Like a John Deere in the headlights.

Now, it is fair to say, that my husband is notorious for his innocent, but nearly fatal vacationing decisions. He has led us into scorpion-ridden campsites. We have been naked on the other end of a machine gun in the middle of a Mexican desert. Word to the wise: “Campo” has many, many adjectives not the least of which is “military.”

This sixth-sense of death-on-holiday has had it’s highlights, like going to an exclusive private wedding in Greece and meeting an Olympic Gold Medalist. (If you are wondering how this could be part of the same How-the-hell-did-we-survive-concept—at the time, we were about to fall off a balcony taking a picture of ourselves when the couple spotted us.) Anyway, I believed our days of toying with the reaper, while wildly entertaining, were behind us—apparently, not so.

This weekend was proof positive, that we are genetically drawn to the least desirable, most questionable places on earth to squander all of our valuable free time. I thought it would be limited to us, those who would suffer from this disorder, but clearly our children will be subjected. It will be a miracle if they don’t emancipate themselves after only 12 years of family vacations. I have been doing this about that amount and it is probably time to file the papers. But honestly, I am as much to blame as Dave, I always agree, I always think it sounds “interesting”, I always say, “I’m game!” And afterwards, I always wonder what makes us so willing and so naive and so impossibly dense.

Welcome to The Tractor Museum-Harvest Festival in Vista, California!

I don’t know where in God’s name Vista is, but it is dangerously close to a volcano or something hot, because it must have been 110 degrees outside. When we got out of the car, it was so bloody hot that the air was sucked from my lungs. The blurred landscape, distorted from the heat searing the ground should have been a warning. But not for us, hell no, we coated the kids with sunscreen, strapped them in the stroller, and headed toward the sound of steam engine whistles.

Oh look, a parade! Hmmm…a parade from another era...perhaps the Dust Bowl during the 30’s? All the fanfare was about a rickety, rusty, line of tractors chugging along to elaborate histories and descriptions from the announcer. Flanking the machinery, the saddest display of creaky, old metal risers filled with folks, real folks in straw hats, summer bonnets and even a bowler!

Seriously, you had to check your watch and your driver’s license to be sure you didn’t step back in time. They were undoubtedly the oldest, most unusual, bizarre tractors ambling through the dusty crowd. They were a spectacle and oddly, exciting to watch. And I would bet you a dollar that the announcer was Garrison Keillor’s great, great, grandfather exhumed for just this occasion. He was sincere, humorous and so-down-home that mid-tractor-description, he actually corrected a heckler who insulted one of the racy tractor-vixens. “She’s not a hussy, she’s one helluva dance-hall gal.” This is where I would like to thank my husband, it was a once-in-a-lifetime treat.

The parade promptly ended and at that moment, all went south.

The children were literally puddles of hungry, hot, misery. (I believe they were having their souls sucked out of them by the ancients. This is why they don’t have preschools at old folk’s homes, there is something suspiciously sapping about those places.) We were trying to pump them full of liquids and food, but Gabriel was only interested in riding a tractor! Riding a tractor! Riding a tractor! Phoebe was inclined to teethe and kick her brother, which infuriated him.

Try as we might, we could not get one of those leathery, dry, old, throwbacks to let Gabriel on their tractors. Which killed me! Because clearly these people were capable of raising the dead, bringing machines to life that had no business in the modern world, and carving out a society, which only needed water to fuel steam engines—one would think they could repair ANY damage a 3-year-old kid could inflict!

You all know what comes next. Gabriel had a tantrum which I would rate a 6 on the Richter-scale. It wasn’t the worst one, that one I am still anticipating. But it was of ear-bleeding magnitude, and with all the fluids he was losing, I thought he might just pass out trying to express his disappointment about the damn tractor ride. And we would have been mad, if we weren’t so concerned for his health. (And the fact that he conveyed my sentiments exactly.)

Dave finally had enough, he was hotter, sweater, and remarkably more feed-up than me. That may be a first. So, after only an hour and within minutes of organs shutting down we left. And in the car Gabriel innocently said, “Thanks, that was fun.”

At this moment, I realized, we had passed on the gene. That poor boy had the curse. He would never be able to answer the question, "How was your trip?" without hearing "You're kidding" in response. I blame Alaska, but that's a story for my husband to tell.

Additional bizarre observation: there were a lot of golf carts driving around the farm, which must be the evolutionary equivalent of dinosaurs to chickens or something.

When did easy become a dirty word?

Things are easier here. It’s true. And I am not so sure how I feel about it. I know it is one of the many reasons we came here, to get out of the rat race and find ourselves in a simpler place. Well, I can’t say that it didn’t happen, but I realize I don’t have a plan for what to do with all that extra time. And it is wrecking havoc on my self-esteem.

For example, Dave got the stomach bug…again. (yeah, poor guy.) And he is sick, so he gets home and sleeps and sweats and sweats and sweats causing an ever-so-tiny lagoon in our sheets. If we were in Oakland, it would have been a real shame because those sheets would have been washed on the weekend and not a moment sooner. Why?

Because doing a wash in Oakland involved the following;
1. Rhythmic gymnastics (you know the stuff, lots of awkward movement, but seemingly no “sport” to it) to open the door to the all-purpose-everything-imaginable-stuck-in-a-tiny-room off of the kitchen, then squeeze in, shut the door behind me, open the dryer door, pull out clothes, balance them on my head, close the dryer door, step back, open the room door—rinse and repeat (just checking if you are really following this nonsense)
2. Finding a home for the laundry in the dryer (typically creating another stratosphere of clothing above our loveseat)
3. Finding a home for the damp, musty clothes stuck in the washer, which were cycled through in a fit of optimistic housecleaning (typically under the dining room table until the washer was freed-up again)
4. Remembering to not let the sheets become another sopping-wet reminder that I hate choreographing the laundry dance and will stop short of finishing a load just to avoid it
5. Finally, making the bed, which involves even more juggling of clothes, pillows, children and inevitably a cat (which isn’t any different here).

After all that, you plop yourself between those fresh sheets and feel nothing short of a hero. Those sweet smelling linens are as good as a wreath of roses at the end of the Kentucky Derby. Ah, success.

But here it is easy, not just easy because we have a laundry room (which rocks). Easy because doing laundry is so damn simple, there are already clean sheets! No more piles of sheets huddled in the corners of the laundry room. There is a closet full of clean, folded, fresh sheets. Changing those icky-damp rags was a breeze. It was done in minutes. And you know what I felt after changing them…nothing. Not a damn thing. It wasn't the same. I wasn’t laced with guilt as we crawled into sad, sick sheets and then buzzing with the elation of cleaning them, and spreading them lovingly back onto the bed, and rolling around in our greatness. No, it was just changing the sheets.

For those of you who are thinking…”Eeeew! She slept in sweaty, gross sheets” Well no, I never actually did. But sadly, I have let my husband. Which makes me a terrible person, but not a disgusting one.

The truth is that things were harder in Oakland. Going to the grocery store was harder, buying a birthday present, getting a cup of coffee…all harder and all perversely fulfilling. I was proud when I accomplished a trip to the store and shocked when an errand didn’t involve a line, a panhandler, a hike, a bitch, or an unexpected expense. Accounting for additional time and effort is wired into my psyche. I am braced for what the world has to throw at me and I ready with a fight or flight response depending on my nemesis. I am not prepared for a world with a bright-white smile, manners, and cheerful suggestions to try the Honey Ham.

What do I do with all this additional energy? (Besides the obvious criminal actions against my neighbor.) And more importantly, where do I find a sense of accomplishment? I am telling you—anyone with an opposable thumb could run my errands here. Where is the glory!?!

I still have dinner, but I think I am going to have to raise the stakes if I am going to find my happiness here. Or I might just need to calm down.

Snap, Crackle, Pop!

That’s not cereal your listening to, that’s my joints.

It’s a bad day for RA (rheumatoid arthritis). And a bad day means that opening the silverware drawer is a two-handed, put-your-strength-into-it challenge, facing a pineapple can with a pop-top feels like scaling Mt. Everest and doing origami at the same time, and changing a diaper escalates from a five-minute chore to a 12-minute marathon, assuming my client doesn’t make any last second adjustments. It is a day where I am constantly frustrated with my limitations, and where my children are perplexed by my pleas to be patient and requests to wait while I re-master twisting off a cap and pouring an apple juice with two hands. I move slowly and a bit sadly, everything cracks and resists my most simple of intentions.

I would feel a bit better if I slept last night, but it flared up around 4pm and I wasn’t able to rest with the burning and swelling. I can’t exactly describe the pain, but I feel confident everyone is familiar with it. The trouble for me is that is comes in such a tidal wave over my entire being that I can’t make sense of it. This is where the exhaustion set in. If only I could sleep or take a deep breath, even a shallow breath cracks my spine, I am so darned creaky and swollen.

Well, it’s nut, you know…one day you are just fine and the next thing you know you can’t clip your bra. Fine, if you are a teenager with those perky ones, not so fine, if you are a middle-aged woman breastfeeding your second child of eight-months.

So, I am too tired and achingly sore to write and type at the moment. I will update you on “Montessori Impossible” soon. We visited another school yesterday. And finished another day at The House of the Rising Anxiety today. There is so much to share, but I have to rest.

Okay, big sigh…deep breath and a moment of silence for our ever-evolving appreciation of our own humanity.

Won't you be my neighbor?

My neighbor is stalking me.

Her name is MaryEllen. I don't like neighbors; they are like roommates that you never asked to live with you. I prefer not to talk to neighbors, they tell you things you don't want to know. At least, they tell me things I don't want clouding my head. It could be that people just download disturbing information onto me, but I think it is the state of the world. There are just creepy things happening and dumping them onto strangers is a release. I think the blogging phenomenon is proof-positive of that. At least you are voluntary listeners, at least I didn't catch you in the mall while your head is full of happy anniversary thoughts and pollute it with gross tales of my cat, and at least you can log off if I start going to a place that makes you feel like taking a shower. No, I don't like neighbors and I don't like their inappropriate sense of comradery due to circumstance.

Anyway, back to MaryEllen, who nearly ran me over in the parking lot of Von's trying to get my attention. I don't know anyone here, so when the car honked. I thought I needed to get out of the way and I started doing that pathetic, half-run while dragging Gabriel by the hand and balancing Phoebe on my hip cursing the woman. Then she kept at it, I looked and I decided to flap my elbow in her direction like a wild turkey. I had no hand and she was persistent. I don't know why she needed my attention so badly, but I guess the elbow-wag didn't do it for her. I got home and while I was getting the kids down for a nap, the doorbell rang.

"You must be kidding me!"

There is MaryEllen (she is an elder travel agent with a giant RV parked in her driveway, if that paints a picture) wearing a white poufy sweatsuit holding her white poodle. She is starting her excercise program, today is her first day. How thrilling? She wanted to let me know it was her in Von's parking lot, she didn't know if I recognized her with her glasses on. Honestly, in what universe does it matter if I knew it was her? How does that fact change anything? Is her beeping at me with a handful of children supposed to endear me to her? Does she have so few friends that she is fantasizing our future iced tea binges together? I don't know, but I need to get the kids to sleep. Thanks for running me down! Gotta go.

If she needs a neighbor to chat and relay the details of her exercise program to—she needs to ring the doorbell when Dave is home. He is our neighborhood ambassador; he is a gracious host to driveway gossip. He’ll drop what he’s doing and actually wave using his hands. MaryEllen, he’s your man.

Let me give you an example: We used to live on 57th Ave. in Oakland. In case you don’t know that particular area of Oakland, it wasn’t pretty. There were domestic arguments and gunshots flying throughout the night. Summer was especially heated or we maybe just heard more since the windows were open. Anyway, Jeff (best friend), Dave and I were driving up to our apartment in our sketchy neighborhood, and we see two people sunning themselves in the cracked cement driveway off of crack-alley. And Dave slows down, rolls down his window and in the most amiable fashion imaginable with a sweeping arm motion, he states, “That a nice piece of real estate you got there!” Jeff and I are doubled over with laughter and the couple on the sidewalk/driveway sit silently with a completely stunned look on their faces. This is Dave. God bless him. MaryEllen is a lucky woman.

I hope she gives up on me soon, because I will not hesitate to slap a restraining order on her.

mom interrupted

Lost, lost, lost.

I don't know where the rest of my "Meatloaf" ranting about boxes, strip-mall preschools and other subjects of disinterest disappeared to, but it is gone. Clearly, this is my time to learn to let go. (And to brush up on the finer points of blogging.)

I am going to have a dish of Rocky Road ice cream.

BOWL'd over!

Okay, first day of Montessori and I am very confused. Confused because the director says last Friday that I am to make a sudden, rapid exit and I am lingering for 20 minutes. Confused because there is actually no director to be found when I arrive. Confused because regardless of how many times I explain the absence of director to the teachers, they tell me she is in the office. Confused because the two orbs in front of my skull are technically working and I am functionally equipped to tell if a human is present in an 8 by 10 room. Nonetheless, not one but two teachers walk to the office to confirm my accounts. Frustrated that my son has been told how "FUN!" and "EXCITING!" this new school is going to be, but all it turns out to be at the time is "ANNOYING!" and "BORING!". Finally, the director shows up on the phone, obviously preoccupied, and tells me to "Hang out with Gabriel. He is clearly not ready for you to go." (I think, I can do the math on who is not prepared to start school today!)

Okay, yeah. Whatever. I don't mind staying with my son and getting a sneak peek at the inner workings of a Montessori. But let's not mistake my son's anxiety for your lack of organization.

I am left in circle time with too many sleepy, numb children to count. I guess a teacher didn't show up, Oh...what's that? Oh, great. Gabriel's teacher is MIA. Swell. The attending teacher isn't much help for their dulled condition. We "criss-cross-applesauce" our way through "Chicka-chicka-ABC" and get a refresher course in the news that the bell means "ZIP IT and LOCK IT" while you sit with your hands on your head. Which wouldn't be altogether PC back in my old stompin' grounds. Could this be another "sanctuary", I wonder?

Then each child gets a mat/tray and chooses their "work". For those of you in my shoes only days ago, here are some Montessori fundamentals: "work" means play, or tasks, based on some particular skill-development. There are sets of tools (or toys, to the untrained eye) for the purpose of development. And all children are meant to focus on their "work" in a neat, clean, disciplined environment.

So, Gabriel picks a tray with a teapot, two teacups, two saucers, and two spoons. And the teacher fills the teacup with water, which delights him--simply because I would never allow him to have a container of water outside the tub or without a lid and a straw. He sits and plays for about five minutes. I hold Phoebe, wrestle Phoebe, sing to Phoebe and wonder...Where the hell is the director? And my speedy exit? But it is all good, because as I said before, I actually like to be with Gabriel.

Okay, here is the magic moment. (Not that I think it would be lost on you.) Gabriel gets up after five whole minutes of pouring and stirring and pouring again, and decides he needs a bowl. He picks one up off of a tray and bring it to his "work" tray. Only moments later the teacher sees the bowl, picks it up and says "Oh, no. THIS work does not go with THIS work." Then proceeds to take the bowl away. I don't think I can say this any more clearly than "What the F---K!" I can hardly process the moment when...

Next thing I know, there is the director. She says "Okay, he is busy. Time for you to leave." She is ushering me out of the door, hand on my elbow. And telling me she is going to "catch" Gabriel, who sees me that very instant, on my way out. I tell him over her shoulder, that I have to go now, but I will be back. She is still shuffling me out, while I am yelling..."I'll be back to get you soon. I love you!" And then she turns back to him and scoops him up in her arms, so the last thing I see are two outstretched arms and tears streaking down cheeks. Hmmm. That went well, don't you think? (note: We both share an irrational distain of being touched/handled by strangers.)

Now, I don't mind crying during a transition time, it is all part of growing up. And, I don't even mind leaving them when they want you to stay, you can't always get what you want. But, I think "sneaking out" is cowardly and disrespectful and wrong. I can't think of a time, place, or person that doesn't deserve a little explanation or at a minimum "goodbye". There is a reason we all dread "Dear John", but don't we dread a sudden evaporation of spirit even more? Well, that sort of set me off and I would go on and on about it, if it weren't for the THIS work/THAT work-thing which has me in a tizzy.

Can someone explain to me why can't he have the bowl?

Okay, I must change subject here lest I become enraged. How about food? Yes, food. Last night, I was so intent on being decrepit that I forgot to tell you about dinner. I made Chicken and fresh Broccoli Salad. The salad with incredible with nuts, seeds, cranberries, bacon bits, etc. I can say that, because all I did was poach the chicken. I got the Broccoli Salad kit from Costco. What a shocker? Montessori has me tied in knots, and premade food from Costco has me singing it's praises...is it any wonder I am all turned around?

And for those of you keeping score...it's boxes 1, micki 0.

O is for Opportunity (and Old)

Well, she did it. Anita graduated. I got there just in time to see the hats flying. Her's was brilliantly decorated with Boston University. It made me a bit misty, if you know what I mean. All those fresh faces beginning their adult lives, all the opportunity to screw up without all-too-terrible consequences and so-very-little responsibility. It is just a recipe for pleasure, as long as you are smart enough to know where the big, black, point-of-no-return lines are drawn. Big sigh, what a wonderful time that was.

Okay, back to reality. Anita was a little annoyed with us. We didn't get on the football field in time to take photos with her friends. We weren't walking fast enough. Lauren didn't stand when they asked previous graduates to stand. You know, we were being family...less than perfect, and yet often more than you deserve.

Besides, being a grad is all about being on top, and you know where that leave the rest of us. And that is a place I am all too familiar with, as I literally scraped the miniscule flecks of butter off of my son's peach which I so carelessly used after spreading butter on his waffle. You would think the kids might die of clotted cream from the sounds of his protest.

I guess this is an egg-cellent segway to brunch on Father's Day. (I am a big fan of the pun. Good ones, bad ones...they all make me smile. Stupidly, I enjoy a pun. You will just have to tolerate a few in order to get along with me. It is not a lot to ask. So regardless of how many people roll their eyes and tell me how hokey and pathetic they are, I continue.)

We ate at the Ocean House in Carlsbad. It has definitely seen better days. A little rundown and decor from another era. I find those places charming. I know when I get old, I will look like that place. I will have cherished sweaters and loud-floral blouses the wrong color with dated details and bad proportions. All of my accessories will speak to an earlier time when I was chic and trendy. It's a lesson in aging to appreciate a place like that. I think the whole weekend made me feel like a has-been.

Dave loved the brunch. He thoroughly enjoys a brunch buffet and that is just a sweet thing. It is not only Father's Day, but the anniversary of his father's passing two years prior. So, we need to pay our respects. Dave ate a large plate of fruit in his honor. He loved fruit. He gave that gene to Mr. Squeaky-Clean Peach. Clearly, Dave and I live through food.

Tonight, we are going to share some Govida Platinum Collection chocolates. Mmmm. My mouth is watering. It will make me happy because my rheumatoid is killing me. It's making my body throb and ache and burn and swell. I don't suppose that could be causing my early-onset, elder syndrome?

In keeping with my ancient-y du jour, there is an exhibit in Carlsbad about aging. You know, different artists interpretations...I saw a butterfly in the bunch and well, that is a little trite for me. But, I should see more before I dismiss the work. Oh, it all comes together at once sometimes.

Well, time to shake off the old. Because Gabriel starts school tomorrow and I get a new lease on life! (Assuming we both think it is right for us.) What the heck do I do with myself and with Phoebe? Looks like I am going to be starting to work again. I am waiting to hear from my client, I just dropped the bombshell that I moved. If they are cool, I will be busy without having to make my own way. If they flinch, I need a purpose.

Baby steps though..tomorrow. What do I do with myself tomorrow?

Futures—Anita's and my own.

It is going to be a long day. My sister Anita is graduating high school today. She is going to Boston University. Go Red Sox!!! There will be no dinner to cook, so I will be slightly ungrounded. Understandably. Graduation starts at 4pm. On a Friday? So, people have to take off work, if they work. Or people just have to be annoyed, if they do what I do.

Dave is leaving work early and will drop me off at the football field, then taking the kids to the park. We both decided this was the best strategy. Juggling small kids in football bleachers is about as relaxing as having your toenails pulled out. You can't see anything or hear anything except the high-pitched whine of your children which is only slightly louder than the frustrated sigh of audience around you. Who are wondering what they did to deserve this small corner of hell. When all they really want is to see a hat thrown in the air and maybe a streaker.

The last time we took Gabriel to a graduation, my sister Evelyn's. I nearly had a nervous breakdown. It was captured on film (lucky me). And if you watch it with my father, he lovingly narrates the entire unfortunate event with numbers increasing on a continuum of my diminishing sanity. You know, "Here she is at 1. Things are going well, she is smiling. You won't see that again." Ha ha ha.

I was also pregnant at the time, so it is not really fair to hold me entirely accountable for my actions. You have to sympathize with a pregnant lady and their inability to cope. Look at poor Brittany Spears, she is on a slippery slope and sadly, the only solution is birth. Plus, we had to wake up at about 6am to get a seat which is frankly uncivilized on a Saturday.

Well, you have all been to the bloody events. You know what it's like. No place for children or those expecting more. Dave and I both agree that we should avoid a repeat performance at whatever cost.

There is a party afterwards at my parents house. They are a big part of the reason we are here. Not for the documentary-style narration of my questionable mothering, but for the help in keeping my breakdowns to a bare minimum.

Gabriel has started the day with a Naked Orange Juice (a toast to wearing nothing under your robes!) and request to play cars. Phoebe is throwing her Cheerios, eating her blueberries and seems to be starting to truly talk. I am drinking Peets with cream and sugar. A promising start to what will inevitably be a long day.

I remain optimistic.

Montessori and Meatloaf

I can't promise that each night's dinner will match so well to the day's activity, but I might consider that as a goal--should both of my children stop requiring nearly constant attention and endless sunscreening in this crazy sunshine-ridden paradise.

Let's start with dinner. Honestly, it is my anchor. If not for dinner, I think I might just hang it up. It gives me a sense of purpose, peacefulness, creation. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. How comforting is that? Accomplishing a decent dinner can give you such a sense of completeness and closure. And there are good dinners, quick dinners, easy dinners, healthy dinners, bad dinners, bad-for-you dinners, sinfully-bad-for-you dinners, and a long, savoring-all-night-rich dinners. They are all different, meaningful and important--for your belly, for your soul, and, in my case, for my sanity.

Tonight: Brown Sugar Meatloaf, Smashed Red Potatoes with Garlic and Sour Cream, Buttered Peas and Hawaiian Rolls (ohhh...They are good. If you haven't tried them you should). Hearty, stick to your ribs dinner for this evening. I am selfishly trying to get Dave (my husband) home for lunches to break up the day.

He likes old-fashion comfort food. I used to stick-up my nose to those kinds of dinners. I was a meatloaf snob, I suppose, I thought it was beneath me. But like all tried-and-true things, you have to wonder why people like it so much and what it's all about. I would like to take credit for lowering my standards to cook it, but truth is I subscribed to a free-sample of a weekly dinner newsletter where they give you four meals and the shopping list. Out of sheer laziness for pulling out each meatloaf ingredient, which also seems counter to the whole--shut your brain off tip--I just made the darn thing. And it made my husband incredible happy. So happy that it was a little unsettling at first. I make it when I want something from him. It is pretty transparent, at least to me. But I have no friends right now, so having him home for lunch is a real treat.

I only have boxes. The boxes. The damn, brown, tapey, cryptic, teasing, taunting, bloody boxes. We just moved from Oakland to Carlsbad. We have two children, Gabriel (3-years on July 18) and Phoebe (8 months or so). We had to move for family and for scho