Raising Daughters

I took advantage of a beautiful late afternoon to deadhead my salvia. I've always just let it go to pot, but read somewhere that if I do this, it will bloom more fully again -- and possibly even again after that. I was a bit reluctant; there was still a tinge of purple at the top of the spears and a honeybee madly yammering at me to leave it the hell alone, but I saw tiny buds below and knew that in 72 hours from now it would be 95 degrees, the spears would look barbecued, and I would have no interest in being outside whatsoever.

Bella had been playing in the hose, turned it on herself and soaked her clothes, and decided to run in the house and change into a swimsuit. She emerged a few moments later wearing board shorts, and nothing more. "Let it go," I told Mr. ABF, "she's fine."

I remember quite clearly arriving back home in the hot Arizona desert after spending a year in Germany. I was seven. I walked around my house for the first time in a year, saw my bike, and decided to take a spin around the ol' block. Because it was 10,000 degrees out, and because I had spent a year of my life in a place where all the boys and girls changed for gym together in the same room and used the same toilets and no one thought twice about it, I took off for my ride topless. Somewhere in the trip around the block a neighbor yelled at me to put on a shirt.

It's sad that at some point in our culture girls -- females -- become sexualized. And from that point forward we as mothers and they as emerging women need to take care of chests in public. And it never really stops -- the questions around bras, bikinis, implants, breast-feeding in public. I want so desperately to hold Bella in this place and let her just feel the sun on her skin and not feel embarrassed but simply comfortable. It will come soon enough, the cultural significance of the boobies.

I remembered also visiting Norway after my senior year in high school. And in some now-forgotten town on what I gather was a rare sunny day, in a public park, women sunbathed topless. Oddly, I did not feel uncomfortable, for me or my boyfriend at my side (who I think gamely tried to maturely write the whole thing off for my sake) but jealous. I wanted to join them. I wanted simply to lie on the grass and feel the sun on my skin. But I had been tainted by the whole bullshit of bad which mocked my small boobs and simultaneously told me to please support them and keep them modestly covered at all times. It was too late to turn back and enjoy.

I wish now I had said "hell with it" and chucked my shirt and sat in the sun for a few minutes, because it was probably the last possible opportunity to do so when I felt remotely comfortable with the concept. I breast-fed in public, never caring, but let's face it: six years of (in)fertility has wreaked havoc on my body and my mental status toward it. The good feminist in me tells me I'm more, much more, than the sum of my boobs and my uterus. The other, more vapid and superficial part who wistfully looks at the new Boden catalog wishing I had my '05 body back hates this body -- hates the sags, the pooches, the crags, the bags, the dark spots, and especially the foot that makes it near impossible to improve the rest of it. And most of this, I understand quite clearly, is a result of trying to have children, and most of THAT, a result the Maddy's pregnancy which left me without a will to exercise, an overturned stomach that won't go away despite the sit-ups, and a foot that gave up when I tried to hurry my imagined journey back to the old, firm me.

This part of raising the daughter? The body image part? Scares the crap out of me. It didn't always, but wow does it now. Because I have no love for mine. I must somehow find a way to tell her to enjoy hers, while she has the time and space and opportunity. I've been so hung up lately on whether I'm doing a satisfactory job on raising a big sister whose little sister isn't that I feel I've been letting some other life lessons slide by.

"Mom," announced Bella turning the hose on the lilac,

"I'm going to water Maddy's tree for her."


I almost drop my clippers in shock.

Full

Black Tagliatelle with Peas and Parmigiano
Tocai Friulano

An old friend of ours lost a bet with Mr. ABF and as a result, agreed to treat us to a tasting menu (each course paired with a wine) at this restaurant in Manhattan on Saturday night. With Bella deposited at a kind friend's house (hopefully not bossing around her child), the three of us embarked on a culinary experience the likes of which I haven't had in . . . well, years. Year before last I wasn't drinking because I was pregnant (fuck, what a waste of potential Brunello imbibement '06 was). Last year I couldn't taste. I simply lost my desire and ability to discern one food from another, one wine from another. I really didn't care. Not to mention we lost valuable babysitting karma with Bella leaving her alone for the week of Maddy's life and then again every Tuesday evening in April and May so we could attend a support group. It was hell on us all, leaving the house and her in someone else's hands, during a time when we all needed to just be together, eating cold cereal for dinner.

"Casunzei" with Poppy Seeds
Südtiroler Sylvaner

A whiff of the first wine, one I'm familiar with but not that exact appellation, confirms that much is coming back to me. The second wine swims under my nose and -- although not my favorite -- I'm able to rattle off the butter and apricot tendencies, and the dryness yet the more structured body underneath in order to compliment my favorite pasta of the evening filled with beets and topped with a heavenly grating of smoked ricotta salata. I sit and simply inhale the smoke for a few minutes and wonder if I'm really back.

Garganelli with "Funghi Trifolati"
Pinot Nero "Mazzon"

By now I'm considerably relieved that I still have the ability to taste. I continue to impress our dinner partner with the smells of our turn to red wine (a lighter one, to compliment the earthiness of the fresh mushrooms in the dish). This course turns out not to be my favorite separately in wine or food, but by far my favorite pairing. Each does the other so many favors. Our dinner companion is slowly, course by course, talking us through some work related politics, the other tables are clearly happy, and I may be developing a crush on our sommelier.

Domingo's Pyramids with Passato di Pomodoro
Montefalco Rosso

Because by this point I feel the need to insert myself in this conversation about online business and prove that I have some sort of clue (and probably because by now I've had a fair amount to drink) I out myself to dinner tab-picker-upper that I blog -- on not one but TWO blogs. He's genuinely surprised and happy and asks how it's going. I not only impress him but myself with my knowledge of this particular wine -- I knew two of the grapes in this blend, but not the third, and what I'm picking up in unfamiliarity is with the third grape. I confirm this with the sommelier and pat myself and taste buds on the back.

Pappardelle Bolognese
Faro

Fuck it's nice being in a dress and heels, drinking wine knowing that my child is being tended to. And this is a big wine, obviously, to go with the meat. I begin to ponder if it's time we think about going out to nice restaurants at home. I'm all a twitter thinking about our wine cellar nearing completion and our holding being delivered in a few short weeks. It hits me that when we packed up our wine, I wasn't drinking it. I was pregnant. Swill a bit more.

"Frittelle di Caprino" with "Uve Moscato"
Colli di Scandiano Malvasia "Daphne"

I'm readily approaching the point of saying basta. This course does nothing for me, it's a bit . . .gratuitous. Nothing about it grabs me. I've even tasted better honey. Wondering if we've hit saturation on the evening, and maybe I'm overselling the whole going-out thing. This dress is tight. My foot hurts. I hope Bella is ok. I check my phone for messages and note the late hour.

Milk Chocolate Panna Cotta with Licorice
Vin Santo di Chianti Classico

Wait. Vin Santo. My favorite dessert wine. And maybe I'm completely creamed by this point not to mention sitting over my (thankfully small) thimbleful of chocolate, but I detect chocolate in this bouquet of usually honey and nut with a hint of citrus. I finish my glass, and our friend who doesn't like Vin Santo gives me his. I don't drink it, I'm getting sated, but I sit and occasionally just put my nose over the glass. I tell the waiter not to take it even though I'm fairly sure I'm not going to drink it.

Chocolate Chestnut Budino with Chestnut Gelato (Plus two additional desserts, one different for each diner)
"Baccadoro"

Uncomfortably full. Ready to go. I lick my spoon, but pass my dessert off to the men, and barely sip the last wine, which is delightful. It's too much. The rest of weekend is a blur of hangover, Bella tripping the next morning and getting a bloody nose, driving home in silence. I haven't eaten much of anything since Saturday night, not so much from penance but because I haven't been hungry.

And while delightful to know that my senses are returning, and I can enjoy food and wine again, there's always the uncomfortable grumble letting you know that what you were (a late-thirties mom) and what you are (a late thirties mom) sometimes ain't all that. Being gone for 48 hours means I come home to 48 x 10ⁿ unread things in my reader. Of the first six random blogs I click on, two are by people already pregnant; one paints a scene that reminds me of "those crazy kids" while I was in grad school but takes one commenter back to the summer she was 15; and the remaining three I randomly click announce pregnancies.

Niobe once wrote "for some reason or for no reason at all, someone else's good news has tasted bitter, has burnt acrid in my lungs." To be honest, I'm not sure why I'm feeling so melancholy about it all this Monday. I'm not trying. I'm not even thinking. I know this won't take away grief, because you can't replace a child. When I read these things, quite frankly, they scare me. When people tell me, "envision yourself in the future. What do you see?" I can't. I can't go there. My mind puts up a steel curtain, and I can't see myself there, with or without. I get this overwhelming feeling that I'm in over my head, and maybe I'm just too old for all of this shit -- staying out drinking until midnight, getting nose blood out of the weekend's laundry, running with people young enough to consider music of my fifteenth summer "oldies." Maybe I regret not having the drive or desire.

Maybe I just miss having the hunger.

Inhale, But Watch the Thorns

I'm deeply honored to have been bestowed the Pink Rose Award by both Searching and STE. Y'all make me blush and scuffle my toes. And to know that this award originated from the one and only Kymberli? Well. Very honored indeed.



I'm going to pass this along to at least one person I know already got it, but there's a theme here so bear with me:

A few people in this neck of Blogville really got hit upside the head with rogue commenters in the past week or so. I'm never sure if these commenters are trolls who like pushing buttons and seeing what transpires, or if there really is some sad sack of a person who has nothing better to do than to read blogs that have nothing to do with him/her and butt in and comment in what I can only describe as an embarrassingly unhelpful fashion. So I'd like to give big bouquets of fresh goodness to the following:

Alice, at An Empty Chair at Our Table, who got a nasty comment the week of her daughter's deathiversary -- which sadly corresponded with a failed IVF. She handled the comment with far more grace than I ever would have.

Honey, who reads Alice's blog, who caught the comment and directed some of her own blog traffic over to show Anon how to abide. Thanks so much Honey, the world needs more people like you.

CLC, who also got some Anon bullshit, and who also handled it with grace and class, and

C., who stood up to some blissful ignorance regarding stillbirth in the face of being called "overly sensitive" and a whole lotta other garbage.

All of you rock my world. Pay it forward like so:

The rules are as follows:
1. On your blog, copy and paste the award, these rules, a link back to the person who selected you, and a link to this post. You will find the story behind the Pink Rose Award and other graphics to choose from there.
2. Select as many award recipients as you would like, link to their blogs (if they have one), and explain why you have chosen them.
3. Let them know that you have selected them for an award by commenting on one of their posts.
4. If you are selected, pass it on by giving the Pink Rose Award to others.
5. If you find that someone you want to nominate has already been selected by someone else, you can still honor them by posting a comment on their award post stating your reasons for wishing to grant them the award.
6. You do not have to wait until someone nominates you to nominate someone else

Best Day Ever

So apparently some blog platforms have a place in their stats section where it conveniently tells you on what day you had the most traffic. I have yet to figure this out in Blogger -- clearly not so obvious. But, in other platforms, not only is it obvious, it's um, very poorly worded. Instead of saying something innocuous like "Most Traffic:" followed by a day, or "Date of Most page hits" it says

BEST DAY EVER.

And let's face it, for blogs of this nature, or any number of other natures I could dream up, I'd be willing to guess the day with most hits does not remotely qualify for what "Best Day Ever" implies. They might as well have a little smiley guy blowing a horn with some confetti and balloons over the text.

As you can imagine by this point in the conversation, someone had their worst day ever, got a bazillion page hits by people tuning in and leaving condolence messages and looking for updates, and now blogger platform thinks this day is a reason to decorate and buy cupcakes. Every time A.M.S. at Our Own Creation checks her stats, she's greeted with this slap in the face: a chipper acknowledgment followed by a series of numbers which for her will always be the day she lost Sweet Zoë. Oh, and by the way, the same incongruity appears on Sweet Zoë's page, too.

So here's what we're gonna do: Make today, May 29, A.M.S.'s "Best Day Ever!" All you have to do is click. That's it. You don't have to read, you don't have to comment. Just click here, or on the tree picture on the upper right side of this blog, and that's it. Oh, and while you're there, please click over to Sweet Zoe's site too. And then tell your friends. All of them. If you don't want them to know about you and your weblife, send them here ("so I stumbled across this blog . . . ") and tell them to look for the icon on the top right.

And because her website runs on GMT (really, could this blog platform make things even more convoluted?), that means we here have from 8:00 PM Eastern, Wednesday, 5/28 through 8:00 P.M. Eastern, Thursday, 5/29.

Click it. We need a lot of clicks. Because "The Best Day Ever!" should be reserved for, you know, the best day. Like the funny absorbent angular guy says.

Up Your Nose

Apparently I need a dogblog. (But someone's already claimed that.)

But you can thank God almighty I do not have a mommy blog (at least in any ordinary sense of the term) or else it might go something like this:

I consider Bella, in her late-threes, to be smarter than average but certainly not brilliant. Smart enough that she lulls me into a state of complacency. She likes asking how things are spelled, and making up her own counting problems ending with a celebratory upward arm motion, "I just did math!" (Certainly not a trait she encountered in a Barbie commercial.) At the dog party on Sunday, she ran around asking everyone if they'd like a drink. "Would you like a Sun Tea? DON'T WORRY I'LL GET IT!" (arriving minutes later with very warm drink over modicum of ice). "Is that your beer? Do you need another? Do you LIKE beer?" The hostess gene is definitely recessive.

I should not have been surprised, and yet I was, when yesterday morning, already late leaving the house for a day in the country, I glanced into Bella's room where she had contentedly been playing by herself for 10 minutes, to find her awkwardly hunched over her shell collection on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to get a seashell out of my nose."

A call to our neighbor who is a pediatrician currently on emergency rounds yielded the following information: a) he was currently 90 minutes away, not four doors down. b) Could we feel it? (I squeezed her nostrils together. No dice.) c) Did we own long tweezers? (why in hell would we own long tweezers? But I put them on my mental Target list which I'm sure I'll forget in 5 minutes time.) d) Could we get her to blow her nose out of one nostril?

DUDE, do you have a three year old? Can you get a three year old to do ANY.T.H.I.N.G? Cuz really I'll leave the shell up there and take picking up her clothes or not dipping her hand into her beverage cup or any number of assorted daily activities that will make my life eons easier.

Well, said he, the emergency room is likely not to be crowded this early on a holiday. So, in our most chipper yet resigned voice we said, "Bella, we're going to the hospital." At which point she began to bawl and the whole process of crying and snotting loosened things up, I got her to blow with me holding one nostril shut, and out came the seashell.

Crisis averted. And today we were light enough to joke that had it not come out, we probably would've driven to Children's (not the closet ER by any stretch of the imagination) and paged our point people. We guffawed at sending our seashell to Baylor for the genome project. But this is what deadbaby parents do, I suppose, is realize life is a series of medical mishaps and it's all fun and games until the seashell enters the optical cavity.

SO: SPILL IT. What did you jam into your nose or ear when you were a kid? You can post anonymously. And if you failed to be so curious, feel free to rat on your sibling.

Go, Dog, Go!

We adopted Max in '99, a month after moving into our new house (now old house, in old state). Max's picture on the DC Animal Shelter website turned us into cooing nutjobs: a small, red puppy, head askew, with upturned expressive ears. According to the story, Max was left homeless when his owner died. (We always kinda assumed the worst because I'm thinking you don't get a puppy when you're knowingly terminally ill, or 98. But who knows.) While Mr. ABF had a dog growing up, my life with animals had been limited to cats, gerbils, and fish. We already had Tucker & Kirby, two rescue felines that we dragged to the DC environs from Chicago where we adopted them. But now it was time for a dog.

For years, this was our life: two cats, one dog. I loved that having a dog forced me out to walk twice a day. We had long Frisbee lunches when the weather was good. We took him hiking with us, and we wrote letters and attended local meetings in order to build a dog park near our house.

And then, when Max was 5, we had Bella. And as you can imagine, pet time diminished dramatically. Gone were Frisbee lunches. Bella was not allowed in dog park. While I could walk Max in inclement weather, I couldn't always sling or push my kid through it, and walks would often get jettisoned for some out back time or sprints around the block.

Eventually we figured out a routine, but I think Max missed being the focus of attention (a claim which makes my oldest cat Tucker snort as he sits here reading over my shoulder). And at some point we began to ponder if he might be happier if we had a second dog.

We had tried this briefly: one day we entered PetStoreChain and walked smack into an enormous adoption event with some really scraggly dogs, one of which looked eerily like Max. Apparently a recluse had killed himself leaving 40 some odd dogs behind, in various states of disarray. Did we want one? No, not today. Could we foster one? Certainly. It was karma: we adopted a dog who had been fostered when his owner died, and now we could pay it back. We took home a small beautiful red dog.

The ticks were literally jumping off her body, and so shell shocked was she that we had to carry her outside to do her biz. She fell hard asleep when we weren't flea dipping her. She awoke two days later the cutest, sweetest dog, completely smitten with Max. We put her on a leash for what was obviously the first time, and began to teach her sit. And two weeks later at an adoption event, she was the star of show, her coat glistening, her head held high prancing around the store. She was adopted by a lovely couple who we kept in touch with for a few years.

We always thought Max would get jealous of another dog, but we discovered that WE were jealous of the other dog. Instead of greeting us at the door when we walked in, Max ran and sat by her crate, "Let her out! Let her out!" They wrestled for HOURS, never once coming over to investigate my lap or lick my hand. After she left the house I think we were all depressed for a week.

We started thinking maybe Max would be happier with a second dog. So like the good students we are, we did some research, and asked friends with two what the deal was. Somewhat on purpose we timed our visits to places to correspond with adoption events, and occasionally perused the shelter websites. Nothing really clicked.

And then we decided to move, and got pregnant, and a second dog seemed the farthest thing from our minds.

And then Maddy died.

And sometime in mid to late May last year, I came back from a run (sigh), and Mr. ABF said "you HAVE to go see the dog that [our neighbors] are fostering." Turns out our neighbors are friends with an emergency vet, who took in a dog that had been severely hurt in a car accident. Sadly, the owner relinquished him when faced with the bill. (This apparently happens a lot in animal emergency medicine, and I suppose is a good public service announcement for animal insurance.) And there at my neighbors, was the sweetest dog, his leg shattered and rebuilt, missing a few teeth, flapping his tail against the couch when I walked in. "We never foster dogs for this doctor although she asks us all the time," our neighbors said. "But this one reminded us of Max."

What the fuck were we doing? Barely three months beyond our daughter's death, neither of us able yet to get through a day without breaking down in some form, thinking about adopting yet another pet? Wasn't this irresponsible? Rash? Stupid?

Probably. But we did it. And suddenly after three months, I woke up.

For starts, I realized that when we brought Buddy in the house, we'd consciously have to let all the pets know that we still loved them. And it dawned on me (by "dawn" I really mean "hit on the head with a cast iron skillet"), I have pets. I had completely neglected them at least since February if not a bit longer. Max's walks had become fraught with emotion as I hated being in public and running into people. I was a zombie in my home, sleep-walking through my days, mechanically doling out kibbles at the appointed time. But with Buddy in the house, suddenly Tucker jumped on my lap. Kirby (Kirby! Where in hell have you been for three months??!!) started sleeping in our room. And Max developed energy. He wanted to play. He wanted to run. He wanted to show once again that he could retrieve too. I literally felt as though they were all brand new, and I was just discovering each of them for the first time.

Buddy also helped me personally. He needed taken care of, and needed rehab. And so rehab we did: we drove out to the dog therapy pool 2-3 times per week. Dutifully I gave him umpteen medications for pain and infection and swelling, and monitored his gait. When a screw holding the plate together in his leg popped, I drove out to the emergency vet during her overnight hours so she could look at it. We carefully observed him when we realized that his hip wouldn't stay in the socket, and pondered more surgery (we opted no; the hip has formed a false joint. He will likely suffer from arthritis earlier than usual, but we're already taking preventative measures). Buddy got me out of my house, talking to people, and reminded me that really I'm fairly good at looking after dependent mammals if given the chance.

Max is an alpha dog, and I like to say that he'd hump the fridge if he thought it would get him somewhere. I was a bit nervous about bringing another dog in the house, especially one who couldn't agilely let Max know he wasn't welcome, but I shouldn't have worried. Apparently they came to some gentleman's agreement in the yard, and there has never once been a show of dominance although clearly Buddy is thrilled to be the beta. (Gamma, corrects Tucker, nearly throwing up a hairball in amusement.) We knew Max was good with sharing, but I've never been so impressed to walk into the kitchen, see that one of the dogs got Bella's left-over peanut butter and apple dish off the counter (a dish which measures about 5" in diameter), and find them both with their noses in it at the same time. I know dogs who live together who bare teeth in order to claim roasting pans.

Buddy likes to sleep with a headrest. And it's not unusual to stumble upon the dogs somewhere -- on the bed, on the windowseat, on the couch -- lying asleep next to each other with Buddy's head resting on Max.





A year ago, Friday, Memorial Day weekend, our neighbors brought Buddy over, and left him here to become part of our family. Today, we celebrated a year with Buddy with many of the neighborhood dogs (about 15 in total), and even the vet who saved his leg and probably his life.


And quite possibly, our lives, too.

Guts

I posted over at Glow In the Woods today. About Guts. Your guess as to what I mean by guts:

1) the kind that hang over one's my waistband

2) the stuff that oozes out with blood in scary war footage

3) the stuff that makes you brave

4) the tiny voices from within. What, you don't have these?