Can You Help Us Find Our Child?

What happens when mom has been under the weather?

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS:



Does anyone see Laura in there? We haven't seen her since Saturday.


Summer has barely begun and OOOOO MMMMM GGGGG we're clearly going to have to find some outdoor activities to keep Laura busy. Once we find her.


Or we could reconsider sleep away camp this year. Once we find her.


Consider this conversation earlier in the week, before Laura went missing:

Laura: "I really want to go to sleep-away camp."

Mom: "Not this summer. Maybe in the future."

Laura: "Mom, I'm ready to go to sleep-away camp. It's you and dad who are having trouble."

Mom: "And that's precisely the trouble that's keeping you home."

So, I HINTED that I'm under the weather, but since no hot doctors have been involved in the details (so far), I'm all meh on sharing the details because meh I'm bored of medical details (that don't involve hot doctors).


Meanwhile, I will share another photo because it provides clear and convincing evidence, maybe even evidence beyond a reasonable doubt, the sort of proof people want to see when they have questions. In this case, my photographic evidence demonstrates what mortal men are capable of doing when absolutely necessary.

I had to be driven to a doctor's appointment on Friday. (Not a hot doctor.) (What's up with my karma?) (Frick.) Also, on Friday Laura had an appointment (made a month before the whole needing-to-go-to-the-doctor business happened) to get purple tips put in her hair, which purple tips I'd promised she could have for summer (such colors are not allowed at school, so it had to be summer), and the hairdresser was going on vacation for several weeks, so the appointment had to be Friday. And, gosh darn it, in my weakened condition I decided that if I had to move Heaven and Earth, that kid was getting her purple tips for the summer.

So.

Tom took me to my doctor's appointment and then drove Laura to the hair salon to have purple tips put in her hair, proving that we have our priorities straight. Also? Who said men can't multitask?

Mourning Michael Jackson: Celebrity Trumps Integrity?

“There are two kinds of light – the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures.”
~James Thurber

Michael Jackson was a music phenomenon to many. I liked his music, dance, and artistic contributions – a lot.

But he was a child molester. I think one trumps the holy living shit out of the other.

I was aghast at the thought of MJ’s upcoming "comeback tour" in London next month. I think that his death before this comeback is timely, if his was to be a comeback that would have provided him with more fame and money, and thus access to even more children. I do not say this to mean that I believe that the universe intervened to deal out a just punishment by death. As an aside, I don’t believe in punishment by death, even for child molesters. Life in prison without the possibility of release is another matter.

Now, sure, if you know me, or have been reading this blog for long, you might think I'm a little biased. I am. Having said that, while I'm watching people mourning on TV and hearing reports that his albums are selling out and that fans are setting up shrines around the world, I'm just thinking that there's one less child molester in the world and that's a good thing.

I have explored and do embrace the powers of forgiveness and redemption, but MJ never expressed anything but denial. Regardless, even when there is an admission and treatment, the recidivism rate for child molesters is astoundingly high.

I know MJ has three children (the sole custody rights of whom he purchased) who will mourn him. At their age, I would have mourned my father's death too, and I am thinking of MJ’s children now. But all of MJ’s talents and charitable works don't change the fact that he was a child molester whose money and celebrity status gave him access to children in untold (and some told) ways and numbers.

I won’t think of MJ and his creative contributions to the music world today. And, no, I don’t care to wait a so-called respectable period of time to say this. I’m thinking about the innocent children who were his prey. I think all the respect belongs to them.

The Little Blond Buddha Who Lives Next Door

It was one of those twenty-four-hour bugs or food poisoning; I’m not sure which. Between trips to the bathroom, I was in bed with a pounding headache. The doorbell rang. I could not get up. Knocking. I.Could.Not.Get.Up. Doorbell ringing. Head pounding. Knocking.

I pulled myself out of bed. My stomach lurched. My head throbbed. I made my way to the second-story window that overlooks our front porch, opened it, looked down, and saw the top of the head of the little blond-haired, five-year-old boy who lives next door. He looked up and said, very sweetly, that he’d hit his ball over the fence and wanted to get it from our backyard.

“Where’s your mom?” I asked, wondering why he was standing there by himself. He’s so little, and blond. “She’s in the house,” he answered. I told him that I couldn’t get the ball just then because I was sick, but said that he could go get his mom to get his ball for him. I asked him not to go in our backyard by himself because of the pool. I watched as he walked back toward his house, and then I stumbled back to bed.

The next day I found his ball in our pool, fished it out, and tossed it over the fence into his yard.

A couple of days later I was writing at my computer upstairs when the doorbell rang. I looked out of the same second-story window down to the porch, and saw the top of that little blond head. I opened the window, and the boy said, very sweetly, that he’d hit his ball over the fence. “Where’s your mom?” I asked. “She’s in the house,” he answered. I went downstairs, met the boy at the door, walked with him to the backyard, fished his ball out of our pool, handed it to him, and told him that it was okay with me if his mom comes in our yard to get the ball if it happens again.

The next day the little blond boy rang the doorbell to get his ball. And again a day later, he rang the doorbell and asked for his ball. After I retrieved it yet again, I walked him next door and knocked. I waited a few moments and knocked again. When the boy’s mother answered the door, I told her that I’d just fished her son’s ball out of the pool again, and that I was very glad that he asked to go in the yard rather than getting it on his own because of the pool. I told her that anytime the ball goes over the fence she was welcome to go and get it for him.

A couple of mornings later, after getting out of the shower, I was sitting at my computer wrapped only in a towel. The doorbell rang. Hoping it was UPS just dropping a package, I ignored it. I was in the middle of writing. Knocking. Ignoring. Doorbell ringing. I really didn’t want to lose my train of thought. Knocking. And I was wrapped in a towel. Doorbell ringing. Where is that kid’s mother? Knocking.

I realized I had a choice.

I could ignore the predictable annoyance knocking at my door, or be open to the unknown opportunity knocking at my heart.

Damn it.

I went to window, saw the top of that little blond head, told him to wait a minute, went to my closet to throw on a pair of shorts and a shirt, and met him on the front porch. “Where’s your mom?” I asked. “She’s in the house,” he answered. He followed me into the backyard and watched while I fished his ball out of our pool. “Wow!” he said looking around, “I really like your backyard. Do you think my sister and I could come over here for a play date some time?” “I’ll tell you what, how about when the weather is warmer, you and your sister come over and swim with Laura?” “Wow!” he beamed. "We'd really like that!" he said. "So would we," I told him.

The next day as I was writing at my computer the doorbell rang. I went to the window. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said sweetly, “my ball is in your pool again.” In the backyard we discovered the ball was smack in the middle, unreachable. “Do you have a 'skinner'?” he asked helpfully. We keep the skimmer on the other side of the house. I had to go back inside to fetch my shoes, which I did. Using the skimmer, I fished the ball from the middle of the pool, and asked, “I wonder why your ball keeps going over the fence. What do you think?” “I keep hitting it this way with my bat,” he replied. “I wonder what would happen if you batted in the other direction,” I said knowing that he lives on the corner with no yard on the other side of that fence. “Well, it would go out on the sidewalk or in the plants,” he replied. “I guess that would be a lot easier to go get,” he added. “I supposed it would,” I told him, suspecting by this time that he was probably after more than just his ball.

The next day I was on the phone with Tom when the doorbell rang. Tom said, “Keep me on the phone when you answer the door, I want to know if it’s him.” I opened the door. I told Tom, “I’ll call you back.” Tom asked, “Is it the little boy?” “Nope,” I said. “It’s his little sister.”

“Hello, what can I do for you?” I said to the tiny blond-haired girl. “Can you see if you have a plastic tennis ball in your backyard? It’s white,” she asked. “Do you want to come with me to look?” I replied. She followed me into the yard, and there it was, a white whiffle ball floating at the edge of the pool. I fished it out, handed it over, and as I did spotted another little blond head on the other side of the back fence peeking through the spaces between the wood panels. “Sweetheart,” I said to the girl, “did your brother ask you to come over and get his ball?” And then a sweet little voice cheerfully called over the fence, “Yes! It’s my ball! I just didn’t want to bother you again.”

Yesterday I noticed a ball floating at the side of the pool and wondered how long it had been there. We were out of town last week. I hesitated for a moment before tossing it back over the fence. I think my little neighbor would prefer that I wait for him to come over so we can get it together.

Hummingbird Fail

I took this photograph outside of my house yesterday.

I'm pretty sure a spider bit my toe while I was taking this photograph.

Now the bottom of my toe hurts.

Yes, that toe.

In other news, my hair still looks fabulous.

(Dear PETA: The hummingbird got its shit together and flew away unharmed a few moments later.)

Sunday Message: Fractals

“A human being is part of a whole, called by us 'Universe,' a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest – a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circles of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”

~Albert Einstein

During a storm, the wind is blowing hard, the air is biting cold, and the rain is piercing and wet. Being in a storm feels uncomfortable, perhaps even overwhelming. What do you see when you’re standing in front of a junk-filled garage? You see a big mess. How about when you have an argument with a friend or family member? During the confrontation, you may experience anger and hurt feelings. But when you’re in the smack midst of what appears to us to be chaos, is it possible that something greater is there, something that could be discovered with some distance or a change in perspective?

From a distance a storm looks very different than it does up close:

How about that messy garage? Maybe it’s filled with boxes of old photographs, boogie boards, gardening tools, holiday decorations, and a car or two. But aren’t those tangible items stored in an apparently happenstance manner really symbols of love, tradition, joy, and prosperity, that when combined reveal a life well lived?

What about that issue with your friend or loved one? Do your differences provide you with an opportunity to find common ground and enjoy a new level of intimacy, or a point of departure to make room for healthier relationships and connections?

The rain? The boxes? The confrontations? What if those were fractals?

Fractal patterns are everywhere in nature, broccoli, snowflakes, flowers, coral, and ferns. Looking just at one part, you see that part. From a different perspective, you see the pattern. So how do perspectives and patterns influence our perception of our mess?

If you’re in the midst of a corn maze, you see walls of cornstalks. But from a distance, the pattern emerges and you can find which direction on the path you wish to follow – or find that you were already headed in the desired direction. It’s the same thing with traffic on the freeway. It isn’t always possible to see ahead to know if it is better to take a side road or maintain the present course; however, from that spot you can choose to curse at other drivers or turn up the radio and sing along.

Being caught in a storm, stuck in traffic, standing in front of a garage that needs organizing, or arguing with a loved one may be uncomfortable when you’re in the midst of it. Is there comfort in knowing that the mess itself is part of a great and glorious pattern, and that even the parts that aren't the most beautiful or are the hardest to see might also be more than just part of the whole, but essential to it, like roots to the tree?


(Storm photographs courtesy of Google Images.)

I'm Hoping To Get INTO The Closet

Rolling Stone
Wanna see my picture on the cover
Rolling Stone
Wanna buy five copies for my mother
Rolling Stone
Wanna see my smilin' face
On the cover of the Rolling Stone

~Dr. Hook's On the Cover of Rolling Stone

Whether Adam Lambert is gay apparently continued to be a hot topic for media speculation right up to Adam’s Rolling Stone cover and announcement that he is, in fact, gay. What will they speculate about now? Whether Kris Allen is married? Heh.

Now that the “Is Adam or isn’t Adam?” guessing can finally come to an end, maybe just maybe everyone will focus on a label that matters – the one on his upcoming multi-platinum-selling album. :-)

What Adam is still keeping secret, of course, is our marriage and the birth of our twins. For the privacy and safety of our children. We want them to have a normal childhood. Safe from media speculation and stuff. You know.



To celebrate our coming out in Rolling Stone and everything, Laura and I gave each other American Idol tribute manicures. My Adam Lambert blue-black tribute color is called “Midnight Affair,” which is hot. Laura’s Allison Iraheta brown tribute color is called “Hot Chocolate,” which is saucy.



So, now that Adam is out of the closet officially and all of that, you’ve probably also heard that I have a husband-in-law named Drake. He is hot. I wonder when everyone will start speculating as to whether Drake is gay. Meanwhile, I’m hoping to get into their closet . . . to share clothes, starting with Drake’s Gucci belt.


(Rolling Stone cover and photo of Adam Lambert and Drake LaBry courtesy of Google Images.)

Is It Too Late For Me to Be Potty Trained?

I called the dermatologist’s office today to see if the lab report on my nose biopsy was back yet, and, two telephone calls later, I found out that it was benign.

Yay!

The first call went like this, in pertinent part:

Medical Assistant: “It says 'atypical' in the computer, but that could be a typo.”

Me: “A typo?”

Medical Assistant: “Well, maybe it was supposed to read 'a typical . . .' but the 'a' and 'typical' were accidentally typed as one word.”

I’m not making this up.

So I asked if there was some way to have the actual lab report faxed to me, or at least read to me so that I could find out if atypical referred to something fatal. She replied that she’d have to go find my chart and call me back. Tomorrow. So I said, “Golly, it would be great if I didn’t have to wait until tomorrow with the possibility of something atypical hanging over my head.” And she replied, “It could just be a typo.”

I’m not making this up.

Bless her heart, she called right back and said that the lab report said benign, something or other was atypical (I’ll ask the doctor later), but that the doctor’s note on the lab report said that no follow up was necessary (which is why I’m content to ask the doctor about the rest later, that and she'd gone home by the time the assistant called back at 5:30 PM).

So . . . apparently I'm going to get to keep my nose after all.

I told Tom the good news and he said that he knew that the thing on my nose would be benign all along.

He’s very calm and rational like that.

I am not.

Tom had to have a biopsy done on a spot under his eye a while back. The doctor told Tom there was a 25% chance it was malignant. Tom told me calmly that it would be benign. I rushed out to shop for the perfect black dress to wear at his funeral. It was benign.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

Meanwhile, if my nose wasn't going to fall off or kill me, apparently I felt the need to take matters into my own hands.

Last night?

I fell down my staircase where staircase equals the last five steps.

Oh yes I did.

I was sober. (In case anyone was wondering.)

I tried to tuck and roll. (But I'm old.)

My knee hit the railing and my body made a loud thud on the landing.

Laura cried out in her sleep.

Tom came running.

I was on my back and sort of stunned when Tom arrived on the scene.

And then?

I began to laugh, but I tried to do it quietly so as not to disturb Laura again.

Trying to suppress my laughter made me laugh harder, but I tried to laugh harder more quietly.

As I laughed I noticed that Tom was standing over me looking like a deer in headlights, not knowing what the frick to do with the crazy woman in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, apparently laughing.

That made me laugh so hard tears began to run down my cheeks.

Tom said, "Are you laughing or crying?"

That made me laugh even harder.

And then?

I peed my pants.

Just a little bit.

Oh yes I did.

I had enough trouble planning what to wear with my Stitch Nose at Tom's office party last week. What on Earth will I say about wearing these at Laura's last-day-of-school party this week?

Also? My neck and back are a little stiff and sore, so there's hope for more medical dramas. Too bad I didn't injure my toe.

Up Date & Update

Up Date

A couple of weeks ago Laura wanted me to pick her up early from school. She said she didn’t feel well, but wanted to school go just for math. I know. I don’t understand her either. My motheradar picked up that she was probably feeling just fine, and wanted to go to school for the fun part (um, the part she thinks is fun). So, it was no surprise when the school called after her math class to tell me that she was in the office reporting that she didn’t feel well. I went and picked her up. I decided to test my theory that she could have made it through the day at school.

When we got in the car I asked her how ill she felt. “I'm not at all well," she said. Adding, no doubt hoping for an afternoon of television, “I really need to rest on the couch.” I asked her, you know, just to test the waters and such like, “Do you feel so bad that you couldn’t go to a movie, for example?” She hesitated and then said she could probably sit through a movie. “What about popcorn? If you’re not well, popcorn probably doesn't sound so good, right?” Laura replied, “I think I could eat popcorn.” Then she added, “And Dibs.”

So, I did what any responsible mother would do with a child who said she was too ill to stay at school. We went to see Star Trek. And ate popcorn and Dibs for lunch.

Imagine how it went when I picked her up from school on Thursday afternoon and asked her this question: “Laura, do you want to go home and do homework right away or would you rather go see Up?”

So, Laura did what any kid with homework would do if she had a mother like me. She went with her mother to see Up. Oh. The popcorn and Dibs? That was dinner, yo.

We totally loved both movies, too. Totally. Go see them. That's all the review I'm doing 'cause I'm not being paid. Heh.


Update

After much consideration about what to wear with my Stitch Nose to the event for Tom’s work last Monday night, I opted to go with a tastefully trimmed piece of flesh-toned tape. No, I didn't wear just tape. The tape was to cover my nose. The rest of me wore black pants, a black-and-brown-shirty-dressy-type shirty thing, and black high heels.

In the social chitchat department, I opted not to tell anyone the truth, that the stitches were from the C-section nasal delivery of Adam Lambert’s twins, but rather to tell the more career-friendly “biopsy” tale to anyone the one person who asked. Here is a picture from after the party, which clearly demonstrates that I’m a whiz with flesh-toned tape (and, yes, my hair is fricking awesome):


So . . . considering how awesome my hair looked and that I wore black high heels, what do you think Tom and I did after the party? This blog is rated “My Mother-in-Law Reads This” so I’m not saying anything more than is there such a thing as a foot epidural? because my toe was about to fall off from standing in high heels for four hours, the upside of which would be a golden opportunity to visit the hot toe doctor for surgical reattachment. Tom said his feet were killing him too, and dude didn’t even wear high heels (hello, it was a corporate event). So this is what we did:


We really know how to live life in the fast lane around here, don’t we?

Two days later I went back to the obstetrician dermatologist to get the stitches out. The lab results are not back yet, but I’m feeling very good about the prognosis. The doctor said she examined the “section” carefully under the microscope and the edges looked clean, but she can’t be sure until the labs are back. She added that although we had to do the biopsy immediately because it had the appearance of basal cell carcinoma, there is every chance the labs will come back entirely clean. And, now that I’ve come down from my initial freak-the-frick-out, I really feel like they will. I will keep you posted. Meanwhile . . .

After she removed the stitches, the dermatologist performed some “Alan Parsons Project” or "laser" on my nose to remove some sun-damaged spots. Now I have Purple Dot Nose.

Purple Dot Nose will last for the next four to fourteen days or so, I’m told.


Purple Dot Nose should be gone by the time that Adam Lambert, the twins, and I leave for his concert tour this summer. (Yes, it is so Adam Lambert’s concert tour. Come on, you don’t really think anyone is buying tickets to see what’s his name, do you? Okay. I'm just kidding, fans of what's his name.)

What Did Your Kid Bring Home From School Yesterday?

by Laura

I love my kid.

(Please note Adam Lambark's earrings, black nail polish, and guyliner.)