Fog City Mommy

Back to my rant about my mother…

Like I said, i love my mom but she is a little out of touch.  But she came from Oakley to watch Rick while I was working.  She ven stayed on the couch the past few nights so she wouldn’t have to commute back and forth.  when gas has hit 4.47 a gallon and you live at least 2 hours away, it’s a good thing to stay with your slightly frazzled daughter.

So where am I going with this?  well, the topic this month is about home for nablopomofocodoloto.  and today I realized my home is where ever my rick is.  I came home from work today and not only did he run into my arms, he climbed on me, wrapping his chubby 3 year old legs around my waist, kissed me and hugged me for a solid three minutes.

it was in those moments I felt as though if he could, Rick would have just melted into my body.  its the comfort of knowing your mom is there.  we melded for a few minutes and then Rick went to bed.  I drank a glass of wine with my mom and chatted.

later in the night, I woke up.  I didn’t feel good.  with my current history of health issues, this concerns me.  I slid out of bed.  Rick was asleep in his room, mom dozing on the couch.  I headed to the bathroom, dropped to my knees and promptly threw up.  when I was done retching, I laid down on the cold floor and closed my eyes.  the floor felt good on the sweat that my body was producing.  I had a fever.  I am not sure how long I was laying there but when I opened my eyes, my mom was there in her nightie, with a wet wash cloth and some Tylenol.  She brought me back to my room, tucked me in my bed and took my temp.  it was 101.4.   she laid down next to me and sung me my lullaby from my childhood.  I snuggled next to her, trying to meld with her.

It doesn’t matter how old you are or where you live or what you do for a living.  when you are sick, you want the person who cares for you the most.  for better or for worse, that’s my mom.  and for better or worse for Rick, that’s me.  This is the moment where I realize I know the meaning of being “home.”

Rick has been sick the past few days.  I, of course, have to work.  You can’t send a sick child to preschool.  you can’t send him to day care.

Enter my mother.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother.  She raised the 8 of us after my dad died while working as a Secretary in a law office in SF.  about 7 years ago she married Wolf (not kidding, that is his name.  in fact the only name changed in my blog is my brother Owen.  the rest of the people are the same.)  Wolf is a nice guy.  He’s also wealthy, which puts my mom in a place where she doesn’t really have to do anything anymore.  She sits at home in Oakley, a middle of nowhere place in the east bay, in her giant house and gardens.  Hey, she’s 72!  let her be, right?

well, having all this money has made her a little out of touch with reality.  She wants to go to Spain.  She wants all the kids and grandkids to join her for her birthday in Madrid.  She has no idea that Iris has been laid off, there is all sorts of problems with Clem’s health, John and Matt just bought a house (in berkeley no less!) , and linus knocked up his fiancee.

Gas is 4.55 a gallon.  Rent is going up (nevermind rent control, it still sucks). Sean was injered at work so he is off work and not paying for Ricks’ preschool.  the world is going to hell in a handbag, but let’s all go to Madrid!

John asked me why don’t I just live somewhere cheaper with better work?  Easy to say for a lawyer.  the problem is, this is my home.  I don’t know anything else.  even the annoying mother and step father make life here home.

oh, there is more to this entry but I am tired and will come back to the bitching at a later date…

~u2

I find myself curled up on the end of Rick’s bed, watching his every breath. He is sick with a fever and moaning a little like the the wind that is rushing through the trees outside. The trees are moaning like a ghost, the la llorna type of wait that chills you to the bone. the fog brushes through the sky, leaving the windows damp in the process of running by.

But my baby is sick. Even though he is no longer a baby, but a small of of three, when he gets sick my heart just stops. I wait with the night, waiting on each breath. I hold him when he cries out. I whisper sweet nothings when he moans. I stay awake, at rapt attention, into the early hours of the morning.

There is something about sitting up with Rick that makes me ponder home. When he is away, I feel empty. When he is here, I am content and happy. when he is away, the house is silent. it’s not my home. home is filled with laughter, silliness, conversation and love. When he is gone, it’s empty.
This is not my home. My home is with Rick. Where ever he is, my heart is with him. when he hurts, I hurt too. when he laughs, i laugh. when he loves, I feel like my heart will explode with joy.

but here is the time where my heart breaks and every shadow in the house is a new stranger and a new cold danger. It’s haunting. and the moaning wind and the settling of the house doesn’t help. All I can do is sit and guard my baby, late into the night, with his angels watching over him and try to keep the monsters at bay.

Robert Frost has a point in the quote above.  I have several homes if that is true.  All my siblings (all 7 of them) have homes around the world.  does this mean I am home in Prague, Tokyo, Manhattan, Austin, Reno, Chicago, and London?  Sure.  I am always welcome to visit the family.

my friends are around the world as well.  does this mean I am home with them?  of course.

But I really feel like SF is my home.  I have been here for over 30 years (except for a brief stint in Santa Cruz in the early 90s).  I admit the sounds of the Muni trains at night buzzing by the house relaxes me.  It’s the familiar smell of the salty ocean and the crack of the baseball bats.  It’s the clanging of the cable car’s bells.  The rumble of the earthquakes. the creeping fog.  All of this brings me comfort.

Speaking of my siblings, you know there is trouble when the phone rings very early in the morning and you note on your caller ID that it’s the 800 video realy service calling you.  It means one of your Usher’s syndrome siblings are trying to get a hold of you.

This happened early this morning (and by early I mean about 730am on my day off with the little boy next to me.)  I always fret.  My siblings KNOW not to call before 830 because Rick sleeps in.  I pick up:

“hello?”

“Hello this is interpreter 5930 calling on behalf of John Zander.  I have-”

“I know how this works.  John, why are you calling so early?  who died?”

There is a pause.  I can hear the swish of the interpreters hands as she signs via video relay to John, in NY.

“No one’s dead.  Sorry, I was just too excited.” comes the reply via interpreter 5930

“What’s going on?”

more silence.

“Matt and I bought a house in Berkeley.”

“Since when do you want to live in California again?”

“Since Matt proposed to me and California made it ok!!”

Yep, My 43 year old brother is marrying his partner of 23 years.  and I have never been happier for them.

I guess John found his home in Matt.  We should all be so lucky.

Welcome to my attempt, and please note it’s an attempt, at blogging month.  this month’s topic is home.

Home.  what does that it mean to me?  I guess it’s a place where you live.  a place where you love.  a place where you feel… at home.

Of course, I was born and raised in SF.  I could say this city is my home.  I was born at French Hospital (which no longer exists) and grew up in the Marina and have lived all over the city.  Currently I am in the Castro (or according to some right wing freaks, “the abyss of america”).  it’s almost home.  but not really.

I think the Mission was my favorite place to live.  I lived there with my ex for almost 10 years.  The culture is great, the food is good and life was fun.  But it’s no place to live with a child.

I guess we will continue later.  Rick just woke up and is calling me.

Working comes with having to be a single mom. When you are the sole provider for a child, sometimes your work can spill into the weekends and from home. You don’t really want to work while your son is quietly drawing with a pen on your calendar for work… your bank statements… your bills… but you think to yourself, “the faster I finish this, the sooner I can play with you!”

I don’t like it when I have to work from home. Ricky doesn’t like it either. I don’t want to miss a thing with him so I find it really a dilemma when it comes to the thought that I actually DO have to put things aside and finish working.

Ricky, to say the least, was not pleased when, on such a beautiful weekend like we had this past weekend, I was busy sitting on the laptop on the bed while he ran around the house. I didn’t like it either, but it was a necessity as I tried to balance the budget so that MAYBE we can go to the baby bro’s wedding. (which is now in New York this September because the fiancee is now knocked up.) He kept brining me random sort of things from various parts of the house to see if I would play. There was the stuffed soccer ball from the living room, the bath duck from the bathroom, his diapers from his side of the bedroom… each time it was met with, “oh THANK YOU Ricky! I will be right there to play with you,” from a mommy who knew she wasn’t going to be ready to play for about an hour.

Ricky finally catches on that I am busy. Pouting, he walked away. A few minutes later he returned with a plastic bag full of stove popped popcorn I make for a light snack every Sunday night. Resigned to the fact I was working, Ricky started munching on it after he climbed on the bed to sit next to me and see what I was doing. Obviously, a three year old isn’t going to be that thrilled over my quicken spreadsheets.

Ricky was quiet for about five minutes. He munched his popcorn and was watching with deep interest… or so I though. When I took a second to rub my eyes, because staring at a computer screen is quite strenuous on the eyes after a bit, I felt it. Something hit the side of my head. I opened my eyes and looked down at the laptop. On the keyboard were about five popcorn kernels.

I looked at Ricky. He was acting as though nothing had happened. Still munching his popcorn and watching the screen as intently as an almost 3 year old can. I shook my head, and continued typing.

FWAP.

Kernels hit my head. I look at Ricky. He smiles like a little devil at me, hand in the popcorn bag. I shook my head. He slowly retracted a hand full of popcorn from the bag, aiming to throw it.

My face: “don’t you dare…”
His face: “go ahead, make my day…”

You can hear “the good, the bad and the ugly” playing as the standoff began.

Needless to say, the second I looked away, the popcorn flew. I looked at Ricky. He cracked up and went for more.

Here is the road in the wood that you can take: one of them leads to you explaining to your toddler that throwing food when mommy is working is not ok. In fact, it’s not ok to throw food at anytime. The other road has you slamming the computer shut, tumbling over the bed frame, scooping up popcorn as you go, and taking cover as an all out war between your toddler and yourself ensues, popcprn flying every which way, as you chuck it at him and he at you as a great chase goes on, through the bedroom, into the living room, down the halls, and eventually having a three year old corner you in the kitchen.

Needless to say, I am still finding popcorn in random places (really, how did it get in the planter that hangs from the windows?) and I am pretty sure the dog is completely traumatized. However, the memory of the laughter and screeching, of the pattering of feet and tickles… that is what matters most.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I-

I took the less traveled by.

And that has made all the difference.

As things slowly progress back to normal in my life (but really is normal one should ask?) we are hit with a heat wave.  Not just any heat wave, but in this woman’s humble opinion, the mother of all heat waves.  This morning, while walking out the door to get Rick to pre-school, I noted it was warm.  when I got into my car, the thermamoter gauge read eighty one.

EIGHTY ONE!  at 8:30 in the morning!!!  This is not going to be a good day.

and it wasn’t.

it got up to almost 100.

the power went off at work, so no a/c

power went off at pre-school so we had o go get our children, so they didn’t get heat stroke.

our apartment is on the 4th floor.  the sun shines in it all day.  there is no A/C

it was 97 degrees in the house tonight at 6pm

Ricky and I spent an hour wandering the grocery store for the a/c

we ate ben and jerry’s for dinner

and now, my adorable three year old, is asleep in the bathtub, because it’s cool.

and I am curling up on the floor next to him.

yep.  it is hot.

Wow.

When my friend suggested I start a blog to blow off steam las summer, I never thought it would hit 20,000 hits.

20,000.

wow.