My jet set friend

Recently one of my oldest friends came to town on a cheering-up mission (oldest as in, I'm not going to do the math because the answer will scare me). It was a perfect girls' weekend--dinner out, a night at a hotel, a yoga class, a little window-shopping, a theater outing. She happened to be here the night of the Oscar broadcast so we watched that together.

Oh, and we got pampered at a spa too, thanks to a Christmas gift from my husband that proved far more valuable than he ever imagined it would. I wrote about the spa in a guest post at my friend Anne's blog, The Jet Set Girls--where you can get all kinds of insider beauty and travel tips.

R. and I live almost exactly 1,000 miles apart, but we make it work. We don't talk every day anymore like we did in high school (you know, debriefing the day that we spent almost entirely in each other's company) or email many times a week like we did before kids (she has three and the hottest topic of our nonstop chatter was whether either of us is brave enough to go for one more). But she came to visit me here in Mayberry when Opie was only a few months old. My kids and I went to see her when she was juggling a brand-new baby and two older boys by herself thanks to a horribly ill-timed National Guard deployment for her husband. We've managed to meet up on business trips to New York (mine) and Chicago (her husband's).

Jobs, houses, and hometowns may come and go, but your best girlfriends? You can always count on.

Fine. Well, sort of. You know.

People want to know how I am. How I really am. I appreciate the thought and I wish I could answer them.

I am happy not to be spending every waking moment with a painful, hormone-induced headache.

I am sad when I see my son's face and wonder what his brother would have looked like.

I am relieved that the terribly stressful period when we didn't know if our baby would live or die is over.

I am wondering how I will ever get through the month of June.

I am deeply touched by the supportive comments, emails, cards, flowers, plants, gifts, and food we've received.

I am thankful that I no longer have vicious nausea and heartburn 24/7.

I am discouraged that my body is flabby and lumpy with nothing to show for it.

Mostly, I just feel weird. I've never done this before and I don't know how to do it. For three years I had resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't be having any more babies. I got pretty good at living that way.

Then I was pregnant, and that felt like an altered state, an alternative reality. So not being pregnant feels like a return to normalcy. But denying my son's short life is most certainly not normal.

You see the dilemma.

I'll steal borrow from Casey and tell you that you don't have to tell me you are sorry. She said you could tell her about your favorite sandwich instead. If you want to tell me something, what's your favorite flavor of ice cream? I was sorely tempted by a tub of Americone Dream the other day.

How I met your father

Once upon a time (I'm going to tell you a story, or maybe an LSAT practice question) I dated a guy named Glenn. Glenn worked with a woman named Lori. Lori lived with a man named Bob. Bob had some grade-school friends named Mark and Dave. Mark had a college friend named Jeff. Jeff had a business associate named Ron.

Are you following? Sometime after Glenn flew the coop, I went to a party at Bob and Lori's. There I met Mark and Dave. Mark asked for my number. We went out on a date. It was at a comedy club which was apparently having a bl-w j-b theme night. Every single comedian decided to discuss that particular topic. Hi. First date over here. Awkward.

Still, there was at least one other date that I recall before things petered out (pun not really intended), as things do. But occasionally I would see Mark at Bob and Lori's. A few months later, Bob called to say that Ron had given Jeff tickets to a football game, but Jeff couldn't use them; did I want them? I couldn't go to the game but Bob seemed insistent. So I found someone else who could use the tickets. Then I had to meet Jeff at his office building, conveniently located next to mine, to pick up the tickets.

The rest is history. And this past weekend, we (Jeff, Bob, me, and a few others) finally watched Mark get married too. It was definitely the best Jewish-Nicaraguan wedding I've ever attended. Mazel tov!

Muchas gracias, you Hip Mom, you

Far too long ago, the lovely Kirsetin gave me a bloggy award, in Spanish no less. I'm going to go ahead and take her word for it when she says that recipients "are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers!" (I mean, wouldn't you take her word for it, if her word was "charming"?)

(I do like prizes though. I bought a bundle of Christmas presents and several months of upcoming book club books with recent PBN winnings.)

So hmmm ... writers that need more attention.

• Kate from Eucalyptus Pillow recently started a couple of new blogs and a business so I guess she's attention-seeking. Right, Kate?
• Tammie from Soul Gardening needs us to read so she'll keep posting, because I miss her when she doesn't.
• That goes for you too, Nancy. (Uh. No pressure, though, gals.)

If there's anyone you'd like to pass this award on to, go forth with my blessing. As if you needed it.

A mile-high high

If you've been to Julie's, you know we've been to Julie's this past weekend. There was much eating (thank you Kyle!), musical beds, walks around the neighborhood, cooing at the baby (OMG the baby. He is edibly cute), an intense game of Taboo in which Nancy's name was invoked (how else could I explain "hat trick" without saying the word "hockey"?), and not nearly enough picture-taking--partly because I left my camera at my brother's overnight. (Ask Julie about how he returned it on his motorcyle, fully decked out in leather and chains.)

Once again, Jo and Tacy picked up without a moment's hesitation and didn't leave each other's sides, awake or asleep, for the entire length of the visit. Neither did Jo wear any of the clothes we brought for her, preferring instead to raid Tacy's closet. I don't know if it's the fact that they spent so much time together as infants (nearly every day from three months to two years) or the fact that we parents do our best to encourage their continuing relationship, but these girls have a strong bond that's now weathered four years apart. I hope it never breaks.


Goodbye Denver--we'll be back as soon as we can.

Corndog with cheese

What can't I live without as a mom, ask to Yoplait Kids and Parent Bloggers Network?

I'm going to have to go the totally corny route and say other moms. Other moms have taught me what to carry, what to buy, and what to ignore. They've taught me what to wear, what to sweat, and what not to. They've lent me baby gear and dropped off meals in times of crisis. They've kept me company on long stroller sojourns and on trips to the mall squeezed in after bedtime. They've kept me sane at the playground or cooped up inside when there's two feet of snow on the ground. (I am so much better at spending long hours with my children when I have a peer of my own at my side.)

They've reminded me over and over that I'm not alone. And while I loved my Boppy and my Bjorn and even my breast pump, while I'd never want to give up my bike trailer or chai tea lattes or the DVR or god forbid the Internet, I think I could get through just about anything if a fellow mom was there to hold my hand.

Blog to Fight Diabetes

My friend and Full Mommy collaborator extraordinaire, Leeanthro, is hosting a big giveaway at her site to raise funds for her Step Out Walk to Fight Diabetes.

So many of our kids and adults are affected by this condition, which has no cure and requires a lifetime of care and attention. It runs in my family and my sister's boyfriend was diagnosed with Type I (juvenile) diabetes just last year in his 30s.

Please consider making a donation or spreading the word! Enter by September 15.

If it's Sunday, it must be San Francisco

I didn't really mean to leave that birthday-wish-soliciting post up for so long. But since July 1, my calendar has looked like this:

2 nights home
3 nights away
3 nights home
2 nights away
1 night home
8 nights away

I'm now about to start #1 of those last 8 (up to and including BlogHer). So I'll remain scarce, especially after the geesemice descend in a few days. I've never been very good at planning ahead with blogging. It feels too much like work, after years of writing about Christmas every June in my magazine days. So later, gators!

My new summer cocktail

The one thing about enduring the neverending winter around here is that when summer comes, it's goooood. Clear, sunny, warm but not too hot, very rarely humid. So we just want to be outside and celebrate every minute.

At book club the other night my friend Theresa introduced me to what's going to become my signature summer drink. We were sitting outside at a waterfront restaurant which got me in the mood to order a gin and tonic. But Theresa showed me the light: the gin press. Ahh! Lighter, sweeter, and très refreshing.

Then, just to prove what a good friend she is, when I appealed to her the next day after I couldn't find a recipe online, she found me a video of a cute bartender doing a demo. The trick is that the drink is more commonly made with vodka.

Cheers!

Edited to remove embedded video -- sorry, that was annoying the way it played automatically.

I am doing the unthinkable

Something I even ranted about on my blog: Hosting a sales party.

[cowers in shame]

Apparently I have been living in suburbia too long because I finally succumbed. In my defense ... I got suckered into this by going to a party at Jo's teacher's house. How you gonna say no to an invitation from your child's teacher, for an event held just a few weeks before the end of the school year? And then, at that party, how you gonna be the fifth person in a row to pass on hosting your own party?

I know. You're going to grow a spine, that's how.

Maybe next time.

So tomorrow night it's my turn to be the shill. I was frankly embarrassed to send out the invitations and I mostly limited them to other mothers from the kindergarten class. But now that the party's almost here, I'm secretly excited. I love to have people over and I don't get to do it enough. It helps that it's MY event and therefore my husband will not be helping with the preparations (although he will be on kid duty). Every other time we have a party or even just invite another family over for a kids-included meal, he gets so panicky about how everything will look and taste and possibly be ready in time. He makes entertaining far more stressful than it needs to be.

When I'm running the show solo--like with this party, or when I host book club--I go for super easy and I do not worry for one second "what anyone will think" like he does. These are my friends and if I keep the wine flowing, they will not care that all the food I am serving is storebought. (When our book club read Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, I served rice crackers, edamame, and miscellaneous frozen dumplings and egg rolls--and everyone is still raving, especially the woman who'd never had edamame before that night. There is nothing easier than throwing a bag of soybeans into a pot of boiling water!)

So tomorrow, it's wine, cheese, wine, crackers, wine, cookies, wine, and cheesecake, with a few corny games and catalogs on the side. It won't be that awful. I promise.

Photo by Swamibu.

Second-born, but never second-best

The second one is different and exactly the same.

The second one is harder and easier.

The second one is predictable and surprising.

The second one is more work and less work.

The second one is a thorn in the side of the first one, and a partner in crime.

The second one strains your family and strengthens it.

The second one is worth it, Mrs. Chicky, HBM, and Mrs. Chicken. I promise it is.

Sunday song*: Freshman flashback

After my mini-college reunion last month, our host gave all of us a CD which is a recreation of a mix tape he had made way back when. I've been listening to it all week and here's one of my favorite songs from it.



*because it was so very popular last week

The first day of the week

Last night was my friend's baptism and confirmation. I really don't think I have ever been prouder of someone who isn't a member of my immediate family. Her bravery and faith were breathtaking. She never wants to be the center of attention, but elected to do a full immersion baptism (betcha didn't know we Catholics even did that... I didn't!). It's unusual enough that when Father invited her, me, her family and friends to proceed to the baptismal font, he also invited the entire congregation to gather around as well. (Then he joked that he'd try not to fall in with her.)

She wore a bathing suit covered by a short robe, which she kept on as she knelt in the font. Her family was there, including her two little boys, her in-laws, and her sister; as her sponsor, I stood by her side. The rest of the RCIA candidates and catechists watched, along with a few hundred other parishioners, a deacon, several altar servers. Can you imagine the strength it took, to decide to do this, to want to do this? It was a privilege to observe it, and even more so to have my own small role to play in it.

After it was over she beamed with the joy of it, and the relief; her four-year-old piped, "Mommy, I am so proud of you!" and we all smiled because we were too. The rest of the Mass passed by in a rush and afterward, it seemed that everyone who'd been in the pews stopped to congratulate her and to welcome her. It's an Easter I won't easily forget.

In front of God and everyone

I don't normally post about religion, because holy lightning rod; and also, my feelings are nothing if not conflicted. I enjoy the ritual of it all and have found comfort there in times of grief. But if I am honest with myself, I haven't nearly the faith to swallow everything I should to be a true believer. And as a leftie, feminist type, I have Issues with a capital I about many teachings and dictates of the Roman Catholic church.

And yet, you'll find me at Mass nearly every Sunday, goosebumping up when the priest presents a newly baptized baby to the applauding congregation, beaming as if he bore that child himself. You'll notice tears leaking from the corner of my eyes during a soaring hymn. You'll see me volunteering to send valentines to homebound parishioners and organize the Sunday morning nursery co-op. You'll realize I'm sitting alongside almost all of my close friends in this community, the ones who'll watch one child while I chase the other or save a seat for us during coffee hour. On warm-weather days, the kids and I may be at church for two hours or more, including Mass, coffee talk, and a visit to the school's playground.

This year I am sponsoring a good friend as she goes through the RCIA process. I was honored to be asked, but hesitant. Was it really right for me to hold myself up as an example for her? In the end I decided that all I could do was tell her the truth. That I have questions, questions that will probably never be answered; but if she wanted to, we could seek together. And so we have. This Easter she will be baptized and I know I'll be proud to have been a part of this process with her.

I'm still out there wondering, but I know I have company. And that means a lot.

Super-easy soup

Since I went ahead and confessed that I am a lousy cook, I thought now would be a good time to post a recipe. Right?

I am going to a Soup Swap on Monday. It's like a cookie exchange, but for soup. Here's what I'm going to bring (there is a contest for best soup name ... if you can think of a better one, I am all ears). I'm making 40 cups of it tonight (8 cups x 5 recipient swappers).

I Think I Can-nellini Bean Soup
Makes: A lot. At least 8 servings depending on who's eating. Probably about 35 servings if you are serving it to a small child.

3 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp olive oil
2 16-oz cans cannellini (white) beans
1 28-oz can diced tomatoes
1 head escarole (or kale I think would also work), chopped
4-5 cups chicken broth (sub veggie broth to make this vegan)
S&P
Shaved parmesan cheese for garnish

1. Heat the olive oil in a big soup pot or dutch oven. Throw in the garlic and saute for a couple of minutes.

2. Dump in everything else.

3. Bring to a boil.

4. Simmer for 20-25 minutes (or whatever. Until you are ready to eat it).

5. Top with shaved parmesan and serve.

See? If you can open a can and boil water you can make this.

My only problem is that my husband doesn't really like soup (weirdo). So I am going to have 40 cups of incoming soup to eat all by myself. Guess what I'll be eating for lunch for the next 40 days!

(When I was a poor editorial assistant, I always brown-bagged except on Fridays. Then I'd treat myself to lunch out. If I was feeling really flush I'd go to the Soup Nazi. I think it cost about $7 a serving [this was way back before the Seinfeld show even aired] but it came with bread, fruit, and a piece of chocolate and damn, this soup was so. good. It was entirely worth the anxiety and abuse and the very very long line.)

It's a gosling! A pinkie?

A boy!

Anyway, the babygoosemouse is here!

Congratulations and lots of love to the whole family.

Thank goodness for Sheila

I'm still cold but I spent the better part of the weekend embracing the weather instead of fighting it. We took the kids sledding on Sunday. My friend Sheila is a class-A rounder-upper and event planner and she put together a cross-country ski outing on Saturday. I hauled out the skis that I haven't used since my childfree days (they still fit! yeehaw) and we spent the afternoon gliding through a nature preserve. As we were setting out on the trail a fresh-mouthed 8-year-old asked me if I had ever been on skis before. I refrained from answering "Yeah, before you were born, ya little twerp" or from otherwise letting her comment crush my groove.

My best/worst ski outing (I'm still talking about cross-country here -- all of my downhill outings have been "worst." I am not cut out for that), mentioned briefly here, was in Moosehead Lake, Maine. The lodge we stayed at had yurt-to-yurt trails so the idea was, you ski around all day and then sleep in a yurt at night (your belongings having been magically transported there by snowmobile, about which more later). I soon learned that a canvas tent, even one equipped with a wood-burning stove, was not really ideal for a February night in Maine.

The trails, however, were amazing and so was the people-watching in the lodge. Snowy trails attract two diametrically opposed groups: the cross-country skiers and the snowmobilers. The skiers wear natural fibers (corduroy knickers and knee-high wool socks: hot!), eat granola, and probably listen to NPR. The snowmobilers wear space-age synthetics in space-age colors and I'm guessing they like the country music. Seeing these two groups mix (or at least occupy the same room) is a fascinating character study.

*

Segue on the word "character": my lovely cousin's mother-in-law just died. Doesn't she sound like a remarkable person? I'd never met her, and really hadn't known much about her (Ozarkian jigs! Fishing! B29 bombers!). I'm sorry I'll never get the chance now.

Photo from the Utah Ski Archives via fasterskier.com

Late to the party because of the party

What with all the hoo-ha over the teeny weeny peenies, I missed observing a couple of other important events in the blogosphere and the world. Luckily, I can count on all of the rest of you to pick up the slack:

Jessica and Julie P. wrote movingly about Martin Luther King, Jr.

Alex wrote about Blogging for Choice Day.

Dozens of you wrote to support WhyMommy on her big day, and she came through with flying colors.

And that is worth celebrating -- yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Aww! His first pee fountain!

In honor of the impending arrival of mothergoosemouse's little boy blue: A story.

The minute you give birth to an infant of the male persuasion you learn (and you are informed about three dozen times a day, anyway) that their boy parts are to be covered at all times. Something about exposure to the open air makes their little firehoses want to perform.

During one of Opie's very first diaper changes on his very first day home from the hospital, my mother was doing the honors while Jo and I looked on adoringly. Because, you know, it takes two adults and a preschooler to change one teeny weenie newborn. Of course, since it had been over 30 years since Grandma had unwrapped a boy diaper, she forgot the Take Cover rule. Opie sensed an opportunity and let fly with a targeted stream. He managed to hit:

• the pack-n-play
• the living room wall
• the living room floor
• and his sister's face
• (her hair too)

So Julie, be sure to stock up on the cloth diapers and use them to cover the danger zone any time the little guy is mid-change. Tacy and CJ, I advise you to keep your distance.

xoxoxoxo from Jo, Opie, Jeff and me!

*

It's a baby shower and you are invited! Grab a button and post anytime today in honor of one of the blogosphere's favorite writers ... and the biggest surprise of her life.

(And there are prizes involved, to boot.)

Gender ... politics ... innnnnn ... space!

I'm ashamed to admit this. A few days ago, Jo announced that she wanted to have a playdate with a boy in her class. And for some reason, I was a little freaked out at the idea of a boy-girl playdate. I have no idea where this came from because she has at least three other pals, who happen to be boys, who she's been playing with for years; I would never blink at a request to play with any of them.

Still, like a loser I tried to stall her a bit on this particular playdate request. I asked her what she and D. would play with if he came over. Right away she mentioned her telescope, her art supplies, and her puppet theatre. And almost as quickly I came to my senses and said "OK, I'll call D's mom."

We haven't had the playdate yet, but Jo's idea to show off her telescope is perfect. We've loved playing with this toy (received for review via Parent Bloggers Network) and I'm sure D. will too. Get the full scoop at the Full Mommy.

And is anyone else as intimidated as I am about calling other parents for playdates? Instant transportation back to 4th grade and fearing that no one likes me. It didn't help when one of the first kids we called this year didn't respond for about three solid weeks. She finally did, but not before the damage had already been done to my psyche.