Cake Runs, an Unhappy Indian, and the Death of the Minivan

There are some days in this motherhood adventure that make me think of running away and opening up a titty bar in Bangkok. Oh, they'd never find me there. Never. I'd blend right in with the muck and debauchery so well that the kids would be in college before anyone would even have the slightest inkling on which continent I was hiding. It'd be Hide and Go Seek on a grand scale. Of course, now that I've put that in writing and sent it out into the cyber world, I'll have to come up with another hiding place for my fantasy game.

Anyway, last Monday was one of those days.

I was so tired the evening of Roman's birthday (after having thrown the biggest birthday party of my parenthood) that I collapsed into the soft cushion of my king's bed and slept the sleep of the dead (or an overworked mama). I didn't even move an inch throughout the night.

I awoke at dawn to a warm wetness on my back and the unmistakable, acrid stench of urine. At first I thought I had been so deep in sleep that my poor, weakened by childbearing bladder succumbed to the pressure of two pre-bed glasses of wine and a large glass of water. As I raised myself out of the puddle I found the real culprit: Reilly Kate had at some point in the night crawled into our bed, found a comfortable spot between Mike and I, and relieved herself in her sleep. She now slept peacefully bearing that sweet angelic mask children plaster on their faces while slumbering in their own messes. How could one be angry at a child so innocent looking?

As soon as we were all awake and out of bed, we changed into drier and less ofactively offensive clothing and I stripped the bed. I then dragged the bedding down the stairs while balancing my yearling big boy plus nuk in one arm and the Bed Wetting Princess in the other. I figured I would throw the bedding into the wash after we ate breakfast and then into the dryer before we left for Roman's baby gym class. We had a big day ahead of us with Reilly Kate's Thanksgiving Feast at her preschool after the baby gym and then souvenir shopping and dinner with Roman's godparents who were visiting from Chicago. It was one of those days that wouldn't stop until dusk.

We breakfasted on bananas, cheerios, and left over birthday party fare washed down with sippy cups of milk for them and half a gallon of black coffee for me. As I do every day post breakfast, I stripped Roman of his food smeared pajamas and nighttime diaper. I reached to put a fresh diaper on, but alas, I hadn't washed diapers in a week and there were none in the diapering basket I keep downstairs. Instead of running upstairs for a disposable right away, I decided to put the peed bedding into the wash first as the smell was starting to permeate our small, Hawaiian shack of a house.

I was in the garage, waiting for the hot water to fill the washer so I could add a dash of bleach to the soapy concoction when I heard Reilly Kate screaming from within the living room.

"Mama! Mama! Roman's pooping all over the house! Mama! He's POOOOOOOOOOOOOPING!!!"

I ran into the house to find Roman standing square in the middle of the living room, wickedly flashing a toothless grin as my two foul canines enthusiastically lapped up the mess emerging from his arse. Yes, dogs are disgustingly fond of baby poop. I actually talked to the vet about this because even Alyx, my usually normal dog who eschews any kind of bodily excretion, will risk life and limb in search of a diaper filled with the fecal matter of anyone under the age of two. Now, Truman is another matter. That dog treats even his own excrement as haute cuisine. But when Alyx started doing this, I got concerned.

Apparently, infants and small children do not digest their food thoroughly. So what we see as stinky ass, gag-oh baby caca, they see as chicken McNuggets, french fries, chocolate chip cookies, and breastmilk (another doggie fave). The vet said that he's never met a dog that didn't go nuts over baby poop for this very reason. Table scraps to them. I'm almost faint at the thought. It made me consider, for one fleeting moment, to banish the dogs to the glue factory.

And that's exactly what I wished I had done as I looked in horror at my sweet and otherwise sensible dog Alyx excitedly slurping up the brown liquid smeared all over Roman's butt cheeks. Fighting an urge to vomit right then and there, I let out a booming growl at the dogs, who scampered away, tails between their legs. I then scooped up my giggling baby and dashed up the stairs to the bathroom. As I was washing the sludge from his body, I again heard Reilly Kate wail.

"Mama! The dogs are eating his poop again! They're eating Roman's POOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"

I grabbed a towel and whisked Roman out of the tub. "Come up here and watch your brother," I commanded of Reilly.

I must have been grumbling profanity as I ran down the stairs because I passed by Alyx running up the stairs to her usual hide out under our bed. By the time I arrived on the scene of the fecal revelry, the runny poop was all but a stench wafting through the room. Truman, the canine embodiment of the Freudian principle of Id, was too immersed in the remnants of his own epicurean delight to notice that I was red hot mad and raging right toward him.

"Get into your crate!" I bellowed.

He stopped for a moment, looked up at me, then bent his snout right back down into the carpet, ignorantly licking away at the brown stain. I picked up his long torso with one hand and practically tossed him into the crate. The only thing that stopped me from actually throwing him was the thought that dachshunds have notoriously delicate backs and I didn't want to spend a couple hundred bucks on the momentary pleasure I would have gotten from manhandling a 15 pound dog. Plus, I really do love my dogs despite their preference for being baby waste treatment plants.

I grabbed a towel and before I could even begin scrubbing the spot with a mixture of Oxyclean and water, I heard from above the distinct cries of Reilly Kate once more.

"Mama! He's doing it again! Mama! He's POOOOOOOOOOPING! And Alyx is eating it. Agaiiiiiiiiiiiiiin!"

I tossed the towel on the poop stain and ran back up the stairs. There, again, stood my beautiful baby boy, fiendish little smirk on his lips and cackling like a maniacal chemist with a beaker full of magic potion. Except his potion was poop and his eager guinea pig was my german Shepard. This time Alyx was so delighted with her poopy snacks that she didn't even run and hide. She just stood there, snout to baby bum, in some kind of feces induced ecstasy. I swallowed hard, wishing I'd had a vomitorium installed in the hallway instead of a bookcase. It would have been more useful, for the moment at least.

I hooked my finger around Alyx's collar and dragged her down the stairs. As I pushed her into the crate with Truman, he jumped up and start licking her mouth in search of any drop of poop she might have carelessly left on her whiskers. The morning was seriously turning into the Canis Familiaris Fete and Toddler Poop Jamboree. I walked away shaking my head, sweat dripping down my neck, and grabbed another towel.

I reached for the bowl of Oxyclean and water and heard, "Now he's peeing, Mama! He's PEEEEEEEEING on the stairs!" I looked up the stairwell and there at the top of the stairs is bambino clapping his hands as his little tallywacker sprays down towards me. Yep. Quite proud of himself, he was. Clapping away as he peed all over the carpeted stairs.

"Ahhhh... brilliant," I mutter to myself. I still hadn't diapered him. I hadn't had time with the poop and the dogs and more of the poop and the dogs. And now the pee. The pee. Hadn't I just awoken an hour earlier in a puddle of pee? Wasn't that enough for one day? I mean, really. Wouldn't you think if you woke up in a puddle of pee, someone else's pee for that matter, that you have done your bit for bodily functions for that day? Wouldn't you think that that hole had been punched and you'd be given a pass for Human Extrections 101?

He'd stopped by the time I got up the stairs and through the baby gate. For the second time that morning, I gathered him up and took him into the bathroom to rinse him off in the tub. At this point, I also realized that my second pair of pajamas for the morning were no longer clean but were instead smeared with runny, smelly poop. I stripped naked and proceeded with rinsing a now screaming Roman.

I called to Reilly Kate to again come watch her brother. I'm not sure why I think having a not quite three year old watch a one year old is preferable to just leaving the one year old alone. When I think about it, intellectually I know that there is very little Miss Reilly Kate could do even if she thought to do it. She's only three afterall. But many times throughout the day, on any given day, you can hear me yell, "Watch your brother." I'm sure she thinks me quite mad. I'm sure child protective services would also think me quite mad. Perhaps it's all the soiling and messing that has driven me to madness. It is quite a lot to deal with, ya know.

I left Roman in the tub screaming and carrying on like it's the end of the world. I thought about taking him out, drying him off, and diapering him but I really wanted to get to those stains before they had a chance to set. Roman is infamous for poop stain. His poop could be used to dye whole lots of cloth, so strong is his stain. And really, he couldn't have any poop left in him. The dogs were both full, the carpet all soaked. He just had to be empty. So naked, wet, pissed off, and in the tub I left him in the care of his sister.

Oxyclean and water soaked towel in hand, I began stain treating the poop stain upstairs. I was actually getting the stain out, scrubbing with all my might and the puny little muscles I got lifting weights a few months ago. And then... just when I was sure it couldn't happen again... just when you were sure this toilet tale had come to an end... Reilly called out, an exasperated tone in her voice, "Mom. He's pooping. He's pooping everywhere." I think she was actually more irritated with me than with him.

I stopped scrubbing and went into the bathroom. Roman was in a full blown crying fit, complete with tight clenched fists rubbing his eyes and pulling his ears. Only, his fists were covered in poop. He was covered in poop. Head to tail. Poop smeared on the tub, on the walls, the shower curtain. It. Was. Everywhere. And I, so close to the blissful abyss of child induced insanity, could do nothing but laugh. I laughed as I scrubbed his scowling, screaming face. I laughed as I lathered up his poopy hair. I laughed as I disinfected the tub. I laughed as I caught a glimpse of my still naked self, sagging breasts and fleshy belly jiggling about as I ran back to the linen closet to get more towels. I laughed and laughed and laughed.

Really, what else could I do?

I did slap a diaper on him immediately after finishing his final rinse. I didn't even bother to towel him off. I just slapped a diaper right on his dripping wet hiney. Ya wanna know the cruel irony of it? He didn't poop again all day. It did, however, dawn on me at some point during all this why he had the runs so badly and why the dogs were going so freaking ape shit for his diarrhea dessert: He'd eaten almost an entire birthday cake at his birthday party the day before.

Great American tradition. Set a one year old in front of a whole cake with their name on it and let them have at it. Most kids will play in it, smudging butter cream on their cheeks and squishing cake through their fingers. Not my boy. Oh no. He proceeds to grab a spoon and eat. Sure, he got cake and frosting in all his little crevices, but he also got a good portion of that cake in his tum. I never, ever thought that it would come out the other end with such a vengeance, though.

You live. You learn. I am wise to the cake now. A little late. But I'm wise. Hell, by the time I die, I'll know exactly what to do and what not to do with babies and children. It won't do me or anyone else a damn bit of good. I'll take all my wisdom to the grave with me and have an eternal chuckle at all the stumbling mothers I see from my afterlife perch.

At this point none of us were washed (well, except Roman), brushed, or dressed and we had about 35 minutes till the start of Roman's baby gym class. The gym, by the way, is about a half hour away. I flew into action, showering, shaving, brushing, dressing, and yes, even spackeling make up on, in no more than 10 minutes. I had Reilly Kate all dolled up in a Gymboree special and Roman complete with shirt and tie. We looked so put together, no one would have any clue the kind of morning we'd just endured. Plus, if I pushed the speed limits just a wee bit, we could make it to his gym class on time.

We were out the door, in the minivan and stuck in midmorning construction gridlock when I realized I had left both dogs in the one, small crate. I had to turn back and let Alyx out. We ended up 25 minutes late to a 45 minute long class. Good thing attendance doesn't count, eh?

Our second stop of that morning was Reilly Kate's preschool's Thanksgiving Feast. It is arguably the event of the preschool year. Miss Maureen, the teacher, goes to great lengths for this feast. She has all the three and four year olds prepare the food ahead of time. For weeks prior the kids knead dough, stir marshmallows into the yams (which Reilly calls "jams"), mix up stuffing, and place sliced apples into pies. She freezes it all and then reheats it on the day of the feast along with chicken nuggets instead of turkey. In addition, the kids dress up as pilgrims and Indians and reenact the first Thanksgiving. It is, in the mind of a preschooler, dinner theater on Broadway.

I had contemplated skipping Roman's class to ensure we would arrive on time to the feast. I was worried that given my luck (which, as you all know, is either bad, really bad, or catastrophic), something would happen that would prevent us from getting there on time. With the morning's events already ringing up the day to total shite, I prayed that the van would start and there would be no traffic on the road. And much to my shear delight, my prayers were answered. We not only arrived on time, we were there early, looking for all the world like a completely put together, not a stray hair out of place, family. Mike, who had promised us he'd be there, had yet to show, but I was sure he wouldn't forget.

Within minutes of our arrival, however, Reilly Kate's excitement and anticipation turned as sour as buttermilk left out in the tropical heat. She was in a snit to end all snits.

"Where's Daddy?" she whined.

"He'll be here," I assured her as I frantically dialed his work number, hanging up when my call was tossed into his voicemail.

"I don't want to be here. I want to go home. I want Daddy," she persisted.

"We're not going home. We're meeting Daddy here." I tried his cell phone and again was sent into voicemail.

"I don't want to be an Indian. I don't want to wear my costume. I want to go home. HOOOOOOOOME. Mama! Please. Let's go home."

And on and on and on she whined. Until finally, without a drop of patience left in my tired, old soul, I snapped, "We are not going home. We are staying here. You are going in there, putting on your Indian costume and playing the part as well as you can. Then we are going to eat the food that you made and we are going to like it. We are going to have fun or I'm going to change your name to Chablis because you whine so much. Then you'll go to a special school where the kids don't play or do crafts, they just sit around and whine while drooling on themselves and staring at blank white walls. Got it, Chablis?"

She looked up at me, wells of tears pooling in her sad little eyes, stuck out her bottom lip and asked, "Where's Daddy? I don't like you."

I called Mike's cell phone again and left this message on his voicemail:

"We are here at Reilly's preschool waiting for you. If you are not here in the next five minutes, I promise you this -- yours will be a slow and painful death. I am a creative woman filled with fury and seeking vengeance. Be afraid. Be very afraid." Then softening my voice I added, "But if you are on your way, we will see you soon."

He walked in the door not 2 minutes later. Somehow, he managed to convince Reilly Kate of her desire to wear her costume and to be an Indian. She went off with the other kids and we didn't see her again until they returned in their costumes for the reenactment.

She was the first out, leading the pack of three year old Indians. She had her drum and was doing a mock Indian chant. She was really into it until she spied us and then she lost it. She came running up to our table screaming, "I don't want to be an Indian, Daddy. I don't want to be an Indian." The rest of the kids following behind her didn't know what to do or where to go. Miss Maureen tried desperately to regroup and redirect, but it was almost hopeless.

I grabbed Reilly and stuck her in her designated place behind a cardboard tree. Then the pilgrims came in, carrying their makeshift cardboard Mayflower. It was really adorable. Except for my darling Sarah Bernhard, bottom lip jutting out and quivering as she whined, "I don't want to be an Indian. I want to go home." There was a little skirmish between the pilgrims and the Indians which was supposed to be them greeting one another but actually turned into a pushing match between the two groups. Not much different than the real history, huh? Anyway, they did the pledge of allegiance and then they began singing "This land is your land. This land is my land." Not, of course, Reilly Kate who had her own little chorus, but the rest of the kids. It was their big finale.

As they were singing, Mike and I, like the other parents, feverishly took pictures and recorded with our new DVD camera. We weren't really paying much attention to Roman, his whereabouts, his direction or intentions. Until. It happened. Roman went straight up to the cardboard Mayflower which was resting on two folding chairs, and shoved it down. It fell with a loud bang, folding chairs and all. He stood there clapping, obviously thrilled with his accomplishment as everyone else just watched in an uncomfortable, stunned silence. A silence broken by my dear soldier husband who said, "Yeah! Army beats Navy! Wooo Hoooo!!!"

Have I mentioned that Reilly goes to preschool on a Navy base?

So we dined alone during the feast that followed. Really, what respectable sailor would seat his family with the kid who sunk the Mayflower and the Indian who wailed during the pledge? It was asking a bit too much in the name of patriotic cohesion sans peace pipe, ya know?

When Mike left to go back to work, Reilly Kate suffered a childhood melt down, complete with stomping, laying prostrate on the floor, and screeching like a monkey on crack. I left the school with Roman, gripping the handle of Reilly's Indian drum in his mouth, under one arm and Reilly Kate kicking and fighting me under the other. I was utterly disheveled and had a nice cranberry sauce stain down the middle of my shirt. I was a living poster for birth control. They should have invited me to the high school's health class.

To me the solution was obvious. We would go home and take a nice afternoon nap on the king's bed. That way the three of us would awake refreshed and ready to go souvenir shopping with Terrie and Bill later in the afternoon. But when we got home and I pulled into the garage, I spotted the large pile of bedding still sitting on the floor by the washer. My bed had no clothes. In the chaos of the morning cake runs, I had completely forgotten to wash my peed upon linens.

I had to settle for putting Roman in his crib and lying on the floor of Reilly's room with her next to me announcing every five minutes, "I am not sleeping. I am not tired. I am not taking a nap. Are you, Mama?" After 20 minutes of that, I got up, took two tylenol and guzzled my second half gallon of black coffee.

There are times when nothing a mother does makes their children happy. The children just cry and complain and throw tantrums despite every trick the mother pulls out of her ass. The two hours in which I thought we'd be napping were made up of my lame attempts to appease my two cranky offspring. I gave them juice boxes and lollipops. I put in DVDs and danced goofy jigs. I tried bribing them with money, but Roman just put it his mouth and Reilly told me she didn't need money, just Daddy. I would have stripped down and jello wrestled Truman if I thought it would have made them happy. But nothing I did satisfied my two tormenters.

It is precisely at times like these, any mother will tell you, you buckle the beasties up in their carseats and take them for a drive. I don't know what it is about the car that soothes the savage toddler, but it works. Try it sometime and tell me if it doesn't work. It's like methodone to the heroine fiend.

Terrie and Bill had called and said they were running late and wouldn't be at my house before 5pm. I figured I would just drive them around our subdivision until then. I tossed the demon seeds into the van, buckled them in, and put the key in the ignition. I turned the key. Nothing. I turned again. Nothing. I looked to see if there were any lights left on or the back gate ajar. Nope. The damn van just took this time, this very time when I needed it the most, to up and die on me. Dead.

Of course, this prompted Reilly Kate to bring forth memories of my bad habit of killing the battery while shopping. "Is our car dead, Mama? Did you leave the lights on? Did you leave the door open again? Is it dead? Will the nice men come and jump the car?"

I grabbed the cell phone and dialed Mike. As usual, my call went straight to voice mail. I cryptically whispered into the receiver, "The van is dead and so am I." I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Should I call triple A? Call me back."

Within minutes, Terrie and Bill pulled up. I explained the situation and Bill pushed the van out of the garage to line it up with their rental car (a snazzy PT Cruiser convertible). He rummaged around the back looking for jumper cables but turned up nothing but fossilized fruity snacks and moldy sippy cups. Then the phone rang. It was Mike.

"The van's dead. The kids are buckled into their seats. We're all ready to go. Bill thinks it's the battery. Where are the jumper cables?" I asked.

"Ummm... they... are... ummmm... they're here with me at work," he stammered.

"Excellent. I'm off to go borrow some from our neighbors. Whoever they are. I'll call you when we have the thing running." And with that I hung up.

Now, let me explain to you about our neighbors. We don't know who they are. We have never really seen anyone on our block. We know that people live here as we have seen cars parked outside, for sale signs displayed, and garbage cans moved. But we have never actually seen people on our block. Out of ten houses, I can honestly say we have seen only glimpses of two people. And then only late at night. I'm not sure what is up with that and I'm fairly certain I do not want to know. If you drive around our subdivision, you'll find all the other blocks have children playing in the street while parents happily exchange friendly words. Some even have block parties and cook outs. But not our block. On our block we are the only people you see. And you only see us because our garage is open and our dead ass van is being pushed out next to a rental PT Cruiser.

So off I went, Reilly Kate and Terrie trailing behind, to knock on doors, introduce myself to people I have been living mere feet away from for two years and ask if I can borrow their jumper cables. I tried one door. No answer. Then the next. No answer. Then the third. A shirtless boy of about 18 came to the door. I did indeed introduce myself, motioning towards my dead van blocking the street, and then asked if he had any jumper cables I could borrow. He yelled back into the living room to ask another shirtless teenage boy watching tv. They mumbled something back and forth intelligible to me and then he said, "I'll look in the garage and see."

We stood out front as he opened the garage door. Everything inside was completely organized in plastic bins. No cars in the garage, however, which struck me as a bit odd. There was a monster sized truck parked beside the house, but not a vehicle in the garage. He rummaged around from bin to bin, in search of the cables, insisting there must be some somewhere in there. It was obvious he hadn't a clue what was in any of those bins. And that's when I started to think that perhaps he didn't even live there. Maybe he was a burglar or something. I decided to move on to the next house.

"Ya know, I'll just go and try another house. Thanks anyway," I said.

"Yeah, okay," he nodded as he continued his foraging into bins.

I tried all the remaining houses on our block and not another person answered the door. I walked down to an adjacent street, one with children frolicking happily and neighbors washing each others cars. I asked one of the washers for cables and they directed me further down the street. "Try George. He's good with cars. He's gotta have 'em."

A man walking his little black puppy interrupted. "I've got jumper cables. You need a jump?" Just a few short minutes later, I had the cables in my hot, grubby hands.

Now, I ask you, why can't we live on a street like that? Why can't we have kids riding bikes and friendly guys with little black puppies? Instead, I've got shirtless MTV junkies living on a ghost town street. Just my luck.

I returned victorious, cables in hand, and Bill hooked up the van to the Cruiser. I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw sparks fly and moved the kids and Terrie further back. I figured if he shocked himself, I would be the one to tackle him, not Terrie as she's pregnant. I stood on the ready and up walked shirtless boy with his own set of cables.

"Uhhhh... I... uhhhhh... I found some cables in a box. I knew we had some. I just didn't know where to look. You still need 'em?"

"No. No thanks. But thank you anyway. And it was nice to finally meet you."

"Huh? Oh, yeah," he said and scratched at the not yet grown in hair on his chest. "Okay, well, if you need 'em, I've got 'em."

Bill had me get behind the wheel and turn the key to the ignition. Nothing. Still nothing. The van was really, very truly dead. I started hearing Taps in the background. The grim reaper of automobiles was drawing near. It was the end of my van. It was also 6:30pm. It was dark. The kids were hungry. So were the mosquitoes. I cracked out the peanut butter crackers and juice boxes from the birthday party the day before and there we all sat, swatted at mosquitoes, and waited for Mike to get home.

At about 7 o'clock, Mike came home. He took a quick look at the van, hooking up a battery tester that read 90% charged, and then announced, "We are buying a new god damn van." The Great Oz has spoken. He then offered to feed our starving children dinner and put them to bed so I could go with Terrie and Bill in their rented convertible to the military exchange store for souvenirs. It was too late to go to the Officers' Club for dinner. After shopping around, we ate pizza at the food court. It gave me indigestion.

As this very long, torturous day came to a final close, Mike and I climbed the stair case to our room and it dawned on me that I still had not washed our peed upon bedding. We spread old, queen sized flat sheets on our bed and I sprayed the comforter with Fabreeze. Let me tell ya, Fabreeze does very little to negate toddler pee in a down comforter. All night long I dreamt I was swirling in a flushing toilet with Alyx and Truman happily coming along for the ride.

It was a very long, long day.

As a post script, we did indeed buy a new van. An Inferno Red, Grand Caravan with Stow and Go seats, dual doors with remote opening capabilities, and a 6 disk CD and DVD player. Our original van, the van we deemed dead as Andy Warhol, was actually just the victim of a bad battery and even worse armchair mechanics. It seems that Bill hooked up the jumpers incorrectly and then Mike hooked up the tester incorrectly. It cost only 120 bucks to replace the battery. It cost 30,000 to replace the whole van. Costly error. You live. You learn. As I said, by the time I die, I'm gonna know fucking everything.

100 Things I'm Grateful For

In no particular order:

1. My family -- my children are healthy and generally happy (although they think it is the end of the world when I turn off the tv and put the candy away) and my husband is here with us instead of being off in a foreign land helping Haliburton get richer, guarding oil fields, and fighting sand fleas and other people's battles.

2. My parents -- my mom for showing me how to be a strong woman with a big mouth and even bigger dreams and my dad for making her dreams come true.

3. My house -- it may be small, but it is huge in the way it has changed our lives.

4. My dogs -- yes, even Truman.

5. Living in Hawaii -- I'll be working off my turkey and the trimmings with a quick dip in the pool followed by a nice walk through the neighborhood IN SHORTS!

6. The 22nd Amendment to the US Constitution -- I fear they would elect him to a third term if it weren't for this godsend.

7. Purell -- if it weren't for instant hand sanitizer, my children and I would probably be sick all the time

8. The internet -- besides being a dynamic encyclopedia that feeds my constant hunger for trivial information, it has kept me connected with hundreds of people that I love dearly.

9. Money -- we don't have a lot of it, but we have more than enough.

10. My body -- despite the fact that it might not be much to look at, it has created 2 people and kept them well fed, plus it runs pretty well on left over Happy Meals and Diet Coke.

11. My Grandma Mallow -- she's a Renaissance woman who has taught me how to act like a cork and float above all the shit.

12. My brothers -- all five of them for teaching me how to fight, for giving me all my nieces and nephews, and for loving my children.

13. The works of William Shakespeare -- reading his work is like a decadent chocolate for the mind.

14. Chocolate -- my drug of choice.

15. My board -- you know who you are and you know how very much you mean to me.

16. My husband -- did I mention him already? Well, indulge me here. He really strives to make me happy and even when he doesn't succeed, I know he's still trying.

17. Wrinkle Releaser -- I will never iron again.

18. That it's only four years -- how much damage can he do in another four years. Really? How much?

19. Washing machines -- can you even imagine doing 15 loads of laundry a week BY HAND?

20. Pregnant bellies -- Call me a weirdo, but I love to see a pregnant belly. My very dear friend Terrie was just out here with her little baby bulge and it made me damn near giddy to see it.

21. Hawaiian sunsets -- God's animated artwork.

22. Cranberries -- one cup water, one cup sugar, one bag o'cranberries, boil, cool, and eat.

23. Our new "King's bed" (as Reilly Kate calls it) -- like sleeping on a great big cloud. Too bad I don't get to spend more time in it.

24. My friend Andrea -- godmother to my daughter and partner in crime to me. She's been through the thick and thin with me (literally) and still stands by my side.

25. Reilly Kate's preschool -- three glorious hours twice a week!!!

26. Magic Erasers -- truly something magical to take crayon off the walls.

27. www.fuckthesouth.com -- for making me laugh every damn time I read it.

28. The Catholic church -- an unlikely spiritual home for me that is the perfect fit.

29. My friend Amy -- her phone calls have kept me sane, her advice has made me a better mother, and her friendship means the world to me.

30. Palm trees -- of all trees, Palm trees are my favorite and I'm thankful I get to see them every day.

31. My teeth -- despite years of neglect, they are still pearly white and strong.

32. My son's kisses -- he just started giving them out freely this week and they are open mouthed and slobbery and sweet.

33. Ben and Jerry -- hormone free ice cream served in unbleached paper containers. Now if they could just come up with a calorie free flavor.

34. St. Anthony -- who just keeps helping me find lost items (Molly Dolly on Saturday and Roman's shoe yesterday, for example).

35. Water -- a simple thing that a majority of people on this planet struggle to have every day.

36. My ability to make people laugh -- it's basically my only redeeming quality.

37. My friend Holly -- my oldest friend, like a sister to me really, who worries when she hasn't heard from me and forgives me when I send her son's birthday gift 2 months late.

38. Tampons -- Pads. Eeeew.

39. My education -- someday I will do something with it all but for now those degrees make a nice decorating touch to my alcove office.

40. Digital cameras -- I love being able to see pictures and share pictures almost instantly.

41. Trade winds -- Trade winds are a very important thing here in the tropics. A bit of mother nature's air conditioning. We take them for granted until they die down and then we beg mother nature to give 'em back!!!

42. Mascara -- without it, I would look like I had no eyelashes.

43. www.beliefnet.com -- a great place to connect with all matters divine.

44. My friend Maya -- we've grown apart over the last year, but the impact she made on my life influences me every day.

45. The Old Napster -- I downloaded so many wonderful old Christmas tunes that my children now enjoy. I am crushed that greedy people who don't know how much money is enough had to squelch it.

46. Oxyclean -- have I ever mentioned I bought a white couch two weeks before finding out I was pregnant with Reilly? WHITE. COUCH. WHITE!!!

47. ACLU -- for fighting the good fight.

48. David Letterman -- because he's funnier than Leno.

49. I'm not getting a presidential Christmas card -- I'd probably put a match to it and set the whole house ablaze.

50. Portable DVD players -- the only way to fly with small children.

51. Roman's godparents, Terrie and Bill -- for coming out here for his first birthday and for being such great and interesting people. I cannot wait to meet their offspring!

52. Rainbows -- we have so many of them here and each one is just as spectacular as the next.

53. Snow -- only when I'm sitting in my warm, tropical home and watching it fall on CNN. If I'm shovelling it, then forget it.

54. Cloth diapers -- because I use them my kids have never ::knock on wood:: had a diaper rash.

55. Disposable diapers -- because I don't always wash and dry my diapers on a regularly scheduled basis.

56. My cousins Wendy and Melissa -- for allowing me to experience a little sisterhood in my youth.

57. 1010987 -- 3 cents a minute phone calls to any state in the Union, Canada, Western Europe, and Korea. What a bargain!

59. Tweezers -- what did women do before the advent of tweezers, I ask you? Did they just grow beards on their chins, bushy eyebrows, and hairy chests?

60. NPR -- because it is nice to hear REAL news versus the fluffy crap aired on the networks.

61. Air conditioning -- I spent the 8 months pregnant with Reilly Kate in the sweltering heat of Ewa before we installed air conditioners. I think I literally baked my kid and wrecked my internal thermostat. I'll never be cold again.

62. My treadmill (and my wonderful husband who bought it for me) -- without it (and Dora videos for the kids), I would probably never get to run.

63. The sounds of the ocean -- the most calming, healing, meditative sound in the whole world.

64. My literary soulmate, Michelle -- a good friend who I respect immensely. Check your local Borders sometime in the next 20 years for a book authored by the two of us.

65. Colorstay Nail Polish -- hands down, the best polish on the market. This stuff will keep my toes pretty for at least a MONTH! Normally, polish chips off me within hours of application. This stuff is the shiznit!

66. Reilly Kate's gorgeous, reddish, light brown eyes -- she and I are so much alike in personality that it is reassuring to look into her eyes and see someone else. Otherwise, I might think I'm totally nuts and arguing with myself.

67. Being from Chicago -- no place like it that I've seen (and I've been all over). It's a great place to be from and I love going home. Sweet home Chicago.

68. Turkey -- man, do I love me some turkey. I know what PETA and the Humane Society say. And they're right. Those poor turkeys go through fucking hell just to wind up on our plates. Their oversized breasts (something I know a whole lot of about and have the utmost sympathy for) and bum joints and infections are a total bitch. But, as I type with a belly full of turkey, let me say, I sure am grateful. So thanks, turkeys, from the bottom of my gullet.

69. And while I'm at it, 20lb turkeys for only 8 bucks -- just go to your local Safeway and get yourself a 20+ pounder for just 7.99 plus tax. America, what a country!

70. Believing in something greater than myself -- this belief guides me every day and makes me strive to do and be better.

71. My midwife and my doula -- without these two amazing women the births of my children would have been medically managed nightmares.

72. Living in a place where we are a racial minority -- it is extremely eye opening and I'm glad my children are being exposed to diversity at this young an age.

73. Intuition Razors -- eliminating the shaving cream step saves so much more time than you'd think. I can actually shave more than once a week now.

74. Being able to stay home with my children -- both a blessing and a curse that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world.

75. Sunblock -- it ain't easy living in the tropics with the two whitest children on the island. It would be impossible without sunblock.

76. Fragile by Sting -- this song changed the whole direction of my life.

77. Sasha, my only friend on this island -- because she's a liberal feminist military wife just like me. We are islands unto ourselves.

78. The pool -- the only free place on the island that the kids and I can walk to.

79. The Bush Tax Cut -- because I sent the whole damn thing to the DNC.

80. Skim milk -- low fat, high in calcium. Oh, and so so tasty with cookies!

81. Mozart -- you just can't tire of listening to Mozart. Even my kids love Mozart which I fully give credit to that Baby Mozart DVD. What a talent.

82. Geckos -- they eat the bugs that are the scourge of living in Hawaii

83. Christmas cards -- we send out over 100 Christmas cards a year and get very few in return, but the ones that we do get we are grateful for. It is sometimes the only time we hear from people throughout the year.

84. www.birthandbaby.com -- they've kept my size 42I cup breasts housed in the best nursing bras made for very reasonable prices. The gals there have only steered me wrong once and they've more than made up for that since.

85. Roe vs. Wade -- I highly doubt I would ever have need of an abortion, but I'm grateful that I have the right to decide what happens to my body.

86. Ebay -- the world's largest flea market. If you can't find it there, then you don't really need it.

87. The US Army -- for providing Mike job security. Sure, he could get killed, but he'll never lose his job due to downsizing just before retirement.

88. My friend Lorena -- she's coming out here for Christmas which will be so much fun for us. She's been a good friend to me for a long time and I'm thrilled she'll be spending our last Mele Kalikimaka with us.

89. McDonald's salads -- they are so tasty that you really don't feel deprived by not getting the Quarter Pounder and large fries. At least that's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

90. My spare change jar -- it always has enough in it to buy McDonald's when the hunger strikes and there's no cash in the house.

91. Thrift stores -- not only can you find cheap stuff, but it's a way to recycle and they employ otherwise unemployable people. Good all around.

92. Baking soda -- so many uses for it and it's economical to boot.

93. Our new van -- Stow and Go seats, dual doors, a DVD player with wireless headphones, and it's RED!!! I am now a very cool Mama with extremely happy children.

94. Santa -- it is just as magical being him as a parent as it was believing in him a child.

95. Vaccinations -- we are so privileged to have access to them. Our children are immunized against diseases that kill so many children in third world countries. The arrogant few that don't take advantage of this in our country are fools.

96. The Rosary -- a peaceful, repetitive prayer that is spiritually cleansing.

97. Sleep -- what little I get, I am grateful for, especially when it is uninterrupted.

98. "I love you more than chocolate" -- Reilly Kate's and my saying to one another.

99. Thanksgiving -- enough said.

100. I will give this one to Reilly Kate who when asked what she was thankful for responded, "Liberty." Yep. She said, "Liberty." When asked to explain she said, "The statue of Liberty. And being 'merican. Liberty." That about sums it up. The profound words of an almost three year old.

Happy Turkey Day!

Rock a Bye Sweet Baby Hayes

On February 16, 2003, my 32nd birthday, I was 7 weeks pregnant and had a 14 month old hell-raising toddler. I had mixed feelings regarding the pregnancy, none of which could be described as euphoric or devastating. It was more of an angst-filled happiness, a disappointed excitement. I knew I wanted another child, but not this soon. I had hardly adjusted to being a mother of one and now I was to be a mother of two. It was… overwhelming.

Before I discovered this unexpected pregnancy, I had been training to run the Aloha Run – an 8.15 mile, fun-filled Island tradition. After debating it back and forth in my mind, I decided to continue on with my plan to participate in the run so Mike and I packed up and went to stand in the long line to register.

While waiting, I felt an inexplicable urge to go to the restroom. I didn’t really have to go, but I felt something pulling me there. I was in there but a few seconds when the reason reared its ugly head – pink blood on the toilet paper.

I knew immediately. I knew it was over. I knew I was going to lose the pregnancy. But for three days friends and family, doctors and nurses reassured me that all was just fine. A bit of spotting didn’t mean miscarriage. In fact, I had to convince the on-call OB/GYN to give me an ultrasound because, in her words, I was “high and tight and most definitely pregnant.”

Yet that ultrasound revealed an empty, babyless sac. In a split second, my uncertainty surrounding a second baby collapsed, splashing down into a puddle of sadness. The doctor tried again to deny anything was wrong. “Your dates must be wrong,” she said. But they weren’t. And once my eyes saw, my body knew what my heart had been telling me and it was allowed to let go, release, pass, and cleanse.

Within two hours of that ultrasound, the miscarriage was almost complete. I was left to mourn a promise lost and embrace an emptiness I no longer desired. I struggled with thoughts of guilt and wonder. Did I wish this pregnancy away? How could I be so heartbroken over losing that which I was unsure I wanted in the first place?

My answer was clear: I wanted another baby. I wanted to bring forth another life, another union of our married souls. I wanted a sibling for Reilly Kate. I wanted to build on the family that we had started. I was so sure; surer than I had ever been about anything before in my life. I knew that there was a soul, a baby soul, ready to come down but I needed to be ready. That miscarriage was my preparation – a message from our unborn second child that the time was now.

Two weeks after the miscarriage, I was pregnant with Roman. Throughout those nine months, I fretted over the slightest twinge or the tiniest amount of spotting. I was scarred and tender. I imagined the worst at every turn. I was also terrified that somehow I would not know how to love another child as much I did my firstborn. My love for Reilly Kate was fiery and fierce. I feared that fire, I feared it doubling. It was a pregnancy wrought with angst.

Three weeks before his due date, I received a call from my midwife’s office. They informed me that some tests I had done months prior indicated a condition called Interheptic Cholistasis of Pregnancy (ICP). It is very rare in the US (less than 0.1%) so little is known about it except that it carries with it a high rate of stillbirth. Mike and I needed to decide quickly how and when I would deliver.

I have never, ever been so terrified of making the wrong decision in my life. I held my belly tight, willing my unborn baby boy to live, just a few more days. That motherhood passion burned hot in my clenched fists and I refused to let go. My mind simply would not allow me to entertain any notion of a still baby.

And he responded. During daily stress tests, he hiccoughed so loudly and often that they would bring trainees in to listen. His kicks were so hard and intense, he’d knock the monitor clear off my belly before the nurse could get it securely fastened. Where, just days before he was in the wrong position for birth (face up), now he sat primed and ready – engaged in the birth canal. And before the week was out, our son, Roman Hayes Peet Spiwak was born, alive and well.

With his sister in the room as he entered the world, the two bonded immediately. “Hi, buddy,” she said to him as he took his first breaths. “Hi, buddy,” as she kissed him softly on the cheek. My heart melted as I gave her the gift of a sibling. My love, divided between the two, had grown exponentially. I indeed loved greater than love. The love they now hold for each other feeds into me like swollen streams into a river. It is a powerful, enriching, soulful thing.

And my Roman… He’s the sweetest child I’ve ever known. He is slobbery kisses and shy boy smiles. Squinty eyed, squealy grimaces and cherubic giggles. Sensitive and fearful, rough guy tough, yet clingy. He’s the ice cream on a heavenly warm apple pie – gooey and rich and complementary. Oh, and is he handsome. Those blue eyes are like diamonds shining brilliantly within a polished setting. He lights up our lives and enlivens our days.

One year ago today, we went from being a couple with a child, an only child without someone to share with, a threesome, to being a big sister and a family. We were all born anew with Roman’s birth, redefining ourselves and loving bigger than our best dreams. He knew, before we did, that he was destined to be a part of us and we a part of him. For us, we celebrate today as a holiday, honoring each other through the bonds of love and family. For Roman: Happy Birthday, sweet baby Hayes. And may you have a hundred more happy birthdays.

Home for the Holidays

The election is behind us, but we are still a country at war. As the wife of an active duty service member, I beseech you all, from both sides of this red and blue country, to support our military personnel who so bravely perform their duties regardless of their political persuasion, personal beliefs, or private hardships.

I know many of you have yellow magnets on your vehicle that read, “Support Our Troops.” While this is a lovely show of patriotism, I beg you to stop making the magnet moguls richer and instead donate that $5.50 to a Hawai’i based organization I’ve gotten involved with called Home for the Holidays. Started by an extraordinary woman whose husband is, at this precise moment, flying combat helicopters in Iraq, Home for the Holidays is committed to raising money to financially assist our troops with their holiday travel expenses.

In the first week of October, 2,500 members of the Hawai'i National Guard's 29th Infantry Brigade were deployed to Fort Bliss, Texas for combat training. They will be given a short holiday break with permission to fly home to Hawaii before going to Fort Polk, Louisiana and then being shipped out to Iraq in February ’05.

Permission to fly home, however, doesn’t translate into the ability to fly home. Many of these troops will simply stay in their barracks, alone during the holidays, because they lack the means with which to get home.

Unlike the National Guard units from mainland states, these Hawai’i troops cannot carpool home or charter a bus. There is no way for them to get home except to fly. Travel dates surrounding Christmas and New Years are considered prime tourist season for the islands and airfare is high – at least $700 round trip. And no, contrary to popular belief, military personnel do not fly free. We pay just like other Americans.

Among those wishing to spend the holidays at home before going to war is a single mother of three who, on measly National Guard pay, is lucky to be making ends meet. There is also a teenager who, prior to shipping out to Texas, had never been off the island of Oahu. And a husband and father that just moved his family from Samoa to Hawaii in July. And 30 others who have signed up for assistance so far.

So my dear friends and family, I ask you, I beg you, to dig deep and give what you can to help us bring these Hawai’i service men and women home to spend the holidays with their families before putting themselves in harm’s way.

Please make checks payable to Home for the Holidays – mailing address: Home for the Holidays, c/o Bank of Hawaii, 25 Kaneohe Bay Drive, Kailua, Hawaii 96734.

In addition to monetary donations, you can also donate your accumulated frequent flyer miles. For information on how to do this, email me at heather@peetspiwak.com.

Obviously, the money we collect goes straight into buying airplane tickets so we rely solely on word of mouth advertising and the occasional newspaper article or broadcast story [ http://starbulletin.com/2004/10/25/news/story7.html and http://the.honoluluadvertiser.com/article/2004/Nov/08/ln/ln25p.html ]. So, in addition to your donations, I ask that you forward this email to your entire address book so that we can spread the word and get more people involved. We’re on a major time crunch to get the tickets purchased in time.

I have faith in our country and her citizens and I know that we will support our troops, not just with mere lip service, but with self sacrifice and true patriotism. Prove me right.

With Aloha,
Heather

P.S. With my children’s birthdays around the corner and Christmas shortly following, if you are planning to send them a gift, I ask that you instead send what you planned to spend to Home for the Holidays. Then just send a card with a note telling them that is what you did so I can include that in their scrapbooks. I would love for them to look back when they are old enough to understand and know that even at a very young age they too sacrificed to support our troops and honor our country.

Doing the Moron Morph

I've ruled out living in Canada. It's just too cold for my thin blood and, to be honest, there is something more than a little unnerving about their obsession with the maple tree. Tree stalkers or something. Oooo scary.

I guess that means I'll be staying here and attempting to fit into this new Moronic Majority (although, I'd hardly call them a "majority"). In order to accomplish this, I need to clarify a few things. It's all so confusing to a simple minded, bleeding heart like myself.

1. Janet Jackson's flash of breast during the Superbowl Half Time Show was disgusting and deserving of FCC fines and the public's moral outrage. But violent Saturday morning cartoons such as X-Men are okay. Human body - bad. Violence against humanity - good. Okay. Got it. This is going to be a toughy for me to remember since I'm a breastfeeder and tend to flash a lot of boob at home, at the store, even -GASP- at church. I'm going to make an effort to feed my kids less and beat them more. How's that?

2. Two people of the same sex in a loving, committed relationship recognized by their religion to be married is threatening to my marriage. But Liz Taylor, Kenny Rogers, Rush Limbaugh, and Brittany Spears are a-okay to marry and divorce any number of times so long as it is a member of the opposite sex they are escorting down the aisle. Yeah, see this one really throws me. I would have thought The Defense of Marriage Act would contain something about premarital counseling, waiting periods, criminalizing Vegas drive thru weddings, maybe even a divorce tax. Nope. I read it. It's all about gays. Why not just say, "We hate gays and don't think being gay should be legal?" Why not just be open about it? I don't understand this whole hiding it behind marriage. But whatever. What the hell do I know anyway? I'm just a bed wetting liberal.

3. Sexual perversion and drug abuse is deviant and criminal behavior, but acceptable if done by conservative motor mouths like O'Reilly and Limbaugh. Simple enough. Can I then become a motor mouth simply for the recreational behavior? I think, if I can get moronic enough, I could really do a good job on Schlocks... errr... Fox News.

4. Playing God is bad is cases of stem cell research, birth control, and Terri Schiavo. Playing God is good in cases of the death penalty, the McCaughey septuplets (and other extreme infertility measures), and the judging of others. Hmmmm... Okay.

5. War is Christian and patriotic, even when unjustified. Dissention is atheist, communist, and treasonous. The only appropriate time to talk about peace is for 30 seconds in the middle of church on Sundays when giving your fellow parishioners the sign of peace. "God's peace," we say, but we really don't mean it. If we meant it, we'd be ungodly pinkos. Alrighty. Onward Christian Soldiers.

We'll start with those five. Clarification is always welcome. Remember, brainwashing isn't an easy or quick process. I'm sure I'll have moments of backsliding into my intellectual, knowledge-seeking, peace-loving, nonjudgemental, compassionate ways. Please be patient. I'm sure with time, I too can be a moron.

Day Two

I've now had 48 hours to digest it. I believe the whole thing has given me colitis. I've now switched from rum to Pepto Bismol. I'm still not watching anything but the local news and Montel reruns. There's just something oddly comforting about his shiny, bald head.

You may wonder, "How long will she be like this?" Well, much like a dog with a burr in its paw, I'm still licking and without intervention, I'll be licking for two years, at the very least. Mike may have to swat me with a rolled up newspaper or something.

On the upside, I've invested my kids' college funds in KY Lubricant stock. The way I see it, the majority of Americans are going to be getting screwed for the next four years. That's a lot of lube.

I'm hoping to make enough to qualify for one of Bush's big old tax cuts. So when your job is outsourced to China (or, as with United Airlines, outsourced to you at half your salary) or your National Guard unit is called out to Baghdad for the third time and you must then file for bankruptcy since you can't pay your mortgage on your enlisted salary or your kid is diagnosed with asthma caused by air pollution, just bend over, grab that bottle of KY, and think of me.

I'll be sending all my tax cuts straight to the DNC.

An Important Conclusion

After half a bottle of rum and half a pack of cigarettes, 4 hours of sleep and a good cry, some retail therapy and a feast of junk food, I am feeling pretty good. The searing pain has been reduced to a general malaise and I am now capable of seeing a bright side:

I still have half a bottle of rum, half a pack of cigarettes, and President Bartlett on the West Wing tonight.

I can think of worse ways to spend the next four years... Drunk isn't a bad way to go. And hey, maybe I'll look into some of those happy pills. Better living through chemistry and all that...

I've Got Just Three Things to Say

My Grandma Irene used to say, "If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all."

She never actually lived by this advice. She loved to rip on people of all races and creeds. In fact, she was darn right acrid.

She also used to say, "Do as I say, not as I do."

I never did listen to her advice.

That said, I have just three words for the American people tonight:

STUPID. STUPID. STUPID.