24/7

Sometimes when I'm not expecting Number Two to be looking in my direction, his huge hazels make me jump. They don't blink. There are no lines in the vellum of his eyelids as they open with an intensity to which I'm not accustomed. His whole face--yellowish tan, with undertones of red--is pulled taut by the stretch of two enormous eyes. Nobody else looks at me like that. Nobody else cranes his neck when I am gone, always stretching, always searching, for me. I can see in him the mama's boy, now and forever, when his gaze reaches me but his spastic wiggle won't. In those moments, the smoothness of new skin creases into wrinkles like age. His voice opens to a wail. He wants to hold onto me, but only his neck, and above that a mouth and two great eyes, are under his control. In my arms he is quiet again, and no longer wizened, as if my touch has the smoothing power of a quick caress over a rumpled sheet. I smell the baby mixture of soap and tears and milk on the fluff o...

I've blogged every day so far this month. This is no small feat considering I wrote only 60 posts over the course of the ENTIRE YEAR before November rolled around. NaBloPoMo is designed to help make blogging a habit by motivating writers to crank out posts every day, including weekends, for thirty days. It's great in theory. But the way my mind works, a habit is only worthwhile if it makes me fat and drunk and gives me cancer. Blogging every day? It's like jogging. These are dangerous gateway exercises. Next thing you know, I'll be running a marathon and writing a novel. Seriously, though. I'm way past making promises that I'm going to keep up this kind of prolificity . I didn't even announce my participation in NaBloPoMo this time around, so leery was I of embarrassing myself like I did last year when I flaked out on November 22 and didn't write again for five days. One of my biggest failings is lack of motivation. Admitting it is not my problem--it...

We are a happy family... ...except for Numbr Two, who is surly. "Don't go there. Just don't go there."

My mother woke early this morning to put the turkey in the oven. The Boss padded down the stairs about three hours after that. For a half hour longer, The Partner and I remained in bed, where we heard mumbled utterings from downstairs amidst the aroma of coffee grinds and turkey drip. Without knowing what preceded it, we heard The Boss plaintively state "I'll have to ask my daddy about that." The padding came up the stairs this time, and then The Boss was in our room. The Partner pulled the sheet over his head and pretended not to be there. It's their game. The Boss giggled when I asked her where her father was. She pulled the sheet off him and got straight to the business at hand. "Daddy, nana said today is Thanksgiving, but I told her I had to ask you." I stifled my laughter. I couldn't see The Partner's face, but it's safe to assume there was gloat there. "Yes," he assured her. "Today is Thanksgiving." The Boss was satisfie...

The other day I was sitting on my circular swivel love seat with a child in each arm. The weight of them there against me had to be one of the best feelings in the world. Pillows of faux suede beneath us emphasized the softness of the moment. My legs were laid in front of me on the chair in a bent up sort of "N." My babies were single quotation marks snuggled up against me. It was sweet but unremarkable until Number Two reached out across my chest to grab The Boss's hand. For ten unbelievable seconds, she let him hold her. She, who does her best to avoid any contact with the physical reminder that she is no longer the sole source of her parents' affection. She, who remembers to resent him only when he needs my attention, settling for ignoring him the rest of the time. While I held my breath, she let his grip, strong as silk but less slippery, wind itself around her fingers. Then she shook him off and I exhaled. Her mouth set in a line of distaste. She wiggled her shou...

I saw in my periphery the slow, automated descent of a Cadillac trunk lid and I felt a pang in my chest. Some people feel this when they see newborn babies, or a sunset, or the first of a five course meal being delivered to their table on a tray. Me, I get palpitations at the sight of a 90s-era Cadillac STS with a Northstar engine. I had one, once. Her name was Daisy. She was born in 1993 and showed up in my parents' driveway circa 2000, the year I graduated college. She was shiny then. She was not dented or missing side panels in the way she would quickly become accustomed to once I slid behind the wheel. The leather seats were only beginning to show rear-wear in the driver and front passenger seat when I took ownership. The dashboard arched in front of me with luxurious architecture. She was sublime. I required only two years to drive her into the ground. Each stop on the journey through my milestones--my first job, my first apartment, my first trip halfway across country for a w...

I live in a small, rural town on the eastern side of Connecticut. We've got farms and Big Pharm . We've got elderly residents who've been here for decades and young transplants with money to spend. We don't have a high school or a supermarket. Our local park is a chain link enclosure built around one tire swing and a glorified litterbox in which children like to dig with shovels. We don't have an official post office building. But what we do have is an establishment on the second floor of a shady building in the center of town that recently unfurled a shingle reading "[ Insert name of Eastern medicinal plant here ] Spa and Massage." I would type the actual name, except that it might draw some local Internet traffic I'd rather steer clear of. Currently the business has no Internet presence--via its own Web site or Yellow Pages listing--that I can find. Maybe it's legitimate. I don't want to cast aspersions. But I can tell you that few people I ...

My first memory: I know this is my earliest memory because grandma died when I was two. Before that, she was frail on a living room recliner. There were plastic prongs in her nose. There was a long tube. She sat attached. I do not remember being unbelievably small, but I was. I think they told me to give her a hug. I think I cowered. They pushed against my pull-back. I was crying. Grandma was dying. I was two. The best lesson my mom taught me was not to care what others think about me. When I was young and concerned with appearances, it was torture dealing with her lack of regard for such things. God, she was embarrassing. Now that I've grown a bit, I am grateful every day of my life that she taught me how unnecessary it is to carry the weight of other people's expectations. The great thing I have in my life is very likely the same great thing you have. As you get older, you should not neglect to pluck your chin hairs. Men look great with shaved heads. My whole life has be...

Photo by Toyfoto He may look just like his father, but he still likes to look at me the best. I know it won't be this way forever. Right now I'm going to milk it for all it's worth.

It is 11:43 and I have not yet posted for the day. Since I am participating in NaBloPoMo and am thus obligated to rectify the situation, here is a short recounting of what The Partner just informed me of as we sipped our respective alcoholic beverages: "I remember when I told my mom I was going to ask you to marry me. She said, 'Is she pregnant?'" I guess that says more than I could ever write.

Number Two sat by himself for the first time today. I use the term "himself" loosely. There was a half minute of preparation during which I batted him back and forth between my two hands in an effort to find balance never before employed. Eventually he stayed where I left him. He bobbed neither right, left or face-first. I laid him back on the ground and ran for the video camera after waiting a few seconds to make sure it wasn't a fluke. Once back in place with the camera at hand, I worked the weeble for a few seconds until he was again upright (that could be a good euphemism if I wasn't talking about MY SON, you perverts!). Each time I went to bring the camera to my eye, he'd begin to loll. It took a few tries to get all processes in line. I pressed Record. He sat there looking cute. I began to narrate. "He's sitting! For the first time ever!" Then, as quickly as it had materialized, my pride was squashed by my need to contextualize his accomplishme...

Tonight I changed The Boss's sheets, smoothing flannel over a layer of egg crate and fluffing out the comforter. I took the scalloped edge of the top sheet and folded it over the comforter, then, like my mother used to do, I folded that edge on a slant. It was the perfect pocket for The Boss to wiggle into. Like an envelope, the bed was an invitation. I resisted the urge to crawl in. As I looked at my daughter, I thought back to when that three year old was me, bone weary from a day of being curious and unencumbered, eager to let the powder of my skin seep into the mattress as words from my favorite book floated above me. Back then I was blissfully dependent. In a bit I will change the sheets on the queen bed that is mine and The Partner's. I'll smooth flannel over egg crate and I'll fluff out the comforter. I'll take the edge of the top sheet and fold it over the duvet, then, like my mother used to do, I'll fold that edge on a slant. It won't be the perfec...

This has been a dog shit day. The Partner is mad at me again. The Boss was in hysterics from the moment she woke until I strapped her into her seat in the pre-school carpool. Later, I drove around in a completely useless 5 mile circle when I couldn't remember at whose house I was supposed to drop off the sweet potatoes for the Thanksgiving baskets my mother's group is donating to some families in town that need them. Lest the previous examples lead you to believe I am being overly dramatic with my use of the term "dog shit," here's the chocolate icing on the cake of my day: our dog pooped in my car. It's not the pit bull diarrhea that's bringing me down. It's not the wasted gas or The Boss's tantrums. Mainly it's the fact that The Partner and I can't get along. Our moments of harmony are random and fleeting. It's always been that way. I could say that maybe we're the kind of couple that thrives on dischord, but that's probably j...

I went to the My Pictures folder on Troy (that's my computer's name), clicked on the sixth folder and then opened up the sixth image within that folder. I did this all because Whirlwind told me to . She further instructed me to explain the details of the image and then tag five others. This is a card from the collection of IOUs I designed as a gift for The Partner upon our fourth wedding anniversary this past July. The small booklet was filled with coupons for favors of all kinds. ( I was glad when this meme asked me to recount the third card in this series instead of the sixth. That would've been embarrassing. And yet, it would've been so good for my sitemeter. But I digress. ) Some other examples of the IOUs housed in this folder include "One Win Free Argument" and "One Homemade Dessert." The creative bent of this gift was necessitated by the fact that I don't really contribute much to the financial situation here at home. To have used The Par...

I sat down at my computer just now and noticed that the wall calendar hanging in front of me is still open to the month of August. I guess I got distracted. Four months went by when I wasn't looking.

I logged on today to find three of my favorite bloggers lamenting their lack of posting. Each one, like me (or is it like I ? Like myself ? Dear God, take these hormones and give me back my grammar!) has recently acquired the time suck (and judging from my sentences, brain suck) of a new child. On its face, it is kind of cool that we're all going through this at the same time. There's relatability and commiseration. There's a fullness that comes from being able to contextualize someone else's situation simply by calling on one's own. Unfortunately, all this communing takes time--time none of us has. Not only do I have difficulty finding the time to post--though I am NaBloPoMo ing my ass off--I also have precious little time to visit other blogs. Often I will end up reading a week's worth of a given blogger's posts in one sitting. In the case of the aforementioned writers, this works out well because they are on my schedule. But otherwise I feel as if I am...

The Boss was hysterical at the top of the stairs. Tears poured from her eyes while mucous like runny amber congealed on her upper lip. She was too spastic to listen, too tired to act. She just stood there, looking down at me, and bawled. "Come down here now!" I demanded. I was at the end of my rope. It was 8:30 in the evening and The Partner had yet to complete his 2.5 hour commute home. A line of tension traversed my shoulder blades with a dull ache. In front, my chest was tight too. "Now!" I shrieked. The Boss made her descent, hobbling slow, not letting her gaze leave mine. She was pouty and hurt. She was dependent on my good will, on my hugs. I started out glaring, but there was something in her face at that very moment that changed my perception. Time in my mind's eye sped forward ten years, maybe fifteen, and suddenly her legs were less colt-like; they were curvy. She was tall and beautiful. The pout was there, but not the downturn at the corners of her ey...

The Partner is reading a book! The Partner is reading a book! I feel like a line of little people, circa 1939, should be wielding large lollipops and chanting it: The Partner is reading a book! This is noteworthy because the main man in my life has not seen fit to peruse the printed page for the past ten years. The impetus for the change is simple: he has a 5-hour round-trip commute each day, half of which is spent on the train. He now has time to feed his brain the old-fashioned way, with words black as licorice on pages that send up the subtle tang of fine, fine wood pulp. It is delicious. I sent him out the door with Nelson Demille's Plum Island in hardcover. It's about a wounded New York City homicide detective looking into murders at the biological testing facility on the tip of Long Island. If you told me I should've eased him into the pleasures of the page with something a bit shorter, or with larger print, or featuring comic book characters, I will admit that you...

Which someecard best represents you? Post a link in the comment section if you're inclined to share .

This is my second foray into PROMPTuesdays , a creative writing venture hosted by San Diego Momma that offers exercises to be written in ten minutes in less than 150 words. I was reminded of its existence by Slouching Mom . *** A DIVERSION I thrust my fingers--shriveled from cold--into his elegant grip as we followed the hill away from church. He wore a wool jacket that hung straight until it belled out slightly at his knees. There were no wrinkles. There were no misplaced creases. There was no cat fur, either, or stray strands of yarn or lint or my blond hair or any of the things that attach to wool coats whenever I wear them. He was refined in presentation but obviously not at heart. I traced a fat vein that traversed his wrist like an ink spill. It was as if his blood pumped harder to fight the chill. I pushed up against him while we walked, my hip against wool and thigh. His stride matched the blue-black beat in his veins. That darkness was everywhere. The rolls of land had been g...

The Partner and I found time in the midst of his busy schedule to sit down together to watch a DVD he selected. I asked him to pick it. Sometimes my optimism astounds me. I should have remembered that our differences are never more apparent than when viewed through the boob tube. The movie this weekend was Mel Gibson's Apocalypto . Truly, it would have to be the eve of said Apocalypse for me to willingly sit through this movie. It is not that I am opposed to blood, guts, and nakedness. In fact, some of my favorite movies come from Rob Zombie's red and oozing inspiration. What I can't abide is reality. Once I believe that there is any sense of history or it-could've-really-happened-ness to a film, then I begin to lose the ability to dissociate. I don't like feeling sad and hopeless and convinced that human nature is depraved. I used to. In fact, I watched cable news almost 24/7 between 2001 and 2005. But then I had children and realized that these world ills were one...

Following up on Friday's post about the blue state of my hair, here is a glimpse at what I look like normally and what I look like now: BEFORE (September) AFTER (today) I wear that shirt a lot, I guess.

A lighthearted meme for your weekend enjoyment, courtesy of Holly . I dare you to beat the awesomeness of my stripper name (#6). 1. ROCK STAR NAME (first pet, current car): Lady Cadillac 2. GANGSTA NAME (fave ice cream flavor, favorite type of shoe): Cookie Dough Wedge 3. NATIVE AMERICAN NAME (favorite color, favorite animal): Blue Dog 4 SUPERHERO NAME (2nd favorite color, favorite drink): Yellow Bourbon 5. NASCAR NAME (the first names of your grandfathers): Frank Philip 6. STRIPPER NAME (the name of your favorite perfume/cologne/scent, favorite candy): Gasoline Milk Duds 7. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME (your fifth grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter): McGee Massapequa 8. SPY NAME (your favorite season/holiday, flower): Summer Daisy 9. CARTOON NAME (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now): Raisin Nursing Bra 10. HIPPIE NAME (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree): Coffee Birch Oh, the characters. Now I just need a plot. You...

When I get restless, my hair often takes the fall. First the cut, then the color. Phase one went down several months ago when I had the hairstylist shorten my coif from shoulder length to some point between chin and ear. I looked like a mushroom or a circumcised penis. Choose your analogy. It grew out a little and I grew content. Then I got bored again. Yesterday, seemingly out of nowhere, I decided to pick up some hair color. It was as black and shiny as a "Starry Night." I put it on my light brown hair and waited. Then I rinsed and conditioned and then rinsed and towel dried, all with the flutter of expectation. When the blackness was unveiled, I said "eh." And I was happy enough. It wasn't beautiful but it was different. Sometimes I like to look in the mirror and be shocked more than I like to look in the mirror and be satisfied with what I see. In the car on my way to pick up The Boss from pre -school I looked in the visor's mirror to find the light pla...

When I was little, it was the stories that made the holidays real for me. I had one treasury of Christmas stories that told of Baboushka, an elderly woman who roams the earth every December 24th, leaving a toy on the bed of each child in her search for the Christ child. It became all the more magical when I would awake on Christmas morning to a small gift at the foot of my bed. My very own toy from Baboushka. One of the things I look forward to when it comes to sharing the holidays with my own children is finding the stories that will come to shape their own memories of the days throughout the year that give us something speical and collective to anticipate. The Parent Bloggers Network facilitated the delivery of three such stories to my door when I agreed to review the holiday books from Positive Spin Press . Created around a toy-making fairy named Eve, the books are titled All Hallow's Eve: The Story of the Halloween Fairy; Christmas Eve: The Joy of Giving; and Winter's Eve:...

All day "America" has been uttered in tones of reverence that haven't been heard for a long time. There's pride where it had depleted to almost non-existent levels. The United States, in its constant forward stride, has evolved more freely, fully and fast than many dared dream. When I woke up this morning I did not know it would be to a feeling of national security. I thought I'd be afraid that the president-elect would not make our defense enough of a priority, that he wouldn't be tough enough, that he couldn't be hard if he had to be. And maybe I still think those things. But what I didn't expect to experience was the overwhelming sense of safety that comes from being truly united. It's not that no harm can befall us; it's that we won't fall if it does. Today, Obama as a decision maker seems less historic to me than Obama as a man. He has pulled jagged and disjointed edges of our map into a well-rounded swell on the globe. After 9/11, I f...

So this is what it's like to be the elephant in the momosphere. I'm leather folds of gray tonnage lumbering across a landscape filled with more sprightly and adaptable beasts of burden. All around me hind quarters are kicking up a chorus line. There is so much braying that I couldn't hear a hoo if I wanted to. It's a grand caravan. It's a high flying party. I may be bringing up the rear, but I'm heading toward change just the same. And do you know what? We're all leaving the same trail. Everyone poops , my friends. Everyone poops.

I found out about this quiz from Chicky Chicky Baby (aka Ingrid), who said its accuracy was "kinda spooky." I have to concur. Try it out and see. Who knew that one could come up with a complete character assessment via two multiple choice questions. I sure didn't. But then again, I'm an English major not well acquainted with probabilities, statistics or logic. I'm a... Bette You are a Bette -- "I must be strong" Bettes are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective. How to Get Along with Me * Stand up for yourself... and me. * Be confident, strong, and direct. * Don't gossip about me or betray my trust. * Be vulnerable and share your feelings. See and acknowledge my tender, vulnerable side. * Give me space to be alone. * Acknowledge the contributions I make, but don't flatter me. * I often speak in an assertive way. Don't automatically assume it's a personal attack. * When I scream, curse, and stomp around, try to remember that...

You can't put a value on things like togetherness, when the company is welcome. Laughing freely and holding on at all costs. A family at the dinner table telling stories. Owing nothing to each other; owing everything for each other. Wouldn't you know that The Partner and I finally came to a common marital understanding--bought and paid for by 4+ years of misinterpretation--just as he took a new job that will have him working 13 hour days. When we didn't want to have anything to do with each other, his schedule was open. Now that we do, I'll barely see him. And neither will the kids. In this economy, there's little room for the luxuries money can't buy. Time as a family would be nice, but eating together is secondary to having food on the table. It'd be fun to take a trip, but the journey is secondary to having a car with gas in it. This is how we've chosen to live. The Partner could've declined this new position on the other side of the state, but ...

When it comes to parenthood, there’s not a single way to act or a lone way to feel. From the first day a mother-to-be sees the vast selection of pre-natal vitamins arrayed before her, it is apparent that this whole with-child thing is about choice. Formula or breast milk? Ferber or the Family Bed? Robeez or Pediped? Becoming a parent is one decision that will be made over and over for the rest of your life. My husband likes to think that he has control over everything. His actions are dictated by rational thought. With the birth of our first child, he did not automatically feel the intense emotional bond that is touted everywhere from Kodak commercials to a grandmother’s cribside coos. Nor did I. Part of the reason may have been the emergency c-section under general anaesthesia for which neither of us was present (he, physically; me, consciously). But more than than that, it is the fact that people can come at one universal experience from very different directions, and can retreat on ...