Filed under Lemons …

Sep 23 2012
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Family, Health & Exercise, Lemons, Me, Myself and I, My Boys, Parenting

Immunoglobulin A Deficiency and Sinuplasty and Tonsillectomy, Oh My!

For years Bop has been one of those “sick kids.” When he was very young he seemed to catch all of the colds at his daycare center. When he was two, he had ear tubes put in. The day of his surgery was, by far, my hardest day of parenting. Unbeknownst to us, Bop had so much fluid in his ears that he had 60-70% (temporary) hearing loss. As soon as he came out of surgery, he could hear like he’d probably never heard before. And he freaked the F out. I was genuinely worried I’d break one of his limbs while trying to contain console him as he came out of anesthesia after the tubes were placed.

Within months, there was so much pressure in his ear canals from more fluid accumulating that it pushed the tubes out. One day, when I was home with him while he was sick, his breathing changed. I called a nurse who told me to rush him to the doctor. He had pneumonia and, we’re told, will forever be at risk for getting it again.

When he was three, I was out of town when Scoot called and said Bop had a high fever. When I returned from my trip, I found his bed sheets covered with so much blood from the fluid draining from his ears that bleach couldn’t remove the stains.

Over the next two years, we began to build quite a collection of remnants of amoxicillin bottles in our fridge. It just seemed like he was constantly sick. During that time, we had him tested for allergies for a second time (through blood work, rather than skin tests as he’d previous had that were inconclusive) and learned he has some pretty severe allergies, including to trees and grass – two allergens it’s nearly impossible to avoid.

Some of the many bottles of amoxicillin that reside in our fridge.

Last year, when we’d get calls from school every 4 – 6 weeks saying that Bop was lethargic and had a headache, we’d chalk it up to bad allergies. Most of the time, he didn’t have a fever. He was just uncomfortable. Nothing a little Zyrtec couldn’t fix, right? I wouldn’t take him in for antibiotics unless I had reason to believe that he was actually sick, usually because of a fever or changes in his demeanor, rather than having stuffiness from allergies. When he did get sick, I thought it was because his allergies were so bad that his sinuses couldn’t drain and so would get infected. His pediatrician agreed this was a plausible cause.

This spring, when I realized that he’d been prescribed antibiotics six times in eight months, we decided to ask for a referral to an immunologist. I dug out the results of the prior allergy blood tests and started studying them so I’d have my questions prepared. I was mostly worried about the slight allergies to dogs and milk that his tests showed. Do we need to get rid of our dogs? He loves milk but should I stop letting him have it? I noticed there were tests other than those for allergens reported. Tests I hadn’t gone over with his physician.

One caught my eye. IgA <0.1. “Huh,” I thought. “I wonder what that means.”

A few clicks later and Dr. Google was by my side explaining selective Immunoglobulin A deficiency. I mentioned it to Scoot, who is well versed in my particular brand of hypochondria. He told me not to worry. I told him I’d ask the immunologist about it. Why wouldn’t his pediatrician have said something about this result? That means it’s no big deal, right?

I brought the blood work with me the next day. When the doctor looked the tests over he said, “And you know about his immunoglobulin deficiency, right?” I sat dumbfounded. “Um, kind of…I mean, his doctor never explained it to me. In fact, I just noticed it last night,” I replied.

The immunologist asked if my iPhone was locked as he reached for it. Confused, I fumbled with it, unlocked it and handed it back to him. He set my internet browser to http://primaryimmune.org. He said I could look there for more info. I asked where he got it from. “Which one of you [me or Scoot] had ear infections as a kid?” he asked. “I’ve had four sets of tubes,” I replied. “Go to your doctor. Get tested,” he said. He handed me seven different prescriptions for Bop, including nasal sprays, antibiotics, allergy meds, and rescue meds for the asthma attacks that are inevitable for a kid in his state. He suggested we start him on allergy shots and ordered a sinus x-ray and a return visit in a few weeks.

We went home and did more research. We learned that immunoglobulin A is an antibody that is excreted in the mucous membranes of the eyes (tear ducts), nose, mouth (saliva), and the digestive tract. Those antibodies fight infections. Immunoglobulin A deficiency occurs when someone does not produce those antibodies, causing them to be susceptible to infection. It is the most common antibody deficiencies. And it is genetic.

When we returned, Bop had gotten better and then worse. As soon as he was off his two week course of antibiotics, the sinus infection returned. He had also been to soccer camp where we learned that his grass allergies and his shin guards did not mix well. His shins were shredded from him scratching them. We were handed more prescriptions. Despair began to set in.

The immunologist urged us again to start allergy shots. We talked to Bop about them, explained that they’d help him “not be d’allergic to cats anymore” (his words). He/we decided to go ahead with the shots (which may take up to five years to finish). His immunologist also referred us to an ENT for evaluation for an adenoidectomy. It took quite some time to get scheduled (during which I was tested and confirmed to also have Immunoglobulin A deficiency as well) but when we saw the ENT in early August, he said he needed a sinus CT scan before evaluating Bop for a surgical solution to his chronic sinus infections. A few weeks later, we were told Bop was a good candidate for a balloon sinuplasty, turbinate reduction, adenoidectomy, and tonsillectomy. Though the surgery wasn’t urgent, the ENT explained, there is a good chance he’d stop being so sick if he had it and he’s in the ideal age range for these particular procedures. And cold and flu season is quickly approaching. In total, the four procedures would take less than two hours. It’d be handled in an outpatient setting. He’d be out of school for up to two weeks.

We slept on the decision. We conferred with his immunologist. We began to get clarity.

There are three distinct but related problems that are causing Bop to get sick so frequently: 1.) He’s got severe allergies. He’s now undergoing immunotherapy (allergy shots) for that. 2.) He has no antibodies to fight off infections. There’s nothing we can do about that. 3.) He’s got enlarged tissue in his ear/nose/throat that traps bacteria. Though I hate the idea of him having to undergo and, frankly more significantly, recover from surgery, the only way to address the anatomical contributors to his chronic sinus infections is by fixing his anatomy.

So what would life be like without the surgery? If history is any guide, it’d probably include many more calls from school to ask us to come pick up our sick kid, more sinus headaches and stuffy noses, and many more prescriptions for antibiotics. Plus, now that he’s been diagnosed with IgA deficiency, he’ll likely never just get a short course of antibiotics. Knowing his body isn’t naturally able to fight off infections, we want to save antibiotics for the severe infections, not just now but when he’s an old man. We don’t want him to continue having eight prescriptions for antibiotics each year.

We explained the options to Bop. We told him he can put a mask on his face, go to sleep, have doctors scratch his throat and tickle his nose to try to keep him from getting sick. We told him his throat would hurt for a couple weeks but that he’d get lots of popsicles and ice cream. We told him he wouldn’t get to play soccer for a month or so. We told him he’d miss school. And we told him that he could choose not to have surgery and that maybe he just wouldn’t be as sick as he was last year. He hates being sick. His sinus headaches have affected his quality of life. He may only be five (six on Friday) but he just wants to be done with all of the suck that is chronic sinusitis.

So next Monday, Bop will undergo four procedures to try to rid him of the misery of chronic sinus pain, pressure and infection.

We won’t know for some time whether we’ve made the right decision. I can only hope that after my baby endures the discomfort of the next few weeks, he earns himself some much needed long-term relief.

Tagged ,
Jul 25 2012
4 Comments
Animals, Family, Lemons, Me, Myself and I

I Killed Your Cat: This Is My Letter to The World That Never Wrote to Me

When I was 15 years old, my parents left me in the care of my best friend’s sister’s best friend while they drove across the country to drop my sister off at college. Why that sounded like a good idea to anyone other than me is well beyond my now-a-parent-of-two-children reasoning but knowing it was my idea, I’ll chalk it up to my being incredibly manipulative persuasive. One night while my parents were away, I had people over. Things got uncomfortable and I decided to kick everyone out and leave with my friends. I left one person in the house because he wasn’t ready to leave quite yet. What happened when he left, I do not know. What I do know is that when I returned there was a note on my door from the police saying that my dog had been killed and to please remove his body from the side of the road a half a block away.

The remainder of that night and the days after are etched in my memory forever: The conversation my friends and I had while away at dinner about my dog. The girl who came back by my house to see if we had returned only to read the cop’s note mere moments before I saw it myself. The heat boiling over in my arms and face from carrying him home in front of dozens of my schoolmates. The insistence that he was o.k. and would wake up again if only I wouldn’t be forced to keep him in the utility room in a plastic garbage bag. The panicked call to my sister, during her first week in a dorm room, when all I could mutter was, “I killed Radar.” The speed with which my mom returned to my side despite being in god-knows-where-Wyoming on their return trip. The finality of placing him into the crematorium.

It sucked.

When the police returned to my house to explain what happened, they told me that they coincidentally were driving nearby (um, I may have been 15, but I was no idiot. They’d been over already to let me know it wasn’t o.k. to congregate in my residence without parental oversight) when they noticed a car swerve and hit his breaks near the park a block away. They thought the driver may have been drunk, so pulled him over. The driver told them my elderly, deaf Radar – who I’d owned since I was 4 years old – had come into the street and he tried to avoid him. They performed a field sobriety test and determined that, whatever had happened, the driver wasn’t at fault. They let him go.

In all of these years, it has honestly never occurred to me to blame the driver. Even at the time, I held myself responsible. I should have been home. I shouldn’t have let someone stay in my house without me there. My dog was old. He wasn’t visibly injured (God knows, I examined his body in great detail as I stared at him hoping he’d start breathing again).; I’m not sure the car ever struck him. Perhaps he just had a heart attack. Surely the police could have been a little more understanding, especially given that they knew my parents weren’t home. But even in the midst of all that was happening at the time, I had a constant feeling that this is what happens when you match old age with bad circumstances.

It doesn’t take a trained psychologist to suggest that I’m reflecting on my own experiences as a way of dealing with the trauma I endured – and inflicted – earlier this week when I drove my car down one of the major thoroughfares of my town at 9 o’clock in the morning and struck a cat. I wasn’t texting or distracted. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t speeding. I was simply driving on a road I drive on every day when a cat bolted in front of my car. It happened so fast and so slow all at the same time. The cat was quick. It passed the near side of my car with ease but wasn’t moving fast enough to avoid all four tires.

I looked in my rear view mirror. I shouldn’t have done that.

I made the nearest legal U-turn. Then another to get me going in the same direction I was originally traveling. I pulled over and put my hazards on to try to encourage cars to slow down. The cat was clearly dead but I didn’t want it to get mutilated too. I called Animal Control and, after waiting on hold, told them what happened. I left my name and phone number. They said they’d be by to pick up the cat.

I can’t be certain it was someone’s cat, as the road I was driving skirts an open space and there are an unfortunate amount of feral cats in this region. But the opposite side of the street is home to a retirement community and a residential neighborhood with children who attended school with B-Bop last year. It could very well have a loving family in mourning right now.

I know it would likely be of little solace for the cat’s owner to know that I’ve been there. That I’m an animal lover. That as a kid I volunteered at an animal shelter. That I was decent enough to call Animal Control when most people wouldn’t have. That I do so whenever I see a stray animal wandering down the side of the road. That one time when Scoot and I were in high school, we found a stray dog on our drive to school, skipped class to bring it to the vet listed on its tag, and then brought it to class with us until we could meet up with its owner.

It probably wouldn’t help them grieve to know that I do all of that because I was so heartbroken that my dog wandered from our yard and never returned that I couldn’t bear for another person to go through that loss.  Honestly, knowing these things wouldn’t have helped me when my Radar was killed.

I can only assume the cat had a home and a family and to that family I can only say, I’m sorry.

Mar 21 2012
5 Comments
Elementary School, Facebook, Family, Fashion, Friends, Lemons, Me, Myself and I, My Boys, Our 'Hood, Parenting, Politics, Race

One Million Hoodies

hoodies

“Have DJ wear his hoodie today,” Scoot whispered as he woke me up to say goodbye this morning.

“Huh?” I replied, still very sleepy.

“It’s the Million Hoodie March today for Trayvon Martin,” he replied.

“Oh, ok. Yeah,” I said.

One more snooze cycle later, I was up and in DJ’s room talking to both boys about getting dressed. “Wear your hoodie today, DJ,” I told him.

“OK. Why?”

And so it began, a weighty conversation to be having with an eight year old at six-something in the morning. I explained to him the story of Trayvon Martin. That he was killed by an adult. That he was Black. That he was wearing a hoodie in a neighborhood where this adult didn’t think he belonged. That it could have been anyone with the wrong colored skin wearing a hoodie that night. I will likely never forget the look on his face when he asked if Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. got involved like after Bloody Sunday and I replied, “No, DJ, this didn’t happen back then. This happened just a few weeks ago.”

Just a couple weeks ago, as we pulled out of the parking lot following DJ’s baseball game onto a street in our somewhat diverse suburb, I did a double-take at the green truck ahead of us. “What the f**k?” I said in disbelief to Scoot as I flipped to the camera on my phone. The entire back of the truck was covered with racist, derogatory bumper stickers exactly like the ones you’ve seen reposted on Facebook. (No, that’s not my picture. Frankly, the one I took was even worse.) This didn’t happen in the Deep South. It happened in liberal California. In 2012.

Just a few years ago, Scoot and I were shopping at a mall. A display just before the entrance to a high-end department store caught my eye and I slowed. Not seeing me, Scoot walked into the men’s section of the department store, far enough ahead that no one could know that we were together. As I walked in behind him, I noticed a salesman tailing him. I watched as he, a twenty-something father stopping by the store to check out shirts and ties for his white collar job, was followed suspiciously.

Just a score ago, Black friends and schoolmates who lived in the same uber-liberal town that I grew up in were followed home from school by White administrators who were suspicious of their residency. They couldn’t fathom that these Black kids’ parents could possibly afford a home in this well-off city. In their mind, those kids must live on the other side of the creek, not in our district.

Sometimes it’s hard to do more than shake my head at these occasionally subtle, often overt expressions of suspicion based solely on the color of someone’s skin and the sense they don’t belong. I’ve been amazed by the conversations I’ve had and heard with and between other White people who won’t or don’t believe that these things take place. Still. Today. It confuses me why they walk around in ignorance or defiance, unable or unwilling to raise their voices, even in the safe confines of conversations with people who look like them, and say, “Yeah, I noticed that. It’s messed up.” And when I raise my voice, I get frustrated when other White parents act like I’m some hypersensitive wing-nut for talking to my children about such things, “forcing them to grow up too fast” rather than “protecting their innocence.”

There are seventeen year old kids out there, my nephews (who are Black) included, who walk around with hoodies on. They deserve to have their innocence protected too.

There is much that can and has been said about this atrocity. There will be much more said, I’m sure. Having my kids wear hoodies today won’t change anything. But talking to them about it, being honest with them about the world they live in, teaching them what’s right, and empowering them to do something, anything to keep this kind of tragedy from happening again? Not just today but everyday? Some day, that just might.

Feb 29 2012
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Blogging, Facebook, Family, Lemons, Me, Myself and I, My Boys, Parenting

Happy Delete Your Google Web Search History Day!!! (Oh, and Happy Leap Year)

I’m a horribly complacent (and pessimistic) web user. Despite Path doing shady stuff with my iPhone contacts, I downloaded their update and kept on using them. I willingly pin on Pinterest (though to be fair, I have a strong bias against repinning others’ pins if they don’t link to original content). I’ve never threatened to quit Facebook. When Google first announced changes to their privacy policy that would allow them to do something likely sinister with the unthinkable amounts of data they have about me, I hit “Dismiss.” I started seeing posts on Facebook about how to delete your Google web search history. I ignored them. As this week began, they were posted with increased frequency and increased urgency. Oh yeah. That. Maybe I should take a look. And so, yesterday I decided to give it a shot and see what all the brou-ha-ha was about.

The first two pages weren’t all that interesting. I am constantly logged into Google and use it frequently for work. My search history would bore pretty much anyone. So I clicked the little button that said, “Earliest.”

This is what I found:

February 10, 2006. My first Google search (while logged in). I searched for baby names. February 10, 2006. B-Bop was born almost nine months later. This? Was the week I found out I was pregnant with Bop. Maybe even the day. And I turned to Google to ask what I should name him.

That? Is kind of a big deal. At least to me it is. There was one other person in the whole wide world who knew I was pregnant and that was Scoot. (Cat’s out the bag for the rest of y’all now.)

And that’s the thing about privacy. I want to control who I tell what to and when. And I want to “have my cake and eat it too” by being able to use the genius inventions of others to explore and learn and probe and express without having to abdicate my rights to that kind (and other kinds) of privacy. I want it to not be too much to ask.

Google, I love you. I’ve been hanging out with you for a long time. But, please, please, I’m begging you…don’t mess this up. Understand, I’m willing to give you little pieces of information about me so you can sustain your business model. In fact, I frequently click on advertisers’ sponsored links to make you money (even when their links are the first to show up in search) in some form of backwards spite.

But, Google, you were the second person (ok, I know you’re not a person but whatever, you know what I’m saying) that I told I was pregnant. I Googled my way through that pregnancy, through my subsequent job search, through my move across the country and house search, through my miscarriage and doubts and depression and worries and absolute freakouts, through raising my kids and asking if they’re “normal,” through finding soccer leagues and dance studios and places to vacation. Google, I (stupidly? blindly? but willingly) trust you a whole lot. Please, please don’t let me down.

Feb 08 2012
1 Comment
Business, Child Care, Elementary School, Family, Food, Lemons, Marriage, Me, Myself and I, My Boys, Parenting, Work

The Working Mom’s Guide to Business Travel: 10 Tips and Tricks to Keep You and Your Family Sane While You’re Away

January was a busy month of business travel for me. With three business trips in as many weeks (two of which were cross-country) as well as three separate trips (one for all of us, two others for Scoot) to the Bay, it would have been easy for any one of the four of us to have a complete meltdown. I was pleasantly surprised with how well it went. Though most of the credit goes to having a more-than-capable husband willing and able to stand in for me while I’m away and my dad who pinched hit for a couple days while we were both away, I also like to think that the tricks I’ve developed over the years have helped make my absence less burdensome to Scoot and the boys. In the hopes of helping others relieve some of the stress (and, perhaps, guilt) that come with being a traveling working mom, I thought I’d share my experiences.

  1. Plan ahead. While Scoot is responsible for cooking meals most weeknights anyway, I usually develop a weekly meal plan that he follows so he doesn’t have to think about what he should make and we’re sure to have everything he needs in the fridge/pantry. Before I leave for a trip, I write out the meals for the week and, if appropriate, where to find the recipes and post them on the fridge. Anything that is out of the ordinary such as snack day, fundraisers due, etc. are dealt with ahead of time to minimize the number of things he has to remember in my absence. We let the boys get hot lunch or have a Lunchables (I know, not the greatest nutritional options but the vast majority of the boys’ lunches are quite well-rounded and health-conscious) to make getting out in the mornings as easy as possible.
  2. Do ahead. When I leave, I try to have the first day’s meal in the crockpot and the first day’s lunches made. I double-check to make sure all the bills are paid so neither of us has to worry about that while I’m away. I hate coming home to a messy house and a sink full of dishes but I understand how hard it is to find time for cleaning during a busy week. I’ve found that the cleaner I leave the house, the cleaner it’s likely to be upon my return. Think beyond the day of your return as well. Planning the day after my return keeps me from having to be “on” as soon as I get home. (See also, #10.)
  3. Keep a routine. Having mom gone can be disruptive so keeping a routine for the boys is important. We do whatever we can to keep their before and after school routines as normal as possible. Scoot, DJ and I share a Google calendar and I put everything (basketball practices, dress-up days at school, library book due dates, etc.) on there so all three of us know what’s supposed to happen on each day. I also make sure to tell the boys’ teachers/daycare workers that I’ll be gone so they can adapt to funky moods or the need for a little extra TLC (this was especially true when they were in daycare/preschool).
  4. Allow for fun. My mom didn’t travel much for work but the times that she did were great fun for me and my dad. I have fond memories of going to St. Louis Cardinals games at Busch Stadium on *gasp!* weeknights while my mom was off at her conferences (there’s no way would that ever fly if she were home). Though I don’t want to break the bank or get the boys’ routines out of whack, I generally encourage some special “Mom is gone, let’s go crazy” activities like a trip to the ice cream shop or a special dinner out. This extends past my return as well. If at all possible, I try to make sure Scoot gets some down time when I get home so that he can unwind without the boys too.
  5. Plan travel around your family. Sometimes meeting times, flight costs and schedules, and company policies dictate what times and days I travel. But if I can leave after morning drop-off (Scoot does pick-up anyway) or get back in time for dinner and bedtime routines, those extra few hours of being able to provide my regular contribution to our family’s day are incredibly helpful. Not to mention the fact that each extra day of added care for the boys costs $32. If I can at all make it work, I try to schedule my trips so that I leave and return while they’re at school.
  6. Pack fast and light. Even my dog gets stressed out when I bring out a suitcase and spend hours debating what to put in it. Dragging out my preparation just rubs my boys’ noses in the fact I’ll be leaving them so I try to pack either after they’re in bed or when they’re off at school right before I leave. Even when I was away for an entire week, I packed in a carry-on so I could get off the plane and into my car to get home to them as quickly as possible. I find little worse than being “home” but delaying my arrival home for 30 minutes or more while standing around waiting for luggage.
  7. Stay in touch. Technology is a godsend for the traveling mom. Even on a regular day, Scoot and I are in frequent communication with each other about home life. Being available (when I’m not working or in meetings) to answer quick questions like, “Where are Bop’s basketball shoes?” or being kept abreast of the days’ developments like, “DJ forgot his homework,” help me feel connected and relieve a bit of the pressure on Scoot to keep track of absolutely everything under the sun. Ever since DJ’s gotten his iPod, I’ve used email to send him little notes, letting him know I miss him and am thinking about him and sending little reminders. Bop has discovered Facetime on Scoot’s phone and he LOVES talking to me and making funny faces through it. I’m grateful that it’s so much easier to stay connected than it was a generation ago.
  8. Get rewarded. I’ve signed up for a handful of relevant loyalty programs (airline miles, hotel points, etc.) and take advantage of my travel in order to accrue points that I use for family vacations. I maximize my earning potential by trying to travel on one of two airlines and earn my points wherever I can. (For example, you can usually opt for airline miles instead of or in addition to hotel points at most hotels). I use programs like Star Alliance to focus on accruing on US Air even while traveling on United. Similarly, because I have to use a personal card and get reimbursed for travel expenses, I signed up a Chase Disney Rewards Visa that accrues points that convert to Disney dollars. On our last trip to DisneyWorld we had $600 worth of Disney dollars accrued that we used for food, souvenirs, hotel and tickets. My philosophy is if I have to travel for work, the least I can do is figure out ways for the boys to benefit from it (besides, you know, the whole paycheck thing. Heh.)
  9. Take care of yourself. Traveling is hard on the body. When I travel for work, many of the factors most important to feeling good are out of my control. But I try my best to eat well (including lots of fiber and lots of water), take my vitamins, get sleep, etc. Sure socializing with coworkers, clients or business associates can be fun and sometimes required, but late nights out – especially those that involved drinking – can take their toll. I try to take advantage of the peace and quiet that come with being alone in a hotel by reading, watching a TV show or movie that I’ve wanted to see and – by far the best part of business travel – sleeping diagonally across the bed.
  10. Celebrate your return. I make sure the boys know when I’m coming home (with the always fun caveat that sometimes things happen and flights get delayed) and I make plans with them for the special things we’re going to do when I return. I pick them up from school (rather than having them go to after school care), take them to lunch or dinner or ice cream, or just get in bed and snuggle with them. Being back together again is certainly cause to celebrate.

So that’s it. I hope some of these tips help relieve the stress and guilt that can accompany a business trip when you’re a wife and mom. What about you? What do you do to make sure everyone survives when you’re from home?

Nov 01 2011
6 Comments
Blogging, Friends, Just for Fun, Lemons, Me, Myself and I

Those Who Wish to Sing: Operation Eleanor

When I got the text from my BFF Megan challenging me to take part in Operation Eleanor, it took me all of 2.2 seconds to send a simple reply: It’s on.

For the past two weeks, I’ve been thinking about what scares me, what fears I’m ready to overcome. The more I’ve thought about it, and worried about whether I’d be able to accopmlish what feels like 30 daunting tasks, the more I’m reminded of one of my favorite sayings:

Those who wish to sing always find a song.

 

No excuses. I’m just going to do it. I will overcome my fears – some big, some small. But I will show myself that I can. I won’t blog about all of them (for instance, I can’t write about today’s as it’s work-related) but I expect to check in and let you know how it’s going. Ready? Set. Let’s go!

Oct 16 2011
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Elementary School, Facebook, Family, Just for Fun, Lemons, Me, Myself and I, My Boys, Our 'Hood, Parenting, Sports

There Is No “I” in Fan

I can’t stand fickle sports fans. Ironically, I frequently have one in DJ. He doesn’t mean to be one, he just doesn’t know any better. He feels emotionally drawn to many geographies so I was super proud of his response when, on the way to the Sacramento Mountain Lions v. Virginia Destroyers game yesterday, I asked him who he’d root for. “Virginia,” he said. “Why, because daddy played with their quarterback and was coached by their coaches when he was in college?” I asked. “No,” he replied, “because that’s where I’m from.”

This conversation about which ‘hood he claims goes back a few weeks when he inquisitively asked which rappers were from Virginia as he failed to connect with 2Pac and Dr. Dre’s “California Love” the way his parents do. He moved from the Commonwealth to California when he was just three and, while he’s as much of a Cali boy and the next kid in my mind, he feels drawn to the place he was born.

It’s a feeling I understand well as I moved away from the state of my birth as a toddler and then, again, moved in the middle of elementary school to California. In the years since I’ve tried to figure out what I consider to be my “hometown.” (Imagine the angst when Facebook asked me to make such a public declaration.)

For me, my “hometown” claim as a sports fan was complicated by the fact that, just two months after I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area, the SF Giants met the St. Louis Cardinals in the National League Championship Series. I was raised on Cardinals baseball (and football, by the way…why they’re in Phoenix and the L.A. Rams are in my town still baffles me). My earliest baseball memory was being allowed, at a month shy of four years old, to stay up to watch the Cardinals win the 1982 World Series at our townhouse in the St. Louis suburbs. (It’s also the first time I remember my mom being mad at my dad. Heh.)

In the years between then and our move west, my dad took me to Busch Stadium to see the likes of Ozzie Smith and Willie McGee while teaching me how to score a baseball game and heckle an opponent. My pet mouse was named Whitey Herzog.

When the Cards played the Giants, I wasn’t sure just who to root for as the new kid trying to fit in with a school full of Giants fans. Luckily I had little to do with the fate of either team. Yet somehow, I gave myself the leeway to root for the triumphant Cards as they faced the Twins in that World Series, the Oakland A’s as they faced the Dodgers the following year, and then the Giants as they met the A’s in ’89 in the Bay Bridge Series (a series memorable not only for baseball but the earthquake that literally rocked the local fans to our core).

And so, as it has been since, I rooted for the Giants as they made their way to the World Series last year. Now that they’ve imploded, however, I will admit that I “liked” the breaking news from CNN on my FB News Feed that the Cards, my first baseball love, had made it to the World Series (a “like” I gave despite not being able to name a single player from their team.) How’s that for fickle?

But it’s hard out there for a kid…a kid who, for a third of a century, has felt disconnected from all geographic ties of her own. And it is with that experience that I try to cut my own child, a kid who likes the SF 49ers and the Miami Heat, the Sacramento Kings and the Stanford Cardinal, the Scarlet Knights of Rutgers and…the Virginia Destroyers, a  bit of a break as he tries to figure out his own definition of “hometown” and which hometown team belongs to him.

Sep 11 2011
1 Comment
Holidays, Lemons, RIP

Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?

We all have our stories. We were in classrooms. In meetings. In bed. We had a friend call. We watched it on live TV. We had a coworker interrupt an interview.

Like you, I have a story.

Mine started on September 7th. Our friend Dave dropped me and Scoot off at Baltimore-Washington International (BWI) airport for a flight to San Jose. It was our first trip back to California after moving to DC two weeks after our wedding. Scoot was to be an usher for his friend, Terence, at his wedding in Monterey. I remember thinking BWI had the longest security line I’d ever seen. (If I only knew.)

On Saturday morning we arrived at the hotel and, despite being very close to Terence since T was a kid, Scoot’s dad was nowhere to be found. We found his wife who told us that he was in the hospital. We had no idea. Scoot was worried. The bride and groom jumped the broom, Scoot performed his duties but we left the reception early to go up to the Bay Area and visit his dad. We spent as much time at the hospital as we could but on Sunday we had to get back on a plane and fly home.

The next morning, we woke up and went to work. I had a temp position near GW hospital working for my mom’s former employee. Scoot was an assistant manager at an Electronics Boutique and was being trained in a nearby mall. After work I got a phone call. The internship I had applied for was mine! That night we called to check in on Scoot’s dad. He was heading home from the hospital! We turned on ESPN and heard that rumors were flying that Michael Jordan was about to come out of retirement to join the Wizards. Our gamble on using our college graduation money to buy season tickets in hopes we’d get to see the greatest player of all time play in person had paid off!

September 10th. What a day.

“Today was too good,” the always superstitious Scoot said as we readied for bed and he set the alarm. “Something bad is going to happen tomorrow.” I rolled my eyes, rolled over and faded off to sleep as Jay Leno cracked jokes on my TV.

I awoke the next morning in a panic. I turned over. Shit! I was late! How did that happen? I checked the alarm. Someone else was talking but I couldn’t make out who it was or what they were saying.

“Hey, Scoot! Remember when you said something bad was going to happen today?” I asked as I shook him awake and he grumbled something. “Yeah, we you forgot to turn on the alarm, genius.”

I realized the TV was still on from the night before. I heard Katie Couric’s voice but the image was a building with smoke coming out of it. Matt Lauer then started talking. Still groggy, I was confused. What was happening? “Scoot, wake up!” I implored.

As we tried to process what was going on, we both turned and saw the second plane hit the World Trade Center on our TV screen.

The hours, days and weeks to follow come to me in photographic flashes much too frequently. Not yet knowing the Pentagon would be next, we rushed to get ready and get in the car so I could try to get to work on time. We talked about one of our favorite movies, Independence Day. The announcer on the car radio said the whole (Capitol) Mall was on fire. There was mass confusion and real news was hard to find. We decided, just before getting on 395, to turn around and go home. Had we continued, we would have been on the road the goes right in front of the Pentagon around the same time American Flight 77 would hit it. I found out hours later that an assistant dean from my grad school was on that plane with her husband and two girls nearly the same age that DJ and Bop are now. :: shudder ::

We got home and turned on the TV, confirming that the Pentagon was in fact hit. Scoot commented that the South tower of the World Trade Center was going to fall. I scoffed, noting that the buildings were designed to withstand airplane impacts. “Look at how it’s leaning,” he said. Not long later, we watched it fall, again on live TV.

We were glued to the television.

Scoot still had to report to work. He wouldn’t leave me alone at home, so I brought my textbooks and hung out at the mall where he was training. When we arrived, I noted an advertisement stand outside of the store. It showed a picture of the Pentagon taken from above, a target in a video game where players commit aerial attacks. I suggested that perhaps they should bring that stand inside. Not long later, the store and mall closed. We went home.

As the day wore on and the winds changed, our apartment – with its inexpensive air conditioning that rarely worked, forcing us to leave our windows open throughout the hot Washington, DC summer – filled with smoke from the Pentagon less than 10 miles away. That smell is burned into my memory, a reminder of the day and the moment I finally allowed myself to flee from the fear of the world I lived in to the much safer confines of sleep.

The remainder of that week flashes back to me as well. I took the Metro into work on Friday, September 14th. As I disembarked the escalator at the Foggy Bottom station, I turned to walk to the offices on N Street. Normally I’d walk straight through Washington Circle but it had a ring of Humvees enclosing it. I flashed back to 8th grade U.S. history when I learned the layout of the streets in D.C. were designed to protect our nation’s most sacred establishments. I walked by men in uniform with an “MP,” on their biceps. It took me a few moments to realize that it stood for Military Police.

I sat at my desk and used Google to find the nearest Methodist church. I spent my lunch hour doing what my fellow Americans were doing, praying and remembering. I soon learned that the pilot of Flight 77 was a member of the Foundry United Methodist Church, the nearest church to work. At the service, the pastor asked for a moment of silence, then invited those in attendance to call out the names of people who were lost a few days earlier. And I sat for minutes – frankly, it felt like HOURS – as name after name after name after name was called out from a standing-room-only crowd. I could do nothing else but cry.

I left the Metro stop on the way home and boarded the bus to our apartment. Others who rode the bus with regularity were on as well, including a young man who I knew worked at the Pentagon. It was the first time I’d seen him since Tuesday and he was in fatigues. I asked about them. “We’re at war,” he replied. “We’re required to be prepared for battle.” I could do nothing but gulp.

Later, I was watching the memorial service at Yankee Stadium and saw a face on a “Missing” poster that looked familiar. I was an early reality TV fan. The Murder in Small Town X final was a week before September 11th and I had watched every episode. The winner, Ángel Juarbe, Jr., was fresh on my mind when I learned he was one of a number of fire fighters in New York who had yet to be located by the time of the Yankees Stadium memorial. Later, his body was found, another of the hundreds of public servants who lost their lives.

As the days moved on, people in other cities talked about their fears. There is never much good that can come from trying to compare fear, tragedy, or nervousness. But as Scoot says, when you lived in DC at that time, you didn’t have to be in the military to feel you’re at risk. September 11th didn’t pass from our minds. It didn’t go away. The tragedy of 9/11 and the many changes it made to our lives smacked us in the face every day. When I visited New York City last year, it hit me in the face once again. I stood on the edge of Ground Zero. And I cried. And I remembered.

Like millions of Americans, I’ll spend today paying my respects to those who lost their lives. I pray for them and their families who are missing them. I pray for those who risked their lives to save others, and who still feel the physical and psychological impacts of their rescue efforts. I pray for our nation’s leaders, that they have the wisdom to keep us safe while upholding the ideals that are the essence of our nation. I pray that those of us with the responsibility to raise post-9/11 babies teach our children to respect this day and the many lessons learned from it. And I pray that none of us ever forget where we were when the world stopped turning on that September day.

Aug 15 2011
10 Comments
Blogging, Child Care, Facebook, Friends, Lemons, Me, Myself and I, Vacation, Work

On Friendship: My Failure and Renewed Hope

I’ve not always been the best friend. I’ve hurt. And I’ve been hurt. I’ve moved away. I’ve been deserted. After Scoot and I became serious during my junior year of high school, I – intentionally or not – swore off trying very hard at friendship. What was the point?

The girls who were my age were trying to get as far away from their parents as possible while I was devoting my entire being to keeping alive my long-distance relationship with Scoot, whose mom lives just two miles from my own. They were planning for their post-college travels around the world while I was planning my wedding in our hometown. They were renting apartments with roommates in Los Angeles and New York and San Francisco while I took out a mortgage on a home in the suburbs with room for a nursery for my young son. I had a very hard time relating.

Women who were in a similar life stage to me were planning their weddings while shuffling their meeting schedules at work. They were spending $1600 a month on nannies while I was making grocery shopping lists to include ramen, Hamburger Helper and macaroni and cheese so I could afford the $200 per week I had to spend on daycare. And at work, when I sat down for my annual review, it was they who would evaluate me on my performance throughout the prior year. I had a very hard time relating.

Recently, in large part because of what I discovered when I was introduced to the world of online social networks, I have established friendships. With genuine friends. The kind with whom I can gossip about that girl. The kind with whom I can lament about my day. The kind with whom I can share my frustrations and fears and tears and hopes. The kind with whom I laugh. And laugh. And text. And laugh.

In return, they’ve shared their loves, their losses, their triumphs, their sorrows. I hear about what they ate for breakfast and minutes later, the one thing they want their kids to know about them if they meet their end prematurely. I hear about the guy who tried to talk to them when they’re happily married. I get advice about health matters. I advise them on their resumes. I get drunk texts. With pictures!

I’ve been kept company in the hospital for 48 hours through a small device that meant constant conversation. I’ve watched a minor illness turn into a major health problem. With IVs. And surgeries. And tests. And uncertainty. I’ve seen pregnancy test strips and ultrasounds and newly born babies and crawling toddlers. I’ve celebrated romance and birthdays and New Year’s Eve and just because. I’ve watched them jump out of airplanes, and jump into love. I’ve watched doubt and despair and divorce. I’ve seen them hurt and healed.

I’ve felt. I’ve felt friendship. I’ve felt all that it can be. I’ve felt all that I missed during that decade or so when I just didn’t feel like I could relate to my peers.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fears that I’ve deluded myself. Certainly the friend ending her relationship, that was never married, that makes more than I do, that makes less than me, that! has! nothing! but! girls! …certainly we will find something that divides us. And yet, thankfully, they’re still here. I’m still here, a believer in friendship.

I’m about to head out on a weekend away with one of my dearest friends with our four!!! boys all under the age of 9 (unfortunately, Bop can’t make it because of school). I’m looking forward to it for selfish reasons, and not so selfish ones. And when I come back I have another friend coming to visit, one who just moved to the area and who I hope to see much more often. And six weeks from now I’ll be celebrating yet another’s birthday with friends from around the country.  

Ends up, I’m kind of digging this friend thing. And as simple and easy as that sounds, I have a very hard time explaining just how happy it makes me and how sincerely appreciative I am to be able to say it.

Feb 23 2011
3 Comments
Blogging, Elementary School, Facebook, Family, Food, Friends, Health & Exercise, Lemons, Me, Myself and I, My Boys, Parenting, Vacation, Work

If You’re Happy and You Know It

Hey, remember me? Yeah, I own this here little place of the interwebs. Nice to see you again. I could write a post (ok, I did…and decided not to hit publish…again) about where I’ve been but instead I thought I’d just cut to the chase and post something new. So here you go…

10 Things I Smiled About Today

1. The # I saw on the scale this morning.

2. Achieving my goal of getting up without hitting the snooze button.

3. DJ choosing to do his homework this morning (rather than tomorrow night) without any prompting.

4. Scoot baking cookies for the Mother-Son Dance Friday night.

5. Having enough calories left today to help be a taste tester of the aforementioned cookies.

6. Catching up with an old friend/colleague.

7. Seeing a new friend/colleague achieve well-deserved satisfaction.

8. Getting an email from my friend who seems to make it her life’s work to have me in stitches on a daily basis.

9. Looking at a calendar and realizing I will be seeing a bunch of my friends real soon.

10. Straightening my desk before I left the office for the night.

What made you smile today?

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