The Redheaded Lefty

Mouth and Metal Don't Mix

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 17:56:00 +0000

TM got ready with me this morning, which means she splashed water all over the bathroom counter (while I dried it), broke two eyeshadows (while I swept the broken blush), and mouthed a bottle of Excedrin Extra Strength (while I screwed the cap back on my toothpaste, after she tried to eat it).

She was dressed, although that, too, came with its fair share of drama. While I picked out her clothes, she stood by her crib saying, "I get in bed, mama! I get in bed!" We do this a lot. She gets in her bed and pretends it is time for sleep, asks me for a blanket, and then peeks up at me through one half-closed eye while I rub her back and say, "Goodnight, baby." When she asked me to close the door (like I do when it really is bedtime), I did. And then she stood up and screamed bloody murder in the crib. "Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Nooooooooooo! Mama, up! UP!" She wasn't amused.

So, while I pulled my two-day-old bedhead into a scrawny ponytail and changed from a large sleepy T into something a bit more daytime (a medium sleepy T), she rummaged around in my closet for *just the right pair of shoes,* i.e. something with a high, spiky heel, something black. After she'd emptied everything from the closet onto Gabe's dog bed (covered in fur), she lost interest.

At this point, I was putting on deodorant (my one accessory) and getting ready to scoop her up to go downstairs. When I saw that she had one of my hangers in her mouth. One of the poofy ones that you could hang a lightweight sweater on (maybe)? The part that hangs? In her mouth. I snuck up all cat-like, all, "Sweetie (soft voice, almost a whisper), put the hanger down. Can mommy have that hanger?" But when she tried to take it out of her mouth, the end snagged on a tooth?, perhaps, and she had to wrestle with it. And it hurt. ME. I checked for cuts, etc., and I didn't see any. And I think it is safe to say she won't do that again. But she was upset and I was upset that I hadn't seen it happen in the first place.

And how weird is that story? I mean, that her boo boo came from a hanger? And I had to explain that to her preschool teachers, who responded with, "That's odd."

Sad.

All the Rage

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 17:45:00 +0000

I first discovered Wordle here. Wordle is a toy for generating “word clouds” from your blog's text. I think it's pretty---and how interesting? No matter how many times I changed up the layout, BlogHer was always big.

Almost Impossible.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 17:55:00 +0000

Last week was crazy. Lindsay was in town for two nights before her move to Germany. We spent Wednesday night listening to music at the MOBOT and Thursday (the day I left for San Francisco), TM got sick and clung to me all morning---while I packed---with her death grip. On the way to the airport, I stopped at DSW to buy the only shoes in 7 shoe stores that were even remotely attractive and comfortable enough to wear two days in a row to BlogHer (and they were really not cute at all).

My flight got into Oakland at 11 PM on Thursday night and I caught a $60 cab over to SF. I was asleep by 12:30 AM (after Claire showed me how organized and color-coordinated her closet is) and awake by 6 AM. I didn't get my Moo cards in time (damn MOO!), so I had to squeeze in a frenetic trip to Kinko's before the BlogHer day started. I made my cards square so that they would stick out. Literally.

Here's the thing: I typically handle myself very well in these kinds of situations. I'm not shy and I understand the importance of marketing my blog and hobnobbing with other bloggers whose blogs I read on a regular basis. But, really, I don't love the feeling of aloneness and desperation that comes with feeling like you have to attach yourself to someone quickly before others think you don't know anyone and then no one wants to talk to you at all. Who does? Anyway, there's always a little bit of that in this type of situation. Luckily, I ran into a bunch of BlogHer ladies right away. And Caroline, who walked in with me---there were lots of squeals and OMIGODS!, so that kickstarted the weekend.

I attended some really interesting sessions, my favorite of which was the second day photography session.
The mommyblogging sessions were interesting, too, though more so for the observation potential than the substance. I was oh-so-excited to see some of these ladies in person! I attended a party on Friday afternoon where I had one glass of champagne (Thoughts at the time? This is going to be ugly.)--- that BlogHer night ended in Steph and me asking a woman at the hotel bar, "What are you drinking? That looks good! How much IS it?" Her response? "I think the rule is if you have to ask, you can't afford it." She was not a BlogHer. Then we got lost in the hotel on the way back up to Jen's room---Steph was convinced we were going to 589. The hotel was huge and there were all sorts of towers and elevators. Somewhere along the way, we realized we needed to be on the 8^th floor. Good material for the rest of the night.

The time that I wasn't at BlogHer was spent with Claire and John.

We had so much fun, too. John's a real trouper to have put up with us for three nights. Claire and I share a very long, rich history of sisterly friendship, i.e. we almost swung fists at each other on Friday night over attending the high school reunion and whether or not all people masturbate (I don't think everyone does).

John helped mediate. It was over the next morning, though, because we are older now and much more tired decided it was much more fun to lie together on the couch and tell each other stories about how funny we are.

On Saturday, Dooce spoke. I saw her walk in with her husband, Jon. She wore purple hose and a black and white dress---she's really tall and much prettier in person. I was very surprised to hear she has a southern accent---it somehow didn't fit my image of her. Regardless, she did a wonderful job of making the conversation relevant to her audience and even of responding to a strange interruption by a woman who had previously referred to her as a mythical creature (silence).

I woke up at 4:45 AM on Sunday after a terrible night's sleep (I was terrified I would miss my flight) to catch a 7:05 AM flight out of Oakland. I am oh so tired, but doing better today after having slept fitfully last night. What an experience! Next year?

BlogHer, Day Two

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 23:41:00 +0000

Okay, so I'm pretty tired. A few of my bloggy buddies have hotel rooms here at the Westin. That means Heavenly beds. And that means I can't go into their room because I'd be sucked into the sleepytime vortex, 8 pillows and all, and never come out. Until tomorrow morning at 5 AM, when I have to get up to make my flight home.

This has been a very cool experience. Today I attended my favorite session thus far. A photography tutorial, let by Me Ra Koh. She is super-talented and inspiring. She and her husband travel together. Love that. But she has all of this energy and her photographs are unbelievable. I could have spent the entire day in there.

You'll likely appreciate this scenario:

Yesterday afternoon I was walking down a hallway with all of my huge bags (which has been a large part of BlogHer, by the way) when I came upon a big blue mascot-like character (in my memory, at least 7 feet tall). As I was approaching him, it occurred to me that I didn't know what it was underneath, man or woman. So, I was all freaked out about being like, "Excuse me, big blue mascot, but can I get by you?" I didn't want to start up a conversation---I knew where that would go (not as much it's been great meeting all of the ladies at BlogHer as and what's your name, little girl?). So when it came time for me to speak up, I said, "Excuse me." Like that would've worked with a mascot? It started flailing its arms about and doing little jumps, gearing up for a staining session. I found a tiny hole underneath its wing and scuttled away, tragedy narrowly averted. Who wants to talk to mascots?

I'm waiting for the closing session with Dooce. More soon…

My Buddy Grover

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 23:11:00 +0000

My Buddy Grover, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

Don't you love how his hair is all windswept?

I'm on Sesame Street!

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 21:47:00 +0000

This is for TM! I skipped a very important session today because I thought this was worth it. Oh yes.

@ BlogHer

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 21:49:00 +0000

@ BlogHer, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

In a breakout session, talking about mommyblogging. With other mommies who blog. Heaven!

BlogHer Blogging

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 16:28:00 +0000

I'm at BlogHer '08. Right now. Only this is what I endured before getting here:

Saying goodbye to a sick toddler, whose baby arms clung to me with fevered desperation when I tried to leave.
Leaving a kind husband, who will manage the household---one sick babe and one sickeningly cool labrador---while I'm away.
A 30-minute wait in the hot, hot, hot parking shuttle while the driver made sure to get everyone, and I mean everyone, on board. When we left the parking lot, I had strained a neck muscle from all of the pretending not to look at the couple who definitely indoor-tanned together.
A plane seat behind a couple who were jumping up and down in their seats. I can't explain this, really, but they were bouncing. No, not because of that---they were in separate seats.
A layover in Salt Lake City.
A late arrival to Oakland. We're talking 10:45 here, people. OK? Do you know what time that is in St. Louis? 12:45 AM.
A cab to Claire's in San Francisco.
Hugs, kisses, and frenzied catch-ups.
A very short night sleep.
An early wakeup because my Moo cards didn't arrive in time and I gotta have some loot. I'm headed to Kinko's, or something.
A stomach ache because I've saved being nervous for last.

My expectations for BlogHer are scattered because I have no idea what I should expect. Things I've heard and seen from friends and other bloggers?

It's a party.
There are cliques.
There are after-parties.
Big bloggers are exclusive.
When in the company of women, watch out!
There is a lot of socializing and new-friends-making.
The first night is an important night (missed it!).
There are cocktails.
Don't worry, its fun!
Everyone is blogging during the conference.

I'm thinking that I can't wait to meet my other BlogHer Ads ladies. For sure. I have their numbers and will be calling them (i.e., Pick up!). This is Laura's first time, too, but the others are seasoned vets, institutions, around BlogHer's conferences. I started blogging over 4 years ago, so I'm not really a newbie, just a newbie to this whole new way of thinking. Blog as writing. Blog as message. Mommyblogger.

Years ago, I was a huge fan of Heather Armstrong's. Before I even had Toddler Monster, I really admired her painful (but oh so rich!) accounts of her postpartum struggles. When I was pregnant, I was invited to join a network of pregnant bloggers. We were grouped by due date, so most of the ladies in my group gave birth to their children at about the same time. In those first few months with Toddler Monster, when I thought I was literally broken, I devoured these other mommy blogs. I was on an endless search for shared experiences, so I'd be up in the middle of the night searching for some kernel of evidence that what I was feeling was normal. And it was, of course, but the times were very hard for us. Blogging helped a lot.

So that's sort of how I ended up here, at BlogHer '08, writing about going to BlogHer '08. I am so excited! Squueeeeeeee! But, dammit, will anyone talk to me? I have really cute outfits.

What they do to us...

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 18:55:00 +0000

I just got off the phone with my sister-in-law, whose daughter will be 15 this year (same birthday as TM!). Apparently, my niece is starting to show an interest in boys. Inviting them over to the house, going bowling with them. You know, the usual stuff. As always, I am super-impressed with my SIL’s parenting skills and overall presence in her kids’ lives. What girl, at 14, wants boys to come over to her house to hang out with her parents? See?

She is having a mini-freakout because she realizes that this is something huge---something she went through, something that comes with a whole lot of pain and heartbreak.

SIL: “Ashley, really, it just kills me. She is just beginning, you know?”

Me, getting really anxious all of a sudden. Imagining TM at 15, but staying strong for SIL: “I know. But it’s so exciting! And all of our experiences are so different.”

SIL: “Yeah…”

Me: “Really, this is good, because at her age I was making cocktail stew out of Crème de Menthe and Tequila. And she’s watching scary movies with soda in your basement! You’re AWESOME!”

SIL: "Don't SCARE me!"

Today, she’s totally feeling the pangs of mommyness.

Yesterday, TM and I went to a birthday party for a friend of hers (gotta love that, right?). TM had a great time at the party. There were mats and beams and balls and bubbles and all of those other things that make 2-yr-olds squeal with delight. There was also a really loud annoying lady trying to herd them all into one place (whom I seriously contemplated smacking with a pool noodle or two).

When it was time for pizza and cake, TM sat in her little seat and waited patiently for her food.

I got this picture of her then. I think she was exhausted and a little bit overwhelmed by all of the activity and noise, but when I saw this, my heart felt like it weighed about 60 lbs and was---any minute---going to spill out of my chest. She was just waiting, so patiently. Shortly thereafter, I realized the little girl sitting next to her had spilled her entire Hawaiian Punch onto TM, who was s-o-a-k-e-d. So here I am, taking pictures of my soaking wet daughter, who was hungry and tired and maybe a little bit sad?

And I had a moment of mommy pangs.

My Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 13:10:00 +0000

122, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

Those cheeks. Those eyes. She's almost two. I love my girl.

What do you wanna know about hubs?

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 03:31:00 +0000

It's his birthday---July 12---so here are 50 juicy tidbits I whipped up just for you.

He's 38 today.

He has one sibling, a sister.
He was born in Delaware.
He went to a Quaker school when he was young. Loved it.
He loves Reece's Pieces.

He does a lot to get out of just drinking plain water.
His favorite drink, hydration-wise, is Crystal Light Ruby Red Grapefruit.

It's a powder, you know? So I am convinced it is ruining his health.
They don't sell it here anymore and, if I was a Godly person, I'd think someone was smiling down on me.

He likes a beer called Old Thumper.

He loves to work in the yard with his dad.
He is a college professor.
He has most of his summers off, if you don't count how he cons me into helping him enter data (for free!) for scholarly research purposes.
He is hard of hearing in one ear. When he sleeps with that ear exposed (and pretends not to hear doesn't hear the baby wake up), I beat him senseless with whatever I can find next to our bed.
He stayed home alternating days during TM's first 6 months so that I could finish graduate school and so she wouldn't have to be in daycare.
He prefers mountains to beaches.

He hates the summer heat.
He likes to do crossword puzzles A LOT.

He never gets tired when he runs.
He has a dance to Ventura Highway.

His immediate family has no apparent addiction issues.
He wanted a little girl.

He would never change the sheets if he lived alone.
He's a spy novel addict. He buys his books at the grocery store. They have raised lettering on their covers.
He loves the Bourne series.
He is a sports nut.
You wouldn't assume that upon meeting him.
But don't challenge it. He will waste you. Trust me.
He didn't eat red meat for 15 years before we got together. Now we fight over the filet on the menu and he feels good about it because it is my fault.
He has an intelli-crush on Jan Crawford Greenburg from the News Hour.

He recently paid a pretty penny for a pair of red shoes that have completely altered his personality. He has an edge now.
He is totally trustworthy. Tomorrow we will have a scavenger hunt for his birthday, which we have done for years, and I've already hidden his gifts. I KNOW he will not look for them.
He knows I would look for my gifts.

He is a creature of habit.
He calls people he doesn't like zeros or doughnuts.

He met Kelly McGillis in a bar in DC once. He tells this story A LOT.
He never raises his voice.
When he is angry, his ears go back and he gives the silent treatment.
His fingers look like they were squished. His nail beds are literally flat.
He cooks for us.
He brings home raspberries 'cause he knows I love them.
He makes fun of me because my nostrils are not symmetrical.
He used to drive a Suburu. It was stolen.
His family decorated a ficus at Christmastime. Until me.

In the car, he is either listening to NPR or Sports radio.
He has a bazillion t-shirts. Seriously.
He is a very loyal friend.
He wishes we lived in Maine.
He spoons Mr. Gabe.
He doesn't sleep well when I'm not home.
He returns books and movies on time.
He is a very considerate and doting husband.

Perhaps the most important thing? Not included here? He will remind me of 10 or so much more important pieces I left out. Happy 38^th sweetie!

On lint rollers and lesser things.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 17:20:00 +0000

I was vacuuming the couch the other day in preparation for a house guest when I got to thinking. I'm not really the kind of person who cares about a little dog fur on a couch. I don't like spending time in gross houses, of course, and I used to hate going over to a friend's house in middle school because her parents smoked inside and you could actually see where it had dyed things yellow. Ugh. I would DIE before allowing TM to spend time in a home where the parents smoke. Times have changed. But I am for sure not a neatnik or a clean freak. Sadly, there are two Ashleys, one who is fine collecting pajamas on the bathroom floor and the other who is obsessed with presenting a neat/clean house for others.

Fast forward to a little bit later when I am reading some of those filthy stinking good magazines I took from my mom---where there are references to "dressing your day tee up with a slim pant and bold necklace." My first thought is, "Who calls them "a pant?" Aren't they pants? And do those same people call scissors "a scissor?" 'Cause that really bothers me. But anyway, those "pant" references were accompanied by pictures of the ladies who wear them. You know, the kinds of ladies who carry little lint rollers in platinum cases inside of their purses?...

...and then there are the casual mentions of the things we all need to be doing to stay young. Nothing said about avoiding the sun or wearing sunscreen or accepting aging gracefully, mind you, just:

"Wrinkle reduction doesn't exactly qualify as a medical emergency, but a little proactive dermatology is one of the best investments you can make for your face (Vogue, July 2008, p.74)."

This is so rambling, I know, but I can trace so many of my internal pressures to do more and be better to reading all of the garbage available to me. Martha Stewart Living? Have you even seen the weddings edition? I feed my soul with that stuff. And THEN I wake up and look at the laundry and I'm all, "Dammit. I am failing! TM will never go to a good college. Her mother can't even establish a proper t-shirt drawer."

Boo!

In which I decide I'll probably homeschool.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 18:18:00 +0000

How many homeschooling parents say, "Yeah, sure, there are great schools out there, but I was just never able to detach enough...?" I mean, do they say that? Or is it just, "I am NOT putting my child out there to be educated by a system that does not even support education?" 'Cause I could totally say that, but would it be THAT or that I couldn't let go? Just me. Just saying.

Today, TM starts a new preschool program. Like a big girl, I walked her into her new classroom where her best friend, Ava, was awaiting her. Her teacher greeted her and asked if she wanted to paint. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? My child, not want to paint? She was very happy and I was very happy to see that she took up chatting with her teacher right away.

B came with me for support purposes. I didn't want to embarrass anyone by breaking down in the middle of the room with, "Noooooooooooooo! I need her at home with me! I need to sniff her hair and kiss her baby cheeks! DON'T YOU GET IT?"

When we got on the waiting list for this wonderful place, they sent us home with a packet of materials to review (before she started). This was 5 months ago. I have read it countless numbers of times. In it, there is a list of things parents can do to help their children transition into the preschool environment. That list includes another list of things that parents shouldn't do---i.e., hang around for a long time when you drop your child off (thus getting in the way of their healthy attachment to their teacher). Suffice it to say I was a teensy bit concerned that I was more likely than not to do all of the things on the list. I'm the one with the problem here. I'm the one that can't let go. It's good for her, right? To be with people who care about her? And other toddlets?

Here's the thing: This has to happen. We just don't have any help here in the Middle. B is preparing his tenure portfolio and I am working about 4.5 hours a day from home. We get all googly-eyed when our corners grow laundry piles and we start calling each other mommy and daddy. That's why it is so nice to spend a lot of our summer with family. Perks of a professor's life, right?

Gearing up for the detachment (i.e., when she goes to preschool) makes it that much harder to come back. But here we are... And I believe she'll love it there and have lots of toddly stories for me when I go get her.

I hope. Or else.

Hal and Meme Wedding Shots

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 20:48:00 +0000

108, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

Please click on the hyperlinked title above to see three sets from the Ross dinner party, the wedding day luncheon, and the wedding.

Jean has died.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 03:30:00 +0000

Well, traveling without a Toddler Monster sure is easier than traveling with one. I'm relaxed, though my baby drool is on overtime because I need her. I've got it bad. I'm sitting here waiting for the flight to board, thinking of her poufy hair when she gets up in the morning. And of her little toes (MY PIGGIES, MAMA!) and her little girl legs (so squishy). Very excited to see her. B took her to a preschool orientation this morning---says she did really well---I'm a basketcase about that, dammit, but oh well.

I've been in Savannah for a quick 24 hours. My grandmother Jean has died after a harrowing month in and out of the emergency room for various difficulties (no doubt related to her health and age). When we were here in July, she was almost comatose, having suffered a very serious urinary tract infection and some sort of fluid in her lungs. She was awake for a few of those days, so we were all able to say hello to her (and give her hugs and kisses), but I'm not certain that our visits were something she remembered. She was really weak and didn't have much physical strength. She was able to raise her eyebrows when commanded, but the neurologist seemed certain she had suffered some neurological damage.

Jean was my dad's mom. She was born in Hot Springs, Arkansas in the late 1920s. Like two of my other grandparents, she was an only child. She graduated with a journalism degree from the University of Kansas and worked as a reporter for the Kansas City Star for a number of years before she met my grandfather (in the military, stationed temporarily in Arkansas). They moved to Savannah (his hometown) and had my dad, their eldest, and his brother (who, along with his wife and children, has provided a majority of the care and support for Jean these last few years). Sometime during my dad's teenage years, they were divorced. Jean married a man in Augusta, GA and divorced him, too, just a few years later, before moving back to Savannah. Here's the thing: She went back to Augusta for years for her hair appointments. I like that detail.

She and my dad had a complicated relationship. I'm not sure exactly why it was complicated. There were some rough times before I was born. I think she was frustrated with him for not spending more time with her in her later years. And I KNOW he was frustrated with her for being frustrated with him. She made a comment to Al B. after he died, something like, "Well, I didn't see him that much anyway," that was, in many ways, classic Jean. I don't think she intended it to be hurtful, but delicateness was not always her strong suit.

I am deeply interested in my family's roots, really, and Jean is the only family member for as long as I can trace that wasn't born in Savannah. For that reason (and others), I have taken great care in gathering bits and pieces of her history. Her father, a Clarkson, was from Philadelphia, PA, and moved to Hot Springs because he worked in the lumber industry. His father was an MIT graduate, which is important to me because I have always thought of that side of my family as being very English-inclined (journalists, attorneys, etc). I think MIT would have been one of the last places I would have considered for myself (rats!). Her mother, a Costilow, who was described by my uncle as "a real spitfire," migrated to Hot Springs via Broken Bow, Montana. She had two spinster (in her words) aunts who lived in Medford, OR (on an orchard) and Kansas City, MO (in a beautiful old home that is now a country club). Those aunts, one whose name was Pauline, never married and left her everything they had (which included a great deal of beautiful silver and porcelain). My mom told me today that she was not related to those aunts by blood. I don't know what to do with that information right now.

For as long as I can remember, Jean lived alone. First she had Charlie, who was a mangy squeaker dog (no more than 12 lbs) she inherited from my other grandparents (after Charlie's eye had been gouged in a dog fight). Boompa decided he couldn't live with a little dog (not masculine enough), and Jean was happy to take 'Ol Charlie (blind in one eye) in. She loved him A LOT. I remember he went to the beauty parlor once a week and always had pretty little blue bows in his hair (which my dad found SICK). Later on, she was given Daisy, a Jack Russell terrier, whom she also adored. Daisy and Jean gained a lot of weight together and, eventually, Jean developed Type II Diabetes (which led to a number of hospitalizations and a severely compromised quality of life). At her request, I'd bring her Krystal burgers for lunch. Daisy always got one. She was like a barrel with legs and a little Beetlejuice head.

B's first introduction to Jean was about 4 years ago, right around the time when truthiness was becoming more and more a part of our relationship. I wasn't embarrassed to introduce him to Jean, but I was moderately uncomfortable that the initial meeting took place in her home, which was quite filthy at the time (due to her immobilization and poor health). He actually scooped Daisy's poop in the hallway that day (on his own accord---a keeper, right?). My mom was mortified. I think it was character building. Anyway, she loved him. Loved him. When I spoke with her over the telephone, she'd always say, "How's my boy? He's so handsome, Ash." And then TM was born, and, GOOD LORD, was she over the moon. TM was her first and only great-grandchild. I think she was thrilled to have a baby girl.

Because both sets of my grandparents lived in the same place, there were the inevitable comparisons between them. My mom's parents, always intact, were always stable, supportive, and very active in our lives. My dad's parents, also major factors, were different. My dad's dad died when Al B. and I were 13, and before that our visits with him happened primarily at holiday times (I think). He had a very serious relationship with a woman named Rosemary, and I always enjoyed spending time at her house. Jean was always a bit of a recluse. A lot of people described her as difficult, but I am less inclined to agree with that description. She was high maintenance, for sure. Whatever that means. Opinionated. Hearty. A bit of a loner. But I think living along for a long time is isolating and hard. I'd probably be difficult, too. I admire that she continued to do things with friends that were challenging and new---like painting and traveling. She was quirky. When I told her where I had given birth to TM (in St. Louis, dammit, her birthplace), she told me she had gotten a facelift there years ago. I love that detail.

The last few years of her life were definitely not characteristic of her prior experiences. As much as it has pained me to travel to Savannah for another funeral, I would not have wanted Jean to leave that hospital to lay in her bed, alone, for the rest of her days. She had done that for long enough. That is just not living.

My aunt and uncle had a reception for her at their home after her funeral service. I think we all wondered who would attend Jean's funeral service, particularly because of her recent social isolation and the approaching 4^th of July weekend. I was pleased to see a lot of her old friends there. After the reception, we went over to Jean's to sort through her belongings and make lists of things that we may want for ourselves. It felt strange. I think we all just wanted to be as judicious as possible---there were a lot of "Once you've gone through everything, then I'll…"

I feel fortunate that I was able to spend time with her in July. I am thankful that she was alive to attend my wedding and see her first great grandchild born. I am sorry that TM won't remember her and I hope I have enough stories collected to share them with her later down the road. I've been meticulous about collecting pictures, letters, stories, and all sorts of things that will help me remember and honor her life (and her significant presence in my life).

In-between internets.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 13:55:00 +0000

You wouldn't know, probably, because I haven't been near you all summer, but the words "internet" and "connection" are coming really close to giving me stomach ulcers. Here's the thing: In Maine any internet connection was very unpredictable. I was at the mercy of others' connections, others who were generous enough to lend me their shops and homes so that I could work and catch up on life. There were so many, so very many times when I would come back to the house and say something like, You won't believe this. Their internet connection was down! Again. or They lost power! or It was very slow… or I kept being kicked off! or I thought it would work! I am now an internet snob (more on that in a bit).

But now we are back here and DON'T EVEN BOTHER asking us about our internet connection. Because we're better than you (or so we thought), we got rid of our cable before we left and started our broadband service with VW. The TV wasn't a big deal. I stuck a safety pin in the cable hole and we were able to get a fuzzy Sesame Street. The internet scenario would have been okay, I presume, except that we would have exceeded the allowed bandwidth (5GB) and then they start making personal calls to your bank. Not kidding, folks. For every little something or other byte, they charge you almost .50. Unbelievable, and not good. For us, anyway. We chose VW because they are (or were, rather) the only "high speed" internet service provider in our area of Maine. And by high speed, I mean it takes me 2 minutes to open my blog (more on that in a bit). Thank goodness for DSL.

Do you know the feeling I have when I really want to write something on a slow internet connection? It is the true test of patience. By the time I have signed in and have jumped through three fire hoops to the New Post, all I want to write about is how annoying it is that it took me so long to get there. So, here it is. That post. Because I am working for BlogHer this morning and will plan on posting all of the interesting stuff on Thursday, when we get hooked up to our fiber optic cable internet connection (called u-verse). Doesn't it all sound so Back to the Future?

When I was on the phone with the *very nice and extremely pleasant* salesperson at AT&T (because we have dropped Charter Communications like a bad habit! Good riddance!), I was all, "Fine, but how fast is this connection? Compare it to VW Broadband. Right, and how does it compare to your DSL service? Right, and will I be working on a shared network?" These questions I learned to ask when I was deprived. Ande when Thursday rolls around and I have my pajamas on at 10 AM, working at a leisurely pace at my desk at home, I'll be posting new blog posts like nobody's business. Can't wait for that.

Happy Anniversary!

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 12:30:00 +0000

Happy Anniversary!, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

Six years ago, you were the only one in Athens, GA with a beard and a ponytail. I loved you long before we ever met. When we finally did meet, we were at a bar. I walked in with Claire, saw you there (alone), turned to her and said, "Mine!" It sounds ridiculous, right? Okay, not really. And we went to a movie the next night---Moonlight Mile. I was too focused on your fabulousness to care about the movie. I can remember EVERYTHING about that night. Even the music we listened to (in your car, a Suburu Outback, of course).

After you moved to STL and I moved to DC, we found that no one else would do. Our first getting-back-together experience was at your parents' place the Christmas after I moved to DC. We were totally love-starved. Weekend trips back and forth soon commenced.

I moved to STL and we were married. TM was born just a year later (That was fast!) after a blissful pregnancy and, over these last couple of years, you have shown me just how solid, capable, and supportive you can be. The first year of TM's life? To someone who hasn't yet had children, let me put it for you this way: Running a marathon in the heat of the summer with a hangover. Almost impossible. Some people have different experiences, of course, but this was ours. We were blindsided by the all-nighters and the expectation that we would still be productive. We were, dammit. I remember standing in front of a classroom of people saying, "Sorry, I know I prepared a presentation, but I have a 3-month-old and I can't remember what I was supposed to say."

We've really needed each other here in the Midwest, where we feel stuck and like two fish out of water. As is always the case, we share a long view and a desire to get somewhere else, together. The East coast? West? Who knows. There are lots of unknowns. We like to talk about our plans as if they are really happening, though (Uhhh, if we lived in X we could do X and send TM to X camp and do X, you get the picture). That entertains us A LOT.

I feel so fortunate to share a life with you, our daughter, and our dog. I'd love to tell the story of our anniversary dinner out last week---that's the STORY---but I won't, OK? Instead, a toast. Here's to us (clink clink)!

Cheers!

I love you!

A

Four Generations

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 12:20:00 +0000

Four Generations, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

Here's my grandmother, TM, me, and my mom (on her wedding day). We recently lost my grandfather, but my grandmother did an amazing job of handling all of the event-planning for the wedding (held at her house). I'm still in picture processing mode, but hope to have them up next week.

In different news, that Saturday flight? Back home to the Middle? Yeah, that one is actually on Monday. So I'll be home Monday. And am happy for the trip extension.

If I breastfeed, shouldn't he do everything else?

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 10:28:00 +0000

I printed a copy of the NY Times Magazine's When Mom and Dad Share It All because I read about it on a fellow blogger's website and wasn't home to get a Times on Sunday. The story's on one particular approach to equal parenting (or co-parenting or shared parenting), which involves parents keeping a computerized chart of who does what, when---basically, you take out the garbage and I'll put the dishes away, etc. If this really is about equal and I deliver her and breastfeed her, shouldn't he do EVERYTHING ELSE? Just saying.

I didn't really want to read the article. I was afraid that it would put more pressure on me to DO IT ALL, just like everything else I pick up and read these days. INFORMATION OVERLOAD. And I don't mean the pressure to raise children, work, climb mountains, make good coffee, be green, etc. (although there certainly is THAT). I mean the pressure to balance, too (so that I am not working too much, not spending too much time doting on my daughter, not neglecting my spouse, not neglecting myself, catching up on sleep, you know?).

And that's basically what it did, though the headline on the front of the magazine (Will Dad Ever Do His Share?) would have you think that it was all about pointing out dads' shortcomings.

Actually, the NYT's headline choice was probably a bad idea (from a marketing standpoint). I imagine a lot of dads, themselves exhausted and overworked, too, purposefully avoided the article. Dads are doing more than ever these days, for sure. But if a dad is not doing his fair share of the at-home work, is he going to pick up this article and say, "Hmmmm....this looks like a great idea. Let's get that chart and figure things out so that things are more shared around here."? See? More pressure on mom.

Just whose job is it to make sure that everything is broken down equally? The parents in the article sound quite capable, but let's not ignore the reality: They've worked long and hard to move against the grain. It isn't easy for a woman to say to her husband (and kids), "I'm working full time. You stay home with the kids." And for a husband to be OK with that? Be happy with that? Just saying. Not something you see every day. And that is certainly something to be considered. But maybe this is about evolving social norms.

The whole article reminded me a lot of the way I feel about women who choose to keep their maiden names when they marry but then give their children their husband's name. Is is equal, then?

Which brings me to my next point, which comes to me at least once a day is worth a mention here: This is all bigger than us. All of it, really. I was raised by baby boomers (who were, in turn, raised by The Greatest Generation, right? And don't even get me started on THAT). I don't think in equal terms, not because I don't think it would be great to split things evenly, but because I have never seen the even split done. And if I haven't seen it done, then I haven't seen it done well.

Even in my marriage, where my husband cooks every day and co-manages the TM (Oh! And pays the bills and remembers organizational things and does car-ish stuff), I am driven crazy by the constant need to organize or clean. Like I'd be failing us if the sheets went two whole weeks without being washed. Yes! I get sickly satisfaction out of vacuum marks in the carpet. Ugh. I hate me now. Add to that the general messiness of this family's life (summers away from home, tenure-track, graduate school, new childcare arrangements) and the icky feeling I get when I think of rigidity and monotony and how that really takes the fun out of things. What if I don't want to commit to being the person who folds underwear at 7:30 AM every morning?

Suddenly tired. Blink. Blink.

I think the article says a lot about what our society values. Work. Money. Prestige (And there isn't prestige in sleeplessness and baggy bras. Apparently). But what is happier than a TM stretched out over a sleeping hubby? See? SEE?.

I cringed when I read, "They [parents] weren’t born in those jobs; they chose them,” Deutsch says. What decision tree, planted decades earlier and steeped in unspoken assumption, she wonders, led him to be a surgeon and her to be a social worker? What led her to work in a field where four-day weeks are common and him to work where they are unheard of?"

Yeah, so that's part of it, of course. Social workers tend to work fewer hours than surgeons, but that is certainly not why I chose social work as a profession. It's part of the larger stuff, yes. But the core issue behind THAT decision (the one to pursue psychotherapy as a career) has to do with the woman as caretaker phenomenon. Not fewer hours (I never even considered flexibility). And woman as caretaker wasn't specifically addressed by the author, who FOR SURE lost credibility there (in my eyes). And if you really think about it, doesn't the example of surgeon-as-male really perpetuate the unfortunate stereotypes? Are they really heartless bastards who work late and have poor bedside manners? I'm certain that this is less and less likely the case.

Some of the quotes really stuck with me. I can't deny there is some legitimacy to the piece.

The article: “It’s a chicken-and-egg thing,” she says. “Even when men and women start off with equal jobs, they make decisions along the way — to emphasize career or not, to trade brutal hours for high salary or not.”

True, sadly, for many women. Most of my mommy friends.

The article: "Messages, loud and soft, direct and oblique, reinforce contextual choice. “A pregnant woman and her husband,” Deutsch says, “how many people have asked her if she is going to go back to work after the baby? How many have asked him?”

True, too. Sick! Worth considering...

I think it was an interesting read. Biased, for sure, but the NY Times is not a peer-reviewed journal THANK GOD and is, thus, still really juicy. I guess I am thankful for the fact that I live now (as opposed to then) and can feel comfortable saying (and hearing), "No, I'm not doing that, you are!" Ultimately, B and I are not "split everything down the middle" kinds of folks. We both have things we like to do and things we don't like to do. Since we've become parents, we've both had to cut back on things we love to do (but are loving that those things are coming back now that TM is a bit older). I guess for us it is more about being aware and responsive to the other person's needs so that they don't get really mean and bite you while you're sleeping at night. 'Cause that's what happens when you aren't getting your needs met.

Happy Wedding, Hal and Nancy!

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 19:14:00 +0000

Happy Wedding, Hal and Nancy!, originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

What a blast! And I'm in the process of sprucing hundreds of fabulous wedding shots. But because I know she's w.a.i.t.i.n.g...

Happy Father's Day, Beatle.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 19:43:00 +0000

of nails, wax, Johnny Depp, and Zilla.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 03:49:00 +0000

My mom and I went to a nail salon to get manicures and pedicures and left looking like this:
Why? Don't ask us because we wouldn't know. All I know is I made an appointment for 1:00 PM and we sat in our vibrating thrones (with feet in scalding water) for 40 minutes before someone decided it was our turn. We were unbelievably passive aggressive. I was lit-er-ally afraid the skin on my feet was going to melt off. There was a water trail to and from the nail polish colors wall (it was the only way we could get a break and why did I feel weird about taking my feet out of the water?). At one point, I had a different color nail polish on every finger nail (none mine, but I was used as a palette on while 'zilla determined her wedding color).

We passed the time talking about Johnny Depp and how he is maybe getting married Saturday here in Savannah.

Me: If Johnny Depp is here, that's it. I'm totally going to his wedding. I hope you know.

Zilla: He's mine. He used to be my screensaver. And I saw all three of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. At least 15 times.

Me: Nope. Mine. And Pirates of the Caribbean is clearly not a movie that leaves you dreaming of Johnny Depp.

Zilla: Mine. Just because.

Me: Whatever. Do you think Johnny Depp would think red-ish fingernails were really sad?

Zilla: Definitely.

Me: Your big toenail is as big as a TV screen. You have a TV screen big toe.

Anyway, somewhere along the way we were split up. After I told the woman 7 times that I wasn't getting acrylic nails. No. NO. NO. Good lord. She insisted she buff my nails so that they are "shiny, at the very least." Picture the lady looking really convincing. My natural nails look way better than tacky 80s acrylics. Sorry. 15 minutes later, she was giving me a scalp massage and I had had every hair on my face and neck waxed. She even yelled at me when I winced. The same thing happened to my mom, only she was talked into getting her nails squared (the decision was reversed when I walked over and scoffed!---If someone had bumped into them at her reception, they would have been sliced wide open).

There were two televisions playing a soap opera with a woman with big fish lips. They didn't move when she talked. Do people still watch soap operas? There's a market for them? I don't get that. Why are their houses always so dark? And have you ever noticed that what it all boils down to is whether or not someone is able to cast their gaze toward the light for that end-of-the-scene glimmer? Soap operas are dumb. But maybe entertaining, too---could it be an intellectual pursuit? The Origins of Soap Operas and How They Became A Media Sensation A Long Time Ago and Nobody Knows Why. Now there's some really important research.

They thought we were sisters---and they weren't just saying that. And when she asked me how many children my mom had and I said three, she asked how many were boys. I told her I have a twin brother and a younger brother. And she was shocked, because she comes from somewhere where a twin girl and boy is bad news. She says she spent most of her life convinced that girl and boy twins could never lead healthy lives. I was much more interested in that tidbit than I was in having the breath beat out of me by this woman (which is what was happening as she was telling me sad news).

There was a sign there that read: Please don't touch the light the light is very hot PLEASE AND THANK YOU please just don't touch any light.

When we got to the counter to pay, they told us our total (together) was about 6x what we expected it to be, so that's when we figured out that it wasn't really all about our charm and sensibilities anyway. We were totally dooped. Which was fine, 'cause it was really funny. My mom was so out of it when she left that she said, "I don't have any face left on my hair."

Yep.

Happy sunset.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 12:38:00 +0000

Happy sunset., originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

At the beach, loving life. And preparing for MeMe's Saturday wedding. Add to the new OBSESSED category: TM not getting sunburned. Have you SEEN tan babies at the beach? They're there. Golden. That isn't a goal of mine.

No Words...

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 12:15:00 +0000

No Words..., originally uploaded by theredheadedlefty.

Seriously, when I look at this, it makes my heart hurt a little bit. Sure, it is hilarious. Of course. But doesn't he also look like a giant nerd? God, I love him.

Dear Biter:

noreply@blogger.com (Ashley) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 02:46:00 +0000

I'm not sure why you're biting me, but that's not really the problem. I'm more concerned that I don't know how to stop it. You're very happy. You laugh a lot and tell jokes in toddler speak. You get plenty of exercise and we love you so much that we gave you the coolest room in the beach house (and you know how dada gets all mopey when it's hot and makes things difficult). Anyway, you know you're the best, right? Or is that the problem?

I'd read the latest literature on toddlers who bite, but I'm afraid I know what it will say. I know that there won't be one answer to one problem. There are spectrums (assertive vs. behavior-disordered) and discipline (redirection vs. No!) and appropriate (friendly nibble kiss vs. shark attack) and attachment (love your baby a lot vs. love your baby while she nurses on demand, sleeping in between you and your spouse until age 9) and all sorts of fancy words that "parenting experts" use to pay the bills (and none of them are going to get me any closer to getting to the root of this particular problem, OK?).

Here's the thing: I'm definitely not going to bite you back. I actually had someone suggest that to me. I pictured the scenario in my mind just before I considered all of the future scenarios when similar disciplinary action could be taken (like when you're a teenager and you stay out late, past curfew, and then the next night---to teach you a lesson---you and dada have to come pick me up outside the bar at 3 AM because I've been kicked out for dancing topless on the tables)---none of them seemed like good ideas. We put you in time out, and that sort of worked until I came back in to save you and you had wandered off to the sun porch, where I found you looking out at the ocean (through big black binoculars, backwards). I'm sticking with time out anyway, though, 'cause I think we're alike---there's nothing worse than being denied dessert and FORCED to abstain from the conversation.

I'm pretty serious when I tell you I don't like being bitten. You know that, right? I won't raise my voice, but I won't pretend to be sad and make you kiss my boo boo, either. That doesn't work. It makes you want to give me lots of boo boos to kiss and you also get sort of a mean gleam in your eye that scares my delicate skin.

*Any advice is certainly appreciated.*