Things I Didn't Know Were Possible:

Biting a hole through your own tongue. Yes, THROUGH. I could see the top of the hole and the bottom of the hole. And yes, it hurt.

My Fam

Hurray!

He's coming home! He's coming home!

And Then Someone I Didn't Know Took Pulls Off The Bottle of Wine

at our 5 year high school reunion. Ah, Edina High School.

John dropped me off last night at Kieran's for the big event. I dreaded it. I guess I, like Dan and Kate, figured everyone was there to judge and gossip and assess how well their peers had made out. Truthfully, I engaged in a bit of that myself and I imagine others did, too. But.

On the whole, it was a great time. I am not sure how accurately I can judge that...I rarely get out and was pretty obnoxiously drunk. I was glad to see that some really talented people who were underrated in high school were doing exceedingly well for themselves. S. E.

I was also glad to see that one particular ass was still an ass. And I may have told him so. At the very least.

I also took the opportunity to show off pictures of Tommy to everyone I talked to---and everyone I didn't---from high school. I'm not sure how it is possible that I, as a 24 year old, am the only person in our class with a child. Maybe I'm the only person in our class with a legitimate child. Everyone from Edina is busily persuing doctorates and medical or legal degrees. At least I have some good contacts.

When they're 35-40 and trying to get pregnant, I may smirk a little knowing that it's all easier in the younger days. I also feel pretty smug to see every one of Tommy's "firsts." I do hope, for their sake, that they realize the value of being present to watch your family grow.

A nanny just isn't a replacement for Mom.

I Want to be a Real Boy, Geppetto!

Who stole my little baby? Today Tommy gummed down Cheerios, slurped up carrots*, and watched the 10 o'clock news!

*Ok, so they were mushed up carrots that had more of a V8 consistency. My nose is growing already...

Christmastime is Here Again

Can't you just hear The Chipmunks singing that damn song in their eerily high-pitched, fast-forward voices? Sorry to be so crass, but I just spent half the day hanging lights outside only to discover I am straight out of National Lampoon's Christmas. Or whatever it's called.

I began last weekend with beautiful white lights---the old-fashioned kind, with big, delicate bulbs. John and I and hung them together on two trees and along the rooftop. We thought the lights would cheer up my mom and be a nice welcome home for my dad, once he's finally released from the hospital.

I should've stopped there. But no.

Over the week, as onlookers admired our lights, I turned into one of those compulsive (wanna-be) homeowners who just can't identify when to end. I concocted a plan for more lights, bigger and better lights, sections of white and colored lights. You get my bright idea.

Suffice to say, it wasn't so bright. The only lights working at the current moment are two connected stands of the marquee white lights lining the rooftop. There are at least 10 strands in the rest of the yard, strategically and effortfully hung in trees, on posts, through obstacles.

Merry freakin' Christmas.

5 Month Sweetheart

Dear Tommy,

I am in love with you. It's the 18th of November and I'm 4 days late for your 5 month birthday, but forgive me. I'm still your mother.

At this moment, you're sleeping behind me on Grandma's basement bed. Your arms are stretched out wide, as they always are in your deep sleep. Your tummy is exposed because Daddy put pajamas on you that are too small. I see your chest cavity seep in and out with each breath you take.

This month, it seems you have grown and learned more than any month before. I flipped the calendar and suddenly, you ate solid food, rolled over, and gazed at everything around you with curiousity and wisdom. You look more like your Dad all the time, and it's beautiful, Tommy. You have his big eyes, and even his cute expressions. You wear a striped cap for warmth and fashion and, just this week, began donning an adorable corduroy zip-up suit as the temperature dropped and you witnessed your first snowfall.

Despite the thrills of this month, it's been a challenge. We've been living at Grandma and Grandpa's house because Grandpa is sick in the hospital with leukemia. For a while, I was so scared that Grandpa would never get to see you spin around in the Exersaucer or spew pureed sweet potatoes all over your highchair. Leukemia is horrible, and we were so blessed yesterday to learn that Grandpa beat it. The chemo worked.

Every morning, you've given Grandma this incredible gift of giggling innocence. It helped her find joy and distraction. So thank you.

You're starting to wrestle around behind me, Tommy, and I know that means naptime is almost over. Your eyes will soon pop open, your mouth soon discover those toes you so love to nibble. We have a bit of trouble getting you to take long naps or sleep through the night (I think more teeth are on the way), but somehow, your dimple and your soft skin erase any difficulty. I love being your mom.

I love you.

Mom

Saladbration! (And Pasta)

Hit the Mac Shack, a favorite restaurant and former place of employment, last night to celebrate the fact that the chemo worked and Dad has Nuked the Luk. At least for now. Hopefully for good.

You'd think restaurant staff would continue to turn over, but instead, the crew here is a family, welcoming John and I in with open arms and Spanish I don't understand quite as well as I used to. I binged, of course. What's a saladbration without excessive cream sauce?

I have so many memories of being a waitress---singing opera standing on wooden chairs, borrowing gigantic bottles of cheap chianti from the islands, writing kids' names in bubble letters on the tables, salsa dancing---and almost as good as the dancing---anticipating salsa night with the entire staff.

I always recommend serving as a job for college students because the money is great and the atmosphere is social. Mostly, you get paid to flirt with coworkers and run around more than you would at the gym. The gossip is delicious. Ah, the Mac Shack. A trip down memory lane.

Tales of Obesity and Anti-Family People

A few weeks ago at church, John, Tommy and I were surrounded by kids. There were at least 10 babies near Tommy's age in the pews around us, and a family with 5 kids sat directly in front of us. I have watched this family from the pews for some time, as the mom was pregnant with her 5th baby while I was pregnant with Tommy. They had a little boy.

On this particular Sunday, this beautiful ma was a bit harried. Her boy was starving, and she was attempting to discreetly breastfeed him in the pew. He was not latching on, and my heart just ached as I thought, Been there. Babies innately know when you are trying to be discreet, and they choose these moments to make breastfeeding as difficult as possible. To top matters off, the next-to-youngest child, a daughter, grew in jealously of ma's attention towards baby. A tantrum erupted. Swiftly, with deft experience, Dad scooped up daughter and left the pew. Ma followed to continue indiscreet breastfeeding elsewhere.

Following their departure, an obnoxious woman behind me stated, If I'd wanted to hear screaming kids, I could have stayed at work.

Empathizing with this mother, I let myself turn around and snap, The Catholic Church is Pro-Family. In response, she harumphed. I must've spoken louder than I intended because after Mass, a guy who was several pews behind us gave me a thumbs up and said thanks, on behalf of all the parents in here.

After this event, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had overstepped my bounds by speaking out. It felt good, though. Still on my mind: where does this evil woman work? I pray it's not a daycare.

A similar situation ensued when I took Vinny the Volvo in yesterday, except that the female offender slammed a door shut to silence a child. And she was morbidly obese. * This time, I kept my mouth shut but couldn't help but think similiar thoughts.



*Obesity is most likely unrelated to the Anti-Family epidemic. And yes, I realize that this observation is hurtful and juvenile. So sue me.

Officially Elderly

Yesterday at church a group of young men and women made their way towards the altar, giving signed covenants to the priest to indicate their intent to be confirmed this spring. My, that was a wordy little sentence.

Anyway, the point is that one of these six foot tall 15 year olds was a kid I used to babysit across the street. Jeepers, he must have been 3 or 4 then. I remember tucking him in at night and him giving me big hugs. He had this skin issue so I also had to lather him with exzema (sp?) cream. Ok, too much information.

Fashionista Ma

You'd think I was talking about myself, but no, I wouldn't be so egotistical. At least overtly.

In fact, I refer to MY ma, who apparently was quite a fashionista in her day. This morning, I sported some textured tights which brought my mom back to her wild, single days. "I had a pair like that when I was your age," she said. "Textured tights were in style for about three years and I had a whole bunch of patterns and colors...about 20 pair."

I wish I had pictures of my mom's wardrobe. Frankly, I wish I had her wardrobe from back then! She frequently refers to her massive collection of matching shoes and purses. She spent all her cash on clothes as a working girl.

She also was dating another guy when she met my Dad. I love this story. My dad gave my mom a ride home from a meeting in college when they met, and, since he didn't have her number, he just stopped by a few nights later to say hello. While my mom had another guy over. My mom decided that my dad was more interesting and actually kicked out her initial date! Spunky, textured tight mama.

Carpe diem.

"We Don't Know What's Gonna Happen Next"

I hear you, sleep-talker husband.

Sweet Beatle Dance Party

One husband (23) + one wife (24) + one baby (4.5 mo.) + one nephew (3) + one niece (1.8) =
Sweet Beatle Dance Party in the family room.

Motor Mouth

Some people talk a mile a minute, and I encountered one of them today. This woman defined the term Motor Mouth, practically frothing with words of both the coherent and incoherent sort. If anyone in the room tried to get a word in edgewise, she'd revv up her engine and shift into high gear. I think my companion and I each spoke maybe 10 sentences in two hours while this woman chattered away.

What is it with people who believe their statements are more important than others? Hey, I may blog...but I'll also read yours. Or you don't have to read mine. Whatever.

At any rate, this Motor Mouth Mama's blubbering was exhaustipating. I'm enjoying the silence.

P.S. Tommy has entered a new phase! In the last 2 days, he has taken about 6 naps over 1.5 hours each....and several that were 2 hours plus. This is truly a miracle.

Rope Em In, Cowboy

Tommy acquired an adorable pair of PJs from Grandma Linda that picture mini cowboys. The only problem is that the snaps for this outfit are distanced quite liberally, and so at night, when Tommy is thrashing about in his usual state, he finds large holes in the legs and pops his stinky toes out of the footholds.

He just learned to suck them yesterday, by the way.

The toes, not the footholds.

Recnac Spelled Backward

My fam life has been turned upside down recently, as my father was just diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Last night, I kept waking up and those words just wouldn't leave my mind. Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Acute Myeloid...you get the picture.

The stuff they say about cancer being a roller coaster---it's true. There is sadness and disbelief and despair and laughter and learning and hope. Please let him make it. Please let him be Tommy's grandpa.

My dad left me a voicemail on my birthday this year. Out of character, he reminisced about the year I was born and how I was a great mother and how he couldn't believe I was 24. It's not out of character for my dad to be loving, but sentimental (he'll admit) is not his middle name. I saved the voicemail.

I think I am going to listen to it right now.

Get better, Dad.