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.

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.

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.

Status Post

So here it was, Saturday already. With the good feelings of Christmas behind me, the extent of my mouth pain began to strike me down. Saturday night I couldn't eat or sleep and the Tylenol with codeine wasn't holding me. I woke up Sunday morning in a fog with a swollen and immobile jaw, but could do nothing about it because I had to work that night and it wouldn't be prudent to head to the hospital for a night shift with narcotics in my system. Strangely, by night fall at the hospital last night I began to feel a wee bit better.
As I drove home from baby-catching this morning, wide open freeways ahead of me, I started to feel pretty darn positive. I could probably get rid of this tooth problem without any interventions, for sure.
Have I ever told you how Lars used to want to be a dentist? He loved teeth back when we were little guys, back when we both had a great metabolism and with great abandon could eat the gourmet French fries at the deli I toiled away at in my high school years. Well it is true, Lars had big dental dreams ahead of him. We'd put our heads together late at night, while our other teenage counterparts were making out, and plan our future of me making it big in Hollywood while he attended UCLA dental school. It was a pretty sweet gig we had going. Ah me. Anyway, Lars interned with a dentist when he was in high school and he actually learned quite a bit.
Funny how that dental internship learned him real good how to deal with his crazy wife.
When I got home, I was ready to tell it on the mountain that my teeth done got saved. I mean, not a stretch, after all it is the season for miracles. And just who, who, who, who are you to tell me that one of those tiny little miracles couldna crawled up into my teeth and laid some baby miracle eggs, huh?
Mighta been the lack of sleep. Mighta been denial. Call it what you will. Lars'll not call it anything, instead, he'll call every endodontist on our MetLife plan to get me an ASAP consultation. Which he did. For someone who refuses to floss his teeth, he sure knows a lot about teeth.
And so, with enormous boobies (from not having nursed all night and the pump en route to DC back to my expecting and imminent SIL), I have yet again found myself in an awkward situation while I try to explain to toothy professionals why I (a well-insured, employed, middle-class white woman with four children to model good behavior for) have not been to the dentist since my Ann Arbor days. Yes, Ann Arbor dentists are better. Yes, the Ann Arbor dentist knows about my stainless steel medical equipment phobia. Yes, the Ann Arbor dentist always readily admitted that my teeth were better than Lars' because I flossed. And still, it is no excuse.
So basically what happened is that my poor bones and ovaries were exposed to 10-kabillion units of radiation for the x-rays taken as proof for the insurance company that this was indeed a case of emergency mouth death. Then, my mouth was propped open with a propper upper and then, OMG, came the stainless steel syringe with a ginormous needle which was used not less then 7-times to (per the endodontist) "numb things up, make the pain go away." Okay, whatever crazy person. For the next 2-hours that crazy sadist lady took circular saws to my head and cut holes in my skull, all the while my mouth was being rammed open at 180-degrees by that very unpleasant propper opener. My funny husband, he's so funny (I'm laughing), thought to pack along my iPod for me -- as if listening to Bob Marley and Green Day was gonna make the whole procedure a bit easier. Though I dutifully listened, little could be done to address the rising panic that was festering just under my ribs. At the end of it all, the professionals told me that I was a wonderful patient and they really didn't see how I had a phobia because I was "just so calm." I think I probably just blacked out.
Well the deed is done. I've gotta imagine that it's some sort of love, or something, that inspires a man to schedule an emergency root canal for his wife. Makes me wonder, with the recent observance of our 10th wedding anniversary last week-ish, what kind of appointments will herald our 20th anniversary? Gotta be love . . . (this is me signing out as I drift off into the codeined mystic).

Panama, Erie, Root: One of These Things is Not Like the Other

Twas two days before Christmas, when hour after hour
Kelly did moan and groan with teeth that felt sour
It was quite difficult to sort it all out while working at . . . work
But man! Holy cow! It hurt even to smirk!
The evening came, and to my home I did rush
But the traffic it certainly proved to be too much.
Too late to call a professional asking for an appointment at least
So instead of relief, there was a dinner party and Christmas feast
Alack and alas, dinner I could not tolerate
My Santa Fe Salad just sat on my plate
With grimace and agony, I grabbed at my left jaw
And ordered a drink from the first waitress I saw
Home again, home again, jiggity jog
But thanks to Irish Rootbeer I was in a fog
By the next morn, much throbbing ensued
And to my dental benefits my eyes did perused
I called all the dentists on my in-network plan
I would go to the dentist (thanks to insurance Mr Obama Yes I Can!)
But as it was nearly Christmas all my calls were ignored
As it turns out, even Muslims and Jews could not be implored
Not a phone call answered and the pain getting worse
I was beginning to think it was some kind of curse
"What should I do?" I cried out in distress
As the moments ticked by, I became more of a mess.
With guilt in my heart, to the kids dentist I texted
And it my brief note, the panic she detected

"I'll look in your mouth, we'll give it a whirl.
But I'm at the movies, with Arianna, my girl.
After the credits, at my office around two.
I will try to help and see what I can do."

And so in that pediatric dentistry chair
I lay in discomfort, nearly pulling out my hair.
Tap-tap here, and a whip-whap there
A dental exam and an x-ray to spare

My worst fears were confirmed by Dr Houri that day
An infection needing root canal and probably decay
My head hanging low and just filled with shame
Poor attention to my teeth, I am to blame!
Can I help it if I 'Mrs Natural Childbirth'
Am afraid of the dentist for all that it's worth?
I'm afraid of the poking, the prodding, the anti-fun
And so for two years the check-ups weren't done
And now here I am, on Christmas indeed
With antibiotics, pain killers and fears not relieved
I'll be a big girl, on Monday you'll see
I'll make my appointment for endodontistry

The End

There seems to be something about a family with four young children that strikes pity into the hearts of many folks. Perhaps it is because my husband and look younger than our true ages, many people mistake us for early 20-somethings. They assume things, like: 1) we are prohibited by our church to use birth control, 2) my husband is military and these are post-deployment babies, 3) we're mentally challenged. Of course, non of this is true. But, none the less, we still get lots of pity.
There are benefits to the aforementioned pity. Before I get started, though, I want to clarify a few things. For starters, each of our pregnancies was planned. Secondly, we are not any of the following: crazy, overwhelmed, burdened, unhappy, or stressed out. We run a tight and happy ship, with well-rounded and well-fed children. Every night, we have dinner together as a complete family, our bathrooms have toilet paper, my children's clothes are clean, and they arrive at school on time everyday with their completed homework in hand. Lastly, we can afford them. We're not destitute, which isn't saying we're rolling in it cause if you've got $50K to give then we could use it terribly.
Despite all this, people seem to want to give us things. This can't be more true than when we're at some sort of family oriented party. For example, yesterday, Soren's competitive soccer team had an end of league season (we're faaaar from done with this whole thing) party. Each family brought some sort of dish to pass and the hosts provided the hot dogs, brats, beer and $1.2 million dollar home in Rancho Santa Fe to party in. We showed up with our veggie dogs, whole wheat buns, and fruit salad in a carved out watermelon. The Indian family on the team brought an amazing curry and naan. The middle eastern family on the team brought some sort of grain, fresh tomato, and bean dish and pita and hummus. The Hispanic family brought some salsa and crisp corn tortillas. All the other white people brought typical white people things. It was a great array of food, a good time was had, and I happily stumbled out of the party with 3/4 of a Corona Light under my belt.
At the end of the party, there was a huge sheet cake with chocolate mousse filling, gobs of frosting and a black and white soccer ball iced onto it. The cake was so huge that despite the 40 or so of us there, we couldn't even finish half. As we were leaving, the proper British hostess (more recently here from the Bay Area) offered to send us home with some of the food spread. We are so pitiful appearing that people feel the need to send us home with leftovers. This is one of the benefits of seeming pitiful, destitute, Mormon, enlisted and mentally challenged. When you leave foody parties, you often end up going home with yummy doggy bags.
I smiled to myself, imaging all that great food coming home with my poor, starving children. Lars rubbed his hands together, tongue in the corner of his mouth at the thought of the delicious curry and naan for dinner. If we were lucky, maybe she'd thrown in a couple of Corona Lights and a few Modelo Darks?
She comes out of the kitchen, smiling broadly at me and hands me a large tin laden with food inside. Lars and I hop in the car, and then safely out of sight, I take the top of the tin.
Cake. Half a frickin' sheet cake. No Middle Eastern grains with fresh tomatoes, no curry, no guacamole, or standard white people food. No beers even. Just half of a sheet cake meant to serve 80.
I suppose this is karma. After every holiday, I bring in my children's left-over candy to my barrio clinics in the inland where those kids don't have toothbrushes, let alone routine dental care.
Well, there must also be something about being pitiful that makes people think you need chocolate mousse sheet cakes instead of walnut-couscous salad with scallion vinaigrette. Go figure.
And, just now, I ate 2-pieces of it for lunch.

Exercises in Breathing

I'm quietly positioned, flat on my back just like the article tells me to. This exercise is to "quiet my mind". Okay, I'm flattening out . . . just a sec', there is a Lego dude poking me in my left butt.

(-Mommy, what are you doing? -I'm breathing, Soren. Leave Mommy alone. -Oh, can I watch you? -No. -I'll just watch you quietly. -Whatever.)

Toss it away. Reflatten. I'm flattening. My belly's just a scooch slidey, though, so I gotta squeeze my ribs together. Sort of makes it so I can't breath, but the article says flatten. Should I be wearing a couple of sports bras?

(-Mommy, for how long are you gonna breathe for? -A long time, I hope. -Oh. long pause Are you still breathing?)

Okay, now it says "begin with a deep belly breath." Now, as a lady, I gotta say this feels a little awkward since it's hard to do a belly breath without the junk in my trunk oodling out a bit. Not to mention, my ribs are squeezy. This all feels a bit counter productive, and painful.

(-Mommy, please can you wipe me? -Be right there, Annike.)

Get this, now I'm supposed to say some thing positive in the form of a word or phrase. But I can't think of anything to say except "Hi, how ya doin'?" Which sets me to laughing. My ribs become unclenched, my boobs start shaking and I go fetal because it still burns across my c-section scar when any sort of effort is applied to my abs.

(-Mama?! Mama?! -She's in here, Petra! -What are you doing, Mama? -She's breathing, you can watch quietly. long pause -Excuse me, I tooted. -You're excused, Annike. giggles ensue)

Next, I'm supposed to exhale out all this negative stuff. Instead I accidentally belch because I just finished giggling, swallowing big heaps of air in the process.

(-Nah-nah? Nah-nah-nah? Ma-ma? then spitting and pulling of my hair)

Okay, so here's my thing, wouldn't a splash of wine be a bit simpler?