MASH

Remember that game from elementary school called MASH? It stood for Mansion, Apartment, Shack and House. You listed off things like three guys, three jobs, three cities, and three numbers and count. When your gamer says stop, the number that you've gotten to is the way you eliminate your options until you are left with a fortune that tells your future. I am pretty sure I was going to marry Chuck Mowder (my 4th grade boyfriend), live in a house in Chicago, work as a vet and have 2 kids. Is it just me, or would you kill for such a easy way to tell you what to do with your life? Hmmm... who do I marry? I know... MASH will tell me and then its a done deal.

This comes up because I went out with my girls last night. Homa, Sandra (yes, the one that was my friend, then wasn't my friend is back in the group...yay), Laura, Lori and Homa's sister Zain hit the local neighborhood joint and got into a discussion about Homa's love life. Without getting into details, the gist is that she is with a dude that her family may not approve of. He's not Mr. Perfect (who is???) and they are at the point where its... uh... poop or get off the pot. But, how do you know it's time to poop or time to get off the pot?

We all had our theories. Laura wanted Homa to know that marriage sucks. Sucks, sucks, sucks. She's been married for 20 years (happily-ish) and its hard. Hard. Hard. Hard. So you have to have a serious foundation of extreme love in order to make it work. So, her theory was that Homa better be pretty darn sure that love foundation is there because otherwise, when her marriage crumbles around her, they won't be able to pick up the peices. Have I ever told you that Laura is our nicest and typically more upbeat friend? Hmmm. Lori is big on Homa understanding that you can't change your man (not that Lori would ever need to. If anything we sit there and say... poor Jeff. Poor, poor, poor Jeff). Homa's dude is who he is, and you have to accept him as he is today. If he improves himself in the future, great... but if he stays exactly the same as he is today... you have to be ready to spend the rest of your life with that version of your guy. Sandra said to ignore the pressure. She, too, has felt marital pressure before and it is easy to get sucked into doing things that you know in your heart of hearts isn't right... but you feel like you've passed the point of no return. Zain just said no. But, I sit and wonder... how do we know? Plenty of relationships (mine included) look completely nutty to the outside world, but that doesn't mean the two involved don't get it? But then again, how can you see everything you need to see when you are the ones directly involved?

Homa asked me once how I knew Mark was the one. I cannot articulate an answer. I didn't doodle his name in my notebook and I sure didn't get my future from a paper game. But, I just knew (although I question it on a regular basis). How do you pick between a family that you've had forever and a man that you love, but is so new in comparison? Do you take that leap of faith? And if you do, how do you know that Mr. Right wasn't shopping at the sushi counter of your neighborhood grocery store, but you weren't there because you were wedding dress shopping because Mr. Right Now proposed and the possibility of being alone forever outweighed whether or not this guy is right for you? How do you know that just because he is your polar opposite in every way doesn't mean that his opposite traits were meant to strengthen you in the same way your qualities were meant to strengthen him? I guess the question is... how do you know?

Clean and Cute... A Distant Memory

Before I had kids, I was at lunch with a bunch of girls from work, and at the next table were two moms that I just could not understand. They came in dressed in sweatpants and stained t-shirts. They covered the highchairs in plastic stick-on place mats (at least they cared a little about cleanliness although I would be more concerned with the bio hazards on their clothes than the germs on the chairs), and ordered themselves margaritas the size of Texas. Then they proceeded to frown and volley their haggard child-induced depression across the table to one another while shoveling chips and salsa into their mouths at lightening speed. My group and I watched the women and laughed (behind their backs of course. We are nothing if not polite in our rudeness and judgements). Two of us freshly married and expecting kids sometime the future, and we knew that we would never be "that kind of mom." But, I realized today that I am just one jumbo margarita away from those two women. (Damn... why doesn't that place deliver?)

Let me take you on a tour of the ghettosville that is my current world. First, let's just say that I am not looking pretty. Ok, so I am still in my jamas, so that doesn't count, but yesterday I wore jeans and a t-shirt and spent the whole day pining for sweats. I don't actually wear the sweats yet, but I sit back and wish that I could. Really... I thought about it a lot. How comfy I would be. How durable I would be. Those tiny little thoughts creeped into my mind. They called to me. "Lynn.... wear me. Put me on. You're a stay home mom.... I am your uniform." I didn't do it, but you know I will give in some day. Maybe today. And, for the record... I am not the only one on the decline. Mark yesterday welcomed James into our house in a completely shredded Hawaiian shirt. I watched him hold Jack while talking to Dr. James and his nipple was showing. I divert my eyes and see his hairy shoulder and lily-white belly playing peek-a-boo too. At least my shirt is intact... albeit wrinkled and spattered with Diet Coke and Jack's breakfast.

Now, let me tell you about my house. First...background info. I bought a house before I had kids. I bought a house before I had a Mark. It was mine. It was cute. I had cute furniture, and decor. Pictures on walls, paint colors that were great, knickknacks... and not kitty statuettes, but real adult stuff that looked great. My house was complimented every time someone came over. It was contemporary, stylish, fun. Now if someone can even utter a compliment with a straight face, rest assured... its fake.

Picture my current epitome of style... in my family room, we have wood floors, but the trim keeps coming lose. So, we have one straightaway with hardened glue as the trim. Oh yes, and its been like that for months. Enter my kitchen where a light bulb has been out for months, and my dog peed on my front entryway rug this morning. Two pictures from the hall are broken, so they now live in the garage (and have for years) and don't get me started on the teeny tiny ants that are devouring my kitchen counters as we speak. My walls are scratched, chipped, nicked, banged, gouged and generally ripped up and I just walk past it, ignoring the water marks on the ceiling and the nail pops that probably spell out "money pit" in Braille above my head. And my bedroom... my sanctuary... my headboard is hanging crooked, the wallpaper doesn't match anything (because it was God awful when we bought the house and what I determined would be number one on my priority list has never been changed) and our treadmill hasn't worked since the day it was carried up those freaking stairs (which have a two story ceiling with more cobwebs than a deserted ghost town. And while you run screaming from my mad house, be careful not to get tangled in our screen door which is only hanging on by a thread and functions way better as a dog flap than an actual door. Jealous, yes?

Soul Mates or Sole Mate?

For some reason, the term "soul mate" has come up a lot recently. There is Governor Yayhoo of South Carolina who said he'd like to make it work with his wife, but in the same breath admitted his mistress was his soul mate. And, before that, my friend Homa (while contemplating her love life) asked me if I thought Mark was my soul mate. Luckily, I swallowed my soda before I spewed Diet Coke all over the phone in my laughter. Mark is a lot of things, but soul mate? I dunno. There is even a Sex in the City episode about looking for a man to fulfill that title. But, as the fab four concluded, I just am not sure its possible.

Last night Mark and I had a pretty long convo about our relationship. Neither one of us was 100% happy, and at times, I think we both settled for roughly 50/50. So, we talked about what we both wanted the other to do to get us back on track. While having that discussion, the soul mate question came up again, if only in my mind. I laughed at the Governor who readily admitted his wife was not his soul mate and considered him the dumbest man on Earth, but then realized, I don't think Mark is mine either. (Although, neither is some Latin love God in Argentina. Dammit.) But, I don't think that is necessarily a bad thing (at least in our case).

I don't know exactly who my soul mate is. Or if it is limited to just one person. In some regard, it is probably my mom. I know, dork - party of one. I probably talk to her more than any person on the planet, and topics range from kid antics to hair dye to money issues to... well, any random thing on my mind at that moment. Lucky gal! Then there are my girls. My Homa, Laura and Lori who also get the brunt of my insanity. But, unlike Mark, they know how to deal with it. If I am having a problem, they say the right things... even when those things are "Lynn, you're being stupid so leave Mark alone."

I don't think that Mark and I have a bad relationship just because I wouldn't call him a soul mate. I can't call him and discuss the inner sanctum of girl world like muffin tops (because he would say "what flavor") or my lack of self worth in my current uh... occupation (because he says that I do "the most important job in the world" and while that is the appropriate canned response and I know he believes it... its still not what I want to hear), and God knows I can't come to him with issues about... well... him. But, I think the key is knowing that I can and will come to him about the "us" stuff, and knowing that going to others about the "other stuff" will hopefully keep us afloat.

Oh, and knowing that my soul mates are all chicks and not Fernando is pretty safe, too. Dammit!

Will went into the water...

We are in Kansas City, land of my youth, visiting my brother. Today, we went to a really cool petting zoo/farmstead and for the bargain price of zero dollars and zero cents, you are in the door to warm and smelly goats, pigs, ponies, chickens and all that petting zoo loveliness. For the insanely reasonable price of $10 a person, you get a ride on a pony, a horse-drawn wagon ride, a chance to feed a baby goat with a bottle, a fishing pole rental and something else I don't remember, but I am sure is fabulous. Will rode the wagon and loved it. Will rode some pedal tractors and loved it. Will went into the farmhouse and flew down the slides and... you guessed it... he loved it. Then, it was fishing time.

We rented a cane pole and it took three people to bait the hook. Mike tried. I tried. Finally my mom schooled us on appropriate worming techniques. She channelled her dad on that one. Grandpa was a fisherman, and we reminisced about catching Blue Gill with him while Will threw out his line. First cast and his worm was gone instantly. Second worm... second cast... and Will caught his first fish. It was a Blue Gill and a fat one. He grinned as it flopped on the line. He posed for a picture and the fish twisted off the hook almost as soon as the picture was snapped. Mark dove for the fish to get it back in the water... Will freaked that the fish was flopping on the dock outstretched over the center of the fishing pond and within a nanosecond both the fish and Will went into the water. Splash. Silence. Panic.

Will had backed up to the rope railing and over the edge he went. Will can't swim. Will disappeared into the deep, murky water. I can still see his feet disappearing into the darkness. Will was gone.

Splash.

Uncle Mike was in the water before anyone else reacted. As Will's splash resettled back onto the top of the pond Mike uttered "oh shit" and went in. It took only seconds and Mike held Will above the surface for Mark to grab from his arms. I don't know if I moved. I don't think I breathed. But, I know when I saw Will break through the water into the air all I could do is scream "Get my baby! Get my baby!" When Will was safely and soggy in my arms I breathed and said "get my brother! Get my brother!" who was then struggling to pull himself from the depths and back onto the dock. I held Will and I cried. I don't know where I was going, but I picked him up and carried him to a seat and I sobbed. I don't cry. I don't sob. But, I felt like my life almost ended in that 30 second experience. I held him and I cried. I caressed his hair and I sobbed. I bawled like a baby as I ran through all of the "what could have beens." I type this out, hours later, and the tears spill out again at the thought of what tonight could have been. What I could be typing. How I would even be existing if that dark water swallowed him and didn't give him back? My world would have ended today. My world could have ended today. Will went into the water, and I felt like I was drowning, if only for a few seconds. I couldn't breathe.

I can hear Will in the bathtub right now. Uncle Mike, Daddy and Jack in the bathroom playing and talking and splashing. I hear a splash from down the hall and I think of the splash from this afternoon. And I cry.

Its All In The Name...

I realize that Bernie Madoff is scum. I recognize that he is the criminal and had hundreds of victims that will no longer be able to afford their bentley (and I don't mean my dog) and their kids may not be granted reality shows to depict how truly disgusting their lives are (yes Spencer Pratt, I mean you). Oh how they suffer. And, I am sure some people really are suffering. But, a little reality check here... would you really give your life savings to a man named Madoff? As in "Yes, I made off with your life savings?"

Let's pretend his name was Robin U. Blind. Would you let Robin have all your pennies that you worked (and by work, I mean either married into and/or inherited from someone who really did work at some point) so hard for? Maybe if his name was Mun E. Maker, I would understand the level of trust people put in this guy, but Madoff? Really???

There was once an arson suspect in Indiana named Burns. Uh duh. Guilty. Handing over millions to a guy named Madoff??? Hmmm.....

RIP Michael Jackson

I am not really a big Michael fan. I love the Jackson Five, and 80's Michael was pretty good. "We are the World" still rocks and I did an interpretive dance in 8th grade to "Black and White." I don't know if he molested kids, and I do think he was a kook. But, he was an icon. An icon of my childhood and my adulthood. Other people have had icons die. Farrah wasn't my generation. Neither was Paul Newman. But Michael was mine. I didn't understand you, but the talent hidden under the oxygen masks and behind plastic surgery gone wrong... to lose that is tragic. Only 50 years old.

Goodbye, Michael. I hope you find the peace in death that you certainly didn't get in life.

I am a mother...

Mark takes the kids to the park almost every evening after dinner. It gives me time to clean up, and if I am really lucky, time to sit on the couch for half a second and just breathe. Today, they went marching out the door while I stood at the sink rinsing our marinara spotted plates, and I heard a shriek. Seconds later in walks Mark carrying both boys because Will wiped out in our garage. He bellowed "mmmmaaaammmmaaa" while choking back sobs and gasping for breath. Rest assured, he is fine. He didn't even break the skin, which makes today a good day, because no skinned knees is a rarity in this house. But, it did take me aback for a moment because I realized... I am a mother.

That thought did occur to me twice before. Once when they pulled Will from my womb and a second time when it was Jack's turn to be yanked out. But, after that... not really. I know I have kids (don't call the men in white coats just yet), but on a daily basis I feel more babysitter-esque. Just feed, clothe, rinse, repeat. Three times daily. Keep them alive in between. Check. But, when Will's shrill "mama" echoed through the house, I realized it was directed at me. I was mama. I could heal him.

I don't walk on water, but man... its pretty close. To be the mother of a young child is the closest thing to God on this planet. Luckily there are lots of us, so it doesn't go to our heads. But, we are magical. He is hurt and my lips heal him. He wants a cuddle and time stands still in mama's arms. Someone is mad at him and my words repair the damage. And, when he is wrong... my arms absolve him of his sins. He cried tonight until I kissed his wounds and hallelujah, he is cured. I am a mother. Weird.