Little b, big B.

When I first met B he was a blond, cherubic, chubby-cheeked 8-month-old, so cute that he looked like a child who comes in the picture that comes with the frame. I was smitten. He was smiley. It was the first time I had met all of Chad's family - brothers, sisters-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandma - and B was a sweet diversion from the nervousness of meeting an entire family who are completely checking you out.

B was in our wedding, a three-year-old in a tuxedo looking like a ventriloquist's doll at his dad's side. He bawled his way down the aisle, then sat to the side of the altar during the cemetery, quietly running his cars up and down the carpeted step. When his parent's divorced he and his twin sister were regular visitors at our house. We'd play endless games of Monopoly, hike into the dunes and pretend to be animals, and he'd eat nothing but sausage for breakfast. He was always sweet, always one of those people who you just know has a gentle inner core, a good heart.

As he's gotten older he's still been a regular visitor. We'd get the occasional text message just to say Hi. We met his girlfriend. Talked about his first car accident - and laughed at how irritated he was that it happened to him and not his sister. When a difficult time at home led to him needing a fresh start Chad and I didn't hesitate a moment to bring him here. He's been here five months and it feels like forever, in the very best way.

This past Friday I took him on a college visit to University of Northwestern Ohio, an automotive technology school that I had never heard of before. What an impressive school. And what a truly fun day. B is not my son and I don't ever want to take away from his mother, who has raised a wonderful kid. But walking through campus with B, I felt the same way every mother who has prepared to send a kid off into the world has felt. That round-faced baby boy was towering over me, tall and skinny and strong. And at UNOH he was in his element. Cars are his passion, and it was a joy to see him take it all in - the tools, the technology, the cars, the single-minded focus on all things motorized. I asked him questions and he answered in detail, showing me things and explaining things that I have never seen before or come close to understanding about a car. He was the expert, I was just along for the ride.

We walked what seemed like miles in the brisk November cold, laughing at how all the kids in camouflage jackets and hats unloaded into the Ag building, eating pizza standing up in the high-performance auto shop, talking about everything and nothing. We saw drag racers and junky pick-ups, jacked up Hondas and a car that was two front ends welded together for use as a training aid. We watched the auto-cross club blaze black tire tracks into the asphalt as they raced through their course, and rolled our eyes when the un-tricked-out, un-jacked-up Jeep went the easy way up the off-road course.

It was a fun day. Circumstances have made it so that he spent it with me, instead of his mom or Dad, and I'm not going to lie - I was glad. It was a privilege and a joy. I can't wait to see where the next phase of his life will take him.

Escape with a side of meeting.

"Mama? Why do you have to go to the business meeting? Why can't someone else go?" It's early. So early that sun has not even broken above the tops of the frost-tipped trees and the sky is blushing with rose-flecked clouds. Grace's face is calm, but her eyes are big.

"Well honey, I'm in charge of this project. And it's a really big project. And also, this meeting is one of only one or two times a year that everybody who will work on the project is going to be in the same place at the same time," I say. "So it's my job to show them what their new web site will look like, and what kind of videos and stories it will have, and also what they will need to do when it's their turn to give us information."

She nods. Lauren is listening carefully, but says nothing. I am pretty sure what I'm saying sounds a lot like that old Far Side cartoon: "blah, blah, blah, Ginger."

I know the girls have mixed feelings about me going out of town. They are always good for Chad. He always finds a way to make things special. In fact, when he's alone with them he's - and this kind of hurts me a little to admit - way more hands-on than me, playing Chutes & Ladders, or HORSE out in the driveway, or tea party or whatever. Which explains why my return home is often prefaced by, "well, the house is kind of a mess..."

But I also know that they miss me a lot. And they kind of think that the world will somehow cease to revolve on its axis. Even B, when informed that I'd be out of town for a couple of days said, "What? You're going out of town? How long?"

I said, "Just a couple of days. What? Don't you think the household can run without me?"

He looked straight at me and said, "No."

Very flattering. But no matter. I don't travel much, just enough to make my job interesting. And I'm never gone for long. Rarely more than one night or two. And secretly, although I would never want my children to know this, I can't wait to go. I love good hotels. I love getting ready for bed without stepping on Barbies or finding tiny pairs of underpants on my bathroom floor. I love eating out at places my kids would hate and not having to get everyone else's food ready first. I love leaving the leftovers behind because I was never going to eat them anyway, but with the kids I feel somehow compelled not to be wasteful. I love having the news on in the morning, and every single light in the room on too, if I want to, instead of putting on my make-up in a nearly candelit dimness (which is flattering, but still....).

I love escaping. Even if only for a couple of days and with a business meeting thrown in.

The best part is, I'm always really glad to get home.

Schizophrenia and the power of sitting on the couch.

On Monday I took B and his girlfriend to a college fair. On Tuesday I went to Lauren's preschool open house.

Lately I've felt like parenting is an awful lot like schizophrenia, only the voices are on the outside of your head. My childrens' personalities are so completely different, so.... separate. You hear that all kids are different, but you can't really know until you've experienced it. Like, one minute you're yelling - or trying very hard not to yell, but sort of failing - at your 8 year old to quit whining, sit up in the chair and do her subtraction. NOW. And the next your 4 year-old is leaning over to kiss your cheek. One minute your baby is totally cracking you up scooting on her butt across the living room, and the next you're fuming over your 17 year-old's missed homework assignment in science. One day you're asking about college admission requirements and the next day you're praising a triangle.

My children switch gears so easily, their moods tossed and turned by what happened at school, how hungry they are, maybe even the current phase of the moon. Who can say? But I'm ill equipped to change so quickly with them. Sometimes they are coming at me so fast and furiously - happy, angry, giddy, hopeful, quiet, crabby, laughing, pouting. I hate when I let my anger at one diminish my joy in another, even when it's only for a moment. But I feel like a split personality in the creepiest way when I get angry at one, then turn and smile and use my "happy mommy" voice on the other.

The irony is that they forget so much more quickly than me. Even if I yelled at dinnertime, by bedtime they are hugging and kissing me, and telling me I am the best mommy in the world. I know I'm not, but I'll take it as long as they still think so.

And so I come to the power of sitting on the couch. At my house, it's just like all those families on Super Nanny - the more time I spend with my kids the happier and more well behaved everyone is, including me. Even if we just spend 15 minutes in the living room talking, doing a puzzle, watching TV, reading, or playing charades (which B refuses to participate in, but still kind of hangs out for), it's 15 minutes where I have stopped moving. Stopped cleaning. Stopped bossing around. It's good for them, but in truth it's better for me.

Tonight, I'm thinking of sitting on the couch for 30 minutes.

P.S. In no way do I intend to make light of schizophrenia. In fact, I have a friend whose son has struggled with the disease for years, so I have an idea of how hard it is on the families and victims of the condition. Schizophrenia is no laughing matter. But you've got to admit - it is a great analogy for parenting.

Packing lunches, cleaning up puke, changing diapers, reading books, fighting over homework, celebrating math victories, thinking about colleges, cooking dinners, wishing for a self-cleaning house, folding laundry, writing web sites, one conference call after another, worrying about my Grandma, laughing at myself, exercising occasionally, sleeping less than I'd like, playing Chutes & Ladders, watching movies, searching for jeggings, answering emails, feeding the baby, dinner with friends, vacuuming, loading and unloading the dishwasher, pondering fantasy football strategies, trying not to forget birthdays, throwing my cat's gifts of dead animals into the woods, listening to acorns hitting the roof like rifle fire, talking to my dog, stopping at the grocery store, de-cluttering my closet, remembering to floss, painting tiny toenails, eating popcorn with M&Ms, trying new recipes, checking out new cop shows, listening to thunderstorms, kissing sleeping girls, filling out school picture forms, giving baths, oversleeping on Monday morning, wishing I was still sleeping on Sunday morning, getting up every morning to do it all again.

A little bit of help here?

Sunday night Annie woke up screaming - SCREAMING - at 3 in the morning. She had a fever and was hitting me on the arm, sweaty and inconsolable. After a frantic phone call to her grandpa (who is also, thank-my-lucky-stars, her doctor) and a feeding, as well as a hit of Tylenol, she was semi-asleep. She fussed on and off so much that I eventually put her in bed with me, breaking my long-standing rule against letting my kids sleep with me. But a girl's gotta get some rest and this was the only way.

Nestled against her hot little body I apparently slept well enough to have this dream:

I'm in a corporate office that's not a corporate office. It's more like the living and dining room of a mid-century ranch house and all the executives are circled around the dining room table/conference room table having a meeting. There's a phone booth against the wall where the two rooms meet. I'm feeding Anne, but then she pukes all over me.

I go to the phone booth and it turns out it's a shower, so I lean in and start rinsing my arm and brushing off my hands and clothes. I keep glancing over at the table. Everyone there is dressed like it's the 80s, like a scene from that movie where Diane Keaton inherits a baby and doesn't know what to do with her so she moves to Vermont and makes gourmet applesauce.

The next thing I know, my hair is getting soaked and - wait! - I'm naked! Only the meeting is still going on. Grace is in the corner trying to comfort Anne, who's not happy at all. And I'm NAKED! But still the meeting toddles on, while I try to keep my back to the group. (As though seeing only my butt somehow makes my nakedness less embarrassing.) Finally the meeting ends and I am able to get out of the shower, like I had been trapped in there somehow. And then I'm wrapped in a towel and a smarmy, blonde woman with a Mary Tyler Moore hairdo comes over to ask me some dumb question about business stuff.

And this is where it gets good....

The next thing I know, I've grabbed her by the hair, a handful of blonde flip curl in each fist, and I'm shaking her, yelling, "YOU ARE NOT HELPING ME!!!"

Then I woke up.

So there's a glimpse into my psyche.

P.S. Turns out Anne had an ear infection.

Milestones and the joy of de-cluttering.

Poor guy. He's assigned to my house today, a house with a driveway that goes uphill, 21 stairs to the front door, another 17 to the upstairs bedrooms. It's 93 degrees with not a cloud in the sky. The dude is seriously buff.

He's here - finally - to pick up Anne's oxygen supplies. Two concentrators, one huge back-up tank, seven small portable tanks and a couple of little machines with oddly old-fashioned looking dials that do I don't know what. Annie has been off the sauce, so to speak, since late March, but the supplies have lingered. They don't like to let you get rid of those too hastily since getting them placed back in your house is much more costly and difficult than just keeping them around for, say.... an extra five months.

Finally he's done, having lugged all of this heavy and ungainly equipment down all those stairs by himself. I give him a cold bottle of water that's been taking up space in the back of the fridge then turn back toward the girls, doing a shamelessly bad running man-style dance in celebration. It's go-on, it's go-on... the oxygen is go-on! In the kitchen I yank out the garbage can and stuff it with endless yards of clear tubing and small plastic humidifier bottles. I jerk the rug off the floor that had been placed to keep the concentrator from vibrating on our wood floors, and tuck a dust-coated, unopened box of unidentified supplies under my arm. Now it's my turn down the 21 stairs, down the hill of a driveway that's white-hot under the blistering sun, down to the garbage can with my eyes closed to slits like a vampire peeking out from his coffin to see what the neighborhood humans could possibly be doing with all this daylight. With a soft thud, it's all gone.

Finally.

Tomorrow it will be one year since I was hospitalized with my cervix inexplicably dilated to 5 centimeters. I was, literally, hours away from giving birth to a baby who would have been too fragile to survive. I wasn't in labor, but in the end my body couldn't keep her in. The seven days of bed rest gave Anne just enough of a boost - in the form of lung-building steroids and simple time - to get her over the hump to viability. This is just a polite way of saying that she would have a chance at survival. Viable. Survival. They sound alike, but the difference between the two is a vast chasm.

This has been a life changing year. A year of decluttering, both literally and metaphorically. Our priorities have come into crystal-clear focus, our needs pared down to those most simple and treasured. Our worries sorted into Things That Really Matter and Things That Kinda Don't. I mean, yeah, I'd still like to have a VW bug convertible for my 40th birthday (as Chad promised to me long ago) and I'd also like a couple of those awesome cashmere sweaters from J. Crew this fall and to go on a cruise for our 15th anniversary in November. That would be cool, but it's also cool if we stay home in our old non-cashmere sweaters.

I'm going upstairs to do something with the wide open space at the front of my closet where the oxygen concentrator used to be. I'm going to try to leave it open, like a breathing space in a sea of clothes and shoes and belts. That's how I feel getting all that equipment out of the house. Like I've come out of a fog and found a breathing space after a year of worry, fear, doctor's appointments, unwanted medical knowledge and breathless waiting as Annie has grown.

On August 20th she'll be 1. What a year.

What dog barf? Part 2.

"Eewwww! Mom! What is that?"

Grace has spotted the dog barf.

"It looks like a giant earwig."

She is pointing to the wad of regurgitated grass lying just so next to the actual barf/bile part.

I pretend to glance back as I'm wrestling Anne's car seat through the door without hitting Lauren in the head.

"It's dog puke," I say. "Not a giant earwig." Now I'm laughing. "But that's pretty creative, Gracie."

"We need to clean it up, mommy," she says, looking back furtively as I urge her to keep moving.

"We've gotta go, honey. I don't have time. Daddy will get it." I hope I sound convincing, but I'm really just thinking there is no way I'm cleaning that up. I'm not.

Tuesday night the puke was gone.