Grief and Riley's unexpected voice

Riley with Freddie circa when the call was made.

I sometimes use Riley's bedroom as a space to make private phone calls. Yesterday was one of those days. I was on the phone for 50 minutes with our health insurance company, trying to figure out why some bills are going unpaid even though we have coverage. Then I spent another 30 minutes on the phone with the doctor's office. After I hung up, I put my phone and pen on my stack of papers and walked to my bedroom where I set all of it on the bed. From there, I stopped in the bathroom, then grabbed my phone off the bed before heading to put on my boots so that I could go pick up kids from school. I set it on the table before bending down to pick up a boot. As I pulled the boot over my heel, Riley's voice came out of my phone. It was a saved voicemail. It was a call that Riley had made from my house to his dad's house when he was about nine years old. His dad had saved the message on his phone and shared with me via Dropbox not long after Riley died. And now here it was playing in my otherwise quiet house.

His voice was shaky; he had called his dad to let him know that he'd forgotten Freddie at his house and asked if he would bring him over in the morning. I remember that night. His favorite item several blocks away. He'd have to settle for a lesser-loved soft toy to snuggle as he fell asleep. There were tears. And hugs to console my sad boy.

But how did Riley's voice end up being played from an inactive phone? When I opened my phone to see what was happening, Dropbox wasn't even one of the active applications. I just stared at it for several minutes, bemused and delighted to hear him and also sad because he was so sad. And also sad because I'll never hear his voice shape words into new sentences or questions. He won't tell me any jokes or read me Jon Agee palindromes or describe situations in bizarre Far Side comics. There will be no puberty or deepening as his sweet boy voice transforms into a kind man voice.

I won't know how that voicemail played in my living room. But I do know that I am open to believing that Riley made it happen. I will just chalk it up as another one of the unexplainable messages from him that make him feel everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

I love the way you dance...

I’ve been dancing occasionally with a guy that looks like my ex at my Monday night dance class—you know, similar height, similar body type, similar hairstyle. And I think it’s improved my relationship with my ex (which was already quite good) because every time I see him or interact with him, I remember how much fun it was seeing him let loose at dance class. Arms swinging, knees up, all with a serious expression, of course.

While it’s unlikely that he would ever indulge in an unstructured dance class, especially one with a slightly spiritual edge based in the realm of personal growth, it provides me with much humor to imagine him there embracing something completely out of character. It’s just a little harmless transference psychology. And it makes me chuckle. Another benefit of my Monday night class.

I prefer the real world

Today was one of those lazy weekend days when we wondered what we should do with our precious family time. Father in Chief tossed around some ideas – Coyote Point, the Children’s Discovery Museum, the Academy of Sciences. He figured today was a good day to check out one of those usually-too-crowded museums because most people (he hoped) would be home getting ready for their Super Bowl Party.

But I hate kid museums.

Call me a curmudgeon or a bad parent. But I hate them for all the same reasons I hate taking my kid to the playground. They are crowded. And they are pretty much boring for parents. Or at least I find them incredibly boring. Whenever the weather is nice and it’s light outside, I always have the babysitter take the kids to the park. At least they get to go. I’m pretty sure there is no rule that says I have to take them, right? As for museums, I avoid them too – unless I’m going to be meeting up with one of my favorite friends. Then I’ll suffer through it.

As we pondered the list of kid-approved venues, I figured that they’re had to be a better place for us to spend an hour or two without crowds, without germ-infested buttons to push, without kids fighting over the buckets and shovels in the sandbox. I wanted to go somewhere that the kids could still learn about life without it being a place specifically designed for learning about life. We decided to take the kids to the bike path near Oracle.

R rode his bike. C finally figured out how to pedal his tricycle. We stopped at nearly all of those exercise pit-stops, which are part of one of those ancient exercise circuits made of wood. We did push-ups. They slid down the one that was supposed to be for inverted sit-ups. We saw birds. We saw cyclists. We saw rollerbladers. We saw flowers, clouds, and talked about brackish water. We saw airplanes, leaves, stones, and sticks. C and I even marveled at a spotless ladybug for several minutes.

It was great. There was fresh air, no hefty admission fee, no stressful search for a parking spot. There was no line for the bathroom or the drinking fountain. There was no one demanding anything from the snack bar. It was just our family enjoying each other’s company at our own pace out in the real world.

Sure, we didn’t learn about gravity or wind in any kid-designed experiment. But we saw gravity in action as we watched the kids hurl sticks out to the marshy water and as stones fell to the ground. We learned about the rules of the road as we corralled the kids to the right side of the path to lets others pass around us. We learned about the food chain as we talked about the birds swooping down to the water as they scooped up their lunch.

It was the best.

You're always 95 percent done

The art of writing seems too fluid to ever be set in stone. And that makes my job difficult. I keep editing. And editing. And editing. Every time I read my book proposal, I tweak a sentence here. I add some color there. I rearrange something in the table of contents. I can't imagine there will be a time when I read it, and I don't see a single word that should be replaced with a better, more appropriate word. But if I continue with this line of thinking (and editing), I will never, ever send this proposal out to agents. I will never move past this fluid phase.

My talented husband said that as with software development, a project is always 95 percent finished. But you need to pick end dates so that you can actually ship the product. That same theory should be applied to this proposal as well. Letting the calendar dictate my end-date seemed like the perfect way to help me move past this editing phase. As a result, my new deadline is Saturday, April 5. That gives me one more week to tweak, edit, add, delete, paste, and perfect before I stop.

I know a big part of my hesitation is just the idea of putting my words and ideas out there. The idea of moving into the uncomfortable phase where strangers will cut it down, move things around, and ask for revisions is daunting. But I believe in myself, and I believe in my project. I need to remember that a year ago, the idea of writing a business plan for my book was daunting. But I did it. And I know I will do this too because I know that ultimately, all those revisions, all that criticism, and all that outside feedback will make it even better.

All spiffed up

In case you haven't yet--because you're reading my insightful posts via a newsreader--you simply must check out the swanky new look of my blog. Just having this professionally-designed site makes me feel, well, more professional. I know you're supposed to dress for the job you want, but since I write at home and no one sees me but my grubby-fingered kids and tolerant husband, it makes more sense to dress up my blog to fully reflect me and the job I want--that of a fabulous, stylish, and successful writer and parent. Even if most days I'm not all that stylish on the outside, I am still fabulous on the inside. And stylish when I want to be. And while I haven't reached the ultimate success--that of a published author--I'm at least heading in the right direction.

Along with the launch of my blog design, I've been focusing on other aspects of professionalism. I've been getting all connected through Facebook and LinkedIn, the latter which may be leading to a little paid writing gig on the side. A little bread and butter, so to speak. I'm getting out there, reminding people that just because I left the paid, go-to-an-office job, not only did I not completely disappear into the abyss known as suburban motherhood, I've actually been writing, and editing, and publishing. And most recently, making tons of progress on my non-fiction book for parents who have kids in the hospital. That is, of course, in addition to all of the pontificating I do here.

And when all those connections do a little research on me, they will certainly see my blog, which will hopefully--with its appealing, polished look--reinforce in that I am indeed worthy of their encouragement, their support, their advice, and their endorsements.

If only Calgon really could take me away

Father in Chief and I went to see Dan in Real Life on Saturday night, staring Steve Carell, Juliette Binoche, and Dane Cook. It is a comedy about family, about relationships, about brothers. Grown up brothers. Only instead of making me laugh, I sobbed quietly on FIC's shoulder during parts of the movie. And then I sobbed loudly during the walk from the theater to the car.

You see, I have two little boys. And in most families, those little boys will eventually grow up to be men. To be brothers. They might be close. They might not be close. But they'll have each other and the shared family history of growing up in the same house with the same parents. Only our family isn't like most families. One of my boys might not grow up to be with his brother. To joke around in the yard while tossing a football. To spend holidays together. To tease each other, as brothers do. And so watching that fake Hollywood family do those things caught me off guard. So FIC's shoulder got wet as I thought about what might not be. I thought about the grown men I might not have. And I ached for myself. I ached for my son. I ached for my other son, and all of the losses that go along with his health problems.

When I was driving back to my house after taking the sitter home, I decided a good solution to feeling so sad was to just run away from my problems. I wouldn't drive home. I would just leave and go have a different life. It seemed like a really, really good idea. I want the nice house on the lake in the middle of nowhere. I want to be able to live far, far away from top pediatric heart centers. I want to be able to vacation at high elevations and not think about whether there is enough oxygen. I want to fly on airplanes without oxygen tanks or the need to figure out how to keep the medicine cold. I want the perfect family with the perfect kids. And if I can't really run away, I want to believe in parallel universes because there has to be a better, happier version of my life out there somewhere. The life I'm supposed to have. The life that I planned. The life where no one is really sick or in the hospital or having surgery. I want the life where everyone grows up. I want the life where I have to boys--two brothers--as long as I'm alive. And then long afterwards.

But then I realized I want all of that with my family, my husband, my kids. So I drove home, checked on the boys, and snuggled up with FIC in our bed, in our house, which comes complete with all that other stuff.

So here I'll stay. I'll eject those thoughts from my head as best I can. And I'll enjoy the moments we have right now. The moments when Preschooler in Chief squats beneath Baby in Chief's highchair and tickles his toes over and over, as BIC does the sign for "more" after each tickle. The moments when PIC is hollering about BIC putting Matchbox cars in his mouth. The moments when the kids are being crazy at the restaurant and everyone is staring at us. I need to cling to those moments. I need to savor those moments because I don't know how many more moments we'll get.

I think it will be a long, long time before I consider going to see another comedy.

Can you put a timer on that?

Microsoft announced the Xbox 360 Family Timer earlier this week. The Family Timer (which will be available for download in December) will let parents set a specific amount of time that kids can use their Xbox. When the minutes are used up, the machine shuts down. I'd like to take that concept and see if it can be applied to other aspects of life.

For kids:

1. Limit back-talk or nagging: Once the limit is met, the vocal chords are disabled until the following day.
2. Limit annoying toys: You can set a timer on "soundy" toys. Once the time is up, they are silenced until the following day.

For spouses:

1. Limit bathroom loitering: Once the time is up, the lights go off and the toilet flushes automatically.
2. Limit shower hogging: You set the number of minutes allowed per shower. The temperature gets significantly colder as a one-minute warning. Then the water goes off.

For self:

1. Limit snacking: Food eaten after a certain time will cause vomiting and diarrhea.

Feeling antsy

There has been an uncomfortable feeling following me around like a late-afternoon shadow.

Well, all I needed to do was check out my Google Docs to be reminded of the spreadsheet I set up a few months back to keep track of my freelance submissions. Since I hadn't been exercising my keyboard skills because I was out of town, I haven't had a reason to go there. Well, now that I'm back and I have gotten through my backlogged to-do list (grocery shop, doctor appointment, pick up medicine from the pharmacy, follow up on past-due bills, drop off Preschooler in Chief's late school photo order, etc., etc.), I finally decided it's time to attempt to get back into my writing routine. And there it was, that reminder that eight weeks has come and nearly gone since I submitted my essay to Newsweek. And there hasn't been a word from them. And in this business, silence is not golden. On the bright side, there are six more days before I'm officially rejected. Sigh.

Maybe because it takes so long to be rejected from these publications it makes it feel like the rejection is bigger than it really is. There have only been two rejections at this point, which really isn't all that bad. And there are still several other publications that I can try to place my piece with. But you submit your work and wait and wait and wait.

Perhaps if I was a big-named writer with lots of recent clips at national publications, getting my stuff published wouldn't be so emotional (or difficult). But then again, I'm sure big-named writers probably don't write stuff on spec without knowing that it will be published wherever they want it to be published. So I guess I just need a break. I need to get a couple of pieces featured in prominent publications. Then things would get easier. Or maybe I wouldn't sweat it so much if an occasional piece was rejected.

I wonder if it's better to keep shooting for the big publications or to start small and take my small successes to the bigger publications. It has to be who you know. And at this point, I don't know the right people.

Father in Chief says I should shelf the essay for a bit and work on something totally different. And I could do that because I always have ideas bouncing around my brain. But I don't want to start from scratch. And if I'm going to be working, then I'd rather work on my other who-knows-if-it-will-ever-get-published project: my book. Ugh.

Desperate times call for desperate measures

IT has been officially scheduled in my calendar. In pen.

This does seem to take the spontaneity out of the whole thing. But if scheduling in advance is the only way to ensure that we succumb to post-coital exhaustion--instead of just plain old regular parental exhaustion--then I'm all for scheduling in advance.

My only hope--besides success--is that all this planning doesn't take all the fun out of it.

No iPhone

There is no doubt that the iPhone is very cool. But really, why do I need one? Why does Father in Chief need one? He has a cell phone that works perfectly well. He has a computer at home and two at work which all offer excellent Internet capabilities, so when else will he really need Internet access? Sure the iPhone has maps, but so do those computers with Internet access. And so does his Prius with the navigation system. If we are ever out somewhere and we don't have the nav system and we are in need of directions, I'll volunteer to ask someone. What about photos of the boys? Available on those computers again. And on our television. And round the house and on his desk at work. I'll bet there are even some in his wallet.

Father in Chief's argument was that everyone else is getting one. It reminded me of one of Preschooler in Chief's favorites whines these days: It's just not fair. And as with PIC, it is just not a compelling argument. He also said with much enthusiasm that could get email at the park. As soon as he uttered those words, he realized it was a mistake. That is an argument to never, ever get one, ever.

Any new gadgets that have the potential of cutting into family time or us time are not welcome in my home. FIC and I already have so little time together that we needed to schedule nightly meetings to make sure we are still communicating. And I'm pretty sure we need to start scheduling sex if we really want that to happen as well.

Part of my objection is that I don't want my kids to grow up in a world where our family gets rid of perfectly good stuff just because there is new stuff to buy and to have. Both FIC and I grew up in families where there wasn't a lot of frivolous spending. Going out to dinner was a special treat. Getting new clothes happened because our other clothing was too small, because they were totally worn out and no longer wearable, or because the neighbor's garage sale had a bunch of clothing that would fit my brother and me. Extras were few and far between. I feel fortunate that FIC is able to contemplate buying an iPhone without including the can we afford it question into the decision-making process. But just because we can doesn't mean we should.

I don't mean to squelch FIC's excitement for the iPhone. I'm sure some day FIC will have one. I'm sure some day I'll have one. But not now. Not when our perfectly good cell phones work. And we have perfectly acceptable digital cameras. And we have more Internet access than any family needs. Maybe, just maybe, I'd be on board if ongoing, quality childcare was included in the $600 price tag.

Deep down, FIC must agree with me. Or else he probably wouldn't have asked my opinion in the first place.

Forget the kids--celebrate you

The best way to celebrate Mother's Day is stop feeling like a mom and feel more like a woman, a person! Father in Chief and I had a little date last night. We booked a sitter went out for a drink and some dessert. Well, all I needed to do was to shed my nursing bra for a black lacy bra and matching undies to realize that I am indeed still a woman, even if most days, I'm a lactating, comfy-pants wearing mother.

I really recommend it. It was quite liberating, even if it was short-lived.

And I even celebrated part of today with my kids. But only because my original plan to go to yoga and have a massage was thwarted because I cut my finger Friday night trying to wedge two hunks of frozen baby food apart (now there's a argument for buying the pre-made stuff that comes in jars). Anyway, the knife incident led to a dreadful four-and-a-half hour stay in the emergency room. As as result, my hands were rendered useless for yoga (and typing up until today). I suppose hanging out with the family wasn't all bad. There was breakfast and a lovely picnic in the park. Still, I'm going to reschedule my massage for later this week and hopefully I'll be back to my alternate nostril breathing by next weekend.

In the meantime, I think I'll be sporting my sassy, lacy bra at least once a week to remind myself that under the spit-up and crusty goop, I'm still an attractive female who does own (and occasionally wears) sexy lingerie. Alternatively, I could wear it for a couple of hours each day. Perhaps as soon as the kids go to bed, I'll go up and change into it. And then maybe, just maybe, there will be another reminder that I am indeed an enticing woman. Now if only there was a wardrobe change that was a quick fix for exhaustion.

Book recommendations?

Last night, Father in Chief and I were wandering around some bookstores and I spent a lot of time in the writing/publishing section. I was reading about finding an agent, writing a book proposal, and the publishing industry in general. There were so many choices. It was a bit overwhelming for someone who has no knowledge in this area. I feel confident in my writing skills, but I've never had to think about this other stuff before. Before I committed to buying anything, I figured I'd go peruse my local library's offerings. Then once I find the ones I really like, I'll get my own copies to smudge up and fill with book darts. Getting Your Book Published for Dummies probably would have been a good place to start.

Any recommendations?

In the meantime I'm going to write. FIC is out of the house. And he took Preschooler in Chief with him, leaving the house filled with a lovely sound: silence. I realize that rare sound will be filled with whimpers and giggles as soon as Baby in Chief wakes up from his nap. But for the time being, I'm going to relish the moment and get down to work. I'm feeling so energized with this project and my hope is that I can hang onto that feeling even when writing becomes difficult, as it does at times. It's a craft of ebbs and flows, so I will do some writing instead of napping, which would be another fine--although less productive way--to enjoy the silence.

New job, positive impact on stomach

It doesn't seem like it's been that long since Father in Chief left Yahoo to join family-friendly start-up JotSpot. It was a great move for our family because the company's culture was being defined by people who also have kids, who make their family lives a priority. This was a stark difference from Yahoo. There, FIC reported to people that 1) didn't have kids or 2) who left their kids for extended hours each day as both parents held big jobs with long hours. When I first wrote about it, I ruffled some tender feathers at Yahoo. To be clear, I never said that having kids with a nanny or in childcare for 10-plus hours a day was bad (although it's not the family life I want). I simply stated the facts: It's often hard for people who make those choices to understand the parents who don't want regularly scheduled 7 pm meetings. I touched a tender chord, apparently.

Anyway, the start-up life was grand. Father in Chief was able to do some work at home in the morning and have an occasionally breakfast with Preschooler in Chief. It was occasionally because PIC is a very late sleeper, often getting up after 9 am. FIC was also nearly always home for dinner and our regular evening routine. This is important to the home life we want for our kids, for ourselves. We want FIC to be an everyday part of our family life--not a weekend guest, a visitor who appears on special occasions, or someone who just kisses the kids long after they are asleep in bed.

But just 18 months later, he finds himself back at a big company. Google bought JotSpot last October, and our concerns of long hours, late meetings and unsympathetic managers have not materialized. Quite the contrary. FIC has eased into his new role without sacrificing our morning, dinner or evening rituals. Yes, there are and will be occasional late meetings or early morning calls, but nothing of any magnitude has chipped our family's foundation. No wonder Fortune Magazine named Google the No. 1 company to work for in 2007. And the fabulous, free, better-than-Whole-Foods-quality meals are a nice perk as well.

It only takes 15 minutes

I miss my husband. I miss talking with him, connecting with him. I miss sitting on the couch with our legs intertwined while we talk about our days--the mundane, the exciting, the regular stuff that is the bulk of our everyday lives. Sure, we have managed date nights here and there, but I don't want to be married only on the weekends.

During my first writing date with Aspiring Writer Friend, we talked much more than we wrote. Actually we did not write at all. That does not mean we didn't accomplish anything. We talked about writing. We talked about what we want to from our weekly dates. For her, she wants to flesh out ideas to turn into essays to submit to various publications. I need someone to bounce my ideas off of for my non-fiction book.

But that's not all. We talked about our pasts. We talked about our kids. We talked about our marriages. One of the things that came up was that it is difficult to stay connected with our spouses when there is a never-ending list of things to accomplish in our lives packed with play dates, trips to the park, and laundry. When Father in Chief comes home, we eat dinner as a family. Then it's medicine time, bath time, book time, and bedtime for the kids. We clean up, watch a bit of useless television, check email, and if we're lucky, we read for five minutes before succumbing to our exhaustion. There is so little time for ourselves. There is even less time for our relationship. AWF nodded as if I had just recited her life. Or at least it was her life until recently.

She recently initiated a new rule in her house. As soon as the kids are in bed, they sit together and talk for 15 minutes. No kids, no television, no computers, no distractions, no agenda. I immediately brought her simple idea home. The first night was horrible. We couldn't understand each other. We couldn't see each other's points of view. We couldn't hear each other. We fought. Probably because there was so much pent up stuff to talk about. It was a total failure. But we didn't give up.

We're only on day five, but I'm in it for the long haul. I want to be married forever and I don't want us to be strangers. You know, those old couples sitting in restaurants in total silence who ran out of things to say during the Reagan administration. This means we need to talk. We need to stay a part of each other's minutiae. What a simple and obvious idea. But when you have kids and jobs and responsibilities, it's not always easy. And maybe, just maybe, we'll eventually get to that other thing that only takes 15 minutes. One can dream anyway.

Does a grunt count?

Technology connects us and pushes us apart. In so many ways I'm communicating with Father in Chief during the day. We instant message each other, send email, talk on the telephone. And when he's on his way home, he always calls to give us the heads up. But after he pulls into the garage and actually comes up the stairs, there are many days when I barely acknowledge he's entered the house.

It's not that I don't care--I'm actually relieved to have some parental back-up--but usually I'm just in the middle of something, usually getting dinner on the table (call me old-fashioned, in that way). In Maggie Jackson's February 12 column entitled, Repeat after me: 'Welcome home, dear', she wrote about a study that found that that classic phrase is going the way of the VCR. Jackson wrote:

"[W]ives stop what they are doing and welcome home a returning spouse only a little more than a third of the time. Mostly, they are too irritable or busy to do so...Husbands do better, with more than half offering a positive greeting to a spouse. Children greet their fathers, who are mostly the last to return, positively only a third of the time, and often don't even look up when the dad reenters the house."

If we did not have a way to communicate throughout the day, I'd probably be a little more energetic to run and greet FIC when he came in. But since I just talked with him 30 minutes earlier, there isn't a wave of information to pass his way. Plus, I know that we'll get a chance to connect while we're eating. Sure Toddler in Chief will make it difficult for us to have meaningful discourse, but we will be talking and sharing and together.

For TIC's sake, I have decided to try and be a little warmer when FIC comes in. I want him to know that it's always exciting when Daddy comes in. Sure when he's a teenager, we'll be lucky if he comes out of his room for meals. But until then, I'd like to try and instill a strong sense of family. And maybe a nice greeting and acknowledging that someone has joined us is a good way to start.

Viva Las Vegas -- Pregnant-style

Woo hoo! Three nights in Las Vegas without Toddler in Chief. It was just me, Father in Chief, and the sights, sounds, smells, and sensory-overload in general of Sin City.

If only I hadn't been so exhausted.

My bag was packed with sassy pregnant outfits--polyester gauchos with glittery sashes, sparkly tops, flared short skirts, clunky black boots, small and fashionable handbags that did not contain a single diaper, goldfish cracker, crayon, or matchbox car. I had glitter eye powder, roll-on body glitter (courtesy of fabulous former dance companion Babs), liquid blue eyeliner, loud necklaces, negligees, massage oil, and red hot lipstick. (And there was no one's ass to wipe but my own.)

If only I hadn't been so exhausted.

Few of those outfits ever saw the flashing lights of slot machines or disco balls. The morning after we arrived, I dropped some cash at the Walking Company because my clunky boots were killing my toes. My grand intentions were to live it up and make this trip--this glorious, child-free getaway--a comprehensive excursion of every hip spot along the Strip. I aspired to strut my pregnant self through a memorable extravaganza of dancing and late nights and people watching. All my plans were quickly redefined. My sore feet, upset stomach, and overwhelming exhaustion redirected my three child-free days.

If only I hadn't been so exhausted.

Sure I was just a tag-along to FIC's Amazing Meeting conference. So there I was, walking the strip in my comfortable and practical shoes, feeling tired and yes, very lame. How lame is it to go to Vegas and prefer to stay in and watch March of the Penguins on Pay Per View instead of heading out to one of the hundreds of dance clubs? It almost seemed wrong that such a G-rated movie was one of the choices on our hotel television.

Penn & Teller was our nightlife highlight. No dancing. No blackjack. No glittery shows. Just my tired ass seated for the two-hour show. And all that passive entertainment was so exhausting, that we promptly went back to our room…and slept.

What does it mean to be a father?

There's more to being a dad than just being the provider of sperm, that is for sure. But what does it really mean to father a child?

I got thinking about this after reading a post on crazedparent called, "WTF with co-parenting?..." It's about the term "co-parenting" being tossed around a lot lately and what that term has to do with parenting. It said:

Am I to understand that the routine job of being mom and dad and raising your children together, otherwise know to the free world since, well, FOREVER, as PARENTING, is now referred to as "co-parenting"...[I]t's not just enough for me or my husband to be parents...we have to "co-parent." The idea of each of us having a role in this day-to-day world. But aren't we doing that already by virtue of being parents? Lame. Lame. Lame.

Anyway, all this talk of parenting and co-parenting got me thinking about single parents. I won't pretend to know the difficulties of being a single parent--Father in Chief rarely even travels for work these days, and I often can't wait for him to get home at the end of the day to hand off some responsibilities. But I do have a handful of friends who are single parents. Sometimes this works out well and sometimes, well, it doesn't. And when it doesn't, it can be sucky for the kids. That said, I was encouraged by an email I got from a single-parent friend yesterday. She wrote:

"[A]nd i think, perhaps, hopefully, i may be more accepting my single-momness. meaning, perhaps, hopefully i'm not as angry, blaming, etc [baby's dad]. and while he deserves it, i don't!!! and neither does [baby]. having such emotions and feelings like that seems so selfish, negative... really there's nothing good that can come out of it, at all.

So true. I wish I could say that it will get easier or that it will all work out. But I don't know that. All that I do know is that your child is lucky to have a dad who wants to be involved. Because there are so many kids out there who don't even have that.

New baby tough on dads too

Now that I'm pregnant and out of the pregnancy closet (at 15 weeks), I can't help but thinking about when the Baby in Chief arrives. And I'm not talking about what that means for my work. I've realized that will be the easy part. I'm talking about what that means for our family and for Father in Chief. I started thinking about this after reading Miriam's post called, "The New Year." It's about paternity leaves and the sad and short duration that they so often are. Her husband's short paternity leave recently ended. She wrote:

We parents face terrible choices. It's the obvious thing to say, but it strikes me all the more. It's not just moms. My husband took off the first two weeks after Amelia Jane was born. He held her, cuddled her, stared long and meaningfully at her. Then, January 3d it was back to work.

Her words about her spouse shot me five-and-a-half months into the future to see what our life will be like. Most of us at-home moms already know that we are devalued in society. But what I sometimes forget is that fathers are devalued even less. When we think of new babies, we think about the moms and short maternity leaves, "but we often forget that there are two parents who are likely struggling with the desire to be at home with the baby," I wrote on Miriam's blog. But when one parent isn't making very much money (as in our case), someone needs to be out there earning money to support the rest of us. And in our case--as in many cases--it's the dads.

I know that Father in Chief had a really hard time going back after our son was born. But somehow his conflict isn't respected the same way it is with women. I'm going to generalize here, but I think that the work-world *expects* women to want to be with the new baby. But men are *expected* to be indifferent. Or at least not care outwardly.

Is it ever enough?

Alrightly then. So it seems that I've miraculously snagged the perfect part-time gig ever, spewing my lovely opinion on lots of enthralling parenting topics. It's perfect. I love it. I feel extremely fortunate.

That said, something is still missing from my desire to work. And the only thing I can guess is that I miss grown-up banter in the kitchen and near the water-cooler. I miss work friends. I miss lunches. I miss complaining about co-workers. I miss getting dressed up in little outfits and matching my lipstick to my outfit. I even miss my bus ride into the city, while scanning the latest headlines. Last time I actually commuted to work, I was living north of the Golden Gate Bridge. And every morning, when we descended towards the Bridge, I would stop reading the paper and look out at the city and the fog and the view. Breathtaking. Every. Single. Day. I don't think many people--or any people besides me--ever looked up to take it all in.

So the view, the banter, the child-free lunches. What else is there? Collaboration. Ah, working with a team of creative people to come up with great ideas and actually bring them to life. It was fun and felt important, even though much of it was not.

Then there were the extravagant holiday parties. Father in Chief works for a start-up this year, so we won't be seeing Earth, Wind & Fire with the rest of the Yahoos. Then again, last year when FIC was still employed by Yahoo, we skipped the holiday party and missed out on my all-time favorite 80s cover band Notorious.

Mostly, I just wonder why I'm still tormented by this nagging feeling that I'm not complete. I have work. I have child. I have fabulous husband. I have friends. I have no dogs. And yet, something is still missing. Even though I'm filling in the pieces that I thought needed filling.

Torn over two-and-a-half

I hear the voices: "I am just maxed out on what I can do for him/her at home." Father in Chief was even talking about it with some other dads at work. The need to send the kids off to school to get be exposed to new people and new activities and a more stimulating environment than what we have at home.

But now I'm starting to buy into it. Toddler in Chief does spend too much time playing with those matchbox cars. He doesn't have enough stuff to keep his mind growing and learning. And I'm maxed out on what I can do for him. He plays while I ignore him while I'm trying to work. I prop him in front of Blue's Clues while I'm on deadline. I set him up with some books/trains/markers/matchbox cars and then head off to take a shower, fold the laundry, start dinner. What is he really learning while he's trapped here in this house with me?

I don't know how I'm feeling right now other than totally confused. I'm sure part of it is the sense of loss that I feel because many of the kids we know are off in preschool or have moved away. But honestly, I don't know if all the jumbled thoughts in my head are my own or if they are just reflecting back the thoughts of so many of the women that I know.

Maybe it's a bit of guilt because I want to write more. And with him leaving little tornados around the house, perhaps my subconscious is starting to think that preschool is a good idea. If he's not in the house, he's not getting into stuff and leaving messes all over. If he's out at preschool, he's creating messes for someone else to clean up. If he's being cared for by someone else, then I get a break and do whatever I want for a while, guilt-free. Especially because it would be a learning environment.

Whatever it is I'm feeling, I'm very torn over not providing enough stuff for my kid to do or that I'm not attentive enough to help keep his mind occupied with new and exciting learning activities. All this in spite of the fact that I'm a strong believer in the notion that boredom is good for kids. Am I against preschool for two-and-a-half-year olds because I'm trying to defend my choices, as Anonymous accused me of?