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Happy Birthday, My Sweet

Five years ago today, you were born.  Looking at baby pictures I marvel that you were truly this small: 

You no longer hold a hint of infancy, or of toddlerhood for that matter.  You are my little girl.

 When you were three months old I used to rush to pick you up after a long day at work, afraid I had left you for too long.  Your eyes would grow wide when they met mine; your arms and legs shaking in a little dance of greeting just for me.  No matter how badly I felt for leaving you back then, you never cried. You went willingly to your caretakers and welcomed me back each night with delight.

You needed me, and yet it would seem that the moment your brain came to understand that you were not an extension of my body, and that your arms and legs and voice were your own, you were determined to go your own way. 

And that is how we have progressed for the past five years.  You are bright and inquisitive, your thirst for knowledge unwavering, your desire to be independent an unstoppable force. 

You love to start your day by getting ready all by yourself.  You take pride in picking out your clothes, scoffing at my suggestions or attempts to assist in your fashion sense.  Silly Mommy…

Sofia Lovegood

 

You love to sing.  The music that began in my soul is filled in yours. Not a day goes by when our home is not blessed with the chime of your a capella.

You are brave.  We took you to a carnival this summer and you had no qualms walking solo up the countless steps of the super slide and then plummeting down to bottom.  I could barely watch as my heart and stomach exchanged places. 

I thought for certain I made a mistake in letting you go, and that you must have been as frightened as I was. 

Afterward you came running up to me, squealing your adoration for the ride and begging to go again.

As such, you no longer needed me to hold you on the merry-go-round. In fact you instructed me not to. I remained close behind you with my hand on the back of the horse…ever vigilant. 

As round and round we went I could not help but image you reaching for the golden ring, recognizing it was my place to stand aside and watch.

Today I am celebrating five years of loving one of the most amazing and interesting persons I have ever known.  You are my one of a kind, Sweet Pea.  I love you muy much.

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Mourning Mommy’s Cats

A few nights ago as we lay on your bed chatting as we always do, you recalled a memory. 

“Remember the bad cat who scratched me while we were playing with blocks on the rug?”

I tried to hide my surprise as I replayed the scene in my mind and you continued to describe it with such clarity.

Yes, of course I remember. You were about 18 months of age. But how can you still remember that over three years later?  You were so young.  How traumatizing was that moment for you?

We were sitting on floor together stacking and crashing the cubes that were just the right size for your tiny hands.  He sprinted towards you and before I could stop him he opened his jaw wide and nipped at your arm.  You were frightened and crying and I was torn between being livid at the cat and a comfort to you.

Cartman did not fair so well with the addition of children into our family.  That was the beginning of the end for him.  Despite my efforts to appease him, by the time your brother came along and his companion cat Smokey had passed away, his behavior had become unruly.  You were rightfully afraid of him.  Just as I was beginning to search for no-kill shelters, he took his own leave.  I have always felt so terrible about that; I missed him, but I was also so relieved that he was gone.

Then you asked about the other cat.  You remembered there was a good kitty.  Smokey was old and kind, but timid.  He rarely came near you.

You asked what happened to them, and though I had always evaded the conversation before, I decided you were old enough now and that it was time to come clean.  I explained to you that Smokey had become ill and died, and that Cartman had run away shortly after. Though I never knew what had happened to him, he was likely killed by another animal or a car.  You expressed that you were glad that Cartman was gone, but you were very sad about Smokey. 

I watched your face change as your eyes swelled with tears and you choked out a sob.  “I miss him so much!” you cried.

It was alarming and confusing to me as I watched you allow yourself the experience of grief.  Mourning for an animal you can barely remember and has been dead for nearly three years. 

I thought of Grandpa and how it has been less than a year since we lost him.  I explained death to you when he passed as best I could, but I could tell that you did not quite understand. 

You now understand the fragility of life, and it saddens me.  You know now; plants, insects, animals, people, we die.  And still, now that you truly understand you haven’t asked me the most important question.

Where do we go when we die?

It’s coming. I know that it will not be long before you ask. 

I need more than ever to be prepared for the answer.  The answer I know I can never truly give you.

Before you were born.

You should know there were good times too.

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My Blind Eye

I am an ignorant American.

I spend most days with my eyes shut.  I turn away and seek refuge from that which has become far too complex to understand. 

I acknowledge that life has become hard, and that for many in this country life is a lot more difficult than my own.  Money must be spared for the expenses that continue to rise, but my family is by all means not destitute.  The jobs we are fortunate to maintain may at times seem fragile, but why worry about that which we cannot control; that which may or may not come to pass?  Why let it keep us awake at night, when for now we are fine?

What will happen when we are not fine? I can’t think about that. I do not manage well with fear and the unknown.

I shy away from political discussion, always.  I have never considered myself well educated in this respect.  To understand it all you have to go way back to the beginning, and I confess I did not pay attention.

In high school I memorized the important dates, the names of our presidents, and gained a fair understanding of how our country came to be.  But that is all I recall.  If we did talk about recent American history or the world outside of our borders, I was probably writing love notes under the desk. 

Current events?  We may have talked about those, but I do not recall there being much international discussion. 

News?  Sometimes Kurt Loder filled me in.

Wait a second; didn’t he mention there was a war going on back then?  Pretty sure I had a cousin fighting in the Gulf.  No, not the Gulf of Mexico, silly; it was a different gulf and there was something about a storm in the desert.  But I do not believe that we discussed it much in our classrooms.  In truth I cannot say for that for certain either; I may have been too busy crying over my love life.

In college I had no interest in current events or history.  I was too focused on my psych classes.  I had to go all introspective and try to figure myself out.  I didn’t have time to understand what was going on inside our own country, never mind beyond it.

It turns out there was a bomb in the basement of the World Trade Center while I was still at URI.  I don’t think I even heard about it when it happened.  No, I may not have been able to tell you about that, but I know for certain where I was when the O.J. verdict was announced.  I was not completely out of touch.

In fact, I do not think I learned of the first WTC bombing until the day after the towers fell.  That was the day I woke up.

For I had been sleeping; I had been sleeping for twenty eight years.  I stood there; bones rattled and frozen to the core as I cried like every American did that day.  And then I cried the days that followed, and the months and the years since.  I did not lose a loved one in New York or Virginia or Pennsylvania.  I was not there when it happened.  But I do claim my grief with that of, and for, a collective America. 

I wept with the knowledge that in one horrifying day the entire world had changed. But the worst part about it for me was that I did not understand why. 

Why? Why did they do this?  What did we do to deserve it?  What is there to hate about this wonderful country?  A country that lets me live in peace, and be whoever I want to be, and worship in any way I want to worship, and just when I think it can’t be more awesome, also gives me a say in the laws that govern me. 

So I sat there like everyone else glued to the television and watched the chaos, and the crumbling, and the grief, and the lost hope as the search for survivors who were not there came to an end and the clean up began. 

All the while the media uttered words like terrorism, intent, and plans long in the making, and then more words I had never even heard of.  I sat there, shrunken, and whispering to myself, “Who the hell are al Qaeda and what the f#&k is jihad?”

I was an ignorant American.  Stripped from my warm cocoon of security, all I was left with was fear.  I guess that means they did their job.  To this day, I fear.

I have spent the last nine years trying to catch up.  Trying to educate myself on not just what has happened, but what now continues in the Middle East, here in the United States, and elsewhere. And it is exhausting, and there are some days that I just cannot do it.

There are many days when I cannot hear or read another word about war, death, greed, anger, hatred, theft, intolerance, conspiracy, the doom of what can only be a fallen America, and the senseless crimes, the so many awful things that we do to each other that have nothing to do with anything.  

More than ever I see the attraction to remain an ignorant American.  All you have to do is shut your eyes, keep your head down, and don’t listen. What wrong can come of that?

I have always considered it my civic duty to vote, but I never felt like I voted well.  In recent years I have pondered that it may be my civic duty not to vote if I choose to hide in this ignorance.  How can I vote if I do not understand what I am voting for?

I tended to just pick an issue, look over the cheat sheets for who supported what, cast my ballot, and that was it.  Now I try harder, and as a result my head spins.  The problem I face, which I imagine is the same for many, is who do you vote for when no one supports everything that you think they should?  What do you do when your choice is to decide between, for the lack of a better phrase, the lesser evil?  The result is you have to choose one issue over another: war, national security, health care, environmental destruction, education, Roe vs. Wade, same sex marriage, etc, etc, etc.  Then you have to consider that voting for one person will affect the sway of the House or the Senate, or the appointment of the Supreme Court.  And all of this can become forfeit just because you make the mistake of supporting one issue over another.

It’s like having to choose one from two or three buffet stations in a restaurant that has a great atmosphere, but in general you aren’t crazy about the menu packages.  You don’t like everything on it, but you go for the station that has some of what you might like, or better yet what you think you can live with.  But you are not familiar with the recipes and do not know for sure if it will be the right choice until you try it.  And then if it turns out not to be of your liking, you are left with the knowledge that you picked wrong. 

Or if your choice is overruled by your dinner date, the bragging rights that you didn’t.

When I go to cast my ballot, I am petrified.  As much as I want to celebrate and exercise my right to a voice, I know that I do not fully understand the options and I have no idea if I am making the right choice. 

As much as I try, I do not entirely understand the candidates’ plans enough to know if they will actually work, or truly grasp how the passing of a bill is going affect me and my family.  And if one bill passing results in another one that wont, then which one should you fight for in the big picture?  Try as I might I cannot grasp the big picture, and everything broken down feels just that; broken.

So, I read the articles.  I go to numerous networks to get each take on an issue, and then give up as they grand stand and bash each other back and forth. I try the BBC to get an outside interpretation of just what the hell is going on, but all I am left with is the sense that we truly are falling apart. 

What I am learning is I do not trust our media and I do not trust our politicians.  I do not trust the way stories are spun to suit political agenda.  Case and point: The way a proposed community center that will not be built on Ground Zero and was announced months ago and with little opposition, can suddenly become vilified as The Ground Zero Mosque. 

I do not know what to believe or who to believe anymore, and worst of all I have no idea what it will take to fix my country.

And make no mistake, I love my country.  I love this land that afforded me the freedom I never even had to earn.  Other brave citizens fought and died to give me that right.  All I had to do was be born here, and despite the fact that I call myself a Patriot, I know I have taken that privilege for granted. 

I am paying more attention and I am trying to learn, but sometimes it is so hard, and sometimes it is so scary.  Often I feel that pull to once again shut my eyes and pretend it is all just a bad dream.  And this of course, is from the comfort of my warm home; on my own piece of land, filled with all of my possessions; clothing, food, transportation, security, and if I wanted it, a god damn white picket fence out front. 

It is the threat of these things, and that of my civil liberty being taken from me that I fear the most.  Did you know they are remaking a modern version of Red Dawn?  I don’t think I can bear to watch.

Yes, I could shut my eyes, but then I recall that my family consists of two little ones, who spend their days happy and carefree.  They have no idea of the horrors that have transpired, or of the mess that they are poised to inherit by people just like me who paid little attention and set up this country to fail.  But someday they will learn. I hope they can forgive us.

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Nicknames

I was given several nicknames while growing up, starting at the age of three.  The first one I received was Squinz, which is short for Squinzilina and is an Italian slang for a “tiny female who whines a lot”.  I am happy to report that I now have a tiny female of my own, and she is more than qualified to inherit my namesake.  Life is about passing on family tradition, after all.

There was Ri and Flea (incase you need help with that one, I’m short).  Then there was my all time favorite, which was bestowed upon me by my cousins for my early preteen endowment: Dolly Parton Junior, a.k.a. DPJ. 

It took me a little while to appreciate that one for what it was, but I did eventually get there.

In my adult life I have received a few more. A number of friends have continued to call me by my maiden name, despite the fact that I have been married for nearly 8 years. I actually love that; that sense of maintaining my origins. 

And finally, Mari-er is a big one.  My Massachusetts friends simply cannot help themselves and must attach the “R” sound to every word ending in a vowel.

Recently new and creative nicknames have been lacking, so I decided to give myself a few. 

I therefore do decree that I shall henceforth be known as:

She Who Swaps the Toilet Paper Roll

And if it suits your fancy and you feel like changing it up a bit, you may also call me:

She Who Swaps the Paper Towel Roll

Now, I am well aware that He Who Mows the Lawn and He Who Throws the Trash might take offense to this little posting of mine.  She Who Gets Up with the kids when they cry in the middle of the night, however, is quite confident that He Who Snores Right Through It will understand that this is all in jest.

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Ghost Hunters: My Six Degrees of Separation

I had to go to New York City to experience my closest celebrity encounter.  About 15 years ago I stood three people behind Uma Thurman while waiting in a Ladies Room line at Carnegie Hall.  I pretty much just stood there and stared while thinking, “Wow. That’s Uma Thurman. And she has to pee.”

Southern New England is not considered a hotbed for celebrity sightings.  You may get lucky now and then if you attend a Celtics game or go to a political fundraiser. Well actually, I take that back. We do get our share of sports celebrities. 

I once saw retired Patriot player Ted Johnson seated across an aisle from me at a Golden Fork.  I pretty much just sat there thinking, “Wow. That’s Ted Johnson. And holy crow, he has a really thick neck.” 

I also saw Patriot running back Laurence Maroney at an Italian restaurant near Gillette Stadium. I just sat there thinking “Wow. That’s Laurence Maroney. And he’s got some serious hair.”

Are you seeing a trend?  I’m not the type to get all giddy and run up to a perfect celebrity stranger and say “Hi, you’re So-and-So, and I just love you. Can I have your autograph?”

I prefer the I-am-too-cool-to-bother-you-and-will-purposely-look-away-save-a-few- glances method.  I therefore surprised myself several years ago while traveling down I-95 in Rhode Island.

There we were moving along when I looked over and saw a Roto-Rooter van.  Driving the van was none other than Jason Hawes from Ghost Hunters.  Now they are based out of Rhode Island, so a random encounter with one of the TAPS crew should not be all that shocking.  But how did I react?  Oh, so embarrassing.

It was in the spring; I was riding in the passenger seat, and both of our windows were down.  I saw him and immediately shoved my shades atop my head for a better look.  I started bouncing up and down in my seat and shouted, “OH MY GOD!!! IT’S THE GHOST HUNTERS GUY!!! LOOK! IT’S THE TAPS DUDE!”

Just as I was in full swing with my bouncing, pointing, and eye bulging hysteria, Jason Hawes looked at me.  It didn’t even occur to me that I looked as ridiculous as I surely did.  Tony, in all of his my-god-my-wife-is-losing-it horror drove quickly on by.  Jason Hawes, with what can be described as a look of partial incredulity and partial amusement smiled and gave me a little wave.

I vowed that the next time I ran into a member of TAPS I would act decidedly much cooler.

This summer Tony and I went with my parents to a PawSox game.  Sitting in the stands I looked over into the next section and spied a young man carrying a video camera and filming the fans. I recognized him immediately.

“Hey Mom, that’s Dustin from Ghost Hunters.”

“Looks a lot like him, but that’s not him.”

“Yes it is! That’s him.”

“No, I really don’t think so.”

This conversation continued on for sometime.  No one believed me, except Tony who flat out didn’t care, but I knew better.  So I sat there, calmly I might add, thinking to myself, “Wow. That’s Dustin Pari from Ghost Hunters. And that is a huge camera.”

That night as soon as I got home I went online and looked up Dustin Pari’s Twitter account (Notice I keep using first and last names with intended My So Called Life Jordan Catalano irony).  Sure enough, he had tweeted earlier in the afternoon that he would be working at the PawSox game that night.

“I KNEW IT!”  I screamed out to no one. My next step was to prove it to the world by Facebooking and Tweeting the following message:

 

What I can’t show you, because somehow I accidentally unfollowed him (a horrible act which has since been rectified), was his reply back.  I SWEAR he messaged me and said, “You have a keen eye, my lady!”  Well. I was needless to say thrilled.  I pondered to myself, “If a celebrity tweets me, have we technically met?”  Oh, I know…probably not.

But then on Saturday my friend and loyal reader Sherry showed up on my doorstep and surprised me with this:

It turns out the old saying in our area that you always know somebody who knows Somebody, has once again proven itself to be true.  Sherry knows someone who knows Dustin Pari.  For the first time ever I have my very own personally autographed photo, and I could not be more geeked! (i.e. really, really, really happy)

To my friend Sherry, who truly does good deeds just for the sake of it, thank you!!!!  And to Dustin Pari, wherever you are (hopefully somewhere dark and whispering “What the hell was that”), thanks for being such a great sport and signing my photo…even if our meeting was only ever virtual.

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