Well, we finally heard from the Swimmy. Yep. We got two letters yesterday and they read as follows:

Dear Ben,

Love,
Sissy

Yes, Swimmy, he is. A LOT.

But the next letter was the kicker.

Dear MOM,

MOM?! MOM?! Four days ago I was Mommy. Now I'm Mom. If she comes home saying, "Whatever, Mommy is so last week," I'm pretty sure I'm gonna pass out. Or knock her out. Whatever comes first.

Gotta go now. The mail's here.

So, here's another great reason about going to Austin. The lovely Cousin Mary (that sounds a lot holier than she really is) hooked me up with some very cool sites that save some serious jack.

Here's one for those that like to dine out.

Restaurant.com

I could be the only person in America who hadn't heard about this cool thing, but I thought I'd share anyhoo.

You can buy gift certificates to restaurants for UNDER the stated price. There are a few restrictions here and there (that vary by restaurant), but nothing outrageous. AAANNNNDDDD.. they are having a 70% sale on THOSE prices.

So. You could get a $10 gift certificate to a restaurant for $3 less 70%. OR $1.80.

I think you enter the code CRAVE when you check out -- let me know if that works for you. But even if this extra sale price doesn't, the original savings is worth it all by itself, yes?

Happy eating, folks.

By the numbers:

Number of miles driven: roughly 320
Number of diaper changes along the way: 4
Number of glasses of wine consumed: 4. No, 5. Maybe 7.
Number of boat rides: 2
Number of hours spent in the water: Not nearly enough.
Number of mystery bruises sustained: 3
Number of blues bands heard: 1
Number of times I tried to justify moving to Austin in my head: 50 gafrillion
Number of tears cried upon dropping Swimmy off at camp: 2
Number of times we laughed with cousins: I can't count that high.

This was a great trip. Truly. For being a two-year-old with a raging head cold who hates being in the car for any length of time, Benjamin did great. We had a minor issue on the way home when the portable DVD player ran out of battery charge (because I forgot to recharge it before coming home - see number of glasses of wine above --) but a quick stop to Wal-mart in a small Texas town fixed that right up.

Swimmy and Benjamin got to spend time with some adorable cousins (who are so adorable I fear for the female population when they get older as they will be powerless against their gorgeousness. Seriously. These boys are gonna get a whole lotta, uh, action when they're older.) But for all the fun the kids had while we killed some days before driving down to camp, Husband and I had the most fun hanging out with some favorite cousins who have just returned to Austin from a year in San Miguel de Allendre.
There were some funny times, we played a little euchre and learned a new card game, Mao, the hard way - or? The way it is supposed to be taught. I still have no idea how to play the desperado, but I can sparkle my fours thankyouverymuch.

The highlight was finding out Swimmy not only went out on the boat, but jumped in the lake. This may not seem like much, but for a girl that thinks and re-thinks the type of jello she may choose at lunch, this was a Big Deal. She loved the boat and the lake. LOVED. We couldn't get her on skis, a tube or a waverunner, but there's always next time. And I know this will be a trip she'll remember for years to come.

But here are a few pictures of her considering the waverunner.

Yeah, not happening. But here she is on the boat.

We took her to camp Sunday and while we were a little rushed to get her organized before lunch, she settled in nicely. She knew another little girl from her JCC day camp group this summer and that was a big "WHEW". Finding out she was assigned to a top bunk didn't sit well, but another little girl offered to switch with her and everything was great from there on in.

I teared up twice while dropping her off. Once was when I walked into the chadar (cafeteria) to grab her at the end of lunch and they were singing the blessing after the meal (a right of passage otherwise known as the Birkat Hamazon - it is long and fun.) It instantly brought back my own camp days - some of the greatest memories I have. The other time was actually turning the corner and seeing her cabin. A cabin I had once stayed in - as a camper and as staff.

Before I left I put a little note under her pillow telling her I loved her and saying the blessings we say each night before we go to sleep so that she will have them to say as well. She was nervous but okay when I hugged her goodbye in the middle of the noise and the chadar and as I walked out I sung along with the birkat - smiling all the way.
Driving out of those familiar gates I sent a little prayer up to G-d that wished for her a wonderful 10 days and the first brick in a long path of camp memories. I pray that the experiences she has at camp in years to come are as powerful as they are joyful and that a special part of being jewish settles into her heart forever.

And I hope she remembers always to say, "Please HAND me the salad" and not "Please PASS me the salad," 'cause that last one will get it tossed at you.

The other day a favorite blogger returned after a very extended hiatus. There was an audible roar from the internet when she hit publish and RSS feed readers hit tilt across the world. In a very brave post she announced that a long relationship ended which was crushing and to some extent embarrassing (as the couple was a large part of each blog post) and thus the absence. But, as she can see by the (at this time) close to 400 comments welcoming her back, she needn't have worried.

While I was thrilled to see she had returned to writing, it was interesting to think about what she was/is going through...a break-up.

I haven't had one of those in 18 years. I don't even remember what one feels like at close range. And on the other end of that spectrum, I haven't had a crush in 15 years either. (But just for the record? Married beats Crush any day of the week.)

I can remember my last "real" break-up. Oddly, it wasn't the last guy - or even 2nd to last guy - I dated. Those guys were just tools.

It was in college. He was a few years older - not really graduating on time because he had to put himself through school. A nice guy from a small town in Missouri. I'm sure we had "a song" but for the life of me I can't remember what it was. He was kind, funny, handsome, blonde and not Jewish. I knew that last thing would be a problem long-term but it was much more fun to be in a relationship than try to end it so we lived in denial for many, many months. He even said he'd convert - and I even considered letting him do it. I eventually graduated and moved home. He stayed in Missouri to finish school. We talked for hours on the phone (email wasn't really around back then - certainly not any chatting apps). But the discussions became more and more heartbreaking as reality set in.

I considered his offer to convert. I had to. Breaking up was hard. It's not like he was a terrible person - he was a great guy. Hell, he was willing to walk away from his FAITH for me. But that weighed so heavy on my heart. In considering it, I began to realize the reality of that for him. In a moment of true maturity (the first I can remember in college), I thought about how he would feel at Christmastime when there was no tree in the house. Or lights outside. Or any little Santa figurines. How our children wouldn't be dressed in plaid for a holiday picture..and I knew how empty that would feel for him.

And I knew I couldn't compromise on "blending" traditions. Even though my sense of faith was less developed in college, I knew trying to justify blending things wasn't the right thing to do. Husband has a saying that "character is the ability to make the right decision when no one is looking." I'm fairly certain it was this decision that taught that to me - even if I had never heard the statement before.

A few months later I went back to Missouri to visit and attend a sorority function as an alumni. (Yes, I realize how douche-y that is thankyouverymuch) It was originally intended to keep the relationship going, but it ended up being the end. There was no way to hide it any longer. My head had gone down the rational path and it was dragging my heart along with it. It was a terrible weekend and I couldn't wait to leave.

In a strange sense I mourned the ending of the relationship before I got up there. Every argument between my head and heart ended in tears, but less and less as the weeks went on until finally there was nothing left to argue about. It just was. Period.

Of course, at the age of 22 you try to be friends, which is the most ridiculous thing ever. You only do that once before you realize how ridiculous it is and then you learn to never do that again. But, on the other side of ridiculous, we ended it not because one of us did something awful like have an affair, but because it wasn't going to be a full and healthy future. So what is left is a nice respect and reverence for the time we spent together.

Years later Husband and I were returning from our honeymoon. We were in the middle of unpacking 37 suitcases when the phone rang. The voice was familiar, but just out of reach in my memory. Guess who was screwing around on the (then more robust) Internet and found me?

Yep.

While I always appreciated the effort, I wished it hadn't happened. I liked the way we had left things all those years ago - and this uncomfortable moment (having to tell him I just returned from my honeymoon!) cut the ribbon on the story whose bow was already tied. Hearts were battered enough years ago - and now it felt like a lingering bruise was aggravated again by me. But, in any case, THAT moment can now be called The End.

I'm glad I have this story. I'm glad that my last true "break up" was done the right way and for the right reasons. I'm glad he's married now and presumably happy.
But more than that I'm proud of who I became because of this. And I'm pretty sure the lovely blogger I mentioned earlier will have that on the other side of her as well.

Dear Benjamin,

Today you are two years old. That's the most unimpressive sentence every written here because you have been acting like a two-year old for well over a month now. Daddy and I are really not looking forward to the next several months if that is going to continue.
This month you went to your first summer camp at the local synagogue. You were the youngest in your class (by a year and sometimes by two) and I was a little concerned that might cause some problems - especially since you are still working on your language - but, man, was I ever wrong. After a week of fretting about it I emailed your teacher who assured me you were, indeed, holding your own. If the big boys were running in a circle yelling some silly word, you were right there with them.

Oh, good.

Your language is really starting to take hold and I can see where you are catching up quickly now. Some sounds still elude you here and there - and some clarity - but you are now easily using two word phrases and beginning to repeat three word phrases as well. Some favorites have been "big bubble" (pronounced beeg buh-bowl) and "Benjamin" (pronounced Dude-a-min). Your sister still gets a kick out of listening to you try to say things and currently her favorite is "sheep" (pronounced pees, which, incidentally, is also how you say "please").

You love the water and swimming and think splashing is the most fun thing in the world. To help you get used to the water we've dunked you under a few times and you've been a real trooper - no crying at all. This fearless thing is great now, but I fear for what that may mean later.

You are currently obsessed with Little Einsteins and the movie Cars. You would watch them for hours if I'd let you, but recently you lost one avenue of viewing - the DVD player in my old car. When I sold that car you had to suffer through a car ride with no movie and we, in turn, had to suffer right along with you. Endlessly. You have come to learn that not all cars have DVD players in them and are getting better at amusing yourself in the backseat, but it is still a very painful experience to be in a car with you these days. Can't wait to drive to 4 hours to Austin with you in two weeks. Daddy's packed extra Xanax.

But as obsessed as you are with certain TV shows it pales in comparison to your obsession with your sister, Swimmy. Never has a boy loved his sister so much. Swimmy has accompanied you to some speech therapy sessions this summer and all your teachers comment about how much you adore her. In fact, we used her to get you to start saying two word phrases. You wanted her to climb up the slide and we wouldn't let her do it until you asked her yourself, so you plainly said, "Sissy up!" And there it was. I think she got a kick out of it as well. We're bracing for when she leaves to go to sleep away camp - how in G-d's name will you deal with her being gone for nine days? Again, we look to Daddy's Xanax.

And speaking of Daddy, let me tell you here how influential your father is in your life lest anyone wonder one moment further. Daddy and you were hanging out a few days ago after your Little Gym class and you wanted raisins for your snack. Daddy, jokingly, said to you, "Here. Don't put them in your nose." And guess what? The power of suggestion was all you needed to jam a raisin up your nose. But we didn't know it for close to 45 minutes. No one could figure out why you were so cranky and for the life of me I have no idea why Daddy thought to look in your nose, but there it was. I don't know who I was more flabbergasted with - him for thinking he could say something like that to you...or you for ACTUALLY DOING IT.

Buddy, this month was filled with frustrations and all that comes with that. I'm sure the months to follow Two are going to be no different. There were days when I thought this staying at home thing really sucked, but there were moments in each day that reminded me how lucky I am to have this opportunity to hang out with you. And as long as we have those little islands of sanity from time to time you and I will be just fine.

Let's go have a cupcake.

Love,
Mommy

My academic career looks better in hindsight than it did in real-time. A bunch of fairly good high school grades got me into the University of Texas at Austin on probation. Landing in Austin with no sense of how to study or be disciplined landed me back in Houston with a 1.25 grade point average and some bruised pride (but some great stories). My folks, rightfully so, were a bit concerned about my future -- or my options -- and sent me to talk to a woman who did career assessment. Or? She gave tests to see what you are good at and what direction you should go.

My results were as follows:
Not a strong academic student. "Real" school not a good option.
Should pursue an artistic career path.

My real results several years later:
Graduated from a top Communications program.
Went on to graduate school and completed a Post-Baccalaureate and M.Ed in two years.
Interesting and varied career equaling anywhere from no money to a fuckload of it.

But "art" was nowhere in there.

I truly hated that woman who did that assessment. I thought she was ridiculous, condescending and lacked any sort of interpersonal skill. But that 'art' thing has bugged me for years.

I studied art history in college and loved it, but would never attempt any sort of painting or sculpture myself because I had too much respect for the masters to every try to do that myself. It was almost like it would be insulting them to try to do what they did. I still won't.

But I am creative. I can solve problems. Big ones. I can create a few as well. Good, messy ones. I can put the right people together. I can sell. And, in some artistic attempt, I'm a pretty good scrapbooker and occassionally I write something interesting or funny.

But I'm not a writer. I know this. There are many others around me, hell, even on that Blogroll to the left, who write rings around me. I'm way too inside my left-brain to ever truly be a good writer. And that's totally okay with me.

But I keep thinking about this unused right-brain of mine. It's kinda starting to tap my shoulder more often with words like, "Hey, remember me? I'm a lot of fun. Why don't you dust me off and take me for a spin a little more often?" And I'm kinda starting to listen to it.

I found the program I'd do here in town. It's specific to a very particular design interest I have. I could almost work it around Benjamin's school schedule, too if you can believe that luck. But guess what the first class is? Yep. Drawing Fundamentals.

Here, Pam, sit here and doodle while he entire der blaue riter spins in its collective grave. Knock your socks off, honey.

But you know what? If it were financially and logistically possible, I just might. Ain't that a kick in the pants.

Reasons your 2 year old could be inordinately cranky:

1. Fever or general illness.
2. Didn't sleep well.
3. He's TWO, dumbass.
4. Rampant Obama commercials.
5. He stuck a raisin up his nose and no one noticed.

Yep. 45 minutes later. He's a genius that one.

I would like the world to know that I just got paid for writing. Real money. I'd bite it to check for authenticity like they used to do in old cartoons, but it's a check. And that ink runs.

I saw my first words in print this week. It was...meh. Kinda anti-climactic really.

Here's the thing. There are topics I've covered on this site that are much more important, challenging and interesting - within and beyond my life. The pieces that I am writing for this paid column are, at best, a lifestyle piece. I will not change or even create opinions with these words. None of this will make someone pause. And that's okay. That's the point of these kinds of magazines.

But there is a part of me that wants to write and publish something "that matters". I can't define that right now, but it's the best description I have for what I'm looking for. I get to do some of that here and sometimes you guys are kind enough to respond - for that I thank you.

But for now, I'm still working on getting those two worlds to collide a bit. And tonight I will do some of my best thinking on the subject outside on the deck with a cold glass of wine.

Cheers.

I don't read many books. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I don't have a ton of time and, sadly, reading for any length of time actually makes me fall asleep. Instead, for years now, I've developed this habit of re-reading books. Or at least the ones that "spoke" to me in some way.

Eventhough I buy books, I may not keep them. I tend to loan them out - or give them away. Very few end up on my bookshelves for any sort of permanent home. If you were to look at my bookshelves you'd find the most random assortment of books that range anywhere from the self-help variety to great fiction to AP styleguides to interesting business-oriented biographies and a few jewish references sprinkled in here and there.

There is one book that has sat on my bath tub shelf for months now. The pages are torn, wrinkled from getting wet then getting dry, dog-eared from trying to mark where I was or where I wanted to return to and some are even written on. I've read this book probably 37 times.

At first I read it because it was popular. Then I read it because I just really liked her writing style. Then I read it again because every now and then there was a phrase that stuck with me and made me think a little harder. And that's why I've come back to it time and time again. Sometimes I need something to push me thinking past the limits of thinking.

Here was the phrase (para-phrased): You cannot see your reflection in running water. The water must be still.

Simple, yes? The ancients usually are.

Still. I love the idea of that. Silence. Quiet. This was brought up in a discussion about meditation - or more appropriately, how difficult it is to really quiet the mind in meditation which, really? I could never do right now. I have great respect for those that can - but I'm fairly certain my mind will never allow itself to be quiet or still. And I'd bet good, scarce money right now my kids wouldn't allow that in these four walls even if I threatened them with destroying the last popsicle on the planet.

When I'm alone in the house, or when all kids are asleep and Husband is working late, I never turn on the TV. There is no radio. I even type quietly if I choose to write (like now). This silence is so precious. I never understood how people could go to Starbucks to write - or even study. Why would you introduce all that noise into your head when it's so hard to get it out in the first place?

This is a most pointless post, but I've had something of a writer's block lately and thought this might do the trick. Hair of the dog, right?

So tell me - what books do you re-read? And why?

So, The Swimmy has been on her medication for a week now. The best way for me to describe this week is to tell you I've gotten my little Swimmy back. I cannot tell you what a difference this little blue pill with sprinkles inside has made.

I will tell you that the first day she took it I watched her like a hawk for any signs of strange side effects. I think I might have been waiting for her to sprout wings or perhaps vote democratic. Neither happened, thank goodness. We had some minor appetite loss around lunch time, but she more than made up for that in snack and dinner.

What amazed me the most was to watch her outwardly manage her impulsivity. The best examples came in her language. We'd be in the middle of some kind of family activity full of hustling and bustling and just as she was about to pop off with some random thought that would have normally gone directly from her brain to her tongue and out her mouth with no filter - she stopped herself. A few times she actually said, "Wait. Oh. Never mind."

The first time it happened I think she surprised herself. She got this look on her face like, "Whoa. Did I say that? No? Huh." I just smiled and hugged her.

What was weird was how calm she really was. We had to get used to the fact that she wasn't bouncing off the walls like she normally does. "Normal" now has a new definition - one closer to the way it should be. My dad remarked (and was really concerned) that she seemed sedated. I can understand why he thought that - for seven years she's been a ball of spitfire, energy and constant motion. We've come to know her like that. But what we've come to know now is a little girl who still is cute and sweet and smart - but is also a bit more in control.

She's not as anxious. She hears and listens. She proactively thinks a few (not many, but a few) steps ahead. The noise in her head is quieter. Now she can focus on things like her math tutoring - and as she succeeds she feels better about herself and actually ASKS to do her work. SHE's reminding US.

I know there are many who believe medication is a terrible answer. There are many who look at me like I'm insane that we've made this decision. I don't care. Not one bit. Everyone gets to parent their children as they see fit, but I love her way too much to let her struggle when she doesn't have to. And I'm just glad to have my Swimmy back.