Think it's time to move?

After a fresh snowfall about four years ago, while my husband was out of town skiing with some friends, I decided to shovel our sidewalk. It was late, but I didn’t realize how late because the streetlights were reflecting off the snow banks, making it seem earlier than it was. It was quiet and peaceful outside, the air was cool and crisp, and it felt good to be exerting some energy. So, there I am, lost in my thoughts, shoveling away, when a car pulls up across the street and a guy gets out. His friend stays in the passenger seat. My women’s intuition kicks in and I start feeling nervous. Something doesn’t seem right. He crosses the street and walks toward me. I keep shoveling, wondering if I could use the shovel as a weapon if I had to, wishing I had paid better attention in my self-defense class back in college.
He tells me that his friend’s car broke down and they need a few bucks for gas money.
“For five bucks I can finish shoveling,” he says.
I’m almost done shoveling and tell him thanks, but I’m almost done (and I was).
“We need gas money,” he says again. “I can finish shoveling for you.”
I try to remain calm as I suggest that he ask a neighbor instead. He shakes his head no. I realize he’s not going anywhere and tell him, “Let me go inside the house and see what I have.”
I try not to break into an all-out sprint, my heart racing, and barely remember to leave the shovel outside. Once I’m in the kitchen I lock the door with hands shaking harder than a senior with Parkinson’s. I figure he’ll get the hint that I’m not coming back outside and go away.
I am wrong.
A few minutes later, he starts banging on the front door. He’s not politely knocking. He’s banging. I’m home alone and frozen with fear. What do I do? What do I do? He’s going to break in and rob me. He’s going to rape me. He’s going to murder me. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
I do what any self-respecting 29-year-old would do and call my dad, even though he lives 30 minutes away.
“There’s a guy outside banging on the front door and he wanted gas money and I don’t want to call 911 if it’s not an emergency and I’m home alone and—”
My dad cuts me off, “Call 911.”
“I don’t want to bother them,” I answer. “What if he’s harmless?”
“What if he’s not?” he asks.
Good point.
I tell my dad I’ll call him right back. I hang up the landline, take my cell phone to the stairwell (for some reason I feel safe there), and call 911. I have never called 911 before. For anything. The dispatcher is very nice and tells me I am the third person in the area to call with a similar complaint. She wants me to stay on the line with her until an officer arrives. In the meantime, my poor dad is trying to reach me on our landline and I’m not picking up so he’s thinking he should jump in his truck and drive 100 mph to get to me and make sure I’m alright. I can hear the phone ringing and ringing but I am too nervous to get up out of my hiding ‘spot’ to answer it (I don’t want the Bad Guy to see me), plus I am on my cell phone with the dispatcher. The phone is ringing, my heart is pounding, and the whole time this guy is relentlessly banging on the front door. It feels like the perfect set-up for a horror movie.
After what seems like an eternity (in actuality probably a few minutes), a squad car arrives—cherries flashing—and I am finally able to stop holding my breath. I am covered in a cold sweat. I hang up with the dispatcher and call my dad back, apologizing for nearly giving him a heart attack. He’s just glad I’m alright. I peer out the window to see a young officer (my hero) talking to the a-holes. I wait inside the house. As soon as I see the big dude get in his car, I venture outside. The driver notices me, WAVES and smiles, like this is all some sick joke to him.
The officer tells me that he knows both men well and they are wanted for crimes in California, but since California doesn’t extradite, we—unfortunately—are stuck with them in Minnesota.
“They’re fairly harmless,” the officer tries to reassure me.
All I hear was “wanted for crimes.” I don’t think to ask what the crimes were. I don’t think much of anything except that I’m sure as hell not sleeping in that house alone.
The officer waits outside while I run inside and hastily pack an overnight bag. My adrenaline is pumping. I exceed the speed limit by quite a few miles as I drive up to my parents’ house. I call my husband to tell him the story, but it doesn’t sound as scary when I’m relaying it to him. It sounds like I over-exaggerated.
That whole winter I was paranoid about those guys returning to seek revenge on me. And four years later, I still don’t feel entirely safe in my neighborhood.

* Since then, there was a gang-related drive-by shooting on our street, a gang rape two blocks down from our house (the victim was six months pregnant), and two well-publicized baseball bat attacks—one victim a 49-year-old woman battling cancer; the other an 18-year-old guy—at the park we used to regularly exercise in. I know crime can happen in any neighborhood, but this is ridiculous.

Beheading a wiseman and other Christmas tales

Adam showed his love this Christmas by beheading both a shepherd and a wiseman from his ceramic nativity set (nothing that a little superglue couldn't repair) and by chucking Baby Jesus under the couch. I had to retrieve Jesus at least a dozen times. **Sorry about that, Baby Jesus!

One of Adam’s Christmas gifts this year was a broom and dustpan from Santa. The idea came after watching him lug our regular-sized broom around, which always ended with him losing control of the broom, the broom falling over, Adam falling over, then Adam getting frustrated and yelling “NO!” at the broom. He now has full control of his broom. Any time I get out my broom, he heads off in search of his. I even taught him how to sweep the crumbs under the rug right before company comes over.

Even though he doesn't really "get" Christmas just yet, that didn't stop his godparents — Uncle Shawn and Auntie Trish—and both sets of grandparents from spoiling him. He also received clothes, toys, and books from his aunts, uncles, and cousins on Aaron’s side, two of his great-aunties, his great-grandparents, and even a few of our close friends (which was definitely a surprise).
Besides the broom, he REALLY likes the Leap Frog Fridge Farm refrigerator magnets he received from my parents. Adam and I dance in the kitchen to the banjo tune of “We’ll be comin’ ‘round the mountain” every day, and I’m pretty sure I’ve gone to bed with this song stuck in my head: “You put the duck in front, you put the cow behind, put them together, and what do you find? A duck-cow, that’s silly!”

My 25-year-old baby brother Nick’s Christmas gift to Adam was a bright orange rubber ball, complete with crazy rubber spikes sticking out everywhere. It looks like a big orange porcupine. Nick watched with eager anticipation as Adam opened it, hoping for a positive reaction. His reaction was a look of terror and scooting away from the ball as fast as he could, chanting “no-no-no-no-no” as he hid behind Aaron. Nick felt bad that Adam didn’t like his gift, so kept showing him the ball as the night went on, hoping he’d come around to it. He didn’t. We finally had to hide the ball on Nick so Adam could relax. (Even after we hid it, Adam looked around the room and asked timidly, “Ball?” like it was going to attack him from its hiding spot.)
Since then, he has worked up the courage to touch the ball, but he definitely isn’t ready to play with it. When you ask him what he got from Uncle Nick for Christmas, he answers with wide-eyed seriousness, “Ball.”
I’m going to re-gift it when Nick has kids of his own some day.

Right after the holidays Adam started saying the name Nick whether actually referring to Nick (and the ball), my older brother Shawn, Jeremy, Russ, my dad, Aaron’s dad, Aaron’s brother Josh, any of our guy friends, some of our girl friends, and just about anyone else.
When Aaron and Adam were grocery shopping, Adam shouted “Hi Nick!” to a 50-something man as he walked past their cart.
The man stopped, looked incredulously at Adam, then asked Aaron, “Did he just say ‘Hi Nick’?”
Aaron was about to explain that it was Adam’s favorite name of the moment, when the guy exclaimed, “MY NAME IS NICK! That boy is a genius!”
Well, we can’t argue with that now, can we?


Adam and I were snuggling this morning when he sat up, stared intently at my face, then leaned over and gave me a big kiss on the lips. Because it wasn’t the usual “on demand” kiss, it was extra sweet. I wish I could bottle these moments up and take them out years later as a reminder of the “good old days” … I’m thinking it would come in handy when he’s a smelly 15-year-old teenager who’s too lazy to take out the garbage.

Statistically he’s 21 pounds and 31.5 inches long, which puts him in the FIFTH percentile for weight (meaning out of 100 kids his age, only FIVE are smaller than him!) and 30th for height. The doc isn’t concerned about his weight so I’m not worried. I just think it’s funny that he was in the 90th percentile for weight when he was a month or two old, and I was worried that I was going to be raising a sumo wrestler. I don’t think he’s going to be sumo wrestling anymore.

He calls grapes “balls.” “Mo balls, plea?” Actually, he’s OBSESSED with balls. (Just not his own … yet.)

Bikes are “vroom, vrooms” (complete with a motorcycle wrist-twist.) We take regular field trips down to the basement to check out the vroom vrooms. Every time we go down there, Adam whispers in hushed amazement "WOW!"

When he wants you to follow him, he’ll motion with his hand and say “C’mon.”

He’ll say my name over and over if he wants to get my attention. “Mom-mom-mom-mom-MOM!”

He’s a little performer and makes us laugh every day. He even has a “silly face” where he closes his eyes and scrunches up his nose.

He’s very verbal and talk, talk, talking from sun up to sun down. Sometimes we don’t understand a word of it, other times we catch a word or two, and sometimes he speaks as clear as could be. (Like pointing at Aaron’s beer and saying, “WANT THAT.”) He still loves it when we read to him and is regularly dragging his books around, chanting, “BOO-k, BOO-k” like he has some sort of foreign accent.

Maybe all 17-month-olds love to jam, but I like to think that Adam inherited some sort of dancing gene. I’ve never met a dance floor I didn’t like (even when slipping on someone’s spilled drink), Aaron is a great dancer (to all the men who say they “don’t dance,” I say: BORING!), my brother Shawn used to dance once a week at the Gold Rush Nightclub (and is still an awesome dancer), my brother Nick has some “mad moves,” and now Adam is proving that he can shake it with the best of us. He dances to the radio, his Leap Frog Fridge Farm, his Raffi CD, my Prince CD, to the church band at St. Mark’s, and to musical Christmas ornaments (particularly a rapping Santa at our house, a saxophone-playing snowman at Grandma Patti’s, and a singing snowman and his dog over at my parents’ house). Adam has even danced to cell phone ring tones. He has danced while sitting down and while standing up. He has danced his way down hallways and across living room floors and in kitchens and in the car. In the wise words of Lee Ann Womack, when he has the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope he dances.

Adam goes CRAZY when he sees a dog on TV or outside. He can’t get enough of my brother’s dog, Bella (referred to simply as “Woof woof”), and chased after my aunt and cousins’ Chihuahuas (four of them total) for hours on Christmas Day. I wish we could buy a dog, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave a pooch in our house from 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday - Friday, our house isn’t really big enough (it feels cramped with just the three of us living there), and we’re gone about one weekend every month, which would leave us with the predicament of finding a dog sitter. Maybe someday, when we get different jobs and move to a bigger house, we’ll buy Adam a dog.

He has a tiny bit of a temper. When he tripped over one of his toys the other day, he promptly got up, walked over to the toy, yelled “NO!” and slapped it. (There. You take THAT, you inanimate object!)

He has sampled my parents’ cat’s food THREE different times now. The last time I busted him, it went down like this:
“Adam, no-no. Put that kitty food back.”
He quickly shoves a few pieces into his mouth.
“Adam, no. You don’t eat kitty food!”
Chew, chew, chew. Look of disgust. Then spit, spit, spit. Frantically scrapes his tongue with his little fingers. More spitting.
I truly hope he learned his lesson that last time.


He is a Master Sorter. He takes things out, transfers them, then returns them. He’s done this with a basket of plastic Easter eggs, Tupperware containers, a fake vegetable garden in the Children's Museum Hmong exhibit, small toys, blocks, and crayons. All efforts to get him interested in coloring have failed. He’s only interested in sorting the crayons. His very favorite things to sort, though, are my tampons. He sorts them, carries them around, and then puts them back into the box, one-by-one. He could be learning his colors this way (green, yellow, blue) or his shapes (big, medium, small). It’s educational! One morning, while I was doing my hair, I looked over and he was sitting in the hallway, wearing a cardboard applicator on his finger like a finger puppet, with the string and tampon hanging off to the side. I thought it was hilarious, Adam thought he invented a new toy, shouting “Mama! Mama! Look!” as he dangled it around, and Aaron was totally NOT amused.

In the past few weeks, our usually good eater has been on a Vegetable Strike. He won’t eat peas or carrots or broccoli or green beans or squash unless we find creative ways to hide them in his food. Our doctor told us that he’s never seen a parent win a food battle with a toddler. Very encouraging. He told us to do the best we can.
Our daycare provider, Mary, thought she had figured out a way to fool him into eating his veggies.
“I put the ketchup on his plate, and he dipped each green bean in the ketchup before gobbling them up! I thought, ‘This is great! I’ll serve ketchup all the time!’”
When she took him out of his high chair, she said it was like an “avalanche” of green beans fell off his lap.
He had LICKED the ketchup off each bean before hiding the evidence under the tray on his lap. Based on the amount of beans that fell on the floor, she said it looked like he hadn’t swallowed a single one.

The wall across from his high chair has now been attacked by flying hamburger, spaghetti, fish sticks, tater tots, rice, pasta, chicken, squash, corn, French fries, chicken noodle soup, crackers, meatballs, hot dish, waffles, toast, eggs, bacon, and pancakes. We have tried over and over to sternly tell him NOT TO THROW HIS FOOD, but it doesn’t seem to sink in. (It’s usually how he signals to us that he’s done eating, as annoying as that can be.) He’s also a very messy eater, smearing sauce all over his face, splattering food on his sleeves, and wiping his hands in his hair a minimum of three times throughout the meal, but I can’t get mad about that. Have you ever seen me eat?

I always think it’s sort of goofy when people say they can’t remember what life was like before their kids arrived. Really? You can’t remember the 20-or-30-some years that preceded their arrival? So much for those memories.
I remember what my life was like before Adam, but now that he's here, I don’t ever want to think about being without him. I like the New Normal. It's a pretty amazing place.

… Because we spend more time at work than with our loved ones

I have been in the “real world” for a few years now (it’s been 12 years now since I graduated from college) and in that time I have developed some workplace pet peeves. One of my biggest complaints is the Walking Dead who come to work hacking, sniffling, and groaning about how sick they are. Really? You feel sick? Then USE ONE OF YOUR SICK DAYS AND STAY HOME. I’d understand if we didn’t have sick days to burn, but we do! News flash to anyone who thinks they HAVE to come to work when they feel like crap because they just have SO much to do: you are not so important that the office can’t function without you for a day or two.

Other annoyances:

• When people sign emails with “Best.” Have we become so lazy that we can’t write two more words and sign off with “All the best” or “All my best?”

• Anyone who doesn’t wash their hands after using the bathroom. What is wrong with you? Were you raised in a barn?

• Clients who lie about not receiving emails or voicemails.

• Cheap-skates who don’t donate to baby shower gifts but still have the nerve to sign the card and show up at the shower.

• When I can hear two coworkers on the phone IN A CALL TO EACH OTHER. Sort of defeats the purpose of the phone, doesn’t it? Either shoot her an email or get off your ass and walk over to her desk so we don’t all have to listen to your conversation.

• Speaking of Loud Talkers, there is one in my office—who has a wonderful, spunky, charming personality—but talks so loud that I can’t concentrate or think sometimes (and I know it’s not just me).

• If you don’t know how to do something, ask. Don’t pretend that you know if you don't. It will irritate the rest of your competent workers when you/we have to re-do everything at the last minute because it’s all wrong.

• When pregnant coworkers say, “Baby’s hungry” in order to justify whatever it is they’re eating. No, YOU are hungry, and that’s fine. Just eat the damn cheesecake already.

• When The Food Police feel it’s necessary to tell you what’s in your breakfast/processed meal/can of Coke and how bad it is for you. (Sometimes I don’t want to think about the nutritional value, I just want to enjoy the taste!)

• Chronic whiners. If your job sucks so much, maybe you should quit!

• The very annoying and very persistent “I sell home products in my free time and I will keep asking you if you want to buy some over-priced item until I wear you down” Consultant. How many times do I have to tell my coworker that no, I do NOT want to buy a candle (and no, I really don’t want to host a party), before she gets the hint?

• Malicious gossip. “Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss other people.”

• We have two functioning dishwashers in the kitchen. If one is overflowing with dirty dishes, add detergent and start it rather than leave your dirty dishes in the sink. If the other one is full of clean dishes, put those away and put your dirty dishes in there. It’s not that hard.

• Anyone who has a superiority complex. Get off your high horse. We all put our pants on one leg at a time.

How about you? What are your office pet peeves?

Rhymin' and Stealin'

I meant to post these after the concert Nov. 1. Tenacious D, Ben Harper, and the Beastie Boys. Awesome, awesome, awesome.

My little Usain Bolt

Adam is finally sleeping in his crib from 8:15 p.m. to 6:15 a.m., thanks to the Fisher Price Ocean Wonder Aquarium.
“The gentle sights and sounds of a mesmerizing aquarium soothe your baby to sleep right in the crib. The fish swim, a crab plays peek-a-boo, seaweed gently sways, bubbles bounce, soft lights glow, and serene aquatic sounds ease baby into slumber.”
Best thing ever.
He’s also learning to walk, although walking is an understatement. It’s more like careening wildly out of control. His feet seem to move faster than his brain. Every day he gets a little more bold, but he's made it perfectly obvious that he's not in any rush to walk upright. I figure he prefers to crawl because when he’s on all fours, he doesn’t have to worry about toppling over. Plus he’s a ridiculously fast crawler. I like to think of him as my little Usain Bolt. (Only without the Jamaican accent.) Which reminds me, I read that Usain’s “secret” to being the fastest man in the world is eating chicken nuggets. Which is the only reason I let Adam eat them. (Right.)
Our little guy does everything Usain-fast. He eats fast, he moves fast, he talks fast. He also climbs stairs, turns pages in books, plays with balls and blocks and cars and Little People, says no (usually while vehemently shaking his head), says please when he wants fruit snacks (which comes out more like “pay”), helps me clean by moving a Kleenex/napkin/dish towel across the table/floor/our shoes/his nose, and loves to play hide-and-seek in his large carseat box (Aaron, genius that he is, turned the box into a fort.) He likes to look in the mirror, eat sand (and chicken nuggets), and sing. He sings every day on the way home from daycare. He also likes to dance. Aaron and I had him jamming out in the backseat once to the Beastie Boys. Is this a sign that he already knows good music when he hears it?
He may be a late learner when it comes to walking, but his vocabulary is coming right along. He has animal sounds for cow, chicken, cat, dog, horse, sheep, and my new favorite—the VACUUM. His vacuum impersonation sounds a lot like static on a TV channel. He calls me “mama” and Aaron “mama” (we try to remind him that Aaron is DADDY, which he says as “dah-ee”) and he says good morning (“morn”) and night-night. He says hi and bye-bye while doing a modified beauty pageant wave where he sort of twists his wrist and slowly waves back and forth, back and forth.
He was a lion for Halloween, courtesy of our daycare provider (she made the costume for her grandson, who wore it last year) and was a good sport about suddenly having a mane and a long tail. He even let me take about a hundred pictures of him without protesting too much. Our close friends AJ and John hosted a Halloween party for the kids, and everyone had a ball. Adam's friends Jack, Ryan, Charlie, Ellen, Greta, Nora, Leah, and Sadie were all in attendance. The costumes were all creative and adorable.
We also brought him to a Wild game, and he sat through two whole periods—absolutely fixated on the action on the rink—before he started getting antsy. Our friend Molly, who was kind enough to share extra tickets with us, was in awe.
He still does well on long car rides and he’s fairly good when we’re shopping, although he’s not as content sitting in a stroller or shopping cart as he used to be. I can’t bring him to the mall and leisurely try on outfits in the dressing rooms anymore—now he wants to get out and explore (which really doesn’t work so well in a dressing room). His hair gets more and more blonde with each passing month, and he regularly gets compliments on his pretty blue eyes.
I fall in love with him a little more every day and sometimes have to pinch myself that he belongs to me. I mean, how could I be responsible for creating such a beautiful little boy? I'm sure every parent thinks this at some point in time. The concept of giving another person life is too hard for me to wrap my head around so I don't dwell on it too much.
I can’t get enough of his belly laughs (best achieved through tickeling), his hugs and kisses, when he strokes my face and says “nice,” how over-protective he is of me when Aaron kisses me (yesterday he hauled off and whacked Aaron after he planted one on me), the way he throws his head back, closes his eyes, and smiles when he’s acting goofy, how he playfully hits his head and says “bonk” when he’s trying to make you laugh (he learned that one from Uncle Shawn), how he holds a remote between his ear and shoulder and thinks it’s a phone, how he says “vroom vroom” when he sees a motorcycle, how he equal-opportunity flirts with young pretty girls as well as old, wrinkly grandmas, how he likes to comb my hair after I comb his, and how he cuddles right before bed.

In other news:
• We were in the second row at the Beastie Boys concert Nov. 1. SECOND ROW. I could see the sweat on Mike D’s face. Also: Jack Black will always be my faux “boyfriend” (I do not think he's attractive, but he is HILARIOUS. I had two dreams that we got married prior to my actual wedding, and after seeing Tenacious D in concert, I am even more infatuated) and Ben Harper is damn sexy. I wanted him to remove his shirt while he was singing. I am sad to say that he didn't.
• We left Adam with my parents for four days to celebrate Tonya and Sam’s reception out in Idaho this September. They were happy to spend time with him and even more happy to hand him over upon our return. What can I say? The kid is adorable, smart, and funny, but he's also a lot of work.
While out in Idaho, we drank a lot, ate a lot, celebrated Tonya and Sam’s union at a beautiful reception (this was just the reception. Their wedding was out in New York City in June, and I was lucky enough to be part of that celebration, too), hiked around part of Lake Coeur D’Alene, went shopping in town, and went on a boat tour. In our group there were nine of us from Minnesota, two from Wisconsin, three from San Diego, one from Colorado, one from DC, and two from Illinois. We had a great time. Those memories will stay with me until I’m old and grey.


I also:
• Was asked to be my good friend Amy’s matron of honor in her wedding this May (she asked both me and our mutual friend Megan). I was flattered and honored.
• Joined a book club with my cousins and a few of their friends. So far, so good. Our first book was Twilight (go vampires!) Now we’re reading Love in the Time of Cholera. I also just finished Middlesex. Interesting book, to say the least.
• Went to Lutsen Resort with my immediate family, thanks to the generosity of my parents. Went kayaking, played disc golf, engaged in a few rowdy games of Apples to Apples, went swimming, searched for agates on the beach (Adam still loves looking for rocks), roasted marshmallows by a bonfire, and went on a guided night hike in Oberg Mountain. We stayed in one of the “luxurious” Cliff House Townhomes. I highly recommend it.
• Scored free tickets to the Renaissance Festival and celebrated the end of summer with my parents, Shawn, Trish, April, Aaron and Adam. I sum it up this way: delicious turkey legs, over-priced ale, cleavage, belly dancers, jousting, cleavage, strolling magicians, dust, bees, elephant rides, cleavage, role-playing lords and ladies, cleavage, and a mix of artisans, athletes, historians, dreamers, geeks, and people who wish Halloween lasted all year long.
• Made it to the semi-finals in a “Slapnuts” tournament (aka ladder golf, hillbilly horseshoes, testie toss), organized as an MS fundraiser by our wonderful North Star Roller Girl pal Mandi (aka Mickey Dismantle, co-captain of the Banger Sisters). Her friends were just as friendly and entertaining as she is. Aaron wore Adam in the Kelty backpack the whole time we competed. Our nickname was “Team Baby” and I gotta say, we were a force to reckon with.
• Had the use of The Retreat in Webster, Wis. during an autumn weekend when the leaves were at their peak of prettiness and the weather was nice enough to leave your jacket behind. We brought Shawn and Trish for an evening of cooking/eating, drinking, relaxing, playing games, and reveling in the beauty and silence of Mother Nature. Adam liked it there, too.
• Mourned the end of another fun kickball season.
• Helped throw a big party for my grandma’s 80th birthday.
• Went to a pumpkin-carving party at my former boss Stacey's house. Her friends were extremely nice and very intellectual.
• Helped elect our next president!!!
• Took a little road trip to Green Bay to visit Holly and Kevin, Kay and Joe, and Julie and Jim. Between those three college friends, they have NINE kids (one is still in utero). I am always sick of green and gold when I leave GB, but so glad to spend quality time with good friends from college.
• Organized a group of girlfriends to host monthly theme dinners during the long, cold winter. Successfully co-hosted Brazilian night with my friend Christine. (complete with Spanish guitar music, photos of hot Brazilian men/soccer players/ and sunny beaches plastered around her loft, and a menu of chicken empadinhas, caipirinhas with Cachaca, cocoa cake, and fruit dipped in chocolatey brigadeiro! Mmm mmm mmm)
• Got together at Katie's loft with wonderful Lillie friends (I love my CAKE girls, crazy Scott and J-dog!)
•Started having a solid night's sleep (finally!) after nearly 23 months. Either I was losing sleep due to being pregnant, nursing a newborn, or sharing our not-very-big bed with a restless baby.
After having Adam, I will never, ever again underestimate the value of a decent night's sleep.

And if tonight my soul may find her peace
in sleep, and sink in good oblivion,
and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower
then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.
~D.H. Lawrence

Ok, so maybe that poem is a LITTLE much, but hey, I've been sleep deprived for NEARLY TWO YEARS STRAIGHT.

I also like this quote:

Sleep is the golden chain that ties health and our bodies together. ~Thomas Dekker

And this one makes me laugh:

If people were meant to pop out of bed, we'd all sleep in toasters.


Good night, friends. Sweet dreams.

Blowin' my mind for the third time

There are many aspects of my teen years that I don’t have any desire to re-live.
Last night, though, I felt like I was in a time warp back to the early 90s and I was lovin’ it. I was invited to the NKOTB concert at the Xcel Energy Center—free ticket—and had a BLAST. There was a group of 13 of us in a corporate suite (with our very own bathroom, snack bar, and private space to jump around in), we pre-partied at a friend’s house, then kept the party going at the X. I promise I'm not an obsessed fan, aka "a blockhead"—I don't even know their most recent/popular song—but with the energy so electric, it was hard not to get caught up in it. It helped that the guys look and sound better than ever. I think the 13,000 screaming fans would agree with me. And could those women scream, although—unlike the early 90s—I don't think anyone was reduced to hysterical tears (I hope, anyhow, for their sake).
It was fun to see 20-and 30-something women all decked out in T-shirts and hats that said things in puffy paint like: “I’ll be lovin’ you forever,” “Joey’s Girl,” and “I Love Jordan.” Some of the T-shirts were originals from the early 90s, all faded and worn and probably not fitting quite the same as they did 20 years ago, and some of the buttons and T-shirts were from their 2008 tour—emphasizing the handsome grown-up NKOTB rather than the bubblegum baby-faced pop stars New Kids on the Block.
They may have a new name (sort of) and they may be pushing 40, but they really haven’t changed all that much. The boys—Danny (still the sort of ugly one), Jon (the shy one/now the gay one), Donnie (the bad boy), Jordan (the cute one) and Joey (the adorable one with the piercing blue eyes)—sang songs from their old records (Favorite Girl, Step by Step, Hangin’ Tough, You Got It (The Right Stuff), Cover Girl, Please Don’t Go Girl, Tonight, Games, etc.), changed costumes multiple times, and danced in perfect synchronicity. These five (or really three, when you consider the fact that Donnie, Joey and Jordan are really the main attractions) knew how to get the crowd going and KEEP the crowd going. In their hey-dey, they performed close to 200 (!!) concerts per YEAR. In 1991, they made more money than Michael Jackson, Madonna and Prince. That same year, sales for the group’s merchandise were estimated at $400 million. (I admit it. I had the pillowcases, a poster, and a T-shirt.)
The New Kids have a special place in my heart for being my first concert ever. I saw them in St. Paul with my friend Karla when we were 14. We wore florescent windbreakers, Exclamation! perfume, and hair-dos that consisted of frizzy puffs of bangs and French braids secured with a scrunchie on the bottom. Karla’s dad dropped us off and picked us up, so there was no parental supervision. I can’t remember details of the concert, but I remember the feeling. I thought I was on top of the world.
On July 4, 1990 my closest high school friends (still some of my closest friends today) Karla, Amy, Tonya and I went to see the New Kids again at Harriet Island. The concert planners weren’t thinking logically when they decided on festival seating. Once the gate swung open, thousands of teenage girls ran like a herd of delirious cattle in the quest to find the closest spots on the lawn. As you can imagine, it was pure pandemonium. I think a few girls were even injured in the stampede. My good friend Amy lost a shoe in the madness. Lucky for her, I had an extra pair in my Esprit bag. (Who carries around an extra pair of shoes??) As the afternoon went on, we somehow made it into the VIP section where there were benches rather than the grassy lawn. We could see much better. Another of our high school friends, Treina, saw us from across the fence and started crying and yelling, “I love them more than you!” Once again, I don’t remember much of the actual concert, but I remember feeling blissfully HAPPY.
I also remember blowing my nose that night and getting a Kleenex full of dirt.
Fast-forward to 2008 and there I was again, at a New Kids show, surrounded by one-time boy-crazy girls who knew all the words to the old songs, girls who came of age around the same time I did. It was kind of surreal to think that these one-time boy-crazy girls have evolved into women with careers and financial responsibilities and mortgages and husbands and BABIES (!!), women who probably couldn’t fit into their 14-year-old jeans (sigh) but who can now legally drive, vote, gamble, and order a drink from the bar (woo hoo!) Women who no longer have to IMAGINE what true love is—we now know from experience—yet can still appreciate the innocence and fun of our first boy-band crush.
It was truly an awesome night.

Can she see dead people?

I went to a work-sponsored luncheon yesterday and the speaker was a “fifth generation natural-born psychic.” She’s a 60-year-old dynamo with a mane of crazy black hair and some of the littlest chicken legs I’ve ever seen (she’s a staunch vegetarian) and when she spoke, she was energetic, passionate, and crass (she dropped the f-bomb a few times and—while wearing a short skirt, no less—occasionally sat very, um, UN-lady-like in her chair. Think Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct). She’s an unapologetic strong-willed product of the 60s who brought to mind the expression “full of spit and vinegar.” It seemed like every woman in the audience was intrigued.
After she told us about her life, and how she developed her sixth sense, she took questions from the audience. One woman asked how she could quiet the noise in her head in order to meditate (since this woman had grown up Catholic, the psychic suggested reciting an old Catholic prayer over and over), another asked how a woman can develop her intuition (start with small things, like the outcome of a baseball game, before trying to tackle big, personal issues), another asked if a baby was in her near future (eventually, the psychic told her, but not until she visits another country first). The moderator of the luncheon asked if she’s ever seen ghosts (yes) and HOW, exactly, she knew she had this rare sixth sense (“You know how some people are natural writers or artists or dancers? I was a natural psychic. I just knew. I had the gift.”)
And then it got really interesting. One of my coworkers asked the psychic if she could “invite her in” to “read her aura” (the psychic had explained early on that she won’t read someone’s aura or palm or cards unless first given permission) and the psychic told her that she sensed there was a lot of pressure to have a baby. She then told her that she kept hearing the name Mary. “I can’t think of anyone named Mary,” my coworker answered. “Do you mean my MARRIAGE? I’m MARRIED.” No, no, it was a woman named Mary.
Knowing this particular (adorable) coworker and knowing a little about her relationship, it sure seemed like she was looking for some type of validation ABOUT her marriage. Instead the psychic told her that her husband is “really cute” and “they’d have a baby girl together.” Not quite the answer she was hoping for.
Another coworker, who looks very Italian, was asked if she knows a Tony. (What Italian doesn’t know a Tony?) Her brother happens to be Tony. The psychic then said that her brother felt tormented by her when they were growing up (her brother is 13 years younger than she is, there was no tormenting/teasing, just babysitting). She also said this coworker wanted to be a lawyer because she was always asking questions (she said she has never been interested in law), mentioned a tennis racket (huh?) and said she was scared of doctors (on some level, who isn’t?)
Another coworker asked if her husband should open his own deli in the skyway (the answer was yes) and yet another was told to re-do her stairwell (um, not really possible, since she rents an apartment). When a CLEARLY foreign woman “invited her to read her aura,” the psychic immediately asked, “How many languages do you speak?” (anyone could’ve figured out she speaks at least two) and when the psychic asked another woman how many kids she has, and the woman said she doesn’t have kids, the psychic blamed it on the fact that the woman’s table-mate was sitting too close to her and her “aura was bleeding” over to the next chair, which is why she was picking up her aura instead of the woman in question.
I don’t want to sound TOO cynical (is it too late for that?) but I have a hard time believing that this woman could look at a total stranger and sum up her life in a matter of seconds. There’s a part of me that WANTS to believe she really can “read” a person’s aura somehow, and there’s a part of me that thinks maybe some people really do have the ability to tap into their sixth sense (Gary Spivey is not one of them, I’m thinking more along the lines of psychics who help solve police mysteries), and there’s an even bigger part of me that’s like: You believers are GULLIBLE. I can’t blame them for eating it up, though. I keep thinking about Whoopi’s character Oda May Brown in the movie Ghost. Who doesn’t want to believe that living people can somehow communicate with the dead? Who doesn’t want affirmation that their dearly departed loved ones are safely on the “other side”? Who doesn’t want to think that a stranger might have the uncanny ability to see into our future and read us better than even we can read ourselves?
I used to watch John Edwards’ show “Crossing Over” until my husband asked me why this LEGITIMATE psychic was on the Science Fiction channel? He had a point. And then I later read somewhere that all of his shows are heavily edited to get rid of the “misses” – leaving the viewer with a sense that he’s never wrong about anyone, when in reality he has just as many misses as he does “hits.”
On the flip side, the psychic was extremely entertaining AND she donated all proceeds to a wonderful children’s nonprofit organization in town, and for that I commend her.