I still find the idea of a blogging community to be attractive and useful. I've made some lovely friends and gotten a lot of very helpful advice. But I think something is missing for me right now. Perhaps my lack of time to contribute to my little corner of the blogosphere is more damaging than I had realized. Perhaps three kids sent me right over the edge. Perhaps I've lost my spark.

So thank you. Thank you for your kindnesses, your advice, your caring. Thank you for listening and sharing yourselves and your lives with me. Thank you for the gifts you have given me.

Au revoir.

I have spent a good part of my life believing that you cannot in fact teach an old dog new tricks. There were a bunch of people I knew as a child to which the saying could reasonably be applied. And the other sayings seemed to hold a grain of truth:
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Too many cooks spoil the broth.
Better late than never.
So why not this one?

I believed it.

I then became, if not the old dog, the midlife dog, certainly not the young dog.

There are mornings when the children have not slept well when I certainly relate most closely to the old dog. And venues where the young-ish dogs are running circles around me. And days when my thoughts are trickling down my neck like honey when I wish for nothing more than to lie on the hearth and pant.

As the old dog sniffs around my ankles and lays on my feet and humps my thigh I have begun to hate the saying "You can't teach an old dog new tricks". The proverb is moribund, not the dog I want to scream! Old dogs are learning all kinds of things these days I think self satisfiedly, grinning maniacally. The old dogs are the ones that have the luxury of experience and wisdom I tell myself decidedly.

And that is why I joined the doll quilt swap even though I had never made a quilt and had no plans to make a single one.

My mother was an accomplished quilter and she was so old skool that she pieced and quilted everything by hand. It was lovely to watch and it took a long, long, long, long time. I've got three little ones at home—time is at a bit of a premium over here. Plus I'm not very patient. Plus I have the shortest attention span in recorded history. Plus there aren't too many people that I love enough to spend 40 bazillion hours meticulously creating a handmade quilt for.

After some very convoluted reasoning and a few rationalizations and some completely untrue promises to myself and a lot of "You Go Girl!" self psyching and some not very opaque delusions I signed up. And then for the first time in my life I made a quilt.

It is quite small. And very handmade, and I mean that in the least accomplished sense of the word. My seams do not match up in the way they were designed to. My corners are wonky. The quilting defied me. The choice of fabrics is questionable. My hand sewing lacks finesse. The binding..don't make me laugh. I could continue, but I will spare you the minutia.

This sometime old-ish dog attempted to learn a new trick. I feel better for the effort. I did not, in the end, create a thing of beauty, but I did manage to slap a few moribund ganglia into action. E. said, "Mama, I think it is beautiful! Can I put it in my room?" K. willingly drove me to the fabric store. It seems this old dog had her day. Or learned to let sleeping dogs lie.

You've made your bed, now lie in it.

Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.

A word to the wise is sufficient.

Wait, what were we talking about?

There was a mouse before we left for vacation. I knew this. We were taking steps. And then it was time to go.

When we got home things were bad. The kids were whiny. I was bloody and tired. K. was stressed and busy. And the mouse had made himself at home.

The silverware drawer was what tipped the scale. There was mouse poop all over all of the silverware and utensils. I have watched enough epidemiologically-based tv to know that mouse turds can be bad, can cause death. Plus they are just creepy. And I had to wash everything in the drawer. And I was not in the mood. And it wasn't over.

A few days after we returned home E. said, "Mommy, there's something in the play room," in that voice that means I-N-S-E-C-T. I wasn't in the mood for insects. I am rarely in the mood for insects. Mostly I try to tag them/track them/save them for K. But surveying the situation is part of the job, so I trotted off to survey. I was not in a hurry.

It was the mouse. Upside down. <shudder> I attempted to move it but was unable to touch it. I closed the doors...well, barricaded them and ordered the children to stay out of the room. I spent the day feeling like the house held a terrible secret while wondering what had happened to him anyway.

We had 72 humane traps in the kitchen filled with peanut butter, cheese, all manner of rodent-like delicacies. [Not just for rodents either—a few days before vacation R. had wandered into the living room licking something big and round and black. But that is another story for another day.] And one old trap that we had completely forgotten about back under the stovetop filled with poison.

Yes, the cabinet under the stovetop was filled with the turds too. He seemed to be nibbling on the ginger. The complete list of nibbles is: ginger, hot chocolate packets, rice, marshmallows, granola bars, some plastic bags, and one oilcloth bag, which rankles.

I have finished up the scrubbing, but I still feel wrecked by the rodentia.

I could not help thinking that she looked as if she were waiting for her date for the 8th grade dance. I hope he was nice to her. For his sake.


The girls did not feel like posing for photos for an hour. This is the best I could do.


Arghhhh! We're pirates, mateys!


There was loot at the party. We all stayed up too late and had a lot of fun.

Soon after the party we got on our planes and went home and everyone was sad and grumpy.

The End.

Thus, it wasn't.

But I am still pretty wild over my kids and grateful to be able to parent with K. and all in all my day was probably a realistic mother's day, as I prefer it.

I could have lived without the gore. And the nauseating wait while taxi-ing. And the weeping. (Hormones, you may know, occasionally may have that effect on a person.)

But still I know I'm a lucky, lucky mom. I know it. Good enough, my friends, good enough.

We are at Disney with Shelba and her family.

We are very, very busy, running to and fro and fro and to.

It is hot in Florida. The sun saps our energy and we lay about.

But not for long because there are things to be done and rides to ride and pools to swim in.

It it was easy to give you a picture I would, but we are somewhat impaired here at Disney with two laptops and 3 cameras and a million wires/chargers/plugs and iffy internet access.

Looking back through the archives I see that I tell you every year that we aren't celebrating that year for a variety of reasons. That leads me to believe that there is very little need to mention that we aren't celebrating this year either. I think K. is a celebrator and I am not. Three preschoolers tend to put a damper on these things for me. One of the preschoolers is crying right this minute as preschoolers tend to do.

I am feeling sentimental and squashy and old today and have to hold myself back from writing Ye Olde Tribute to K., A Man Above Men. He is a fine person, genuinely likable, and very handy with the legos. Many, many admirable qualities. Plus he goes along with my hair-brained schemes and hardly ever says Exactly WHAT were you thinking? Tell me RIGHT NOW. Also he has never once yelled THIS VACATION IS OVER at me like some guy did (to his significant other, not to me) on our first trip to the Bahamas. I give him a lot of credit for that. He did get annoyed at me on our honeymoon because I was all crazy tired from taking Dramamine to get through the Exciting Helicopter Ride Over The Erupting Volcano! and I wanted to crawl into the back seat of the car to sleep as we bumped, bumped, bumped to the only black sand beach in the whole world and when he suggested that we swim I looked at him blearily and snorted. See? He's a saint and I love him.

Photographic Evidence that K. is a Saint,
or at Least Has One Foot on the Threshold of Sainthood

I've finally gotten through all of the photos from China, and uploaded what's worth uploading to Flickr. You can see random photos from our trip to adopt R. in my China 2008 set.

I will warn you that there are 64 photos and very, very few of my family. Mostly scenery type stuff. The stuff my grandmother disliked. She never saw the point of taking a picture that didn't have a person in it. A point on which we disagreed. As you will see if you click through my photos. I loved my grandmother a lot—she made crazy good cream cheese and olives on celery and she washed paper plates. But she was just wrong in her photographic sensibilities.

Anyway. Photos. Lots of them. Mostly without recognizable people. For you. Or not.

P.S. Edna Waller assures me that "Life is pleasure with antidepressants!" Edna, I couldn't agree more. Thanks for the friendly little email reminder to cheer me up.

When the OT told me that Z.'s gait was odd I just smiled to myself. Z. has her own way of getting places and her own pace getting there I thought to myself. She requires us to wait. For what I don't know. At this point I'm just waiting.

It's been a rough few months for Z. We suspected the transition occasioned by adding a new member of the family would be most difficult on her. We were not wrong. She and R. spend their days following me around jockeying for position. Those are the nice days. There are other, less nice days too.

But Z. has more on her plate than just a new brother. We are in the process of being evaluated by the school district with our eye on the integrated preschool class next fall (special needs kids in with NSN kids who are invited via a lottery). So far we have met with the OT and the SW, and we still have the speech therapist and a standardized test they are going to administer. Z. knows instantly when she is being evaluated these days. It isn't that difficult. The signs are there—there is a stranger, odd requests, and her mother gets that voice and is a little too cheerful.

I have mixed feelings about the evaluation by the school and about Z. going to preschool in the fall. But then again I have mixed feelings about most everything with Z. So we are moving forward, having the evaluations performed, meeting with the Child Study Team, preparing to send her in the fall. It isn't easy on Z.—she must have mixed feelings too.

Then there is feeding. A great thing happened for me when we met with the IA doctor for R.'s first visit. R. was being watched and the doctor and the OT were asking me a million little questions. The subject of Z. came up. I was just waiting, and immediately pounced. I screwed on my most pathetic mom face and said, "Things are not going well with the feeding therapy. We aren't getting anywhere. Are there any IA doctors who specialize in feeding?" The doctor and the OT gave each other a strange look, but I forged ahead. "I mean anyone. Anywhere. We will fly across the country to consult with the right person. We don't know what to do and the current therapy isn't working and we don't know why and we are considering the doctor in Virginia who everyone loves but living there for 4 or 6 weeks would be difficult. Anyone? At all?" They both gave me a long look. I wondered if I had offended them in some way.
"You're looking at them." It took me a second to realize what they were saying. Were they saying that they were experts in feeding within the IA community? Why did I never know this?

Blah blah blah. Lots of talking. We arrange for Z. to see the already solidly booked OT. We go to the appointment. It is much, much different than our current feeding therapy. It is very, very difficult for Z., and not much fun for me. It is challenging. I feel afraid and exuberant at the same time. I take Z. and her stash of stuff home and begin to implement the new regime.

Z. crumbles. She cries, a lot. She acts unhappy. She begins to refuse to make eye contact during meals, and then refuses eye contact with me intermittently all day long. She begins an all-out rejection of me, doesn't want to be touched, doesn't want me at all. Ever. I persist. I hug her and make eye contact and continue on with the program. She gets gaggy. And then she vomits right in the middle of her dinner, the first time since November.

I email the OT and we decide to take a step back, skip a session, and wait and see. We continue with a few little changes and try to decide whether Z. is upset because of R., upset because of the new therapy, or both. More question marks from our Z. She is a veritable question mark factory, churning them out night and day at breakneck speed.

More question marks. More waiting. I take a deep breath.

Anyway, they will call if they "need more films". I will get a letter in 5 - 7 days with the results. Thanks and have a nice day.

It's a good thing in the long run. I have been trying to decide for far too long if I should get myself into a high risk program and now I've decided once and for all. Yes, I am going. I will talk to them and know what my risks and options really are and go from there. And I bet they will read my films right away.

No news is good news I've decided. Happy weekend!

Enter Z.

I didn't go to a single doctor for 3 years, save my endocrinologist because I needed the meds. No GYN. No dentist. No dermatologist. No nothing. Looking back I sometimes wonder what I was thinking. But deep down I know what I was thinking—I was thinking I am completely overwhelmed with her issues and blindsided by the amount of doctor and therapy appointments we are attending to for her. Not to mention the attachment stuff and the fact that she full-on rejected us for 9-12 months straight. And don't forget the vomiting.

All that to say there is no excuse and I know it. On Friday I shall go and have the long overdue mammogram sorely lacking my previous devil-may-care attitude. I have turned 40 and 40 has changed everything. My mother was diagnosed with her breast cancer at 40. And my maternal grandmother in her early 40s. Right now 42 feels like if not a death sentence then a sentence which may include but is not limited to surgery/mastectomy, radiation, chemo, and/or a series of drugs with long-term unpleasant side effects. I dread Friday. A lot.

Ever rational K. tells me not to borrow trouble, not to assume, and if the news should be bad that he will help me to cope and make the necessary arrangements so that someone can care for my children while I vomit profusely. I know K. is right. I know he is right most minutes of the day. But the minutes when I feel vulnerable, when I wake in the middle of the night and it is black outside, minutes when I am lonely or frustrated or terrified by life, minutes when I question my genetic predispositions, minutes when I feel the winding fingers of the depression creeping back, in those minutes I am not able to listen to K. I am only able to feel cold and simultaneously long for and dread Friday.

Or. Not.

Happy April first!

"I know," K. said, "I came home and I just thought to myself poor Amy." I glanced up at him quickly and he was shaking his head and sounding kind. I burst out laughing. We laughed for two minutes straight, gasping.

"But they were inside out all day. And I never noticed. And I answered the door and talked to Margo."

"I'm sorry. I know. I'm sorry." Long pause. "Are you ok?"

We laughed again, hard.

I know it doesn't seem like a big deal, but part of my Type-A, super anal personality is a borderline compulsive concern about my clothes. I can guarantee that I have never, never, ever gone for an entire day, going to the bathroom at least 3 times (and probably more like 5) and not noticed that my pants were inside out. Ever.

I'm not ok. But at least it's a teeny bit funny. And that's how things are going over in my neck of the woods and that's why the posts are sporadic.

I had fairly low expectations this year seeing how we have a brand new son and the insomnia is hanging in there and the next vacation is not close enough to feel imminent and it's Easter and all. Did I mention I just got my period? Riiiiiiiiight. Low expectations met. A quiet birthday it has been.

Yesterday we bought E. and K. new bikes and we took a short walk, as much as I could manage with the cramps and gore. Today we had brunch and I took a nap. Not scintillating. K. has worked hard to make things nice but there is only so much he can do. He does get an A for effort. And I love him. Which is more important than the rest.

And now I am 42. I feel 42 and 22 simultaneously today. I can't imagine that in 2 months it will be 20 years since I graduated from college. Forty-two. Both of my grandmothers had children in their 40s and I find comfort in the thought. I am an older mother, but I am not too old. I must get to the gynecologist and have that mammogram. My self care all but evaporated when Z. arrived. It was all so overwhelming, so confusing, so consuming. It is time to grab control back. 42 seems like a good time. Time to take care of myself. Time to get serious about exercising. Time to care for the kids by caring for myself. I believe 100% that one of the best ways to show your special ones that you love them is to care for yourself in a serious, rational way. I know there isn't much time, or enough money, and the older you get the scarier it gets. But what is more important than modeling loving yourself to your children?

I hope this year holds more love, deeper positive relationships, exciting creative challenges, opportunities to learn about myself and this crazy world, and an ever deepening commitment to K. I wish the same for you. If I could (and I'll tell you right now that there is no way!) I'd invite each of you who have supported me and shared with me and listened to me over for cake and I'd give you a little gift on my special day.

When it comes down to it I'm deeply grateful for this life I have. Happy birthday to me indeed.