Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Tova's Day Out


Down here in my snug little corner of the country, wrapped up in mountains on three sides and then snuggled into an ocean on the other, bizarre things are happening with our usual 75-degrees and sunny. Very strange.

Of course, being a northerner all of my bluishly pale existence, I find 75-degrees rather odd truth be told. But this post isn't about me (really, it is, I always bring it back to me . . . I'm so self-centered), it's about the sky and the winds and the sun and the dirt that holds me to this dear earth of ours.

Right now, that precious dirt is washing away down my hilly street out onto El Camino Real several blocks away. On that notable California road, that sends itself careening along California's length just like one of our famous fault lines, cars are pressed up against each other with their silly little California drivers jerkily applying breaks after having forgotten those rainy rules back from Driver's Ed days. Finally, I find myself tucked into our sort of new and partially repurposed and practically freshly adorned office to tell you about all this quirkiness.


Let me start by saying that our nanny answered the phone today to be confronted by a spastically perky water district employee who excitedly informed her that the Lars Viking Family had just won an award for our family's water conservation effort. In these here parts, water conservation is huge, in the past year our tidy little group has taken on conservation with renewed fervor. The newspapers and local websites are riddled with pictures of tanned and wrinkled farmers holding handfuls of their parched soil to the wind, weepily watching it blow away with the Santa Anas and her relentless and fiery sisters. Finally, it has become shameful to wash your car with anything more than a small bucket of water, my neighbors no longer even sneak out in the middle of the night to spray off their dusty drive-ways lest they get spotted being so raunchy during the day, newly constructed pools sit dry in beautifully landscaped back yards, and the lagoons' waters are have been quickly receding back to the ocean.


Down here, we are thirsty. Parched and dry mouthed. We've been heaving and choking on our dry air, with arched eyebrows we worriedly implore the sky for relief. But at 75-degrees and sunny, it's hard to complain.


Monday the sky began to mangle itself around it's own cloudy entrails, pulsing and contracting and chilling the air to a frigid 55-degrees. Finally, no longer able to sustain the pressure, a slow and soft leak of tiny droplets began to sprinkle toward the ground. But just like when any one of us tries to just pee a little bit when we have a full bladder, just like us, the sky above us wet its' pants.


Now we are soggy Californians, walking around schools and malls and Super Targets in our soaked-through Uggs that were formerly meant for decorative purposes in our typical balmy times. There I was scrambling to get out of the Super Target parking lot with my mushy boots on, practically tossing my middle children into the van while Tova stared around her with wondrous eyes. What could this be she wondered? It's not a shower, and yet here I am all wet? She patiently sat in the cart, diligently strapped in for safety while I threw our purchases in to the back end of the car, the trunk door pathetically shielded us from driving rain. In order to close the trunk on the van, I had to nudge Tova and the cart forward so she wouldn't get bashed. Now, out from under the roof of the trunk door, Tova became a sopping and curious victim of the wetness as she quietly took it all in. At last, everything put in it's proper place, we pulled out of our parking spot into the dark, angry evening.


The drive home reminded me of those Michigan white-out days when you couldn't see 2-feet beyond your windshield, oblivious to what may have been going outside the bubble of one's own car. But instead of that magical quiet that accompanied the blankets of snow laying themselves down, this rain was loud like a symphony of freight trains driving just over your head. The kids sat quietly in the back end, sensing my tension as I maneuvered our tin-can through the streets. Driving through our hilly streets can be an adventure on a dry day, but on a dark and rainy night, driving up hill is like trying to drive up Victoria Falls with water speeding down the hill exceeding laws of physics and celebrating Newtonian parables. And then, as suddenly as the deluge had began, it quickly transitioned to a lazy drizzle. My colleagues on the road, shaken and not trusting of another imminent blast of rain, continued to cautiously creep along the streets, upper backs hunched toward their dashboards, hands furiously clenched around the steering wheels of their Porsche Carreras and Audi A6s. It was then that I realized that the car was awfully quiet. I looked in the rear-view mirror, with Petra accounted for at the gym, there was Annike in her Marathon zonked out and mouth ajar, Soren dozily twitching in his booster seat. But Tova, who sits in a rear facing position behind the passenger seat, I could not see. Where the F-Bomb was Tova? Holy Mother of God! Please (gasp) Lord (gasp), my baby! My Tova! At that moment, I could not, just could not remember getting her into the car after loading up the laundry detergent. All I remembered was pushing her out of the way as I slammed the trunk shut. Gulp. Is she careening down El Camino Real, strapped into a Super Target cart, narrowly missing ostentatious and big bellied SUVs at they fish-tail on their monstropolous wheels?


Just as I was about to scream to the middles (my middle children, that is) the wind and the rain picked up again. The could not be roused despite my loud begging, the rain was louder than me. Tell me you see Tova in her seat, I commanded. I screamed, but I could not overcome the blasts of wind and thunder. God have mercy on my soul, what kind of pathetic mother leaves her baby in a parking lot, tethered to a shopping cart? With traffic around me skidding through stop lights and swerving through lanes, I had to keep my eyes on the road, lest I too become a victim of the weather. Terror rose within me as I imagined all the scenarios in which she surely enduring at that very moment. My darling sweetie-pie, in her pink and red striped pants and a red sweatshirt with a heart embroidered on the tummy, must be so angry with her mommy right now. I could only hope.


But before me a pause, a break up ahead, I wheeled my head around, craned my neck toward her end of the car, and there out of the corner of my eye was her tiny little Robee attached to her foot, which was attached to the rest of her precious body and very much inside the car that I was presently driving.
Today was a good day, the farmers can grow avocados again, Tova had a nice nap, and I still have not become the what-kind-of-mother mother.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Plans for being gooder.

Recently, we had a family meeting about the meaning and purpose of resolutions. In addition to the resolutions I generously assigned everyone, the kids managed to come up with many on their own. Some of it seems repetitious but that's only because it really important to me, er, us.

Some of the resolutions that didn't make the pictorial:
1) less beer
2) more water
3) sit-ups
4) read more books
5) toes pointed, arms by ears and legs straight
6) eat politely
7) stop losing stuff

I won't tell you who came up with which ones for themselves, but I'm thinking you can probably figure it out.





























Well, we'll be doing our best and all. Especially on getting along better and being nice to the siblings business. If they don't, they'll really get an earful . . .

Monday, January 18, 2010

Petra Lou Retton

At 8 am on Friday morning, Petra presented to a gym in Nevada for her first gymnastics meet.

Coach Quin, from the optionals team, came by to pump the girls up. Petra nervously put her hand in the center of the cheer, her cute little curls bobbing about as she quakety-quaked.

Here she is pictured lined up with her teammates and some of the other girls from her rotation.

She accepts last moment advice from her ever-supportive Coach Wendy.

One quick glance at Daddy before her floor debut.

Nervous Mommy.


With floor and vault successfully behind her, Petra's coaches prep her for bars.


Here, she achieved her top score of the meet.


The most difficult event came last.


Mid-scale.


Receiving her 3rd place medal for her bars performance. Her first meet!
On beam she achieved 5th place and on floor 6th place, both placements earned her a spot on the podium and shiny medals. In the all-around, she was in 6th place, placing higher than any of her teammates that day.


Triumphant, her hardwork helped her team clinch the 5th place position out of 70+ teams competing.

That is the story of our weekend, which is now over, though I suspect Petra's turn as a competetive gymnast are only just starting.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Quickie!

Speedy, speedy, quick, quick.

I'm ok. Really, I am. Sometimes it's hard, but my kids are good, and I'm good. I'm trying to make everything work out perfectly, and even if it doesn't the world will be a better place just for having tried.

The big news around here is that we're leaving for Las Vegas in a few minutes. We're driving out on Lars' wheels with the whole famdamnly to cheer on Petra at her first big gymnastics meet. My parents are meeting us out there, probably as moral support for Lars and me cuz that man and I are near bout jelly inside with all our nervies. I'm not worried about her performance or anything, I'm just nervous thinking about her being nervous. Well, that and a squeech nervous about doing her gymnastics hairdo with all that mousse and hairspray and glitter.

Please send love and courage to Petra as she heads out for her first big girl adventure.

PS - I just got back from the dentist! Did all my pre-crown/follow-up root canal business. He said I have beautiful teeth, 3 of which need fillings. $700 out-of-pocket to fix me up good like. Just saying -- if you got any cash just laying around my dentist sure could use it on my behalf.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

It's a recession of mothers.

I've gone back to work full-time. I did not forsee this happening to me. Somehow, I imagined that being the mother of four angelic children exempted me from full-time work, the way it does for the Mormon mommies in the neighborhood.
This is my husband's fault, as usual. He refuses to make another $100K a year. I've explained to him, rather nicely a few of the times, that all he has to do is make more so I don't have to. He declines, citing "reasons" (air quotes would be used here if we were talking in person) he finds reasonable ("they just don't give out $100K raises!"). Who are "they" I wonder? I should like to meet "they", because while my husband is typically impervious to my suggestions and, er, orders, I find that others can be swayed more easily. Lars won't introduce me to "they", he says that would be career suicide. Still, seems strange as I am quite nice and rational, "they" would probably find me rather pleasant.
But, lady friends you know what I'm saying, fathers just don't care to grasp our mommy way. Lars (who by all accounts is an excellent papa) thinks nothing about leaving for work in the morning, feels no urgency on his ride home. When he's at work, he doesn't quickly jot down an item on the crumpled grocery list in his pocket, or check his cell phone every 20-minutes to see if the school called about a broken pinky toe, or sigh deeply and smile sadly as he mournfully pictures their faraway faces. He is blissfully exempt, as fathers are, of feeling the long ago cut umbilical cord tugging at his navel.
I, on the other hand feel the constant phantom pains of that severed umbilical cord. I tear up when I pull out of the driveway in the morning, my eyes filling with saltiness as I roll down my street in neutral to save gas. I heave little gulpy breaths as I drive toward the barrio or the cougar office. During the day, I refer to them 4-times hourly, ad nauseam I'm sure. After work, I race out of the office, breaking traffic laws in order to expeditiously get to my children. When I see them, I melt, I mourn, I break off little pieces of me and feed me to them as mommy snacks.
And despite the misery at having to leave them, despite the biological pull back to them, here I am, schlepping around Southern California in the middle of the night speaking Spanish and delivering babies.
Of course, this gives me miserable feelings and sentiments. Resentments (my poor patients, but not husband). Tears. Arguements. Resentful children. That is the worst . . . resentful children. They're right, though, I've left them for what I hope is a temporary stint as Primary Financier of All Things Viking.
I try to sneak in my work hours so the kids notice less. I work when they sleep, I sleep when the go to school. I work only while they are at school and then have them walk home to cover my fitting in extra patients long after the school bell has rang. But a lot of times, it just can't be avoided and they come home from school and I'm not there and won't be for quite some time. Or just as bad, their Daddy takes them to a Saturday game or party or playdate and he doesn't even care to, he doesn't even want to be there, he has no passions for playdates. Or, a get together of family friends is happening, all the other kids have both parents present, but not mine because I'm away at the hospital while Lars is soaking up the jolly good times as the eldest daughter of one of the families trails our imps around. In some ways, I admire and envy the easy ways my husband can parent. I envy his complete apathy to missing pick-ups and shopping trips that I inflate with meaning that probably isn't relevant or meaningful.
No matter how I try to rationalize it, I still end every conversation with myself this way, "what kind of mother . . .?"


I'm sad, friends. I know my fellow working mommy friends occasionally feel the same sadness that I feel today, that we're a sometimes sisterhood of just gettin' by mothers. Lest you fret too much, my just gettin' by friends, my apathetic father friends, my stay-at-home friends and all my in-between friends -- lest you fret -- you should know that I am a wine-bottle-is-half-full type of gal, today is but a blip in my near eternal sun shiney-ness. You should know that I let these whiney, self-pitying, and demoralizing times last for only a few moments before I get started on the rewiring of my hardware. I just need you, my friends and co-conspirators of modern work-life division, to slowly nod and whisper your resigned snippets of shared remorse with me. Friends, tomorrow we will prevail. I love you and goodnight.