Oscar

Today I got to spend some one-on-one time with this little guy:

We played catch in the front yard for a while.  He has a strong, straight arm and can catch even my wildest throws.  We walked to Gramma's for a visit.  He loves to press the button on the traffic light and wait for the little white man to appear.  We got ice cream at the ice cream store.   As the only passenger in my car around dinner time, he got to pick the fast food restaurant and chose drive-thru over dine-in.  I watched his baseball game.  He got to pick the movie before bedtime.  And right now he's brushing his teeth.  Very soon he will give me a bedtime hug willingly but a kiss only reluctantly.

There was a time, long ago, when we had only 4 kids and thought we would keep it that way.  Matt even had a vasectomy scheduled.  But a series of events unfolded, beginning with pitchers of margaritas at a Mexican restaurant in Wauwatosa, WI and ending with me in a bathroom stall at the health clinic, a baby and a toddler sitting on the floor, a pink pee-pee stick in my hand.  We were officially Expecting.

It was not a convenient time to add another child to our family.  We were living on less than $60,000 a year, dipping monthly into the red, banking on the hope that Matt would eventually be promoted to captain on the MD-80 at Midwest Express.  Considering our family size, we were within $5,000 of qualifying for free lunch at the elementary school.

I was sure Matt would be upset when I told him.   I was upset!  But, thankfully, he smiled and hugged me when I told him.  We immediately embraced the existence of the new baby and considered ourselves Parents of Five.  This is a photo of the weekend we first knew I was pregnant.  I remember feeling like we had a secret we were keeping safe from the world:

But after a few days I developed a urinary tract infection.  And I started spotting.  The nurse at the clinic was quick to offer medicine for the UTI and a somber prognosis for the pregnancy.  It was unlikely that it would hold.

The spotting continued for days.  A week passed.  We still held out hope that this tiny little son or daughter would stay alive.  I went to St. Mary's in Milwaukee for an ultrasound.  The screen showed a defined mass but no heartbeat.  Our happy little surprise, the seventh member of our family, had died.

I allowed myself one short cry.  I sobbed.  It was cathartic to weep from deep in my soul for the loss of a life -- a potential life really -- just the idea of what that life might have been.  Then I drove home and was smothered by children: Louie, who was only 6, Henry, still 4, Donny, just turned 3, and Baby Jo only 8 months old and barely weaned.  It was close to Halloween, the night of trick-or-treating in our neighborhood.  This is the actual evening I came home from that hospital ultrasound.  I think my face is still swollen from crying so hard:

That was October.  Throughout November I couldn't shake the feeling of having lost something.  Although it was never a tangible, visible, cuddle-able baby -- although our family was still and had never been more than a family of 6 -- I had imagined the 7th Holm so powerfully that I didn't want to live without it.  I needed to get that baby back.

So although the official marital policy was "let's see what happens", I will admit here and now to using my womanly wiles to intentionally manipulate the connubial climate during just the right weekend in December...

And now we have this:

The 7th Holm.  The baby of the family.  Matt's final spawn.  The thumb to the four fingers.  The exclamation point at the end of our familial sentence.  Oscar.

Breaking Out of the Golden Cage

Matt left for a trip today and JoJo is at camp.  We had no scheduled sporting events and no pre-arranged play dates.  Life in the Golden Cage* was starting to look a little boring on this Monday morning.  So in an effort to mix it up I convinced the four boys that we should take a day trip to Ikea.

Ikea is 300 miles north of our house.

I realize this was a little bit crazy.  To embark on a four and a half hour drive with my four sons just so I can shop at one store and drive home again is pretty far out of the norm.  But freedom don't come free, people, and there is nothing that beats a long drive on the open road for making me feel like I am untethered.  So the boys and I loaded the car with DS games, iPads, YuGiOh cards, the entire genetic future of the Holm Family name, and some snacks and we hit the road.

Somewhere around Funks Grove I realized my mistake.

There was a minor scuffle between brothers which required correction.

Nancy:"Maybe if you need your brother's attention you should tap him gently instead of slapping him in the face?"

Donny starts to rap:"Tap-gent-e-ly. Tap-tap-tap-gent-e-ly.  Tappy-tappy-tappy-tappy-tap-gent-e-ly..."

This continued until Henry demanded silence.  

Another half hour went by with pleasant discussion.  I realized what a treat it is to have these four boys in my immediate control.  They are contained in the car and forced to communicate with me.  They can try to escape into a video game but ultimately we are intimately connected via close physical proximity for the duration of the drive.  We joked and reminisced.  

Donny:"Remember the time you were pretending to be a werewolf and you turned around and bit me in the butt?"

Henry:"I don't think it happened like that..."

Donny starts to rap again:"Bit-me-in-the-butt.  Bit-bit-bit-me-in-the-butt.  Bitty-bitty-bitty-bitty-bit-me-in-the-butt."

Henry:"STOP IT!!!"

I am, of course, laughing my ass off at the rapping.  Whatever Henry says, Donny riffs on it.

Henry:"Latitude lines run horizontally."

Donny:"Hor-i-zon-tal-ee.  Hor-i-hor-i-hor-i-zon-tal-ee!"

Henry:"MAKE HIM STOP!"

But Donny is in full swing now...

Donny:"Hor-i-zon-tal-ee.  Tap-gent-e-ly.  Bit-me-bit-me-bit-me.  Bit-me-in-the-butt.  Mix-it-up.  Mix-it-up.  Mix-it-mix-it-mix-it-up."

But like the Hawthorne Effect at work in a research project, Donny's rap has devolved into something inauthentic.  He is doing it just to make Henry mad and to make me laugh.  Regrettably, I had to rein him in.

A few more hours passed in pleasant conversation.  When we drove through Grundy County I was able to share a historical fact about my own childhood: in the suburbs of Chicago in the 1970s and 80s, "grundy" was the preferred word for "wedgie".  This was widely appreciated throughout the car. 

But then someone farted.  After the usual interrogation, Donny confessed.

Henry:"You need to control your god damn bowels!"

Donny:"They can't be controlled!  They are like a wild wildebeest!  My wildebeest is roaring!"

Nancy:"You are seriously out of control."

Donny:"Like my bowels!"

I would be remiss if I failed to mention how sweetly Oscar and Louie played throughout the drive.  They were as quiet as mice... mice that are obsessively focused on video games and shouting out video game successes and conundrums to whoever will listen.

Louie:"I got a strawberry!"

Oscar:"How do I catch an orange?"

Louie:"I have the kingsley beast!"

Oscar:"How do I get a piece of the magic heart?"

Louie:"I have two elements!"

However sweet and mouse-like, Oscar was involved in a conflict somewhere north of Dwight.  It started when he touched Henry's iPad.

Henry:"Don't touch my iPad."

Oscar:"I can do whatever I want."

Henry:"Not without getting punched in the face!"

There followed a long discussion about doing "whatever one wants".  For instance, what if you wanted to hold your breath for 5 days?  Could you do that?  Not without dying!  And what if you wanted to fly through the air for 20 minutes without any special flying devices?  Huh?!  What about that?!!

You get the drift of the conversation.

This was around this time I started romanticizing the Golden Cage and its many rooms, each with its own walls and doors, some with locks.

As for the actual Ikea experience, it was fine.  I spent $30 on creatively designed, flat-packed merchandise and $35 on a meatball feast for five.  

I had to remind the fellas a few times that their natural volume and activity levels need to be halved when in a public place.  

Also, Henry almost put a flip-flop through the ceiling of the elevator.  Almost.  

Oscar bought a stuffed ball from the kids' department and attempted Jordan-esque moves throughout the breakable housewares department.  We paused to ask ourselves why Ikea stuffed animals have so many very long tags on them.

Thanks to his one year of high school Spanish, Louie figured it out.  "They have to tell you in 31 languages that the fabric is 100% polyester and the filling is polyester fibers."

Donny's Ikea must-have was a hand towel.  He's reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and the main character asserts that a towel is the most valuable item in the whole universe.  This one was only 49 cents which struck Donny as really really awesome.

Then it was back in the car.

They were well-fed and maybe a little burned out, so we had about an hour of peace.  I got to listen to radio music in that long-drive sort of way in which you hear the words like you've never heard them before.  For instance, I now can report with confidence that the 80s classic "Little Red Corvette" is really an extended musical-metaphor and Madonna's "Like a Virgin" is, obviously, a simile.

We zipped along the highway, reading all the same signs we had read two hours prior, but in reverse order.  Donny misread one to our delight: "Why is that town called Joilet?!  It sounds like 'toilet'!"

But somewhere just south of Morris, Donny's Swedish fish stuck to one of his molars and pulled it loose.

Donny:"Oh, God!  My tooth is so loose!"

Nancy:"Pull it out!  The tooth fairy will bring you five bucks!"

In just a few seconds the tooth was out, but there was a lot of blood.  So much blood that he was sort of drooling like a vampire.  He sucked down some water and spit it out the window, splattering bloody spit all over Henry's window in the back seat.  The water-suck-window-spit technique wasn't enough to quell the flow of dental bleeding.

Oh, whatever could we do to stop the bleeding?!!

Readers.  Do you remember the hand towel?!!

Seriously.  I could not make this shit up.  Donny used his new Ikea hand towel to squelch the seepage from his enormous molar gap.

With the immediate blood loss crisis under control, Donny started to clean up his area.  He threw the Swedish fish, which had caused the mess in the first place, out the window.  It flew by Henry's rear window.

Henry:"What the hell was that?!"

Donny:"A fish."

Henry:"Why did you throw it out the window?!"

Donny:"It was bloody.  Wait... here's another one on the floor.  It's bloody and it has dog hair on it.  Do you want it?"

Readers, I swear he was serious when he offered it to Henry.  To his credit, Henry declined.  And to his credit, Donny cleaned the bloody spit off the car at our next pit stop.

It was all down-hill (rather, down-state) from there.  Louie and Oscar played YuGiOh in the back seat.  Louie even allowed me to photograph him in the act of playing.  Henry and I agreed that he will attempt to be more respectful of adults during his eighth grade year.  Donny agreed to pulling out those last few baby teeth. 

And as I pulled into the driveway after nine hours in the car with these characters, I knew I had done a good thing.  Sometimes you have to mix-it-mix-it-mix-it-up in order to see the happiness that is in front of you every-every-every-day.

Nancy

*The Golden Cage is a concept I learned last week from Conrad.  He lives in a Golden Cage in Mexico: a beautiful house in a place that offers nothing to do and which he can rarely leave.

Tuck

Today's entry is easy... today I recognize the happiness I get from my dog.  Not both dogs.  Not the one who breaches the electric fence and barks at birds and harasses the mailman and eats donuts off the table.  Just the other one.

Normally he is a hairy beast.  Tufts of hair fly off his back as he walks by.  Petting him results in a literal hand-full of hair.  I use the Swiffer twice a day in an attempt to avoid being buried by it.  I vacuum him regularly with the shop vac.  Today, in an act of desperation, I took him to Petsmart to be shaved.

"Do you want us to blend in the tail fringe?" asked the groomer, as if this were a matter of beauty rather than a sanitation issue.

"Uh... no.  Just shave it all off."  I replied.

Don't tell Tuck, but he looks ridiculous.  He looks naked, pale, and chubby.  His tail looks positively rodent-ile.  But I can't keep my hands off of him!  He feels like a sleek palomino gelding instead of a 60s shag carpet.  I cuddled him today like never before.  I snuggled him until he tired of the attention.  I can actually pet my pet.  It's a miracle.

Rummagepalooza

It's only midday and I already have something to be happy about.

There is an event in Belleville today - deep into Belleville proper, where payday loan stores and minimarts abound - called Rummagepalooza.  The name drew me in.  I'll admit to being lured by the 'palooza suffix.  But, sadly, it didn't measure up to its name.  In retrospect, maybe it should have been called some-people-selling-stuff-in-a-parking-lot.

But wait!  I found something excellent at the Rummagepalooza!

It is a handmade piece of furniture.  The artisan, Mr. Rutherford, is part of our greater Signal Hill community.  His kids graduated from our local school within the last few years.  He has a regular job, I suppose, and this 'palooza business is just a side gig.

His hobby is turning reclaimed wood into furniture.  The wood used for today's offerings was first a privacy fence in Troy, Illinois.  (Obviously, it was first a tree and then a privacy fence.)  Mr. Rutherford reclaimed it (by "reclaimed" I think he means "garbage picked") and turned it into this pretty and practical sideboard.

The experience of finding, buying, and using this piece makes me happy.

First, it is the exact piece of furniture I needed for this bathroom.  It replaces a cheesy, laminated cubby thing from Target.  It fits the space perfectly and offers precisely the right amount of storage.

Second, it was only $100 and fit comfortably into my Explorer without displacing any of the children I had riding with me.

Third, it was up-cycled by a local craftsman.  These are both good things for the Earth -- fewer raw materials used, less gas used for transportation, blah blah blah.

Finally, it has a good vibe.  You see, after I babbled to Mr. Rutherford about the beauty of repurposed, reclaimed materials, the importance of home decor, and the fact that I only had $5 left in my wallet, he said, "Well, it's really just my favorite thing to do."  And I was dismissed.

To spend our time doing what we love to do while avoiding further damage to the Earth and making a few bucks along the way... I think that is one reliable recipe for happiness.

Nancy

Day 1

Well, shit.  It turns out there is plenty to be happy about in my regular life.  After just this one day of trying to actively recognize happiness as it exists in my daily routine, I can present to you this list of things that qualify as "happinesses":

1. I was able to enjoy the St. Louis Sauna by going to the pool.  My kids are old enough to swim safely while I read a book or take a nap.  I did both.  I even jumped into the pool a few times.  I stayed under long enough to let the cold water soak all the way through my hair, onto my scalp.  I treaded water, trying to fully experience the water as it rippled over every part of my skin.  Then I pushed hard off the bottom of the pool and thrust myself up into the hot summer sun.  Some teenagers standing nearby stopped talking and looked at me weird.

2. I was not the fattest woman at the pool.  Far from it.  I can still wear a two piece and walk from lounger to snack bar without bystanders shrieking and diving into the pool in an effort to get away.  And I have a good tan.

3. Around 5 o'clock, when I would usually have had to go home, figure out some sort of dinner plan, and tidy up the house, Matt agreed to come to the pool and join us in our carefree recreation, allowing me to continue the leisurely reading and napping and avoid the cooking and cleaning.  I had enough cash in my wallet to order pizza which was delivered poolside by my special friend Dominos Delivery Girl.

4. Now I am home in my pajamas.  My home has air conditioning.  Two of my five kids are out of the house with friends doing things that are age appropriate and properly supervised.  The rest of us will watch movies and play Scrabble.  I will likely win, but if not, I will experience the vicarious pleasure of watching my children feel good about themselves.  Then I will tip the board and send them straight to bed.

Nan

P.S. Donny says I have to make it clear that I exaggerated some of his behavior in yesterday's post.  Thankfully, he understands the need to enhance the truth sometimes... for a laugh.

Donny's Underwear

Donny had swim team this morning.  He's new to swim team and it's busting his ass.  Every day is another arduous physical challenge.  His muscles ache.  He's sore everywhere.  And it makes him hungry.  This hunger dominates his entire existence.   His mood is altered like that of a bear freshly awoken from his winter's sleep.  When Donny is hungry he is incapable of performing even the smallest basic task.  He gets stuck in a Catch-22 of hunger, too hungry to do the simple things required to become unhungry.

We returned from swim team this morning at 10:30.  Having passed up breakfast, he was now both muscularly and gastronomically drained.  He rolled out of the car and down the basement steps where he was somehow able to strip his wet suit off his weary legs.  His plan, I suppose, was to crawl the few inches to his clean laundry basket, use his last bits of strength to locate some underpants, and put them on.  But, alas, no clean laundry in his hamper.

The whining began.

"Mahhhhm!" He called weakly, naked and on his knees on the basement floor.  "Get me some underpaaaaaants!"

I knew he was tired.  I knew he was naked.  I knew the clean underpants were two floors up, somewhere in his closet, probably right in his dresser where they belong.  But you see, I like to build independence in my children.  I like to encourage them to do things now that will help them grow into capable, self-respecting adults.  Someday he will be someone's husband and he really can't be kneeling naked on the basement floor whining pitifully for his wife to bring him some clean drawers.  So I refused.

"You can get them."  I sang in a lilting and cheerful tone, my voice a melody of encouragement and support.  (I often use faux cheerfulness to discourage faux helplessness.  I think the kids have caught on.)

"Somebody!!  Help!  I need underpants!"  He saw right through my false cheer to the cold, hard nugget of indifference in my heart and decided to appeal directly to the masses - anyone within earshot who might be generous enough or bored enough or enough in need of favor-banking to retrieve for him some clean boxers.

"I am freezing and tired and starving and naked down here!!!!  Why won't anybody help me?!!!"

You know how this ends, of course.  Not a single person offered to help him out of this pickle.  Not one of his 4 siblings or any of the various neighbor kids who were in the house at the time.  He had to reach deep inside himself and find the will and the power to haul his cold, tired, sore, wet, naked ass up two flights of stairs to the comfort of his own room, where he would find clean, soft, comforting undies waiting for him.  They were there, of course, right where they should be.  All he had to do was stop shouting, stop waiting for other people to save him.  Thusly clothed, he could then easily stroll into the kitchen and help himself to a snack.  Once fed, he could go on to do anything he wanted... Take a nap!  Read a book!  Call a friend!  The world is waiting, Donny!  Just get yourself out of that cold, dark basement and get your underpants!

Hilarious, right?  Not so much.

You see, I find myself in a similar situation.  I am in some sort of funk, an embarrassingly cliche midlife crisis.  While I have everything I need right where I need it, I continue to roll around on the floor of the basement of my soul whining, "Help me!  Why won't somebody help me?!"  What I need to do is haul my cold, naked soul up to the place wherein lies the happiness.  Once there, all I have to do is recognize it for what it is!    Health, prosperity, family, love... it's all right here in front of me.  All I have to do is see it.   Thusly happy, I can go forward.  The world is waiting!

Get it?  Good analogy, right?

Anyway.  This blog is my attempt to do something, to move and grow and push myself to look around me at what I have and feel thankful for it rather than wallow in this nasty midlife whatever-it-is.  My goal is to write once a day.  Each day I will take one tiny moment from my life and show how it makes me happy.  My hope is that the effort of looking for my daily morsel of happiness and the act of putting it into words will draw me out of this funk.  Also I might get famous and get a juicy book/movie contract out of the deal.  If I do, I promise to feel happy about it!

Back to Donny... he did indeed get dressed.  He flopped around a little more, whined a lot.  Possibly he fell asleep for a half hour.   Then he dragged himself into the kitchen and made a trio of frozen blueberry waffles which he drenched with Aunt Jamima and snarfed down without the use of utensils.

As he basked in the sticky sweet aftermath, looking satisfied, calm, and happy, I asked him if he felt better.

"Well," he mused, "I feel like I could get my own underpants now."

That's all I want, Readers.

Nancy