Nablopomo is nablopomOVER!

Today marks the end of my failed attempt at completing the Nablopomo challenge. Although I missed three days of posts, I found the experience worthwhile, mostly because joining a community of bloggers was just as fun and inspirational as I'd hoped it would be. Over at the Nablopomo headquarters, I made friends (like Myla), I joined groups, I got into some interesting discussions (like one with DaveX about whether a blog can be "too self-indulgent"), and I found motivation to add some neat little bells and whistles to my blog (like the Flickr slideshow down there on the left). I also sampled many blogs written by other participants. I really like this one, by a Nablopomo participant named Jenni, but I think I freaked her out by commenting too enthusiastically on her Nablo page.
:-)
And here's where I thank my two most faithful readers, J and A! Thanks, J and A, for muddling through. Thanks also to Myla and Scott.
Goodnight, everybody!

At home with Tivo

Day 2 of being housebound with the stomach flu. Good times, y'all!
By midday, however, I was feeling good enough to fire up the Tivo and pick a saved program to watch. (In contrast, yesterday I was so incapacitated, I could barely leave my bed and could not tolerate any sensory stimulation whatsoever.)
Apparently the last show Tivo recorded was on Bravo, because Bravo popped up on my screen, and there it was: The Real Housewives of Orange County.
I know, I know.
Believe me, for the first minute it was on, I was all, "Ugh. Why do they make this crap? Can anybody get a reality show these days?" But then 20 minutes later, I was still watching. Here's the thing: I am nosy. I am interested in other people and their daily lives. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a spy when I grew up, simply because I liked people-watching. Now add to this curiosity the fact that these women are super-wealthy, and I'm not. I had to see what their lives were like! (That is, I had to see what their lives were like within the contrived construct of a scripted reality show, of course.) It was too much for me to resist. I got sucked in!
Right away I learned that at least three of the housewives aren't housewives at all. They're working women with successful real-estate careers. (So why do they call the show "The Real Housewives of Orange County"? Isn't that totally inaccurate?)
Anyway, I couldn't immediately scorn a group of hard-working women (all mothers, too). I mean, I respect women with careers. I suppose I could've scorned the mom who went clubbing with her 21-year-old son, or the mom who stage-managed her daughter, who was modeling jeans at a local boutique. But mostly I was just fascinated. These women just live a completely different lifestyle than I do, and it's not necessarily a bad one. It's just different. And it's not as if these women's lives are free of hardships. One of them recently lost her husband. Another one is estranged from her husband and struggles with her weight.
Anyway, I can't judge the whole series on one partial episode. But I have to admit, the half-episode I watched today thoroughly engrossed me.
And so here comes the confession: The Real Housewives is now season-passed on my Tivo.

Sicko

OK, well, apparently my last post tempted fate, because I woke up this morning at 5:20 with what I guess is the same stomach bug Maya had. I've spent a miserable day holed up in our apartment, all feverish and sweaty and achey and gross.
So then, I'll end it there.

I failed, and here are my excuses

Well, as is obvious by my three days' worth of missing posts, I've failed the NaBloPoMo challenge. On one hand, I am crushed, ashamed, and disappointed, because I'm not someone who even bothers to start things I know I won't complete. Once I've set my mind to something, I really keep the pressure on myself to finish. So, as my therapist would say, my failure to post for three days this month is "not in line with my integrity," and it makes me feel crappy.
On the other hand, I am comfortable with the fact that the three days I didn't post were full of real-world obstacles and challenges that wore me down and kept me utterly occupied with more pressing matters till the wee hours---and on East Coast time, no less! I won't go into these events in detail, but one of them---seeing my Grandma George, who is 95 and currently unresponsive, immobile, and dying (under the care of Hospice) in her nursing home---was deeply disturbing, emotionally painful, and life-changing. Another major factor in my no-post record was Maya, who vomited lustily three times during our trip (including once in a restaurant and once on the plane ride home), which sent me into frantic cycles of toddler-comforting, toddler-bathing, clothes-washing, linens-washing, and anxiety. (We still don't know why she was puking, and we have no idea if it's over or if she'll puke again two minutes from now.)
Add to that my parents' dial-up connection and slow-arse computer, which kept seizing up on me the nights I did post, and you get a recipe for no NaBlo.
So, yes, I realize I'm giving excuses. But they are valid, and I guess I feel I have to write them here if I ever hope to get over the feeling that I'm a big fat failure.
But, on the bright side, there's no reason why I shouldn't be able to finish my daily posts for the remainder of the month, now that I'm back home. Wish me luck!
Hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving.

Still cold

Day 2 in Albany. Cold as all get-out. Took a brief walk around the neighborhood today wearing a thin fleece jacket and a leather coat. And gloves. Froze anyway! Was secretly relieved to arrive back to the toasty house.
Maya is enjoying exploring Grandma and Pop-Pop's house and playing with her mommy's retro 70s and 80s toys.
S and I are enjoying tasty home-cooked meals and lots of desserts. Tomorrow we will visit my Grandmas Watson and George.
There's hardly any time to get online here. When I finally did, the beep-bap-boop-creeeeeeeeeeek-fzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz sound of the dial-up modem startled me. Talk about your retro toys!
:-)

Traveling

After a looooong day of traveling, we arrived in chilly Albany exhausted but overjoyed to see my parents. (Yay! Familiar faces after seeing only hundreds of other anonymous, fellow travelers all day!)
It's cold here. Very, very cold. But my parents' house is warm and spacious and comforting. And it smells like chili and corn bread!
Happy Thanksgiving.

The end of "packing light"

I've been scurrying around our apartment for the past two hours now, feverishly checking my to-pack list and squirreling away clothes, medicines, personal-grooming items, toys, books, bottles, sippy cups, and about three-million other assorted items into various suitcases and carry-on bags in preparation for our Thanksgiving journey to Albany, New York. We leave tomorrow morning.
If I may bitch and moan for a moment, I would like to play Mistress of the Obvious here and announce that PACKING "LIGHT" IS IMPOSSIBLE ONCE YOU HAVE CHILDREN. I mean, damn, people. Maya, a toddler, requires way, way, way more gear than I do. Her suitcase is crammed full to bursting, and my two big old carry-ons are jam-packed with all manner of toys and snacks for her for the plane. (In contrast, the only personal "fun" items I've packed for myself are a Newsweek and a novel. Oh, and some gum. And a pot of lipgloss.)
I realize a child does not necessarily require 600 new toys for a five-hour, cross-country airplane ride. However, I am desperate for her to behave and remain reasonably occupied and contented during this flight. The only sound more panic-attack-inducing than a child crying in a car is a child crying on an airplane. Am I right? I'm just really, really hoping to keep the wailing and tantrums to a minimum while we're 30,000 feet off the ground. S and I are going to stuff this kid full of Cheerios and read her stories till we're hoarse. Then, when all of that has lost its novelty for her, we'll start pulling out the toys, the coup de grace of which is a borrowed Mr. Potato Head, courtesy of one of my mom-friends. Maya has never laid eyes on a Mr. Potato Head before, and I know the interchangeable eyeballs and lips and ears and shoes are going to blow her mind, rock her world, and the like.
So yeah, I'm packing a ton of toddler gear and about one square foot of stuff for myself, and my old, pre-baby strategy of "packing light" for Thanksgiving has been totally shot to hell.
Buh-bye, packing light! I'll see you again in about twenty years, maybe.

Half-empty

Today on the NPR Web site I came across a This I Believe essay by Barbara Held, a professor of psychology and social studies at Bowdoin College and the author of Stop Smiling, Start Kvetching.
Held's belief is that there is "no one right way to cope with all of the pain of living," and that, for many people, feeling temporarily negative and down about a situation or life in general is a valid way of coping with adversity. We shouldn't necessarily try to force positive thinking or cheerfulness on people who are worried or scared or sad about something, Held says. "Sometimes a lot of what people need when faced with adversity is permission to feel crummy for a while, to realize that feeling bad is not automatically the same as being mentally ill," is how she puts it.
Or, even more simply stated, it's OK not to be happy all of the time.
This has been a revelation for me.
This essay resonated with me so much, it actually kind of startled me. S and I have been talking a lot lately about the Buddhist principle that life is difficult, and how that principle is actually freeing and comforting to us in an unexpected way. On the contrary, if we go around thinking we need to be happy and positive all the time, we're going to be at best disappointed and at worst paralyzed with fear when we find ourselves face to face with hardship, loss, or tragedy. Then, on top of that, we're going to feel guilty that we're unable to think positively about our misfortune.
Personally, it has been helping me, when I'm upset or anxious or angry about something, to remind myself that life is difficult. It's not supposed to be one big happy, breezy party all of the time. And it's difficult for everyone, not just for me and my family. We're all in this difficult life together. This fact soothes me, and Barbara Held's piece reassures me that I'm not alone in my sometimes glass-half-empty perspective.

Let's talk sleep deprivation

How do you feel when you've barely slept for several consecutive days?
I start out overconfident and then drastically crash the second day. The morning after the first night of poor sleep, I actually wake up feeling kind of hyper and all adrenaline-buzzed. I'm chipper, I'm alert, I pour myself an enormous mug of coffee and think, "Hey, this really isn't that bad!" I might even have a good day and foolishly pat myself on the back at the end of it.
Then Day 2 arrives.
Day 2 is cruel. Day 2 reminds me that no, Maureen, you can't actually overcome the laws of biology and maintain satisfactory performance when you've slept only nine of the past 48 hours. I wake up on Day 2 feeling like an overweight person is standing on my face, driving his heels into my eyeballs. My body is uncoordinated. My brain is sandy. Speaking hardly seems worth the effort. As the day continues, my patience is thin, my sense of humor has disintegrated, and my bones hurt. Tasks comprising three steps or more seem herculean and confusing. My inner eyelids burn.
Day 3 is the breaking point. I am unable to cope; I'll cry when I find we're out of quarters for the washing machine AND Maya has just spilled her orange juice on the kitchen floor. Life is so hard, so demanding, so ultimately depressing! What's the point of it all, etc. etc. etc. That's Day 3.
I never knew sleep deprivation until these past few years, and then I still didn't know cumulative sleep deprivation until our darling girl came along. Wouldn't trade her for nine hours of solid, uninterrupted sleep, but I would trade almost anything else.

Easily amused

Today S, Maya, and I spent way too much time watching old Sesame Street segments on YouTube. Maya's favorite characters are the ubiquitous Elmo, compulsive-eater Cookie Monster, and the Count, a happy puppet for children inspired by Count Dracula, a sinister blood-sucking vampire. (Interesting choice, Jim Henson! But I like it, I like it.)
I'd forgotten that the Count used to have more hair. (I guess he, like other men, balds as he ages.) He was my favorite as a kid, I think because I found him slightly scary and therefore quite thrilling. I distinctly remember loving that "Bats in my belfry" song and feeling spooked by it at the same time.
Here are S and Maya watching the Count count apples, with Cookie Monster surreptitiously snatching each one and eating it after it's been counted:

G'night!

To do

Drawing my inspiration from this blog, I present to you a very incomplete list of things I'd like to do during my lifetime. These are in no particular order.

• Ride a Segway, preferably as a way of exploring a town or city with which I'm unfamiliar
  
• Swim with dolphins in warm water
  
• Teach Maya to drive
• Visit Australia and New Zealand with S
• Own a home
• Publish a piece of personal writing
  
• Take surfing lessons in Hawaii
• Interview my parents in-depth about their lives, their generation (the Baby Boomers), and what it was like to live through the 1960s
• Take a hang-gliding lesson at Dockweiler Beach in El Segundo
• Ride in a hot-air balloon
• Take Maya to see Manhattan around Christmastime
• Invest some money in stocks
• Make a documentary film with S
• Live on the East Coast again
• Get back into downhill skiing
  
• Take a swing-dancing class
• Buy Maya a drumset and some lessons
• Learn piano

...to be continued!

Culture Shock

One week from now, I'll be in a suburb of Albany, NY with my husband and daughter, visiting my parents. I've been in the Los Angeles area for seven years now; going back home always produces some culture shock, especially in the wintertime.
For one thing, it is COLD in Albany in November. Two Thanksgivings ago in New York it was blizzarding and 20-something degrees. I remember taking a nighttime walk with my parents in the swirling, biting snow, straining to keep upright in the whipping wind. About 50 yards and three minutes into our stroll, S turned back. "I'm out, it's just too cold," he announced, and retreated to the warm indoors. My parents and I trudged on. I like to think that I haven't gone completely soft since moving out West.
Another thing about suburban Albany that always strikes me when I go back is the quiet, and the space. The neighborhoods feature large, wide yards and homes set far back from the streets. The houses are large. In the winter, especially, everyone is inside their homes or their cars; the neighborhoods seem empty and deserted. There's a sense of stillness one doesn't get in L.A., where everyone seems to be in perpetual motion. When my parents drive us back to their house from the airport, I always feel a strange little pang of loneliness, like, "Where is everybody?" There are beautiful trees and buildings and bridges and homes, but so few people, it seems.
At night, in bed in my parents' guestroom, the utter silence is both lovely and disconcerting. Here at our home in L.A., we hear airplanes, the occasional dog barking, the light footsteps of our friends who live above us, even our cats wrestling and meowing. Even when it's "quiet" at night, there's always some sort of ambient noise.
I don't prefer one place over the other. They're just totally different. Both agree with me, for different reasons. Both are "home," in different ways. I'm not a city mouse, a country mouse, or a suburb mouse. I'm flexible, I like to explore and appreciate various places for what they have to offer.
It's funny, going "home" to New York, then coming "home" to L.A. It's nice, actually, feeling so comfortable in two totally opposite places.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday---one day late

Tonight I'm posting a handful of photos. All of these were taken by me between 2003 and 2007.

Someday I'd like to take up photography as a hobby. I have a loooooong way to go before I'm any good at taking pictures, but here are a few shots I like.

Solomon's Island, MD
Pasadena, CA
Big Bear Lake, CA
Los Angeles, CA
Las Vegas, NV

This and that

I was going to do a Wordless Wednesday and post only a photo tonight, but I don't think "wordless" is my style! I'm too much of a yapper; I've got too much to say.
First, to wrap up a loose end: I've spoken twice now with our pediatrician about the toy of Maya's that tested positive for lead. She is still declining to test Maya's lead levels, citing the fact that Maya's health and development seem normal. She believes I should not worry, and she doesn't believe any action is warranted beyond confiscating the toy. She and another doctor in the practice, with whom I'm also communicating, are being perfectly civil and patient and professional in their dealings with me, but I just don't feel comfortable accepting their opinion that Maya's blood doesn't need testing. So, tomorrow I'm going to call my physician, who also sees pediatric patients, and explain that I'd really like to get Maya's lead levels checked but that my pediatrician is declining to do so, and I'll ask if she or some other doctor in her practice would be willing to do it. We'll see what happens.
Tell me: Am I being unreasonable? Neurotic? Obsessive? You can be honest. Seriously. I'm in therapy for anxiety issues, after all! S believes that doctors know what they're talking about and that their opinions should be respected. He's not stopping me from pursuing this blood test, but if it were up to him, he'd skip it.
Would you? I need some outside perspective.
---
Yesterday morning, the oddest thing happened. Another car and mine drove essentially side by side for the vast majority of my commute to work---like, many miles' worth---and then, we turned into the same parking garage. And then, we ended up riding the elevator together in my work building up to our respective offices! It was weird. On the elevator, I was thinking, "That's him! That's the guy! We drove all the way here together, from Playa del Rey!" I tried and tried to work up the nerve to strike up a conversation ("Hey, aren't you the guy driving the dark green VW Golf?"), but I chickened out. I think, though, that he recognized me, too. He kept looking at me, and when I exited the elevator, he said a friendly, "Have a nice day!" It was just weird that in this huge, sprawling city, something like that would happen. I'm just irked that I let my shyness get the best of me. Who knows, I could've made a new friend!
---
My boss at work had to put his eldest cat down today. He came into work late and seemed so down and quiet. He and his wife have (well, had) five cats, and this one was 20 years old and quite sick. Five cats! I admire them for taking in and caring for so many animals, a few of which have health problems. Lord knows I can barely manage my two freaky felines---I can't imagine five. Anyway, this guy, my boss, has had a rough year. His father passed away, and he's been spending a lot of time with his mother, who has full-blown Alzheimer's. It just didn't seem fair that, on top of all of those things, he had to lose a pet. The amazing thing is, he just keeps coming to work every day, and getting things done. I admire his ability to compartmentalize. I find that very, very difficult to do myself.
---
In one week and one day, my little family and I will be heading back east to chilly upstate NY, to spend Thanksgiving with my parents. I'm looking forward to lazing around their large house; watching Maya romp in their backyard, which is like a football field in comparison to our teeny patch of grass; eating the usual Watson-family Thanksgiving staples (hooray for baked squash with marshmallows!); and visiting Indian Ladders, an apple orchard that makes RIDICULOUSLY DELICIOUS (and perfectly greasy) apple-cider donuts. Mmm.

Oh. That's disappointing.

Hey, I just noticed something: Apparently, when I switched over to this new template from my old pink one, all of the comments disappeared. For awhile there, especially when I was pregnant, I was getting a few comments per post, and I loved it! It was a fun way to keep in touch with people I don't get to see all the time. And now those comments have all vanished. This makes me sad. Maybe there's some way to recover them? Finding that out would take some clicking around on the Blogger site. Bleh.
Oh well.

All about Maya

Hello. My post today is a cross-post from my Mayalstones blog. Warning: It is filled with the minutiae of Maya's day-to-day development and goings-on. I can't help it. I'm a proud mama.

Maya turns 20 months in three days! This morning at work, a coworker visited with her 11-week old newborn daughter, and I was struck by how little and helpless and immobile the baby was. (It was all perfectly normal newborn behavior, of course!) I can hardly remember when Maya was that teeny and new---it's so weird how you forget ages and stages as the child gets bigger and older and more capable. I wish I'd begun the Mayalstones blog back when she was a day old! Of course, I could barely drag my exhausted, fresh-from-delivery self to the shower back then, much less to the computer, so I guess I can forgive myself. Now then, here's what's new in Mayaworld:
Maya's bronchitis seems to be gradually receding, thanks to the Horrid Pink Meds we've been forcing on her twice per day. Actually, we no longer have to force the Amoxicillin on her; she's pretty OK with willingly taking it, so long as we clap and cheer and do high-fives after each swallow. I also mime that I'm taking the medicine first, and she seems to enjoy watching Mommy put the syringe to her lips and fake-push the plunger. Whatever works, right?!
Maya's language development continues to grow. She's picked up a few little phrases, including, "Thank you, Mommy!" (no matter whom she's thanking), "What doing?" and "Where going?" She also communicates what she's seeing more and more frequently. For instance, she'll point to Toonces sleeping on our bed and say, "night night, baby." (Not sure why "baby" instead of "kitty cat," but we get the idea.) She looooves pointing out dirt on the kitchen floor. A-hem. She asks questions, such as "Pat?" while looking at one of the cats, as in, "May I please pat Ndugu?" She asks to watch "Bump baby high" about three dozen times per day, which is Mayaspeak for our Sesame Street Beginnings "Make Music Together" DVD. (Her favorite segment is the one where Baby Elmo is bouncing on his daddy's lap. Part of the song goes, "Bump-bump baby high! Bump-bump baby low.") We try to avoid turning on the television until the afternoon, which does not stop Maya from asking for it all morning long. I am also thrilled to report that Maya also asks to hear the song from the Sound of Music soundtrack that goes, "Doe, a deer, a female deer..." many many times during the day, too! She can sing a LOT of it. Like this: "Doe...deer...deer. Ray...suuuuuuuuuun. Me...name...seff. Fa...run!"The kid LOVES TO SING. She does some songs from school that we don't recognize. Something about Jesus and a boat, I think? Another one about elephants.
Last time we were at the doctor's office, Maya weighed in at 22 pounds. She's still petite, but she doesn't look unhealty or out of proportion or anything. She has a very tiny waist, and I think she's just small-boned. Her hair is at her shoulders, and we still haven't cut her any bangs. I'm feeling sort of anti-bangs right now, so I just pull her hair back in a little half ponytail each day---or sometimes pigtails. Her hair is wavy (like her mom's and dad's).
We're having some sleep issues these days and are trying to get through them as a family. S and I are looking for and testing out some creative solutions, trying to find the right approach for Maya and ourselves. Please wish us luck! None of us handles sleep deprivation well. At all.

A mess of a post

Hi. To make a looooong story short, I slept roughly 4 hours last night and am currently barely functioning. We've got a bit of a sleep crisis on our hands as far as Maya is concerned, but I'm not going to bore you with the details (for once).
Suffice it to say, I'm here to make my requisite post, then I'm sprinting to bed to get whatever sleep I can before Maya wakes up and the hell begins.
First of all, thanks, J and A, for the lullaby suggestions! I'm going to search for them at the iTunes store and hopefully add them to my mix.
Secondly, and utterly apropos of nothing, I'd like to tell you that I made my first two "30-minute meals" last night and tonight, courtesy of the Rachel Ray cookbook of the same name, and both were successes, though not resounding successes. I'm lazy and cheap and put off by loads of hard-to-find ingredients, so I scoured the book for the two simplest-looking recipes possible, and found "Super Sloppy Joes" and "Spinach Calzones."
S loved the calzones, which took me much longer than 30 minutes to make because I'd forgotten to defrost the spinach or acquire a second cookie sheet beforehand (I had to get one from a neighbor, who ended up bringing me a Teflon casserole dish, but oh well, I used it.) The other weird thing with this recipe is the the quantities called for didn't quite jibe with what was available at the supermarket. For instance, S (who did the shopping) couldn't find 10-oz. tubes of premade pizza dough, so he brought home a 13-oz. tube. As a result, the calzones were effing ginormous, really comical-looking, actually. Take a medium pizza, fold it in half, and there's the size of calzone we're talking about. Furthermore, the bottoms of the calzones browned much faster than the tops, which didn't seem to bother S (or Maya) but really irked me. (J, do you know why this might've happened?) Regardless, they were good calzones; I'd just make some adjustments next time I make them.
The sloppy joes---those were really and truly a 30-minute dish. Actually, you could throw those bad boys together in 25 minutes, if you were determined and had better knife skills than I do. (God, my knife skills SUCK!) Also, they were good. Nothing special, really. But satisfying, tasty. It's funny---I was nervous about them because I had in my mind what, exactly, a sloppy joe should taste like based on the ones my mom and grandma made when I was growing up. These weren't the same, but they were close enough and contained a couple of vegetables, which I liked. We had them with a garlicky broccoli-cauliflower mix.
Wow, I am so boring tonight. Oh well. Let's wrap this up, shall we?
I called the lead-test company (see prior post), whose representative advised me to take a Q-tip soaked in vinegar to the red toy piece in question. If the swab turns red, he told me, it's paint transferring to the swab, and the toy does not necessarily contain lead. Well, I did that, and the vinegary swab did NOT turn red. So then, it appears we've got a lead-tainted toy in our posession, one Maya has spent countless hours gnawing on, back when she was big into the gnawing. I'm going to make one more call to the lead-test company tomorrow to discuss this further, but I'll likely end up taking Maya SOMEWHERE for a blood-lead test. If her pediatrician won't do it, we'll find someone who will.
I'm trying VERY HARD not to panic. Yet.
Goodnight.

Lullaby and good night

As I type this I'm also creating a playlist of lullabies for Maya. S and I are going to try playing a lullaby mix for her as we put her down for bed each night. She's been having a lot of trouble falling asleep on her own; maybe she would feel less lonely if she had some lovely music to keep her company as she drifts off.
So far the "Night Night, Maya" mix contains all tunes she'll recognize. They are songs that her daddy and I sing to her often: Edelweiss; Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star; Moon, Moon, Moon (from one of her children's-songs CDs); Alright for Now; and Rock-a-Bye Baby.
What's funny, though, is that I've spent about the last 40 minutes or so finding and choosing these songs, and as a result, I feel so very soothed and relaxed! Listening to these songs is chilling me right out. It's so nice, and it's even prompted me to ask S if perhaps we could try playing lullabies in our bedroom before we fall asleep each night.
I mean, doesn't that make sense? Why shouldn't we adults use soft, sweet, simple music to lull ourselves to sleep, like we do for our babies?
(An aside: Since I've become a mother, I've often found myself wondering why we parents seem to know how best to nurture our children but not ourselves. Examples: We work hard to feed our children vegetables and fruits and low-sugar treats and lots of milk, yet we cut corners in our own diets. We insist on our babies' getting their full 12 hours' sleep, yet we figure we'll make do on five. We rush our children to the doctor at the first sign of significant illness, yet we fail to do so for ourselves. Don't we deserve the same level of care our children do? Or at least something similar? I think we should all make loving ourselves, as well as our children, a priority, too. After all, we were babies once!)
OK, I've just now made a "Night Night, Mommy" mix for myself. So far it contains Edelweiss; Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World; Twinkle, Twinkle (hee!); and Alright for Now. (Ahem. Maya and I have similar tastes.)
What else should I include in my "Night Night Mommy" playlist? Your suggestions are welcome!

This isn't good

Well, I had hoped to post something light and fluffy and sweet and whimsical tonight, to counter last night's heavy, long entry. However, what's top-of-mind right now is all this mother-f*cking lead in all these mother-f*cking Chinese-made toys.
Here's what happened: Earlier this week I received the latest issue of Consumer Reports in the mail. The magazine included a very thorough, straightforward, well-researched, and UTTERLY FRIGHTENING story on lead in myriad, seemingly harmless household products and toys. One of the sidebars for this story rated a handful of home lead tests, for use on such items as toys, dishware, jewelry, etc.
I read the article, experienced some mid-level panic, went online to buy one of the lead tests, and waited impatiently for it to arrive.
The test came today. It includes 8 testing swabs; I've used five so far. First, the good news: a yellow, painted wooden ring from one of Maya's toys contains no lead. Also, a yellow plastic ring from another of Maya's toys (a Mattell product, I might add) contains no lead. And surprisingly, a crappy little metal trinket box that some street vendor gave her for free is also lead-free. (Each of these items has found its way into Maya's mouth numerous times.)
Now, the bad news, the news that is causing my nerves to explode like popcorn and my mama-bear rage to ignite: another part of the toy that includes the yellow, painted (lead-free) wooden ring I mentioned earlier does appear to contain lead. I say "appear" because there is one teeny, tiny part of me that hopes the lead-test swab turned pink not because the toy contains lead but because the red paint on it bled onto the swab. (Normally, a swab that turns pink indicates LEAD, LEAD, LEAD, according to the test-kit instructions.)
I have a feeling, and it's not a good one, that the damn red-painted part of that toy does contain lead, just like some of the recalled toys from earlier this summer had tainted red paint, and that's why the swab turned pink. To know for sure, I'll be calling the lead-test manufacturer on Monday to ask whether the swabs ever turn pink not from lead detection but from bleeding red paint. I'll let you know what I find out.
If I get bad news, which is likely, I'm going to call my pediatrician and ask ONE MORE FREAKING TIME for a blood test for Maya to determine her lead levels. So far, the doctor has declined to test her because we don't live in an old-old house, and Maya's development is "right on track." Hmph. Whatevs. I say, let's test this kid! If it turns out there's lead in that one toy, I'm insisting on it, or taking Maya to another doctor who WILL test.
...and that is the end of my angry rant. G'night, everybody!
Tomorrow's post: light, fluffy, sweet, and whimsical. I promise!

My Grandma Watson: Part I

Roughly a year and a half ago, my dad's mother, who to me is Grandma Watson, fell in her home during the night and could not get herself up. A friend found her the following morning, and my grandmother was taken to the hospital. She never returned home after that.
Since then, Grandma Watson has lived in two nursing facilities. Last year at this time, she was at the first one, and when I saw her at Thanksgiving, neither she nor any of us, her family, knew for sure whether she'd be returning to the lovely house she'd lived in for the past 60 years or so. Now, a year later, we all know, including her, that she won't be going home, ever.
My Grandma Watson is in her mid- or late eighties, and she's suffering from a variety of illnesses. To put it frankly, she's not doing well, and she's not the same woman she was. She is clearly in her last stage of life, and knowing this is very, very tough. I think about her and worry about her and feel sad for her daily. Therapist C pointed out that I have been grieving for her as if she were already gone, which, in a certain way, she is, if I think of her the way she was 20, 15, 10, or even five years ago.
So, that's the background for this and a few upcoming posts about my Grandma Watson. The other thing you need to know is that she has always been and remains one of the most important and beloved people in my life.

Grandma Watson's House
My grandma and pop-pop lived in a medium-sized, Victorian-style home built in the late nineteenth century. This house was as much a member of our family as I am. It had character, it had quirks, it was larger than life, it could be temperamental, it was intimidating. As a child, I found parts of it wonderfully warm and sunny and bright and cheery (like the living room, television room, dining room, and first-floor kitchen) and other parts creepy and antiquated and mysterious (like the upstairs hallway, the upstairs kitchen, "the boys'" bedroom, the attic, and the basement).
It was an old house, so it hardly resembled the cookie-cutter 1970s suburban Colonial I was growing up in. Grandma Watson's house had creaky floors. Certain rooms had old, frail-looking wallpaper adorned with faded, almost Baroque-looking patterns. The lightswitch in the foyer was push-button style, which I know dates back to at least the 1920s, probably much earlier. That same foyer also housed a looming, dark-stained valet, with a hard little bench and great big brass coat hooks. In its center was an ancient-looking mirror, pitted and scratched. To my brother and me, these domestic features were fascinating and a little fearsome.
The dining room was the center of my family's universe. It's where all major-holiday meals took place and where so much of the laughter and story-telling and good-natured ribbing happened. My grandma at her end of the table, my pop-pop at the other, with my mom, dad, one uncle, and Grandma George on one side and me, my brother, my other uncle, my aunt, and my two cousins (once they were born, of course) on the other. Some years there was more family in attendance, other years less. Regardless, it was a place where I utterly belonged. I always sat directly to Grandma Watson's left.
I remember the feeling of being in that room for one of those meals: the combination of way more food than I normally ate, so many people huddled around the table, and multiple hours of waxing and waning adult conversation---punctuated by bursts of laughter---would lull me gradually into a very relaxed, sleepy state. It was all so comforting. I would give anything to relive, say, Easter Dinner, 1983.
---
OK. This has been a lot, so I'll continue in future posts.
Thanks for reading!

The C Word

Yesterday my best friend called me to say that her husband was just diagnosed with prostate cancer. He is 33.
Another friend of ours, C, the wife of one of S's groomsmen, was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year. She is also in her early 30s.
I learned from a coworker recently that another colleague of ours, in Sales, recently fought (and won) a battle with lymphoma. He looks to me to be in his early 40s.
This morning on NPR's "Day to Day," there was a story about a young woman who was diagnosed with breast cancer at 21, is still fighting it now at 30, and has garnered a "cult awareness" of her unique personal ads on an online dating site.
Cancer really is everywhere, isn't it? I have to admit I hadn't given it very much thought till recently, mostly because it is not prevalent in my family, so I hadn't thought about it in a personal way until this year, when C received her diagnosis.
Now it's really on my mind, and I see that cancer affects so many, and maybe everyone, in time. Either we have it, we have had it, we will have it in the future, we know someone who has it, we know someone who had it and survived, or we know someone who had it and did not survive.
Another something I see, which makes me feel so good, is that so many people affected by cancer are full of hope and positivity. My best friend (K), for example, who has the husband recently diagnosed with prostate cancer, is very focused on the many positive aspects of her husband's case: the cancer is localized, the number of cancer cells appears to be quite small, her husband was self-aware enough to take himself to the doctor when he noticed some unusual symptoms, and his diagnosis occurred very early. Also, other family members of his have had prostate cancer, and all lived to tell about it. K told me last night, "We're doing everything in our control to fight this," and she said that gives her and her husband a good feeling. It gives me one, too. I feel confident that K's husband and Friend C are both going to pull through and win their respective battles. They are not sitting idly by; they and their loved ones are taking action and informing themselves and truly doing everything they can.
They are hopeful, and I am, too.

More of life's simple pleasures—from my perspective

Ugh. This has not been the Best Week Ever in the life of M. I think I'll do another "simple pleasures" roundup to remind myself of the many little things that make me happy. I think this time I will categorize.

Food: a McDonald's cheeseburger (just once in a while); a perfectly made margarita on the rocks (with or without salt); two glasses of red wine; bread and butter; a ripe, juicy peach; an occasional glass of cold beer; homemade chocolate cake; Cadbury chocolate; a plate of decadent, cheesy nachos

Weather: a thunderstorm complete with flash lightning; a warm, breezy day; a chilly autumn day; bright sunlight; a clear night

People/Relationships: getting a baby to laugh; weddings; being told "I love you" by a parent, child, or sibling; uncontrollable laughter with a friend; goofy inside jokes

Hobbies/Recreation: Performing a rhythmic tap step faster and fasterandfasterandFASTER; banging out an intense 20 minutes on an exercise bike or treadmill; chasing Maya around at the playground; completing a Jumble or Soduku puzzle; simple stretching

...and making lists.
;-)

Life's simple pleasures

One thing I like about myself is that I am easily entertained. I am a big fan of celebrating the small things. Here I present A Dozen of Life's Little Joys, From My Perspective:
-The change of seasons (even here in L.A.)
-A visit to a farmer's market
-Chocolate ice cream
-Dramatic sunsets
-The peaceful little space of time in the morning between S leaving for work and Maya waking up
-Visits with extended family over the holidays
-Cooking a dish that turns out really well
-Easy conversation with a good friend
-Hugs on the leg from a very small child
-Hot, fresh coffee
-Getting a good deal on just about anything
-A cozy, lazy evening of television-watching
It seems to me that when you set your mind on appreciating the small things, you're then presented with infinite opportunities for experiencing joy. I find that reassuring.

Blow Me, NaBloPoMo

Sorry, that was totally juvenile and inappropriate. I'm in a terrible, terrible mood---although, it was actually worse about 90 minutes ago, before I embarked on The Great Broccoli Casserole Project. After a very challenging afternoon and evening with Maya (which followed a very sleepless Sunday night for the whole family thanks to poor Maya's gagging on her own phlegm and then vomiting at 1:45 in the morning), I dragged my frustrated, fatigued, and teary self into the kitchen to put together dinner for tomorrow. It's a casserole my Grandma W used to make when my whole family gathered at her house, back in the day. It's special to me, though it wouldn't be special to anyone outside the family, but anyway, tonight was my first time making it, and it proved to be a rather enormous undertaking not fit for my small kitchen and limited collection of pots and pans. Anyway, 90 minutes later, I'm done, and I actually feel a tad better--a little like I just had a nice long workout or something. (I'm even sore!)
But still, my mood is pretty crappy. I just sometimes feel that no matter how hard I try, I cannot be as good a parent as I'd like. Some stupid hurdle (self-set or otherwise) will thwart me when I'm least expecting it. And then a long, tiring day of Trying But Not Succeeding will come to an end, and I'll realize I look gross and never actually showered. Or that there are five million dirty dishes in the sink, and oh---I still haven't vacuumed.
I know, I know. I need to get over myself and recognize my copious good fortune. Self-pity is totally annoying.
I do recognize the many ways in which my life is wonderful. Just sometimes, my vision becomes very narrowed, and I can't seem to see past the problem of the moment.
I'm working on it! (See this previous post.)

Fall Fantasy

This afternoon, as S and I were walking Maya to the playground for some fresh autumn air and much-deserved playtime, I asked S how he thought the two of us might be spending the day if we didn't have Maya.

S: Well, I'd be going to a movie every weekend. Or, OK, almost every weekend. Including this one.
Me: Oh, you would? Just you then?
S: Well, OK, fine, we would be going to a movie every weekend. Also, we would sleep in. Nothing crazy---just till like, 9:30. 10:00!
Me: And then we'd wake up---
S: Go get brunch somewhere---
Me: Then come home---
S: And feel too full to do anything---
Me: So we'd snuggle up on the couch and watch whatever's saved on TiVo...

We enjoyed our cozy little do-nothing Sunday fantasy. But then I started thinking about how having Maya has forced me to grow up a little, take a little more responsibility, strive to be a better person. For instance, I'm enormously proud of the fact that I now plan our family dinners for the week on Sunday, and I always make sure a vegetable is included. It's just a small thing, but it's the kind of planning that was utterly foreign to me before Maya came along. Also, I waste a lot less time than I used to. I mean, believe me, I still waste time. Just not as much. When I'm home with Maya on Mondays and Fridays, I seize every free minute I can get (when Maya's napping, when she's watching Elmo) to get some small task accomplished. I'll actually think, "Yes! I've got some time to clean the kitchen!" and get to it, which is just, well, weird, considering the way the old, childless me operated.
So, yeah: There's always a smidgen of longing when we think about the Lazy, Slow Weekends of Yore. But these new, structured weekends of errand-running, playground-hopping, and meal-planning are pretty great, too.

Happy Feet, Part 3

The summer tap class I was taking ended in September; now I'm taking the Fall-quarter Saturday tap class, which is a Beginner class. It probably would have made more sense to continue taking an Intermediate/Advanced class, but it's now on Wednesday evenings at 6:00, and I'm usually right in the middle of my evening commute at that time.
So, I'm taking the Beginner class...and it's great! I can focus on refining my technique instead of scrambling to memorize complicated choreography. (Not that I don't enjoy the challenge of memorizing a tricky routine. I do. I like getting a mental workout as well as a physical one.) As a "beginner," I feel that I'm benefiting from the teacher's focus on showing us individual steps and combinations that we practice over and over again until we've got (almost) every nuance correct. And we're doing a lot of "across the floor" work, which is fun and good exercise. Often, the teacher puts on this funky instrumental song by Prince, and off we go down the floor.
We're also learning choreography to "Boogie Shoes," a song that everyone but me seems to recognize and love. It's got sort of a funk-meets-disco sound, and I'm guessing it's from the 70s...? I don't know. Correct me if I'm wrong. Anyway, it's a fun, easy routine with quite a bit of repetition, so memorizing it is not strenuous like memorizing the choreography to "Watermelon Man" was.
I was talking with my parents tonight on the phone about my tap class, and they were asking me about why I love tap so much. I told them I think it's because tap is mostly about rhythm and sound, and much less about flexibility, for example, than say, ballet. Anyone with a sense of rhythm and some balance could learn some tap steps. Also, it just seems a little more relaxed and casual than, again, ballet (or even jazz). I loooooove watching ballet, but I'm not particularly interested in dancing it myself. There are just so many rules! And I'm not into embarking on something I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be particularly good at. Ballet is HARD. (I took it for two or three years as a child.) It's even physically painful! It's beautiful and elegant and wonderful to watch, but I won't be donning pale pink tights and a leotard anytime soon.
S keeps asking me if I'll continue tap indefinitely, or if I'll take some other dance classes. I have wanted to try hip-hop for many years, but I have had trouble locating studios in the L.A. area that offer it to adults for purposes of fun and recreation. (I've found that many hip-hop classes out here are for actors who want to add the skill of hip-hop dancing to their resumes.)
I've also thought about trying swing, though I know that it's really hard. (Maybe I'm just too old!)
So, I don't know. I think the important thing is that I continue dancing. It makes me happy and takes my mind off my worries. It gets my blood moving, and it allows me to express the joy that music brings me.

Today in highlights

Today was a really good day! Here's what went down:

• Maya slept through the night and snoozed contentedly till 9:15 this morning.
• Maya and I spent a lazy morning in our pajamas, playing in the living room, eating a late breakfast, and finally taking a walk to run an errand.
• After lunch, Maya went down for a nap WITHOUT A FIGHT. That's so incredible, it bears repeating: She went down for a nap without a fight.
• I had dinner with friend J at Su Casa while S took Maya out for sushi. (The report from him is that she essentially ate her weight in rice and miso soup.) It was sooo nice to spend an hour in uninterrupted conversation with J while eating delicious tacos!
  
• Maya did not cry for 45 minutes after being put down to bed for the night in her crib, as has been her near-nightly routine the past couple of weeks. After less than five minutes of fussing, she was out.
• S and I just finished watching an episode of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," which was really, really sharp and clever. Its production reminded me of that of "Entourage," which S says is because it, like "Entourage," is shot with a single camera. Also, one of the main actors reminds me a little of Jeremy Piven...and the cast of "buddy" characters is similar. Anyway, it was great and quite funny, and we'll be adding it to our little lineup of Genuinely Funny Weekly TV Comedies, following "The Office" and "30 Rock."

Hooray for good days!

What it feels like for a girl...who's anxious

I thought I'd kick off my participation in National Blog Posting Month by getting all TMI on you and describing what it's like to be in therapy. I started therapy a month or so ago, for the first time ever, when I found that some of my obsessive, anxious thought patterns were intruding on my ability to carry out my normal daily activities. I felt that I had "hit rock-bottom," so to speak, one day at work when I was so consumed by obsessive worry about Maya that I couldn't focus on work tasks or finish them. My working relationships were affected, too---I felt unable to really converse with anyone or simply "act normal" in the office.
My brother-in-law J, when he lived out here, had a wonderful therapist whom he was forever raving about, so I got her number from him and gave her a call. A week or so later, I was sitting in her cozy, homey little office on a big furry couch, patting her cute little dog on the head and verbally spewing all over the place. It was an experience unlike any I'd ever had in that I found myself spilling the majority of my life story, at top speed, to a person who, minutes before, had been a complete stranger. A few tears were shed, too. By the end of it, I felt like a bad date: all self-involved and "me, me, me!" and overly talkative and emotionally volatile. The therapist ("C") reassured me that therapy is an appropriate place for talking about oneself for an extended period, but still, I left there feeling kind of guilty that I hadn't been all, "So, C, tell me about your life!" I mean, in my normal relationships and interactions with people, I would consider it rude to talk about myself exclusively for 50 straight minutes, you know?
Now, with about four or five sessions under my belt, I feel mostly comfortable in C's office, bursting forth with whatever comes to mind and going off on tangents. C is a nice combination of friendly and warm plus professional and goal-oriented. Additionally, we seem to have similar philosophies regarding diagnoses and treatments. Also, she's probably the best listener I've ever met (followed closely by my mom).
A typical session tends to begin with C's asking me what I'm "feeling right now," and my surprising myself with an answer. Most of the time I don't arrive "prepared;" that is, I don't think through what I want to talk about. It's all pretty spontaneous, and that was initially unnerving for me but now seems OK. Next, we usually revisit a Big Issue or two that was established during our first meeting.
Toward the end of my two most recent sessions, C and I have taken turns reading aloud from some relevant literature on the subjects of feelings and anxiety, and while the readings don't necessarily apply to me 100%, they are informative and helpful. Sometimes we'll come to an excerpt that makes me think of S, or my dad. And we'll wrap up with her giving me a strategy to try, something from the literature.
I still have to fight the urge at the end of each session to ask, "And how are you doing this week, C? What's new? Any weekend plans?" because I'm pretty sure that's not appropriate, even though I'm genuinely curious and would really like to know more about her. But, on the other hand, I am paying this woman to get to know me and my history and help me manage my thought patterns, so that fact helps me feel less "selfish" during my sessions.
In all, therapy is helping. It sometimes feels a little scattered, or messy, or that it's taken some turn I didn't want it to, but I think that's just an unavoidable facet of conversation in general, whether that conversation is between friends or coworkers or family members or a service provider and her client.