You Are a Big Sister

I don't remember much about my mom being pregnant, and by that I mean I remember none of it.  I vaguely recall putting my hand on a pregnant belly and feeling a baby kick.  I can only assume that was my mother's stomach and my brother's kick. 

I remember going to the hospital and through a window seeing a room full of babies--all wrapped in blankets, all pretty much doing the same thing.  By that I mean nothing. I remember being lifted up to see through the window and I remember being told which one was my brother.  At that moment all those other babies disappeared and it became just him and me. I can't tell you who the adult was that took me to see him and even if it was the same person to pick me up and point him out.  I can only tell  you someone did.  I assume my dad.

And so it began...  A life that would always be about little brother and big sister.

I had to sit in the corner of the gray plaid couch when they brought him home.  I could not hold him if I wasn't' in the corner (the armrest would help keep his head up).  The gray plaid couch was against the wall, the corner was by the kitchen entrance.  Someone brought him in the front door (my parents?) I just waited in the corner of the couch for him to be handed to me. 

Our parents divorced when we were young and as a result (or maybe as intended) I became the little grown up when it came to my brother. I was always looking out for him.  Even the time when I famously fed the newborn baby spaghetti.  He was crying, I figured he was hungry.  I had no idea even as a smart and awesome 4 year old that he couldn't actually eat spaghetti.  Besides, he lived.

I don't remember ever truly fighting as kids (I mean there were those few times our uncles would get us to fight, but that stopped when little brother could over power me and I suspect when my mom found out).

I remember dressing up in our superhero pajamas and "flying" all around the house.  The gray plaid couch was a favorite launching pad. We fought evil together never even breaking a lamp.

I remember when he would write Elvis as his first name on papers during his 2nd grade year. He'd later buy me my first Janis Joplin Christmas ornament.

I remember when his best friend punched me, leaving a scar above my nose (you can still see it) and my brother pounded him. He proudly still tells this story.  In the dating years, he often reminded me of this story. 

I remember when he was leaning on my aunt's car door and it opened and he rolled out.  I remember jumping out and running after him to protect him from cars.  I was fine. He had a broken leg from the fall.  My mom was not so pleased...and by that I mean not at all.

I remember when our home smoke alarm went off (the cause ended up being smoke from the fireplace).  I remember my brother down on the floor by my bed waking me up to get out of the house.  I remember in my sleepiness thinking he should not have risked his life to get me. (I no longer sleep through such things).

I remember when I started proofing his English and term papers and he started checking my math homework.

I remember many a lecture given to him over many decades.  Even so, there have only been 2 times I can remember seriously being angry towards him.

On Saturday, he will get married.  Luckily, she's already like a sister to me.

Congrats: You've Been Shut Off.

I didn't pay the gas bill.   They shut us off; owed amount:  $98.

There was a time long ago that if the gas bill wasn't paid it's because we didn't have the money.  Sometimes it was very close to being shut off before we got it paid.  It was only shut off once, in Winter. Gabriel was 3 months old. I can still describe the exact outfit, location, and words as I cried into the phone, please, I have a baby.  Rotation was key when funds were low: electric one month; gas one month; pay this 5 days late so this isn't shut off.  It was stressful. It made you feel like a horrible failure, it made me cry.

I didn't pay the gas bill.  I forgot.

Earlier this week, I was thinking about my outfit for my brother's wedding, well the accessories to the dress.  Strappy 3 inch heels, black.  I have worn them a million times to different formal affairs.  Yesterday, I went to get them to take to my alteration appointment only to realize I no longer had them.  They had been worn a million times, since high school.  They were probably donated several years back.

I forgot I didn't have them anymore. I will wear another pair. 

I was doing really well with my workout regime until 2 weeks in glasses set me back after 2 weeks of insane schedule. 2+2=4.  I put off scheduling a dress alteration until I couldn't wait any more.  I was afraid the dress would no longer fit.  I don't use a scale, but I guesstimate in the last year I have gained about 7 pounds. I am only 5'1, it all goes to the same two spots.  It might as well be 30 pounds.  I am miserable about it.

Sometimes I rather just sit or work on falling asleep then do anything else.

A few weeks back I showed up an hour early for Gabriel's baseball game.  I had the times mixed up and rushed us out the door for no reason.

I had the correct time on the calendar, I just never thought to look.

At work, I am always saying slow down.  I coach people to do this.  In the midst of being pulled in multiple directions, I try to tell myself to slow down too.  I wake up in the middle of the night and think of 5 things I need to do.

I log on and do them, afraid I won't remember when I am actually awake at a normal time. 

I'm trying to focus more on me, more on my family.  I have come up with multiple time management improvements and multi-tasking goals (two strengths until current job, which seems to take everything to the next level). I have thought of a few goals to do this-personal and professional.  I was feeling really good about it.

...and then our gas was shut off.

I cried.  Not because I didn't have the $98, but because I failed at something so basic.  A huge inconvenience until it's turned on tomorrow, 20 minutes on the phone spent by my husband for a bill that's my responsibility.  Both of us home from crap/stressful days, to something that was completely and totally controllable that instead just caused more stress.

Just one more thing.  It's always just one more thing.

Somehow, I wish that tomorrow I was going to a meaningless job, where I'd only "work" 8 hours, where I'd take an actual lunch, where so many people wouldn't need me at once, where I didn't feel stress and pressure as constants. 

Where I had to decide if I was paying electric or gas, but never forgot either one.

Things You Can Hear at the Zoo and Let's Make It a True Daily Double, Alex.

During my pregnancy, I walked and ran the zoo for exercise. After having Gabriel, I'd pack him up and either stroller or Bjorn him throughout the zoo for hours at a time, up the hills multiple times. I lost my baby weight at the zoo.

I actually wrote in to a magazine after reading a family friendly places article and they posted my comment re: the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo.

If my nieces and nephew have a say in the program at my funeral, it will probably say:

Aunt Janine, she took us to the zoo and did a lot of crafts with us.

Needless to say, we spend a lot of time at the zoo. My almost 9 year old, can give you directions if you are lost and laughs at those walking around with maps. He also yells sissy train at the train riders but that's another story...

I do not know if it's because I am educated, the daughter of educated parents, who actually spent time with me and taught me, always had a love of reading, or just actually have common sense, but the things you can over hear at the zoo can make you worry for the future, want to slap someone in the back of the head ala Gibbs from NCIS, and shake your head.

Here is a sampling:

Child: Mom, what do you call a female lion? Mom: a tiger.
for the record: this would be a lioness.

Mom at Potbelly Seahorses: that must be the male because his belly is so big. The males deliver the babies.
for the record: the males don't deliver the babies, they carry the EGGS in their pouch after the female leaves them there. If one actually reads the sign by the potbelly seahorses, one would know this. Literacy is important...


Adult: wow, seahorses are so small, I always thought they were larger.
for the record: seahorses are only large in fairy tales and the potbelly seahorse is a "larger" seahorse. Yes, this exhibit is my nemesis.
Child: why is Mr. Potato head in with the octopus? Adult: maybe it's a baby octopus.
for the record, it stimulates the animals minds to have thinking toys, zoo staff can also learn more re: the animals based on what they do/don't do, and numerous signs and info provided by the zoo will inform guests of this...oh and octopus are very smart.



and let's not forget Earth Day:

I made the mistake of going to the zoo on Earth Day once.  Many people explained the crowd being due to opening day.  No people, this is not a Tribe game.  The Zoo is open every day of the year EXCEPT Christmas and New Years Day. 

As if this wasn't enough...

A Boy Scout leader informed me that it's a man's duty to camp and put up a tent and us women folk should stay clear.  Really...because I can not only put up a tent in record time, I can make you pitch one too.  Move out of my way idiot.  Before I show you how good I am with a hunting riffle. Please note I don't believe in hunting as sport.  *you are free to your own opinion*.

I am all about freedom of speech, I support people speaking their minds even if I don't agree (heck half my family has political views I don't necessarily agree with)... BUT don't shove propaganda in my child's hand when you think I didn't notice (oh I noticed) especially when it is full of graphic images.

Needless to say, I no longer go to the zoo on "Opening Day".  I save that for sporting seasons.

Welcome Summer!

The Day I Will Never Forget-Warning Parents You will Hug Your Kids

Just typing the title brings tears to my eyes. I have to pause before I can type again.

Breathe in, and breathe out.

It started off like any other Summer Saturday. We all slept in, the coffee was brewed, my husband took his coffee and the paper to the backyard. Gabriel and the dog, Arlo, followed. I lagged behind a little, grabbed a magazine after setting my coffee down on the bar counter in the tv room.

Deep breathe, and out. Slowly.

I heard it...Just typing that makes me fold my hands in prayer and I operate as an agnostic. Michael must have dropped a patio chair, maybe one of the gardening tools came down. I was still inside the house. I heard it...

Michael yelled my name. It hadn't occurred to me, how could it. I wasn't afraid. I walked outside.

My baby was on the concrete. On his back. Not moving. A broken arm I told myself. We have our first break.

Deep breathe, and release. Slowly.

"Get the keys" my nurse husband said. He had fear in his voice. This was not a break. My husband grew up sewing wounds with fishing line and pulling bullets from friends. This was not a broken arm. His tone told me so.

We live 10 minutes from Southwest Hospital. It made no sense to wait for an ambulance. We'd be at the ER before they arrived.

I grabbed my keys. I don't remember letting the dog back in, but somehow we did. Gabriel. My baby. He wasn't moving. He wasn't responding.

The noise...the noise...the noise was his head hitting the concrete path in our back yard. His head hitting the concrete path...in our backyard. He was playing with the dog. They collided. He flipped. He landed on his head. The noise...

Breathe. In and out. Deep Breathe and Exhale.

I didn't stop at any lights on the main road. The police could ticket me in the ER parking lot. I beeped as I ran one, then two, then three red lights.

Breathe. In and out.

Thoughts raced in my head. What if... What if... What if... I can't type the thoughts.

Breathe...he's still not moving...in and out.

What's that noise? Gabriel. He spoke. He had heard the horn.

Michael rushed him in ER while I parked.

I ran in. Security was waiting for me. Please walk, don't fall. He's in here. He was a dad, I knew he was. He had to be, he read the anguish on my face and the thoughts in my mind.

My husband was watching as every ER doctor and nurse on duty surrounded our son. He looked so tiny. I watched from the entrance to the room.

My husband's fists were clenching and his arms still. He didn't know how to be in ER and not be a nurse. He didn't know how to be a dad and not be a nurse. Not helping, not leading the people just like him caring for our son. He did way better than I would have in his shoes.

Actually, he was barefoot. They kept trying to get him to put the hospital slippers on his feet. It took awhile to register what he was holding in his hands.

He's moving all limbs the nurse said as she turned around to face us. She was a mom, she read my face. Come on, she said and called me to the bed. She knew I wouldn't believe it until I saw for myself.

He squeezed my hand, he moved his feet. Why are you crying, mommy?

Gabriel has no recollection of this event. The doctor's said he probably wouldn't.

But as the weather changes... Gabriel and his dog are playing outside today.

I remember. Deep breathes, and exhale. Slowly.

Mom, mom, I need 4 straws and a beaker. Gabriel we don't have a beaker. Mom, hurry! I hand him 4 straws and as he runs back outside, he shouts behind him, mom, Arlo is waiting by the door for me. He loves me.

Deep breathes, and exhale.

I can't hold his hand forever. But I do wish I could.

The Elevator Announced My Floor

My first job out of college was at a Cleveland based Law Firm located in the BP Building. I had sent my unsolicited resume to HR, interviewed and landed the job before it was ever posted. I started my post college life as a Legal Assistant/Paralegal. I thought I would go to law school.

My first impression of the building upon arrival for my first interview, was holy smokes the elevator talks. I think this was a main motivator for working there. I had never been in an elevator that spoke before.

I felt very grown up working downtown, living on my own, wearing business clothes every day, and I never got tired of the elevator telling me what floor I was on. I took the bus every day, except when running late and then I would drive. Despite my mid 20s salary, I would park in the BP Garage, $12 a day. It was not a smart expenditure. Walking into the building from the garage in my business clothes with all the other suits, made me feel special. Never mind that I got out of a sporty Saturn and they mostly drove BMWs. I really miss that Saturn by the way.

For the last several years, I have gotten my hair cut in The Arcade (see previous posts). This worked great when I worked downtown. I'd stroll over after work or on lunch. My car was already parked as 99% of the time I drove to work, mostly business casual attire, salary not in the mid 20s.

Now, I have to drive and park for the purpose of a hair cut (love my hair guy that much and not just because he's easy on the eyes). Most of the time I manage to find street parking. Sometimes I park in the lot I used to park in for work, but if there is an event, the jacked up price is more than I am willing to pay. This past time I was going to valet as I had the time before, cheaper than any of the lots if there is an event.

I don't have much patience, probably less so behind the wheel, so when the valet was backed up with no real chance of taking my car in the next 5-10 minutes, I did what anyone, who was going to be late for an appointment, would do...I reversed down Superior and pulled into the BP lot. It's $5 on Saturdays, assuming no events.

After my hair appointment, I entered the BP Building to withdraw money from my bank's ATM. Afterall, I had to get out of the parking lot. I hadn't been in the building for a few years. I hadn't entered the building from the garage in over a decade.

I won't lie, I felt cool when I entered the building. I was taken back to my 22 year old self. Plus, damn did my hair look good. I went to the ATM and then I walked into the building's atrium, I always loved the plants, it felt like you were in a park. I stayed for a few minutes and then went back to my car. The rest of my day needed to happen and it wasn't taking place in the atrium of the BP Building.

As I walked back to my car, I thought about how long ago it all seemed. A few months before I left the firm for another job, they had offered me an HR Assistant position. They thought I'd be really good in HR. I declined, still thinking I would go to law school. At the end of the week in which I was promoted to HR Manager, I climbed in my SUV and smiled. I guess a law firm knew me more than I knew myself when I was 22.

The Coffee Table

My husband moved out on his own when he was 18 and knew it all. He took with him clothing, a pillow case and pillow, and perhaps a few other random possessions. A coffee table was passed down to him.

When we first moved in together, I began the pain of redecorating a man's house aka what all awesome girlfriends accomplish. Of course, what this means is I got rid of the trash, broken items, tacky items, items with holes, items with, well... no real comfort, style, appeal...basically his things. It is not my fault that his things fell into this category. It's just factual...ask any girlfriend.

Please understand, I am not a pack rat, I purge my house every season. I do not like clutter, I do not like junk, and most of all, I do not like disorganization. So I had been purging my things for some time. My mom can attest to this, during my childhood, she never had to tell me to clean my room. So again, also not my fault that the majority of items to purge were, well...his.

There was one item that stuck out like a sore thumb...the coffee table. The coffee table was heavy, solid wood, scratched, old, and large in a room of other large items. I knew I'd never get rid of it, this was an untouchable item.

Over the years, we had a child, moved to another rental house, bought a house, and married. The coffee table came with us each step of the way, heavy, hard to move (not that I lifted it...), good for storage, hard on your toes, if you accidentally knocked into it in the dark, sleep deprived to nurse a crying baby. Just saying.

Several years ago, I had the coffee table restored. I knew I would need to decorate around it, and I needed it in it's prime. Oh, and my husband would like it too. It's return to prime time, gave me an idea. I pictured a couch, several versions in my head, the perfect compliment to the restored table. I searched for 3 years. I'd be a decorator's nightmare. Then, as if Jupiter had aligned with Mars, and peace was guiding the planets, love steered me right to my couch, on Facebook, for sale: must go.

Our living room is now not only almost completed, but we now use it--you don't have to sit on the floor.

The other day, I was working, laptop on the coffee table, I looked out the window. I saw calm on a suburban street. I picked up my tea glancing at the coffee table, then out the window. It hit me, only this time my toes were not injured, there was no crying baby, he's 8.

The coffee table now sitting in a living room, a room in a house we own, a room that we hardly used before. We own a house with a room we hardly used. I looked around me. This is my life, this is what we've accomplished...and the coffee table has been there each step of the way.

Party of Perfect, Table for Zero

For awhile, I have been trying to get myself to remember how I did this working mom gig previously. This weekend I read an article about the working mom's work life balance lie. It wasn't an in-depth research article, with NYU study citations and books written by Harvard grads in the footnotes. It was written by a working mom about...(shockingly)... her own life.

Reality is you are not going to work 15 hour days, work out, clean the house, fold the laundry, make a 5 course dinner, make out with your husband, check homework, and put your kid(s) to bed every day and then wax your legs, pluck your brows, and polish your nails...without help and a little downgrade on the expectations you have for yourself. This last part may be the hardest part of all. AND it doesn't mean you have to gain weight, have unruly brows, or be a Kardashian.

I can't look to the past for how to do it now. In the past, my step daughter lived with us. She was old enough for 1-2 hours of unexpected child care, to sweep a floor, run a vacuum, and occasionally start dinner. In the past, a bad week was 45-50 hours, not 60-70. In the past, my husbands shifts were just that shifts: he didn't need relief to come to leave his floor, he just needed the clock to read a certain time. In the past, Gabriel didn't have homework, he went to bed earlier, he didn't have sports. In the past, I could eat a cupcake without much thought.

I can't look at a mistake as a sign that irresponsible immature Janine has surfaced. Sometimes, life happens. I mixed up a soccer schedule when Gabriel's practice day changed. I forgot to confirm plans with friends I haven't seen in awhile, and then never met them. It took me 2 weeks to reschedule an eye appointment the doctor's office had to move.

I have been beating myself up for the last 6 months: every time I don't get on the treadmill, every time laundry isn't done, every time I leave the dishes in the sink/dishwasher, every time (fill in the blank), every time I don't call someone I have been meaning to, or make dinner plans with our friends, every time I go to sleep instead of doing any of the above. But most of all I have been beating myself up for time lost. Gabriel is 8 and soon he will be 17 and he won't want to watch a movie with me and he won't want to show me his awesome new kung fu move against the pillow...10 times. I need to enjoy more and worry less.

So I have started looking at things in the present:

Never in my life have I had the desire to make a 5 course meal in any regularity. Case and point, today I asked my 8 year old if he knew where the cheese grater was. Why do I think I suddenly need to this now?

Today, I watched my blackberry buzz off the kitchen table. It was 11am, I was off, Gabriel was putting a game in the Wii. I picked up the buzzing "find Janine device", I looked at it. 45 emails. I put it down and I played Pac Man Party with my 8 year old. I was off.

Gabriel took a bath, he rarely does this, he is a shower kid. He yelled mom, come see my great water bending move. When half the water in the tub ended up on my floor, I didn't yell or sigh, I didn't get a towel, I laughed. and then we laughed.

I made a work out schedule again, not in-depth, but realistic. It will kick my butt for awhile, but than my butt will look awesome in the jeans I have been eying at Lucky.

and you see, the thing is, I feel better already. AND I am taking Friday off.