Angel of Mercy

Death is imminent.

Surely, it will come swiftly. Tonight. And yet, Charlie and I have been whispering this mantra to one another under cover of darkness while peeking through the slats of the boys' rat cage every night for months now, with no change.

We think it's Ratsy who's so sick. But it could be Speedy; it's really hard to remember which is which. (And yes, we are appropriately ashamed at the lack of creativity displayed by our children in the rat-naming department.) At any rate, it's not good. The thing has some sort of tumor. And although she oddly never seems to show any sign of pain, her chest bulges with an unnatural growth. Her eyes sometimes bleed. She's losing fur. And I'm sparing you the truly disturbing details.

Every morning, we brace for her departure from this world. And every damn day, she's still alive. Yes, in a world desperately short on miracles,this single, (ugly), insignificant rat is continually spared its logical, due fate. Why? What's the cosmic joke? We have no answers, opting instead to beg in one, united voice:

Good God rat, die, will you? Die.

The boys worry over her. They ask if we can transport her to a vet. They rail at the unfairness of a universe that does not value rodent health care. They go all Erin Brockovich on me, asking about our air quality and wondering aloud about lead poisoning in the paint on her rat igloo. And still she lives.

And lives.

And lives.

She's starting to smell a bit. She drinks copious amounts of water (isn't that--please Lord--a sign of liver failure?). She stares at me listlessly while I hum Spamalot's Not Dead Yet just in her range of hearing (assuming she can still hear) while putting away laundry.

Don't get me wrong. I'm an advocate of animals. You won't find a more dedicated animal lover. But I'm an even stronger advocate of mercy. (The swifter the better, in this case.) Say what you will about Dr. Kavorkian: you haven't sat bedside at a rat vigil for four months. (It's not nearly as romantic as it sounds.) And so we mulled over our 'options' (all rat versions of taking her out behind the barn and shooting her), and have (almost) decided on one. We might (accidentally and not at all on purpose) release her into the field by our house to meet her maker one way or another.

I know, I know. It's so passive. So weak, and dare I say? So yeller. We've gone soft here in the suburbs. Even so, we can't quite pull the trigger. And with our luck, she'd probably crawl her way back home anyway, where she'd live another eight years.

And so we wait. And in the meantime, we ask you all: if--hypothetically speaking of course--you found yourself needing to...eliminate...a rat, how--in theory--would you go about it, do you think?

(Please be precise.)

Off to work I go

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In hindsight, it really didn't happen all that fast:

Two weeks ago, I applied for the reading specialist position in our local school district. Last week, I was called for an interview. A few days after that, I was called back for a second one. Tuesday, I was offered the job.

One can see a progression there. And yet, it all happened so fast.

I was driving the preschool car pool at the time, and had to pull over to take the call, and then get out of the car altogether to stand on the side of the road to escape the happy-five-year-old din in the backseat while I negotiated hours and spoke to human resources. I accepted the position, got back in the car (thank God the little rascals hadn't locked me out), shifted into drive, and blinked. In less than a week, I'd be working.

On Monday, in fact. And from there on out, Monday through Friday, every week.

I hear these hours are not unheard of in the working world (and I'm only working four hours a day). But it's still a shift for me. A major one. It's an added hat. It's a new plate I need to balance as it spins.

And after I ended that phone call, I felt a brief surge of victory that after ten years, I still had the ability to land a job (and still knew where my college diploma was located when I had to dig it out), before a subtle weight that felt suspiciously like panic settled on my chest.

But I went about my day. Toby's and my day. We took the dog for a walk, Toby on mismatched inline skates (when I say mismatched, I mean he had on one of Calvin's, and one of Nate's). His little feet couldn't fill either one of them, and they wobbled and caved inward at the ankles while he pretended not to notice.

We walked and skated (and he fell and got back up), and he told me all about Avatar (not the blue ones, the cartoon ones, which are air benders). And I was confused, but I listened.

We made fruit and grain bars in our big Pampered Chef pan, and he licked the bowl.

When we were getting the mail, I asked him (as I might ask him 'apple juice or milk?'), whether he thought it would be fun to go to a place to play after preschool in the afternoons like his friend does. Because all the while we were baking and walking and talking, I was trying to figure out how all this--this life we have together--will work with a part-time job. And coming to the conclusion that it won't. Not in the same way, anyway.

He pursed his lips in thought, then came to a decision. "No thanks," he said, as casually as though he were declining a snack or dismissing a hand up from the pavement.

As though his time were completely his own. As though we're not all captives of circumstance and need at some point or another. (I know, I should never have asked him so directly!) But in his experience, we're not...captive. We're free agents, he and I, every day a new adventure. And I wished I could allow him to decide, because this--he--was the source of my panic: Toby, who is not yet old enough for full-time school. Who I didn't want to rush, didn't want to push out of this nest of a home too soon. Who is still with me most of every day:  for every lunchtime, every quiet time, each afternoon...that I'll now be working.

And I have a dozen reasons for taking this job. Not all of them are self-serving. Not even half of them. And as of yesterday, I've found a great place for him to spend his lunch and his early afternoon. And he's visited and likes it and now asks when he can start and whether he can have a lunchbox like his brothers'. And it'll work out, but the dull edge of that panic is still present, making me feel vulnerable. Making me feel defenseless.

Because being there has been my greatest tool in my parenting arsenal for many years. And yes, sometimes I've wanted something more or something different, but most of the time, I've valued my daily--hourly--presence in my children's lives like the great asset it is. I've protected it. I've cherished it and held it close to my heart and polished it like a rock in a tumbler.

Our tumbler. Our home.

And starting Monday, I have to let it go, for four hours a day.

(You can go ahead and tell me it will be ok now.)


If you have a neighbor this week, link up! (I'll have new neighbors guest posting here as well starting April 2nd.)

People. By Toby.

Warning: This is a self-indulgent post. It's for me, not necessarily for you, the reader, so that years from now, when all these early days of parenthood have run together in my mind, I'll remember this:

These are 'people by Toby'. He always describes them this way and always draws them this way; stick figure legs with bulging abdomens and heads, bug people minus antennae, plus eyes and mouth. And right there in the middle? That's what I love about them. Toby's people are always given one extra dot of black marker in the center of their rounded bellies, which are exactly that you think they are: belly buttons.

It's a small detail perhaps, to some. But it's never missing, that single, slight imprint of something more...something eluding to a before. I know Toby's not making a statement by including belly buttons. He doesn't realize their purpose in utero. He does not consider his dots to be a symbol of nurishment or connection or life force.

And yet...he includes them. In every drawing of every person. They are added with a flourish. An annointment saved for last. A period at the end of his sentence, an exclamation at the conclusion of each sketch. He knows it's needed.

He knows it completes.

The Average Girl's Guide to Buying a Swimsuit

I'm an average girl. Average height, average size, average assets, average flaws. Even the Wii Fit (a harsh critic, to be sure) tells me "That's normal!" with a victorious arm pump to the air when I put myself through its grueling body test.

So why is it so hard to find a swimsuit?

I knew I needed a new one by mid-March (more on that later). Being no newbie, I began the process weeks ago, and as of today, I'm pleased to announce I've come out on the other side triumphant. And I never stood in front of a single store mirror with its evil lighting. Because I'm generous and have the best interests of womankind at heart, I'm going to give you my formula for swimsuit buying step by step.

Step 1: Shop online.

This step is crucial if you want to avoid crying, alone and unloved, in some anonymous fitting room stall somewhere. No my friends, have some pride: cry only in the comfort of your own home. Back in early February, when all my favorite retailers announced their spring arrivals, I logged on and went directly to their sale pages, because that's where all their 2009 swimsuits go to die (at discounted prices). And since I'm not fashion forward (and live in rural Oregon), I can get away with wearing suits that are so last year without a backward glance.*

*Shopping the sale page is not recommended for the amateur swimsuit buyer, because sizes and colors are limited, as are returns. And returns are a crucial component of my swimsuit buying guide. So double-check that your size is in stock and that returns are allowed.

Step 2: Eliminate what you know won't work.

This is the most important (and most time consuming) step. You know what I'm talking about: for me, it's halter tops. I have muscular shoulders (some would say manly) and a smallish chest and let's just say the combination does not make for a flattering halter top fit. Maybe internal shelf bras are your personal nemesis, or two-piece suits, or one-pieces with short torsos. If you cannot think of a single style that you know does not work for you, skip to Step You Don't Need to Read This: Buy whatever you want, because obviously you have a perfect body. And by the way, all other women hate you, so congratulations on that.

Step 3: The 'add to cart' button is your friend.

Don't be shy! Even if you fear your credit card company will call you alerting you to unusual activity, click away. Don't worry, you'll be returning 90% of it. This is where shopping with companies with free return policies becomes crucial. My picks: Athleta, Title Nine, Eddie Bauer (sometimes), Lands' End, and Boden. During this step, it's not unheard of to have six to seven browser windows open at a time. This practice enables you to cross reference the tankini tops at Lands' End with the ones at Boden, or check the prices of J Crew's one piece against that of L.L. Bean's. Tip: start a flow chart in Google docs! (No, I'm not kidding.)

This process takes time, concentration, and sometimes a stiff drink. I like complete silence, but others might need a steady beat of inspirational music, such as Rocky's Eye of the Tiger or Lady Gaga's Paparazzi. These are just two suggestions off the top of my head. Substitute as necessary.

Try everything you think might work, in more than one size, if necessary. Because remember, you'll be ordering these suits by mail, and even with speedy UPS Ground, you hardly want to stand around in various states of undress waiting for that medium to come after the small was just a bit too snug. Not that that's happened to me.

Step 4: Buy only the tops, not the bottoms.

Yes, you read that right. Bottoms are bottoms. I don't care if they're the little skirty things or the briefs or the boy shorts: they all fit basically the same.* No matter what the style, your legs aren't going to get any thinner/tanner/longer/insert-desired-outcome-here-er. The same cellulite will or will not show. It's the tops that are tricky. It's the tops that make or break the suit. Trust me on this. Get the worst of it out of the way: you want to find the style top that works for you first. Once you've settled on a top, you have to return all the others anyway. While doing so, you exchange for the bottoms that go with it.

*This is not true of board shorts. By all means, buy the board shorts and try them on. Ditto for Athleta's 'swimsuit short' numbers. Those are tricky little buggers.

Step 5: Try them all on.

For this step, I wait until I feel my thinnest (this is an inprecise science), lock the bedroom door, and dig in with determination and a thick skin. This is the hardest part of the process, but take heart: because you've ordered so many things, surely something will fit. And if not, obviously it's them, not you.

Step 6: Return everything except the winner...

and exchange for the bottoms you need to complete the suit. If nothing worked in your entire first batch, know you're not alone: swimsuit buying is depressing, dirty work. Simply repeat the process, adding in more variables, such as a new retailer or different size. (This is why it's good to start in February.)

Last week, I completed Step 1-Step 4. Yesterday, the big box from Athleta* arrived on my doorstep, and I spent the next hour (yes, hour) in the 'locked in my bedroom' phase, trying and re-trying on eight different swim suit combinations: tankini tops, bikini tops, one-pieces, tie-backs, and rash guards. Nope, no bottoms (I just wear an old pair of board shorts). You have to trust the system, people! I even tried to explain how it works to the Athleta customer service rep in the interest of educating society at large on the art of swimsuit ordering, but she laughed so hard I thought she'd choke on her hand-free headset.

"How'd your husband like that?" she asked, regarding the no bottoms policy. And right then I knew she must be either a swimsuit novice or else a swimsuit model without a flaw in sight, because obviously my husband had never seen even one of these suits, bottomless or otherwise. Because who wants an audience while checking and rechecking in the mirror for thigh cellulite visibility and evaluating for odd boob placement or worse, lack of boob support within B-cups? There was a lot of pinching, smooshing, hopping, and bending over involved. And not in the sexy context of these verbs.

But you'll all be glad to hear that I found not one, not two, but three swimsuit winners. And they were all on sale, so it's like buying one. Anyhow, that's how I justify it. Wanna see? Top 1. Top 2. Top 3. Ha! Did you actually think I'd link to a photo of myself in these babies? Ugh! As if! I already told you: husband. hasn't. even. seen.

But that gets us around to why I need new swimsuits in March. In two weeks, we're driving to Death Valley National Park. No, not nearby Las Vegas: strip o' neon, smoky casinos, and cheap thrills that are anything but. I'm just not a fan. Death Valley, a couple hours to the east: land o' gorgeous sunrises, geological beauty, and hotspring-fed swimming pools. When people look at me funny for our vacation destination choice, I tell them Death Valley is the poor man's Mexican Riviera. Of course, when I think about it, the Mexican Riviera is already the poor man's original Riviera, so I guess we're poor even to the poor man.

But that's depressing, so I just focus on the fact that I've found a swimsuit. And the fact that we'll be getting out of the foggy, rainy, cold northwest and into the sunshine. Now I just have to hope the bottoms arrive in time. Otherwise, those afternoons around the pool could get awkward.


*As much as my fawning over their apparel might point to the contrary, I am in no way associated with Athleta, nor have I been compensated to endorse its products. Don't I wish.

Extra Edition

I don't usually post on the weekends, but I think I'll have to start making an exception for...

On the first Saturday of each month, Elizabeth Esther hosts a compilation of the previous month's most popular posts. After crunching some numbers, I arrived at the conclusion that for February, mine was the sad tale of my adolescent angst, The First Valentine's Day I liked a Boy.*

If you're enjoying a quiet Saturday evening like I am, mosey (mosie?) on over to The Saturday Evening Blog Post and read the best of what other writers have to offer! I'll be there, my nose in a blog or two (although I plan to find a snack first).

*Popularity was determined by comment count, so if you disagree with this selection, tell it to the 'write your comment here' box next time around.

'So, what's going on with Won't You Be My Neighbor Fridays?', you've asked.

And I'm glad you did.




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My first vision of Won't You Be My Neighbor was for a six-week series. Quite honestly, that was just a number I pulled out of thin air. I scheduled six awesome guests for NTT, and as such, it ended a few weeks ago. In the time since, I've stopped vacuuming and stocking the fridge, and have gotten back into the habit of putting on my oldest sweat pants as soon as I get home in the evening. It's pretty sweet. But many of you still have guests in your blogs, using your towels and dirtying your dishes. Oh my. What have I done? 

No, no. I'm thrilled that some of you still have guests lined up! And I want to continue to provide a place for us all to gather to read these posts, so I'm going to reinstate the Friday Neighbor linky. (Can you tell I'm flying by the seat of my pants here? Don't answer that.)

If you have neighbors lined up to guest post in your blog, please stop by on Fridays and link up, as usual. (See the Linky below.) If, like me, you don't have a guest for the time being, come by anyway and have a read. And be thinking of some new neighbors to invite, because I'm going to begin my next round of guests at NTT starting on Friday, April 2nd and ending Friday, May 7th. If you would like to be my neighbor during that time period, please give me a shout! I'd love to have you, whether you're a new reader here or have been around through all the awkward growing pains.

Speaking of awkward, I had my first job interview in five years today. The last time I'd sat in that hot seat, I was interviewing at Search and Rescue, was four months pregnant, and was hoping they wouldn't notice. They didn't, but these are the same guys who, one year and one baby later, mistook my breast pump for some sort of new avalanche-beacon-honing-device gadgetry at a mountain preparedness meeting. I didn't blog about that? Oh, I must. Remind me sometime.

But this interview today reminded me of my very first interview out of college, in which I was applying for an editing job on the copy desk of a major newspaper. I had to take a spelling test, which in hindsight, I really should have seen coming. But I didn't, and I spelled avocado wrong. Oh yes, I did. Avacado.

In an interview after that, I actually went to the wrong person's office and hung around there for fifteen minutes before realizing my mistake. Oh, and I was four months pregnant and hoping no one would notice. Does this happen (repeatedly) to no one else?

I actually got that job, but suffice it to say, I don't interview terribly well. This time around, I was not asked to spell anything, I knew who I was interviewing with, and most importantly, I am not pregnant. Can we get a hallelujah? I think it went pretty well, but I'll keep you posted. I know you're on pins and needles.