The sun has set not long ago

UPDATED 9/21 - :Another new post. The sun has set not long ago, now everyone goes down below... Or, to Munuviana, as the case may be. (With thanks to Sandra Boynton) See what picture won the contest!* Enjoy a photopost of the perfect day in Chicago! Read CD and I's love story! All this and more can be found on the new CorporateMommy site (still under construction) at: Corporate Mommy at Mu.Nu * - stay tuned for the CONTEST WINNERS!!

As always, copyright belongs to Elizabeth (09/18/2004)

Phone Calls You Don't Want to Get

So... it was a dark and stormy night- errr, morning. OK, it was actually bright and cool. Work with me here. I was in my office working, door shut. CD was at his computer. He was about to head out for the day so our babysitter of 3+ years, Elia, was over and taking care of Bear. CD's cell phone rang. It was Elia. On HER cell phone. CD: "Hello??" Elia: "Hello, CD? Could you come open the door please?" CD: "Where are you?" Elia: "Outside on the front steps." CD found this news fascinating because Bear, well Bear was INSIDE the house watching cartoons. Turns out? Bear was pissed off that Elia has come to watch him because he'd wanted Daddy to stay home. So while he and Elia had been playing outside, he'd waited until Elia was just out of range and then raced into the house and, yes, LOCKED.THE.DEADBOLT after himself. The one that can NOT be opened from the outside. Close your eyes and just imagine the Armageddon that ensued once CD had put together the scenario in his mind. Yelling? Yup. Steam from ears? You betcha. Stream of consciousness lecturing that would do an Oxford scholar proud? Aye, man! Preschooler over Daddy's shoulder into his room and into the corner for the world's most incredible time-out? Oh yeah, you know it. But punishment just upped the decibel level. Once he was freed from the corner, the unrepentant Bear lay on his bed - rejecting Elia's attempts to talk to him and throwing a force-10 tantrum. He was kicking the wall and crying and gnashing and wailing "I don't LIKE you and I don't LIKE Daddy!!". Oh, it was drama to beat the band here at CorporateMommy Central, my friend. I ejected myself from the office to see if I could help. In the den, I found CD. He was apeshit. He stood in the middle of the room with his hands outstretched in supplication and his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "What?" I asked. "It's just... it's just... I thought we had YEARS before he started locking his babysitter out of the house. " He's a flipping prodigy, I tell you.

Breslan

Picture courtesy of Logic & Sanity

I have been haunted by the Breslan tragedy.

I haven't been sleeping well. I have been hugging and snuggling my son within an inch of his life. I have set up a little workstation in my office and I've been having him "work" next to me when CD is doing other things. I don't care what that does to my job.

I am becoming even more overprotective, and I'm probably doing all sorts of un-good things to my son's psyche. It won't last; it's just for now. Until I find a way to buffer myself from this reality, and believe that it won't happen here. That it can't happen here.

I've done it before. Columbine. 9/11. I've seen the horrors before, and been afraid, and found a way to find again a sense of safety - real or imagined - in my little world.

Soon, I will once again blithely bring my son to the little schoolroom with the aquarium full of goldfish and the clock that tweets the hour and believe he is in a safe place.

But for now, I am haunted by adults who plan to harm children. I keep thinking about how it wasn't one screwed up homicidal sonofabitch that accidentally killed some kids. I keep thinking that these adults, these holy warriors, planned it. Looked through lens of a weapon and saw chubby cheeked little faces, and felt vindicated in squeezing the trigger.

I am nauseated with confusion. What cause is more important than the moral imperative as a species to nurture and protect the next generation to be better than ourselves?

How do you deny humanity and target the most innocent, most vulnerable amongst us?

I keep thinking, those kids. Those frightened kids.

Kids who believed in fairies and superheroes. Kids who believed that mommy kisses magically make hurts all better. Kids who believed that monsters could live under the bed. And then the monsters came into their classrooms and tortured them And the monsters looked like adults - the kind that checked their teeth at the dentist's office or coached their football teams.

Kids who died, after suffering hours of pain and fear and learning that their protectors - teachers and parents - were helpless to save them.

I have been haunted by Breslan.

How? When did killing children - deliberately, painfully - become a group activity aimed at any purpose? When did this become our world? I thought 9/11 was the depths of depravity, and now I no longer have the imagination to know how low we will go.

I have been haunted by Breslan.

I am afraid.

Ch...ch...changes (Or, does Jesus make you stupid?)

The "MASTHEAD" voting continues! Please weigh in! Influence the new look of Corporate Mommy! There will be Prizes! Gratitude! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jay, over at Zero Boss has this wonderful contest every month. This month the Blogging for Books topic was Changes and unfortunately I didn't get my post up in time. It's been a busy 2 weeks (drove 1250 miles, Bear's birthday, CD's birthday, the birthday parties, our wedding anniversary, an out of town guest, unpacking from 18 days away, my brother's injury (and upcoming neurosurgery), porting over to Mu.Nu (a big yay, but still...), getting caught up at work, etc.)... - WELL! You can see that I've probably been so busy reacting to things that I haven't had time to actually blog about them. Likewise, I've only been marginally able to keep up with the doings of all my favorite bloggers. Still. Still. This is too late now, but I'd like to share it anyway. Ch...ch...changes Me? When it comes to beliefs - I have no lightning bolt moment. I have always felt "God" near. I have always thought the message of Jesus Christ was that of love. I've always, as far back as my memory reaches, been involved with my church and faith (Episcopalian, for those keeping score). And I've always wanted to be part of the solution. So when I moved into the city (Chicago) when I was 25, I took myself over to the Episcopal Cathedral office building and said "OK, what needs doing?" I was immediately tackled to the ground by a horde of understaffed employees. After the dust settled, it was decided that I could start by interpreting, into sign language, the Bishop's next sermon. (Me and sign language is another story.) A few Sundays later, I showed up early for services and was outfitted, rather crudely, into a spare cassock and told to stand next to the lectern. They had me start out there, so I just interpreted the whole service rather than look like a human statue. The place was full as you can imagine - a real turnout because Frank, the bishop, was presiding for the first time in months. I felt obvious, and a little embarrassed. Was I was interpreting for the sake of the Church seeming "inclusive"? I would have bet there wasn't a deaf person in a 5-mile radius. But I grimly pressed on. Finally, Frank stepped up and began to speak. His sermon that day was about his recent trip to Israel and the Middle East. I was struck by his warm, compelling voice. Frank, it was immediately clear, was incredibly sincere. As he talked, he revealed a deep sense of humor and a profound aura of faith. I was blown away. He talked about his trip. About meeting people of many religions and beliefs. Of being gutted with the tragic reality of the region - the clashing, bomb-ridden screams of incompatible righteousness. Frank talked about wearing a pilgrim's ring and a pilgrim's eyes and seeking for the concrete symbols of his inner spirituality. As he talked, and I was woven into his spell, my hands grew more and more eloquent and pure. Sign language lends itself to picture-stories. Finally, Frank reached a moment in his journey where he decided he could no longer be a pilgrim. He removed his ring, and laid it as an offering beneath an underground fissure said to be a Holy place. As Frank said the words, my hands drew the pictures. I slipped an unseen ring from my hand and gently placed at the base of Frank's pulpit. We both grew still. I could not interpret words that had not been said. And he was so caught up in my interpreting that he stopped speaking. We looked at each other, in a full church, and the moment swelled. The congregation didn't know if they should chuckle or cry. Finally he reached out and touched my hands with his. Letting go, he said "like that. Exactly". And he was done. I was shivering. I don't remember the rest of the service. Except that, as everyone was leaving, an elderly lady signed to me from the doorway "Thank you." Later, Frank called me into his office overlooking Chicago in the twilight afternoon. He asked me to become a chaplain, and I agreed, and we had the first of what would become a series of conversations about faith and fundamentalism; about journey and calling. We signed some papers, and a few weeks later I had a job description and a locker at the cathedral and a cassock to put in it - one that was tailored for me by one of the volunteers. This was involvement on a whole new level, and it consumed a great part of my life. It was many years later that I surrendered the cassock willingly and left for another path and another destination. Frank had been promoted away from the bishopric and with him went my desire to work for the diocese. I became a civilian, and had to relearn living. It was a long, painful change that took years. But I must have succeeded because people now never guess that I was once "in black". That suits me fine, most days. But I'm not "undercover" pretending to be something I'm not. I changed careers and lifestyles, but I didn't change my fundamental belief system. I neither hide nor shout my faith - I live in it. So there are the occasional moments like the one a few weeks ago. After a brief exchange about terrorism, a work acquaintance had a sudden, strong reaction to something I said (that was pretty bland, or so I thought). He asked me, with a horrified look, "You're a Bible thumper?". It was pretty obvious that he was thinking "Doesn't that make you stupid - and possibly ignorant?". This. This is how much my life has changed. "Yes I believe it is my duty to Love God and Love My Neighbor. Yes, some might say that I'm a-thumper." The co-worker looked at me, aghast. Was I joking? Senior management? A... What WAS I? "Look," I said. "I'm a Christian. If you want to know what that means to me, feel free to ask. I love having conversations of faith - mine, yours, whatever. But I can just as easily discuss the dessert menu." He looked at me for a long time. I looked back. I used to live in a world where spirituality was the first foot forward. A daily blend of people in open, ongoing conversations. Of Christians and Jews, of Muslims and Wiccans. I used to plan Interfaith breakfasts and spend late nights eating cold pizza while puzzling out grant forms. I used to serve in 4 services every Sunday. I used to knock back with a Rabbi and a Priest and a Priestess (or two). I used to live in a world where we were weaving the differences together; always seeking platforms for peace. Not anymore. He ordered the chocolate souffle. And a nice, medium-price port.

UPDATED: Masthead Contest!

9/12/2004 - BIG NEWS!! ANNA (wonderful Anna) has done an amazing job of making me a mu.nu site based on the prohibitive favorite - Masthead #1. Check it out! Because of your feedback, I've added TWO new tries at a masthead. This is the extent of my Photoshop skills. If you have ideas on how to do better - PLEASE email me and let me know. Once a masthead is chosen and the site is up - I am having Corporate Mommy mugs and/or T-shirts made to thank people for all your support and help. (I'm going to let Bear pick some of the commenters by random, like Genuine did - because the best ideas can always be stolen). Here are the current candidates: (remember: fonts/colors can be changed) Masthead #1 Masthead #2 Masthead #3 Masthead#4 Masthead #5

Well, Happy Birthday to Ya

CD's birthday was 9/11

CD, eating Ice Cream on Old Orchard strip by the pier

CD and Bear, headed up to the beach

This site will be porting over to mu.nu this week, so I thought I would take the opportunity to finally post some CD pictures while this site was still active and vent a little pride.

There's no one in the world I'd rather be sharing this adventure with.

You know what I mean?

To-Do List (Yo! Anna!)

1) Find Anna's email address, take her up on her offer 2) Migrate to the New site if it's the last thing I do. In fact, (holding up right hand, typing with left... ) "I solemnly swear that I will not reach 100 posts in Blogger. I WILL get off this limiting host... I will enjoy the freedom and community that is Munuviana, I will..." (ooh, left hand hurts..!) 3) I will create/steal/beg for a better banner 4) I WILL throw a birthday party for my son tomorrow night 5) And I WILL get all my work done. Like they pay me for already also... 6) I WILL call Cathy back. I miss my phone buddies too... P.S. Plug WomanChild's beautiful photo-post

Just 3 more days...

Until the deadline of Jay's most recent Blogging for Books!

Please! I need MT Help!

As you may know, I was - amazingly - allowed to join the hallowed ranks of Munuvia last month. In the meantime, we have had birthdays and 3000 miles on the van and all sorts of other distractions (most good, some not so much). Today at lunch, I sat down and rolled up my sleeves and said to myself - "Self? It's time to learn MT 2.x and get this website up and roaring" Here's the progress: - I have confirmed that Jennifer, at Scriptygoddess, is indeed, a goddess - Likewise Movable Style - I have discovered that 12 Tylenols do not a lunch make - I made a banner heading... THAT I HATE This shouldn't be so hard, right? I want a template like the one I have now - a centered table. Like everday stranger or drunken bee. 2 columns - 1 for posts and 1 for stuff. But not spanning the whole page. Anybody? Please? My gratitude awaits....

Slow Boat to Chicago; An illustrated travelogue

".... it was like having a giant thudding vibrator strapped to our heads. The only relief would come on the open upward stretches, when the van simply buzzed around us" This is the first installment of the how we came home - Boston to Pennsylvania, 580 miles. Massachusetts Start time: 6AM, Sunday Morning Route: Mass Pike - 134 miles Time: 5 hours 15 minutes Our alarms were set for 5:30AM and it was still dusky dark when we pulled out of my mom's driveway. We hit Dunkin Donuts (CD - "Can we get going already?") and then put our backs to the sunrise and hopped the highway towards the Mass Pike. As soon as we hit 50 mph, the antique door that we had bought at New England Salvage and strapped to the roof rack started making a horrible noise; "thwacka thwacka THWACKATHWACKA!" We pulled over and rearranged the door. Bear, almost asleep in the back, groaned. 20 more miles. 30 more minutes of "THWACKA thwacka THWACKA!" Holy crap, we were barely to Worcester and we couldn't go over 50mph without rendering ourselves senseless with the noise. We stopped to readjust that ^(*&*$#@! door about a dozen times. We came thisclose to hucking it into a drainage ditch. There are some serious hills on the Mass Pike. The road is forcibly wedged into rock cliffs, the striations from the dynamite blasts still visible. As the road narrowed, the 'thwacka' noise would increase - it was like having a giant thudding vibrator strapped to our heads. The only relief would come on the open upward stretches, when the van simply buzzed around us, quietly. By Sturbridge, we were all bonkers. We pulled into the service center and had breakfast, got gas, and ran like banshees in circles. Bear's backseat nest was rearranged and his new Digimon DVD restarted. CD battled the door (again). "Thwacka! ThwackThwackThwackTHWACKA!" for another hour as we gritted our teeth and made for the New York border. New York Hit the border on: Sunday Morning, 11:15AM Route: NY State Thruway - 442 miles Time: 11 hours 45 minutes The first 125 miles of New York state passed in stupor. We were 3 numb bunnies, staring with glassy eyes at the miles of asphalt. We'd passed through miles of construction, beautiful scenery, and glorious weather and never noticed a thing. Thwacka. Thwacka. By Utica, CD had passed back into anger and defiantly pulled off the thruway looking for a Target or something and some kind of solution. What we found instead was a place called Big Lots. We'd never been to a Big Lots before. Oh. My. Stars. Have you ever been to a Big Lots? This is like a nice clean flea market. We found a bunch of Rescue Heroes action figures and stuff for Bear's birthday! We found snacks! We found a bra! We found a cheap, streamlined boombox for Bear! We found a garden sprinkler thing! And best of all? We found a foam egg crate mattress liner! All this, for like 5 bucks. Out in the parking lot, CD and I pulled the %^#@@! door off the van roof, wrapped it in egg crate, and put it back on. We got back on the road. Silence. Oh, the blessing this was. I can't begin to explain. Nirvana. I stuck the cruise control on 72mph and we tried to make up some of our lost time. The next 200 miles spun by in a blur. Other than some bathroom and gas breaks, we sailed into the sunset on wings. In Buffalo, we asked the toll booth guy for directions to his favorite hot wings joint. He sent us to Duffs. Wowza. CD, who is a hot wings gourmand of the highest caliber, purred like a kitten. Bear and I played in the grass with his new action figures. Then we decided, what the heck?! Let's go to Canada. After about 15 minutes waiting about a mile from the border in traffic, we decided that Canada? Not so much. We turned around and headed to Niagara Falls. We pulled into the park just about sunset. Wow. The lookout tower over Niagara It was a 3-hour detour, give or take. We were all physically exerted, fed, and awed by the time we clambered back into the car. The plan was to drive to Erie and spend the night at a hotel. 40 miles later, we pulled into the Angola rest area - which actually sits in the grassy thruway median, accessible via a walking bridge from either side of the highway. We took over the family bathroom (I love family bathrooms) to wash up, brush teeth, change into soft clothes/pajamas, and whatnot. Then we made a family decision - we were feeling strong, it was only around 10 PM. Erie was about an hour or so away - but did we really need to stop? Why not just keep driving until we got tired? So we picked up some coffee and juice, cleaned up the car some and rearranged Bear's nest back into optimal sleeping position. The cool night air was good for a few stretches. 50 miles to the the Pennsylvania border, 550 miles home, a full tank of gas, a sleeping (wait - what time is it here?) 3 year old, a cooler full of juice and snacks, and a quiet door strapped to the roof. Hit it.

Fairy Tales, Do Come True

This is the story we tell every year on this day. The picture (yes! a Bear picture!) is from his 3rd day of life. Once upon a time.... After 120 days of bedrest, we went in for a second Level 2 sonogram. 30 days earlier, we'd discovered you were a boy and that you were not thriving quite the way all those nice people in white coats would have liked. The same technician again, measuring and computing. Finally, we asked "How is he?" She told us you were "Perfect. And very adorable." (well, of course!) "How are his lungs and his weight?" I wanted to know. Your lungs were hard to measure, but your weight was about 1lb, 13 oz. "Is that good?" we asked. The technician smiled and told us that you were now in the 53rd percentile - 3% larger than the average fetus of your gestational age. She was telling us that you had come from behind to the middle of the pack. She could have told us you also had won a special congressional medal of honor for kicking so good and we wouldn't have been happier. At 128 days of bedrest, we were back in the emergency room. They triaged me pretty quickly - after all, we were frequent fliers - and did a fast sonogram. Your heart rate was fine. I was the sick one. I had a virus, and like everything else - moving, eating, filing my nails - it had set off a spike of high blood pressure and contractions. Another visit to Labor and Delivery. We were really scared this time, because they started saying that it might be time to let you finish your great escape. How would you ever survive? Your dad and I sat in silence, and Bear - we prayed. We prayed so awfully hard. And they dripped me full of stuff, and after a few days your dad sprung us - you still safe and sound in your mommy-shaped home. By 236 days of bedrest, the nice people in the white coats decided that it was time, really time, for you to be born. So we called everyone, packed up the car, and then dawdled at home for a long hour discussing the day ahead. It was our last moments as a family of two. They induced at 5PM and from then on the Pitocin contractions never let up. By 9PM, the gang was in place - your dad was excited, your nana arrived from Boston, your Aunt Dee was there, and even El. They were cheering, I was huffing through the pain and walking in circles, and you were tucked in for the long haul. At 1AM, we took a long hot shower. It didn't help. But it was worth it to see your dad looking silly in wet clothes. At 3AM, I was given a narcotic and it knocked me out. Your dad and Aunt Dee would giggle as I would wake up and shout "ow ow ow" with each contraction and then fall back asleep. At 9AM I got an epidural. I turned human again just as it was time to push. At 11AM, I was told I was pushing wrong. At 11:15AM the doctor told us your head was turned the wrong way to be born and manually worked you around to the right position. Your dad was able to see the head the next time I pushed. At 1PM the doctor said "great pushing but Bear hasn't turned all the way and was well and truly stuck." 2PM, and you were jammed in my pelvis. In case you've forgotten, let me remind you: Neither of us liked you there. At 3PM, the emergency C-section began. It took 52 more minutes to free you. That epidural? Not so effective. I would slurringly announce things like "Gee that knife is sharp. Could you stop hurting my right side like that?" That didn't make the doctors very happy. Didn't make my body happy either. My blood pressure was 220/160 despite the medication. Almost simultaneously, you were born and they knocked me out. As they took you out of my tummy by your feet, you stretched out into the world. The doctor turned you right side up and you surprised her by lifting your head. Then you reached out and grabbed her around the neck. (Yes, Bear, like a hug) She had your handprint there for hours. Your dad cut your cord and they harvested your stem cells to be donated for someone who needed them - because you didn't anymore. (You see? From the very start, your birth was a blessing.) The people in white coats rubbed you, measured you, and wrapped you cozy in a blanket. Then your dad grabbed you up. I was almost able to register your birth before falling into the black place. Your dad held you militantly at my side. The hovering white coats, eager to finish their protocols, just had to wait until I was stable before your dad consented to leave my side. Because, he was never about to leave yours. Hours later, when I woke up in Recovery, your dad brought you to me again. Finally, we met. I smelled you and touched you and memorized your face. It was primal, instinct, necessary. We imprinted on each other. For a long, long time the three of us rested on that bed together quietly, the way we still do so often, as a family. It was the beginning.

Happy 4th Birthday, Bear

Fenway Cathedral

Fenway Park, from Sect 18, Box 39, Row G, Seat 1 Game 67: Ana 7 - BoSox 12 (Yeah Baby), 09/01/2004

I once knew a guy, Kevin (Hi Kevin!), who was into baseball. We'd travel the tre-state area catching major and minor league games. Kevin taught me to score the games the traditional way; I ended up with a stack of programs and a collection of ittybitty pencils.

One night, Kevin and I drove around Chicago looking for a somewhere we could grab a piece of peace. Finally he pulled over on Addison, and I looked up at that old sign over the stadium. "I think this," he told me quietly as we gazed at Wrigley Field, "is about as Holy a place in Chicago as you could find."

Last night, my dad took CD and I to the Red Sox-Anaheim Angels game. He surprised us with amazing seats, and we lucked out with weather - warm with a cool breeze and a bright moon.

Johnny Damon got 5 hits for 5 at-bats and made it home 3 times. Millar got a 3-run homer. Manny got walked a couple of times. Red Sox spanked Anaheim. It was a rollicking boisterous game, and a great time.

It was the second Fenway game I've been to with my dad.

Aug 18, 1993 was the first time we'd taken in a Red Sox home game together. We got same-day SRO tickets, White Sox/Red Sox and grabbed some programs and some beers.

Danny Darwin, #44, was the starting pitcher. Usually, the Red Sox go through pitchers in a game like a cocktail nuts at a bar - but this day would be different.

It was a sunny summer day and my dad and I found a piece of railing with a good view. As the first outs were made, Dad and I got into a rhythm - he held the beers while I scored the game. He'd look over my shoulder once in a while, correcting my marks - "That was 9 to 3" he'd say. Or, "I'm not sure they gave him the error on that play."

Midway through the top of the 4th, and a hush began to spread around the stadium. Dad peered at my box scores and asked, "Is that what I.." and I nodded. We shared a long look, and then held our breath.

Darwin, that inconsistent pitcher, was pitching a perfect game.

The full stadium was riveted. We watched in absolute silence.

5th inning, into the 6th and we still had, unbelievably, a no-hitter on our hands. Danny was throwing strike after strike. The catcher, Tony Pena, had practically crawled out of his shorts. Darwin was cool. We were praying, pulling, with glistening eyes and bated breath.

The Chicago White Sox were swinging with everything they had. And theirs was a roster of power hitters.

But no one could get a piece of Darwin.

Finally, in the 8th, with one out, Dan Pasqua connected and ran hell bent for leather before settling on 3rd. Darwin retrieved the ball, ready to pitch to the next batter. As though nothing had happened. No sign of disappointment, just steady focus.

But the fans had were not about to let the moment slide by. Before he could throw the next pitch, we stopped the play.

The noise erupted all at once, overtaking me with emotion. My eyes were puddled with tears. I looked around and saw that every man, woman, and child was up. Dad put out beers on the ground and we joined in pounding our hands together in a beat that shook the walls.

"Darwin, Darwin..." came the cheer. We screamed ourselves hoarse for long minutes, while the refs let the man have his due. Darwin stood alone, tall on the mound.

This wasn't Ripken, or Williams, or any of the guys who I've cheered for before or since. This wasn't Ramirez last night, used to the pounding affirmation from stadium full of admirers.

This was Danny Darwin. Traded around, stats up and down, the oldest guy on the team. You think he'd want to bust out in the Macarena. But there's an unwritten code in baseball. It's dictates a calm, unruffled gratitude to appreciation. A stoic's approach to the boiling emotions of the game. Darwin embodied all the class and grace of the code that August afternoon.

He simply nodded his gratitude.

And I joined with 30,000 fans to peal a last hoot of frenzied joy and appreciation before allowing Darwin to finish his day's work- a 5-0 shutout that was much more than the stats of the day.

It was the best game I've ever seen.

Last night, my Dad driving out of Boston and we look back at the park, windows open and the night breeze still soft and cool.

I got a chill watching Fenway recede. It's as Holy a place in Boston as you could find.