Things I Do, Addendum

Since earlier post, and in the middle of a work day that includes expletives (callers', not mine) and the threat of legal action, I have also found time for the diversions of:

epguides.com (so fun! all your fave TV shows, synopsized for when you forget to watch, like me and er for the last 2-3 years. I just caught up on this season, and what a relief, I wasn't missing much!)

Manolo's Shoe Blog

and Slate.

...OK, YES, I can admit it. I have a problem. An addictive, proscrastinating, ostrich-with-my-head-in-sand kind of approach to real life.

Do you think there's a support group for people like me? I bet I could Google one.... ;)

Things I Do...

...TO AVOID DOING SOMETHING ELSE!

1.) Troll for online reading (I used to lean toward the New York Times -- book section, Sunday mag section, food section -- but lately I prefer visiting other people's blogs)
2.) Shop Overstock.com (I never actually buy, but I sure look a lot)
3.) Blog here (hmm... sensing a online theme?)
4.) Laundry
5.) Organize closets

I would love to take credit for this brilliant topic, but I was actually procrastinating the in-earnest start of my work day when I saw the prompt at the RevGals blog ring. Thus having proved my point, I really must get on with it...

No Buts!

Sob. Sob. Dramatic inhale.

"But I CAN'T [get a grip on myself] because doing golf with my Dad is my BESTEST thing in the whole world!" Waaaaahhhhhhhhh.

Hmm. Well, I'd say life is back to normal at our house.

I inadvertantly told the boy his dad was out golfing with our friend Cook yesterday, and my, was that a mistake. (Note to any/ all future parents: Honesty is NOT always the best policy!)

He wigged out completely. I instructed him to calm down and got the dialogue above.

He actually said, "But I don't like to do anything else. I don't have anything else special to me." (Drama king!)

I explained how very many things he likes to do in an average week, and reminded him of a few treats he regularly enjoys, and he says....
"But those are just my ORDINARY special things. Not my -- sob -- SPECIALEST thing!"
(Pause while I turn my desk chair so he can't see my rolling eyes.)

"Can't you just drive me there? I'm ready now!"

"I don't know where they are, honey."

"What? You didn't ask him? But! But! WHY?"
(Imagine me shooting a warning stare over my glasses.)

"But I know where. I know! I go there all the time with Daddy. Let's GO"
(Me not moving.)

"Why aren't you going? ...
"...But, but..."

And thus I instituted a new household rule. NO BUTS! Thou shall not say to the mother, "But," anything -- for the mother doesn't want to hear it.

I'm glad to see the boy is feeling up to an afternoon on the links. So very happy he is back to his normal, questioning, problem-solving, assumptive 4-year-old self. BUT (and I use this word with steely purpose), he will drive me and any future authority figure to whom he answers stark raving nuts if I let him continue on this path.

Of course, the boy unleashed great hysteria when I cut off our "discussion" about getting into the game. ("But I CAN'T stop crying. I WANT to go to Daddy! You don't know... But I ... want... DAAAADDDDYYYYY!") I sent him to his room to think about how he's too old to pout and plenty old enough to "respect his elders." (Or, as I wanted to say, in a bout of old-school parenting, "No means no. Now shut up." I doubt either approach was going to bring him around yesterday.)

When M's father arrived home, to a quiet house and a peacefully playing boy (using the room time to construct a staging area on which action figure Batman could perform motorcycle tricks), I rehashed our earlier disruption. I finished with, "He's just 4. He doesn't play golf."

And J (oblivious to the ironic choice of words but smiling purposefully to show he meant no reproach) quickly said, "Oh, but he does! He has his own clubs.... And he's pretty good!"
"...You should see."

Oh, but that I had already.... (Wink.)



Dear Lord of Families, Frustrated Mothers and All Golf-Bonding Boys: Thank you for these two blessings in my life. Thank you for the responsibility of raising a good and respectful man, and for the assistance of a spouse as I try to do my part. Help us laugh often as we do our work well, so that we, and he, will honor You. Amen.

Paging Dr. Welby

OK, so the boy is fine and I'm bouncing back, but yesterday was quite traumatic. For both of us.

Miles got his hand slammed in a door at school and needed 5 stitches. In his thumb. To resecure his gaping-open thumbnail.

(Everyone, all together now: "Eeewww!!")

Yes, it was gross.

Yes, it seemed VERY painful.

Yes, we had to wait for pain medication for what I believe to be FAR too long. (He is freaking 4 years old. He did not need to wait ONE HOUR before his first dose of painkiller.)

Yes, he cried. He held his ribs and tried not to breathe, it hurt so much.

He also told me, in a heartbreakingly soft voice, "I have a lot of hurt. It's real bad." And, in the car on the way to the clinic, he told me, "When we get there, tell them we need LOTS of ointment."

He demanded that the shots and the stitching STOP. He clearly told the doctor, "STOP that!" every time she pierced his skin. (Again, painkillers, schmain-killers: He could feel things! It must be an inexact science...) His face was flushed and he was strapped to a board, but he wasn't panicked. In fact, Miles sounded totally rational when he screamed, "STOP DOING THAT. RIGHT NOW! IT HURTS!" He looked at me and cried, "Mommy, do something!" (That'll take any Christian right back to Easter. My child only hurt his thumb. Think how God felt when His child was hurt unto death....) Then Miles decided he didn't need to be fixed after all. "I want up. UP! Let's go home now. Right now, Mommm-iee!"

I am leaving out details on the part before the strap-in board when he pulled a Hulk, broke free from three adults, swung his arm around the room and actually squirted blood...
Have mercy, and thank goodness Jeremy wasn't the parent on duty! (He has this thing about blood.)

Miles crashed just after the X-rays, before the nurse came to bathe the hand and dress the wound. His head had sweated so much during the procedure, and I had held it down and finger-combed hair away from tears so often, that his damp red mop slicked back and to one side. The hair reminded me of the way it first grew, in silky-fine lines, when he was tiny. I found him a blanket and fished his Silkie out of my purse. Even in medicated sleep, Miles' good hand rubbed the Silkie into a peak, then stuffed it into his mouth. And there was my baby, peacefully curled under the glare of institutional light, a dirty little blood-spattered angel, slumbering his way through one of life's smaller hurts.

It gets a lot worse than this daily mishap, I know. I'm grateful the damage was so minor. Really, this wasn't a bad "starter accident," to give me good experience in calming my child and navigating the medical profession. Still and all, we went through a lot yesterday, the boy and I. And I am proud of us. Both of us. And I am exhausted.

Ouch

Today feels like Good Friday. I always feel vaguely crappy on Good Friday.

I don't write that for effect, either; I really do. Do you?

I mean, it's not such a "good" day, is it? It basically stinks. Good for humanity, and the best thing ever to happen for me, I know, but still... Still.... Ouch. (Have I posted yet about Miles asking me, on Palm Sunday, "But WHY did Jesus have to die?" He's four, and even he knows something is wrong, wrong in the world when Jesus has to die.)

Anyway, I have this habit of remembering, on Good Friday, that I am one of the reasons Jesus accepted and endured a very bad time, right about this time, so many years ago. And I tend to walk around all day, somber and awed and relieved and all manner of good things but also... feeling vaguely crappy.

And, sure, the deeper emotions of the Easter event always lift me up by Sunday. We believers in Christ are called to rejoice, you know. But first comes this Good Friday feeling... inescapable, every year. I guess that's just the sort of ("doctrine of suffering," as someone I know would say) Christian I am. Really, I should view the feeling as useful this year, since my penchant for penitence should make my current bout of self-pity pale by comparison. And yes, it does. In my head. In my heart, however, I just feel bad for Jesus and sad for myself. Vaguely crappy all around.

I am having a hard day, friends. A sad, hard day. And the real Good Friday is a full 24 hours of contemplation, just around the corner.

(Sigh.) Thank goodness for Sunday!

Birdwatching

An overdue bird repot... with photos to follow later in week!

Miles dressed himself last Saturday and went out to play before breakfast. He came back in, shortly, with this report:

"MO-AHM! The babies are awake. And they still don't have any feathers."

"Oh, honey... You didn't TOUCH the baby birds, did you?"

"Nope. I'm just looking." He held a plastic arrow, the matching bow tucked into the back of his T-shirt and a bungee cord spilling out of his pocket. Clearly, he was in ADVENTURE mode.

I was very, very dubious about his confident, swaggering reply, but I didn't want to start the day with a scolding. "OK.... Just don;t touch the birds, hear?"

Later the same day, Miles came inside and heaved his skinny self onto the couch like a two ton weight. "Boy, I'm tired!"

"Whatcha been doin'?" I ask.

"Diggin'." (And, yes, when I look, his hands and fingernails are completely grimed over. )

"Uh, hon, you really need to go wash your hands. And what were you digging?"

"Oh, I dug up a worm. And then I fed it to the baby birds."

Eeeeeee! (I visualize some 10-inch, finger-width earthworm attacking my tiny, featherless friends in their own home. Or, worse still, some grubby human boy smell clinging to the tiny birdlets so strongly, their mom flys away never to return.)

"Honey... Oh... No.... Tell me where you put the worm."

(Looking sheepish and suddenly much less sure of himself.) "In the nest..."

"Under the plastic bag?"

"Um-hum..."

"In the inside, round part of the nest, where the birds sleep, or in the outside part where all the leaves are piled?"

"Where the leaves are... WAAAAHH!" And then he started to cry. Sensing he had done something wrong, when he really only wanted to help, the little swashbuckler fell apart.

"Don't cry, son. It'll be OK. We just can't feed baby birds. No humans can touch or feed them. Only their mom can feed them...." (Lecture continues, as a fast reprimand clearly didn't take earlier.)

A few minutes later, the boy reappeared at my side with cleaner hands (still gross gingernaisl) and a few straggling sniffles. "Only Mom Birds can feed baby birds, right?" he says. "'Cause it's in their job."

And now, folks, we have a breakthrough. If there's one thing the boy Brandt relates to, it's the kind of work only a mother can do, "'cause it's in their job."

More later!

Time and Space, Loss & Gain

The days, they do fly by. They are manic and relentless puppet-masters of my time.

So far, this year has been one of the fastest on personal record. More speedy than the first summer I had a job -- when I learned the hazy, lazy days between school years aren't actually endless. More fleeting than my last year of college, where every attempt to slow life down only triggered a cosmic fast-forward button instead. More ephemeral than my child's first 12 months, which left me shaking my head and searching my hands for the grains of sand that slipped through.

You know what's interesting about this? I am a complete nut about losing or misplacing things. Oh, I do it. But I hate it, hate it, hate it! I mostly want to file away and have at ready recall the GPS coordinates of every object in my possession.

A stray button (I've recently misplaced two) and a missing necklace (a quite pricey souvenir of my childhood) elicit the same level of emotion in me: an obsessive, irritated dwelling on their whereabouts & the circumstances of loss. The missing objects nibble at my mind as I near sleep... accost me in the shower... float by me as I drive. Where did they go? How did I lose them? How? When? WHERE?

I hate to lose things and yet I know, every day, I lose and let loose. This year, especially, I've had to. Work and life are just that taxing, and I don't have the bandwidth (as my boss says) to process everything in my path.

I'm losing the detail, the local color. Things I love to observe are so often, lately, just lost on nose-to-the-grindstone me.

When I think about the volume of information I've been losing, I'm struck by how random are the things my mind gives up versus the things it keeps! Against my will, almost, my mind is operating on its own, strange coping system for Aught-Six. Among the things I'm losing:
* conversations Miles and I have in the car;
* images of what family members looked like before they got old;
* commonplace commitments I completely mean to keep (usually to a church group or two);
* meeting dates and supplies I've loaned or promised.
* basic vocabulary words, the location of household items, and the second half of spoken sentences. (These are going at a truly alarming rate! To be fair, the problem did NOT start in the calendar year 2006... but it sure hasn't gotten any better!)

I'm also losing all touch with friends whom I love dearly and believe I would prefer to keep close -- I would! I love you all! -- except for my self-destructive bent toward cocooning and too much TV.

But, then, I do keep some things. Small moments and thoughts that don't seem to have much deeper meaning often stick to the roof of my head. They hang around up there until something related floats along; then the strays really take root. Biblical insights are like that for me. Little bits of what I read will stick -- not quite big or bold enough to be a light bulb over my head or an "A-ha!" moment. But they stick, waiting for a passing connection, a match-making card, so to speak, in my own little game of spiritual Concentration.

I don't know exactly why this sticks right now, but it's what I've been thinking about lately -- another stray, perhaps, but here goes...

On Palm Sunday, Miles and I ended up in the balcony of our sanctuary for the last few minutes of a special music program. At some point, the music swelled, the chorus turned angry mob and began shouting, and a man dramatically threw red rose petals onto the ground -- a symbol of Jesus' life thrown away by the crowd. Miles did not like this at all. "Why did that man do that?" His angry voice and his fat lip and balled fists signaled a bad pout on the way. "Why did he just do that?? I don't like that. He wasted that flower!"

I had a lot of choices. I thought about what to say. Then I took a deep breath and started telling Miles that the flower petals on the ground were red, like blood. And they were thrown away, like no one cared about them. And the way he feels about that flower is kind of the way we all feel about the time when Jesus died... upset in our stomachs, kind of mad and angry, and a little sick to think about something so valuable thrown down on the ground.

I said all I could think to say. I'm not sure what else I said, really. I just know that, in the breath before I started, I said a prayer that the Holy Spirit would speak through me to my son, that I would instill no fear but that I could be a voice to help make Easter real and powerful for him.

Two weeks later, we walked through the Sanctuary looking for someone who works at church. "See, Mom? LOOK! There are flowers on the cross now," said Miles. No more black cloth like that other time, the time before the EAS-TER (said with careful, clear enunciation). "
"Yes, son, you're right. Do you know why the flowers are there?"
"It's because Jesus didn't die anymore. It's over. And we're not sad now. Because it's over."

...If I lose every other moment of this year, I guess I've written down one worth keeping. Because Miles is fundamentally right: It's over! This struggle against the suckiness and weight we call Life on Earth? It's over. "Jesus didn't die anymore." That makes Him alive. Him, and us, too! Time doesn't just fly, my friends; it already flew! The thing to remember, when everything else becomes a blur, is that we've all been given a glimpse of the ending -- the time when the story is over -- and let me tell ya'... we're not sad anymore.

Cheep, Cheep...

Hey... Guess what?!

THE BABIES ARE HERE!

My bird babies, that is. Read post below for the intro. But for now... Oh, how totally amazing are baby birds, anyway? Allow me to answer. Amazing. Really amazing.

Today I stopped by the shelves to check on my growing family, and Mama B was not to be seen. J was already outdoors so, when he saw me looking, he said, "I think she's under your car." (And he acts like he doesn't care! He tracks them! They're his bird family, too!)

I noticed in the dark, crumpled-leafy space where the mother's head ususally goes, I could see movement of a different sort. The mama head moves quickly, dartingly, side to side. Today, I saw a slow, arching kind of move. Intriguing....

I leaned in, slowly.

And I was rewarded with two perfect, pointed beak shapes, one triangle up and one triangle down, with a tiny pink tongue in between. A hungry baby bird, swaying across the opening of his nest.

We got babies, folks! Babies!

Later, I brought Miles over. I calmly told Mama B. (who had assumed the position) that I wouldn't touch her children, that I only wanted to see. And like a miracle from Above (no one dispute me here; it's Lent and I'm going with the miraculous), she flew away without a peep. We both leaned in (I had to move the plastic sack a little, as it becomes a lined drape over the nursery window) and found two neat rows of itty, bitty, little... bumps. Round pink bumps, side by side -- maybe four, maybe six. (Hard to tell without sticking my nose further in...)

I figured out the bumps were the tops of the bird heads, as the babies were sleeping with beaks tucked downward. I said to Miles, "They look.... they look..." and I really couldn't think what next. Luckily, M is a outdoorsy lad well prepared to appreciate the wonders of the natural world, and so he finished my thought: "They look like they're not even born yet, huh, Mom?"

And he's right. These little tiny creatures, so fresh from formation, are amazingly unlike what they'll become soon enough. The one I saw most clearly has some fuzz on front and a good lookin' gullet, but no feathers to speak of. Oh, and there's one unopen egg just in front of the thatch of babies (maybe the one that got cold on my driveway?). But what bounty, to be a tiny brown bird who once had an upturned nest and no hatchable eggs, and to have arrived at this place of promise with a doting human family and a sleeping clutch of brand-new babies.

I'm so proud of our crazy, fussy bird for pulling this off! And so thankful I got to see.

I will try to take & post pictures. I imagine I can snap Mom without much disruption, but the babies might have to wait until they're older. ...Say when Auntie Ging takes them inside for a little test flight down the length of the great room. :)

The Birds Find Me Intrusive

So I've got this crazy mama bird nesting in a Target sack. And she & her boy-bird are really starting to hate me. You'd think we'd have developed a better understanding, after that whole scare with the grill rocks and the concrete. But still, I get no respect.

(NONE of this is actually making sense, is it? Busy week. Distracted mind. I better start at the beginning...)

One fine Saturday just before spring, Man-About-the-House J decides to tidy up the carport. He's also working on the grill. In the carport, on a set of shelves against the wall, he has stashed a plastic sack with grill rocks (you know, like charcoal briquettes, only they don't burn up?). In the process of his work, he picks up his sack and notices a messy bunch of dried leaves on top of his rocks. This conversation unfolds...

J: "By the way, did you put leaves in my sack?"

G: "WHAT?"

J: "Are you storing leaves in here?"

G: "Whatever for?"

J: "I don't know. I just need to know, are they yours before I throw them away."

G: "Well, I don't think they're mine. I don't remember saving any leaves for anything in particular. What color are they? No, I definitely wouldn't have done that. Ask your son."

(BRIEF PAUSE during which we both realize, 1) what other color would dried leaves be except brown? 2.) what difference does that make, anyway? 3.) my throught process is definitely not as sharp as it used to be, and 4.) even if the boy did purposefully save the leaves, he can, uh, pick up more.)

So the leaves are dumped into the driveway, at which time we notice the top layer of loose leaves is covering a denser layer of compacted leaves with some red hair mixed in. (J. has a habit of trimming his hair outdoors.)

Because we are very, very S L O W people, we are still not seeing what has happened here.

I say, "That's weird. The leaves have hair in them."

J says, "Yeah, and they're shaped like a bird nest."

Me, as a lightbulb goes off: "AHHHHHHH!!! We're bird killers! BIRD KILLERS! Noooooooooo."

J: "I'm sorry; we didn't know -- but, hey, there ARE these 2 little brown eggs in the leaves. Take a look!"

At which time I completely wig out because, yes, indeed, right there on our cold, cold concrete driveway are two of the smallest, most translucent, mottled beige and brown eggs I have ever seen. And one is still quite warm. Actual wringing of hands ensues.

I immediately wanted to make restitution, but we had ripped the old plastic sack in half as it had a loose knot in the top. (Imagine the avian dexterity reuired for the building of a large, cone-shaped nest inside a half-closed plastic bag. Amazing!)

So I run inside and try to call various relatives who might know something about birds. No luck; no one home. I run to the laundry room (still wringing hands, now making a Wallace face a la Nick Park) to try and find a plastic sack of the same size and thickness. (Yes, I actually thought the mils might matter!) No luck, again. Only thicker and larger bags were to be found.

I decide to do the best I can, and take a Target sack outside to collect the leaves. First I place the nest, then scoop up the eggs on a leaf and put them back inside. Then I put the Target sack back on the shelf (very unsightly, really, but sacrifices must be made) and carefully replace the loose leaves in what I think is a pleasing bird pattern.

Then I wait. And call back those family members I couldn't reach before, to ask for absolution for possibly killing two baby birds not yet born. Everyone agrees we are not at fault, but the bird won't likely be back.

Several days pass, and nothing seems to change. Just the smallest glimpse of two lone eggs, looking very cold, every time I pass.

Then J says, "You should check out your nest. I just counted six eggs."

SIX EGGS!! Can I get a "hallelujia," brothers? The Lord taketh and the Lord giveth right back.... Six eggs!

I went to peek, and I found a little brown bird head filling the nest. I thought she looked pleased to see me. I was wrong.

I began to check in on Mama Bird about twice a day, each time I used my car. For several days, she stayed perfectly still and didn't fly away. Then, one morning, I noticed the handle of the Target sack had flopped over the opening of the nest (and after I so artfully scrunched the plastic, too!). I decided to be helpful and move the plastic back a bit. Oh, and the mom was out, so I got a peak at the stash... NICE looking eggs! My heart swelled with maternal pride.

The next day, the handle was right back where it had been before. "Huh!" I thought. "What a windy week we're having around here." I leaned in to fix it and found Mama B. resting her head on the plastic. And so NOT happy to see me. This time she did fly away, but only under the edge of the nearest car. Somehow, as she flew this 1/2-second distance, she signaled her burly bird boyfriend, because another brown flying creature -- this one fluffier and, I swear, with menacing eyes -- instantly appeared and began to fuss at me. I think he set off the neighbor's Cadillac alarm with his twittering and posturing.

So I got the message. Mama B. was sick of my check-ups. She wasn't bearing them patiently; she'd just been afraid to leave me alone with her sack after the first disaster. This time around, she was standing her ground. And she could do that, because evidently she's married to the Hulk Hogan of the wren world.

OK, fine. I can take a hint. I just needed to check on "my" nest more discreetly. I could walk past it on the way into the shed just behind the wall shelves, and not a peep or a fluster from Nesting Nelly. But I guess I overrate my own subtlty. Because today, when I got out of the car and didn't immediately head inside.... when I just barely lifted my chin to better peer into the Target sack... The avian Rocky Marciano told me in no uncertain terms to a bring it into the ring.

So (deep sigh) the birds really do find me intrusive. I'm disappointed; I'm not going to lie to you. I did rather fancy myself a sort of modified Dr. Doolittle. Nurse Do-litter, maybe, who can midwife a good batch of eggs and tame fluffy brown things into living home decor. Yes, I had spoken to J about "adopting" a few of the feathered babies to live inside and keep me company during the day. He called it kidnapping and made clear that we need nothing more wild in our house than the child we already shelter there, but hey, it's still an idea...

I'll let you know how things progress. I bet Mama and Papa B. will be so proud of the birdlets that all will be forgiven once they arrive. I may even get a picture of the little beaks poking out from the plastic protection of Targetville. After all, as the store's motto says, "Expect more."

From theTrenches

I work in a "happy" industry. Lately, it doesn't make me very happy.

Oh, sure, on some days work is nice. I speak kindly to people who well deserve a little kindness; I treat gently the people I can't help at all; I approve favors and get things DONE... I am productive and useful and I AM WOMAN -- hear me roar! Other days, however, I am forced to deal with lapses or delays I cannot easily correct; get hammered for things my company may or may not be responsible for; stalked by people I cannot assist; verbally battered by folks who cannot take "no" for an answer. On some (especially long) days, I fight all manner of internal and external circumstances to do one good deed, only to find someone else has already done it or the account no longer wants it.

This is our peak season, my high tide of professional flotsam and jetsam. The demands and the oversights and the corrections rise up daily, such that I spend hours at a stretch, working only to tread water. And it's not just any peak season, either. It's actually a "Perfect Storm" kind of season, when walls of water form a coliseum around us and we realize the only (unlikely) way out is through one continuous, exhausting fight.

So strange, the public perception of what we do versus the reality. I used to meet people on airplanes who would ask, "And what is it you do?" I'd tell them them and -- without fail -- all the women would say, "Well, that must be fun!"

It's not really so fun.

Mostly... lately... and for a while to come, it is problems and stress and problems and ulcers and problems and drama and problems. It sure ain't hearts and flowers, folks.

Last week, as an axample, I said "NO" so many times, I started shooting it out randomly, like I had Turrets. "Do you want dinner?" "NOO!" I guess I was practicing getting the word out, because when I needed it with my accounts, I first had to interrupt them, then use my best intimidate-the-wayward-child voice. "No, that is not possible." And still, many refused to hear me or to stop lashing me or to simply move on.

(As an aside: I don't even understand why people ask things that amount to "will you NOT make any money so that I can impress someone with my inability to follow rules, and will you kiss my behind while you're not doing that?")

Oh, and I haven't even mentioned the "yesses." I've also had to say "yes" to things I dislike, things that are really not good for my company, more times than I care to count. Because some mistakes we make are bad enough, we must do whatever required of us to make amends.

This is what it's like, these days, at my desk. And maybe all of this is why, when I noticed the following comment in a tech-support email from my company's web site, I laughed like there's no tomorrow.

-----Original Message-----
Please , PLEASE > > have mercy on me, I am considering eloping.... > weddings are > > just > > a pain in the ass.
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