I am stingy with the heat.  Let’s just begin with that fact.  I hate, hate, hate paying for heat.  Now, I will gladly pay to not sweat while I sleep but heat?  Not so much.  The littles are bundled up every night for bed.  Ella is anyway.

She has returned to her basement bedroom.  I don’t know why.  I think it’s because I changed the sheets.  She said that her old kitty sheets gave her bad dreams.  Mkay.  So she sleeps in footie jammies with two quilts.  In the early, butt-crack of dawn I have to literally dig her out from under the covers.  And then she complains that she’s cold and her clothes are cold and the house is cold, etc. 

Sidenote:  I had a friend once whose mom used to “warm up” her clothes in the dryer before she got them up for school.  There are several things wrong with that thought.  My friend was high school age and should have been responsible for her own waking and, hi, my mom NEVER thought to make our clothes warm in the morning.  My mom barely cracked her eyelids if at all when we left for school.  In her defense, the restaurant didn’t close until 11 so her schedule was different from most mothers.  But still…

So Ella and I are talking over breakfast this morning.  Lucky Charms.  (Who has two thumbs and is the best mom at breakfast time?)(Me.) 

My dainty angel daughter, my fairy princess, rips the longest fart I’ve ever heard escape her body.  And I’ve heard a lot.

Did that warm you up?

“My fart?”  She giggles.

Yeah.  Did that warm you up?

“It sure did.  I’m not cold anymore.  Farts are like fire coming out my butt!”

And with that, she proves herself to be her father’s child.

Because that, totally, did not come from me.

Look at my baby.  My big girl.  My Ella.  (The boy is my nephew, 18 weeks older than Amelia but same size as Ella)

Because you can’t see their teeth, these two could be 8 and 10 instead of 3 and 5.  They are growing up.  I knew it would happen.  My dad tells me that all the time so it must be true.  But it’s hard to see when you’re in the trenches all day and all night.  Now that I get some time to myself (currently 15 hours but I had to pay good money for even that), I can see how much older they really are. 

Diapers have been replaced by the world’s smallest briefs (because bikinis on a Kindergartener?  Ew).  We are down to just a couple of sippy cups.  A pile of crayons and a coloring book can actually entertain them for a good while.  You know, before they fight over the same crayon.  Or Ella will holler at Amelia for scribbling. 

I get help unloading the dishwasher.  And sorting laundry.  They wash their hair independently although I do dispense the shampoo.  We’ve lost more than one entire bottle to wall scrubbing.  We read books without pictures. 

I know that I’ve said it before but I’m really looking forward to the two of them growing up.  Not that I don’t like this stage.  I really do.  But I’m ready for them to really be able to help.  And the reading.  Oh my.  I can’t wait for the reading.  I’d like them to end a fight on their own and not me having to clean marker off a face or dislodge fingers from hair.  Wait?  Does that ever end?  How old am I?

And then there’s this:

So last night I’m taking full advantage of the Netflix online feature and I’m watching “The Business of Being Born.”  For real.  I’ve been wanting to watch that since it came out.  It’s a documentary produced by Rikki Lake (the one and the only) about home births.  Now, I’m not a total whackaloon but I totally have baby lust right now.  The movie featured no less than 6 home births and a couple of hospital births.  And then there’s the new, sticky baby nursing.  Oh-em-gee.  Somebody bring me a newborn, please.  For like three days.  Or maybe three months.  I can’t turn off this feeling that I’m not done yet.

Apparently, I’m neurotic too.  We all know that at 34, partnerless and kind of funny looking…well, odds aren’t good.  But I still have that feeling.

And just when I had a handle on the parenting thing.  I have two hands, two children and that’s just right. 

For now.

Baby lust is a powerful thing.  But I think it’s worse when you’ve had births like mine.  You know what an amazing high it is to bring another life into the world.

Day two:  Not at work.  Finally.  Also gave up caffeine but not on purpose.  I might die from this headache. 

I had all these plans for “when I am not working”.  Sewing projects.  I have a thawed turkey in the fridge waiting to be roasted.  I need to clean bathrooms.  And what did I do today?  You’re looking at it.  Filled with Twitter and Facebook and obsessively checking email because somebody, somewhere might want to write to me.  Fail.

Tomorrow will be different.  Yes it will!  Amelia is going to school for the day so I will have the whole house to myself for seven whole hours.  I have a list of things I should be doing.  And a list of things I want to do.  And then there’s the reality:  netflix and ceiling fan shopping and maybe a nap. 

This post brought to you by Tylenol PM. 

Goodnight.

Ella was in a bubbly bath tonight, making a bubble beard when I hear her call out:

“Mom.  Mom!  Know what?”    Sidenote: She rarely calls me “mama” anymore.  That hurts a little.

What?

“Santa Claus isn’t a real person.”

Who told you that?

“Nobody.  He’s just a guy in a suit.  There are lots and lots of them”

Huh.  Who brings the toys then?

“Wellllll…I think maybe the persons who made them.  Like maybe elves.”

I see.  You might be right.

“Yeah but there’s no Santa Claus.  There can’t be that many guys with a beard.”

When did my kid grow up?  And why are we having this conversation at the ripe, old age of 5?  Amelia stood next to me the whole time and didn’t say anything.  She is probably forming her own hypothesis about it all.  Or maybe she’s considering her next tactical manuever regarding the acquisition and consumption of her almost empty candy pumpkin.  She might not be thinking about Santa at all.

We don’t do much concerning Santa anyway.  One gift is all he brings.  The rest are from me or whomever else is on the tag.  But still.  Next will we talk about how babies are made (both girls know how they are born courtesy of Discovery Health)?  Or will be discuss the relative merits of Disney versus Dreamworks?  I am not ready for the world of big kids.  Not at all.

I went to Matty’s funeral today.  I had twitched my breakfast away by 9am so I was starving which made me kind of nauseous the whole time but I think that was to be expected.  The funeral was very generic.  It was organized and given by people who, I think, never really knew him.  The pastor seemed like he was trying to convert every butt in the seat.  He probably knew that he was preaching to the theatre heathens and thought he should do his best.  I think it was simply that he didn’t know Matt so he needed to fill the time.  I suspect his family never really knew him either.  If they did, they would have had one of us speak a little about him and our memories of him

In a big way, I’m glad that I was mildly annoyed with the whole situation.  That, and the whole large crowd of strangers issue.  I wanted to hide.  Actually, I wanted to not be there but I felt it in bad form to stay away.  No, my annoyance took away from my own reflection on Stephen’s funeral and Will’s funeral too.  It kept me from being all wrapped up in my own dark place and made me remember that this day was about Matt.  And not about Stephen or Will or me.  Especially not about me.  I was determined not to be a wreck.  I would not look at anyone. 

But times like that…funerals, weddings, family functions, reunions….that I really miss being part of a couple.  I could have leaned a little on my husband.  Been comforted by his presence.  His familiar hand.  And even if he wasn’t there, couldn’t be there, at least knowing that I could re-hash the memory for him over crock pot chili or at a commercial after the children were in bed would make the whole thing that much more bearable. 

This?  Is doing nothing for my hermit tendencies.  Even eharmony has given up on me.  They’ve sent me 200+ presumably single fellas in the metro area and there might be one to consider.  My standards have been raised.  I was totally spoiled. 

There is no such thing as Mr. Right Now when you are pushing thirty-five with two littles.

So I’m laying in bed last night.  With a preschooler’s feet in the small of my back. (Ella has been sleeping upstairs, in her sister’s bed, lately so Amelia has planted herself in my bed.  Nice.)  And I realized that I was going to make an attempt at a post every day in November.  So, maybe I can make it every other day?  Only even days? 

I have a confession.  I’ve been making out with Netflix.  And itunes.  And drooling over Nook.  Apparently, my brain thinks that I have more time than I actually do. 

Okay, maybe not making out.  But it sure feels like the walk of shame when I realize that I spent a good chunk of my night rating all the movies I’ve ever seen in an attempt to find that one movie that I’ve been missing all my life. 

I’m a slut.  A slut for entertainment gadgets.  Oooo, shiny object.

I don’t actually have the sense of entitlement that God gave an eighth grader.  It just seems that way.  I get like this when I work all the time.  I feel like I should get something for all those hours.  Instead of depositing the check into the account that pays the bills that keeps us fed and housed and clothed.  I would like something to show for it.  I need the instant gratification.

Lord knows I’m not getting that anywhere else.  I may as well buy a minute of distraction.

Because there’s definitely something missing.  And if I stick my tongue down itunes’ throat, I might find it.

Or not.

So there’s this thing, a blogging thing, if I deciphered the acronym right, that encourages bloggers in the month of November to post once a day every day.  I think I’ll try it.  It’s a lofty goal I think.  Especially considering that it’s the second day of the month and well, I missed a day already.  Hold me to it, interwebz.  I’ll give it a shot.

My dear friend, Matty Kamprath passed away Saturday morning.  The last week or so has filled Facebook with stories of his assorted capers and pictures of him all irreverent like.  To quote one of his fellow actors and best friends: “The earth is considerably less funny today because we have lost him.” 

It’s kind of unreal.  I mean, I have experienced death in its most visceral forms.  I have seen it and touched it and smelled it.  I was there at that moment.  Twice.  And yet, the shock of knowing that I will never see my friend again is new.  It’s like I don’t know what to do.  How to behave.  How to properly mourn and remember.

I consider myself blessed because I knew him, for sure.  He had lots and lots of friends.  And even more fans.  He probably never knew (do we ever really know?) how many.  But I get to say that I knew him.  That I got one of his quirky little smiles and a pet name from him.  I loved discussing politics and history with him.  I loved talking theatre and all the “kids these days…” stories. 

I consider myself blessed.  And I have been smiling a little to myself because Stephen knew him too.  And Stephen knew how I felt about him.  And Matty made Stephen laugh every time we saw him.  And I am thinking about the two of them together: dick jokes and beer and ponderosa pine trees.  Guys.  Being guys together.  I don’t know if it’s true.  I’d like to believe it and I will believe it because I don’t know any different.

On a different, lighter, note:  I had a kidney ultrasound today.  I had a UTI and some residual pain won’t go away.  They were looking for stones (there were none) and found an inflamed kidney, probably from an infection.  So I got orders to drink water until I float and finish my antibiotics and check in two weeks for a repeat.  I’m glad it’s not stones but I hope this clears up. 

 I sooooo don’t have time for this.  I have a funeral to go to.  And that pesky middle school show at the children’s theatre.  Oh, and then there’s that full-time mommy gig.  I really don’t know where I would fit in a problem with a major organ.  (Heh, heh…organ…)

Through the power (and curse) of Twitter, tonight’s bout of insomnia is brought to you by @MckMama whose son is gravely ill tonight.  Whose son is one year old as of tomorrow.

She is posting updates…little victories, big concerns….but he’s a very sick little boy.

 I am hanging on her every word just like I’m in the room…helpless…confused…hopeful…trying to justify and reason…

There is also a man, tonight, who is losing his battle with brain cancer.  He is surrounded by friends at the end of a very long journey.  He is a fantastic character actor, a football fan, a lover of old movies and all things Christmas and one of the most politically INcorrect people I have ever met.  I love him to pieces.

I will have to xanax myself to sleep tonight.  I can feel it. 

Hospitals at night are kind of nice.  The suits go home.  The night nurses are either very young or have been a night nurse forever and love it.  There is never an in-between.  I can feel the cold tile under my stocking feet.  Because bare feet in a hospital?  Gross.  The halls dim but never darken.  The phone only occasionally rings.  The halls don’t smell like gravy at night.  All we have left to do is sleep.

And hope for a better tomorrow.

In the morning, I would get up at first rounds.  I would put on a bra (if not entirely dressed) and my contacts.  I tried to make sure I was in the room during rounds but, frankly, all the white coats gave me a sweaty ass and the inability to form a sentence. 

Honestly, I don’t know how I did it.  I get asked, and told, that all the time.  My only answer is “you just do”.  But how?  How did I make it through all those nights?  How did I not just walk away?  How did I not just flip the fuck out?

So, to Matty and Stellan, peace.  Peace to you tonight.  Sleep through the bed checks and whispering and coffee smells.  Tomorrow will be a beautiful day.

My ipod and I are having a renewed love affair. 

Last week, while navigating the nation’s airports, I watched five episodes of Burn Notice (seriously, my new throb…yogurt and all…) and listened to a dozen podcasts from A Prairie Home Companion and This American Life.  How did I ever tour without this amazing little device?

It’s like all the best mix tapes all in one place.  How many hours did I spend dubbing 80’s rock ballads?  Songs that defined who we were and who we wanted to become?

I’m old enough (solidly in my mid-thirties thankyouverymuch) that giant chunks of my life are defined by a certain group of songs.  I can blink…and be right there.

Tonight, it’s Nickel Creek.  It’s 2000.  And I’m creating stagehand training materials for my first season at the University road house.

Last night, it was Fleetwood Mac.  And I’m in my purple Dodge Dakota.  And I’m going over to sleep at my new boyfriend’s apartment and my heart does a flip flop.  It’s 2001 all over again. (I married that boyfriend, for the record.)

Shania Twain.  And I’m in my tiny midtown apartment getting ready for a fag hag night on the town. 

Kenny Chesney, Chumbawamba, Ben Folds Five, Peter Gabriel…I’m driving truck on tour.

Toad the Wet Sprocket and I’m in the electrics cave in Maine, trying to pretend that I knew what I was doing. (I didn’t.  Not really.)

Jewel, Enya, Counting Crows.  I’m in my last year of college.  And collecting all the V-cards I can possibly find. 

Pearl Jam?  Nirvana?  Red Hot Chili Peppers?  That was high school.  And I discovered Birkenstocks.  And coffee.  And angst poetry.  I should look for some of that.  It’s probably worse than I remember. 

My first slow dance with a boy (who I recently discovered on Facebook) was to “Love Bites.”  Or was it “Every Rose Has Its Thorn”?  Both remind me of him.  You know, the eighth grade version of him. 

It makes me wonder what music will define me this time?  I mean, do I have to really know who I am?  Or have I mentally returned to the days of sweaty rock ballads, V-cards and miles of highway?

If this blog were a child, someone should have called CPS by now.

Sorry about that.

In my defense… (sidenote:  What do you say to a stagehand in a suit?  “Will the defendant please rise.”)

In my defense, I had an opera to do.  And a computer with a battery that won’t charge.  And we all had the Hamthrax.  Or at least I think we did.  In hindsight, the girls and I had all the symptoms.  Which spares us from the rest of the booger eaters out there.  The girls were each out of school for a week.  I took my Mucinex (sent straight from heaven) and went to work.  The opera stops for no pandemic.

What else?  I went to Philadelphia for 3 days, also sans computer.  I am still fearful of airport security and I think they would have made me turn on my computer and the battery issue rears its head again. 

I am trying this new thing.  I’m going to bed at a reasonable time.  Ebay is no longer interesting.  I have disconnected myself from all message boards.  Facebook is kind of like brushing my teeth.  Twice a day, every day.  But going to bed “early” after working for real all day means that my house and my blog and my pile of laundry have all suffered.  There just aren’t enough hours.  I’ll get it figured out.  One day. 

Will’s seventh birthday was last week.  Hard to believe that I could be the mom of a seven year old.  My friend’s youngest daughter is one day younger than Will so I get to see him grow up through her eyes.  If that makes any sense.  That little girl will always have a special place in my heart.  And she will probably never know why.

I am in the constant quest for balance.  I’m in the swing of working a little too much.  Parenting too little.  Not sewing at all.  My house is trashed.  Real meals are few (Lucky Charms for supper anyone?).  A stack of mail a foot high. 

But I’m okay.  We’re okay.  And I’ll be around.  You know, unless the Hamthrax strikes.  Again.

So….here we are.  Two years later.  (Last year’s post told the whole story.)

Two years…

I am in an empty house tonight.  The littles are with my aunt (God bless her up and down) because I will be working crazy people hours for the next four days. 

Empty houses are quiet.  My mind?  Is not.

Two years ago, right about now, my sister was taking me back to the hospital after a big bowl of broccoli and cheddar soup at Panera.  I didn’t want to go back.  I wanted to sleep at home. 

I hear it gets better after the two year mark.  I am a wreck at the moment.  I have the remnants of the creepy cruddy snot disease.  I am physically tired beyond belief.  I am trying to mentally prepare for difficult few days of work.  My children are not here and, well, they too are okay with that.  Which makes me…not. 

This isn’t fair.

I have spent the last few nights going over the years we were together.  I know.  Not helpful.  But I am so very, very grateful that we exchanged very few angry words.  And that we always kissed goodnight and good morning.  But I’m trying to figure out the purpose.

I was a really good wife.  He was an excellent husband.  Together, we were great parents.  I just don’t understand…why it had to end.  There doesn’t seem to be any significance.

There are no words.  I know that.  And when the words come out of somebody’s mouth…

“We just never know God’s plan, do we?”  I’d like to request a new plan.  I’ve put it in writing several times and it would seem that I am getting ignored.

“God only gives us what we can handle.”  I’m just going to go ahead a call ‘bullshit’ on that one.  Seriously. 

“You made some beautiful children.”  Yes.  And I could have stood about two more.  But I didn’t get the chance.

“You’re young.  You never know what will happen.”  Although I am equally intrigued and squigged out by the thought of another meaningful relationship.  But get some business and mind it.

“I don’t know how you do it.  I would just fall apart and not be of use to anyone.”  Know what?  You just do what has to be done.  Meals need to be made, children must be tended and loved, and quite honestly, if I don’t do it…it doesn’t get done.  So I don’t know how I do it either but falling apart is not an option.

How many times have I said, out loud and to myself, “I can’t do this”?  And then I do.  Over and over and over.  And I’m tired.  And now I’m rambling.

I miss him so much that it hurts.  And then I get angry.  And jealous of all the good marriages.  And upset when people talk mean or spiteful to their spouses.  Or about them.  I am not cut out to be a 24/7 parent.  Nobody is. 

I keep going back to the WHY?  What purpose?  What good can come from this? 

How does this story end? 

Because two years ago, I thought the hard part was over.  The sickness.  The interventions.  The fright.  The smells.  The sounds.  Waking up, clutching the phone and wearing shoes.  I thought that when the heart monitor was clicked off and the oxygen pump stopped that the worst was behind me.

I was wrong.

Really, really wrong.

And there are no words.