A Very Scary Story

It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning flashed in jagged arcs across the sky. Thunder shook the walls and rattled the windows.

In the attic of an old dark house, three children lay peacefully sleeping. Their mother slept in a room only feet away, dreaming peaceful dreams. Her last peaceful dreams. Her husband was gone for the weekend, away to drink and laugh with old friends in a cabin on the Maine coast. Fleetingly, she had worried that he might be walking into a classic Stephen King story, but this was the real world, she told herself. Horror stories aren't real.

The floorboards creaked as gale raged on, masking the sound of thousands of tiny feet, even closer than the hallway beyond the bedroom door.

Dawn broke, and she heard light footsteps rushing past. A chill ran down her spine, and she shivered. It's just the children, she said. They're going to wake up Grandmommy and Poppa. I can sleep a little more...

She woke lazily, with no idea of the terrors the night had wrought upon her.

She scratched her head, lamenting how rarely she showered these days, and thinking that it must be catching up with her in the form of worsened dandruff. I'll be sure to take a shower today, she thought, ominously.

She entered the guest bedroom and curled up with her three beautiful children. Her fingers played in their thick mops of long curls, and she pressed her cheek against theirs as they laughed and kissed her good morning.

Snuggled up against them on the floor, talking with Poppa about their plans for the day, when Grandmommy emerged from the shower.

Her shadow fell long and black upon the carpet. The mother felt her skin grow cold, and shivered again as she reached up to scratch her head once more.

"I have some bad news," Grandmommy said, and the mother felt her heart freeze in her chest. Somehow, she already knew.

"No!" she gasped, "Please! Don't say it! Please no!"

Grandmommy dropped to her knees, her face ashen. With a shaking hand, she extended a wadded
tissue.

And inside...

"AAAAIIIIIIIII!!!!!" The mother shrieked, her shock and fear immediately plummeting to the horror of resignation. "Please no! Please, I beg you!"

But there was nothing Grandmommy could do. The mother opened the kleenex, her own hands trembling, and saw...

Lice.

The three children, their gorgeous, thick ringlets bouncing ominous close, ran towards their mother.

"What's in the kleenex? What is it? What's in there?"

"NOOOOOO!" screamed the mother. "GET AWAY FROM ME!"

"It's too late," Grandmommy lamented, her cheeks hollow, "You've probably already got them too."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

In a frenzy, the mother ran to the store. Without hesitation she grabbed every box of NIX, every store
brand bug killing shampoo, stacks of combs, jars of mayonnaise, saran wrap... she stopped herself before adding lighter fluid to her heap.

She came home and stripped the bed. She stripped everything. Load after load after load of laundry, an ever growing mountain that she climbed with monstrous heaps of plus toys strapped to her back- a hopeless Sisyphus with itchy scalp.

She and Grandmommy shampooed the children, combed their gorgeous locks. Bug after bug tumbled out, caught by the sharp metal teeth of the combs.

Grandmommy smiled hopefully. "That should do it, right?"

But it was not to be. Day after day, the mother toiled. Picking nits, always picking nits. Changing sheets, spraying car seats and couches and tossing beloved toy after beloved toy into the hot dryer.

Grandmommy left, but the bugs remained.

Each time the mother thought she had finally rid her house of the pestilence, nits appeared. And the shampoo came out again, its acrid stench burning her nose and causing her heart to race in panic.

Grandma sent her and the children to a heat treatment salon, where they had their hair vacuumed and burned, and sent them home to boil their brushes and combs. And at last, the house seemed to return to normal. Finally, the bugs had gone.

OR HAD THEY?????

MWA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!!


Happy Halloween!

Kidecals Chalkboard Labels- A Gorgeous Way To Get Organized

This is s sponsored post- I was given Kidecals to try for free. All opinions are my own.

Recently, I was fortunate enough to be offered an opportunity to review a product I'm totally crazy about.

They're called Kidecals.

Kidecals makes a huge array of products, but what I assumed they made most of were wall decals. At first, I was hesitant to try them out- I've tried wall decals before, and almost always been disappointed. Particularly in the kids' room, where the walls have this gross texture that makes it impossible to get a decal to stick properly.

But after checking out the Kidecals website, I saw how many additional products they make. Still decals, yes, but not for walls only. They have these really cool decals for computer keyboards, to personalize your computer in a unique way. (Seriously, I may get the wood grain decals for Grandmommy and Poppa for Channukah.)

They have sheets of personalized labels for kids' school stuff. And seriously, labeling all the backpacks, lunchboxes, water bottles, shoes, sweaters, and EVERYTHING for a set of twins is a pain in butt- this is a MUCH better solution.

But what really excited me the most were the home organization decals.

I have a small kitchen. Really, it's crazy small. But I've made do with a little creative furniture repurposing and some general decorating choices.

Enter, Kidecals.

As I don't really have cabinets, I need to store my dry goods in plain sight, which means finding a way to make them both attractive and functional. When I first established this system, I bought a small package of chalkboard labels and a bit of chalkboard paint. I only labeled the things that weren't immediately obvious (All Purpose Flour next to Bread Flour, Basmati Rice next to Jasmine Rice, things like that). But it was inconsistent and I was never too crazy about the resulting look. Plus, the chalkboard paint flaked off, and the chalkboard labels didn't hold to the chalk. It was disorganized and confusing, and on many occasions a well intentioned houseguest dumped powdered sugar into my cake flour. But I couldn't get the labels off! I was stuck with them.

My old labels

So I decided to try out the Kidecals chalkboard labels, which came in a variety of attractive shapes.

Let's do a quick side by side comparison:

That's a Kidecals label on the left, a World Market label on the right.

Okay, so it obviously LOOKS better off the bat, but what about when I grab the jar I'm looking for? What happens when I touch the label? With the old labels, even the most casual, glancing brush with a stray finger, and the chalk is gone. I decided to try intentionally swiping my finger, roughly, across my old labels and a Kidecals label,

Yup. It smudged, but only just a bit.

And the Kidecals labels are CRAZY affordable! For what I spent on two packages of six blackboard labels previously, I got two sets of two sheets of Kidecals labels.

Another cool thing about the Kidecals labels? The plaque and cloud shaped came on what looked like a sticker sheet- meaning there was EXTRA LABEL MATERIAL! I of course used it to make teeny tiny labels for my salt cellars. Yes, writing legibly with chalk at that scale can be tricky, but it's also so much fun!

I got so many labels for my $30 worth, not only did I label all the beans, flours, sugars, salts, oils, and vinegars, I even went to town in the fridge. I like to re-use mason jars for things like jam (when you buy a Costco size vat of strawberry preserves, you don't always want to have to lug a four pound glass jar back and forth to the table each time your kids want a sandwich).

Now my fridge matches my counter, with minced garlic, strawberry jam, nutritional yeast, and baking yeast all clearly and attractively labeled.

These labels are not going anywhere. They are on there for good, so far withstanding hand washing of the jars and bottles without peeling or curling.

I love that people can come into my kitchen and find exactly what they're looking for. I love that I can find exactly what I'm looking for. And I love the way the whole thing looks put together.

I definitely recommend Kidecals. And lucky you, you can get your own and save!

Kidecals is a big supporter of parents, particularly parents of multiples. They understand how much more difficult the task of labeling things for kids gets when there are more children involved, and they want to help. They're offering you a discount on a sliding scale, depending on the number of kids in the house.

2 children: doubles2014 = 15% off $25 or more

3 children: threes2014 = 20% off $50 or more

4 children: fours2014 = 25% off $75 or more

5 children: fives2014 = 30% off $100 or more

6 children: sixes2014 = 35% off $125 or more

7 children: sevens2014 = 40% off $150 or more

Go forth and get yourself some Kidecals! Get organized! And get your house a little more gorgeous.

Because, seriously.

That's a kitchen I can be proud of.

My Two Biggest Favorite Miniature People

My birthday girls

I can't believe it, but my twins have been five years old for a whole twenty one days.

And because I'm a mother, and this blog is not only a place for me to talk about sex positive parenting or cancer or feminism or crafting or holidays... I'm going to tell you about the children who made me a mother, and the incredible people they've become since the five years and twenty one days ago, when they made me into the woman I am now.

DD blowing out her candles

DD is maybe the sweetest, kindest child I've ever known. She's so intensely loving and helpful with her little sister, and she's so ridiculously obedient. A dozen times a day, I find myself barking quick orders, like, "Wash your hands," or "Put on your shoes," or "Please put your dishes in the sink."

She answers quietly, without pause and without bitterness or frustrations. "Yes, mommy." And every time it makes me feel guilty. Like I've somehow cowed her and intimidated her, because as an adult I would never accept authority like that. But she is so eager to please. She is so determined to earn praise. She seems to ascribe to the philosophy, "You catch more flies with honey than vinegar," and oozes honey with every gorgeous smile.

At five years old, her favorite color is Fuchsia, like Fancy Nancy. Her favorite princess is Rapunzel. Her favorite movie is Despicable Me. And her favorite pony is Rainbow Dash. She loves to dance, and wants to play the guitar.

During the year she was four, she drew me a picture every day at school. It was usually of her, sometimes of me, and sometimes of both of us together. On every picture she wrote, "I love you mommy, love DD." This year she and SI are in separate classrooms, and while once in a great while I get a picture, most days she puts tremendous effort into making cards to give SI at the end of the day.

I wonder about taking her to a modeling agency. She is so profoundly beautiful, and so photogenic, and adores being dressed up for pictures. She would be a wonderful model, and I ask myself why I don't just go for it. But I also fear what that sort of appearance based attention might do, in the long run, and how it would feel for her and her twin to excel so strongly at such different things in such a noticeable way. And as much as I want her to have fun and find success, I want even more for her to grow up without resentment and regret in her relationship with her sisters.

DD has the patience of a saint. Yes, she's still five, so she does get cranky and impatient. But 99% of the time... she has the most patience of anyone in the house. When the children spent five hours working on a single project, it was DD who rallied the troops, kept herself and her sisters focused, and completed her box without help. During nap time, for three hours every day, she lays in nearly perfect quiet in her bed. RH sleeps, usually SI sleeps... but DD quietly plays in her bed, having silent conversations with her dolls and her ponies, flipping through picture books and listening to the quiet of the house, until SI or RH wake up and she rises with them.

She has exponentially more patience than me, and she is quicker to forgive. She reminds me so much of M in these ways that I feel beneath the task of raising her.

She is thoughtful, and remarkable, and I adore her.

SI blowing out her candles

SI is so smart it scares me. Truly. I was a smart kid, and I come from a long line of very smart people. I know smart when I see it. I know genius when I see it. And I don't know that I've ever seen anything quite like SI.

My father was a child prodigy, and it made much of his childhood miserable. So he made a point when his children were born NOT to push us into academia. Not to push us into intellectual freakishness. Part of me resents him for that, what might I have accomplished if I'd been pushed to my potential? The part of me that fears for SI understands so deeply- I don't want to hurt her by causing a rift between her and her peers, and especially her twin sister.

SI came up to me on Sunday night with a nonfiction book about bats. It's a third grade educational book, filled with photographs but also dry information.

She stood in the hallway and read it to me. I watched her, at first amazed at her ability to collect sight reading words so quickly, at the vast number of words she knows not phonetically, but on sight. Only then I saw her stumble and sound them out. She was really reading. And the only word she truly struggled with (mind you, reading aloud at a conversational pace), was "weight."

I gave her the word and she paused, confused. I saw in her eyes she thought I said "wait," and the word made no sense. But she reread the sentence, and understood. Not "wait," "weight." Then she read me the rest of the book.

Before she ran down the hall, I called out to her. "How many kinds of bats are there in the United States?"
"About thirty four!"
"And where is the United States?"
"Silly mommy! We're IN the United States!"

And then she got into her pajamas and used three quarters of a tube of toothpaste to brush her teeth.

She is so funny. She loves bad jokes. She laughs from her belly so hard it makes the walls shake. She gives the gentlest, softest, most confident hugs I've ever had. While DD wraps her arms around you as though she would squeeze the love right out, SI places her arms until they're just resting against you, and lets them lie, breathing softly and smiling her special little smile.

I worry about her. I worry what will happen when she's in real school. When the teachers are trying to get students to learn words like "cat," "farm," and "bunny." SI stumbles over words like "neighborhood" and "mischievous." But only once. She only ever seems to stumble once.

She is manipulative, sneaky, and strong willed. She won't accept no for an answer, and will go behind my back if she knows it's the answer she'll get. She panics over little things like her shoe's velcro being too loose. Her favorite color is gold, and she doesn't really have a favorite princess. But her favorite pony is Rarity.

She's five years old, and she's incredible.



Now- prepare for the birthday party photo spam.

The girls chose a Butterfly theme for their party.

The children got to make their own butterfly wings to take home. This did not go EXACTLY according to plan.

Grandma and I made butterfly cookies. This was my first experiment with Royal Icing, and I think it went well!

RH thought she was sneaky, eating all the cookies she wanted.

We served hot "butterfly noodles" (farfalle) with either cheese sauce, marinara, or pesto. So everyone got a warm lunch.

Instead of a cake, we made three kinds of mini cupcakes and arranged them into a butterfly. They're chocolate, strawberry
(with vanilla flavored orange icing), and a gluten free vanilla. So all the kids could hopefully have some cake.

Last of all, the piñata. SI went first.

DD followed. There was much thwacking. The pull strings didn't work, so we had to beat the butterfly to death.
You know, birthday party stuff!

As much fun as all the children had, the most fun was of course had by DD, SI, and RH. Who are continuing to enjoy their birthday nearly a month past its end.

I can't believe I've been a mommy for more than five years.

It's been an amazing half a decade. It's been an amazing life. I'm so happy and stunned and proud- I feel lucky every day, no matter how difficult it may be, that I get to be their mommy.

Hope

Dancing with the love of my life

 This morning was much like any in my house.

I didn't get a shower. I didn't get breakfast. I stared foggily at a two year old who felt determined to scream over nothing and everything, while wrangling five year olds into ponytails and socks. I changed a diaper, I made breakfast, I made lunches, I threw on clothes and boots and snapped on three little raincoats and ushered my children out of the house and into a rainy morning to take them to school.

Then my littlest person and I climbed back into the car and began our drive home again, and in the ten minutes it took to get from point B back to point A again, I listened to the news.

Chicago has a mayoral election coming up, and for months it's been pretty obvious that Karen Lewis, the head of the Chicago Teachers Union, would be running. Only now she's not, because she is instead starting treatment for brain cancer.

So, like many mornings at my house, I blinked myself fully conscious an hour after dropping my kids off at school, made myself some food, and thought about oral chemotherapy, long diagnostic brain surgeries, radiation, and potential outcomes.

I know what Karen Lewis and her family are going through. Trying to decide what steps to take next, trying to decide how much to tell whom, what to believe, what to ignore. What to do.

In fact, this is something that's been on my mind a whole lot lately, ever since the video came out of Brittany Maynard talking about her decision to die with dignity.

Take a few minutes to watch before we move on.



That incurable, six month prognosis... that was M. Same cancer. Same stage.

The thing is, different doctors have all manner of different opinions. It's entirely possible that if she'd had M's medical team, they would have said "eighteen months," instead of six. And what would she have done then?

It's entirely possible that since she's been treated for the early stage tumor before the late stage one grew, she wasn't eligible for trials like the one that saved my husband.

I don't know.

Really, there is so much about brain cancers I don't know. There is so much about gliomas I don't know. There is so much about cancer, period, I don't know.

What I do know is that each cancer is made from the cells of the patient. Every tumor is as much a part of their body as their heart, or their kidneys, or their brains. It's just that the wrong information is making the wrong cells grow, and spread. Cancer is your own body attacking itself.

And because the cancer is part of you, it is unique. As unique as each individual person.

So every story is different.

But some things are the same. You don't want to frighten yourself or your loved ones. You don't want to believe the worst, you're afraid to believe the best. You look at days instead of years, and you begin to truly weigh the difference between quality and quantity.

Our babysitter asked me, after reading last week's post on M's cancer, what our children know.

The truth is that since early summer, M's been having minor seizures, and the girls have started noticing. It's hard not to notice. And M hates it. He hates it when they see him that way, weakened or ill. But as always, I try to be realistic.

The truth is we know so little, and this may simply be our normal now. This may be the way life is for us, with Daddy occasionally having a seizure, so the girls should know what to do.

I've told them Daddy is okay, that sometimes he has these seizures, and they might look a little scary, but not to be scared. I've told them that if Daddy starts to have one, they should come and get me. I've told them that this is why Daddy takes medicine every morning and every night, to stop the seizures.

And yes, I've told them that the seizures are because Daddy was sick. Very sick. That Daddy had a sickness called cancer, and it was in his brain, and he got lots of medicine that made him better.

"Cancer" is a word that holds some meaning for them. They've known somebody who died from cancer. They know people who have gotten better. These are things they remember. My five year old daughters are old enough to remember that sometimes cancer means you don't get better.

"But Daddy got better," I tell them.

"Daddy is just fine," I say, "but he has to take his medicine every morning and every night, because sometimes you don't get all the way better. That's why Daddy walks a little funny. That's why Daddy sometimes has seizures. But you shouldn't be scared. Daddy isn't sick anymore."

Only that's not really the truth, is it?

The truth is that when M was diagnosed, he was 24. He was so young, and so strong, and so healthy, it seemed impossible to me that he could possibly succumb to something as mundane as cancer.

And he didn't.

When he was diagnosed, and he doubted, I rolled my eyes. "Most people who get this are old," I said, in my 23 year old way. "They're in their fifties and sixties and stuff. OF COURSE they die. The chemo kills them faster than the tumors. But you won't, because you're young and strong and healthy. So long as you can beat the chemo, you can beat the cancer. And I know you can do it."

Karen Lewis is in her sixties. Ted Kennedy was in his seventies. And yes, Ted Kennedy was dead in a matter of months. And maybe, yes, it is about youth and strength.

But youth and strength come in limited supplies. My idea of what it means to be old has changed now, now that I have really crossed the threshold to adulthood, now that I have seen young and old fall to the same set of diseases, I know how naive I was.

I still don't know that I was wrong, but I know I could be.

And now M is not the strong, young, healthy man he once was. He's not twenty four and athletic, a towering Greek god of a man who promised to spend more of his life married to me than not. He's a thirty two year old father of three, tired from working a job he doesn't care for, exhausted from studying to improve his credentials, maybe even a little jaded from seven plus years of survival being the benchmark of success.

I no longer believe in the truth of words like "cured," and "remission." Those words mean one thing- "waiting."

I know that Karen Lewis is just beginning to wait. And while today I know I sound less than hopeful, there are other days that "I'm waiting for it to come back" and "I can beat it" mean the same thing.

Every day is a different story.

I told myself when M was first diagnosed that it way okay. That if he made it to those "old" years, his fifties or sixties, I would accept his death with dignity. That we should all only be so lucky.

But each day we come closer to those years, and each day I am more certain that his death will devastate me just as much, even more, beyond repair. And there are nights that he works late, or hits the library to study before coming home, when I imagine.

I imagine that me feeding the children dinner without him, putting the children to bed without him, somehow smiling and laughing and talking with our daughters about their days is normal. That it is what I do, alone.

That it is as routine as making them breakfast and lunch and getting them into their coats.

Some days I imagine that M will come to the point where his doctors tell him it's too late, that he has no hope, and he can choose between palliative care or none at all. I imagine him making the choice to bow out of life gracefully, and what I would do- how I would tell our children their father would soon be gone.

I have a friend who's father died when she was seven years old. She recently told me how different her understanding of relationships is from another friend, who's father abandoned her family when she was the same age. How in one instance the child never doubted the love her father had for her. How in the other, the child grew up constantly doubting her value, her ability to be loved, whether she deserved to be loved at all.

I don't want my husband to die. I know it goes without saying, but I must say it. I do not want him to die.

But cancer doesn't care. Cancer doesn't care how many people love you, or how many people you help, or how many people depend on you.

So when the news comes on and I cry in the car, and the rain masks the tears on my face as I drop my children off at school, it is still a morning like many others at my house.

The truth about life is that it can end at any moment, but most of us never notice the sword of Damocles hanging over our heads. Most of us ignore how fleeting and fragile our moments are.

I try to be one of them, but I don't always have the luxury. Not when I'm spending my days filling out the cancer binder with new dates and new seizures.  Not when I'm reminding myself that I can handle bedtimes alone. Not when I hear about another person who has joined the exclusive club of the neuro-oncology corner of the cancer center.

Some days I must face what I don't want to face- my life is not normal. As normal as it might appear on the outside, volunteering for the preschool, making dinners, endless laundering... it is never going to be normal.

Because I am always balancing my need for honesty and my need for optimism, and when my children ask me, "Is Daddy feeling sick?" I need to decide how much is too much for a five year old to understand? How much is too much to expect of them?

To our children, M is old. He is as old as God, and as powerful, and as immortal.

And I, their mother, will someday be tasked with teaching them that he is none of those things.

That your fifties or sixties is still too young. That he is no more than human, and that yes, someday he will die.

Not when he's older than great-grandmommy, probably not. Probably not even older than Poppa.

Probably.

I can hope. God, I can hope. I can believe in the twenty five and a half years he promised me. I can believe in that.

But on days when another person is ill, and I am faced with questions like, "Will they get better?"

I would give anything to be able to say 'yes.'

To the Parents Who Bought My Daughters Birthday Presents, and All Givers of Gifts to Children

My children worked on these mosaic boxes for SEVEN HOURS. Five hours in one sitting.

Thank you.

Last year, when I sent home invitation to SI and DD's birthday party, I was careful to include a not that NOBODY was under any obligation to bring my children gifts. Yet, everybody brought one anyway. So this year I included no such note, and the massive heap of presents my children received was genuinely alarming.

We're urban people. We know how limited space is, and how difficult birthdays and holidays can be for this reason. So as my daughters set to opening their mountain of generous gifts, I held my breath and hoped for the best.

The best is what my children got, and this is why:

Their presents contained almost no toys.

I don't know who started the fad of giving activities as a gift, but whoever did it... thank you as well.

So proud of their finished boxes

In the week since they had their party, my children have each spent approximately seven hours putting together their mosaic fairy jewelry boxes, four hours decorating new dolls, and more hours than I can count with their sticker books and box of watercolor pencils.

Of course this is something I want to do. Of course I relish the opportunity to actually accomplish household tasks. To vacuum the couch, and put away laundry, and do dishes, and start the crock pot...

And yes, write.

All of these things are normally impossible when my children are home, say, for a five day weekend encompassing Sukkot and a Monday where M absentmindedly took my car keys to work in his pocket.

My children are happily playing, but also learning, and taking pride in their accomplishments. They now have jewelry boxes they made themselves, to fill with their many little treasures. They now have dolls they've designed and named themselves, to have adventures with.

These gifts are helping teach my children independence, because they don't have all the same crafts to do. This afternoon DD is making stained "glass" hangings while SI is making a pillow.

These gifts are helping teach them to share, as they give extra parts and stickers and colored pencils to their baby sister, so she can join in the fun.

And yes, I recognize that these are still toys, and the yes, I'll have to find space somehow for the results of all this crafting. But they are also so much more.

They are experiences and memories, and the gift of pride and dedication and motivation.

These are gifts to my children not just for their fifth birthday, but for their lives.

So thank you, thank you to the dozens of parents who chose to get my children tasks instead of toys.

Thank you to all of you.

And to any of you parents out there, struggling with ideas for what to get strange children from your kid's class.. please. Do the other mom a favor. Give them an activity.

Please make this a trend that sticks.

 And as we enter the holiday gift season, please. Remember this. Remember that giving a child an opportunity to make something for themselves is greater than a simple object. It gives that object meaning- pride, and hard work.

And most importantly, it gives a tired parent somewhere a chance to drink a hot cup of tea or empty the dryer in peace.

Motherhood: May Cause Drowsiness

Hello, lovely readers!

I am thrilled to announce the publication of a new humor anthology-
Motherhood: May Cause Drowsiness

I'm honored to say that yours truly is a contributor with two pieces in the collection.

It's a wonderful book of stories and essays about one of the great unifiers of parenthood- exhaustion. Be it sleepless nights or sleepless days, anxiety or cluster feeding, let's face it. We don't get to sleep as much as we'd like. We live in a fog of sleep deprived confusion, which is probably why this morning I called SI by my childhood cat's name by accident.

She was not amused.

I'm so excited to be a part of this project. It's been such an educational experience to watch the collection come together. Lisa Nolan, the editor, kept all of us intimately in the loop through the whole process, and it was really cool to see how an idea becomes a book.

I've loved getting to know all the other contributors, and I can't wait to finish reading it!

You can get your copy here. Or you can get your Christmas shopping done early and just get a copy for everyone you know. ;)

Happy reading!

The Routines of Bravery

On Monday, M and I went in for his regularly scheduled MRI and checkup with his neurooncology team.

In many ways, it was as routine as these visits can ever be. We talked more with M's doctor about her pregnancy than we did about M's condition. It's hard to explain, but sometimes you can't keep yourself from becoming friends in situations to like these. While we might not see M's medical team for dinners or playdates, we look forward to catching up on our lives together, to bumping into M's RN at synagogue, to squealing in delight at the not at all surprising news of new babies. We warned her, when she became M's doctor, she would get pregnant. We just have that effect on our physicians.

In many ways, it was anything but routine. Routine is what you do every day. It's dragging yourself out of bed to make breakfast and lunch and go to work or drive kids to school. It's brushing your teeth, and dodging calls from telemarketers and GOP surveys. It's rolling your eyes every time a bit of spam gets into your inbox after you've flagged it three times. It's that beautiful moment when you lay down on the bed and all at once your whole body tells you how hard it's worked today, and how incredibly amazingly blissfully pleasant it is to be horizontal.

It should never be routine to sit biting your nails for hours in the early morning while someone you love is getting sophisticated images taken of tumors that you can't help but worry are growing. Yet letting it become routine is a comfort. Telling yourself that one scan is no different than the dozens that came before makes the anxiety easier to bear. Telling yourself that you can adjust to anything, that anything can become normal and surviveable and commonplace is a necessity for existing beyond a trauma. Like astrocytoma.

This is life. And it is dreadful. And it is terrifying.
And it is so beautiful and wondrous and magnificent that every day we accept the terrors that come with continuing to live, regardless of what they may be.

For me, this week, the terror of "what if" was eclipsed by the other daily miseries I'd piled upon myself. My children brought home their own little nightmare, or rather hundreds of them, in the form of lice. Mice moved into my house. Our dishwasher broke. Our planned number of houseguests doubled as all air traffic in the area was downed. My doctor switched my medication to something that turned me into a comatose zombie. I planned and executed my twins' fifth birthday party. And for a swathe of it I parented solo while M took a much needed vacation with friends. And somewhere in there, I gave myself a little gift. The total hyperextension of my emotional energy. I could not find it in myself to worry until I was sitting in the waiting room, filling out the routine pre-MRI paperwork.

For me, this week, the beauty was watching my five year daughters exchange gifts they'd chosen for each other. It was watching as they let their two year old sister help them open their presents. It was five hours free to re-rearrange my kitchen from the affections of weeks of houseguests. It was hugs from little humans so sweet I didn't even care they might infect me with their pestilence. It was my mother-in-law beaming with motherly pride when she saw my first book, and my mother swapping apples with her grandchildren at the orchard, and the way M's belly presses against my back just right when he snuggles against me in bed, supporting my spine and warming me to my bones, and feeling his dimple in the air when he smiles in the dark.

These are not easy things to put to words. And nowhere is it harder to find a way than in the neurooncology ward.

I know how dreadful it is to be there. I know especially how dreadful it is to be new there. I remember our first visits so vividly, the fear and determination and guilt. The aura of hopelessness that surrounds some people, and the desire to simply look away- to not be contaminated.

When our visits began to feel routine, a woman named Shaneesha made them feel joyous. She knew us by name, she delighted in the growth of M's hair, in asking me about wedding planning, then honeymoon photos, and then pregnancy news. She was a patient services representative, and I looked forward to seeing her, to wasting the time of people in line behind us as I told her how ultrasounds had gone, or what we would do in New Zealand. Her last week at that job, we brought the twins in for the first time. She leapt over her desk, squealing with delight, and ran to them, and hugged them.

She made that terrifying place a home. And when she left, I decided I would try to do the same for another family just embarking on their brain cancer story.

Whenever we're at the cancer center, I talk loudly. I joke. I laugh. I talk to people, and smile.

So on Monday M and I made a minor scene, laughing and joking and smiling in the waiting room after hours of anxiety and MRIs, surrounded by quiet, fearful faces, and oxygen tanks on dollies, and colorful scarves and stubbly new hair. And when it was done we took the elevator down again from the top floor.

We shared the elevator with two people. A mother, steering a wheelchair in which her teenaged daughter sat.

Her daughter was bald, with a mostly healed scar running across her scalp. I'd guess as much as three months had passed since her surgery.

I recognized the swelling in her face, she was taking steroids, which meant she was probably starting radiation. Her eyebrows told me her chemotherapy was probably oral, as M's had been. Her bald head the result of the surgery and the radiation, rather than an IV.

The girl sat in her chair with dark, intelligent eyes forward. She did not look as M and I laughed our way onto the elevator. With M's hat on, with his head a full four feet above hers, she would never have seen the scar on his head that so closely matched hers.

She did not look at me, but I knew the look in her eyes. Directionless anger, mingled with hopeless fear, and the fear of hope.

Her mother smiled cautiously, and I knew her as well. Determinedly optimistic. Keeping a brave face. Brave out of necessity. Terrified, and helpless, with nothing to offer but love and support as she walked through this new world.

The girl clutched a cane covered in fluorescent patterns, and I remembered M's own cane. How much he hated it, but how as a man he could accept a cane as an accessory- we talked about getting him one with a carved snake or lion's head for a handle. For a teenaged girl, it's a much more difficult affectation, and I was impressed with her creativity.

"Is that washi tape?" I asked.
"Yes!" her mother said. She beamed at me. "We're going to change it, though. She says it's too bright for fall."
The girl rolled her eyes, and I saw the human inside her, the constantly embarrassed teenaged girl. I smiled at the mother.
"Totally. Are you thinking about something more Halloween-y? Skulls and crossbones or something?"
I hoped maybe the girl would smirk. I thought skulls were delightfully subversive.

Her mother gave me a look that broke my heart. It wasn't admonition, or humor, or solidarity. It was gratitude.

The elevator doors opened, and more people came in. People who weren't traveling through the world of neurooncology. Our conversation ceased.

Seven years, three months, and six days ago

But I stared at the girl, and her mother. I wanted so badly to speak, to say, "I know what you're going through," even if I don't.

"This is my husband," I wanted to say. "He was diagnosed with a stage four glioblastoma seven years ago."

I knew the other passengers, the ones from lower floors, they would be mortified. But I didn't want to embarrass the teenaged girl. Not in that way.

"He was diagnosed when he was 24," I wanted to say. "We'd been engaged for less than a day."

"I know how terrifying it is be young and have cancer."

"You're not defined by this, unless you want to be. And either is fine, so long as you make the most of the life you have. It can still be filled with happiness."

"We have three children now. Our twins just turned five. They're five years old, and we didn't conceive them until after a year of chemotherapy was over."

"It's going to be okay."

But I couldn't say any of those things.

I wanted to give the mother my card, link her to my blog, hope she would stumble on a post about M's cancer and feel a little more hope. Show her how unfathomably normal brain cancer can become. How the brave face is a comfortable part of the routine, and she's already halfway there.

I wanted to touch the girl. Just lay my hand on her shoulder. I know how people must avoid her gaze. Wheelchair bound, bald, and doomed, she must feel a pariah.

I do not know that girl's story, but I know by now she knows the language of brain cancer and its treatment. I know phrases like "GBM" and "clinical trials" are part of her vocabulary.

I wanted to tell her how many people, older, sicker people, live for years with late stage malignancies in their brains. How easy it is to find them on the internet, if you can get over your fear of the other stories you might find as well.

I wanted to tell her life is brutal and cold and cruel, and it is unfathomably beautiful, and generous, and good. And that's not a contradiction, it's a fact. And once you accept that in addition to the terror and the grief and the bitter unfairness of it, there is still so much to take away. So much to revel in. Especially when you know how fleeting and ephemeral it is in every aspect.

Instead I walked to the car.

M sighed and squeezed my hand. "I wanted to take off my hat," he said.

That was all.

But that brief sentence said so much more. It said, "I know how hard it is for you to see people you might be able to reach and help, in some other set of circumstances, and know it's probably best to do nothing. I know how much that girl got to you, how you felt for her and pitied her and and didn't pity her, and how complicated all those feelings are. I know how much you wanted to tell her mom it would be okay, and that being brave is so, so important, and that her daughter knows it and loves her and will never find the words to say how much it means to her that the people taking care of her stay so strong. And I feel it too."

That's why I fell in love so hard with that big, goofy, brilliant man. Because he knows me, and he shares the parts of me that make me feel the most human. And in his frequent moments of compassion and tenderness, I am humbled that he loves me.

I watched my husband wrestle with the emotions of empathy for a stranger, and loved him more. I knew the more I loved him, the more I needed our trips to stay routine. And I knew he understood they could not be forever. And my heart broke for him, a man living under a question mark. And his bravery only made me love him more. And so on.

I know that someday, one of our routine trips to the neurooncology suite of the cancer center, to the gleaming top floor, won't be smiles and hugs, pregnancy news and baby photos, loud jokes and silent solidarity.

One day, someday, probably, one of our routine trips is going to end in an elevator going down, and we won't have jokes to share. We will have hopeless fear, and directionless anger, and I will keep my back straight and smile casually and speak as though I don't feel them, because I will be the one being brave. I will be the one being strong, offering my unfailing support, again.

I will have to make different choices than seven years ago, when I had the luxury of blind faith that all would work out for us, the young, the romantic, the immortal.

Seven years, three months, and two days is a long time to live under a weight that turns the cancer clinic into a routine.

It's the span of my adulthood.
It's the blink of an eye.

I'm planning to bring M's doctor a baby gift when we next return, early this time, to ensure we see her before the baby arrives. The sort of hand crafted gift I give my dear friends. The dear friends who have seen you through the hardest times and always greet you with a smile, as though the hard times will never come again. But they will. We all know they will.

I will never be ready.

I am always ready.

I live in simultaneous hope and fear of the day I know exactly what to say to make a scared teenaged girl smile.

Things You Didn't Know You Needed: Granola Strolla

I want to tell you about an awesome person and the incredibly cool thing she's doing.

About five and a half years ago, I met this awesome lady- Irene. She and I were part of the same due date club, both pregnant for the first time.

I liked her a lot. She was nerdy and crafty and crunchy, and even over the internet she conveyed a sense of quiet confidence I found really comforting and inspiring.

Her son was born a few weeks before my twins, and we kept tabs on each other, distant though we might be.

Back in the early days of motherhood, she lamented about the "green" products available for parents. So many were green in name only, and there were so many needs that hadn't been met. She and her husband, Ben, are both makers. Irene blogs about sewing and crafting on Tea With Frodo. Ben is an engineer and a general tinkerer. They decided to start making parenting products with an earth friendly attitude. They decided to call their venture Granola Strolla, and began designing. Ben undertakes the technical aspects, and Irene keeps things attractive and functional. With her aesthetics and his know-how, they were ready to start inventing.

The thing is though, Irene and her family have had a lot going on these last five years. Her son and husband were both diagnosed on the spectrum, and her family moved. Then, two and a half years ago, she underwent a preventative bilateral mastectomy. She knew she was a carrier of the BRCA1 gene, and she blogged all the way through her surgeries. She helped start a Memphis chapter of FORCE, a nonprofit dedicated to battling hereditary breast cancer, and a support group for people, like Irene, who carry the gene. She is a warrior, and she wanted to use her blog and its platform to educate people and help them stay healthy and safe.

As though that weren't enough for one person and one family, Irene and her family struggled to add their next child, who was born at 25 weeks and 4 days. Despite all the challenges, Irene's family is together and healthy, and she and her husband Ben are ready to take Granola Strolla to the masses.



Their first product is a portable solar USB charger. Because parents are constantly running down the batteries on their phones, cameras, tablets... anything the kids can play with, really. And a solar charger can keep them running when a family is on the move.





There are a few things that make Ben and Irene's design really unique. First, there's the multidirectional panels. That's awesome, because no matter how it gets dropped or tossed around, it will always be charging.  The next thing that makes is so cool is how sturdy it is. It's designed with parents in mind, so it's made to withstand small children and their attentions.

But the coolest thing of all, in my opinion, is the battery. Not only is this a way to use the sun to charge your phone and your iPad, the battery inside is environmentally friendly as well.

Plus? Because it's so sturdy, and because it's multidirectional, you can simply clip it onto your diaper bag to take it with you anywhere.

Granola Strolla is also made in the USA, helping bring jobs to Tennessee.


FOX13 News, WHBQ FOX 13


It's perfect for camping, it's perfect for somebody who bikes to and from work, and it's perfect for parents.

I think it's a brilliant product, and not just because I think Irene and Ben are just plain brilliant.

It's a brilliant design. It's a great product. And it's a competitive price.

Irene and Ben are kickstarting the Granola Strolla portable USB solar charger, and they're more than halfway to their goal with ten days to go.

It's rare to find somebody as remarkable and and motivated as Irene, and it's even rarer to have the opportunity to help that person make their dreams a reality.

Go check out Granola Strolla on Kickstarter, and think about how different car trips would be without ever having to worry about your phone losing its juice.

Let's get it funded now, because I can't wait to see what Irene and Granola Strolla start making next.