The Laundry Maid

Edgar Degas' "The Laundry Maids"

Froggy - The Laundry Maid

All day, I fold and fold. I'm paid only enough for a milk.

But I still consider myself a happy child.

Overworked, but happy.

Sometimes I wear my boss's hat, if only to feel rich for a moment.

Sometimes, after my chores are done,

I play on the mountain of clothes. Let's just call it my playground.

Froggy the Unicorn

This big shiner happened yesterday. Froggy was sooooo excited to visit her friend "Hummingbird," she tripped on the sidewalk running to her house. I was a few feet away and heard the 'pop' on the sidewalk. It was pretty bad.

But after seeing her best friend, she cheered up. Hummingbird's mom looked up all the signs of a concussion, and Froggy had none of them. The swelling has gone down, but now it's purple.

Today we tried out Froggy's new pool. It's a 'splashing' pool that hooks up to the hose, has a little slide and blow up dolphin. She and Hummingbird had a blast. Froggydadda doesn't want me to post pics of Froggy in her swimsuit, because this blog is open to the public and anyone can view it. I'd hate to believe that perverts view family websites, but I'm sure it's true. So we're not going to take the risk. But I'm happy to email pics to family and friends.

Watercolour and acryllic paintings by Tomáš Pačes

It's rained 2 inches this year in Los Angeles. It's unbelievably dry and I have no idea how the plants, or people survive.

I miss weather; thunderstorms where the lights flicker and the dog hides under the bed, the smell of earth and grass, wet leaves and black soil. I love that electric feeling on your arm hairs when you step outside before a storm, and the warm stillness when the air feels heavier than it should. Southern CA is just too perfect, too sunny for me. How can you appreciate the sun without the storm?

Living for a year without a single rainstorm is freaky, like a Twilight Zone episode. It's just unnatural. I need green -green grass, green moss, green trees, green vines. I'll deal with the humidity and snow, if at some point in the year it's green. But this brown is lifeless, brittle and vulnerable. It begs to be more than what it is. Sometimes I feel the same about Los Angeles. It's livable, pleasant, even sunny, but there's just something missing.

Home again home again, jiggity jig!

In August, I'm taking Froggy to the Iowa State Fair!!! The picture above is what it was like in 1912.

The first Iowa State Fair was held in Fairfield, in southeast Iowa, October 25 to 27, 1854. Our family goes every year. It's a hot, smelly, crowded, family tradition. The fair is only fun for people who live in Iowa, and have been going every year since birth. It's kind of like Catholicism, only tolerable if you were born into it. Otherwise it's just a freak show.

I'm kidding. I genuinely LOVE the fair. And Catholics.

Corn dogs. The real reason we spend 10 hours in the Iowa humidity with a bunch of carnies and quilts.

The world famous Butter Cow. What do you mean, you've never heard of it? Every year the cow has a different theme. One year he's Elvis, the next year, he's stuck in the middle of a Peanuts cartoon. I can't wait to post this year's theme! A political cow perhaps? A Hillary Clinton or Mitt Romney heifer?

I have no idea what this man is doing to this poor cow.

The ski lift is for the majority of fair goers, who just happen to be over 1200 pounds, after eating the corn dogs, turkey leg, and deep fat fried snickers bar. The ski lift will actually carry your fat butt up the hill, so you don't have to walk.

I can't wait for Froggy to pet her first calf, piglet and lambie! She's
going to love it.

My favorite fair activities are:

Checking out the world's largest sow, standing in line for a close up of the butter cow, eating (in this order) a corn dog with a lemonade, wonder bar, turkey leg, pizza with a root beer, another wonderbar, or a caramel apple, a couple beers, and then a Tums. In between eating, we hit the photo exhibit, the quilts (mom is the only one who likes the quilts, but we humor her), the various barns with all the baby animals (who will be slaughtered later on in life, but we don't think about that while petting them), the horse barn, the honey comb and bee exhibit (one of my favorites), the yodeling contest, agriculture building (with deformed squash and huge pumpkins), 4-H exhibits, the varied industries building, and last but not least, the beer tents and a walk through the midway, where the toothless Carnies really know how to compliment a woman with a "hoooyeee girlie, fity cents gets you a chance at this here giant stuffed Bart Simpson!"

Ahh, not much has changed since 1854. I can't wait to share this tradition with Froggy!

The Baby Leash

"Maybe if I stick my tongue out a little, I'll run faster."

Run Grandma Run!!!

I'm not impressed with the new i-phone. Easy internet access on the go, big deal! Checking my email in line at the post office, who cares? The greatest invention of the 21st century has to be the baby leash. At first, I was apprehensive, like most are when accepting a new technology. I asked the obvious questions, "Is it really necessary? Will it be obsolete in two years? Will it confuse my child into thinking she is a dog?" But after a few blocks around our neighborhood without the stroller, I realized we were entering new territory, and new technology was required.

I used to look forward to our walks. They were leisurely and pleasant. We stopped to smell the flowers and visit our neighbors. Froggy was safely and securely strapped head-to-toe in her stroller, munching on Cheerios and pointing out the wonders of the world. Our daily jaunts around the 'hood helped me regroup, breathe, and gather sunshine. It was my favorite part of the day. But a month ago, Froggy decided that she wanted to walk. Wait, maybe I didn't quite make myself clear in 22-month-old language. So I'll translate. She wanted to WALK, and under no circumstances would she accept being strapped down, because...

"It's totally claustrophobic in my stroller, man!, I'm a mini-woman on the go, I got things to do, doors to knock, sidewalk cracks to jump over, jasmine to pick, kitties to chase, people to greet, sticks to poke in holes, fences to climb, bugs to jump on, lawn ornaments to torment, I rule the neighborhood, so no strollers allowed!"

For a few weeks we navigated the city streets sans stroller, with Buddy leading the way. But while the dog ran one way, Froggy ran up to a house, knocked on the door, stuck her hand in the mail slot, ran dangerously close to a Rotweiler, and tried to kiss a bee that had nestled into our neighbor's rose bush. I realized that Buddy and Froggy together would eventually divide and conquer...me. Buddy was already on a leash. That meant only one thing. The kid would have to join him.

Froggydadda vehemently opposed the baby leash decision. But after careful consideration of his feelings, I decided they were invalid. Okay, okay, not invalid, just ridiculous. He believed that it was unnatural to tether a child, like a prisoner or dog. Geesh! What psychological affect would the "strapping down" of our baby have on her future life's happiness. But I assured him, "honey, we're gonna screw her up on so many levels, this is the least of our concerns. Trust me, in therapy twenty-years from now, she won't even remember the leash. She will however bring up the fact that her parents danced along to her Sesame Street dvd's and knew all the words to "The Ladybugs Came to the Ladybug's Picnic." Or maybe she'll need to discuss with a therapist the reasons behind her father incessant need to bring home random junk and store it in our car-port (ya know because we really need another bike tire, or decapitated doll's head), or how her mom yells at the neighbors to quiet their car alarms, or promises to follow the fruit truck home one night to dismantle the horn that plays "La Cucaracha", or how her dad whistles constantly to weird, random theme songs like, "Melrose Place" or "Bonanza," or how her mom recorded every embarrassing, cute and memorable experience of her life on a blog, so that family and complete strangers could tease her about it when she's sixteen, and remind her boyfriend that when she was a baby, she'd toot in the tub, screaming "Peeeeuuuwwww!"

So after careful consideration of only my feelings, I decided that the baby leash was a necessity and Grandma W. agreed. The great thing about a baby leash in 2007 is that they are cleverly disguised as cuddly stuffed-animal backpacks. Froggy has a puppy-pack that wraps around her chest, has a cute puppy head peering over her cute baby shoulder, with a cute little puppy tail, well, that acts more like a leash than a tail. It's so cute, one would hardly notice that upon running too fast, she suffers whiplash.

But even with all the camouflauge, we still get "looks". I knew some people disagreed with kid shackles, but you would not believe the distainful glares we receive while taking our tike and dog for a walk around the neighborhood. Picture this: I'm in the back, holding the baby on the leash, who is holding the dog on his leash. We're kind of like a family chain gang, but instead of hardened criminals digging ditches, we're a mom, toddler and a pomeranian, strolling to the park. I think it's cute, others give us the "I'm calling the authorities!" look. One woman even shook her head in digust as she passed us, like I'd just pulled down Froggy's diaper in the middle of Wal-mart to swat her with the "my little trailer barbie" she was beggin for! Come on.

Men react differently. They either laugh or are too busy checking out the hot girl riding down the street on a beach cruiser to notice a baby on a leash. One obviously-single-guy gave me a dirty look, like, "That's just wrong." To which I telepathically replied, "You just wait mister. One day while chasing a toddler down a city street, avoiding cars backing out of parking lots, big dogs, and homeless guy poo, your judgement will turn to empathy, so until that day, you just keep your eyes on that hottie on the bike, and leave me alone!"

I must say it doesn't really bother me that the general public feels we're confusing our child as to what species she belongs. Because the general public doesn't know Froggy. Today on our walk, we tucked the baby leash in the stroller assuming that together, FD and I could handle the little tadpole. In .00005ths of a second, Froggy dashed into the street. Fortunately, there were no cars coming. But there could have been. This kid is so fast, we would have to be psychic to anticipate her next move. And I guess I'd rather look like a bad parent, than actually be one.

We can chalk this up to yet another thing I promised I would never do as a mom. I'll use whatever tactics, no matter how unconventional to keep my baby safe. Hopefully by the time Froggy is 14, someone will have invented the teenager leash, keeping her out of backseats and vans. Someday. And, I have a feeling FD will be more agreeable to that one.

Distractions

Distractions

I'm anticipating that perfect time of life,

when we have enough money,

and a house,

when my husband graduates school,

when I have a writing job,

when all of those things on my to-do list are crossed off,

when we can travel,

when the arguments in our marriage resolve,

and our credit card is paid,

when my plays are produced,

when my cupboards are organized,

when the letters have been written,

the bills paid,

the dishes done,

the rugs shaken,

the dog fed,

the cat brushed,

the baby changed,

the car washed,

the laundry folded,

the computer fixed,

the groceries bought,

the cake baked,

and the stairway swept,

when the distractions

that take us out

of life,

are wrapped in a package,

tied with a ribbon, and thrown

into the river,

so we can sit back and say

"This is the stuff."

When will we reach that place we chase

against the hours - like a greyhound after a rabbit,

always falling short, returning

to his cage at night, knowing

that the damn bunny is still out there

somewhere,

taunting him.

-by Froggymama

Peeeeuuuuuw Monkey Butt

We spent the whole day together! Froggydadda had to work. So we took advantage of a beautiful Saturday... to run boring errands.

First the bank. Then Trader Joe's.

While in line at TJ's, Froggy passed some gas. It was loud. She then picked up her stuffed monkey "Bubba" from Grandma and Grandpa, lifted the tail, smelled it and said, "Peeeuuuuw!" I couldn't believe it. Who taught her this? Curious George perhaps?

Then she smells the air and says, "Peeeeuuuuuw MAMA!" The little stinker blamed me and a monkey for her gas. My gut feeling is that Froggy is spending too much alone time with Froggydaddy. I'm thinking about installing a nanny-cam in the monkey to catch Froggydadda teaching her these stinky tactics.

On the way home, this was our conversation:

Froggymama: We had a fun day didn't we? Wasn't it fun?

Froggy: No.

Froggymama: It wasn't fun?

Froggy: No, no fun, no.

(Froggymama laughs hysterically all the way home).

Cuteness Warning

I realize that a mother finds her babe cuter than anyone. And the things the babe does, more charming and hilarious. So this is a warning to everyone. Froggy is getting cuter by the day. And that means there will only be more "look what she did" and "this is what she said" posts. In fact, there maybe two or three a day, depending on the cuteness factor.

The little tadpole is in her crib now, pretending she's not tired. While I was rocking her and giving her a milk bottle, I was lost in thought, staring ahead thinking about the massive piles of laundry we have, and no quarters for the machine. Usually when I rock the Frog, we stare into one another's eyes, I sing, or talk to her about why she's so special. It's my favorite part of the day. But today I was tired and a little overwhelmed by the amount of work ahead.

Obviously annoyed by her mommy paying her little attention, Froggy took the bottle out of her mouth and very louded cleared her throat with a big, "Eeeeeheeem." The second I looked down at her, the bottle went back in her mouth and a look of satisfaction spread across her face.

I just read an article in our Cystic Fibrosis newsletter about a seventeen year old boy with normal lung function.

The boy's mom said that it was hard to convince him that his treatments were necessary, because he'd never been sick.

So think about Froggy's generation! With all of the new treatments, antibiotics, and ones in the pipeline, she could have normal lung function for her entire life. Yay!!! I love reading good news.

Froggy milestones

Froggy can count to six. She does it like this: Oooooooooooooone, twwoooooo, free, fooooouuuur, fiv, six. Sometimes she does it like this: oooooooone, two, five, six. And then she claps wildly!

She knows all of her colors, even mauve.

Froggy can repeat almost any word. Ya know, if she feels like it. And she's really into body parts and clothing. She'll point at me and say, ear, nose, cheek, knee, arm.


I told Froggy that her baby monitor is not a toy. So now she plays with it and calls it "toy".

We're trying to stress manners. Today when she was jumping on the couch, I said, "Get down please." When she did, I said, "thank you." A second passed, she looked at me very seriously and said, "you're welcome."

Yesterday Froggy said for the very first time, "I wuv you mommy." Although I must admit that the day before, she said, "I wuv you Buddy." But I'm happy to come in second.

Froggy eats crayons. She prefers pink. It must taste like grapefruit. I'm a little scared to try playdough.

On that note: I've called poison control about seven times. The conversations went something like this:

Me: Hi, my daughter just sucked on a sharpie. Will she live.
Poison Control Person: (laughing) Oh yeah, kids love sharpies. Just give her some water.

Me: Hi, my daughter just licked the top of a can of Comet.
Poison Control Person: It's an irritant, but don't worry. Just give her some water.

Me: Hi, my daughter licked my phone battery, hi, my daughter licks the bottom of my shoes, hi, my daughter eats soap, lotion, pennies, sand, dirt, feathers, lint, cat and dog food, dips her pacifier in the dog water and in my coffee.
Poison Control Person: Just give her some water.

Her obsession with shoes is hilarious. I have a cloth shoe rack that hangs from the back of our bedroom door. She points at it and says, "shoe, shoe, shoe, shoe, shoe," only to be satisfied when I find the exact pair, she desires. Tennis shoes, ohhhh no. Slippers, nope. Sandals, I don't think so. This girl loves heels. And at 22 months, she can walk more gracefully and take corners better than her mama. Our poor neighbor downstairs must believe we're purposefully tormenting him.

Froggy is just starting to speak in complete sentences. A few examples:

Froggy: Buuuyeee (Buddy) side (outside) go, c'mon Buuyee, c'mon.

Froggy: Mommy, peeeeuuuew mommy. (when SHE toots! Taking after her father, she blames me!)

Froggy: Pipoooooo (Piper) Peeeanut, Buuyeee, tweet (treat). As she throws some cheese on the floor.

Or a phone conversation she had on her Elmo phone:

Froggy: Hi, hello, hi, cool, bye.

And the last cutie patootie, adorable thing that she does is... When I put her in her crib at night. She says, "kissy mama, huggy mama." And I kiss her forehead, chin, nose, cheeks and toes. And then she rolls over and says, "night night."

I love this kid.

Poem: "At the Children's Violin Concert" by Susan Cataldo, from drenched: Selected Poems of Susan Cataldo 1979–1999. © Telephone Books.

At the Children's Violin Concert

Firmly bowed strands of horse hair
tightened or gathered up by
a small hand to play
a piece by J.S. Bach
who drank 36 cups of coffee every day.

I like him because he was
inspired by his belief in God
& he played the organ in a church
in Leipzig & he walked on
cobblestone streets to his home
every evening where he fathered
many children & wrote music
for his wife to clean house by.
He worked hard all his life
& when he died, he left us
all the little notes he made
for himself while he was alone.

Say Ahhhhh

Today we had our CF appointment at Children's Hospital.

Froggy is 24lbs and 32.7 inches. She's in the 25th percentile for weight and 50 percentile for height.

Our doc said she has NEVER seen a CF kid grow so fast. When we were in the hospital with her at four months, she was 7 lbs. 11oz. That's the exact weight I was at birth. She was completely off the charts, in both weight and height. Now, she's a tank. Okay, not a tank, but maybe a jeep, or a sensible sedan.

We told our CF dietitian that Froggy loves avocado, peanut butter, roast beef, cheese and anything salty. She almost fell off her chair with delight. She said Froggy's body/mass/index is great. The BMI has a lot to do with lung health. For some reason, CF kids who have a higher bmi, have better lung health. No one really knows why they are connected, but docs like CF'ers to be atleast in the 50 percentile for height and weight. The dietitian measured Froggydadda and Froggymama's bmi (when we were 18 years old) and FD's was 20.8, mine was 17.8. Which means nothing to me. But it's the equivalent of me being in the 10th percentile for weight, and FD in the 25% for weight. So genetically, the fact that Froggy is in the 25th, even with CF is outstanding.

We won't find out the results from her throat swab for another week, so please say a little prayer, chant, howl at the moon, that it's negative for pseudomonas and all the other nasty little bacterias.

Froggy was an angel at her appointment. I dressed her in a t-shirt that says, "I'm kind of a big deal" for the occasion. And she lived up to it. She stood on the big girl scale, let the nurse take her temp, oxygen level, blood pressure, height, listen to her lungs and heart and even the throat swab was painless, well, she cried for about 3 seconds, but who could blame her?

Mommy however got reprimanded for bringing my cinnamon latte into the exam room. But can you blame me? Right as you walk into the hospital, they have an espresso cart that telepathically shouts to all passerbys, "YOU NEED CAFFEINE!" I was powerless. And it was sooooo worth getting yelled at. Bwaaa haaa haa. Don't mess with my lattes. I mean it. Step away from my foam.

Our next CF appointment isn't until October, where she'll have a chest x-ray and have blood drawn. Poor baby.

Froggydadda and I are on cloud nine today. There is just nothing better than having a healthy kid. Nothing. We are so lucky.

One of the best poems ever

For The Anniversary Of My Death

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what

W.S. Merwin

I'm not dying or anything, so don't worry. I just love W.S. Merwin and heard him speak at the University of Iowa, when I was a student. I was hoping he would read this poem, but he didn't. He read his more current work. It was disappointing, like going to a concert of your favorite band. You expect they'll play the songs you know, the songs that made them famous, the songs you rehearsed in the shower, with a shampoo mohawk, and nozzle microphone. But they surprise you with all their new work, and you just can't wait to get back in the car and listen to the music you already know.

Maybe I'm a bit dense, but I'd never thought about the fact that every year we live the anniversary of our death. We eat lunch, we fill up our car with gas, we brush our teeth, completely unaware that it is an anniversary of something that whether we like it or not, will happen someday. It's inevitable. And the inevitableness of it, is actually what makes it less frightening for me. If death was something I could avoid, by eating my vegetables for 1000 years, or looking both ways, it would be more frightening. Having no control just takes the pressure off, ya know?

Independence Day

Our dog Buddy has major issues with fireworks. Our lovely neighbors start setting off their bottle rockets and roman candles around noon, and then carry on with the big guns until one am, or until someone loses an appendage.

Buddy will pace, bark, whine and shake the entire day. He loses his mind and believes the 4th of July to be the end of days. Poor guy must think he's in a fox hole or experiencing Armageddon.

Fortunately, great-Grandma B lives in Laguna and the fireworks are set off a barge in the ocean, rather than across the street. It was still traumatic for little Buddy, but his apocalypse lasted only 45 minutes, rather than all day.

We had a wonderful day with great-Grandma B who made her world-famous potato salad. I mean, can you even call it Independence Day without potato salad? It would be a travesty.

FD, Froggy and I spent the day at the beach (with the other 10 million people) and Froggy LOVED running into the ocean. It was quite a walk down to the beach and the entire way, Froggy repeated, "beach, ocean, beach, ocean!" She is a Cali kid, and has no fear of the waves. We were holding her by the hand, but a wave came up her her head and she just held her breath and didn't mind at all. I can't wait for surfing lessons. I hope she doesn't mind her old mom taking them with her.

Froggy is at a great age right now. She's becoming a little person, and it's so fun living vicariously through her, as she discovers the sea and world. I have to remind myself to enjoy the moment, rather than looking forward to all the fun we're going to have. Happy 4th!

Grrrrrr

The insurance industry is the only business that can legally punish you for using their services. Can you imagine if you went to a movie tonight, paid for your ticket, but upon entering the theatre, the usher said, "Ohhhh, you actually wanted to SEE the movie?, well then you owe us $100 more."

I am so angry at our health insurance company, I can't breathe. On top of a $600 bill for blood work, I was charged for two office visits because I "discussed" things with my doctor that wasn't covered under a typical "general physical." And this was only because the doc asked me how I was doing, otherwise. I mentioned that I was having some anxiety, so bam, another $40, for mentioning something. I wasn't diagnosed with anything, no medications were administered, nothing. So now, my insurance company is helping me out with my anxiety by charging me another $40 just for mentioning the word "anxiety".

I'm not going to be able to see the documentary "Sicko" without some medication. And my insurance company won't even cover it. Grrrrr!!!!

The Marrow of Life

Today I read a letter from a woman who in her forties was just diagnosed with leukemia for the second time. She has twin four-year-old daughters, and only a bone marrow transplant will save her life.

About two months ago I was wide awake at 2 0'clock in the morning. A paid commercial came on about kids with Lymphoma and adults with various conditions who were in need of bone marrow. Watching the parents of these kids beg for help, inspired me to do a little research. I thought, "what if there was a cure tomorrow for Cystic Fibrosis, but the person holding onto it wouldn't give it to us? What would that feel like, so helpless, but with the cure right there?" So I logged onto the bone marrow website, with an altruistic desire (that can easily be mustered at 2 0'clock am), to help save a life.

It wasn't the pain that kept me from signing up. It was the $52.00 donation they ask from prospective donors to purchase the kit. We are so strapped, that $52.00 was enough to keep me from making the call. Sooo, I went to bed. By the morning, my altruism fizzled into breakfast dishes, calls to make, and a toddler to chase. The notecard with the toll free number found it's way under a big pile on my desk. I've often thought about those people who are still waiting, but not with that same sense of urgency and empathy.

I now have an opportunity to sign up (for free) to be a prospective donor. I know I have a lot on my plate. I know it's painful and that it is time consuming. And I know that there is some risk involved. But what if Froggy was waiting for a match? What excuse or pain would be big enough NOT to help.

If you would like to carpool with me Sunday (July 8th) at 9:30am to sign up, email me. A Jewish Temple is paying the $52.00, and helping with the paperwork. All they need is a cheek swab and a promise. Anyone?

If you'd like to read more about becoming a bone marrow donor, click HERE!

"Sideways" with a Toddler

Like Mother, like toddler.
Grandma in a wine glass.

Lovely Ojai.

Walden with wine included.

She's not drunk. I swear. This was pre-winery. She's just bored with all the shopping!

Okay, this looks bad. I can explain.

Me, Sissy, Froggy, FD, and Papa

Froggy LOVES her Papa.

Papa enjoying the countryside

The three Froggyteers!

My beautiful sister

The best way to ring in one's 30th birthday is with a few bottles of wine. Don't you think?

My parents and sister flew out for my big fat 30th!, and we had a wonderful week of chasing Froggy while shopping, chasing Froggy while eating, and chasing Froggy while drinking wine at a beautiful winery in Ojai. (Have I ever mentioned how someday we're going to move there, live in the mountains and have a goat named Bob?) It's true, it's my new dream.

It was a great and exhausting week. So here it is in super-Froggy-speed: Mom and Dad flew in on Wednesday, Sissy on Thursday. Dad rode his bike up the coast, mom chased Froggy around the neighborhood, and did a ton of dishes (yeah mom, even on vacation - is still a mom), we shopped in Santa Monica, my sis and I saw a movie ("Knocked Up" - hilarious), we ate a ton of Thai, Italian, Mexican, Indian, and even cooked a little, had a wonderful birthday dinner at Grandma W's, rented "The Devil Wears Prada" and "The Queen," Dad read Bill Bryson's "The Thunderbolt Kid", Mom cleaned my windows and did our laundry (yes, on vacation), Sissy and I giggled and slept in the same bed like we were 12 again. (Froggydadda got the sofa - poor guy). And Froggy LOVED having her Papa, Grandma and Auntarctica living with her for a week.

Our family left yesterday, and the house is so quiet, with the exception of a screaming, giggly toddler. Every once in a while, Froggy looks up at me while repeating their names, as if to say, "where'd they go?"

Herman

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT


Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas


Our good friend Herman died tonight at the age of 96. He was the most charming man I've ever met.

I loved Herman because he was geniusly funny, endearing, and made everyone around him feel lucky to be alive.

Herman could talk for hours about his beloved wife Annette (who died three years ago) and how she was the best thing that ever happened to him. They were married sixty-six years and tonight I know they are making up for lost time. I am so happy for them, and sad for us.

He was absolutely one of a kind. There will never be another Herman Brown.

Almost 30!

J and S came over and surprised me with a pre-30th-b-day cake.

Don't mock me cake! Now you must die.

My mommy sure is old.

Arm fat - and the joys of turning 30.

J and S - aren't they cute?

Happy Froggydadda's Day

(a picture from February - but one of my favorites)

Froggydaddy was not a great student as a kid. And even in Jr. college, he struggled. As a creative soul, he trudged through math and science, and eventually believed that he just wasn't an "academic person."

When Froggy was in the hospital, we spent a lot of time with the respiratory therapists. Compared to some of the staff at Children's Hospital, these men and women had a wonderful bedside manner, spoke openly with us about CF - and genuinely cared about little Froggy. Above all, they seemed to enjoy their job, and the children who benefited from their care.

After those three weeks in the hospital, FD decided he would like to become a respiratory therapist, so Froggy would receive the best care possible, at home and at clinic. And if he worked at Children's Hospital, he would have inside knowledge regarding the best pulmonologists, therapists and new drugs in the pipeline. Did I mention he is a wonderful daddy?

This was such a courageous decision for him, because of the misery he felt in the "classroom". And I don't believe he actually believed he could do it until tonight. For the past year, FD has been taking prerequisite classes and intro-respiratory therapy classes. He aced his first semester. And this Spring, his pharmacology class was a challenge that really tested his self-esteem. Everyone in the class failed the first test. And the other students he spoke with had failed the class the first time, and if they failed a second time, they would not be accepted into the program... ever. He wanted to give up. But he didn't. After failing his first test, he was sure this just wasn't for him. But he stuck with it and got a B in the class!!! I have never seen anyone study so hard.

His gpa is 3.25! I am soooooooo proud of him. If you know Froggydaddy, you know he is a smart cookie, but he's never felt comfortable in the classroom. I, on the other hand, am most comfortable in the classroom, the obnoxious student raising her hand for every question. But FD, was the kid who sat in the back, making fart noises and teasing the girls he liked. I think for the first 12 years of his life, he was bored - too smart and creative for worksheets and multiplecation tables.

I found a card for FD that read, "It is never too late to be what you might have been" by George Eliot. FD will always be a creative soul, that is what attracted me to him. He sees life through a black and white lens and appreciates people and their problems on a different level. And he can be whomever he wants to be: a respiratory therapist photographer, a daddy, a husband, a son. He is a wonderful person and I'm so happy for his success. Sometimes we have to surprise ourselves to take the next step. And he definitely has. Every once in a while, he'll look at me and say, "I got a B!" And it's the best feeling in the world. My sweet husband who believed he couldn't be anything, can be anything he wants. And in a year from this Spring he will be a certified Respiratory Therapist! And I will be a proud Froggymama!

What Dreams May Not Come

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

by Langston Hughes

I will never be a TV writer. It's why I chose LA over NY, why I left my home, why I moved 2000 miles away from everyone and everything I loved. And now, it's a raisin in the sun, saggin like a heavy load, about to explode.

It's hard to give up a dream. I feel like someone died and I missed the funeral. There was no moment to grieve, just the knowledge that this is gone and I will never get it back. The knowledge that I never really had it at all.

I moved here at 22, completely naive, and completely convinced that in six months I would have a staff position on everyone's favorite one-hour drama. It would be a show like "Picket Fences" or "Northern Exposure" a clever, but heartfelt drama, with witty repartee and stories that miraculously involve an entire town into one coincidental theme. In five years I would become show runner, executive producer, and eventually the VP of NBC's new dramatic series dept. It was a big dream, I know, but why dream small?

Beyond the ego and money, the title and promise, it was always about doing what I love to do, and getting paid to do it. I've worked hard. I've always worked hard. In four years, I received two degrees, did summer school, working 20/hours a week the entire way. And when I moved to LA, I didn't know a soul, which led to an unfortunate welcome. My crazy roommate that I acquired from a newspaper ad (yes, I'm that stupid) tried to kill me, my car and credit card numbers were stolen, and at an apartment in Hollywood, we were involved in a drive-by shooting, and barely missed being the target of a crack deal gone bad. But I didn't leave. Because the goal was still here. I was going to be a TV writer. I was going to have health insurance, a house, a parking pass onto the studio lots, my name in the credits. It was a good dream, a good little grape in the shade.

In the 'reality show', I became a wife, step-mom, froggymama of a wonderful baby and I've had five jobs and six apartments in seven years. I've had amazing experiences - falling in love and getting married, giving birth, watching my plays produced in NY, knowing and loving my LA family, dealing with the devastation of Cystic Fibrosis, struggling financially, hiking in the mountains and feeling completely small and satisfied, snorkeling with Garibaldi, going to the theatre, working job after job that had nothing to do with writing, flying home and feeling the guilt of leaving again, traveling to Europe and falling in love with the French countryside, and making friendships with people who prove that there is more kindness and love in this world, than not.

But this was not the dream that I imagined, driving a U-haul across the desert with my cat, picturing a writer's room with Chinese take-out on the table, and a note card outline of a story pinned up on a wall, that would one day become a picture, that tells a story, on a television screen in everyone's living room in everyone's home. And in this vision I imagined my family and friends, my boyfriend from high school who dumped me for that cute cheerleader, sitting in front of the television together, saying in unison, "wow, she really made something of herself."

But I will never be a TV writer. The hours are not long enough in the day to devote time to my dream and the dream of Froggy's health. I have to be here, I want to be here, I need to be here, with my girl. Her future and happiness, and the promise of a long, long, long life is my dream now. I'm still a writer, I still have to keep my pen close by, scribbling ideas that someday I will have time to write, but this dream, the one I dreamed for as long as I can remember, is dead.

Maybe life is really about the dream you never had the wisdom to imagine -the life you're meant to live, not the life you planned to live. Maybe this isn't a dream deferred, a raisin in the sun, a festering sore, or syrupy sweet. Maybe it took all of these horrible and beautiful experiences for me to realize that this dream was never mine to have.