Connect: FAIL

Saturday morning, 5:53am ET.

I'm at work and my phone rings so insanely loud that my co-workers and I jump. The number on the caller ID doesn't ring a bell. Not our area code so I know it's not Grinch, hospital or police department calling about him or the girls. Gravelly voiced and rushed, I answer, "Hello?"

A sweet, child-like, Canadian voice tones: "Can you talk or is Ted there?"

I figure it's someone's who hates her best friend's boyfriend/husband. My husband isn't named Ted. She must have the wrong number. "You have the wrong number." I rasp.

phone closed, back in purse.

Then the lightbulb goes off over my head. That wasn't a wrong number! That was Jen! Freaking Jen and Tonic called me! A blogging rock star called me and I hung up on her. Idiot.

This is what a cold and the graveyard shift does to you, y'all. Watch, learn and be afraid.

Care Package

A few years back, a friend who was born and raised in the south moved far north to go to college. I admired her courage and shivered at the thought of long, cold winters and a world without the essentials of life, namely: sweet tea, flaky biscuits and Moon Pies.

After she'd been in Boston a few months, I sent her a care package of things you should be able to find in civilized society: pork rinds, grits, RC cola and Moon Pies. The package was 1/2 joke and 1/2 friendly hug from afar. With internet shopping, she could have probably bought all of those things with a few mouse clicks, but that wasn't the point. The point was, she was a newbie in a new world. I just wanted to make her smile and give her some familiar snacks from "home." (Though, since she's Jewish, I don't know how the pork rinds went over. That was the joke part, I guess.)

I once watched my grandmother pack for a trip to Chicago to see my dear Aunt Mary. She loaded her suitcase with clothing, shoes for herself and cornmeal, grits, Karo syrup, and Moon Pies for Aunt Mary. This was decades before the internet and dependable, timely shipping. When Grandmother and I got to Chicago, Aunt Mary accepted the care package with glee.

When my brother was stationed in England, my sisters and I would pack him elaborate care packages of candy, beef jerky, Bic pens and toiletries. No Moon Pies, that I remember. I don't know how he survived, frankly.

Care packages seem to be a dying art. Anyone can buy anything they want on the Internet, delivered right to their doorstep, any time they want. You can even buy ready made "care packages" on line and send them to a friend with a computer print out greeting card. What the hell is the point of that? That's not a care package! That's just a box of crap you paid someone to put together for you.

Today on Twitter, there was a discussion between friends (you are my friends, Tweeters. pinkie swears.) about food. Ex-pats were talking about food they remember/miss from home. I joked about making care packages for them, but now I mean it. In fact, I've already put one together.

So here's my proposal: tell me what you miss the most about home. E-mail me your mailing address and I will send you a care package. I can't promise anything elaborate or expensive (we're working on a tight budget at Casa Three of 7). If I can't find the item you really want, I'll let you know. I want to say thank you for reading this blog, thank you for listening to me whine and giggle. I want you to give you a hug, even if it comes in a box in the form of cheeze crackers and jujubes. I want to send you a care package.

You Got to have "Friends"

I don't have a lot of friends. I don't mean that in the "woe is me" way it sounds. I just mean that the number of people that I consider friends who I see or contact on a regular basis is very small. My friends are important to me. I love them and care about them like they're family.

The on-line world is a weird place for friendships. I frequently e-mail and Twitter people whom I've never met but who I "know" through reading their blogs. I look at their pictures on Flickr. I've seen their homes, neighborhoods, workplaces, friends and families.

My on-line friends are good for a laugh, a virtual hug, a "hey look at this" or "me too." I find myself quoting them or sharing details of our "conversations" with people in real life. That sounds weird, like these people on-line are figments of my imagination. Given my state of mind lately that's a possibility, but I'm pretty sure that they exist as actual life forms.

So what do I call these people? "Friend" to me implies a physical closeness, day-to-day interaction, a person who you've spent time with, who you can read and who can read you. I'd like very much to call some of these people "friend." I think I'd like to spend time with them, to have beers, to go book shopping with them or have a picnic with them. You can tell a lot about a person based on what they bring to a picnic. That's a subject for another time.

Sometimes I think, "One day I'll go to Canada/Arkansas/Amsterdam/Vienna to visit Jen/Belinda/Ingrid/Wolfgang and we're going to laaaaaugh and laugh and laugh and have a good time...." and then I wonder if that's a good idea.

Maybe in real life, these people wouldn't like me. Maybe I wouldn't like them. Maybe the on-line world is the best place for these "friendships" because the conversations are short, sweet and don't require eye-to-eye contact.

Better to keep the illusion of friendship, right? And darn it, it still feels funny calling these people friends. Have they earned that title? Have I? Wasn't it easier when we were five-years-old and could just wander up to someone on the playground and ask, "Will you be my friend?"

Hearts Were Made to be Broken

People say that having kids makes you young again. That's pretty much true. You giggle madly with them at the most ridiculous stuff. You lay down on the sidewalk to get a good view of ants soldiering back and forth with their bits of food. You sing "This Old Man" and ABCs with gusto. You eat hot dogs and mac 'n cheese for dinner. You have tea parties and bake Lego bread in shoebox ovens and count it up as rollicking good fun. When your kid is having fun you have fun, too.

The flip side is when your 3-year-old gets her heart broken, yours breaks twice as hard: once for her and once for the 3-year-old you who has had her heart broken multiple times in the very same way over the past 36 years.

Bug loves her friends. I don't know if all kids latch on to their playmates like she does. My theory is that she's so shy with everyone that once she feels comfortable with someone, especially a kid, she just can't hide her glee at being around them. She wraps them with hugs, guffaws long and loud at their jokes and glows like a sunbeam when they enter a room.

As shy and reserved as Bug is, her friend Ria is outgoing. She chats up people in the park, pets strange dogs on the playground and blows kisses to everyone in the restaurant. Bug LOVES her and together they have the energy of a dozen toddler-sized hurricanes. They play wonderfully together. They share and take turns and make each other laugh. All the stuff that good 3-year-old pals are supposed to do.

Last weekend, we met up with Ria and her family for a festival. The two girls hit it off as usual and had a grand time, marching in a parade together and sharing milkshakes from Starbucks. By the end of lunch, everyone was tired and ready for naps. Ria was pouty and ignoring everyone, including Bug who wanted to share a few more laughs. We chalked it up to the heat and general toddler temperament.

After naps, we went to Ria's house for a party. Bug was so excited to be at Ria's house! For a party! With cake! And Ria! She barreled in and started peppering Ria with questions and news and proposals about games to play. Ria flatly ignored her and went to work on a craft project. Bug figured that's just what they were doing now and got to work, too. She kept up with it long after Ria abandoned her project to join other kids in the playroom. Bug couldn't bring herself to go in there, choosing to stick close to Grinch, Dos and me. While the party crew hooted it up in front of the TV in the other room, we ate alone in a quiet corner of the living room.

Bug pushed aside her fears and walked into the crowd to have cake with her friend. Ria walked away after a few minutes, leaving her cake and Bug behind. Everything Bug did to engage her friend was ignored or refused. By the time we left, Ria was in the middle of a crowd of kids, tearing into a pile of her brother's birthday presents. Bug was in Ria's bedroom with Grinch, quietly giving a gentle checkup to a pink hobby horse. I don't even know if it really registered with Bug that her friend had ditched her. Grinch and I saw the whole thing though, and it hurt as much as if we had been ditched. It hurt worse, I think.

I know Ria wasn't being mean. She was just tired and overwhelmed with all that was going on. The protective mother in me wanted to pull her aside and say, "Be nice to her! She's your friend! She's just a little girl!" But Ria is a little girl, too and the next time we see her, she and Bug likely will be back to their old tricks, giggling and hugging the way they always do.

I want so much to give my girls a full life, to let them see the world and experience all it has to offer. I want to protect them too, to keep them safe from harm and heartache. I know they'll fall and scrape knees, maybe even break a bone one day. That's what comes with adventure. Their hearts will get bruised and broken, too. I just wish it didn't hurt worse than a broken arm.

Making Happy

Do you know Bossy? Bossy has a most excellent blog. Bossy is hilarious, has fabulous hair and a really cute teenaged son (who is way too young for me or my friends, but still. Cute. And smart!).

Bossy recently asked her readers to sum up in 10 words what's been going on in their lives. Here is my comment:

"Ate chocolate. Nursed baby. Chased toddler. Cried. Didn't sleep. Worked."

And that, my friends, pretty much sums up my life for the past two and a half years. Except the crying part. I haven't cried EVERY day. MOST but not EVERY. I probably laugh more than I cry, thanks to friends like Laura and the Moms and the general silliness that comes from the Bug but this has been a rough week.

I listen to friends and acquaintances complain about the slow delivery of their new laptops or super-sized TVs. They fume about how TIVO messed up and didn't record LOST. They sigh plaintively about how hard life is what with dropping the kids off at daycare and having to go get manicures and shop. I listen to this, purse my lips and nod blankly. What I really want to do is climb on top of them, dig my knees into their chests, jab at their noses and scream, "YOU DON'T KNOW HARD!"

I think of my four hours of sleep a night. My frazzled nerves. My anxieties about work. The stack of books that looks like I'll never read. The laundry that needs to be done. The groceries that haven't been bought. The relationships that are suffering because I'm always tired and cranky and have no time to spare for lunches or parties or simple conversations. The fear that keeps me from quitting my job and committing to my family the way I really want.

I think of all this and remind myself: I have a job. My eyes work and I can read. I have a home and money to buy groceries. My husband and friends are wonderfully patient people. I made a choice about work and home and I can change it. Frankly, I really don't know hard either.

Hard is losing your home or your marriage. Losing your child. Hard is struggling with illness. Hard is not having anyone to turn to. We all think we have it hard until we meet someone who has it harder.

"Count your blessings" is what my parents used to tell me. It's not easy. It's not easy when all you want to do is sleep and cry and punch pillows. It's not easy when you believe that you can acutally feel the weight of your decisions bearing down on your shoulders. It's not easy when it seems like everyone around you gets exactly what they need and want and never suffer. But we all suffer. Everyone does to varying degrees and we all show it differently.

I don't want to feel better because someone feels worse than me. I want to feel better because I choose to. I can feel better and even if I don't right now, I will. I will feel better because I will make things better.

Cake Fixes Things

Text message from Grinch: "On my way home. Stopping by bank, grocery store. Need anything? You ok?"

Text message from me: "Laura's here. She brought cake."

Text from Grinch: "We love Laura."

Later that night, Grinch is in the kitchen.

Grinch: "There are two cake boxes here and only one piece of cake left."

Me: "How about that."

Grinch: "Yeah. And this piece is almost gone."

Me: "Yeah." (wiping cake crumbs off my shirt)

Grinch: "Hmmmm."

Me: "Mmmmmm."

Decisions, Decisions

I'm really, really bad at making decisions. REALLY bad. For the most part, my decisions usually turn out to be good ones, but its taken me forever and a day to reach my conclusion and act on it. Also, the really bad decisions haunt you. Mine sound like my mother, "Well, remember what happened the last time you...."

I'm really struggling with the decision to become a stay-at-home mom or go back to work. Actually, the decision has pretty much been made, it's acting on it that's freaking me out. I've made some moves, placed some calls, but nothing is formal. No, I'm not telling you. Not yet, anyway. Dude, I didn't tell anyone I was pregnant 'till I was six-months along. You think I'm gonna bust out a major life change on the internet just like that. Come oooooonnnnn. You gotta know me better than that.

I will say that my decision making process always involves a lot of talking to and with friends, polling them about similar decisions they've made, asking for advice and guidance. I have to say: this time around, I've received some of the best advice, and been lent the most sympathetic, compassionate ears ever known. If you're one of those people who's listened to me whine, vent and cry over this, Thank You. If I haven't done it already, I hope to be as good a friend to you one day.

In other news, Dos is snugglier than ever. She's sleeping in her bassinet more and more, which means Grinch may actually be able to sleep in our bed again one day. Bug is finally over the creeping crud, or toddler Ebola or whatever it was she had. Grinch is over it, too, though you wouldn't know it from his coughing, moaning, and vitamin C popping. (Love you, honey! Smooches!)

Also, I told two close friends that I have a blog, but they didn't ask for the URL and I didn't offer so I still have exactly two readers and why does that surprise me? Duh. This explains why I am not in sales. I'll bet I couldn't sell Girl Scout Cookies.
Wealthy Aunt or Uncle: "I wonder where I can buy some Thin Mints."
Me: "I'm a Girl Scout."
Wealthy Aunt or Uncle: "Oh, really?"
Me: "Yes."
Wealthy Aunt or Uncle: "Mmm, hmm."


Finally, I went to the doctor and she says I'm okie dokie. I even broke down crying in front of her over this decision stress. She patted my leg, passed me some tissues and was very sympathetic, but the Post Partum Depression issue never came up. Did I ask about it? Hell, no. Why? Because after working in a pharmacy for a dozen years, I grew wary of people who came in with scrips for ailments they didn't seem to really have. Happy pills was all they wanted. Plus, of all the people I know who take anti-depressants (and strangely, I know a LOT), none of them seem particularly happy to me. So Prozac, Lexapro, Paxil and all the others can claim to make people feel better, but their walking, talking advertisements convince me otherwise. I'm sure it works for some people, but I haven't seen it yet.

With Friends Like These

When I was pregnant, my sister-in-law told me about a great parent's group that she went to when she had her first baby nine years earlier. "Oh, it was wonderful!" she said. She made it sound like a big fat mama/baby love fest. The way she told it, mamas sat on fluffy white clouds and their little diddums were rolled up in rainbows. She made wonderful friends from that group, friends she still had nine years later.

Three weeks after the Bug was born, I was ready to give it a try. I walked into the group and got The Look. The look that says, "Good heavens. Why is she here? She doesn't even have a stroller. She's still wearing her maternity clothes? Her child is wearing *gasp* Brand X and not super-cool-indie Brand A? Oh, no. No, no, no. She does not belong. Do not look at her. Do not engage her. She'll just want to come back."

But I did go back. I went back again and again because I was determined to either find someone to hang out with or make one of those bitches be nice to me and the Bug. I called the Grinch on more than one occasion, crying, "No one likes me! No one wants to be frieeeeeeeends!"

I kept going. For a year and a half, long after the Bug had aged out of the group, I kept going. Just when I had given up hope, a mom showed up and we shared a few chuckles. She came back and we laughed even more. The next time, she brought a couple of friends and they invited me to lunch with them. I called the Grinch, breathless, "I'm going to lunch! With PEOPLE! I think.....I think they're nice and they might like us, too!" It was worse than first date jitters. Going a long time without friends will do that to you.

It's hard to believe that was a year ago. The four of us have done a lot together and become good friends. We're watching our kids grow and change and we're having new babies. We roll our eyes at the challenges brought on by toddlerhood. We laugh a LOT, usually at each other or something our kids have done.

Now it looks like my friends, (my only mom friends within "let's meet for lunch and some park time" distance) are moving on. One will be moving to China soon. Another wants to move closer to family in another state. The third wants to move to another part of town, too far for quick meet-us-at-the-park-in-10-minutes playdates. It makes me very, very sad.

I'm sad because they're moving on and I'm not and it seems like it'll be easy for them to make new friends wherever they go. I'll still be here, in my hometown. The same place I've been for 38-years. And, with the exception of the Grinch and Laura, I'll be friendless. Again.

Has anyone told you how isolating parenthood can be? It can and it sucks.

This post sounds like a big pity fest and it is. I'm happy for my friends to have new opportunities and new adventures. I'm jealous. I'll miss my friends. I get ill at the thought of going through the playgroup/parent's group wringer again.

Why can't it be as easy as it was when we were five-years-old and we could walk up to someone on the playground and ask, "Will you be my friend?"

Friends Indeed

Almost exactly 26 years ago, I met someone who would change my life. She loves to tell people how we met and it goes something like this:

"It was the first day of school. I was the new kid. I sat down in homeroom, scared as hell and the girl sitting in front of me whipped around and said, "HI! Who are you? You're new here aren't you? What's your name? I'm Heather!"...and proceeded to ask her a bunch of questions.

That would be me. The girl I ambushed is Laura, my best friend....whether she likes it or not.

The way I remember it, I was just being friendly. I was a pretty obnoxious kid, though. Loud, in-your-face and .....well, loud. Laura's version of the story is probably pretty accurate. She likes to punctuate it by imitating her reaction to my "greeting". Her eyes grow wide and she tries desperately to push her desk far, far away from mine.

Truth is, we weren't very good friends until we both joined the rifle corps a few years later. Not point-and-shoot rifle corps, but spin, toss and (hopefully) catch rifle corps. We bonded at practices and band camp. We both had foul mouths, short tempers and were attracted to aloof soccer players.

It turned that as many differences as we had (she was very smart and studious, I was a cut up and barely kept a C average), we had as many or more similarities: we were awkward, middle-class Catholic girls in a sea of pretty, wealthy Methodists. We lived on the edge of the school district. While the other kids lived near the rolling green hills of a fine private college, Laura lived across the street from the state mental hospital and I lived across the street from a home for wayward youths. It wasn't uncommon for us to see police helicopters hovering over our backyards looking for escapees from either institution.

We grumbled about school, the popular kids, politics and parents. We worked at the same drug store and had crushes over many of the same boys. We pestered, teased and swooned over a boy older than us, a boy we came to call the Grinch. We drank wine coolers and drove recklessly down winding, dark roads, headlights off, heads out the window, howling at the moon. She tolerated my big mouth and defended me to no end. I'm not sure exactly what I did to reciprocate her friendship, other than get her out of the house and let her howl at the moon.

Like a lot of high school "best friends forever" we lost touch for a while once our college lives kicked into high gear. But there was always a letter, always an effort to keep in touch. Because that's what real friends do.

Now we grumble over our children's schools, supervisors at work and husbands. We work similar crazy schedules. We celebrate each other's triumphs and mourn each others losses with tears, laughter and long hugs. And she still defends me, though she's more likely now to tell me I'm being an idiot, too. I'm learning (I hope) to be a better friend to her so she'll stick around for another 26 years.

This post has already gotten too long and it doesn't really have a point, except to say: Thanks, Laura, for being my friend....whether you like it or not.