I always envision this blog to be a forum for me to wax poetic about my observations - both small and grandiose - about life and how I engage in it. And then, life gets in the way, and the sweetest moments that deserve, if not demand, time for savoring and appreciation are gone in a heartbeat. And then we forget, we move on, and plug away.
But two nights ago, one such moment took place and I had the rare opportunity to just sit back and just take it all in. I heard the melodious sound of my son, David, now 13 years old, strumming on his guitar.
David has been studying guitar for a number of years, and he now owns both acoustic and electric guitars. They are happily displayed next to his drum set in our loft. He loves his guitars. Without being reminded to practice, he goes upstairs on his own accord, grabs a guitar and spends quality time with one of his musical treasures. It's like his own meditation or prayer. And, the older he has become, the more intricate and complex his musical musings ... much like, I assume, his evolving personality
So, David' picking up the guitar and playing on his own accord is not new to us. But there was something about the music he was playing two nights ago - its thoughtfulness, its intricacy, something - that stopped me in my tracks. I heard these special musical notes wafting down to the first floor of the house, and I paused. I listened ... not just to the music, but to David's process of working through chords and a melody. It was nothing short of beautiful.
Soon enough, I heard him call down to me, "good night, mom. I'm going to bed. Love you!"
If this is any indication of what David's teenage years will be like, we all will be just fine.
Oh, sweet boy, I love you, too. Everything about you.
Thursday, February 9, 2017
Monday, December 14, 2015
Christmas: A bluntly honest consideration of the season
As a mom in 2015, it is difficult, if not impossible, to fully isolate oneself from the materialistic resonance that takes over the holiday season. We are bombarded with advertisements on television, on the radio, on Facebook, that promise happiness, perfection, serenity and peace so long as we drain our bank accounts on items that likely will provide only momentary joy and satisfaction. Our kids receive the never-ending message that "if only you had ...(fill in the blank)" that they would be fulfilled, self-actualized individuals. And, if they don't find just that one (or two, or three) perfect thing under their Christmas tree or as their families light the menorah or kinara, their families are, in sum, "less than." Clearly, Elizabeth has received the message: you should see her extensive letter to Santa Claus, which includes a request for a "stuffed ostrich." I can't make this stuff up.
Unfortunately, these messages, both subtle and blatant, have made their way into my brain. I am not proud of this one bit.
Earlier this weekend, Glen and David and I sat down to watch the George C. Scott version of A Christmas Carol. It was a spectacular telling of Dickens' classic story. The actors, the adapted screenplay, the costumes and set were, in my estimation, spot-on perfect. And, of course, the message of A Christmas Carol could not be more clear: share your treasure; give to others; love one another; take care of each other; create for yourself a legacy of love rather than selfishness. In one scene, the Cratchet family gathers around their table giving thanks for the small feast that Mr. Cratchet's salary could afford. Mr. Cratchet gives a toast to his nasty boss, Ebenezer Scrooge, acknowledging that the paltry salary he earns from working with Scrooge enabled the family to enjoy Christmas together. Tiny Tim - the voice of wisdom for the ages - is joyful in spirit and heart, despite his infirmity. Just that one scene - in a MOVIE, for Pete's sake - spoke volumes to me.
Then, as I spent time wrapping presents for the kids yesterday, I was struck by a paradox: while I was extremely grateful that our family has the means by which to provide lovely treats for our children at Christmas, I could not help but wonder whether we're setting an impossible bar higher and higher each year. I wondered whether as a mom I'm enabling my kids lose sight of the real reasons for which we celebrate holidays at this time of the year: to be honestly and genuinely thankful for what we have; to be together as a family; to relish our health and our home. Wrapping these presents, I pondered whether we truly are ensuring our children's happiness, or are doing them a disservice, by giving them more and more.
I believe it is true that the happiest and most content people among us are those who truly - TRULY - are grateful simply for what they have, and don't dwell on what they do not have. Sadly, I know I do the latter, and it's not something for which I am at all proud. Perhaps I can blame the media, peer pressure, family expectations, or God-knows-what else for downloading into my head the message that is looped over and over again: "if you JUST HAD (fill in the blank), YOU'D BE TRULY HAPPY." But it's a message that I've absorbed. It's a hard mantra from which to break free.
There's no need for me to go into detail about the things I covet, the things I think will provide happiness and real contentedness. But suffice it to say that Glen, my sainted husband, has heard all of it. ALL OF IT. And for him, it's truly not fair. Glen is the most balanced, grateful and self-actualized person I know. I hit the jackpot when I married him. When I grow up, I only hope I can have half of his common sense.
Don't get me wrong: I am humbled by and grateful for the bounty and blessings with which God has provided to me and my family. I treasure having a home in which to live, a bed in which to sleep, and a kitchen in which to feed my family. Glen and I have wonderful jobs. Our children attend an amazing school. We have many, many dear friends. Our families love us.
And yet, the materialistic messages stay in my head. It's awful. I'd like for them to go away, please. I mentioned Elizabeth's letter to Santa earlier. You know what David keeps saying he wants for Christmas? "I want everyone to have a nice Christmas," he tells me. David, my old soul, gets it.*
And, yet, in the spare moments that I can grab with the kids and Glen - to hug them, bury my face into their soft hair, feel their arms around me, plant kisses on their cheeks - I have a moment of repose from these messages. I find peace. I feel joy. And, briefly, I truly have enough.
A work in progress? Yep.
(*Okay. He did add that a new amplifier would be nice, too.)
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
And so it was this morning that David, my newly-minted 6th grader, was all set to embark upon his class's three-day retreat at Pali Institute.
He was worried that, with all of the excitement, he'd have difficulty falling asleep last night, but this was not the case. He conked out like a trooper, but awoke with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.
Once I returned to the second floor of the house, after having fed the puppy and tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to pee and poo in a respectable area of the back yard, I found David dressed and ready to go. His sister, of course, needed a bit more encouragement to get up.
On cue, David crawled into bed with his little sister, and threw his arm around her. And for one split-second, I relished one of the sweetest moments I've seen in a long time. Elizabeth snuggled up to her brother, safe and protected by his presence, and they stayed there together for a few seconds.
And, just as quickly, the moment was over. Elizabeth got herself dressed (as did I), and we returned to the kitchen for breakfast.
Try as I might to recapture - on camera - the tender moment between these two cherubs, I was not successful. But here's a sample of their well-meaning attempt to look like well-behaved children:
And here is what they did for pretty much every other photo:
He was worried that, with all of the excitement, he'd have difficulty falling asleep last night, but this was not the case. He conked out like a trooper, but awoke with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.
Once I returned to the second floor of the house, after having fed the puppy and tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to pee and poo in a respectable area of the back yard, I found David dressed and ready to go. His sister, of course, needed a bit more encouragement to get up.
On cue, David crawled into bed with his little sister, and threw his arm around her. And for one split-second, I relished one of the sweetest moments I've seen in a long time. Elizabeth snuggled up to her brother, safe and protected by his presence, and they stayed there together for a few seconds.
And, just as quickly, the moment was over. Elizabeth got herself dressed (as did I), and we returned to the kitchen for breakfast.
Try as I might to recapture - on camera - the tender moment between these two cherubs, I was not successful. But here's a sample of their well-meaning attempt to look like well-behaved children:
And here is what they did for pretty much every other photo:
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Double-Fisting
Do normal people double-fist Diet Coke and coffee first thing in the morning?
Probably not. But, then again, I am not normal people.
Our little family of four is now well into our fourth year of the long-distance commuter marriage arrangement upon which we embarked back in November 2010. I will be the first to gladly report that, with each day that passes, it gets easier to manage a household when flying solo and without the man-on-man defense that naturally comes with two-parent households. David and Elizabeth are (sob!) getting older and are much more self-sufficient. Once they are awake, they are self-starters in the morning. Sometimes, they even remember to make their beds.
I know grown adults who do not function with as much decorum and independence as these two kids do.
But, still, the morning routine is ... tiring. Both kids have inherited my penchant for hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock and/or attempting to negotiate (in a groggy stupor), for "five more minutes." Someone has to feed the dogs. And the cats, for that matter. Someone has to make certain that the alarm system is disarmed before we release the hounds into the backyard so that they can do their business. Oh, yes, and there is also the matter of getting dressed (which, I can report, the kids also do quite well on their own ... as do I).
Once I get to the office at Foothill Country Day School, I've usually sucked down about 50% of what I refer to as "Diet Coke #1" of the day. I set the offending beverage on my desk, grab a mug, and march directly to the Keurig coffee maker in the staff lounge for "Coffee #1 of the day." I return to my desk and begin the ritual of "double-fisting." This ritual continues for the better part of the morning.
Amazingly enough, this does not throw my pulse rate into tachycardia. Well, not always.
People often say to me, "I just don't know how you do it," usually referring to my single parenting obligations that I maintain throughout the work week. Usually, my response includes any or all of the following disclaimers:
1) I have two great kids, who make my job extraordinarily easy.
2) I am fueled by Diet Coke and coffee.
3) Said ingestion of caffeine does not, in any way, shape or form, impact my ability to nap at a moment's notice, which I also do whenever the opportunity presents itself.
And there you have it. My own hack. The trick up my sleeve for morning functionality.
Let's not, however, go into my life-long love affair with McDonalds. That's a blog post for another time.
Probably not. But, then again, I am not normal people.
Our little family of four is now well into our fourth year of the long-distance commuter marriage arrangement upon which we embarked back in November 2010. I will be the first to gladly report that, with each day that passes, it gets easier to manage a household when flying solo and without the man-on-man defense that naturally comes with two-parent households. David and Elizabeth are (sob!) getting older and are much more self-sufficient. Once they are awake, they are self-starters in the morning. Sometimes, they even remember to make their beds.
I know grown adults who do not function with as much decorum and independence as these two kids do.
But, still, the morning routine is ... tiring. Both kids have inherited my penchant for hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock and/or attempting to negotiate (in a groggy stupor), for "five more minutes." Someone has to feed the dogs. And the cats, for that matter. Someone has to make certain that the alarm system is disarmed before we release the hounds into the backyard so that they can do their business. Oh, yes, and there is also the matter of getting dressed (which, I can report, the kids also do quite well on their own ... as do I).
Once I get to the office at Foothill Country Day School, I've usually sucked down about 50% of what I refer to as "Diet Coke #1" of the day. I set the offending beverage on my desk, grab a mug, and march directly to the Keurig coffee maker in the staff lounge for "Coffee #1 of the day." I return to my desk and begin the ritual of "double-fisting." This ritual continues for the better part of the morning.
Amazingly enough, this does not throw my pulse rate into tachycardia. Well, not always.
People often say to me, "I just don't know how you do it," usually referring to my single parenting obligations that I maintain throughout the work week. Usually, my response includes any or all of the following disclaimers:
1) I have two great kids, who make my job extraordinarily easy.
2) I am fueled by Diet Coke and coffee.
3) Said ingestion of caffeine does not, in any way, shape or form, impact my ability to nap at a moment's notice, which I also do whenever the opportunity presents itself.
And there you have it. My own hack. The trick up my sleeve for morning functionality.
Let's not, however, go into my life-long love affair with McDonalds. That's a blog post for another time.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Utterly Amazed
I am completely gobsmacked that eleven years can go by so quickly. Eleven years ago, at this very hour, I was strapped up to fetal monitors at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, watching the telemetry machine track every breath and heartbeat of the baby that was inside of me. Eight hours earlier, I awoke to make what I thought would be a routine trip to the bathroom, only to discover that the wee little person taking up residence in my belly was plotting to arrive into the world four weeks ahead of schedule.
Fast forward, at a very rapid pace, eleven years. And that wee little person has evolved into a sweet boy ... or, dare I say it, a very young man.
I am in awe of his kindness, his empathy, and his character. He is smart, funny, and at the drop of a hat can exude physical comedy that would put Jerry Lewis or Jim Carey to shame. He is a musician, an artist, an activist, a jock, and a friend. He loathes being one of the smallest boys in his class, but uses his petite frame to his advantage, especially in flag football and cross country.
I can't believe how much I lucked out. I get to be the mom of David Thomas Hastings. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.
Happy birthday, my sweet David! Thank you for making me the happiest mommy on the face of the planet eleven years ago today.
Fast forward, at a very rapid pace, eleven years. And that wee little person has evolved into a sweet boy ... or, dare I say it, a very young man.
I am in awe of his kindness, his empathy, and his character. He is smart, funny, and at the drop of a hat can exude physical comedy that would put Jerry Lewis or Jim Carey to shame. He is a musician, an artist, an activist, a jock, and a friend. He loathes being one of the smallest boys in his class, but uses his petite frame to his advantage, especially in flag football and cross country.
I can't believe how much I lucked out. I get to be the mom of David Thomas Hastings. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.
Happy birthday, my sweet David! Thank you for making me the happiest mommy on the face of the planet eleven years ago today.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
So little to report ... and that's actually a good thing
What makes tonight's blog post so extraordinary - besides it being the first in four months - is that it is being written on my brand new MacBook Air. Really, keyboarding on this magnificent instrument is a thing of beauty.
And yet while I take a moment to compose my thoughts for all 12 of my followers to see, I realize that there is both very little and a whole lot upon which to muse. Elizabeth and David finished another year of elementary school. David, my little man who, just yesterday was small enough to pick up with one hand for a diaper change, is 10. I continue to be amazed by the self-assured, kind, easy-going young man he is turning out to be. Elizabeth has rightfully earned the title of Academic Princess Diva; she's whiz in school, a fashionista, and a confident and sparkling little girl. Everyone is her BFF.
For my part, I am a darned lucky mommy, and I'm married to an incredibly smart, handsome man who also has the world's kindest heart.
So, now we embark upon our first summer vacation where I am working at Foothill Country Day School and the kids are on campus with me. The ebb and flow of the summer days just feels more ... mellow, more laid back. Earlier last week I read a wonderful article entitled, "10 Ways to Give your Kids an Honest-to-Goodness 1970s Summer,"and I could almost smell the familiar scent of twilight air that used to blow past my face as I peddled furiously on my little red Schwinn (with training wheels) all around Greengate Street and Locust Avenue. I watched tonight with great contentedness as David and Elizabeth splashed around in the pool of our dear friends (who are getting married this weekend! Yeah for marriage equality!) until way after the sun had gone down, and was so grateful not only for the California climate but also for the relaxed feeling of a Wednesday summer evening.
We expanded our family to welcome yet another kitten (say hello to Eclaire!) who is a miniature version of Grace, whom we adopted in December. I love waking up in the morning to find both cats curled up at the foot of our bed, quite often spooning with each other.
And, of course, there are the sweet dogs.
The simplicity of it all, at least for now, is at it should be.
And yet while I take a moment to compose my thoughts for all 12 of my followers to see, I realize that there is both very little and a whole lot upon which to muse. Elizabeth and David finished another year of elementary school. David, my little man who, just yesterday was small enough to pick up with one hand for a diaper change, is 10. I continue to be amazed by the self-assured, kind, easy-going young man he is turning out to be. Elizabeth has rightfully earned the title of Academic Princess Diva; she's whiz in school, a fashionista, and a confident and sparkling little girl. Everyone is her BFF.
For my part, I am a darned lucky mommy, and I'm married to an incredibly smart, handsome man who also has the world's kindest heart.
So, now we embark upon our first summer vacation where I am working at Foothill Country Day School and the kids are on campus with me. The ebb and flow of the summer days just feels more ... mellow, more laid back. Earlier last week I read a wonderful article entitled, "10 Ways to Give your Kids an Honest-to-Goodness 1970s Summer,"and I could almost smell the familiar scent of twilight air that used to blow past my face as I peddled furiously on my little red Schwinn (with training wheels) all around Greengate Street and Locust Avenue. I watched tonight with great contentedness as David and Elizabeth splashed around in the pool of our dear friends (who are getting married this weekend! Yeah for marriage equality!) until way after the sun had gone down, and was so grateful not only for the California climate but also for the relaxed feeling of a Wednesday summer evening.
We expanded our family to welcome yet another kitten (say hello to Eclaire!) who is a miniature version of Grace, whom we adopted in December. I love waking up in the morning to find both cats curled up at the foot of our bed, quite often spooning with each other.
And, of course, there are the sweet dogs.
The simplicity of it all, at least for now, is at it should be.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
First blog post of 2014!
But, here we are - 2014, and already half-way through its second month. February. The month of the Ground Hog, Presidents, Cupid and, this year, what would have been my grandfather's 105th birthday.
But, let me rewind a bit to muse just briefly on how there is, in our house, always enough love to go around. Consider, if you will, Grace and Remy Hastings.
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| Grace (foreground) and Remy (background) ... and Glen's legs |
So, within a week's time, I began searching on the wonderful web site that is petfinder.com. That's www.petfinder.com. This site links families seeking to open their hearts and homes to stray, rescued and fostered pets to their perfect, four-legged companions.
The first contestant to pique my interest and steal my heart: Ricky.
At the time, Ricky was a 12-week old Malti-Poo, being fostered in our hometown of La Verne. To see his sweet face, big eyes, and overall fluffiness was to instantly fall in love. The kids and I arranged to meet him that night. It was love at first sight. We were done for.
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| The little guy made himself instantly comfortable in David's arms |
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| Yep. I'm irresistible. |
Then came the matter of finding a name for him. Look at him. Does he look like a Ricky to you? Nah, didn't think so. Do not get me wrong; Ricky, short for Richard, is an adorable name. But not for this fellow.
Lager, of course, was named after a specific beer style. But, a Malti-Poo just doesn't have that "beer" vibe. A Malti-Poo is a bit too ... fluffy ... delicate ... foo foo. And, over Yahoo Instant Messaging, Glen proposed the name: Remy - after the chef/rat character in the food-themed Pixar film, Ratatouille. Done and done.
Here are a few photos from Remy's first minutes at his forever home ... our home. There is little doubt in my mind that Remy was sent to us by Spike, my lovely Bichon who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in 2012, and whom I still miss to this day (and always will). Remy evokes the crazy, zany buzz that Spike did in his younger years, and it could not be a more perfect fit for the four of us.
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| Kissing up, literally, to his new big brother, Lager |
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| Instant BFFs |
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| I think I'll like it here just fine. |
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| Getting comfy |
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| Nose rubs! |
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| Say hello to my little friend! |
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| Two little ladies |
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| Safely tucked in for the car ride home! |
Well, it hasn't exactly been that simple. Grace still playfully growls when Remy comes up to her demanding play time. They tangle over bed and couch space. Remy wants nothing more than to be adored by his feline big sister. Grace insists on bonding on her terms. But, over the weeks, Grace's growls have clearly just become "bluff and bluster." She secretly adores playing tug-o-war with Remy's stuffed toys. She'll gladly come up to Lager and give his gray muzzle a soft rub. She remains unconvinced that she and the dogs are friends, but indeed they are.
How, you may ask, is Lager faring in all of this? In short, having two new friends at home has given him a new lease on life, a spring in his step, and an undeniable smile on his face. He adores his companions, as evidenced herewith:
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| You complete me. |
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| Sorry. I work alone. |
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| Okay, ONE photo. JUST ONE. |
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| Okay, TWO. JUST TWO. |
Friday, October 11, 2013
Perspective
I am using tonight's blog post to focus on a topic that I usually am somewhat reluctant to focus on: myself. I typically consider this forum, shared with all 10 of you, to be dedicated to missives on my adventures with the kids while Glen is up north.
I guess this is somewhat related, in as much as it involves a conundrum faced by parents who are flying solo - either temporarily or permamently.
In short, I was hospitalized. And here's the scoop:
On Tuesday evening (three nights ago, now), after the kids had gone to bed, I finished up some ironing and then sat at my computer to do a bit of work. I started to notice a very strange pain in my throat. Not the kind of scratch throat one gets when one is coming down with a cold, nor the type that I have felt when experiencing a bit of reflux. This was entirely different. It felt like the back of my throat was being poked, and the pain started to travel down my left arm and the left side of my chest.
Now, I'm no hypochondriac. Just the opposite: I'm a busy mom, and I tend to either ignore or rationalize most symptoms of any ailment that comes my way. But this was different. It was a weird and annoying sensation that refused to be ignored.
Rather than panicking, I did what any other reasonable person would do: I Googled the symptoms. And, I was not terribly surprised to learn that these could in fact be symptoms of a heart attack.
Now, I know what you are thinking. "Heart attack? You weigh 5 pounds, for crying out loud!" I agree. And that is what I kept telling myself as I simultaneously tried to think about how to call 911 and/or get to an emergency room without disrupting the kids' sleep too much.
Only later were my initial hunches confirmed: that I have plenty of friends who would have been MORE than willing to be woken up at midnight, come over, and hang with the kids so that I could get checked out. But, no. I didn't want to wake anyone up. At that moment, I was simply too embarrassed, and willed the feeling to go away. Which it did, after a while. I resolved to call my internist the next morning.
Come Wednesday morning, the pain was pretty much gone but I still felt sore and felt like a had a touch of heartburn - another red flag. I got the kids to school, texted my internist, and he got me in to see the nurse practitioner at his office in Upland. Upon arrival, I met the incredible and lovely Liz Cano, Nurse Practitioner. She ordered some lab work and an chest film and was working on getting me a referral to a cardiologist in the area. I proceeded over to the imaging center near their office but before I left, Liz insisted that if my symptoms come back, I go immediately to the ER.
In the waiting room of the imaging center, packed to the gills with 100 of my closest and newest friends, I started to feel that awkward feeling in my throat.
I tried to ignore it.
It mocked me.
I kept ignoring it.
It crept down my neck and back.
I gave up. I went to the front desk, told the very nice male receptionist that my symptoms had returned and that I was going straight to the ER. He kindly pulled my paperwork, to make sure I would not get billed for an xray I did not get, and sent me on my way.
After a few fits and starts, I found Mt San Antonio Medical Center, and dropped my car off with the very nice valet attendant. Valet parking at a hospital - who knew, right?
From there, things moved pretty quickly. I'd already alerted the key people at Foothill to let them know that I was in for some tests to figure out what was up with the chest pain, and once I got to ER, Glen started to make plans to fly down that afternoon. At this point, I started notifying the troops: Foothill parents, neighbors, and Claremont friends. I was humbled in being reminded by how many amazing and wonderful people are in our lives. But, more on this in a moment ...
In total, I had two EKGs, an echocardiogram, and two different 3D images of my heart (one at rest and one after a stress test), using a radioactive isotope to make it glow. As if I am not already glowing enough. I was introduced to the lovely, and I mean lovely, Dr. Padmini Tummala, a cardiologist at this hospital, recommended highly by my internist (who, in full disclosure, is an old Webb friend of mine). Turns out the good Dr. Tummala has a son who just graduated from Foothill and is now at Webb, which explained why we both thought the other looked strangely familiar.
The echocardiogram coincidentally showed that I have an opening between my left and right ventricles. This opening exists when a baby is developing in the womb, but usually closes by the time a kid is one year old. About 30-40% of people never have theirs closed. I am one of them. But this did not explain the chest and throat discomfort (but could explain my history of migraines, but that's another story).
Ultimately, we are not entirely sure what was up with my throat and such, but I am very pleased to report that my heart is healthy and good (with just a little gap). Most likely, the pain I had can be partially explained by reflux coupled with muscle soreness (and a bit of arthritis in my neck, as found on an x-ray - again, who knew?) coupled with copious amounts of good old- fashioned stress.
Things like this really make a girl pause for a second to realize that there are so many people who care. I've always been the type ready and willing to help, but a bit sheepish to ask for help. And I am grateful beyond belief for everyone whose text messages made me smile, whose Facebook posts made me laugh, and whose irreverent sense of humor simply made my stay in the hospital that much more tolerable.
I am home, I am safe, and I am grateful.
I guess this is somewhat related, in as much as it involves a conundrum faced by parents who are flying solo - either temporarily or permamently.
In short, I was hospitalized. And here's the scoop:
On Tuesday evening (three nights ago, now), after the kids had gone to bed, I finished up some ironing and then sat at my computer to do a bit of work. I started to notice a very strange pain in my throat. Not the kind of scratch throat one gets when one is coming down with a cold, nor the type that I have felt when experiencing a bit of reflux. This was entirely different. It felt like the back of my throat was being poked, and the pain started to travel down my left arm and the left side of my chest.
Now, I'm no hypochondriac. Just the opposite: I'm a busy mom, and I tend to either ignore or rationalize most symptoms of any ailment that comes my way. But this was different. It was a weird and annoying sensation that refused to be ignored.
Rather than panicking, I did what any other reasonable person would do: I Googled the symptoms. And, I was not terribly surprised to learn that these could in fact be symptoms of a heart attack.
Now, I know what you are thinking. "Heart attack? You weigh 5 pounds, for crying out loud!" I agree. And that is what I kept telling myself as I simultaneously tried to think about how to call 911 and/or get to an emergency room without disrupting the kids' sleep too much.
Only later were my initial hunches confirmed: that I have plenty of friends who would have been MORE than willing to be woken up at midnight, come over, and hang with the kids so that I could get checked out. But, no. I didn't want to wake anyone up. At that moment, I was simply too embarrassed, and willed the feeling to go away. Which it did, after a while. I resolved to call my internist the next morning.
Come Wednesday morning, the pain was pretty much gone but I still felt sore and felt like a had a touch of heartburn - another red flag. I got the kids to school, texted my internist, and he got me in to see the nurse practitioner at his office in Upland. Upon arrival, I met the incredible and lovely Liz Cano, Nurse Practitioner. She ordered some lab work and an chest film and was working on getting me a referral to a cardiologist in the area. I proceeded over to the imaging center near their office but before I left, Liz insisted that if my symptoms come back, I go immediately to the ER.
In the waiting room of the imaging center, packed to the gills with 100 of my closest and newest friends, I started to feel that awkward feeling in my throat.
I tried to ignore it.
It mocked me.
I kept ignoring it.
It crept down my neck and back.
I gave up. I went to the front desk, told the very nice male receptionist that my symptoms had returned and that I was going straight to the ER. He kindly pulled my paperwork, to make sure I would not get billed for an xray I did not get, and sent me on my way.
After a few fits and starts, I found Mt San Antonio Medical Center, and dropped my car off with the very nice valet attendant. Valet parking at a hospital - who knew, right?
From there, things moved pretty quickly. I'd already alerted the key people at Foothill to let them know that I was in for some tests to figure out what was up with the chest pain, and once I got to ER, Glen started to make plans to fly down that afternoon. At this point, I started notifying the troops: Foothill parents, neighbors, and Claremont friends. I was humbled in being reminded by how many amazing and wonderful people are in our lives. But, more on this in a moment ...
In total, I had two EKGs, an echocardiogram, and two different 3D images of my heart (one at rest and one after a stress test), using a radioactive isotope to make it glow. As if I am not already glowing enough. I was introduced to the lovely, and I mean lovely, Dr. Padmini Tummala, a cardiologist at this hospital, recommended highly by my internist (who, in full disclosure, is an old Webb friend of mine). Turns out the good Dr. Tummala has a son who just graduated from Foothill and is now at Webb, which explained why we both thought the other looked strangely familiar.
The echocardiogram coincidentally showed that I have an opening between my left and right ventricles. This opening exists when a baby is developing in the womb, but usually closes by the time a kid is one year old. About 30-40% of people never have theirs closed. I am one of them. But this did not explain the chest and throat discomfort (but could explain my history of migraines, but that's another story).
Ultimately, we are not entirely sure what was up with my throat and such, but I am very pleased to report that my heart is healthy and good (with just a little gap). Most likely, the pain I had can be partially explained by reflux coupled with muscle soreness (and a bit of arthritis in my neck, as found on an x-ray - again, who knew?) coupled with copious amounts of good old- fashioned stress.
I am home, I am safe, and I am grateful.
Monday, September 23, 2013
The bliss of normalcy
As I sit at my desk in the room that Glen and I refer to as our "home office," I cannot help but overhear the unmistakable slurping sounds that are coming from right next to me: Lager, our beautiful 12-year-old Labrador, is licking himself with an almost OCD-like concentration.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
David pads into the room to announce, with great delight, that he has finished Chapter 4 of the first Harry Potter book. "I hope to get through Chapter 6 tomorrow!" he proclaims, all giddy. Never mind the fact that it's already 10:30 on a school night.
I wander downstairs in search of a quick snack (a bologna sandwich did the trick) and pause to look at the pile of laundry just sitting on the floor next to the washing machine. I move on.
Once in the kitchen, I take mental note of the open plastic box that serves as my portable filing cabinet for all things pertaining to Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts. The counter is a mess. I go about my bologna sandwich business and go back upstairs.
Back to Lager: he is now in repose on the floor next to me, chin down between the paws, resigned to the fact that he only got a crust (or two) of the aforementioned bologna sandwich. A deep, dramatic sigh emotes from his sturdy frame.
The clock on the wall is ticking. Loudly. I can't tell if it's trying to remind me that I should be getting "real work" done, or simply be heading to bed.
I know that, one day all too soon, I will look back on moments such as these and yearn for the normalcy of it all. Kids - still small and still thinking that I am cool - tucked into bed; the sweet dog at my feet; the house in satisfying disarray.
I resist the urge to go into "the zone" and tidy everything up. Were it not for the late hour, I'd more happy to go back to the kitchen and cook up some of the cookie dough in the refrigerator.
Not tonight. Tonight I pause, and take it in. And enjoy the precious gift of being a mommy.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
David pads into the room to announce, with great delight, that he has finished Chapter 4 of the first Harry Potter book. "I hope to get through Chapter 6 tomorrow!" he proclaims, all giddy. Never mind the fact that it's already 10:30 on a school night.
I wander downstairs in search of a quick snack (a bologna sandwich did the trick) and pause to look at the pile of laundry just sitting on the floor next to the washing machine. I move on.
Once in the kitchen, I take mental note of the open plastic box that serves as my portable filing cabinet for all things pertaining to Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts. The counter is a mess. I go about my bologna sandwich business and go back upstairs.
Back to Lager: he is now in repose on the floor next to me, chin down between the paws, resigned to the fact that he only got a crust (or two) of the aforementioned bologna sandwich. A deep, dramatic sigh emotes from his sturdy frame.
The clock on the wall is ticking. Loudly. I can't tell if it's trying to remind me that I should be getting "real work" done, or simply be heading to bed.
I know that, one day all too soon, I will look back on moments such as these and yearn for the normalcy of it all. Kids - still small and still thinking that I am cool - tucked into bed; the sweet dog at my feet; the house in satisfying disarray.
I resist the urge to go into "the zone" and tidy everything up. Were it not for the late hour, I'd more happy to go back to the kitchen and cook up some of the cookie dough in the refrigerator.
Not tonight. Tonight I pause, and take it in. And enjoy the precious gift of being a mommy.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
After a long hiatus ...
Well, this is awkward.
I know that I do not have scads and scads of devoted followers of my blog, but I must say that, were my livelihood dependent upon regular posts, I'd be broke.
But I think that one of the reasons that I haven't had any deep thoughts to share is that ... well, life has been pleasantly uneventful. With the exception of one thing: I have changed jobs.
Any mom who works outside the home - full time, part time or otherwise - is more than aware of the constant battle within her heart as to how to divide her time equitably between many obligations and responsibilities: the office, the kids, the home, etc. So, when the opportunity can to take a full time position at David and Elizabeth's school, I jumped at the chance. Not just jumped, but LUNGED.
I am now happily taking on the role of Director of Admission at Foothill Country Day School. I am so lucky that the school's leadership took a chance on me, a person who has 12 years of experience crunching numbers but very limited background in the world of admissions.
Additional details and reports from my new headquarters will be forthcoming, but suffice it to say that David and Elizabeth love hanging out in my office at the school as much (if not more so) than they did at HMC. And they like to bring their friends by. And their friends' friends.
It's awesome.
I know that I do not have scads and scads of devoted followers of my blog, but I must say that, were my livelihood dependent upon regular posts, I'd be broke.
But I think that one of the reasons that I haven't had any deep thoughts to share is that ... well, life has been pleasantly uneventful. With the exception of one thing: I have changed jobs.
Any mom who works outside the home - full time, part time or otherwise - is more than aware of the constant battle within her heart as to how to divide her time equitably between many obligations and responsibilities: the office, the kids, the home, etc. So, when the opportunity can to take a full time position at David and Elizabeth's school, I jumped at the chance. Not just jumped, but LUNGED.
I am now happily taking on the role of Director of Admission at Foothill Country Day School. I am so lucky that the school's leadership took a chance on me, a person who has 12 years of experience crunching numbers but very limited background in the world of admissions.
Additional details and reports from my new headquarters will be forthcoming, but suffice it to say that David and Elizabeth love hanging out in my office at the school as much (if not more so) than they did at HMC. And they like to bring their friends by. And their friends' friends.
It's awesome.
 |
| First day of school, for all three of us! |
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Besties
So, what does one do when one's nine-year old son comes downstairs at 9:00 p.m. at night, in tears and declaring, "I hate my life!"?
Such was the case yesterday evening, after David and I had a frank discussion about his needing to be responsible for bringing ALL of his homework home with him. He has a history test coming up on Friday, and his study terms were apparently left behind in his desk at school.
I sent him upstairs to get a shower and get in his jammies. I toiled away in the kitchen for a few minutes, and then was greeted by my sobbing little boy, who threw himself into my arms.
Now, I NEVER mind having my kids run up for random and huge hugs. Hugs are my specialty, and I love to dole them out with (appropriate) abandon. But when it's accompanied by declarations of such doom and gloom, I begin to worry.
So, I took Little Man by the hand, and said, "okay, let's have a chat," and went over to the couch.
"Explain to me why you hate you life," I began.
"Well," he said, between gasps for air, "the kids in my class are so noisy. And Walker is gone. And Spike is gone. And Honey [the cat we had for 9 months] is gone." And he burrowed his head back into my arms with dramatic flair.
Now, had I shown such despair with my mom when I was his age, I would have been promptly met with a resounding lecture on self-pity, lack of appreciation, and selfishness. This was not the lecture I wanted to give to David, nor one he wanted to hear.
So I took a different tactic. "I know, sweetie. I know that you miss Walker and Spike and Honey. I know. We all miss them so much. But can you spend a few minutes thinking about all that is good with your life?"
By this time, Elizabeth came downstairs and surveyed the scene with a genuine look of worry on her sweet face. She quietly sat down next to her big brother on the couch.
"Um ... we still have Lager," David began.
"Right!" I said. "And you're very healthy, and you have a lot of friends."
I tried to guide him toward a bit more positive thinking and positive imagery. He mentioned that he's still not pleased that Glen works up north, and that he misses his daddy.
It was about that time that Elizabeth put her arm around David.
"David," she said, "I love you."
David put his arm around his little sister.
"And you have a little sister who adores you and thinks the world of you," I added.
Elizabeth nodded, and then went in for the kill: she put her head on David's lap.
He melted into a hug with his baby sister.
Priceless.
Such was the case yesterday evening, after David and I had a frank discussion about his needing to be responsible for bringing ALL of his homework home with him. He has a history test coming up on Friday, and his study terms were apparently left behind in his desk at school.
I sent him upstairs to get a shower and get in his jammies. I toiled away in the kitchen for a few minutes, and then was greeted by my sobbing little boy, who threw himself into my arms.
Now, I NEVER mind having my kids run up for random and huge hugs. Hugs are my specialty, and I love to dole them out with (appropriate) abandon. But when it's accompanied by declarations of such doom and gloom, I begin to worry.
So, I took Little Man by the hand, and said, "okay, let's have a chat," and went over to the couch.
"Explain to me why you hate you life," I began.
"Well," he said, between gasps for air, "the kids in my class are so noisy. And Walker is gone. And Spike is gone. And Honey [the cat we had for 9 months] is gone." And he burrowed his head back into my arms with dramatic flair.
Now, had I shown such despair with my mom when I was his age, I would have been promptly met with a resounding lecture on self-pity, lack of appreciation, and selfishness. This was not the lecture I wanted to give to David, nor one he wanted to hear.
So I took a different tactic. "I know, sweetie. I know that you miss Walker and Spike and Honey. I know. We all miss them so much. But can you spend a few minutes thinking about all that is good with your life?"
By this time, Elizabeth came downstairs and surveyed the scene with a genuine look of worry on her sweet face. She quietly sat down next to her big brother on the couch.
"Um ... we still have Lager," David began.
"Right!" I said. "And you're very healthy, and you have a lot of friends."
I tried to guide him toward a bit more positive thinking and positive imagery. He mentioned that he's still not pleased that Glen works up north, and that he misses his daddy.
It was about that time that Elizabeth put her arm around David.
"David," she said, "I love you."
David put his arm around his little sister.
"And you have a little sister who adores you and thinks the world of you," I added.
Elizabeth nodded, and then went in for the kill: she put her head on David's lap.
He melted into a hug with his baby sister.
Priceless.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Grace through cupcakes?
I never intended for two months to pass between blog posts. This is sort of silly and embarrassing. Despite my great hopes and ambitions of doing a DAILY blog to detail, with painstaking accuracy, the ups and downs of being a single mom five days a week, this simply didn't happen.
And, why not? Why not, in my copious amount of spare time, could I not find the wherewithal to pen an intellectual, thought-provoking treatise seven days a week?
The answer is two-fold:
Childhood, or Anarchy?
Let's just say that listening ears in the Hastings household have not been up at full volume lately. I count myself as part of the problem here, as I am sure I've been doing a lot of talking (and cajoling and scolding and huffing and puffing) but not a whole lot of listening. In turn, my sweeties have found either great pleasure or just great curiosity in testing their own selective listening skills all while also trying out new behaviors. Like, you know, fibbing. Or ignoring me. Suffice it to say that conversations that take place after the initiation of said behavior do not go well.
On Monday, Elizabeth proudly announced to me, as she was piling into the car when I picked them up from school, that she ate the apples I'd packed in her lunch. Note: getting her to eat fruits and veggies of any sort requires high levels of intensive diplomacy and negotiation.
"Really? That's great!"
A pause. Silence.
"Lizzie, did you eat your apples?"
Pause.
"Well," she began ... "I had one but the rest were kind of icky."
"So, you DIDN'T eat all of your apples?"
Pause.
"Elizabeth?"
"No," she whispered.
"So, that was a fib?"
"Yes," she said with a dramatic sigh.
Okay, so she got busted for that.
Later that evening, when it was well past 9:00, David came into my room and asked if he could either keep reading or play for a bit. "No, sweetie, it's past your bedtime. Time to tuck in."
"Okay," he said, and trotted off.
Thirty minutes passed and I peeked in on him. There he was, sitting on his bed, lights on in the room, playing Sudoku.
"David? Did I tell you to go to bed?"
"Yes," he said quietly, but not looking up from the puzzle he was working on.
"Did you?"
"No," he confessed, still looking at his book.
"WHY NOT?" I asked, getting a tad shrill.
"Because I wanted to do Sudoku."
After we'd established that he had, in fact, ignored me, it was confirmed that he, too, was busted.
And these incidents, while certainly not the end of the world, do make me wonder whether I'm giving priority to the right things. The kids go to a highly challenging school, where the work load ramps up with each grade. This year has been a doozy for David, and he's finding it hard to adjust to the fact that some subjects might just take a bit of work to master. Don't get me started on the poor kid's penmanship; he gets that from his parents. And yet, with all of this in mind, I feel a huge pang of guilt whenever we come home from school and see the neighborhood kids playing outside. David automatically rolls down his car window and calls out, "sorry, can't play. I have homework."
What kind of childhood is that, I ask you?
I don't think any of us have a great answer to that, because no balance between work and play is perfect. But the one thing I could indulge the kids in this week was to prepare dessert for a "birthday party" they were throwing for one of Elizabeth's baby dolls. On a whim, I made a batch of chocolate cupcakes for the kids to enjoy with their stuffed and plastic companions.
Ultimately, it was a win-win situation all around: the kids got celebrated play time, the baby doll got a birthday party, and I found Zen both through baking and seeing the beautiful smiles light up my kids' faces.
And, why not? Why not, in my copious amount of spare time, could I not find the wherewithal to pen an intellectual, thought-provoking treatise seven days a week?
The answer is two-fold:
- I don't have copious amounts of spare time to write (and nor, for that matter, do my friends and family have copious amounts of time to read my blog posts).
- Not a whole lot of interesting stuff happens in our household each and every day. The kids and I wake up, get dressed, gobble down some breakfast and, if we're lucky, we get to school with one or two minutes to spare. On Fridays, if we're feeling ambitious, we get donuts on the way to school.
Childhood, or Anarchy?
Let's just say that listening ears in the Hastings household have not been up at full volume lately. I count myself as part of the problem here, as I am sure I've been doing a lot of talking (and cajoling and scolding and huffing and puffing) but not a whole lot of listening. In turn, my sweeties have found either great pleasure or just great curiosity in testing their own selective listening skills all while also trying out new behaviors. Like, you know, fibbing. Or ignoring me. Suffice it to say that conversations that take place after the initiation of said behavior do not go well.
On Monday, Elizabeth proudly announced to me, as she was piling into the car when I picked them up from school, that she ate the apples I'd packed in her lunch. Note: getting her to eat fruits and veggies of any sort requires high levels of intensive diplomacy and negotiation.
"Really? That's great!"
A pause. Silence.
"Lizzie, did you eat your apples?"
Pause.
"Well," she began ... "I had one but the rest were kind of icky."
"So, you DIDN'T eat all of your apples?"
Pause.
"Elizabeth?"
"No," she whispered.
"So, that was a fib?"
"Yes," she said with a dramatic sigh.
Okay, so she got busted for that.
Later that evening, when it was well past 9:00, David came into my room and asked if he could either keep reading or play for a bit. "No, sweetie, it's past your bedtime. Time to tuck in."
"Okay," he said, and trotted off.
Thirty minutes passed and I peeked in on him. There he was, sitting on his bed, lights on in the room, playing Sudoku.
"David? Did I tell you to go to bed?"
"Yes," he said quietly, but not looking up from the puzzle he was working on.
"Did you?"
"No," he confessed, still looking at his book.
"WHY NOT?" I asked, getting a tad shrill.
"Because I wanted to do Sudoku."
After we'd established that he had, in fact, ignored me, it was confirmed that he, too, was busted.
And these incidents, while certainly not the end of the world, do make me wonder whether I'm giving priority to the right things. The kids go to a highly challenging school, where the work load ramps up with each grade. This year has been a doozy for David, and he's finding it hard to adjust to the fact that some subjects might just take a bit of work to master. Don't get me started on the poor kid's penmanship; he gets that from his parents. And yet, with all of this in mind, I feel a huge pang of guilt whenever we come home from school and see the neighborhood kids playing outside. David automatically rolls down his car window and calls out, "sorry, can't play. I have homework."
What kind of childhood is that, I ask you?
I don't think any of us have a great answer to that, because no balance between work and play is perfect. But the one thing I could indulge the kids in this week was to prepare dessert for a "birthday party" they were throwing for one of Elizabeth's baby dolls. On a whim, I made a batch of chocolate cupcakes for the kids to enjoy with their stuffed and plastic companions.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Words of comfort?
David, Elizabeth and I had the delicious pleasure of having Glen with us and, for the most part, all to ourselves for two glorious weeks in December and the first week of January. Glen and I spent wonderful hours together assembling Christmas morning on Christmas Eve, and we watched the kids' sheer joy in finding the treasures left for them under the Christmas tree. We drove to the Bay area, and spent time with the other Hastings cousins, visited Glen at the Facebook campus, and stayed warm and cozy in our small little apartment. We returned to the south land right before New Years, and David and Elizabeth spent several lazy days with nothing better to do but stay in their pajamas, play with their new toys, and bask in the glow of being with Daddy.
Of course, Glen had to return to his normal schedule in the Bay area sooner or later, and the kids and I took Glen to the airport on January 6. And David has pretty much not been the same ever since.
Sunday evenings are always difficult for David, given that's when he has to say "so long" to Glen for the week. But it's been harder this time. It's difficult to console an inconsolable child. David is so very young and very small, and I know it's difficult for him to process many of the facts that remain: 1) Daddy's job is a good one that he truly enjoys; 2) our commute schedule will not last forever, but it must last for a while yet; and 3) David needs some very real coping skills.
Elizabeth? She's easy. And she's noticed David's struggles of late, as well. When she sees him cry on Sunday evenings, Elizabeth puts on her game face, and puts her arm around her big brother. She even went so far as to say, "David! I am just trying to be a big sister to you!" after one of her affectionate overtures was sort of rebuffed by her very sad brother. It's amazing to hear a five-year-old girl say to her big brother, "there there, David. It's going to be okay."
Of course Elizabeth misses her daddy when he's gone, but it's clear that she and Glen have a very different bond than the one shared by David and Glen. David and Glen are soul brothers. They share a love of football, basketball, Lego and ... well, more Lego. The two days they spent together over the winter break building David's new Lego Death Star were nothing short of magical for all parties involved. And when Glen departs, he takes a little piece of David's heart with him.
It's no secret that David has inherited the uptight, anxious components of his personality from his mother. That's clear as day. For the most part, Glen is mellow, and I'm the worrier. Of course these roles shift from time to time, but it's safe to say that I'm the appointed hand-wringer in the family. I always have been.
And when I see David behave and act in a manner that reminds me of my own childhood anxieties, it's difficult to watch. Case in point: after a bout of "chirping" smoke detectors (whose batteries needed replacing) in the middle of the night a couple of months ago, David became terrified that the house was going to catch fire and burn to the ground. Flashback to when I was 9 years old: my grandfather purchased smoke detectors for our home in Corona (because, back in 1979, smoke detectors were the newest thing), and I was convinced that the house was going to catch fire and burn to the ground.
At the same time, after a while the repeated cries of "I MISS DADDY" get a little old, particularly when they keep a nine-year-old boy up at night, and then make him terribly groggy and cranky in the morning. And Glen and I agree that we're torn between several different ways to approach this: 1) seek therapy for the little guy; 2) console and comfort as best as we can; 3) tell him that, at some point, he'll need to get a grip. I hesitate to emphasize any of the three exclusively, but a balanced combination of the three might be in order.
The first Sunday Glen returned to the Bay area, I was snuggling with David as I tucked him in to bed. We chatted about how a son and daddy have a special bond, and one that is different than that between a girl and her daddy, or even a girl and her mommy. I explained to David that bonds are special, good, and important, and are real reasons why Daddy being up north tugs at his heartstrings so much.
As I kissed his soft hair and continued to wipe his tears, he confided in me the following thought: "Sometimes, Mommy, I think it would be easier for me if you were the one who left each week, and not Daddy. No offense."
I assured him that no offense was taken at all. I told him, "I am so glad you feel comfortable and safe enough to tell me that. It's all good."
Indeed, if Glen and I are creating and maintaining a home where David and Elizabeth feel completely safe to speak the truth, then we are doing something right. David doesn't need to know that, after we finally said goodnight, I returned to my bedroom, gutted.
Of course, Glen had to return to his normal schedule in the Bay area sooner or later, and the kids and I took Glen to the airport on January 6. And David has pretty much not been the same ever since.
Sunday evenings are always difficult for David, given that's when he has to say "so long" to Glen for the week. But it's been harder this time. It's difficult to console an inconsolable child. David is so very young and very small, and I know it's difficult for him to process many of the facts that remain: 1) Daddy's job is a good one that he truly enjoys; 2) our commute schedule will not last forever, but it must last for a while yet; and 3) David needs some very real coping skills.
Elizabeth? She's easy. And she's noticed David's struggles of late, as well. When she sees him cry on Sunday evenings, Elizabeth puts on her game face, and puts her arm around her big brother. She even went so far as to say, "David! I am just trying to be a big sister to you!" after one of her affectionate overtures was sort of rebuffed by her very sad brother. It's amazing to hear a five-year-old girl say to her big brother, "there there, David. It's going to be okay."
Of course Elizabeth misses her daddy when he's gone, but it's clear that she and Glen have a very different bond than the one shared by David and Glen. David and Glen are soul brothers. They share a love of football, basketball, Lego and ... well, more Lego. The two days they spent together over the winter break building David's new Lego Death Star were nothing short of magical for all parties involved. And when Glen departs, he takes a little piece of David's heart with him.
It's no secret that David has inherited the uptight, anxious components of his personality from his mother. That's clear as day. For the most part, Glen is mellow, and I'm the worrier. Of course these roles shift from time to time, but it's safe to say that I'm the appointed hand-wringer in the family. I always have been.
And when I see David behave and act in a manner that reminds me of my own childhood anxieties, it's difficult to watch. Case in point: after a bout of "chirping" smoke detectors (whose batteries needed replacing) in the middle of the night a couple of months ago, David became terrified that the house was going to catch fire and burn to the ground. Flashback to when I was 9 years old: my grandfather purchased smoke detectors for our home in Corona (because, back in 1979, smoke detectors were the newest thing), and I was convinced that the house was going to catch fire and burn to the ground.
At the same time, after a while the repeated cries of "I MISS DADDY" get a little old, particularly when they keep a nine-year-old boy up at night, and then make him terribly groggy and cranky in the morning. And Glen and I agree that we're torn between several different ways to approach this: 1) seek therapy for the little guy; 2) console and comfort as best as we can; 3) tell him that, at some point, he'll need to get a grip. I hesitate to emphasize any of the three exclusively, but a balanced combination of the three might be in order.
The first Sunday Glen returned to the Bay area, I was snuggling with David as I tucked him in to bed. We chatted about how a son and daddy have a special bond, and one that is different than that between a girl and her daddy, or even a girl and her mommy. I explained to David that bonds are special, good, and important, and are real reasons why Daddy being up north tugs at his heartstrings so much.
As I kissed his soft hair and continued to wipe his tears, he confided in me the following thought: "Sometimes, Mommy, I think it would be easier for me if you were the one who left each week, and not Daddy. No offense."
I assured him that no offense was taken at all. I told him, "I am so glad you feel comfortable and safe enough to tell me that. It's all good."
Indeed, if Glen and I are creating and maintaining a home where David and Elizabeth feel completely safe to speak the truth, then we are doing something right. David doesn't need to know that, after we finally said goodnight, I returned to my bedroom, gutted.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
So, I guess the Boogey Man is Real
For us, Friday morning started out with absolutely bucolic splendor. The skies were crystal blue, accented by puffy, white, post-rain clouds. The delicious chill in the air finally heralded December-appropriate temperatures. The kids and I left the house just a bit early, with time to spare to stop by our favorite doughnut store to get some before-school treats.
Little did I know ... heck, little did anyone of us know ... that such special moments with my little ones would, without warning, suddenly seem so remarkably special.
Like most people, I cannot begin to wrap my head around the concept of 20 small children being gunned down in what should have been the safe confines of their classroom at school. I do not know these children, their families, or their brave and heroic teachers who did all that they could to shield their charges from flying bullets and sheer, unadulterated terror. I cannot begin to fathom the bone-crushing pain that these families are enduring, as their children are sent to heaven. I am gutted by the notion that, for these families, Christmas, Hanukkah, and the New Year will simply never be happy holidays again.
My work day at HMC was, I admit, pretty much a wash once I began to learn of the slaughter that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School, about 2,816 miles away from my home. Of course, I thought instantly of David and Elizabeth, and their friends, and their friends' families, and the wonderful teachers and staff at Foothill Country Day School. At one point, I looked at my clock, saw that it was 11:45 a.m., and decided that would be a perfect time to drop everything, go over to the school, find the kids, and hug them.
I pulled into the school's parking lot about 10 minutes later, and found Elizabeth and her class, enjoying a post-lunch activity with their wonderful athletics coach. Miss B (the coach) saw me in the doorway, and when I pantomimed the motion of "hug," she knew instantly why I was there. Obviously, Miss B and others were aware of the national tragedy unfolding in Connecticut. She said, "Elizabeth! Your mommy is here!" Elizabeth looked excitedly at the doors, saw me, and said, "MOMMY!" And she ran to me. We shared a quick embrace, I planted a kiss on her silky blond hair, and she went merrily back to her friends to complete the day's lessons.
I paused just for a moment, breathless with the notion that 20 families in Newtown, CT, would never again hear the beautiful sound of their child calling their name, feeling the warmth of their child's hug, or even see the quizzical look in their child's eyes, asking, "what the heck are you doing here?"
Then, it was time to find David. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just after 12 noon. His class would be starting their lunch break now. Sure enough, I saw David and his classmates leaving their classroom, happily skipping to the lunch line to pick up their hot lunch for the Day. "Hi, Mrs. Hastings!" a chorus of happy voices sang out as I started walking toward them. "Hi, Mommy!" said my little man.
I gave him a quick squeeze, asked for permission to kiss him in front of his friends, and let him go about his day.
The kids usually leave school at 5:00 on Fridays so that they can take part in an after-school chess class. I decided that pulling them out early would not solve anything, so I went back to work and followed CNN the rest of the day.
At 5:00 I was at the school, in my car and waiting for my little ones to come out to the pick-up area. They bounded into the car. And then I told them what happened in Newtown.
I was stunned and, quite frankly, proud of David's first question: "The gunman is dead, right?" he said, with a swagger in his voice that matched my vitriol for the &*$%#@ who pulled the trigger in Sandy Hook.
"Yes, buddy, the guy is dead."
And then Elizabeth asked the $64,000 question for which there is no answer: "Why would he do that?"
We went about our evening, running a few errands to get ready for the cookie party we were having at the house the next afternoon. We stopped by Costco for a quick slice of pizza (for Elizabeth and me), and as we were browsing around, Elizabeth spotted a toy she's coveted for quite some time: a Pillow Pets Dream Lights plush toy.
"Mommy! They have Dream Lights!" she called out, and promptly began reciting the song played in the commercial that is forever streamed on the Nickelodeon channel.
"Mommy! Can we get this? It will help me not be afraid of any monsters in my room," she said.
A quick pause, and then I asked her, "which one would you like?" absolutely speechless with the profundity of her statement. Were it only as simple as having a soothing light in a dark, dark world to ensure that the Boogey Man will forever stay the hell away from my babies.
Little did I know ... heck, little did anyone of us know ... that such special moments with my little ones would, without warning, suddenly seem so remarkably special.
Like most people, I cannot begin to wrap my head around the concept of 20 small children being gunned down in what should have been the safe confines of their classroom at school. I do not know these children, their families, or their brave and heroic teachers who did all that they could to shield their charges from flying bullets and sheer, unadulterated terror. I cannot begin to fathom the bone-crushing pain that these families are enduring, as their children are sent to heaven. I am gutted by the notion that, for these families, Christmas, Hanukkah, and the New Year will simply never be happy holidays again.
My work day at HMC was, I admit, pretty much a wash once I began to learn of the slaughter that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School, about 2,816 miles away from my home. Of course, I thought instantly of David and Elizabeth, and their friends, and their friends' families, and the wonderful teachers and staff at Foothill Country Day School. At one point, I looked at my clock, saw that it was 11:45 a.m., and decided that would be a perfect time to drop everything, go over to the school, find the kids, and hug them.
I pulled into the school's parking lot about 10 minutes later, and found Elizabeth and her class, enjoying a post-lunch activity with their wonderful athletics coach. Miss B (the coach) saw me in the doorway, and when I pantomimed the motion of "hug," she knew instantly why I was there. Obviously, Miss B and others were aware of the national tragedy unfolding in Connecticut. She said, "Elizabeth! Your mommy is here!" Elizabeth looked excitedly at the doors, saw me, and said, "MOMMY!" And she ran to me. We shared a quick embrace, I planted a kiss on her silky blond hair, and she went merrily back to her friends to complete the day's lessons.
I paused just for a moment, breathless with the notion that 20 families in Newtown, CT, would never again hear the beautiful sound of their child calling their name, feeling the warmth of their child's hug, or even see the quizzical look in their child's eyes, asking, "what the heck are you doing here?"
Then, it was time to find David. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just after 12 noon. His class would be starting their lunch break now. Sure enough, I saw David and his classmates leaving their classroom, happily skipping to the lunch line to pick up their hot lunch for the Day. "Hi, Mrs. Hastings!" a chorus of happy voices sang out as I started walking toward them. "Hi, Mommy!" said my little man.
I gave him a quick squeeze, asked for permission to kiss him in front of his friends, and let him go about his day.
The kids usually leave school at 5:00 on Fridays so that they can take part in an after-school chess class. I decided that pulling them out early would not solve anything, so I went back to work and followed CNN the rest of the day.
At 5:00 I was at the school, in my car and waiting for my little ones to come out to the pick-up area. They bounded into the car. And then I told them what happened in Newtown.
I was stunned and, quite frankly, proud of David's first question: "The gunman is dead, right?" he said, with a swagger in his voice that matched my vitriol for the &*$%#@ who pulled the trigger in Sandy Hook.
"Yes, buddy, the guy is dead."
And then Elizabeth asked the $64,000 question for which there is no answer: "Why would he do that?"
We went about our evening, running a few errands to get ready for the cookie party we were having at the house the next afternoon. We stopped by Costco for a quick slice of pizza (for Elizabeth and me), and as we were browsing around, Elizabeth spotted a toy she's coveted for quite some time: a Pillow Pets Dream Lights plush toy.
"Mommy! They have Dream Lights!" she called out, and promptly began reciting the song played in the commercial that is forever streamed on the Nickelodeon channel.
"Mommy! Can we get this? It will help me not be afraid of any monsters in my room," she said.
A quick pause, and then I asked her, "which one would you like?" absolutely speechless with the profundity of her statement. Were it only as simple as having a soothing light in a dark, dark world to ensure that the Boogey Man will forever stay the hell away from my babies.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Gap time
Wow, where did eight weeks go? Not that the handful of people who follow my blog have been waiting with bated breath for a new posting, but, seriously. I've been slacking.
It has been almost two months since my last blog post, and it is probably a good thing that, in terms of single parenthood (during the weekdays), there is nothing new to report.
Now, I will say that the last week and a half was a delicious exception, because Glen was home. He insisted on being back down in Southern California for Halloween, not only to see the kids in their adorable costumes, but also to partake of our wonderful neighbor's Eight-Alarm chili that we share together every Halloween night. Then, just a few days after that, he had meetings in Palm Springs for Harvey Mudd College, more events for their alumni board on November 7, and then we both had the annual fundraiser for the kids' school on November 9.
Suffice it to say that when Glen packed up his trusty old truck on Sunday afternoon and hit the road for the Bay area, the house was notably emptier after having relished 11 days of daddy and hubby time.
We're coming upon the two year mark of Glen joining Facebook, and of me embarking upon this weekday single parenthood adventure. If you'd asked me two years ago how long this arrangement would last, I would have answered, "one and a half years, tops." Now, here we are, and neither Glen nor I see any change in our arrangements in the near future.
But definitely one thing that I have hugely benefited from in Glen being gone most days of the week is a true and pure appreciation for all that Glen is and all that he gives to our family. The life of the household just hums just a little better when he's home. Everyone is just a bit more mellow and relaxed (at least, I think we are). When he's gone, he is very missed, but when he comes home, we are so grateful.
Next week, we are spoiled again for another marathon of Glen/Daddy time, as we're traveling to Pittsburgh to visit my brother and his family to take in a Steeler's game, and to also visit friends in Ohio. Then it's back to LAX on Thanksgiving Day and up to Monterey, where we'll spend three more blissfully unstructured days with my dear friend from college.
I have it pretty good.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!
It has been almost two months since my last blog post, and it is probably a good thing that, in terms of single parenthood (during the weekdays), there is nothing new to report.
Now, I will say that the last week and a half was a delicious exception, because Glen was home. He insisted on being back down in Southern California for Halloween, not only to see the kids in their adorable costumes, but also to partake of our wonderful neighbor's Eight-Alarm chili that we share together every Halloween night. Then, just a few days after that, he had meetings in Palm Springs for Harvey Mudd College, more events for their alumni board on November 7, and then we both had the annual fundraiser for the kids' school on November 9.
Suffice it to say that when Glen packed up his trusty old truck on Sunday afternoon and hit the road for the Bay area, the house was notably emptier after having relished 11 days of daddy and hubby time.
We're coming upon the two year mark of Glen joining Facebook, and of me embarking upon this weekday single parenthood adventure. If you'd asked me two years ago how long this arrangement would last, I would have answered, "one and a half years, tops." Now, here we are, and neither Glen nor I see any change in our arrangements in the near future.
But definitely one thing that I have hugely benefited from in Glen being gone most days of the week is a true and pure appreciation for all that Glen is and all that he gives to our family. The life of the household just hums just a little better when he's home. Everyone is just a bit more mellow and relaxed (at least, I think we are). When he's gone, he is very missed, but when he comes home, we are so grateful.
Next week, we are spoiled again for another marathon of Glen/Daddy time, as we're traveling to Pittsburgh to visit my brother and his family to take in a Steeler's game, and to also visit friends in Ohio. Then it's back to LAX on Thanksgiving Day and up to Monterey, where we'll spend three more blissfully unstructured days with my dear friend from college.
I have it pretty good.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Musings
I ask myself, over and over again, why it is that I find myself watching hideously terrible scenes in movies where little kids are hurt or, worse yet, killed.
So it was the case yesterday that, prompted by a philosophical and moral question posted on a Facebook group page that I follow, that I came to watch the scene in the movie Sophie's Choice where Sophie makes her fateful "choice." There, on the small YouTube screen on my computer, I watched with terror as the Nazi guard hauled away Sophie's little girl, Eva, to her horrible, horrible fate.
What the hell was I thinking? What mom can watch that and not envision her child's face on those of the child actors? And why do I do this to myself?
Of course, being the research hound that I am, I had to do some investigation about how that scene was made: who was the little girl playing the role of Eva? Where was the scene filmed? How did the cast and crew treat the children? Was she really, really frightened or just a really good actress at the age of, say, 4 or 5? A bit of sleuthing revealed that the young girl, now a grown woman, never acted again as that scene terrified her, but that she had a good relationship with Meryl Streep and, when filming that scene, she was scared of being taken away from Ms. Streep. She is now alive and well and literally living in Paris as a successful Vice President of an international insurance firm. Her Facebook page shows a photo of a resplendent bride, next to her groom, at a gorgeous chapel somewhere in Europe. She is on LinkedIn with one of my friends from high school, too. Who knew?
At this point, I did my best to refocus my thoughts on David and Elizabeth. It was Wednesday, the day I leave work a bit early to pick up the kids from school and go home. Boy, was I glad to see them! I hugged them a little tighter, gazed at them a little longer, and kissed them a few extra times. Heck, I even let David stay up late and catch the first two episodes of The New Normal on my iPad.
But, even today, this morning, I am still sick to my stomach. And, yet, I wonder if this is a symptom of something deeper.
I've realized over the past few weeks that this long-distance, commuter marriage deal has made me very tired. No, I'm in it for the long haul and for as long as we need to do this, and I've got Glen's back on this. But, I'm not going to sugar-coat it: it's difficult, and made more difficult by the fact that I signed up to be a volunteer for, like, EVERYTHING this year. I'm the president of the kids' school's parent organization, I'm on the Board of Trustees for my high school, I'm the leader for David's Cub Scout Den, and I've signed on to lead a Daisy Girl Scout troop for Elizabeth (who desperately wants to be a Scout like her big brother). Oh, and I have one more year as president of my high school's alumni association. And maintaining work-life balance has become more difficult as I try, as hard as I can, to please and be accountable to my co-workers. And I write this knowing that, in about 10 minutes, I need to step out and take my constipated, 14-year old cat to the vet. Again.
I rationalize that, with the exception of my work with my high school, pretty much everything I've committed myself to is for David and Elizabeth. All of this is scheduled between gymnastics on the weekend, drum lessons, tennis lessons, Cotillions (which starts tonight), and David's heavier homework load this year.
All the while, I gripe yet try very, very hard to remind myself that I am so lucky to have these commitments, challenges and responsibilities. I have David and Elizabeth. Consider the photos above: these are two of the most self-starting kids I've seen ... especially when it comes to doing their homework.
But, this is hard. This is really, really hard. And watching depressing movies doesn't help in the least. I can't wait for next Tuesday's new episode of my new favorite sitcom.
So it was the case yesterday that, prompted by a philosophical and moral question posted on a Facebook group page that I follow, that I came to watch the scene in the movie Sophie's Choice where Sophie makes her fateful "choice." There, on the small YouTube screen on my computer, I watched with terror as the Nazi guard hauled away Sophie's little girl, Eva, to her horrible, horrible fate.
What the hell was I thinking? What mom can watch that and not envision her child's face on those of the child actors? And why do I do this to myself?
Of course, being the research hound that I am, I had to do some investigation about how that scene was made: who was the little girl playing the role of Eva? Where was the scene filmed? How did the cast and crew treat the children? Was she really, really frightened or just a really good actress at the age of, say, 4 or 5? A bit of sleuthing revealed that the young girl, now a grown woman, never acted again as that scene terrified her, but that she had a good relationship with Meryl Streep and, when filming that scene, she was scared of being taken away from Ms. Streep. She is now alive and well and literally living in Paris as a successful Vice President of an international insurance firm. Her Facebook page shows a photo of a resplendent bride, next to her groom, at a gorgeous chapel somewhere in Europe. She is on LinkedIn with one of my friends from high school, too. Who knew?
At this point, I did my best to refocus my thoughts on David and Elizabeth. It was Wednesday, the day I leave work a bit early to pick up the kids from school and go home. Boy, was I glad to see them! I hugged them a little tighter, gazed at them a little longer, and kissed them a few extra times. Heck, I even let David stay up late and catch the first two episodes of The New Normal on my iPad.
But, even today, this morning, I am still sick to my stomach. And, yet, I wonder if this is a symptom of something deeper.
I've realized over the past few weeks that this long-distance, commuter marriage deal has made me very tired. No, I'm in it for the long haul and for as long as we need to do this, and I've got Glen's back on this. But, I'm not going to sugar-coat it: it's difficult, and made more difficult by the fact that I signed up to be a volunteer for, like, EVERYTHING this year. I'm the president of the kids' school's parent organization, I'm on the Board of Trustees for my high school, I'm the leader for David's Cub Scout Den, and I've signed on to lead a Daisy Girl Scout troop for Elizabeth (who desperately wants to be a Scout like her big brother). Oh, and I have one more year as president of my high school's alumni association. And maintaining work-life balance has become more difficult as I try, as hard as I can, to please and be accountable to my co-workers. And I write this knowing that, in about 10 minutes, I need to step out and take my constipated, 14-year old cat to the vet. Again.
I rationalize that, with the exception of my work with my high school, pretty much everything I've committed myself to is for David and Elizabeth. All of this is scheduled between gymnastics on the weekend, drum lessons, tennis lessons, Cotillions (which starts tonight), and David's heavier homework load this year.
All the while, I gripe yet try very, very hard to remind myself that I am so lucky to have these commitments, challenges and responsibilities. I have David and Elizabeth. Consider the photos above: these are two of the most self-starting kids I've seen ... especially when it comes to doing their homework.
But, this is hard. This is really, really hard. And watching depressing movies doesn't help in the least. I can't wait for next Tuesday's new episode of my new favorite sitcom.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Lessons in economics ... and humility
I'll be the first to admit that Glen and I provide David and Elizabeth with a pretty comfortable lifestyle. We work very hard in order to do so, and we are delighted that we've seen success in our professional lives that has enabled us to keep our family in "the black."
I also realize that David and Elizabeth are still quite young, and have not yet mastered the concept of just how lucky they are, and how good they have it. This reminder smacked me in the head this morning.
Because I work full-time, we have to find summertime opportunities for the kids to enjoy during the weekdays. This week (and the next two), David is enrolled in the excellent summer day camp program through the Claremont Unified School District. Today, they have a field trip to Newport Dunes.
I'll spare you the details of all of the items he had to pack in his small backpack in order to be ready for wading through the tide pools, lounging on the sand and basking in the sun. But, suffice it to say, spending cash was in order.
Last night, David and I agreed that $10 would be sufficient to see him through the day. Unlike his mother, he's not the type to spend his money on frivolous things at a cheesy gift shop, so I was not at all concerned that he'd blow the whole wad. I slightly patted myself on the back for remembering to slip a $10 bill into his backpack before I went to bed last night.
This morning, as we were preparing to head downstairs for breakfast, I pointed out to him the specific location of the said $10 bill. He looked at it, looked at me, and sighed dramatically.
"What's wrong?" I asked him. "It's right here, all ready to go."
"Well, I ..." he began, and hesitated. "I ... um ... I really wanted it in two $5 bills."
Excuse me?
"OH! I see!" I replied. "This is not good enough for you? Really?" And then launched into a mini lecture about how, for many families in our community, $10 is a whole hell of a lot of money.
Out came the $10 from his backpack; I tucked it into my back pocket and invited David to think for a few long, hard minutes, about the selfish tone he invoked.
I went downstairs to get breakfast going, fuming all the way. And it occurred to me. The kid really, REALLY does not need $10, and he certainly did not prove himself deserving of it this morning. While I don't want to make my children feel absolutely guilty for every treat they receive, nor do I want to inflict doom and gloom on them at every turn, I do want them to grow into people who have a genuine appreciation for the value of a dollar, and how precious money is to so many families out there who cannot even afford to put dinner on the table every night.
When David came downstairs, I continued our chat.
"I have two things to inform you of," I began. "One, you're getting $5, not $10."
"Second, you will be having the breakfast they serve at school today, so that you can have a sense of what it's like for the little kids who are on the free lunch program every day of the school year ... the kids who don't have the luxury of saying, 'I don't like this! I don't want to eat it!'"
"Oh, you'll have whatever they are serving for lunch tomorrow and Friday, too."
Dead silence.
"I don't understand what I did wrong," he said, downcast.
"David, here's the thing. $10 is a lot of money for so many people. For you to reply to me that the $10 I was sending you to Newport Dunes with was not 'good enough' or not broken down into the small bills you prefer is nothing short of selfish. Does that make sense?"
Long pause.
"Yes."
Now, I didn't explain to him that breakfast and lunch served at day camp were already paid for, available to all kids, and just part of the enrollment package.
Meantime, Elizabeth sat back and watched, enjoying the show and wondering whether she should call a bookie.
Off we drove to school. When I dropped him off in the Multipurpose Room at Mountain View Elementary, I pointed out the refrigerator holding the milk, and breakfast options (graham crackers, muffins and granola bars) on the table. "There's your choices, buddy."
Then, he realized he left his sack lunch that I'd prepared for his field trip in the car. I trotted back to the Honda, and when I returned to him, he was happily munching on a chocolate chip muffin and sipping chocolate milk. Huge smile on his face.
"Chocolate chip!" he declared. "It's good."
I hugged him tightly and planted a firm smooch on the top of his head, and wished him a fun, safe and wonderful day.
I heaved a heavy sigh when Elizabeth and I got back in the car, and as we drove to her day care center, I could only hope that David both understood how much I genuinely want both him and his sister to have compassion and humility, but also to be able to make mistakes, learn from their errors, and not worry about being kids.
I also realize that David and Elizabeth are still quite young, and have not yet mastered the concept of just how lucky they are, and how good they have it. This reminder smacked me in the head this morning.
Because I work full-time, we have to find summertime opportunities for the kids to enjoy during the weekdays. This week (and the next two), David is enrolled in the excellent summer day camp program through the Claremont Unified School District. Today, they have a field trip to Newport Dunes.
I'll spare you the details of all of the items he had to pack in his small backpack in order to be ready for wading through the tide pools, lounging on the sand and basking in the sun. But, suffice it to say, spending cash was in order.
Last night, David and I agreed that $10 would be sufficient to see him through the day. Unlike his mother, he's not the type to spend his money on frivolous things at a cheesy gift shop, so I was not at all concerned that he'd blow the whole wad. I slightly patted myself on the back for remembering to slip a $10 bill into his backpack before I went to bed last night.
This morning, as we were preparing to head downstairs for breakfast, I pointed out to him the specific location of the said $10 bill. He looked at it, looked at me, and sighed dramatically.
"What's wrong?" I asked him. "It's right here, all ready to go."
"Well, I ..." he began, and hesitated. "I ... um ... I really wanted it in two $5 bills."
Excuse me?
"OH! I see!" I replied. "This is not good enough for you? Really?" And then launched into a mini lecture about how, for many families in our community, $10 is a whole hell of a lot of money.
Out came the $10 from his backpack; I tucked it into my back pocket and invited David to think for a few long, hard minutes, about the selfish tone he invoked.
I went downstairs to get breakfast going, fuming all the way. And it occurred to me. The kid really, REALLY does not need $10, and he certainly did not prove himself deserving of it this morning. While I don't want to make my children feel absolutely guilty for every treat they receive, nor do I want to inflict doom and gloom on them at every turn, I do want them to grow into people who have a genuine appreciation for the value of a dollar, and how precious money is to so many families out there who cannot even afford to put dinner on the table every night.
When David came downstairs, I continued our chat.
"I have two things to inform you of," I began. "One, you're getting $5, not $10."
"Second, you will be having the breakfast they serve at school today, so that you can have a sense of what it's like for the little kids who are on the free lunch program every day of the school year ... the kids who don't have the luxury of saying, 'I don't like this! I don't want to eat it!'"
"Oh, you'll have whatever they are serving for lunch tomorrow and Friday, too."
Dead silence.
"I don't understand what I did wrong," he said, downcast.
"David, here's the thing. $10 is a lot of money for so many people. For you to reply to me that the $10 I was sending you to Newport Dunes with was not 'good enough' or not broken down into the small bills you prefer is nothing short of selfish. Does that make sense?"
Long pause.
"Yes."
Now, I didn't explain to him that breakfast and lunch served at day camp were already paid for, available to all kids, and just part of the enrollment package.
Meantime, Elizabeth sat back and watched, enjoying the show and wondering whether she should call a bookie.
Off we drove to school. When I dropped him off in the Multipurpose Room at Mountain View Elementary, I pointed out the refrigerator holding the milk, and breakfast options (graham crackers, muffins and granola bars) on the table. "There's your choices, buddy."
Then, he realized he left his sack lunch that I'd prepared for his field trip in the car. I trotted back to the Honda, and when I returned to him, he was happily munching on a chocolate chip muffin and sipping chocolate milk. Huge smile on his face.
"Chocolate chip!" he declared. "It's good."
I hugged him tightly and planted a firm smooch on the top of his head, and wished him a fun, safe and wonderful day.
I heaved a heavy sigh when Elizabeth and I got back in the car, and as we drove to her day care center, I could only hope that David both understood how much I genuinely want both him and his sister to have compassion and humility, but also to be able to make mistakes, learn from their errors, and not worry about being kids.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
The Gift of An Ordinary Day (with credit to Katrina Kenison)
As I am want to do when perusing on Facebook, I clicked on an URL which led to one of gazillion videos posted for everyone's viewing pleasure. The title of the video, "The Gift of an Ordinary Day," did not really hit at my heart strings immediately, but ... wow. This hit home.
While I have not read her memoir, Family Circle magazine noted in its review that it is, in fact, "eloquent. . .a reminder that life's seemingly mundane moments are often where we find beauty, grace, and transformation." This video captured Mrs. Kenison reading from her book, whereby she reflects not only on how quickly her sons have grown, but how they have transformed. She simultaneously celebrates and laments their evolution, noting that she is proud of the young men they have become, and would give anything to relive the days when they were small.
I plan to buy this book for my iPad.
As I watched David and Elizabeth today, playing with abandon and tremendous glee with their cousins who, although really based in Newark, CA, currently live in Zug, Switzerland, I paused several times to try, with all my might, to take in the moment and just be in it. I tried to banish from my mind the reality that, in just a few years, David and Elizabeth may be two completely different people who not only will have different interests but will want to have nothing to do with me, let alone be seen with me in the same room. Now, I am hopeful that this will ultimately not be the case, given that both Glen and I really enjoyed being with our parents throughout our childhood and teenage years. Those were years that, for both of us, had relatively little drama.
But, back to today. There they were, diving merrily into a pool of cold (well, cold by my standards) water, stuffing their little faces with chips, cookies, and all matter of assorted treats, with nary a care in the world. And, when I take a moment to reflect in the beauty and glory of such simplicity, I find myself once again feeling torn: guilty for not relishing these moments more often, grateful for the gift that the present moment has given to us, and anguished that this moment, and many others like it, will be over far too soon.
Mrs. Kenison's words, as reflected in her video that went viral several weeks ago, really touched me. While I can't guarantee that I will perfect the art of living in the moment, cherishing my kids' smallness, I am aware of the fact that we only get one shot at this thing called life and that, while we're here, we may as well indulge in those things that make us happy, make us smile, and make us feel content.
Such moments, at least for me, come when David and Elizabeth willingly curl up next to me and our dog, Lager, on the couch at home and watch different shows on HGTV or Food TV. Current favorites include "Love it or List It," and "Cupcake Wars." In fact, after their first viewing of "Cupcake Wars," David and Elizabeth were quickly interested in recreating the baking bedlam in our own kitchen. Ultimately, I was a lot more engaged in the process than they were, but it brought the three of us together in a shared adventure. Even the simplest pleasure of watching cupcakes magically bake and rise in the oven can be a great reminder of the happiness, wonder, and innocence of childhood.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Rites of Passage
I fancy myself as being the type of person who has always been mentally and emotionally prepared to greet my childrens' milestones with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. However, I was not prepared to encounter not one, but TWO significant steps to official grownuphood for David and Elizabeth within a period of four weeks. That's, like, 28 days in which to ride the way of two significant, if not necessarily life-changing, adventures for my kids.
First, there was the matter of David and his teeth. We always suspected that both kids would need to see an orthodontist sooner rather than later in their childhood years. And so it was the case that on May 8, 2012, David bravely reclined on the dental chair at the office of Dr. John Pearson in Corona, CA, opened his mouth, and observed (with no small amount of trepidation, poor sweetie) the dentist and technicians inserting an assortment of metallic thingies into his mouth.
From this 30-minute procedure emerged a changed man:
In my entire life, I don't think I ever met a single individual who would proclaim, without a moment's hesitation, that they absolutely love their braces. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you David Hastings, who has affirmed that his braces are "AWESOME." The pallet expander on the roof of his mouth? Not so much. But, already, we're noticing how beautifully his teeth are moving into position. He's going to be a knock-out when those things come off. Not that he's in a hurry for that, mind you.
Fast forward to June 3, and Elizabeth and I are at Kohl's department store, returning a dress that I realized I should have tried on before purchasing it, but at the time was quite confident that it would both look good and fit. (Again, on both counts, not so much.) Elizabeth and I roamed the store for a few minutes, and she stopped to admire a display of dangling, gaudy earrings adorned with all sorts of bobbles.
"Mommy, I want to get my ears pierced."
I had to ask her to repeat herself, which she did.
"I want my ears pierced and I want to wear THESE!" she declared, pointing at a particularly heavy pair of floral earring that, if worn on her earlobes, would stretch them to her ankles.
"You do? Are you sure?" I asked. I was a little taken aback, but in a good way. See, for a few years now, I've been asking Elizabeth if she'd ever have any interest in getting her ears pierced. And, up until this moment, her reply was always an adamant, "NO!" Which was fine. I've always determined that it would need to be her call, and she would determine when the time was right for her. My prompting, of course, has always been influenced by the fact that, when I was her age, I longed to get my ears pierced, and my parents put down an emphatic foot. No way. No how. Nuh-uh. That is, until, my beloved pediatrician, Dr. Nation, said, at one office visit during which time I lamented to him how neglected a child I was for not having parents who would allow me to get body piercings, "Oh, heck. I'll pierce them for you." Which, gentle reader, he did. To say my mom was in shock and my dad was pissed would be an understatement.
But I digress. So, I confirmed with Elizabeth that she was ready, and then asked, "well ... do you want to go do it now?" And she nodded. yes. I scooted us to our car before she changed her mind. I don't know who was more excited.
About 45 minutes later, Elizabeth and I were at Claire's in the Montclair Plaza, and she was proudly displaying a new pair of sparkly, pink sapphire studs in her dainty lobes, grinning and beaming (after a temporary bout of shock and a few tears after the first piercing).
Sometimes I am absolutely beside myself with joy and relief that I have the amazing gift of two kids who are healthy, bright, and eager to take on these adventures ... and that I get to go along for the ride.
First, there was the matter of David and his teeth. We always suspected that both kids would need to see an orthodontist sooner rather than later in their childhood years. And so it was the case that on May 8, 2012, David bravely reclined on the dental chair at the office of Dr. John Pearson in Corona, CA, opened his mouth, and observed (with no small amount of trepidation, poor sweetie) the dentist and technicians inserting an assortment of metallic thingies into his mouth.
From this 30-minute procedure emerged a changed man:
Fast forward to June 3, and Elizabeth and I are at Kohl's department store, returning a dress that I realized I should have tried on before purchasing it, but at the time was quite confident that it would both look good and fit. (Again, on both counts, not so much.) Elizabeth and I roamed the store for a few minutes, and she stopped to admire a display of dangling, gaudy earrings adorned with all sorts of bobbles.
"Mommy, I want to get my ears pierced."
I had to ask her to repeat herself, which she did.
"I want my ears pierced and I want to wear THESE!" she declared, pointing at a particularly heavy pair of floral earring that, if worn on her earlobes, would stretch them to her ankles.
"You do? Are you sure?" I asked. I was a little taken aback, but in a good way. See, for a few years now, I've been asking Elizabeth if she'd ever have any interest in getting her ears pierced. And, up until this moment, her reply was always an adamant, "NO!" Which was fine. I've always determined that it would need to be her call, and she would determine when the time was right for her. My prompting, of course, has always been influenced by the fact that, when I was her age, I longed to get my ears pierced, and my parents put down an emphatic foot. No way. No how. Nuh-uh. That is, until, my beloved pediatrician, Dr. Nation, said, at one office visit during which time I lamented to him how neglected a child I was for not having parents who would allow me to get body piercings, "Oh, heck. I'll pierce them for you." Which, gentle reader, he did. To say my mom was in shock and my dad was pissed would be an understatement.
But I digress. So, I confirmed with Elizabeth that she was ready, and then asked, "well ... do you want to go do it now?" And she nodded. yes. I scooted us to our car before she changed her mind. I don't know who was more excited.
About 45 minutes later, Elizabeth and I were at Claire's in the Montclair Plaza, and she was proudly displaying a new pair of sparkly, pink sapphire studs in her dainty lobes, grinning and beaming (after a temporary bout of shock and a few tears after the first piercing).
Sometimes I am absolutely beside myself with joy and relief that I have the amazing gift of two kids who are healthy, bright, and eager to take on these adventures ... and that I get to go along for the ride.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
An Ode to a Beautiful Bichon
Back in 2002, after Glen and I had purchased our first home in Chicago, and before we had children, we were absolutely hell-bent on getting a dog. Not just one dog, mind you. But two. And we knew the specific breeds we would seeking to add to our family: a yellow Labrador, and a Bichon Frise.
So, with a home purchased, a mortgage under our belt, and no apartment leases that prohibited the inclusion of four-legged, furry creatures in our dwelling, we set forth on our canine adventure.
Now, pretty much everyone has heard of the faithful Labrador Retriever. But a Bichon? Not so much. I had first heard about this lively, beautiful little breed of a dog from a sad news story out of San Jose, where Bichon had died as a result of some nut-job's road rage (luckily, this nut-job got 3 years behind bars). My heart was immediately smitten, not only to this fluffy little sweetheart's terrible end, but also with the breed itself. If my mind hadn't immediately chosen my ideal dog, my heart had.
So, in early 2001, I came across the website for the Bichon Frise rescue of greater Wisconsin. I filled out an on-line form to express my interest in adopting one, and then waited. About two weeks later, we got the phone call that changed the course the next 11 years of our married life.
Spike had just been surrendered to the Bichon Rescue by a family from Winnetka, IL. He had been a pet store puppy, and apparently had been given to a little girl, whose parents ultimately decided that the dog was too much trouble. Laura Fox Meacham, a woman who had established for herself a reputation of being the Godmother of Bichon Frise rescue, contact me to tell me that this five-year old male was ready for adoption. Could we come out to Wisconsin to meet him?
Long story short, by the end of the following weekend, Glen and I brought our first baby home. It was pretty much love at first tail wag. The moment Spike laid eyes on us, he, flopped onto his back, tummy in the air, and began to wave his front paws in fits of excitement, simply daring us to not be tempted to scratch and pet him all over. Good Lord, he had me at hello.
Glen and I ... well, okay, I became the quintessential crazy dog owner. I lost my mind. I sought cute clothes for him to wear (including sweaters, trench coats and rain slickers). I tied bandannas and bows around his neck. His new paternal grandparents pampered him with doggie bedding from L.L. Bean. It was great. I am certain that Spike quickly understood that his new family had become completely unhinged.
A few months later, the terrorist attacks of 9/11 took place. Glen and I were grateful that our sweet little couch potato was content to sit with us and be habitually petted and cuddled, providing us comfort and solace on a terrible day.
One thing we quickly noticed about Spike was his hesitancy around men whom he did not know. Worse, he became aggressive with men of color. We had several embarrassing occasions where he'd nip at the ankles of friends and co-workers who were Hispanic or African America, prompting us to wonder what happened in his first home to make him so scared.
But, his sense of humor always remained in tact. He could charm even the staunchest curmudgeon with his wagging tail, his "Bichon Buzz" (wherein he, without warning, would begin running around a room at break-neck speed, as though deliriously and happily possessed). He could grab a slice of pizza from your hand while taking a mid-air leap before your eyes. Just ask his paternal grandfather.
About a month after 9/11, Spike reluctantly helped us welcome a new baby to the family: our much-anticipated Yellow Lab, whom we named Lager. Note that Lager was still much smaller than Spike when he first came home with us. This size differential did not last long.
The two became fast friends and brothers. While Lager quickly sprouted to be three times the size of his older brother, Spike remained firmly and squarely the Alpha Male, as evidenced by his repeated attempts to hump Lager for years.
As the years past, both dogs tolerated two more additions to our home: David, in 2003, Elizabeth, in 2007, and most recently Honey, our rescued cat. Glen and I had read all sorts of articles, warning us about the dangers and risks inherent in mixing dogs and infants. Armed with knowledge and baby gates, we took every step to familiarize the pooches to David's scent just as soon as he was born. We did the old "bring home a blanket from the hospital for the dogs to sniff" routine. It must have worked; when David came home on October 15, the first think Spike did was kiss/lick David all over his baby head.
And, so, the six of us became a happy family unit. We were lucky enough to surround ourselves with wonderful friends and neighbors who were all too willing to tend to the dogs when we were out of town. On two occasions (before Lager came along), Spike flew with me cross country. On one trip, he almost escaped his travel carrier and attempted to make a break for it on a United Airlines flight bound for Los Angeles. I was fortunate to be surrounded by fellow passengers who loved dogs, and flight attendants who were very patient. And Spike and I were car mates when we moved back to California; Glen and Lager drove in the truck, and Spike was my faithful companion in my Jeep, as we saw America together.
With such a faithful, jolly and spunky presence in our lives for so many years, we knew that the time would come when Spike would begin to slow down and actually show his age. He turned 16 in November 2011. And, since the beginning of 2012, his failing health really began to take a toll on him. The kindly veterinarian who looked over him most recently determined that Spike had an inoperable brain tumor which was causing diabetes, glaucoma, and a neurological degeneration in his back and hind legs. Unfortunately, we knew that the time had come for us to say goodbye to our beloved first baby.
But, not without one last photo shoot! Elizabeth and David and I took every advantage in this last week of Spike's life to pose with him and capture, on digital film, his merry personality and his unshakable joie de vivre.
At 9:00 a.m. on Friday, April 27, Spike crossed the Rainbow Bridge. Glen and I held him the whole time.
I love you, Spike.
So, with a home purchased, a mortgage under our belt, and no apartment leases that prohibited the inclusion of four-legged, furry creatures in our dwelling, we set forth on our canine adventure.
Now, pretty much everyone has heard of the faithful Labrador Retriever. But a Bichon? Not so much. I had first heard about this lively, beautiful little breed of a dog from a sad news story out of San Jose, where Bichon had died as a result of some nut-job's road rage (luckily, this nut-job got 3 years behind bars). My heart was immediately smitten, not only to this fluffy little sweetheart's terrible end, but also with the breed itself. If my mind hadn't immediately chosen my ideal dog, my heart had.
So, in early 2001, I came across the website for the Bichon Frise rescue of greater Wisconsin. I filled out an on-line form to express my interest in adopting one, and then waited. About two weeks later, we got the phone call that changed the course the next 11 years of our married life.
Spike had just been surrendered to the Bichon Rescue by a family from Winnetka, IL. He had been a pet store puppy, and apparently had been given to a little girl, whose parents ultimately decided that the dog was too much trouble. Laura Fox Meacham, a woman who had established for herself a reputation of being the Godmother of Bichon Frise rescue, contact me to tell me that this five-year old male was ready for adoption. Could we come out to Wisconsin to meet him?
Long story short, by the end of the following weekend, Glen and I brought our first baby home. It was pretty much love at first tail wag. The moment Spike laid eyes on us, he, flopped onto his back, tummy in the air, and began to wave his front paws in fits of excitement, simply daring us to not be tempted to scratch and pet him all over. Good Lord, he had me at hello.
 |
| Spike, in his crate and in the car, heading home to Chicago |
 |
| Spike, in low light, and reigning over his domicile |
 |
| Spike has me right where he wants me |
 |
| Soon after 9/11 ... notice the US Flag necklace I am wearing |
But, his sense of humor always remained in tact. He could charm even the staunchest curmudgeon with his wagging tail, his "Bichon Buzz" (wherein he, without warning, would begin running around a room at break-neck speed, as though deliriously and happily possessed). He could grab a slice of pizza from your hand while taking a mid-air leap before your eyes. Just ask his paternal grandfather.
About a month after 9/11, Spike reluctantly helped us welcome a new baby to the family: our much-anticipated Yellow Lab, whom we named Lager. Note that Lager was still much smaller than Spike when he first came home with us. This size differential did not last long.
 | |
| Baby Lager, conked out in the background, and Spike, in the foreground, as if to say, "REALLY?" |
As the years past, both dogs tolerated two more additions to our home: David, in 2003, Elizabeth, in 2007, and most recently Honey, our rescued cat. Glen and I had read all sorts of articles, warning us about the dangers and risks inherent in mixing dogs and infants. Armed with knowledge and baby gates, we took every step to familiarize the pooches to David's scent just as soon as he was born. We did the old "bring home a blanket from the hospital for the dogs to sniff" routine. It must have worked; when David came home on October 15, the first think Spike did was kiss/lick David all over his baby head.
And, so, the six of us became a happy family unit. We were lucky enough to surround ourselves with wonderful friends and neighbors who were all too willing to tend to the dogs when we were out of town. On two occasions (before Lager came along), Spike flew with me cross country. On one trip, he almost escaped his travel carrier and attempted to make a break for it on a United Airlines flight bound for Los Angeles. I was fortunate to be surrounded by fellow passengers who loved dogs, and flight attendants who were very patient. And Spike and I were car mates when we moved back to California; Glen and Lager drove in the truck, and Spike was my faithful companion in my Jeep, as we saw America together.
With such a faithful, jolly and spunky presence in our lives for so many years, we knew that the time would come when Spike would begin to slow down and actually show his age. He turned 16 in November 2011. And, since the beginning of 2012, his failing health really began to take a toll on him. The kindly veterinarian who looked over him most recently determined that Spike had an inoperable brain tumor which was causing diabetes, glaucoma, and a neurological degeneration in his back and hind legs. Unfortunately, we knew that the time had come for us to say goodbye to our beloved first baby.
But, not without one last photo shoot! Elizabeth and David and I took every advantage in this last week of Spike's life to pose with him and capture, on digital film, his merry personality and his unshakable joie de vivre.
 |
| Spike strikes a pose |
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| Charming Grandma Josie one last time |
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| Sweet face |
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| His smile always said it all |
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| A boy and his dog |
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| Spike doesn't see (or hear) Elizabeth plowing around the corner on the Plasma Car |
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| David and Spike |
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| Saying goodbye |
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| Our final picture |
I love you, Spike.
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