Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Some of you already know that one of the reasons my husband, our son, and I returned to the Pacific Northwest from our beloved Texas was to attempt to help both of our mothers clear out decades of stuff from their respective homes. My mother lives in Portland, in a house just over 1,000 square feet (which I'm fairly certain doesn't include the semi-finished basement or attic), encompassing 2 bedrooms and 1 bathroom, while my husband's mother lives in the suburbs of Tacoma, in a sprawling house of 2,245 square feet (which may or may not include the garage), which has 5 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. My mother has lived in her home 26 years, since my parents were divorced; his mother has lived in her home 34 years, the majority of those with her husband (now deceased), who collected as much stuff as she has. For year, my husband thought his father was the clutterbug, that his parents had so much stuff because he wouldn't let go and kept bringing things into the house. After his death, however, it soon became apparent that my sweet mother-in-law (MIL for the sake of brevity here) has just as many issues with stuff as my father-in-law did. Just, you know, different stuff. While he had a habit of hanging on to decades-old bowling trophies and books and ordering things from infomercials (am I the only person who has actually seen Billy the Singing Bass up close and personal on Christmas morning?) she tends more towards food/kitchen contraptions and shoes. Those are only the main categories for each of them, mind you.

Anyhow, when I took the job in Portland, one of the reasons the boys moved in with my MIL in Tacoma (other than the fact that my husband got a job there) was so my husband could help his mom clear out & do some light remodeling on her house so she can sell it and move down with one of her sons & his wife in Phoenix. Obviously, you can't expect to sell a house when it is crammed full of clutter. But that was 20 months ago, y'all. And while my husband guesstimated it would take a good 2 years to go through everything and get it cleared out, I can tell you that only 2 rooms in the house are ready for sale: our son's bedroom (which was my husband's growing up, aaaaw!) and the main bathroom. My husband's room (which is also my room when I'm in Tacoma, hee hee) was decluttered, but has not yet been painted or had the carpeting replaced. Rooms that haven't been touched? The living room, the kitchen, the dining room, the den, 2 more downstairs bedroom, the large upstairs bedroom (which includes several “attic” closets), the garage, the laundry room, the 2^nd bathroom, and a utility room. Oh, did I mention there are also two locked sheds in the backyard, one for her and one for him? My husband once mentioned the last time he saw the inside of either shed was in the mid-80s, and they were both crammed to the rafters. The backyard is also filled with decrepit grills, toys, tools, and various paraphernalia.

So I think I can safely surmise that the decluttering plan has not gone exactly, well, according to plan. So I'm stepping in, gingerly. It's like edging on to a field full of live mines, I swear. While I consider myself an effective organizer in all types of situation, the particular combination of people involved in this clutter (my husband and my MIL, two of my most beloved people in the world) make it very difficult for me to be as ruthless and analytical as I can be with friends, colleagues, and strangers. Common sense and logic hold no sway in this crazy, mixed up, stuffed full world. Forget the 1-year rule; in this house, there's not even a 30-year rule. If you ask my MIL if she would rather have her clutter or the space in her home, she will undoubtedly tell you the stuff. My husband claims it border on pathological. Take, for example, the bedroom that was his father's for the last years of his life. After his death, my husband and 2 of his brothers purged the bedroom ruthlessly, dumping almost everything within days, before the funeral even. They had the stained carpet ripped out, replaced it with easy-to-clean laminate wood, painted the walls and replaced broken fixtures. We returned to Texas feeling confident that at least one room of the house was clean. That was in August. When we returned to visit at Christmas, the room was filled, to the point that you couldn't even walk in. My husband posits that there is an actual fear of space at work here.

I get it, I do. She's a 73-year-old black woman. She was raised in rural Louisiana, the segregated South, and never had enough as a child. She then became a military wife, moving all over the world before her husband retired at Fort Lewis (now Joint Base Lewis-McCord). She raised 4 boys, the fourth of whom (my husband) is nearly 20 years younger than the oldest. Until her husband died several years ago, my MIL had never lived alone. Ever. But I also understand that her stuff owns her. It's keeping her from living the life she says she wants to live (retired in Phoenix with her son & daughter-in-law). It's not healthy. It's not at the point of people feces, like you see on that hoarding show on TV, but as I priced & boxed up some things in preparation for a yard sale today, I found mice droppings. I also worry about my son eating expired/spoiled food. Sigh. Finally, I know that if we don't deal with this situation now, my husband and I will be dealing with it after she dies. It's frustrating, especially since I'm used to being the professional help, but I'm starting to think that we're going to have to bring in some other professional help, someone who isn't related to her. Sigh. Seriously, y'all, help me out. I know what to do when it comes to decluttering and organizing, I just don't know if it's worth it trying to do it in this particular situation or if I should figure out a way to pay someone else to do it. Thoughts?

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It's Not All Bad. Really.

Since it tends to pop up in conversations, I’m assuming most of you already know my husband and I have been living 200 miles apart for the past 17 months. If this is news to you and you are like most people I know, there are probably at least a few questions running through your head, the first of which is likely to be something about the health of my marriage. Good news: Despite what the church mothers at my mother-in-law's church think (secret divorce), we’re happily married. Celebrating 7 years next month, actually. But my job is in Portland and his job is in Tacoma. So now, assuming all of this information has not completely blown your mind and you’re still paying attention, how about this tidbit that makes most folks’ mouths drop open: this is not our first time living apart, it’s our third. In fact, in the 10 years we’ve been together, Mr. MIHM and I have spent a total of 2 years and 9 months living in separate states. Yes, I said states. The first time was 12 months with him in Washington and me in Virginia (approximately 2,700 miles distance) – I tackled my first year of grad school while he finished up his undergraduate degree; the second time was 4 months with him & Monkey in Washington and me in Texas (approximately 2,200 miles distance) – I completed my clinical internship at a children’s hospital in Dallas while he & Monday set up shop in Tacoma, where I was supposed to join them post-internship…until my husband visited me and fell in love with DFW, as I had; and now there is the (relatively) short distance of 144 miles that we take turns traversing almost every weekend. As one of my friends joked, at least we’re headed in the right direction, with the miles apart getting smaller each time. 

So guess what? Although all of my friends and families are co-habitating with their spouses (as far as I know), apparently, Mr. MIHM and I are not alone.  Apparently, there is a name for couples who are together but live apart, whether due to jobs or by choice: Living Apart Together, or LAT for short. So how does one use that knowledge in conversation? As a noun, like, “My husband and I are LAT-ers”? Or is it more verbish, as in, “My husband and I LAT due to our careers”? I’m not really sure, but it seems worth doing some casual research. Another term I’ve found for people in our situation is being in a Commuter Marriage, and more than 3.5 million couples in the US do it. My husband and I join the ranks with traveling salesmen, migrant workers, the incarcerated(!), and soldiers on deployment. 

Anyhow, I bring all this up not to impress you with my research skills or wow you with statistics (although, I’m hoping you love statistics as much as I do), but to share some of the benefits Mr. MIHM and I have found in living apart while still being together. Yes, believe it or not, despite the many obvious (and sometimes overwhelming) negatives, there are some positives to be found!

      1. When we are together, we are more likely to focus on being together

Because our time is limited, I try not to make other plans on our family weekends. When you hardly get to see your family, even running errands (finding new sneakers for Monkey, going to the dry cleaner, grocery shopping) can make for a fun afternoon. And, as my husband just relayed via text message (it's a Tuesday, after all), "Freshness. Feeling like you're dating again, at times." Indeed, we have been on many more actual dates during the past 17 months than probably the entire 5 years we lived in Texas. Makes me feel like we're going to have to try harder when we're co-habitating again!

      2. Less wife/mommy (or husband/daddy) guilt on the weekdays

When I need to work late unexpectedly or have work events in the evenings, it doesn’t affect my family in the same way it did in Texas. When one of my childhood friends hosts her monthly weekday knitting nights, I can RSVP without wondering what my boys have going on that evening. When I feel like knitting a baby hat and watching Ugly Betty DVDs until I’m ready to go to bed, I do. Yes, it’s lonely. But it’s also led to me attempting to have a social life and to indulge in things I may not have time for when we’re all living together. 

      3. More appreciation for helping out around the house

I got to spend a week with my boys in October. One day, while my husband was at work, I washed, dried & folded five loads of laundry. He was thrilled! In September, my husband spent a long weekend with me in Portland. While I was at an all-day Saturday work event, he scrubbed my bathroom & kitchen until they were sparkling. While these tasks all fall within our usual division of labors when we’re living together, it really makes you appreciate the other person when you no longer take that task being done for granted. As I brush my teeth over my currently less-than-luminous bathroom sink this evening, I will think fondly of my dear, sweet husband and his exemplary sanitation skills – and I can only hope he will feel similarly the next time he runs out of clean undies!

      4. Less dancing around the issues

Family weekends are somewhat of a microcosm of our regular family life when we all lived in the same home. We still share the joys, the sorrow, the happiness, the anger – but in shorter face-to-face chunks. For me, a people pleaser and avoider of confrontations by nature, this means that I have had to step up my communication game. It’s a lot harder to go to bed angry with your spouse when you know he has to go home the next morning. So we say what we both need to say, I cry, sometimes we yell – but is generally gets worked out within a few hours. Or at least we can agree to disagree for the moment and to try and work it out more in-depth via Skype or telephone over the next week. 

      5. Week-long foreplay

I know, I’m pretty G-rated on this blog but, hey, we’ve been together 10 years and we have a 7-year-old. Clearly, we’ve been having sex. And, although living apart limits the frequency of our rendezvous, it has also led to an increase in sexting, suggestive emails, X-rated phone calls – in other words, an increase in long-distance foreplay. The drawback? I have to be careful not to let anyone rifle through the photos on my Blackberry. The benefit? Use your imagination, dear reader, and imagine me with a big smile on my face when I say that!

So what about you? Have you ever lived apart from your spouse and/or have you ever wanted to? Do you have friends or family members who LAT due to jobs or by choice? What do you think about this living situation? Since it’s a weekday, I’ll have plenty of time to read your reply after work tomorrow ;-)

I'm Making the Time

So I may not have this "slow down" lifestyle down pat. After a blissful 10 days up in Tacoma with my family, I arrived home late last Monday night, hurled my bags on the couch, and fell into bed. The next four days were a blur of work and errands, then a big day yesterday with Monkey Boy competing at a Highland dance competition in the morning and more errands and family time with both Daddy & Monkey in the afternoon. My boys headed back North around 9 pm last night, as Monkey is singing at his Granny's church in honor of Veteran's Day this morning. I won't say I'm not sad to see them go (as always), but having today to unpack from my last trip, do laundry, do dishes, mealplan for the week, etc. is necessary, if not the most exciting way to spend a Sunday. So I'm making this my "slow down" day - a little laundry here, a little dishwashing there, all interspersed with some email checking, book reading, paper shredding, receipt scanning, all done to the background of a self-declared Sex & the City Marathon playing on my computer. Am I the only person who still adores that show? I like it more the older I get, actually.

One of my "slow down" goals is to spend more time here, reflecting on what's going on in our little world and trying to keep myself sane and balanced. So I apologize in advance if some of my posts (like this one) are really more rambling thoughts than useful information, projects, etc. What can I say? I'm learning how to put myself first - the ultimate challenge for a working wife & mom. 

 

A Full Weekend of Family Time

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go. Although, unlike John Denver, I'll be catching a train, not a plane, this evening - at least I can thank God for *that* small favor! Regardless, I can definitely relate to the elephant of emotions currently sitting on my chest, weighing down my lungs and making it physically hard to breathe. As soon as my husband gets home from work, we're heading downtown to have an early family dinner and then they're putting me on the train to Portland. I can't even count the number of times I have left my family for work over the past 14 months, and yet it never gets any easier. I'm sure people are getting tired of me kvetching about it, though!

We had a great weekend, lots of family time. I took the evening train up from Portland on Thursday. It had been a long two weeks since I'd seen my husband or Monkey, which felt even longer after spending the whole summer with Monkey and lots of extra time with my husband, as well! Back-to-school is a little extreme at my apartment this year - everybody goes back to Tacoma. Friday I spent the morning volunteering in my husband's classroom, helping each student in turn dress up and take a "Hollywood headshot" to use in class activities throughout the year. Man, I'm going to have to ask my husband to write

about his fantastic classroom decor this year - it's pretty much the best Hollywood theme come to life ever! Friday afternoon was telecommuting back to the office in Portland.

Friday night was frantic, last-minute costume fitting & alterations (did I mention I haven't seen Monkey or his little body in 2 weeks?), all in preparation for getting up super-early on Saturday morning to drive down to the Kelso Highlander Festival (2/3 of the way to Portland, ironically) for Monkey to compete for the very first time as a Beginner - yeah! While I think it's inhumane to have to get up at 5:30 am on a Saturday for any reason, doing something cool with Monkey and my husband is at the top of the list.

Monkey did the Fling for the first time in competition (or onstage at all!) and the Sword for the third time in competition, although the first time he's managed to do it as well in competition as he does for shows and in practice - yeah! My husband and I were so proud that he got a 5th place medal in both dances, that he remembered his manners (stepping back after the sword to let the little ladies next to him walk off stage first - aaaw!), and that he didn't get a "stamp" (Beginners have to place 1st, 2nd, or 3rd in a Highland dance in order to get a stamp and have to get a stamp at 6 different competitions in order to move up to the next category, Novice). It sounds strange to be grateful for no stamp, I know, but one of the reasons we have Monkey in Highland is so he can learn discipline and the value of working hard at your goals. Let's just say that his practice habits haven't quite caught up with his ambitions, at this point. We're happy for him to take as long as he needs in Beginner!

Saturday afternoon my husband and I took a much-needed nap. Monkey did not. Two of his cousins were over (granny was watching them while their parents were at work) so Monkey was busy playing. It proved to be a bit of an issue later that evening, though, when we took Monkey to the Puyallup Fair for the first time. Have I mentioned my husband is a Puyallup Fair fanatic? He's been dreaming about this moment, taking his offspring to experience this magical event with him, for *years*! Needless to say, the reality of a tired, cranky, 7-year-old Monkey Boy did not live up to the husband's expectations. Sad times for him :-( I had fun, though! Probably because I went into it with only the expectation of spending time with my husband and son. Low expectations are often the key when dealing with tired children, I find.

Sunday was lay-around-the-house-and-be-lazy day for me, although I did spend some time helping my husband with housework. I also got together a giant pile of outgrown Monkey clothes to take to our favorite Tacoma resale shop, Blooming Kids, this morning. Have I mentioned how fantastic they are? They let me bring in clothes when I'm in town and then pick up the money and clothes they can't use the next time I'm back in town. Very helpful for the mommy who commutes 200 miles to work. It was lovely to get 9 full paper bags of outgrown clothes out of Monkey's room today!

So yeah, overall a good weekend. Except now I have to go. Will this ever get easier?

Can't Hold My Own Hand

I just read an absolutely lovely story about a couple that has been married for 50 years. Seems like a long time, doesn't it? I've been caught up in the "10 year-ness" recently - hard to believe that my dear husband and I will have known each other for 10 years this November, and married for 7 in December. Even though we drive each other nuts sometimes, we both know that we balance each other out and bring out the best in each other. You know, when we want to. We're also getting to the point, though, where we're both realizing that living apart for work this year is a lot harder than the last two times we did it. Of course, this is also the longest stretch. It's not so much making time to talk or text or Skype, although those things can be difficult, especially during the school year. The things we miss are really the little things. I love driving around aimlessly at night with my husband behind the wheel, talking about everything and nothing and my feet up on the dashboard and the windows down and just being, really being, just us. No distractions. We are a high consumption couple when it comes to fossil fuels, I'm afraid. We're 13 months in to a 24 month committment. How this journey will progress, I have no idea, but I'm hoping that I have my partner back with me again soon. Who knows, maybe an opportunity will pop up for us before next summer. I just have to keep reminding myself - God's will, not mine.

It's So Much Better With Three

My husband and I had a plan on Saturday: take Monkey Boy to dance class, after which we would proceed to keep him busy and (hopefully) amused for as much as the afternoon as possible. On Friday evening, my husband announced that Monkey got to pick what we were going to do Saturday afternoon and asked for his preference. Monkey decided he would give us options (such a sweet boy!) and listed McDonald's, Redbox, and Old Chicago Pizza as his top 3 choices of things to do on Saturday. Two eateries and a movie - yes, perhaps we need to keep working on expanding Monkey's horizons. McDonald's is a NO from me 90% of the time, Redbox he & I have done a couple times this summer (plus one important part of the plan was to keep Monkey out of the house!), so Old Chicago Pizza won by default. Very scientific, no?

First up was dance class, though. While Miss Hilary put Monkey through his paces (I'm happy to report he has entirely remembered his whole Sword and is hard at working learning the first step of the Fling!), my husband and I headed for the nearby Edelwiss Sausage & Delicatessen, or "the German shop", as my mother referred to it when we were growing up, which has been a Portland landmark nearly as long as I've been alive (they opened their doors in 1982, when I was barely a year old).

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Though he's heard about it for years and enjoyed their sausages on multiple occasions at my dad's house, this was my husband's first visit to the hallowed aisles of Bavarian yumminess. We picked up a few fresh pastries to take home, a process that involved my husband asking many questions and ooh-ing and aah-ing over the heavily accented answers from the dear German woman assisting us. I was not at all surprised that, by the end, she was cooing over him like he was her own darling son! Once the pastries were packed up, I led him over to the lunch counter, where I ordered a turkey & havarti sandwich and my husband got a bratwurst on a fresh roll - yum! Did I mention that, technically, this was our breakfast? Sometimes it's good to get all continental on a Saturday morning, I think. I remembered to ask for no butter on my sandwich and my husband did the same with his brat's roll. The woman seemed startled by the request, but politely complied. If my dad needs only one big sign that his daughters have acclimatized to American culture, I think that would be it - no butter on my turkey sandwich, thankyouverymuch!

After picking up a slightly stinky Monkey Boy (Highland really makes you sweat) we headed over to the Scottish Country Shop, where a fellow dance boy-mom had told me she'd taken her son to try on various sizes of Balmoral hats. Can I just say, after 20+ years of being first a Highland dancer, then a Highland teacher, and now also a Highland mother, I literally have no idea where to start with outfitting a 7-year-old boy for competition? The male dress code is sooo much harder to figure out! Case in point: I assumed that the clerk at the Scottish Country Shop would know exactly what we needed when we arrived, Monkey in tow, and explained he was a competitive Highland dancer who had just aged out of Primary and was now a Beginner - wrong! Good thing I had taken a moment to look up the name of the hat style (Balmoral) before we left the house that morning, or we would have been completely out of luck. As it was, she left us on our own to figure out sizing, color, etc. My husband and I managed to find a hat that was just barely too big (several ladies in the know have advised me to purchase a hat with a finger's-space between the brim & Monkey's head, then take a stitch in the back so it will fit now, but also fit longer as he grows - brilliant!) but got stuck when it came to checked or plain. See?

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...and assuming we can figure that out, then there will be the matter of the crest. What crest, exactly, is appropriate to display on the hat of a small boy who is Swiss/English/Irish/Welsh on his mother's side and African/Creole/Native American on his father's side, for the purposes of competing in Scottish Highland dancing? Does the United Nations have a crest, perchance?

For the time being, as he has at least a few years as a Pre-Premier dancer in his future, we've given him the choice of wearing a hat or not and, while Monkey enjoyed trying on the Balmorals and prancing in front of the mirrors, he has decided to go hatless for now. Phew!

Finally, it was time for the main event (in Monkey's mind, anyway) of the afternoon: Old Chicago Pizza on Stark Street, a mere stone's throw away from Mall 205 and my teeny little apartment, as well. Apparently, Monkey had heard about this place from one of the other boys in his theater camp last week and was eager to try it. My husband and I were pleasantly surprised to learn, as we were seated, that Happy Hour was mere moments away. At 3 pm on a Saturday afternoon, the bar looked like it was buzzing, but the restaurant itself was nearly empty, except for several friendly servers, a few other patrons, and several television screens showing live Olympics coverage. It was awesome.


My husband thought it was strange I took a picture of the Happy Hour menu, but I figured it would be good to keep on file for those evenings Monkey Boy & I really need to get out of the house. For less than $20 before tip yesterday, we were able to get a massive plate of nachos & a lemonade for my husband, a personal pizza & a lemonade for Monkey, and a frozen strawberry margarita & artichoke dip for me. Granted, the margarita tasted virgin (which is fine at 3 pm, honestly), but the artichoke dip was hot and delicious and came not only with toasted bread, but also with crudites for my dipping pleasure. Who knew carrot sticks and artichoke dip tasted so good together?!?

The day came to a perfect end when, after running errands that evening, we came to a halt at a stoplight behind this car:


The "BAGPIPES: putting the fun back in funeral" bumpersticker was perfectly accented by the ubiquitous "Keep Portland Weird!" down below, don't you think? It certainly was a nice place to spend a relaxed Saturday with my boys.

Measure Me in Moves

When semi-strangers find out how much we have moved over the course of our adult lives, the first question is generally, "Is your husband military?" Nope. Even once I explain that my chosen field of work is fairly specialized and not offered at many universities, there is still that look of consternation that can't easily be explained away, other than to shrug, laugh, and close the topic with something along the lines of, "Yeah, we both come from pretty nomadic families and seem to have inherited the wandering spirit."

It's true, actually. My husband's parents were born in rural Louisiana and lived, by way of my father-in-law's military career, in many different homes (including a stint in Germany) before settling in the Tacoma area when he retired while posted at Fort Lewis (now Joint Base Lewis-McCord). Pretty far to travel when you both grew up as poor black kids in the country pre-Civil Rights era. A couple generations before them, my husband's ancestors were slaves. We haven't been able to trace his lineage past his grandparents as far as given names go, and documentation is scarce. Even my father-in-law didn't have a birth certificate; we think he was about 70 when he died but, since he picked his own birthday, that may be off by a few years.

My dad is from Zurich, Switzerland. His parents both came from large, farming families, but moved to the city to find work as young adults. Even now, 30 years after leaving home, my friends describe my dad as sounding "like he just fell off the boat from Switzerland!" So funny when they ooh & aah over his accent except, you know - Switzerland is a land-locked country. After completing trade school, my dad moved to Toronto for a job, where he met my mom. She grew up in Saskatoon, but her father was an English immigrant and her mother a first-generation Canadian who was raised in a boxcar. We've been able to trace back several generations, enough to know that my grandfather's father died in World War I, there is a strong streak of Irish on my grandmother's side, and I am without question the tallest woman ever in my family at 5'9" - most of my female ancestors hovered around the five foot mark.

So perhaps wandering & moving is in my blood, but it's still a pain in the ass. Every time we move, I swear we'll never do it again. Even now, as I pack boxes, yet again, I know that this is merely a resting point, not a final destination. You know, unless all three of us want to squeeze into a teeny one bedroom apartment at some point in our lives. It's part of my personal history, I suppose: college dorm shared room to college dorm private room to junior year off campus house to senior year off campus house, all in Washington; third story apartment, basement apartment across from Mormon missionaries, townhouse, rent house, all in Virginia; crappy apartment, third story apartment, run-down apartment, nice apartment, all in Texas; my parents' guest room, my new teeny apartment (with my boys at my mother-in-law's), and then...? 14 moves in 13 years - ugh! And yet, the memories created in each of those homes? Irreplaceable, indescribable, beautiful. So I'll keep packing.

Loves on Fire

Today is one of those days where I simultaneously have a thousand things and nothing to say. Deep, I know. I'm sitting here in my mother-in-law's family rooming, watching my darling husband and my precious son watch American Idol and thinking about how lucky I felt to attend the 1st grade music performance & open house at my son's school tonight. Last year, I would have taken such an evening with my family for granted. This year, I feel lucky just to be in the same state with them. I feel thankful to touch my sweet baby's chubby cheeks, to hug him tight and kiss him (you know, when he lets me). I feel safe to reach out my arm at night and feel my husband sleeping next to me. I don't even mind when either one of them wakes me up early or lets a smelly fart or inhales 3 bowls of spaghetti, leaving just a bit for me. Did I mention how much I love cooking for them? Love it :-)

So I'm just sitting here, uploading the videos I took at the performance and feeling blessed. Blessed beyond the garbage that flies at us. Those are the distractions, this is the purpose, this is the point, this is my family, this is my love.

These are my loves

I am on fire for them

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My Heart is Still Fragile

[Note: This post was written on Tuesday evening]

The doctors who heal our bodies don't always remember to protect our hearts.

Our beautiful boy will celebrate his 7th birthday next month. Seven years of love, hugs, smiles, tears, giggles, laughs, glances, glares...he is my sweet baby boy who is just barely too big for me to comfortably lift. He is my Monkey Boy, the never-ending tank of energy and movement and chatter. He is bright and talented and loved by many, but for all that brightness, there is the dark reality we face each day: he is hearing-impaired, a congenital condition that results in him not only hearing differently but also looking different. This has resulted in seven years of doctors, tests, research, tears, anxiety, fear, rude questions, confusion, arguments, speech therapists, ENTs, audiologists, nurses, lab results, but still hope that, when the time comes, we will know what to do, how to guide our Monkey in figuring out what is best for him to do in regards to his hearing and his appearance.

A piece of my hope was crushed today and it was terrible and ugly and harsh and real and takes away options forever. It happened over the phone, which was a mixed blessing. My husband was angry - how can he process so quickly such big news? He didn't feel there was time to ask questions. Part of me was relieved - I can scribble as the doctor talks, look only at the paper and fight back tears, focus on the logical and the next step and follow up and referrals, hang up and not have to fake niceties, go find somewhere by baby can't hear me and cry because I am the one who carried this innocent child into the world and so somehow this is still my fault, no matter how many times I'm told otherwise. I can't protect my baby from any of this.

And there is that part of me who is mad at that doctor, a man I've never even meant, mad because he spoke of my child like just another patient, mad because he assumed my husband and I didn't understand technical terms like atresia and microtia (words we have been painfully intimate with for the past 7 years), mad because I need to be mad at someone who isn't me, mad because it will temporarily distract from the sadness. Mad because this man has confirmed what we were hoping wasn't the case: our son will never have anything near "perfect" hearing without an abutement surgically implanted in his skull and a bone-anchored hearing aid snapped on each morning. He will never have an open ear canal. He will never be able to accurately localize sound without visual input.

I know he will be okay. I know we will pull through this as a family. it's just hard right now, and painful, and sad. I am so sad for my darling baby boy and I need to get this out so I can find the strength to support him through this journey as we move forward.

King Size Mattresses & Sewing Machine Clunkers

There is nothing quite like waking up in your own bed. It makes you appreciate it even more when you only get to wake up in your own bed 2-9 days per month. The firm mattress, the luxury of space in a king size...I am having a hard time with the wall right next to "my side," but the THUD of me rolling over into the wall doesn't seem to disturb my husband's sleep anymore. What can I say? It's hard to be clumsy and, apparently, my sleeping self's muscle memory is harder to break than my waking self.

When I allow myself to think about it, I feel very unsettled this year. It's hard not to have a home with my family, to always be in someone else's space and, honestly, even once I'm in the cottage it will be "my" space, not really big enough to be "our" space - even if all of us were there at any given point in time. Folks at Monkey's school seem to think we're either secretly separated or secretly divorced, which is kind of amusing and kind of sad, all at once.

The big news of this rainy, dreary Monday in the City of Roses? My sewing machine, the trusty little Singer on which I learned how to machine sew (MUCH harder than learning to hand sew 20 years ago was!) is officially kaput. The needle alignment is off, resulting in skipping on the running stitch and 3 broken needles in the last week with a simple zig-zag stitch. It can be fixed - for about $120. The machine is two years old and cost about $80. Kind of a no-brainer, huh? My dear husband did have to get in one little "I told you so" - meaning that, two years ago, when I decided to augment my 20ish years of hand-sewing experience with teaching myself how to machine so, he suggested I get something more expensive/advanced/durable to start with. Yes, honey, you told me so. So sue me - I'm frugal!


This little number I have my eye on (Janome's Magnolia 7330) is a little under $400, but definitely has all the bells and whistles, as well as a 25 year warranty. Please ignore the so-ugly-they're-almost-cute '70s flowers on the body of the machine. I'd really love to know what you're using and any recommendations you have, especially those who have been machine sewing much longer than I have - help? Please?

The Timing Part is Hard Sometimes

I'm feeling restless and cranky this afternoon. I didn't sleep well at all last night, a combination of an afternoon nap before driving back to Portland and then just being...well, alone in my bed last night. After 5 nights with my dear husband next to me, when I can just stretch out my arm and feel his warm body next to me when I roll over in the middle of the night, it's hard to go back to alone-ness. Just me, 3 big blankets, and a space heater. It's a chilly nocturnal existence I'm leading these days and only slightly better during the days. I miss my boys.

I am dragging my pathetic, lonesome self out of the house tonight and checking out a local gospel choir with one of my music therapist friends. They're having open rehearsals for a couple months since they're looking to add a few new members. I should probably add that this friend has a wonderful, big, resonant voice, perfectly suited for gospel. I do not. I can sing on key, I've been told I have a lovely tone, but I have what my dear husband once termed a "white girl voice" - belting and filling a space are not really within my scope of performance. Oh well. Maybe they need a white girl in this choir...we'll see...

Mommy & Daddy's Weekend in Astoria

Dear Monkey,

I took Daddy on a surprise trip this weekend to Astoria, Oregon. Can you find Astoria on the map?

First we drove from Portland, which took about 2 hours. What direction did we drive?

We drove through Seaside, Oregon, where I saw an advertisement for a Shark Tour. Maybe we can go on a Shark Tour next summer!

Once we got to Astoria, Daddy and I drove around and crossed all 3 bridges. The biggest bridge took us across the river to Washington State. Can you find the name of the big river we crossed? I definitely want to learn more about the big bridge and when it was built.

It was a little rainy and windy on Saturday, but we still had fun driving around. We went up some steep hills to a tall monument. Up there, we could see all of Astoria and the 3 bridges. Can you find the name and a picture of this monument?

Daddy agreed to go to some little shops downtown with me - brave Daddy! First we went in a fabric & yarn store that smelled funny. I saw lots of pretty things, but didn't buy anything because the prices were about twice as much as my favorite fabric store in Portland. Then we went in a toy store that had lots of baby toys, but no big boy toys for you, sadly. Finally, we went in a store that had clothing from the country of Nepal. Do you know what continent Nepal is on?

Daddy was very patient while I tried on pretty shirts, skirts, and scarves. I ended up buying a red skirt for $10, a blue skirt for $10, a brown shirt for $20, and a brown sweater for $27. How much did I spend altogether? Then, surprise! I got a free scarf from the store owner because I spent more than $50, and guess what? It's purple!

Then Daddy and I went to the hotel, checked in, and took a nap. I still don't understand why you stopped taking afternoon naps - they are great!

After we woke up from our nap, we went to a little movie theatre near our hotel. Daddy was wearing a PLU sweatshirt and one of the boys working at the theatre asked if we were from Tacoma. It turns out he went to the high school where Daddy worked as an aide before we met. After so many years living in Virginia and Texas, I'm still not used to running into people who even know where Tacoma is, let alone used to live there!

I decided to be brave and chose a scary movie, called "The Woman in Black". Daddy didn't think it was scary, but I had my eyes closed at several parts & held Daddy's hand through most of it. I'm still not entirely sure why people like scary movies - I was exhausted from being so tense through the whole thing! One of the previews was for The Avengers, made by Marvel - we saw Thor and his hammer!

By the time the movie was done, it was pouring down rain and really dark outside. I was still a little scared from the movie, so I held Daddy's hand REALLY tight on the way back to the car. We went and bought a pizza to have for dinner. Daddy's half had Canadian Bacon & pineapples; my half had chicken & tomatoes. What would you have put on your pizza?

Daddy slept really well last night, but I had a hard time staying asleep. Good thing we didn't have to get up early this morning! Our hotel room had a bathtub so big that Daddy & I both fit in it together - it would have been like a pool for you! I let Daddy be in charge of the bubblebath and so we ended up with *mountains* of bubbles. It was like taking a bath in whipping cream! What do you think it would feel like to take a bath in whipping cream? I bet it would be hard to find your sharks.

For breakfast we went to a cute little cafe that served breakfast in the mornings and sushi in the evenings. Do you know what sushi is? Do you think Daddy likes sushi? I had a bagel with delicious cream cheese and jelly, as well as a fruit smoothie. What is your favorite kind of smoothie?

We drove back to Portland a different way than we came, going along the Columbia River instead of through the forests. There were lots of homemade signs for little shops along the way, including one advertising "Elk Jerky" and "Buffalo Jerky" - we didn't stop for those. We did stop when Daddy saw a Blockbuster Video store that was going out of business, though. I got about 25 DVDs for $20, it was pretty cool.

When we got back to Portland, Daddy and I stopped for some lunch and then I dropped him off at the train station. We had a great weekend, but I know he was ready to come home to you and I am excited to see you soon, too. What kind of adventure should we have the next time I come to visit?

Here's our yummy lunch: roast chicken, salad, and a little cheese fondue

Here's our lunch 10 minutes later!

Love,

Mommy