If You Got a Mommy Issue, Here's a Mommy Tissue.

I think I have been spending too much time commenting on other blogs with issues that really should be at least cross-posted here. Yeah, when the person whose post I commented on suggests it (and in a really really nice way), I'm going to take it and run. Thanks, Robin.

Obviously the snit in the air during my parents' Easter Sunday visit as the result of the previous fight was not the only elephant in the room. This came out in a response to a great post called Ticklish at DotMoms.(*I am having trouble linking. Will try to fix it later. Does Blogger get jealous or something?)

I wrote:

"It's timely that I should have found this today. I love how you refer to tickling in the context of safe physical interaction, and that you are careful to create happy anticipation for it. My husband and I, as people who have an aversion to being tickled, were instinctively doing this with our daughter.

Yesterday my mom was visiting, and once again my husband and I noticed that she, as she puts it, "likes to play rough" with our one year old daughter. We can see by Josephine's expression that this is not always a fun experience for her; but when addressed, my mother's response is that "you have to teach them to play along". We've watched the leg pulling, pinching, and tickling escalate in intensity as she's grown more, to express it in a word my mother didn't use but certainly meant, durable. She phrased it as "Now I can really play with her."

Since there is no explaining to my mother the nuances of exactly what you described in your post, we reaffirmed a decision we made after the previous visit where the "play" escalated beyond our comfort level and we had to intervene by discreetly removing our daughter from the situation.

We will work very hard to teach her words and gestures to use to protect herself now (like NO! or head shaking); and my mother does not babysit her or spend time alone with her until Josephine has words to either tell us what happens or tell my mother to stop. We just hope that my mom listens then.

It's a shame that we have to protect our baby from her grandmother, and that her comfort level with such an important person in her life has already been compromised. I shouldn't have to teach my mother about boundaries. You make a salient point that is beyond the ken of my mother's generation and particular upbringing: that children are vulnerable and unable to protect themselves. But I would add that in our case, that it's sometimes harder to protect them from loved ones, and that sometimes danger isn't big and scary, it's just worrisome and uncomfortable.

When my mother claimed it's all harmless fun, I couldn't bear to point out that it's not. Over the past year, as I've witnessed her interactions with my daughter, and have heard more stories than ever about how I was raised, I've realized where a lot of my damage comes from."


WHOAH! What I just said about my Mom! Harsh? Maybe. But when did that harmless looking lady on the couch cross the line and go from Grandma to Torquemada? What clued me in to the fact that I wasn't just being a nervousnelliehypersensitivebleedingheartoverprotective new mommy?

Earlier that week (remember the disagreement I mentioned during "A Spring in My Step"?) she told me, in the context of an argument on another subject, that "You spoil all my fun, and I'm going to tell your daughter that some day."

Now THEM'S fightin' words. Just you wait for the post about that.

Happy E-ster.

Dougie Does Dundas.

Yesterday I was swimming in the deep end of the waters of parenthood. I learned the difference between the Daddy Stroke and the Mommy Stroke. Sound intriguing? Please keep in mind that throughout this whole ordeal, I was fully aware that Josephine is one year old.

We decided to have a nice long stroll up to the Danforth to have brunch at our favourite dive, the Only Cafe. The. Most. Awesome. Breakfasts., usually served by the nicest woman, and she reminds Steve of a good old fashioned lady wrestler. Timed it for a 12:01 arrival, so we could have a beer with brunch too. It was our local when we were living up that way, back when we were single and could afford expensive exotic beers all night long and then needed good hangover breakfasts the next morning served with a side of hair of the dog. Now we're the people we used to bitch about - the formerly dark, interesting and mysterious couple are now staggering, mumbling idiots who travel in a cloud of cheerios, shredded wheats and Mum Mums complete with Tasmanian Devil screeching noises coming from the vehicle in front of us. We packed Josephine and a few hours worth of necessities into the stroller, got caught in an uncharacteristically brief conversation with the neighbour about who !@#$%^&* dented the hood of our car the day before, and set off.

Before we even turned the corner, I'd noticed that Dougie, Josephine's best stroller pal,

had gone A.W.O.L.

Here I go to third person recounting, because if I had to type every silly thought that went through my head, I'd have to invest in new pads for my fingers. Just imagine an anxious whirl of regret and loss and affection for the charming little guy that Josephine has recently been showing some attention to as a transitional object.

Marla: Josephine's Dougie is missing!
Steve: Who's Dougie?

Marla: He must be around here somewhere. (Head swivels three hundred sixty degrees and up and down three feet on extendable neck, eyeballs popping out like telescopes.)
Steve: Oh well. (Looks off into the distance toward where we are going for beer.)

Marla: We have to go and look for him. (Grasping stroller handles firmly and preparing to pivot, eyes getting ready to sweep from side to side to locate the little guy.)
Steve: Are you sure we even brought him? (Has never even slowed his pace.)

Marla: Of course, he must be somewhere! (Tear welling up, short of breath, lip trembling.)
Steve: He's gone. Let's get going. (Fingers big Cuban cigar in his pocket he's looking forward to smoking later.)

They continue up the street, Josephine peeling her mittens and hat off and leaving them like Hansel and Gretel's trail. (Marla frets and keeps looking backward up the street. Over the next five hours, the tragic loss is mentioned frequently, and the issue never rests completely. The day is otherwise wonderful, with stops for fresh fruit and veggies, flowers for the planters, and running into friends and neighbours while enjoying the sun and relative warmth. Through it all, though, there was a tinge of regret. On my side that is, because Steve was feeling full of good breakfast, beer, cigar and the pride of being the guy who's treating his ladies to a fine afternoon.

During Josephine's last feeding that night, this poster is made, with every effort to hit the right combination of pathetic and charming:


Forward to eleven pm. Offers of a suggestive nature are made in an attempt to get Steve to go out and have one last look for Dougie, because Marla can't stand the thought of the poor little guy spending the night out in the big, dark nasty world of our neigbourhood; laying on some sidewalk littered with melting dog turds and old pooners. All night long, she imagines finding him beyond repair, run over by a car or perhaps torn up by the dogs in the park as a plaything. Steve saunters to the end of the walkway (four steps), casts his eyes about while counting to ten, and spots...her mitten. He returns to the house, behind a guy with a golden horn and a parchment roll extolling Steve as the most wonderful of husbands and daddies the world over. The single stripey mitten is hoisted on the backs of ten slaves, on an oval platter surrounded by diamonds, rubies and bon bons, with little birds flitting about it singing Steve's praises.

Marla takes the limp mitten from Steve with the air of "Marc Antony" placing the kitten shaped cookie with the big blue eyes on his back, and thanks him with no small attempt to sound enthusiastic and grateful.

A sleepless night is spent...for Marla. Plans to shop for a replacement Dougie or two, locations for posters, wondering who the successor might have to be if Dougie is lost forever, or plans to purchase a ferret collar and leash if he is found flash through her mind on a big flickering screen with squiggly scratchy stuff and an organ soundtrack. Beauty contributes by having a wicked case of the trots, asking out every hour on the hour. Steve sleeps deeply and blissfully, until Marla throws balled up socks across the room at him when at one point he needs to get up and do Beauty Duty because Josephine needs Marla to sit by her crib and keep Baby Whisperering her to sleep and he doesn't hear her desperate whispers for him to wake up, or see the middle finger waving furiously at him across the room as his deep, even breathing noises incrementally infuriate the awake person on the floor.

In the morning, while Steve reads Josie books and gives Marla skeptical glances, Marla and Beauty hitch up and prepare to poster. Marla is wearing the uniform of Parent Running Stupid Errand on Saturday Morning: Messy hair, no make-up, decrepit old cashmere sweater over tee shirt, ratty gray sweatpants, pink rubber rain boots and her best overcoat. The soundtrack: Steve sipping coffee and nay saying.

Like a novena on the ninth poster (about two blocks away), a passer-by says "I HAVE seen Dougie! I just passed him stuck through the fence at that laneway near the park.". Refusing the reward (I was going to bake cupcakes for the finder, since I'd found that morning that I could purchase him on Ebay for two dollars plus shipping), the person went on wondering at my exuberant thanks. They couldn't know that Dougie's first act after coming home was to be a happy dance IN STEVE'S FACE.

There was Dougie, pilloried in the chain link, only a little dusty for wear. Triumphantly, Marla pried him out, re-traced her steps and took down the posters like a good citizen. Dougie and Beauty and Marla went on to the park, got the newspaper, and came back home to reunite Josephine with her little buddy who had spent the night less than thirty feet from his front door. Really. If we were Family Circus and Marla was Billy or Jeffy or whichever one of those brats does that annoying running around everywhere but in a direct line shit, there would have been black dashes covering a one block radius - but Dougie would have been practically at the starting point.

The moral of this story:

Daddies don't care less. They just care differently. Steve would have humoured me by spending any amount to buy a new Dougie because it was important to me. He did go out willingly to look for him at night, even though boys look for things differently from girls. He loves his family; he's just more economical, practical and unsentimental. Spending time energy, and most importantly, expensive printer ink on a full colour poster was a mystery to him. He cared for Josie so I could look for Dougie. And he provided me with a colourful protagonist for this story. I only exaggerated this much: (hold thumb and forefinger about three inches apart).

Mommies don't care more. They just care differently. It is exciting that Josephine is starting to use her imagination, interact and show affection in new ways by feeding Dougie, showing him to people, and cradling him like a baby. He is in most of the pictures of her in her stroller. She sucks on his nose when she's anxious in the car seat. He's just nice and I'm glad he was her choice - there were a lot of bulkier, uglier, less charming stuffed friends she could have chosen as her favourite.

Josephine didn't care much. She gave him a hug and kiss when I returned him to her, but then moved onto other things. But in years to come, providing we'll be able to hang onto Dougie, he'll be there. Already I wonder at what she'll miss when she looks at pictures and sees that we didn't cling to every single bit of her childhood for her. I wasn't ready to jettison Dougie, or even replace him with a clone, or wait for her to choose someone new. Later when I'm more grown up as a parent, I'll be able to make those decisions more rationally. This was new to me.

Beauty didn't care one bit. She got an extra long morning walk, and when she came back, Josephine was sufficiently distracted by Dougie's return so that Beauty could steal her cut up grapes and cracker breakfast.

Dougie, well, we'll never know. He may have had the time of his life out there, or he may have been scared shitless. Either way, he now knows that I love that Josephine loves him. (What an awkward sentence!) And after this, he's been added to my spell check.

A Spring in My Step.

The day before yesterday (which was Fight With My Mom and Then Replay It In My Head ALL Day Day), I took Josephine out for a stroll in hopes of finding some signs of Spring around the neighbourhood. I was hoping for buds on trees, crocus buds, dry sidewalks...no such luck. The only signs that it was warming up other than I was able to leave my jacket unzipped were the unsightly things revealed by the melting snow. But I was feeling frisky, and I wanted to mark the day as a day I went for a walk because I didn't have to. I'd gone blocks desperately hoping something would perk me up. So when I got to the corner of Queen and Brooklyn, I pulled the stroller up along side a granny pushing a little sleeping kid going in the same direction and said to her "Wanna Race?", made some Evel Knievel vroom vroom noises and hand twists on the stroller handles and then took off running up the block pretending we were going to careen into some antique furniture. Josephine loved it, and I got a stitch in my side and decided to make Bulk Barn my destination where I bought a handful (okay three handfulls) of faux Cadbury chocolate eggs. Because then Steve wouldn't find the wrappers and know what I've been up to. After all, I'm not supposed to be having so much fun if I want any sympathy around here!

Revenge is a dish best served to someone else.

Vanity. It's the name of my latest lipstick, by Poppy, picked up in a close-out at Teatro Verde (what is make-up doing at a garden decor store?). Because it was marked down to five dollars, I bought two because I was saving money. It may not be a shiny glossy hot new shade of currently in style coral or pink, and truly it may be a bit matte for Spring; but it's a colour that is a few shades darker than my lips, which I like, and doesn't make my teeth look too yellow, which is good because I don't have the pearliests. As a friend once said, and then I said to someone else this week, and as I say it quite often to anyone who's listening because I forget whom I've told it to: "Colour is the fastest way to change how you feel about yourself. And the least permanent."

That means the day after my horrific hair massacre I tried to perk myself up with a little Schwarzkopf 5-85, and another good cry. It is so not what I expected in a haircut that the senior stylist who supervised the cut said helpfully and reassuringly on the way out, "I can always turn it into a blunt cut.". There was the admission of guilt right there. This whole week, I have been mourning the loss of my hair as I knew it. I flinched when Steve reached out to tug my formerly thick and full pony tail. The scraggly wisps that barely make it into the elastic now wouldn't stand up to a gentle wind, let alone a playful tug. I am using Josephine's barrettes to hold the long bangs at the sides back where my cowlicks at the temples encourage them to stick out like those free coupons on pads in front of canned goods in the aisles at the supermarket. My beautiful sterling Elsa Peretti barette doesn't stay in. I've tried curling it with the Lock N Rolls and end up with June Cleaver up top and Carole Brady at the neck. It's bad in so many ways, but mainly because when I close my eyes and think of the image I want to project, it's not what I see in the mirror when I unclench them. Usually I can get the two to come within spitting distance of each other.

Today I spoke to my friend who owns the salon, and asked for her to schedule me for a re-cut. Yes, it's so bad that I think the only way to fix it is to take it up in length to make it a blunt cut. This means I will have gone from having shoulder blade length hair to earlobe length hair. It hurts. Ever since I got past my eighties punk/rockabilly mohawks and quiffs, I've had some version of a bob. Always pretty classic and retro 40's, not retro 80's. Sometimes shorter, yes, but always it was MY choice. I'll have hair that's a good cut - for Mrs. Krabapple. If I worked really hard as it is, I could do a WKRP Loni Anderson, which I never wanted to do before ever; but it's not gonna happen even for fun because I have a one year old who deserves her own post for all the things she is doing lately that should be distracting me from my appearance. I can't be futzing with my hair because there is no end in sight to the number of times we'll be reading Pat the Bunny. It seems Josephine has a crush on Paul, as she kisses every page he's on. Waving a hot curling iron around while sticking fingers through mommy's ring and filing our fingernails on Daddy's beard isn't on the agenda, because although I'm an advocate of multi-tasking, it's more that I don't want to hurt myself than Josephine. Don't like pain. Emotional, physical, whatever.

So I'll go in this week and hope it gets better. Because it's like a dark-golden brown shaggy multi-layered bi-level banged cloud around my head - this concern that I don't look like myself. Being a mother has been hard on my body - it doesn't look like it used to in ways I didn't expect. It's hard on my wardrobe. It's hard on my house, on my diet - and it's hard on my moods and self-confidence and I didn't need this.

So when I was told that the junior stylist got reamed after my three-hour catastrophe, and that the senior stylist won't be training her any more because after a year and a half she's still not getting it, it was hard to feel guilty and responsible for her situation because I didn't speak up when I first sensed it was going wrong, and angry for being the manifestation and perfect example of why someone should get fired, regretful because it doesn't help my hair one bit - all while doing the happy dance because justice was served.

And my vanity? Some days it seems like it's all that remains of the pre-mother me. It's hard to let go of, even though there are so many more important things these days. It's just hard for me to believe that one of those things is Pat the Bunny.

Excuse me...

Will someone please tell the vainglorious Catcher in the Mum Mums to stop singing Feeling Groovy and finish writing the story of how she became Josephine's mom?

WHYWHYHOWHOWWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY

Why do women fall for their hairdresser's hyperbolic claims of how fabulous they're going to look if they just do this and this and this?

Why does this happen right after you've had a few great cuts and decide to trust 'em?

How can you leave a salon feeling like Renee Zellwegger at the Oscars and arrive home looking more like Suzy Quattro as Leather Tuscadero? And then wake up the next morning looking like the Avril Lavigne as the homeless girl in that video, probably because you went to bed thinking it can't get any worse?

How is it that it can be explained by saying "Your hair is in shock." EVERYTHING ABOUT ME IS IN SHOCK. I JUST LOOKED IN THE MIRROR!

Why, when someone has shoulder blade length hair with no layers that is decried as gorgeous by the stylists with shrieks of admiration, do the same exact stylists want to add lift and shape and texture BY CUTTING IT ALL OFF?

It doesn't help when your daughter points at your head and cries the first time she sees the carnage either. And she's only one year old! She knows! This is her fate too! She's crying for the crimes against women's hair the world over!

If anyone wants me, just follow the trail of cookie crumbs and listen for the sniffling noises coming from under Steve's baseball cap.

On to more pressing issues...

Lately I have been distressed about the grievously unattractive sleepwear I've accumulated. The charcoal gray lounge pants, the black pinstripey mens pajama bottoms, the capri length black sweatpants and the accompanying tops have gone from looking edgy and sporty to drab and gloomy. Hey! Enough of the riotous laughter. I'm still smarting from the smug and condescending reply compactly delivered in the Madonna's last letter. Okay. So I've been looking like a bag of dustrags for months. I'm trying to cheer up these days, and I have to start somewhere. When I feel better, Josephine has a better day. And we're all about trying to find some happy around here.


So on my last trip to Buffalo, Target provided me with some darling silk palazzo pajama bottoms in a black with pink polka dot pattern. Steve thinks I'm channeling Hef, I say I'm going for Hepburn. Those and a cute fitted pink t-shirt that's vaguely sheer make me feel flirty and squirty and fine. So what do I have to complain about?


I only bought one set. Now I have something cute to sleep in one day a week. Because with feeding Josephine the resulting leakages and smeared applesauce and cereal business mean that they get only one outing before they're in the wash. Then it's back to the hagwear. It may seem like utter minutia to those who care a lot about famine, war and disasters. But we're talking baby steps here. If I wake up in a good mood, I'm more likely to give the guy selling Outreach in front of Shopper's Drug Mart a dollar, thus teaching my daughter a valuable lesson about charity. The big picture does occasionally cross my mind.

So I have a proposal. Clothing retailers need to amend their labelling as such:


This will become your favourite sweater. Buy two in black and maybe two more in other colours. It looks good on you and you'll be glad you did.

These jeans that you purchased at the thrift store were made by Old Navy three years ago and perfectly broken in by someone else. Do not waste a minute trying to find another pair. You will only piss off your husband, annoy the teenage sales staff who don't give a damn about your nattering new mother needs, and make your daughter whine in public and then you'll look like a bad mommy.

These are really cute pajama bottoms, and they're pretty cheap. Buy a few pairs, it's not like they go bad.

Wearing men's wear is not like wearing men's wear inspired women's clothing. You do not look like a saucy little gamine. You look like a frump. Go buy something else.

Black must be black in order to look black. If you're not going to wash and care for this properly, don't buy it. Because dingy bluish greeny gray is not the same thing as black.


And so, with these thoughts, I'm not going to write the rest of the How I Became Josephine's Mom story today either. I'm going to shop for more attractive sleepwear. Considering the butterfly effect, I could be saving the world with my night time attire.

And I'm still going to write some more tips down for my soon-to-be-a-mother friend. Because I know that her response is just the hormones talking. Of course she can have everything she wants and life will be just as she imagines it will be and nothing about becoming a parent is ever bad or horrible or tiring or frustrating and you'll love and remember every minute of it and certainly you can have everything the way you want it because why shouldn't it be so. But I'm not joking about the dimmer switch in the bathroom. Oh! And put one of those new light bulbs that simulate daylight's true colour in your closet so that you can tell which articles of clothing are no longer the same shade of black and thus don't match any more.

Who's Pat? And then I quote Jacques Barzun.

This was a terrific post, until Josephine did something that wiped it off the screen. And so, since it will probably remain greatest in my memory, I leave you with the quote I should have used to respond to my friend's pat answer to my well intended concern. The rest of the post, please imagine it to be as sensitive, desperate, funny and sincere as you'd like. It's probably better off that way.

"If it were possible to talk to the unborn, one could never explain to them how it feels to be alive, for life is washed in the speechless real."

To Me, From Me.

Guess what I did while Josephine napped this afternoon? I didn't write the rest of the story about How I Became Josephine's Mom. I did, however, write about how I am her Mom now. Which was more important today. Here's why.

This morning I received a very special sort of spam. It's a group email from someone I used to work with at the auction house announcing she just adopted a dog and reminding us that her baby boy is due within ten days or so. But he can't come before Thursday, because she's really busy. And she has all of these plans and commitments for next year and her home based business is going so well. I like her somewhat, but we are so very different in some ways that it's more of a checking in from time to time kind of friendship than an earthy bosomy closeness. She has this arrogance that some people can't stand, but I admire her because it acts as the blinders which keep her barreling down her path. I just stay out of her way.

So I had this dilemma when I received her breezy, chatty email so full of all of those nesting instincts and that burst of pre-giving birth energy. She thinks she knows everything, but she can't because I do. So do I waste Josephine's next nap writing volumes in order for her to ignore them, or do I call up a mutual friend and snark about her? Hey! You've been reading my blog! Of course I do both! And I am not going to waste my degree from Harpo University, so this is what she got from me:


Dear (Pregnant friend who is the first woman ever to be pregnant ever):
I just received an email from my old self. See above.

I am looking at you from the other side of a great chasm (no reference to female parts intended, but then, it IS kind of funny).

I have a wealth of information for you. I want to spend hours and hours pecking away, but I won’t because I know you. You’ll do as I did, which is read it and go your own way anyway.

But I want to tell you something important. SLOW DOWN.

You cannot realize at this point how you will never sleep the same way again. Never as soundly, never as deeply or as restfully. You read about sleep deprivation, you hear about it from friends and family; but until it hits you, you can’t know that you wear it like a pair of baggy sweatpants – it’s part of the uniform of parenthood. So for the next few days enjoy every nap, every last chance to sleep the night through. Savour weekend mornings in bed with a coffee and something to read and dozing a little more. Because it’s not just a few weeks or months of not sleeping well. It’s years. At first you worry about every little breath, and then about their bad dreams, and then it will be mean girls at school and first kisses and driving safely and jobs and marriages and soon twenty years will have passed without having your slumber pervaded by simply caring about your child. Sleep now for your own sake, because good sleep is a gift whose value you can’t know until it’s been taken away.

And once he arrives, SLOW DOWN. It all goes by so fast. Soon he’s no longer napping all curled up against your chest and giving that wonderful contented smile after he’s been fed; and you never know when it’s been the last time he’ll do that. Sooner than you think he’ll be walking away from you. Sooner than you think he will figure out that you’re a separate person from him and that he can do things without you – and faster than you can get to him in order to stop him too. And there will come a time where you can leave him for a bit and he won’t cry for you; and you will be so strangely conflicted about being happy yet devastated that your husband will learn to lie and say your baby missed you.

Watching your baby is like watching a flame. They flicker and change before your eyes, yet remain essentially who they are. And they are unique from the first day. All of the elements are there, but you only see them in retrospect. Blink and he’ll have changed almost imperciptibly, but still you know him through and through.

Babies don’t know staring is rude, so you can lose yourself in their eyes and it’s wonderful. Do it often. Who else can you do that with? Not even your husband – it’s not the same. One day the baby who used to sleep on my lap while I typed or read was looking up at me when I remembered to look down. I don’t know how much of her awareness I missed at that time, but I vowed right then that she shouldn’t remember her mom as someone who was always looking elsewhere while she was looking for me. Nothing else is as important as being there.

SLOW DOWN because you don’t realize yet that for once in your life the sheer force of your will and desire and hard work is not enough to make things happen the way you want them to sometimes. Your baby has a different agenda, and will remind you of that by causing every cell in your body to drop what it’s doing in order to respond to his needs. I have never held pee for so long, slept so little, retained so little information not pertaining to baby stuff, or felt so full up with love as I have this past year, but it is all part of my fibre now. I’m made of new stuff.

SLOW DOWN because within one year there will be this little person in your kitchen helping you to do the dishes by throwing them on the floor when he’s done with them and helping you to put pots pans away by pulling them out after you put them away. That baby will have preferences and will pick up on things you never thought he’d notice. Somehow my daughter learned that any actions such as bending, lifting, sitting or stretching must be accompanied by groans and grunts and sighs. She did not, however learn to hum while she eats from me. That’s her own thing. Really. I swear. In no time she learned not only what I’ve taught her, but she’s also learned whatever there is to learn. That she likes certain books twenty times in a row, and sometimes, unfortunately, they’re not my favourites. (Damn it, I can’t make her like Olivia more.) That certain toys must always be arranged a certain way. That certain noises are pleasing to her, yet are like a ball peen hammer on mommy’s last nerve.

It is wonderful to give your child the gift of being an intelligent, wonderful, interesting and active person. The problem with that ambitious theory is that for the first while your baby simply doesn’t care about those qualities. He just wants you, and needs you and the part that really makes you amazing to him is that you’re his mom. Somebody offered me some work today with the main incentive being the potential to make lots of money. I had to tell him that I just spent a year learning to be really really poor and have found that strangely money is no incentive. What it is good for is making things comfortable for Steve and the baby – but it’s not worth giving material things to them if it means I am taking away more essential elements.

So (Pregnant friend who thinks she knows everything, or at least a lot and doesn't want my advice harshing her ambition to be the mom who proves us all wrong), please don’t be like the old me. I was in the triage at the hospital asking to go home and clean my bathroom and do laundry while I laboured. I thought I could have everything because I am a strong person and could make it so or die trying. Within a day I had delivered the best thing that ever happened to me, and couldn’t know that a year later I’d be looking at a dirty Q-tip with one end chewed off and not caring whether it was the dog or the child that had done it. Because there are three meals and two snacks a day to be fed and feet to be kissed and books with only four pages to read for the umpteenth time, and my Friday night date to look forward to: a bubble bath with ten rubber ducks and an empty shampoo bottle that burbles farty noises and makes my baby laugh.

Oh, and make sure (Dear husband who doesn't have the teensiest clue what's going to hit him) installs a dimmer switch in the bathroom. You’ll understand soon.

Lots of love to you all, and would you please send me your mailing address?

I need to send you a grain of salt to go along with this.

Yes, said "Jim", they were tame noodles.

Steve told me I must make a disclaimer that the shots of Beauty were a reenactment of an earlier event. Only five minutes earlier, but Steve "Marlin" Good was slow in bringing me the camera.

Q: HOW LAZY AM I?

A: Last night, while out grocery shopping (not so lazy), I bought the Oscars fashion issue of People to read in bed. Because the Hollywood issure of Vanity Fair is too heavy. I fell asleep reading it on Tuesday night and conked myself on the old beezer when it slipped out of my hands.

Ask and ye shall receive...

No, this isn't the rest of the How I Became Josephine's Mom story. You might think I'd be working on it, but things are busy around here because someone is walking everywhere and is more interested in where else she can walk and what else she can see now that she is more or less upright during every waking hour. That is, when she's not on the diagonal, trying to climb up on the furniture. The Wassily chair will be the death of me.

I just wanted to say that I didn't have to worry about the cous cous after all, because I have the notso lean, notso mean cleaning machine:


Oh! And,

It is also taking DAYS to recover from our visit to Buffalo for Josephine's party. The being off-schedule, the putting away of gifts, the writing of thank yous (Josephine has to learn to write first, you know), the conversations with my mom dissecting the party, the getting the house to smell right again - I'm just floored that two days away have disrupted my little family so much. It's getting to the point that I want to kiss the door every time we get back home. The best part of the weekend was my mom's AmEx burning a hole in my pocket all weekend. Spring clothes for us girls and even new gotchies and stuff for Steve - woo hoo! I BOUGHT PAJAMAS THAT DON'T LOOK LIKE I JUST CLEANED THE FLOOR WITH THEM! The worst part was the discussion when I was ensnared in a conversation with my mother about obligation on Monday morning. She didn't understand when I told her that helping us by buying things is a luxury for us - that we'd learn how to get along without her financial aid via retail if it was withdrawn and that she didn't have to do these things if it means that I can't disagree with her from time to time. As Dr. Phil would ask, is she giving us things or ransoming them?

Steve and I had already discussed "Mompromising" - giving up control over small, irritating behaviours that make her happy but make us uncomfortable. Like, when she does weird things such as letting Josephine run around without pants because she like the look of her chubby little legs. Tongues bitten. Or giving her bites of crap food. Tongues bitten half through. Or when she was trying to teach Josephine to clap to some music, but she has no rhythm and was really off. That we had to stop, because our greatest wish is that Josephine will grow up to be musically inclined and will write one hit like Sk8r Boy or My Way, or one Christmas song (or even bastardize one like the Jingle Cats) and never have to work again. But this goes beyond Mompromising. It has come to a point where I have to decide whether to allow the giving in the first place, because we might become strangled by the strings attached.

The discussion about obligation? Started because a male cousin whom I see no more than twice a year came without a gift for Josephine. And I was fine with that, because the party was supposed to be a treat for our Grandma (who didn't realize she was at home and kept asking if she brought her purse). While Josephine received some very nice outfits from an aunt and the other cousins present, one outfit is so lame that Steve and I are in fits because it's exactly the type of polyester "Vicki Stubing" sailor suit-dress and white straw hat with flowers that we laugh at when we look at the Sears portrait studio advertisements. Bear in mind, for this party our child wore her Daddy's Valentine's day present to her: a black lap-collared long sleeve tee shirt with a pink skull and crossbones on it. Now, she could get away with the um... special dress in fifteen or sixteen years with some ripped fishnets and some combat boots and a few piercings; but right now it's just too sickly sweet for words. Never mind that she doesn't own the proper shoes to go with it (although maybe these)... So I was grateful that we didn't receive another inappropriate gift we have to be grateful for. And then I had to explain to her that it's nobody else's business what he did or didn't do, so when everyone else asks what he gave Josephine (AND WHY SHOULD THEY ASK?), tell them exactly that...it's none of anybody else's business except mine...um...except for I just wrote about it here. And I hate lying, so why not just tell the truth? Maybe he's not ashamed of giving nothing, and I don't think he should be. But if we told other family members who are feuding with his family that he didn't...AAAAAAAARGH! SEE?!?!?!?

All of this is a long way of saying that sometimes we should be grateful when we don't receive gifts.

And that sometimes I am glad to have Beauty. I just wish she had a HEPA filter.

P.S. I bet you thought Stubing was spelled Steubing too! But it's not, 'cause I checked. AND I found out that Jill Whelan actually got married on a Princess Lines cruise ship. You can thank me later for your inspired conversation around the sippy cups.

P.P.S. Guess who's learned how to link things lately? LOOK OUT! More fancy stuff coming as soon as I can learn it!

DO NOT...

Throw things on the floor and then be upset that they are on the floor. Whether you are Josephine or anyone else.

Q: HOW LAZY AM I?

A: I decided it was easier to squish some cous cous into a crack in the kitchen floor with my toe rather than to go and get the broom and dustpan. It's not like it'll be there forever. When it dries it'll come up the next time I vacuum. Hey, I'm lazy - I'm not a slob.

Me and Mrs. Jones

Josephine has learned kissing, and now everything must kiss. I must say, Dinosaur has pretty good taste!



PS - I'm actually singing Kelly Willis' "Me and Mr. Jones"
in my head.

Q: HOW LAZY AM I?

A: Not as lazy as one would think, if one happened to see Josephine feeding me pretzels as I reclined while watching America's Next Top Model last night. She just happens to be naturally smart and generous and just the right height now to get them off the coffee table and over to my mouth. I swear it was the first time. However, I do not swear it will be the last.

How I Became Josephine's Mom, Part Two.

I said "Cut!" when Dr. Cram asked me if I wanted to tear or be cut, and then the only thing that separated my episiotomy from my anus was a hemorrhoid, and HELLO! there was Josephine. That's the short answer. If you must hear the in-between, be prepared for the usual quota of run-on sentences and digressions and asides.

In the midst of all the work and stress and crying and strain, Steve and I had talked about having a family over the holiday season (not the giving birth part, I mean the concept of). He'd be turning forty soon, and I'd be thirty-four. So we decided to pull the goalie as of January 2003, and see what happened by his birthday in October. If we made a baby, great. If not, we'd get another dog and volunteer more or do whatever people who don't have kids do (I don't remember AND DON'T REFRESH MY MEMORY). The best case would be that I'd get pregnant at 12:01, and I'd suffer through and just take my leave and never go back. The worst case would be that the toxic environment (literally and figuratively) would make conception impossible and I'd have to actually make a decision for myself. Quite a crapshoot, eh? So OF COURSE that led to the finger of God reaching down and making a doink doink doink noise on my head by causing grievous misfortune to others so that I could witness and eventually benefit.

I hovered and hinted and hung around with someone who'd made gentle yearning noises regarding my possible employment with her, and she finally said, "What would it take to have you work for me?". We agreed she would match my salary and benefits, and that we would structure the business so that I could have a baby. It was what she did when she was starting out, and I was feeling so lucky to have a sympathetic employer. I'd known her through business contacts and shopping from her for ten years. So, for no loss and every possible gain, I would soon be working three blocks away from my home, bringing my dog to work, setting my own hours. My job would be to take her store which has been closed to the public for years and open it again. I'd build up the film rental business, start an online store, help her with the antique shows and make it profitable and allow her to focus on her new business. She'd just bought an antique market in a small town north of the city. All exciting and within my capabilities.

I gave plenty of notice to the auction house. The last sale I put together was completed and fabulous, even if they did change everything and take my name off it and organize it badly and it tanked because no one stroked my customers like I did and they are assholes and everyone knows it. But I'm not bitter, really. I gave myself time off between jobs to rest and recoup, and in April, like a breath of Spring, I was to start my new position.

Now, one of the things that happens when you work with stuff, especially other people's stuff, is that while so much of it becomes just flotsam and jetsam, some of it becomes barnacles. Every once in a while, something floats by like a message in a bottle. So when this figurine appeared at the auction house, something in her manner spoke to me and I viewed her as a reassuring presence informing me that I'd made the right decision. I was thrilled when she appeared as a parting gift from my co-workers.



Now, here's one of those digressions that leaves even me hoping I find my way back to my point. One of my hobbies is to find stuff. I love estate sales. I dig flea markets. It's the hunt, the find, the owning of something that was obviously put in my path, even if I had to veer out of my way to come within range of it. That's why my previous employment was so perfect for me and is such a part of who I am. It's the dichotomy of what I was paid to evaluate versus what I actually value that still boggles my mind. But the actual stuff in my collection - to put it nicely, is folk art. Or as Steve calls it, badly painted stuff that nobody wants. In an effort to assert my personality in the house, I have made a collection of horrible things I find at garage sales. It's been limited to one a year at this point and they live in the mud room for the most part, but it's still satisfying when I know I've found that one special thing. And I mean special in the sense that some kids take the special bus to special school. Here is a sample:













and the scariest one EVER and it is so freakin' scary that it lives in the basement laundry room (with a really great 1930's rock crystal necklace hanging in front of it that I have to remember to bring upstairs and maybe wear some day) and Steve hates it so much it is in danger of being thrown out if it should cross his line of vision which is of course, why it's in the laundry room.



(at this point there are probably nothing but tumbleweeds and dust and that whistling western song out there)

SO.

I should have known by some early miscommunication regarding my start date that things were screwed up with the new job. I began working as best I could even though she wasn't ready for me at the store. I tried to tidy and organize, and found that whereas I am meticulous and detail oriented and logical (when I'm paid to be) she was sloppy and had her own indecipherable system and was resistant to change. UH OH. And then I offered to help her with her antique market out of town just to be earning my pay properly and get her on an even keel so that the store could happen. I found myself working three or four or five days a week for almost three months in a little town three and half hours North and East of Toronto (that's a nice way to say Northeast Bumfuck Ontario), sleeping on a (lovely and down filled Chippendale) sofa by a wood burning stove in the middle of an Antique Market and being asked to go and get cigarettes and paint a kitchen at eleven at night and unload truckloads of furniture at one in the morning. WHAAAAAT?

And my cheques were personal cheques, rounded off to slightly less than what my cheques used to be. I had to buy my own food and gas and often drive her to and fro. Occasionally she sprang for nice dinners at a steak house near by or a cute bistro a short drive away, to be fair - but most nights I cooked dinner for the two of us. I never got clear instructions. I was accused of selling four forks for four dollars instead of four dollars each. As someone who has been steadily employed in the retail sector for over fifteen years and who used to generate over seven hundred thousand dollars a year in sales at a high end jewellery store, um, I don't make mistakes like that. I loaded firewood. I did so many stupid things...gaah! It sucked in so many ways and I was always cold and tired and confused and there was something worse.

I was just plain scared of just coming out with: What is up? Where's the payroll? Where's the benefits? What's the deal? Not once could I just say, "This is not the position for which I applied, Madam". I whimpered that I was responsible for Beauty and that it was unfair for Steve to have to come home from work when he gets paid three times what I did to let her out. So I got to bring Beauty, which helped with the loneliness and gave me some breathing space and bought me some time. Surprisingly, to this day, for all I have been through in my life, I am so non-confrontational that I will stand there until my teeth are floating before I'd tell someone, "Um, you're peeing on me". It was sucking and it got worse. I went years at the auction house thinking they should just notice I was doing a great job and give me a raise. When I found out upon resignation that the boss likes the employees to ask for them (it takes his mind off his tiny genitalia), I at least found the courage to tell him that I thought that was a petty way to run an important business with valuable employees. But that took three years of frustration to get me there. I am chickenshit scared to state what I am worth, and hate that the world is unfair and makes me ask for it. This comes up later too.

This antique market was like a big barn, with many co-op stalls. And in the whole thing, for months, there was really only one thing I wanted to buy. And one thing I ended up with. I bought this, because it made me happy to look at it every day when I came to work:


It was $25, and I thought it should represent my choice to be happy. But it wasn't until later that I found out for sure that things choose you. The other souvenir of my time being raked over the coals was a painting:



This was donated to the Action Volunteers for Animals garage sale because it was so ugly. I paid a ten dollar donation for it, and for almost two years did not know what it was. Or why it ended up in my life (if you're still here, this is where the digressions start to come around):

Finally one day I was done. After figuring out myself how to post the sales to the other dealers in the co-op because Mrs. Chong was computer illiterate and being told I did it wrong (this after all the other help either quit or was fired) and staying three hours late and getting cigarettes for her that I was told were stale - she didn't have a cheque or cash for me. Payment would be delivered the next day with a driver she used. The cheque never came. On the Monday after, I figured, no checkee (I revert to the American spelling because chequeee looks funny) no workee. A week later, near tears, at Steve's insistence and with him standing next to me and holding my hand, knowing how badly he wished that I would just grow up and just make a phone call, I left messages when she wouldn't be at either place inquiring gently and ahem-ing about where I could find my cheque. When, after about two more weeks, I called her and got hold of her (I know she was screening and ignoring my messages) she turned it on me. The cheque was by the phone in the store the whole time she said. It was MY fault, somehow.

But here's the rub. Into all of this, I want to factor this: Pot makes you stupid. Not me - I've never indulged and if I did it didn't work. Pot smoking changes people who use it a lot, and I know this for sure now. There was always this element of paranoia about her. All of the old dealers at the market conspired against her. Every neighbour on the street by her store was gossiping about her. We had these long winding conversations about all the great things that were gonna happen with the market and never talked about the store. There were days of half-started projects that were abandoned because they were ill thought out. The night we started painting the market's kitchen in yellow latex over dark green oil paint without washing the walls or cutting in or masking off or tall enough ladders made me so crazy I wouldn't paint any more. I didn't have a bad attitude - I just don't believe in doing a bad job. AND I WASN'T PAID TO PAINT KITCHENS, but God forbid I should say that. There are a few people I know quite well who smoke every day, and have some related quirks like spacing out and forgetting conversations. But I've never had to depend on any of those characters. Working and living with someone who'd work hard, but then at the end of the day would have a few joints and then make crazy plans and then nod off was not in line with my previous professional experiences. Don't tell me "Pot not rot brain cells" - it does. And that was one more thing I couldn't deal with.

One day I gathered all my courage and went back into the store when I thought she'd be there so we could talk, as she had suggested. Through a waft of ganja smoke I went, and finally found my cheque by the phone in a used envelope not addressed to me that was upside down and had been scribbled on. There was no way in hell I would have found that previous to her telling me. She was nowhere. Her cel was ringing, her coat was there, but I couldn't find her and after twenty minutes I left. Took the key to her mailbox, went back home and cried like a baby (now that I know how they cry, it means more to say that - it was the eh eh eh eaaaaaaaaaah hic hic hic gaaaaaaaaaawww hic hic hic eeeeeeeenyaaaahhhh cry). I bailed. I never went back, never talked to her, never confronted her and never cleared things up. I spent a few weeks moping around, laying peel and stick tiles in the mudroom and boring everyone I knew with the story. I'm just so glad I found blogging - now it's out of my system and I can just refer people to this rather than give it one more bit of energy. I can torture people with it generically instead of specifically and really, it's just as satisfying and quite a relief.

During those few weeks afterward which I spent reeling in shock, Steve and I took a road trip to the Finger Lakes to stay at the Blossoms Motel. It's our favourite way to unwind. Beauty gets to visit with my folks, who spoil her by feeding her deep fried scallops and jellybeans. We get to have sex without her watching. We enjoy the drive all rolling hills and farms; antiquing along the way and getting some tasty nibblies and fine alcoholic beverages to indulge in. We stay in an incredibly clean and charming motel room that is decorated in late seventies retro style (in a fussy old lady's rec room style, which is what makes it charming - not like the seventies porn style motel I used to be a maid in), and listen to the nice Brit lady who owns the place calling her cats while we're doing it. It's near Lake Canandaigua, around an hour and forty-five minutes outside of Buffalo on Rte 5. We love driving through the cute little towns like LeRoy; and our favourite flea market is at a drive-in theatre on Sunday mornings in East Avon. There is a live band playing country music, warm candied nuts, fresh farm veggies and fruit and excellent junk. We bring a portable record player on which to play records we buy from estate sales, and always buy a couple of glasses for whatever booze we have and some bubble bath and trashy magazines. It's not everyone's idea of a fun get-away, but we get so tired of George and his little speedboat and all of his handsome and rich friends near our other place on Lake Como...



So we listened to some Frank and Dino and a Bob Newhart comedy record, and another by a woman named Rusty Warren who worked blue. We drank bourbon and cheap champagne and apparently, conceived Josephine on May 31, 2003. Although we weren't to find that out for a while.

I'm not finished yet. Did you forget the scary painting "Fingers Cut Off"? Stay tuned to find out why I am the Sedna.

Q: HOW LAZY AM I?

A: This morning I filed a raggedy fingernail on Daddy's beard in Josephine's "Pat the Bunny" book.

Okay, the real answer: I filed three fingernails.

How I became Josephine's Mom.

This is not the story of that night in the Blossoms motel, which truly begat her middle name (although depending on the audience we'll tell people it's after Blossom Dearie). She's lucky it isn't Chevy or Rusty Warren. (ar ar - humour!)

I was working as the head of the Jewellery, Timepieces and Fashion department at the third largest auction house here in Toronto. Okay, I was the department. My life experiences, starting at a flea market outside of Buffalo, then ending up in Toronto at a high-end antiques store and then a high end retail jeweller's estate department culminated in the offer, which was thrilling. A dream job - boxes of people's stuff would come to me, and I'd have to sort through them, identify the stuff, determine a value and then describe it, and organize sales for it either by producing a catalogue quality high-end sale or putting it in a weekly estate auction. That sentence conveys exactly how detail oriented and tedious that job was, and I loved it. Except that the responsibility and the workload and the schedule and the volume and the MATH meant that I often worked seventy hour or more weeks. The only hobby I had time for was drinking bourbon in the bathtub and crying. But I was successful, generating over half a million dollars a year in sales, meeting deadlines, scoring great consignors and organizing the department after years of upheaval. I am proud of what I did there. Damn, I looked good peering into a microscope wearing a spiffy suit and handling hundred and fifty thousand dollar watches. What sucked was the sadness that pervaded the customer relations. The greed, the conniving, the sly tactics on both management and certain consignors parts were just part of the deal. What really stuck in my craw was disappointing people with the news that their valuables...weren't. Nobody gets what they paid for out of modern retail jewellery. I so rarely had good news for people. And when things went in their favor, they always wanted more. Walking the line between helping people dispose of their goods and making money for the company became more and more precarious. Checks were often late to the consignors who needed the money most. Telling nice ladies who had suffered strokes and then their husbands left them and their daughters don't talk to them and they have to sell their jewellery because the rent went up that their check will be late made me sick. Big business clients always got their money, but the company saying went "Our best client is a dead client."

I'd been asked by several other business contacts at that time what it would take to have me work for them. And I kept thinking the devil you know is better. Then, because I needed it, I got three nudges. Well, okay, flicks on the back of the head like you get from a third grade boy who likes you. It is a shame that I should learn so much from the misfortunes of others.

The first nudge was a lady, who I want to call Smokey Mc Smoker except that it's not funny, on oxygen who was moving to an assisted care facility. This is a person who unhooked herself from her tank long enough to go have a smoke and then come back. She had spent her life traveling, never marrying or having a family of her own. I was there to determine the value of the jewellery she'd collected over the years so that she could evenly distribute it to her extended family, not for re-sale. As is often the case, it had no commercial value. All tourist trinkets, with only a few nice Georg Jensen pieces and a nice ring or two. Everything was covered in nicotine, and I couldn't properly do an in-home appraisal because I didn't bring an ultrasonic to clean the gemstones. The walls, the soap in the bathroom, the rings on her hand had such a yellow build-up...blech. I suggested the value was in her extraordinary accomplishments and travels, the stories and memories. She should write them down, and personally tell the stories when she gave the pieces while she was able to. She should wear them and enjoy them so that people remember her in them. A woman traveling on her own in Africa, China and Europe in the fifties was unique, and it's a shame that her items had no monetary value on the open market. Only sentimental value, which is so easily lost on really rather generic souvenirs. Now that the world has opened up, such things aren't unusual anymore.
That was a depressing five hours.

The second nudge was unmistakable, yet somehow I went back for more. The woman that called me needed to sell her jewellery to help keep her husband in care. He'd developed early onset Alzheimer's Disease, and needed private nurses around the clock, in addition to being at a care facility whose admittance requires a large donation. She'd already sold their house to put him there, and was living in a teensy apartment across the street so she could visit him every day. On the day I came, she was in tears because despite every effort, his scrotum was bleeding from diaper rash. Her arm was in a brace, because he'd thrown her down the stairs previous to being admitted, and she couldn't have surgery because the time in hospital and recovering would keep her away from him. She was in no state to go through her jewellery. Every piece made her cry harder, and all she wanted was someone to talk to. I offered to cancel and call a family member, but she was estranged from her daughter. So I sat with her for hours, without charging, and we still discussed her jewels. Nearly every piece was of a diminished value due to personalization - re-mounting, engraving, customization. Her husband, a doctor, had a jeweller friend (I hate when people have retail jewellers as "friends") who would give him "deals" and so had custom-made a lot of jewellery for his wife. In the seventies and eighties. With lots of yellow gold and lots of tiny bad quality diamonds spelling initials and names. Not the sort of items people are clamoring for on the secondary market. After gold prices have dropped significantly. And styles have changed drastically. How to tell the down and out and desperate that her jewellery was a waste of time and money and won't help now? It wasn't as hard as what I had to tell her at the end of my visit. She asked me if I could be her friend. I chose to tell the truth: "I have very few people I consider friends, and many lovely acquaintances through work. My greatest wish is to have more time for the friends I already have in my private life, because my work precludes seeing them as much as I want to. I'm always happy to be friendly within a business context." Mean, huh? Maybe not. Because this was a woman who was awfully whiny and manipulative. She tried to use her situation to get out of paying for the consult from the time I walked in. Within minutes of being there I saw why her daughter removed herself. Despite her pathetic situation, I couldn't lie - I wasn't paid enough for that. On my list of favourite things is to go to bed with a clear conscience. It struck me that she had years to go, with or without her husband and with or without her daughter. I was so glad to leave there, I didn't wait for a bath and bourbon -- I cried all the way home.

Within a month, I had another call out in Dundas, Ontario. A woman was downsizing her wardrobe. (People do that ?!) Her husband, a doctor, had colon cancer - diagnosed too late. Their home in swanky Yorkville with a room-sized closet and its wardrobe no longer suited what would be her lifestyle when he passed. I spent ten hours in her daughter's basement apartment with her, going through an amazing wardrobe of custom-made suits and wonderful dresses and awesome accessories. Lots of Hermes - the cashmere shawls with the leather fringes, silk scarves by the dozens, a Kelly and my favourite: a Bugatti bag (think Karen's on Will and Grace) and others, as well as blazers and things. Chanel, and oh so much vintage PUCCI! Even a Pucci girdle! All of her special occasion dresses were one of a kind Maggie Reeves. Most of the day wear were different versions of the same things in different colours - Chanel silk dresses or tweed suits, all with matching Ferragamo shoes and beautiful vintage alligator bags, and nice gloves and lovely scarves. And in saleable, wearable sizes in great condition. It made my sale. Every item was discussed, and as with the previous pieces, I was up and down Memory Lane so many times my soles were smokin'(no funny reference to client number one intended). She was grateful, as it was cathartic and practical for her to do it in one go. I blew off a dinner date with Steve, because this was so important to the department and I was an hour away and didn't want to go back again. On my third trip out the door, at ten o'clock that night, I realized her husband was in a hospital bed in the living room I had been walking past. I later found out that he died two days later. This woman had spent so much time with me in order to do this with her husband so close to death. That night I drove home with tired and sad tears welling up and blurring the road, and Steve and I fought about putting so much into a job I hated.

It came to me that these last few clients had counted on having the rest of their lives to do...whatever they wanted. They had the want, the ablility and the means, initially. And they didn't get it in the end. No traveling, no retiring to a life of comfort and leisure with the ones they loved, and all the more sadness because they hadn't lived as if they might not get what they expected. Although the financial and familial problems were all different, these three ladies all had drastic changes that meant the rest of their lives would contain immeasurable amounts of regret. I didn't want to be that way.

Next installment...what I did.