i want my mom

 i am thirty-four years old, a married woman and thirty-three weeks pregnant. still, i have to admit: i want my mommy and daddy!

my parents left yesterday for a week in Antigua. it is a well-deserved vacation and i hope they're having the time of their lives. however, i'd be lying if i said i wasn't wishing they were home in PA, easily reachable by phone and able to comfort and reassure me. i really need that right now.

Michael and i are closing on our condo a week from Friday. in between now and then we have to pack up our current place, order furniture for the new one, make arrangements for movers and participate in two walkthroughs/inspections. that is all very exciting and i had full faith that we'd get it all done... until Michael was taken to the ER last night for reasons we still haven't exactly pinned down.

i think everything will be OK, i think he'll wind up getting treatment he's probably needed for a while now for some stomach issues i knew weren't normal. but he's at a maddeningly frustrating hospital, trying to get straight answers is nearly impossible and i'm now on my second night at home without him. i spent eight hours at the hospital with him today, thinking that a lot would be happening, diagnoses would be made and he'd be discharged by the end of the day.

yeahhhhh, not so much.

i've been putting on a brave face, trying to keep an upbeat attitude and keep him from worrying. but tonight i'm feeling lost. well, not lost. just a little nervous. i'm limited in what i can do in terms of prepping to move (i.e. no heavy lifting, etc) and there are a lot of things we just need to do together.

but this is life, right? gotta play the hand you're dealt and hope for a better one next time. which is probably the advice my parents would be giving me if i could actually speak to them (and, technically, i could call them via their resort, but i figure it's a good time to practice being a mature adult—being seven weeks away from becoming a parent myself).

i keep trying to tell myself that if i can survive the next two or three weeks without crumbling, it will bode well for the future. so that's my plan. but for tonight—since my mama isn't here for me to vent to and to give me advice—i'm relying on the couch, the DVR and Chocolate Peanut Butter Haagen Dazs to sooth me.

(don't tell my mom, but it's sort of working...)

mbm

pretty please

on Saturday i had the lucky pleasure of going to see STOMP! at the State Theatre of New Jersey with my Aunt Val, Scotty and Henry. they picked me up from my Gram's and we made the drive to New Brunswick, munching on McDonald's along the way. i was getting the scoop from Scotty on his school's talent show, which took place the night before. he was part of the stage crew, so he had a great spot from which to watch the acts. anyway, he was telling me about the kid who did amazing karate, and other kids who sang and danced. my aunt piped in and said that a few of Scotty's friends had dressed up—in drag, i guess you could say—and lip-synched to " Single Ladies." (these were fourth graders by the way.) that prompted Henry to start singing the song (or, really, to sing, "all the single ladies, all the single ladies, all the single ladies, all the single ladies" over and over and over, presumably because those are the only words he knows), which irritated the heck out of Scotty, who begged his mom to put on her Pink greatest hits CD because at least then Henry would sing along with "Stupid Girls" instead.

all this is to get us to the moment when my aunt asked me—once Pink was playing—if i'd heard her song, "F*ckin' Perfect." i'd heard about it, plenty, but i actually hadn't heard the song. (i'm woefully late to the party on these things.) she told me she listened to it in the car by herself one day and cried. and then she played it for a friend of hers who was having a rough time and she cried. Val told me that she thinks every 13-year old girl on the planet should listen to it, and that if Bubba's a girl, she's absolutely going to play it for her, curse words and all.

Sunday morning i downloaded the CD on my iPhone and listened to it while i went for a walk, "F*ckin' Perfect" included. and i have to say, the song is—pardon me—fucking awesome. i've listened to it dozens of times since then and i can understand why it made my aunt and her friend emotional. i came close to tears listening to it, too.

the reason i'm writing about this on Valentine's Day is because it think the holiday is, by and large, really dumb. it makes men stressed out, it makes women anxious and if you're single (as i was for many Valentine's Days in my life) it's the most annoying day ever. you just wind up feeling a mix of angry, sad, lonely, wistful and bitter.

that's where Pink's song comes in. i seriously listened to it five times in a row this morning on my way to work and found myself wishing that everyone could focus on loving themselves today, rather than someone else. i think that's what most of us need anyway, whether we're in or out of a relationship.

i went to lunch on Friday with a few co-workers (a phenomenon that occurs only when the planets align just so) and we got on the topic of quarter-life crises. one of the ladies at lunch is on the brink of twenty-five and talked about feeling confused about whether she was on the right track, if she was making the right choices in her life, if she'd have time to do all the things she wanted to do.

the rest of us told her we'd all been there around the same point in our lives—and assured her that there's no reason to stress, everything works itself out, that in reality life only starts to make marginal sense by the time you hit thirty. in the meantime, life is meant to be experimental, disastrous at times, triumphant at others. basically, a total adventure.

the opening lyrics of Pink's song made me think of that conversation: Made a wrong turn/Once or twice/Dug my way out/Blood and fire/Bad decisions/That's all right/Welcome to my silly life...

but the truth is—and the reason why the song evokes such emotion in me even though i'm long past my quarter-life crisis—is because we elders can spout all the advice we want, but we're all hard on ourselves no matter what age: twenty-five, thirty-five, eighty-five... even if you're one of the lucky ones who walks around with a confident head on her  shoulders most of the time, there are always people around who want to bring you down, mistreat you, take their insecurities out on you; articles and books to read that make you think you're not doing enough or doing the right things; and let's not forget that mean-spirited inner-voice (where did it come from?) commentating constantly on everything you wear, eat, do, say... it's exhausting, sometimes, just to get through a day without completely wanting to give up or start bawling.

i know Valentine's Day 2011 is almost over, but if you're reading this tonight—or whenever you're reading this—take a few minutes to write yourself a love note. scribble yourself a sweet, gooey message for a change. go buy yourself some flowers, or some chocolate (good news—it'll be on sale now!) and let yourself off the goddamn hook for a while. make a vow to try hard to say only kind things to yourself, to feel sorry for the negative people in your life but to keep your distance from them. set your shoulders back, walk with your head up, find the things (or people) that make you happiest and leave behind the things (or people) that make you feel less than.

because Pink's right (and i should know, having listened to the song forty times in the last twenty-four hours)—you're fucking perfect exactly the way you are. 

mbm

   

bless me father, for i have sinned. it's been three billing cycles since my last confession.

i don't know a single person who goes to confession anymore (and, honestly, the only people i ever knew who went to confession were, like me, forced to go periodically as part of our Catholic school education). but perhaps the sacrament will make a comeback now, since the Catholic church just "officially" sanctioned an iPhone app called Confession: A Roman Catholic App. (snappy name.)

i'd like to go on record with my opinion, which is this: if the Pope and his people are okaying iPhone apps—hard evidence that they are aware we're in the 21st century—i think they should consider being "officially" cool with female priests, the use of birth control, that marriage is about love and loyalty (not gender), and, of course, a woman's right to choose.

so there's your next challenge, Papal IT team. before you start dreaming up a digital way for people to get confirmed or squeeze in last rites before they kick the bucket, try creating Basic Human Rights We Should Have Acknowledged Fifty Years Ago: A Roman Catholic App.

mbm

there are some moments when i'm just so content...

... and one of them is right now. i'm at my parents' house, downstairs in the kitchen sitting on a stool at the counter, sipping cinnamon pastry coffee, watching the icy rain fall, listening to Shawn Colvin Live and doing our taxes. Michael is sound asleep upstairs (snoring to beat the band, which is part of the reason why i'm not asleep, too) and my parents haven't come down yet but i feel anything but alone. it's just a quiet, cozy Saturday morning. have to savor these moments, right? sometimes they're far and few between. deep sigh.


mbm

someone hold me...

i am truly saddened and honestly down in the dumps after hearing this news today: 

on top of the fact that without my beloved Andy in the rotation we have, like, two starters (or really one, when you consider that Phil Hughes has been a mixed bag), it's a sentimental loss that will take me a while to get over. this will take even more time and tenderness than Bernie Williams, because Bernie sort of got screwed. Andy is walking away on his own and while i admire him for wanting to be with his family, i feel like we fans got gypped last season—watching him totally on fire on the mound only to lose him to an injury until late in the season. too late, as it turned out. i wanted him to give it one more shot. 


i just can't imagine never again seeing that steely glare from the mound—only a few inches between the edge of his cap bill and the top of his glove and yet so powerful and freaking  awesome. 


sorry. can't type anymore. can't see the keyboard through my tears. 


mbm

my sunday with gram: lessons in life and death

i went to visit my Gram on Sunday because i hadn't seen her since Christmas Eve and was really missing her. i'd wanted to go the previous weekend but the flu was making its way through her building and despite my flu shot, it didn't seem wise for a pregnant gal to traipse through anywhere with a lot of sick, elderly folks.


the cute thing about my Gram is that even when i let her know that i'm coming, exactly what day and around what time, she's still happily surprised to see me—as if she thinks she imagined my phone call or that she assumed i'd find something better to do at the last minute. i love the look on her face when i open her door and poke my head around the corner to see her. we're like long-lost friends, reunited at last.


we had a great time. so much to talk about, between the baby (whom she referred to as "our baby," making me smile), the new condo, Gram's new hi-def television, the ever-changing cast of characters who are supposed to care for her at this place, what it takes for her to get a decent bowl of oatmeal there and what she wants to happen after she dies.


yep. the conversation went there. and sort of randomly. she told me she'd been spreading the word about "her wishes." shockingly, hearing her mention it didn't turn me into a slobbering pile of hormones. occasionally i'll think about what life will be like when she's no longer here and it makes my chest ache, but talking about it with her was different. she told me exactly what she wants to happen, where she wants to go, the stipulations she's put in place. and i just listened. she was in her bed and i pulled my chair up close and rested my chin on the footboard and felt about as close to her as i've ever felt.


it's true we can no longer bake Tollhouse cookies together. i can't go to her house for the weekend and we can't go shoe shopping or go see a romantic comedy at the movies. the stereo on which i used to play her old records is long gone and those lazy Sunday mornings we used to spend reading the Star-Ledger and eating Entenmann's donuts will have to live in my memory.


but what we have now is conversation. just being together, with nothing else to do but talk and listen and relish this bond that has been impermeable my entire life. i was so moved, listening to her talk, that my throat hurt a little in the back, working to keep at bay the lump that was threatening to form. not because i was sad, but because i was i was so touched that she trusts me enough to tell me the things she was telling me. we've always talked about pretty much everything, but this stuff was different—a whole other level of life issues. and i just felt so happy to have this relationship with my gram.


at one point i suggested—jokingly—that was should dispense with any memorial service and just take her to a local Irish pub, hoist her on the bar and spend the afternoon toasting her, sharing our funniest stories and singing, such as our heritage dictates. (she then reminded me what happened to the urn in Angela's Ashes, subtly hinting that she did not want to be similarly left on a random bar in New York. duly noted, Gram.)


she said that she wasn't going to insist that people not cry when she's gone, because she thinks that's unfair. "i'll probably be there crying along with you," she said. i asked her if it was strange to consider such things, to really contemplate and plan for death. she told me no, it wasn't, but she did think about the things she'll miss—and about the things she's already missed. several of her grandchildren's weddings, holding all the new babies, family parties like the one we had last weekend at my Uncle Mark's...


and that's when i finally felt sad. i thought about it the whole way home. it's probably not hard for her to think about the end of her life; but maybe it's hard to think about the choices she could have made to improve the quality of her life right now. i am so thankful her brain is still sharp, she's still full of piss and vinegar, we can still have talks like the ones we had on Sunday. but that bed is where she'll be from now on. her lungs can't tolerate much else. this last visit was the first time i really understood how much it upsets her that she's had to miss so much. i don't know this for sure, and i'll never ask her because what's the point, but if she had to do it all over again—if she could have seen into the future, all the wonderful things still to come—i'd bet anyone a million dollars that she'd have tossed those Parliament Lights into the trash decades ago. she'd have gone for walks in her neighborhood instead of sitting home all the time once she retired, and put some more thought into her health rather than assuming everything would be OK, somehow, magically.


i know several people who still smoke. they're young, old and in-between. i see it—and, unfortunately, inhale it—all the time on the streets in the city and in our neighborhood Brooklyn. it makes me so angry. partly because i'm carrying this defenseless baby who's relying on me for a safe home and just being in a place where people smoke (even if they're not doing it at the time) or being around people who smoke (and reek of it) is bad for both of us. and partly because i just want to scream, what are you people thinking?! you're not invincible! this will catch up with you, and not at the very end of your life when you have nothing left to live for. you'll be paying for it when there's still so much to see and do and feel and know. and you'll be plum out of luck.


my gram has quite a legacy. she had a bunch of kids, who've grown up to be great people and have their own bunch of kids, who've grown up to be great people who are having their own kids now. she's been an amazing grandmother, generous with her time and her love, her jokes and her M&Ms. she introduced me to my two favorite cities in the world—New York and San Francisco—and, even at eighty-five and confined to a bed, she still makes me feel special and cherished and safe.


i will carry all of that with me, forever. but i can't ignore the other part of her legacy: that her life doesn't have to be the way it is right now. that if not for the fact that she smoked so much for so long, and chose not to quit when she knew it was bad for her, she could have been at my wedding, at the family party last weekend holding her newest great grandchildren, be making plans now to visit baby Bubba in the hospital, as soon as he or she arrives. i will carry that as a reminder to be good to myself, to take care of myself, to not take advantage of my health, ever. and i sincerely hope you will, too.


mbm