The Baby Bucket

Today, Claire-Adele heard from a few colleges she applied to. Nixed at one, waited listed at another. She seemed to be in a reasonable mood, considering.

I bought her some flowers at the Market today before I heard any of the news. I made the decision to buy flowers last week, knowing this week was going to be crazy. We went out to dinner at Rositas to celebrate the near end of the college admissions process/rat race.

At the table next to us was a young couple with a baby in a baby carrier car seat bucket. The baby was covered up, so I didn't get a peek. While Claire-Adele and I waited for the check, Jack and the Boy went to Gregg's Greenlake to look at mountain bikes. (Gear heads...) The couple and their baby walked by.

For a few moments, I remembered bringing Claire-Adele to Zuzu's, a Mexican restaurant in Clayton, MO. It was the first time we went out with the new baby, which was scary and thrilling. People stopped and told us what a cute baby we had, and of course, I believed them. This was the cutest, best baby ever. The first time people come up and look at your baby is something remarkable. It is amazing that this little tiny creature exists.

And here I am, seventeen years later, my baby in the bucket is about to leave for college in few months.

Holy crap. I hope the next six months aren't like this. I hope I don't start weeping every time I see a wagon or a stroller because my kids is going off to college. Ugh. I am going to sound like a new mom who thinks they baby is pure angel and they are the first person to ever experience the miracle motherhood.

And yet, I think this is as big as becoming a mother, maybe even bigger. It is easy to bring a kid into the world, and much harder to get them to the proverbial finish line.

The Fish is Dying

Years and years ago, we acquired some fish--three little tetra types about an inch long--and kept them in a ten gallon tank in the kitchen. No one in my house can remember when we got them--we've had them that long. Our best guess is when the Boy was in third grade six years ago. We had them well before we got Fox when the Boy was in fifth grade.

The time marker for the fish was when the Boy was on a First Lego League (FLL) team and they had to create a team poster. Each boy listed their favorite movie, favorite book and pets. The Boy wrote "Three fish and two snails" when everyone else wrote about their cats and/or dogs. I felt sorry that he didn't have a real animal, one that required walks or could interact meaningfully with humans. Nope, we just had fish and snails.

It was better than nothing, I suppose.

Three weeks ago, one of the two remaining fish died. After I started working and became more busy, cleaning the fish tank became just another chore added to my long list of "To Do's" at home. Jack works all of the time, so stuff like cleaning the fish tank never makes his list. I consider myself lucky when he empties the dishwasher, makes dinner or takes out the compost, garbage and recycling.

Even though the fish tank had been neglected, the fish carried on like British subjects during WWII. They didn't seem to mind the algae covered walls after the snails died or the slowly dropping water level that would only get replenished when it was in danger of not reaching the filter intake tube. They didn't mind that the water was naturally de-chlorinated by leaving a bucket of water out over night instead of using the fancy fish tank chemical that adds vitamins and whatever to the water to keep the fish healthy.

I was getting kind of tired of taking care of these fish. It seemed kind of pointless. After the first fish died, I wondered why bother with one? I was kind of hoping the remaining one might have a quick demise.

It didn't make sense to have one fish the size of a quarter in a ten gallon tank. Like an elderly person losing their mobility, this fish needed a smaller domicile instead of the four bedroom, three bath house it was currently residing in. I found a smaller tank in basement from when the kids had water frog (life span: two months) and moved the last fish in there. Instead of sitting on the kids art table from when they were preschoolers, the fish bowl was now in the kitchen counter next to my tea kettle. 

I got to know this fish a little better. I sat him (her?) several times a day when I'd make tea or chop vegetables for dinner. I wondered if this fish had any idea of who I was. My dog recognizes me and the rest of my family, plus our dog walker. Did the fish know I was the one who cleaned its tank and fed it? Or, did the fish think I was a god, a mysterious force of the universe who makes things happen, for good or bad? Little fish -- I hardly knew ye!

I was making scones for the kids this week for breakfast, and I saw the little fish belly up. I kind of freaked out and banged on the bowl. The fish wasn't dead yet and began furiously swimming around and around. It seemed to be revived.

Whew, I thought. The fish isn't dead. And then I felt regret for wishing it would keel over. Little fish -- I hardly knew ye!

The next day, the Boy saw the fish resting in the bottom of the bowl, which is odd because fish don't really rest. He did the same thing I did--except way more gently. He softly shook the bowl and the little fish woke up and started swimming around again.

This morning, the fish is on the bottom of the bowl. When I shake the bowl, he stirs around for a few seconds--perhaps he fears being eaten by a larger fish--and then he sinks back to the bottom, and rests.

I read an article recently about a woman who bred dogs and kept a few on her farm. When one of her larger dogs was about to die, the pack circled around the ailing dog, protecting her from potential harm. Here, my little fish was going to die alone, not surrounded by the rest of his school.

Thursday night, I re-read In the Gloaming by Alice Elliott Dark, originally published in the New Yorker in 1993. It is a story about a mother reconnecting with her thirty-something year old son who is dying of AIDS. It is a beautiful and heartbreaking story that has had different meaning for me each time I read it, decades apart. When I read it in my twenties, I wasn't even as old as the son. Now, I identify with the mother and wife.

Yes, it is much easier to write about a dying fish instead of a dying child. Or dying parent. Or dying dog. 

So here I am sad about a little fish. "Sad" might be a bit much, but pondering. This week was rough. Jack wasn't home much, and both kids were using me as their emotional garbage can, dumping all of their frustrations and worries on me. They were not sharing their worries or talking about their frustrations. They were using me as their punching bag because they were worried and frustrated. A person can only take so much before they cry uncle. 

Right now, the idea of a no-maintenance little fish friend seems like a nice idea. Maybe I'll get a bright blue Betta to keep me company on the kitchen counter when this little fish finally dies.

See the Scar and a Job Offer

The other day, Jack had a young patient who was dying. (As he is a pediatrician, all of his patients are young.) While I can't talk about the kid as it would violate HIPPA (not that I would), I can talk about the dad since he was not the patient.

The man was a younger dad, and kind of rough. Some of the nurses were afraid of this guy. Jack was in the middle of rounds on the ICU floor, when this father caught Jack's attention when Jack entered his daughter's room.

"If you want to talk to me, sit your ass in the chair and look me in the eye," said the dad. The mom knew what was coming, and scurried out of the room.

Jack did as he was told. He sat in the chair and looked the dad in the eye.

"Five years ago," the father said, "I nearly died. I was riding in the backseat of a car, and when I woke up, I was in Harborview hooked up to a bunch of tubes. I was shot five times."

Jack listened.

"I was dead. The surgeons took out the bullets and put me back together," the dad said. The man opened his shirt and showed Jack a large scar that ran from his neck down past his belly.

"That's impressive," said Jack, a guy who has seen thousands of incisions in his life.

"I've seen death. I've seen other people die," the dad continued. "I am not afraid of it. Look me in the eye and tell me: Is my daughter going to die?"

Jack came home from work and told me the story.

"He wanted me to understand what he had experienced. He needed me to know what he had been through so he could trust me," Jack said. "He needed me to see the scar."

He also realized something else. "You need me to see your scar."

A few years ago, Jack had been guilty of some very bad husbanding. I understand that people screw up and make mistakes, but it is nearly impossible to heal when the person who has hurt you doesn't want to admit that they did. In addition to screwing up, Jack had been reluctant to embrace my suffering from his bad husbanding. I still need an apology, an apology that acknowledges the pain and anguish that he has caused me.

"You need me to see your scar," Jack said. I was just about to give up, throw in the towel, call it a hopeless cause, when he comes through with this. Why did it take an interaction with one of his patient's parent for him to get the message I had been trying to deliver for the past few years? Will this insight stick? Will he remember and adhere to this when he finally does see my scar? Do I want to even bother after banging my head against the wall for the past few years? Can I trust that he will truly see and accept it?

Perhaps the timing of Jack's insight correlated with a conversation I had with my manager the day before, a conversation where we discussed my future role and position, and a forthcoming job offer. Perhaps as I grow more financially independent, inspiration was easier for Jack to find.

Out with the Old

The next two weeks are going to be rough as Claire-Adele waits to get her acceptance letters from colleges. Our Spring Break plans hinge on where she gets in, which is a drag since this is her last Spring Break before she leaves.

Last night instead of getting involved in her spinning about what to do over break, I re-arranged my book stacks (i.e., the stacks of books I have around the house that don't fit on our shelves). With Claire-Adele leaving in less than six months, I don't need these books anymore. This morning, I donated them to the Little Library in our neighborhood.

We bought these books when we moved to Seattle in 2004, and they were well used. Instead of getting a pass to the Seattle Children's Museum (which is cool if I remember correctly), I am now buying tickets to Bumbershoot for the Boy.

These new books have replaced those old ones:

I had to balance out the geriatric knee book with something more inspiring. The Pacific Crest Trail is a gorgeous coffee table book with cool photos of places I'd love to see. While I have no plans to do a Cheryl Strayed and hike the whole thing from Mexico to Canada (or wherever she stopped), I wouldn't mind hitting parts of it. I can't imagine the kids would think it would be a fun vacation, but I can make plans for when they are gone. My neighbors Jen and Dave are empty-nesters as of this year, and they are having a blast traveling all over place.

After I moved some books around, I went to brush my teeth before I walked the dog and take the books to the Little Library. I looked around the bathroom and found other debris that will likely be left behind when Claire-Adele leaves, including a drawer full of nail polish. The old eye shadow will need to be tossed, but maybe I can find a place to donate the nail polish. If the YMCA Homeless Teen Center doesn't want it, maybe I can offload it on some of the neighborhood girls.

It is hard to believe this phase of my life and Claire-Adele's is coming to an end. It is not like she's dying, but there will be an extra empty bedroom in my house by the end of the summer. When someone dies, the loved ones are left with all of the crap the person has accumulated over a lifetime. Except for what she decides to schlep to east, all of her shit will still be here: dozens and dozens of books, a closet full of games, craft kits that are mostly used up, and a baby grand piano in my living room that no one will play, except maybe the Boy who dinks around on it once in a while or his friends who play when they come to visit.

Some parents leave their children's rooms as museums, untouched after the kids leave. That's not going to happen here. The Boy, who has been sleeping in the coverted attic space, will move into Claire-Adele's room when she leaves.

"Oh that's mean!" you might be thinking to yourself. "Poor Claire-Adele getting booted out of her room when she goes to college."

Nope. The kid has a view of Lake Washington and Mt. Rainier from her bedroom. It is the nicest room in the whole house, and she has it all to herself. There is no way I am leaving the hottest piece of property in my house unused while she is gone. Instead, she was extremely lucky for the years she was here. When she visits, she can either sleep in the converted attic, or out in the shed.

He's Back

Five weeks after he broke his collarbone, the Boy was back on skis this weekend. The sports medicine doc--the same guy I saw when I tore my ACL--said the Boy could go on the greens and the groomers with his mom after six to eight weeks. No "sending it" until twelve weeks. Jack and I decided the Boy needed to get back on the mountain for his sanity and ours, collarbone be damned.

"The Boy doesn't fall when he skis," said Jack. "Well, he doesn't fall when he regular skis. That doesn't count jumps or rails."

"I am not worried about the Boy as much as I am worried about him getting plowed over by other people," said Dr. Kary. His own ten year old son got creamed by a guy the size of a linebacker the previous weekend while snowboarding.

Friday afternoon, I got a text from the Boy.

The Boy: Let's just say I have to go skiing tomorrow.

Me: Can you find a friend to take you?

The Boy: (Crickets.)

Hmmm, I thought. When I got home, I asked if anyone could take him.

"Nah," he said. "I am going to stay on the blues and greens." Jack was worked this past weekend. "Can you take me?"

I agreed. Saturday morning, the Boy woke me up. He came into my bedroom and started clapping. (I'll have to remember this the next time I need to wake him.)

"Let's get moving," he said.

Dude, I thought. It's Saturday. Let me sleep. "You can pack up the skis and equipment," I said, rolling over and hugging my pillow. He went to the basement and gathered the gear while I ate breakfast and walked the dog.

As we were getting on to I-90 from 405--about twelve minutes from home because I was driving wicked fast--I asked if he had packed my boots.

"Fuck," he said.

"I can rent boots," I said.

"No, you'll be happier in your own boots. and you'll need to use shitty rental skis. We can go back and get them." So we did. I drove back to Seattle. The Boy got my boots and we drove off.

"I didn't want someone else's parents to be liable if I got hurt while skiing with their kid," he said. The other part was he didn't want to ski with his friends on his first turn back.

"Besides," he said. "I am going to teach you how to ski. You need to improve your form. This will be work. This will not be cruising down the mountain for fun. This will be your job."

Since my ACL injury, I have been stuck on the greens. Last year, I asked my physical therapist if I should take a ski lesson to get my groove back.

"You might," said Evan. "That might help." I stalled on the idea because I wasn't sure I wanted to be pushed. I was comfortable skiing on the greens. I wasn't sure I wanted to make it to the blues.

We got to Summit West, the beginner hill, a place where my son would typically not hang out with his friends except for the dudes who like Wildside and the mini-terrain park.

The Boy hit the top of Pacific Crest while I was putting on my knee brace. I thought he might not be serious about teaching me until I got a text from him asking where I was. By time I got to the green lift, he was there waiting for me. On the lift, he asked in a drill sergeant voice "Do you want to ski better than you did before?" I almost barked back, "Yes sir."

"Let's go," he said. When we got to the top of the lift, he gave me directions. "Go down, do a few turns, then stop."

I followed his instructions.

"Your form doesn't suck," he said. "Try it again." After two runs, he was still amazed. "Your form isn't shit. Let's go to Pacific Crest. You can do it. You need to build up speed so it is easier to turn."

When we got to Pacific Crest, we watched me on a steeper section. "You lift your uphill foot when you turn. Don't do that. Keep it down. Roll back and forth from your uphill and downhill ski when you turn, Keep your skis flat in the middle when you are going straight."

I did what he said, and followed him down the mountain. I watched his form and followed his tracks. I watched his posture, and when he bent his knees, and tried to copy him like I did took ballet lessons as a kid.

Don't think, I said to myself. Just let your body mimic what he is doing. I was easily skiing the steepest hill I have since I tore my ACL. Here I was thinking I needed to hire ski instructor, when I have a coach right here in my family, and he didn't charge me $150 to spend an afternoon on the hill with him.

Everything was fine until the middle of the afternoon. The Boy and I were on the lift with two other people. I was in the far right side of the chair and the Boy was next to me. As we got off the lift, the girl next to Peter crossed her skis with him, and then his skis crossed into my path. I was afraid to get off the chair, until it started to turn and go back down the hill when I jumped off. The chair stopped, and the Boy and I were down on the ground.

Fuck, I thought. I've known people who have gotten hurt getting plowed over by nubes getting the chair lift. "Are you okay?" I asked him.

"I'm fine," he said. I felt fine, too. We both survived the beginner crashing off the chair.

After that, the Boy wanted to go his own way. He wanted to hit the moguls and the black runs to shred the gnar. He left me for the afternoon. At the end of the day, he met at the bottom of Pacific Crest, and we did one last run together.

We both are back.

View from the lift.

Jack's Work Dinners and Focus on the Food

I might get divorced after I post this, but oh well. Four people read my blog, so it’s not like this is going to make the front page of the Seattle Times. The trade-off I make for not publicizing my blog is that I have more freedom to publish my more bitchy thoughts.

Here’s the deal: I had to attend a recruiting dinner for my husband’s job this week. This is a recruiting dinner where he is trying to woo someone to work for him and I get to go along as the wife. At best, these dinners are pleasant as people are generally polite and on their best behavior.

At worst, they are a fresh slice of Hell.

As the wife, I have to be exceptionally well behaved, which generally is not a problem. Since these are recruiting dinners, I can’t openly talk about my kids or complain about Trump or bitch about how much my husband works like I could at other of his work events where I know the crowd. Because of these high expectations, I usually skip the wine course. When I drink, my tolerance for bullshit reaches zero. The last thing that Jack needs is me corking off on something to a recruit. Instead, if they have kids, I talk about schools. If they don’t have kids, I talk about neighborhoods. Five years ago, neighborhoods were a safe topic. Now, not so much given the exorbitant cost of Seattle real estate, especially close to the hospital.

Me: "Can you drop a mil or more on a house that needs $250k worth of work?"

Them: "No."

Me: "Sucks for you. You should have moved here 2008."

Just as I am expected to be on good behavior, there is an assumption that everyone else is on their best behavior, too. That is not always the case, however. Like I said, the bad dinners are horrid. I almost got divorced after one a few years ago. Jack was recruiting a woman who I will call "The University Bitch." I've dropped the university name, as it might "out" her. The likelihood of her knowing my name and reading my blog is zero, so theoretically, I can say whatever I want. But that would be mean. Nevertheless, the University Bitch and her husband were on exceptionally bad behavior. I don't expect people to kowtow to me, but I hoped they would be reasonably civil. I was seated next to this woman so I could talk to her about schools and neighborhoods. I tried to make small talk:

"Jack did his training in Chicago," I said. "We lived there for a long time."

"I considered training in Chicago," the University Bitch said "but it was too cold. I visited when it was 20 degrees outside. I am so glad I went to ---- University instead. It was so much better."

After she insulted the town where I was born and raised, she never looked at me again for the rest of the meal. Which lasted three plus fucking hours. While her husband did talk to me, everything I said was met with a case of one upsmanship. They had three kids, all of whom were born since she was a fellow.

Me: My son is on a Lego robotics team. It is really cool.

Him: My kids built a computer from scratch.

Me: What do your kids like to read?

Him: <Listed a million books until he found one my kids hadn't yet read and talked about it like I was an idiot parent whose kids were going to end up on welfare because they didn't read The Pilot and the Pirate or whatever.>

If this were a blind date, I would have left. But this wasn't a blind date--it was for my husband's job so I sat there for three hell filled hours. I started this little mantra Focus on the food, which got me through most of the meal. If the company is bad, I thought, at least the food here is something to be experienced. The only good thing that came out of the dinner was that I tasted raw oysters for the first time, a win out of what was otherwise the worst dinner experience I've ever had.

We finished eating and the meal continued to drag on. At that point, I got up to pee and didn't come back to the table for fifteen minutes. No one noticed I was gone. When Jack got up to pee, the waiter came and the rest of the table ordered dessert. I ordered bread pudding. They ordered Baked Alaska which is a ten minute spectacle where the waiter sets the ice cream on fire in the middle of the dining room.

Jack and I got back to the car at the end of the marathon meal. As soon as the door thwumped shut, I said, "That was a fresh slice of hell."

"What do you mean? I thought it was great. She is top recruit. I need to hire her," he said.

"She and her husband were both horrid," I said. "If she treats me like shit, how is she going to treat respiratory therapists and nurses?"

"They all love her," he said. "I checked with them."

"Do they really want to move to Seattle?" I asked. "I know her husband has a job that requires him to be here three days a week, but something was off about the whole thing. They never asked about schools or neighborhoods."

"The husband already knows Seattle, so he probably didn't need to ask. I really need to hire her," Jack said. "She has a specialty that no one else in the division has."

"While was developing all of these magical skills that you so badly need, I've been at home taking care of your kids," I said. "And this woman is so awesome? What does that make me? Chopped liver?"

"I really need to hire her," Jack said. "You don't understand."

I was dumbfounded. He was right. I didn't understand. It was slowly becoming clear that I perhaps had made a mistake in placing all of my eggs in this basket that was being carried by someone else who didn't care about or consider my opinion.

"If you don't want or care about my opinion, why did you invite me to dinner?" I said. He did not reply.

Jack offered the University Bitch the sun, moon and stars. She sat on the offer for a long time.

"I think she using this as leverage to get a raise or promotion where she is at now," I said.

When she came back to Jack, she told him --- University had offered her the sun, the stars, the moon and all of the planets. Jack who made another offer which was then re-upped by her current employer. Jack's offer was the best he could do.

"You were right," Jack said. "She used my job offer to get a promotion where she is working."

So after a few year hiatus/ban from these events, I am back on the circuit, much to my dismay. How do I cope? My secret again is to focus on the food. Like a zen archer, I block out most of the other stimuli and drive all my attention on the menu. I prepare days in advance, visiting the website and imaging what I might eat. I figure out how I will get there from work and meet Jack there. I usually try to remember a few facts about the person ahead of time, like their name, where they are from, and if they have kids.

The day of the event, I was happy to be at work where I could focus on other stuff and not get stressed about the dinner. Before I left for work, though, I had to decide--should I drive to work so I would have a car at dinner so I could leave early if I needed to, or should I take the bus, which is far simpler? I decide to take the bus. I figured I could hijack Jack's car to drive home and he could catch a ride with someone else.

I was dreading this event before I got there. One of the women in attendance from Jack's group openly hates me. At dinner she dropped details about my husband that I didn't even know or bother to remember, like his marathon pace time which she announced to the table. She told the group stories she heard from Jack about my daughter whom she has met only a handful of times. Why was his real wife there when this other woman could fill in?

The only non-physicians in the group of seven were me and the recruit's husband, Bert. Bert and I got along swimmingly. It was great. This dinner greatly exceeded my extremely low expections. Bert is a mental health worker with a focus on kids, which I found fascinating. He asked me about running for School Board and was genuinely interested in what I had to say.

That was when I realized why I get invited to these events--I am not there to add to the conversation or offer an opinion. I am there so I can make the other non-physician comfortable, so he or she will have one other person to relate to at the table. Sometimes it doesn't work, but other times it does.

"50 Candles" and Dishwasher Soap

Last week, my husband took off work as the kids were on Mid-Winter Break. Jack, the Boy and Claire-Adele were going to ski while I was at work. Plans changed when the Boy broke his collarbone, but Jack already had the time off scheduled. While he was home, he attempted to do more around the house, like vaccumming. One morning before I left for work, he asked--verbatim--

"Where do you buy dishwasher soap?"

I want his life. I wish I could have lived a life where I don't know where to buy dishwasher soap.

"That's not what I mean," he said. "I mean do they sell it at QFC* or just at Bartell's?"

Still, I want his life. I told a friend at work the story and he asked what kind of soap we use.

"Some organic kind that doesn't have a bunch of toxic chemicals," I said.

"Fancy dishwasher soap," he said. "That's harder to find."

"Nope. We've bought the same soap for years. It's not like I switched to this last week."

Later that afternoon, I was reading "Fifty Candles" by Wendy Aarons on McSweeny's. This is where Sam from Sixteen Candles hits the halfcentury mark. I haven't turned the corner on fifty yet, but I'm close enough that my turn-signal is on. I almost died laughing when I got to the end.

Or, in my life "Good luck trying to figure out where to buy dishwasher soap."

The following weekend, I was at the grocery store and bought the dishwasher soap. I took a picture for future reference.

* aka Kroger