Unbelievably...

Even though today is close to my six year anniversary of being a parent, it's my first day as the parent of a kindergartener. And since I have about 8 snippets of memories preceding my own life prior to Kindergarten, I can assume that at most, the past 6 years will be encapsulated into 4 minutes of memories for Milo, 34 years hence. Good to know my time has been well spent. (and hold me - because today is just a big, jaw-dropping day of GAH! Kindergarten!)

Gadget Man Defies Gravity!

Jamie's not-so-secrety spy name is Gadget Man. And I'm going to leave it at that, letting you imagine the discourses endured enjoyed discussing shutter aparature, gigabyte capacity, widget blah blah.

Ultimately, if he's happy, I'm happy.

  And, sure, sometimes I learn more about something I will never actually use (cough cough video camera) than I might ever in a zillion years want to ever ever hear about need, but that's just fine. Really.

 However. However, there's one thing I think is worth talking about: gadgets require care. If you take it somewhere, you need to bring it home.

 For example: a couple of years ago, I pulled into my parking space at work (a 17 mile drive), when something loud clunked down the windshield. That something turned out to be Jamie's super special hand-held GPS navigation system. Which had apparently been capable of clinging to the top of the car for at least that drive.

 And then there's yesterday. Burned forever in my mind as The Great iPod Hunt 2009. Yesterday, the Waffles went to:

• The pool
• The bank
• The toystore
• The bike store
• The grocery store
• The river for a picnic

And after the kids were in bed, we ripped the car and house apart searching for Jamie's iPod - last seen at the pool. Guess where it was? That's right. Once again, the top of the car was the culprit. Apparently, I'm no speed freak...or Jamie's gadgets are resistant to things like motion and wind speed. And gravity.

God's underpants...

At our house, naked isn't common, but it's also not particularly noticeable. I think Jamie & I are modest by nature, but we're also not overly concerned with hiding ourselves.

Since the kids were born, I always wear pajamas (at least in part to prevent my still-nursing, co-sleeping 2-year-old from latching on in the night without my consent). And in general, I TRY to close the door to the bathroom when I'm using it (largely unsuccessfully - I can't count the number of discussions about WHO gets popsicles after dinner that I've carried on while I'm SO wanting privacy). But I do try...

Comparing nudity at our house to, say, my own upbringing, however, I'd have to say we're a bunch of nudist hippie freak-jobs. 

When I was growing up, we weren't provided words for any underwear-covering body parts aside from "down there" and "bosom". All euphemisms were determined obscene and discussion of bodily function was taboo in the extreme. I was raised to use the words "urinate" and "defecate" unironically; I once got grounded for using the ubiquitous 80's words "pissed off". And (my personal favorite), around age four, when I noticed that I had a mystery "third hole" in my genitals, my mother snapped back quickly "No you don't!" (Because thinking your vagina is aberrant is apparently better than acknowledging it and - god forbid - having to name it). Sigh...

So, I'd venture a guess that my idea of middle ground regarding body privacy, nudity and prudery might be skewed. Probably the Waffles are somewhere on the conservative end of that spectrum between all-out nudists and the completely over-the-top body-phobes I call "family".

When wonderful, lifesaver sister #2 came to visit and help with the kids last month, our free-flowing, laidy-back-nakedy habits got a bit of a system shock. Jamie's first night in the hospital, I came home to find my kids having a bath together, just like normal... ...but wearing their swimsuits. I don't know how she intended to actually WASH them, but I was intrigued by what the point of hiding their genitals was.

Since I was preoccupied with other things that week, though, I let that one go for a while.

Am I crazy to think that covering them up is like a fast-track to fetishizing? Generally, I am interested in the weird correlation between religious prudery and how that so much comes across as sexual preoccupation. Because if there's one thing Mormons are VERY good at, it's pushing young people to get married early and have babies (also multi-level marketing, but that's another discussion). This is such a big deal, they've designed their own mystery underpants to WAY cover all those dirty bits. And, from my armchair, it seems like my upbringing was FRAUGHT with preoccupation with general genital (of the boy/girl variety) business. Getting married was pretty much the #1 game we played as kids. And why? Babies? Sex?? I can't speak for any other person's upbringing, but I can certainly say my own was FAR more focused on sexual attractiveness, arranging pre-marital boy/girl get-togethers, discussions of marriage and having children at an early age, than my own children's is.

So what's the deal? If bodies weren't so taboo (I think they use words like "sacred"), would Mormons have this same preoccupation? Which came first, the prudery or the preoccupation with all things body, sexuality and underpants?

He's home!

And doing great...omg, bejebemusbums and all that is sacred, amen and hallelujah!!!!!

The day after

Jamie made it through his surgery FABULOUSLY!! He's a champ and a warrior and a hero and all things strong and mighty. Also? Very very high on hospital drugs. Also...PHEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWW! Jebus-gawd the relief!!!!!! Here's what happened yesterday:

Pre-surgery

Post-surgery

Discovering he'll need respiratory help the rest of his evil life...

It was easy to convince him to put on the helmet...because? High on drugs.

Also, he won't remember this until I post it as his Facebook profile. Did I mention? High. On. Drugs. Thank gah for those, however, because they wear off too quickly and he's in a tremendous ammout of pain until they get him his next dose.

It's been a rough (and long waiting/stress-monkey) road to get here. Today. To the other side of all things heart-full.

He'll be out of critical care soon. And home maybe early next week.

You know, I discovered today that I have no filters left as I was vaguely describing his incisions and "artery harvest" to a co-worker and she turned green and backed slowly away from me.

I think I might need some recuperation time when all is said and done to regain some lost people skills.

Thanks again to you, blog friends, for all the love and support!

Tick tick tick...

Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler. -Albert Einstein

_________________

Tomorrow is Jamie's pre-op. Wednesday morning, early, is his surgery. My sister gets here tomorrow. Before then I need to (deleted long list of a whole hellofa bunch of things)... Jamie's brother and his wife are driving down tomorrow, so they'll be here too. And Jamie's parents are driving down and staying with us Wednesday. All very amazingly kind. I'm so overwhelmingly touched by their generosity.

Yesterday J bought this Giant Recliner on Craigslist. Seriously, it's this big, poofy thing as big as 3 people in the middle of our living room. Like the proverbial elephant, but bigger. And from there, post-surgery, he will do his convalescing. And eating, because OF COURSE it comes with a tray. And heating pad. And vibrating massage...hmmm... And then...that's it. Are we ready? Nnngaaah! (that's my back-of-the-throat-sound-of-agony/fear/throat-clearing noise)... My friend R is helping us around childcare needs and helping my sister if/as needed. My friend Mrs. Naked Monkey is organizing apparently a load of some food love. EVEN though they both are totally busy with work and their own lives and has a bunch of difficult stuff going on themselves. And a huge group of my stellar and loving friends are contributing food this month - even though making vegan food is a lot of work. So much love. Jamie's brother T the 1st set Jamie up with an iPod full of music and books. Jamie's sister T has sent us books and movies and food gift cards and has generally gotten Jamie anticipating his convalescence - two AMAZING, AMAZING, WONDERFULLY KIND things. So...we have SHOCKINGLY stellar friends and family. Which so rocks, I can't TELL you...except I did. In no way effusively enough.

Here's my thank you, in the form of one of my all-time favorite songs: My nails aren't going to survive this week. I can just tell. If that's the least of my worries, I think that will be just fine...

Grr...attitude

Generally, I think I'm sort-of half-and-half on the half-full/half-empty thing. Like half "things are so great", and half "but why did THIS PART go wrong??" I feel lucky and grateful a lot, which I think I express. Sincerely. But when facing mixed blessings, maybe I've been a bit...cranky and cynical. Not my most endearing qualities. For example, when someone offered to give up their own time and personal life to help me cope with what is most likely going to be a pretty rough week, and did so in the most AMAZINGLY KIND WAY...I'm afraid I wasted a little time thinking it might be motivated solely by the proselytizing opportunities. Possibly that is because the BIG thing to worry about, like WHY ANYONE NEEDS TO MAKE THAT OFFER AT ALL, is so monumental that being cynical was easier. Time to say, "Duh, self! Get over your, er, self." So, in the spirit of opening myself up to the kindness that has been thrown so ENORMOUSLY in front of us all, I want to open my arms wide and say THANK YOU: To my Internet friends: Thanks. Even though we've never met, your supportive words provide a touching little bubble of good feeling that buoys me up daily. Thank you to my family, who has been IMMENSELY supportive to Jamie, even though they don't know him very well. The phone calls, advice, offers of help and yes, the prayers, are tremendously important to us. Thank you to Jamie's family, who have been very kind to me, and, some of them, SO VERY STUPENDOUSLY nice to Jamie since his diagnosis. Jamie doesn't see or speak to most of his family all that much. There's a lot of complicated history there. But they mean so much to him, and when his family does something nice like come visit and make a fuss over him, it is a HUGE, MOVING, VERY BIG DEAL. (You know who you are!) Thank you to my group of amazing friends. So many of you have made some great offers and just been generally supportive and kind and solicitous. And a few of you have listened to me go berserk over this latest development. Which I wish were anomalous to this one thing, but you know me well enough to know that my head spins around and I yak endlessly over trivialities too. Ahem. I hope to never need to repay in kind some day - but if the need arises, I'm 1000% there. Because I owe you all. A lot.

Wizards vs. Lovers

I had a good conversation last night with another mom at Milo's preschool. I regurgitated to her my fears that when my sister (not the one with cancer - the other one) comes to visit, she'll use her time alone with my kids to talk about God, golden plates, and "sister wives". (This isn't particularly paranoid of me - she ALWAYS finds time to corner me when I see her and ask about my current stance on religion. I have filed away an unsealed letter from her labeled "Open me when you are ready to talk to God". PLUS...Mormons=proselytizers. Those boys on bicycles aren't anomalies, you know, they're part of the general Mormon worldview on "getting the Jesus word out". Except they call it missionary work.) Anyway. Like me, this other mom is not very religious. She said when they talk about the word "God" to their kids, they tell them that it's how some people refer to "Love". Which made my cynical little heart feel kind-of small. Because "a wizard" isn't a very loving or respectful picture to have given Milo of religious beliefs. Cough. So...we're ramping up toward April. I'm anxious that the surgery be over. I'm thrilled that my sister can come help us. And this is as good a place as any to say that my sister is, by the way, totally dropping a crazy-busy life, including teaching elementary school, full-time parenting 4 of her 7 kids and foster-child, and a time-intensive church job. My gratitude is immense, which makes my fears feel even more petty. Which, really, I guess they are. I doubt Milo or Zel are suddenly going to start singing "I'm a Mormon, Yes I am!" (Real song. Seriously.) after a week with my sister. And...we're reminding the kids who my sister is, since we only see her 1-2/year, so that her transition into our lives is smooth. Annnd...we're helping Milo prepare for potential Wizard talk. Respectfully. Maybe not changing the terminology, but at least injecting the conversation with some politeness. We hope.

The new normal

Yesterday, Jamie & I met with his surgeon. Or, anyway, probably his surgeon unless the 2nd opinion guy is for some reason more compelling. Based on that meeting and a conversation with his cardiologist, we are going to wait the 6 weeks until his disability kicks in. Which is, well, ok. A little egshelly. A little full of Please Please Please Don't Die! And every day, I'm in what appears to be the old normal life. Jamie doesn't have obvious symptoms - he looks the same. He acts mostly the same. There's no heart-clutching drama, anyway. I think we're sort-of happy and, well, the same. Most of the time. Gah knows we are eating better. And if we hadn't seen the angiogram, we might still be living the fantasy that his chest pain is asthma. It's good. I get to focus on this whole kindergarten thing. And maybe it gives me time to put to bed all my crazy fears. Because every day I have a few minutes all to myself, usually in the car on the way to/from work, where I just freak out and do all the things I can't do the rest of the time: cry, yell...mainly cry. Someday this will be "last month"...and someday "that time, a few years back, before we became SUPER fit". Right?

Down the rabbit hole...

Here's the word on Jamie's heart, actually two: Quadruple bypass Here's another one: ASAP (maybe technically that's four) So...here we go. I'm already overwhelmed by lists. What do do next. Who to call. How to cope with the 4000 things that have to be done: phone calls. A zillion of those. Scheduling everything. The budget. OMG. We don't have awesome insurance. In fact, we took a gamble and LOWERED our insurance a couple of years ago. So now...our out of pocket for this is going to be pretty high. Today's is Zel's 2nd birthday. Next week we start kindergarten round-up at the FIVE schools we're trying to get into. That's five times 2-3 meetings with each. So...that. Jamie will be out of work for 6-10 weeks. I can't take time off. Because? Money. So we're figuring out who can come help out with his needs. Hopefully his mom. And we're getting 2 opinions next week on surgery options, but it's pretty clear: there are five blockages in his coronary arteries. Waiting, as the cardiologist put it, is like adding a lot of "the unknown" to our choices. Frankly, I liked it when THIS was "the unknown".

A little more cheez, please

I may or may not have heard this song before this morning. It hasn't registered with me. But it was playing on the radio during my drive in, and I should have pulled over, the way it made me...oh, sap out. I love this guy's voice and the passion just resonated so deeply with me today.

A month of heart...

Did you hear this one?

Man says to doctor I eat spamburgers daily: angioplasty!

Ahhh...haiku. So wise.

Jamie doesn't eat spamburgers. Not even once. But apparently his heart hasn't heard the news. This Friday he's scheduled for an angiogram to see why his heart's not doing the things it orta.

Jamie is 36. He's my younger man! But he's inherited the cholesterol problem of someone much older.

After a routine physical last week, it seems like we've gotten daily doses of bad news about the state of his health. Words like coronary blockage, out-of-control triglycerides, stent, bypass. Immediate action. Words like heart attack.

Ironically, it's almost St. Valentine's day. February. The month of love. And hearts. There are effing hearts everywhere I look right now. But the one I'm looking at with real emotion is scaring me.

I don't want to overreact. Or overdramatize. We have options, doctors, insurance. I don't want to be so wet, but this is my partner - my kid's dad. It's been a strangely tremulous year, this 2009.

Thus far, I'm all for burning off the things which slow me down, make me less of the person I want to be. But a trial by fire from fear-of-loss, fear-of-death, just fear, I'm not sure I'm ready for all that.

We'll make it, but I'm afraid of being afraid.

Spin cycle: the hokey-pokey!

My first attempt at Spin Cycling! Jamie & I aren't necessarily the most overtly romantic couple you'll meet. Like, uh, at all. But we are closet cheeseballs. And this? Is our song. All passioned, bad hair, big plaid shirted 80's angsty rip-your-heart-outyness.

Happy Waffle Day!

Today is a magical day.

Four years ago today, someone named Folsom and someone named Walsh, inspired by the sweet news that GW Bush had changed domestic partnership taxation on public employees, hastily joined themselves together in sweet monkey matrimony to become the WaFols tribe forever more. (Wafols. Geddit?)

Here is a recreation of the beautiful moment when we decided to entwine our lives and taxable incomes together forever more:

Him: CRAP!


Me: What?


Him: I just got this notice that I have to pay taxes on all the domestic partnership benefits my work gave you that were untaxed all year! CRAP!


Me: Suck!


Him: OR...we could get married and the benefits would become nontaxable spousal benefits.


Me: So it's December. Couldn't they have told you earlier in the tax year? Effers. Whatever. I guess let's do it. (to Milo) Sorry little buddy. I guess we can't legitimately call you our little bastard any more...

See? We've always had that secret, romantic je ne sais quoi.

Last night, Jamie and I went out a day early (because when you get married on New Years Eve, every day is a holiday. Also, babysitters on NYE? Ha!) and celebrated with the alcohol and the raw fish and the reminiscence, reflecting upon all the words we now use only ironically. Like "romantic" and "privacy".

And we also did some good couple bonding and threatening.

Like...you can never die/divorce me/something-else-unforeseeable because we are In. This. Together. Like it or not, damnit, baby!

Because that? Is hot sweet magical monkey love. Baby.

Happy New Year/Waffle Monkey Love Day to you all!

DISLCAIMER: Our sitters are awesome and would probably totally have sat for us tonight. Just so's you knows. 


PS: Thank you tremendously for all the love about my sister. Here's hoping for a healing 2009! 


PPS: So....sometimes I'm a bit harsher than is strictly necessary. And even though the above is all more-or-less true, it doesn't capture the fact that we are a pretty nauseatingly happy-together couple who are delighted to find ourselves where we are. And even if GW hadn't been evil, babies not in our picture, and privacy something we could say without snorting, we might be in precisely exactly the same place. There, Jamie. I lub you and I may not be particularly publically mushy, but it's ALL MUSH ALL THE TIME in our reality. (OK, not always, but sometimes).

Cowboy kittens sapped my will to live

Thanks to Captain Dumbass, I was reminded of something: I'm lame. Here's why:

About 3 years ago, we moved to a neighborhood on the edge of Portland's SE industrial district: "Brooklyn" - known for many years (although less so lately) as "porn town" due to the many - now defunct - porn theaters/clubs in it's business district. Porn-town was a step up for us.

Porn-town Waffle house is 100+ years old. It has "character" and also, weird decorating choices made by previous tenants. When we moved in, we had many many good intentions: First up? Rip out wallpaper! Including: Giant pansies! Beers of the world! (seriously, wallpaper comprised of international beer labels) And, my favorite, COWBOY KITTENS!
I spent long hours ripping out carpets only to find day-glo orange and turquoise painted wooden floors beneath them. I then sanded carpet glue that had been laid directly on top of the painted fir floors. We scraped yards of wallpaper and then I painted. Sealed. Paint paint paint.

In about a week, the 2 bedrooms and office were shiny and awesome. Except for...Cowboy Kittens. The bathroom. It needed a full overhaul, as not only were the walls covered in kittens AND faux burlap AND baby-poop-painted trim, but the cheap linoleum tile was coming up, the sink leaked and the shower had been put in not according to code and required some work just to make it functional.

Here is the sucking part: I suck at finishing projects. Seriously. Suck. Just ask my backsplash tiling project, my red-barrel project, my doll-making project. They'll tell you: SUCK!

Jamie sucks too, in this way, so together we're just one, loving, sucking couple. Fine...except? Cowboy Kittens (and the yard, and the garage, and the basement...) To date? One wall is wallpaper-free, and the other walls are covered in the results of haphazard, occasional picking at the ends of wallpaper while the picker is in the bathroom.

Some day, as Wizard is my witness, we will defeat those kittens...

Kandinsky meets cotton

Lessons from date night: Things to NOT forget: Things to LEAVE HOME ON PURPOSE (because, you know, standing up to see a band all night - after downing 2 drinks, after driving all the way home to retrieve your license): Ow.

Things to remember: WHY you are with the one you're with. Jamie: The 80's were like...Kandinsky meets cotton

Me: Ha! But the hair was all...

J: Awesome. Like we all just stepped out of a biplane.

Me: More like an explosion.

J: Precisely! Kandinsky!

The evening was good. The Mountain Goats amazing, and their opening act...loud. And reverb-y. But John Darnielle is...damn. Weird. Great. Heartbreaking. He played Song for my Stepfather about himself as a battered 5-year-old boy that made me break a little. And he closed with Love love love and This Year, which are probably my 2 favorite songs of theirs. An experience worth having, which made me reflect on all the ways last night was a precious rarity.

Annnd...the kids were asleep when we checked in at 9:30, and seemed to have a good time too. Our sitter always tells us they are the best behaved, sweetest kids she knows. Possibly...it certainly makes leaving them with her pleasant. In 5 years, we might try this again.

Date Night!

OMG...next week, I get a real, live, EVENING date with Mr. Waffle. Our sitter is going to PUT THE KIDS TO BED. Or so we hope. Even if they fall asleep in front of a video and she carries them to the bed, that's AMAZING and a FIRST in almost 5 years! We are going to hear THIS band: At NIGHT! At a BAR! A REAL, evening date without racing home by 9!!!

Cowboy, meet Prison

(subtitle: The Name Game)

Every few months I waffle around (har har) about changing my name to Jamie's, because his surname is COOL with my first name. Seriously. You'd NEVER mess with me if I had his surname coupled with Rebekah. It's just that tough sounding.

Rebekah Cowboy

MY surname is lame with all name combinations (no offense, all Prison-named persons everywhere, but if your name is famous in your country for sounding like a Prison, it's maybe not the best of all names). Also, it sounds a bit like the noise people make when they throw up. So there's that.

Rebekah Prison

But...this is where I have to think about screwing my feminism (and general philosophies about self-worth) to the sticking point. I don't REALLY believe in changing your name...ever. I mean, I've known people with Rainbow Hippie Sunshine names who changed their names to Mary Jones-ish-ities. And many MANY more Mary Jones-es who changed their names to "Running Heart Stone Awesome Pants".

And I do get the merits in that. Sort-of. But...for me? Self-loving, confident, 38 year old me? Eh. I think my identity is melded to being Lame-o-Prison-Gal forever. It's just part of the package.

Plus there's the fact that in three marriages I've kept my name the same. (Not the best argument to have with Jamie). And that it's a bit like a vanity plate. I'd LOVE to not be Rebekah Sing-Sing*, but I am. And I'd really LOVE to be Rebekah Cowboy**, but I'm not.

We did give Zel the Cowboy last name, which I'd protested with great reasoning and logic and many thoughtful thoughts since waaaaay before any child of mine was born (essentially: boy-baby=dad-last-name; girl-baby=mom-last-name). Until she was going to be Zel Prison. Which isn't that bad, right? But my sense of aesthetic won out over my sense of justice (soooo telling), so she's Zel Cowboy forever, unless she decides differently.

And I guess that's the point, really.

* not my real last name
** not Jamie's real last name