Prolly All the Time

the road not taken...

They tell me that confession is good for the soul...  In my experience, it has only gotten me into more trouble than I started out in. However, in the interest of maturity, growth and all of that other bullshit I am supposed to be into now that I am personally responsible for the moral upbringing of 1.75 human people... here goes.

Two roads diverged in the t'pon household, and sorry that we could not travel both and be a united set of parents, long we stood and looked down one as far as we could, to where it bent in the undergrowth...

About a week ago, N. and I were faced with the hard choice between what most would consider "humane and just" and "what would keep us from losing our freaking minds."

Bean, as I have mentioned before, is working his way through a very tumultuous transition from crib to "big boy" bed.  We were planning on making this transition to keep us from having to buy another crib for Banzo, but Bean jump started the process by channeling his father's "special combat warrior" training and becoming a very sneaky and agile baby ninja.  In a manner of weeks, he figured out how to scale his crib, hoist himself out of a pack and play, manipulate door handles, traverse the baby-gates, and walk through walls (ok, I can't prove that last one, but I have my suspicions).  At every turn, we have tried to stay ahead of the little Houdini, but alas when the baby gates began to fail us...  we were at a loss.  There was precious little separating our bundle of Bean from the inevitable tumble down the stairs under the cover of night.  Plus, we were obviously going a little insane from the lack of continuous sleep. 

Together, we (with more than a mortgage worth of education between us) could think of only one option...  an option not discussed in any book, or on any parenting website we could find.  We were filled with shame even considering this option...  but what else to do, continue patiently putting this willful ninja back in bed over and over and over ( it is like a repeating six)...  begin camping out in front of his door...  set a ear-piercing motion detector outside of his room...  or do the unmentionable.

Seeking to alleviate myself of some of this guilt...  looking for someone to share the blame, I turned to the experts in the computer.  I called upon Mary and Laura, of Partners in Parenting fame.  I won't lie to you, after pouring out my pain and confiding in them the path upon which we were about to embark, they laughed a little (I am sure when one is not so sleep-deprived that they are rocking under their desk at work, curled in the fetal position, sucking on a Tylen*l PM, it would seem rather amusing). 

But in a mere 24 hour period, they delivered our saving grace directly to my email inbox... Permission to do the unmentionable...  not for the sake of our sanity, but for the SAFETY OF OUR CHILD!  There was our out, we were NOT horrible parents... we were preventing a catastrophe.

Hallelujah, all praise be to the women of P-I-P... Although, I still worry that through this confession I am inviting Texas CPS directly into my house for a spot of tea.  But, at the very least, I will be better-rested (and thus not bear the appearance and communication skills of a drug-addict at the tail end of a nine-day bender) and Bean will not be wrapped in plaster casts and Ses*me Street band-aids. 

And both that day equally lay in advice (offered by drive-by moms and grandparents) no step had trodden black.  Oh, we kept the first for another baby! Yet knowing how way leads on to way (or habit and experience), we doubted if we should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence (while paying for Bean's inevitable therapy):  two roads diverged in the t'pon household, we took the one less talked about, and that has made all the difference.*

The thing is...  it has worked.  After more than a month of struggling with Bean, trying desperately to negotiate, reason, communicate with a 19-month old boy hell-bent on nighttime mischief, he is finally, and happily, back to his old sleeping self.  The kid who goes to bed at a reasonable hour and sleeps all night.  The kid who can put himself back to sleep without roaming the halls like a very small, but very effective banshee. The kid who willingly goes down for a nap without testing the hinges on the door 783 times.

I still feel a twinge of guilt knowing it has come to this... but sleep... safety. Surely, my Wubbies, in the interest of these things, you can forgive me?

Hello, my name is t'pon. And for the past week and a half, I have been locking my kid in his room at night.

* My thanks and apologies to Mr. Frost for the inspiration and subsequent adaptation of his work...

he, who knows me best...

Tomorrow is the fourth celebration of our day of union. (What most would call an "anniversary.")  I call it our "day of union" because at the brunch reception following our wedding night, N.'s very sweet grandmother pulled me aside and asked if "everything went all right? and was it what I expected..." 

At first, I thought that she was talking about the wedding itself.  I had put a lot of time and planning into the biggest party of my life.  Yes, I am THAT kind of person.

But no,  she was talking about the OTHER thing... you know, relations, sealing the deal, locking it in...  Which makes my initial response of "OH YES! It was the best night of my entire life..." even better.

Once I realized what was going on, I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth (or, for that matter, the truth)... that due to the fact that I was so punch drunk from eating four HUGE pieces of wedding cake and opening all of our presents and that N. was a little unstable after finishing off a bottle of champagne while he waited and watched me sit in a pile of wrapping paper squealing my head off like a newborn piglet...  well, we both passed out.

Anyway, "day of our union."  It goes without saying that N. is my best friend and the love of my life...  but people who know us well (and spend time with us in the real world on a regular basis) often wonder how on earth two people who are so different can work together.  I believe it is because he, above all others, knows me best and puts that knowledge to good use. Mostly to put me in my place with a good laugh.  As evidenced by two recent conversations.

Picture it:  Sunday night, while watching the "Weed*s" season 1 DVD

N:  If I die early, I think that you should think about this option...  I really think that you could move a lot of product and be really good at that business.

t'pon: What exactly, in my personality and demeanor, leads you to believe that I would make a great drug dealer?

N: Drug entrepreneur...

t'pon: po-TA-toe, po-TAH-toe...

N: Well, look at you and all of your friends...  high-achieving, suburban yuppie-types who still like to pretend that they are all anti-establishment.  You have the perfect pipeline.

t'pon:  Who uses the term "yuppie?"  1987 called and they want their dictionary back...

N: po-TA-toe, po-TAH-toe...

Picture it: Tuesday night, while watching the "24" season 1 DVD

(yes, we are that behind)

t'pon: If I ever get kidnapped, I hope that I am not all weepy and whiny and acting like a big baby...  Don't you think that I would be stronger than that?

[extremely long, extremely pregnant (like me) pause]

N: Yeah, it is probably best that you not get kidnapped at all...

t'pon: I agree... but why do you say that?

N: Well, you are the kind of person who will get shot in the face in the first 15 minutes for your smart ass mouth.

I truly LOVE this man... 

space of a man, in memory of Christopher D Mello

This tribute is a part of the 2996 project, designed to honor those whose lives were lost on September 11, 2001.  For more tributes, visit the 2996 website.

Oftentimes, the presence or weight of a thing can be measured by what is left in its absence.  The indentations in a carpet that can't be vacuumed out after the armoire is relocated to the back bedroom.  A scarred acre of land after the trees have been burned to the ground.  Over time, while the indentations may slowly resolve themselves and the land may begin to once again show life, the impression of what once occupied that space, of that force, never really goes away. 

And so are the hearts of the friends and family of Chris Mello.

Christopher D Mello was born on June 22, 1976 to Doug and Ellen Mello.  He died on September 11, 2001.

We went to college together, he was one of my husband's college roommates junior year.  I didn't know him well, but what I remember of him, at first passing, was this smile... a smile that was so disarming, it could make you blush.

Chris possessed an enviable combination of quick wit and intelligence, athletic ability and good looks that drew people in, made them feel at ease, and won them over.  He was in so many ways, larger than life. And yet incredibly humble and kind. Above all other things, loyal.

He graduated from Rye High School in 1994 -- member of the varsity football, baseball and basketball teams, National Honor Society, and vice president of his senior class, etc.

But, behind that smile and easy going demeanor, the guy was tough as nails. He played rugby in college. Although, I am not sure that played is really the right way to describe Chris in a game... he lived it, he became it.  He was a force, determined and of single purpose, capable of moving opponents much larger. He fought to the end and relished every bloody nose, every gash and every bruise.

Peel back yet another layer, and you would find something else surprising. The tough as nails rugby player wrote poetry and loved to draw...

He graduated from Princeton in 1998. He majored in Psychology, was vice president of the University Cottage Club, a member of the men's Rugby Club, Kappa Alpha Order, and the 21 Club.

When they get together and reminisce, the stories overwhelming revolve around the quality of the friendship that Chris offered to those around him.  I have heard them speak of him being the kind of person that would always have your back, someone on whom you could depend without question, in good times and in bad. He was kind in unexpected ways, and bold in his defense of those for whom he cared.

His sense of humor, while not always appropriate for mixed company, could lift a room and he was always ready to celebrate any occasion.  He brought his lust for life to everything he did... and it showed.  You just got that sense being around him. This was a guy who was bound and determined to suck the marrow out of life. 

He went on to work as a financial analyst at BT Alex Brown in Baltimore, MD, before moving to Boston, MA, where he worked as an analyst for Alta Communications. He is survived by his parents, Doug and Ellen Mello, and his brother John Douglas (J.D.) Mello.

Two years after September 11, 2001, we gathered on a balmy spring weekend in Southern N.J. to celebrate my husband's fifth reunion.  Reunions is a big deal -- three days of trying hard to pretend that we are still 21 and capable of the wild abandonment of youth. One of the highlights of the weekend is the P-rade, in which each class beginning with the "Old Guard" marches through campus as a way to welcome the graduating class into alumni ranks.  On the 5s (5th, 10th, 15th, etc), classes come up with themes and elaborate costumes...As they gathered on the lawn waiting for their turn to march amid the sea of togas (Goin' Bacchus, was the theme...), Mello's friends stood out in gray t-shirts bearing his name in bold letters across their backs.

And when it came time to walk, a couple hundred people marched in memory of a great person, a great friend, a great life.  And people cheered.

The space that Chris has left is enormous. The 2000 plus people who attended his memorial could not even begin to fill the space. But with time, the joy of the memories is not so wrapped in the pain.  When my husband's friends gather at weddings, on Vegas trips, and at reunions, talk always comes back around the absence at the table.  They work to fill the space with the stories and he is remembered fondly, warmly, in living color.  In a moment's pause, the pain of missing him is acknowledged and then a drink is raised to him.  Because, as one friend put it on the Legacy.com tribute page, "I think if Chris had written instructions on what he wanted us to do to remember him on those occasions it would read, 'have a drink together, tell stories and laugh.' "

God Bless and Keep you, Chris. 

Obituary information courtesy of Legacy.com.  Those interested in hearing more about Chris in the words of those who knew him best are encouraged to click here...

banzo unveiled...

So, a few days ago a very dear friend called me.  I admit that a phone call from Miss Dub is not unprecedented, but the concern in her voice was palpable.  She was checking in to make sure that I had not "sylvia plathed" myself in the days following the big ultrasound revealing Banzo's sex. Which is a totally ridiculous question... we don't even have a gas oven.  In order to properly off myself using that particular appliance, I would have to endure the smell of burning hair and skin and that is just not something that I tolerate well.

So yes, we found out.  And as I expected, the knowledge has been a mixed bag. N. is really tickled to know and has practically had the information tattooed on his forehead for all the world to see.  I, on the other hand, kind of wish I didn't know.  Yes, it is making planning easier, but really... the convenience isn't worth it.  I feel like I am missing something from this pregnancy, some of the excitement, anticipation and I need it.  To be quite honest, in comparison to Bean's gestation...  this one has been one big "hmpf!" (add disinterested shoulder shrug to sound for full effect).  I hope that Banzo doesn't take this personally, but without the whole guessing of what the new baby is...  it is a lot of "been there, done that." And lets be frank, it is hard to get excited about heartburn.

We are having another boy. 

That is the way that I have been telling everyone.  Not, we are having a boy!  Not, it's XY time!  I always use the word "another."  A co-worked pointed out that I say it as if it is a not-yet-finished joke... not in an excited or celebratory tone, but as if I am still trying to work out the punchline.

I am excited to have a boy.  I love being the mother of a little boy, and I do suspect that in many ways, in the long run, boys are "easier" (with the single exception of personal hygiene).  Deep down, I have always known that I would be the mommy of little boys.  That I would be a woman whose home was overrun with snips and snails and puppy dog tails...  I have even looked into a permanent parking space at the emergency room.

Bean and I have a blast everyday tearing it up and I have no doubt that Banzo will be the same.  N. is a fabulous daddy for little boys, rough and tumble, passionately competitive about EVERYTHING, and still possesses a boyish enthusiasm for all things video games.  Bean also displays all of the traits of a young man better suited to having a little brother than a little sister.  I know this from extensive studies of my father's childhood memories.  Some boys just need little brothers.  It is safer (and happier) for everyone involved. 

But, I would be lying if I didn't say that I was a little bummed. 

It would be incomplete to say that this is just a question of "the stuff."  I mean, we can all admit that girl stuff is cuter and more abundant. You really have to work hard to dress a little girl in ugly stuff.  But, I have two adorable nieces to get my pig-tail fix, for whom I can buy all manner of adorable toys and clothes.  And the more that I think about it, I would rather foster a habit for $200 pair of jeans and a spa habit to rival a depressed millionairess in someone else's kids... 

So the issue?  It is pretty pathetic, which is why I haven't said anything.  It was the same pang that I felt when Dr. B told us that Bean was a boy.  I will lose them sooner or later.  They will leave, and start their own families... I will always be their mother, I will eventually become a grandma, but I will never become their best-friend.

I will never have a relationship with my sons that is what a mother and daughter share as the daughter embarks on experiences and a life path that is parallel.  I will never have the chance to raise a strong woman, to look at her and see the things that I worried about and hoped for, to tell her that this too shall pass. To one day marvel at all that she has accomplished and all that she has become. No marathon calls and mother-daughter bonding.  No frustration at her insistence on making the same mistakes from which I have already made and learned.  No first loves and broken hearts.  I will never go wedding dress shopping, or cry with her knowing how hard it is to be a mom.

I know that having a girl is by no means a guarantee that those things happen for a mother, but NOT having a girl... well, that pretty much cinches it. And that makes me a little sad.

We will not have another. I am already freaked out beyond belief with the thought of being responsible for two.  Two seems manageable and reasonable for who we are. And I am sure I will one day look back on this post and chuckle at the amount of time and worry that I put into this.  I know that I am overlooking everything that is uniquely wonderful about raising little men and all of the great things that I can't even imagine right now.

I know this. But, if I never said it out loud.  If, I never admitted it to someone... 

Banzo is a boy! (and you know what... I am getting better with that everyday.)