It's a little something we call patience

Our son, Jack, is the light of our lives.
He is funny, kind, inquisitive and silly.
He is soft when I need him to let me rest my head on his overlong curls.

No, I am not cutting his hair anytime soon.
I like it.
I am waiting for the humidity to see what these curls really look like.
What?
He's mine. It's not like I tattoo'd him or something.



Oh, how cute would that be?


Tangent...


We've been told countless times he is the perfect combo of us.
In looks.

For personality, it's about 90 percent me.

Mostly my worst things.

Noisy. Not so much for the patience. Back-talky.

Example.

Begged me to rent Super Mario Brothers for Wii.
He is neither sufficiently mature or Wii-ified to handle this game.
But, it was raining and I passed the desicion to his father.

I thought Lucio knew the party line.
He told me he'd have time to read my mind again after finals.

Suffice to say, fucking Luigi was back in my living room yesterday.

Darling child calls to me from the living room in his sweetest voice, "Mommy, will you come play with me? Daddy doesn't know how to get to Bowser."

I chime back, "Coming, buddy. Give me a few minutes."

I am folding fitted sheets. I had to watch a video on the internet and still I need to take out my Martha Stewart Housekeeping book for a ready reference.

"How long,Mommy?"

"Three minutes, " I relay. I am almost caught up on "Real Housewives of NYC".

I just know that bitch Jill wants to make nice nice with Bethany so she can be a bridesmaid.

A bit dejected, but otherwise on board, Jack trills, "Okay, Mommy."

He is patient. Maybe I am adequate parent who can balance work and family.

Sheets finish and put away.
Closing line, "Only by Bravo."

Team Bethany.
Jill is a classless twazoo.
And don't even get me started on the pot-stirring countess.
Class? Try steerage.


14 seconds later, "Mommy, I don't like to be kept waiting."

I turn around, remote control in my hand and see the image of me, hands on hips, taping is foot at me.

Really? Really.

Let's see how he likes a standoff.

"Did you wash with vigor?"

Setting: Master bedroom. Evening. Lights on in all corners, TV on, but muted.

Clothing strewn acoss bed, dresser, hanging from closet door.
Suitcase open and empty except for pair of flip fops tossed in.
Julie sitting on lavendar chair, feet up on bed.
Heather standing in front of closet, hands on hips.
Jack running back and forth from bed to kitchen, wearing only his transformer underwear.

"Jack, that's it. Shower. Now. Hey, come back here!"

Running straight towards Julie, Jack stops short, jumps on the bed and assumes the "menacing Tae Kwon Do" ready stance.

"It's hard to be tough, little man, when you're only wearing Bumblebee underoos," Julie tell him.

"Nu uh," says Jack unphased, and with one quick motion, he remove the underpants, kicking them off with the same florish reserved for Chippendale dancers. Once again, he gets into position.

"Better. Much better," Julie observes, shaking her head.

I have reached my limit. The time on the clock says clearly, 7:48 pm. 18 minutes late already. "I said shower. Now. Come one, toothless naked wonder. Let's go!"

"I am a big boy Mommy. I need my privacy."

"It's all yours!" And off he runs into the bathroom. I can hear him talking to himself, grunting with the effort of being a big boy.

Waiting a few minutes for him to finish his business, I peek around the corner of the bathroom. There is Jack, hands on the floor, ass in the air in a downward-facing-dogish position, waiting for me to check if he's whiped himself clearn.

"You need privacy for the going and not the whiping? Doesn't add up, dude," I tell him, after giving him a pass. He stands up, grabbing a boat, a shark and two Egyptian princes, ready to act out his version of Jaws, King Tut style.

Turning on the water in the shower, I turn to Jack.

"I think you're getting big enough to wash yourself. The soap you like is right there," I tell him, pointing at the green bar on the lower corner. "I will put the shampoo on you, but I think you can do the rest. I'll check you over at the end. What do you think?"

"Okay Mommy. I'll try," Jack tells me, hopping over the ledge.

Shampoo'd and sufficiently wet, I leave Jack alone in the shower and go back to looking at the piles of clothes. Piles, incidentally, that will get pushed into the biggest single piece of luggage we own, weighing well over 50 pounds when it's full and brought to California for a long weekend. And exactly two pairs of shoes, three pairs of pants, two dresses and four tops will never see the light outside of the hotel room before being rejected.

Julie is still sitting where I left her. She gently reminds me that turtlenecks are not really California appropriate.

"I'd wear a turtleneck swimsuit if someone would make one, Jules."

Two pairs of pants and a kicky multi-colored blouse have been added to the suitcase when I hear the hearty yell of our son shout, "Mommy, I'm done."

Not moving, I yell back from the bedroom, "You're sure?"

"Yes, Mommy. I am sure," he yells back.

"You cleaned everything? Your toes too?"

"It's all clean, Mommy."

"Did you wash your bottom?"

"Yeeesss," he shouts, already with the snark born only to children with loud mothers from the northeast.

"Did you wash with vigor?" I inquire, placing a way cute pair of ballet flats in the suitcase.

Silence.

More silence.


"YOU WANT ME TO WASH MY BOTTOM WITH MY FINGER!?!?!!!"


Julie slides off the chair, laughter echoing through the house. I am sitting crossed legged on the bed, lest I piss my pants while in hysterics.

"ARRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!" Followed mere moments later by a hearty declaration of "Stop laughing at me. Mommy!

"We're not laughing at you, Bud. I promise. Mommy promise."

"Than who are you laughing at."

Without missing a beat, Julie replies "Jack, we're laughing at your mother. Look, she peed her pants!"

Toot Toot

Blop. Blop. Blop.

Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.

Two teeth missing, Jack slides around the tub laughing his 5 year old head off.

"Mommy, I tooted."

"Yes, Jack, I know...I heard it, and now I smell it. It's just gas."

"Hee hee hee what? It's what?"

"Gas. Toots are just gas from the food we eat."

"Really? What foods, Mommy?"

"In your case, broccoli and beans."

"I don't eat beans Mommy. You know that."

"Really, are green beans beans?"

"No, Mommy. Green beans are not beans. They are green beans. Duh."

"Okay, well, these things make gas and it comes out as toots. Let's go, buddy. Bath, Books, Bed." Kind of like "Gym, Tan, Laundry" except with genuine earning potential.

A few minutes later we're liberally applying Aquafore to every bendy part of our child. He gets really really dry. Like desert dry.

I've been lotioning him like this since he was born. Danielle said you knew Jack was ready for bed because he was easily seen by his reflecting off the moon.

"Why don't you put lotion on my bottom Mommy?"

"Do you need lotion on your tush?"

"No. But why don't you put it on me like you put on Piper."

"I still give you a massage, just like Piper."

"But you put the lotion all around her gashole."


Jack had to finish lotioning himself.
The adults in the room were dizzy from laughing so hard.

Damn it, the kid is already funnier than me.

At least Four per store

Sam Walton, I am sure you had a vision for affordable one-stop shopping.
I bet you were pretty ding dang pleased with yourself with the company you built.
Richest man in America living in Arkansas? Hell, yes. Why not?
I bet the people running the show in Arkansas love to know we're all shopping more and paying less.

Sam, Sam, Sam, I think the inmates are running the asylum.

Sorry, but this place that bears your name that practically runs commerce for our country, it's just plain shitty.

It's just that the people that shop there (regularly, I mean) are always a little sad.

A little "this is the life I've made and it's not great,so let's buy more cheap beer".

It's 3 year olds in pajamas crying in the arms of their older sister (Good God, I hope it's her sister) at 9:45 pm.

It's the sad generic soda.

It's the man in the cart with oxygen reeking of cigarettes.


And yet, there I was, ready to reserve all my elitist Walmart judgement when I saw the mailer that said Wii Fit Plus would be available on February 14th.

See, I've been looking for a wee Wii Fit Plus for over a month.
And there are none.
Nothing.
I looked thoughout my travels to Chicago. Nadda.
I even checked in LA. Bupkus.
Julie checked Vegas. Zilch.

Here I sat - holding a flier that reads "At least four per store"
In writing.
Golden.

I wanted to be sure to get one.
So on the 13th of February, I traveled the worst stretch of town known as North Prospect and entered at least my version of Hell. Walmart on a Saturday at noon.

I made my way to electronics.

I spoke to Kiefer.
Kiefer's maybe 18 years old and looks nothing like the vampire in Lost Boys.

He kindly tells me to come back after 10:30 pm tonight, check with the overnight guy, who would be the most likely to know if my future Wii was going on sale at 12 midnight. Or some other time. Kifer is not sure. But he asures me he has nothing to sell me at that time.

Flash forward to 9:15 pm.
Lucio is studying. Jack is sleeping.
Julie and I were unable to get tickets to see Valentine's Day at 9 pm because evidentally there is no curphew in Champaign County, regardless of how much one is needed. Note to every 15 year old filling every seat in the place - don't you have a bedtime? How about let's leave all shows after 9 pm for the grown ups who don't need rides home. K?

Without our dose of pretty skinny movie stars, Julie and I head to the Walmart in Savoy.

9:45 pm.
Wii less. Empty shelves.
Glenda checks inventory. Nadda.


Weird, I think, considering there should be 4. Each store.
Remain optimistic, I counsel myself. There will be 4. In each store.
At least one for us.

Glenda brings Justin into the mix.
Justin knows something immediately. I can tell.
He won't meet my eyes.

"Um, we sold them."
Pa schwa schwa??
"No, that cannot be right. The sale begins on the 14th."
"I know. They were sold earlier today."
"I don't understand. Who sold them?"
"I didn't!"
"I didn't say you did."

From the other side of the display, Julie, who is playing with the laptop, snickers and announces, "Jesus, this place is a nightmare. Why can't you just order it online?"

To Julie - "Because on Amazon they are selling for $50 over list. And they are only $100 to begin with. And I am not doing that."
To Justin - "I'm going to need to speak to a manager."

Enter Dan.
Dan with his small Hitler like mustache and a visible gold tooth.

"Um, I don't know what happened. We don't got any. I can't ask the manager at either Champaign (oh, yeah, that's right, the very same store I was in just 8 hours earlier with Kiefer. Yeah, those are sold too) or Urbana to , like, do anything, so, sorry, we're out."

Oh, it's on. You, Dan, just became the lead in my letter.

I begin drafting my strongly worded letter in my head and walk out of the Savoy store clutching one glimmer of hope.

The names David and Shane. Supposed managers of Urbana store.

The same Urbana store, according to the person I didn't speak to on the phone, has not sold their 6 copies.
And they will not sell a Wii until 8 am Sunday.
The 14th.
The day after the 13th in case you're keeping score.


Leaving my house this morning with the smallest hope that I will come home successful, I consider that should I come home without a Wii, I will undoubtedly come with the close to my "Walmart better send me a coupon for a Will Fit Plus" letter and a blog entry.

It's now 11:45 am.

Sitting in the plaid chair in the living room, listening to Jack bounce back and forth between the new Penguin balancing game and Ski Jump, I consider not sending my letter to Arkansas.

Nope.

I wouldn't feel right not telling them.

Coach Roach

Traveling is part of my job. My commitment to uninterrupted employment means I must partake of planes, trains and mostly my automobile on a regular basis.

The bulk of my travel remains within the confines of the state of Illinois. I journey outside of Illinois on occasion by car, visiting Indiana with alarming regularly considering before accepting my current job the only this I had to say about the Hoosier state was it smelled an awful lot like formaldehyde.

Though I have done one-day trips to Wisconsin and Missouri alike, I prefer to consider any mileage in excess of 220 one-way as over-nights.

Here’s my math – 220 miles takes about 4 hours.
4 times 2 equals 8.
Technically, I should work 8 hours a day.
Each visit I make takes about an hour, and I rarely travel over 440 miles to see only one person.
You add in 2 or 3 visits, and the time it takes to get between visits, and a day of work is pushing 13 hours.
Though it happens more than I think it should, the day after a 13 hour day, I am hardly worth the space I take up in the office.


In addition to not loving winters in Illinois, I am likewise not a fan of Route 57, the road I take back and forth to Chicago and its surroundings.

It’s length, it’s lack of interesting sites, the entire stretch in Ford County where they have evidently cut asphalt out of the budget completely as it rivals any road in in Northeast Washington, DC.

While living and getting educated in our nations Capitol, I once saw a city road crew throw a mattress in a pothole, dump some filler asphalt over it and pound it down with the weight of a crew I am certain only moments earlier had been outside the homeless shelter on 15th and Corcoran. To this day, the car sinkins a little when I drive over it. Barry should have thrown a Tempurpedic in there.

I am on 57 all the time, and I just now know where the dunkin donuts are, where not to stop to piddle (Paxton, this is you)and to always sing out "Rantucky" as I speed past Rantoul. This insult is from a girl who was raised in here, calling her home region Shampoo Banana.

Though most of my travel in and around Illinois, I am thoughtfully released 4 or 5 times a year to places that, though they can be reached by car, it’s not the most prudent use of state dollars.
The DC area, NJ and the greater tri state, and Florida - east coast and gulf.

This particular trip, I headed west. To Los Angeles.
El Lay baby.
Good visits. Fine leads and solid outcomes.

LA has a lot to offer. Blue skies, mountain peaks sprinkled with snow. Beach front without a single skeet-ball game in sight. Minor celebrities sitting across from me while I am talking to a donor about the College's amazing new curriculum and I barely covered my "who the hell is that?" look.

I hope.

Yes, LA has a lot.

You know what LA doesn’t need?

Any more frickin people.

Seven lanes of traffic in each direction and every one of them are full?

I don’t think they actually go to work. I think it’s like the Truman Show, and there are people whose job it is to just congest the freeways.

Maybe I am getting more accustomed to Illinois than I thought?

Could I actually enjoy our sad little two lane roads with views of absolutely nothing except the random driver reading a novel in her lap whilst driving 70 miles per hour? Yes, ma’am, we know the road is rather straight. But, really, reading? An actual book? Maybe next time you swing past the library and pick up John Grisholm on CD?

I probably caused more problems chasing her delinquent ass up 57 and maddeningly calling the police to report her plate number.

Anyway, or this particular trip to LA, I’ll admit it. I was nervous.
Total odgidda. Thank God Prevacid is OTC now, though it takes two, sometimes, three, to really settle my increasing travelers woes.

So fearful was I that I would be late for an appointment as I was trapped in too far a left lane on The 405 (what’s with the The stuff?) or lost in a valley with no signal to Julie, the woman who lives in the windshield now, I was leaving my hotel before 6:30 am each day. Just under 500 miles in 3 days, and I am once again reminded that I don’t really like business travel.

Sure, in my 20’s, I was enchanted by the allure of business travel. I work with lovely people who think I have this glamourous side to my job.

These are the same women who travel outside of Champaign County once a year and it's not uncommon for them to usurp three work days planning an overnight to Memphis. By car.

Yeah, the bloom is off the rose.

I am not meeting handsome innocuous chatty strangers in my middle seat.

Because even if Bradley Cooper was actually in the middle seat next to me, and I was the multi-toothed Julia Roberts, I would still be out of my skin with fury that there was someone in the middle seat to begin with. The only thing that belongs in the middle seat is my discarded copy of Vanity Fair.

Neither is George Clooney in the seat behind me, waiting for his 10 millionth mile.

A basketball player from Naperville currently has his overlong legs – and therefore knees - in my back at this moment and is determined to make me put my seat in its full and upright position. Good luck, kiddo, you’re what, 19 years old? Sit back and enjoy the strength behind my size 24 body pushing back at you.

So, no, I don't love business travel.
Though I do love frequent flier miles and hotel points.
Greed, by definition, is good.

There is only one good reason to love business travel.

The coming home part.

If you could bottle how it feels to come down the escalator and see Jack running towards you, with Lucio standing behind him, holding a diet coke and smiling up at me, we could completely negate the need to depression meds.

It's like seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time.

I am on a plane now, heading home. The middle seat empty and the man by the window is sleeping soundly enough that he didn’t notice me put down the shade. Mother and daughter in front of me recently escaped from some eastern block nation spitting all over each other and wear more make up between them right this moment than I wore in all of 2009.

Neither one of them actually fit into their clothing but that doesn’t seem to concern them. The A in Hardy is stretched so tightly across the top section of her at least 70 year old breasts that it looks like it might split down the middle and start making two new letters.

Drag Queen wisdom of the day - "Girl, just because it goes on, doesn't mean it fits."

Flight attendants skirting past me (probably crop dusting) collecting trash.

And I am smiling wide, happy as loon.

Here’s what’s waiting for me.

A tiny hand in mine that has grown large enough for our fingers to twine together when he walks next to me.

A warm, inexplicably soft cheek he will let me touch endlessly for the next day or so whenever the mood strikes.

Snuggling in our king size bed with all the lights off as he tells me how he has received not one time out or reset in the past two whole weeks.

A sweetly whispered request thisclose that I not do a Mommy Mommy Attack...as he slowly raises his long arms above his head, a giggle of delight escaping his lips.

Two teeth I suspect have waited for me to arrive back from LA so he can get top dollar.

A tired adult student who will tell me “he’s all yours” and then crawl into the middle of our too small king size bed (seriously, where is emperor size? Tzar maybe?), lay back on the piles of pillows, raising his arms so both of us can put our heads on his chest, wrap us up in a warm hug and fall asleep while my favorite five year old tells me all about his week at school, asking at least three times, “Is tomorrow a stay home day. Mommy?”

And I answer, “Yes, my love, tomorrow is a stay home day.”

I love business travel.

That, what they just said, does not exist

I have seen all kinds of weather.
Lived one both coasts.
A few years in sunny California.
With it's sun and it's more sun and it's sometimes wind.
Santa Ana's are rough. Like a coyote cartoon.

Raised mostly in the mid-atlantic, which has sun and rain and snow and sleet. Something for everyone.

Now in the middle of the country.
The middle has the wind. Like whoosh - WIND!!!
I used to be nervous going out in wind.
Now, if it's under 30 miles per hour, we'll still walk the dog.

I have seen a lot of weather.

I made it through Hurricane Isabel in 2003, in the ghet-to, when Lucio had to regularly go out and clear the sewer drains of used diapers and chicken bones so our house wouldn't flood. The only time our lights went off the whole two days? When he was trying to unstick a tire from the sewer. He heard me scream from three houses down. Swear to God. Ask him.

I survived the Blizzard of '96 with only MaryAnn for company and barely two packs of cigarettes between us. For three days. It's interesting to me now that quitting smoking was never a consideration. Hmmm. It's a puzzler.

While we were going to nicotein withdrawl, Vivian was trapped alone in her apartment near AU.

It was in this apartment where just a month earlier Vivian had frozen the pipes to the whole building because she left the window in her kitchen and bedroom open whilst she went home for Christmas.
For two weeks.
To Long Island.

Because...
wait for it...
She was convinced the cockroaches wouldn't enter her apartment if it was too cold.

Like a little chill can scare off a distict roach?

During the 96'r, MaryAnn and I ventured outside while it was still coming down..hoping the 7-11 was still open.
It wasn't.
I am sure we considered robbing one of the old bitties living in our building for her smokes, but none of them smoked Marlboro Ultra Lights.

During our fruitless search for smokes, we sat down in the middle Montrose Road, just off Rockville Pike. Not a car in sight.

Because of 96, I was totally prepared for the big storm in 2001 when Lucio and I lived MacArthur Boulevard in the pre-burbs. While everyone was at the soviet, the social and the unsafeway grabbing milk, we prepared by leaving time for a a trip to the liquor store for Grand Marnier, the bakery for bread, the Italian Store for cheese and the video store for The Godfather, parts I, II, and III. And we got milk and bread too. And plenty of cigarettes.

I also learned how to make lasagna during that one. Jamie and Steve had no idea that I had no idea what I was doing.

Hell, Becca and I trained for the Marine Corps Marathon in 2002, one of the hottest summers on record in our nation's capitol. Running our fat asses from SW DC to Bethesda (and back). Hello? Crossing boarders. In this story, Becca is the real amazing one, as she was three months pregnant with Theo at the time and didn't know it. That's my godchild...the litle Advil baby that could.

I have weathered wind in Illinois that literally knocked Jack off his 18 month old feet walking into Schnucks a few years ago.

Isn't that a ridiculous name for a grocery store? I spent the first two months we lived here thinking it was called Schmucks.

But this is too much.

The forecast for the past few days continues to include FREEZING FOG WARNINGS.

That is made up! There is no such thing as freezing fog!

Like you're driving down the road, and BAM!! Smack right into a sheet of ice just hanging out in mid air?

Fog is what? Really wet air right? I am going to check...

Like I thought. Basically just really wet air.

And here we sit. Day after day. Night after night. The same forecast.
Freezing Fog.

Maybe the people on the news are just making this up.
Is Doug Quick going to hit us with "Gotcha! Fog can't Freeze! Suckers!!!"

When he does, I can say I knew it all along.

What was that?

Is anyone else having trouble understanding what they are singing on the new Gap commercials? I had to listen - and by listen I mean pause and rewind - to the ones with the little girls at least three times. In case you want to know, this is what I think they are saying.

I love my snugglie sweater.
I love my snugglie sweater.
How cute are these boots?
How cute are these boots?

I have watched the one about warm flannels at least seven times. I have no idea what they are saying. Is there something about electronics and then it's all about flannel? Could that be right?

I liked it better when the gap dancers just danced.

Maybe my hearing is going. On more than one occasion, Jack has asked me to turn on my listening ears. People who completely love me have been know to suggest I don't listen well. Same goes for people who sign my paychecks. I am not the best listener. But maybe...

I am not not listening because I don't care what you're saying.
I am not not listening because I don't care what you're saying AND I maybe cannot hear you.

Driving to the Nutcracker tonight, Jack is in the back seat telling me the story of Nutcracker. They have learned about it at school because he knows the whole story. Uses proper names, like Clara. Mentions the Godfather. Knows about the land of sweets.

I congratulate him on knowing so much of the story. I smile and have my elitist smug mommy moment of the day.

I then hear, "There's more than one virgin of the the story, Mommy."

Pashwasha?

"I am sorry Jack, what was that?"

"What was what Mommy?"

"More than one what?"

"Virgin."

The light changes. I don't drive right away.


"Buddy, are you saying version?"

"Yes, Mommy."

Resume driving at normal pace. A few minutes later I hear, "What did you think I said, Mommy?"

I pretend to not hear him.

Whew.

And I wasn't sure I'd have a topic for my blog today.