Sassafrass

He wasn't the only one who was zonked

It was a weekend to wind down.

More precisely, it was a weekend to play in the lake for six hours (the boy), soak up the sun (the mama), eat plenty of confetti-iced angel food cake (the both) and then nap it all off.

He didn't move for two hours.

And this morning just a few minutes pre-swim, he took this one of me. I like think it evokes a certain je suis Jackie O. You don't have to tell me to work it, grrrl twice, even if it is just to shovel roads in the sand, shoo away giant blue dragonflies and ride on the pontoon boat for a few laps around the lake.

Maybe all that attitude came from laptop detox. Or maybe it was all the chips and Diet Coke I consumed all weekend. Maybe it was me gearing up for another court date on Monday. It was possibly the $40 in shipping I just dropped to ship my business cards for BlogHer (holla) that I procrastinated into...well, $40 rush shipping to order. Or perhaps it was me jonesing to hear this song (I'm not kidding, it is as under my skin as my sunburn).  Awww hell, let's be honest. All that attitude was just the result of a good dose of family, a great deal of sun and the intense desire to crawl back into bed.

It was all good, though. All much better than I even thought it would be or even realized I needed.

I can't stop pushing play

I needed some music this morning. I needed to wake-up. I wanted to get going. I was hoping to clear out some of the clutter of to-do lists and things to remember and stuff I want to write about and when the hell am I going to get the laundry done -- all of that out of my head so I could just write. And even before the writing, just sit at my desk and let the sun creep across my keyboard and let the words come together before I put them up on my screen. For that, I needed a soundtrack.

And so I clicked on YouTube and there was an Emmy Rossum song on the homepage. She's adorable, yes, but she's not on my radar. I'm not one of those Phantom-obsessed twinkly music grrls, and so even if I did know she was putting out CDs, that recognition was lost behind something by Pink or Ani or even (shhh) Colbie. But there she was and this song was -- this song...oh, this song -- and I clicked it.

And now I can't stop pushing play. I don't even know how many times I've played this song today, I just know I need to hear these words, this melody, the message.

I love hoodoo-guru-y things enough to know that if I open myself to the messages the universe is sending me, I will see them, feel them, and in this case, hear them. Sometimes, the messages are whispers. Sometimes they are songs synthesized out of an overused, overheated, overwhelmed laptop.

The lyrics say something like, "Save me / Someone take my hand / Lead me." No one needs to do that for me, but I can take the words for myself. Every single time I replay the song, I feel like it sinks in deeper that it is OK for me to slow myself down. If someone else steps in to help me press pause for even longer, well then...that would be just fine too.

For now, a Friday, I will slow down by logging off a little bit early, packing up the boy and giving into the rush hour traffic we will sit in on our way to the lake. When I get there, I won't have any kind of internet connection and very little cell phone reception. So I may just press play for myself, to myself, and sing the words I now know over and over again.

(The video on the link is much better but this little one's embeddable and will do, thank you very much).

Ummm...people? This is not the way to take care of yourself. Or your friends. Or your rodent problem.

I have done some pretty silly things in response to mice sightings -- panic attacks, road trips, even the peppermint oil on cotton ball thing. But kittens, at least I've never used a gun. I'm just saying.

Not so fast with the celebrations and hoopla

It's not that I am any less proud of my boy, now Pull Up-free for many nights. It's just that he hasn't exactly stayed dry all night since he was liberated from the velcro-tabbed pee prison.

OK, that's not really fair. He has had a few dry nights. But none in a row and when they come, it is with the rarity of a pair of flats in my shoe-cluttered closet (they're there, honey, but you're going to have to hunt to find them...both).

And still, every morning, he wakes up with a report: Just a leeetle bit wet, Mommy or Ohhh, Mommy, there's wetness everywhere.

Soaked sheets or just a hint of wetness, it matters not. We strip down the bed, pull off the pajamas, slide comfy pants over his skinny little legs and move into our morning. On the days, he is dry, there is a freedom in his walk to the living room, carrying babies and the paci and a sippy cup of fresh water with him.

We are going through a lot, and some of that has swelled up for this boy in these past few weeks. I don't care that he's having trouble holding it. I am more concerned that he understands the bigger things -- the emotions -- are what don't need to be held in.

And yet, there he is on those mornings, shivery in those soaked jammies, and I want for him. I so so so want for him to be warm and dry and comfortable in the safe haven of his bed, where he can sleep and dream and rest his worried little 3-year old self.

Still, he is only 3-years old and he cannot always, or even often, control the comfort he wants to feel. I am in this, choosing not to acknowledge the heaps of laundry in the hallway and my worry that I will not find the way to point him toward this milestone of night time dryness. I am in it to strip down the wet and cold and make it warm and cozy once again.

I can't make our lives completely pressed and tucked in and perfect right now. I am not even sure how smoothly I am getting us through these other transitions. But I can make that bed in the corner of my boy's room. Sheets and blankets and waterproof pads, babies and a paci lots of soft pillows and stack of clean pajamas. I can make that a place to come back to and try again. That, I can do so he can settle in, safe and still hoping and dry. For now.
 

Un-planning the holiday

As the holiday weekend approached, I let down some of my planning, organizing guard and let the new, pink skin of just being unfold.

On my desk, I have a copy of the parenting agreement Lil E's dad and I have already invested several meetings, two progress hearings, hours and hours of mediation, countless text messages and burning conversations in not signing.

Although we we've had one little hour in dispute (a ridiculous reality but those sixty minutes are indicative of much bigger issues), the one thing we agreed on easily was the holiday schedule. So there it is in my calendar, laying across these limbo days between separation and divorce.

And this is how Pull Up-Gate finally came to a close

Night Nine became Nights Ten and Eleven. Then finally, by the grace of the bladder gods, there was one final morning with a very dry Pull Up.

We laughed, we high-fived, we did a happy dance. Lil E even did the move he calls "shaking his tail feathers." Then, as if the years and experiences flashed forward -- past those anxious steps up the school bus on the first day of kindergarten, past the grunting middle school years, past the drivers license acts of faith and fear, past the prom and rebellious switch to majoring in pottery or something Republicany, all hurdling into the days when bumping booties with mommy in the bathroom is soooo uncalled for -- and he sucked in his breath, pulled back his shoulders and nodded his head.

I saw him nod and it stopped me, probably mid-air, and all I could do was nod back, toss the last worn but un-wet Pull Up into the trash and go on about our business. 

Sure, we celebrated. We had our moment, and later at my proud prompting, we had others with my parents and with his dad and the daycare lady. But the big moment was unspoken. My boy crawled out of bed and stepped over the line into night time dryness. He was thrilled with himself and I knew it. Even if he could only dance for a brief moment, I could still squeal and shake and cheer for us both.

And that, that and the last little dry diaper tossed in the trash, was enough to make my eyes well up. Silently, tail-shakingly teary for my boy, quiet and content and commando.

Leaning over the fence, talking with the lady neighbors

Stop on by for a visit. I'm talking about my grandma on Chicago Moms Blog today. In case the posts by all these sassy city moms don't tempt you, maybe the gimlets and coffee cake will.

Pulling off the Pull-Ups. For good (fingers crossed).

Potty training Lil E -- or my grandiose attempts to turn it into a fabulous and enticing party -- taught me a valuable and frustrating lesson: Let the kid go in his own time.

That means go and go. By some miracle of evolution or genetics, he did not inherit the peanut bladder both his parents have (which, by the way, made every road trip we ever took sort of like we were a traveling band of pregnant ladies). The kid is a camel and can (and will, thank you very much) hold it all day. He has had very few accidents but mostly because his iron will oversees his southern regions and he refuses to go at daycare, co-op and sometimes even Grandma and Grandpa's house unless I am there with him. Handy in Target? Yes. Fun to explain to a daycamp counselor? Not so much.

The only time Lil E is challenged in cameling is at night. He's a thirsty boy and I thought I was being savvy in ending the late night wakings and calls for a drink into the dark by leaving a sippy cup full of water in his crib, then toddler bed and now, big boy bed. It's worked like a charm. So far. So far is important because tonight is Night Nine.

(Keep reading to find out why Night Nine's such a bedtime biggie).
 

Linkety Dinkety Doo: Punchlines Edition

I couldn't decide whether to list this column about George Carlin first or last, just that I wanted other people to read it. It's by Jerry Seinfeld, a quick read that's the concise kind of lyricism I strive for as a blogger and writer and comic to an audience of one (sometimes one-plus-kid in a booster seat). You don't have to click any other link below, but do read this one.

Who knew? I'm listed here as a favorite motherhood blog. Well, to be honest, I'm not listed as a blog, Sassafrass is listed as a blog. Sometimes, though, it's hard to tell the difference, isn't it?

Lil E loves this show. It freaks me out. I just do not get why animals from Australia who talk, politic and watch TV are so compelling to a preschooler.  But then I also do not get Dragon Tales, Caillou or (shudder) Scooby Doo and the kid's crazy about those too.  Shouldn't animals on kiddie TV be reporting about fake Olympics or putting steaks on their black eyes,  not manipulating their way into being mayor of some Earth core jungle village? What is going on in the world?

Maybe I shouldn't go on too much. Rob & Big still makes me laugh out loud on a regular basis. No animals running for office, but plenty of goofery all it's own and just enough dorm-room entertainment to keep me preoccupied until (oh now I'm just shameful) The Hills returns.

Finally, the Solstice.

Solstice crept in this Saturday, pulling back a summer that has been sleepy and slow to reveal itself. But it is here now, finally and officially.  After a bitter winter with lots of snow and transitions, almost nothing feels as good as the sun, a few beers on a restaurant patio, watermelon on the porch and working with my feet in the kiddie pool.

Every year, I feel some pull to mark Solstice reverently. I've walked the labyrinth with other women at church. I've done my own quiet rituals burning sage and setting out stones with words I've written on them to set my intentions for the new season. I've been quiet and still and I've celebrated the evening rocking a sleeping baby in my arms on the porch while the sun sunk and the kids in the neighborhood shrieked and the downstairs neighbors grilled and clinked bottles of Zywiec.

This year, I meditated, flowed, posed and chanted Solstice in at a yoga workshop designed around the setting sun.

Like every yoga class I've ever been to, at the last minute I thought about not going. And like most times, I thought again and went anyway, winding my way to find the new studio where my former yoga teacher is now practicing, hurrying to find a semi-legal parking space and then wiggling my way into a space just big enough for me and my mat. After all that thinking and re-thinking, rushing and then stretching out in my little corner of the room, I breathed. Deeply. I was there and it was good for me to be there.

The sun streaked the room orange as we moved from pose to pose. I was hesitant to join in the chant thanking the sun god pulling us in, but the Sanskrit words were so lilty and the room echoed with our voices in this lovely tone.

As we neared the two-hour mark, I started feeling antsy. I had plans for dinner and I wanted enough time to put on lipstick and heels before I dashed out the door of the studio. And as I thought about skipping out early, my teacher started talking us through the last few minutes of our final relaxation. She said something about welcoming patience, about being gentle with ourselves and about renewing our investment in being whole and fulfilled women. She was talking to the class in her soft voice, but she was speaking right to me.

I breathed in and out again, deeply. I looked up at the small, round paper lanterns that dotted the dark room like stars or planets or little suns. I released and let the time and tasks and next thing go.

It's summer now, no time to rush or huddle or worry about falling behind. It's time to stretch out and feel the sun, to take better care and mark the season with both stillness and fire.

When it was over, I was off and into different clothes and to another place where I would sit outside and eat and drink beer until late. I was there then, and that was good for me too.

So the Solstice, once again, was marked for me. I feel ready and relaxed for all these months and all the little illuminations-- and if I can go with it, the sun god -- will bring.

This is not a shoe blog: Because in order to stop talking about knockers, I need to talk about shoes

The rain clouds have cleared and the sun is calling me away from my laptop. Or at least, away from my work on the laptop. It's Friday, so that means a happy hour of shoe perusal will light me up more than a pom mojito and hefeweizen chaser.

And why not? My work today has centered on posts about bedtime routines, Mischa Barton's cellulite, sunscreen and getting your roots done in a timely manner -- how much more demanding can my day get? Clearly, it's time to knock off the hard work (not to mention the knocker talk of previous posts) and end this week once and for all. So, on to shoes and to four foot-focused questions that have really been on my mind this week:

First, with the birth of Jamie Lynn's bundle of love and adorably inevitable dysfunction, I'm wondering what flip-flops y'allses are wearing this summer? You know, around the $3 million crazy compound or park or trailer park or whatever. I picked up five pairs that are cheap, cute and can be trashed recycled as easily as any Spears sister (oh snap).

 
Second, no matter how cute they might be, is there any way in hell you think you could feel good about wearing Playboy brand shoes? Is there any little possibility -- no matter how cute -- you could wear these wedges without feeling like you also need to apologize incessantly, get a Brazilian and then take a long walk on the beach while enjoy your favorite thing, the smell of fresh rain?

Third, in the words of the ever-articulate Jessica Simpson, "Oh. Mah. Gaw." It is official (this is me talking now, not that other Jess), Re-Run from What's Happening officially comes in a shoe. Or will in the next few days at a muffin-top-XXXLowRise promoting teen retailer near you.

Fourth and final and speaking of Our Lady of Romance and Inappropriate Fathers, how is it that she's so not good at singing and stuff and still makes such sweet, sweet shoes? You do think she  produces all her own preliminary shoe sketches, don't you? Don't you? (How long do these lovelies need to whisper my name before I finally allow them to come home with me and live on my closet floor?)

Now you stomp it out: What shoe snark are you pondering today?

Just one more post about boobs. Swearsy.

I'm not sure if it is some kind of boob divinity or coincidence that I've been so focused on breasts here on the interwebs (right, like this is a new thing) and Lil E has moved his focus northward as well. Whatever it is, it is officially the way in our cozy little home.

Or at least it has been in the last week. Soon, I am sure, his boobcentricity will go the way of Elmo, off to some lonely corner where stuffed animals and Thomas trains and (God help us) pacifiers collect dust and await the arrival of other expensive child things that you've hunted down in Target and airports and grandma's house fourteen times too many. For now, though, where it's at does not include eye contact.

Lil E has not only noticed boobs in general like some three-year old epiphany, he's (erm) seemed to notice mine.

I know, I know. This is weird.

How you know your friends know you too well

First, she's not only seen your boobs, she's seen the Before Boobs and After Boobs. And she has definite opinions on both (all four? what's the proper numeric assignment on that?).

Second, she needs up-to-the-minute (and preferably texted) information on all things boy-related. This isn't optional and it can be accompanied by snorts or shiraz (either is good). It is a full-on teched-up sixth grade giggle fest, minus the headgear and padded bras (well, on some of us).

Finally, she sends you links like this one. In the middle of the work day, following one conference call and before a deadline. No words, no messages, no witty repartee. Just a link because that's all it takes. She knows you will get why. She knows you will laugh and poke fun and let the sarcastic comments fly but then will surely begin to crave the lovely luciteness, even just for a bit of fun at BlogHer. Or to trade off when one of you finally installs a pole in the playroom, convincing the kids of your intense admiration for the dedicated men and women in the Chicago Fire Department and yourself of the fabulous ab workout pole-robics really is (no, really). Or just to throw on and wrap around and around your calves while posting on...I don't know, natural remedies and inappropriately-named cocktails and toxic baby whatevers. She also knows you won't actually order them (even though the idea of owning a pair of Promiscuous brand anything is overwhelmingly tempting) because you can so feed your newfound bra-lust with eighty bucks.

Yes, she knows you well. Too well, maybe. And that's why you not only heart her back, you're blowing off the rest of the day just to page through Zappos until you find the perfect link to ping back (like these, for when boots are just too...oooohhhh hot...and platforms are still the protocol, which can totally happen when you are a working mom in the big city).

Oh my God, I'm alive! And now back to our conversation about boobs

Last week, last week. Ohhhh yet another last week. I'm not sure if I've ever let this little blog stay alone for this long, but it was one of those weeks filled with so much work-kidstuff-daycare mayhem-Denise Richards reality TV-blahblahblah that it had to be done. Now, where were we? Oh yes, we were talking about tits.

(This is the part where my mom rolls her eyes and says, "Lovely, Jessica," which is really more like "Jess-i-cuhhh!" and is inevitably followed by her description of it clearly being Jackass Driving Day with invitations being handed out to all the dumb shit drivers on the road. I mention this only because her kind of potty mouth is the perfect - ahem - pairing for my breastage terminology. So...back to tits it is).

Many months ago at a lovely little blog gathering, Jeanne listened to my long and complicated divorce story and then told me that pursuing younger men might be a good next move and that I needed to schedule an appointment with The Boobologist immediately. And really, how can you pass up solid advice like that?

(Keep reading about our racks after the jump....you know you want to).

Booooooobs

Nothing like a Monday morning to really get the grrrls perky. And when I say the grrrls, I mean THE GRRRLS and the grrls.

I'm off to the Boobologist, not only a nicety because I am a nearly-divorced lady who could always use a little extra oomph!, but also because I'm (ahem) hanging out with two of my favorite blogger women friends.

Feel free to use the comments to guess who and to weigh in on whether it is better to wear your best bra when you visit someone who refers to herself as the Boobologist, or your most pathetic, especially if the point (oh God) is to come out of their looking rackalicious. Any thoughts?


Ta-ta for now!

What a week

It feels like we've been through it all: Court, a viral cough, the end of co-op, a t-ball awards banquet, the last few episodes of The Hills finally showing up On Demand, the Great Fish Food Bowl Dump of 2008. It's been crazy.

And because of all these happenings, Lil E and I have not had enough sleep and the sleep we have had has been interrupted by coughing jags and crying, mama concern and doses of medicine. We had to rush through some of the fun stuff because of being too worn out or just needing cuddle time. I've missed a lunch with a friend and cancelled a dinner and a party I really hoped to go to. And then, of course, there was The Massive Fish Bowl Cleaning of 2008.

Today, though, things are somehow better. There was a med-free night of good sleep and we are headed to the lake for some time to be unplugged, in the water and away from all those stresses of the week.

There's lots more to talk about. But that will all save until Monday.

It was what it was: A court update

As it turns out, court is very good people watching. Of course, if you've ever been there, even for jury duty, you know this.

That was the distraction, sitting with my dad for what seemed like a long time but was really just an hour or so, since "only fifteen minutes" is a legal term that means "longer."

And thank goodness for my dad, who occasionally patted my shoulder or grabbed my hand and listened patiently as I reviewed what I would say if I was asked when I stood before the judge.

As it turns out, though, the attorney for the other person in this matter, didn't show up. And without that attorney, we couldn't proceed. Without him, we got a continuance and we left exactly where we were when we got there. Just with less nerves.

I certainly don't want this to be dragged out. I certainly wasn't happy that my time and money were wasted for a few giggles over Creepy Guy who slid in right next to me on the bench.  But I did feel good about being there, being so supported by dad, being confident in how well-represented by my own attorney and in walking out of the courtroom knowing I've fulfilled my part (and so much more).

Everyday, I am trying to move this along, to move forward myself, to settle into my life of thriving and our lives of peace and sweetness and health and joy. It doesn't always work out that way, of course. Hell, it doesn't always work out our way. Some days just are what they are, and that's all they can be. Nothing bigger and shinier and wrapped up in ribbons, nothing less.

Pssst! All shoe notions confirmed with the very sassy red patent peep toes peeking out from my attorney's classic blue suit. I told you so.

It is what it is: Today we go to court

Months and months ago, when I received a court order for a progress hearing on June 2nd to examine the state of my divorce and resolve any of those detailed and seemingly-gigantic divorce issues, it felt like a lifetime away.

But then, for the last eight months out of survival and then sanity and then a need to just be and breathe, I have taken my life in much smaller increments than I did before my marriage crash-landed. For a while,  Wednesday felt like a lifetime a way. Then it was next week, then it expanded slowly from there. Still, though, what I can take on in my calendar comes in little boxes now, not in big grids or multi-month pages to be flipped every so often.

And actually, that is a good thing. It slows me down. It focuses my attention. It keeps me as present as I can possibly be when I'd otherwise have been consulting my calendar and Crackberry (who are we kidding, I haven't taken the time to figure that out yet?!) and looking four or ten or seventeen weeks ahead.

But all that being in the present means that sometimes, things like court dates sneak up and settle into your lap. And here mine is.

I feel good. I feel confident. I feel supported. I feel strong. And I am told I only have to feel that way for the fifteen minutes or so we are in front of the judge.  Then I am free to cry into my dad's chest or stare into a latte or just go back to work. I imagine, it will be -- and I will be -- just fine.

Or rather, I envision it will be just fine. When I leave the court room today, past the half-door separating the seating and the judge's stand, beyond security and back on to the el, I will be one step closer.

One step closer to being done. That could be a long way off or it could be next week. No matter. It's too much to take on regardless of how many days or hours it ends up being until this is finalized and I am free of everything it has been.

I'll just take on today's court date, and keep it right there, with as much as I have and as much as I can pull up. Nothing more, nothing less.



Pssst. As completely Donna Mills on Dallas as it sounds...yes, I will be wearing something fab on my feet. Smart, sassy power shoes (which, for me, do not match in any way the navy Republican suit I was required to wear in my former corporate life) totally impact litigated lady's confidence. I kid you not.

This is not a shoe blog: What would it take for you to spend three-hundy on some hawt shoes?

Because these are dangerously close to the shoes in my banner (look up, kitten).

Not in a matchy-matchy, super-perfect wedge heel way. More like, in the spirit of close-to-over-the-top-edness and retro-ish  shoe whorey lust.

I have been searching for those shoes (keep looking) since the day that snazzy little pic was placed up there like the crown upon the head of the reigning Queen of Sassdom.

And if they are as close as it's going to get to the pinky platformy blistery-but-so-worth-it goodness on my blog, does buying them count as a business expense? (Go ahead, laugh with me as I pretend that I could possibly ever in a gazillion years and shoe purchases itemize this little nook on the internets).

Oh, I want. I want.

Tending to me (hey, it was a holiday)

Memorial Day weekend was a turning point in our house. Lil E was scheduled to have lots of time with his dad and grandparents. I had a big list of things I could do to fill the time and only a few friends around and in town to convince me to scratch all that. It was up to me to choose to have a weekend I needed rather than one I thought I should have.

You know what, though? I came through for myself. Usually, I am pretty good at the talk and then struggle when it comes to forgetting about the dishes and laundry and trips to the fruit market to just enjoy myself and wiggle around in the free time I am given. This time, I did it and good Lord, it felt right.

Instead of making lots of meals and catching up on chores, here's are four things I did to tend to myself this Memorial Day weekend. Nothing fancy, nothing too involved. Just what I needed: