It Has Happened

I’m pretty sure that I officially crossed over a divide this past weekend.  I think I’m officially on the “older” side of divide.  Now, as has been previously addressed, I’ve always secretly (or not so secretly?) been an old soul.  However.  That didn’t necessarily translate into a complete outward manifestation of this fact.  As difficult as it will someday be for my children to believe, I was young once.

I was chatting over dinner with my sister and her husband (who, interestingly, had just finished inquiring as to whether my sister had always been 90.  Apparently this “old soul” thing is somewhat familial).  He mentioned that the next day he was thinking of going to see Thor Ragnarok.  And I asked whether that was a friend of his.

thor ragnarok

What he really meant when he said “Thor Ragnarok”

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What I was thinking when he said “Thor Ragnarok”

As soon as I said it a little voice in the back of my head was screaming “movie!  character!  stop!”;  but it was too late.  We all had a good laugh about the mix-up, but I mentally acknowledged the fact that It Had Happened.  I’d seen the signs for awhile.  Here’s a few that I’ve noticed:

  1.  I’ve started shopping from Land’s End.  A lot.  This catalog has been around forever, but the practical, timeless comfort never appealed before.  Now all of the sudden I’m all about supima blends, practical down vests, and more turtlenecks than I could wear in a week.  I’d like to think that these pieces are still subtly blended into my wardrobe.  When I start layering my turtlenecks underneath appliqued sweatshirts we have a real problem.
  2. I rarely wear heels over 2 inches anymore.  Ever.  I remember waltzing into the NICU during a residency rotation in pointy-toed slingback heels and laughing breezily at the nurses’ astonishment at my wardrobe choice.  I’ll never be that painfully practical, I thought.  Well, let me just say one thing:  orthotics.
  3. I’ve started sighing and saying “well, whatcha gonna do?”  Also “golly.”
  4. I make a lot of noise when I get out of bed in the morning.  Between my intentional and automatic joint cracking, it sounds like I’m attempting to break free of a graphite prison.  Jimmy is much the same, although he’ll deny it.  The bonus is that the first person up always wakes up the other,  and we now spend some pleasant time alone over coffee every morning.
  5. I don’t spend too much time about how I look anymore.   No matter where we’re going, it’s highly unlikely that any strangers will spare more than a passing glance on my appearance.  I’m in the “older lady” category, and am valuable mostly for my droll wit, wicked dance moves, and open bar tab.  I don’t mean this to be a sad meditation on the state of female ageing.  To my mind, it’s totally understandable and definitely a relief.
  6. That being said, I spend a lot of time on how I look.  The number of skin care products on my bathroom counter is amazing.  I have my roots touched up every 6-8 weeks.  I have multiple types of foundation and concealer that are applied with an artist’s precision.  All of this to avoid being asked “what happened?” “are you tired?” or “were you on call last night?”
  7. In those magazine articles where it’s “hairstyles (or whatever) for every age, I have to flip ahead a few pages.  You know the ones.  There will be a section for 20’s, 30’s, 40’s, and then 50+.
  8. And speaking of magazines, who on earth is that?  When I’m at the hair stylist every 6-8 weeks, I will indulge in a trashy magazine, and I really don’t know who most of these young starlets are.  And the really funny thing is–I don’t WANT to know.  As long as I’m not the “youth ringer” on the trivia team, it’s not my problem.
  9. I’m hoping that technology just stops.  I actually wish progress would have stopped about 10 years ago because I just can’t learn anymore.  When my grandfather died a couple of years ago, I was amazed to look back and realize that he’d been born in a house without running water or electricity, and when he died he was posting on Facebook and emailing his family.  This will NOT be me.  Luckily I have a technology obsessed husband.  However, if he goes before me, I’m pulling my old Palm Pilot back out and reverting to 2002.

So, It Has Happened.  But, whatcha gonna do?  And, while I’m thinking about it, if anyone wants to see Ladybird with me, let me know.  I’ve always been a huge LBJ fan.

Mad Libs: Kid Car Version

mad libs

My kids like to to Mad Libs in the car.  I’m sure you remember Mad Libs–someone asks for random parts of speech, and they’re transcribed blindly into a story, the results of which are invariably hilarious to anyone under the age of 12.  I think my kids are learning something from Mad Libs.  For example, I’m fairly certain that they both know what a noun is by now, and that an adverb usually ends in -ly.  And I’m glad that they’re doing something somewhat creative in the car and not just staring at a screen or bickering with each other.  And it usually keeps me in relative peace and quiet.

Generally they start by trying to involve me in the Mad Libs activity, but after a few words I’m generally deemed unworthy and my turn is routinely skipped.  You see, I always break the rules of Juvenile Car Mad Libs, which are specific, predictable, and unvarying:

  1.  All nouns will be something immediately visible out the window.  So, “tree” “mailbox” and “WalMart” are all fine.  Intangibles such as “happiness” or “sanity” are not and rapidly disqualify one.
  2.  All verbs will be dramatic actions such as “jump,” “run,” and “punch-in-the-face.”  Quieter, intransitive (like that, mom?) verbs such as “become” are frowned upon.
  3.  All adjectives will come from the usual descriptor set for an ogre.  Examples would be “hairy,” “stinky,” or “gross.”
  4.  All adverbs will be similarly disgusting
  5.  If the category “part of the body” comes up, you will dither dramatically for about 15 seconds before answering “butt.”  Alternatives are acceptable only if butt has been used two or more times already, and must be another potentially stinky body part.

Resulting Mad Libs are as follows: (taken from the kids’ book, but typed for legibility purposes.  This one is apparently a short dialogue.)

Actor #1: Why did we have to come to this warty old castle?  This place sends shivers up and down my butt.

Actor #2: We had no choice.  You know all the windows in town were filled because of the tree convention.

Actor #1: I’d have been happy to stay in a smooth motel.  (mom was included at this point but summarily dismissed after this answer.)

Actor #2:  Relax.  Here comes the bellboy for our stopsigns.

Actor #1:  Hilltop!  Look, he’s all bent over and has a big PetCo riding on his butt.  He looks just like Natalie from that horror flick.

Actor #2:  No.  I think he’s my old buttocks teacher.  (“What’s buttocks?”  “It’s what those tea drinking people (the British) call a butt”).

Actor#1:  I’m putting my armpit down!  I”m not staying in this ridiculous place.  I’d rather fart in the car!

Actor #2:  You’re worrying stupidly.

Actor #1:  Really?  Look at the bellboy.  He has my traffic in one hand and your Toyota Camry in the other, and his third hand . . . His third hand . . . Ahhh!

 

This was read with gales of uncontrolled laughter, pure comedy gold, and the whole “farting in the car” thing rapidly crossed the line into nonfiction.  Gotta love a Kid Car Mad Lib.

 

 

Halloween Do’s and Don’ts

I love Halloween.  It’s the beginning of that frantic roller coaster ride that starts mid-October-ish with the need to turn on the furnace and burn apple spice scented things and continues through January 1.  While there are plenty of lists out there about how to make Halloween safer / more nutritious / more crafty / less sexy-costumified, I’m going to focus on how to do Trick or Treating right.  (This is a completely subjective list.  I’m married to someone whose idea of the right way to Trick or Treat involves getting back with the kids ASAP and changing into sweats to watch football).

  • DO yield to your children’s wishes in terms of costume complexity.  Did I really want to make a “tree” costume two weeks before my due date with the second child?  Absolutely not.  Did I do it?  Yes, because Halloween should be associated with fatigue, hot glue gun burns, and insanely cute pictures–not guilt.
    Peri-Evelyn birth 030

    You want to be a tree you say?  No problem.

    Now, the following year she wanted a $9.99 costume from Walgreens and I had to bite my tongue and let it happen.  The kid gets to drive the boat on the costume issue.  Here are a couple more of my greatest hits:

     

    Where did this ridiculous standard come from?  As with most things (at least according to my therapist) the blame lies squarely and wholly on my mother’s shoulders.  While I can sew straight lines from a pattern reasonable well, she can just make stuff up and it comes out looking great.  Mom would routinely wait until a couple of days before Halloween and begin taking requests from the five of us–and she delivered on ANYTHING. Between her mountains of scrap fabric, the refrigerator box housing previous years’ dance and Halloween costumes, and sheer ingenuity she created costumes including:  Minnie Mouse including padded shoe covers, Robin Hood, The Man in Black, Little Bo Peep, and Pepe Le Pew in addition to scores of witches, vampires and ghosts.  So whenever people suggest that I’m creative with costumes, I just roll my eyes.

  • DO dress your infant to toddler age child as a doll.  The caveat to the “kids drive the costume boat” rule outlined above is that this only applies once they are able to form really good full sentences.  Before that–they’re yours!  And kids as dolls are just too cute to pass up.  Their cheeks are so round and translucent for such a short period, that highlighting the fact through a well-timed doll costume is just too deliciously irresistible. 

    Like my mother, I went for Raggedy Ann.  Unlike my mother, I did NOT handmake my own yard wig in the days before You-tube tutorials were a thing.  Guys, she MADE UP her OWN version of a yarn wig.  I remember that she used leftover denim scraps for the underside skeleton of that red yarn wig I’m wearing above.  The woman is a technical genius.

  • If the baby is bald, DO take advantage of this with a costume highlighting the baldness.  We chose Shaolin Monk. 

    There are plenty of options however.  How about a Bruce Willis baby?  Mr. Clean?  Larry David?  Steve Harvey?  Rough time in her life Britney Spears?

  • DO NOT let Wisconsin weather be an excuse for staying inside.  Layer, layer, layer, and make sure that the headpiece at least gives a clue to the costume because chances are good that the rest won’t be seen at all.2011 November 035
  • DO let them trick or treat for as long as they want to.  This applies both to the day (a rule I find easier to apply since Jimmy is inevitably the one traversing the neighborhood in Wisconsin Halloweens) and over the years.  I will give out candy to anyone as long as they say “trick or treat” and are willing to let me identify their costume as “disaffected teenager.”
  • DO encourage a healthy sense of competition by opening a trading floor for the neighborhood children after trick or treating.

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    Cordani House Trading Floor after the opening bell, Halloween 2017

  • DO NOT insert yourself into this floor.  Despite the fact that my children will literally bicker about anything (example from today’s backseat:  does the “beginning of time” mean the beginning of the universe or when humans started keeping track of time?  Because this affects the argument about “most awesome since the beginning of time.), they will manage to both create and enforce their own set of rules and norms in this bartering system.  DO NOT be tempted to suggest that their trade of 6 fun size Butterfingers for a full size Hershey is dumb because nobody really likes Hershey.  You will be met with a look of utter disdain and exasperation.  Stay upstairs with the adult beverages.
  • DO dress up yourself.  DO NOT worry about how silly you look.  I find great delight in dressing up for Halloween, and  I think I come by this honestly, given my family history.  Check out this snapshot of my Grandma on the right from 1946:
    Halloween 1946

    Ann (Recchia) Yench, Philip Yench, Nell (Yench) Cousin, a.k.a., “Grandma”

    I’m fairly certain that whatever is happening to her right is completely inappropriate by modern standards, but it certainly lends a certain devil-may-care attitude to the whole scene.  My mother also still enjoys dressing up, and 10 points for whoever can name her spirit-animal as whom she dresses every Halloween.  Hint:  she is a teacher, and it’s a book character…

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    For those curious, yes, I believe she made this yarn wig too.  If you could see her stockings, they’re striped…

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Grandma and the girls before getting lost on the way to the school Fall Festival and having to wait for help outside the car in this getup.

  • DO NOT let work keep you from dressing up.  Now, as pediatrician, it was perhaps somewhat easier for me to justify wearing a full costume to work.  However, I did not let concern for my patients’ literary fears affect my choices, as evidenced as two favorites that, yes, I wore to work:  Evil Queen and Dolores Umbridge.

 

Christmas 008

The year that I was senior resident during Halloween and “encouraged” the team to dress up as characters from Grease.  I can’t figure out why the reviews from my students were never higher…

  • DO let them eat the candy til they puke on Trick or Treat night.  It’s one night a year and provides a real sensory lesson on the notion of gluttony.   That whole consume-til-you-puke phenomenon is why I can no longer partake of either banana chips or Bailey’s.

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    Natalie, Halloween 2007.  FYI, no evidence of candy desensitization as of yet

Wedding Dancer

The younger of the girls, Evie, is a lot like me.  We both hang out quite a bit in our heads and enjoy worrying about things completely out of our control.  We also enjoy exerting the maximum control over those things we can.  For example, last night she was interested in ranking, in order of likelihood and severity, natural disasters.  You see, we like to have some sort of a thoughtful approach to our rumination.  As you might imagine, this can get a bit taxing at times.

That’s why I will forever cherish a certain, newly-formed memory for the rest of my sentient days.  It is already nestled safely in that Jewel Box of Perfect Memories.  The metaphorical box is populated with those crystallized moments that exist in perfect, freeze-frame clarity.  If my life were a long bunch of film, these moments would make up the highlight reel.  My newest gem for the collection is Evie as wedding dancer.

A couple of weeks ago, we celebrated a family wedding, and pretty much all of my mom’s family was there.  Now, this family loves a wedding dance.  My Grandma and Grandpa Cousin (my mom’s parents) were famous for cutting a rug at any opportunity, and the entire bunch of us are unabashed wedding dancers.  My childhood is littered with memories of relatives’ weddings and us as kids cramming the front of the dance floor before we retreated, bleary with sleep, to the tables to watch the grown ups dominate the scene.  One of the best include my Great Aunt Helen, my Grandpa’s sister, who was also a recreation square dancer.

Of course, at some point I entered into that bleak, black period of childhood wherein we I was too embarrassed to freely dance.  What a waste of good dancing time this was, but there you go.  To truly enjoy wedding dancing, you can’t give even the slightest concern to how you look doing it.

Wedding dancing 1988

I’m pretty  much in that bleak, awkward period here as evidenced by the hand snapping.   But at least my glasses aren’t as large as my mother’s

In everyday life, Evie has this same burden overwhelming concern about what people think of her.  However.  This absolutely does not apply to wedding dances, where she truly lets her freak flag fly.  She comes by this honestly and was taught by the best…

And she was in rare form a couple of weeks ago.  The girl couldn’t get enough, and she simply embodied joy.  It was perfect.At one point, right around the climax of the party when everything is at its peak and you know that it’s probably only downhill from here, they started playing a loooong Santana number.  Something about the Latin rhythms, the thrumming guitar, spoke to Evie.  She flung herself wholly into the music, threw her head back and DANCED.  And, like moths to a flame, we were all drawn to her.  Without discussing it, we began following her childish moves that translated so easily into dance.  Every eight bars she’d switch her move up, the circle of adult acolytes would grin, and we’d pick up the beat.  She didn’t miss a step, and neither did we.  If nothing else, the girl has a future as a Zumba instructor.

So, if you want your day made, get a load of this gem from the Jewel Box of Perfect Memories:

 

Adjusting the rear view mirror

adjusting the rear view mirror

Have you ever stopped to wonder why, exactly, the rear view mirror even needs adjusting?  Aside from trying to avoid eye contact with the people in the back, I mean.  If you’re the only one driving the car, and you tend to sit the same way every time, why on earth would your eyes ever NOT be at the same height?  (Unless you are incorporating padded butts into your wardrobe, in which case I’d say that rear view mirror adjustment is the least of your worries.)  Why is rear view mirror adjustment even a thing?

When I posed this query to my surgeon aunt, she looked at me with a mixture of confusion, scorn, and pity.  Clearly, she asserted, the adjustments are made to accommdate our gradual shrinkage over the course of a day.  For those of you not familiar with the concept, we all shrink between 1-2 cm over a day spent upright as gravity slowly compresses the gelatinous discs between our 33 vertebrae.  The merciless squeeze of gravity causes each of these little pancakes to shed about 15% of their respective heights, a cumulative 1-2 cm effect. According to my aunt, our eyes are actually slowly shifting relative to the mirror and the dashboard over the day.

I was dumbfounded.  I knew about this whole shrinkage thing, but I’d somehow not managed to connect the dots.  Honestly, I didn’t believe it.

So, I’ve been tracking my trends over the past three months.  And I’m gobsmacked to report that I begin every morning needing to adjust the mirror upwards and I adjust the thing slowly downward with each re-entry into the driver’s seat.

Every. Time.

The only exceptions are if I’m really concentrating on my posture, just took a yoga class, or have spent the day napping.  Seriously, test this out for yourself.

Imponderables

Well, it’s happened again and I missed it.  I turned down Rawson the other day, and the trees there were definitely fall-ish.  Not majority fall-ish mind you, but the seasonal corner had been turned.  Despite my best efforts and intentions to notice it this year, once again I blinked during the slight course-correction that marked this veering into autumn.

It is one of those miniscule changes, a tiny, ephemeral, imperceptible shift that markes the borderline between one and the other.  I miss it every spring, too, when I set the goal to notice the moment when the trees are more green than bare.  I’ll mentally catalog the increasing spray of green over the winter-bare branches, waiting until that aha! moment when it’s tipped over into spring.  I always miss it.  Same with sunsets, the halfway point of an ice cream cone, and the moment during a party when it’s peaked and starts to head downhill.

2010 Flordia and others 092sunset

Maybe it’s not so much that we can’t sense these moments, but that our brains can hold onto the enormity of the moment.  The best word for them, therefore might be imponderable.

One time when the girls were both still young, we waited near the baggage carousel at O’Hare.  These were the days of a stroller, diaper bags, and relatively useless kids.  Sure the older one carried her sippy cup,  but I was still in full on sherpa mode while Jimmy waited to snag a few more bags.  I’m sure my face looked exhausted.  Perhaps that’s why a woman came over to chat with me–motherly solidarity in face of the hell that is an airport with kids.  She was perhaps 20 years older than I was, and had a nice, relaxed, sensible face.  She commented on the girls’ adorableness (true), and how traveling with kids is not for the faint of heart (also true).  She was waiting to pick up her adult son.

“You know, I can’t remember the last time I held him,” she said.  “You spend all those days and nights just doing it, thinking it will never end.  But one of the times it will be the last time, and you just won’t notice it.  I don’t remember the last time I held him, I wish I did.”  She smiled a little sadly and looked up to wave to the tall young man coming down the escalator, hands entwined with a young woman–he belonged to her now, I suppose.  The woman turned to say goodbye and “I know it’s silly to say, but enjoy it.  You won’t realize when it’s ending.”

I’ve gone back to that bittersweet memory often, fully intending to note the last time I picked the girls up.  I tried to pick Evie out of bed this morning and I couldn’t–and I don’t remember the last time.  Another imponderable slipped past, like summer into fall.

First Date

Author’s note:  I kept trying to write this story, and there’s too many little detours that need to be mentioned.  So, I’m just going to write it as I’d tell it.  During the asides you have to imagine me holding up one hand, frozen, as if sustaining the main thread of the story, while the other hand provides colorful gestures.  Trust me it works and people love it.  I think.

 

I took the girls out to dinner the other night.  It was early, so the restaurant hadn’t really filled up yet.  We were seated in the back room, empty save for only one other family with kids;  we were in “kid wasteland.”  The other family consisted of what were clearly a new mother, her mom, and her babies.  They were tiny and new, curled up sleeping against the women’s as they quickly, anxiously finished a one-handed dinner.  Clearly this was a first “time out with the baby” experience, which they confirmed.  I was  immediately taken back;  except for the fact that there were two babies instead of one, it might as well have been me and my mom with a relatively new Natalie.

Aside 1:  The girls wondered how I knew that they were twins.  I pointed out that unless the grandmother had simultaneously had a baby (she heard that and guffawed) or that the family’s baby had already made a best friend of the same age, the best bet were that these babies OF THE SAME AGE UNDER THE CARE OF THE SAME PEOPLE were, in fact, twins.  I hear that parents of twins get asked stupid questions all the time.  “Are they twins?” is merely a variant of my 7 and 11-year-olds’ question.  Another favorite has to be when parents of a boy/girl twin pairing are asked if they’re identical.

 

. . . I would imagine that Natalie was quite a bit older than these little ones, maybe closer to a month, when we had or first date.  It took me quite some time to rally to the idea of actually facing the terrors of dining out with an infant.  That’s a realistic concern. However, heaping helping of postpartum depression added to my hermetic state.  Luckily, my mother is a professional “propper up of people,” and she spurred me on to a lunch at the nearest sit-down place:  On The Border.

Aside 2:  Natalie was born in Arizona in June.  This was fortunate for me, as my mother was still teaching school and could stay indefinitely over the summer break.  Lucky for me she did, as I really am not sure how else we would have survived.  Two of my most vivid memories of the time were staring out this one particular window, and setting a daily goal of emptying the dishwasher.  Postpartum depression is no joke, and my mom’s a winner.

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Mom and baby Natalie.  Note the St. Norbert College shirt;  I think she probably missed a lot of Pat’s stuff that summer.  Sorry about that one, Pat.

 

. . . On the Border is a chain Mexican restaurant, with the attendant loud decor and music.  It was the perfect place in which the cries of a baby would be lost in the shuffle.  I don’t remember what I ate, just the overwhelming desire to get to the part where they bring us the check!  My diaper bag bulged with enough supplies to sustain us for up to a month;  we never needed them.  She slept in her little carrier the entire time.  Thank you, On the Border!

Aside 3:  There are no On the Border restaurants in the immediate Milwaukee area, however there’s a strip joint a little ways off that bears the same name.  You really couldn’t mistake the two.  The different approaches to signage alone make this impossible (busty lady vs. cactus and lime).  Despite this, one of Jimmy’s coworkers once took her sister to the wrong On the Border for lunch.  Interestingly, they weren’t put off by the sign, the fact that all the cars were parked around back, the lack of windows, or the darkness of the entryway.  It wasn’t until they were asked to pay their cover that things finally clicked.  An honest mistake, I guess…

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This is a family blog.  No comparison sign will be posted!

 

. . . The memory so fresh and real, I asked if the girls and I could come over and look at the babies.  They were sweet and gorgeous, and their mother really looked fabulous.  Before I even realized that the words were there, I was asking if they’d had to spend time in the NICU?  Luckily the mother provided me with an out, replying that “yes, they’re pretty small aren’t they.”

Aside 4:  Despite truly being small, they really just had that slightly NICU-ish look about them.   I have a problem digressing medical, as I have all of this information in my head rattling around that’s not being used any more.

 

. . . The mom and grandma didn’t seem taken aback, though, and my girls hovered over them making all the appropriate cooing noises.

Aside 5:  My medical colleagues can attest to the fact that any babies that spend more than a brief time in the NICU tend to take on a characteristic look.  Part of it is the charmingly nicknamed toaster head, which develops when these little ones spend long periods of time lying very, very still on cribs instead of floating in a nice buoyant belly.  But the other part is my observation that they always seem just a little more tense, even in sleep, as if awaiting the next interruption as they go about the tricky task of sustaining life.

 

. . . It was no more than a minute or two, but the exchange was important to me.  For the new mom, it will either be lost in the blessed forgetting fog of first few months, or it will be one of the sharp memories that comes back unbidden.  The moments of early motherhood are mostly snapshots for me, but I got to relive a vivid one:  the first date.

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Another great date night with Evie. Their manners may still be in process, but they’re generally quiet!