Friday, January 29, 2016

When It Comes to Shoveling or Childcare, Shoveling Wins.

We had been homebound for over 48 hours.  The snow had come down for a full 24, leaving 30+ inches in its wake.  We had tried to keep up with the shoveling - going out every few inches to clear, but it got ahead of us before long.  So on Sunday afternoon, when the time came to shovel, it was daunting.



I like to think that my husband and I have an "equal" marriage, in that we share household duties. But when it comes to shoveling, we've always been old fashioned.  He does the manual labor.  I do the childcare.  And the children and I watch from the window cheering Daddy on.

But not this time.

This time was different.

It didn't start off different, mind you.  When the snow started falling on Friday, we were actually all kind of excited about it.  The boys and I bundled up and went outside as soon as the snow started coming down.  I mean, just look how happy everyone is in the cute little two inch accumulation.  I couldn't stop snapping photos of all the joy.




But then.... the whining started.  In fact, it started before our bliss in the snow.  Much like a trip to the neighborhood pool in the summer, the prep for going outside lasted twice as long as the actual excursion itself.  I was channeling A Christmas Story as I bundled the kids up, and they screamed in horror as they had to wear (gasp) snow pants!  And boots!  And something that's not a t-shirt!  Once they got outside, they enjoyed the snow for a few brief minutes until their litany of complaints were revealed - their hands were cold.  There was snow touching their pants.  The snow angel was being covered by falling snow.  One kid hit another with a snowball.  Crying ensued.  Retaliation took place.  More crying ensures.  And it was in that moment, on hour 1 of Snowzilla, that I made a conscious decision to abandon my January diet and bring back the alcohol.

I remember being snowbound during "Snowmageddon" back in 2010.  We had one child at that time - Braden was about 15 months old.  Sure, we were bored.  We were restless.  But we were calm.  We were at peace.

Such was not the case this past weekend.

The kids woke at 5:30 am on Saturday.  (Colin decided that would be the morning he would crawl out of his crib for the first time, by the way.).  I had a mild headache from the reintroduction of alcohol, and yet I had grand plans for the day.  We would break the day up into segments!  Karaoke hour!  Snow play hour!  Baking hour!  Art project hour!  Reading hour!  I'm not going to lie, I had anxiety about how we would pass the day, or most likely, days of being stuck in the house.

It was as if the kids could smell my fear.  Or perhaps the snow was giving off some weird energy - you know the kind that makes animals act all crazy when a weather front moves in?  Whatever it was, the kids were off the rails.  And while it isn't that rare that our house is engulfed by chaos, it isn't so often that we are homebound and jailed within its four walls.  With no possible escape.  For God knows how long.

Activity plans were abandoned, and the electronics were brought out.  Oh, and so were these, at 10 am 11am, ahem, noon:


Last Saturday was a long, long day.

But then, when Sunday came, it became clear that that would be another long day. And the next day too.  And the next.  Because the DC area pretty much SUCKS at clearing snow in the easiest of circumstances.  And with 30 inches of snow?  We were looking at a string of days to be homebound.

So when the time came to shovel, I was the first to volunteer.  I wouldn't even call it volunteering.  I would call it insisting.

I suited up.  I booted up.  I listened to my running mix and got myself pumped.  I brought with me a dirty martini, in a coffee thermos.  And I shoveled the shit out of that driveway.



It took me about 2 and a half hours.  During that time, my husband cooked dinner, fed the kids, and prepared them for bed.  I, on the other hand, finished said dirty martini, listened to awesome music, got in a great work out, and was one with nature.  The whole thing was incredibly relaxing. Especially given the alternative.

The Sunday night shoveling gave me a re-boot, and it's a good thing, because I needed it.  We were eventually freed from our home on Monday nights, but now, five days later, the roads are still horrific.  The public schools in our area have been closed all week.  And there is SO MUCH SNOW EVERYWHERE.



We are all looking forward to a weekend with no accumulation.  But if and when it comes again, I'll be ready with my shovel.  And my dirty martini in a thermos.




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Thursday, January 7, 2016

Schooling a "Seasoned" Mom

There was a week this past October that was particularly shitty for me.  First, my husband had a seizure while jogging.  A few days later, my grandmother died. Notwithstanding these events, I was holding it together surprisingly well.

Then, two days later, I got a call from my kids' school.  Casey, my 5 year old, had bitten a classmate.  And with that, I went over the edge.  The tears, the exhaustion, it all caught up with me.

I picked Casey and his big brother Braden up from school that afternoon and I was forcing myself to be calm.  Casey happily skipped into the car, finding it shockingly easy to forget the day's events, which included a talking to in the principal's office.

Once the boys had secured their seat belts, I pulled over in the school parking lot.  Casey, I said, Do you have something to tell me?  

Casey lowered his head and confessed.  I proceeded to calmly spell out his consequences - how he would be getting no dessert, no iPad privileges, no TV shows, and how he could never, ever, ever do this again, and how he needs to use his words, and blah blah blah, and all of a sudden I hear crying coming from the backseat and I look back, and it's not Casey.  It's Braden.  The 7 year old. Who has nothing to do with this incident.

Stop being mean to Casey!  Braden yelled.  You're such a mean mommy.  

Yeah, you are a mean mommy!  Casey echoed.

The insults were flung at me like a chorus - loud and with resolve.  I can't exactly recall what was said, because at a point I stopped listening.  I was about to defend myself - to put my kids back in their place, to yell at them at the preposterousness of the fact that I was the one who was the bad guy in this scenario, but I couldn't summon the energy.  I was done.  Done.  Done.  Done with my week.  Done with my kids.  Done with managing the day to day.

Friday, December 11, 2015

A Recurring Dream and a Plea for Support

Throughout my life, I've had several recurring dreams, most of which are pathetically typical.  The loose tooth dream, the I am enrolled in a college course I forgot to attend dream, the plane crashing dream (in which I never die).  But I've also had another recurring dream for the past two or so decades that is unique to me - it's one where I have a conversation with Elliott.

Elliott is my first cousin - my dad's sister's son.  We have always been very close with my aunt and her family, and have spent summers in Cape Cod with her since before I can remember.  She had kids later in life, so when she had her first adopted son, I was ten years old.  In an irony that is not all too rare, when she adopted her first son, she was actually pregnant with her second.  And approximately six months later, her second son, Elliott, came.

I was in love with both boys.  I was at the age where I was just beginning to feel maternal, and confident and cocky enough to "take care of them."  I changed diapers, I gave bottles, and I held them.  I remember my sister and I fighting vigorously over who got to hold the "bubba" first.

My sister and I with Bubba #1, David.  Check out those glasses!

Thankfully, there were two, so my sister and I could hand off.  I have vivid, clear memories of holding my cousin Elliott, the younger one.  He was so smiley, so happy, and made such good eye contact.  He was such a joyful baby.

Elliott at 6 months - happy, smiling, and looking right at me.
Thirty years later, I am haunted by these memories.  Because in a mere few years from the above photo being taken, Elliott wouldn't make eye contact anymore.  At age 3, he was diagnosed as autistic.

I was young, so I don't remember the details, but I do remember my dad telling me that they thought Elliott might be deaf, because he wasn't talking.  They were going to do some testing, and take him to doctors.  And some time after that, he received the devastating diagnosis.  I didn't really understand what that meant - back then, autism wasn't a mainstream diagnosis that one encountered, or worried about.  And really, if you have never seen an autistic person, how can you really know what it means?  For me, I learned about autism by being with Elliott, year after year.

At first it wasn't completely obvious.  Lots of kids don't talk, and lots of kids have tantrums.  But as Elliott got older, the diagnosis of autism began to take form.  He learned to talk, but would not engage in conversation.  He would not look anyone in the eye.  He would have complete meltdowns over the most random of things - bananas, cold water, loud noises.  As he grew taller and got acne and his voice grew deeper, his mental state lagged.  While his contemporaries were moving on to girls and friends and sports, Elliott still loved playing with toys and watching Barney.  And in any event, he had no interest in friends or girls.  As Elliott likes to say, he prefers a "party of one."  And now - at the age of 25 - he hasn't changed much.  The toys, the shows, the tantrums - the epic tantrums - they've all remained.

I can't even begin to imagine the struggles my aunt has gone through to raise Elliott and give him all of the care that he needs.  There are no breaks, no respites and no end ever in sight.  Elliott requires constant care and supervision, and my aunt has devoted her life to making sure he receives only the best.  She has endured a divorce, a lawsuit against the state to get Elliott the care he is entitled to, and countless aides/teachers/therapists in and out of her home on a constant basis for the last quarter of a century; not to mention the hundreds of thousands she has spent on his therapy and care.  Her life revolves around Elliott - plain and simple.

But through it all, she loves him more than life itself.  And so does our family.  Some of our favorite all time stories are ones we call "Elliotisms."  Ones where he would pick food off a stranger's plate at a restaurant, where he would walk past kids on the dock in the pond and push them off (!), where he would blow out other people's birthday candles (including mine!), and where he would eat 10 Dunkin Donuts in one sitting.  We've all learned the lesson that if you don't laugh, you'll cry.  And Elliott can be pretty hysterical and charming.

The amazing thing about Elliott is that there is more to him than meets the eye.  He is smart - crazy smart, in that weird savant kind of way (give him a date, he'll give you a day of the week).  He is emotional - he used to be obsessed with weddings, and took home a copy of my wedding video and watched it over and over again.  And whenever I see him, he hugs me.  Mostly out of obligation - he has been taught how to be polite and how to mimic social customs, but I also know he cares about me and feels comfortable in my presence.  For Elliott, that's a small circle, and I feel privileged to be a part of it.

And then there's the recurring dream... The one where Elliott and I have a conversation.  I never can recollect what the conversation is about, so I don't think it's ever been something super deep.  But that feeling of able to connect with him - to talk to him, to make eye contact him, to understand him... I do yearn for that.  So I suppose that's why I have dreamed about him so often, for so long.

As my aunt gets older, the inevitable questions arise.  What will become of Elliott when my aunt is gone?  I won't even get into detail about the pathetic state of services for adults with autism, but suffice it to say they don't exist.  And so, as my aunt has done for all of Elliott's life, she is taking things into her own hands.

A couple of years ago, my aunt founded the Greengard Center for Autism, in an effort to address the needs of autistic adults.  Located in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the center offers a day program (and soon to be residential program) for young adults with autism to receive ongoing education, access to recreation, a social community, and opportunities to find meaningful work.

My aunt has recently leased a property for the center, but it is in desperate need of renovations. She has started a Go Fund Me campaign to help cover some of the costs.

I've always made it a point not to use my blogs as a means to plea for solicitations, for whatever cause, but for this I need to make an exception.  This may be a small center, in Portsmouth New Hampshire, for a handful of autistic adults.  But what it stands for is so much more - autistic adults need services, assistance, and support.  And now, the autism epidemic is coming to a head.  All of those children diagnosed in the past 25 years - 1 in 68 (1 in every 42 boys) - they will all become adults.  As a community, and as a society, it's our job to ensure they are taken care of - because their parents will not be here forever to take care of them.  My aunt's hope and dream is that this center will serve as a model for other communities across the country (and world).

Look, the world is crap these days.  ISIS and guns and a fascist Republican presidential hopeful. But if you are willing, a donation to this campaign - no matter how small- will make a real difference.

Elliott, my aunt, and my whole family thank you!


My aunt and Elliott, at our house this past Thanksgiving.

Here's the link to the Go Fund Me Page - https://www.gofundme.com/greengardcenter

Update: Thank you so much for your generous donations!  My family and I are truly humbled.  In an effort to ramp things up, the person in the DC area who donates the most gets a night out for cocktails with me (drinks on me!).  You can email me at butidohavealawdegree@gmail.com with your donation amount and email address.  AND THANK YOU!!!

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Friday, December 4, 2015

My Greatest Indulgence

When I was considering whether or not to have a third child, I viewed it as a bit presumptuous.  Like asking for too much.  I already had two amazing, healthy children that I loved more than anything - was it too bold to ask for one more?  Was I being too indulgent?

I didn't think that way when considering my first two kids.  I supposed that's because I always knew I would have two children - for no real reason, really, other than the fact that that is what I just always viewed as "normal."   Considering a third seemed like a grand deviation - a rejection of the nuclear 2 sibling family with which I was brought up in, and with what I had always envisioned for myself.

But then there's that saying that every woman knows when her quiver is full, and part of me knew that mine just wasn't.  Ultimately there came a time, when my second was around 2 years old, that I felt ready.  I knew someone was missing.  I just didn't know that that person would be a blonde haired, blue eyed boy named Colin.  Who just turned 2 years old.


From the moment I set my eyes on him, I knew that I had not in fact been presumptuous.  This baby was not asking for too much.  He was not just a bonus.  He was his own person, meant to be my child.  I knew upon meeting him that my life would never again be complete without him, and that he filled a huge gaping hole that I never even knew existed.

Hanging out with him these past two years has been one of the greatest experiences of my life.

It's been an experience distinct from my years as a mother prior to him arriving.  The fact is, I'm a different mom to Colin than I was to his older brothers - in good and bad ways.  Like the quintessential third child, I don't take as many pictures, I have yet to complete his baby book, and I really couldn't tell you when he got his first tooth or took his first step.  But in a weird way, this is refreshing - I don't do these things because I've learned the important lesson that memorializing a moment isn't as important as experiencing it.  And so instead of documenting his days, I enjoy his days - present in each one, having also learned the lesson that time goes by painfully fast.  

I am incredibly laid back, sometimes to a fault.  I don't sweat it if Colin doesn't eat his vegetables or misses a nap, and when he takes a tumble I don't gasp in panic.  He can eat dirt or sand or paper products without me being overly concerned.  When I picked him up from the gym childcare last week, I didn't lose my shit when I realized he was drinking a bottle of someone else's breast milk. And if he wakes up in the middle of the night, I don't freak out about bringing him to our bed and creating bad habits.  I relish the time I get to rock him to sleep, for I know our time for this is short.

Colin doesn't get as much attention as his older brothers did at his age, but as a result he is incredibly independent.  He roams freely throughout the house, and at times I actually can't find him (something that would have made me pass out with my first child).  Generally I find him playing with trains in the basement, trying on his brothers' clothing, or in his room, reading a book.

Photo courtesy of Darcy Troutman Photography
Photo courtesy of Darcy Troutman Photography
Of course, I do harbor some third child guilt.  When we have mornings free, I tend to go to the gym and put him in the childcare, rather than take him to the park.  His life revolves around our lives - hanging out during the older boys' activities, or tagging along with me on errands - rather than the reverse, as it had been particularly with my first born.  The fact that his birthday blog post is three weeks late is indicative of how his needs tend to take the backseat to the demands of his grade school brothers, and my hectic life.

For his birthday a few weeks ago, I decided to make the day all about him.  After we dropped his brothers off at school, we went to Turtle Park - a park I used to take my oldest to almost daily when he was a toddler.  I don't think Colin had ever been there before.

We had a wonderful day- just him and I.







A few days later, we had a birthday party.  It was smaller than the 2nd birthday parties we had for his two older brothers - by this time, we had learned our lesson regarding 2 year old birthday parties (because what 2 year old has friends and what 2 year old is ever going to remember?).  But in many ways, it was more special.  We celebrated with cousins and aunts and uncles and close friends.  We celebrated Colin.


As a parent I still haven't figured out how much of my kids' personalities are nature or nurture, but all I can say is that this boy is the happiest kid I have ever met.  He is always smiling, always giggling, always enjoying life.  I mean, the kid cracks up laughing every time he sees a bird.  Every. single. time.

The notion that we might have stopped at 2 seems inconceivable, and would have been tragic. Because this boy brings joy to anyone and everyone around him.  Especially me.

Photo courtesy of Darcy Troutman Photography
I am head over heels in love with this third baby of mine - this baby we never thought we would have, but were destined to.  I can't wait to see who he's going to be.

Happy 2nd birthday, my baby boy.

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Thursday, November 19, 2015

To Run

This past weekend I ran a half marathon.

It isn't so odd to hear that these days.  It seems anyone and everyone has hopped on the marathon band wagon.  Young people, old people, skinny people, heavy people....  everyone and their mother has run a marathon (sometimes together).

But for me, this was a really, really big deal.

Running a marathon (or a half of one) used to be something I joked about whilst tipsy over cocktails. Yeah, lets run a marathon!  I would proclaim, full well knowing it wasn't true and finding the whole thing a bit humorous.  Running a long distance was not something I was interested in doing, and certainly not something I would enjoy.  Besides, isn't it arbitrary?  13.1 miles, 26.2 miles - why? Why not just run a mile or two and call it a day?  It seemed cultish almost - why engage in an activity that hurts your joints and your knees and makes you exhausted?  Surely there are better ways to spend one's time.

But then something weird happened last spring.  I was starting to get into shape, while at the same time going through an existential crisis of sorts.  We had moved into a new house.  My baby wasn't so much a baby anymore, and we knew there were no more kids to come.  For the first time in a long time, I started to think about myself again and who I was and what I wanted to do when I grow up.  I also was not getting any younger, and for the first time in my life I was starting to see it - in gray hairs, in fine lines, in sheer exhaustion.

I needed to shake things up.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Lawyers are the Best Disney World Planners

Last month we took yet another trip to Disney World.  We are those people.  We go to far too often, and yes, we even went prior to having children.  It's fake and commercial and overpriced and lacking in culture and we all absolutely love it.


I've been going to Disney World every year or two for my whole life, so I know how it all works.  We used to book our flights and hotels with short notice and do little to no planning (my mom was known to book a Disney trip the day before - literally).  But in recent years, due in large part to the expansion of the hotels and the advent of the the smart phone and the internet and all that other stuff they call "technology," it isn't so easy to just hope on a plane, go to Disney World, and actually have a good time.  

Now, months of planning are involved.  People book their dining reservations 180 days in advance. Really.  They do.  I know this because I have waited until 9am 180 days in advance (instead of staying up until midnight), and I still was not able to book dinner at Be Our Guest restaurant.  People also book up to 3 rides per day up to 60 days in advance - this is called a fast pass where you get a certain time slot to go on a ride of your choosing.  This means that two months before your vacation, you have to decide what park you want to go to, and where exactly you want to be at a given time, on a certain day.  The popular rides are booked up immediately.  And if you don't have a fast pass, by noon the ride lines are exorbitant - at the time I am writing this (at 1:30pm on Thursday), the line for the Toy Story Ride at Hollywood Studios is 105 minutes (the Disney app updates wait times every minute or so).  And the hotels are a whole other story - if you want to stay onsite (especially on the monorail), good luck booking last minute during a popular time.

If you don't pre-plan, and you just show up at Disney World with no game plan or strategy, your time there will suck.  You will wait in line for food, for rides, and sweat in 90+ degree heat and high humidity.  You will be trapped by a parade coming down Main Street as you are trying to leave, you will walk needless miles from ride to ride, you will wait for what seems like an eternity for the transportation buses, and you will judge people like me that say it's the happiest place on earth.  

I am not one to brag, but here it is - I rock at planning Disney vacations.  And though part of it stems from my many trips there over the years, the other part comes from an unlikely source - my law degree.  

People often ask if I "use" my law degree at all in my non-practicing life.  To debate with people, to analyze scholarly articles, to negotiate with service providers.  The answer is no.  I hate talking politics, I prefer reading People magazine, and I tend to avoid confrontation.  But for Disney planning?  Hell yeah, I use the skills I learned from being a lawyer.  This is discussed in sections 1, 2, and 3, infra.

Thursday, October 29, 2015

In an Instant

A few years ago I read Joan Didion's memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, which chronicles her struggles the year after the sudden death of her husband.  In it, she details how her husband collapsed and had a massive heart attack right before her eyes, while they were sitting at the kitchen table having dinner.

"Life changes fast.  Life changes in an instant.  You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends," she wrote.  

That quote struck me enough to stick with me, some three years later.  And this past weekend, it was one of the things I first thought of when in a mere instant, my life changed as well.

One minute my husband was running on the Canal tow path, getting in an 11 mile run before our half marathon in a few weeks.  The next minute, he was flat on the pavement, being awoken by an EMT asking him if he could remember his name or address.

Who knows how long he had been lying there?  Assuming someone found him instantly, called 911, and then another ten or fifteen minutes for the ambulance to get there - 20 minutes?  Twenty minutes of him seizing, and then lying lifeless on the pavement, bloodied and bruised.  Fast asleep.

When I received the call from the ambulance I was lying in bed with my five year old - encouraging him to leave me alone and watch his movie so I could nap.  I was looking forward to a lazy afternoon and an evening of entertaining friends at our house.  And with that call - in that instant, it all changed.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was lying in bed with my son with Aladdin playing in the background, my husband was lying alone, having a grand mal seizure on a gravel path, and a stranger was summoning help.

How could that be?  How could I not know?

I in turn summoned my village.  I texted my close friends and asked whoever received it to call immediately.  Two minutes later I had arranged to drop off my kids, and a few minutes after that my sister had arranged to pick them up later and bring them back to my house, should I be at the hospital overnight.    I arrived at the hospital shortly after that, with my husband conscious, but confused, and so began the medical jargon.  CT scans and EKGs and blood sugar levels and anything and everything and it all came out normal.

My husband had never had a seizure before, so this was all new to both of us.  And in yet another circumstance, I was reminded that although modern medicine is incredible, in other aspects doctors don't know anything, and can't answer the most important of questions.

Why did this happen?  Will it happen again? 

Don't know, don't know.

There are practical implications.  For one, my husband can no longer drive, at least for the time being.  This is a huge inconvenience, but not insurmountable, and we will make due.  We are lucky that we live in an area with a vast network of public transportation, and that someone invented uber.

There are the big questions.  Seeing Daddy walk in the house bloodied and bruised after a visit to the hospital was unnerving for my two older kids.  We have reassured them that Daddy is fine, but my seven year old seems anxious and knows something larger is amiss.

There's the fear of the unknown.  Of why and how and what the future holds and what we should do about it.

There's the introspection.  This incident has reminded me that life is short, life is unpredictable, and life can change in an instant.  It's made me ponder life and death and how we're all just our bodies and our brains, and how weird and bizarre is that?  It reminded me of a quote from a book I, coincidentally, just read: "Do No Harm: Stories of Life, Death, and Brain Surgery," a memoir of the career of a neurosurgeon.  He writes:

"In neuroscience it is called 'the binding problem' - the extraordinary fact, which nobody can even begin to explain, that mere brute matter can give rise to consciousness and sensation."  

That brute matter - our consciousness - our brain- how can it just turn off?  Or fire uncontrollably? How can it make a 34 year old man who is jogging fall flat on his face, to the ground, unconscious, in an instant, and jerk uncontrollably?   There's a scientific explanation that my rational mind can understand.  But yet, deep down it's mystifying and unreal and not something I can grasp.

Lastly, there's the gratitude.  That he's okay and home and well and that things could be much, much worse. There's an indebtedness I feel to the random strangers who found him on the ground, who stopped, who called 911, and who stayed there until the paramedics arrived.

Who are these people?  My husband has a vague recollection of people looking on as he was carried off by a stretcher, but no memory of who they were or what they looked like.  How odd that complete strangers can play such a large role in a pivotal moment of your life, and then you never see them again?

Both my husband and I would like to find these people to thank them.  So, for people in the Maryland/DC/Virginia area, if you wouldn't mind forwarding this post around, we would greatly appreciate it.  The incident happened on Saturday, October 24th around 1pm on the Canal Tow Path, near Carderock.

Overall, my husband is fine, I am fine, we are fine.  We are happy.  We are normal.  We are going forward.  It's just another one of life's many twists and turns, and there's nothing to do but go with it with a smile.

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Where He Comes From

From the time he was born - five years ago, my baby boy Casey has been unique.

For the first few weeks of his life, his left ear would droop - the cartilage hadn't hardened yet.  He looked a little like an elf.  A cute, adorable elf.


His ear eventually became normal, save for a little indentation, that almost looks like a nibble on the side.  I like to think that it's from me kissing his ears so much.

Casey, unlike his older brother, was a skinny baby.  Long and skinny, with little frog legs.


As opposed to this:

Casey's chubby healthy older brother.  
Given the contrast with his brother, and his little elf ear, when Casey arrived, many would comment, "Where did this baby come from?"

To this day, five years later, we still get that comment often, and I have to say, I love it - I love it because it means Casey is different; Casey is unique; Casey is extraordinary.   And that he is.

We get that comment in response to his appearance.  His older and younger brother look nearly identical to each other.  Casey, the middle child, is his own version.  He is nearly as tall as his 7 year old brother, and has petite facial features, unlike his round cheeked baby brother.

Casey as Batman.
His personality is also in stark contrast to his brothers'.  His older and younger brothers both love to be the center of attention - they love to yell, to be heard, to flirt with that coy little boy smile. Casey, on the other hand, is quiet.  More often than not, he'll have his thumb in his mouth and simply nod in response to a question.  When he does talk, it is often as soft as a whisper, and you have to ask him to speak up.  People that don't know him tend to pass over him, which is their loss.  Because Casey is the funniest, wittiest, smartest, quirkiest kid that ever was.  I mean, just check out his artwork from school:

Duh.
He may not be verbose, but from the time Casey was a baby, he was physically adept.  He talked late, but walked early, and he hasn't stopped moving ever since.  When watching TV, you can usually find him hanging upside down, jumping from couch cushion to coffee table, or some permutation of the two.  He's had more injuries and ER visits than my other two kids combined.

March 2013- ER visit who knows what for stitches
His physical feats have translated into a real athleticism which is a huge shocker.  There is no one in our immediate, or extended family for that matter, who is athletic.  We just didn't give our kids good genes in the coordination department.  As a result, we also aren't really sports fans.  So the fact that Casey is a soccer star and obsessed with basketball and football and anything with some sort of ball or scoreboard or timer is beyond me.  My husband and I even find ourselves asking, Where did this kid come from?

He got this for his birthday and refused to take it off.  
We ask that question existentially, because in fact, I do know where he came from.  He came directly from me.  Exactly five years ago.


I fell in love with him five years ago and the more I discover who he is, the deeper I fall.


I love that he is different.  I love that he is his own person.  I love that he is quirky and funny and reserved and loud and confident and the best cuddler in the world.  I love that he surprises us everyday with who he is, and I can't wait to see who he becomes.  Because it's sure to be awesome.

Happy 5th birthday to my baby boy, Casey.  I couldn't be prouder.

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Monday, October 5, 2015

Double Dipping

My 7 year old introduced a new term to the family last week, when we were talking about how his little brother is about to turn 2 - "double dipping."  In his words, "Double dipping is when you feel two feelings at once.  Like how I feel about Colin - I'm excited for him to grow up and play with me, but I'm sad because he won't be a baby anymore.  I feel both things."

Double dipping.  Probably the best thing he has learned in school thus far.

Double dipping was on my mind when I exchanged some texts this weekend with one of my dearest friends.  She is pregnant with her first child, and due in just three weeks time.  She was describing her angst with the last few weeks of pregnancy - her eagerness to get the baby out, her nervousness about how exactly she will do that, her stress about childcare and maternity leave, and all of those things that occupy your mind when you're in that final stretch.  At one point during our conversation, I sat with the phone on my lap, closed my eyes, and smiled - remembering.

"I am jealous of you and so glad I am not you at the same time," I wrote.

It's a weird thing to say, but so incredibly true.  I feel both emotions deeply.

I am jealous of her because she is experiencing something that one only experiences once - the first time.  The first pregnancy, the first delivery, the first baby.  I think back to August of 2008, when I was in my last month of pregnancy with my first child.  I was huge, I was uncomfortable, and I had no idea what was coming to me.  How could I have?

I love the innocence that I had - the nervousness, the apprehension, the excitement.  I was about to experience a transformation that I intellectually knew was coming, but could not fathom in a spiritual sense.  And spiritual it was - after three hours of pushing, I came face to face with my baby and literally could not believe he was real.  It was the most incredible moment of my life.  For all three of my children, I can remember with clarity what their faces looked like the first time we locked eyes. There was disbelief and the purest of joy each time.

I am jealous of her because she will have a newborn - a time I now recognize as terribly fleeting.  I can filter through memories to the precious, cherished ones, with all of my three children as infants. The way they smell, the way they purse their lips when they are done nursing, the way they stay all scrunchy and cuddly and almost purr in the crease of your neck.  The way they are connected in a primal way to you, how they fit perfectly in your arms and on your chest and how their breath and yours almost feels like one and the same.

I remember amazement and wonder and joy and so much love.  What I wouldn't give to experience it again - to relive it over and over.

But then there's the other side.  The side where I am so glad I am not in her shoes.

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

My Netflix Binge for the Month - Narcos

It's been a while since I've had a good Netflix binge.  And by binge, I mean watching episode after episode like a drug addict.  It's not too late - I can watch just one more.  Just one more!  (And then around 2am I finally go to sleep).  

I've done the binge with several excellent series on Netflix:  Orange is the New Black (all 3 seasons), Breaking Bad (all 5 seasons), House of Cards (all 3 seasons), and The Walking Dead (all 5 seasons), among others.  When I'm in, I'm in.  It generally takes over my life for as many days as it takes to watch the season (which I usually do in record time), and my husband has learned accept the fact that he will be ignored until I'm done.  

It's not a healthy way to spend time, to be sure, but it's oh so fun.  It's relaxing and mindless and entertaining.  This past month, when I was immersed in Whole 30 madness, I needed the distraction. Thank you, Netflix, for giving me Narcos.


Narcos is a Netflix produced drama series based on the life of Pablo Escobar.  Embarrassing fact - I didn't know who Pablo Escobar was.  I mean, I kind of knew.  Some drug king pin from the the 80s? I had no idea about his story or his rise or his fall or his impact on Colombia (and the world).

It's one of those stories that seems too bizarre to be true.  And notwithstanding the inherent dramatizations, the bulk of the story portrayed in the series is actually true.  I know this, because I found myself googling throughout each episode.  That can't really be true.  No kidding?  It is true.  

The story follows Escobar from his humble beginnings to drug lord to his virtual hijacking of the country of Colombia.  In the process, he became the 7th richest person in the world (in 1989), and subsequently ran and was elected to public office.  When his drug connections were made public, he was forced to resign, and subsequently waged war on Colombia - bombing airplanes, assassinating politicians, and holding prominent figures hostage (including the daughter of the former president of Colombia, who was killed).  Ultimately, he turned himself into the authorities and went to prison, but it wasn't just any prison.  It was a prison that he built for himself, where he was the only inmate, and Colombian authorities weren't allowed on the premises.  (Picture gambling, women, a soccer field.).  When Colombian authorities eventually stormed the "prison" (because two people visiting were murdered there), Escobar went on the run.  He was killed approximately 18 months later, after authorities were able to track him via his cell phone.  

Already knowing the history of Pablo Escobar doesn't make the series any less compelling.  In fact, the first season doesn't end at the "end," which allows a second season to follow, and will presumably end the way we all know it ends.  But the events were so unbelievable that watching them play out is fascinating.  It also does the really weird thing of, at times, making you root for the bad guy (a la Breaking Bad).  At certain points, my emotions got confused and I found myself questioning who is good and who is bad and if that determination can ever really mean anything. The mark of good television - it makes you think.  

As an aside, right after finishing Season 1 of Narcos, I decided to watch a documentary featuring Pablo Escobar's son, called Sins of my Father (also streaming on Netflix).  In it, Escobar's son tries to make amends with the children of two government officials whom Escobar assassinated decades.  Not only did it give a different perspective of the events portrayed in the series, but it was also strangely uplifting to see the power of forgiveness.  

Netflix has renewed Narcos for a second season (yay!), but there's no release date yet.  In the meantime, anyone have any books to recommend about Pablo Escobar?  I'm weirdly obsessed!

#StreamTeam

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Disclosure: I received a free iPad as compensation for being part of the Netflix StreamTeam.  All opinions reflected are my own.  


 
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