The Slippery Slope to 40

Yesterday I turned 39 with little to no anxiety about aging, and a good dose of fancy tequila.

The day was glorious, sunny, and warm. Kate took a long nap and when she got up we went to Chaparral House for a quick visit. It was torture sitting in a dark TV room with about 15 women sleeping in wheelchairs in front of a videotape of some highbrow play. (Less depressing than if they’d been watching crappy sitcomes, but still.) Rose was not in her room and her door was closed. Of course, I always panic that maybe she’s gone, as in gone. She never seems to enjoy socializing with the other “inmates” but when I asked a nurse where she was, she said she was in the TV room.

We hadn’t seen Rose last week because of our road trip. She was thrilled to see Kate and even remembered her name calling her Katie, but often still referring to her as him. I think because she has twin sons, and her memory is so sporadic, she thinks of all babies as being boys.

She did ask her favorite question, “Does he look like his father?” The first hundred times she asked me that I answered honestly saying not really. But it seems to me it’s an unsatisfying answer, so recently I’ve taken to saying yes. I tell her (and it’s not really that far-fetched) that Kate has her father’s eyes. “Oh he must love her,” she says. It’s interesting that she talks about how Mark must love Kate, but we never talk about my experience as a mother.

At any rate, I busted a move out of the nursing home pretty quickly because Sacha and baby Owen were going to the UC Berkeley pool and it seemed like a far nicer way to spend my b-day afternoon. Sacha had an extra swim diaper so I was able to attempt to get Kate into the wading pool, but she would have none of the chilly water. No fool, she.

Kevin, and our neighbors Cat and Andy (friends from before having moved to Oak-Town), came over for din din. It was warm enough to eat outside, and Mark did ribs on the grill, with baked beans, cole slaw, and corn bread. Kevin made kick-ass margaritas, and we had a peach strudel/pie thingy for dessert. It was a really relaxed and fun night.

Hooray! I am 39, with cool friends, a nice little house where it’s warm enough to eat outside, a husband who I adore, and the best little baby ever born, who slept peacefully as we ate, drank, talked and laughed the evening away. Lucky 39-year-old me.

Back Home

The road trip with Kate was soooo great. From the moment we pulled away from the house it was clear we were on an adventure. The fact that it was a sunny weekday when the rest of the world was toiling over hot computers made it all the more liberating and indulgent. I intentionally didn’t pack a lot. Megan had some baby stuff of Ella’s she said we could borrow, and I figured what we didn’t have we could do without.

On the three-day sojourn Kate was a wonder-baby. She was so easy to be with and care for–she seemed incredibly centered and happy. On our drive home when she started to cry, I realized that she hadn’t cried for days. It sort of jarred me into the reality, “Oh yeah, she’s just a baby.”

It’s cool being able to take her out of her usual surroundings and routine and see her not only adapt, but thrive. She loved meeting people, and seeing new things–all the amazing foliage and birds around their house, Katie the dog. She made her own connections with people too. Despite their year age difference, Kate loved rolling around on the floor while Ella marched around her and handed her toys. And from the moment we pulled into the driveway, Megan’s baby-lovin’ dad, Rog, wisked Kate into his arms and chatted with, tickled, and smooched her up like she was his own grandchild. She loved the attention and genuine affection, and never once acted tentative or needed to check in with me.

It makes me sad for the parents who don’t want to take their kids away from home because they fear they won’t do well in a new environment. Sure, I was worried that her great sleep patterns were at risk, and she did wake up more than usual there. But Kate is all the better for having gotten to know the fabulous Heathcotes, for having slept in a foreign Pack ‘n Play in an incredibly quiet rural house, and for having bathed in an inflatable tub with a whole slew of different bath toys.

For all the time we already spend together, our little trip was a bonding experience. Oh how I love that little girl! (Yes, I’m planning to go off to college with her and live under her bed.)

As Rose from Chaparral House mutters–somewhat fragmentedly–when looking at Kate, “Not for a million dollars.” I’m not sure what the complete thought there is, but I assume it refers to Kate’s pricelessness. Indeed.

Hittin’ the Road

Tomorrow Kate and I will break in her new big-girl car seat on our first ever mother-daughter road trip. No, we will not be wearing matching goggle sunglasses and chiffon scarves. Though she would look pretty darn cute in such. Then again, I think she looks cute smeared head to toe in sweet potato.

Our friends Megan, Jason, and wee Ella are moving back to the Bay Area after a 3-year(?) sojourn in San Diego where they experienced good weather, new friends, and real estate dreams-come-true. Alas, the SD job market isn’t what Jason hoped/wanted/liked–combined with other factors, including all their SF friends incessent whining for their return since they left. At long last, we won. Hooray!

Unfortunately the transition back here is a mite more complex. They have 2 more sentient beings on their hands than they did when they left–the aforementioned wee Ella, a sweet blondie about 18 months old who can sign like the dickens. And an equally adorable pup named Katie who knows commands in Spanish (something Megan and Jason found out days after bringing their “trained” dog home from the pound).

Tangent: Kate is clearly destined to be surrounded by dogs with names like hers. Perhaps we should have just thrown in the towel and named her Scout?

Further complications include renting out their house, moving in with Meg’s parents while Jason interviews, and the sordid fact that Megan recently broke her leg. Her thigh bone. Ouch! In one of those not at all sporty maneuvers which included stepping off a curb.

Even with her mother’s help, caring for a toddler while dependent on a wheelchair/walker/crutches has got to be tough. So Kate and I are pinning on our Florence Nightengale nurse caps and heading south to help out. Even if it’s just by having some good clean fun by calling out “Katie!” and watching the baby and the dog turn around.

Megan’s folks live in Nipomo, near Pismo Beach. It’s down south along Scenic Highway 101, and apparently takes about 4 hours to get to. So a warning to those who live along 101: Shutter your windows and turn up your stereos. We’re comin’ through and I’ll be singing a constant stream of loud senseless kiddie songs.

It’s much worse than I thought…

Just back from Safeway, where as I was unloading Kate from the car I looked down to see that I was wearing my slippers. Not, thank God, the huge hot pink ones that have big flamingo heads on them that Mark’s cousin gave me. They were something more demure and black… Sad thing is I just thought, “Ah fuck it,” and continued on my way.

This is the kind of thing that gets your husband sending a hidden video of you into some mommy make-over show.

Speaking of which, my sister Judy called the other night all hopped up. She keeps a 24/7 vigil of the HGTV network. She’d just seen my friends Dawn and Josh on some “your-dream-kitchen” type show. We Tivoed it when it re-ran. V. funny seeing your friends become part of the reality TV epidemic. (And yes, their kitchen is quite dreamy.)

Kate-o Kaylan just arose from her nap and is babbling to herself. We’re awaiting the arrival of long-lost friend Rhya Fisher, who is doing a CA tour, on vacation from Cambridge. I’m not being coy–she is not at Harvard and I’m just calling it Cambridge, MA. Actually, I have no idea when she is doing now. She may well be there. When last Rhya and I saw each other, she was exploring career options as diverse as personal chef, cross-country ski instructor, and pursuing an MBA. She’s one of those annoying people with a Midas touch for whatever she pursures. But she’s so damn sweet and lovely, you can’t hate her no matter how much you want to.

I’m sure after seeing me, she’ll drop it all to explore the wonders of housewifery.

Kate is 7 Months Old

Today Kate turns 7 months old. I never thought I’d be one of those parents who tells their child’s age in weeks (when they’re 7 years old…), or who thinks for a few seconds when asked their child’s age then says, “He’ll be 11 months on next Tuesday–no, no–next Wednesday!” I mean, can’t they round up and say he’s almost a year? Are they really fearful that we care that our understanding of their child’s age might be a day off?

Ah, how foolish I was! Just this weekend someone asked me how old la bella Kate is and I proudly proclaimed, “She be 7 months on Monday!” I’m sure she was thinking, “Oh, I have to remember to schedule my next teeth cleaning.”

At any rate, this weekend when Mark was showering and I was trying pitifully to entertain Kate while getting dressed myself, I took a stab at teaching her to say, “Hi Dad.” I figured this would be faily easy since DaDa is one of her favorite words. Sure enough by the time Mark walked into the room she was saying Hi Da! My God, have I become an incredibly boring person? Yes, this was exciting to us. I guess that is why it takes 2 people to make a baby. You have someone else to gush with over things that anyone else would not give a rat’s ass about. Except maybe another parent.

Speaking of our little linguist, I should get dressed and ready to take on the day while she is napping.

Bagel Day–Not

One of the things that’s hard about not working in an office is waking up hungry on a Friday morning and facing the reality that, for you, it’s not bagel day. Noone has delivered fresh bagels and cream cheese to my kitchen this morning. I am left alone to forge for my breakfast.

As distressing as this is, it’s not enough to get me back into the rat race. Almost, but not quite.

Another departed mother

I went to my friend Barb’s mother’s funeral today. Barb’s mom was sick with Alzheimers for 10 years before she died. It seems like a disease that takes people’s lives and suspends them in limbo. For years Joyce wasn’t the person she used to be, but her body was still alive. When it finally gave out Thursday, it caught up with the long-gone Joyce that her family knew and loved.

That had to be a bittersweet relief. In all the time she was sick, the logistics around her care, watching her deteriorate, reacting to the foreign things she’d say or do–must have dominated their thoughts of her. But today they clearly had let the struggles of the recent years go, and seemed revitalized by being able to remember and celebrate the wife/mother/grandmother they once knew.

I didn’t ever really know Joyce–aside from meeting her briefly at Barb’s wedding–but I got a strong sense of what a cool woman she was. She had 4 daughters, 2 sons, and 17 grandchildren. She was a carpe diem kind of mother. Her oldest son said she was always loading the 6 kids into the car and driving off on a wild hare to some adventure.

She loved music and played the piano. One of her sons talked about her banging out Amazing Grace at one point when her memory was nearly gone–with the same gusto that she always had.

A group of the grandchildren got up and sang It’s a Small Word–one of Joyce’s favorite songs. At the second verse their voices trailed off, not knowing the words. Joyce’s 6 adult chuldren piped in with the lyrics–laughing that the song was beaten into their memories.

On another note, it’s wild how my ability to keep pace with a Catholic mass is so ingrained in me. Shelley had told me I’d need to prompt her on the sitting, standing, kneeling–saying it’s as complicated for her to follow as a step class. And for not resonating with me spritually, there is something strangely reassuring about the familiarity of it all. I guess it also reminds me of my mom.

Call it morbid, or egocentric, but I couldn’t help but wonder what my funeral would be like some day. I was so inspired by how Joyce lived. She didn’t make any lasting marks in the business world or breakthroughs in science. She just had a hell of a time raising her children, welcoming her grandchildren, singing, and seeking adventure where she could. I plan to try to do the same.

A late entry into the digital age

I tend to be a late bloomer. Last in my middle-school class to get a bra, married at the tender age of 37–with a history of a host of other unintentionally fashionable latenesses. So, years into this whole blog phenom, I decided it’s finally safe for me to test the waters.

A disclaimer: Please don’t confuse me with anyone who has anything remotely lofty or thought-provoking to get off my chest. Mostly, I’d like to ramble on about the newest apple of my eye, light of my life, and silly smoochie-smooch–the amazing Kate Miller McClusky, age 6.5 months. And boy is she cute!!

But before I delve into her latest little life event or accomplishment (in the caliber of not spitting up after a feeding), the thing that is most on my mind these days is my mom. Monday marked 2 years since her death. (I’m someone who tends to shy away from saying “passed away” or worse, “passed on.”) Monday I woke up with a heavy heart, and felt fairly mopey for the whole day. In a weird way it surprised me. I’ve lived without her for 2 years, so why should this day be sadder than others?

There’s so much to say about being a new mother without my mother here to share it with. Mostly I miss being able to call her to relay the most mundane detail about Kate, and knowing she’ll relish it as much as I do. She was also a truly world-class grandmother to the grandchildren she lived to know (John and Rory, my sister Marie’s teens, and Maia and Tikloh, Ellen’s 7 and 4 year olds). The affection she seemed to dole out parsimoniously to us kids came in waves towards her grandchildren.

And part of why I wish she was here was just to plain show Kate off to her. Of all my life accomplishments, this is the biggest reason ever to say, “Hey Mom, watch this!” So, I’ll just assume she would adore Kate, find her cute as the dickens, and tease me in her super-sarcastic way about some or other of my approaches to motherhood.

Kate beckons… a likely end to most of my postings.