When will I learn?

Small children do not understand a sardonic sense of humor.

My daughter has been asking (ie. relentlessly begging) for a dog on a weekly basis. I don't know where this came from. No one in our family has a dog, except my dad. The relationship between Joey Dog and Emilia could hardly be called friendly. Adversarial, perhaps. Competitive, maybe. Contentious, yes. There is usually food involved. The fact that my daughter won't admit to being lower on the hierarchy has not aided their relationship.

Anyway, the nagging had been wearing on me. In part, because I would love to have a dog, too. I had two when I was her age. But with three cats, no. Not going to happen. I am not about to add a puppy to a home that already has three people, one a preschooler, another child on the way, and three damn cats. (I know you're saying, three? THREE cats? What are you crazy?! Um, yes. Apparently. But we'll leave that story for another day.)

So one day, in the midst of another pleading-for-a-dog-because-otherwise-I-might-and-most-likely-will-die-if-I-don't-get-one-immediately session I was feeling a little worn. And I answered the way I sometimes would to an adult. "Frankly, Emilia, at least one cat was going to have to die for that to happen. Possibly two. Preferrably three."

"Die?"

"Yes. Die. The cats. I'm sorry. That's just the way it is. As long as there are cats, no dogs in our house."

Now, Em doesn't understand death. She's not even three. I didn't really think this had any impact on her. She seemed to consider it for a moment and then stopped asking for a dog altogether. Child stopped pestering! There is quiet! I won! Kind of.

Flash forward to this morning. There were some adorable puppies on the Today Show. The rolly-polly, falling all over each other, fluffy kind. You're awwing in your chair, aren't you? So, being the good mother that sometimes convince myself I am, I called to Em, knowing she'd like them, "Emilia there are puppies on TV! Come see the puppies!"

Predictably, I heard feet running towards me and then Em gaspsed, in a VERY EXCITED tone, "Did the cats DIE!?"

I don't know what's worse. The emotional damage I've done to my child...or the look of disappointment on her face when she realized there were at least two alive cats right in front of her.

Um. Oops.

My gift to you- laughter. At me. I'm all about sacrifice.

HAPPY HANUKKAH!

They say change takes times

Until you are hit by one of those unexpected changes that changes EVERYTHING.

Right after I wrote that last post I began to feel tired. Drained of life tired. I thought it was the culmination of a recent move, trip, and having a two year old with an accomplished sense of verve for life. Then I began to feel sick. Really sick. THen, one morning, I walked into my daughter's bedroom and passed out in her dorway. I took a pregnancy test.

I sat down, prepared to wait the agonizing three minutes that the evil people who make these tests expect you to wait. In thirty tiny little seconds, "pregnant" popped up on that little digital screen!

In order for you to understand my joy you have to know that it took a year and half for me to get the same results with my first pregnancy. In fact, my husband and I, who had decided that infertility procedures were not for us, began to discuss life without children. Getting pregnant the first time felt like a miracle. Hoping for a second one seemed like greediness. But aren't humans always wanting more? And, well, I couldn't shake that determined voice in the back of my noggin that said someone was missing.

Turns out, the same voice was chatting up my husband. (Busy body.) So at the beginning of the summer we decided to give it a go, if for no other reason that having our thoughts back. Immediately had what an early miscarriage. I sighed and pondered cursing that voice. Still, the voice remained and I felt inclined to listen.

So we took a deep breath. Focused on moving into our new house. Took a vacation. Sold our condo. Settled into the new house. Finally it was time to try again. At the risk of telling you so much more than you want to know, once was all it took. And it TOOK. Turns out as long as they aren't telling you the pigeons across the street are spying on you for the FBI, random voices in your head aren't so bad. (haha)

I am sick all the damn time. But I don't care. I have an ultrasound in a few days and that is a big step for those who have had past disappointment. Once you've struggled, you never really lose the feeling that maybe you got your hopes up too soon. I need to know that things are developing as they should and then I will use that b-word without any fear.

Still, I am so hopeful. Joyful. A little bloated and still wearing black because this is not the time to buy new clothes without elastic. But HAPPY.

My first little experiment may have gone awry, but G-d provided another and, let's give it to him, better plan. In the meantime, I am celebrating grace, life, and the fact that my toddler has miraculously begun to happily play by herself for hours just when I need her to most.

For all these reasons, G-d is good.

Oh, you guys. It's Funk City over here.

Meaning that I am in one. Or comprise of one. But not smell like one. I don't think. (Um...) This is not coming out right.

So, yes, I am in a bad mood. Or a down mood, which is different, I guess. There's not a lot of stomping about, but copious heavy sighs. Maybe it's that I haven't had my D in weeks? Or any vitamins for that matter. Or really haven't walked more than a couple of times. No working out, at all, now that I think about it. That explains my pants.

Plus, it feels like all the money we have is being drained out for not fun things like organizers in our new house. Things I already have, but which do not fit in my new cupboards or drawers and therefore have to be repalced entirely. Why does a plastic bin that I need 20 of have to cost $12 each? Anyway, this is why I have no bins. I am desperate, not stupid. Still, the mess is intense and my in-laws will be here tomorrow to see the glorious New House. I just feel overwhelmed by it all. Of course, this means I am doing none of it.

*sigh* I need something. D. A new dress. A professional organizer. A fast ticket out of town before my in-laws get here. Something.

OH! To give you an idea of how fun this mess is, a little story about my two and half year old. This afternoon, my daughter (love of my life, carrier of my genes, someday to inherit my jewelry/fortune/collection of fruit shaped bowls that serve no purpose) came into my room, surveyed it, and sighed very deeply. Then she said to me, "Mama, I am not proud of this mess." I actually had to process what she said and that it hadn't come from the TV- which is not yet actually set up because, apparently, we need a mason to drill holes in our brick before that can happen. By the time I did confirm that, yes, she said it, she was walking out shaking her head saying, "You have a lot of stuff to pick up."

Thanks, Kid.

The project I came up with in the last post was great. Fabulous, in fact! And I did it. Mostly. Except that I haven't found my cord to download pictures yet. And a lot of things I found to take pictures of were inconveniently no where near the camera (I had left at home).

Then there is the new house. It's wonderful, but a total time suck. I dreamed of owning a house. But I sort of forgot to dream the weeks it would take to get settled into it. (Dreams meet Reality. Dreams, please back down, Reality is just doing it's job. Please? Dreams? Dreams! Back the hell down! REALITY!! DO NOT sock Dreams in the face!) Those two. They just never get on in my head.

I'm still baffled as to how 935 square feet of relatively not-packed-condo can take three weeks to move. Waves and waves of things I have no idea where they will go. I won't even go into the bed. THE BED! (Okay apparently going into it a little). Which is Not. It is in pieces. And not just the kind that bolt back together, but the kind that require both a blow-torch and possibly someone sawing my box-springs in half to get them up the stairs. Yeah.

And maybe that's the true source of my malaise and even, really why I wanted to do this blog in the first place. I have the tendency to do too much, expect too much. (Say too much...sigh). And when you pile so much on yourself all at once without any sense of reality, there's not a whole lot of hope that it will all come out exactly the way you want. One thing at a time, right? The truth is, I'm a dreamer. I like it that way, but Dreamers, occassionally get a Reality smack down.

So my new goal is just to fold my laundry. At the very least, my underwear can find a home before my in-laws get here. The rest I leave for another day. And maybe I will take my D because at least I know where that is.

And also, I need to rewrite my will. (Traitor.)

Living in Beauty

Whenever you’re feeling lonely or sad, try…looking outside…at the sky. As long as you can look fearlessly at the sky, you’ll know that you’re pure within and will find happiness once more.

-Anne Frank


Some blog this is! Two entries and I disappear! HA!

But hear me out. I’ve been a tad busy. We bought a house. This is no small thing. In fact, it is tremendous. Some of our friends and family have probably uttered the word "miracle" in reference to it in the last two months. We certainly have.

And angels. There were definitely angels looking out for us- at least three of the non-celestial variety, who helped make this happen. They have our unfailing gratitude and awe.

The story, though. You need to know this to know how momentous this whole house thing is. We've been searching for a house for three years. THREE! In Seattle. In one of the most seller-friendly periods in Seattle's history. Even while other bubbles were bursting around the country, ours floated happily, stratospherically along. Until it didn't. Now, people, I would never call myself real estate savvy. Or really, savvy in anything. More like lucky. And freakin' stubborn. But even my will crumbled from time to time. We bid on five houses and came no where near close to acceptance. We saw so many that I've lost count...maybe 4 dozen? And that's not factoring in the online profiles we pondered.

We saw house. After house. After house. Including one we affectionately call The Pee House because, while seeing it, the owner announced to us that the roses that lined the entire property, had all been peed on, regularly, by no fewer than five granddaughters.

Yes.

Peed.

On.

Every. Single. One. Of. Them. She was telling me something horribly fascinating about the acid in urine being perfect for developing the color of the roses. All I could see was a giant urinal with a house in the middle and the color draining from the realtor's face. I also remember a toddler twirling in the front yard, eyeing the roses eagerly. This might have been in my head.

Likely.

So you can surmise that if this was a highlight in three years of looking, we were not always so positive that a house was in our future. Although, we also knew we had no choice. Three people, three cats in 935 square feet of lovely, but increasingly small condo. A hope for a second child and dreams of actually having enough room for us all kept the, however sometimes distant, dream alive.

Opportunity finally presented itself. A lovely, three-times-the-size-of-our-condo, French-ish, stucco, 1921, views of Lake Washington, two-story with basement house. A couple that needed to move, fast. A market that was finally swinging in our favor.

AND WE PRAYED.

G-d heard us. Graced us. Took pity. I'm not really sure which it is, if not all of the above. But I thank Him, heartily. Now we're here. Our new house. Our new home! And it's not...pretty. The house itself? Fabulous!! But the interior? It's dull. A neutral gray-ish green covers every wall. Except the bathroom. That's brown...ish...purple...ish. Ick-ish. The windows beg for curtains. The walls, color. The whole home, some cheeriness.

But you know what? It's not the only one. I try my hand at dream analysis now and again. Usually when I wake up in a cold sweat from one. The one thing I know for sure is that when you dream of a house, the state of it is reflective of your internal state.

Um. Yeah. If dreams can come true, then my house dream is reflecting more than I’d like. I am not exactly without ick myself. In fact, ick is exactly what I've been trying to shed.

Here's the thing, besides the whole moving bit, I have had another reason for not doing much with this blog. I have been trying to figure out what I am going to do with it. No. Wait. Not what. HOW. How am I going to use this blog? Being more positive sounds great, but how to go about it? There's one thing I know. My life, my body, my clothes, my attitude- it all needs more color. This dream needs a better execution! More life! Less ick! If there is a way back to happiness, I think less ick has definitely got to be a step in the right direction. Dorothy didn't walk down cobblestone in Crocs, did she? NO! She pumped up the Technicolor, slid on some shiny ruby slippers and ran down a yellow brick road! (And, yes, she went back to black and white, but I think we all know what a disappointment that is.)

So here's what I'm going to do. Every day this week, (maybe month, but let's not get ahead of ourselves) I am going to create my own Technicolor dream. And revel in it. Because beauty, I'm starting to believe, leads us back to everything. Hope, happiness, peace, gratitude, G-d. And, I'm praying, a more happy self.

The to-do list is as follows: Tomorrow, wear Not Black. (Also, do laundry, but I digress…) Make pretty dinner to celebrate being in new house.

Plus, find camera. Charge batteries. Take pictures. Find cord to download. Because I can tell you it’s pretty, but you have to see it, right?

If you feel the urge to gather some beauty of your own, join me! Especially if you like folding laundry. And unpacking. (I really could use the help.)

This is going to be a busy day.

Tzippi

Beautiful Imperfection

When my mom died, something amazing happened. I listened as everyone who knew her, my brothers and dad included, remembered her in the angelic terms. She became a saint. She had done no wrong. She’d been unfailing patient and kind and loving. She’d never said a harsh word about anyone else. She’d always thought the best of us, no matter what we did. She endured the stupid things other people did with understanding and grace. She’d never acted out in jealousy, rage or stupidity. She’d never been selfish.

In short, she was perfection.

I have absolutely no clue who those people were talking about.

This is not to say that my mom wasn’t a good person. She really was. But in redefining who she was, I started to feel like we were forgetting the woman who shared our lives. The beautiful thing about my mom is that she was imperfect and she liked it that way.

Imperfection was sort of her thing. A ridiculous number of animals had their lives to thank for my mother’s love of the rejected and misunderstood. Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree? She knew how it felt, too. That the most pathetic tree on the lot emotionally bitch-slapped the snobs at the end of the story made it the best Christmas story in her mind (and, yes, my mother was a Christian- the good, Bible-reading-every- day, accepts everyone kind). People without an ear to listen found my mom a willing participant simply because there was no sob story she’d turn down. And, no, that’s not a sign of (just) her capacity to love, but of a mutual feeling that there was someone else who people often ignored and she was happy to find a similar soul.

And, I will let you in on a secret. It wasn’t some Mother Theresa-like peace that filled her with love for the down-trodden. No. Mom felt a little superior in loving unloved things because she felt like an unloved thing. Mom’s past left her wondering what value she had. She didn’t know, and was always searching for, either camaraderie or validation. Her love of imperfect things gave her a sense of both. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, but if we forget that that was her motivation, we forget her.

Mom. Flawed. A human being.

My mom was not perfect, but she was mine. We loved each other openly. Sometimes loudly and impatiently, but always honestly. And I knew she loved me. Enough to constantly challenge her own image. Mom wasn’t particularly good at examining that and making big changes. But she was better than anyone at championing that in others. When I would charge ahead on a new path or sit down to examine my own life and motivations, Mom could both lift me up and define for me exactly where I’d been going wrong. Not that that was always easy to hear…but it was honest. We could accept it when she made us face our own failings because she was so deeply vocal of her own. That was her gift.

When I look at the sum of my mom’s life, I know she would agree with me in saying that she made a lot of mistakes, but she would be okay with that if it meant my brothers and I made different, and better, choices. She would even say that maybe the purpose of her life would be to make the mistakes so her children wouldn’t have to. Mom was big on finding a soul’s mission and sometimes that meant taking the wrong path so more people will take the right one. There was an imperfect sort of glory in that that appealed to her.

So no, I’m not going to clean up the image of my mom. The dings and tarnish of her life are exactly what made her great…and at peace with her own life. It is her legacy. I am not taking that away from her now.

This is the one year anniversary of my mom’s death. I am going to remember her exactly as she was to me. And miss the hell out of her because no one will ever be that honest and loving with me again.

Except maybe my daughter.