look alikes

This is my husband. Well, not really. This is John Krasinski, the actor, in his role as Jim Halpert in American version of The Office. But Abraham does look so much like this -- even the manner is the same (and the hairstyle is similarly amusing, though Abraham has a moustache and goatee thing going on). I think the actor in character is darn cute, too, and that must be a good sign of how I feel about my dear husband.


I was out of milk on Saturday morning -- my 1% milk, not Iz's whole milk. Abraham suggested I use the whole for my coffee and oatmeal... Does he realize how much calories and fat are in that stuff? Iz's body and brain require it. Mine do not. (My brain is no longer developing... unfortunately.) So I drove to the local Giant to grab some. (I prefer Safeway, but the closest is at least a 10-minute drive away. Actually, I prefer Whole Foods, but I suppose they are too upscale for PG County.) The check-out woman did a double take on my face and said I looked like some famous woman, but she couldn't remember that celebrity's name. I have not had anyone tell me I look like anyone famous for a long time. And why do I care? Yet I wanted to know.

The exception to this dearth of celebrity references is my mother, who (again and again) insists I look like Kate Beckinsale. That's fabulous, but so not true. (Am I just hung up on the fact that she is about 20-30 pounds lighter than me? She is skinny as skinny can be -- and I am pretty fit and lean, but nowhere near her size.) And Mom insists Abraham looks like John Cusak. She once sent us a magazine ad for Serendipity, a mediocre movie which starred the two actors. (I said she insisted!)







On Sunday, an article in The Washington Post reported on a website that allows you, through some face scanning technology, to find out which celebrity you (or anyone you have a good head shot of ) look like: www.myheritage.com. I have uploaded a few photos. (Really, I'm not obsessed.) So far, My face matches no celerity above a 63% likeness. But Cate Blanchett, River Phoenix, and Drew Barrymore keep popping up... At least those are the ones I find somewhat realistic and yet flattering. I would love to look like Halle Berry (and she popped up as a match), but I really don't.

(You may ask why I don't post a photo of us. Perhaps I am trying to preserve some anonymity... Maybe someday.)

thinking about resolutions and a clean desk (at the end of January)

I read The Washington Post Magazine Year in Review issue. Well, I was reading it a few weeks ago. But even then, I was reading Sunday’s paper on, oh, the following Thursday. It usually takes me all week to read the Sunday papers. (And then it takes me weeks more to write about something that strikes me. The magazine has been sitting on my desk next to my computer since that Thursday, January 5.)

I do not remember the last time I made a New Year’s resolution. New Year’s celebrations have always been anti-climactic. Except the time I ran the Midnight Run in Central Park, but that was seven years ago! What fun: 15-degree temperature, fireworks, champagne at the halfway point in little thimble cups, ice on the Central Park roads....

Anyway…

I was reading The Significant Others column by Jeanne Marie Laskas, “The Journey of a Thousand Miles… begins with a trash bag.” She writes about New Year’s resolutions (fitting, right, for a January 1 column?), trying to pick just one small thing instead of rolling over the last year’s resolutions that never got done. Her thing was to be a neat(er) person. After considering where to get started, she focuses on her desk:
“I see there are many items that can be pitched. Here, for instance, is a pair of reading glasses I got at Target with lenses that turned out to be way too strong for me. Looking through these glasses gave me actual motion sickness. Now, someday, my eyes may need correction this strong, so should I save them? Or perhaps should I donate them to charity? One of the two rubber nosepieces is missing, but I suppose there are nosepiece replacements you can buy. Um. What the heck am I supposed to do with these things?”

I look at my desk… Who cares if it is a new year? I should always keep it neat, throw things out. But I don’t. I see s*hit tossed everywhere:

• A hammer that I used a week ago that should be returned to the toolbox (and I have gone from office to basement enough times to just grab it and take it down with me).
• A list of dentist names and numbers that I should file (let alone that huge pile of “To Be Filed” crap).
• The cord for charging my iPod and another one for downloading photos from my camera spilling across the desk top.
• A licked-clean spoon, probably left here from when I ate breakfast over an editing job a few mornings ago. The dish made it to the kitchen, the spoon was left behind.

I have no reading glasses from Target. But what If I threw out something? Or put something where it belongs? Ah, that would feel good. But whenever I am not working or caring for Iz, I don’t get around to cleaning my office. Well, I do actually clean my office now and again. And then it is so much more pleasant to sit and work here.

But it is so hard to get started. So instead, I wrote this blog entry.

"Jesus!"

Iz says "Jesus!" Yup. As an exclamation, not a prayer. Hmm. The first time I heard it, I thought I must be mistaken. And I thought it was very funny.

Ours is not a religious household, and a portion of the family is Jewish. I am the only complete non-Jew of the group (if you exclude the dog -- but who knows what faith he would choose). I grew up celebrating Christmas, but not as a Christ-filled day. Church-going was never a family practice. "Jesus" is certainly not said as in a "proper" Christian context.

Still, Iz exclaims "Jesus!" at least once a day. When I told my dear Abraham about the Jesus-saying, within Iz's hearing, Iz said, "Jesus!" Abraham asked, "Is he the second coming?"

So where would Iz hear the name? On Sunday mornings he isn't watching shut-in church services on television.

A few days after Iz's first "Jesus!", I emerged from the basement after putting on a load of laundry, I had an editing job to face, and Zi the Dog was battering the back door to be let back in. My to-do list was getting shorter, but only a little.

I sighed and shook my head, "Jesus!" I paused and recognized what I had said. Oy. I had no idea the significant name was part of my swearing vocabulary. With an unexpected clarity, I realized that, actually, I say it a lot (as an exclamation, not a prayer).

Now I know where Iz got it. Many people have warned me about kids repeating what one says at inopportune moments. But I thought it would be something I immediately recognized as one of my words or phrases. I don't know what the moral is. And I don't want to offend anyone, though I don't believe I am being blasphemous.

I considered trying to excise the name from use, so Iz would move on to something more... more what? Appropriate? Not drawn from someone else's religion? But, what the hell, I don't think I can.

Almost French and remembering (and facing) the past

I recommend Almost French: A New Life in Paris , a memoir by journalist Sarah Turnbull. It is one of the best books I have read in a long time. All the clichés apply: I couldn’t put it down; I lost track of time while reading; etc. Turnbull writes about her first years of living in Paris, where she still lives. You may love Paris or know nothing about it – no matter because her story is simply a good story. She moved to Paris in an uncharacteristically whimsical way, fell in love, built a freelance journalist career, and faced culture clashes (she is Australian). Her writing is so real, clear and uncontrived.

More than recommending the book, I admit it has further inspired me to write my own memoir (if it turns out to be that – it is mostly theoretical). Mine is a very different story, that of my freshman year in high school from 1985 to 1986 in Brooklyn, NY.

But I face some of her same issues, primarily of remembering or facing, really feeling, that past time. In her prologue, Turnbull writes,

“Those early difficult years in France seem a lifetime ago now, as though they were lived by someone else. So much has changed since then, including me, probably. The truth is, when I started to write this book I had trouble taking myself back to that time. I don’t know why it should have been so difficult. Either I’d forgotten or subconsciously didn’t want to remember or, being a journalist, I was paralyzed by the idea of writing in the first person. Probably a combination of all three.” (pp. ix-x)

I feel I could have written those words about much of my past. It is indeed a combination of all three. Turnbull conveys the difficulties so darn well.

My mother saved my journals from that time, and I am sure I kept one during my freshman year. But now I can only find those from the summer following that school year onwards. I’ll either have to do some searching for the actual journal, or begin writing down what little seems clear – and hope more comes back to me.

And, hey, Happy New Year!

running early (bags under eyes)

In order to get a peaceful, non-crammed run in, I have been waking myself up at 5:15 a.m. (beating 20-month-old Iz to the punch). Abraham (that lovely husband of mine) is a teacher and leaves the house at 7 a.m. I time my wake-up so I can be out the door by 5:30 and back before Abe leaves. Well. It has been cold lately. Very cold. But I still do it. I don’t mind the cold. And I enjoy the time. I can get a 6-8 mile run in. Then I feel like I have extra time all day. No worries! (Well, some worries. Fewer worries?)

When I was young(er) and single and baby-less and living in New York City, I used to do the same. I ran in snow, in rain, in 10-degree weather, in the dark, and without a dog. Now I have the dog, so loved ones worry less about my safety. (Though the dog, Zi, is a wacky, friendly hound/lab mix who has never bitten a soul. He does have a mean bark.) I don’t know why it took me so long to do these runs again.

The first time I ran in the early morning in my PG County neighborhood, it didn’t occur to me to be nervous. Heck, I wasn’t nervous doing so in New York City! But I grew up there, so I knew not to run in the lower depths of Riverside Park until the sun was up.

On this particular morning in PG County, a white van seemed to be following me. The van was moving slow, right behind me. I would turn, and the van wouldn’t follow me, but it would pop up again on another turn. This went on for at least two miles before I noticed the newspapers flying from the open window. Ah. Now I see the van all the time. I recognize The Washington Post white van and The New York Times burgundy SUV. The SUV driver is friendly and waves. The van driver looks at me as if I am crazy and in the way.

I am a little more tired (but not dramatically so). But I don’t wake so early every morning. But Iz does compound the tiredness. Recently, he is not sleeping through the night because he is viciously teething. Are these bags under my eyes permanent?

timekeeping

A shower takes me seven minutes. The actual shower part, that is. The post-shower routine (hair and tooth brushing, moisturizing, etc.) also takes about seven minutes. Abraham, my fabulous husband, thinks this is too long. (This coming from a man who can spend upwards of 20 minutes in the bathroom for non-shower reasons).Granted, his shower may take two minutes – no joke. (I sometimes question how clean he actually is.)

I know exactly how long tasks will take.

A trip to the grocery store, including drive time, takes an hour and a half at best. I really, really dislike going to the grocery store. I didn’t mind it when I lived in New York City. I walked there with my shopping cart, stocked up, and walked home with a heavier shopping cart (or had it delivered for just the price of a tip to the deliverer). Shopping in the suburbs of Washington, DC, has a whole different feel – especially with a toddler in tow. The grocery stores are huge. Have I walked a mile or more by the time I am done? I am usually exhausted and a bit dazed – and I can go out and run 10 miles at a moment’s notice!

Walking Iz to his babysitter takes 15 minutes each way, so a half an hour for drop off and a half an hour for pick up means an hour gone.

In a given day, if I want to go for a run, get some editing and writing jobs done, make sure Iz is fed well (which is a trick in itself – the kid hates eating) and not totally neglected, keep the house in some semblance of livable neatness (and my standard of “neat enough” has dropped way down), get myself fed, and perhaps run one errand – there is no way I can get it all done:

• Running (or other form of exercise): up to 2 hours (including preparation and recovery)
• Editing and writing: 2-4 hours
• Feeding Iz breakfast and lunch and a snack or two: 2 hours (including preparation)
• Entertaining Iz: 4 hours (which is usually quite nice)
• Maintaining livable neatness: 1 hour
• Feeding myself breakfast and lunch: 45 minutes (including preparation)
• Completing any one errand (post office, supermarket, etc.): 1-3 hours
• Total: 12:45-16:45
  

And I didn’t include dinner (which Abraham, thank god, deals with most of the time). Or my shower time. Or maybe watching a TV show or reading a newspaper article. But I often abandon the errand or livable neatness completely.

So I have started waking up at 5:15 a.m. to run before Abraham leaves for work at 7 a.m. That makes me feel a little more on top of things. But tired.

I know I don’t have a bad life. Clearly, many in this world have it worse. I have a pretty good life.

My awareness of how long everything takes, however, can make me a temporary, but recurring, basket case. (Even more annoying – Abraham has no clue how long tasks take. He thinks a grocery trip takes half an hour – completely forgetting drive time and wandering quotient.)

boy crazy

My mother described me as “boy crazy” in high school. I thought that sounded so 1950s. But she wasn’t wrong. I would like to say that I was tough, independent, intellectual… and maybe I was. But I was also boy crazy – insane, really.

I have pulled out my freshman year journal and have not yet been brave enough to read more than a few sentences. A cringe-worthy sample: “Today was the last day of my freshman year at school. I can’t believe it is over. I didn’t get a chance to say a good, sound goodbye to anyone but A., J., and S. I didn’t even get to say ‘hello’ to N. I won’t see anyone until school starts again. Isn’t that freaky? I’ll miss some people so much. I’ll miss N. more than anyone, even though he lives stronger in my mind than in my life.” Oh, it goes on and on and on. I don’t even think I had talked to N. in at least a month by the end of that school year. And we were never close. I was simply obsessed with him. And he was a total a*sshole. (As I typed this, I read beyond those few sentences and cringed even more. This is going to be hard.)

I could not throw out all my old journals, but I never thought I could bear to read them again. My mother found them stored in a closet in the New York City apartment and carefully wrapped each bursting volume (I pasted clippings, letters and pictures into them) in plastic wrap (yes, the kind you use to store food). I know she didn’t read them. She is still appalled that her brother found and read her diaries from high school (in the 1950s) – and they were in their 50s when he did so.

So here is the next grand writing idea – find something worthwhile in the old journals. Write the story of my freshman year, or high school years, and emphasize the 80s-ness of it all. I was in high school from 1985 to 1989. And the 80s seem to be attractive again (legwarmers, Dynasty and Dallas on Soap channel reruns, 80s songs now classic rock).

But is it really interesting to read the story of a boy crazy girl? Ick. Well, I guess there is the whole chick-lit genre… But I don’t think I can write that way.I’ll just have to write it my own way.

run, don't walk

My child runs away -- toward, away from, for whatever reason -- whenever I put him down. It is near impossible to have him free, out of his stroller, in a public place. Especially one that includes roads and cars. Say, a park in the middle of a city -- like Hyde Park in downtown Sydney.

I continue my temporary single parent role. (Is it inappropriate to refer to myself in this way? Am I slighting true single parents and my husband with one phrase?) Iz and I are still with my mother in Sydney. We are managing to do some fun, interesting things even under the stressful circumstances.

We had to get out last night -- I could not be in the apartment for another moment. I have not been trapped there; we have been out and about for a bit every day. But I had an overwhelming urge to get out (and run?). It was 5pm and, even on a Saturday, all the shops downtown close at 6pm. We went anyway.

After a bit of shopping, we stopped at Starbucks for a sandwich to share and a coffee for me. (It is usually unnecessary to go to Starbucks here, in a land of great coffee. But we were desperate and everything else was closed by 6:15.)

Then we tried to have an imporomptu picnic on the grass in Hyde Park. It was lovely at dusk -- the darkeing sky, the city lights. Iz stayed in his storller and actually ate something -- pesto chicken bits from the sandwich. But the moment I let him out, he took off toward Park Street. A little wall, one foot high or so. separated him from the sidewalk and road. He could scale that with no problem. If the drop of several feet on the other side didn't hurt him, the road he looked intent on running into would.

When I caught him and turned him around, he took off toward the center of the park -- certainly safer than the road -- and he was 50 feet away from me in mere seconds.

After the running, we checked out a fun photography exhibit, "Sydney Life," which was installed on huge pieces of canvas in the central walkway of the park. I let Iz out again, and he ran down the paved walkway, under the huge, bright white lanterns, away from me.

Between this outing and a bunch of others, I now have a ton of pictures of Iz's back.

I put him down, and he goes.

believe in ghosts?

Maybe “believe” isn’t the right word…

I had an odd experience this morning. I put on the Animal Planet channel for Iz. (Iz loves Animal Planet, and animals in general). A show that focuses on a different dog breed each episode was on. Excellent, I thought, Iz loves dogs. I was only half watching as I made breakfast. And Iz wasn’t watching at all, as he roamed the living room with a shopping bag in hand, collecting his toys and dragging them around.

I can’t remember the name of the show, nor can I remember the specific breed of dog – some kind of spaniel. The show started with a story about ghosts in an English castle. I don’t remember the castle name, but it is open to the public. I also don’t remember the names of the gentry who originally lived there way back when.

But the story goes that a spaniel ghost haunts this castle. It appears as a normal, flesh and bones dog and runs up and down stairs, through halls, into rooms, and then disappears. Sightings are well documented: Visitors mention or complain about dogs being allowed to run loose in the castle, and the custodians and historians know all about this spaniel, which was owned by some lady (who also haunts the castle) hundreds of years ago.

While I watched this segment of the show (in a rather half-assed way, I remind you), I suddenly got serious goose bumps all over my arms and legs. I wasn’t cold. Nothing had changed in the climate of the room. I am not usually spooked by random ghost stories, especially on bright, sunny mornings. The goose bumps disappeared when the story was over and the show moved on to focus on actual flesh and blood spaniels.

When I retold the odd experience to my mother, I immediately got the extreme goose bumps again, which I found even stranger, compounding the earlier experience. While I type this, they are returning. Spooky.

I am not saying I believe in ghosts. Maybe I do think something might exist or linger (as vague as that sounds). I do think it is interesting that I reacted so strongly to a completely indirect experience – to something on television, a report of another’s report of the experiences of yet another layer of people. If I did “believe”, would my reaction validate the story itself, no matter how far removed? Or would it point to another “real” ghost in my own environment? Or simply point to something about me, inside me, that caused such a strong reaction?

hair loss

My mother has started to lose her hair. I guess that is the least of her worries. But it must be hard to face.

If I were in her place, I think this phase – following the first chemotherapy treatment, before complete hair loss – would be like limbo, just waiting. I think I would feel better after all the hair was gone. Then at least I’d be in it, over a hump.

(If I do go through this, which I very well could, at least I have the role models of three very strong, brave women, my mother and her two best friends, who have faced and survived treatment – I am assuming my mother will make it because it is hard to imagine anything else. She has always been here. If they can do it, I can if need be down the line. Actually, I know too many older women – more than the three I mention – who have gone through this. The numbers seem out of proportion with probability.)

I suggested shaving her hair off, but she doesn’t feel “brave” enough. She is plenty brave. She washed her hair and much of it came out. I was out running when this happened. She called one of her close friends in tears. She was seemed more peaceful about it when I saw her an hour or so later and she had pulled out all her gorgeous scarves.

I have yet to see her, reportedly dramatic, thinning hair. Neither of us wanted her to take off the emerald green scarf, at least for now. She carried Iz off to look at her scarves and I heard her say, “No, don’t pull the scarf off!” as I was walking in the opposite direction. I didn’t turn around.

different in Sydney, Australia

Three things that are different in Sydney:

1. The morning paper arrives wrapped in plastic wrap, not in a bag that provides a second service as diaper or doggie poop holder/disposal.

2. Talk radio is called "talkback," which makes some sense.

3. Almost everything is smaller: paper towel rolls are a good two inches or more shorter than their American counterparts and look squat; you cannot find huge cups of coffee, like the Starbucks venti, except in the Starbucks at Hyde Park and Park Street, and that venti is smaller than the U.S. venti. (So paper towels and coffee are "everything"?)

Those are just three things I noticed this morning.

jet lag

Iz and I have arrived in Sydney – as of four days ago. My mother is definitely not well (i.e., very ill), but she looks (mostly) like herself and is up and about. For now. After her chemotherapy treatment next week she’ll feel terrible again.

So we are here to cheer her up. I wish Abraham could be here. Hell, I wish Zi the dog could be here (if he ever did make the trek, I think he would have to be quarantined for six months – which would be really bad for his psyche). There is even an unofficial dog park right in front of my mother’s apartment building (though it is not fenced in and Zi would be sure to run into a nearby road).

Iz and I have checked out the dog park a couple of times. He gets so excited – though I don’t know how he recognizes a miniature poodle or boston terrier as dogs, when his looks more like a coonhound (not actually sure what he is -- he is from the rescue league). But Iz knows dog. At the park, he runs around screaming, "Dog, dog, dog, dog, dog!" You almost cannot understand that he is saying the word over and over because he says it so quickly.








Iz is a little more needy – I assume from missing Dad (and dog) and experiencing jet lag – though doing very well. He is breastfeeding more than normal (how am I ever going to get him to give it up?), and jet lag is making him think that waking up at 4:30-5:00 a.m. is the thing to do.

But the mornings are beautiful in my mother’s twelfth-floor apartment. Iz and I climb the steps to the second floor (thirteenth floor?) where the living room and kitchen are, and emerge into the early morning light coming through the two walls of windows and look out over the Sydney skyline.






We have not gone far afield yet. This morning we did go to Café Zoe on Bourke Street and to a little playground on Chelsea Street. We have plans to get into the city and even to the famous Toronga Park Zoo.

Later this morning, we plan to go with Mom/Grandma to pick up her wig, and perhaps pick out a second funky one (pink?). Then we will go for a walk around the city.

in case anyone was worried

Despite his slow weight gain, Iz is fantastic -- has excellent nutritional levels and no growth hormone issues. He may have earned the diagnosis of "contitutional delay of growth and puberty" (instead of "failure to thrive"), which basically means he is little and will be littl for longer. (Who needs to worry about when a 17-month-old will hit puberty?). I don't think insurance covers this "condition," but, as luck would have it, there is no treatment but time -- I have no doubt that he will keep growing. His father was a little child. His paternal grandfather (Pop pop) was a little child. Now they are both six-plus feet tall. Now, it is my family that is short -- across the board -- but we were all medium to large sized babies. So Iz will be a giant. (Right?)

The worries about my mother continue. She starts chemotherapy now (she may even be receiving treatment as I write, since she is 14 hours ahead, in Monday morning). No more prognosis until they see how she responds to the treatments -- she could live for only months, for years, or for years and years. Iz and I fly out to see her on October 4. I feel as if I am in a holding pattern until I see her -- a bit helpless and sad.

pop-psychology

Maybe my dad has never gotten over his therapy experiences in the 70s and 80s (let alone in the 90s and 2000s). He puts too much store in it. Now, I have no issue with therapy (and I have been in therapy in the past – it can help – but I also find it easy to avoid what I really don’t want to talk about but should talk about). But the pop-psychology jargon drives me crazy. That is what my dad has never gotten over. And he wonders why I don’t “open up” to him easily. I just don’t want to hear it.

I was talking to him on the phone about my mother’s ovarian cancer, Iz’s possible growth hormone issues, and taking Iz to Sydney to see and help my mother. He said (and this is close to verbatim, though I am stringing together separate statements), “You should consider leaving Iz with Abraham. I may be speaking from my own baggage. But they are obviously well bonded. You do not want to go to Sydney with too many agendas. I’m just mirroring what you are saying to me.” Thanks, Dad.

If and when I go to Sydney, Iz is coming with me (unfortunately, Abraham cannot).Though Iz requires a lot of work, I would be very upset if I had neither husband, son, nor dog with me – I want at least a portion of my cozy family. Never mind the baggage, bonding, agendas and mirroring.

lost week

This has been a lost week. My now-standard weekly schedule and to-do list that I write on a white, lined, letter-size pad has been blank all week. I just realized this, and what day of the week it actually is, when I went to add to it and found it completely blank.

I have done things – mainly editing work and doctor appointments and playgroup for Iz – and I have even managed to maintain my training for the half-marathon I am running next weekend. But I didn't keep the list – which usually helps maintain my sanity and my ability to juggle being a full-time mother and full-time editor and writer.

Okay, here is the heavy concern that is weighing on my mind: My mother has been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and is having surgery on the 15th of September in Sydney. She is awaiting the results of a PET scan to see if it is a new, or primary, cancer or a secondary cancer, a recurrence from her breast cancer 13 years ago, and to determine her treatment. Even with the best prognosis, she will have an awful few months.

Now, you see, she already had her cancer. This seems so unfair. I have cried here and there – usually whenever I talk about it (though I am strangely dry-eyed as I write). I have not totally lost it yet – though I almost do at moments. I probably should just let myself fall apart to feel cleansed, or something. But then I feel like I wouldn’t be able to work (and a freelancer doesn’t get paid family leave), keep household running and care for my sweet little babe.

I want to fly out there – the whole 24-hour trip thing – and be there before she comes home, probably on the 25th of September. I want to buy some nice teas and some other goodies and get things comfy and set up for her. (She does have a boyfriend, a partner, who lives with her. I suppose he can also do many of these things, and he is very involved.)

But there is another weighty concern: I took Iz to his appointment with a pediatric gastroenterologist. Iz is dramatically lightweight at almost 17-months old: 19 pounds, 13 ounces. And even though he is doing great otherwise – has energy to spare and is developmentally on track, happy, focused on his activities and interested in other people – his pediatrician referred him for GI functioning tests to make sure he is okay. She give "failure to thrive" as a possible diagnosis. (I have since read up on this diagnosis, and only his slow weight gain fits the diagnosis. "Failure to thrive" usually also invloves listlessness, delayed development, and lack of involvement with others.) But we were pretty sure he (1) is just a little guy for now and (2) doesn’t love wasting his time eating. (Feeding him is often a huge pain in the ass.)

But it looks like Iz might have a growth hormone issue (his "random growth hormone" test showed very low levels – but the GI said this is a poor indicator, though it raises a red flag for further investigation). We are waiting for the more specific blood tests to come back in the next week or two. (He still might be just fine.) The GI wants me to wait until the results come back to make any travel plans. Iz would come with me, of course (though 24-hours of travel with a toddler sounds more icky than the usual ick of that trip). So we might have to wait until early October to see Grandma. I did take Iz to get his passport (what a funny passport photo – his little chin is pulled back, his eyes are wide, his fine blonde hair is standing on end at the crown), which should also be here within two weeks.

So my week has been a tad overwhelming (though I am not the one with ovarian cancer or possible growth hormone issues).

I have started next week’s schedule and to-do list. I wonder when am I going to lose my cool (actually, I am rarely that calm, cool, and collected these days) more dramatically that simply not keeping my legal pad schedule? Maybe I won’t. Yeah, right.