Happy Birthday To You!

Dear Michael,

It is amazingly hard to believe that two years ago yesterday, I spent the better part of the afternoon and evening trying to convince my OB that I was NOT ready to have a baby and that I still needed a few weeks to prepare. Too bad, so sad, Dr. Williams informed me. I was having a baby, and I was having it pronto. The next day, I gave birth to you. A good first lesson in motherhood.

The last two years have gone by so quickly. I still have litle lightning bolts of pride whenever I tell a story about you and get to say, "my son." My son, my child, my baby boy -- the love I have for you is overwhelming; it is as wide open and neverending as the Montana sky. It fills me up; it gets me up and keeps me going. And there is nothing better in the whole world than getting a big hug and kiss from you and hearing you say, "I ove you Mama." Even without the "L", ove is a beautiful word.

So today, you are two. In the past few months, I have watched as a woman went to wake her perfectly healthy son for school and found his dead body. I have watched a friend receive a terminal diagnosis and only wish that she can live until her child is in kindergarten so maybe he remembers her. It's easy to take you for granted sometimes. To hear you trying to entice the cats into your bedroom at 5:20 a.m. on Saturday and wish you'd go back to sleep so I could too. To want to throttle you if you yell "DON'T WANT TO!" one more time. To tell you to be quiet when I'm trying to listen to NPR. But then life happens, and it makes me realize how much I want to be present, to really hear you and touch you and smell you (poopy pants and all), every single second of every single day. You are such a gift.

Last week, as I dealt with a firestorm at work, there was no one to watch you. Your dad was working; your babysitters were gone or sick. So it fell on me. I came home at 9:30 a.m., after already being at work for four hours, and I was angry about being the one that this always falls to -- I really felt that I couldn't be away from the office and that the world was collapsing and then I saw you, standing in the front window waiting for me, and as soon I walked in the door, you ran over and hugged my legs. "Mama! Go to park!" I had planned on taking you back to my dingy little office with me, so I could return more irate phone calls and answer press questions, but suddenly, the park seemed like a better idea. And so we went. And let me just tell you, two hours of filling up dump trucks with dirt and pine needles has never been so much fun. Having you helps keep things in perspective. Work is really just something I do to pay the bills anymore.

And so my life has changed in so many unexpected ways. I used to think I'd be somebody if I was making a lot of money and had a big office. I used to complain about crappy job titles and business travel. Today, I love my little state job with my ridiculously low salary and crappy job title, and I go to work knowing that you're my first priority. Today, I know I'm somebody because I'm your mama, and all the money in the world (and even a big office) would really pale in comparison. But don't worry -- I'm still playing the Powerball.

So, Michael, you continue to amaze me. You never stop -- never stop talking, moving, loving. I still come into your room at night, and watch you as you sleep, my perfect baby. I leave the monitor on so I can listen to you sing yourself to sleep and whether it's the ABCs or the theme song from the "Jeffersons", your sweet little voice always makes me smile. I think of you so often, whether it's remembering something you said or did or when I hear a siren and can almost hear you saying, "Fire truck!" as you make a mad dash to the window. You are ever-present in my life, as you should be. Even when we are apart, I am living and breathing you, and always will.

Love,
Mama

Paging Dr. Walters

Things I hate:
1) Low flow toilets; and a not-too-distance number 2) Dentists.

I went to the dentist last April for the first time in a couple of years. I decided to try out a new dentist because while I enjoyed the chatter of the dental hygenist at my old dentist, I didn't think she did such a stellar job with plaque removal.

In spite of the fact that I loathe the dentist, I must say that my new dentist's office totally put me at ease. It has really expensive and very comfortable leather couches and all of the cleaning rooms have a mountain view. If he can afford digs like that, he must be good, right?

But the new dentist informed me at my first visit that he was concerned with gum recession that I had, especially since my teeth are great (not even a single cavity) so the recession wasn't because of gum disease. He then mentioned something about skin grafts to fix my gums and said I should go see this periodontist for a consultation.

Well, when I heard the words "skin graft" and "your (meaning mine) gums" in the same sentence, my blood pressure shot up to near stroke level. I said to the new dentist, "Oh yes, I should probably go and get this done" and smiled with absolutely ZERO intention of ever making the appointment.

Six months later, at my next cleaning, my new dentist again said I should go for a consultation and after having mulled it over for six months, I decided he was probably right. What's the harm of a consultation right?

Well, the periodontist, Dr. Walters, called to set up the appointment and I handily never called back. That was in October. But then yesterday, with my guard completely down certainly not expecting a call from the periodontist, I was sitting here mindlessly working on my book, when the phone rang and I stupidly answered. It was the staff at the periodontist's office noticing that I had never set up the appointment. I said that I would go and then they said, "Well, we have an opening tomorrow morning at 7 a.m. How's that?" And before you know it, I was going to the god damn periodontist.

I stayed awake all night long, worrying about the visit, and finally got up around 5 to go to the gym. I sweated for nearly two hours at the gym, and then drove over to the periodontist's office, with my hairy legs exposed from my crusty gym shorts that hadn't been washed in weeks and with sweat stains under my armpits. "I'll show him," I thought. "He won't want to come near me."

A few x-rays and health questions with the assistant later, in walked Dr. Walters, Periodontist Extraordinaire. He just happened to be the biggest foxiest fox I've seen in this neck of the woods for a loooooooong time (yes, even foxier than the furnace installer in Wranglers). I wanted to reverse the last twelve hours, get a good sleep so I didn't have dark circles and bags under my eyes, and take a shower, put on some nice clothes and high heels and yes, even some deoderent. But it was far too late for any niceties at this point.

But, in all reality, makeup and nice clothes wouldn't have mattered much because he spent the next hour and 15 minutes prying my mouth open with these grippers and taking molds of my teeth, which left me with stretched out lips, red skin, and this silly putty material stuck to my teeth and tongue, which I tried to inconspicuously (and at that part I failed) scrape off with my fingernails.

The plus side is that I will be spending a lot of time with Dr. Walters over the next several months. The down side is the treatment for my gum recession. Apparently caused by my bite that doesn't bite very well (only 3 teeth hit each other), it looks as if I'm going to have to endure at the best, getting my teeth sanded and capped and if that doesn't work, getting my jaw broken, wired together, and "re-set." The last option sounds completely horrifying, but there is something to be said for receiving this kind of news from someone that you'd like to sleep with.

The Low Flower

And the title doesn't refer to something that smells good either.

When we bought this house, there were two things that really sold me on it.

1) The raspberry bushes and apricot and cherry trees in the backyard
2) The fact that it was an old house with a corresponding old toilet, i.e. a high-volume, water-wasting super duper flusher that gets just about anything down in a single flush. I LOVE my water-wasting toilet.

But a tragic thing has happened. Our super flusher is leaking -- like a freaking sieve. It looks as if it is not salvagable, no matter how much we pay a plumber to come and plumb it.

So, we went and examined our options at Home Depot. They had about 40 different style toilets there, all lined up, with each one highlighting how little water is used per flush. Not exactly a big selling point, in my opinion.

I don't know about anyone else in the world, but toilets that don't use a lot of water to do the job don't really speak to me. Quite frankly, I do not care if my toilet drains the Missouri River when I flush it; I just want whatever is in there to go away and never be seen my eyes again. I had a relatively terifying experience with a low-flow toilet and my first after-birth poop, which may have left me scarred for life and I just don't want to revisit the situation. You can, however, by clicking here: http://saraasmommy.blogspot.com/2005/06/as-big-as-my-forearm.html

Unfortunately, a Google search for industrial toilets also didn't turn up much that was promising -- just a bunch of incentives (like $500 back from the state of California) to get rid of your industrial toilet and conserve water. I realize that water is a precious resource; I just would like to choose how I conserve it, like by turning the water off when I brush my teeth. That is happy water conservation where EVERYBODY wins, if you ask me.

My husband assures me that with new advances in low-flow toilets, I have nothing to worry about. I'm just not convinced. I really need to see live demonstrations at Home Depot -- real stuff being flushed far, far away -- so that I can comfortably do the job on one of those things and not fear the aftermath.

This One is For Fran and Mike

Today, my entire family (except for the Montanan contingent) is gathering together to witness my parents renewing their vows to one another on this, their 40th wedding anniversary.

I wish I could be there, but as goes the exemplary planning my family is prone to do, my parents decided to do this like, last week and a plane ticket would have cost me about $1200. So here I am in MT, while the rest of my family is enjoying the exceedingly hard church pews of the Alma Michigan United Methodist Church. Then they get to go have shrimp and cheesecake together. The bastards.

Since I could not be there, my mother asked me, like yesterday, to write something my brother could read at the vow renewal. Here it is. My parents -- they totally amaze me over and over and over -- and usually, it's in a good way.

This one is for Fran and Mike

I distinctly remember the first time I was completely humiliated by my parents. It was in a sixth grade required class called “Self Awareness.” The teacher, Mrs. Augustine, was talking about relationships and asked the class how many of us had never heard our parents fight.

I raised my hand.

And I was the only one in the class to do so. Mrs. Augustine pounced on the opportunity.

“You do realize your parents fight, don’t you, Sara? They just don’t do it in front of you.”

“Actually, I don’t think they do fight,” I replied and so the conversation went for the next 15 minutes or so with me defending my saintly, non-fighting parents and Mrs. Augustine trying to convince me that it was more likely that my parents were breaking chairs over one another’s heads than not fighting at all. She eventually asked me to stay after class, where the conversation continued. My parents, as I would find in my teenager years, were very skilled in humiliating me – so skilled that they didn’t even have to be in the room to do so.

When I got home from school that day, I asked my mom, “Why can’t you two be like normal parents and fight with each other???”

I don’t remember how she answered, but I do remember that my worst suspicions were confirmed: my parents weren’t like other parents; they never fought with each other. How positively mortifying!

Today, however, I am proud to say that I still have never heard my parents fight with one another. In fact, I have never seen my parents interact with one another in any way other than showing each other the utmost respect and care.

My brother and I are lucky in so many ways. We are blessed to have two parents who not only genuinely love one another, but also really like one another. They are, truly, the best of friends. We have been privileged to witness two people who care for and respect one another, who were and are invested in one another’s happiness and general well-being. We watched our parents give unceasingly to each other, and of course to us, and we watched them do so without question and without wanting back. They talked with each other about everything; they were, and are, partners in the truest sense of the word. And, they talked with us openly about the amazing gift of having someone in your life that you looked forward to spending all of your free time with – that even after 40 years of marriage, you still can’t wait to see that person at the end of the day.

My parents are a tough act to follow. They made marriage look easy. Now that I am married and have a child of my own, I fully appreciate how much work it is to be married – to be someone’s partner – and the necessity of always being supportive and caring and respectful of that person and sharing their passion about the things they love (even if you don’t) and making their hopes and dreams and fears your own. But because of my parents’ example, my brother and I are both succeeding at good, strong marriages, and will hopefully someday celebrate 40 years of extraordinary commitment with our own spouses.

And, I hope that someday I am as good at embarrassing my child as my parents were at embarrassing me. And that, if asked, my own son will have to admit in front of his peers that his parents don’t fight, and that years later, he will realize what a truly profound gift that is – to have two parents who are best friends, and who love each other and respect one another and care for one another. Thank you for that gift, Mom and Dad, and here’s to many more years together.

I'll Never Admit It

When mommys get together, talk often turns to ranting about the complete uselessness of their husbands. They don't help with the laundry. They don't help with the cleaning. They get so absorbed in a football/basketball/hockey/baseball game that they don't even notice that one child has severed the hand off another. One mommy I know told me that her husband actually believes that all of their babies slept through the night from the first day of their lives -- not because they did, but because said mommy got up and took care of them and her husband never even heard them cry -- mommy or babies.

I like to jump right in with the ranting, because really, what's more fun than belittling one's spouse? My husband is guilty of all of the above PLUS when he puts the laundry away, I often only find what I'm looking for by small acts of god. I mean, is it really so difficult to figure out which t-shirts are my GYM t-shirts and go in the gym drawer and which ones are my good, fancy, dressing-up t-shirts and go in the far right second, third, and fourth down drawers? I don't think so.

However, my husband had the opportunity to make a lot of money by travelling around Montana for two months. It really isn't that much money, but when you make as little as we do, the money he will make is the equivalent of us winning the Powerball (and yes, I'm still playing regularly, and no, I haven't hit the jackpot yet.) It was really an opportunity that we couldn't pass up. And so, he has been on the road, and I've been stuck here by myself, juggling work and child care and cooking and cleaning, and the absolutely completely obscene amounts of laundry created by my little devil and today, I even had to shovel a little bit AND I have to remember to get gas in the car. And let me just say, I'm about ready to use the money he's making to hire a nanny and a maid, and if I could find a full-service gas station, I'd happily pay a dollar extra a gallon just so I didn't have to stand outside and pump gas in weather so cold and windy I really start to believe as the pump ticks along slow as molasses that my various exposed entities might just be so frozen they'll crack right off my body, and I will be left an earless, noseless, fingerless freak.

We also might have to use that money for therapy.

So even though he doesn't fold laundry the right way and I often find myself refolding everything, and when he washes the floor, I practically have to do it all over again because he does not do it the way I do it, this whole experience has made me realize, grudgingly, that my husband is not nearly so worthless as he appears on the surface. He must be doing something to help me out, because I am so tired at the end of the day now that I don't even need sleeping pills to fall asleep and I was a complete Tylenol PM ADDICT before he started traveling.

California Dreamin'

There's probably only one thing that makes all Montanans want to come together and hold hands while singing "Cumbayah." And that is our shared hatred of Californians.

In all of the other places I have lived, people generally are a little suspicious of Californians. I've heard Californians referred to as "a bunch of fruit loops," "a bunch of whackos," and "a bunch of tree-hugging, tofu-eating, hemp-wearing nutjobs."

In Montana, however, people usually refer to Californians with a string of expletives followed by fists shaking at the sky and end with an exasperated, "And worst of all -- they're driving up the god damn real estate prices!!!"

And so there is the root of the problem. Montanans are poor. We make no money. It is rare for someone here to make over $10 an hour. Those who live in other places now probably think I am trying to be funny. But, I am not. This is the cold, hard truth of living in a cold, desolate, rural state. For a long time, you could buy a nice big house out here for not very much money. But Californians are changing that.

Californians are pretty much the opposite of Montanans. They're tan, and thin, and in good shape. They don't own flannel, and their jeans are not Wranglers. The cowboy boots they wear come from stores on Rodeo Drive, and not from Big R Ranch and Home. The ones that buy up Montana's real estate have good jobs, ample opportunity, and drive expensive cars. And all we want them to do is to stay in Caifornia.

Like the rest of regular Montanans trying to get by on my exceedingly crappy state salary, I have come to loathe Californians and all that they represent. They drove up real estate prices in their own god damn state, and now they're doing the same in mine and everyone is feeling the pinch.

To add insult to injury, the folks that lived next door to us (and had lived there for 45 years) sold their house last summer to, of all God forsaken things, a Californian. Said Californian does not live in the house; she rents it out as an "investment property." And she rented it out to the biggest bunch of white trash that you ever did see.

They drive cars without mufflers and in my quiet part of the world where one of the true joys of being outside is listening to the wind and the birds, non-mufflered cars are pretty much inexcusable. There were four adults at one time living in the house, though I think now one of them got arrested as the cops were over there three times in one night and one adult seems to be missing. They smoke and throw their cigarette butts all over the place. They play their music so loud that it literally rattles our windows. There is a revolving door of men in and out now that one of the husbands is away at basic training and the wife is there by herself. They asked us where they could score some drugs. They are just low-rent, low-class white trash folk, and they live next door to me, scarring my small piece of the world.

What is so frustrating about this is that I envision this evil Californian, sitting in her beautiful home in California, surrounded on all sides by other evil Californians. But while her neighbors may be evil, they do not play Brittany Spears loud enough to rattle her windows; they do not ask where to buy drugs in front of her child; they do not make her feel unsafe in her own home.

So to all Californians, I join with the rest of Montana in saying, I hate you. I loathe you. You can go home now and stay there.

Superbowl Haiku

Guacamole dip
Chips, hot wings, sausage, more dip
Feeling fat today

I Don't Think I Got My Money's Worth

Years ago, I dated this guy who once told me that he didn't feel as if he got his money's worth when he ate at buffets.

Like, WHAT???? Frankly, I don't know how buffets manage to stay in business. Obviously, the relationship was doomed from the get-go.

I will admit it here. I LOVE LOVE LOVE to eat. Always have. Always will.

I eat when I'm bored, hungry, stressed, happy, sad, mad, reading, writing, walking, and even if I'm so full that I honestly don't think I can eat another morsel. Yet, somehow I manage.

Actually, as I sit here and think about it, it's nothing short of a miracle that I am not just a little tiny head on a 2,000 pound body with bratwurst-sized fingers groping around to find another loaf of bread to shove down my carb-craving gullet.

And here's something I'm not particularly proud of, but it does demonstrate my complete devotion to food: once, when I went to a contest of New Orleans chefs battling each other to be named top NOLA chef by making these absolutely fucking awe-inspiring dishes, I ate so much that I literally thought I'd kill somebody when the button flew off my pants at such a high velocity that it would brain someone across the room. So how'd I solve my problem? I went and made myself throw up. Then I came back and sampled more dishes.

Glutton? Yeah, that's me.

But around Christmas last year, I had gotten to the point that it was a lot more comfortable to sit around with my pants unbuttoned or in something with an elastic wasistband. Apparently, going to the gym every single god damn morning doesn't put much of a dent in a 12,000 calorie a day diet. So, before I developed another chin, I decided it was once again "time to cut back."

And so, I've been trying to eat only whole grains (dastardly homemade white bread with butter, why can't I get you out of my mind?), lots of fruits and veggies, and I've been eating every meal on a salad plate -- versus our regular dinner plates on which you could place enough food to satisfy an entire high school football team -- or me. It hasn't really been so bad, except after every meal, I find myself thinking, "That would have been better with sausage pizza and a hot fudge sundae."

However, I am delighted to say that in the last month, thanks to salad plates and a near-death experience with the flu, I lost 12 pounds. I can already tell a major difference in how my clothes fit, and I think I lost one of my chins! Lovely!

But here's the real test: a few nights ago, we went out to eat at a buffet, and I only had ONE plate of food! AND, I was full! I have to say that for the very first time in my life, I think that a buffet got the better of me -- I didn't get my money's worth!

Evil Knievel Love Child

One of the cooler things about Montana is that Evil Knievel grew up here. There's even an Evil Knievel Festival. I'm not sure what they do there; maybe crash motorcycles and try to jump over cars.

This week, I found myself living with an Evil Knievel impersonator as Mikey has suddenly become coordinated enough to become VERY careless. In three days time, he has:
1) fallen down our extremely steep stairs not once, but twice. Once he went headfirst and was only saved from bashing his skull in by a carefully placed Cookie Monster at the bottom of the stairs. The second time, he literally did cartwheels and was only saved by his quick-moving father who caught him before he single-handedly disintegrated his body.
2) nearly choked to death on a grape. Brent had to perform the Heimleich maneuveur. Seriously.
3) was caught doing the following: a) standing on top of our dining room table with one leg straddling a chair as the chair tipped very precariously b) scaling a bookcase as if it was a rock wall on which to practice climbing exercises and c) riding his Mickey Mouse firetruck standing up a la Evil Knievel, which he was actually doing quite well until I yelled, "Michael, you better get your butt in that seat if you know what's good for you!" This scared him to death, causing him to topple over and bang his head in the same spot he ALWAYS bangs his head. (I'm afriad he'll have a little horn-like thing there because this spot is always black and blue and has a big bump from various head-butting activities with the floor, walls, tables, etc.

I was relating this tale of woe to a friend of mine at work today. She has two boys, who are now 18 and 19. After I finished, she said, "Just wait. Last week, my boys were going to go ride their motorcycles, and they called me to verify that they still had health insurance 'just in case.' They don't even live with me anymore, and they're still giving me strokes and serious heartburn."

Something to look forward to...