Accidental Motherhood

Well it all went down like this.

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Last Wednesday I turned into the driveway after a long day slaving away at the salt mines.

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I was met in the driveway by Meredith giving an excellent imitation of a person who had just done a healthy snort of crystal meth.

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"MOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!" she screamed. "ROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOW NOW!!!!!!"

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Well, what do you do? I rolled down my window, my eyes gently glazing over. All of a sudden a stuffed animal was shoved into my hands.

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The stuffed animal looked at me. And I looked at him. And my gigantic brain kicked into overdrive.

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I'm holding a puppy I bet he hasn't had any shots don't puppies get all sorts of horrible diseases where did this puppy come from oh my god I need to run inside and pour bleach all over myself oh my gawd it's a live puppy!!!

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"MOOOM!!!!! ISN'T HE CUTE!!!!!" screamed a small child leaning in my window.

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I quickly handed "him" back.

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"Where did he come from?" I politely inquired.

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"Well Josh's mom's dog just had a litter and they're giving away puppies can we please please please please please have one Mom oh please because if you say no I'll just die and run away from home at age 14 wearing Goth tattoos and take up with a gang of roving Goth vampires and not even finish ninth grade before becoming a disillusioned, post modernistic nilhilistic sad pathetic shell of a human being living under a bridge I know you'll say yes Mom just look how cute he is oh please can we keep him?"

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I punted. "Ask your father." Who was conveniently at work until 9:15 PM that evening, and hated dogs. More than one, anyway.

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Roger pulled into the driveway at 9:31 and at 9:32 was remoselessly attacked by pleading children. But I had faith that he would say no. After all, Roger did not enjoy constantly cleaning up after one spoiled poodle who refused to step outside to "powder her nose" if there was one drop of precipitation in the air.

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I had to teach a class on Thursday night. I pulled into the driveway at 9:00 and met our new son at 9:01.

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Ladies and gentleman, may I introduce Spike.

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Ladies and gentleman, the same man who refused to adopt a third human child with me or take shag dance lessons was talked into adding ANOTHER DARN DOG to the family by two irritatingly adorable children.

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Perhaps I shall ask them if they would be interested in taking shag dance lessons with their father and me.

One Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

 

GONNA FLY NOW

Warning: Shameless Bragging Ahead

I mean it!

I'm not kidding!!

You're going to want to

come through the computer

and punch me!!


2nd report card time. Both kids came home with straight As, Honor Roll.

Madeleine was about as excited as if I had announced that she would be getting an extra penny added to her allowance. Look, I'm simply stating a fact here: Somehow the Universe dropped a genius in our laps. The words "we are offering your child a full academic scholarship to a private kindergarten" "Harvard bound" " "She should start her college courses next summer" have been bandied about her tiny head since she weighed 30 lbs. Teachers have said this to her face. We don't. We don't dance around the house with her on our shoulders singing and praising the deities. It is what it is. We praise hard work.
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Although I surely could use a plastic surgeon in the family.
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I just included a few shots of past awards; she could paper a wall. (See the old picture of little kids holding awards? Meredith had to hold Madeleine's extra ones. The cup she's holding is hers)
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Big deal, so could I, and look at my incredible life achievements. I'm a small town lawyer gal, with a teaching gig, and I'm happy as a pig in the mud. Teachers extolled my limitless future once upon a time. However, my speed boat to success foundered upon the rocky shoals of "Borderline Remedial" Math SAT shores. A polite way of saying "This young student is doing well if she can add 2 and 2 together and arrive at the correct answer of 5."

It's just this simple. Madeleine is smart. She's smart, but it's her life, and she can choose her path. As long as she has friends other than her parole officer who observes that her methadone treatment seems to be working when she's an adult, and as long as she spends her days doing things that bring her joy, that's success enough for me.

Oh BWAHAHAHAHA. Yeah, okay, there's a little part of me that isn't quite as sensible and frighteningly stage motherish, but I put HER in a box and shove her into a locked steel cage in the back of my mind along with " Terrible Old Boyfriends Who Do Not Have This Blog Address So I'm Not Talking About You Okay?", "The Girl Who Once Told Me I Had Bad Breath" and "The Time I Ran A Fish Hook Into My Big Toe."

Now, let's go to the REALLY important news.

MEREDITH CAME HOME WITH STRAIGHT A HONOR ROLL!

THIS IS HER SECOND GRADED REPORT CARD EVER. THEY DON'T START GIVING GRADES HERE UNTIL 3rd GRADE.

MEREDITH IS THRILLED.

TODAY SHE FINALLY REALIZED THAT SHE IS A SMART KID!!!

MOMMY AND DADDY ARE THRILLED.

SNOOPY DANCE AND FREE MARGARITAS FOR ALL!!!!!!

(cue theme music from Rocky)

That Was Then, This Was Now

Setting: Ten Years Ago

I'd pull out an adorable outfit, dress her, and whirl her lovingly around like we were filming a Metropolitan Life Insurance Commercial.

Setting: Our House. Ten Years Later

Madeleine (hitherto known as Ungrateful Child): I want a poodle skirt to wear to my dance and for Halloween. Let's hit the stores.

Me: (hitherto known as Long Suffering Mom) Okay.

UG: (first Halloween store). Oh no! They're out.

LSM: I could probably make you a poodle skirt with some felt and a glue gun.

UG: (not even bothering to acknowledge such silliness) Let's hit another store.

LSM (next Halloween store) Here we go! Just your size--8-10- Let's go!

UG: NO! I'm a LARGE! Size 12!

LSM: Picks up poodle large, notices it has already been returned. Easily removes it from package. Holds it to child's waist. Hmm, looks okay. You happy?

UG: MOOOOOMMMM! THAT IS NOT MY WAIST!!!!!

LSM: WELL EXCUUUUUSEE ME! (Hands skirt to child) YOU hold it to your waist.
(Child holds it approximately at hipbones).

LSM: This work for you?

UG: Walks away, deep in thought.

LSM: Um, hello! Um.. Madeleine, if you don't like this, I can sew a poodle onto your concert black skirt for the party!

UG: Stops, turns around, eyes light up. You can?

LSM: Sure!

UG: Let's go to the fabric store! And I want the poodle to have sparkly eyes!!

LSM: (at fabric store) It closes early on Sunday. Let's go home.

LSM (at home) Okay, let's assemble your outfit.

UG: MOOOOOOOOOM! I have HOMEWORK TO DO!!!

LSM: No problem. Go naked to the dance, I don't care.

LMD: (Loud Mouth Dad) Well, I have a problem with this.

LSM: (saintly patience beginning to fade). UG, please go fetch the black skirt that you plan to use while I try to find the pink sweater your grandmother wore in the 40s.

UG: (sincerely) Mom, thanks. It helps me so much to have a mom who lived in the fifties.

LSM: I'm happy to help. (thinking: I ALMOST MADE IT TO 1960-only 10 months more!) Here you go, here's a nice, clean white shirt. Do you like that?

UG: (looks up from homework) nods briefly and ungraciously.

LSM: Okay. Now show me the black skirt you plan to use.

UG: Gets up, sighs loudly, goes to bedroom, reaches into hiding place, pulls out evening broomstick skirt that belonged to a Charity Dance type outfit purchased by UG's grandmother. LSM has been looking for said skirt for three weeks.

LSM (voice rising to levels heard only by dogs) WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THIS SKIRT! THIS IS AN EVENING SKIRT! IT DRAGS THE FLOOR ON ME! WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO, TRIP ALL THE BOYS AT THE DANCE??

UG: (sulks)

LSM: DON'T YOU DARE RAID MY CLOSET AGAIN, MISSY, WITHOUT PUTTING THE CLOTHES BACK IN PRISTINE CONDITION!!!

UG: (sulks)

LSM: Where's your old black velvet skirt?

UG: MOM! It's way too small!!!

LSM: (Finds old black velvet skirt belonging to her). Okay, here you go. Do you think this will work for you? I can pin it up to fit.

UG: (sulkily nods, turns to homework).

LSM: Repeat after me: "Thank you Mom, for working so hard to get me ready for the dance."

UG: (whispers)mmmmmmmmmtha..........hmmmphhhhhhh.

LSM: (to herself) If you need me, I'll be in a bubble bath wishing for strong narcotics.

The Plague And I

Ah, Expletive Deleted!!! The phone rang at 1:00 PM today. Meredith had 101.3 temperature. Come get her from school.

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Both of our kids have immune systems that could win prizes. I think it's the orphanage where they began their life. Many older kids who came out of the girls' orphanages tell stories of children dying regularly. Back in the day, these orphanages had hundreds of kids. It is what it is. But the kids just never get sick. Honestly, they're in the 3rd and 6th grade, and I can count the TOTAL sick days on my fingers.

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Meredith is lying on the sofa, telling jokes (What happens if two green peas get into a fight? They turn into Black-eyed peas!!!), laughing, singing, screaming "LOOK MOM! MY TEMPERATURE WENT DOWN TO 100 DEGREES!" Nothing hurts. No coughing. Nothing. No sore throat. Nothing. Eating like a horse.

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Everybody else feels fine. I confess that I have been a big chicken for the past few months. I'll grab the kids around their waist, hug them from behind or pull them to me, and plant a kiss on their hair. Then I immediately douse myself in sanitzer, making myself so germ free that I could perform an operation with my BARE HANDS.

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We all feel fine, but naturally, NATURALLY. NATURALLY. TOMORROW.

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Tomorrow is the Homecoming Brunch for alumni of the Honors College at USC. We look forward to it all year. I've been working on a course to teach for the Honors Program--either "The Life Of A Real Lawyer" or "Basic Law." The Dean told me that both sounded like great ideas and he wanted me to start working on it. They already have a course entitled something like "The Life Of A Real Doctor." But USC just laid off all their adjuncts anyway. (shrug).

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And tomorrow night is the Halloween party we look forward to every year.

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Ah, Expletive Deleted!!! Meredith will probably be fine by this time tomorrow, but we can't go out in good conscience and expose her. And I don't want to leave her.

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Shoot.

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Edited to add: the words "school dance" just floated across the family room (where Madeleine is chatting to a friend on the phone) to the dining room-cum-computer-office where I'm pounding out this blog entry. I just screamed "WHAT DANCE?" and Madeleine informed me that she will be attending her first dance soon. Well, that will be interesting. Soon, Madeleine will have topped my record of attending dances while in K-12. Which is--ZERO!!

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BREAKING NEWS UPDATE SATURDAY AT 6:00 PM!!!!! I found three old thermostats that Mom used on us back in the day. Two oral, one rectal. My did that bring back some fond memories, NOT.

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So I sterilized one of the oral ones and did the old shake shake motion, feeling like a REAL MOM. Temperature today: 98.6. Meanwhile, Roger was at Walmart buying a new digital. The digital readout: 97.3. Meanwhile, Meredith has been jumping, eating, giggling, watching TV, playing computer games, and riding her bicycle up and down the street.

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The agonizing suffering that child endured!!! Really, I should put up a Paypal button for all the Tequila Sunrises I need to recover from her illness. "Mom, I feel GREAT. Can I have Nick over to play? Please?" Lather, rinse and repeat.

This Old Piece Of *&*&* House

When I was younger I dated a guy who told me (Hi, T! Thanks for being my pal and putting up with 30 years of wackiness) that he always took pictures of every place that he lived in. I thought that was a great idea, but I always forgot to do so. Well, my parents' house sold, as you may remember if you READ THIS BLOG FAITHFULLY, which I know you do, because it's so darn FABULOUS. Ahem. Moving on.

Well, I decided, during the final walk-through, to take along my camera. So welcome to a place you can't visit any more, even though it's been less than three weeks, because the fabulous new owners have painted the house a beautiful shade of tan with white trim and replaced some of the nasty ceiling fans already.

Welcome.....to the House of Horrors. (Begin ominious music like when the teenage girl, wearing nothing but a skimpy top and Daisy Mae shorts, begins to go down into the attic where the chainsaw killer awaits to saw her limbs off).

Now above please note the front door. See that cute little window? Well, the door is this hideous pseudo-Spanish thing that was all the rage back in 1965 (remember the black leather sofas and the bullfighter posters? No? Well, you missed out). We moved into the house in 1970, and the little window opened. I loved playing with it.

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But Miss Paranoia--a/k/a Mommie Dearest--had the window sealed. Quickly. It's been sealed ever since. Buuuummmmerrr.

Come on in....to the entry hall. The closet was just emptied of dozens of coffee makers, Ginsu knives, food processors, fans, broken fan belts. broken heaters, broken coolers, broken humidifiers, broken anti-humidifiers, dead rats, etc.

Welcome to the weirdness. Okay, now please note the 1973 washing machine and 2004 dryer. In 1973 the nation experienced a devastating energy crisis. My father recorded on his ubiquitous index cards (What? He was a Ph.D! He had a degree from a credentialed university! He had pocket protectors! He had index cards on him AT ALL TIMES IN CASE SOMETHING OCCURRED THAT NEEDED TO BE RECORDED)...well, anyway.

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Daddy recorded the amount of kilowatts or whatever that the household used in 1973, along with the monies paid to the Evil Power Company, and then drew a line and compared the similar data to 1974.

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The dryer ceased to be used. At all. It sat for 30 years, and, peeved at its neglect, decided to blow up. And I don't blame it at all. Mom hung everything outside to dry. So the dryer is relatively new (if you call 5 years "new") and the washing machine is pretty much ready for the Smithsonian's Institute Of Really Atrociously Colored Appliances From The Seventies Where Everybody Was Doing So Many Drugs That They Failed To Notice That They Had Avacado Stoves, Copper Dishwashers, and Dirty Yellow Washing Machines.

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And I swear I did not notice this until I was uploading the pics, but if you look closely....There! I cropped the picture so you could see....

What happens when you marry men and you stay

married to them for seventeen wonderful years filled

with love and happiness and sunshine and roses and

little bluebirds tweeting around their heads..... who

can't keep up with the brutal demands of their loving

spouse to move 5,345 pieces of junk out of a house.

Quickly. Trit-trot.

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I beg your pardon, DARLING. I never promised you a

ROSE GARDEN.

Okay. Now this was in the laundry room. The "Little Gray Box" contains a note from Mom circa 1997 and one from Dad circa 1992. I went over to Picasa and cropped them to see what they said. For future archaeologists, here we go.

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The top note, in Mom's handwriting reads: 11/20/97 I finally discovered the noise maker!

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LEAVE I OFF!!! I guess it's only a timer but original water heater fuse. We now have a gas water heater. (my note: LEAVE I OFF!?????? I??? Mom, um, what does I mean?)

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The middle note, in Dad's handwriting, (very precise) says NEW HOOK PUT IN------3-22-92

----LIGHT

----MICROWAVE

----TELEPHONE ANS. MACHINE

#10 LIGHT IN DRIVEWAY

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And the bottom note reads, in Mom's handwriting: PUMP UNDER BACK BEDROOM.

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Who needs diamonds and negotiable bonds when you

have such priceless heirloom notes?

And here is the kitchen. Hello, the eighties called. They want their stainless steel sink and stained "white" linoleum back. Good luck, new homeowners!!!!

Here is the most horrible family room ever created.

My parents took me house hunting in 1970 when I was 11, while my 8 year old sister was left in the care of her aunt and uncle. BOOYAH. I felt like such a big shot!!!

We walked into this house and I turned to Mom and said, No. Please. Please, please, please, please, not this house.

It is now 39 1/2 years later and I finally don't ever have to deal with this horrible room ever again. There, there. I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm great. I'm a strong person.

Note the total lack of 1. windows 2. space 3. respectful husbands.

P.S. When we moved in, the right wall was wallpapered in an attractive red and blue Colonial theme and the light was a WAGON WHEEL.

Another view of the family room. Please note the attractive dark bookshelves, which used to contain my parents' college textbooks. The textbooks had intriguing and enticing titles that made you want to snatch them from the shelves and use them to light bonfires. Example (and I am, once again, not making this up) PARAMECIUM DISCOVERIES IN 1948!!!

Then there was the assortment of cookbooks from THE OLD RUGGED CROSS CHURCH AND GAS STATION IN MOOSE HILL, SC.

And the pile of 78 records from about oh, six quadrillion years ago.

I was aching, literally aching, for my husband to recover his energy and gently caress my........, I mean, for the new homeowners to paint the bookshelves white. But they like them dark. Well, each to his own. MORONS. Just kidding, you guys are great. Seriously, I really really like you guys. Thank you--and I'm being sincere--for repainting the house and just being nice people. And by the way, I just got the yearly tax bill in the mail. See you soon!!! :)


My Daddy liked to build things. Shelves. Lots and lots of shelves. Hope you enjoy lots and lots of shelves. You're welcome.

DISCLAIMER: NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR FEELINGS
OF DIZZINESS, NAUSEA, OR REVULSION. Please feast your eyes on the bathroom connecting my bedroom to my parents' bedroom.


(sigh) There must have been a contest for Ugliest Bathroom Tile somewhere. Somewhere. Somebody must have examined a diaper filled with infant diarrhea and been inspired to create this masterpiece of tile colors.


Speaking of ugly, please ogle the ugly bedroom furniture in my parents' room. My sister has taken these monstrosities and saved them for her son's first bachelor apartment. My, I can hardly wait to see the look on his face when she drags these into his swinging pad!!!!!

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David, I LOVE YOU. David. David. Call me, David. I know a couple of reliable arsonists.


This, my friends, upon first examination, may look like the most boring picture ever posted on the internet. But wait. There is a story here. See the little iron bar?
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Let's go back to 1949. The night before Mom and Dad were joined in Holy Matrimony. Mom had been complaining (her favorite hobby) about how Dad would be traveling a lot and leaving her behind.
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So her brothers wrapped this up and lovingly presented it to her. It is...and yes, ONCE AGAIN, I am not making this up---the bar to the 1928 car that the family used to own. It was the bar that the kids in the back seat hung onto unless they wanted to be thrown out onto the highway.
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They explained to her, as a joke, that she could keep this under her bed and whomp any intruder over the HAID with it.
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Earth to Mom--it was a joke. A joke. Do you know what a joke is?
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A joke?
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She kept it under her bed until the day she moved out of the house in 2008.

And I took it, and it's in the garage somewhere, and if an intruder comes in my bedroom, I'll politely ask him/her to wait while I run find it and WHOMP them upside the head with it.
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Mom would have wanted it that way.


AHA!! You are distracted with the iron bar, but now (cackle), I shall lure you into the Second Bathroom of Grotesque Tile. This is the hall bath.

Okay, take a piece of white tile. Stain it a dirty cream color. Then allow little bugs to crap on it. Then dye their crap green. Then install it in a perfectly lovely suburban home.
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Darn it. See those little aqua things sticking out? Mom used to dry her pantyhose on them. I meant to grab them. Enjoy, new homeowners!!!!

THE END. Please file quietly outside and remember to tip your servers.

Might As Well Jump

Hi everybody. Madeleine (11) and Meredith (9) reporting in from Birthday Town.

Note that Meredith has already used her skateboard and has the waaah wounds to prove it.

Now it is time to party.

I must decide if you are cool enough to party with moi.

We don't let every Tom, Dick, and Harry hang, you know.

Okay, let's party.

LYRICS: "Jump!" by Van Halen

I get up...UP! ...and nothing gets me down

You got it tough

I've seen the toughest soul around......

And I know! Baby just how you feel....

you've got to rooooollll with the punches to get to what's real

Oh can't you see me standing here I got my back against the ipod machine...

I ain't the worst that you've seen

Oh can't you see what I meeeeannn....

Might as well...

JUMP! Jump!

Might as well jump.

Aaaaoohhh Hey you! Who said that?

Baby, how have you been?

You say you don't know...you won't know until you begin.....

Well can't you see me standing there I got my back against the record machine..

I ain't the worst that you've seen

Oh can't you see what I mean?......

Might as well Jump! Jump!!! Go ahead jump!!!!!

Jump!!!!!

Mom! STOP DANCING!!!

October 10, 1992

1992

2009

True Companion - Marc Cohn

our wedding song

Baby I've been searching like everybody else

Can't say nothing different about myself

Sometimes I'm an angel

And sometimes i'm cruel

And when it comes to love

I'm just another fool

Yes, I'll climb a mountain

I'm gonna swim the sea

There ain't no act of god girl

Could keep you safe from me

My arms are reaching out

Out across this canyon

I'm asking you to be my true companion

True companion

So don't you dare and try to walk away

I've got my heart set on our wedding day

I've got this vision of a girl in white

Made my decision that it's you allright

And when I take your hand

I'll watch my heart set sail

I'll take my trembling fingers

And I'll lift up your veil

Then I'll take you home

And with wild abandon

Make love to you just like a true companion

You are my true companion

When the years have done irreparable harm

I can see us walking slowly arm in arm

Just like the couple on the corner do

'cause girl I will always be in love with you

And when I look in your eyes

I'll still see that spark

Until the shadows fall

Until the room grows dark

Then when I leave this earth

I'll be with the angels standin'

I'll be out there waiting for my true companion

Just for my true companion

True companion

I Got Your Polanski Right Here

So much hate, so little time...But let's review the facts.

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A 13 year old girl?

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And Hollywood embraces him?

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Quote from this article:

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On March 10, 1977, then 44, he had taken Samantha Gailey, a 13-year-old child model, to the home of Jack Nicholson in Mulholland, California, where he said he was going to take photographs of her for the French edition of Vogue. After taking the photos, he gave Gailey champagne and a sedative and performed oral sex, intercourse and sodomy on her while she said: "No, I don't want to do this." The original charges against Polanski were "rape by use of drugs, sodomy, and a lewd and lascivious act with a child under the age of 14". As part of a plea bargain Polanski got it reduced to "sexual intercourse with a minor".

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I could write a long treatise, but if you want to read reasoned and logical arguments I suggest you pop over to the Huffington Post.

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Um...what...red haze appears in front of my eyes...unable to write....All I can say is that if you did that to my girls I would advise you to get your affairs in order.

This Used To Be My Playground

We sold our family home this week. Yes, it's a miracle. Yes, if you want a realtor who can work miracles, you should try ours. No, our house isn't on the listings. It sold before it was even listed. Just one of those wonderful, amazing strokes of luck.

This used to be my playground
This used to be my childhood dream

I'd post a picture of it, but I forgot to take one. it's a brick four bedroom suburban ranch house. I think you get the idea. About 1900 sq ft. A blazing garden of azaleas in the front, which lasts a whole 2 weeks in the springtime. Rest of the year, a bunch of shrubs. Okay, I did find a "prom photo" from 2006 when I made Roger take me to the prom because I had never attended one. He was coaching at a high school back in those days. I mean, nothing special, just a photograph of an arrangement of furniture that is now in the wind, taken by a lady who sits in a chair all day and has her diapers changed. A quick look back into a past that exists only in a picture.


This used to be the place I ran to
Whenever I was in need
Of a friend
Why did it have to end


Now I feel like an idiot for feeling anything but transcendent joy that this house, which needs massive renovations unless you really feel attached to 1980 decor and cost money to keep up, is gone.


Especially since I hated the place from the minute my eleven year old foot hit the floor in 1970, the year my parents bought it. And the last year has been filled with the joy of disposing of a cumulation of 150 years of STUFF. I wish I was talking about GOOD stuff, but I'm talking about broken ceiling fans, tires so old they aren't steel band radials, or whatever, I don't know anything about tires except that my dad had about a dozen stored in a rotting storage house. Oh! He also had a file cabinet made of wood that was so eaten up by termites that it crumbled when you touched it. Now that was wild!

But I see I'm skipping over an important topic: WHY did I hate that house? Well, it's like this. It was 1970 and Columbia was just a lil ol stop in the middle of nowhere. There were like, twelve houses for sale in my parents' price range in the entire town. (I'm making faces here like I'm being force fed brussel sprouts). The house was designed by a man, I'm sure.


Our old house, in Blacksburg, Virginia, had a kitchen and dining room window that overlooked the Appalachian mountains and there was a deck where you could sit and watch the mountains and think long thoughts. This house had a kitchen window that overlooked THE GARAGE and the dining room window overlooked the driveway. Since I often dried dishes, I had a lot of time to formulate vile thoughts about THAT HOUSE.

And why do they always say
Don't look back
Keep your head held high
Don't ask them why
Because life is short


And before you know
You're feeling old
And your heart is breaking

Don't hold on to the past
Well that's too much to ask

But no matter. I said goodbye to the corner of the room where I wrote in my diary the night before 7th grade started. The corner where I was studying the night I heard that John Lennon had died. The corner where I wrote all those gooney poems that all "sensitive" teenage writers-t0-be are required by law to crank out.


I said goodbye to the room where I faced my mother and aunt the night my father died. To the kitchen where my sister (8) and I (11) broke into a chorus of "Jeremiah was a bullfrog! He was a good friend of mine! He never understood a single word he said, but I helped him to drink his wine! And he always had some mighty fine wine!".....when we were asked to sing "Joy To The World" right before Christmas dinner.


I remember the bathroom where my boyfriend tried to sneak a cigarette. I never smoked a cigarette in the house. Okay, one of the owners is dead and the other wouldn't know if I lit a stick of dynamite in front of her and is stashed in a home 20 miles away (mom has Alzheimer's) but I...couldn't. I thought about smoking a cigarette just for the um..heck of it and I. Could. Not. Do. It.

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I remember the day I opened the letter about my college scholarship and Daddy jumping up and smothering me with kisses and the day I got the Phi Beta letter and I ran into the backyard where Mom was hanging clothes and the dog jumped on me in joy as I screamed and cried and I didn't care that I got my good work clothes dirty..

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I remember the wedding day and the babies playing on the floor and the millions of holiday dinners and the fights and the hilarious jokes and the laughter and corny corny corny corny corny....

Well the years they flew

And we never knew

But I wish that you

Were here with me

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Well then there's hope yet

I can see your face

In our secret place

You're not just a memory

Say goodbye to yesterday

Those are words I'll never say

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Wishing you were here with me, Mom and Dad

A Tribute To Christopher Quackenbush

I wasn't going to republish this again, because it still hurts so much. But then I thought that I once wrote "Never forget" and decided that I would be doing Christopher and all the other victims a disservice if I did not honor that promise.

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I'm not going to pretend that I am some sort of special snowflake; I lost nobody that I knew on 9/11/01--I have since become friends with a very special woman named Sue Mladenik who lost her one and only on the first flight, the Rev. Jeff Mladenik. They had four children and Sue was "paper pregnant" with the adoption application in China asking to adopt their fifth child. Sue has bravely picked up the pieces of her life and gone on to enjoy wonderful family moments with three beautiful daughters from China and her three children born to her and Jeff, and recently became a grandmother for the first time. (although I can assure you that she is as far from the "grandmother" stereotype as one can possibly get!).

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Nevertheless, she must live all the days of her life devoid of the love of her life, and yes, while republishing this isn't going to mean much in the grand scheme of things, nevertheless my little blog can do its little part to honor the victims of cruelty so big that it's still, 8 years later, impossible to wrap my head around it.

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By the way, thank you Michael for tipping me off to a website devoted to Christopher. One day I hope to meet his wife and kids and hear about him from those who loved him best, and still mourn his loss most fervently.

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And so we on earth go on, and the sun comes up, and we brew another pot of coffee and tea, and complain about rush hour traffic, and take the kids to school and violin practice, and share a good laugh with a friend, work, pay bills, enjoy the sunset and fix the brakes in our car, and we think back to that day when everything changed, and we mourn afresh.

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No, I am not entitled to grieve for a personal friend, child, spouse, lover, or parent. But I did walk the streets where the victims walked; I took the subways they used, I visited the building they went to every day. It was personal, man. Every life is precious, but I am only human and I grieve harder for the people who died because so many of them remind me of...myself.

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On September 11, 2001, Christopher Quackenbush, 44, was working at Sandler O'Neill & Partners in the World Trade Center. He had forty years of life stolen from him by madmen with box cutters.

Christopher was trapped in the North Tower above the gash created by the plane that struck the tower, Flight 11. Another successful businessman, Jeff Mladenik, was on that flight. Jeff was happily anticipating the adoption of his second daughter (and fifth child), Hannah, from China. His wife, Sue, is a good friend of mine.

Chris never had a chance. Did he jump? Did he die of smoke inhalation? Did he feel the ground shifting under his feet as the "safe" skyscraper crumbled to the ground?

Did he, five years earlier, watch Titanic with his wife and think ruefully of all the structures made by mortal hands that were, allegedly, "unsinkable"?

I do not know.
This I know for sure.
Christopher was a truly good guy.
Christopher's wife and children mourn him daily.
Christopher should have died in his bed sometime in the middle of the 21st century with his wife, children and grandchildren by his side.
And this much more I know for sure.

We must never forget.

Christopher Quackenbush: 'Christmas Carol' All Year
Most people think of "A Christmas Carol," the Charles Dickens classic, only during the holidays. But the tale of greed and redemption was on Christopher Quackenbush's mind his entire life. As a founding principal at Sandler O'Neill & Partners, Mr. Quackenbush, 44, thrived on sharing his wealth.

He created the Jacob Marley Foundation, which provides scholarships and programs for poor children on Long Island, including annual trips to Shea Stadium for Mets games. The Mets themselves once played Tiny Tim to Mr. Quackenbush's Scrooge: he flew some team members to Washington on his company jet last June to meet President Bush.

In keeping with the story that haunted him, Mr. Quackenbush's generosity peaked at Christmas. "He would give us all a trip somewhere," his sister, Gail, said. "A ticket to whatever we really wanted to do."

Not only that, but Mr. Quackenbush took his wife, Traci, their three children and a throng of relatives to see "A Christmas Carol" at Madison Square Garden every December, reminding them not only of the importance of spreading good fortune, but of having fun doing it. They have resolved to go without him this year. "We're not going to have a good time," Gail Quackenbush said, "but we're trying."

Profile published in THE NEW YORK TIMES on December 8, 2001.

QUACKENBUSH - Christopher. The entire NYU Law School family mourns the loss of our trustee and friend, Chris Quackenbush, a victim of the World Trade Center tragedy. Chris was a special person who combined high values with the ability to inspire others to act for the good. He was a wise businessman and counselor to the great; but still more, he was an example of the finest qualities a person can possess. Even as we use him as a model for our students, we mourn his loss and dedicate ourselves to keeping his spirit alive. Our thoughts, prayers and love are with his wife (Traci), his children (Whitney, C.J., Kelsey) and his entire family. Lester Pollack, Chair; John Sexton, Dean, New York University School of Law.

Paid Notice published in THE NEW YORK TIMES on September 20, 2001.

Over 3,000 bloggers took part in a tribute project in 2006. I was assigned the name of Christopher Quackenbush.

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Thank you Miss Cellania for letting me know about this tribute opportunity.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin,

let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever:

I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.
-- W.H. Auden

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Death Be Not Proud

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull,

for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st,

thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death,

nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleepe,

which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure,then from thee,

much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;

One short sleepe past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more;

death, thou shalt die. -John Donne

A touching picture that gets me in the gut every time I look at it--imagining the towers themselves crying and holding hands, anticipating their downfall, when they should have been around for us to show our great great great grandchildren.

Ground Zero-Spring, 2004

Much better writers than myself attempted to make sense out of a senseless act of violence.

"...big friendly flying buses.."-Dave Barry's column

"...But you're about to learn."-Leonard Pitt's column

"I Just Called To Say I Love You"-Peggy Noonan's column

"Hallowed Ground"-Dave Barry on Flight 93

originally published September 11, 2006

Don't Worry, Be Happy

So, I read Amalah's post today about how her son Noah got off the bus wearing a backpack after years of screaming refusal and it made me want to write about worry.

Worry. You've heard the old cliche about after having a child your heart is walking around detached from your body, and it's true. If you're reading this, and you have no children but beloved pets, you might be shaking your head and saying, well, I feel that way about Bruno and Felicia and Snuffy too, SO DON'T START PUTTING ON AIRS JUST BECAUSE SMALL HUMANS BELONG TO YOU, MISSY. And you know what? I'm throwing you a bone. (BWAHAHAHA). I felt the same way about my dogs, especially my two dogs who were special needs children. I worried about them and loved them just as much as my kids, but I managed to get over the worst of my grief and loss in four years after their death. Daddy's death took me two years (I had 20 years to prepare for it, as we expected it any day after the then new quadruple bypass surgery he had). I don't want to even write any speculations about how long it would take me...

In fact, our new daughter Callie-the-poodle is NOT special needs, and it's weird. It took me months to "bond" with her. I was so used to dealing with infirm, psychologically scarred dogs that a happy, healthy dog sort of freaked me out.

But anyway, I digress, as I am so often wont to do. I want to talk about worry, and the small creatures that make you worry.

Oh! And it was a total stranger who put Noah's backpack on. And THAT reminded me of a wonderful daycare person who used to be able to feed Madeleine baby food. Why she'd devour it at daycare like a cavebaby who just got fed after the big week long hunt. For us? Fuggettaboutit. I used to say with complete sincerity that I would prefer to change a virulent diaper than try to feed Madeleine baby food. The little booger would allow me to spoon it in her mouth and then slowly, ever-so-slowly, allow the food to oooooooze out of her mouth. Oh! It was maddening.

Now here is the thing that is interesting. Apparently the young lady had something called "oral aversion" which is common among young babies from China. They used to be bottle fed only in China and so many young Chinese babies would refuse to take anything solid in their mouths. So she had a Problem, and I didn't even know about it. So I didn't worry about it. And it went away. Poof!

And then I remember putting myself into a frenzy over private v. public school? I spent about 4,746 hours of my life fretting over that. She's now in public school and tearing the place up. If she does well this year, she will start HIGH SCHOOL CREDIT Algebra and English next year in the 7th grade. She will be 11 when school starts.

Oh, and let's not forget about...

THAT kid, who has spent most of her life being compared to her Sister The Genius Prodigy Harvard Bound, and that kid has never been complimented on anything but her stellar personality. She's coming home with straight As so far in 3rd grade, the first year that she has received grades, and reporting that she heard people saying that she is the smartest kid in the class. She was the only one in the class who got an "A" on some test she took last week. Is she glowing! I knew she needed to be at a different school from Big Sis but I did not expect any immediate payoff, which goes to show you that sometimes life does toss you a bone, and it's all good.

Worry. You can spend your life worrying. Or you can just sit back and enjoy life and your wonderful family. Hey, when you figure out how to do that, can you drop me a line?

I'm working on it.

Backwards, Turn Backwards, O Time In Thy Flight....

Goodbye Summer 2009

(click to enlarge)

Number Nineteen

Yes, the Duggars are expecting a 19th bundle of joy.

This one is for you, Julie, one of the funniest bloggers on the net. Need another laugh from a lady whose name starts with J? Be sure to catch Jane's last post and I'll give you a dollar if you can read it without laughing. Of course there is also Miss Cellania, who also makes me snicker uncontrollably at times.

Seriously, after the disgusting antics of Octomom (I was delighted when her TV show flopped) and Jon minus Kate plus Eight I...um...sorta...kinda....in a weird way.... approve of the Duggars. After all the birthrate is dropping in the US and SOMEONE is going to have to foot the bill for my Social Security checks.

PS Can you please follow me on Twitter so I can have a free washing machine and a pony and a Easy Bake Oven? Please?

duggars
18 and Counting
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