Second Birthday, First Day

Today I have a two-year old. Today I have a two-year old who attends "school." What a day it's been.

The "Happy Birthday" banner our friends Pamela, Luke and Mateo (and Ruby and Unica) made and gave us for the occasion!

Official two-year old b-day photograph (using my camera phone...tres chic)

Gotta get everything cleaned out before the first day of school!

Bag all packed, bear in hand, ready to rock 'n' roll...

School didn't forget her birthday, either...

Happy birthday, my sweet puppy. Mama and Daddy love you so very much.

ER

I haven't yet told my mother this story, so I'm kinda counting on the fact that she doesn't read my blog on a regular basis. She has a tendency to worry about things, so I decided not to pass this little tidbit of news her way...we'll see how long that lasts.

My sister came to town this past week to take care of Bryony and me since I was scheduled to have my wisdom teeth removed. I hadn't seen her since October, so I was pretty stoked. Just one thing...she has a pretty severe allergy to cats, so Greg and Holiday had to make their grand exits before she arrived. Luckily a good friend offered to take them in for the week, but as I got out the travel kennels to start the journey to her house, Holiday had a freak out. She seemed to know what the kennels were about before I even finished putting them together. She managed to hide under my bed, then run out just before I could reach her. She flew down to the basement, and the phrase "cat-and-mouse chase" never held more meaning. She out-manuevered me at every turn, jumping through the air and dodging my attempts to grab her. I finally cornered her (cornered being the operative word) on the staircase, and as she leapt off I caught her in mid-air. Bad idea. My sweet little kitten became savage wild panther, roaring and hissing as she sunk her claws and then her teeth into my skin. I felt pain, then looked down to see that long scratches along my arms and hands were seeping blood. Shocked and annoyed, I yelled, "Holiday! then let her go. She ran and hid in the basement as I ran upstairs, light-headed from the searing pain, to clean off my wounds. What to do? Greg House was already packed away in his kennel and Bryony was crying from her seat in the car, waiting for me to finally come out to her. I had to make the 45 minute drive to my friend's house, then double back to meet my sister at the airport. There was no choice; I had to leave Holiday, who I could no longer find, at the house.

Within the next two hours, my right hand, which had two bite marks, began to swell. I had soaked all of the wounds in soapy water and poured hydrogen peroxide over them, hoping any bacteria would be washed away. However, the bites were puncture wounds, deep inside the tissue and any bacteria was inaccessible to the cleaning agents. I knew I was screwed, but there were things to do! I managed to drop Greg off, then turn around and arrive at the airport--albeit late--to pick up my sister. She was shocked by the swelling of my hand and none too pleased by the idea of terror kitty still being in the house. When we arrived home, I found Holiday perched on the living room sofa looking contrite, and I managed to coax her to the basement, far away from my dubious sister. The day went on well, but my hand increased in swelling and several friends advised me to take a cat bite seriously and pay a visit to the emergency room.

So, after dinner, I left my sis with Bryony's bedtime routine and I drove myself to the hospital, which is luckily just down the street. My right hand couldn't even flex enough to disengage the emergency brake or the gear selector. I knew then that going to see a doctor was the right move.
Once signed in by the intake nurse, I sat down in the waiting room amongst several sickly people under blankets. I wondered briefly what diseases I was breathing in just by sitting there. Then, I noticed the young couple seated a few yards away who sere letting their baby crawl all over the waiting room floor. I'm no germaphobe, but the idea of a baby being allowed to crawl on the same floors that countless people have bled, yakked and probably even urinated on disgusted me. When the baby's father was called by the nurse for some preliminary checks, his wife yelled out crassly, "Bring him back soon, 'cause I can't handle this baby by myself!" I knew then what my next blog post was going to be about.
The woman walked behind the baby as it crawled its way around the waiting room, eventually finding its way to a young couple around the corner. The girl sat with her large beach bag on the floor beneath her, and the baby kept crawling, crawling, crawling toward it. The mother laughed and said to the girl, "You'd better move your bag, 'cause he's gonna go through it! He always does! He LIKES bags!" The girl seemed confused, but picked her bag up just before baby hands started to rifle through it. Then the baby lifted himself into a standing position with the help of the surrounding seats and started to make his way toward the girl, his little grimy-ER-waiting-room-floor-infested hands touching her bare legs. I was watching all of this in awe, completely and utterly shocked that the mother didn't pick her child up and move him. The girl and her boyfriend were much more charitable than I would have been and just smiled as the mother laughed and then finally picked the baby up, only to put him back on the floor to crawl in the other direction. At that point, I decided to stop watching that bad movie, and instead read about holiday cookie platters in a December issue of Good Housekeeping.

The nurse called me back into a room fairly quickly to take my vitals and get information about my condition. My vitals checked out fine, and then I had to answer a series of questions.
Yes, it was my cat.
Yes, she's vaccinated.
I was trying to put her in a kennel and she freaked out.
Two bites wounds, scratches here, here and here...oh, and here and here, too.
Yes, I'll wear gloves next time, thanks for the suggestion.

I ended up having to repeat those answers three more times, for the physician's assistant, the doctor and the X-ray technician. I guess they wanted to make sure my story didn't change over time, suggesting that I was perhaps the victim of an abusive cat. Who knows? But, I stuck to my story, yammering it out machine-gun style as they jotted notes down on a clipboard. Between personnel visits, I read about Kate Middleton's sexy-and-showy sister Pippa in People magazine, then flipped through Ladies' Home Journal to digest the details of Nora Ephron's very ugly divorce from her second husband, and how Sela Ward has managed to balance her southern Protestant background with a marriage to a Jewish man. Hey, it passed the time.

The doctor came in, really hippy with bug-eye glasses and wild hair. She kinda looked like Professor Trawlawney in the Harry Potter books. She immediately made me feel at ease. So she said, "I hear you're a vet with a cat bite!" Since I'm not a vet in either sense of the word, I told her that no, I was a wildlife biologist who had been bitten by my own cat. She shook her head distractedly, apologized, and then scheduled me for an X-ray in case one of Holiday's teeth had broken off inside my skin. Yuck. She left and I went back to my magazine until the physician's assistant came back to check on me. Turns out, there WAS a veteriarian, right across the hall from my room, who had been bitten on the hand by a cat. I asked the P.A. if her hand looked anything like mine. He shook his head slowly and murmurred, "Hers is worse." I felt bad for her, but I totally wanted to see what worse looked like.

After the X-ray, I sat in my little examination room, flipping through my now-beloved copy of LHJ, waiting to hear the results (any cat teeth floating in my hand?) and to be told when I could go home. The nurse came back after awhile and told me I could leave, but he handed me prescriptions for tylenol with codeine and antibiotic first. I asked him if I'd still be able to nurse Bryony with those drugs in my system, and after checking with the P.A., he returned to tell me that I could not...for ten whole days. "You're going to have to pump and dump, unfortunately," he said sympathetically. "She'll have to go on formula for this amount of time." I shook my head quickly and explained that my daughter was too old to have to be on formula. "How old is she?" he asked. When I told him she was almost two, he came back with, "Dang, girl! You're still nursing that baby??" I felt my hackles go up instinctively; was a medical professional about to give me a hard time about extended breastfeeding?
I told him confidently, "Of course I'm still nursing her."
He marvelled, "Most women don't even make it to the six month mark, and you've been doing it for almost two years???"
I sat up a little straighter, and tilted my head to the side. "I am, by no means, most women," I said a little bit arrogantly, but mostly proudly.
He smiled and said, "Well, it's the best thing you could do for her, but I guess I don't have to tell you that!"

Way to end the evening on a positive note.

I drove home to find my sister typing away on her laptop while Bryony lay sleeping in her room a few feet away. All had gone well at home, thankfully. And while I didn't run into Dr. Ross or McDreamy, all had gone as well as one could hope at the ER.

Procrastinating

I am doing everything but cleaning my house right now. My sister arrives tomorrow afternoon to take care of Bryony (and me?) after my oral surgery Tuesday, out of the goodness of her beating heart, and I yet I cannot seem to get my butt out of this chair to clean for her. She's not a germaphobe, but everyone enjoys a clean tub, toilet, sink and swept house when they're a guest...granted, I had company over for lunch today, so things are spruced up, but my sister deserves a good scrub down that I am just not motivated to do. Of course, this means that tomorrow morning I'll be up, dodging around a clingy Bryony underfoot, trying to sweep, mop and scrub, all the while cursing myself for not getting it down when I had the time and freedom to do it (meaning, right now).

Okay, I'm up...I'm getting up...I'm planning to get up....really I am....

Lost cause. Sorry, Shannon.

Snippets

Tonight, Friday night, I sank into my usual routine of watching What Would You Do? on ABC. Prior to the episode airing, I saw a commercial for the latest season of The Bachelorette. While I can't stand to watch shows like that to begin with, they irk me to an even higher level by the sheer fact that TV execs seem to believe that the only people looking for (fake) love are young, White singles. Has there ever been a black, Asian, Latin or Arab Bachelor or Bachelorette? Do execs think America won't watch romance and intimacy between brown people?

Then, What Would You Do? came on, and I was interested to see that the show had been filmed in a small, conservative town in central Texas not far from where we lived last year. The first scenario was that of a young interracial couple in a diner being harassed by a white customer who didn't approve of their relationship. Surprisingly, fellow patrons in this diner stepped up to protect and support the couple and made several attempts to remove the hateful bigot. That was reassuring, but comments he made (even though they were scripted) hit home for me, and hard. He told the couple, "Thank goodness you guys didn't have any kids...you would've muddied our White race." At that moment, I looked at my beautiful daughter and considered that a comment like that would be the last thing either Adam or I would think of when we think of her. It hurt to know that there are people in the world who will only ever see Bryony as someone who dilutes the purity of their race. It hurts to think that there are people who will never consider her--no matter how intelligent, successful or beautiful she is--for a stupid reality dating show, because she's too brown.

Snippets of thoughts tonight.

Let Me Count The Ways

When I was a teenager, full of romantic notions and hopes and dreams about my future, I thought I would one day fall in love with an exotic foreign man with an accent. In time, I added to "the list" specific criteria about said man, such as: "must be tall," "must write poetry," "must play guitar and/or piano, and sing," "must be liberal," "must have dreadlocks, or at least be bohemian," and so on and so forth. Eventually, my list grew to include "must love dogs," "must be able to support himself," and "must like my friends and family." I didn't think my requirements were too ambitious...either for a guy to live up to, or for me to hold out for.

Enter Adam, circa fall 1998. Sure, he was tall, he had an (New York City) accent, loved dogs and got on well with my loved ones...but, what about the bohemian liberal poet-musician from the other side of the world that I had been waiting for? How could I allow myself to fall in love with someone who didn't measure up to my pre-ordained man? Over the last twelve years as we have dated, fallen in love, nearly split up, fallen deeper in love, gotten engaged, married and become parents together, I have sometimes felt my heart tweak a little when a friend's husband makes her an awesome crafty gift for Valentine's Day, or I see a TV guy serenade his intended with a perfectly melodious tune. Adam, try as he might, isn't crafty in the least and can't carry a tune if his life depended on it. But, I've found, I don't love him in spite of these things, I love him because of them. To love someone is to love the whole picture--warts, wrinkles and all. If Adam were the perfect bohemian poet I thought I wanted, perhaps he wouldn't also be the grease monkey who shows his love by changing my oil every few months, thoroughly detailing the inside of my car and making sure that every little rattle, ping and bump gets checked out by the mechanic. If he met every single criterion on my list, I might not have a guy who would enthusiastically watch all seven seasons of "Gilmore Girls" with me, go on long hikes through the forest while I birdwatch, or want to work on home renovation projects for days at a time. And while he's not the left-wing liberal I thought I required of a partner, our differences in political and social opinions spur interesting debates and conversations in our household that help us grow in intellect, self-identity and compassion. He challenges me, he keeps me thinking, he motivates me.

Adam has shown me that the list was not as all-encompassing as I'd thought; there are things that I didn't even realize were important to me until he came into my life. Add to that fact, I'm sure there are qualities about me that don't measure up to Adam's list, namely that I'm an entire foot shorter than him...

I have friends who haven't found the love they've been waiting years for simply because they are too steadfast in their desire to find a mate who meets every single bullet on their lists. I know they've likely passed up great opportunities with awesome people because of this idea that the "perfect person" is out there who will match all their requirements. While I don't believe that there is any one perfect person, I do think that there are many really fantastic people who can make our worlds go round...and yet, on paper, they might not match the list at all. So what if a potential partner doesn't measure up to the list? Why not take a leap and see whether those criteria you once thought were so important end up measuring up to your partner?

Meanwhile, I'll write love letters and poems to Adam, and maybe he'll write something back in kind. Or maybe he won't. But I know, without a doubt, that my car's engine will purr, the gutters will be leaf-free, the porch will be painted and Bryony, Adam and I will have long walks in the woods upon his return. I don't need a list to tell me that I have it good.

G"L"ee

While I think of my blog as a commentary on just about anything--politics, social issues, pop culture, current events, and daily personal happenings--it's rare that I actually write about the entertainment arena. I like what I like when it comes to music, movies, books and television, and because I tend to follow a fairly narrow path in these regards, I don't tend to spend time commenting on it. But today, I diverge from my usual. Today, it's all about Glee.

For those of you who have never watched this show, I realize your first reaction is probably to stop reading. I get it; it's rare that I want to be lectured to about why I should be watching a program, especially if I know it's a show I'm not going to enjoy. But bear with me. I think Glee is different, and I think that you might understand why if you hang in here.

Okay, so the general premise of the show is that Will "Mr. Schu" Schuster, high school Spanish teacher, has returned to his alma mater not only to teach but also to conduct the school's glee club, of which he was a member back in his student days. However, much to his despair, the club that was once celebrated and considered "cool" has now devolved into a much-ridiculed group of nerds and "gleeks" that the student body mocks and harasses at every turn. So Mr. Schuster decides to take this little group of misfits and showcase their talent, spirit and charm in hopes of bringing the glee club back from the depths of geek-dom. It's not easy. Aside from the wrath of the school, Will meets (comic) resistance from Sue Sylvester, coach of the cheerleading team, a woman who can't stand nerds, wimps or anyone resembling weakness. She also hates Will's well-coiffed hair. Their well-choreographed duet sets a tone of high comedy against a backdrop of often-sensitive social issues that the students are forced to face. It's brilliant.




Speaking of the students...it's a medley of a cast that ranges from the social misfits to the in-crowd to the bad boy and girl to the normal kids who just want to sing. They hate each other and they love each other. They fight each other and they fight for each other. In so many ways, these are real kids, people we all knew in high school, people we wanted to be, or people we actually were. They are all so familiar.

I have to start with Kurt, because I find him to be the most interesting character. Kurt is the only openly-gay student not only at his school, but in the entire town. He's confident, proud of who he is and unwilling to back down...at school or on stage. His is definitely one of the finest voices in the choir. Kurt's struggles with acceptance and violence puts a whole new frame around what it is that gay kids in our culture deal with on a daily basis. You can't help but rally behind him. He is strength.



I also have tender feelings for Mercedes, the lone black student in glee. She's black, she's plump, and while she sells her brand of "I don't need anyone" we know that she secretly wants what the other students have--a relationship, a rising star in the glee club, a little more acceptance than she thinks she gets. She has a phenomenal gospel-turned R&B-turned-pop repertoire that is so fun to listen to as she explores and broadens her range. I see a lot of my own high school self in Mercedes and I just want to reach out, pinch her fabulously dimpled cheeks and say, "Sister, you're one of the most talented members of the club. Don't you worry, you're gonna go far, baby!"

The first time I saw the character of Rachel, I was immediately reminded of the actress Idina Menzel who famously played the role of Maureen in the Broadway production of Rent and the role of "The Green Girl" in Broadway's Wicked. Even their singing styles are similar. I guess I wasn't the only one who noticed the similarity because eventually Menzel was brought onto the show to play Rachel's long-lost mother. Brilliant writing (and casting) move. But why do I love Rachel? Because, with the exception of Mercedes, Rachel's voice blows everyone else's out of the water. The power and strength of her vocals, the steadiness of her notes, her ability to convey the absolute right emotion...she is an absolute standout. And she knows it. Rachel truly believes that she has the best voice in glee, and not only reminds everyone of this fact, but also champions herself for the choice solos. She is simultaneously vilified and admired by her fellow glee-mates, as they recognize the sheer magnitude of her talent in spite of her obnoxiousness. Besides, it's her voice that's going to get them to regionals, and perhaps to nationals, so...

Over the course of the show, we see the least-likely students--the star quarterback on the football team, several cheerleaders, other too-cool-to-care types--join glee club and find something in themselves they didn't know existed: Talent. Empathy. Heartache. Passion. It's all in there, in this little motley crew.



There are a lot of humor and comical undertones in this show. The subplots and minor characters add a layer of light-heartedness that keeps in time with the fact that the show is, for all purposes, a musical. The main comedic culprit is Sue Sylvester, as she maintains a constant offensive attack on Will Schuster and the glee club, enlisting her own flunkies to spy on and sabotage them. Other notable comical creations have come in the form of Britney, the dumb-but-heart-of-gold-blonde; Puck, the bad boy football player with surprisingly awesome vocals; and Holly Holiday (played on point by Gwyneth Paltrow), the substitute teacher who shows the glee club a thing or two about moving into the modern age of song.

But don't be mistaken, for this show is not just light humor and farce. What I LOVE about Glee is that it uses music and comedy as a vehicle to tackle really deep issues: religion, homosexuality, premarital sex, teen pregnancy, death, child-parent relationships, and the list goes on. It's no wonder that the show has struck a chord with so many young fans around the country. Being a "Gleek" has never been so cool, as the show's Facebook fanpage shows (as of this posting, there are 13,665,104 people who "like" the show on Facebook).

And, I must add, my own musical repertoire has expanded a lot since I started tuning in. I would never have known who C-Lo Green was if Miss Holiday hadn't belted out his "Forget You" to the glee club. And, while like any good American I know of Fleetwood Mac, I didn't know the history of the band or what the music on their album was really about. The show has given me a new appreciation for contemporary Top 40 music, as well. Names like Adele, Charice, and Colbie Caillat are now on this NPR-geek's radar. I'm coming out from underneath my shell.

If you're not a fan of the show, you might wonder why the title of this post has the "L" in "Glee" capitalized and in quotes. I did that, because in the official show banner, the "L" is made by a hand, which is typically the gesture used to indicate someone is a "loser." We're reminded, each time we see it, that the kids in glee are the supposed losers of society--the gay kid, the kid in the wheelchair, the overweight black kid, the overambitious nerdy kid. Losers, all of them.

Well, I'll say that this show is the first time that hanging out with a bunch of losers felt so much like winning.

You Can Call Me Al

Several years ago, when a good friend of mine was mother to a young girl and boy, she asked me how I'd like them to address me. Since I didn't take Adam's last name upon marriage, and we therefore technically weren't "The Mittmans," my friend thought it might be a bit confusing to her children to address us as "Mr. Mittman and Mrs. Bailey."

"So, do you want them to call you Ms. Bailey instead?" I think she thought "Ms." suggested a certain ambiguity to my marital state that her kids might be able to appreciate.
I shuddered at the thought. "No way," I replied. "How about just Lauren?"
My friend wouldn't hear of it. "We really want the kids to address adults in a more formal manner, so we're not allowing them to go by first names. How about Ms. Lauren?"
"Ms. Lauren" worked for me so we went with it. Adam became "Mr. Adam."

At the time, I couldn't understand her insistence on formalities with adults. The idea of being a "Mrs." or "Ms." anybody made me feel aged and old. What was the big deal anyway?

And then I had a child of my own. And, I noticed as we started joining playgroups that at first, having a kid is kind of like having a dog. You take your dog to the dog park and every human is "Barkley's daddy" or "Daisy's mom." At least in a human playgroup, you actually DO know the other parents' names, but for the sake of your baby's developing brain, we keep things simple: "Bryony, can you give the bottle back to Emma's mommy?"

Now that the kids are growing up and entering the toddler stage, however, I'm noticing a shift. Instead of all parents being known simply by who their children are, mothers and fathers are actually acquiring names of their own. "Sarah" and "Emily" and "Helen" and "Pamela" have been introduced to my daughter, not as playmates her own age, but rather as adults who she evidently can address by their first names. And, I've been surprised to find that I am "Lauren" to their kids. I'm not sure if I'm more surprised that a child is addressing me by my first name, or by the fact that I'm evidently a little uncomfortable with it.

Growing up, my parents were very traditional southern-bred folks. My siblings and I were NEVER allowed to address an adult--friend of the family, friend's parent, teacher, etc.--by their first name. It wasn't even a debate; we just knew that's the way it was, and we never thought twice about it, because most of the kids we knew had also been taught the same deference toward adults. Once, a young colleague of my mother's, a kindergarten teacher, insisted to my parents that we kids call her by her first name, as that's what her own students called her. My parents stood firm, saying the rule in our household was to show respect to adults by maintaining a formal means of addressing them.

So now here I am, the adult with a child of my own, unsure of how I want to proceed. Perhaps living in the Midwest, it's a cultural thing to have children address adults so informally? I've spoken to one girlfriend about it (she's from Missouri), and she said she rarely called any adult, besides teachers, anything except their first name. Really? I was shocked. I spent a good part of my childhood in the Midwest, and I can't remember any of my friends trying to address my parents by their first names. So, is it more of a generational thing? Are the GenX'ers raising their kids to buck tradition and formalities and to view all people, regardless of age, on equal footing? I can't tell yet.

So where do I stand? I still feel the hairs on my back rise a little when I hear a friend address me as "Lauren" to her child. So far, I haven't been able to maintain that sense of informality with my own daughter; but knowing that my friends would likely flinch if I referred to them as "Mrs. Jones" or "Mrs. Brown," instead I revert to the dogpark address system.

For now, they're all still Barkley's mommy.

The Kid Is All Right

In response to the many inquiries I've gotten over the last two months, I thought I'd post an update on Adam's goings-on. I can't talk about where exactly he is, as I don't even know specifics, but he is in Iraq. Right now he is providing legal assistance to servicemembers needing some type of legal representation. His cases run the gamut from divorce proceedings to work-related issues to contract issues (like the spouse back home is having a problem with the landlord, etc.) to even immigration issues (ie, the servicemember married a foreigner and is trying to get the spouse legal immigrant status). His caseload is so diverse that he feels like he's getting great experience, which hopefully will translate well when he's applying to civilian law firms upon his return to the States. Fingers crossed.

We get to have him home in July for two weeks R&R leave; we'll spend some of that time travelling, and he plans to do some work on the house and of course, to spend some quality one-on-one time with Bryony. I'm hoping we can get a baby-sitter for one of the nights he's in town so we can finally have a date night all to ourselves, which I only recently realized that we haven't had since Bryony was born.

Still looking at an end-of-the-year return date, as all US troops are to leave Iraq by 31 December. As Adam says, "I'm not such a necessary person that I have to be here to 'turn the lights out before we leave'" so he's hoping he'll be out even earlier. I'm not holding my breath. I'd rather be pleasantly surprised by news that he's coming home in the fall, rather than to count on that, and be disappointed when he doesn't leave until 31 December. Know what I mean?

Not much else to report, other than the fact that he is miles away from the base galley (cafeteria) so he often will go an entire day without eating because he doesn't have the time to make it there to eat. He keeps a small fridge in his room where he subsists on cold cut sandwiches, fruit juice and bag-upon-bags of sunflower seeds. That scenario depresses me, but he seems okay with it for now.

So that's that, I guess. The kid is all right.