Remembering MeMe

My mom has always encouraged me to keep a diary. Off and on, I have, in some form or another. For awhile as a kid, I kept a locked journal, wrote embarrassing confessions at night and then hid the book between my mattress and box spring.
Growing up, I had several pen pals, and I saved every letter. And in the early days of e-mail, I never deleted a message, creating a record of my 20s that I believed I would some day want to reread.
And now I have this blog. The entries aren't secret, or even private anymore, proving how times have changed.
I wonder what my grandmother, MeMe, who died in May, would say about those changes. She would have been 100 years old tomorrow, July 31, 2009. I expect it could be a hard day for my mother, who had hoped to attend a birthday party this week in Ohio.
I don't know if my mom will read this, but I am taking her advice to write things down, to not let myself forget things that I loved about MeMe. I asked my siblings, too, to give me their lists, and it's funny the things we remember in common.
We all three think of MeMe and Twinkies together. My mother wouldn't let us eat them, so whenever MeMe came to visit, she would buy them for us. When she died, I bought a box, ate one, and balked at the greasiness, the chewiness, the almost metallic taste. What was so great about Twinkies? Must only have been that MeMe gave them to us.
Pat and Kim remember MeMe helping them buy things my mother wouldn't: Patrick's first Members Only jacket and Kim's jelly shoes. (Not so trendy, my mother ....)
We all remember MeMe and Pop taking us to McDonald's, and Patrick remembers always stopping for Wendy's chili beforehand. That's what Pop ate.
More food ... When MeMe and Pop lived in the apartment on Tamarack Circle, there was a Dairy Queen in the middle of the circle. We would walk there and get Dilly Bars.
MeMe was known for her awesome macaroni and cheese. (Recipe below)
She was 90 when Thomas and I got married in San Diego, and she came to our wedding. She was not just a guest. She worked! We had a fantastic beach barbecue and bonfire the night before the big day, and she helped cut gobs of vegetables for kabobs. Then she put on her white Keds and walked down the ramp to the sand north of the Pacific Beach pier.
The following summer, she came to my sister's wedding in Stockton and helped prepare the reception spread. And the next year, she was back in San Diego, at 92, for my brother's wedding. As we had for my wedding, we rented a house for the family in Mission Beach, and she again slept on the bottom bunk.
She drove a blue Buick with her initials, MAS, on a personalized plate. Martha Adaline Smith turned in her driver's license when she turned 95.
She got her hair done once a week, and didn't wash it in between. I never understood how she kept it so tidy. My sister remembers MeMe taking her to get a spiral perm. "We were all about the hair," Kim says.
MeMe never complained. Even when she was sitting outside on a rickety lawn chair in February at an age-group swim meet in foggy Fowler or soggy Selma, watching her grandchildren swim for maybe 30 seconds every three hours. That is love.
MeMe's purse smelled like spearmint Certs and Doublemint gum. She chewed half a piece at a time.
MeMe lived with my Aunt Marsha, Uncle Cecil and cousin Scott for more than 20 years. She moved to a nursing home two or three years ago. I was lucky to visit her there twice, and to bring Blake to meet her. He loved her wheelchair and was strong enough to push it a bit. After one visit, MeMe asked my mother over the phone, "How is that little butterball?"
The little butterball ate a Twinkie with me in May. I told him about how MeMe used to buy them for me, Uncle Pat and Aunt Kim, and he listened like he cared. I hope he did.
And that's the other reason for writing all this down. I want Blake and Dylan to know about their great-grandmother and know that she loved them, even though they won't remember her. As for myself, I plan to never forget.

MeMe's macaroni and cheese
You need: 1 pound sharp cheddar and
1 pound of "good quality" macaroni (Don't use the cheap stuff, says Uncle Dick. I thought all macaroni was cheap ...)
Salt and pepper

Cook macaroni to desired tenderness in salted water.
Save the cooking water when you drain it.
Leave a quarter to a half-an-inch of water in the bottom of cooking pan.

Cut cheese into chunks.
Return macaroni to pan, add cheese and melt cheese over burner.
Add back cooking water as cheese melts if it looks dry. You want it to be more moist than you think it should be.

Transfer to baking dish. Salt and pepper top. MeMe's had a lot of pepper.
Cook at 350 degrees for 45 minutes or until it looks done.

A dream and a nightmare

The good news: Blake's diaper days appear to be almost over. We started potty training less than two weeks ago and he already has progressed from bribe-to-sit to standing and spraying all over the room. He's had only three "accidents," and I'm not convinced they weren't intentional attention-getters. He often wakes up dry from naps and nights. It's been amazingly easy, considering this is my passionate, stubborn, complicated, high-need child. I even have a favorite moment: "Mama! It looks like a pine cone!" And yes, it did.
And since it's OK to bitch, but not brag, here's the bad news: This success has coincided with a degeneration in sleep-time behavior. As if it could have gotten any worse. Absolute dysfunction set in in March when we took away his pacifiers, at the urging of Satan his dentist. It took five weeks to get over the screaming and night waking.
Peace had not returned, but we had settled into a new normal, when Dylan started standing (and falling) in his crib and needed sturdier accommodations. So Blake got a new toddler bed and Dylan moved to Blake's crib. At the time, it seemed Blake made the transition better than Dylan.
Then a package of juice boxes brought on a nasty diaper rash, so we started potty training.
Toilet training is an intimidating milestone, perhaps as much for the parents as for the child. You anticipate the mess, and worry about screwing up his psyche. But I never imagined the preposterous scenes that now play in our house every night and nap.
The screaming, the crying, stomping, snotting! The stalling, frantic hand-holding, tossing and turning, kicking! I can't leave him to work it out himself, for I fear for his safety. It's as if he turns into the Hulk. He moves furniture. Today at nap time, he fell out of his bed onto his head on the hardwood floor.
So I stand there in the dark, holding Dylan to keep him calm, and listen to fervent, ear-piercing pleas of "Mama! Put Dylan down! Hold my hand! Mama! I don't want to sleep! Mama! DON'T DO THIS!"
Often, if Dylan is asleep, I will hold Blake's hand. I don't have the heart not to. Then when he is still and his eyes close, I try to move my fingers away. He wakes, and we repeat the routine for up to hours at a time. He is finally falling asleep in the late 9 or 10 o'clock hour. He wakes, screaming, in the night and insists on holding hands again. I curse the creaky floorboards when I get caught sneaking back to bed.
What can we do? Is potty training the cause, or is the timing merely coincidental? Should we go back to diapers? Give back the pacifier? Put him in the crib and Dylan somewhere else? How can this be the same smiling child I enjoy all day long? Many times, in the midst of an episode, I have wished for less toilet success in exchange for sleep -- for all of us. I would rather he were flinging poo like a chimp in the Fresno Zoo than continue this tortured and torturous behavior.
Good night, for now.

Ethan is here

My sister had a baby boy today.
I quickly told Blake, who for weeks, maybe months, has been asking, "Mama, when Baby Eefan get here?"
"Blake," I said this morning. "Guess what? Ethan is here!"
"Eefan?! He's ... here?"
He seemed confused. He was just waking up. And, well, he is just 2.
"Yes," I told him. "Ethan!"
"EEEfan is here! I go to window."
And then he went to his bedroom window, pushed the curtains aside and shoved his head under the shade. He stood on his tippy toes and looked out to the driveway.
"Oh," I said, disappointed in myself for not being more clear. "He's not here here. He's not in Connecticut. He's in Massachusetts with Aunt Kim and Uncle Justin. He was born today."
And then he provided me a chance to really confuse him.
"Mama?" Blake asked. "How Eefan get here?"
Luckily, he accepted that Ethan had come out of Aunt Kim's belly.
Then he said, "I play with him."
Welcome to the family, Ethan! Just so you know, little Dylan learned to clap today. He's happy you're here, too. (Well, not here here....)

The Soothie Fairy

The Soothie Fairy came to visit Blake two and a half weeks ago. She took his last two pacifiers and left new bath toys, a Beanie Baby otter and a note. The note said:

Dear Blake,
Thank you for your soothies. You are such a nice boy! I will give your Hook 'em Horns soothies to some babies in Texas. I hope you like your present. Love, the Soothie Fairy.
Blake loves the new bathtub foam letters and numbers. He runs hot-and-cold with what we're calling Happy Otter. As for the Soothie Fairy, babies and the state of Texas ... well, he's not a fan.

...
A year ago, Blake's dentist gave me a stern talking-to about allowing him to use pacifiers. But he was 18 months old and had just started sleeping through the night, so I hadn't the heart -- for either of our sakes -- to take them away. Plus, her claim that his bite was going to be affected didn't scare me. Even memories of my own braces, headgear, retainers, rubber bands, and something called a bionator didn't scare me. What did was the thought of losing our newfound zzz's.
But with this year's dental visit approaching, I saw an opportunity. Maybe if the dentist gave Blake the lecture, not me, he would listen and be ready. Afterall, in recent weeks he had chewed through several pacifiers. His lips and chin were chapped. The Longhorn soothies, which had been a gift from Thomas' mother, were gross. They filled up with spit and wouldn't drain. They smelled like sweet saliva.
I read about the Soothie Fairy on the Internet, and put the plan in motion. What I didn't research enough was what happens next.
Here's what should have been written in BIG BOLD RED LETTERS across every "get-rid-of-the-pacifier" Web site: AFTER THE SOOTHIE FAIRY COMES, BE PREPARED FOR ANGUISHING CRYING, MOURNFUL TEARS, ANGRY SCREAMS, PACING IN THE CRIB, THRASHING IN SLEEP, PITIFUL SOBBING, LOSS OF NAPS. BE READY TO BE A "HUMAN PACIFIER." YOU WILL HAVE TO HOLD THE CHILD'S HAND WHILE HE SLEEPS, AND IF YOU LEAVE THE ROOM, ALL OF THE ABOVE WILL START AGAIN. IF YOU DO MANAGE TO GET OUT OF HIS ROOM, BE READY TO BE AWAKENED BY WAKE-THE-DEAD HOWLING AT 2:30 A.M. AND AGAIN AT 4:30. AND AGAIN AT 6. THIS WILL LAST FOR WEEKS WITH NO END IN SIGHT.
If I had read something like that, I might just have given Blake a Chapstick and called it even.
Over the past 18 days, in the dark, leaning over the crib, his little fingers with a white-knuckle grip on mine, I have rehearsed the following in my mind many times: "Blake, the Soothie Fairy made a mistake. She sees how sad you are and wants you to have this new pacifier. Let's keep this one nice and clean so it lasts awhile. Then the Soothie Fairy won't come again until you are older."
But in the light of day, I am conflicted. Have we come too far, endured too much, to backtrack? He hasn't actually asked for his pacifier since the first week or so. In fact, just two days ago, after a pretty good night, he awoke and said, first thing, "Mama, I don't need my soothies anymore." And I believed him.
Since then, we've had two of the worst nights yet, so he's no longer considered a reliable source. He is only 2 1/2. So what does he know?
A friend at the pool, a more experienced mother, assured me today that he won't remember this experience. We will get past it. Thomas, though about at his wit's end, is in that camp, too. But that doesn't help me feel better about my having introduced him to such a terrible feeling of loss. For that, I am sorry.
Dylan, I think, will get the Chapstick.

Shhh!

Dylan is sleeping. He's flat-on-his-stomach sleeping. Eight months old, and he's finally sleeping!
Eight months old, and this is new? That's not even the crazy part.
Dylan has reflux. He's been on medications from 2 weeks of age, and last month, after switching meds and increasing dosages yet again with no improvement, the pediatrician asked if I were "open to trying something unconventional."
She suggested craniosacro therapy, with this caveat: "There's absolutely nothing scientific about it."
I Googled it. Among the top hits is Quackwatch.org. I told a physician friend about the idea, and she asked incredulously, "Who is your pediatrician?!!!"
Craniosacral therpay aims to release "constrictions" and "restrictions" in the body which may be causing discomfort and ill health. The practitioner merely lightly touches the patient in order to relieve these constrictions. Our pediatrician said, "It might not work, but it surely can't hurt."
She set us up with a physical therapist who also has her massage therapy license and who practices craniosacro therapy. Blake calls her Dr. Horn. We have had four appointments in the last three weeks. She sits on a massage table and holds Dylan while he plays with toys or books in front of him. She moves her hands all over his clothed body. Blake plays with toys on the floor. We chat about the boys, gardening, sports. Sometimes she closes her eyes and seems to be concentrating.
She has told me that the body is "like Saran Wrap." She has asked me to put my hands on his back and stomach and visualize a gas stove flame. When I asked her what we can expect after an appointment, she answered, "Just about anything."
This is what we have observed: Normal naps, almost no spit up, and sleeping for hours, not minutes, overnight with no writhing, grunting, snoring or snorting.
Dr. Horn knows there are critics of the type of work she does. Apparently, anyone can take a class and then begin practicing.
She told me about a family friend of hers who complained to her for years about leg pain. She finally told him to either shut up or let her help him. After two sessions, he told her, "All that nothing you do really works!"
Dr. Horn might dispute our pediatrician's "no science" belief, but she also says that she has been told that she has a "gift."
But I am beginning to believe that the gift is ours. I'll let you know when he actually sleeps all night....

Whatever works

The trials of feeding a toddler have been recorded here before, as have the wonders of YouTube. But in the interest of not forgetting the sweet moments of my sons' childhoods, here's another note...
Our friend Philip passed along this link yesterday to the 1973 CBS animated version of "Green Eggs and Ham."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHqXBZFZ6OA
Now, we have channeled Dr. Seuss at mealtime before. Blake might not completely grasp the try-it-and-you'll-like-it moral of "Green Eggs and Ham," but he does respond to silliness and rhymes. Thomas has been especially successful in quoting from "Green Eggs" to get him to eat.
I had imagined that Dr. Seuss would be pleased to see his story from 1960 still working on picky little children in 2009. Hard to imagine, tho, that he would have guessed that these same kids would be watching the cartoon on the computer at their dining room table.
Today we had scrambled eggs for lunch. Even with ketchup, they're a hard sell. But we put the laptop in the middle of the table, launched YouTube, and Blake was sucked in. He ate every bite as if in a trance.
This feeding approach, of course, defies TV warnings and the idea of setting a good eating example. You don't like it? Well, try it, try it, and you may! Try it, and you may, I say!
.....
(For more food/TV fun, see my friend Leslie's blog...
http://eatinginfrontofthetv.blogspot.com/)

A good The best cat

Most animal stories end sadly. So I will tell you how this one ends now. We said goodbye to Tippy last night.
She had been ill for so long, and old for so long, that until yesterday, I thought I would be ready. I was not, it was an anguishing decision, and today our family is sad.
We told Blake before lunch today that Tippy's body didn't work anymore, and that Tippy had gone to the moon, where she would not hurt anymore. We suggested he draw a picture of Tippy to remember her. He nodded and said, "Tippy's body hurt. Tippy go to moon." Then he pointed to a favorite Christmas present and said, "Play Slinky."
After lunch, he asked to draw a picture of Tippy. We all drew one.
I can't begin to say that our experience in loving this cat was unique. All pets are cherished. But in living with her -- well, we had a special kind of luck there. Tippy was a special cat.
Thomas and I, teary-eyed, shared some memories of her last night. Here are some of them, and a few other notes:
-- In her more spry days, she would play "extreme string," and might do a back flip in all the excitement.
-- She had a love/hate relationship with the blue chair. She shredded it, but you could usually find her sleeping there. When we moved to Connecticut, the blue chair moved to the Miramar landfill.
-- She saw what we believe was her first snow in Bakersfield, of all places.
-- She would sleep in my hair sometimes, and once pushed her whole snout into my ear when I was sleeping. It was the weirdest thing.
-- Thomas gave her many nicknames: Tippereno, Fluffy, Fluffinsky.
-- In 1999, she got a bladder infection and was issued a death sentence. Dr. Lewis, who would become such a trusted caregiver, discharged her from the hospital and told me to let her die at home. Years later, he called her a "miracle kitty."
-- I took Tippy home with me in 1997 after she was found at Sacramento State, where I was working at the time. We believe she was a "flood cat," one of thousands displaced in the deluges of what was an El Nino winter.
-- My dear friend Brigitte, who was living with me then, does not like cats, so Tippy went to live with my parents. My folks were already caring for Maddie, Dingo and Obby at home, so Tippy stayed at their radio station, KTIP in Porterville, hence her name.
-- Her name worked two ways, as she had only a tip of a tail. This, along with white spots on her rump, made her look like a small deer. And once, when she was in the front yard of our house on Jewell Street in San Diego, we heard a passing woman say to her dog, "Watch out for that rabbit!"
-- Tippy's health has been a roller coaster since that bladder infection, but it was chronic pancreatitis that kept us busy starting in 2003. I can't remember the number of times she was hospitalized, how many late-night ER trips, how many tests, specialists, dollars. But Thomas said last night, "Considering we got nine years out of her since we first thought she was going to die, I would say she was a pretty good investment."
Tippy was also a good teacher. She showed me what a good father Thomas was going to be. Seeing how much he cared for her when she was sick, how he gave up vacations and material things in exchange for a "rainy-day vet bill fund," how he would be on the other end of the extreme string for what seemed like hours. And that we never disagreed on her care made me trust that we would make a good parenting team.
Blake also learned from Tippy. She let him practice being gentle -- still a work in progress -- yet she never once struck out at him or hissed or scared him, even when he deserved it. I hope I never forget the sound of Blake saying, "Wuv you, Tippy." I wonder how Dylan will get the same lessons.
In recent months, Thomas and I had complained about Tippy's behavior, her mess, her appearance. I told my sister about her me-yowling at night, her pacing and racing in the dark, waking us up, keeping us up, making us crazy.
"Oh, she's senile," Kim said. And then I felt more compassion for her, and realized that some day I would need someone to clean up after and take care of me.
But in her death, there is confusion, too. Not counting her last weekend, in the last few weeks, she seemed better. She stopped pulling out her hair. She was eating more, and keeping more down. She slept through the night more often. Now, in hindsight, it's like she was trying to make it easier on us in the end.
Maybe she was saying "thank you" for caring for her all these years. But really, Tippy, we thank you. We love you, Tippy. We'll look for you on the moon.

...

(Thanks to Bill Simmons for the moon idea. See http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/090122)

Who is Rachel Laing?

Rachel Laing is San Diego Mayor Jerry Sanders' new spokeswoman. I know this because I read SignOn San Diego like I still live there (but at least not like I still work there!)
By now, Connecticut should feel more like home than it does, but when I try to read the Courant, nothing rings familiar. I don't recognize the places or people. I quickly find myself skipping from courant.com to West Coast newspaper sites.
This week, I found myself wondering why Rachel Laing's name seemed familiar. Had she worked for the Union-Tribune when I was there? How do I not remember?
I Googled her and clicked on her Facebook link. But to read what I wanted to know, I needed to sign up myself.
Wow. I had no idea how Facebook can suck you in! But I had no idea how many friends I had, either! In the first hour of my Facebook adventure, I had 12 friends. I told my friend Jenn, with whom I was chatting online, "I've never felt so popular!"
But the next morning, I had 35 friends! And by the end of the day, 53. Fifty-three!
My friend Anthony messaged me: "You've been on here only a day and you already have more friends than me...I feel sad :("
Wait. I know he's kidding, but he made me think. I noticed my friend Rick has, like 3,000 friends, and Michelle has about as many. How many friends did I have now? Only 54? It's a good thing I'm only mildly competitive.
Overall, my Facebook experience has been a treat, as I have heard from family and friends from swimming, work and school. One guy I regretfully remember only vaguely, but we now share a craving for Mexican food, as he says he lives in Moscow. Russia or Idaho? I don't know, but I doubt a good burrito can be found either place. There's none to be found in Connecticut, either.
That makes me think about San Diego, and, oh yeah, I was going to look up Rachel Laing. Well, at this point, she hasn't turned up as one of my Facebook connections, so I doubt I know her. But I must thank her for helping me reconnect with so many of my real friends. Cheers to you, Rachel!

A good night

Blake is in a poetry phase.
Of course, many children's books are lyrical and rhyme, but Blake has taken a sincere liking to real poems, or at least all things Shel Silverstein.
Last Saturday, Blake woke his sleep-deprived father by lugging "Where the Sidewalk Ends" into our room and demanding at Thomas' bedside, "Poems! Poems!"
Thomas responded by mumbling, "Wouldn't you like me to turn on "Thomas the Tank Engine?"
So we're not sure where this literary bent is coming from, but tonight I wish I could thank Mr. Silverstein for a precious bedtime moment.
After baths and other normal nighttime madness, and after Dylan has been put into bed, it has become our routine for Blake and me to rock in the dark in the boys' room. Blake knows it is a "no-talk" time, and he usually just quietly straddles my lap, fiddles with my necklace, and five minutes or so later agrees to go to bed.
Tonight, as I readied our rocking chair, Blake grabbed one of his Silverstein volumes. I sat down and looked at him, a little boy with still-wet hair, a pacifier in his mouth, wearing too-small flannel pajamas, holding a very heavy book and saying nothing.
He handed me the book and climbed into my lap. Then he started thumbing through the pages. I whispered so as not to wake Dylan, "It's time to rock, not read."
(Thomas had read him many, many stories and poems already.)
Blake said nothing in return, but found his favorite: "The Crocodile's Toothache."
And then he sat there, looking at the page, which was barely visible in only the glow from the turtle night light on the dresser.
I caved.
"Would you like me to read that?" I whispered.
"Yeah," he whispered back.
Luckily, I have it memorized, so, barely audible, I recited it to him as he put his head down on my chest and listened.
Moments later, he easily went into his crib and fell asleep.
Good night, all.

The Crocodile's Toothache

The Crocodile
Went to the dentist
And sat down in the chair,
And the dentist said, "Now tell me, sir,
Why does it hurt and where?"
And the Crocodile said, "I'll tell you the truth,
I have a terrible ache in my tooth,"
And he opened his jaws so wide, so wide,
The the dentist, he climbed right inside,
And the dentist laughed, "Oh isn't this fun?"
As he pulled the teeth out, one by one.
And the Crocodile cried, "You're hurting me so!
Please put down your pliers and let me go."
But the dentist laughed with a Ho Ho Ho,
And he said, "I still have twelve to go-
Oops, that's the wrong one, I confess,
But what's one crocodile's tooth more or less?"
Then suddenly, the jaws went SNAP,
And the dentist was gone, right off the map,
And where he went one could only guess...
To North or South or East or West...
He left no forwarding address.
But what's one dentist, more or less?


-Shel Silverstein