There’s an otter in Lake Anza!
Otter being all goofy in Lake Anza, Tilden Regional Park
Park Rangers told us the otter was in Jewel Lake earlier this week after we mentioned watching it play and frolick and whatnot. Probably changed locations to get farther from the t-u-r-k-e-y-s that hang out behind the Little Farm. Little does the otter know, turkeys in Berkeley are safer than most this week.
Happy Pumpkin and Potato and Chestnut and Salad and Bread and Dessert Day!
Oh, my word, Interwebs. To say this day sucked rocks would be like saying a deluge can be a bit damp.
Wake up at midnight to screaming baby. Comfort measures don’t work. Endure *hours* of baby flopping all over bed trying to get comfortable, a feat he seems to think can be achieved by pulling my hair, head butting me, and slapping me. Any attempts at comfort get a screamed “nah nah nah!” and a push in the face.
By morning I’m a wreck but he screams that he wants to get down. When I take off his diaper he rages that he wants it back on. I offer comfort which he refuses. He pees all over the floor then rages when I take off his wet pants. I offer comfort. He refuses. I offer new jammie bottoms. He refuses. I offer pants. He refuses. All refusals offered loudly.
The morning proceeds like this. Offer food, he screams at me. Offer dancing, he screams at me. Offer to help when something doesn’t work and he throws himself on the floor, more mad at my suggestion than at the rat bastard toy. Which he then throws across the room to express frustration. Then throws himself down again to express longing for the toy.
He screams the whole way to school, trying to leap out of the backpack carrier. My back does not appreciate 0.8 miles of sideways baby lurching around, but I try to figure out the problem. Want your hood on? NAH! Want your hood off? NAH! Do you like the rain? Dah. (beat) *scream*
He wants no playground, no home, no cafe, no music, no anything. He nurses as though it’s his 3-week growth spurt. And screams as though he’s auditioning for something very, very sad and angry.
He won’t nap. He won’t get in the stroller or the car or the sling or the mei tai or hiking backpack. At one point I leave him in the living room, crying, to go scream my head off in the kitchen. I scream so hard and loud that I actually wet myself. I’m not the only one, though. As with yesterday, the kid refuses to go in the bathroom. He pees his pants so much I almost run out of pants.
And he stays awake the whole walk to school, two hours past his naptime.
And when a friend greets him sweetly I tell her he doesn’t get any niceness today. He’s a b-a-d b-a-b-y, I say, so don’t talk to him. I’m only slightly kidding.
Brief discussion ensues. She mentions an asymptomatic UTI her toddler had around the same age. the treatment for which turned him back into a normal child. It’s Friday. I’m not going to put up with this all weekend or I will be homicidal.
Two hours later the doc finds two raging ear infections.
[brief note on second-time parents and gross stupidity: if the first one had been acting out of the ordinary, I would have assumed illness. It is evidence of the shell shock born of a really tough time with Peanut that made me jump right past “maybe he is in pain” to assume Butter had just turned the corner into his semi-long-term asshole phase. I plead exhaustion and end-of-my-rope-d-ness to excuse not seeing the signs. I also submit that he was clingy while sick and the refusing to be touch thing smacked of jerk rather than illness. Further, I offer that I used to be good at problem solving and am now good only at barely making it through the day.]
While the pharmacy mixes up some goo (don’t judge our easy use of antibiotics on this one; we’re a wait-and-see family and we’ve gone through nine ear infections with no antibiotics including one ruptured ear drum but this kid is not effing human today and I can’t let him or me go through another day of this) I take both boys to CheeseBoard for a treat. The eldest wants Peet’s instead. Fine. It was a long hour in the doctor’s office and you’re a tired, hungry kid. Muffin it is. Surely I can carry a miserable toddler and a pizza the one extra block.
Peanut gets a bran muffin, finds a table, and willingly shares with his baby brother without being asked. Things are looking up. All the little monster wants is a chair so he can sit next to the big guy. I ask a woman sitting alone at a two-person table if she needs the second chair.
She rolls her eyes and says, as sarcastically as she can muster, “Well, I guess not any more.”
I blink, unable to conjure all the replies she deserves, then walk away as she starts to point out a chair across the restaurant. Lady, I have two small children, one of whom is a Tasmanian Devil toddler who can open the door unassisted and who is currently roaming loose without supervision around strangers’ hot coffee. I’m not going to travel farther from him to get a chair.
“That’s okay. We’ll make do.”
I squat and offer the toddler my knee on which to perch. He throws himself on the floor screaming. I whisper, “Honey, sweet, I know it’s frustrating, but there’s only one chair.”
The condescending, poisonous, passive aggressive asshat says from three tables over, “Oh, geez. Just take the chair.”
Given one iota of energy and the guarantee that my children would be safe while I stepped away for a moment, I would have walked over and punched her square in the face, so help me Aphrodite.
Instead I lovingly scoop up the demonic presence inhabiting my youngest’s body and walk outside with him. I gently ask the beleaguered older brother to come with us. The wee one squirms out of my arms and almost knocks himself unconscious on the concrete. I help him stand and offer comfort and options. He pees all over the sidewalk. In his only pants. In the rain on a 45 degree Fall evening four blocks from the pharmacy.
And I actually don’t cry. Or bang on the window and curse at the fathermucking selfish c-word who couldn’t even admit that she needed the empty chair.
I put the screaming sadsack in the carrier and sing to him as we walk to the pharmacy. I pick up the goo while he screams. I pay while he screams. I walk him to the car while he screams. And sit down in the car with the five year old who willingly reads a book and eats his muffin. I want to cry but don’t. I nurse the baby, text Spouse a warning about my mood, and tell myself that if I can make it 10 hours into this day, I can do two more.
Look, I know sometimes you have a long day and want to sit alone in a cafe. I know sometimes you’re waiting for someone and need a second chair. I know sometimes the love of your life just occupied the chair across from you and you want to keep the essence of your bond alive by leaving the chair vacant. In that case, just say you need the other chair.
I’m not entitled to the chair. I am, however, entitled to some fracking human compassion. There are only two answers: Yes or No. Sarcasm and confusing condescension and weirdass nastiness should not be part of the equation.
I’ve been asked if I can spare a chair. I answer either, “Nope, it’s all yours,” or, “Actually I’m expecting someone, sorry.”
Isn’t that in the social contract somewhere?
I don’t usually remember dreams, but I always remember nightmares.
My recurring nightmare since college finds me waking in my dorm room in a panic, realizing that I haven’t attended one of my classes all semester and that today is the final. My angst, though, is not that I haven’t studied for the test. In my version of sheer terror, I’m worried that I won’t find the classroom (haven’t been all semester, after all) and that I won’t do well enough on the final to offset a whole semester of homework and tests. The explaining as I walk in, really, dwarfs my realization that I don’t even have a passing familiarity with the name of the class, let alone the subject matter.
For the first time, that dream has changed.
Last night I dreamt I was a spy. Kickass, counter-terrorist, highly trained Superspy. And I was assigned a mission to go save a bunch of innocents by stopping evildoers. I probably even had the skin-tight yet highly flexible costume of all highly skilled and intelligent women, as mandated by mainstream (read: feminist) television and movies.
But I realize as the appointed hour arrives and I leave the weird government building (which seems a lot more ASPCA than Langley, VA) that I don’t know where to go to stop the bad guys. And that I have no bullets. None. Big ol’ gun that I’m sure I know how to dissemble and reassemble blindfolded in under 20 seconds, but no ammunition. And somehow I’m supposed to get in my rental hatchback (wtf? how am I supposed to spy with this tin can?) and drive to…somewhere…and stop a major plot with an empty gun.
I awoke as I was trying to figure out if, somehow on my way I could stop and break into a sporting good store (my assassination/rescue mission began in the wee hours, naturally) for bullets.
Stress I get. Fear of academic failure…sure. Concern that I’ll be at the wrong place at the wrong time…clearly a theme for me. But worried that I can’t save the world because I’m ill equipped? Come on subconscious. Now you’re just scaring me.
unwell little wakeful sleepy hot snotty clinging monkey
distracted settling intense grownup immature trying his best mirror
tired striving thwarted reaching stymied yearning denied coward
tumbled uncomfortable shining wrenching warm hearth
needs
wants
needs
wants
“Okay, sweetpea. Now that your brother is in school, let’s head this way and we’ll…
Oh, you’d rather go this way. Oh, for the light. Okay, let’s go look at the…
Hmmm. That looks like a pine cone. You’re right. A pine cone. Seeds for new trees. Interesting. Can we…
Sure. Hold the pine cone. Okay, sure, throw the pine cone. And now get it to throw again. Mmmm-hmmm. And again. Honey, can we…
A dog. Yes, that’s a dog. Woof. Want to say hi to the dog? Okay, first we ask it’s papa. Slowly, bugbutt. We want the dog to know we’re gentle. That’s right, gentle…
Okay, now we’re going, huh? Let’s…
Oh, I see, we’re going the other way. That’s an interesting choice.
Um, yes, that’s gravel. Tiny rocks. Mmmm-hmmm. Gravel. You may tough it, sure. Okay, but…oh, please keep the gravel in the yard. Not on the path. People could slip and fall.
Come on, sweets. Let’s walk to the…
Yes, I see the tree. Mmmm-hmmm. Tree. Can you walk, please? You need to touch the bark. Okay. Bark of the tree. Bark. Like skin for the tree. People skin is soft, but tree skin is rough. Rough bark. Okay, can we go now?
Uh-oh, go around, butterbug. Not for touching, please. Not for touching.
Wow, you’re fast. Running! We’re runn…
And now we’re stopping. Stopping and lying down in the dirt. Do you like the dirt? Hmmm. Dirt. Does that feel nice? Okay, let’s go, please.
Butterbean, let’s walk, please.
Do you need me to carry or can you walk? Okay, thank you.
Let’s walk this way and…
Oh, for the love of Peet’s, would you please walk this way so we can…
Mmmm-hmmm. More gravel. Yes, different. But gravel is all the…of course you need to feel the difference. Yes, sure, by all means lie down in the gravel. Gravel. Does that feel bumpy?
Okay. Let’s please go walking. Bugbean, walking. Please walk. Please.”
That recap was 3 minutes of our unceasing day. One-quarter of a block of the 3 miles we travel round trip to and from Peanut’s school each day.
I do love these moments, sweets. I really do. But I genuinely feel like I’m living on Mars. Things look slightly similar, but nothing is the same.
And I wonder if I will ever sit down again. I want to sit down and rest. I’m beginning to feel old and tired and I want to sit down. When may I do that? Oh, I see. Here in the gravel.
Okay. Sold.
It’s been a while since I did formal reviews of scientific literature, but I’m pretty sure this says that because I’m a spaz, I’m killing my children.
No, really. High strung parent trying her best guarantees asthmatic children. It says so in the abstract. That I skimmed. Briefly. Because I have to go do 1 billion things for small children who don’t know any better.
Just in case anything ever happens to me, here are the 10 best things I know. Because my vast knowledge might actually help someone else some day.
[Hush your mouth. I didn’t say multiple someones. I said someone. And this is the Interwebs, so as long as I’ve helped on person navigate the grammatical errors of pop songs, my life has meaning.]
[And seriously, why are you rolling your eyes, messing with someone who is writing her most powerful thoughts for you a) free to you for your unfettered use and b) after expressing that she might eventually be the victim of an errant construction-vehicle concrete-flinging accident? Dang, reader, you’re cold. I spend a lot of time by backhoes these days. You never know, you know?]
10. When a toddler won’t nap, tickle them. Makes you smile, gets them tired. Especially when you want to wring their grouchy little necks.
9. The zoo comprises the animals, but the animals constitute the zoo. (I love grammar pneumonics. My other fave is “I lie to recline after I lay the grape on the table.”
8. If you count on a child going to sleep, they will not. If you don’t particularly care, they might. Either way, don’t make any plans around a child’s sleep. Do not plan to drink after they drift off. Drink. Before. Bath.
7. There is no plural for moose, platypus, or mongoose. Do not let me catch you trying mooses, platypuses, or mongooses. (Just typing those made me die a little inside.) Don’t try meese, platypi, or mongeese. (That was a bit more fun and still sould-deadening.) There are no plurals for these mammals. (Availability of a plural does not define mammalhood. Breathing air, being warm blooded, and making milk for babies are the only requirements. Grammar has no place in science. Please try to keep up with the basic genre of my rants. The science rants are less funny.)
Don’t bother looking up that triumvirate of singular nouns, either. I’m right. Most existing references are wrong and your willingness to trust a blog on ten important items means you probably use an online dictionary [shudder] which is why I’m desperately trying to assist you now, before you genuinely need help and turn to one of those dreadful online schlock-fests.
Moose and platypus and mongoose are solitary animals and the only reason you might need the plural can be remedied thusly:
“Dear sir, Please send me a platypus. While you’re at it, please send another.”*
6. There are too many people in the world. If you feel like holing up some afternoon and hiding from the rest of civilization, feel no guilt. It’s not introversion. It’s a courteous use of space. If you feel like hiding with a book and hot cocoa, you are officially saving the world.
5. Measure the oil before you measure the honey or syrup or molasses. I don’t care for your excuses. Do it.
4. Before you have a child, please, for the love of all that’s holy and good, decide whether you like showers or sleep better. You have to. Because once a week, when you have time for just one of those, you must not waste any time deciding.
3. Where you would use “he,” use “who.” Where you use “him,” use “whom.” Please. Please.
2. Grow and make your own food whenever you can. You’ll feel good about yourself and you’ll be prepared for the zombie apocalypse. Two birds, one stone, yo.
1. The dorkier you feel about doing something, the better it is for you. Like karaoke. And bowler hats. And sleeping in the shower.
*This line blatantly stolen from an outrageously bright individual I know who has no blog and has no attorney and who probably stole it from someone else anyway and therefore I win at the Internet. I didn’t say I made this stuff up. I said I know it. It’s true. Check the post title.
Some of you know of the saga of the friend who disappeared and hid from emails and voicemail for over a year and finally admitted she didn’t like me anymore.
Well, last week (over a year after she severed all ties and two-plus years after she stopped communication) I sent an email, telling her how I missed her. I explained how the things around the house reminded me of how kind and generous she had been with me. I expressed nostalgia for our friendship and told her I was sad I didn’t know about her life anymore.
She returned my email with a curt message that said I should burn or sell the things that reminded me of her. And that she’s glad I have friends because she didn’t want to be one.
Damn, y’all. That is cold. I know I’m prone to melodrama, overreaction, and hyperbole, but damn! (Come to think of it, remmebering how I am prone to melodrama, overreaction, and hyperbole, maybe I’d stab me in the heart if given the chance, too.)
So I was sad for a while. And I was disappointed. And insulted. And I’m resigned now. A fifteen year friendship gone against my will.
I waited a week to unfriend her from Facebook. Because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t spiteful. I just think that someone who specifically says they don’t want to be friends shouldn’t get to see my neuroses, photos, or photo collages of neuroses.
So here’s my question. Why can I not let this go? Am I so upset because she doesn’t like me anymore or because she was so childish and then rude about it? Is there any healthy way to be grateful for the enormous loving effect she had on my life for a while without letting it cloud by her current behavior?
And is there any way to blame the partisan bickering in Washington for this deep hole in my heart? Because I do, really, enjoy blaming most of the malaise of our nation, times, and daily lives on those effing asshats.
Butter at 19 months has about 10 spoken words and maybe 75 ASL signs. So I generally have some idea what he’s saying. Some.
But the past three nights he’s cried in his sleep, off and on, from 11-12, then awoke, screaming at midnight. And nothing consoles him. He cries loud enough to wake Peanut, who really needs sleep lately. It’s not pain, I know from the cry and from his answers to questions.
Nothing I do gets Butter back to sleep. Quiet supportive presence? Nope. Cuddling and rocking? No. Bringing him to bed with me? Nothing but screaming and climbing and flopping around. Being close is my default during the day because of a de-light-ful separation anxiety phase.
nothing works until 2am when he gets tired of being incoherent.
And as always, he’s up at 4am to scream and wake his brother unless I nurse him and put him back down. And then he’s up for good at 6am.
We’re all dragging around here.
No ear infection. No teething. No freaking idea what this baby needs. But I really really hope he learns to say it soon so we can all sleep.
For your consideration:
Item #1 At 9 months Butter discovered the jars of spices and was smitten.
Item #2 He requests several times a day to have someone hold him and open all the spices so he can sniff them.
Item #3 He did, anyway, until he could open jars himself.
Item #4 And work the stepstool.
Item #5 He regularly pads over to the far end of the kitchen, drags the stepstool over to the spice counter/drawer, and has at it.
Item #6 if not closely supervised he will pour them all over the floor.
Item #7 Lack of close supervision includes blinking during the close supervision of spice sniffing.
Item #8 He opens the jars, sniffs, then recaps nicely unless he smells weakness with the herbs d’provence. Then he speeds to the cinnamon.
Item #9 The cinnamon is the only rat bastard spice to have a flip top.
Item #10 Today I decided I can’t fight this anymore.
I grabbed the cinnamon and the small child. I asked him, “Cinnamon sprinkle, cinnamon shake, you like cinnamon?”
“YEAH” came the resounding answer.
“Let’s sprinkle the cinnamon outside, okay?”
“Tookatooka!” he agreed.
So we spend a half hour outside, him meandering through the backyard and announcing each tablespoon of cinnamon with a crashing wet cement on metal sound, the likes of which only small truck-lovers can make.
On paper I might appear to be an awesome mom. I let my kid shake $2.50 worth of cinnamon all over the patio and lawn. In reality I just take whatever drives me nuts and give it a positive outlet. Outside.
Always with the outside.
Coming soon to our backyard, a whining contest and an indirect-wood-carving-by-drawing-on-thin-paper extravaganza.
Good gravy. We’ve had my first real week of “Welcome to the World of Having Two Boys.”
I mean, we’ve had five and a half years of whirlwind that doesn’t stop and that plays only cackling, destructive games.
And we’ve had four years of banging things with sticks and picking gross stuff out of the street.
And two years of shooting at everything with imaginary guns.
And a year and a half of trucks and trucks and trucks. Good gawd with the trucks.
But this was the week of multiple calls to the doctor to ask “does this need stitches?”
The older one found a barnacled mollusk shell, put it on a board, stood in front of it, and stomped. Shell embedded for a moment, then fell off, leaving a one inch horizontal and one inch vertical cut in his forehead. Stitches? Probably needed it, but it was Saturday at 5pm, there’s no urgent care here, and I have iodine, skin glue, and butterfly bandages. No stitches.
The younger one climbed on a dining room chair after a long day with no nap (don’t blame me; I tried everything to get that boy to sleep). Fell off and bit through his lip. Two beautiful, hard-won teeth made two nasty cuts into his beautiful lower lip. Nasty. Deep. Blood everywhere. Stitches? Doc says we don’t stitch lips unless there’s a flap hanging or the hole on the inside of his mouth is so big food will get caught in it. I wiped away my tears, threw up in my mouth a little at the description of how it would heal, and agreed: no stitches.
So I guess, it was a good week? Oh, wait. It’s Tuesday. Gulp. Four days, four gashes, no stitches. Seems like I’m doing a good job? [Grins like the cat that threw a seashell at a canary then pushed it off a chair.]
Peanut and I had a date today to see a marvelous puppeteer and his marionette vignettes. I found out that P has a 55 minute sit-still threshhold, for at 56 minutes he discreetly stood up and wiggled in place for a few minutes while he watched the puppeteer’s penultimate story. We had terrible seats on the right margin and nobody behind us, so I just watched and smiled.
But that’s not the point, cute though I find it. We have business to attend to. A marketable idea. Make note:
Walking to the will call window, I explained that we were going to pick up our tickets then go to the theater.
P: Do they have little bags there?
M: [confused] There where? The ticket place or the stage place?
P: The stage place. The theater. Do they have little bags?
M: What kind?
P: The kind you need in case someone loses a tooth.
M: Bug, are you worried you’re going to lose a tooth during the performance?
P: [annoyed] No, of course not. My tooth is barely wobbly. I mean for someone else if they lose their tooth.
M: Well, people who are ready to lose a tooth are usually with a grownup, and grownups are good at finding safe places for teeth that fall out. Purses, pockets…
P: No. Not good. They need something tiny. Like a little bag.
So if you run front of house for a theater, or are looking into operating a theater…heck, if you stage manage or operate concessions at all…I’d like to send out a thought that you might want to stock little bags. For the teeth. All the falling teeth.
October 20, 1991 began…well…strangely.
I was in a recently rented apartment with my college roommate and her sister. We awoke late and I wanted to cook some breakfast before the football game. I had planned a glorious brunch, football, and a day of studying. I have no idea what my roommate and her sister planned because, though we had roomed together in the dorms and moved in together for our sophomore year, we didn’t hang out much. We didn’t talk much. We each bought our own groceries and cleaned our own halves of the apartment and just sort of coexisted.
Starting around 10:30 am I heard sirens. Weird, since we lived at the liminal space between an open, grassy area and a freeway. We were surrounded by a horseshoe of trees and grasses, bounded by a concrete tunnel thought the hill at one side, and a freeway along the other. There weren’t many houses nearby, so the sirens were strange.
So were the popping sounds of cars backfiring. I didn’t understand those. Lots of backfires in the tunnel this morning, I thought, as I looked out the window. The sky was black with smoke.
Hmmm. Someone’s barbequeing at 10am? Must be tailgating for the game I thought.
Obviously one of the most stupid humans ever to live, I ignored the sirens and the popping sounds of eucalyptus trees exploding in the fire, and I poached egg whites in a cheddar cheese sauce. Because eggs and sourdough need cheese. It’s the law.
At some point, my roommate’s sister looked out the living room window onto the balcony and asked aloud what was going on. The sky was still a swirling black. And as we looked north along the dry hillside that constituted our view, we saw flames. We ran into my bedroom, which was further along the hill. By the time we got there, the whole hill was ablaze and we could feel the heat through the window.
Get dressed, I said.
They did. I stayed and stared. Bad move.
I grabbed my purse and slipped on sandals. We walked out into the common hallway and saw our neighbors similarly transfixed by the view out their balcony window. I heard them say, “As long as it doesn’t catch that tree, we’ll be fine.” We blew past and went toward the elevator.
In case of fire use stairs not elevator, I intoned. We pushed down the stairs and my roommate shoved open the stairwell door into the garage. The smoke was so thick we gagged, and I pulled the door closed. My roommate had decided to take her scooter to safety. Her sister and I decided to take the other stairs.
We went upstairs again and ran through the halls to the fire escape. When I opened the door we could see the trees, planted to decorate the fire escape, were all ablaze. I pulled the door closed and dug through my purse. I handed my roommate’s sister a pair of sunglasses.
Put these on in case there are flying embers, I said.
[Allow me to pause and say I know I’m ludicrous. But this is what happened and you can’t be a rule-following, practical, overstuffed-purse-toting, dork of a college student without getting some goddamned props 20 years later for keeping your roommate’s sister’s eyes (and your own) safe from burning embers. Spare sunglasses. Write that down.]
We hurried down the hot stairs and reached the bottom. I thought I was going to be relieved. Firefighters. Phew. That means everything’s okay, right?
KTVU screen grab of our apartment complex
He had his hose trained on the hillside, and he looked terrified. I have never seen a professional look more like a frightened child in my life. I knew we were definitely not okay. So much for reassuring us. He was too busy trying to stay alive. (See the 11:30-11:45 am timestamp here where the firefighters abandon their positions right about now).
We ran as far as we could but had to stop at the freeway. There was a long line of cars trying to get out to the freeway, but some of them were on fire. We were confused. My roommate met us here, explaining she couldn’t get her scooter out. We all decided to hitchhike.
If I get in a car with a stranger, my mother will kill me.
Some very nice people drove us through Oakland. I remember only a few specifics: The sun was red. Everyone was going to church. The traffic was terrible. I will never in my life forget how surreal it felt. I thought I had fallen into a Dahli painting.
NASA ground level image
I called our house when we got to a friend’s house. (This is before cell phones, people.) Busy signal. I called my mom. Everything’s okay, but there’s a fire. My house is gone, I sobbed.
“Oh, honey,” she said, “I heard about that fire. I’m sure your house is fine. Hang on…that’s the call waiting….your uncle just called and told me about the fire. I’m watching on tv now. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t remember much of the rest of the day. My boyfriend showed up with camping kitchen utensils. Not sure how that would help, since everyone except me still had a kitchen. What I really needed was a bra, truth be told, because I was still in my jammies and VERY uncomfortable about not being, um, fully dressed.
My dad and stepmom had been driving cross country to come see my new apartment.
here's the bedroom...and all the other rooms. They're a bit dusty.
They took me clothes shopping instead. FEMA and the Red Cross set up tons of booths on campus and we got our books replaced and some money for food.
My roommate got mono and went home for the semester. I moved into a frat house that generously offered to let me stay. It was disgusting and uncomfortable but they were insanely nice to me. I lived in a haze, rarely ate, and somehow functioned. The University offered the extremely rare chance to drop a class without penalty. I dropped music and kept organic chemistry.
Life goes on for all but the 25 people who died. I still remember stories of those who didn’t make it. You don’t need those images in your mind, but I still feel graphic descriptions I read when combing the news for friends’ names. Every day came, despite the fire, like the one before, with sunshine and too many people and cars and unceasing noise. Days just kept coming.
A year later I had pretty terrible PTSD. And each year is easier. My long-term terror at the sight of fires eventually subdued to a simple avoidance of flame. I no longer have nightmares or panic attacks. I have driven past the old apartment a few times. I can look at a few photos without panicking, though I can’t click links to video of that day. (I asked someone to preview this video, and it includes footage of the fire behind our building.)
I’ve heard there are events today: memorials for those who died, celebrations for those who’ve rebuilt. But I can’t go today. I just can’t do that yet. I’m not ready. I have my clump of molten pennies, salvaged from somewhere around where we lived. Sorry, other survivors, if I took your pennies. We all had a change pile, and it all fused. Hope you found some, too, when they finally let us go back. I have a really close friend, now, in that roommate with whom I had just coexisted. And I think somewhere I still have a coffee mug with a clump of concrete fused to it. It’s a dorky, cartoon teddy bear mug, but the chunk of building glommed onto it makes it seem edgier. Like punk rock watercolor bears who got so drunk they can’t remember how they got fused with concrete. But they’re stuck with it now.
A big ol’ concrete scar that marks us for life and makes us remember that, well, not everyone’s lucky enough to see a dark line on their history and say, “that’s the day I almost died. But I didn’t and I’m here, so let’s get going.”
[And now my PSA: Please trim the greenery near your house. Please have an emergency bag packed with id, extra money or credit card, spare glasses, any meds you take, and a thumb drive with all your photos. And please update your insurance policy. Boring, true. Useful, though.]
This is freaking awesome. Do please go read it. Hilarious, painful, and spot on.
Things I learned while I was deathly ill last week:
9. I’m a very patient person.
Stop laughing and listen.
I didn’t think so either. I thought I was fair-to-middling in the patient parent category. But during the first 6 hours of the fever-and-puke-and-sore-throat-fest I like to call The Painful Beginning to Losing the Baby Fat, every time my kids balked about, whined about, or snapped at one of my requests, I burst into tears. It was eye-opening for all of us. And I have a new way to make them do stuff. Ask once, wait not at all, then fall down whimpering softly.
Try it. It works.
8. Hot showers were created for people with fevers. (Sorry, developing world. I’m sure blankets and herbal treatments are nice, too?) I used to think, thanks to an ex-boyfriend, that showers were invented for people in Boston who just couldn’t get warm in the winter. (Sorry, again, developing world and residents of steppes and deserts; we really do suck as a culture.) And hot showers are really, really good for restoring warm bloodedness to the chilled, it’s true. But those with multi-day fevers get stiff necks and headaches from muscle tension, and showers are muy bueno for melting muscle tension.
7. The false hope of recovery given by a shower lasts exactly 7 minutes when you have the early-October public school creeping crud.
6. Old people stay sick way longer than young people. Peanut had a one-day fever and a half-day recovery. I got the four-day version. He kept telling me it was a different germ. I kept looking at him, loopy with pain and disorientation, not caring whether I ever regained my will to form speech sounds but thinking something like, “Nuh-uh.”
5. Children are loud.
4. October in Northern California, with its 80 degree weeks, really sucks when you’re sick. Briiiiiiight. Hhhhhhhhhhot. Dryyyyyyy.
3. Children move very, very quickly. Like hyena.
2. Spouses who can leave work after their really important meetings and blow off their kind-of-important meetings to take over 100% for ailing parenting-partners are worth their weight in chocolate, syrah, or Ricola (pick your fever-poison). Spouses who do not even once ask you what to cook for the children or where to take the children while you writhe and whimper on the couch are worth their weight in quiet, solo vacation time.
1. And yet somehow I know this four days of decrepitude is going to count as a vacation in later debates when I trot out the old, “when was the last time I got a break?!”
That’s okay, I guess. He can win every debate for the next month at least.
Hope you’re all well, readers!
NaptimeWriting 