie more than I do I might enjoy the other things sprinkled with the pumpkin and the spice. The best way to eat pumpkin pie, in my not so humble opinion, is with copious amounts of whipped cream. Copious. Like, 2/3 whipped cream to 1/3 pie. Better still is to just skip the pie altogether.

Not all of my happiest memories are from Fall but it's in this season that I seem to reflect the most. Maybe other people reflect around New Years. By time the New Year arrives I'm cleaning up Christmas and trying to get rid of clutter.

So, I'm going to write down some of my happy memories. I hope they give you warm fuzzies, too or allow you to reflect on your own happy times.

I'm sitting on mom's lap in the house on Travis Street. Mom's back is to the window in the living room and my back is to mom's front. In each hand I hold one of Mommy's fingers and I'm moving them around as if they are joy sticks. I feel warm and content and fascinated with Mom's fingers.

My Daddy is driving his truck; it's just me and him. We are on the road that goes by the Dairy Queen (which I now know to be the Cape Arago Highway). Daddy is singing part of Clementine to me. I think it's "Oh, my darling." He tries to scoot me closer to him so he can put his arm over my shoulders. I am so happy and safe but super embarrassed that Daddy is singing to me so I admonish him with an, "Oh, Daddy!"

It is near Christmas time. I must be three, just a month shy of my fourth birthday because the following Christmas Daddy is gone. Christmas cartoons are on T.V. at the same time as the evening news. Daddy turns the T.V. to the news. Ike and I complain because we want to watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or Charlie Brown. Mom is nearby in the kitchen and hears us so she turns to Daddy and says, "Doug. Let the kids watch cartoons." Dad switches to the cartoon. He is probably annoyed but I am happy to get to watch cartoons and learn that mom wields some serious power.

We live in Vancouver now. It's Saturday and my step-dad drove to Seattle to watch the Huskies play. Mom takes me and my brothers to Landover Athletic Club to go swimming for a while. Mom brings a book and listens to the echoes of, "Mom! Watch me!" for a couple of hours before we dry off and walk the half a block back home. We bake cookies and laugh and tease each other. We congregate at the kitchen table or sit on the bar. It's warm in the house and it glows. I am at peace with my mom and my brothers.

More than the glowing warmth of the kitchen I remember how the backyard seemed to morph into an otherworldly place in the Fall. Looking outside there was a long hedge of tall arborvitae that separated our house from our neighbors. There were two or three tall evergreens that towered over the house. There was nothing special about our backyard, no landscaping that made it beautiful to me. It was the way the light bounced from the green grass to the green arborvitae. It looked like a lush sanctuary.

I think it was the last day of school in the eighth grade and Wendy had a sleepover. Wendy, Kim, Torrie and I thought it would be fun to go back to the Jr. High and play a real life version of Calvin Ball (from Calvin and Hobbes). It was raining but I think that is what made it fun. We ran and chased each other all over the football field throwing a ball and making up rules as we went along. We were wet and muddy from head to toe. I think that was the last time I played like that with my girlfriends.

It just occurred to me that maybe the reason why playing in the rain and mud with my friends in the 8th grade is such a treasured memory is because it was the last time I played like that.

Kim, Wendy, if you are reading this I think we need to schedule a play session on a grassy, muddy field. Kim, bring Michelle. We'll make new memories.

Strawberry Shortcake

2016-10-04T14:51:00.002-07:00

This picture was taken at my Grandparents house in Coos Bay, Oregon. This is the same fireplace where a log rolled out and caught my little brother's diaper on fire. I vaguely remember adults swarming him and putting out the fire. He wasn't hurt. The same fireplace where we roasted hot dogs - Grandpa preferred his uncooked and cold. *gross*

Circa 1981

The dress I'm wearing was my favorite dress. Really, look at it. What's not to like? Cute collar, apron and the best of all? The Strawberry on the apron. I think it was a Strawberry Shortcake dress.

My dad helped my mom with the laundry one day and somehow this dress was ruined - maybe it got bleached?

I was devastated. I put on the ruined dress and went to Don and Betty's house across the street to show my displeasure. Betty answered the door and I blurted out, "Look what my Daddy did to my dress!"

That's all I remember. This picture, that dress, my neighbor Betty.

I smile every time I look at this picture. Ike, a mini version of our dad, Joel a cute toddler with his belly hanging out and me, so happy and unaware that this dress was about to be destroyed.

1981

2016-10-03T01:46:00.000-07:00

I was chatting with someone a couple of days ago when, in the course of conversation, a concert in 1981 came up. 1981, I thought, I was four years old. The worst year in my short little life - nothing has come close to it in the thirty-five years since. I kept that to myself, of course, but it has been gnawing at me all weekend. Hell, it gnaws at me every year at this time of year. This is one of the big years, though. The 10, 15, 20, 25, 27, 30 and 35 year marks bring about fresh pain and the old familiar pain and introspection. I'm learning to not be surprised when I learn a new way the pain and loss presents itself.

It was on October 28th, 1981 that my dad died. He had an irregular heart beat and was told that he was going to need a pacemaker when he was about 40. Wrong. He needed it sooner. Much sooner. He was only 27 years old.

The year I turned 27 was hard as were the years when my brothers turned 27, too. Of course, all milestones were difficult. Starting Kindergarten, learning to ride a bike, Homecoming and Prom, High school graduation, wedding. He didn't get to meet any of his grandchildren. I think he would have made an awesome grandpa. But of course I do - he was my dad.

Then there were the years when my kids were four and five years old. Oh, God those were the worst. I've always told the boys that my daddy lives in Heaven. They didn't ask questions until about a year or so ago. Gavin asked how old my dad was when he died. He seemed to know 27 was kind of young. I held my breath, just waiting for him to ask me how old I was. It was several months later when he finally asked how old I was. You could see the information sinking into his head. I want to give him assurance that I'm not going to die but I can't. I tell him my dad had a sick heart and that I've had my heart looked at by a heart doctor and that it is good.

That December right after my dad died I was lying on the bottom bunk at night when I yelled out for my mom. Mom came in and sat on the edge of the bed and asked what I needed. "I'm going to ask you a question and you better tell me the truth!" She agreed and I asked her if Santa Claus was real. "No. He's not," she answered. I wailed, "You lied to me!"

Of course it was many, many years later that I realized how I put it all together. Sometime that summer or spring of 1981 we were sitting at the table in the kitchen eating dinner when I asked my parents if they were going to die. I don't remember exactly how I asked the question or what their exact response was but I do remember being assured that they were going to live for a very long time. Then my dad goes and dies a few months later. Not exactly what I would call a long time. If they lied to me about how long they would live, what else were they lying about?

This shouldn't come as a huge surprise but I have a problem with telling my kids Santa is real. So, I don't. I kind of ruined it for Ryan but I just couldn't do it. It felt like lying because, well, it was lying. I am totally fine with the tooth fairy, though. I like to pick and choose my lies.

Santa? Not real.

Tooth fairy? Look she left you a dollar.

What do I have in my mouth? Um... not candy.

It feels like the only big painful surprises now are when a young father dies. I know two such men who died this year. It brings it all back. It is amazing how quickly it floods back, visceral and thick. A parent at the boys bus stop sent out an email last year looking for support in a charity event that raises funding for cancer research. He had battled cancer a couple of times when his kids were really little. Just reading that made my heart constrict and my the backs of my eyes sting.

I try to not worry about who is next. I know it isn't rational but I feel like I put in my dues for crappy life experiences so I should get a pass for the foreseeable future.

I wonder how this 35th year will shape up. I am hoping for uneventful. I will even try to not complain about the gray hair I see slowly taking over my head. After all, not everyone has the privilege of getting gray hair. I will complain if I start getting wrinkles, though. Those can't be dyed.

No Words

2016-09-30T23:46:00.000-07:00

Well, that title is misleading. I have LOTS of words. They are just not nice words.

That picture sums it up.

Keepin' It Real

2016-09-30T14:49:00.000-07:00

I just returned home from picking up a couple things needed for the upcoming Boy Scouts popcorn sale this weekend.

I don't know the other parents that well because Ryan was the main scout parent last year. This year we have two scouts so my parental involvement will necessarily increase since they'll be in two different dens. Packs. Groups. I don't really know what they are called.

As I was driving to the house in the hills to gather the card table and Square card reader, I noticed the homes got larger, and larger, and larger. There weren't cars in the driveways because they have three and four car garages and their cars will fit in said garages or both of the occupants are at work because it’s the middle of the day.

Not everyone can be a lady of leisure like myself, writing at 1 o'clock in the afternoon just for the hell of it. Hmm, maybe I should pretend I'm writing this at night because Ryan will eventually read this.

I'm not what you would call the best hausfrau. I keep a decent house, a cluttered and clean house. If you look really close, past the clutter you may notice the surfaces under the clutter is actually quite clean.

Baseboards? Clean. Trim around the doors? Clean. Light switch plates? Clean.

When I see a stack of papers to be sorted or laundry to be folded or food to be cooked the grime in the corners of the kitchen sink calls to me. The dog hair that gathered like tumble weeds since I last swept two days ago calls to me. Those teeny tiny specks of paint that splattered on the floor in our bathroom from ten paintings ago - likely the previous owner - taunts me. I. Must. Clean.

Hm, that was quite a tangent.

I think driving in that neighborhood caused me to evaluate my life choices. Not finishing my nursing degree. Letting my license as an LPN lapse because - ugh - I hated it. Not figuring out something else to do that would pay more than I could make as a receptionist. Social work would be awesome. It would also require a degree and the work would be hard and fulfilling but still with crappy pay. Meh.

I have an acquaintance, who by all appearances is very prim and proper, once said that if something happened to her husband the only thing she thinks she could make money at would be selling her body. My eyes bugged out and my jaw dropped before I laughed. I'm sure she could earn quite a living as an escort - she’s gorgeous.

Then it occurred to me that if something terrible happened to Ryan, and I had to go back to work, the money as a receptionist wouldn't cut it. I couldn't even be a stripper. There are so many reasons why. I can't dance, provocatively or otherwise. I have two children. I'll let you figure that one out. I would have to be the discount stripper. The one who keeps it real. A friend said, “Nah. You could just go to one of the clubs on Highway 99.” Gee, thanks.

When we first moved to Beacon Hill there was a woman who had a one man, er, woman, operation out of the back of her van. I called that van the hooker-mobile. She was definitely a discount prostitute. Well, I can't say for sure she was a prostitute. She could have been selling drugs and her clientele was 100% male.

As all of these thoughts were swirling through my head, as most of my thoughts are wont to do. I thought of the clothes I was wearing and the car I was driving in this affluent neighborhood.

Last night I sat on my couch and mended these super tiny holes in the shirt I am wearing now. If you look closely, or not closely, just in my general direction you could see I did something to my shirt. I can afford a new shirt and I didn't have to mend it or the two sweaters that I did last night; I could have just bought new ones.

Ryan would probably like it if I did that as my state of dress could reflect poorly on him. He is the one who brings home the bacon after all. I just can't be bothered to go shopping. It’s such a chore. Drive to the mall, walk the mall, get lost in the mall, try on 20 shirts only to find one that I like or 20 that I love and are really freaking expensive.

When I'm at Costco buying a flat of fruit and 50 pounds of birdseed I always swing through the clothing section. If I see a shirt I like, I'll throw it and two of the same in different colors in the cart. Two birds. One stone.

We got rid of the minivan this summer. Good riddance! Kind of. Sure it had horrible gas mileage but oh the space! Having a minivan is like having a living room on wheels. Everyone has their own quadrant. Children with their own quadrant can’t reach the other to hit or steal toys.

So I was cruising in this neighborhood of considerable homes, one might even call them McMansions, in our sweet ride: a 2004 Pontiac Vibe. Don't be jealous of my well-loved and well-used car. I do not worry even a little bit about someone denting it.

You know what I really like to do? When someone is clearly taking up two parking spots because they don't want anyone near their precious car I will squeeze my twelve-year-old ride in as close to the line as possible. See? I can be a jerk, too.

We did buy a nice car this summer, a 2014 Lexus. It's the nicest car either of us has ever owned. I really, really like it. And I love when the Pontiac Vibe is parked next to the Lexus 450H in the driveway.

Keepin' it real, folks. That's what we are doing.

If I could have had a glimpse into my life now as an adult when I was a little girl I would have thought I was a millionaire. Nice home, fancy car, baby grand piano, expensive shoes, vacations and fancy food. If I want green beans I buy fresh green beans - not the canned stuff. See? Fancy.

My first home was tiny. TINY. There were five of us in a two-bedroom house. My current garage is bigger than the house I grew up in. Many of our neighbors did drugs. I saw pot for the first time when I was four or five; saw it smoked for the first time when I was five or six. I thought, “Why are they smoking out of a pop can?” Oddly enough I've never smoked pot even though it wouldn’t have been that hard to come by. I think assumed if I did I would end up like some of my neighbors.

Maybe I should delve deeper into why I feel so uncomfortable and out of place when I'm surrounded by affluence. But I guess it's all relative. Who knows, someone could feel uncomfortable in my house. I would have felt uncomfortable in it when I was a little girl. It's a middle class home in a middle class neighborhood. Maybe that is why I'm such a crappy housekeeper. I want to bring everything down a notch as to make others feel comfortable in my home. Somehow I don’t think Ryan would buy that excuse.

Oy. That’s quite a lot to put out there in my first post in… let me see… five years! Wow. If I really wanted to I could take advantage of this quiet house and meditate and try to understand these uncomfortable feelings I’m having. Or… I could get up and clean behind the fridge because it has suddenly become very loud. There’s probably a mountain of fur under it that is blocking the motor.

Yeah, I know what I’m going to do. Everyone in my house is going to be so pleased with our quiet fridge.

Only YOU Can Help

2011-09-21T20:32:00.000-07:00

My friend, Sarah Lenssen, has started a campaign to help bring food and hope to the drought stricken areas in the Horn of Africa where there is not enough food to sustain life. I look at my food scraps pile that I toss out every night after making dinner. And of the bits of food the boys don't eat. And the food that spoils in the fridge. Sarah's efforts have brought food - life - to these people with her campaign. Please read on to see what Sarah has started and what you can do to help her help real people with real hurts.

Here are her words:

Thank you April and nearly 150 other bloggers from around the world for allowing me to share a story with you today, during Social Media Week.

A hungry child in East Africa can’t wait. Her hunger consumes her while we decide if we’ll respond and save her life. In Somalia, children are stumbling along for days, even weeks, on dangerous roads and with empty stomachs in search of food and water. Their crops failed for the third year in a row. All their animals died. They lost everything. Thousands are dying along the road before they find help in refugee camps.

At my house, when my three children are hungry, they wait minutes for food, maybe an hour if dinner is approaching. Children affected by the food crisis in in Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia aren’t so lucky. Did you know that the worst drought in 60 years is ravaging whole countries right now, as you read this? Famine, a term not used lightly, has been declared in Somalia. This is the world’s first famine in 20 years.12.4 million people are in need of emergency assistance and over 29,000 children have died in the last three months alone. A child is dying every 5 minutes. It it estimated that 750,000 people could die before this famine is over. Take a moment and let that settle in.

The media plays a major role in disasters. They have the power to draw the attention of society to respond–or not. Unfortunately, this horrific disaster has become merely a footnote in most national media outlets. News of the U.S. national debt squabble and the latest celebrity’s baby bump dominate headlines. That is why I am thrilled that nearly 150 bloggers from all over the world are joining together today to use the power of social media to make their own headlines; to share the urgent need of the almost forgotten with their blog readers. Humans have the capacity to care deeply for those who are suffering, but in a situation like this when the numbers are too huge to grasp and the people so far away, we often feel like the little we can do will be a drop in the ocean, and don’t do anything at all.

When news of the famine first hit the news in late July, I selfishly avoided it. I didn’t want to read about it or hear about it because I knew I would feel overwhelmed and uncomfortable. I wanted to protect myself. I knew I would need to do something if I knew what was really happening. You see, this food crisis is personal. I have a 4-year-old son and a 1 yr-old daughter who were adopted from Ethiopia and born in regions now affected by the drought. If my children still lived in their home villages, they would be two of the 12.4 million. My children: extremely hungry and malnourished? Gulp. I think any one of us would do anything we could for our hungry child. But would you do something for another mother’s hungry child?

My friend and World Vision staffer, Jon Warren, was recently in Dadaab Refugee Camp in Kenya–the largest refugee camp in the world with over 400,000 people. He told me the story of Isnino Siyat, 22, a mother who walked for 10 days and nights with her husband, 1 yr-old-baby, Suleiman, and 4 yr.-old son Adan Hussein, fleeing the drought in Somalia. When she arrived at Dadaab, she built the family a shelter with borrowed materials while carrying her baby on her back. Even her dress is borrowed. As she sat in the shelter on her second night in camp she told Jon, “I left because of hunger. It is a very horrible drought which finished both our livestock and our farm.” The family lost their 5 cows and 10 goats one by one over 3 months, as grazing lands dried up. “We don’t have enough food now…our food is finished. I am really worried about the future of my children and myself if the situation continues.”

Will you help a child like Baby Suleiman? Ask5for5 is a dream built upon the belief that you will.

That something I knew I would need to do became a campaign called #Ask5for5 to raise awareness and funds for famine and drought victims. The concept is simple, give $5 and ask five of your friends to give $5, and then they each ask five of their friends to give $5 and so on–in nine generations of 5x5x5…we could raise $2.4 Million! In one month, over 750 people have donated over $25,000! I set up a fundraiser at See Your Impact and 100% of the funds will go to World Vision, an organization that has been fighting hunger in the Horn of Africa for decades and will continue long after this famine has ended. Donations can multiply up to 5 times in impact by government grants to
help provide emergency food, clean water, agricultural support,
healthcare, and other vital assistance to children and families suffering in the Horn.

I need you to help me save lives. It’s so so simple; here’s what you need to do:

1.Donate $5 or more on this page (http://seeyourimpact.org/members/ask5for5)
2.Send an email to your friends and ask them to join us.
3.Share #Ask5for5 on Facebook and Twitter!
I’m looking for another 100 bloggers to share this post on their blogs throughout Social Media Week. Email me at ask5for5@gmail.com if you’re interested in participating this week.

A hungry child doesn’t wait. She doesn’t wait for us to finish the other things on our to-do list, or get to it next month when we might have a little more money to give. She doesn’t wait for us to decide if she’s important enough to deserve a response. She will only wait as long as her weakened little body will hold on…please respond now and help save her life. Ask 5 for 5.

Thank you on behalf of all of those who will be helped–you are saving lives and changing history.

p.s. Please don’t move on to the next website before you donate and email your friends right now. It only takes 5 minutes and just $5, and if you’re life is busy like mine, you probably won’t get back to it later. Let’s not be a generation that ignores hundreds of thousands of starving people, instead let’s leave a legacy of compassion. You have the opportunity to save a life today!

Trying Something New

2011-08-30T23:40:00.000-07:00

If I were more industrious I would go back and see how many times I've lamented about the loathsome job of doing laundry. It, like washing dishes, is such a bother. Wash, dry, take care of and repeat for the rest of your life.

The few times that every article of clothing (save what we were wearing), kitchen towel and assorted linens has been clean and folded and taken care of are such sweet times. I like to see empty hampers, laundry baskets, a spacious and empty laundry room and a pool table not covered in clothes.

Then I squander that precious time of having nothing taunting me in the hamper by fretting about other chores that need to be done to make the house perfect. If the dishes are done and the toys are picked up then are the windows sparkly clean? The bathroom spotless? How about the grout lines in the kitchen - how long has it been since I took a toothpick to them?

Nutso, I know.

Last week Ryan invited a friend over to play pool.

There was only one problem.

The pool table. It was covered - every square inch - with clean clothes, piles of stuff to go to Goodwill, to save for so and so, to be moved to the garage/kitchen/bookshelf/boys room...

One evening Ryan spent an hour and a half tackling the pool table.

It took him 90 minutes to fold all of those clothes and sort through the piles of stuff. And he goes pretty fast at it, too. There is no precision folding going on.

Maybe I should slack a little on the precision and just go with the whole 'getting it done and over with' method. I'm the only one who cares if the sheets are folded so well that you can't tell which is a flat sheet and which is a folded sheet. The boys don't balk if the towels in the linen closet do not have all of their edges matched up perfectly. Or if the edge sides or round folded sides are not all facing the same direction.

Geez, just writing about this makes me want to go straighten out the linen closet. The towels are folded all wonky and there is a huge stack of yellow shop cloths in front of the bath towels. The wash cloths are not stacked by style (in the following order: the white ones with pink trim, sand colored ribbed ones from our wedding registry, white ones from my mom 2 Christmases ago) and baby washcloths are mixed in with them and they are stacked so high the tower of wash cloths is falling over ....

Wait.

I need to go get a brown paper bag.

*********

Just kidding. Sort of. I'm not hyperventilating but I do think I've got myself plenty worked up about the state of the linen closet.

Sheesh. Now I have to worry about the linen closet in addition to the hallway full of stuff I need to clear out. It's been 5 years in the making but I reached my tipping point in our tiny bedroom. Our bedroom set is lovely. Really. Very pretty, solid wood, blah, blah, blah. It is also freaking HUGE. We will gain 18 inches of precious space by removing our head and foot boards. I cleared the top of my dresser (into a laundry basket, the contents and which are in the hallway sitting on top of my nightstand - which I also emptied in order to move it to the guest room) so I could work on emptying the dresser so I can take the dresser out of the room.

On Sunday or Monday we are going to get a platform bed that has storage underneath. The one drawer full of clothes that I couldn't arrange neatly in the closet are going in those drawers. We will be down 3 really bulky pieces. Our room will feel like a calm and spacious oasis.

Now I just need to get Ryan to take the boys to his mom's or dad's house for the weekend so I can paint the bedroom... and living room... and dining room....

I feel relaxed just thinking about the vision it's going to be. Now I just have to work on my sales pitch to Ryan about my color choices. Half of my pitch is about his lack of labor involvement and the other half will have to be made up of trust (see how nice the bathroom turned out? You doubted that, remember?) and my big brown eyes looking at him all sweet and doe like.

So the whole reason I started this post was because I had this novel idea about something new I'm trying: folding laundry one load at time. When a load needs to go in the dryer I fold the one already in there instead of piling the clean clothes on top of the dryer, then the washer then the pool table.

It's been 3 days and it is going beautifully.

The other new thing I was going to try and have already failed miserably at is a short blog post. Since I like to write but finding the time to do it when I have enough uninterrupted time and energy is kind of hard I thought I would just write a small post about doing laundry. But then I start in on tangents.

Oy. The tangents.

That reminds me about this time in the 9th grade when I learned what a tangent was...

Nutso

2011-07-09T00:05:00.000-07:00

You know those days when you wake up and in spite of being a little tired you just go, go, go? I had one of those the other day. It hasn't stopped yet. I think it may have something to do with having two young children.

Just maybe.

The other factor would be the nutso factor.

When you add coffee to the nutso factor - watch out.

I cleaned the kitchen which is always an epic feat. Always. We have so many plastic kids dishes that can only be washed in the top rack that I always have a mountain of cups, plates and bowls that don't have any room in the upper rack so I have to wash all of those by hand, then the pots and pans, knives.....

The whole process of sustaining a human body with food is such a bother. How nice would it be to just go outside and pick fruit and vegetables and eat. Call it good. No need to cook. No need to clean.

The sweeping led to vacuuming, the vacuuming led to moving some furniture which led to a curtain rod falling which led to curtains being washed which led to curtains being ironed.

I suppose that stuff isn't nutso. The nutso part is when I decided to strip the bed, wash the duvet, vacuum the mattress pad, the bed frame, two dressers and nightstands.

Ryan was in the shower when I put the sheets on the bed. In case you don't know I have to have the sheets perfect when I put on a fresh set. After that, meh, not so much. Ryan gets a kick out of wresting the corner of the sheet out of his hand to I can put it on properly. And the way I smooth out all of the bumps and wrinkles in the top sheet so it lies perfectly flat. I even make hospital corners - but I don't tuck the sheet in at the foot of the bed. I'm like George Costanza in that I'm a "no tuck" person.

As if that weren't crazy enough... I remembered that I had the ironing board out and the top of the flat sheet was so wrinkled that it wasn't making a straight line across the top of the bed. Naturally, the only thing you can do it iron all of the seams of the top sheet. And the pillow cases.

When I plopped into bed I was a little disappointed in my self for not ironing the shams. Really, that's what's going to be seen... by me and Ryan, the boys and our cat Bob. I'm sure Bobby would much rather lay on an ironed sham than a wrinkly one. Poor Bobby.

The next day the craziness continued when we realized the freezer wasn't, well, freezing. Then we discovered the fridge wasn't refrigerating. Working quickly we moved all of the food to the downstairs fridge in the laundry room. Well, first I took out all of the beer and water and ginormous pot of chicken stock I completely forgot about.

You wouldn't think it would be such a hassle to walk down stairs to grab some food for your kids for breakfast, lunch and dinner but it was a HUGE hassle. We had a lot of take out over the last two days. Most of that was because the kitchen was impassable. If the fridge wasn't pulled out and the island butcher block moved then it was overflowing with all of the shelving, drawers and racks.

Ryan spent Thursday evening figuring out the problem and Friday fixing it. I spent Friday cleaning the inside of the fridge, washing every rack, every drawer, every shelf. I didn't just wipe the stuff down, I scrubbed it with copious amounts of soap. Then I spread them all over the kitchen and dining room table to dry.

When I was trying to put a drawer back in the fridge I opened the door really wide and angled the drawer to slide it in. The top pane of tempered glass slipped and shattered into a million little pieces, scattering themselves all over the kitchen, under the fridge, island, and dining room. Theo was in the dining room and was fascinated by the sound of shattering glass and immediately started climbing out of his chair. I said, "No, Theo, NO! Ryan! Help. Ryan!"

By this point Theo is standing barefoot on broken glass. I quickly take a few steps on broken glass to get to him. Just as I got to him Ryan arrived to pick him up. Theo starts to cry and I very gently brush the glass bits off his feet. Fortunately, there were no cuts.

I crawled over the baby gate to the chair that Theo was in then crawl to the next seat over, brush off my feet - also not cut - and scoot the chair away from the glass so I can get shoes on to help Ryan clean up the glass.

Did you know that tempered glass keeps breaking after the initial crash? As I was waiting maneuvering myself around on the dining room chairs I kept hearing pops coming from the kitchen. I turned around and sure enough bits of glass were still breaking apart. They weren't huge breaks but they were clearly forming new fissures. It was pretty neat to watch.

Cleaning up that mess was a big undertaking. So big I worked up a sweat and took a shower afterwards.

A couple of hours later I took a peak in the downstairs fridge and a glass bowl just slid out and broke on the concrete floor. There was cellophane over the bowl so it helped contain the glass but still. Another glassy mess to clean up.

On the bright side off all of the breaking of appliances and glass - my floors are clean and my fridge is showroom clean. Not a single item in the fridge is expired (my recycling bin is going to be overflowing with empty condiment bottles this week). My, oh, my we have a lot of condiments.

It is such a lovely sight to behold that I just want to go stare at it. Or take a picture and post it on facebook.

Nah, that would be really nutso.

Nice Kitty

2011-05-18T22:51:00.000-07:00

Days like today are what make living in Seattle great. When the sun is out and it's warm - it's the best! I've been to other sunny places and it's not the same. We were in Arizona recently and it was sunny for a day or two while we were there and - eh. It's just not the same. It's a flat brown sprawling deserty suburb. Of course, the company was fantastic. And the cacti and citrus trees. Those were super cool. So cool in fact I took a bunch of pictures of orange trees. Next time we go maybe Ryan and I will venture off to Sedona or something - I loooooovvvvvveee Sedona. Anyhoo.... back to the Emerald City.

We've been cold and soggy since a nice week in March. At least it feels like we've been living in perpetual rain. The other day I thought about making some hot cocoa to warm myself up. It's the middle of freakin' May!

So, with the sun out in it's full glory we hit the road for the zoo. And by hit the road I mean, ate a leisurely breakfast, put Theo down for a nap, let Gavin play my Nintendo DS (he has his very own Elmo game) on Ryan's side of the bed so I could doze, and wrangle the boys for an hour and a half in an attempt to get out the house to do something fun.

Our first stop was fun, fun, fun! For me. We went to True Value where I picked up an obscene amount of seeds to plant in my obscenely tiny garden. I picked out carrots, colored carrots, peas, swiss chard, lettuce, cucumbers, pumpkins (I will be happy with just one pumpkin), beets and..... I think that's it. Now I just need to get one or two tomato plants. Oh, and actually plant everything.

The penguins were a hoot today. Well, one penguin was a hoot. He was swimming back and forth along a glass enclosure following the kids as they walked back and forth. It was so entertaining. The kids shrieking with excitement wasn't my cup of tea, though. I felt kind of like a scrooge. Gavin is pretty quiet but I think if Theo was a little older and understood how unusual that little show the penguin was putting on was he would have been the loudest of them all.

The hippo wasn't much of a hoot but it was the first time I saw the hippo in all the years I've been going there so I was really excited about that. Another first for me and the boys was that this was the first time I didn't take them to see the ducks. The ducks are my favorite part of the zoo. No joke. I really like ducks. They are so cute what with all of their waddling and quacking. So cute!

Every time we go to the lion exhibit they are always off in the distance taking a nap and just looking really depressed. The last time we were there I couldn't help but notice some ducks who were in their enclosure by a small pond.  I kept thinking, "Does the lion not see them? Do the ducks not see that huge cat over there?"

Today we were in for a real treat as the lioness was front and center at the glass.  Looking into the eyes of a lion from 3 inches away is a little unsettling even with a nice thick glass barrier between us. I crouched down and put my face right in front of hers and she sized me up and looked right in my eyes. When our eyes connected for a very brief moment a shiver ran down my spine.

Gavin and Theo had noooo idea the lion was sizing them up as tasty little snacks. Gavin and Theo were so excited to see this big cat that they were jumping up and down and trying to touch her face through the glass. I told them that even though they were safe they should not tease the lion and to have some respect for it. Sheesh. Don't tease the lion! It feels like you are just asking for it.

Pharmaceuticals

2011-05-06T01:55:00.000-07:00

This has been quite a week for me and Big Pharma.

Last Friday morning I woke up and at some point inspected the disheveled woman staring at me in the mirror and to my dismay I saw little red bumps lining my upper lip. I rubbed my lip and felt the familiar tingling sensation...

It looked like round 5 or 6 of the cold sore/impetigo mystery was brewing. There was still hope, though. I've had little bumps and the cold sore tingles that just *poof* went away. I was hoping there would be some *poofing* but no such luck.

My regular doctor told me to see the dermatologist because she has no idea what's going on with me. The dermatologist's office said they couldn't see me until next Wednesday and, after I called back to plead for an appointment they said they don't reserve space for same day appointments. This is the same office where the last time I was there the Dermatologist said to me (after I asked him about my latest outbreak and if there was anyone he could refer me to and he said, "Well, maybe this is the last time it happens."). I know - I should have never gone back after that profound medical insight on his part. Is that what 8 years of medical school gets you? Maybe it won't happen again? Really?!

As each minute ticked by in the late morning I could feel my face being transformed. Staph was colonizing my lips and chin and there was no one who could see me. I sat on the steps in front of the house on the phone with my mom crying about how I wanted to see someone about this - I just needed to start antibiotics ASAP. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, it was warm. The day was too beautiful to be marred by this ugly, ugly thing.

We had just returned from a mom's group when my doctors office called and the above series of phone calls set me off on my calls of pleading for an appointment. It was now well past noon on Friday and if no one could see me I would have to go to the Emergency Room.

As I was making an appointment to see a regular doc at a local clinic I almost shouted to the receptionist, "WAIT! Do you have any same day appointments available with a dermatologist?!"

When she said yes but it's at 1:45 with a 15 minute check-in so I would have to be there at 1:30 and could I make it, I probably did shout, "Yes! I'll be there!"

Fortunately I never took the boys out of the van - they sat in their car seats with the doors open while I called everyone under the sun that I could think of to make an appointment.

Unfortunately I never took the boys out of the van while I called everyone under the sun.

They were hungry.

They were tired.

They were cranky.

Normally I am really good about feeding my children.

Normally I am really good about letting them sleep.

This was not a normal situation.

To make a long story a little less long - I saw the doc and she was befuddled. She didn't give me antibiotics because she didn't know my history of the raging impetigo and as a good responsible doc she didn't prescribe me antibiotics all willy nilly based on some new patients self reporting even though she did see the first start of the infection. Just the faintest beginning. She had me take an extra strong dose of something I already take in hopes that would quell the beast.

But the beast was not to be quelled; by Saturday morning my face (read: lips and chin) was a gross, crusty, drippy, honey colored, swollen mess. That afternoon I had Ryan drop me off at the ER. There the doctor who saw me gave me not one but two kinds of antibiotics to take.

I didn't sleep well that night but the next day - from 10 am to 5 pm - I slept like a log. The only reason I woke up was because Ryan checked on me to make sure I was still breathing. After a few hours up and helping put the boys to bed I went back to sleep but not before I noticed a red patch over my left eye.

Frick!

It had never spread beyond my lips and chin before this. Why oh why would it decide to leap up my face?

About 3 am when I was up for a trip to the loo I noticed that what started out as a red itchy patch that was a tiny bit puffy was now flaming red, very itchy and my eye was almost swollen shut.

"Ryan, wake up. I'm going to the emergency room, my eye is almost swollen shut."

"OK. I'll pray for you...." zzzzzzzzz

Just kidding. I'm sure it took him at least two minutes to fall back asleep.

3:30 in the morning is a great time to be in the ER. It was a ghost town. When the receptionist asked why I was there to be seen I pointed to my face and she said, "Oh, the obvious, huh?"

"Yup."

The 2 nurses aides and nurse who checked me in - no joke - they were bored - had me change into a gown because they were certain I was going to be there a while since it looked like something was obviously going on.

But no. The doctor gave me a big dose of prednisone and sent me off with a prescription for more to take throughout the week.

Whew.

Geez, this is just getting longer and longer.....

On Monday it was back to the dermatologist who said it was probably an allergic reaction and sent me to the lab with a boat load of things to be tested for. She kept looking at me and patting my knee and saying, "Oh, you poor thing." I think she was really shocked to see how quick and virulent this thing on my face was.

I am eagerly waiting to hear what she has to say when the labs come back but in the meantime she's befuddled.

Since the non-drowsy anithistamines did nothing to keep me from wanting to scratch my face off my only source of comfort on Tuesday was dunking my face in ice water every few minutes. Ice. Water. I set up a big bowl full of ice, poured water on it and dunked my face in. I told my friend I wanted to shove straws up my nose so I could just keep my head in the water all day. It felt soooo good to make my face go numb.

As a result of my facial melting, so to speak, Ryan was super helpful. He's already helpful, mind you, but when your spouse's face looks like the spawn of Satan, the helpful factor gets ramped up. So, I slept a lot over the weekend and late into the mornings.
Sleep, as many of you know, is the great restorer of many things.

Well, two things: energy and sanity.

Everything after that just falls into place. When you have energy you can clean the house and yourself.

The sanity is just gravy. Sweet, soapy scented gravy on a freshly scrubbed body floating in a fur and dirt free, clutter free house.

Oh, that whole dirt and clutter free thing was compliments of the prednisone.

So, sleep + prednisone = energized mommy.

And maybe a little crabby mommy by the end of the day.

And by the end of the week a wide awake mommy who is going to crash when I don't have prednisone to boost me up anymore.

Anyone have Barry Bond's trainer's number?

Mama needs some juice.

Bwahahaha! BWA HAHA!

2011-04-19T09:50:00.000-07:00

He FINALLY asked me to put something girly on him. I have waited patiently for the opportunity to take a picture of my boy in something girly for future use. My cousins would dress up my brothers like girls and we have the pictures to prove it. One year my older brother Ike was a girl for Halloween and when I show people the picture they say, "Aw, how cute - is that you?" Bwahahaha!

I'm still waiting for the day when Gavin tries on Chiara's dress up clothes since he's at her house once a week. I've told my friend Cecelia that if Gavin shows an interest in trying on princess clothes that we would not be at all upset and to please, please take photos.

This photo isn't that great but it's a start. Just some fun bobby pins my friend Krissy made (if you are interested in her stuff you can find some more here.).

One of These Days

2011-03-24T01:26:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those days when I kept thinking, "One of these days..."

Today I raised the white flag and surrendered to potty training Gavin. I told myself, "One of these days he will be ready. He won't go to kindergarten in diapers." For 6 days I told myself he was ready; that I was ready to this for the long haul. But after the poopy underwear followed a few minutes later by the wet underwear (and wet carpet) - that I didn't find out about until I said, "Gavin, time to go potty," and he replied, "But I went pee pee in my underwear." - maybe he is not ready since he never tells me when he has to go. And if I try to stretch beyond the 30-35 minute marker it usually ends in a watery mess. Today's accidents coupled with his silence did me in. I was ready for this to happen but I guess it isn't up to me.

When I rolled over and looked at the clock this morning and saw that it was a few minutes past ten I realized I slept too late and we missed church. Then I begrudgingly got up and went into the living room to relieve Ryan since I knew he had a very big basketball game to watch - he's been looking forward to it all weekend and since he is not the kind of guy who is obsessive and obnoxious about watching every televised game (except during the Olympics. Seriously, he will watch curling. Curling.), I went and started to play with the boys so he could concentrate his eyes on watching the Huskies come really, really, really close to winning and making it to the Sweet 16. I think. Basketball is not something I would call a passion of mine. Not even remotely.

One of these days Theo will tell us what's wrong instead of screaming.

One of these days Theo will sleep through the night.

One of these days neither boys will be in diapers.

One of these days I won't ask, "Is that the dog or did one of the boys have a poopy?" and set out on a diaper checking mission.

One of these days the announcement of dinner time won't be met with demands for "little bites," "medium bites", screaming, spoon throwing (Theo) and the Thank you, thank you Jesus song/prayer.

One of these days getting dressed won't be an epic feat that defines the entire morning.

One of these days I will not remember having ever talked about myself in the third person.

One of these days I will sleep.

One of these days I will feel human again.

And when "one of these days" ever gets here I'm sure it will usher in new conundrums that will cause me to weep and wail. But when those glorious days arrive I hope my boys are not too old to snuggle with their mama and give hugs and kisses. As much as I'm looking forward to a quieter house I am really going to miss being super awesome in their eyes. One of these days they will also realize how human and fallible I am. We will all be ok so long as they know I love them to the moon and back. At least that is my prayer.

Why

2011-03-05T23:02:00.000-08:00

Before having children I didn't realize firsts (words, steps, smiles) were not always obvious. It seems silly to question a first smile, word, crawl, step until you witness one. Or think you witness one. The first smile is blamed on gas. The first crawl looks something like a dying sea creature trying to beach itself. The first word may resemble a word but only a little. Theo is a lagging in his language acquisition but that's fine.   Gavin was the same and yet he knew most of the alphabet by his second birthday. I'm not too concerned. I like to hear Theo babble and I get all sorts of excited when he graces us with one of his words, "Buh buh" is bye. Banana is something along the lines of yaya. My favorite is Mamamama. Ryan's is probably Dadadada. I think he even tried to say dump truck but only managed to say duh truh.

So to see a first, or in our case tonight - a new stage, and to realize you are in fact watching a first is something quite spectacular.

Here is how this new stage played out in our house tonight.

Ryan was in the kitchen getting his plate ready for dinner. Theo was in his highchair eating broccoli with cheese sauce (with a ratio of 1:2, that's one part broccoli and 2 parts cheese and if the ratio switched to 2:1 it was quickly rejected), Gavin was doing his best to avoid trying the broccoli and cheese sauce, the salad, the cucumbers, just dinner in general. It was late and he had toys to play with.

Between shoveling food into Theo and coaxing Gavin to sit down at the table I was inhaling my salmon.

***Tangent: it was the BEST salmon I've ever had at home.   Yum. YUM! YUM! King Salmon is delicious. It is such a fatty fish. Mmm..... fat.***

I told Gavin he needed to sit at the table.

"Why?"

"Because we are a family and we eat together."

"Why?"

"Because we love each other and like to spend time together."

"Why?"

"Because....." I don't remember what I said but it was clearly not a satisfactory answer to Gavin because he asked, "Why?"

Then to make sure we were knew he wanted some answers he said, "Why, why, why?"

My mouth dropped open and I turned to look at Ryan in the kitchen who turning his head with his mouth agape to look at me.

"It started!"

Ryan has been dreading the "why" stage. Well, it's here, baby.   Oh, boy is it ever here.