I got stuck in traffic. 

 

But I’ve returned, only now from the West Coast. 

 

My son watched a documentary on 9/11 in Social Science class yesterday, and I know we’ll contribute thoughts and feelings about it in all of today's conversations, as we ‘never forget.’ It is a heavy burden, knowing that we’re free to spend our day in the sun, surfing and scarfing tacos, on the twentieth anniversary of the day 246 passengers; 2,606 workers; 343 firefighters; 60 police officers; and 8 paramedics died.

 

That was the day that simply would not let up. In all ways possible, it was horrible. The details return to me often: the shock, sadness, fear, anger, numbness, and complete let down. 

 

This afternoon, my son and I are writing letters to deployed service members; a great way to share our thoughts and feelings with the selfless givers in this world. 

 

Thank God for them. 

Who Fires First?

A National phenomenon hit my doorstep today.  We sold a piece of furniture on that one guy’s list, and when a man rang our doorbell, he stood back 20 feet, hesitant to come inside to see it.

He was peering inside our house, shifting his weight around on our sidewalk. I was peering outside, yelling at my husband to hurry up, yelling at my son to go to the backyard.

See, we had a plan. When I told my son that we were selling something, he said, “What if we get murdered?” Just like that. Just like lock-down on school property. He’s growing up with this feeling, this knowledge and distrust, and since I don’t want to wean him off good street smarts, I said, “Well, yeah, we could. But statistically we won’t, but when the doorbell rings, go outside with the dog.” Just like that.

When I smiled at the nice college-aged man standing outside, and then opened the door and invited him in to “have a look,” he looked scared to death.

A quick thought went through my head: who fires first? People can’t stop selling furniture, right? People can’t stop searching for a deal, either. So if we’re both smart, we’ll both own guns, right?

What begs the question is how do we approach this awkward, social interaction? Do I answer the door with my gun drawn and cocked, and does he stand outside my front door with his gun drawn and cocked? Do we stand there with our guns drawn and cocked?

Is that the way to “play it smart?” We all own guns, and we all walk around ready to fire them? Because if you own a gun and it’s in your closet, or missing amongst the lipsticks rolling around in the bottom of your purse, you’re not ready, right? You’re not prepared to die. It’s much better to be prepared to die.

It’s midwinter, and the sun has just under 5-billion years before it explodes. I can’t be drawn and cocked that long. 

Thoughts on cold ice baths.

I have enjoyed watching the improvisation from friends as they’ve taken the Ice Bucket Challenge, and I’m surprised by how many people’s lives have been affected by this deadly disease. The funds being raised make me hopeful that a cure can one day be found.

My good friend’s step-dad, Rudy Steckler, died of ALS. He was an attorney in Indianapolis, his father, William Elwood Steckler, one of the youngest federal judges ever appointed in the U.S.

Rudy wore Sally Jessy Raphaels (big red glasses), as we liked to call them, and spoke in long, drawn-out sentences, a charm caught somewhere between Cary Grant and W. C. Fields. This probably helped him during the ALS years, because everything slowed when he got sick, but went undetected by strangers.

I once took an eight hour canoe trip with the family, and kept as much of his sage wisdom that I could scribble on napkins and keep in my fanny pack. His ALS began with one foot dragging behind, and became the most horrific disease I’d ever witnessed. As every organ in his body began shutting down, he was wheelchair-bound and spoon-fed, somehow maintaining his dry sense of humor until the end, when he just stopped breathing.

I always thought it was like getting cerebral palsy late in life (which never happens), and learning how to jump from “being” to “nothingness.”

My sister, Kate, was born with cerebral palsy. I remember the looks on my dad’s and stepmom’s faces the day the doctor at Riley held Kate and said, “This is a cerebral palsy baby.” Just like that, they handed their daughter to a doctor for help, and she was handed back with cerebral palsy.

ALS is like a palsy, as the body stops working. But it’s more despicable, in ways, much like MS, because you’re cognizant of all that you’re losing. With cerebral palsy, you just know that this is the way, your path, your life.  You’re born a lifer with CP, and many people with cerebral palsy fall into depression.

Though many of us tried looking on the bright side, my dad said, “I know. We’re blessed. Kate brings such joy to our lives…but she’ll never be a cheerleader, she’ll never eat a cheeseburger. She’ll never do what normal kids do." I knew what he was saying. There were many tears.

So with my “nomination” for the Ice Bucket Challenge, I must decline. I would feel guilty pouring refreshing water over my head, when Katie can’t lift her arms without complete concentration, can’t eat or drink anything through her mouth, but is fed via a tube through her stomach. I stick by the people I love.

Sometimes I tell Kate great secrets. I’ve told her about my former boyfriends, what I think about most cheerleaders, and how cheeseburgers aren’t really what they’re cracked up to be. And tomorrow I’ll make a small donation to ALS, in honor of Rudy, and a big donation to March of Dimes, in honor of the hours, days, months and years that Kate has spent idle in a wheelchair, wearing that sweet smile on her face. If you’re looking for a real hero here, come meet my sister.

Spring Break 2014!

There was a certain sense of augury permeating what should have been known as "SPRING BREAK 2014!" that began with my hasty, regrettable decision to tell the school that we'd be taking our son out 20 minutes early for vacation. Oh, the things you learn from school. We'd previously taken him out for 7 days, back during my Hawaiian blog, but this time we got "the letter." The letter about statistics and drop-outs and kids who never amount to anything because of bad parents. Yeah, that letter. Perhaps you've read it.

Funny, when I picked Sam up, there were at least 25 moms before me who'd written "vacation" as their excuse, so I followed suit, grabbed my boy and scurried to the car that I'd parked far from the building, so they couldn't see my license plate (heh heh). My fingers, pushing the unlock button on my keychain, burned red hot.

It was a blustery day. Extreme winds over Indy caused our pilot to announce, moments before we landed in Salt Lake City, "Uh, folks, it seems we lost our flight controls back in that turbulence over Indy, so I wanted to tell you that we're expecting a perfectly safe landing here in Salt Lake, but we will be greeted by the local fire and ambulance crews, heh heh (a completely different tone of "heh heh"), so don't be...alarmed. 

If you've ever flown into Denver or Salt Lake, you've noticed some turbulence there, too. Sam was seated by the window, enjoying the ride. Matt and I looked at each other, each bearing a hint of fear and sadness. Matt said, "Quickly, let's put Sam in the middle." The three of us holding hands, we sat, as the wings tilted port…starboard…port…starboard, until we touched ground. I let out my secret, silent cry deep inside, where no one hears anything. Sam announced that he was hungry for pizza.

God, we owe you big time for that one.

Our flight into Orange County was perfect, the weather: perfect. Once I look past the tattoos, the attitudes, the size-too-large Dickies shorts that grown men wear, I'm beginning to love California. ;)

The first day at Newport Beach, we learned that Perry's Pizza, a landmark, and Matt's childhood favorite place, is closing. We stopped there every time we were in town. I did my deep, silent cry for Matt.

So long, Perry's Pizza. :(

Day three we drove to Santa Barbara, and on to Solvang and Los Olivos (possibly my favorite places in the country). We stopped at our favorite winery, Alma Rosa first. Next to their small wooden sign (marketers never found this place!) you take a dirt road past several homes where the families live who pick the grapes, and there is Alma Rosa. Unassuming, with some of the best pinot noir I've ever tasted. I said, "Matt, I love this place because it's ours. This was the first place we found on our honeymoon. Not one other person we know knows about this place, and I'm fine with that."

….And we found out that it's closing. Sold to some new guy who's tearing down the charming tin-roofed building and carving a state-of-the-art facility--lest we forget gift shop--into the side of the mountain. We were there on Sunday, April 6th. Their last day was April 9th.  (Especially sad is that this is one of the oldest Santa Ynez wineries, and the first "tasting" scene from the movie Sideways.)

So long, Alma Rosa. :(

So I was starting to hate California. No one preserves anything in California! I know this because I saw the movie Clueless, and because my friend and I once took a tour of old vaudeville theaters in Los Angeles…and there WERE no theaters, only electronics/knick-knack/cheap clothing stores! California, where is your soul?

Onward, we spent the next day at Wally World! Six Flags Magic Mountain! The best amusement park in the country, where we'd truly be on "Family Vacation," and Sam could ride Matt's favorite two coasters in the world: Colossus and Revolution!

Yep, those two rides were closed. I started freaking out. We hit the bumper cars, where Sam would seek his revenge.

We had an otherwise lovely time in the 93 degree weather, rode other coasters, drank other wine. I can adapt, I can accept change. 

The rest of the week was perfect, and on our last night, sipping wine by the outdoor fireplace, eating tacos we'd made from food we bought at the local Mexican groceries, Matt said, "I'm dreading going back."

And then the power went out at the house...

Advice to Young Girls

A guy who pulls your son out of bed at 11:00 p.m. to pick you up because you've been drinking for three hours with one of your best friends, who happens to be a guy. A guy who understands when you say, "I'm terrified of Carmel police and there are, like, 7 of them out." A guy who drives to the parking lot where you're waiting, where you've turned off your car and put your keys in your purse and are shivering because it's 24 degrees outside. A guy who greets you warmly (though he's undoubtedly miffed) when you climb into his car, and says, "Mommy's car broke down, so we're here to get her." A guy who says, "I know you would," when you tell him you'd do the same for him.

A guy who smiles and chuckles when you say, "God, you're a good guy."

That's the kind of guy you try to find, as long as it takes.

How To Face A Crisis

So, I kind of went “all out” for Matt’s 40^th birthday. It seemed like a big enough deal, and I was so happy for him to be joining me in the “40s,” plus it seems that he is well in the throes of his midlife crisis. So I bought the boy some cookware, of course. But not just any cookware, oh no; I spent many pretty pennies and bought him a set of Mauviel copper cookware! Made in France since 1830, I think it’ll get the job done.

I also put together a photo movie for him, and our sweet family of three had dinner at Sullivan’s (thanks to Taft law firm for the gift card). J

But the real surprise was the birthday weekend in Nashville, Tennessee with our friends Kelly and Mike, as Kelly was also celebrating a birthday that weekend, a mere 37. Pfft. Left the kids at home, we did. Mike and Kelly picked us up Friday morning (thank you, Matt's boss!), and it was fun to watch Kelly and Matt putting together the string of lies that Mike and I had been telling them for weeks. 

Sorry, Kel, can't get together with you for your birthday, maybe soon, though? Matt, we're really not doing much for your 40th, are you OK with that? I mean, we could do something if you want...

Annnnd, we were off! Nashville bound. Matt and I enjoyed our first road trip together there over EIGHT years ago. Really? I’ve been with this guy that long? Alright, then, I officially deem it “our town.”

Kelly and Mike were once our neighbors, but we can’t seem to shake them, so we hang out with them all the time. Kelly and I talk about things that matter, while Matt and Mike (M&M) spend a great deal of time on boob and fart jokes. It’s like we’re transported right back to seventh grade, but M&M really are quite hilarious together.

The boys' moments giggling together gave Kelly and I plenty of time to go completely ga-ga over the band at Robert’s. See, it all evens out in the end. The guitarist, Daniel Donato, age 18, made my palms sweat. Kelly was speechless around Slick Joe Fick, on slap bass.

The Nashville scene is uniquely awesome. Absolutely everyone has to stop and shuffle or twirl on the dance floor before they leave a bar, and the memo about giving your bejeweled jeans to Goodwill was lost before it ever reached Broadway Street. EVERY single woman was wearing a pair but, being somewhat of a late-bloomer myself, I appreciated the faux pas. (Indeed, I’m a late-bloomer, and because I think sparkly jeans are silly, I never had a pair; so maybe I’m a trendsetter?)

The only real honky-tonk music left in N-ville is at Robert’s and Layla’s, and of course the Ryman and the Opry. Like New Orleans, there might be music on every corner, but it ain’t necessarily good music. I heard Bon Jovi more than once, just sayin.

I’ve never had so many beers in my life (see, I am a team player), and we did sneak in a visit to the Johnny Cash museum and my favorite, Hatch Show Print. This was our first trip with Kelly and Mike, but deeeeeefinitely not our last. 

And, for the record, although he doesn't play an instrument, my husband rocks. 

Until 41, Honey.

Sleep Schism

Winter brings little encouragement. It has me gazing out the window late at night, waiting for Dr. Zhivago to proceed by on a horse donning a tattered soul and soiled blanket. The only thing missing is the Russian Revolution and a kitchen full of potatoes.

No matter how much I plead, sleep will not give me what I want. A chronic insomniac, my body lies down at night, but my brain accelerates, and there I am, lying in an endless succession of thoughts.

Nearly every night (meaning every night), I lie down with Sam. And the “told you so” people should kiss my grits here, because it’s undoubtedly my favorite part of each day, the time when we giggle, tell stories, get in trouble with “Daddy,” and sing.

He chooses from my repertoire: My Favorite Things, On Top of Spaghetti, Over the Rainbow, You Are My Sunshine, or Silent Night.

I can barely finish Silent Night without yawning myself, so that one usually does the trick and Sam is out cold.  I doze off next to him for about 30 minutes, but them—pop—I’m deeply and utterly…awake!

Our dog usually joins the scene, and my fervent attempt for a few additional winks is waylaid by Waylon’s yawns and baying. I focus on the poem in my head and the time between Sam's faint breath and Waylon's sniffy snores. I lie there enjoying it, primarily punishing myself, for morning will eventually, and most unfortunately, break. Sam will be bussed off to school and Dr. Zhivago will return to the city. I'll be stuck boiling potatoes. Winter will continue hanging out. I know I should sleep.

By the time my husband joins us, I've usually been lying there for two hours. Sam is sprawled out on my pillow, back sleeping (like I do, when I sleep), allowing me only a sliver of space at the bed's edge, perhaps one arm pressed against my nose. My head is tilted back off the pillow, and my legs are gripping somewhere toward the other side because my dog is too pushing me off, himself lying in a flat running pose, dreaming of chasing the mail person. I am ultimately uncomfortable, but I'm happy. I'm thinking, it's quiet, I know I should sleep, but I am a creature of habit.

Matt tiptoes past the bed and I say, "Hi, Honey." He gasps, "You're not asleep yet?" to which I answer, "Nope, not yet. I'm thinking of getting up and writing for a while, but now I'm too tired."

Then begins my Goldilocks routine of trying out all the beds…sometimes the alchemy of Ambien saves the (next) day.

My name is Jill, and I’ve been an insomniac for 2,190 days.

I should not lie down with my son. I should not, I should NOT.

But I've logged the number of times friends have said, "Enjoy it while you can, because soon you'll miss it." Hell, I already miss it. It's quality time for me, and I make my living—true living—on not leaving out any details. 

Even with last week’s additional snow break, I still really loved having my boy around. But Kindergarten has been berry, berry good to me. He reads, he carries the one in addition problems, and he no longer says the preschool phrase “Easy Peezey Lemon Squeezey,” because preschool—come on—was so last year.

I can’t complain.

Oh - time for bed!