“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 [...]]]> 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.

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 [...]]]> 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.

Southern New [...]]]> 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.

It was about 2:00 AM when I heard him crying through the monitor.  I lay still for a few moments, hoping begging for it to be one of those “Eh, eh, eh, where is my binky, [...]]]> I am tired today. I am so very, very tired. Why, pray tell?  It is all because of this guy:

It was about 2:00 AM when I heard him crying through the monitor.  I lay still for a few moments, hoping begging for it to be one of those “Eh, eh, eh, where is my binky, eh, eh…Oh. There it is. zzzzzz” moments.  It was not long, however, before the cries became more pronounced and it was quite clear that parental intervention was required.

This is the scene that every parent of a young child dreads:

You walk into the room and are immediately hit by the unmistakable smell of sour milk. You proceed with caution, bracing your abdomen for the oncoming gag reflex. You turn on a low light and find your toddler sitting up in the bed, vomit all over his mouth and down his shirt.  As a bonus there is a lovely pool of projectile on the pillow as well as on the sheet.  If you are really in trouble your little one proceeded to rollover in the puddle of stomach innards before fully waking, resulting in bits of curdled milk strewn throughout his sopping and matted down hair. You curse the heavens and draw a bath.

That is the worst case scenario.  Last night was actually not as bad.  Yes, he required some minor clean up involving a quick sponging and a change of clothes. I murmured several utterances of thanks to the Projectile Gods, for the vomit area was otherwise contained to his pillow and a full change of bedding was not required. His vomiting was minimal and thankfully we were lucky.

Or were we?

See, here is where you can get into trouble.  Here is where you could be in for a very long night.  Here, is where you could have just experienced what I like to call none other than:

The Preliminary Puking

You think to yourself, that wasn’t so bad. You calm him down, clean him up, get him settled back into his bed with all of his comforts and return thankfully back to your own pillow.  You lay there waiting for sleep, and just as you slip into a wonderful dream involving you and Hugh Jackman, you hear it.  “Cough, cough, cough…splutter” 

Round Two

Or, as I prefer to call it: The Second Coming

You understand now that this has the potential to go on all night.  You calm him down again, clean him up again, and change his bedding again (by now you may also find yourself in the basement doing laundry at 3:00 AM).  You mentally add in your head the previous amount of projectile volume with the current amount of projective volume in what will likely be a failed attempt to estimate the amount of digestive content that could still be churning within the stomach of your little one. 

In other words, you are betting the odds on the likelihood of Round Three.

Or as I like to call it: The Third Wave.

Here is where you really play the game, for you have a decision to make. Do you sit and wait in the rocking chair with a blanket supplement of towels laid over you both, waiting for the inevitable to come? Or do you risk putting him back in bed again? 

Sometimes you have no choice.  By then he could be so traumatized by what has just transpired, again, that he’s not having anything to do with his crib anyway.  You proceed to rock him gently; half sleep half waking, whilst the red digital lights of the clock mockingly tick away.

And you watch as the sun rises.

………………………………………………..

The Second Coming and The Third Wave did not actually transpire last night after the Preliminary Puking. But it HAS happened, and knowledge of the fact that it has happened and therefore COULD happen again, is enough to infiltrate the quiet sleep of any mother.

I put my poor little dude back in his bed, listened to him stir, and waited.  My heart jumped with every restless sigh and turn that echoed through the monitor. There I lay, trying to get back to Hugh (sorry Honey), but instead remained bleary eyed and awake, hanging onto the darkness; just waiting for the inevitable which never came.

But it totally could have…

I have been all a flutter [...]]]> Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while know that I am beyond excited to go to my first BlogHer conference.  This year it is taking place in New York City, so can I get a WOOT WOOT?  Because you guys, it is three days away!!!

I have been all a flutter planning my itinerary, picking out the sessions I want to attend, organizing my party confirmations, emailing the new friends I can’t wait to meet (shout outs to Danielle, Becca, and Erin!), staring at my new business cards, and of course making my list.  I am after all, all about LISTS. 

Emails have been pouring in from businesses and PR firms who are representing other businesses.  They will all be setting up shop at the Expo for the big event and want me to stop on by.  I have received invitations to a number of separate non-BlogHer sponsored festivities, and even an invite from Gold’s Gym offering free use of their facilities to BlogHer attendees. 

This is my first conference anywhere and I am not naïve to think that this sort of thing doesn’t happen all of the time, but what I am learning about the process more than ever is this:  Corporate America hath not underestimated the power of social media, and that of the everyday blogger…and how to use it and them.  They want to sell themselves to us, so that we can sell them to you.  It makes absolute sense, this symbiotic relationship, and I buy into it in theory.  But at the risk getting put on a black list, I have the hardest time reconciling this process within myself, especially when it comes to my blog. 

I am not a saleswoman.  Never have been; never want to be.  I cannot explain any reason for the birth and continuation of this blog other than I simply and complexly feel like it is something that I need.  I need to write, love to be heard, want to relate, and yearn for this gift (if it is one) to become something more than it is.

There is so much talk about “brand”.  What is my brand? I have none.  How much money do I earn from this blog?  In a couple of months I might be able to buy myself a congratulatory cappuccino. 

You see that promotions tab on the top right?  It’s empty.  And it is not because PR isn’t coming in.  Every now and then when I think I might dive in, I hold back.  It is not because I feel like I am selling myself out; it is because I do not like selling.  And in all truth that is not why I want you to be here. 

But I also realize that to get some of “you” here, it is the very thing that I need to do.  I want one without the other, and I do not know how to make it so.  I understand that even authors need to do a lot of the selling of themselves these days, for they are their own greatest advocates.  I know that there is no shame in embracing this concept; I just don’t want to lose myself in it.

So these are the things that have been buzzing about my cranium as I have been prepping and planning and packing.  There are several sessions I could attend geared toward how to market your brand and find success with a professional blog.  While those are going on, I hope to be in the writing labs. “How to Use Your Blogging to Make You a Better Writer” and “Writing Inspiration: Stoke Your Creativity” are on the top of my list.

I am not saying that I will never get the promotions tab hopping, and I am not saying that someday I won’t find a way to make a business blog.  But for now I am going to keep on dreaming that there is something special waiting to burst forth from this brain, if only I just keep writing from me, for me. 

This conference, it has a life of its own and is grander in scale than I could have ever imagined.  Even with all of the commercialism (and yes in all of my hypocrisy I am as enticed by the swag as the next person), I am so very eager to be a part of it.  I know I am going to meet some amazing people, some who are dreaming dreams just like mine.  I am ready to go with my business cards in hand, a smile on my face, and all of the excitement and courage I can muster to allow myself one of the most remarkable experiences ever. 

So if you’re looking for me this weekend, you can find me at BlogHer ’10.  Stay tuned to Facebook and Twitter! I will try to update you on all of the fun and the madness as best I can.

“NO!!!!” replies the defiant 32 month old.

“Okaaay.” Mommy sighs while reaching for another diaper.

End scene.

…..

And that is about as far as I have been taking things.  The boy has no interest, and therefore I have no interest in starting another round of Operation Cruisers [...]]]> “Hey Dominic, do you want to try and go potty?” asks Mommy.

“NO!!!!” replies the defiant 32 month old.

“Okaaay.” Mommy sighs while reaching for another diaper.

End scene.

…..

And that is about as far as I have been taking things.  The boy has no interest, and therefore I have no interest in starting another round of Operation Cruisers Be Gone. 

I know I should just get on with it and enlist my son in a home-based Potty Training Boot Camp. I’ve done it before; my daughter was relatively painless to train.  It is not as if I am licking wounds here from some horrid post traumatic stress event of potty woe. It was in her nature to learn to do everything by herself, and she was keen to prove that I was no longer needed in the wiping of the ass department. 

Certainly after nearly 5 years of handling another person’s feces I am more than happy to be freed.  So what is wrong with this picture?

I just feel like it’s going to be a very different experience this time around. It’s going to be harder. With everything else going on right now (and yes, I realize everything is always going on right now), the thought of taking on this additional challenge is overwhelming.

Then of course there is the fact that he shows no inclination to train in the first place. Bring on the incentives: 

• Sticker charts!
• Prizes!
• Shoot the cheerios?

Great for him, but here’s what’s in it for me:

• Pleading!
• Trying not to touch underwear so disgusting it’s better to just throw them away!
• Ooh look, more and more laundry!
• We have leakage; quick, get out the upholstery cleaner! 
• Time to buy more stock in Febreze. 

No thanks.

You know, my grandmother’s couches had cushions on them that were covered in plastic.  Suddenly it all makes sense.

We’ll get there eventually, I know we will.  I’m just not feeling the desire to push him right now when all he wants to do is push back. 

You can't make me.

Perhaps I should just work on my Jedi Mind Trick skills instead…

These aren’t the diapers you’re looking for.