Good People Bad Things

Dear Ethan,

Since the horrifying news of yesterday's tragedy, I've been thinking about how to talk about it with you. What do I tell you about a world where parents put their five-year-olds on the bus and then later get the news that those same little five-year-olds are now "bodies" at one of the worst mass murders in U.S. history? I honestly don't know.

As I hope you will someday learn, having a child means that you are no longer your top priority. From the moment I learned you would be a reality, I've done everything in my power to protect you. I've avoided sushi and soft cheese (food poisoning! listeria!), bought organic cotton sheets (toxins!), filtered your water (lead!), checked your Halloween candy (razor blades!), kept you away from peanuts (allergies!), refilled your Epipen prescriptions (anaphylaxis!), fitted you for mouth guards, pads, cups, helmets (injuries!) and background checked your sitters (pedophiles!).

And, yet, there have been some things that even with the most caring, involved (overprotective?) parenting that I have not been able to protect you from: my illness, divorce. Still, I try to mitigate the collateral damage: Let's find you a counselor! Let's get you books! Let's talk about your feelings!

Knowing my life might be shorter than most is something I think about a lot. And the first thing that comes to mind is you. I can deal with my own medical uncertainty - the fear, the pain, the loss of dreams, profession, security - but can you deal with the loss of your mom? That is the thing that keeps me up at night.

The thought of you not being here? No. I cannot. And I am knocking on wood furiously with all of my free appendages and making the sign of the cross as I type that sentence.

I want to know this: You are the best thing I have ever done. You are my most favorite person, my reason to keep going during moments when I feel like I cannot, my reason to choose carrots instead of french fries, my reason to pretend to smile, even when I've been crying.

During this sad weekend, I am going to focus on your gap-toothed smile, the dusting of freckles on your nose, those bangs that are two weeks overdue for a haircut. I am going to tell you I love you and make sure you hear me. I am going to really listen when you talk and be present.

And I am going to tell you that most people are good. That most people care about other people. That I cannot protect you from everything, even though I really truly wish I could, but that sometimes in life we need to be brave and try to live without fear, even when things get scary.

And then I will tell you that I love you one more time and that, yes, you can have ice cream before dinner.

Love,
Your Mommy

We Laughed, We Cried, It Was Better Than Cats

Dearest Avis,

Today you turn forty!  Which means, I am … scratch my head … blah blah, blah, math … carry the one … and um, WHOA, that cannot be right?!  Wasn’t it 1997, like three seconds ago?  Yes, it was.  I think we have already established that we were an unlikely duo when we first shared an office at Big DC Law Firm in 1997.  Because you were a smart brunette lawyer and I was a dumb blonde ex-sorority girl who stole your Post-Its. 

Alright, so I was not, actually, dumb, but I LOOKED dumb (Shh! Boys don’t like girls who can read!), with my long blonde hair, French-manicured acrylic nails and permatan.  Pre-child, I was also much, much, much skinnier (See, Exhibit A, Eating all the things. Et al.) yet, oddly, had bigger boobs back then.  Or maybe they were just … higher?  I don’t know.  I didn’t really pay much attention to high school physics.  Ok, now back to you … in any event, our first few months as suitemates did not foretell fifteen years of enduring friendship.  I know, now, that you’d give me a kidney if I needed one and then ship boxes of all the top-of-the-line dialysis equipment that Neiman Marcus had to offer. 

You knew me when I was 22 and first met my (now ex) husband at the disco bar next our office (“Really, you met on the 80s floor?”).  You red-lined my law school application essays when I was 23 (“I’d rethink thrice”) and when I was out of time, money, and energy after applying to fourteen schools (indecisive much?), you offered to pay my application fee to your alma mater so that I could go to the best possible school (and stay in DC!  With you!).  You offered me support when I first met my son at the age of 27, and had no idea how unbelievably hard it would be to stay up all night/(s) with a crying baby, for the next 150 years.  And of course, my brain tumor at age 32, which sadly, you knew all about from losing your dad to the same illness.

At those times when there is absolutely nothing correct to say, you somehow manage to find just the right thing.  You were the person I called when I found out I was probably dying, the first time.  And then the second.  And the third. I have called you at my more dire points, at every hour, and hung up the phone laughing and feeling less broken, more whole.  You are the person I call to report all of my life events -- the good, the bad, the unthinkable, and the completely f’ing inconsequential.  You are the best person to talk to about … anything.  You understand my phone messages even when I am all ugly crying face.  You understand my messages after I’ve had a glass of wine (**four) and am all, “Heyzxc ame-EEEE … whacha wanna do? I think I could stay with YOUUUUUU!!! … calzz me, K?”  Of course, you later mock me for those wine messages, but that is totally fair. 

You are the lobster lumps to my can of Diet Coke, the Arnold to my Palmer, the caramel to my giant Williams-Sonoma apple, the lemons to my colored-glass vase of dahlias, my cumin to … whatever the hell cumin goes in.  You are the big sister I never had (Marsha!!)/therapist I could never afford/career counselor/dark comedic cohort/BFF. 

While there are legions of people who start law school with this golden hazy concept of “helping people”, you are one of the few who has actually used your incredible mind to bring about changes for what you believe in.  You are exactly the same astounding person that I first met when you were 26.  That is, you are brilliant, kind-hearted, complex, out-of-this world generous and laugh-until-I-cannot breath funny.  But now years later, after some Real Life patina, you are someone even better.  An even better friend, partner, mother, lawyer, person.  You are who I want to be when I grow up.

I can only imagine the person you will become over the next 40 years.  I can hardly wait to meet her.

All my love,

Julia

Home Sweet Home

Moving day. It seems fitting that of all the days to say goodbye to the house that has been my home for the past ten years, that I do so today, on my eleven year wedding anniversary. To say moving is bittersweet does not begin to fully encompass my emotions at this moment. 

This house was the first home I’ve even owned. It is where I brought Ethan home from the hospital, the sidewalk where he learned to ride his bike, the hallways I’ve dusted with tooth fairy dust, marked with Santa footprints, and sprinkled with leprechaun coins.  It is the garden bed where I planted the pink hydrangeas, it is the nursery where I stood on a ladder while eight months pregnant to hand paint clouds on the ceiling so the baby had something to look at. 

It is the living room where I toasted my bar passage and my first “real” attorney job, where I celebrated my first win in court, and drowned my sorrows after my first loss. It is the dining room where we had Thanksgivings surrounded by loved ones, including the one when the cat ate the turkey. 

It is also the house where, after a decade of marriage, I signed my divorce papers and told our son that "Mommy and Daddy still love you, but can't live together", the kitchen window where I held my brain scans to the light, trying to see if the tumor had grown, the basement where I sat, alone, in the dark, and howled at the ceiling after I learned of a loved one's terminal illness. 

It is the home where I realized that even after your heart is shattered, life goes on. I am ready to go, ready for this new chapter, and happy for all the wonderful memories, but thankful to be closing the door on those not-so-wonderful ones. 

Farewell, Meadow Rose. I will miss you.

Life, As I Know It

My May To Do list: 1) Do not die from brain tumor. Check! 2) End marriage. Check! 3) Put house on the market. Check (sort of)! I've been busy.

Now, I need a "new" place to live in Maryland -- think a rental for a year, then we will see. And, also, a job.

Divorce is lucrative if you marry a Trump, but, sadly, I married a Thompson. (Note to self: In future, marry for money, not for love.) I'll cut my losses because I got a beautiful kid from that walk down the aisle, so no hard feelings on that front. Ok, not many, anyway.  Life is short, I am moving on ...

Any ideas for either, would love for some friends to send my way! Please and thank you.

STABLE

We'll start with this: subependymoma is stable.

Yesterday’s score: Inoperable brain tumor - 0. Me - 1,000.  Friends have asked if the fact that I have been stable for five years means that I am “cured”, as is the case with some other malignancies.  Well, no, unfortunately.  The nature of brain tumor means that while the tumor remains in my brain, I am at risk for growth, change, bleeding … many possibilities that would require OMG! WE HAVE TO DO SURGERY RIGHT NOW!  WITH A BUTTER KNIFE!  IN THE ELEVATOR!!!  Or so I’ve learned from Grey’s Anatomy.

When I was first diagnosed, I wanted it out.  Live or die – let’s do this!  Nobody would operate while I was still walking, talking, driving, writing.  I was told by every elite brain tumor board on the East Coast, and one on the West, that there was no way to remove the tumor without an over 50% chance of “unacceptable complications” - paralysis, loss of sight, speech or, that ultimate complication, death.  The tumor is in middle of my brain, specifically, the ventricles.  It is one of the riskiest surgical locations to access, due to all the “good brain” a surgeon has to saw through to get there.  Out of the four ventricles, my tumor is in the riskiest intraventricular location.  Of course it is.  Because it is MY brain, whose philosophy has always been play hard or go home. 

Therefore, the tumor stays, and hopefully, plays nice on future MRIs, which I will have as long as I live.  I am not cured, and there is more medical business in my near future. Tremor (why Starbucks puts lids on their coffee), cognitive impairment (Here or hear? There or their? Wait, don’t tell me…), balance issues (no gymnastic Olympic medal in my future), memory problems (Dear God, have I really lost my car AGAIN??! That’s twice.  Before noon!) continue, so the neurosurgeon is keeping me on the path of more neuro help, rather than less. I will see the neurocognitive neurologist at Hopkins (the Neiman Marcus of neurologists, “The world’s best!”) later this month, who will deal with all the non-surgical neuro issues.  I call her the “why is my brain full of mashed potatoes?” doctor, which I am sure she appreciates.

That said, there is always the very real possibility when I see the neurosurgeon that he will decide to do surgery on my brain.  Like, in four seconds.  I am not undermining that yesterday was a win, and a BIG one.  My path is still … challenging, naturally.  But, you can’t win the Derby, Preakness, and the Belmont all on the same day, so while the Triple Crown of brain health is still elusive, yesterday was a true victory.

If you have ever experienced a come-to-Jesus crisis, one fact that holds true is that you learn who your friends are and how much you are loved.  In my 36 years on this earth, I have been fortunate enough to have a beautiful childhood, in a beautiful home, with parents that love me, to attend THE BEST COLLEGE EVER (HOKIES!) and a law school where I studied under renowned (ironically) Health Law professors, and to have practiced as an attorney with some impressive firms.  You – all of you – have touched my life at some point during this journey, and I am so lucky to know you and to have experienced your friendship.  You, my friends, have brought me lasagna, sent me flowers, called, texted, sent messages, held my hand, let me cry, let me talk, or let me be silent.  You have uplifted me with your encouraging words, your support, and your unwavering kindness.  And, for that, I am so thankful.  I am honored to know all of you, and to have shared some aspect of our respective lives, as friends.  A heartfelt thank you to all of you for your support, your empathy, your words which make me smile, and cry, at the same time.

Yesterday (after the Xanax wore off and before the chocolate martini), I drove straight from Hopkins to pick up Ethan from afterschool care and bring him to baseball practice.  He was thrilled to see me, since he knew I had a doctor’s appointment, so he thought his dad was picking him up.  I sat on the sidelines and watched, in the sun, chatting with other parents about nothing of consequence.  The coach came over after practice to report that Ethan was crushing the ball, and that he looks forward to Friday’s game.  He saw the purple bandage from my IV, which I forgot I still had on, peeking out from the sleeve of my long-sleeved top, and asked what happened. “Oh, just some blood work.” I replied, “See you at tomorrow’s game! Maybe another grand slam for Ethan!”  As I drove home, I put on my sunglasses, and for the first time that day, allowed myself to leak silent, happy tears.

Sunday is Mother’s Day.  I have already received the ultimate gift, another Mother’s Day with my silly, charming, precocious son.  If past years bear repeating, I suspect that my tangible gifts will include a crayon-drawn card of me on horseback, yellow-haired, and wearing an orange shirt with a turkey on it.  There will also be a tray of burnt blueberry toaster waffles and a mug of hot water (“You told me never to play with the coffee maker!”), decorated with hydrangea blossoms pilfered from the neighbor’s yard.  

After breakfast in bed, I will put on the t-shirt Ethan made for me in kindergarten.  I will have to layer it over another larger shirt.  The one he made for me in class is an XS, and, after many washings, is now a skin-tight belly shirt.  Blue-paint kindergarten handprints mark the shirt in an unfortunate location (think breast health exam).  Yet, I wear this shirt every Mother’s Day, and my son revels in the fact that He Made It!  For ME!  And I Still Have It!  In the afternoon, we will ride bikes in Annapolis and have ice cream before lunch; a completely ordinary - and perfect – Mother’s Day.   

To my friends, I wish you an amazing weekend, full of ordinary miracles.

An Ordinary Day

Tomorrow at this time, I will be at Hopkins for my five-year brain tumor MRI and neurosurgery appointment. They will make me sign a bunch of consent forms, then give me a sedative, before putting an IV in my arm. It will be my right, because that is the one with the "best" veins. I always ask them to please not talk about my veins, because it makes me queasy. They always do, anyhow. 

I will be strapped down so I cannot move my arms, and then a Hannibal Lecter-type mask will be locked over my face. I will be told not to move, and to keep my head still. As soon as they tell me this, my nose will start to itch, it always does. I will be fed into a tube, where the banging, clanging, will go on for an hour. 

It will be loud, it will be cold. I will refuse a blanket (eww, hospital blanket!) and try to think positive thoughts, although my mind will wander to the injustice of how this became my life, why I am here, my fears, my hopes, and eventually, how RIGHT NOW my nose REALLY itches and I sort of have to sneeze. 

The MRI will end, and still sedated, I will wait for the neurosurgeon. I'll be told by a nurse to go get a cup of coffee or some lunch, but I'm still queasy, from the sedative and the IV and all that vein talk, so I will wait, with the book I brought unopened on my lap. 

The neurosurgeon will arrive, he will measure the tumor on the screen and compare it to past scans, ask me about my symptoms, check my reflexes, ask me some questions, "Who's the President? Subtract 7 from 100, keep going ... Remember these three words, watch, pen, ball ... OK, what were those words?" (Maybe I should be studying now?)

It is routine - my twelfth visit - yet, it never is. Because you never get used to being slapped in the face by your own mortality. It never feels "normal" to confront a potentially life-limiting illness in your 30s (my doctor does not enjoy the word "terminal"). 

When I was first diagnosed, the five-year survival rate was 32%, or maybe 50%, depending on what you looked at. "You are a statistic of one. That is all," said the neurosurgeon. I thought that was bulls^%t, because it was MY statistic of one, not his. 

My son was four, I was worried he would never know me. He'd have fuzzy memories, of course, but if I were gone, he would never REALLY know me, as a person. 

Scariest of all was that thought of putting my son through the sudden death of his mommy. Or the opposite, a gradual decline, a long goodbye, diminished vitality, and then a slow death. Which was worse? Did it matter? I could not control this. 

So here I am, five years later, and my nine-year-old boy knows me. I still have the same worries, and more. Facing a serious illness is, in a word, devastating.  Emotionally, physically, financially. Every possible facet of my life has been shattered by me being sick.  

Even my decade-long marriage has been a causality.  Sometimes people fall together during a crisis, and sometimes they fall apart. We were the latter. We had plans - law firm partnership for me, share in the Hamptons, 2.3 kids, a golden retriever ... not this. Not this! 

And, yet, even amidst all the devastation, I am still here. I am still standing. I am still fighting. I am still me, in all the important ways. I am funny (sometimes inappropriately so), I am an excellent writer (and working on getting a book published this year), I am a caring, involved mom, I am a loving and empathetic friend; I am a terrible cook, I am awful at math, I am always ten minutes late for virtually every moment of my life, I have little patience. 

I am both incredibly strong, and extraordinarily weak, sometimes in the same day. Sometimes in the same hour. In short, I am human. 

My son still has his mom, and he knows these things. 

Last night, we had a completely ordinary Tuesday, I picked him up from school, we went out for macaroni and cheese, we walked to the library to pick up some new Thea Stilton (him) and Jodi Picoult (me). He laughed, I laughed.  It was happy, it was easy, and I was content. 

Here's to five more years of perfectly ordinary days, and then five more after that. 

Wish me luck.

Maroon & Orange

Excerpted from an essay I authored in 2007, Maroon & Orange:

April 17, 2007: In August 1993, my parents dropped me off at the West Ambler-Johnston residence hall, the same freshman dormitory where the violence began. That summer day on campus was thick with heat and that vibrant anticipation unique to youth. Hundreds of students flooded the halls and stairwells, eager to begin their first offi cial day as college students. The throngs of parents were less eager, as evidenced by the lingering hugs, reddened eyes, reminders to stay out of trouble and to call home.

The elevators in my dorm were broken, so my father gamely lugged two minivan’s worth of luggage up four flights of stairs. My mother, ever the perfectionist, had obtained a list of recommended supplies from the university. She had spent the preceding weeks in a manic consumer scavenger hunt to ensure that I began college with every single item on that list including, to my new roommate’s amusement, a personal-sized fire extinguisher for our dorm room. As my father finally unloaded the last item of luggage and said farewell -- until Thanksgiving -- we began busying ourselves with the important decisions. Who got which closet? Where should we hang all of our 90210 Luke Perry posters? Our entire lives stretched out in front of us, full of promise and hope. Maybe one of us would marry Luke Perry?

During my time at Tech, I met and befriended people from all over the country, from all walks of life. There was the girl who would become my roommate for the next two years, kind enough to overlook my obvious lack of housekeeping credentials, funny enough that I hated to turn off the lights at night because we were having so much fun talking and laughing. There was the shy, freckled boy, an initial romantic prospect, who after many joint study sessions fraught with tempered flirtation, grew to become a close friend and confidante. There was the girl who enjoyed incense (wink) and listening to the Grateful Dead, she spent virtually all her waking hours designing and building otherworldly projects for her architecture classes.

College was where I studied hard (and conversely, at times, hardly studied), fell in love (and then out again, and back in, and ... repeat). Where I crossed the threshold from teenager into adulthood. Tragedy in my circle meant a lower grade in a course than anticipated, breaking-up with a boyfriend, or saying good-bye to a beloved grandparent who passed after a long life. My friends and I grew up, some went on to jobs, some went on to medical or law school or graduate programs. Now, many are married and have children of their own ...

... As I watched the media images of the massacre, my heart shatters for those who have been deprived of these simple and wonderful memories by one horrific act of violence. My heart breaks further for the parents who sent their children off to learn, love and grow up, in a place whose tranquility befits a Norman Rockwell painting, only to learn that their children will never be coming home again. I state the obvious when I say that there are few things more cruel than a parent burying a child ...

... Last night, I unearthed a decade-old sweatshirt from that cardboard box in the basement tattooed with the black Sharpie VT. I sorted through Tri Delt formals glasses, Phi Kap baseball caps, report cards (Organic Chemistry derailed med school plans), and reams of photos of young people I once knew, now legitimate adults with mortgages and 401ks, many of whom I am still fortunate enough to call friends. The shirt is faded, the sleeves and collar are frayed from repeated wearing. I haven’t put it on in years because -- let’s face it -- maroon and traffic-cone orange are not exactly a girl’s best colors.

I asked my four-year old son for his opinion. “So, how do I look?” He surveyed me solemnly before answering, “You look very handsome, Mommy.”

I couldn’t agree more. Go Hokies.

High Brow

Sunday brunch humor courtesy of 9-year-old Alex P. Ethan.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Dunno."

"To get the New York Times. Get it?"

"Um ... no."

"Me neither, I get the Wall Street Journal."

Which reminds me, time to renew his subscription.

Tick Tock

I woke up this morning, and thought, "Twenty-seven days until my next brain MRI at Hopkins. But who's counting?"

PONEE

Dear Santa,

We need to talk. You got my letters, I know you did because I mailed them to The North Pole, which is where you live. So this is old news, but I thought we might want to revisit because I get how memory can be an issue as we age (wait, what was I saying ... ? OH, right!).

You know that I have wanted a pony more than literally anything in the world, since the age of three. And by “wanted a pony”, I mean my intensity was so consuming that I would pretend to be one (awkward at play dates!) and named all of my stuffed animals, even the turtles, PONEE (with the sole exception of “Grey Kitty”, who was wait for it … a grey kitty). You will recall that I was the first child (aka "the practice one"), so if I was not enrolled at Yale by age 15, that would be parental failure, therefore PONEES were not on my busy preschool agenda of piano lessons, ballet, tap, jazz, gymnastics, and swim lessons.

As luck would have it, I demonstrated that I was tone deaf, had two left feet, barely managed a backward roll, and did not like water up my nose. Out of options at age six, my parents enrolled me for lessons at Columbia Horse Center. You know (because you are magic and can read minds) that my parents had real concerns about my new hobby.

My mom is terrified of horses, so she was worried that I would fall off, get trampled, or get kicked in my little blonde head, thereby taking Yale off the table forever. My dad was worried that to support my new hobby, we would have to live in our Volvo station wagon, because as all riders realize, "serious" riding costs $18 billion dollars. A month.

As you know, I LOVED IT from the very first day, when I had my first lesson on Annie the PONEE, who was wider than she was tall. I moved on to taller, less ornery mounts ... my mom learned to lock the doors of her station wagon after she dropped me off, which was smart, just in case the horses had learned to open doors. My dad took on extra patients to support my habit and grudgingly learned what flying changes, martingales, and hoof picks were for, then became my ringside trainer-by-proxy at every horse show, despite never having ridden a day in his life.

Every year, first on my list -- PONEE, which became PONY, then HORSE, then REALLY, I AM NOT KIDDING, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I WANT NOTHING ELSE (**but if you *must* get me something else, I want a new Outback Red outfit) to YOU KNOW REALLY PLEASE, I WOULD DO ANYTHING!!!!!!! (**but if you *must* get me something else, how about a car for me to drive so I can take myself to lessons and horse shows and you [I mean, my parents!!] won't have to wake up at 4 am every Saturday to get me to the barn so I can catch a ride to VA, PA or some other state for the show), to I AM LEAVING FOR COLLEGE NEXT YEAR AND I HAVE WANTED NOTHING ELSE FOR THE PAST 14 YEARS OF MY LIFE! (**OK, so I'll take a coffeemaker, I've heard I'll need one).

So, Santa, you did not come through, and that made me sad. And then there was college, law school, lawyering, child, life ... and the horse dreams were put on the farthest back burner of my mind.

So, this morning when I got the call that my appointment to meet my foster horse won't happen until next week, I thought, after waiting for 30 + years, what's a few more days? Gives me a chance to stockpile some more carrots.

And did I mention, my inner 3-year-old is squealing with glee about "MY" PONEE? Yes, she is.

Sincerely,
J

Yawn

Have been having headaches, again. I am hoping that means I am *just* having headaches.

Time for a date with my favorite neurosurgeon.

Let's hope he finds me incredibly boring.

Thank You

Thanks to you, I have stretch marks, crinkles in odd places, and one - OK, three - weird grey eyebrow hairs. Thanks to you, I haven't slept through the night since ... 2001? Thanks to you, my disposable income goes to filling the tank of my enormous SUV, organic clementines, and miniature sports figures of people I've never heard of, with last names I cannot pronounce. Thanks to you, I not only know what mom jeans are, but am wearing a pair right now. With Crocs.

Thanks to you, I willingly watch football, basketball, tae kwon do, baseball, hockey, and children playing recorders. Thanks to you, I am signed up to coach a spring basketball league (You have concerns: 'Do you even KNOW what the rules are?' 'That is what the Internet is for! Besides, I just need a pair of track pants and I'll be good!'). Thanks to you, I have sworn off peanut butter and vow never to let on just how GOOD it really is.

Thanks to you, I have become a kinder, gentler version of who I used to be, more selfless, more patient, more caring. Thanks to you, I have loved with a depth and a tenacity that I never could have imagined before you arrived. Ethan Charles, your first nine years have brought me more joy than you will ever know; that is, until you someday become a parent yourself. Thanks to you, I have the honor of the title, "Mommy."

Happy Ninth Birthday to my big little pumpkin.

Broken

We do this best/worst part of your day conversation every night, just to see what is going on. (Background: Ethan is with his dad today and tonight, just spoke with him on the phone.)

"Ethan, best part of your day?" "Seeing you at my basketball game!"

"Worst part of your day?" "Saying goodbye to you after my basketball game."

My heart just cracked, then fell on the floor, and then broke into 50 zillion pieces.

I used to practice family law, being on the other side of the fence is a whole different ball game.

It's Official

It's official.

I am giving up marriage for Lent.

But not brownies, definitely not brownies.

That would be asking too much.

Love

One hope I have for my son as he grows, above all others, is that he become a kind person. This is the first Valentine's in sixteen years that my plans did not include La Perla and the anticipation of something sparkly, ideally in Tiffany blue. I wanted to think outside the box (pun intended) to make this holiday memorable for both of us. Lobster ravioli, naturally, but beyond that?

First stop, Mom-delivered surprise heart-shaped Papa John's for lunch (old sorority girl habits die hard). The smile on E's face that I brought a Whole! Heart! Shaped! Large! Pepperoni! Pizza! to his school cafeteria was something I won't soon forget (and confirmed that NEJM journal article about the male stomach-to-heart connection).

After school, we picked up two dozen roses to hand out to residents at an Alzheimer's assisted living facility. E was not, to say the least, originally enthused about this concept, especially since it meant he might miss basketball practice. I said, "Trust me on this one, you'll be happy we went."

An hour later, our rose supply was depleted, and E had twenty-four new friends. I had to wipe a tear away as I watched him graciously receive four hugs, from the same woman, and then repeat to her, patiently, four times, and with a kind smile, "It's Valentine's Day ... third grade ... I know, my mom IS sweet."

As we left, he asked, "Can we do that again next Valentine's Day?"

My heart is full, and proud.

Stripper Mom

Yesterday, I helped out at Ethan's school Valentine's party.

Due to a lack of proper blindfold, the fabric belt to my dress was used as an impromptu eye cover for the Pin The Heart On The Cupid game. E later informed me, "since I was missing the belt to hold it up, three of his friends were just waiting for my dress to fall off!"

I am still unclear whether I should interpret this in an "Ethan's Mom Has Got It Goin' On" sort of fashion, or whether my accidental disrobing would have been pure stand-up comedy?

For the sake of my own ego, am going with the former.

Someone Get Beyonce On The Line, STAT! And Order That White Range Rover With The 75-inch Platinum Rims!!!

E's Ninth birthday is fast approaching. I know what you are thinking, that I am too young and adorable to have a NINE-YEAR-OLD!!!! but I promise it is true.

I need a venue to celebrate this year (read: not my house). I am thinking somewhere "less" than Verizon Center and "more" than that scummy bowling alley behind the "adult bookstore" on Rt 40.

PS I suggested a Thomas the Train party, and Ethan countered with a Megan Fox party ... negotiations are still on-going.

Was Fine, Got Sick, It Sucked

I am pondering the "What's Next?" chapter of my life, having decided that the statute of limitations on my wallowing has expired. The crushing internal noise of my own Greek Chorus is starting to bore me.

After a fifteen-year relationship, and a decade of marriage, I am now in the midst of what is rapidly shaping up to be a brutal divorce. In a past life, many moons ago, I was a family law litigator whose hourly rate now seems so obscene, I am embarrassed to type it here, but one thing I do know from that vocation: there is a way to divorce, and there is a way not to. Guess where I am? The best laid plans ... I am not going to talk about the details here, because 1) They are legal and 2) I don't want to. If I had to sum it up in six words for the curious: Was Fine, Got Sick, It Sucked.

My health is ... well, you know all about that. No sense beating a dead mom ... HORSE! ... dead horse. But since I am not dead yet, must.keep.going. And find a way to matter; the scope of that is kicking around in my head during quiet minutes in the shower, or while driving, but right now, simply remains some thoughts and plans yet to be culminated.

My single goal in all of this, this being my life - complex and heavy though it may be - is to ensure that my son, my adorable, blue-eyed, precocious, complicated, bright little boy, does not end up on America's Most Wanted in ten years. For him, I want love, warmth, and security. I asked the other day whether he thought I seemed happy? He said, yeah, probably ninety-five percent of the time. The other five percent? When the dog eats your favorite shoes, or the dishwasher overflows in to the kitchen. He also continues to assert that I am The Funniest Person He Has Ever Met and during day-to-day exchanges, I routinely make him laugh until chocolate milk snorts out his nose (which makes him laugh harder). So, I am faking it really, really well, for his sake, and if proud of virtually nothing else in my life at the moment, I am proud of the fact that I am strong in a way that I never could have envisioned. As I move forward, I need to take small steps every day. No matter how tiny and trivial those steps might be.

Step One: A new blog life. This space feels so ... weighty, but I still like to write. I don't want to delete my past, but would like a clean, open forum going forward. For my next chapter, whatever that may hold.

Step Two: A new blog name. Am open to suggestions. I've ruled out the following:

Dead Mom Walking (too dark)

A Quart of MILF (too PG-13)

My Stupid-Faced Ex Can Go Screw Himself (too bitter)

Medical Procedures To Avoid (too Discovery Health)

Blonde (since my roots are currently longer than my actual "blonde", I feel like this is false advertising.)

I HEART ANDERSON COOPER !!!! (while true, I feel like that might get me slapped with a restraining order.)

Shiny Happy Mommy (Um, no.)

JENNY! (Again, just ... no.)

I Used To Be Hot, Did I Ever Mention That I Was Homecoming Queen? (Disclaimer: There was considerable controversy during the election process. My best male friend, who harbored an unrequited crush - unrequited not because he was not amazing, because he was, on so many different levels - but because I had a boyfriend that I was obsessed with in that way that only a high-school girl can be, so instead of dating the male friend, we stayed friendly, and would spend hours upon platonic hours together after school in his kitchen, laughing and eating pickles [really eating pickles, not some sort of weird double entendre version of "eating pickles"; pickles were my cuisine of choice because they are fat-free and since I was on a strict 750-calorie-a-day diet in those days, I could eat a full jar and count that as lunch and dinner]. When my lacrosse-playing, Jeep-driving, Homecoming King boyfriend dumped me for that chick with Double Ds and a brand-new Mercedes convertible, the best friend brought me hand-picked pink roses from his garden and warm brownies that he baked himself (!) because he knew the Universal Rule of Jenny Dieting: All calorie bets are off when she gets dumped. He let me cry and cry and cry, the ugly kind of crying where snot goes everywhere and eyes puff so much they swell shut (am a pro at this!), and play "Wonderful Tonight" on my pink cassette boom box for five hours straight. This pattern continued until I got back together with said Lacrosse Player three days later because I was sure, despite his large-breasted, German-engineering proclivities, it was True! Love! Forever! Until he dumped me, again, the day before Prom (said ex and I went on to attend the same college, and after a couple of years and Red Solo cups of a vile mixture of something called "Hop Skip & Go Naked", served from a fraternity-house bathtub, we forged a for-real, actual friendship, despite all the prior dumping). So, the point is, the best friend's feelings for me may or may not have caused him to stuff the ballot box, just like Rachel on Glee, jeopardizing his own future on SGA. But I don't think all that would fit on a blog title header. So, that's out.)

Step Three: Ask all of you to please weigh in on blog title ideas. Clearly, I need some help here. Also, does anyone know where to go to find someone to make their blog pretty? As you can tell, I am well-versed in technical computer language. Honestly, I am surprised Apple has not called by now to offer me Steve Jobs' now-vacant position. Apple, am w-a-i-t-i-n-g-g-g ... I will accept payment in iPads. Let's talk.

Fickle Heart

"So, E, do you have a Valentine in your class this year?"

"For one, I don't want to involve my mother in my love life. That's creepy. For two, I am not telling you because you would not approve. She's not a doctor or lawyer or Prime Minister, like all of your lady friends."

And Here I Thought Toilet Paper Stuck To Your Shoe Was Bad

My Supermom of The Year 2012 nomination is in serious jeopardy.

Yesterday, at E's basketball game, he raised his arms over his head to make a jump shot, launched the ball, and as he did, his shorts fell down ... to his ankles. As for the next part, I feel bad about this ... I really, really do, but I could NOT. STOP. LAUGHING. Like, 100% involuntarily, no control, hysterical, shaking-with-tears laughter.

I tried to make him feel better this morning with homemade cinnamon rolls and a story about when I was in high school, after a visit to the ladies' room, I emerged with my (Units - remember that store?) skirt tucked in to my underwear, and walked past my high school crush before anyone told me and how I got over it (by senior year ... of college).

My poor mortified child.

Great Expectations

"So, when I was expecting you, the judge I worked for, every morning, she would say, 'You sure you're not having twins? You're pretty big!' And I would fake laugh ..."

Ethan, interrupting, "Wait, the judge was your boss?"

"Yes."

"And the judge was a SHE?"

"Yes."

"Wait, so your judge was a woman?!"

"Yes."

"Wait, I thought only MEN could be judges?!"

"Ethan, I will absolutely not tolerate language like that in this house. Say something like that again and you're grounded for a month."

Sexiest Neck On The Playground

An Open Letter To The Approximately 416 Separate People I Saw Today:

This morning when I put on my teal scarf, it was right out of the dryer, so it was warm and cuddly, and I was happy. This particular accessory garners many compliments, as some say it matches my eyes (which, now that I think about it, are green? Really not even the same color family at all, so that is odd. People are liars. But, not my point here).

I dropped Ethan off at school, I went to an appointment, I went to a meeting, I went to another thing (this is me being vague and mysterious instead of TMI), I picked Ethan up from school, we went to Barnes & Noble, I went to another thing (vague, again).

Imagine my surprise when I came home from ALL of the things, and was getting ready to put on my lone right slipper (for what became of the left, reference dog photo above), hung my scarf in the closet, and as I did, a purple lacy pair of lady undergarments (I refuse to use the "P" word, I just WILL. NOT!) released themselves from their static grip hold on my scarf (for those who did not pass AP reading, I will make the connection: the one I walked around with ALL DAY) and floated to the floor. If there is an extreme sport version of humiliation, I just achieved Olympic Gold status.

In related news, all of you (you KNOW who you are!) are defriended. I will have to find some new friends, some who will tell me when I am walking around with Victoria's Secret clearance bin #5 pinned to my neck.

OK? Thanks.

Go Team!

As I put on my purple today, I am reminded of my Grandpa Charles (Ethan's middle namesake), who played pro football in New York from 1925-1929, back when the uniform consisted of leather helmets and shoulder pads that tied on. I think he got paid $25 a season. I just heard Ethan bragging to a neighbor that "his great grandpa was the best football player EVER -- better than Johnny Unitas, even." Not sure if that is true, but you have to appreciate the family loyalty.

First Year

MLK Day brings back fond memories of living on the wrong side of MLK Boulevard in West Baltimore with my two best girlfriends, superstar doctors-in-training, during our first years of law/med school.

Highlights: Running down the middle of the street while returning from the library at 3 am, mace at the ready. One stolen car (it was returned.) One stolen handbag ("They got all my MAC make-up!") That ghost in the basement (none of the future doctors believed me.) A complete human skeleton on the breakfast table at 6 am (med school issued.) The stray black cat I adopted (and the subsequent rabies shots when it literally bit the hand that fed it.)

My personal favorite, "Gunshots? Again? Well, are they coming from inside the house? Because I'd only call the police if they are coming from inside. They're busy, you know."

Sharing the unforgettable experience of first year with my two best girlfriends: Priceless.

Heartless

7:03 this morning.

Mommy, are you an organ donor?

Yes.

So, people can just show up and take your parts ...?

Well, not exactly ...

Like your heart, they could just take your heart?

Well, if you are an organ donor, your heart goes to someone who needs a heart and it can save their life.

Wouldn't taking your heart out hurt?

Well, um {giant gulp of coffee} organs get donated after the person no longer needs them and can save a life. Eat your oatmeal!

{Pause. No eating.}

WAIT!??? So, YOU need YOUR heart! So, like, the people come after you are dead! WHY DO YOU WANT TO DIE TO GIVE AWAY YOUR ORGANS?!?

No, no. It's like, if ... um ... {more coffee} ... something ... unexpected happens and then people who donate organs save lives! It's a good thing! Eat your oatmeal!

I can't. I am worried someone will just show up to take your heart ... or your penis ...

OK, again, I don't have one of those ...

Apologies to school friends if your child comes home with lots of questions about organ snatching. Or why E's mom has boy and girl parts.

Resolutions

A repost, below, from 2010, because I am feeling lazy and hazy and full of cotton candy (dinner).

Most still apply. Minus the married part. But now I have a NEW one, thanks to KK and her fairy-tale wed/ivorce spectacular that she treated the publishers of US Weekly to this year.

I will get married for 73 days in 2012, not because I have a burning desire to wed again or have more babies, but because I do like a good party. So, I've decided that while I could handle 73 days, ten years was just too damn long. I am working on that ... as for the rest, all still in effect. Cheers to 2012, my friends!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Repost begins here ....

In case you missed the memo, it is now a whole new decade. You know what this time of year means? Changes. Soul-searching and such. Resolutions, people.

I have given serious thought as to what I should aspire in 2010. After much internal grappling, I have come to terms with the fact that there are certain changes that must happen in my life during this year.

My goals are still very much evolving, but I would like to share my working short list.

- Gain Fifteen Pounds. When I got married eight-plus years ago, I did so with pure intentions and a good heart. For true love. And so I could stop the dating bullshit and finally wear some comfortable underwear. (Really, Victoria's Secret execs? What sort of sadist invented the thong? And Wonderbras are HOT. Not hot - like looking good - but hot like cause under-the-boob sweat. Take note.) Besides the lingerie goals, I also looked forward to Mrs. Status so that I could finally eat more then 150 calories in one sitting. While the most astute of you might counter that I have, indeed, put on a little weight since walking down the aisle, I would like to counter-counter that I am still several pounds away from my Let Myself Go All To Hell See This Wedding Band, Bitches! goal weight. So, 2010, you just bring on that brie and crab dip. And keep it coming, I'll have three servings. Before noon.

- Start Smoking. A pulmonologist is one of the few doctors not in my personal medical roster of obscure specialists. I feel like I might be missing out on something here. What do they DO in a pulmonologist's office? I want to make sure I am embracing all that life has to offer, health insurance-wise, anyhow.

- Exercise Less. Really. Who likes the gym? (See #1.)

- Hold Grudges. There are people in my life that did "things" to me - YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE! - over ten years ago. While certain people may have thought that I had let such things go - YOU! I AM TALKING TO YOU! YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID! - and moved past them, I have not. We only have so many days on this earth. And if you think that for one minute, I will not spend it focusing on petty, trivial matters from a decade ago, then you - YES! YOU! - have another think coming. YOU: Know that I have not forgotten, nor forgiven. I just got bored of talking about it in 2000.

- Focus On Things In Life That Truly Matter: Read: Drinking heavily, spending excessively on frivolous consumer goods and cultivating unguarded envy for those material items that people around me have and I don't. And shoes.

- Give Less To Charity. See above. Must afford frivolous consumer goods somehow.

- Spend Time On More Meaningful And Fulfilling Endeavors. Like watching reality television marathons of Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Or The Real Housewives Of Orange County. Both are equally important to today's society and good White House dinner conversation fodder, in case the Obamas call.

In the true spirit of resolutions, I am still in the draft stages, so feel free to add suggestions of your own.

PS Happy New Year to all!

PPS Except not to YOU. YOU are not included in that blanket greeting. And YOU know why. Stop giving me that look.