Off to Iowa!

I have been so busy collecting all of Froggy's prescriptions, that I forgot to get excited about our vacation! We're only two meds away from being ready, and I'm finally having that "looking forward to something" feeling.

I love Iowa. Why you ask, would I love this fly-over state? First, shame on you for calling it a fly-over state. You know who you are!

Iowa is beautiful and real. You can actually see stars at night, the seasons are harsh, but mark the years, and give one the feeling of having endured something. I especially love autumn in Iowa; the air smells like raw earth and burnt leaves. Everyone is holding onto the warm weather, afraid if they come inside, the winter will creep up and stay.

Iowa in autumn is pumpkin patches, apple orchards, wine tastings, cider, taking mittens out of moth ball shoe boxes, a walk in the woods that only Van Gogh could replicate, dark nights with the lonely cries of a coyote, snuggling under the blankets with my sister and a book, looking at black and white photos with my grandma of relatives who came before, and trick-or-treaters haunting the neighborhood with goulish ladybug and princess costumes.

Iowa is my home, my rest, my family. And I can't wait to be there.

I'm Henry the 8th I Yam, Henry the 8th I Yam, I Yam

The little stinker loves pulling my plays off the shelf. She is especially fond of Henry the 8th. And I must say, it's not my favorite. Hamlet, Othello, I love. But Henry? She wouldn't have a Willy Loman or a Sam Shepard.

Ben Johnson, she doesn't care for. And I agree that his poetry is better than his plays. Beckett, she appreciates with a gentle thud. Whew. I'm not sure we would get along if she dissed Godot. Durang is funny but souless, and there's something about Jane Martin, she just doesn't trust. At least she's not a fan of Shakespear's A Winter's Tale, or anything written by Pinter.

I can not wait to take Froggy to the theatre! Puppet shows, children's theatre, even the shows on ice! We'll have no shame.

By the way, Froggygrandma took me to the play Doubt, Friday night. It was fantastic. Cherry Jones was amazing and what a script!

Froggies and Duckies

No time to write. We're in the middle of Insurance/CCS/Pharmacy hell. I'm trying to get all of Froggy's meds before we leave for Iowa on Friday. Uggh. I was on the phone for 4 hours today. The rest of the week will be picking up meds from our five different pharmacies, finishing work stuff and packing. I was hoping to get her RSV shot before Fri, but it's not going to happen and the paperwork will be stuck in medical review board limbo until next week. Gotta love the bureaucracy! I'm exhausted. Thank you J and R for coming over and giving me a hug.

These pictures are from Saturday. Froggy, Buddy and I took a walk through the canals. A female duck kept quacking like she was laughing. Quack, quack, quack, quaaaaaaack, quaaaaack. Froggy thought it was hilarious. And Buddy just wanted to eat them.

Sorry for the lame post, at least the babe is cute.

Publish this!

Anne Lamott is my writing mentor. I love her voice, sense of humor and self-deprecation. She’s a real person, and I like that in a writer.

In her book, Bird by Bird, she discusses a writer's need for publication, and how disappointing success can be. She uses a line from the movie "Cool Runnings" to illustrate her point. When a group of men on an Olympic bobsledding team are desperate to win a gold medal, their coach tells them, "If you're not enough before the gold medal, you won't be enough with it."

I believe Anne knows what she is talking about. She could be right. But my mentor has been published, a lot. And now she makes a good living with her gold medal. It's kind of like when a married friend tells her single friend that marriage is overrated. True, but it's just one of those things you can't tell your friends. I would rather be married than single, and I would much rather be published than not. So now what?

Okay, so I've had a few successes in my little writing life. But just enough to keep me in the game and not enough to make me feel like someone who, at a party, could honestly answer the question, “So what do you do? with the answer, “I am a writer, by God, a writooooor!”

Instead, I usually say something like this, “I write, but I’ve never actually been paid for it, so I guess I’m more of a loser than a writer. I write, so technically I’m a “writer” but who cares? I mean, it’s not like you can pop into a Barnes & Noble and actually pick up one of my books, even in the ½ off section. Look at Geraldo Rivera, he has a book, and he’s Geraldo, the dork with a broken nose who blew up an empty room looking for Al Capone, while an eager America was watching! At this point I would be happy with an article in Reader’s Digest or The Penny Saver. Nope, I’m more of a reader than a writer. I read other people’s work, because they’re published, and I’m not. (at this point the other person has walked away, helped themselves to another Martini and called their therapist to see if they can sneak me in for a session pro-bono because I’m not published and clearly couldn’t afford $150 bucks an hour to treat this unpublishable illness).”

Is it obvious that I received a rejection letter today? It actually came in the form of a very nice email, from a very big editor, and she said my essay was “lovely.” So I should be feeling good, right? And I do, a little. I feel as good as my single friends feel when I tell them having a baby is great, but so is a really good movie with buttery popcorn.

I don’t need a gold medal, maybe just a silver one, or bronze. And who would join the Olympics without the dream of winning the gold, anyway? Wouldn’t you have to have some severe mental illness to put yourself through that, just to participate? It’s ridiculous to think someone would spend their life practicing their craft without the hope of success? Isn’t it? If God or even Sylvia Browne told me today that I would never get published, that my life as a writer would never be more successful than it is today, would I still write? Of course. Would I be happy about it? No freakin' way.

Maybe I’m not enough before the gold medal. But there’s only one way to find out. Everyday, I’ll get out my bobsled, walk up the mountain, and slide down. Even if is just for the cheap thrill of doing something dangerous.

My what big teeth you have

Yesterday we visited my favorite farmer's market in the mountains with Grandma W. and Grandpa J. It was wonderful to get out of our side of town, breathe the autumn air and feel the subtle changes of California seasons. The farmer's market was a bit disappointing - mostly ugly crafts, a couple fruit and veggie stands, and some corn on the cob.

Froggydaddy wanted the ugliest pumpkin there, the one with a huge gash on the top and a kind of fungus that looked like squash acne. He said "That would make a great jack-o-lantern!" But Froggy and I wanted a pretty one, symmetrical, round, and plump. We were two-to-one, so pretty took precedence over creepy.

Maybe when Froggy can voice her own opinion, she'll side with Daddy. And when she's older, if FD wants a scarface jack-o-lantern and a daughter dressed as a creepy little troll or Bride-of-Chucky doll, fine. But until then, she's wearing a ladybug costume, and settling for Halloweeny-cute over Halloweeny-scary.

Elephant Mamas

Did anyone read the article in the New York Times Magazine last Sunday about Elephants? (An Elephant Crackup). Basically it said that elephants are exhibiting signs of Post-traumatic stress disorder because of poaching, habitat loss and translocations of herds to different habitats. Elephants are killing humans without provocation, raping and killing rhinos, and have in essence, "gone wild." They have lost their parental infrastructure and it is causing the young to become unelephant-like. The writer compares this to the orphaned children of Uganda who have also lost their parental infrastructure because of war.

Charles Siebert writes, "Young elephants are raised within an extended, multitiered network of doting female caregivers that includes the birth mother, grandmothers, aunts and friends. These relations are maintained over a life span as long as 70 years. Studies of established herds have shown that young elephants stay within 15 feet of their mothers for nearly all of their first eight years of life..."

I'm not a big fan of anthropomorphism, because people usually use animal behavior to assert their own agenda. And usually the opposite is true as well. But I'm going to do it anyway, and assert my mama agenda.

I was struck mostly by the importance of a strong matriarchy. When Froggy was diagnosed with CF, my group of women friends and family rallied around us. They called their pediatricians, doctor-friends, brought goody-bags of health food, soaps and slippers for the hospital, called, emailed, and always enveloped us with love. And I'm not underestimating the importance of a strong patriarchy. But it seems like when things go wrong, when the jeeps near and the poachers aim, the mamas stand on their hind legs, swing their trunks and BRALOOOOOOOOO until the world is safe again for their babies.

A community of mamas on the reserve, or park at the end of the street, have the same incredible impact; to raise their young with the capability of empathy, love, and loyalty. Without this community of aunties, sisters, grandmas and friends, I wouldn't have survived our war. In so many ways, the world depends on elephant mamas everywhere, standing in the middle of the road so the jeeps can't pass, and the circus never comes to town.

To all the elephant mamas out there, thank you.

Our second baby

The dog prefers baby food. The baby prefers kibble. Who am I to argue? They are remarkably alike (the dog and baby). Both crawl around on all fours, chew on squeaky toys, neither are potty trained, both chase the cats around the house and have a strange dislike for the mailman.

Yesterday Froggy and I came home to find a large pee pee puddle on the floor, a cat turd on the sofa (Buddy had helped himself to a little afternoon snack), and Froggy's diapers (clean ones, still in the bag) scattered throughout the living room. I was not sympathetic and muttered something about the pound or going to live on a farm in Iowa. Buddy has separation anxiety when the baby is not with him. I explained that I was the one who gave birth to her, but he claims he is her 'dog parent.' - much like a godparent. He says it isn't a coincidence 'god' is 'dog' spelled backwards. Again, who am I to argue.

Before you feel too bad for the mut, listen to his very privileged life. In the morning, he gets a walk to the park, where he chases squirrels and crow. Then he comes back to munch on babyfood that falls from the high chair. In the afternoon, he goes for an hour walk around the neighborhood and has more time at the park to chase squirrels. I work from home, so he is rarely alone. And if the weather is cool, he gets to run errands with us. No, no, this is not the life of starving Jack London wolf, foraging for food in the barren snow-laden lands of an Alaskan tundra. He is spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. And still he eats poo and pees on the floor. It's just a good thing I have nothing better to do with my day than wash the sofa covers, and mop up puddles.

They call me Trouble

Hi, it's me Froggy. Mom is too busy cleaning the house (yes, my mess) to write anything. So this is my bloggin debut. I'm pretty good so far, don't you think? Today I learned how to play the Kazoo! And then mommy had to explain that not everything makes that sound. So when I blew on my pacifier, nothing happened, same with my drum sticks. The kazoo cracked me up so much, I'd have to take a break from blowing, just to laugh. Ohh, I am so funny.

Mommy could not keep up with me today and kept calling me "Trouble," and "You little Pistol," and "Naughty Girl" and she said the word "no" a lot. I was like, "whatever mom, if I want to knock the lamp over, I will. Geez, get your own life."

Here are a few things I got into today. First, I ripped everything off the fridge while mom was doing the dishes. Then I tore up a cool picture my cousin drew for me, and my mom's grocery list too. I guess if mom and dad value their stuff, they should keep it out of my reach. Cause I am only one, you know.

After ripping things to shreds, I played the kazoo a little more, pulled the cat's tail, screamed at the dog, (he ran away), um, then I went over to the book shelf while mommy was making a business call. You have to time these things just right. And I am so good at that.

While she was on the phone to some producer or something (for her dumb job) I cleared the bookshelf with one swipe. Then I tore up some pages out of this play book by John Guare. You know the guy who wrote "Six Degrees of Separation." Yes, I'm very smart for one. Mommy gave me a look she's never given me before. I think it meant, "you're so cute, would you like me to make some mac and cheese for you?" But no, she took the books away and put me in the pack n' play, or as I call it, the baby jail. It was not to my liking, so I wailed a good one back at her. Mommy threw some more toys in my cell, but I know why the caged bird sings, man! I need to be free. I've got things to do, people to see. Like some dumb doll is going to appease me. I think not.

After a few minutes of major fussing, she put me back on the floor, so I promptly found the dog food and ate a few morsels. Yum. Can I just say that Science Diet Light with real Chicken Flavor is heavenly. It's like butter. Then I found an old Cheerio and ate that too. It had some dog hair on it, but Mommy helped me pick it out of my mouth. I guess she's good for something.

After my snack, I found my mommy's New York Times Book Review on the coffee table. She was still in the kitchen doing dishes, so I ripped that puppy to shreds! Guess she won't get to read that great article on the Life of Audrey Hepburn. Ooops.

Mommy was not happy about that one, especially when she found me with some of the paper in my mouth. Again she shot me a funny look. I think this time it meant, "you're so adorable, smoochie poopy."

While she was throwing out the paper, I looked around the living room for something else to destroy. But the mama was onto me and had appropriately baby-proofed, or as I like to call it, "deprived me of proper educational stimulation."

When I went for the telephone, mommy said, "Why won't you play with your toys, and give me a break, for the love of God?"

She then shoved some crappy Teletubbie in my face. I gave her a look like, "That was so five months ago. How about you let me call my peeps, and we'll forget everything."

I tried calling my friends in Guam, but mom and dad don't have long distance. As soon as I figure out the phone card, I'm calling my psychic friends for a free reading of my past life.

Then mommy wanted to check her emails, so I figured this was my chance. I crawled as fast as I could down the hallway. I'm just dying to play with this box the kitties go into. It's like a kitty sand box! Ya know, like the sand at our park? But mommy thwarted my plans on a kitty poo sand castle and caught me before I rounded the corner.

Mommy was so tired tonight, she said something about me going to bed early. I was like, "Why don't you go to bed early, lady, I'll stay up and have some friends over." But she was a good sport and put on Dizzy Gillespie, Benny Goodman, and Tommy Dorsey and we danced in the living room, until I got real tired. And then, I put my head on mommy's shoulder and cuddled my lamby blankie and then, just fell asleep.... Mommy rocked away and whispered, "good night my naughty girl, I still love you."

Maybe tomorrow I'll give her a break. Maybe not.

The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your milk

These pictures are a few weeks old, cause this mama has been oh so busy.



Froggy, you are 13 months old today and here are our favorite things about you:

You have 6 teeth and love to brush them. Mama bought you 2 toothbrushes, one for you and one for me. You find the toothpaste to be delicious.

You are easy to laugh, whether you're in on the joke or not. As long as someone in the room is cracking up, you are too.

Changing your diaper is a task. You find it hilarious to play, "escape the diaper," by twisting and squealing until you get away. When you are out of arms reach you look at me like, "sucker!"

You can say, mama, dadda, kitty, duck, sissy, and cat. And almost everything can be sufficiently described as a kitty. A car, a dog, another baby, they are all kitties.

You love to wake up your dadda in the morning. I say, "wake up dadda" and you leap over to him and smack his face!

You can stand without any help. And you are a master crawler, super fast down the hallway.

Your favorite game is "chase me". I say, "mama's gonna get you," and you squeal with joy, and hottail it down the hall. Halfway, you turn to look at me, shake your head and keep on crawling!

When we take Buddy for a walk, you insist on holding the leash. In fact, if I forget, you demand that Buddy be under your control. Sometimes you get a little overzealous and pull him too close, lifting him off the ground. You love your Buddy soo much. A little too much.

You love hitting the kitties. Peanut takes it like a champ. Today, while Peanut was sunbathing, you pulled chunks of hair out of her coat and giggled. She didn't mind, happy to get attention from anyone, even if it hurt. Poor kitty. Piper is smarter than that, and avoids you like the plague. Don't worry, she'll learn to love you.

You love cheese and avocado and can't eat it fast enough!

When you love someone, you pat them on the back or head. Mama and Dadda get lots of pats.

When you are falling asleep, you hum. It melts my heart.

I give you a bottle at night and rock you to sleep. You stare up at me with such adoration. It is my favorite part of the day.

You are very sweet and sensitive. Tonight you bit me while I was brushing your teeth. I yelped and it hurt your feelings.

You love to dance. Yesterday you grooved to Afro-funk! It seems to be your favorite. You prefer music with a good beat.

You find puppetry to be the highest art form.

Your toys do not interest you. You'd rather play with your nebulizer, syringes, keys, paper towels, the phone, my purse, the computer, any string or cord, and my books. Your latest trick is knocking all the books from the shelf and eating the pages. I've lost half of "Gone With the Wind."

You love the neighbor dog, Stella. The way she snorts, jumps up and kisses your nose, how she plays with Buddy. You cannot get enough of her lovin.

In the bathtub, you splash like a little tsunami baby. I get soaked, the bathroom is flooded and you love every minute of it.

Everyday you charm me. You have a wonderful sense of humor, you're strong and resilient and you never hold a grudge. Even when you are feeling sick, you try so hard to be happy. I love, love, love you more than anything in the world!!! You're my beautiful girl, and mama and dadda are so proud of your courage, strength and kindness. I know that you will change this world. You are a gift. Love, Froggymama and Froggydadda

How We Met

The day we met, you were nervous. I knew you liked me. Your smile said everything. I was working at Trader Joe’s in the mountains. It had been a long day and people filled the store. You were standing there with a can of tuna and a protein bar. I was in love.

“Are you out of walnuts?” you asked.

“Let me check.” So I went to the storeroom and giggled a little. I knew we were out of walnuts and didn’t have to check. But it was a great excuse to go giggle a little.

“Yep, looks like we’re out of walnuts,” I replied, knowing it wasn’t really walnuts you were interested in.

“Okay, thanks for checking.”

We both stood there awkwardly for a moment, waiting for the sky to open and a chorus of angels to sing ALLELUJAH!!! But the only sound was a bad Musac tape of Jimmy Buffet singing something about pina coladas.

It was the end of the day and I was making $7.15 an hour, not to stand there talking to cute boys. So, I returned to the front and you got in the long line. Ahead of you was a woman who I knew would have a million questions about cheese or the freshness of the kiwis, or how the last time she was here, the cashier gave her a discount on artichoke hearts. You were also behind a lonely guy with a twenty pound bag of cat food.

It wasn’t my job to open up a new line. Tonight I was in charge of cleaning the registers, and taking out the trash. But there you were, towering above everyone else with a huge Cheshire grin, a can of tuna, and a protein bar.

I motioned to you that I was opening a new register. And that was the beginning of our life together.

After you left, I grabbed the 50-gallon garbage bag around my back like Santa Claus, and headed to the bin behind the store. You were in the parking lot, waiting for me. This is LA, I should have been scared. Technically you were stalking, but I knew by your smile you were kind.

You held out your hand and introduced yourself. It was very formal, very unlike you. All I could think was that I was just touching garbage and really should have washed my hands before shaking yours. But you didn’t seem to mind. And by the way, you could have helped me throw that huge bag into the bin. It was above my head, and you were standing right there. I guess it was a sign that for the rest of my life, I would have to take out the garbage. But this is a love note and I have the rest of your life to nag.

Our first real conversation was about hiking, coyotes, bobcats and foxes. We both loved the mountains and camping. You said that you road here on your bicycle. It was dark and I was already worried about you riding home.

The next day, a coworker handed me the phone, “It’s for you.”

“But I don’t know anyone in LA,” I said.

You were on the other line, strangely quiet for a phone conversation. And you didn’t say why you were calling. The other girls stared at me like, “Is it the tall walnut guy?”

You said you could tell I grew up in a beautiful, green place. You said that you enjoyed meeting me. You said that you were glad I liked coyotes.

So I said, “Would you like to go out for coffee?”

You said, “Yes.”

On our first date you brought your photo portfolio and showed me amazing pictures of your daughter’s first breath, the cowboy at the football game and my favorite, the woman holding her baby on her shoulders, with the people on the balcony behind her. I thought you were gifted, and beautiful.

A week later I told my friend that I knew you were the one.

Marrying you was the best decision I ever made. When I think about growing old with you and looking at our photo albums of Froggy's first breath and our lives together, it actually makes me look forward to grey hair and arthritis.

I can not imagine my life without your humor, kind eyes and Cheshire grin. You still look at me with the same love you had when asking about the walnuts. And I am still just as thrilled when you walk through the door at the end of the day, as I was when you walked into my Trader Joe’s in the mountains.

Anniversary

Today, Froggydaddy and I have been married for four years!

I wish I could write more on my love for him, but I have a little Froggy here who needs to be held (all day). Oh dear. So much for romance. Here's a poem I wrote for FD six years ago when we started dated.

For Froggydaddy

We are wind driven beauties
life growing out of pores with Jasmine smells,
lavender bathed babies, we glow.

Eyes are windows they say and that day
a stillness in the air, the moon turned our way
and said yes
to every favor, every whim, every childhood wish.

We are century spirits
older than before we were born
our shadows met, stretching
long-bladed fingers along moon cratered sand.

We are flying above our bodies
a fairy dance
a fingertip affair, where hands
fit together and our bodies fit
together and we
twirl and laugh through tree top channels
reaching long branches down, scraping
layers of dust and gravel
we collected along the way,
before we met, before we were born
our shadows fell stardust reflections
to shape like bodies.

We piece each other back together
the strings and buttons, stitchings
the unraveled bits with glue and calloused hands.

We were cast out by the gods on a fisherman’s pole
to swim and suck in life
toward the center of the sea
where volcanoes and earthquakes
shake and snarl and nobody knows
they can’t swim that far.

We are more than we are
in our shadow
where sun and moon decide the truth

Isn't it ironic, don't you think?

"It's vile," said Rep. Mark Foley (R-West Palm Beach).

"It's more sad than anything else, to see someone with such potential
throw it all down the drain because of a sexual addiction."

On Bill Clinton. 1998.

The Dork Gene

I did not pass down the dork gene to Froggy. I know this because she is already way cooler than I ever was.

The other night during treatment I turned the channel to our local PBS station, needing a break from our kids videos. The Lawrence Welk show was on. I watched this program with my grandparents as a kid and LOVED the big hair, blue eyeshadow and cheesy songs where everyone harmonizes perfectly, and the set is lit with a fuzzy, lavender hue, like you're watching someone's dream, or a Shakespearean play set in a forest where lovers woo. Okay, so I liked Lawrence Welk. And I still do.

Froggy, however, did not inherit this gene and went on a desperate quest for the remote control. I swear, I swear, she was trying to change the channel. And when I finally submitted and switched it to Sesame Street, she looked at me like, "What were you thinking, mom. I mean, really?"

Froggy already has eclectic taste in music and prefers a much cooler genre. I love Folk music and usually play it during dinner. About a week ago, Miss Crabbypants was protesting Joni Mitchell, so I put in a mixed CD of FroggyDaddy's. It consisted of The Clash, Adam and the Ants, and The Beastie Boys. She LOVED it, and once again looked at me like, "Can Daddy pick the music from now on?"

I also love Froggydaddy's taste in music, but I hope Froggy embraces the geek in herself someday. Perhaps, after much brainwashing, she will grab the remote, and choose "HEE-HAW" over "The LA Philharmonic" or "The Brady Bunch Variety Show" over "Charlie Rose". We'll see. Until then, we'll rock out to "The Casbah" and jungle beats, and every once in a while, I'll throw in a Blossom Dearie, or Bessie Smith. And she'll just have to deal.

A Poopy Day

I'm having blogger problems and am unable to display any photos. Not sure why. But I'm totally computer stupid, so who knows when you will see Froggy again. That's a threat, for all you computer literate friends. No Froggy until you fix my computer!

Froggy is super constipated and still malabsorbing. She threw-up this weekend and twice today so I called the CF docs at Children's Hospital. They told us to come in for x-rays.

Froggy was an angel! She stayed completely still for the Radiologist and actually had fun at the doctor's. We had a long wait because it was a "sick call" and they fit us in between appointments.

We played 'peek-a-boo' and when she tired of her toys, I let her play with my keys, a pen, tongue depressor, examining table paper. It was four hours of prodding and waiting. I can't believe how great Froggy was. Today could have been horrible, but her sweet disposition and sense of humor kept us both in smiles.

The docs said that fortunately there was no bowel obstruction, but there was a tremendous amount of poop in her. Poor girl. She will HATE me for posting this when she is 16.

The docs wrote her a prescription for a more aggressive laxative. On the way home, Froggy ralphed on the freeway and I had to pull over and wash out the car seat, change her shirt and diaper. And this is why Froggy is just a superchamp - after getting sick in the car, she was fine. No crying, no fussing. She was totally content in our stinky car, without a nap, and a very frazzled and tired mama. I love this girl! She inspires me to be a better person.

After our appt., we had to stop at the drug store for her super laxative. The pharmacist said they were way behind and it would be at least an hour. We still had dinner, respiratory therapy and a dog who hadn't peed in 9 hours ahead of us. I looked the pharmacist in the eyes with the most pathetic look I could muster and said, "please, my baby puked in the car, we've spent five hours at the doctors and she really needs to poop, for the love of God." The meds were ready in three minutes. Woo hoo! I love that pharmacist!

Little Froggy was a doll through therapy and dinner and drank her super-laxative like it was kool-aid. I am in awe of my girl. She is my life teacher, instructing me that everything can be fun, even a day at the docs, when you're backed up, gassy and pukin' in the car. It is an adventure, this life. Perspective is everything. And this little one-year-old knows more than her Froggymama. She is my hero, and right now, thankfully, she is sleeping comfortably...until the laxative kicks in. This could be a long night!