Spices

The Big E is coming up with names for pets and children she will have in the future.  One of her daughters will be Claire Adele and her son will be named after her brother.   I think that is exceptionally sweet, but the Boy doesn't think so.

Since Fox already came with a name, we didn't change it.  When she is grown-up, she wants to have a dog named Cinnamon or Ginger.  She has decided spices would be good names for pets, and she went through the spice rack:

• Cayenne
• Dill
• Rosemary
• Cardamom
• Pepper

She ruled out Cream of Tartar.

Just a Parent and Stress at Home

My husband Jack was at a social event with our daughter last night when he ran into a friend of ours. She asked how my life was with one kid starting middle school and the other starting high school.

"I hope she isn't too involved.  I hope she is just a parent," she said.

Just a parent: nope.  I am the PTSA President at my son's middle school.  At times, I wish I were just a parent, but I was drafted last spring and I accepted.  I know the word "no."  When asked the first six times, I said no.  I gave in the seventh time they asked.  (I guess they knew my limit.  I'll have to up it to eight next time.)  One thing I love about being the PTSA President is that I meet so many new and interesting people.  The problems we get to solve are relatively fixable, or within range of being fixed.

And yet,  I find being President of a school based PTA is harder than when I was President of the city wide PTA where I was representing thousands of parents.  Why?

Let me digress.

A friend of mine recently sent me an article from NPR about how for some moms, work is a respite from home.  There was a study in 2012 that showed working moms reported "significantly better physical and mental health."

As a stay-home-mom who has at time been a full-time volunteer, I can see the truth in this.  Being a parent is hard.  Being married is hard.  Having a mom who lives in another state who has Alzheimer's is hard.  Working has its challenges, not doubt, as I can remember from the days when I was gainfully employed.  I can see how the hard part about working is coming home, making dinner, driving the kids places, and riding herd on homework.  I have a good friend from high school who works full-time and struggles to find time for herself and family.  She feels like she spends the weekends either at the grocery, Target, or cooking dinners for the week.  She is constantly tired.  She scares me into not wanting to go back to work.  The work part scares me less than the "how will I manage home?" part.

The article came out in July, which was when my marriage was in an extremely fragile state as Jack was learning how to manage is workaholism.  With Jack's workaholism, anything outside his job was a distant second.  He did almost nothing voluntarily around the house, and I felt like a nag asking him multiple times to help.  I felt like if I were to get a job, I'd be a single mom.  I'd be working and still managing 100% of the kids and home.  I was terrified about returning to the workplace.

So I was pondering why did the city wide PTA President seem easier?  It wasn't.  It was a ton of work.  It was challenging and I had to learn new skills, most of which I asked my friends about and/or made up as I went along.

Then I realized:  Even though I didn't get paid, it was a job, a real job.  No wonder I was happier.

Man Up

I was at coffee the other day with some friends.  One friend said her son heard something from his father that changed his life.

"Man up."

My friend was livid.  Perhaps more than livid, if such a thing is possible.  (Actually, it is possible to be more than livid.  I was living it for a month at the at end of May, most of June.)  She was purple with rage.

Let's discuss.  Her perspective was that her husband was telling the boy not to show his emotions, to stuff them down into a sack where he would ignore them until they festered.  (When I don't know the precise definition of a word, I look it up in the dictionary.  I looked up festered.  Oy.  I will spare you.)  I have had some first hand experience in recent months when a man ignores those little voices in his head saying, "This isn't right" or the pinch in the gut that says, "I am not happy with the status quo."  My friend wanted her son to grow up with a healthy relationship with his emotions, which is a completely reasonable hope and expectation for a mom.

And yet...

I like the expression "Man up" in some cases.  In some situations, kids will be uncomfortable.  They need a role model to say, "Move it along here.  We don't have time to cry.  The lion is about to eat your sister.  Get in there and bonk the lion on the head while I carry your pregnant mom and baby brother out of here."  Kids need to learn to act under pressure; hence, the youth sports industry.

And we still need the touchy-feely role model to come back and reduce the PTSD of the situation and say, "Wow, you were really brave to save us from that lion.  That must have been scary," and so on.  I don't think this would be the time to say "Man up" as the kid is recounting and recovering from some traumatic experience.

We don't live in a society where lions chase us down.  What really is trauma versus was are little things where we just need to go with the flow?  What are those emergencies where it is necessary to stay cool under pressure?  I remember the time I helped a new mom and her new baby in a car fire.  I was so calm I surprised myself.

What about when it isn't a car fire?  I remember seeing an interview with Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.  The interviewer had asked him about the phrase "Kennedy's don't cry."  Robert replied, and said "It really means Kennedy's don't whine."  Yes, we sometimes lump a true expression of emotion with garden variety whining because the world isn't falling at your feet.  When it is just the morning and a nameless eleven year old didn't get enough sleep and is stomping around, biting off his mother's and father's heads when asked "What would you like for lunch?"  I wanted to tell him "Quit being a grouch and man up.  Morning doesn't mean you get to be a dick.  Deal with it."

But I didn't.  I kept my cool, and asked him again in a nice voice.   When he didn't respond, I asked his father to ask him again.   And the Boy apologized for being a jerk.   Perhaps his jerk like behavior came from deep fear of the first week of school.  I'd rather talk directly about than deal with rudeness.

Maybe the expression itself isn't so bad, but rather what is means.  Perhaps "manning up" really means taking accountability for your actions and feelings--good, bad and otherwise.

Maybe we should call it "Woman up."

Bowling Injury

Note:  I've tagged this post "Middle Age."  Or "The M Word," as my friend Jane calls it.  I suppose I could tag all of my posts Middle Age, as that is where I am.  But this post is special as it is about the physical discomfort of being middle-aged.  The rest of my blog is about the emotional discomfort of being middle aged.

I sprained my back bowling on Saturday afternoon.  Yes, bowling.  The weather was crummy and the Boy wanted to get out, so the Boy, Jack and I went bowling.  The Big E didn't want to go, so she stayed home and sat on the couch, "reading a book" (i.e., checking her phone every three seconds.)

It really pisses me off that I have a bowling injury.  I feel insanely stupid about the whole thing.  In our first game, Jack joked "Bowling isn't a sport.  It is an activity."  I laughed and was punished by the bowling gods.

It is not as if I am the queen of no physical activity and got a bowling injury because I've sat on the couch 24/7 for the past ten years.  I walk the dog everyday.  Here is a list of things I did in the past year or so where I did not get injured:

• Climbed the Grouse Grind
• Skied at Whistler
• Rode a zipline
• Went white-water rafting
• Rode my bike close to forty miles in one day
• Rode my bike 100 km over three days
• Kayaked (got a small blister on hand from holding paddle too tight)
• Hiked
• Canoed
• Went stand up paddle boarding
• Painted the dining room, bathroom and baseboards in the kitchen
• Cross country skiing

Cross country skiing was probably the most exertion I've had ever.  It uses almost every muscle in your body at the same time, except those used to lift your eyebrows or wiggle your ears.  I'll admit I was sore, but nothing beyond what a soak in the hot tub at the lodge couldn't fix.

The bowling problem started with my attire.  I was dressed as I was earlier in the day.  The Boy and I had Lego Club that morning and then I got my haircut.  I wore one of my three summer skirts because that is what I always wear.  I didn't think I would need special bowling clothes.  There isn't a section at REI for bowling clothes, like there is for ski or biking clothes.  Sure, there are special shoes, but I thought whatever else I had on was fine.  Except this skirt had no flexibility so I couldn't bend down.  Instead, I leaned over at my waist instead of bending my knees and chucked the ball.

This strategy was fine for the first two games.  A few frames into the third game, I bent down to pick up the ball and tweak, my back was not happy.  I finished the frame, but I quit after that.  Sunday I was barely mobile.

Today, I am still sore.  I am taking ibuprofen, which isn't really helping.  What really sucks is that I had to move the vicodin out of the way on the medicine shelf so I could get to the ibuprofen.  The Big E has a fresh and almost full bottle after having her wisdom teeth removed almost two weeks ago.  Argh.  Aside from the fact that vicodin is a controlled substance, I not going to take it as fear I might hurt my back worse if I mask the pain instead of avoiding movements that might cause greater injury.  I am arabesque-ing around the house, loading the dishwasher by tilting up and down on one leg and not bending my back.  I can't empty the lower rack of the dishwasher, feed the dog, move the laundry from the washer to the dryer, put stuff away under the sink, put on my socks, etc.  If I sit too long, I ache.  If I stand too long, I ache.  Good lord, I am going to be a miserable old person.

I feel bad for the kids, as I hurt my back on the last few days of summer.  Summer is supposed to go out with a bang.  I thought perhaps we could go for a bike ride or canoe over to Marsh Island from UW.  Or better yet, bike to the UW Boating Center and then go canoeing.  Oh well.  Maybe next summer.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Last night, Jack and I went to The Walrus and the Carpenter for dinner.  It is considered one of the best places in Seattle to get oysters, with the name taken from the Lewis Carroll poem in Through the Looking Glass.  I had read about it in one of the Seattle magazines and had been wanting to try it.  There was an hour and a half wait, which was better than the two hour wait described on Yelp.  While we waited, we walked around what used to be an old industrial part of Ballard which is now a hip new restaurant corridor.

We sat at the white, marble counter where we watched the kitchen staff shuck oysters and prep dinner.  Across from our seats were baskets of raw oysters covered in ice.  Jack and I had a half dozen, which was close to the smallest amount prepared.  Some tables had dozens, which in some sense would have been a shame as they would have missed out on the smoked trout, clams, and fried oysters.  In case oysters aren't weird enough, the one of the strangest thing on the menu was a salad that had glacier lettuce.  I imagine this scruffy looking green was plucked from the tundra above the treeline at Mt. Rainier.  It was delicious.  "Fries with eyes" was the smelt dish, which may have been the weirdest.  We took a pass on those.

Jack and I were one of the oldest couples there, which was fine.  There was a cute young couple a few seats down from us at the bar.  I would have guessed they were Seattlites had they not told the waiter they were from Boulder.  The guy told a joke and half of the kitchen staff listened in.  Then the guy turned to the guy next to him and told him he liked his flannel.  The other guy said he has two of the same shirts -- one for camping and one he keeps nice for going out.

Only in Seattle.

"Open every day 4 o'clock until close."

Well, Jack is slowly getting his head out of his butt.  In the meantime, he is taking me out to all kinds of fancy places.  Perhaps this will be the new theme of my blog -- Where is Jack taking me as he tried to make amends?

Summer Vacation 2014 -- Vancouver Island, British Columbia

Here are some more pictures of our vacation on Vancouver Island.  It is a pretty sweet spot.  I've lived in the Pacific Northwest for almost ten years (officially ten in October) and I had never been to Vancouver Island.  While I don't dispute with its loveliness, I was shocked to see so many tourists there from other parts of the world.  At our B&B in Sooke, we met people from Germany, Scotland and Poland.  French and British people were everywhere.  The Butchart Gardens hosted hundreds of tourists from Asia.  In Tofino on the west coast of Vancouver Island, the Big E and I went stand up paddle boarding with a couple from Finland.  And this was a driving vacation for us -- no airfare or ocean crossing flights involved.  It was hard to believe I had never been there when it was only a ferry ride away from where I live.

Butchart Gardens.  I think my grandparents went here once.  I don't know why I think that.

We started the trip in Victoria, taking the ferry from Anacortes to Sydney.  On our first morning, we visited Beacon Hill Park.  We stopped at a grocery store, bought breakfast and ate in the park.  We found a quiet spot near a pond, which was fine until every goose in the park came and tried to eat our food.  The attack geese came in like something from The Birds.

Geese coming to eat our breakfast. I didn't get a good picture when there were several dozen nearby.  I was too busy guarding the food.

We spent five nights in Tofino, which has 1,800 year round residents.  In the summer tourist months, 30,000 people occupy the town.  One of the main activities is surfing, but we didn't try that.  I was not excited about swimming for a few hours in water so cold that I would need a super thick wetsuit.  We went kayaking and standup paddle boarding instead, which was fine with me.  I really wanted to skip the adrenaline junkie activities this vacation after last year's debacle with the Grouse Grind.

The thing that most surprised me about Tofino was the the foodie-ness of the place.  Most of the restaurants were very nice with lots of local food.  Jack and I ate oysters at every opportunity.  The few casual places featured local and organic sandwiches and muffins.  The fancy places were out of control.  SoBo, which stands for Sophisticated Bohemian, is restaurant that used to be a food truck.  They have a cookbook out with an introduction by singer Sarah McLachlan.  The main courses were mostly seafood and contained interesting concoctions.  I had scallops with pears and whipped peas or something like that.  Whatever it was, it was delicious.  The kids looked at the menu and freaked out, so they both ordered cheese pizza off the kids menu.  Neither have ordered from a kids menu in years, partly because the portion sizes are small.  Both kids only ate half of what they were given.  I took a bite of their leftovers and thought this place could be a stand alone pizzeria and I'd go there.  Rarely is something off the kids menu so memorable.

At SoBo, the Boy tried his first oyster.  I would have said "ate," had the Boy ingested it.  Jack and I ordered a half dozen.  After watching Jack and I eat them almost everyday, the Boy thought he'd give it a shot.  The slimy little mollusk slipped off the shell and into his mouth.  A half second later, the little slimy mollusk was back in its shell.  We were proud he tried it.  The concept of eating an oyster is pretty wild.  There is the old joke where someone wonders who was the first person to try an egg or an oyster.  The waiter told the Boy that this would make a great story on a date sometime when he is taking a girl out for oysters in ten years.  "I remember when I had my first oyster.  I was eleven years old and in Tofino..."

On the ferry ride home, Jack, the Boy and I were on the deck of the ferry watching the scenery.  I told the Big E she should come look at it.  Her reply: "All of these inlets look the same."  I challenged her on this.

"Really," she replied.  She got out her phone and gave me a quiz.  "Where was this picture taken?"

Ummm...  I suppose I could have cheated and looked at the order my pictures were taken, but no.  I failed, getting one out of five correct.  The only thing worse than a sassy teenager is a sassy teenager who is right.

We saw Orcas on the ferry ride to Sydney.  They were far away and I didn't get a picture.

An island that looks like Bikini Bottom.

I'd make this picture larger, but it is creepy when it get too big.  In real life, it was very cool to see a 20+ legged creature.

Cheese.  Or should I say chèvre?

The blue blobs on the shore are washed up Velella, a little floating hydrozoa with a sail.
This little piece of land becomes an island when the tide is in.

Some beautiful inlet somewhere on Vancouver Island.  (Okay, I cheated and looked it up: Beacon Hill park in Victoria.)

Some Men Like Crazy

On our vacation, I read Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl.  A friend of writer friend of mine recommended I read it.  I am writing about my brother's battle with schizophrenia, and my friend thought this book would be a good reference as Ruth writes about her mother's erratic and unpredictable behavior.  Later, Ruth's mother was diagnosed with mental illness and was medicated.

One of the interesting subplots is relationship between Ruth's parents.  Ruth's father is a neuro-typical, sane man, yet he loves this woman who served spoiled food on a regular basis and ships her daughter off to French language school in Montreal without discussion.  She schedules big events with no skills on how to organize them, causing havoc for everyone around.  Why does this sane man love this nut job?  And this man seems to be psychologically normal to Ruth.

Some men like crazy.

I have many dear friends with diagnosed mental illness who are in stable and meaningful relationships.  People with mental illness deserve to be happy, too.  I am not disparaging people with mental illness.  These friends own and manage their illness, not take everyone in their path into their cyclone of unpredictability.

Back to the point.  Some men like women who are unstable, needy, clingy, mean and selfish.  Why?  Are these women so interesting or humorous that they sweep men off their feet?  What about us regular girls?  What are we to do?  I am slightly neurotic.  I own that.  But I don't think men have fallen for me because I obsess over small details, worry about things or vent after a stressful meeting.  

There must be something that men get out of these unstable women.  Do they like helping them stay on an even keel?  Do these women make them feel needed and important?  Do they like helping someone stabilize?  Or, do these men have a blind spot for crazy?  Do they just not see it?  Or, do these women treat men differently than they treat others, say their parents or children?

I think Ruth wonders the same thing in her book.  

The Boy and the Fish

While we were in Tofino on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Jack and the Boy went fishing.  The Boy is eleven years old and had never been fishing before -- not on a bank of a pond, creek, river or lake.  One of the boys in his class and on his soccer team spends a few weeks in the summer in Alaska fishing with his grandfather.  The Boy heard all about these grand adventures, and wanted to try it.  He also heard Ron Swanson, a character from Parks and Rec, talk about fishing: "It's like yoga, except you get to kill something."  Ron doesn't eat fish.  He considers it a vegetable.

I would have tagged along, but the Big E wanted no part of it.  I'd rather Jack and the Boy have a good father-son bonding time than have the Big E complain for five hours about how she hated the smell of fish.  The Big E and I went stand-up paddle boarding instead, which was fun.

So Jack and the Boy went fishing.  They hired a commercial fisher person (a woman about 30 years old) to take them out to fish.  Tofino is right on the Pacific Ocean.  From there, one can hop on a boat and catch coho salmon or halibut.  For a first go out, salmon and halibut would be pretty sweet to catch.  Those are real fish, the kind they sell at the grocery store and serve in restaurants.  The first things I ever caught fishing was a turtle.  My father and I were on an YMCA Indian Princess campout and fishing was part of the deal.  The second thing I caught was a bluegill.  If I taxed my brain, I probably could recall the place.*  I can't remember catching anything other than bluegills.  Ever.  I've never seen a bluegill on a menu at a restaurant or for sale in a grocery store.  Ever.

So the Boy and Jack went on the boat.  The Boy got a little woozy and they stuck to inlets and inner channels instead of going out on the ocean.  They were out on the water for five hours and came home with one five pound coho.  Fortunately, the fish landed on the Boy's line.  The limit was two fish per person.  We were hoping to come back with four fish, but no luck.

The Boy was all delighted, standing there with his fish on a hook.  The fish had been flopping on the deck, so the fisherwoman bonked it on the head to make it stop moving.  From there, the Boy began to pale.  He vacillated between happy and sad, and then sad won.  That night, back at the cabin, he cried over his fish.  It turns out he was more into the yoga part of fishing rather than the killing something part.

"Why did it have to die?  It was just swimming having a peaceful life," he said.  "It wasn't hurting anyone."  I patted him on the back during his existential angst.  "I am never going to eat meat or fish again."

I let him ponder.  While I am a big fan of a rare steak, I understand that something had to die in order for me to enjoy this meal.  I try not to dwell on it or think about it all of the time, but I am careful not to waste food.  If he were to become vegetarian or vegan, so be it.  But the fish was already dead.  It was filleted and flash frozen, ready to be cooked in lemon, butter and wine in a few days.

"The fish had a good life," I told him.  "You went with a professional fisherwoman who knows which fish to take and how many.  She knows what is sustainable.  It was going to die anyway at sometime."

"So I just cut its life short?"

"Yes," I said, wary of this line of conversation.  While it is not unreasonable that a fish's life is cut short for dinner, I don't want the Boy to use this as a rationale for the death penalty or to think that if someone's young mother dies of a brain tumor that this would be okay.  Now that I think about it, the same kid who cries over a fish would likely be beyond consolation if one of his friends died or something equal tragic occurred in his sphere.

"If you want, we can have a little ceremony before we eat it thanking it for giving us this delicious meal that is full of protein and Omega-3 acids," I said.  "The First Nations people do that before they have their meals."

"I don't think they used to know about Omega-3 acids."

"Whatever.  They are thankful for the fish."

The Boy settled down.  When we returned to Seattle, we had half of the fish for dinner.  I used the leftovers in a risotto the next night.  Before we ate, I asked him if he wanted to have a ceremony for the fish.

He said no.  He did it in his head.

+ + + + +

The interesting thing about this is how much the Boy reminds me of my brother when he was a kid.  My brother used to take care of wounded animals, and was sickened when he saw a bullfight in Spain.  It is strange to see these intangible characteristics cross generations, especially when the Boy and my brother have only met a handful of times.  I don't think the Boy remembers meeting Michael even.  Yet, they both have similar sensitivities.  My brother has schizophrenia, but I don't think sharing common feelings indicated that the Boy will have mental illness.  Rather, it makes me wonder more about Michael, and if he hadn't been afflicted.

Sunset at North Chesterman Beach

Low tide at North Chesterman Beach

* My dad remembers where we went fishing.  Big Trout Campgroup near Rockford, IL.  It probably should have been called Big Bluegill.

Sheryl Crow, Books I am Afraid to Read and My Best Fictional Friend, Bernadette

I was at Ravenna Third Place books yesterday picking up some stuff for the kids.  I found my way to the non-fiction table, and picked up a few things, including Bill Bryson's new book on the year 1927. Nearby was a book called The Astronaut's Wives Club: A True Story by Lisa Koppel about the women who were married to men in the space program in the 1960's.  It looked fascinating, but I was afraid to read it.  When I got home, I couldn't remember the other books I bought, but I remembered the one I didn't.  I guess I don't have the gumption right now to read about women back in the day who quietly smiled, wore perfect hair and lipstick and stood by their men.

Or maybe I should.  Not that I want to read a primer on how to be a throwback (egads), but perhaps it shows the underbelly of being the second bananas to the bravest men in the world.  But at the end of the day, we all have to be married to someone, don't we?  While we have a choice, why happens to those who fall in love with someone who is inaccessible?

Speaking of inaccessible, I saw a headline in a Good Housekeeping magazine at a newsstand in Victoria last week.  Rockstar Sheryl Crow was on the cover, and it talked about her going on blind dates.  (Sidebar:  Really?  Sheryl Crow on a blind date?  Would she want to date someone who doesn't know who she is?  I doubt it, because the only people who have never heard of her must be 25 years out of her age range or have been living under and rock and never turned on the radio in the past 20 years.  Anyhow.)  I love Sheryl Crow, and I found a copy of the magazine in the waiting room while the Big E was getting her teeth pulled.  Sheryl said when she dated famous men, she felt smaller.  She was living in their shadows, not a place she wanted to be.

Speaking of Sheryls, I am also afraid to read Lean In: Women, Work and the Will to Lead by Sheryl Sandberg.  Why am I afraid to read this?  I support women working and in leadership roles.  I used to work, and I have been President of at least six different groups in my life, plus numerous roles on boards.  I guess I am afraid to read it and see that I have failed to lean in and take corporate America by storm like I should have.  Instead, I slunk away and crawled off the track years ago when I had kids.

But not to be depressed!  In comes Bernadette!  I am making Jack read Where'd You Go Bernadette by Seattle author Maria Semple.  This book reflects the plight of many middle-aged American women, women who once held promising future which were derailed by factors outside of their control.  We watch Bernadette's demise, and then grabbing back control.  It is wonderful.  Even two years after I first read it, it lingers in my mind.  When I posted on Facebook that I bought a copy, multiple friends asked to borrow it.  No less than eight people have read it other than me.  It made its way around northeast Seattle in two months, with one person finishing and passing it on to the next.  I wish I had everyone who read it sign it just for the record.  So it touched a chord not just with me, but with many of the people I know.

Maybe I can read those other books, knowing I have Bernadette to safely come back to.

Wisdom Teeth Removal: The Torture Ritual for American Teenagers

My fourteen year old daughter had her wisdom teeth removed yesterday.   The Big E will bang her elbow on the wall and howl like a monkey, but she is stoic in the face of bona fide pain.  When she was four, she had an infected ingrown toenail for several days, and never said anything until she refused to take a bath.  She had wrapped the infected toe in toilet paper.  She had a kidney infection when she was five.  She never complained of discomfort even though kidney infections are notoriously painful.

One of the orthodontists we met recommended removal of her wisdom teeth before The Big E starts orthodontics.  Her bottom teeth were impacted and growing into the roots of the adjacent molars.  So, they had to go.

Had to.  Really?  I felt terrible bringing her to the doctor to have her teeth removed.  Did she really need this done?  I've had my wisdom teeth out.  Jack had his removed.  We survived.  It was slightly painful to to uncomfortable.  Been there, done that.  We survived.  But did we need them out?  Need as in need water, air, food or affection?  I am not so sure.  In some distant future, my molars might have rotted out or there might have been some problem when (if?) I reach 80.

People have lived for centuries with wisdom teeth, as do a vast majority of people in the world today. Was I following along like a lemming the standard practice of middle class Americans to take their children and have their bones and part of their flesh removed, as other societies might perform genital mutilation?  We think that is barbaric.  We have clean facilities for removing teeth and kids are doped up so they feel no pain but seriously, how is this different from other forms of ritual torture for kids?  Everyone goes through it, so we think it is okay.

And everyone remembers have them pulled.  Everyone.  No one says, "I think I might have had them removed.  I don't know.  My mom would remember."  No.  Everyone says, "So sorry to hear.  I hope she feels better.  I remember when I had mine pulled..." It is like some collective torture experience.  Egads.

Anyway, The Big E is doing fine.  Jack insisted on having an anesthesiologist in the room when she had them removed.  He went to the pre-surgery appointment with me and E and made a huge stink that the surgeon planned to monitor the sedation while performing the surgery.

"You know this is against the wah wah wah* standards..." he said, basically undermining her entire method of practice.  Awkward.  But whatever.  He didn't want the surgeon to chose between E's dropping heart rate or stopping her bleeding.  I see his point.

The anesthesiologist used a lighter form of sedation so the Big E was not a zombie yesterday.  She wasn't in pain and she was also coherent shortly after the operation.  In fact, she enjoyed sitting on the couch all day, playing video games, watching movies and Parks and Rec, eating ice cream, smoothies, apple sauce and jello.  When I asked how she was doing, she said this was fun.  "When else are you going to allow me to sit on the couch all day and watch TV?"  There was a downside:  "I am craving potato chips.  And Thai food, fried mozzarella, chicken fingers, pizza..."

The Boy might be having a hard time than the Big E.  Last night, he had a mini-meltdown and we couldn't figure out why.  "I am doomed!  Why should I go on living?"  We are used to his existential angst, and usually we can figure out from whence it hails.  He saw a few years into the future, lying on the couch with bloody gauze stuffed in the corners of his mouth.  My brother was traumatized as he watched me recover.  It was probably worse for him than me, as I was doped up and had the conscious level of a garden slug.  "Aren't you going to do something about this?" he told my mother.  "She looks terrible!"

* Sometimes when Jack talks medicine, he sounds to me like the teacher in Charlie Brown cartoons.  I get the point, but I have no idea what he is saying nor could I repeat it.

Robin Williams

We were on vacation on Vancouver Island when I saw the headline about Robin Williams' suicide.  I almost missed the news.  We were in the minuscule town of Tofino, British Columbia.  The headline of the newspaper was vague, so I picked it up and read the article.  Using the extremely limited access to wifi on the island, I read the obituary in the New York Times on my phone.

I was sad when I heard the news.  I liked Robin Williams.  I read in "The Sun" magazine an interview with a social scientist who believes love is any positive interaction between two people.  While it may have been one sided, I loved Robin Williams.  Growing up, Mork and Mindy was a staple, just like my kids watch Parks and Recreation.  If Mork had been the only thing he had ever done, I'd still think Williams was a riot.  There was one time he embarrassed me out of a room.  A few years ago, my father and I were watching his stand-up show on HBO.  He was talking about sex and I had to leave.  Yes, it was funny, but not while my dad was in the room and laughing so hard I thought he'd get a hernia.

In Tofino, I read the story "Busy Working, Robin Williams Fought Demons" on William's death on the New York Times.  After I read it, I had Jack read it.

"He was a workaholic," Jack said.  My impression exactly.

"Given his well-publicized troubles with depression, addiction, alcoholism, and a significant heart surgery in 2009, Mr. Williams should have had a resume filled with mysterious gaps.  Instead, he worked nonstop.

"At the very least--if his life had followed the familiar script of troubled actors--there would have been whispers of on-set antics: lateness, forgotten lines, the occasional flared temper.

"Not so with Mr. Williams.  'He was ready to work, he was the first one on the set,' said Mr. Bailey...Robin was always 1,000 percent reliable."

I continued my google search of Robin Williams and there was listed a handful of movies he starred in: Good Will Hunting, Mrs. Doubtfire, Jumanji, Good Morning, Vietnam.

And 44 others.

Jack could relate.  The first one in.  Reliable.  In a good mood.  Taking on more and more.

This vacation was challenge for Jack.  It was his first double weekend vacation in perhaps ten years.  He brought his computer so we could potentially plan for our next trip.  I told him I'd throw his laptop in the ocean if I caught him working.  I kept the charger buried in one of my bags.  His computer was off for nine days.  He used his phone to make phone calls, check the Mariner's scores, and find where to go for dinner.  We stopped at Munro's Books (founded by Alice Munro's husband in the 1960's) in Victoria and I forced him to buy and read a novel.  He picked Canada by Richard Ford.  One morning, Jack slept until 8:30 a.m., an indoor record.

The Boy was alarmed when I connected workaholism and suicide.

"It won't happen to Daddy," I said confidently.  "We won't let it."

But I am not so sure.  I don't think Jack is the suicide type, but then who thought Robin Williams would be?

Williams had three kids and three wives.  I could leave Jack and the workaholism behind, but the kids cannot.  I could choose not to watch him self-destruct.  The Boy and the Big E don't have that luxury.

Since Robin Williams death, his diagnosis of Parkinson's has been made public.  The brain stops producing dopamine, and depression ensues.  I can't imagine that the Funniest Man in the World would want to live with a compromised brain.  As I watch my mother slip into Alzheimer's,  I can understand.  I could see living without my breasts or knees or watching my hands crumple with arthritis.  Losing my mind and my mood would be unthinkable.

OOT -- Out of Town

Jack and I finally had a weekend away sans enfants.  One of my dear friends and her husband took the kids for the weekend.  Overall, it was a good time.  We took the Clipper from Seattle to Victoria.  We had never been to Vancouver Island before.  We spent our first night in Victoria, a beautiful city and the capitol of British Columbia.

We arrived on Friday night, and Saturday there was a wedding at our hotel.  In the lobby as we were checking out, I saw the bride.  She was in her middle to late twenties, a reasonable age to wed.  Yet, when I saw her, I thought Foolish girl.  Foolish, foolish, foolish girl.  Why do we believe in monogamy?  I tried not to remember my wedding, the innocence, the naiveté.   If you asked me then if I would ever be in the spot I am in now -- wondering how my marriage fell so badly apart -- I never would have believed you.  And here she is, a young, fresh bride, placing all of her faith and future into the hands of one man.  Why?

But one can only be cynical so long in Victoria.  Life may suck, but hey -- isn't it good to suffer in a beautiful place?

Parliament

Lunch on the veranda at the Gatsby House

Victoria

The harbor in Victoria.

We spent one night in Victoria, then biked on the Galloping Goose Trail to Sooke.  Exercise is another good way to alleviate cynicism.  I was focused more on navigating traffic in the city, finding the trailhead, and coping with the extra weight on the back of the bike.  The only luggage we had were panniers.  I traveled light, taking the minimum.  Surprisingly, my bags weighed less than Jack's.  On the trail, we saw several couples traveling in the same style, expect they had one set of panniers, and the guy was carrying the entire load.  (Note to self:  That's the way to go next time.)

The trail is an old railroad track and this is a trestle.

Sooke is another little town on an inlet.  I really couldn't tell you what the town was like, as I mostly saw the place from the trail and the short taxi ride to dinner for two nights.  In some ways, we got to see the pretty side.

The Sooke Potholes along the river.  Beautiful and cool water.

On the last night of the trip, Jack had a Felix Felicis experience, named after the the liquid luck in Harry Potter.  Years ago, we had a date and went downtown Seattle with no plans.  We found a beautiful parking spot near the outdoor sculpture gardens, and we got a table at Le Pichet on Saturday night.  For no planning, it was wonderful and we celebrated our good fortune.

In Sooke, we had a similar experience.  Before the trip, Jack had been talking about the Sooke Harbor House and its famous restaurant.  The place opened in 1979 and specializes in local foods, with everything except coffee, lemons and chocolate coming from British Columbia.  After our day of biking to the potholes, I recommended calling the restaurant to see if we could get a table.

"They are usually booked two months in advance," he said.

"It is Sunday night.  Let's try," I said.

We had a reservation at 8:00.  Our two seat table faced the water and Olympic Mountains.  We spied a forest fire through the binoculars on the window ledge.  For such a famous restaurant, the place was remarkably laid back.  We had oysters and clams and mussels and lamb and halibut.  All delicious and amazing.

Over the trip, I enjoyed Jack's company.  Which is good and bad.  During dinner, he joked and asked if he was back in the black, in terms of deposits in the love bank.  We both laughed, knowing there is still work to be done.  But, yes, things are improving.  He is trying to get his workaholism under control.  He is spending more time with me and the kids.  At the end of the dinner, I thought I am going to have to stay married to him.  I was cautious in my assessment, remembering the last year, that this grief will come in waves where I will be forgiving at one point, then frustrated the next.  The downside of having such a nice time is the pain of seeing something that was once so peaceful and steady get knocked down.  But I enjoyed the peace while it was there.