Pew! Pew! Pew! Duck! Duck! Duck!

For us so far, 2023 has been the year of dodging bullets.

That's what the pews are in the title, if you were wondering. And unlike every time my phone autocorrects to duck—ducking autocorrect—I actually meant duck. 

Which, let's be honest, I pretty much never mean. And it makes me incredibly ducking frustrated that with all the internet knows about me, my phone is always like, "Oh, lovey, I think you mean ducking. Here, let me change that for you."

I am of course to be grateful for very scary situations turning out as best case scenario, but halfway into the month of January (which generally seems to last three years, but technically speaking, only lasts 31 days), I am utterly exhausted.

On Thursday night, I walked into the kitchen to find my mom bent over in an L-shape, clutching the kitchen table.

I asked what was wrong as I rushed over.

She couldn't speak and she couldn't move. I held her around the waist and pulled a chair towards us, but she was rigid. I was scared she'd fall. Or we'd fall.

I was just scared.

Nick and the kids had gone to bed, so I yelled for Nick to come help. I think I was kind of panic shrieky.

He ran downstairs and took my mom while I called 911.

Nick laid her down gently on the floor, at which point she opened her eyes and was able to speak.

The fire truck and ambulance arrived fairly quickly, and soon our kitchen was filled with EMTs.

One of them was trying to get the timeline of events, and she asked what time the behavior started. I gave her the approximate time I walked into the kitchen. But I said I didn't know how long my mom had been like that.

So then she asked my mom, who had no idea. So she said, "When was the last time you were normal?"

And Betty was all, "Normal? Probably never."

They did a number of tests and told her they'd be taking her to the hospital.

To which she said, "I'd really prefer not to go."

Everyone not on the floor agreed that it was best that the lady on the floor who couldn't sit up without becoming extremely dizzy did, in fact, need to be escorted bodily to the hospital.

So she went.

The waiting room was packed, and I had to wait for her to be admitted until I could join her in the back. Even arriving in an ambulance, it took her a while to get checked in.

When I got to her in the back, they were getting ready to take her for an MRI.

The nurse left the room and my mom said, "She asked if I was allergic to anything. And I said Republicans."

I told her she just might need a Republican caregiver, so please not to repeat that, and maybe tell them something helpful like her actual drug allergy.

In any case, I left at 2:00 am still not knowing anything but confident they'd at least keep her the night for observation.

As I was to learn Friday, she'd had a small stroke. Very small. Like, barely visible on the MRI. Thank god.

And my little mama also had Covid! What the Dickens?

Thank science and human ingenuity, she wasn't sick.

I tested all of us Friday, and we were all negative. We continue to be.

I picked her up late yesterday afternoon.

She's now testing negative. 

She's exhausted but OK.

Not normal, but please, we have no expectation of that.

Jeez, 2023.

For those of you who also love my Betty

Because I hate suspense, and cancer is very scary, I'm going to tell you up front that everything is OK.

And now I'm going to tell you about the past month.

It is February second, and I am in St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City.

I'm a sucker for stained glass and achingly high ceilings.

My dad was Catholic, and when I'm in a church, I light a candle for him. So I am wandering around St. Patrick's, wondering which saint would be the best one for my dad's candle.

I look for Saint Michael, because that's my dad's name, but then Michael was an  archangel, right? How does that work? Does he get a niche with candles?

Before I can examine all the saint options, my phone rings. It's my mother's doctor. I answer quietly. Are you allowed to talk on a phone in a church?

She tells me that my mom's CT scan revealed a mass in her lung. And that she needs a further scan to determine what it might be.

I am too well aware of the fact that Mom has smoked for 60 years.

I start to cry while we are talking, and in the end, I can only whisper, because otherwise, I will wail.

And then I feel so lucky to be in a church. I sit on a pew and sob. I know I'm an adult with children of my own, but I am not ready to let go of my mama. I am not ready for my children to lose their Nana, one of their biggest cheerleaders, reading companions, night-time snugglers.

As I cry, I pray, which is what I do in crisis. I did this every time my dad attempted suicide and went missing. Every time he wound up in the hospital and I held his hand and stared at the monitors.

I beg, and I tell God that I know that I really suck in that I only pray when I need something and it is true that I am not religious and don't go to church and am not going to start. But please, please let my mama be OK. Please.

Unable to stop crying, but with a train to catch, I find the nearest saint, and light a candle for my mom. I figure the living need it more than the dead.

There is a gift shop near the door, and I stop in. I buy a St. Patrick key chain.

Because I am also a sucker for colorful stuff with saints.

The following week, Betty has a PET CT scan. They have her drink glucose and put her in a lead-lined room. She'll be radioactive, so she has to stay in there alone. She can't be around babies or pregnant women for 24 hours.

The technician explains that cancer uses glucose at a faster rate than normal cells. So this test will show if her mass is using glucose, and how much.

Her mass shows up as using glucose. This means it is growing, although not rapidly.

We are fortunately able to get an appointment with a recommended pulmonologist within the week.

The nurse takes her vitals and tests her breathing, which shows that she has reduced capacity for her age. The doctor shows us the scans of this new, growing mass, which wasn't present three years prior. He says removal would be the preferred option, but her reduced lung capacity makes that very risky.

He says he needs to consult with the radiologist to see if he can get to it for a needle biopsy, so they can know what they are dealing with. If not, and they deem surgery too risky, they would consider radiator or chemotherapy.

I ask if it could be an infection, and he says yes, there is a remote possibility. But this is not the kind of thing where he'd give antibiotics and wait to see what happened. We need to start treating this ASAP.

He calls me to say the radiologist can do it.

Betty has the biopsy.

I call to get results, and am told we have to meet with the doctor. The first appointment he has available is 4:40 pm the following Monday.

As in yesterday.

Betty spends the month letting go of things she loves. You like this? Take it. Here, have this. I should sell my Indian paintings. They're valuable.

At some point I realize what's going on and I say, "Mama. You're not planning on dying, are you?"

She denies it, but I don't believe it.

Finally, finally, the Monday that was yesterday arrives. We drive to Sibley, and finally, finally sit  down in the room with the pulmonologist. Who we like, and who, incidentally, has a nice head of hair.

He shakes our hands, sits down and says, "It is not malignant. It is an infection. You dodged a bullet."

I start to cry. I exhale all of the breath that I have been holding for the entire month.

He explains that it takes six weeks for the culture to grow, but they think it is a kind of nontuberculous mycobacteria. This means it's a wee bacteria that's like TB, but not. And it is not contagious.

It's around us, in the air and the soil and what have you. But this one has now set up camp in Betty's lung.

Older women are the population that this typically happens to, turns out. Them and people with compromised immune systems.

He writes down a lot of complicated names, all of which are possibilities. These require 18 months of triple antibiotic. They are, as the treatment suggests and my google research confirms, very hard to kill.

But for now, we wait. They monitor her with another CT scan in May.

It is not cancer. This is the most important thing. It is NOT CANCER!

My mom says, "What should I do now?"

The doctor respons, "Go home and celebrate. And buy a Powerball ticket."

Later Betty says to me, "I'm not going to die."

And that, my friends, was our month.

It was an amazing reminder to me to hold my loved ones tight. To be kind. To appreciate the people I have while I have them.

To love big, with the realization that nothing is forever.

That was our month, and I'm so grateful to be on this side of it.

An everyone update

India: India already has very strong preferences in clothing. The bad part is that it makes getting her dressed more complicated.

The good? She does seem to have her mother's taste. I'd have worn this entire outfit that in a heartbeat. Different shoes, though. Boots, even.

(Which reminds me: is she too young for boots? I do love them so...)

In fact, she has strong preferences in everything. She knows how to say, "no" - oh boy, does she know no. But she doesn't know yes - she just nods her head up and down emphatically.

I used to be able to sing almost whatever I chose while putting her to bed, but now, with her head on my shoulder, when I start something she doesn't want, she'll say "No. No. No."

I know that it's not my terrible voice or inability to carry a tune, as there are songs she does want me to sing. They do not, sadly, include Copacabana or Rhinestone Cowboy.

I'm basically down to ABC in English and Spanish. Or, "Ahbede" and "Yega," respectively.

---

Jordan: Contrary to the Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now look on his face, he was deeeeelighted about the scarf, and he loves stripes. He just struggles to find an appropriate face for a staged photo. Our options, unless I catch him off guard, seem to be eyes squinched and looking pained, or constipated, or melancholy.

Lately when I pick Jordan up from school we stay and he and a variety of kids his age run around like lunatics and climb on the jungle gym and generally have a great time and burn off a lot of energy.

It's been terrific for me, as I've gotten to know some interesting parents, and I get to see my son interacting with other kids while completely forgetting that I'm around. He's just himself, and he's exuberant.

There are two girls that he often plays with  - they chase and crash into each other on the slide and such. I asked their names and he said, "Kemaly." (Could be Kimberly? It took me the longest time to figure out that "Anthy" was Nancy.)

"What's her sister's name?"

"Kemaly."

"They're both named Kemaly?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Yes." He says this without hesitation.

I'm dubious.

---

Nana: Betty has her little rounds she makes in the neighborhood, and as such stops in at a couple stores and the dry cleaner at least several times a week. We have a nice little community here, and I didn't even realize how much of one until yesterday.

The woman who works at our dry cleaner called Nick in a panic, as Betty had fainted while she was standing at the counter. Jordan and I sprinted there from the playground, and found the woman who works there almost in tears, and Betty sitting shakily on a chair.

So we spent yesterday evening at the ER. It turns out she wasn't getting enough blood to her brain, which they think is due to her severe anemia, which they have been treating with iron, but her blood levels are still very low.

She has a special scan already scheduled for next week, as she has a weird clump of blood vessels growing somewhere in her lower intestine. They're hoping to locate and remove them, as they think that they're the cause of the anemia.

On a side bar: that ER doctor that I went on a few Match dates all those years ago with was totally right; Sibley's ER is where you want to go. (Except, he said, for a gunshot wound. Then you're better off at GW).

But for the more prosaic emergencies, head to Sibley for sure. No 6-hour wait. So fast. So nice.

---

Nick: Nick has been working a ton, which is really not out of the ordinary.

But when he's home, he's begun spending more time with India, and she's realized that Daddy is Magic. Oh, and Mama is Chopped Liver When Daddy's Around. As her previously-favorite person, this makes me feel not so great.

There's no subtlety with kids, is there?

This has, however, coincided with her toilet fascination, and in that regard, I'm OK with Chopped Liver status. Because Nick's previously-private morning bathroom activities have all gone to hell, what with India insisting on sitting on Daddy's lap as he reads her a book while also attempting to have a bowel movement.

This is one instance in which Jordan, who is also up with them, definitely does not compete for lap time.

---

Me: I have to say that my trainer was right (thanks, Vic!) and that the no alcohol business will flatten your stomach like nobody's business.

Also, Nick and I are both sleeping better and generally feeling healthier all around.

It's weird: I really struggled in the beginning, but now it just feels like a habit I've broken. This is not to say that I won't enjoy drinks over the holidays, but I'm glad to have broken the nightly cycle we were in.

In fact, Nick had a celebratory glass of wine the other night as he settled a hard case, and while I totally supported him doing so, I was cool not participating. Whereas before, we'd have each had one, then another.

I've fallen off the working-out wagon, and so I'm trying to shove that habit back to the forefront. I've also gotten very little done on the writing, what with the inability to concentrate and such.

It's all an endless juggle, really.

---

And speaking of holidays, which are almost upon us: One, this year I am organized in terms of our holiday card and already have it in hand. It is one of those way too many pictures of your children kind that people might make fun of you for, but I do not care. I absolutely love it.

(Now to not waste my uncharacteristic organizedness and address and send them on time...)

And two, I love hosting a big Christmas party in December (you know how I have the excellent taste in people and all, which makes for a good party), but this year I do not have the wherewithal for a variety of reasons. While I've started feeling better, we've also begun fixing the flooded walls and ceilings. I cannot handle construction and entertaining together.

And! December starts Thanksgiving weekend. The hell?

So! I've decided we'll have a party in January or February when very few people are entertaining and we need something to sparkle us during the grimmy grim grim slog through winter.

Pretty much sums it up

Etiquette, as explained by my three-and-a-half year old to his grandmother:

"Saying 'please' is polite."

"Saying 'thank you' is polite."

"Saying 'fuck' is not polite."

And there you have it.

Skip to my Lou, my darlin'

Would it bug you to have insects in your sugar shaker?

(Also. This has nothing to do with collecting dead bugs for the office - which, let's be clear, I never actually did.)

So, the sugar. Plastic ones, I mean. Not real live or even dead ones. Because that would just be obviously gross, and who wouldn't be bothered by that?

Now that I say that, I realize that there are cultures that do eat beetles and crickets and such. Plus there are the maggot and mite cheeses.

And actually, if you have ever eaten insects, I'd love to hear about it. But for all of you who have not, who might not be all, ooh, ants! Tasty! Would it bother you?

Because, here's the thing. We've always had plastic insects around the house. Betty is fond of them. If you came to stay at their house, you might find a rubber cockroach on your pillow, or a plastic cricket in your napkin.

So when she realized that her plastic ants were just the right size to live in the sugar shaker and not fall through the hole in the top, they went directly in. And when I saw a package of plastic flies, I knew just who to buy them for.

And then she moved in with her sugar shakers, and now her bugs are our bugs.

Nick, however, is not so much on the bugs.

This past weekend he cleaned the shaker, washed the bugs, and set them aside. "The joke has been played," he said. "Can we now get rid of the bugs?"

Now, every once in a while someone notices them and jumps. When Kelli was in town for our high school reunion, she walked over to me holding the sugar.

"I know I'm drunk, but am I hallucinating? Are there tiny little spiders in here?"

By now, they are kind of like decoration. When someone is surprised by them, it's a bonus, but that's not what it's about. I like them. Nick, he does not.

But I mean, really. What's the bug deal?

My world is very narrow, you must understand

I don't know how you feel about animal prints but I pretty much love them and would wear them daily if I had more of them. And a daily-animal-print kind of lifestyle.

Although I'm not precisely sure what that lifestyle might look like...

But! I am seriously considering dressing myself in animal prints of one kind and another from head to toe one day and then seeing how people react.Like maybe these pants with my horse T-shirt, my leopard jacket, a scarf with birds. I haven't yet worked it out, but something along those lines.

My world is small. I told you. If you don't believe me, see photographic evidence below.

In any case, the other day I chanced across this pair of $15 animal pants at Ann Taylor Loft. They had one pair, my size, calling my name.

They are velvety and stretchy and feel basically like I think it would feel to wear a couch. But not in a cumbersome boy is my ass heavy today kind way. More in a sit back and watch TV and drink wine and maybe watch Downton kind of way.

Now, last night I had just put India to bed and was walking upstairs to get Jordan, who was hanging out with Nana. As I put one foot in front of the other, I realized that perhaps I should document the combination of rrraaawwwrrr pants and happy rainbow tootsies, which had been hidden in my boots all day.

So I did.

And then I thought, hmm, maybe my feet wouldn't look so weirdly far away if I sat down and stuck out my legs?

So I did.

Now, at this precise moment, Jordan happened down the stairs - on his way to get a gasoline truck, it turned out.

And because he is three, he wasn't all, "What the fuck are you doing?"

No.

Instead, he immediately started waving his arms, saying, "Don't come up to get me! I'm not hungry! Go down to the kitchen!"

Because, you see, he had quite a parking garage going on Nana's bed, and was getting a couple more trucks to round it out. Once I assured him that in fact, I was interested in joining rather than ripping him from the carnival of  automotive fun he'd created, we were all good.

And then, once I'd cozied up on the bed, I took another picture of my pants and feet. Because really why not at this point?

This one is my favorite.

Then Betty complimented my pants, and Jordan suddenly noticed, and chimed in, "Oh, Mama, I like your pants! And your socks!" He and I are both big fans of stripes.

Aaaand to break up the pants and socks monotony, here's an action shot of Jordan in the background. I was about to say that I'm airing dirty laundry with this one, but in fact the sweaters on the radiator are clean.

Finally, here's my little benevolent dictator, in the middle of shoveling in avocado and papaya. She'll get all weary and drag her hand across her face, all, "Dear Lord, the world is too much with me. As is the mashed vegetable."

I like how she's pretty precisely avocadoed in one eyebrow.

Happy New Year!

India's New Year's Day dinner consisted of: squash-prune-apple, Cheerios, and avocado. As you can see.

All of which she insisted on eating ALL BY HERSELF. As you can also see.

Now if you try to feed her, she waves her arms frantically in front of her face, batting away your spoon and sending food flying. She's also generous about offering food to others. Jordan got a cheerily proffered cheek- and noseful of yogurt yesterday.

And when she is done, she is soooo over it, like, right now, stat, get me out of here, done!

We have a bath every night to get the food out of her hair, ears, chub chub creases. I'm constantly finding Cheerios in unexpected places.

As for me, my dinner consisted of Jordan's uneaten fish sticks. Which, hand to God, I kind of love. Sometimes he, my mom, and I all have fish sticks for dinner. Betty makes tartar sauce with her homemade bread and butter pickles, and it is great.

Fish sticks are a new food for me. I grew up with chapatis and dahl. Not macaroni and cheese, not fish sticks. And so, at the ripe old age of 43, I've discovered my love of this popular childhood staple.

Fish sticks, by the way, are significantly better with beer than red wine. I'm not proud of this knowledge.

But in case you share my interest, Costco has delicious ones. They're big rectangles of Cod, very crispy, but not too much breading. You kind of need Betty's pickles, though, to make them awesome.

As for my Jordan, he's suddenly very grown up. Look, look at this!

The babyness is gone. He's such a boy.

He is thoughtful. He can express himself well, and have interesting conversations. He's doing puzzles! We got this as a gift, and it's just now that he's at a point where he can handle it.

When we first started trying to put the puzzle together, I suggested that he start with the corners.

"Here, let's put in a corner. Why don't we put the corners in first?"

"I don't know what a corner is, Mama."

Oh.

But now he knows what a corner is, and he is loving piecing the picture together.

He's been on winter break, staying home with my mom on the days I'm at the office. They've been up to a variety of adventures.

Today she had a doctor's appointment. So I told him he'd be going to the doctor with Nanna.

Instant drama trauma. Face screwed up, ready for a huge wail. "I don't want to go to the doctor!!!"

"No, no, honey. You're not going to the doctor. Nanna is going. And we need you to go with her to keep her company."

Well, then. This totally made sense to him. Nobody goes to the doctor alone.

This morning he said, "Nanna, I'm going to the doctor with you so you don't cry."

Awwww.

Pretty sure this year is going to be great.

Sharing joy: Mary and the reindeer

Last Friday, the little kids in Jordan's school had a holiday concert.

They'd been practicing songs for weeks. Jordan would sing snatches of songs on the walk home, or at the breakfast and dinner table. Jingle Bells and Feliz Navidad were in heavy rotation. As was Bananas in Pajamas - that old holiday classic. ??

He was so pleased. It was very cute.

Nanna and India and I were all going to see him sing! We'd made treats to bring to the party afterwards. Basically, it was the big pre-winter holidays celebration.

There was much excitement leading up to it! Last day of school! A singalong concert! And then a party! And then vacation!

Some kids had individual parts. Most of the kids sang the sweet and silly songs. Bananas! In pajamas! Are coming down the stairs!

My kid, however, sat like this the entire time:

Actually, not the entire time. Sometimes he sat like this:

And there were a few moments during which he was actually weeping -- the reason for which is unclear.

Ostensibly, he hated his nose. And antlers. And, you know, the singing. And everything except cupcakes.

India, on the other hand, sat in the audience like this:

I kept beaming at Jordan, waving, letting him know that I was so pleased to be there, so pleased that he was in this great concert! This had no effect.

So I turned to Betty and asked, "Would it be impossible to smile while he's up there? Or sing even one of those songs we've heard for weeks? Why is he sitting there like that?"

And you know what she said?

"I guess he's his mother's son. Mary."

I have to admit, she knows of what she speaks.

Ah, well, what's a concert anyway? He's been delightful since then, though, and he's so excited for Christmas.

Or, as he pronounces it, Qwithmuth.

And India, well, Qwithmuth is just another awesome day to her. Yaaay! Life is terrific!

We've got our twinkly tree, and piles of gifts -- or "gives," according to Jordan. Although also according to Jordan, they are all for him. He's almost right.

Our little family is together, and we have plans today and tomorrow with dear, dear friends. We are lucky, so lucky.

Whatever you might celebrate, I'm wishing all of you sparkles and love and hugs and joy. Because no matter what, you can never have too much of any of those, don't you think?

My Halloweenies

I don't have anything big to say about Halloween BEYOND OH MY GIRAFFE IS IT FUN WITH KIDS!

Last year I got Jordan an adorable, warm, fuzzy little dragon costume. He wanted nothing to do with it. "Take it OAF!" was all he said. Over and over and over.

I took it OAF! I returned it! And that was that.

So, I don't know how familiar you are with the Cars movie, but Jordan has watched it approximately 54 million times. He loves Lightening McQueen (who he refers to as LA QUEEN!), and he loves Mater. Tow-Mater. The tow truck sidekick.

We told Betty that Jordan was going to be Mater, as in Tow-mater, for Halloween, and she said, "Well, then, I'm going to be Q!"

"Q?"

 "Cu-cumber!"

 Uh, not that kind of tomater, tomahter, potato, potahter...

India had no say-so in her costume, but lemme tell you, she was the cutest giraffe I've ever seen in my whole entire life. She beamed and squealed in delight the whole time.

Jordan practiced saying "Twick or tweat!" and he said it so sweetly at every house. He gently took one piece of candy, and (with reminders) said "Thank you!" at each and every house.

Well, except one, when he said, "GBTFHMMFFF" and we realized that his jaw was basically cemented together with Milk Duds.

Love.

Oh, yeah, and there were panda bears as well

 On Monday, Jordan’s school was closed, and he stayed home with Nanna.

Actually, they were barely at home. They had a day of adventure planned. A big ZOO day!

I myself am not a fan of zoos – they make me sad, plus this one time, in Bangladesh, a monkey reach through the bars and got hold of my hair and wouldn't let go and my dad was holding my legs and the monkey my hair and it kind of scarred me for life.

However. The National Zoo is a great place to take kids, and the distance between the animals and the humans is such that your kid is not going to get grabbed by a monkey. There are tons of animals! The famous pandas! Big, wide walkways for strollers. Places to run and play. And free! (Which I find astounding, as zoos are so expensive to maintain.)

We spent the weekend building up the zoo outing – talking about our favorite animals, and what Jordan thought he’d see there. Jordan said his favorite animal was the tiger. And then verified with Nick that tigers are nice to little boys, and don’t scare them, do they, Daddy?

 Nick assured him that tigers are nice to little boys.

When I got home from work Monday night, Jordan was reclined against Betty, exhaustedly picking at his macaroni.

Had they had a good day? Oh, yeth!


Betty said they had spent hours and hours at the zoo. It was so big! Then, then they went to this frozen yogurt place where you go around to all these machines and put the yogurt in yourself and then sprinkle pixie dust on top!

Since he was out with his grandmother - this particular grandmother - they had dessert and then looked around for lunch. They then found the best noodles!

After these adventures, they headed home for what turned out to be a teeny tiny almost non-nap nap due to the arrival of a giant monsterpoop. Could’ve been a good nap, but after the cleanup, the nap was shot all to hell.

They then headed over for a visit at the day care to see his absolute favorite teacher, who just got back from maternity leave. He had been devastated when she left, and was thrilled to see her. She gave him two little cars for presents. It was a total love-fest.

This was what Jordan said: "We went to day care! Claudia gave me two cars! They're very fast."

"Did you go to the zoo?"

"Oh, yeth! We went to the zoo! We had ice cream! We had noodles!"

 Equal billing for all. And this was as much information as I got out of him. He was tired.

Nick got home in time to tuck him in. When this is the case, they lay in the dark and talk about Jordan's day.

Later that night Nick said, "I don't think the zoo made much of an impression."

"Why not?"

"Because when I asked him what he saw there he said ' There was a crane and a digger and a backhoe!'"

Nanna's birthday and goodbye summer

Nanna's birthday was on Sunday. Here's Jordan singing Happy Birthday. I absolutely love it.
We took her out for brunch at Mintwood Place, which is both charming and delicious. 

Incidentally, he's wearing the hat I got her as well as his favorite pair of pajamas. The boy loves pink. And orange. And stripes. I myself would wear these jammies if they came in my size.

Which reminds me...I know that nobody thinks this is a good idea, but I did in fact buy myself this pair of stripey pink and purple leggings from Hanna Andersson. Benefit of being short enough for children's clothing.

I may also have gotten these boots, because there is just not enough whimsy in the adult world. And also, I am 12.

I sleep in them and they are ridiculously comfy. I mean the leggings, not the boots. I don't think I'm bold/foolish enough to wear them out of the house, although if I do, it'll be with both my children in stripes as well. Maybe Nick, too, although for him it'll be a conservative striped suit.

Not, however, his seersucker - he's already brought his suit to the cleaners, to be retired till next summer.

Which reminds me...what do you think about this no white after Labor Day and such business? I feel like it stays hotter longer than it used to. The light has shifted to fall, but it's still so warm and muggy.

Good morning, sweetheart!

Some, I imagine most, people answer the phone with "Hello." Or maybe, "Good morning/afternoon"- as the case may be.

In the US anyway. In Italy you say, "Pronto!" In Germany you answer with your last name, or at any rate, that's what my old boyfriend and his family did. Of course, he also told me that they do the duck dance around the pine tree on Christmas morning, and I believed him.

But I digress. My point, of course, is that there are cultural norms for answering the phone.

And I think Betty used to answer the phone with "Hello!" In fact, I'm quite sure she did.

But then she discovered the joys of caller ID, and she'd announce your name to you when she answered.

And now, we do not have caller ID on our home phone, being that we don't give out the number, and really only have it for the alarm and for emergencies.

It also turns out to be a great home intercom system.

Because my mother can sleep through any alarm. And she is on the third floor, which is not always convenient when one is on the first floor trapped with a boob in the mouth of a small tyrant baby. And she rarely has her cell phone with her. If it is with her, it isn't charged. Or it's lost under a pillow.

So the home phone is a helpful thing.

Betty now mainly answers with, "Hardy boys!" in the afternoon or evening. In the morning, as it's usually me on the other end, she answers with, "Is this the Lisa I know and love?" or "Do you need a baby holder?"

Sometimes it's Nick calling, and he's used to it. Or it's a solicitor.

So she sang out, "Good morning, sweetheart!" when the phone rang early this morning.

It wasn't me.

A man's voice asked if he could speak to Betty. She identified herself.

He replied, ""This isn't sweetheart. This is Kevin from your dentist's office calling to remind you of your appointment."

Don't you think she ought to call him sweetheart when she goes next week?

And I always believed April was the cruelest

It's pretty much been a horrible hell of a month.

Like, the kind of time period that feels like a giant boot with gravel stuck in the treads stepping on you and squnching you down and then walking with you stuck to the bottom. Both suffocating and sharpy hurty.

One of those yellowy Timberland boots, probably. But giant-sized. The Timberland boot of wrath. Not quite as poetic as Greek god justice, what with the boulders or the pomegranate seeds or what-have-you.

But I digress.

Last week, as you know, I had the stomach virus from hell, and then I got a doozy of a cold from Jordan. I'm almost over it, I think. Betty now has it.

Nick and Jordan got a milder version of the noro- or whatever-virus, meaning they just had the diarrhea. I'm loathe to say I had diarrhea envy, but it's true.

Mainly because I would rather, as a good friend of mine put it, chew my own arm off than throw up.

I suppose I'd rather chew my own arm off than someone else's as well, but that's along the lines of whose poo would you rather dump out of your Shop-Vac, isn't it?

Anyway. Back to the important.

What I'm leading to is that Betty has had a very rough month. First she got a cold. She then had two weeks of intermittent puking and nausea, and then another cold.

She's basically been in bed for going on four weeks, getting up to take care of Jordan two days a week (except when she was puking sick), go to the doctor, or when we begged or harassed her out of bed.

She's dropped almost 20 pounds. And when you don't start at 120 soaking wet, you don't have that much to lose.

Last week I said, "We have to do something about this. This is exactly how it was with Dad."

And it was. He had one illness after another. He had no energy to do anything, and when you tried to get him to, he said he didn't feel well. He just stayed in bed and watched TV or sat on the internet. Week after week.

He didn't get up, didn't get up, didn't get up.

And then he ultimately mustered the energy to get up, sneak out the door with a length of rope and a vial of pills, and that was that.

In my pregnancy timeline, that was just over a month ago. I've got these inadvertent and mostly stressful markers in this pregnancy - mostly in the 20-something weeks - my dad's suicide attempt, my trip to Amsterdam, my dad's suicide, buying the house...

I think I was right about this pregnant when we moved into our oldold new house, and just when I thought nothing could get harder, it did.

Splinters and shards? I've got them aplenty.

I'm not saying Betty is suicidal - she's not like my dad in that regard. I'm certain she's not.

My big fear is one of two things: that it's something much larger and scarier than one isolated illness after another. Or, two, that if we can't get things turned around, she'll just stay in bed and waste away.

At 33+ weeks pregnant, I barely have the energy to deal with myself and corral my big, strong-willed boy. I can't sleep. I'm constantly exhausted. My back hurts. My girl pokes me in painy places and sticks her feet into my lungs.

Worrying about Betty is sending me over the top.

At my request, I'm meeting her at a doctor's appointment this afternoon.

In the great news category: Maude's mom has invited her up to Vermont for as long as she'd like to stay, and Betty is excited about the idea.

So now I'm working on lining up two days a week of fill-in childcare, and fingers crossed, it looks like it might work out. I'm ready to put her on a train as soon as she's ready.

Days and days with dear friends, fresh air, wholesome food - all of these things would be really good for her. We need things to turn around.

The health edition. Plus, doesn't "flip a breech" sound like an album title?

Little Facey Face

I had a sonogram this week, because I have this extra bit of placenta which is, they assured me, totally normal but something they want to keep an eye on. And in my sonogram I learned that I still have the extra placenta, but it's all fine and good and she's all healthy and normal and not growth-restricted, which was their big (unbeknownst to me) concern.

In other words, my AMA placenta is doing a good job and she's growing great guns and onward and upward. Excellent.Apparently she was facing away from the camera and so the sonogram guy did a bunch of poking and prodding and this was the best he could do. But it's a real face, no?

Flip a Breech, or Ding Dang Heckfire
Less excellent sonogram news: the little head of cabbage or what-have-you of delight currently residing in my uterus has flipped herself back head up. So the midwife directed me to the Spinning Babies website and I'm now doing inversions daily and tomorrow I'm going to do a headstand in a pool. With help.

Also, I'm trying to talk to her gently and coaxingly when really my inclination is to swear and stamp my feet.

The midwife also suggested a version, which sounds painful. And scary because of the possibility of emergency C-section.

Have any of you done this? Was it successful?

Flu/Norovirus/Vomit Plague
Betty has been sick all week. We thought she had the flu. And then my midwife said the Norovirus is going around and that will make you puke and ache for a couple days straight and basically beat the stuffing out of you.

Which is precisely what has happened with her.

She just saw the doctor, who ruled out pneumonia (we were supposed to be worrying about pneumonia again?) and they're doing a blood test but odds are it's this stomach flu that's going around.

Lazy Eyes and Doctor Crushes
As a kid I had thick glasses and a patch for a lazy eye. It was, in fact, as cute as it sounds. I'll post pictures if you're interested. And Jordan's eye sometimes turns in, which prompted me to get a recommendation for a pediatric eye doctor.

So this morning Jordan and I went on a Big Adventure to Friendship Heights. He was all excited because: 1. We were going on the metro! 2. The Eye Man was going look at Jordan's eyes! (See how we avoided the D-word? Made all the difference.) 3. Then we would get a treat!

The Eye Man turned out to be tall and charming and Latino and super kid-friendly. Really just all around the kind of Harvard-educated doctor you might fall madly in love with IF you were single AND the focus of his "look at me."

Rather than, you know, happily married to the love of your life and also lumberingly waddly, and the recipient of his "Will your toddler still fit in your lap at this point?"

But most importantly: Jordan's eyes are fine. Borderline fine, but fine. The hope is that Nick's awesome perfect eyesight genes will prevail and Jordan will grow out of these Mama-gene inflicted issues.

We go back in six months for a follow-up. And the girl should see him at age two to make sure she's not following in my um, eyesteps.

The Eye Man had toys, and he gave Jordan cookies, and made things so pleasant that as soon as we walked out Jordan said, "I want to go back and see him!"

Best doctor visit ever.

Good thoughts for Betty

I was just wondering, if you have any extra energy, if you could send some good thoughts in Betty's direction.

Jordan got sick two weeks ago, and sicker and sicker, and it turned into a double ear infection and conjunctivitis. (I love his day care, but he's been sick since he started part-time in August. And the pediatrician said to just expect a year of sick.)

And then Betty got sick. And sicker and sicker. And sicker and more frail and feeble.

Until she called me yesterday, as I was almost home, to say that she was going to call an ambulance and go to the ER.

Betty is not an alarmist.

I asked if she wanted me to go with her, and she said no, there was no reason to come and sit in the waiting room. And so I didn't.

I know this is not about me, but I just couldn't do it. I've sat in so many ER waiting rooms. Or rather, I've spent so many hours, so many times, in the waiting room mostly at INOVA Fairfax. I no longer get all clenchy in my stomach when I hear and see an ambulance, but I just didn't feel like I could be pregnant again, sitting in a hospital waiting room. And I'm so tired.

So I didn't go. And I felt like a horrible daughter.

Our dear friend Pat joined my mom there, and she called last night to say they didn't know if it was pneumonia, but were treating it as such and had her on IV antibiotics. And a nebulizer to open up her lungs.

So Betty spent the night at GW hospital. She just called, and she already sounds a lot better. It's bronchitis rather than pneumonia, thank God.

Oh, yeah, and conjunctivitis.

Finding Bob

Betty has this 11-year old Camry that is in hot demand. I should actually say had, because in about half an hour, Betty will have sold her car to a man named Bob.

A few months ago, when she had a garage sale, this man named Bob turned up and said, "Hey, are you selling your car?"

It turned out she was, or anyway, would be when she moved in with us.

And after that happened, several other people asked her about her car. People left notes on it. The woman who coordinated the clean-out crew offered to buy it. There was this sudden and odd interest in this decade-plus car with a scratched and dented bumper but new air conditioning.

OK. So last week, with a lot of help from professionals and dear friends, we got Betty moved over. The house closed yesterday. Only the car remained to be sold.

The transaction was going to happen Thursday or Friday.

Now, through conversations with my mother, it became clear that Bob had asked if he could keep the plates for a couple days after buying it, just to have time to get new ones. Which was cool with Betty. Not so cool with the law. Or Nick.

Nick suggested that she sell it Saturday, when he could go with her, just to make sure that everything went as it should. She gratefully agreed.

So Thursday, when I asked if she had organized everything with Bob, she said, "I don't have his number."

"What do you mean, you don't have his number?"

"Well, it was on a little piece of paper stuck to a shelf in Dad's office. Maybe it got packed."

Uh, maybe. Or thrown away.

"Mom. Does Bob have your cell number?"

"I don't think so. He always calls the home number."

The one that was disconnected on Friday.

Also, it turns out that Betty has, very cheerfully, been giving out the wrong cell phone number. It's only one number off, but you know how one number can make a big difference when you're talking phone numbers?

So.

There was no way to get in touch with Bob. And Betty had his $50 deposit on the car, so she couldn't turn around and sell it to someone else.

Last night, Betty remembered his last name. It's not Jones, but it might as well be. We began calling the Bob Joneses around her area.

I'm not kidding you. There are a lot of Robert Joneses in Northern Virginia.

We didn't find him. We did, however, speak to a Bob Jones who expressed interest in the car.

So our plan was such. We were going to park the car in front of the house of her old neighbors, who are very dear friends. We were going to leave a note in the window saying: BOB PLEASE CALL BETTY and giving her phone number.

Because of course we didn't want Bob to think that Betty had made off with his money. Plus we needed to unload the car.

And then today, today Bob called. There was much rejoicing. We didn't tell him we'd been trolling the area for Bob Joneses.

With any luck, they'll be back in a couple hours with a wad of cash and no car.

Deities and stuff

So Betty is almost almost moved in.

Or rather, I should say that Betty is almost almost completely out of her house.

I believe that the last of the stuff will be out and off to donation/junk yard/somewhere else on God's green earth besides our house in about an hour or so. When she calls and says that the haul away people have hauled the last bits away, I will breathe a huge sigh of relief.

I was going to say that this has been a Herculean task, although truthfully, for the longest time it felt like a Sisyphean one. In fact, it still does to some extent. And not to get all Greek goddy on you.

Oh, which reminds me. They moved all of Betty's furniture and statues in on Saturday, and at some point Nick looked around our dining room and said, "We cannot have Buddha central in here."

It wasn't exactly Buddha central. Because the enormous two-ton marble god on the stairs is actually Mahadev.

But they're all Buddha to Jordan and Nick. In fact, Jordan saw these huge pre-Columbian terra cotta statues in my mom's living room and said, "What are those Buddhas doing?"

I don't correct either of them.

This move, this move that is thank the sweet Lord above almost over has really stretched us thin emotionally.

Nick tends to get really stressed out when his physical environment is chaotic. And our house is now not only loaded up with too much furniture, but it's also piled high with boxes. It's a huge house, and it is bursting at the seams at this point.

Which is to say chaotic.

And when Nick gets stressed out, he can get dickish. And when he gets dickish I tend to get all shrill and hatey. Although I have not been lying in bed dividing up the furniture. Mainly because at this point, that imaginary task would make me cry.

The good thing is, we recognize where we are, and where we need to go. We ALL need to get rid of stuff. Betty has brought waaaaay too much stuff over. I've taken waaaaay too much from her house because things have such sentimental value to me.

And Nick, Nick has held onto things that he is now realizing do not matter in the grand scheme of things.

It's like a friend of ours said: It's hard to be sentimental when you're drowning in your own stuff.

Need any stuff? You know where to find me.

SERENITY NOW.

Peace out.

It's called a spork, the opposite of camping, and also it turns out I like creepy little freaks.

It's not that I hadn't ever heard of a spork; it's more that I'd never been face to face with one.

Also, by creepy little freaks, I don't mean in person. Although for a while it did seem like that was the subtext of my Internet dating profile.

But the spork.

See, last Tuesday evening we got on this flight to Paris. (And if you've ever seen Love, Actually, and you know the part where Laura Linney is about to hook up with the hothothot guy and she excuses herself, goes into the stairwell and does a silent little super-excited dance, well, that's the kind of emoticon I need to insert here.)

So the flight to Paris (yippy kazippee emoticon!). A flight for which I'd received an email saying there would be no meal service. Naturally, I freaked out. Because if you are going to have me hurtling through space for seven and a half hours, I want to be overfed.

So we packed an insane amount of food. Really. Buns and chicken and fruit and more fruit. And when I asked Betty why her carry-on was so heavy, she had no idea. Upon inspection, she had no fewer than 10 Kit Kats, three huge Snickers, and approximately 72 Butterfingers. These will weigh a person down.

If you think I exaggerate, you need to meet Betty. Anyway, we were set. Plus, they did actually feed us semi-wretched pasta. Which I ate, because, you know. The oatmeal cookie was pretty good.

And then they woke us up at 5 am Paris time, which was a scant hour after I'd fallen asleep, and handed me this little packet with a yogurt and a bread product and this sharp edged implement. And I was all, "What the fuck is up with this mean, angry little spoon?"

Then I realized I was staring into the sharp pokey little teeth of a spork, which maybe is useful for varied meals when camping, if one does that sort of thing, but not as clearly so for yogurt.

And then I was wondering why they didn't just put a serrated edge on one side and call it a sporfe. Which so sounds like something you would buy at Ikea, doesn't it?

There would, of course, be the danger of slicing one side of your lip while trying to use it as a spoon or maybe even a fork, but eventually you'd learn to keep your mouth fairly wide open while putting things in. Although it occurs to me that that technique would make those food items more likely to fall out as well.

So then you'd have to choose - perpetually sliced side of lip, or food staying in mouth? Which would really only be relevant if you camped all the time. Or maybe were an astronaut. Do the astronauts use them? The only thing I really know about them is that they like Tang - or anyway they did in the 70s - and so do I.

And also I now recall that the whole bathroom in space thing is kind of iffy, what with the no gravity. Outer space is not so much my thing. Outer space and camping and mean little sharp spoons.

And anyway, listen, enough with the sporfe and the dubious poops in space.

Because, my friends, we are in Paris, Betty and I. Which is kind of the opposite of camping and all around really spectacularly delicious.If you don't know me in person I know it sounds like last week we were just all, "Oh, it's Tuesday, let's fly to Paris."

When in fact this trip had been planned in concept for several years, and in actuality since February, and I was only talking about it in person for weeks and weeeeks leading up to it. To the point where I'm certain everyone who saw me on a regular basis was kind of like, "Paris, yes, yes, I know, fuck you very much."

I was kind of insufferable, I'm certain. "Oh, yah, I won't be able to attend that meeting. Because I'll be in PARIS. Have I mentioned it?"

Things like that.

By the time I left I'm sure my office was all, "GO ALREADY"This is a trip that was three years coming, and when it finally arrived it was kind of perfect timing in terms of family stuff and kind of stressful timing in terms of Betty selling her house and moving in with us. When we return we have three weeks to race to the finish line of empty house and closing. This only came together the day we were leaving.

It's a little bit of an enormous project.

But here we are, and it is amazing. We arrived last Wednesday and we've only got one more day.

We've seen old friends, we've shopped, and we've eaten and eaten and eaten. I had this hot chocolate that was a melted chocolate bar in one jug and hot milk in another, and you just poured whatever amounts you wanted into your cup.

We turn out to be Philistines and so we've spent a great deal more time eating and shopping than doing anything cultural but it seems that whenever we go to a church - Saint-Séverin and Sainte-Chapelle, to name the, uh, two - the things that catch my eye are the creepy little freaks.

No, wait! The well freak was taken at Cluny! Although I must be honest and admit that we arrived just as they were closing, so it doesn't honestly count.

Actually, Sainte-Chapelle has the most extraordinary details, and I took a ton of pictures of little carvings and bits of wall and such and if anyone is remotely interested, or if I decide I want to take on the project of resizing and posting a number of photos, I will post them.

But aren't the creepy little freaks compelling? You can click to embiggen them.

And now, my invisible friends, it is one-damn-forty-something in the morning Paris time, and I am still awake because the time change seems to fuck with me like nobody's business.

Sporfe that, I say.

I hope you're well! I know I'm the one who went away, but I've missed you!

Oh and one more thing. I've disabled anonymous comments because of this one particular dickbag. I delete the comments, because I see no reason to respond to anonymous dickbags, really. And I see no reason to encourage anonymous dickbaggery.

Sorry for the inconvenience, though.

OK. I must sleep now. Bonne nuit!

(Ooh, I'm so bilingual! I think when I get back I'll pretend that I can't remember the right word in English. Because I was in PARIS, did you know?)

Unless the police are involved

Betty is currently in Vegas with six of her high school friends.

Every few years, this group of women gets together. And they've passed their 50-year high school reunion. Only one of them still lives in North Dakota, so they meet in different cities. This year, it's Vegas.

All of them are pretty staunch Republicans except my mom. When they came to stay with her, she made them watch Michael Moore movies.

Betty isn't a gambler, but she loves playing the coin slots. Probably because she always wins.

Seriously. When I moved back to DC from San Diego, she flew out and drove cross-country with me. And when we were driving through Nevada, they had slot machines every where. Every. Where.

So we'd stop to use the bathroom, or to get gas, and she'd stick a quarter in the gas station slot machine, and out would pour $25 in quarters. Almost every time. We had bags and bags of quarters.

Before she left, Nick said, "I know that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but call us if the police are involved."

So far, so good.

The neighborhood crime report

We live in the city, and while we live in a charming neighborhood, there are decidedly un-charming city things that go along with it.

Like human feces in the alley, mandatory Christmas cards to the trash collectors, and crime - both large and small.

This week: One of our neighbors emailed Nick to say that two petunias had been stolen down the street.

The owner of the petunias looked out the window just in time to see an older woman scooping them out of the soil and putting them in her purse. I'm not sure why he informed our neighbor of this, but our neighbor responded by planting pansies as replacements.

His email to Nick was about something else; this neighborhood crime report was extra.

I immediately thought of Michael Ondaatje's grandmother, Lalla, the botanical burglar.

Nick, however, immediately thought of Jordan's grandmother. As in MY mother.

We were sitting in the living room, enjoying a glass of wine, when Nick read the email on his Blackberry. He read it aloud, then raised his eyebrows at me.

"What?"

"You don't think Betty..."

"Don't be an idiot. Betty wouldn't steal flowers."

"Are you sure? She takes cuttings of other people's plants."

I was going to deny this, not because I think it's a big deal - she's always done this - but because he was acting like cuttings were like a gateway drug. One day, little snippings of plant shoots, the next day, swiping someone's oak tree in the dead of night.

But he said it with such certainty that I didn't feel like I could deny flat out.

So I was all, "What? Have you ever seen her do that?" (See how I'm tricky like that?)

"Yes, Lisa. She does it while we're walking down the street." (Um. See how he's observant like that?)

"Oh. Well, yeah. But that's completely different."

Seriously. It is.