Life Goes On

I don't have any words for how all of your comments and emails made me feel. Lighter, easier, less alone. Responding has me baffled. I started to email each of you, but you don't all leave your email. Then, I decided to respond in the comments, but I worry that you don't have time to go back and check old comments. I'm settling for this: Thank you.

There's really no way to follow that except with something completely trivial and inane. A few nights ago, Matt and I were in bed at our usual 9:30 bed time. Sad, I know. Weird noises started above our heads. Bumps and squeaks and drags all overlaid with a constant, annoying whine. Apartments are revealing, but apparently our above-our-heads neighbors are nearly as boring as we are.

Me: What is that? I don't feel well. (Is anyone tired of hearing about how sick I feel, because Matt is tired of hearing it.) What are they doing? (Imagine a very whiny voice, I'm whiny, I admit it.)
Pause.
Matt: They're vacuuming. That's why it sounds foreign to you.
Pause.
Me: You really don't ever want to have sex again do you?
Matt: I didn't know it was option. And even if it is an option, I've got weeks of this first trimester crap left to redeem myself.

Approaching ten years of marriage, four or more kids, 9:30 bedtime and weeks mean nothing to our amorous relations. Aw, true love.

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Happy Thanksgiving. I hope the day was full of family and friends, good conversation and excellent wine. Drink a glass of wine for me?

I'm grateful for so many things, but in the world of blogs, I'm grateful for all of the loving, incredible people who have reached out to me, in fun and friendship and on serious topics. (Reach out and touch faith....song and late eighties alternative band for five points.) (Five points if you can guess the first concert I ever attended, in the same genre. Huge hint: My girlfriend, she's at the end, she is starting to cry...) (Five more for my second concert. Hint: If you believe, there's nothing out there to see, and nothing is new...) (Five more for the cheesiest fake concert I've ever attended. Hint: Like sunshine and rain...) (Last one, five points for the concert at which my sixteen year old self was most likely to be sexually assaulted. Hint: Party all night!!!! Sleep all day!!!!! (screamed, painfully, in full make up.))

Seriously, I am amazed to know women like Denene, who writes the perceptive and fascinating My Brown Baby. She's a professional writer (scary professional, books, magazines, editorships, oh my!) whose attention and sometimes praise leaves me flying high. Thank you for this lovely award. (I'm going to acknowledge the other one separately.)


And Pam of You're Gonna Miss This, an adoptive mom and, after months of reading each other's stories, a friend. We have the bond of shared experiences and shared challenges. Her faith, perseverance and strength awe me every day. Thank you!


And Mom24, who writes 4ever Mom. Mother, new grandmother, extraordinary meal planner. I'm getting to know her better as I read and it's a pleasure. Thank you so much for this award (the Spanish name of which, I will not even attempt to spell), but more so, thank you for the incredibly kind words you wrote in that post so many moons ago. (Hangs head in shame at tardiness.)




And Dysfunctional Mom, whose compassion for her kids, her dogs, her dog rescue calling and life in general keep me coming back again and again. She made this darling little button herself too, which involves computer savvy about which I can only dream. Thank you. I'll keep visiting, and not just for the cute puppies.


There's just something about friendships, about girlfriends, (although the same type of friendship and support can come from men), that fulfills and uplifts and buoys, across country, across oceans, across the wires and mother boards and whatever magical genies connect us all by computer. It's not just these thoughtful baubles (and the thought behind them), it's also the emails, the quick notes, the DMs and instant messages and comments connecting a whole (yeah, I'm going to say it, I'm feeling grateful, sue me) community.

Thanks for letting me be a part of it.

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We had a delightful Thanksgiving dinner with friends, which was only slightly marred by my constant nausea. I totally ate it anyway. Not that I'm complaining or anything. Matt. Turkey was perfect (awesome job D), best sweet potatoes I've ever had (thanks S) and, of course, the company was ideal.

This post is the official end of the get a package from AnyMommy in Saipan contest. Whoever is in the lead after these points are doled is going to win! AND, because I'm feeling all specially good and grateful and un-nauseous right now, I'm going to pick another package recipient randomly from the comments. Um, tell me your favorite TG moments. I'll give you TWO AnyFamily holiday classics. First, a few years ago when my grandmother got really, really drunk and fell over backward in her chair. (Sorry, Dad, but she was uninjured and it was damn funny.) Is it really a holiday until someone can't sit up straight in their seat? Not in my Jewish/pagan family.

Second, the last two years, because we've had gaggles of toddlers at our TG feasts, the moment when we serve dessert. There's this sudden, delightful, unbelievable silence in the midst of the noise and the chaos and the laughter and the whining. It reverberates through my soul and brings tears to my eyes. All of them, so quiet, so happy. Behold, the power of sugar.

Hope Floats

(I had decided not to publish this one. I was unsure and I couldn't get it right. Then, I hit publish instead of save and didn't notice for five hours. I'm going to take it as a sign. I pulled it for a while, thinking, but I only added a few pictures.)

Early the other morning, before the sun reached its full strength, we packed everyone into the car and took them to our favorite beach. It is hard to reach, at the end of long, poorly maintained coral pack road, pitted with deep potholes and rutted by runoff. Lush tropical vegetation encroaches on both sides. The jungle is not deep, really, with the beach barely 200 yards off the left side and a main island road 700 yards to the right, but it looks impenetrable.

As we bounced down the track, I glimpsed a foot and half long lizard, so motionless on a palm tree that I mistook it for a hump in the bark at first, a part of the tree itself. There is an illusion of isolation and desertedness that delights. The feeling of finding a spot, a sparkling stretch of white sand framed by the lagoon and reef break in a graceful curving bay, unknown to all but a few is irresistible.


It was ours and ours alone at that early hour of the morning. The children threw themselves into crab hunting with squeals of joy. Their cries, 'here's one!' 'he's moving' and 'no Daddy don't pick it up' pierced the Robinson Caruso quiet. The targets of their affection hunkered down in horror to hide, but sand crabs have short memories and they could not be still long enough to evade our little flock of hawks.



I settled my back against the shady side of a huge rock with my camera and my thoughts. The beach is called Wing Beach, because, not so many years ago, it's defining feature was a WWII airplane wing washed up on the shore. A relict of the Allied Pacific Forces' horrifically difficult capture of Saipan from the Japanese. The wing itself is gone now. Unable to hold out against the onslaught of the wind and the tide and the rot that pervades the tropics, it has faded into the sand. Vanished. All that remains of it is the name of the beach and the long memories of the islanders.

I wonder if it is a sign. I am always looking for signs lately.

Since Tuesday, when I dragged my self to the doctor for my first ultrasound. I told her I was twice as tired and twice as sick as I can remember being for my past pregnancies and I have three times as many children at home and it sucks. In a good way, sucks, because I wanted to be pregnant and I want the baby, but sucks nonetheless.

She said, "huh, well there's twice the babies." Twins. Except not exciting, look-at-your-beautiful-twins, twins like you would hope for in a moment like that. Instead, twins right now, but baby b isn't developing as fast as he should and is way behind baby a and most likely won't live passed the next week or so. Which feels cosmically downright mean because there's not yay (twins!) or wow (twins!) or even holyshitwtfdowedonowthat'swaitihavetocountonetwothreefourfivebabiesunderfour. No, it's more uncertain, more mixed, full of possibilities for hope and joy and grief and hurt. Kind of like life itself.

Do we hope? Do we let go of an idea we barely held? Are we just grateful for one healthy baby? This is where medical science fails and we enter the realm of miracles, no explanations, no guarantees. Sometimes, the smaller baby catches up and thrives, more often, he miscarries and fades quietly away like he was never there. In two weeks, we'll do another ultrasound and know the answer.

In the meantime, I look for signs. It feels wrong that I don't know, that I have to wait for technology to tell me. It feels like the shadowy place where mother's intuition should take over. I ought to be able to put my hands on my abdomen and just know. An inkling of the answer ought to bubble into my mind. But, it doesn't.

Funnily enough, if someone asked me six months ago, before Matt and I smiled at each other one night and I asked him, "are you really up for a fourth and final." Before the miscarriage two months ago and this amazingly quick second pregnancy. Before any of that if you had asked me would you like to have twins, I would have laughed out loud. Unkindly.

Twins? Aha. No. We'd like a fourth. And final. Amen and pass the vasectomy.

But it's too late now. I've seen those two tiny bugs cuddled close on that fuzzy screen. It's too late not to want to know them both and hold them both and love them both.

I wonder whether writing about it is a good idea. If it would be better if we didn't know. But, if I didn't know, or if I never mentioned it, it wouldn't mean he never was. I saw him. He's there right now. His little miraculous workings haven't even told my endocrine system to stop cranking out double hormones yet.

Vanishing twin syndrome. If he doesn't grow, he will fade away, vanish, like the wing, reabsorbed by nature. Will there even be a name left behind, to prick our memories? Later, after bedtime, I type the name we have treasured for months into the computer. It's a boy's name. We always imagine our babies as boys. It means sorrow. My breath catches. A sign? A name tinged with sadness for a child that lost his brother so early. Tentatively, almost furtively, I type a second name, one that has been playing at the edges of my thoughts. Dark. I like that. Dark, like a dark horse, someone that comes from behind to win, unexpected, out of the blue.

That's the thing about signs. It's all in how you read them.

Cue sits on my knees facing me, bouncing, and I hold up one finger of my left hand and two fingers of my right. Will you have one brother or two, I ask him, jiggling my knees. He grasps for my two fingers for balance, but then let's go and grasps the other hand. It is a silly, desperate thing to do. He doesn't know, he's just a happy, clueless gap tooth baby, but still I ask him. It's no sillier than asking stars, or tea leaves or crystal balls.

Would it be easier if I could press my legs into the sand and my back into the warm rock, bring myself in tune with the waves and the sea and the sky and divine the answer? Would it be more comforting to learn that way? If the crabs and the dolphins whispered it in my ear would it hurt less?

I don't know. I don't want to know. For now, for these weeks, he is mine. I am going to lie very still on my spun glass raft of hope, close my eyes and float quietly with the sun on my face. If I move, if I ask, the delicate filigree will splinter into a million shards that bite and pierce and burn my skin. Technology will crush it to glass dust soon enough. Today, hope is briefly, beautifully whole.

Dog Tired

I'm tired. Too tired to form coherent thoughts and work them into organized posts with pretty themes. Maybe you'll forgive me for this one disjointed, unpretty post? There's lots of points, if you like musicals.

(I feel pretty, oh so pretty, that the city should give me it's key....five points!)

Cue has ringworms, which oddly enough are not worms at all, but rather a skin fungus. Cue has a fungus ring, kind of like a mushroom ring, except ON HIS SKIN. Things grow in the tropics. Beautiful things, like flame trees and banana trees and bougainvillea, but also nasty things like, (wince), skin fungus. On my baby.

Gee insists on crapping in his pants. He did it at the park yesterday and I figured it out when we acquired our own swarm of flies. Then, he pooped in the fancy pool this morning after repeated attempts to get him to go in the potty and warnings that any poop in the pool would result in possibly permanent revocation of pool privileges. In one ear and out his ass into the pool. Caused a complete closure. I had to fish the turd in front of skads (SKADS) of horrified Japanese tourist mommies and daddies. We left the pool in disgrace. Hours and hundreds of washings later I swear I still smell shit on my left hand.

(Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune...five points!)

I'm strongly considering just not cleaning this apartment for the entire three months we're here. They have to clean it when we leave anyway. Is that wrong? I wipe. I sweep. It's surface clean.

(But any task you undertake, becomes a piece of cake, a lark, a spree, it's very clear to me...five points!)

Matt's feeling like a hero because two nights ago I couldn't sleep. The entire apartment smelled like tuna fish and it was making me nauseous. After much bitching and moaning on my part he took the trash down to the dumpster, making him like husband of the year or something in his eyes. Except that it was his tuna fish can in the trash.

(If ever I would leave you, it wouldn't be in springtime, knowing how in spring I'm bewitched by you so.....five points!)

Speaking of Matt, I made a little car faux pas that has Matt all up in my business. He threatened to post himself if I don't retract my statement that the car we are driving is a Ford Escort. I'm sure you all remember that, right? No? It's a Toyota Echo. Whatever. Who cares. Why am I boring you with this? Matt had a dream as a teenager that he would die in a Ford Escort. He takes this dream very seriously and refuses to ride in a Ford Escort for any reason. Except that now, I've gone and messed him all up by calling our borrowed Toyota Echo a Ford Escort.

Me: It's still a Toyota Echo, I don't have super powers. I can't make it into a Ford Escort by calling it that.
Him: I don't like it. Why did you call it that anyway? They're two totally different cars.
Me: Small. Roundish. Escort. Echo. Totally different is a stretch.
Him: They stopped making Ford Escorts like eight years ago. Why would you even think of the name?
Me: ? Because it sticks in my mind because you're a freak about them?

His distress is bizarre, but real, so here is my official retraction. The car is a Toyota Echo. Any and all references to it being a Ford Escort were made in error and should be disregarded. Are we all happy now?

(Always look on the bright side of life, da, doo, da, do, da, do, da, do...five points!)

I'm happy. And have I mentioned tired? Where did the expression dog tired come from because every dog I've ever had has more energy than a fully loaded freight train. It should be sloth tired. Or what about panda tired? That fits. Whenever we trek to the National Zoo to see the famous _ing _ing of the day, he/she is always lazing around on its back crunching bamboo.

That's what I want to do. Just for a few days, I want to lay on my back and crunch something. Pringles. Maybe ice cream. M&Ms.

(Lots of chocolate for me to eat, lots of coal making lots of 'eat. Warm face, warm 'ands, warm feet, oh wouldn't it be lov-e-ly...five points!)

The thought, each morning, of getting them organized and packed and dressed and sunscreened and into shoes and out the door and down the balcony and down the steps and past the pool and down the other steps and to the car and 'do not touch the mangy dogs' and 'do not touch the rat infested dumpster' and I'm drenched in sweat and Gee, the three-year-old, pants-soiling prima donna is yelling about the freaking air.

TURN THE AIR ON MOMMA, I'M HOT.
YES NORDIC GIRLY BOY, I KNOW. I carried Cue because I don't want him to fall down concrete steps or play in rat droppings or pick up more fungus. I am also hot. It's hot here, that's why we love it so and why there are so many great pools for you to poop in.

I'm doing it, don't get me wrong, we are only here for this short time and I want them to experience it and love it. But the thought of all of that, setting out each morning, par for the course really, no matter where we are, makes me cry just a little bit, some days.

Meanwhile there's some stuff going on here in my real world. Isn't there always stuff going on, for all of us, behind the blog so to speak? So if you have any positive energy or prayers or good thoughts to spare, I could really use them. It might not help, I know, but it can't hurt.

Okay, name that musical. There's a lot of points at stake in this one. Thanksgiving and the end of the contest approach. Plus, it will amuse and distract me and we all know it's all about me.

The Fisher of the Turds

I've had quite a few titles in my life. Daughter, sister, best friend. Law student, wife, lawyer, associate, assistant attorney general. Staff attorney, independent contractor. Mother. Miss, Ms., Mrs., Esq. They all mean very little in terms of who we really are. Empty labels without the background.

I think cultures with more descriptive monikers are onto something. There's something so special about a name or a title that tries to get at a person's essence. Like Chief Sitting Bull. When I read that I feel like I know something about the man, though obviously, not having invented a time machine, I've never met him. I sense his essence in those words. Stubborn. Larger than life. Unwilling to be moved from his position easily. Because, come on, who can budge a bull if it wants to be sitting. Who would want to?

If I did have a such a title right now, however, I fear it would not be so grand. My days are consumed with the trivia and tedium of life with three small children. I am the diaper changer. The butt wiper. The Queen of Shit. Empress of Poo Poo.

Maybe I'm just bitter because we're trying to potty train Gee again. Yes, this is the second time. If you missed the first go around, about six months ago, it was really, really fun, what with him peeing on the baby and me answering the door in my bra and the baby eating shit and all. It went really well. We decided to go around a second time starting the day after we arrived in the tropics. We took off his diaper, put him in pants and asked him to please not pee or poop on himself. He's like 3 1/2, he ought to be able to understand simple instruction like, for the love of all that is holy, little man, put your stinking excrement in the specially designed receptacle, please.

I faced it with dread. I couldn't even amuse myself with an island version of the Messter Map because my lovely scanner does not take well to being packed and shipped half way across the world. But, surprisingly, minus a few small accidents and the fact that there seems to be a powerful magnet between his hands and his newly accessible penis, all goes well. He is (whispering) potty trained. (Knocking on wood, throwing salt over shoulder.) Correction. He is pee pee trained. Although, given the level of my involvement, I don't really get the benefit over diapers.

He does tell me, 'my penis has pee pee in it and I'm gonna put it in the potty and get a treat.' Fabulous. Except that if I would like any pee pee to actually make it into the potty (versus, the floor, the rim, the walls, the bathtub), I have to help. First, complete pants removal. There is no pee pee without complete nakedness. Don't ask me, I'm just the Assistant Director of the Pee Pee.

He stands on the stool and waggles it in the general direction of the toilet. Sadly, he's easily distracted. If he were a NASA scientist, satellites would be crashing into each other and plummeting to earth. Unless I am directly involved in the aiming process (I'll leave directly to your imagination), the toilet might as well not be there, for all the urine that lands inside of it.

I have accepted, without good grace, any hope of getting all or even most of the stream into the toilet. Not on me is now my main goal. Why must I state the obvious? Gee, please don't put your knee into the pee pee stream.

Why?

Why? Why? Because it rickashays up into my face, that's why. It's disgusting. Do I look like the Drinker of the Pee Pee? No. I am not. It is not a title to which I aspire, even if I were paid a lot of money and let's say filmed.

So, I know you are wondering what worked. By what magic of motherhood did I convince this stalwart, stubborn boy, Mr. Sitting I Won't Put My PeePee in the Potty But Rather on Your Floor, to use the facilities. Simple. We told him, from day one here on Gilligan's Island, no pee pee in the general vicinity of the potty, no POOL.

GASP.
I know. Wicked Mother of the So Far West We Are Practically East. And your little dog too...

We made him sit on the side. We told him that boys that pee in their pants could not put their bottoms in the pool. We lied. The ocean, I let him have - hey back off greenies, whales piss in there, my toddlers' pee pee isn't making an appreciable contribution to the urine content of the briny blue. But no pool, and especially, no fancy pool with the slides and the teeter totter.

It took two days for pee pee success. Poop was happening in his night time diaper and you know what, whatever. Little Pick Your Battles, that's my name.

After two whole days of complete pee pee in the vicinity of the potty success, I took them all down, on my own, to the little pool at our apartment. Call me Crazy Mother, or perhaps, Running Away Brain. Sitting Dumb Ass?

We were swimming not fifteen minutes, and by swimming I mean I was running around behind Cue like Mama Runs In Circles, trying to make sure he didn't launch himself into the water, confident of my ability to be underneath him, no matter how far away I might physically be at time of launch, by the time he landed, while keeping a wild eye on the toddlers for any slipping under or imminent drowning, when He Who Shall Not Be Named but is generally called GEE shat in the damn pool.

Old Clueless Water Running Over Tired Rocks here didn't catch on at first.
Me: Did you throw something into the pool?
Ess: No.
Gee: No.
Cue: GAH! Leap. Splash.
Me: (while baby fishing) What is that?
Ess: Nothing.
Gee: I don't know. (??????)
Cue: GAH! Splash. Leap. GAH!!
Me: Is that a rock? Did you throw a rock into the pool? Where did you get a ro...

Well, shit. Literally. Not rock. Princess Shit For Brains. Not scissors. Not Paper.

Log.

I felt a brief flash of an intense emotion that I'm not going to describe as hate for my baby boy, whom I love with all my heart, but certainly for his errant excrement, now sitting innocently on the ledge seat of the smaller, jacuzzi-like pool. I ran through my options and they were few. The turd needed to be retrieved quickly before it fell off the ledge to the bottom, disintegrated into many small pieces, or got noticed by someone else, the most likely candidate being the maintenance guy who cleans the pool with religious fervor and would most likely ban us for life. I had nothing to use for retrieval operations and running to the apartment for tools, like Tupperware for instance or a plastic bag, would take too long. I had to take my entire entourage or risk a child drowning because I was squeamish about a turd in the pool.

Was I Mother or Tiny Squeaking Mouse? I went in, bare-handed. It was a perfectly executed one scoop extraction WITH squirming fifteen month old baby on my hip. I managed to dump it into the pool toilet (thank you, gods, for the pool toilet) and wash my hands seventeen times still clutching the unhappy baby. I earned my new title, is what I am telling you, in a trial by water. Crap infested water.

And then, the triumphant Fisher of the Turds surveyed her unhappy tribe.
Ess: Can we swim now?
Gee: I all done, momma. Can I swim too?
Cue: GAH!!

I let them swim in the water Gee had just used as his personal toilet bowl. For almost another hour. Fecal coliform is good for you. What was that about worms?

That is how I earned my title: The Fisher of the Turds.

Finally, about this whole title thing. There's a reason that we don't do this in English speaking cultures. Descriptive titles are uglier in English than in other languages. Take Chamarro, for example, the local language here on Saipan. In Chamarro, Turd Fisher is Taki Peskadot.

Pretty. Melodic. You can call me AnyMommyTaki.

High Tide

My thoughts are a log jam. Like a panicked stampede at an oversold concert, all crushing toward the same door, trampling over each other and shoving each other aside in their eager rush to reach the exit. I have so much to tell, the words tumble over each other and fly passed me and are lost.

I want to write about the intense azure blue of the lagoon that looks like a surreal painting on the horizon as I crest the hill to Mt. Tapachaou, not the real, honest to goodness colors of my world. I want to write about what it's like to be back here, in the place where Matt and I were free, unbound by small needs and big responsibilities. About what it's like to visit the beaches where we roamed, hand in hand, feet bare, sipping beers at sunset and then climbed into our 4-W drive SUV and bounced home, laughing, for a late take-out dinner, on our own, free of anyone's schedule.

Now, encumbered, happily, contentedly encumbered, but tied down nonetheless, the beach has an element of chore. The sand-covered bodies, the sand-covered tongues that induce helpless tears, the happy chasing of the waves that requires us to chase, to watch, to be always alert. There is no room for restful contemplation of the beauty, quiet enjoyment of the steady crash of the waves. They hold joy and beauty still, but also fear. Every so often, one is larger than the the others, and we have to be ready. Ready for the moment when little feet are swept out from under unexpectedly, when sand shifts unsteadily beneath them and they are disoriented and scared.

Our time, as plentiful as it is, is not our own. It is theirs. They love the beach, but the schedule is tight. Before we go, the sun must be passed its burning zenith and on the way down, its intensity softened by the turn of the earth and the low horizon clouds. After an hour, maybe an hour and a half, we have to leave. They must be rinsed of sand, dried and clothed in soft, clean clothes. They must be fed. They are tired and cranky. The decisions we once made, to ignore our hunger and light a small fire and watch the brilliant stars map the sky over the Pacific, to sit in quiet companionship with our bottles and our love and the sea, are no longer ours to make.

There is some sense of loss. A feeling of longing lurks between the coconut palms and skitters across the sand with the tiny crabs. Some echo of the people we were lingers, the possibilities, not better, not worse, just different. Then, the coin of life flips, glinting in the sun, and there on the reverse, is the gain. Their laughter as the surf breaks and foams over little toes, over and over, an endless amusement. The perfect little footprints in the sand, formed and washed and reformed in tidal cycles. The shrieks of joy over seashells found, waiting, wet and pearly, tiny treasures half buried by nature, turned to shrieks of terror when one small spiral house still contains its original owner. The wonder, the curiosity, the energy, the pure new-minted enjoyment that only children possess.

They are like the tide. They wash me clean, leave me bare and raw and ready for each new day. I have always loved the ocean, the smell of salt and life and power. Nature at its strongest. Life's cycles evident in each breaking wave. It's their smell, their power, their pull. I love it even more now, with my little merbabies as guides.
























































Beach pictures, as promised. Next up, turd fishing. Sphincter say wha?? Aha, five points if you know that one, and my undying love because you are as old as I am. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Betty Confidential

I'm feeling a little shy about this, so I'll just come out and post it really quick, all at once. You don't even have to leave your readers for this one, just click one small link.

Ready? There is this really cool online magazine called Betty Confidential and you really should check it out because they have a lot of interesting articles and topics and are extremely well laid out and easy to read, and, well because if you visit their Parenting page, there's an article right at the top right now by this new, very unknown writer (me!) and (gulp) she's a bit nervous and excited about being there and she very much wants the Betty Confidential editors to think she's awesome and attracts a lot of readers and besides it's a very personal, painful subject so it would just be great if you would click on over and give her (me!) some love.

Gasp. Breathe. Breathe. How's that for showing off my writing skills with the longest run on sentence in the history of the universe.

But, really, if you have a minute and don't mind too much, go visit. You probably won't even have to read the article itself because it has already posted here. Page down to the end anyway because at the end there's a star rating system. Those little stars make me very nervous because, um, well, you know, I would very much like to have five stars, to validate my existence on earth and make me feel like a real writer and all. No big deal, no pressure. One more thing, (I don't want much, do I?). If you go, and if you should feel moved to give me stars (preferably lots, the maximum is five) be VERY very careful. Those stars are tricksy little devils. If you so much as breathe on them, you've voted. I accidentally gave my own damn self one star, which is often how I feel about myself, but wasn't actually my intent in this instance.

Thank you. A lot. And thanks Betty Confidential and Stephanie, having you ask to republish my writing is incredibly exciting for me.

Tomorrow (okay, possibly the next day), a real post, I promise, about turd fishing. Yummy, I know, my life is scintillating. I also have beach pictures, as requested.

I Am a Golden Goddess

Um, not really (but, five points for the name of the movie I'm referencing). I'm no longer a pasty pale, scary-white jellyfish. I have a little color. Something that might, possibly, in the next few weeks be called a sun induced glow. I'm not going to go so far as to call it a tan, I'm way too fanatic about sunscreen for that. There is some glow though. A honey tint.

The tropics. Sigh. We just get along. We're made for each other. I love flip flops. I'm never happier than when a pony tail with sunglasses on top of my head are an acceptable fashion statement. The tropics and I disagree only in a few small respects. Bugs. Big. Scary. Not my favorite. And germs. I'm a bit of a hand sanitizing maniac anyway and when I think about the things kids can pick up here, and most horrifying of all, pass on to me, I shudder a bit. I'm not talking nasty colds. I'm talking worms. Internal parasites.

Matt: So, they'll probably get them. There's medicine. It's fine.
Me: You do realize who wipes their butts right?
Matt: You're a fanatic hand washer. It's not like you're putting your hands in your mouth post wipe.
Me: Yeah. Right. But how would we discover their (shudder) infestation?
Matt: Diarrhea?
Me: No.
Matt: Upset stomach?
Me: No.
Matt: I don't know.
Me: Recall the dog. The dog we had here. That had worms.
Matt: Oh.

Yeah. Oh. You know a dog has worms because you can see them. In its poop. A fact that takes on a new level of horror when you're talking about small human beings. I am not relishing the moment when I find a worm crawling out of my baby's ass. Which I can hardly fail to miss because I'm right up in there a few times a day.

The point of this (wait, there's a point) is that we went to a party at a local farm Sunday night. They had goats, chickens, pigs and deer. The kids were in heaven. It was a real local BBQ with pickled papaya, lots of rice, pork from a pig killed on the farm and yummy purple sweet potatoes. I tried not to chase after them with Purell as they ping-ponged between farm animals and food. I tried to be zen and calm as Cue dropped his hot dog on the ground over and over, screaming bloody murder if I tried to remove it from his sticky, dirty little grasp.

When the hosts brought up a piglet in a laundry basket for the kids to see, I couldn't help but enjoy it. They were ecstatic. Beside themselves with joy. The piglet was horrified and made a continuous high pitched squeal like it was being dismembered by three-year-olds, not loved and adored, but the children didn't notice. We all rode in the back of an old pick up truck down the steep hill to our car at the end of the night. I tried to focus on not letting any of my children fall out, but I have to admit that I was far more worried about whether they were putting their hands in their mouths.

At home, we bathed and disinfected, pajamaed and put to bed. In the morning, as they ate breakfast, still reliving the loving of the 'baby piggy,' I did a repulsed double take at the sight of their hands. Clean, except for the fingernails which were black with dirt and pig poop and parasite eggs.

Worms here we come. Wait for it.

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I've been horribly remiss lately. I received some lovely awards before I went into crazy last minute packing mode that I want to acknowledge, because I adore the bloggers that gave them to me, and because it's fun to get awards, and because it's an excuse to link to more bloggers that I think are, well, goddesses.

That's right. The first award called me a Goddess. I love blogging. That just doesn't happen very often in real life. Matt will occasionally call me a goddess, but he's either being sarcastic, or he wants something and that's a little too much information for the blog world, I believe. I received the Goddess Award from Jessi at Draco's Rose.



Okay, okay, it doesn't call me a goddess. It blesses me from the Goddess. Not exactly the same thing. A girl can dream. It's lovely. It's exactly the reason I enjoy Jessi's blog. Her way of thinking about the world and spirituality are different and new. I might not get to know and talk to someone intimate with the Goddess in my ordinary life. Thank you, Jessi, I feel blessed to know you.

Who needs a little Goddess in their life? Who doesn't really. I'm going to send the Goddess and her blessings and all my positive energy (and hopefully YOU because this is a blog that is worth your time!) to Kym's blog I'm A Smart One. She is a goddess herself and no matter the faith, there ought to be blessings for her new endeavor. Kym is a surrogate mother and her newest story, with Chance and Apollo, which is just beginning, is one that you absolutely don't want to miss. I hope it's blessed in every way.

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Have you noticed that when I visit your blogs these days, I come up as a visit from Guam? How cool is that. You're welcome. Except that I'm not really on Guam, I'm on Saipan, but there's no need to get caught up in these trivial geographic details. Here's some geography and history trivia to change up the trivia game a little. For ten points, a spot on the list of fame over there, and a chance for a package from Saipan, name the Northern Mariana Island that held the largest airbase in the world during WWII and the infamous plane that took off from its airfields.

Lighter Than Air

There's an odd lightness to being removed from your usual life and out of reach of your amassed things. Things aren't necessarily negative, but the abundance of them that we have accumulated in our 'permanent home' are heavy. Not heavy literally, although they are that. Heavy in their import in our lives, heavy on our minds. Heavy in their need for maintenance and insurance and their demands of responsibility and time. Houses, cars, nice furniture, linens, holiday decorations, fancy coffee makers. The more you collect, the more you have to lose. The more time and energy must be focused on preventing loss.

Here, we have little and it feels light. Our small apartment floods at daybreak with the tropical brightness that has always felt buoyant to me and clean. Its white tile floors and white-washed walls echo the light, the simplicity, the cleanliness (although, given the aggressiveness of the mold in this part of the world, that cleanliness will be fleeting unless I get my act in gear). It has two beds and a couch. A few dishes. A table and chairs. We brought faded, nearly outgrown summer clothes and a few towels, a laptop, toiletries. There is little to care for or care about. Life is reduced to its essence, time with our children, time to write, time to think, time to be together. Time. Unfettered, uncommitted time. It's a luxury as dear as the bright tropical sun and pure white sand beaches.

Even with all of that time, or maybe because of it, I have struggled to begin this post. I've been reluctant to open my email, my comments, my reader because I will immediately feel the pressure to post, to respond, to read and comment. Things I love to do, but they take time. Because I fear something from home will intrude, questions about the fundraiser I planned before I left, problems with our house, reminders of responsibilities and commitments that will shatter the illusion that our life is simple, that time is plentiful and that it is mine.

I could go on hiding, post quickly that the beach is heaven and the kids are fine and life is golden and grand. That's not really what I want. I miss you. I enjoy you. I want to write and connect and reimmerse myself, bug you all with my stories and read yours in return. This is the best technology has to offer, connection with people, sharing of stories, finding common bonds. This is worth my time.

Where to begin? At the beginning? With me, standing, incredulous, mouth open before a Northwest representative in the chilly, unreal fluorescence of our small town airport at 5:30 a.m. as she informed me deadpan and uncaring that my nine large, heavy pieces of luggage and I were in the wrong terminal for check in.

In the middle? Half way across the Pacific, claustrophobic and clammy-hot, tired beyond endurance of my three small children, their whining, their short attention spans, their unending wallowing. Breathing, just breathing to keep from exploding with the need for no one to be touching me, for them to leave my space, the uncomfortably small, constricted space assigned to me for those ten miserable hours. To please just sit in their own seats, quiet and still so that I could read a book, watch a movie, take a nap. Anything to make a small portion of the avalanche of minutes we must sit in those seats pass by a little faster. Anything to glance at the trip clock and find that an hour had actually passed, not three excruciating minutes.

Should I tell you about how I let Ess fall asleep without putting a diaper on her not once, but twice, and soak herself and two different airplane seats with urine. Yes, we are that family. We are the family that pees in airplane seats, the reason that 20/20 and Sixty Minutes can do special reports about the foulness of public seating.

Should I tell you about changing Gee and Que in the airless torture chambers also known as airplane restrooms. Maybe I should write about the family bathroom and changing facility in the Narita airport that was so spacious and sterile and high tech, it brought tears of thankfulness to my eyes. How I wanted to get down on my knees and worship at its child friendly bathroom holiness. How you have to touch nothing. You don't even have to wipe. It has a button that initiates rinsing. I know. I cried a little.

All of that might bore you. Near the end might be better? Picture Matt and I enduring the four hour lay over in Japan with clenched teeth and gritty eyes. Our patience spent, our children hyperactive with over tiredness, loud and brash and naughty, knocking things over and climbing on chairs and bothering people as we struggled to control them through an exhausted fog. The final three hour flight to Saipan, where blissfully, finally, they all slept (we heard angels from on high singing). We could close our eyes for a few hours and doze to the metallic hum of the plane engines propelling us back out over the dark Pacific.

At the end? As we staggered up two flights of concrete stairs to our second story apartment at 2:00 a.m. Saipan time, a little over twenty-four hours after I locked our back door for the final time, jet lagged and bleary with exhaustion, arms full of bags and discarded clothing and children. The sickening moment when Gee stumbled forward toward the railing and met nothing but air, the concrete slats too wide to stop him, and fell headfirst nine feet to the concrete stairs below. Our dizzy, disbelieving nausea when Matt reached him and he was unmarked, completely unhurt except for a small bruise on his forehead.

Should I tell you how we sat, hours later, with the children finally in bed, shaky and disoriented, and Matt said, it's like we won the lottery. I nodded. Better than if we won the lottery. Who wouldn't trade everything they had, every penny they owned to bring their child safely through a deadly momentary lapse of their judgment?

I actually think I started in exactly the right place. Just passed the end. Safe and somewhat rested. Later that morning when the balmy dawn woke our jet lagged babies. As history was made half a world away, we loaded them into our borrowed Ford Escort (I squeezed my ass, and I do mean squeezed into the entirely too narrow wedge of seat between the two car seats in the back seat), and drove down to a local doughnut shop for coffee and treats. We carried them to the closest beach, jubilant, drunk on sunshine and trade winds and the little ones' infectious excitement. We sipped our coffee (oh, glorious caffeine) and watched them while they marveled, laughing uproariously, at the soft white sand and let the bathwater warm Pacific lap their toes and threw seashells into the surf. Breathing deeply, letting the salty tropical breeze blow our doubts and our fears and the lingering uncertainty away.

That's the end. Of the trip, anyway. The beginning of our three month adventure. Three days later, I am reveling in the freedom of our uprooted existence. The lack of schedule. The fact that I don't care if they drip sand and seawater across the floor. That, in the absence of their basement full of boring toys, they are able to play for an hour with two matchbox cars and a pile of shoes.

As intoxicating as it is, I know a completely unfettered life is a life not lived. The charm lies, to some extent, in the knowledge that the commitments of home lie waiting, the strings are only stretched, not cut. But, for now, I'm going to treasure the time we have. Treat this precious, open, sun drenched time as the gift that it is.

And try not to let any one important drown.

The pool at our apartment with view.

Don't you? Wanna be him? A little? Maybe nibble him a tiny bit?

Yikes. Breathe. We don't come up this way anymore.

A local resort and water park.

If I could put time in a bottle... Don't know the reason, I stayed here all season... For five points and a chance for a package from Saipan, name those tunes. Also, huge props to Renee at Cutie Booty Cakes and Katy at Funny Girl. They tracked me down to name that tune in the last post on which I wimpily closed comments. Five points each because I loves them like tropical sunshine and for ingenuity. Tomorrow, I am coming to a blog near you, to read and comment and reimmerse. I have time.

So Long, Farewell

I'm officially tired. The final preparations have whupped my butt, I've been cleaning for the last three hours, my back hurts and I'm certain I've forgotten to pack several vital items, but we're ready. As ready as we'll ever be. We leave the house at 5:30 a.m. tomorrow for our grand adventure.

I have that familiar mixture of excitement and fear in my stomach that I remember so well from my world traveling days. I know I won't sleep tonight. I'll remember some small item, lying in bed at 3:00 a.m., and rise to tuck it into a pocket that's not quite stuffed full yet and that will be it. I'll consider the clock and the two hours until departure and give in to my overactive brain.

It's all right. Sleep is overrated. The children are sleeping, soundly, with no idea of the changes ahead. They take things day by day, lucky darlings. They couldn't care less where I stuck the portable DVD charger (unless the movies won't play and then, heaven help us) or whether I have enough diapers, they won't check the passports over and over like an insane person all day tomorrow. They'll just delight in the airplanes and whine when they get tired and hungry and bored and sleep the sleep of the innocent (oh please god let them sleep the sleep of the something) curled up in their seats on the ten hour leg to Japan.

My excitement built all day, with each good bye, each loose end tied and tucked, each item checked off the list. I remember this feeling, the possibilities, the closing of one existence and opening of oneself to another. Once upon a time, I did it for months at a time with only this backpack.




Look at me. Hands free. Such mobility. Such ease of passage. I scoffed at the weighed down and over packed ones.

Tomorrow, we won't travel quite so light.


I mean, holy ever loving luggage, could we have any more crap? Karma is a bitch, I believe. The three on top are the important ones, the rest are just extras. I'm sorry Portland and Narita. That whirling dervish of noise and whining, dirty, possibly smelly children? Just ignore it. It will move on eventually.

I'm going to close comments on this one because I can't possibly respond. To all my friends who visit me here, I'm sorry. Visiting blogs and responding to emails and acknowledging lovely awards has fallen by the wayside, sad victim to the last mad rush. It sucks. I miss you all! Next week, I'm going to find a nice spot in the tropical sun, dig my toes into the sand, and finally catch up properly. Until then...

The sun has gone to bed and so must I, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.