Mandajuice

Happy Birthday

Today is my dear husband's 38th birthday.  He is nine years my senior.  Every year I think I'm finally going to start catching up with him, so it always shocks me that he continues growing older.  Unfortunately, his birthday always falls at an inopportune time of year and we never really get a chance to celebrate.  He pretends not to mind and that is only one of the many reasons I love him so. 

Here are a few of the rest:

the way he surprised me by being such a stellar Dad.  I mean, I knew he'd be good, but not this good.

the "nah nah nah nah song"

the way he nuggles the dog and kisses him on the snout

the daily "how was mr. pants this morning?" e-mail I get

the way he says "Moo?" in such a high pitched voice when he wants to watch a Cal game

that he so often wants to lay in bed and "just talk"

that he still drives like a teenager

the way he says "Piggly Wiggly"

the way he changes "Teletubbies" to "Mellysnubbies"

that he's such a good brother and such a loving son

his famous hot dogs and eggs

the way he pinches my butt like he can't resist its flabby lure, such an Italian

his bitchin' cool siren and car noises

how he never notices if I haven't shaved my legs

that he's the first person I want to talk to when I've had a rough day

that he's really my best friend in the whole world

But most importantly, that no matter how mean I am to him when I've just woken up or how many times I use his legs to warm my ice cold feet or how annoyed I am by his smelly farts, I know he will love me forever, no matter what.

And the feeling is mutual.

Happy Birthday, Mr. MonkeyPants, Esquire, the first.

 

Thanks, but no thanks

As we break bread each Thanksgiving, our family tradition is to go around the table and share what we're most thankful for.  Everyone arrives well-rehearsed and we all look forward to a generous helping of sap and wit.  This year we aren't getting together with my side of the family, formally at least, until Christmas, so it will have to wait.  I've been thinking all along that I'd post my thank you list here instead. 

But seriously?  It would be redundant. 

I look at my life almost daily and realize how unfrickingbelieveably fortunate I am.  Health, family, love, friends, a roof over my head, three Target stores within a 15 minute drive.  I mean, honestly, what more could a girl ask for?

I know I've been a sourpuss lately, whining about traffic, heart attacks, funerals, saddness, that bitch dog Pandy, my lazy ass, etc., but really, truly, honestly?  I've never been happier.  Sure, I have a lot on my plate and I tend to dump most of it here, but, lest you worry, I don't let any of it get me down.  I'm not only lucky, but lucky enough to KNOW how lucky I am.  I don't need Hallmark to remind me.  Life itself is Prozac enough.

Distractions

This weekend played like a symphony of contrasts. Of extremes.

After working away my Saturday afternoon, I found myself on a pew in a Unitarian Church that was so stark and devoid of ornamentation as to make you question the actual glory of god. No stained-glass masterpieces, no intricate architecture to gawk at, only one lonely flower arrangement trimmed the altar. The service, however, was anything but stark. My client, The Man Who Loved His Wife, will be sorely missed by just about everyone he ever touched. He was kind and gentle and good and the service did him justice.

It was all I could do to keep my composure. No one wants to hire the financial planner who bawls like a baby. So, like men often do, I tried to think of anything that would distract me from the topic at hand – the dishes in the sink at home, the smell of the dog in need of a bath, the frizz of my hair, whether or not my car was safely parked. And then it dawned on me why the church was so barren. It worked. I couldn’t help but stay tuned to the lecture. Which was a beautiful tribute to a man who was absolutely not ready to leave his wife behind. He did not “go gentle into that good night.” He fought for every. single. second.

On my way home I stopped by a friend’s house to drop off a gift for her one-year-old. She had cancelled the birthday party last week without giving any explanation and I’ve been worrying about her ever since. She’s been fighting a relentless battle with post-partum depression. We haven’t stayed in touch as much as I’d like, which is my fault.  I feel so utterly ill-equipped to help her. Motherhood has made me happier and more fulfilled, while she has been lost in grief and despair. It’s unfair. We both spent our pregnancies in giddy anticipation. She was sleeping when I arrived, but her husband assured me that she is improving. Slowly but surely. I hope he’s right.

Finally home again; I spent the next hour soaking up my monkey boy in all his savory goodness. There is something about him sitting next to me on the couch that makes him seem more real. Like he’s a boy and not just a gangly, adorable appendage. The day had rushed by as if I’d blinked one too many times and he grew up while I was gone. Another stark reminder that life is short.

An hour after I put the boy to bed, Dave rushed to the hospital to be with his mother. She wasn’t feeling right at the restaurant during Lynne’s birthday dinner, so Johnny drove her to the hospital to be safe, even though it was “just a little chest pain.” The heart attack wasn’t diagnosed until Sunday and then we all crowded in to her tiny room to hear the diagnosis.

She seems to feel fine at this point, aside from being a bit shell-shocked and scared. She’s scheduled for an angiogram on Wednesday, which should provide some insight. Really, though, she knows the answer. She needs to take care of herself.  She’s not fighting for every. single. second. She hasn’t even arrived at the fight yet; instead she’s stalling, packing her bags and waiting for her time to come.

The hospital room was the polar opposite of the church pew – clamoring in its own high tech glory, tangled wires everywhere, nurses rushing in and out. It was a hyperactive toddler’s dream. Watching Alex climb around on the bed, lowering and raising its foot, pushing all the TV buttons; it occurred to me that maybe hospitals are loud and obnoxious for a reason too.

Two jobs

I'm supposed to be on a conference call while Alex does this

but the office hasn't called me yet.  I've been feeling so stressed about work ever since that lunch with the bosses.  Even though I haven't a shred of practical evidence, I can't shake this strange feeling that my job is on the line.  Like I am going to be fired any minute.  It actually kept me awake last night.  I just couldn't sleep.  (Which ended up being good a thing - I caught Jerry Seinfeld on Letterman talking about his kids).  This weird stress has got me eating again too.  Which is not good.  So. un. good.

I don't know why I'm freaking out about it either.  There is no reason why I should be fired.  None whatsoever.  I'm good at what I do.  Which, you know, the clients all seem to appreciate.  And replacing me would be a difficult task - I'm cheap and extremely experienced.  I just wish I could shake this nagging feeling that something is wrong.

Maybe it's that I'm having a hard time combining my work vs. home life while my mom is out of town.  Usually it's just such a clean break.  I wave goodbye and drive off to my other world.  Today I chatted back and forth with the office while Alex chased the dog around the garage. Then we walked to the park to play, which was really just a guise to get him to go down for an early nap so I wouldn't miss this call (they STILL haven't called me after 48 minutes an hour!)  It feels a bit like a double shift.  Of course, it doesn't help that one of my bosses has expressed her extreme lack of confidence in any work I do while Alex is around.

But the mom thing?  I've got that job down.  Especially now that I've had him home with me since Friday.  The routine is getting easier on both of us.  The trick?  Take him outside. 

Today he met Meg, his first older woman:

See what a stinker he is?

"Don't knock over the trash can!"

"Really mom, I swear, I just wanted to stand here, right behind the trashcan.  I'm not going to tip it over or anything.  Really."

If it weren't so cute, I'd actually get pretty annoyed by him stealing my glasses all the time.  He's been such a cute monkey.  Going back to work tomorrow is going to be really hard on me. 

Stuff and Things

Well, I have to confess I didn't get far at all.  Dave had to work late and by the time I fed the boy and put him to bed, it was just too late to go out for a run.  Better luck tonight, I hope.

I did manage to gain a pound, though, so that's some additional motivation.  To clarify, that's motivation to run tonight, not to reject that delicious box of cookies the hubs brought home last night.  I'm only human.

Not that anyone asked, but I thought I'd clarify that Kate Reddy is the protagonist in "I Don't Know How She Does It" by Allison Pearson.  And I hated this character.  Hated.  Her.  I'm really not even sure why I felt so compelled to finish the book.  I found the writing a bit tedious, albeit occassionally funny, and that was really all the book had to offer.  No plot whatsoever.  Okay.  We get it.  She's busy.  She doesn't have time for anyone but herself and her fabulous career.  Oh and her not-even-the-least-bit-convinving e-mail affair.  Yeah.  We get it.  Motherhood and Hedge-fund Management don't mix well.  I recommend this book only as a means of having someone else to complain to about that horrible mother Kate Reddy.  Did I mention I hated her?

Work is blah today.  I have no desire to get anything done so the work is just piling up while I sit here biting my nails and drinking free coffee.  I'm really looking forward to my long weekend.  I have my usual Friday off and my mom and dad will be gone till Tuesday night visiting my sis at college, so I'll be home with the boy.  That's FIVE whole days!  I better start thinking about how to fill them.

Lately, as much as I try to convince myself that stuff does not make me happy, I want stuff anyways.  Like a new digital camera.  And laser eye surgery.  And pretty, pretty teeth.  And a leather jacket.  And to be able to buy a laptop for my husband.  And tile floors instead of carpet under the highchair.  And a savings account with actual money in it.  And a new hairdo.  And I should really stop now before this gets out of hand.  Because what I want more than any of it?  Is to not have to drive away every morning to the sight of my beautiful boy blowing kisses from my mom's porch. 

I'm no Kate Reddy

Work is weird lately.  I'm in a love/hate relationship with my job.  Some days I get in the car to drive home and think to myself that I was just born to conference room. (Yes, I'm making that a verb thankyouverymuch).  I peak during client presentations, which are the perfect combination of getting to talk about stuff I know and having to think on my feet.  I just wish I could spray the rest of my job with ant killer and watch it squirm and wiggle away into nothing.

Yesterday I was casually invited to lunch by my two bosses.  I understood the meeting to be purely social, put on my chatty-chatty hat and made nice.  So when it started to feel like a job interview towards the end, my guard was down and I fumbled awkwardly through their questions.  How bad is it to answer "pretty much doing the same thing" when asked where you see yourself in a year?  Why was I being interviewed for my own job?  But most importantly, did they catch on that I'm a terrible liar?

Really, I could spend days worrying about it or I could remind myself what really matters.  That last night after Dave fed Mr. Pants his Mac & Cheese and we all sat together in the living room, that he was the picture of toddler perfection.  He was so affectionate and happy that I could barely bring myself to take him upstairs at bedtime.   

That when I finally did take him upstairs, changed him into his jammies and snuggled into the rocking chair, he just melted into me, little arms clinging around my neck, cheeks burrowed into my chest.  I hadn't even known he was so tired.  After he fell asleep nursing, I sat for a while smelling his hair and kissing his chubby fingers before putting him to bed. 

Even the conference room is secondary.  At least I was honest about that.

Mostly about the child (okay, fine - it's really all about me)

Enough voting/partisan/election/annoying crap! It's really starting to interfere with the time I usually spend here bragging about our boyo and his cutiepantedness.

So? Exciting news in the Del Buono household!!!! (No, not that. Sorry to disappoint.)

Mr. Pants has a bedtime!

Instead of wailing and screaming like a wild hiena when I walk down the stairs after kissing him goodnight? He rolls over and goes to sleep!

He understands (finally!!!) that mom nurses him (if he sits still), rocks him in the chair (if he sits still) and sings a little (if he sits still) and after about twenty minutes of the above (or, in most cases - 20 minutes of him jumping up and down on my lap like he's playing ride 'em cowboy whilst poking at my nipples, raspberrying my neck, giggling and making loud thrprprp thrprprp noises) he will get put in the crib with his gloworm at which point it's bedtime. Mommy goes downstairs.

It took about a week, but now even though he's wide awake when I put him to bed, he no longer cries. Yesterday was the third night in a row that I walked down the stairs in total silence!!

And! You know what this means? Mom has time to read again! Real, written-for-adults BOOKS!! I'm beside myself with joy. I get some peace in the evenings to enjoy quiet hobbies again. Wait. I didn't say that. Please ignore what I just said (JINX).

Over the weekend, I read Light on Snow by Anita Shreve and I'm already half-way through I Don't Know How She Does It by Allison Pearson. Did I mention these are books without pictures? It's so nice to feel sane again.