These Days Have Teeth

Cole escaped the gate outside our front door. I forgot to latch it in some hubbub, swore he was in our fenced yard, could hear him babbling and banging around. Nope. He had gone 200 feet to the nearest street corner, obsessed with all things vehicular. Oh my good Lord. My heart took the elevator shaft down when I couldn't find him. Springing down the sidewalk, Jules at my heels.

Strangers saved us yet again – but me feeling their hearts and minds, through their eyes, chewing on my soul with sharp, judgmental canines. I thanked profusely, dodged quickly, tried to show I cared the most and shuffled the kids back to the house – embarrassed – wracking my head for the error. Jules? Nope. Me.

The police stopped by (how long had Cole been chilling with these passersby?!). The officers kindly tried to make me feel a little better.

Why did I avoid apologizing to anyone?, I wondered later. Because it's my kid and I'm a good mom? Because I was stretched thin for the longest I've ever been? Because I felt enraged for all the wrongly judged parents, especially moms (let's be honest), especially military spouses or the like, especially these days?

Child Protective Services showed up a few days later, announcing themselves in startling clarity right when I had almost recovered from the lost child incident. My spirit plummeted all over again. My confidence was sapped all over again, trying to find it was probably like getting juice from a prune.

Work hit a distracted standstill, my appetite filled with nerves. Time was lost and a bunch of ache gained. I felt alone alone and like a failure in the HGTV Disneyland that was supposed to be my new home, the village that would help me with my kids and life when Cary isn't able to because he's out helping or preparing to help others.

I felt like the worst parent ever. When I know I'm not. It's a weird dichotomy. These days.

While I waited for a letter that would say the claim was unfounded, I went back near the corner to exchange numbers with a neighbor just in case it helped me feel better, the kids in tow. Jules was eating an apple she wanted to bring and Cole was wearing a fitting Mr. Mischief T-shirt. Make it better for yourself, I thought. And can and did. Notwithstanding a racing heart and worry about cowering to conflict.

In Fallon Jules didn't come inside right away when Cary got home from work one evening. People driving by called the police since apparently the light-glowing house with the front door half open wasn't a clue.

Wulp, I thought that Friday CPS announced themselves at our gate that boasted added security, we officially belong in a garbage can.

Hope no parents have an untidy house, drink alcohol, spank or have junk food around. Because you will feel less than enough even if none of that exists. And your kid will be woken from their nap. And your other kid will all of a sudden clam up. And you better pray it makes for a good wedding toast one day if your rascal survives that long.

I should've taken it more in stride. I should've shook it off sooner. 

Jules actually ran away from us in a Target once, thinking it would be a game while I had visions of someone snatching that tiny little person with the fuzzy hair and running out the front door.

Cole walked straight into the San Diego Bay the other day without his mini lifejacket on, thinking it would be a game too.

I treasure my kids. I'm also surviving them. That's OK.

Loved ones ease my mind. My friends accept me even when I text in weird teen shorthand. Like literally only five years ago my entire message trails were 14-year-old code since I apparently didn't have enough time to write out a complete word (shuttering I think, as a writer). So of course they understand a CPS visit.

One friend listened to me ball into the phone like we were kids again, as the straw had stacked up on top of me. Another said dads get a free pass on mistakes, moms get the authorities. One suggested this will totally be part of a speech at Carroll the Fifth's wedding. This childhood tribe is legit.

Though my buddies are all very different, they seem like they know exactly when to check in on me and how. My military squad can do that too, friends I'm lucky enough to live by again or new ones nearby who don't skip a beat. My heart rippled like a balloon starting to reinflate, slowly healing from all the teeth marks this year is leaving on my soul, many marks much shallower than other people's.

Sometimes I worry I'll have a heart attack or stroke while alone with the kids and they'll find me and panic and not know what to do. Or Cary will be gone and hopefully Jules will know what to do. A heart attack isn't out of realm as the last meal I ordered from Uber Eats left an oiled wood grease stain on a side table (and a chunk out of my wallet).

A bright spot in these months was a job offer. But I turned it down. In our situation, I don't think you could pay me enough these days to do technical writing with still little take-home after the needed nanny or tutor. The second income childcare wash is real precarious these days.

Another bright note: I ordered some scrunchies (so comfy) and a NYC T-shirt (gotta at least wear the dream) to save on shipping when I got sparklers for Jules – after I learned too late Cali doesn't sell fireworks. Thirty dollars later I had saved $10 in shipping. My mind is starting to go.

Cole also burnt his little hand on a sparkler even after a long lecture and with careful eyes. Not careful enough, the voices say. F^@$ off!

Digging through my drawers for other comfortable things to wear every day, I discovered I have several sets of basically yoga pants. Some with pockets! Cell phone-specific pockets! These pants have definitely proven themselves to me and I regret every bad thing I ever thought about them and hope they didn't hear.

I also started the curly girl method toward the beginning of the pandemic. Have you heard of this? Whenever I get low on something in the bathroom or closet, I resort to Instagram to see what items I've saved and might want to try – that aren't one million dollars. Through this I found there's a thing to treat your hair naturally and let its natural wave shine. It's nice but I'm never sure if I should leave the house looking like that.

Good thing because I was all ready to start remote kindergarten, mainly to write about it. Then some go-getter families I'll forever be in debt to started a pod and needed a fifth kid via Facebook. Yet prior to the pod life raft, Jules and I (and Cole) attended a school district parent night via Zoom.

Jules' little head popped over the kitchen bar with me, to meet the amazing teacher and other families whose thought bubbles I would've paid to see. It was so heartfelt but so hilarious. Jules waved, talked, realized no one was responding. She grabbed a toy to show, a banana to eat. Still got bored. Cole pulled me away. Jules and I came back to the screen. We discussed this crazy thing called a mouse.

Their computer experience is going to be so much different than mine was. As well as their nature one.

At the Point Loma Tide Pools Cole said, "Look, Mom!" He had stacked a rectangular rock on top of a larger rectangular rock. "Ah cool!" A few minutes later... "And who's your mother?" Oh crap. A nice older woman (alongside her older man counterpart), who are likely state park volunteers, said they can't have unnatural formations in the park.

"See those rock towers over there?" she said, pointing to the two carefully balanced, small towers of stones perched in holes of the beach cliff wall. "People build them out in nature but they're not natural." She then bent over with her walking stick sprawled to the side and used a hand to awkwardly knock over Cole's very flat tower.

My friend and I proceeded to weirdly tell our adventurous kiddos not to stack rocks.

You never forgive yourself for the real mistakes you make with your kids. But you can move on.

(Plus I love telling that rock story.)

Now I'm going to post this to social media and hopefully make someone else's teeth marks a little less deep.

Butters Made Everything Better

Butters and Jules when we were in Fallon, Nevada.

We laid our pup of 12 years, age 14, to rest last month.

A night or two later I'm hearing this panting. No other way to describe it. The second night we're laying there in bed and Cary says, You hear that? Me: Yes! Cary: She's haunting us. Me: Yes!

After the third night, turns out the other way to describe it is the house across the street doing a sanding project after-hours.

I miss Butters. Of course. Everyone misses a beloved pet who passes. She was always around for me when no one else could be, grumbling quietly as I warmed my feet on her belly. Her only flaws were she could clear a room and she shed – but when you lower your bar for cleanliness, wear a weirdly repellant flight suit or pajamas to work from home, it doesn't matter much and is worth the trade-off.

Cary liked to show me the vacuum cleaner canister, pointing out all his girls' hair filling it up twice in one cleaning. We three were more than worth it we all agreed.

Loved ones kindly took care of our dog when we needed.

We'll probably never own another dog until maybe our kids are out of the house and we need a ridiculous distraction to fawn over.

We killed our first plant – a cactus – but somehow thought we could manage a dog. She did lose a leg. But we gave kids a shot and it's gone OK so far. Cole has almost died multiple times now though. We profusely thank the stranger, acquaintance or friend who reaches out. Sometimes it's Jules who saves the day, my heart and limbs skittering as if I'm living the chapter Gage gets mowed down in Pet Sematary.

The thing about missing something or someone for me is its nostalgia, wanting what's gone. Even if you have Christmas every year or some vacation to look forward to on the regular, no tradition, period of time or new adventure will ever be the same as it was – as it is, as it's happening right now.

When Kobe Bryant died, I thought of a game I went to with Cary and his friends. The two of us stood for a photo in front of where we exited the Staples Center after a ridiculously fun night. Cary was wearing a hideous mustard yellow shirt with Kobe's face screen-printed on it in purple.

I was hugging Cary sideways for the photo. He pushed my arm away so I wouldn't block his precious player's picture. His friend Larry, who was watching as another friend took the photo, said something like, wow, and smiled and laughed contagiously; he made me crack up too.

I remember this every now and then. That night and funny moment that struck me. All of us young, in school to some extent, some in relationships, just going to a game to watch people who are really good at something. Rooting for something. Laughter and excitement. Now it'll always be a little different watching basketball.

We lost people we actually know and love this year too, and I feel old and sad, realizing life does indeed change in a slow, painful blink. As they say, having kids make the days long and the years short. It's nostalgia with a whole new layer or two, laced with tragedy and crisis. Life comes at us hard and fast and we never know absolutely at all what to expect, more of the same or more change, but both equally hard and necessary.

I feel somewhat awkward and worthless scrounging up freelance work as the papers tighten and marketers raise their bars real high at the influx of candidates. I wonder if I'll be attending a virtual kindergarten alongside Jules next year, juggling Cole between stories about the island or a Carson City press release or my next chapter (*questioning eyebrow raise at myself*). But the bouts of confidence, paychecks and random peaceful hour makes keeping on writing in some form worth every penny and bead of sweat.

I went to help a local author with her website and social media. She lives on a boat and it was cozy but not too cozy and smells like the still sea. I felt we spent the time correcting a Squarespace accounting error but looking back, it was nice to just chat about her life. There's more to existing for me I think than a salary or glittering career, perfect home or people in it. It's a chance to giggle and learn lessons that stick.

Yet don't tell me that when Cary's schedule changes and I have to cut work or play short and watch the kids, or go without a food run or tackled project.

We have plants here the previous tenants made great, and now a goal these days is just to keep them alive. OK, I failed on a couple already but Jules helped me replace them. Like actually helped. She doesn't suck at things so much anymore. And we talked about Butters, which felt good. Jules inserts our pup into her stories and memories. She still sleeps with her stuffed version whose name is also Butters. (We once weighed trimming off the front right leg and sewing it up so it would be a true clone.)

We all talk about those who've passed often; it feels right and keeps them alive to us. It's usually a lesson they taught us or a hilarious story. Which makes me think that's what matters. This year and next is going to have some pretty big learning curves and funny stories to look back on.

I still remember babysitting a friend's little guy when Cary was in flight school. Butters stared at me from the couch: You have no idea what you're doing, do you? I still don't and so I miss her watching over us and always will.

She was there cleaning up the food that dropped (and sometimes didn't), or teaching us how to deal with poop and pee and post-beach dog. She was there having Cary and I talk about our days on humid night walks in Florida. She was there walking Jules to sleep with me along the neighborhood river in Japan. She was there as I cried myself to sleep as Jules was crying herself to sleep. She was there cuddled up close while I pumped milk for Cole. She was there when the daylight in our houses turned dark from a tropical storm or typhoon, both of us listening to the rain and the wind, looking outside as the eyes passed over.

She was there when no one else could be and she didn't lift a paw or say a thing.

Watching All The Way Down

Cary actually noticed its greatness first.

See it all from their perspective.
They were there every hilarious step of the way.

The Lion King 1 1/2 is actually really clever. Disney sequels aren't usually up to adult snuff. Jules and I (and Cole) watch endless movies and shows together (including all four of The Descendants*, which I can barely keep up with since I have to jump up constantly apparently for juice, milk, crackers, diaper changes, assistance fluffing pillows, you know).

And I keep observing of some productions: Wow, that was really creative. Now Jules has started saying that too.

"I just want to watch *insert something*. It's really creative. We can cuddle (liltingly)."

She knows me too well now.

I've entered an alternate reality that's beyond binge-watching. We're binge-living.

I love belting out 'Into the Unknown' from Frozen 2. Both my kids hate it when I do it. Which makes me love it more. You know when Tom Hanks shouts "I have made fire!" in Castaway? Well that's how I feel. "I am a parent!"

These are my weeks, probably like other people's weeks:

This is hard.

This is easy.

This is hard.

This is easy.

A year ago I was weighing how we could afford a co-op** in Brooklyn if we went to NYC next – if I somehow got a job there and Cary started flying commercially. Last time I almost sunk into my idea of the East Coast publishing high life, 9/11 hit right after my summer in D.C. I never know whether to feel lucky I missed catastrophe or whether I missed out on some life-altering experience for the better.

One day New York City or Paris or Seattle will get me, starring in my own romcom minus the rom and plus some years to my appearance. For now I'm content (cough cough) and trying to be tough living the comedy of errors that is Jules and Cole.

Turtles All the Way Down art print by Dianne Gage

Jules has taken to snails. Hunting them down and holding them captive, er, taking them as pets. Cole found one that had escaped – much to Jules' glee – then 20 minutes later he accidentally stepped on it and cracked its shell – much to her despair. She found an empty snail shell in our yard (read: a long-dead snail's shell) and somehow got the new, yet traumatized, snail inside it. Needless to say it didn't make it.

Jules often says when she grows up she wants to live in Fallon, Banana (she means Nevada). It has proven more successful than Coronado to her. Touché. She doesn't fully understand yet the beaches and endless sidewalks, as well as only remembers the going-places, the reservoir and pre-school friends and teachers. We used to go to this great Reno zoo and this supposedly breathtaking San Diego zoo has proven a letdown. Jules' first world problems are real AF.

When I get tired of watching with them, I've taken to reading alongside them – immersive mysteries and YA novels and a negotiating book or any other books my dad sends me.

I take endless pictures of the kids when we're not endlessly watching, which makes me look like a better mom than I am.

I have more time to blog now.

Work hours are dwindling as I was between jobs yet again since I decided to take a news desk job on the brink of a pandemic. I also bought a home in 2006. I make such good choices sometimes.

But slowing down to almost a standstill – when not getting up and down off the friggin' couch or scrambling to write a press release during naptime or movietime – hasn't been all bad.

"At some point in life the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough. No record of it needs to be kept and you don't need someone to share it with or tell it to. When that happens – that letting go – you let go because you can."

—Toni Morrison, Tar Baby, 1981 (or since I'm bearing all, I really read this in John Green's Turtles All the Way Down – recommended)

*On Netflix and 'Under the Sea' is a Descendants short story. Woot woot.
**The HOA will getcha.

The Bath That Made Us All Dirtier

A lot has changed since I had two kids we somehow named after minerals but spelled differently.

As Jules would say adoringly, in that "tiny town" I had many jobs – more jobs than usual for a military spouse.

I was a reporter before leaving that beloved paper (which taught me a lot) to take advantage of paid maternity leave and a marketing environment. I was laid off because that's how start-ups can go at first. So then I got a new gig out of Carson City that allowed me to work remotely mostly – and kindly continued to do so when our family was being stationed indefinitely in San Diego.

It's nice when the 9-5 is a grind – or when a kid gets sick or Cary has to go be a hero.

Yet then I see people in the flesh, and I throw myself into a rabid conversation of relatable laughing points and stories, AP style discussions or plans for lunch. I also start rambling about all the shows and movies I've watched or stuff read when work is slow or Cary is gone. Sometimes I feel bad for the listener.

I'm sad to change hometowns again. Wherever you learn a lot it feels like home.

I learned I'm bad at being a ballet mom. I would show up in not enough time to get her hair up tight, sweating and having forgotten again to glue her decorative laces so they wouldn't come undone three times during class. She would get kicked out anyway for doing things like playing with the giant stuffed animals they were supposed to be leaping over gracefully.

I learned, in living color, your second child is different from the first. Cole falls asleep on the ground, demands to be read to, leaps off stairs and furniture with his sister, became surprisingly coordinated at a riding scooter early on – and he will sit in Jules' battery-powered truck inside the closed garage, long after the battery dies. He'll study wheels for minutes on end.

I learned I'm still struggling with writing for enjoyment versus writing for pay, or working with a family to take care of when the other caregiver can't be there. More money for my family or that rewarding feeling that oftentimes comes without much compensation or with more snuggles, laughs and memories. Sometimes you do get a bit of everything. But not all at once usually. It may be a never-ending tightrope walk, carefully weighing the stage of life and adjusting your quality of life.

I learned home is where my family is. This one I chose, the one I share a roof with – whether a hotel room, a camper or a home we rent, own or live in on a military base.

I learned when one kid poops in the bath and you have another, both get a lot dirtier. We all do.

I learned being happy is to be grateful. And that I have no good reason not to be.* (Thank you, Downton Abbey.) I've also learned that me letting Cary accept his new position makes me essentially the biggest badass I know. Or the biggest dumbass.

And San Diego? It's like the book Hatchet, only instead of returning to grocery stores I'm faced with an abundance of Targets, ramen shops and dry bars.

*Most of the time.