It's time we say so long, for now...

Can you believe that Boy Wonder’s kindergarten adventure is over ?

It seems like last week when we were dropping him off at school and sending him into the wide, unknown world of school. My "baby" left for Texas last weekend, so I’m starting to feel a little like Demeter, who had to send her child into the bowels of hell once a year. (No, seriously, I can relate.)

So in honor of one adventure ending, and his annual adventure beginning, I’d like to share

“Kindergarten: A Scrap-blog.”

First day.
As much as I wished he’d cry and beg me not to go, he actually looked a little embarrassed that I was hanging out in the hallway with all the other parents. He knew two kids in his class from church and the local playground, so as far as he was concerned, he had a lunch and he had some friends—he was good to go. I was bummed out on the ride into work that day, thinking this was the beginning of the end. My little boy was a “real boy” now in that Pinnochio sort of way…the strings would be harder to pull as he became his own little person.

Taking the Show on the Road

My fears that he didn’t need me anymore were for nothing. I met him and his class at the fine arts center downtown and he couldn’t wait to introduce me to everyone he saw. (It’s sort of his thing. He likes to make connections between people and he wants his enthusiasm to be YOUR enthusiasm). We sat in the darkened theater with about a million other kids from across the school district and I decided right then and there that I really loved elementary school and that I should never have been so impatient to leave.

Watch this, Kobe!
Can you believe I coached kiddie basketball? Me? The girl who can’t hit the rim to save her life? Lisa Leslie I am not, but I still managed to get six kids through 18 games with minimal tears and hurt feelings. We even got a few baskets, and though we weren’t officially scoring, I’m pretty sure we won most of our matches. Just sayin’. Dominic wasn’t much of a shooter. Or a dribbler. But the man could rebound like the scrappiest alley cat and he lived for snack breaks and Capri Suns. He was the one who came up with our team name “The Rhinos” (along with his little buddies). They learned sportsmanship, teamwork, and how to have fun. I learned that I’m not the biggest fan of most other parents in the sports world. True story. P had to teach Boy Wonder what to do when people crowded your space. My suggestion to poke their eyes out obviously wasn’t going to work…

Trick or Treatin'.
No, it wasn’t his first Halloween, but it was his first Halloween CARNIVAL at his official school. We packed up the family, dressed the kids as a shadow ninja and a lion and hit the town. Boy Wonder and P braved the haunted maze and came out with relatively few wounds to show for it. Maybe a couple of fake webs stuck to them, but no worse for the wear.

Winning the school art contest
Did you know our little man could draw? Sure enough. In the fall, his school held a contest for all the students to design a bookmark for the city library. And our man Boy Wonder beat out the ENTIRE school. He got a T-shirt with his design on it, a chance to bask in the spotlight at the front of a school assembly and one proud mama in the audience. He also won first place in the food art sculpture contest with a huge clay chocolate chip cookie that we cut a big bite out of. We skipped the science fair out of sheer protest—I was annoyed that fizzy volcanoes had to include some sort of hypothesis to test. I’ve got one for you: Fizzy volcanoes are COOL. Test that one…

Yellow Days are Sad Days
As the year got rolling, Boy Wonder began to learn about consequences. His teacher had a rating system for their days and every afternoon, he’d have a colored stamp on his folder letting us know how it went. Green was good, Blue was fantastic. Yellow was not so good. Red was principal’s office-material. We did our best to let the first few yellows slide, but when they started showing up a little more frequently, he started seeing his after-school cartoon watching disappear. I hate being the bad guy with him, because honestly, he’s probably one of the sweetest humans on the planet (he and his brother are), but that’s the whole parent thing in a nutshell, isn’t it? It was a crash course in actions and consequences for the child and his parents alike.

“Can Sam come over and play?”
He started (somewhat) talking to his friends on the phone this year. It was mostly “Dude….dude….DUDE! Wanna come to my house, dude? Awesome!” But still, there he was, asking to call his buddy Sam. With it came the failed attempt at a sleep over I wrote about a few months back, but mostly it was afternoons at a buddy’s house (or ours) with snacks, the WII, and a mountain of legos.

I Double-Dog Dare You
It wouldn’t be a complete scrap-blog without mentioning the ol’ Flick incident, would it? Inspired by the 24 hours of “A Christmas Story” on TBS, Boy Wonder stuck his tongue to a pole on the frozen playground and hilarity ensued. I saw a mom at the last field trip and somehow that came up. She said her kindergartner came home and told the family all about it. Boy Wonder is famous!

Kindergarten winds down
This past month has been a whirlwind of moving across town (way way way across town), field trips to the zoo with Team Wolverine, Field Day to celebrate the end of school, and preparing for the long journey to Texas. As Boy Wonder said his good byes on that last day, he was mobbed by his classmates and I was quick-thinking enough to keep my camera handy. I can’t explain the genuineness of this age—they really are that sad to see a buddy go. Boy Wonder posed with his teacher and it hit me. As bummed as I was that he’d grown up enough to enter kindergarten, I was having trouble fighting back the tears now that he’d OUTGROWN it and was leaving it behind.

But that’s how it goes isn’t it? I sat back and watched Boy Wonder win his sack race and remembered the day my best friend in 4th grade and I won the three-legged race at our own field day. I remember the epic catch I made in sixth grade to win our class the kickball game. Time is our biggest enemy and our greatest ally. Without it, I’d never get the chance to be the proud mama bear of one Boy Wonder and I’d forever be stuck in that awkward, bony-kneed, mullet-wearing phase I was so fond of in the late 80s. (I’ve still never forgiven you for those god-awful haircuts the first 11 years of my life, Mom. Just so you know!)

So now it’s time for Boy Wonder to go and soak up some summer sun. He’ll come back a little taller, a little tanner and his mama’s very own first grader.

Team Wolverine and the Alaska Zoo

(Note: I have acutal, real, live pictures of "Team Wolverine" and our adventures and will upload them tonight. Promise!)

This week I had the privilege to trek through the Alaska zoo with a crew of five kindergarten boys. Yes, that’s right, FIVE of them.

Talk about ants-in-the-pants, HEY YOU STOP RUNNINGANDGETOFFATHATFENCE nonstop action. It was a trip. And a treasure.

Boy Wonder was so proud that I was chaperoning, that he had to introduce me to every single kindergartner he could see. And some of the first graders, too. Not to mention, he tried to introduce me to some kids that didn’t even go to his school. Talk about a social kid. (I wonder if he’s going to be that excited when P and I show up to chaperone his first middle school dance? Hahahaha!)

There was no way in Hades I was going to be able to bark out commands to each antsy, fidgety boy in my group fast enough to keep them from being eaten by the grizzly bears or pecked to death by the horned owl, so before we set out, I named them “Team Penguin”—only to have the lame group next to us call themselves penguins. Lame! We ran through a list that included Team Duck, Team Dinosaur, Team Lemon (seriously, who’s kid was that??), and even Team Elephant, which I flatly REFUSED to entertain for one MOMENT, and finally “Team Wolverine.” (There was also a Team Polar Bear and the copycats, Team Penguin. A couple groups of girls didn’t get into the naming thing, and preferred to be the Princess Squad. Ha!)

Our first area was the “rescue” area, full of ravens (yay!) and owls (yay! yay!) some eagles (golden and red), a raccoon, some foxes (arctic and red) and finally a skunk. (Really? A skunk?) I was provided with an information sheet for each animal, and the only thing the kids wanted to know was where the animals were born. Which mostly wasn’t provided (except for the raccoon, who was born in El Paso, Texas. Same as Boy Wonder. Who thinks they might have been born at the same hospital, and now wants me to look and see if, in fact, they were both born at Las Palmas.) I doubt it , Boy Wonder, but I can look into it if it’s that important to you.

We wandered down to the tiger enclosure and found the tiger brothers both asleep. Same with the grizzly bears. One boy, Caleb, thought they looked “hung over.” I asked how he’d know what that looks like and he told me he heard it on Cartoon Network once. (I hate you, Cartoon Network.)

We heard an incessant yapping and I thought maybe the old neighbor lady’s dog had followed me somehow to Anchorage, but finally saw the coyote being a real whiner in the center of his cage. Boy Wonder’s best buddy, Sam, told me that it was “probably just pissed off.”
“He’s what?” I asked, needing clarification. That wasn’t what I thought it was, was it?
“Pissed off, Megan. He’s pissed off.”

“Oh, right Sam. Might not want to offer that explanation to Mrs. Ives, though. Could land you a yellow day, buddy.”

By the tenth animal cage we passed, we decided that Tuesdays were really “Nap Day” at the Alaska Zoo. Even the Dall Sheep were sleeping, and those things never sleep. Sleeping river otters, sleeping moose, sleeping caribou, sleeping camels, sleeping Tibetan yaks. My wolverines were getting impatient.

To keep Team Wolverine awake, we tromped across the bridge as loud as we could to scare up the troll from the “Three Billy Goats Gruff” (a story they’d read the week before and we’d just seen sleeping “Billy Goats”). I got dirty looks from the other chaperones, but I aimed my troll gun at them and pulled the trigger—the universal “Scarface” warning to “mind yer own biziness, eh?”

Our tromping then turned into “Troll Hunting” with a few snipers, some gunners in the rear, and a team scout. (Not to worry, I rotated our leader/scout after each animal exhibit, so the whole troop got to lead the men to troll battle.)

The big hit was the “water” exhibits. We saw seals peeing in the water (true, and gross, story), otters sleeping (surprise, surprise!) and Polar Bears chewing on tires and a white bucket. The water exhibits had upstairs and downstairs (underwater) views and by the time I got through lifting five boys multiple times from each vantage point, I felt buff like Jillian Michaels.

Hidden in the back, behind the polar bears and beside the sleeping lynx, was our buddy, the Wolverine. Not only was our namesake awake, he was OCD. That little animal ran the same lap circuit around his cage the entire 20 minutes we stood there admiring him. Every once in a while, he’d change his course and run next to the bars in front of us to give us a better view, but the guy never quit running. It was impressive, almost as impressive as the boys’ favorite wolverine fact: an adult wolverine is strong enough (and mean enough!) to take down a full-grown moose.

Was the moose placed across the trail from the wolverine on purpose, then? Is that sort of like sticking a mirror in front of a fighting fish’s bowl and letting it charge itself?

The finale was worth the 2+ hours of pulling boys off exhibits and out of trash cans. The wolf exhibit had a sibling set of six wolves (three brothers and three sisters) that romped and “wrassled” in front of us. As we were turning to leave, the pack gathered about four feet from Team Wolverine and began howling as loud as they could. I’ve never seen something so amazing in my life and I doubt I ever will again. It gave me chills. To show solidarity, my own wolverine pack joined in the chorus and I snapped away with my camera like a fiend. Moments like that don’t repeat themselves and I’ll carry the image of “my” boys singing with the wolf brothers as long as I live.

So there it is. Kindergarten comes to a close in a few weeks and I got to top it off with the “trip” of a lifetime. Here’s hoping you find your own “wolfsong” moment this week.

The Little Apartment that Could (But Can't Anymore)

Believe it or not, I get really nervous about change.

Oh, sure, I can dye my hair bright red at the drop of a hat or add $500 worth of tattoo ink to my skin, but when it’s time to dive into something that shakes up everything about the way we live, I get sentimental.

We’re moving next week. And, lordy, I am so so happy. But before this house became a nightmare, before the crazy lady upstairs and before the landlords let it slip into slum-dom, this house was something special to me at a point when I really needed.

I feel like reminisching a bit as we begin pulling pictures off the walls and taping up boxes.

Adventures on Young Drive:

A little more than three years ago this month, I was lost. I was on my own for the first time in a long, long time and I was scared. I had a crummy job that paid peanuts, but I had my son and I had my freedom. And you had a vacancy. Amazing how things work out like that.

When I shuttled the first box of dishes through thefront door, and rounded the kitchen wall, I was in awe. My very first kitchen with my very own dishes that I didn’t have to defend or “put up with.” I could put saints all over your wall just because I wanted to. There was no dishwasher, but I was happy to do our dishes by hand because they were, in fact, just ours. Me and the Boy Wonder. For the first time in a long, long time (maybe ever?) I was driving the ship and responsible for every single moving part--every bill, every dollar...everything. My responsiblity. And man, did it feel good. (Ok, so since then, I've come to realize it's not ALWAYS so fantastic to be responsible for everything, but at that point, I thought it was pretty freaking cool.)

I bought new furniture because I had none. In the divorce, I gave up everything just to keep the one thing I wanted—me. I remember the day the movers showed up five hours late with my new couches and the new bunkbed with a slide for Boy Wonder. Those guys took another three hours, at least, trying to build that stupid bed and on the first trip down the slide, Boy Wonder (he was three years old at the time) crashed when his feet got stuck on the metal, sending him flying into the wall. He called it a “bad bed!” and avoided that slide for about a month. He stayed with his father every other week for a while there, and when it was just me alone in that house, I felt at peace. I had my space. I had my freedom. And while I didn’t have my son for 7 days at a time, I knew he’d be back soon enough.

For the first year and a half, I didn’t own much by way of a cable or entertainment. I had an old-fashioned TV that had a VCR deck in it, and when I moved in, the previous tenant had somehow left two VHS tapes behind—“Phenomena” and “The Sound of Music.” At that time, I’d just found out about my brain aneurysm a few weeks before, so I had absolutely NO desire to watch “Phenomena,” despite how great of a movie it was.

So each night I’d lie on the world’s most uncomfortable futon (Boy Wonder got the new bed, not me), with boxes upon boxes of unpacked knickknacks, and eat dinner with Julie Andrews. Every night. For weeks at a time. I’d never seen the movie before and now it’s one of my favorites. For a while there, I felt just how Frauline Maria felt—in between two worlds, trying to find her place.
My landlords were my close friends. I was extremely close with the other residents and getting out and exploring the wild Eagle River nightlife (I’m kidding here), helped move me forward at a time when I just wanted to hide away for a few months’ longer.

Times changed. They always do and they always should. Neighbors moved on. The landlords sold the place off.

At the same time, P (and eventually Boo) filled that void that missing in our lives. And this perfect-fitting, insulating home that I’d loved now was overcrowded and costing us both a lot of money with the long commute. We had more laundry than we could keep up with and always running out of quarters. We inherited a neighbor who makes us crazy. Dogs that charged us whenever we stepped outside.

Our lives are moving in a direction where we need to be closer to Anchorage. Our friends are there. Our jobs our there. Education is there. Life is there.

We’d lost hope for finding a decent, safe place that we could make a home in the city until some good friends of ours came to our rescue. Funny how that happens, isn’t it? In 2007, I was just about out of hope that I’d ever find a place for Boy Wonder and myself that I could afford that would make us happy when the housing fairy waved her magic wand at us. Happened again in 2010. A beautiful place with three bedrooms, a washer, a dryer, a dishwasher. A place to start up new and make a home.

I couldn’t be happier, and in a way, I owe a big part of it to that little apartment on Young Drive that gave me that second chance to start over.

Farewell, little abode… and hello, Anchorage!

Balance and organization: And other lies we once believed

You know what?

Parenthood is tough.

You know what else?

Anyone who attempts it in addition to any other sort of activity is crazy with a capital CR. Just sayin'.

I’ve been chasing this dream of the perfect, balanced life for years since Boy Wonder was born. It was tough enough when it was just him and I, but add in the missing, crucial elements of P and Boo to our life? A couple careers and a full-time education? Kindergarten? Enriching activities? The desire to do some enriching activities of our own?

Ohmigod, I think P and I are headed for a loony bin.

Lemme add some horror to this fantasy fiction: we don’t own a dishwasher. Or a washer/dryer. We fight the beast of chaos four quarters at a time and with stank-ass drying towels taking up our counters at all times.

But fear not. Our lives are not in peril and I’ve yet to have the school call to complain that Boy Wonder smelled funny.

Along the way, I think we’ve developed a method to make the best of what we’ve got—and I’m pretty sure we’ve given up perfection. I think I tossed that out with some dirty diapers about ten months ago.

1. We embrace the beast. Her name is Gigantor and she consists of mismatched socks, stained bibs, mama’s work pants, and P’s jiu-jitsu shirts. Some days we can beat Gigantor into submission, only to find her cousin, Huge-appatamus (consisting of stacks of folded clean clothes) waiting for us on our bed at 10 p.m., just as we’re trying to pass out. Huge-appatamus gets moved to the floor (temporarily, of course!) and within a day, dirty underwear gets mixed in and we can’t tell what’s clean and it all gets transferred to the dirty stack, where Gigantor is waiting with open dirty-towel arms. We know the cruel cycle and we embrace it now.

2. Our baby looks like a million bucks when he leaves the house. His older brother will look straight GQ. There’s a good chance, however, that their parents might look like vagrants. Boo will have matching socks, a coordinated hoodie to match his Polo jeans, and gel in his hair. His nose will be wiped and there will be no remnants of lunch left on his face. Dominic will have on a Hurley shirt and brand new Nikes. He’ll even get a spritz of Guess cologne and a stick of mint gum to make sure he’s “so fresh and so clean, clean.” P, however, will still be wearing yesterday’s sweat pants. His new, clean shirt will have a piece of peanut butter bagel stuck to it from Boo’s breakfast. I will have crusties in my eyes and last night’s make up on. I will wipe the bottom of the mascara from beneath my eye and hope it passes for smudged, smoky eyeliner. It usually won’t.

3. If we are busy, or if we just don’t feel like it, we will ignore the dishes until there are no spoons left. Then we will panic and steal one of the baby’s safety spoons to eat our ice cream with until one of us caves and tackles the dishes with a nasty scowl on our face.

4. We will have a long list of things we want done each day, only to pass out, face down, on this list and drool on it. Sorry, list. You were conceived with the best of intentions, but you’ll likely get tossed in the over-full trashcan. Right next to the electric bill we didn’t notice. It’ll be ok. The disconnect notice usually gives you a 24-hour grace period, right?

5. When we are going somewhere fun, the last five minutes before we leave will probably be panic-filled and one parent will likely not be speaking to the other one. The conversation will go down something like this: He: “Did you pack the diaper bag?” She: “Exactly when was I supposed to do that? I was getting them dressed. Did you pack the diaper bag?” He: “Yeah, right in between feeding the dog, putting the dishes away, and finding the lost blanket.” She: “Yeah, well I was busy finding the left shoe and pulling the baby’s hands out of the toilet again because SOMEBODY left the damn door open…” Silence ensues for the first six miles down the road. Luckily, all is soon forgotten once Boo overturns his bag of cheerios on the floor of Mommy’s beloved truck. Scraping up crushed cereal products together has a real bonding effect on a married couple. True story.

6. We forgo fighting for sleep. Truly. I’m sure there are times P would like to get to the bottom of why I can never screw caps back on the milk or OJ. I’d love to know why he can’t toss his clothes into the dirty clothes right before he gets into bed. But you know what? We haven’t had eight straight hours of sleep in 14 months and we’re not gonna jeopardize the precious few minutes we do get sorting out the gory details.

7. We acknowledge the fact that sometimes our kids don't get the memo. There are days when P needs to study. I work on deadlines. And sometimes, more often that we'd like, our kids just don't give a damn. There are owwies to kiss and Wii games to load and babies to squish. Our priorties don't always match up and P and I have learned to sometimes throw in the towel for a minute or two. We can blame them later in life for our unrealized dreams if we need to. :)

7. Bottom line: “good enough” really is good enough at this point. Despite the fact that I’d like to take a lit match to our unorganized house much of the time, we manage to keep our priorities straight enough on a daily basis not to waste our blessings. At the end of the day, we know our kids won’t be young for very long, so we tiptoe around the roadside Lego bombs, we use broken laundry baskets as impromptu baby gates, we leave peanut butter and jelly smears on the counter for a couple hours, and we get down on the floor and we play with our kids. We drive them 45 miles for a swim lesson. We pack too many toys in their diaper bags and bring the damn Nintendo DS with us wherever we go, despite how loud Boy Wonder likes to play it. We swallow our pride and ask the boss for the morning off to go see “Stone Soup” with the kindergarten class. We’re mildly surprised when we get it with a blessing to boot.

We think the universe conspires, once in a while, to remind us how great everything really is.

Life is good, my friends, life is good.

Searching for it

You know the feeling.

In tennis, it's the perfect spot on the racket where the return just about sings and the ball goes right where it's supposed to. In boxing, it's the "off" button you nick on your opponents jawline with just enough pressure to turn the lights out.

In jiu-jitsu, well, according to Patrick, it's the part of your game where you don't have to think...the groove you find where your body just "knows" what the opponent is planning...and you just do. (I, personally, have never experienced that in jiu-jitsu...I manage to know just about everything they don't do. But that's another story.)

It's the sweet spot. And in sports, it's easy to pinpoint.

In life, however, the sweet spot is tougher to define. It's a moving target where none of the pieces are ever aligned at the same time.

I've been absent from the blog (and much of life) for just about five or six weeks now, and while I couldn't really come up with a good excuse, just know that I was out there seeking something.

This time of year is tough on me. It's dirty outside constantly--the snow melt and the dirt mixed together makes for a dull, gray looking city that isn't pretty to travel through. We live in a hovel with a psycho upstairs. The bus was wearing thin. The people on the bus were wearing thin. There were collections and medical bills haunting me. It was a job that hated me as much as I hated it. It was the extra ten pounds I had left that weren't going anywhere. It was a laundry pile that never seemed to shrink and dishes that never seemed clean. There was a serious case of writer's block. Did I mention the two rejections I got in the mail from Harlequin on the same day? (Yeah, thanks for that one!) Lots of thought about giving up the whole "dreams" thing and just being a pencil pusher the rest of my life. Life was bland. It had no taste. It had no color. It was March and I had no idea what would drive me through to the happier season in Alaska. I felt empty, with no direction.

Then I thought about life's sweet spot and how it's never really that far away if you think about it.

Life's sweet spot is when there's more paycheck than bills at the end of the month, it's gas in your tank and enough money in the bank when that tank goes low, it's a week straight of babies sleeping through the night, it's getting to bed on time, taking your vitamins, and knocking out two chapters in two days on your story. It's no collection letters in your mailbox. No meetings ALL WEEK at work. It's clothes without wrinkles. Mornings you manage to do your hair AND your makeup BEFORE you leave the house. It's waking up on time. Eating breakfast. Taking time for that cup of Darjeeling at 3 p.m. each day.

The sweet spot is taking your sons to swim lessons and getting in the pool with them--the tiny little scratches you get all over your arms from their sheer panic and joy at being in the water. It's packing a kindergarten lunch each morning. It's your husband's coffee mug on the kitchen table next to yours. It's a baby who smiles despite the pain of molars breaking through the sensitive skin in his mouth. It's a boy who wants to tame dragons and who tapes paper monsters all over your doors just so he can fight them with his paper towel roll sword. It's the phone call from your mother at the exact moment you need to talk. Or the text message from your dad telling you he's proud of you--for no reason at all.

It's big things. It's little things. It's everything. It's amazing how off track I managed to get myself...and how lucky I am that I can pull myself back together again.

Just about a week ago, ourGracie Barra family suffered a pretty tough loss when one of our own took his own life. It'd been a few years since he and I'd last hung out, but for a time there, we had a lot in common and got to be good friends. Our sons are the same age, and if there is one thing I'll remember about him, it's how much he loved his child and how hard he worked to make a better life for them both.

Nobody knows what happened to cause him to feel that this was his only option, and I'm certain there's plenty of us who will wonder how much more we might have done. I've been thinking about this friend since I got the news and I wonder how badly he must have been hurting behind those bright smiles and hearty hugs he always offered us so readily.

If anything can come out of this loss, I hope maybe it's that we learn to look around at the people we love, the ones who matter to us, and to remind them that maybe their own "sweet spot" isn't as far off as they might think.

Maybe all we need to do is remind each other once in a while that life is beautiful, even when it isn't, and if the road is tough, we're here to help. Maybe we need to remind each other that life is what it is because of who's in it--not what's in it.

I've spent a long time searching for the sweet spot, and I know that I'll never be done--but for the time being, it feels good to be back.

Happy Easter, everyone...

What's Not to Love?

How can I help but love you?

Boy Wonder

I love the way your two front teeth are a bit crooked. I love the fact that it makes your grin even wider and more dramatic. I love how you are always smiling. And laughing.

I love your fearlessness. It’s new and it’s impressive. You are a bold young man and I can’t wait to see how far you go in your adventures.

I love the way you think. I love how your mind works in complex Lego riddles and you are always trying to fit two ideas or concepts together, regardless of whether they are supposed to or not.

I love the way you bargain with me. From an extra few minutes on the computer to a way out of eating the last bits of lasagna, you are a deal maker, my son.

I love the way you love your family. It’s unconditional and it’s fierce.

Boo

I love your face. Each morning when I pull you out of your bed, I want to smoosh your cheeks and chew on your nose. You have the face of a trash-talkin’, bossy little angel and it melts me.

I love the way you talk. Like some Brooklyn mobster from the ‘30s, you end every statement with a “Yeah.” It’s adorable.

“Do you want more milk, Boo?” “More milk, yeah…”

I love the way you hug. Hugging is a new thing for you but when you want one, it’s a neck squeezer for sure and we feel every ounce of your love within it.

I love your need to leave. Constantly. You’ll stand by the gate in your diaper, shoes, coat and hat ready to go…just to be certain we don’t leave you behind. Not that we ever could, but you need to be ready.

I love the fact that you’re the only other person in the house who will eat banana bread with me. I love the fact that you insist on helping me make it. I even love the fact that you drag the chair into the kitchen any time somebody steps foot near the stove. I love your companionship. I love who you are becoming.

P

I love you. Above all else.

I love the way we wait each other out in the morning when it’s time to get the yelling baby out of his bed and start the morning routine. I love how you always seem to win and I don’t hold it against you. There’s always tomorrow…

I love the way you tolerate my quirks. From the unscrewed milk caps to the way I accidentally hide everything that belongs to you, I love you for your patience and acceptance of me. I love that I can make you laugh with my more outlandish stunts.

I love the man you are. Your own. In a world of constantly changing tides and slippery slopes, the man you were yesterday is the same no-nonsense, practical guy you’ll be tomorrow. No amount of ups and downs or freaky bad news texts from me can throw you and you always seem to calm me down. Amazing, really.

I love your obsession with chocolate and peanut butter. Despite it not being at the top of my list, I like knowing the things that make you happy. Supremely happy. Sublimely happy. I like that there are things out there that can still elicit a child-like grin and enthusiasm from you and it’s my mission to find more.

What to do when it’s all YOUR fault

This week, I’m dealing a lot with overreaction.

Mostly on my part, but others are in on it, too. More than once in the past few days, something has been said, done, seen, heard, muttered, hinted at, acted out or guessed at by party number one, and party number two (quickly joined by party number one) has lost their fuc*&ing mind.

Work, home, the bus, the phone, the internet. Doesn’t matter. It’s a global war on all fronts, people.

Meltdown, pouting, fighting, hurt feelings, resentment, outright sarcasm and arguing…in short, one-way tickets to RUDE CITY all around. (Yay! It’s a party!)

There’s been an argument, a time out, a “hang up” or fifty in there, hurt feelings, overblown drama, you name it. You get where I am going?

It all makes me wonder, what the hell is our problem?

I say “our” because it seems to be a universal experience. We all have triggers that activate nuclear meltdown phase, but why? What purpose does our initial reaction really serve us?

In the old days, the ol’ fight or flight thingy ma-bobber saved our club-dragging arses. But not anymore. Today, that “fight or flight” has pretty much turned to “fight” and it’s really not ensuring the survival of the species, it’s actually making life on earth much more difficult than God probably intended.

I’ll put myself, zits and all, out there for this one.

I overreact. There, I said it.

If I feel that you’re being rude to me (or my family members, individually or collectively), I get angry. I respond immediately and often harshly, without pausing to ask outright “What did you mean by that?” I’ll spit and stomp.

If we’re close, I’ll get my feelings hurt and probably pout. Just because I want to. Then I’ll overanalyze what really happened and turn it into a telenovela instead of the “simple moment” it really was.

If we’re not close, I’ll think you’re a douche bag for months and months and avoid you in public. Just sayin’.

Sometimes, I’ll even lose focus and forget the reason I got fired up in the first place.

But you can bet your sweet ass I’ll remember the emotion that was attached to whatever you did and I’ll carry it around for days. I’ll dwell in it. I’ll roll around like a piggy in mud in it. I’ll pack it up in my backpack and take it for a ride on the Anchorage bus system with me.

But why?

The hamster wheel in my head runs something like this: First, my feelings get hurt. (For example, I think, Why hasn't my so-and-so called back in two weeks?) Then I begin to imagine all the reasons she might be mad at me. (Was it something I said? Shoot — I forgot her anniversary and now she's upset.) Next, I get mad at her — and myself. (She always forgets my anniversary! Why am I worrying about this kind of nonsense?) After hours of circular thinking, I usually discover that nothing was wrong: My friend just got busy and didn't have time to call.

I consider myself a sane, logical person, yet I fall into this cycle again and again. What gives? I'm happy to report that genetics may be to blame — scientists report that sensitivity runs rampant in certain family trees. And I'm not alone: 15 to 20 percent of the population is thin-skinned. Greeeeat. Just what the world needs…more like me.

So what does all this mean? Does it mean I’m a big ol’ weenie who overthinks and has irrational bouts “what the f*($ was that supposed to mean”? Why yes, yes it does.
It also means that I (we) could stand to use a little re-training.

You know that very first thought that pops into your head when you think someone has done something worth getting angry/sarcastic over? Ignore it. No, really. Stop laughing. I’m not kidding.

Nine times out of ten, I’m pretty sure the other person had no idea and didn’t mean to call your dog fat or imply that you’re terrible with adverbs. I’m serious. Detach your damn self for one stinking minute and make it NOT about you and your poor little hurt feelings. Give it a try. I’ll bet your anger dries up now and then.
Supersensitivity stems from a place rife with ego and the “it’s all about me” syndrome. I can attest to that…but the hard truth is, mostly, it’s not about you. Probably not about me, either.

I’ve thought a lot about the crap over the past month and I really think that if I can learn to mentally “look the other way” and let the bs float on by, the quality of my life will improve by leaps and bounds. And more leaps. A couple more bounds, too.

Let’s just say what we are all are thinking at this point: I am a super hero of miscommunications. Ha!

So if in the past 14 days, you feel I have ignored you, insulted you, stepped on your toes, picked on you, not listened enough for your liking (or whatever I am capable of). I am sorry. Oh, and I forgive you, too.

Here’s to a fresh start, yeah?

To Boo, On the Occasion of Your Very First Birthday (Give or take 11 Days)

Hello, You Funky Little Monkey!

You Sultan of Silly... the King of Krazy... our very own Main Man of the Madness.

Can I just say, Wow, what a year it has been with you? On February 8, 2009, I thought you were homicidal. No, really, big man, what baby tries to arrive already wearing size 3T??? I mean, c'mon. Was being the over nine pounds things really necessary??

Sure, every single human being at the hospital gave you the automatic, hands down "cutest baby" on the premises award (and holy moly, you were), but I think you would have been just as fabulous looking (and less beat up) had you made your arrival two or three weeks earlier. Just sayin'.

But that's you, and that's who you have grown to be the past 12 months. You are in almost every way imaginable, your father's son. Not surprised, are you? From your "mean mug" to your ears, to the loyalty you're already showing to your dad, brother and I, your are P's doppelganger. And so, so cute. You manage to jam 180 pounds of personality into that 30 pound body and the results are often fireworks.

You have a bond with your dad that I can hardly understand. Not that I don't "get it," I just probably scratch the surface with how deep it runs, that's all. I am a good person to have around because I am silly, I smell good, and I make sure all the food on your high chair tray is bite size so you don't choke on it when you ram a fistful down at a time... but your dad is your soul mate. And I'm okay with that, just as long as you understand, he's mine too... haha!

You walked at 10 months. Seriously. Walking like a grown man walks to the store for a beer...walking. You head butt the cat, growl at your dad, pull your brother's hair, and swipe at my face when you're in a "pistol pete" sort of mood. (Yes, that's your dad's nickname for you and it's so, so perfect.)

When you're happy, you're like an angelic little explorer off on his own, only to return when the dipey is wet or the tummy is empty or maybe when you need a quick hug for reassurance. I had a premonition you'd be an independent little spirit before you were born, and you haven't proven me wrong. And it fits, given this household.

You're not entirely fond of strangers. Not because you don't really like them, you just want to make sure they aren't one of those dreaded creatures...those..."babysitters." No, little man, you hate being babysat. I'm pretty sure in your mind it's akin to abandonment and you take it pretty personally. I don't blame you. Our family is a lot of fun to hang out with and why shouldn't you get to go see "Percy Jackson and the Lightening Thief" anyway? You're a card-holding member of the Applegate clan...

You are your own person already, little Boo, and that's amazing. Some of us are still trying to nail down our own identity well into our third decade on the planet, but not you. My money is resting on the fact that when you're a teenager, you'll be difficult to peer pressure into doing things you're not really interested in, which is a rare, rare blessing. Even now, you don't move unless you're good and ready to, and not even Daddy's head butts can make you. Good on ya, baby boy. Heck, you even bawled and carried on during your little "happy birthday" party we had at the house. It's your party and you cried 'cause you wanted to...

You love the "SpongeBob Squarepants" theme, having people over at our house to watch the fights (every danceman needs an audience), Reese's Puffs cereal bits (broken in half), throwing everything in the living room over the baby gate at your dad (when he's in the kitchen), drinking the milk from my cereal, and eating Boy Wonder's legos.

When you play, you play. When you rock out, you rock hard. You've already got your butt-dropping swagger dance down and you're not even out of diapers. You've got a zebra ride on toy from your Nana and you ride that pony silly...you figure things out on your own and you're already trying to live your little life on your own little baby terms. And we love it!

You're your Dad's pride and joy, your brother's best bud, and truly, one of the deepest loves of my life.

So happy birthday little Boo...the first of many, many more.

xoxo

Me

On da Bus: The Hard Knocks Version

Some day, I am going to write about how wonderful taking the bus is. I am going to tell you about all the wonderful, charming people I meet and I will impart the wisdom I'm gaining just from being on the 102 Eagle River Express every single day, twice a day. But not today.

Today, I am going to rant and rave and seem really ungrateful that I even have a ride to my job. (If you understood my job situation at the moment, you'd understand my ungrateful attitude. Just sayin'.) So here it is, dear readers. My open letter to the fellow bus riders of Anchorage.

Hello fellow transit users,

I've been among your throng for a month now, and I gotta say, most of the time we're together, I think you suck.

To the busters who put their bags on the seat next to them and don't move them when the extra seats run out, prepare yourself. The day of reckoning is coming and when your backpack and it's contents end up in a dirty snowbank on the side of the Glenn Highway, please know you've been warned.

Hey you, the college kid who wouldn't get up and let the old lady sit when we got on at the last stop last week? Remember that? She nearly fell each time we slowed down and I kept grabbing her and keeping her upright? I remember you. And when you end up in a dirty snowbank on the...well, you get it. You've been warned.

Hello, crazy drunk bastard sprawled out on the bench at my afternoon stop. You're right by my office building in the heart of Midtown. Where the hell did you and your fellow inebriates come from? Is there some crazy drunk guy cave behind the Holiday Gas Station that I don't know about? Please don't take my attitude for anything other than it really is....I don't want to talk to you. No, seriously. I don't want to know about your favorite corner to pee at or where you can buy your plastic bottle of Vodka.

Please.

OH? You see my cup of coffee? Well, just so you know, I'm a smart girl and I keep the lid popped off in case you try to grab my backpack again, I can toss it in your over-zealous face. Not only is it a delicious blend of espresso, chocolate, and milk, it's also a deadly weapon that'll be tough to explain in the homeless camp tonight. Getting schooled by the crazy girl at Stop 18 won't win you any cool points, I promise!

Also, be aware that when you approach me and gawk, I'm studying the exposed parts of your face and where I can lodge my fist if you whistle at me one more time. I may not look like much, but after a day in my office, I'm a raging ball of messy hair just waiting for an excuse. Really really. And I just saw you peeing on the trashcan on C Street, and I gotta say, you need to find another angle, brother. Whistling at random transit users will not do you much good.

Well, hello there, crabby bus driver. When I say "good morning," the expected response is "good morning" or even a nod. Hell, I'd settle for a "get the hell on the bus, Sunshine" from some of you a-holes. Are you deaf? Or are you a stick-up-the-arse jerk? Both should preclude you with working with the public as a bus driver. Oh yes. That's right. You drive a bus. Not an Indycar. A buuuuus.

I think you forgot for a moment...you must have been having flashbacks to your Nascar/Formula One days the way you speed toward oncoming traffic like you do. Even cooler is the way you slam on your brakes and make all of our backpacks fly off our laps in unison. That's a cute trick. I have a feature on my cellphone that remind me to take my Dramamine before each commute now. Thanks. Thanks a lot!

Hey, "Scream into the Cellphone" guy. STFU. No, seriously. Don't talk about how mad you are that nobody picked you up from jail and now you're having to take the bus home because you're freaking me out. In a big, big way. Just stop talking before I pop the lid off my coffee. Just sayin'.

And finally, to the Downtown Transit Center dwellers, Thank You. Thank you for making me feel like a Hobbit who just stepped into Middle Earth each time I have to pass through you to my bus. (You freakin' Orcs.) I'm not kidding...some of you look like you might enjoy the coffee to the face, and you scare me. Period. I fear for my life each time I get there and that really says something. Riding these buses, I have seen some s*#t, but nothing compares to the Transit Center. You freak me out. End of story.

And though I'm learning to walk with a little "grit in my eye" I have the lamest "mean face" on the planet and you make me feel inadequate. So just stop. Take a shower. Drink a glass of water. Eat a muffin. Something. It's like walking through a pack of rabid dogs with a steak taped to my back and I have no idea what I've got that's got you interested. You can have my bus pass if you really want it. My romance novel, too. No, seriously, just stop walking two inches behind me while singing your ABCs and we'll be cool. You're all a brand of crazy that I just can't compete with and I know when I've been bested. Well played, sirs.

And to the nuts-o broad who laughs at the back of the bus for no damn reason, over and over again: At first, you freaked me out...then I thought you just wanted the attention and I wished the sign above your head would miraculously drop.

Now, I kinda like you. I think you're probably taking in the scene just like I am. You remind me just how ridiculous we all are, and how miserable we must look riding home. Maybe you noticed my goofy pink backpack and my non-matching gloves. Or was it a joke one of your other personalities told you?

Either way, keep on rockin' in the free world...you're one of the good ones.

A Dispatch from my Alter Ego

I have an imaginary friend. Well, maybe not imaginary and perhaps not a friend--maybe an additional personality I like to cart around with me. I don't know. If Beyonce has Sasha Fierce (that freeing alter ego she conjures up when on stage), then I have Harper Bennett.

A much cooler, much more organized (and skinnier!) version of myself that writes and does nothing but write. She writes about writing. She reads about writing. She dreams about writing. And Harper's blog is (waaaait for it...) a blog about writing.

Anyway, it's not something I mention that often because I'm not this world-famous author yet and, well, who the hell gives themselves a nom-de-plume before they're even published. Well? Me.

Anyway, the reason I mention it is because I found a short story I'd started about four years ago. I don't remember why I started it. I think I was moody and emo, most likely. (Oh, the dark, dark days of divorce.)

But I started this story and you can read the post over at Harper's place for the background and the plan for it from this point forward.

So go on. Go read it. Do it. Jack the Raven: The Dead Girl's Love Story (Part 1)