I was going to upload some Christmas photos tonight, but when I went online and checked my e-mail there was a message from a friend in South Carolina letting me know that another friend of mine down there had just died. And I am no longer in a merry mood.
Elizabeth Graves, just 43 years old, battled cancer for nine years before it finally took her life on Dec. 26. She left behind a fantastic husband, three beautiful kids, and a whole island of friends who found inspiration in her ever-present smile.
The entire time I knew Elizabeth — nine years — she was either battling cancer or trying to find peace and hope in the word “remission.” Sometimes remission lasted a few years; other times just a few months. Her hair came and went; her strength came and went; her smile never left. I think that’s why I, and many others, sort of got used to the idea of Elizabeth living with cancer. She never seemed sickly, she never pouted or moaned about the disease. She just fought it, and kept on living.
I guess that’s why I’m stunned she’s gone.
We worked on many Relay for Life events together, she and I, and I wish I could put my hands on some of the photos from those long 12-hour overnight American Cancer Society fundraisers. By 3 or 4 a.m., when the rest of us organizers had all we could do to stay awake, Elizabeth would be on stage with nothing but a microphone and her considerable Southern charm, rousing team members from their tents to keep walking, dancing, singing, laughing ... and emptying their wallets for a good cause.
I remember the year she refused to be chairperson of the event because she and her husband had coincidentally planned their 15th wedding anniversary party for the same night as the Relay. Instead she served as co-chairperson, vowing to us all for months that she wouldn’t be at the event — only to show up with all of her party guests so they could all accompany her around the track for the Caregivers’ Lap, a special lap around the track that cancer survivors take with the family members, health care workers and friends who’ve helped them survive the disease.
In 2002 I interviewed her for a story in the paper about her trip to Washington D.C. for the Relay for Life Celebration on the Hill, an event staged to lobby for more funding for the fight against cancer. She went as a South Carolina Relay for Life ambassador and was amazed at the energy that sizzled through the event, which included more than 3,000 ambassadors from every state, most of them cancer survivors. But the ACS employee who accompanied Elizabeth’s group said Elizabeth’s own energy was what made an impact.
“With Elizabeth, there was no wig, she didn’t wear her hat, she was just like, ‘Boom. Here I am. I’m going through this but I’m alive and I am living,’” Lesa said. “There was just this glow about her. I’m sure she was an inspiration to a lot of people.”
She definitely was.
She would hate all these tears I’m shedding. She would give me a squeeze and tell me to hug my kid and thank God Chris’ remission stuck. She would urge me to get regular mammograms, and make a joke to get me to smile. And without a doubt, I would.
I believe that everyone who crosses my path long enough to make an impact was brought there for a reason, and you, Elizabeth, are no exception. From you I learned the beauty of resilience.
Your death does not alter that lesson.
I love you and will miss you. Enjoy the peace, my friend.
The power of Al Roker
A few people have asked me whether we've had any positive results from our house being featured on NBC's "Today" show a couple weeks ago.
Well, last night I got word that we had gotten a formal offer! It's from a woman in Monterey, Calif., who saw it on "Today" and after several days of emailing our Realtor with follow-up questions, she's putting an offer on the house without even seeing it in person. Our Realtor says she's researched the Beaufort area and the logistics of moving across the country, and she seems to be serious.
The last two formal offers we got on the house were pulled within a day or two by buyers who got cold feet, so we're not popping the champagne just yet. But we are praying this is The One, and hoping this will be the coolest Christmas present this year.
Keep your fingers crossed....
Well, last night I got word that we had gotten a formal offer! It's from a woman in Monterey, Calif., who saw it on "Today" and after several days of emailing our Realtor with follow-up questions, she's putting an offer on the house without even seeing it in person. Our Realtor says she's researched the Beaufort area and the logistics of moving across the country, and she seems to be serious.The last two formal offers we got on the house were pulled within a day or two by buyers who got cold feet, so we're not popping the champagne just yet. But we are praying this is The One, and hoping this will be the coolest Christmas present this year.
Keep your fingers crossed....
Funny stuff
Call me un-American, but I don’t really like Dave Barry. I just find most of his humor sophomoric and tired. But this little number, which my sister sent me a couple years ago, I think is hysterical. I don’t know why, but it makes me laugh. Hard.
So I thought on this Friday afternoon, as everyone is coasting into the weekend, I’d give you one more reason to stop working early and laugh with me.
Gift Wrapping Tips for Men
This is the time of year when we think back to the very first Christmas, when the Three Wise Men -- Gaspar, Balthazar, and Herb -- went to see the baby Jesus and, according to the Book of Matthew, “presented unto Him gifts; gold, frankincense, and myrrh.” These are simple words, but if we analyze them carefully, we discover an important, yet often overlooked, theological fact: There is no mention of wrapping paper. If there had been wrapping paper, Matthew would have said so:
“And lo, the gifts were inside 600 square cubits of paper. And the paper was festooned with pictures of Frosty the Snowman. And Joseph was going to throweth it away, but Mary saideth unto him, she saideth, ‘Holdeth it! That is nice paper! Saveth it for next year!’ And Joseph did rolleth his eyeballs. And the baby Jesus was more interested in the paper than the frankincense.”
But these words do not appear in the Bible, which means that the very first Christmas gifts were NOT wrapped. This is because the people giving those gifts had two important characteristics:
1. They were wise.
2. They were men.
Men are not big gift wrappers. Men do not understand the point of putting paper on a gift just so somebody else can tear it off. This is not just my opinion, this is a scientific fact based on a statistical survey of two guys I know.
One is Rob, who said the only time he ever wraps a gift is “if it’s such a poor gift that I don’t want to be there when the person opens it.” The other is Gene, who told me he does wrap gifts, but as a matter of principle never takes more than 15 seconds per gift. “No one ever had to wonder which presents daddy wrapped at Christmas,” Gene said. “They were the ones that looked like enormous spitballs.”
I also wrap gifts, but because of some defect in my motor skills, I can never completely wrap them. I can take a gift the size of a deck of cards and put it the exact center of a piece of wrapping paper the size of a regulation volleyball court, but when I am done folding and taping, you can still see a sector of the gift peeking out. (Sometimes I camouflage this sector with a marking pen.) If I had been an ancient Egyptian in the field of mummies, the lower half of the Pharaoh’s body would be covered only by Scotch tape.
On the other hand, if you give my wife a 12-inch square of wrapping paper, she can wrap a C-130 cargo plane. My wife, like many women, actually likes wrapping things. If she gives you a gift that requires batteries, she wraps the batteries separately, which to me is very close to being a symptom of mental illness. If it were possible, my wife would wrap each individual volt.
My point is that gift-wrapping is one of those skills like having babies that come more naturally to women than to men. That is why today I am presenting: Gift Wrapping Tips for Men:
Whenever possible, buy gifts that are already wrapped. If, when the recipient opens the gift, neither one of you recognizes it, you can claim that it’s myrrh. The editors of Woman’s Day magazine recently ran an item on how to make your own wrapping paper by printing a design on it with an apple sliced in half horizontally and dipped in a mixture of food coloring and liquid starch. They must be smoking crack.
If you’re giving a hard-to-wrap gift, skip the wrapping paper! Just put it inside a bag and stick one of those little adhesive bows on it. This creates a festive visual effect that is sure to delight the lucky recipient on Christmas morning:
YOUR WIFE: Why is there a Hefty trash bag under the tree?
YOU: It’s a gift! See? It has a bow!
YOUR WIFE (peering into the trash bag): It’s a leaf blower.
YOU: Gas-powered! Five horsepower!
YOUR WIFE: I want a divorce.
YOU: I also got you some myrrh.
In conclusion, remember that the important thing is not what you give, or how you wrap it. The important thing, during this very special time of year, is that you save the receipt.
MERRY CHRISTMAS
So I thought on this Friday afternoon, as everyone is coasting into the weekend, I’d give you one more reason to stop working early and laugh with me.
Gift Wrapping Tips for Men
This is the time of year when we think back to the very first Christmas, when the Three Wise Men -- Gaspar, Balthazar, and Herb -- went to see the baby Jesus and, according to the Book of Matthew, “presented unto Him gifts; gold, frankincense, and myrrh.” These are simple words, but if we analyze them carefully, we discover an important, yet often overlooked, theological fact: There is no mention of wrapping paper. If there had been wrapping paper, Matthew would have said so:
“And lo, the gifts were inside 600 square cubits of paper. And the paper was festooned with pictures of Frosty the Snowman. And Joseph was going to throweth it away, but Mary saideth unto him, she saideth, ‘Holdeth it! That is nice paper! Saveth it for next year!’ And Joseph did rolleth his eyeballs. And the baby Jesus was more interested in the paper than the frankincense.”
But these words do not appear in the Bible, which means that the very first Christmas gifts were NOT wrapped. This is because the people giving those gifts had two important characteristics:
1. They were wise.
2. They were men.
Men are not big gift wrappers. Men do not understand the point of putting paper on a gift just so somebody else can tear it off. This is not just my opinion, this is a scientific fact based on a statistical survey of two guys I know.
One is Rob, who said the only time he ever wraps a gift is “if it’s such a poor gift that I don’t want to be there when the person opens it.” The other is Gene, who told me he does wrap gifts, but as a matter of principle never takes more than 15 seconds per gift. “No one ever had to wonder which presents daddy wrapped at Christmas,” Gene said. “They were the ones that looked like enormous spitballs.”
I also wrap gifts, but because of some defect in my motor skills, I can never completely wrap them. I can take a gift the size of a deck of cards and put it the exact center of a piece of wrapping paper the size of a regulation volleyball court, but when I am done folding and taping, you can still see a sector of the gift peeking out. (Sometimes I camouflage this sector with a marking pen.) If I had been an ancient Egyptian in the field of mummies, the lower half of the Pharaoh’s body would be covered only by Scotch tape.
On the other hand, if you give my wife a 12-inch square of wrapping paper, she can wrap a C-130 cargo plane. My wife, like many women, actually likes wrapping things. If she gives you a gift that requires batteries, she wraps the batteries separately, which to me is very close to being a symptom of mental illness. If it were possible, my wife would wrap each individual volt.
My point is that gift-wrapping is one of those skills like having babies that come more naturally to women than to men. That is why today I am presenting: Gift Wrapping Tips for Men:
Whenever possible, buy gifts that are already wrapped. If, when the recipient opens the gift, neither one of you recognizes it, you can claim that it’s myrrh. The editors of Woman’s Day magazine recently ran an item on how to make your own wrapping paper by printing a design on it with an apple sliced in half horizontally and dipped in a mixture of food coloring and liquid starch. They must be smoking crack.
If you’re giving a hard-to-wrap gift, skip the wrapping paper! Just put it inside a bag and stick one of those little adhesive bows on it. This creates a festive visual effect that is sure to delight the lucky recipient on Christmas morning:
YOUR WIFE: Why is there a Hefty trash bag under the tree?
YOU: It’s a gift! See? It has a bow!
YOUR WIFE (peering into the trash bag): It’s a leaf blower.
YOU: Gas-powered! Five horsepower!
YOUR WIFE: I want a divorce.
YOU: I also got you some myrrh.
In conclusion, remember that the important thing is not what you give, or how you wrap it. The important thing, during this very special time of year, is that you save the receipt.
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Without further ado
I had another ultrasound yesterday to take a gander at Evan and see whether there is an acceptable amount of "waste" collecting in both of his teeny tiny kidneys. At the last ultrasound, one kidney was much larger than the other one, giving the doctor enough cause for concern to order a second look-see to make sure it was just a developmental glitch and the smaller kidney would eventually catch up.
Long story short: It did. They are now a beautiful — albeit still teeny tiny — pair of equally productive organs. He's healthy as can be in there, all 3 pounds of him squirming and kicking me constantly, and I couldn't be happier (well, except for maybe late at night, when all I want to do is sleep and all he wants to do is break-dance).
I didn't post this immediately upon my return yesterday because we were also given pretty cool 3D images of the little bugger's face and I had every intention of scanning in a few to include with this post. Except for some reason my scanner is not cooperating with my new laptop. So you'll have to trust me when I say he's cute as can be. And he apparently has my mother-in-law's nose, because the tip sort of hooks down in this very distinctive, not-exactly-button-nose kind of way. It's funny, seeing just this glimpse of him, and how different he looks from his brother already, makes me all that more eager to meet him! I want to hold him in my arms and take endless digital snapshots of him and then look back and marvel at a year's worth of those pictures and how much his features change and his personality emerges.
I love that he doesn't look just like his brother (gorgeous though that boy is...). I can't wait to see the ways in which his personality and disposition are all "Evan" too. (Hey, maybe he'll be a great sleeper!!!!)
Long story short: It did. They are now a beautiful — albeit still teeny tiny — pair of equally productive organs. He's healthy as can be in there, all 3 pounds of him squirming and kicking me constantly, and I couldn't be happier (well, except for maybe late at night, when all I want to do is sleep and all he wants to do is break-dance).
I didn't post this immediately upon my return yesterday because we were also given pretty cool 3D images of the little bugger's face and I had every intention of scanning in a few to include with this post. Except for some reason my scanner is not cooperating with my new laptop. So you'll have to trust me when I say he's cute as can be. And he apparently has my mother-in-law's nose, because the tip sort of hooks down in this very distinctive, not-exactly-button-nose kind of way. It's funny, seeing just this glimpse of him, and how different he looks from his brother already, makes me all that more eager to meet him! I want to hold him in my arms and take endless digital snapshots of him and then look back and marvel at a year's worth of those pictures and how much his features change and his personality emerges.
I love that he doesn't look just like his brother (gorgeous though that boy is...). I can't wait to see the ways in which his personality and disposition are all "Evan" too. (Hey, maybe he'll be a great sleeper!!!!)
A song, and a dance, and a second chance
I’ve been wanting some new Christmas music so I downloaded the album “This Warm December: A Brushfire Holiday Vol. 1” and have been giving it a whirl. It’s a decent mix, with a song called “Christmas Baby” by G. Love that kind of grows on you, and a really nice “Silent Night” by Zach Gill.
Kostyn has decided his favorite tune is a version of Stevie Wonder’s “Someday at Christmas” by Jack Johnson. When it comes on the little guy typically drops what he’s doing, runs over to me and points to the stereo. This means he wants to dance. So we head over to the source of the music and he wraps his hands around my index fingers and we sway and spin and smile at each other. He’s an excellent dance partner.
I think it’s poignant that this is the song above all others — the ones with the bells jingling and the “rum-pa-pum-pums” and the jolly “ho-ho-hos” — that makes him beam and sway.
Someday at Christmas there’ll be no wars
When we have learned what Christmas is for
When we have found what life’s really worth
There’ll be peace on earth
Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you or for me
But someday at Christmastime
I watch his sweet face as I listen to the lyrics and I can’t help but think about how this little being epitomizes the kind of love sent straight from heaven ... so full of promise and joy, with no conditions and a million second chances when we get things wrong. I’m reminded of that quote from Dickens, “It is not a slight thing when those so fresh from God love us,” and I feel almost sad because the world I know is not peaceful enough, or good enough, or beautiful enough, to match that kind of wide-eyed wonder. And I don’t want him to ever lose it.
When Chris and I first moved to Florida back in 1996, we were dirt poor and passed our weekend nights with six-packs of cheap beer and silly card games. Sometimes we’d take the beer down to the beach and sit on the tailgate of his old truck, watching the waves crash the shore and the heat lightning bounce through the clouds over the ocean. And we’d talk about God.
I’d been raised in a Lutheran church, with Sunday school and confirmation classes and Vacation Bible School. I’d read and learned and memorized a lot about God but hadn’t exactly felt Him deep down in my core. I wanted to, I just didn’t know what I should be feeling.
Chris had been raised Catholic but had been “born again” in his early 20s and had tried a few different Christian denominations over the years. He’d read the Bible cover to cover, I think more than once, and to me he was an authority. I began studying the Bible on my own but relied on his perspective to help me wrap my heart around my faith.
The problem was, the closer I thought I was to understanding who Jesus Christ was, the worse I felt. “He’s so amazing, and loves me so much,” I told Chris, “but how can I live up to that? I fail Him. Every day I let him down, sometimes in big ways and sometimes in small ways. It’s depressing.” And Chris would talk to me about the gift of grace, and what that means not just for my eternal life but for my everyday life.
Still, I didn’t exactly “get it.” I didn’t understand why Jesus would be so willing to forgive again and again and again, why he would stand there with open arms no matter how many times we turned away. I continued to struggle, and pray.
Then one night after a particularly long discussion about it, I fell asleep and had a dream that was unlike any I’d ever had. It wasn’t even a dream, exactly, it was more like a feeling. I remember a presence being with me in my sleep — not like a ghost but just a feeling that I wasn’t alone in that moment — and I woke up feeling an incredible warmth wrapped around me, like a hug from an old friend, and my mind was blank except for two words echoing in my head and heart: “Unconditional love.”
It sounds simple, and I’m sure Chris talked to me about the unconditional love of Jesus Christ many times, but it wasn’t until I felt Him tell me Himself that I got it. That’s why. That’s why the open arms, the forgiveness, that’s why he cheers us on and smiles upon us and wants only the best for us, even when we wrongly think we know what the “best for us” is.
I have thought of that moment, that warmth, and those two words often in the years since then, but none moreso than in the past 18 months, as I’ve been getting to know this little guy who is “so fresh from God.” When he is dancing with me and Jack Johnson is singing “Someday at Christmas man will not fail; hate would be gone and love will prevail...” I see him smiling with such complete faith in me that the same warmth washes over me, and the same words echo in my heart.
I still fail every day. I fall short of my own expectations, let alone God’s hopes and dreams for me. I’m not the best mother, or wife, or friend, or daughter. But I have beautiful people in my life encouraging me, and loving me, and forgiving me. I have God’s grace bolstering my efforts for another day. I have a tiny porcelain baby lying in a manger on my table, reminding me of a promise and a gift so great I can hardly wrap my brain around it.
And I have a living, breathing example of God’s love holding tight to my fingers and mimicking my footsteps. Sometimes I let him lead, and that usually produces the most laughter from both of us.
Heaven knows I should do that more often.
Kostyn has decided his favorite tune is a version of Stevie Wonder’s “Someday at Christmas” by Jack Johnson. When it comes on the little guy typically drops what he’s doing, runs over to me and points to the stereo. This means he wants to dance. So we head over to the source of the music and he wraps his hands around my index fingers and we sway and spin and smile at each other. He’s an excellent dance partner.
I think it’s poignant that this is the song above all others — the ones with the bells jingling and the “rum-pa-pum-pums” and the jolly “ho-ho-hos” — that makes him beam and sway.
Someday at Christmas there’ll be no wars
When we have learned what Christmas is for
When we have found what life’s really worth
There’ll be peace on earth
Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you or for me
But someday at Christmastime
I watch his sweet face as I listen to the lyrics and I can’t help but think about how this little being epitomizes the kind of love sent straight from heaven ... so full of promise and joy, with no conditions and a million second chances when we get things wrong. I’m reminded of that quote from Dickens, “It is not a slight thing when those so fresh from God love us,” and I feel almost sad because the world I know is not peaceful enough, or good enough, or beautiful enough, to match that kind of wide-eyed wonder. And I don’t want him to ever lose it.
When Chris and I first moved to Florida back in 1996, we were dirt poor and passed our weekend nights with six-packs of cheap beer and silly card games. Sometimes we’d take the beer down to the beach and sit on the tailgate of his old truck, watching the waves crash the shore and the heat lightning bounce through the clouds over the ocean. And we’d talk about God.
I’d been raised in a Lutheran church, with Sunday school and confirmation classes and Vacation Bible School. I’d read and learned and memorized a lot about God but hadn’t exactly felt Him deep down in my core. I wanted to, I just didn’t know what I should be feeling.
Chris had been raised Catholic but had been “born again” in his early 20s and had tried a few different Christian denominations over the years. He’d read the Bible cover to cover, I think more than once, and to me he was an authority. I began studying the Bible on my own but relied on his perspective to help me wrap my heart around my faith.
The problem was, the closer I thought I was to understanding who Jesus Christ was, the worse I felt. “He’s so amazing, and loves me so much,” I told Chris, “but how can I live up to that? I fail Him. Every day I let him down, sometimes in big ways and sometimes in small ways. It’s depressing.” And Chris would talk to me about the gift of grace, and what that means not just for my eternal life but for my everyday life.
Still, I didn’t exactly “get it.” I didn’t understand why Jesus would be so willing to forgive again and again and again, why he would stand there with open arms no matter how many times we turned away. I continued to struggle, and pray.
Then one night after a particularly long discussion about it, I fell asleep and had a dream that was unlike any I’d ever had. It wasn’t even a dream, exactly, it was more like a feeling. I remember a presence being with me in my sleep — not like a ghost but just a feeling that I wasn’t alone in that moment — and I woke up feeling an incredible warmth wrapped around me, like a hug from an old friend, and my mind was blank except for two words echoing in my head and heart: “Unconditional love.”
It sounds simple, and I’m sure Chris talked to me about the unconditional love of Jesus Christ many times, but it wasn’t until I felt Him tell me Himself that I got it. That’s why. That’s why the open arms, the forgiveness, that’s why he cheers us on and smiles upon us and wants only the best for us, even when we wrongly think we know what the “best for us” is.
I have thought of that moment, that warmth, and those two words often in the years since then, but none moreso than in the past 18 months, as I’ve been getting to know this little guy who is “so fresh from God.” When he is dancing with me and Jack Johnson is singing “Someday at Christmas man will not fail; hate would be gone and love will prevail...” I see him smiling with such complete faith in me that the same warmth washes over me, and the same words echo in my heart.
I still fail every day. I fall short of my own expectations, let alone God’s hopes and dreams for me. I’m not the best mother, or wife, or friend, or daughter. But I have beautiful people in my life encouraging me, and loving me, and forgiving me. I have God’s grace bolstering my efforts for another day. I have a tiny porcelain baby lying in a manger on my table, reminding me of a promise and a gift so great I can hardly wrap my brain around it.
And I have a living, breathing example of God’s love holding tight to my fingers and mimicking my footsteps. Sometimes I let him lead, and that usually produces the most laughter from both of us.
Heaven knows I should do that more often.
BK's newest $4 menu item
This must be seen, and smelled, to believe. Jeff, I hope you're all over this one for an upcoming Guide exclusive...
Oh so sweet
I've been doing a lot of holiday baking these last several days but yesterday I convinced Chris and Kostyn to help me out. They made sugar cookies and it was quite a floury, sprinkly mess but Kostyn loved it.
The best part about baking: Sampling your hard work!
The best part about baking: Sampling your hard work!
Tune in to "Today," tomorrow!
My Realtor says NBC has called her every day for the last three days wanting more info on our house and the Beaufort area. Today's call was to make sure they have the pronunciation of "Beaufort" correct -- which is official confirmation that our digs will be on TV tomorrow!!
The segment is set to air at 9:05 a.m, but we'll probably Tivo the whole program just in case. Let's hope Barbara Corcoran, "The Today Show's" real estate guru, can help us drum up some buyers.....
The segment is set to air at 9:05 a.m, but we'll probably Tivo the whole program just in case. Let's hope Barbara Corcoran, "The Today Show's" real estate guru, can help us drum up some buyers.....
Almost Famous
Many of you know we've been trying unsuccessfully to sell our house for several months. The situation is getting dire, as you can imagine. But perhaps our luck is turning. I got a call from our Realtor today who told me that she'd just gotten off the phone with a producer for NBC's "Today Show," and they might want to feature our house in a regular segment they do called "What You Get For the Money." Supposedly it's done by some bigwig in the real estate business, and they've narrowed their search down to 12 houses across the country to feature. They're going to take a look at pictures of each house sent in by owners/real estate agents and decide on six to feature on the show.
So I guess our beloved home has a 50 percent chance of appearing on "The Today Show" on Friday morning!
Click on the "Almost Famous" post title above to check out more photos of our place, taken before we moved out, so you'll know what to watch for on Friday. I'll post again if we were passed over and it ain't gonna happen. But keep your fingers crossed! The NBC gal told our Realtor this usually gives some great exposure for homeowners....
So I guess our beloved home has a 50 percent chance of appearing on "The Today Show" on Friday morning!
Click on the "Almost Famous" post title above to check out more photos of our place, taken before we moved out, so you'll know what to watch for on Friday. I'll post again if we were passed over and it ain't gonna happen. But keep your fingers crossed! The NBC gal told our Realtor this usually gives some great exposure for homeowners....
Pardon the interruption(s)...
Working from home is a true blessing, no doubt. The trouble with working from home, though, is that I’m home and therefore subject to all types of unprofessional interruptions.
Here's a recap of yesterday’s attempt to complete a scheduled 3 p.m. phone interview:
2:50 p.m: I’m prepped for the interview and the baby’s still napping. Beautiful. This could really work!
2:51 p.m.: I hear Kostyn stirring upstairs. Shit. I notice the Christmas cartoon DVDs my sister-in-law gave me last week and wonder whether he’d sit quietly and watch one while I was on the phone. I’ll have to set it up quickly, though. Hmm. Maybe he'll go back to sleep...
2:52 p.m.: No such luck. I hear him walk to his door and push it open, then begin to whimper. I head upstairs and give him a big smile, asking, “Are you all done sleeping?” He shakes his head, walks back to his bed and points to the mattress. This means he wants to stay in bed but he will cry and scream if I leave the room. Super.
2:56 p.m.: I manage to get the kid giggling, which wakes him fully and he’s ready to come downstairs.
2:57 p.m.: Time's a-wastin'. I rip the plastic packaging off “The Snowman” DVD. Curse at the bloody sticker they affix to the top that makes it impossible to open. Fiddle with two remotes until I get the darn thing started. Point to it excitedly and say “Kostyn, look!! TV!! Want to watch TV??!” He looks at me and smiles, which deep down I know means “Sure, Mom, for about 4 minutes...”
3 p.m.: I call my source, who apologizes profusely for putting me on hold for 3 seconds while she closes her office door so that I have her undivided attention. If you only knew, lady...
3:06 p.m.: Kostyn loses interest in the video and wanders over to the table where I’m sitting with my laptop, typing and talking. He raises his arms and says “Up.” I shake my head and try to shoo him away. (Yes, I “shooed” my son. It didn’t work.)
3:06:04 p.m.: He begins to whine.
3:06:05 p.m.: I get up and lead him back to the living room, still talking to the source but now missing crucial quotes that I should be writing down. I drop a puzzle on the floor, and again point to the TV, my silent expression trying to convey some “Look! It’s a snowman!!” excitement. He sits down.
3:07 p.m.: Resume typing.
3:10 p.m.: The doorbell rings. The dog begins a furious barking frenzy. Kostyn starts to cry. I can't believe my bad luck.
3:10:20 p.m.: I apologize to the source while getting up again, corralling the dog and opening the door. It’s a UPS driver. He begins talking to me while my source is saying “Um, do you need me to hold on for a minute?” “Yes, please, just one second...”
3:10:22 p.m.: I silently curse myself out for not knowing how to put someone on hold, then press the phone to my chest as I answer the driver’s questions. The dog continues her verbal assault.
The UPS driver takes forever to explain that he’s here to pick up a package, of which I don’t have. I ask him to return tomorrow and he smiles (a little too big, if you ask me) and says, “Sure!”
3:12 p.m.: Another round of apologies to the source while kicking my foot in the general direction of the Godforsaken dog and trying to silently reassure my son that his favorite puppy isn’t going to kill us all.
3:13 p.m.: Kostyn isn’t so sure he’s safe from Sadie’s wrath, so I scoop him up and resume the interview while holding my son. Typing is now not an option.
3:15 p.m.: Listening to a particularly good answer, I think to myself, “I’ll just have to remember this stuff and write it all down after we hang up. I’ll paraphrase.”
3:16 p.m.: Still listening to the source, I think, “Shit, what did she say a minute ago about fiscal responsibility? That would have been a great quote.”
3:17 p.m.: I try to put my toddler down in front of the TV. He starts crying. I pick him back up, bring him over to his Fisher-Price bus, set him down again and start to walk away.
3:17:50 p.m.: He gets right back up and follows me, arms up, whining as if I’ve just rejected him, which, let’s be honest, I have.
3:18 p.m.: The source chuckles. “I have a 3-year-old at home,” she says, and for this, I secretly love her and want to give her top billing in the story.
3:18:20 p.m.: I run into the kitchen and take out a box of mini Nilla wafers. Throw five of them in my son’s direction. He quiets down and starts chewing. I resume typing.
3:25 p.m.: The interview ends. I’ve been able to capture about half of it on my laptop. Story of my (so-called) life....
Here's a recap of yesterday’s attempt to complete a scheduled 3 p.m. phone interview:
2:50 p.m: I’m prepped for the interview and the baby’s still napping. Beautiful. This could really work!
2:51 p.m.: I hear Kostyn stirring upstairs. Shit. I notice the Christmas cartoon DVDs my sister-in-law gave me last week and wonder whether he’d sit quietly and watch one while I was on the phone. I’ll have to set it up quickly, though. Hmm. Maybe he'll go back to sleep...
2:52 p.m.: No such luck. I hear him walk to his door and push it open, then begin to whimper. I head upstairs and give him a big smile, asking, “Are you all done sleeping?” He shakes his head, walks back to his bed and points to the mattress. This means he wants to stay in bed but he will cry and scream if I leave the room. Super.
2:56 p.m.: I manage to get the kid giggling, which wakes him fully and he’s ready to come downstairs.
2:57 p.m.: Time's a-wastin'. I rip the plastic packaging off “The Snowman” DVD. Curse at the bloody sticker they affix to the top that makes it impossible to open. Fiddle with two remotes until I get the darn thing started. Point to it excitedly and say “Kostyn, look!! TV!! Want to watch TV??!” He looks at me and smiles, which deep down I know means “Sure, Mom, for about 4 minutes...”
3 p.m.: I call my source, who apologizes profusely for putting me on hold for 3 seconds while she closes her office door so that I have her undivided attention. If you only knew, lady...
3:06 p.m.: Kostyn loses interest in the video and wanders over to the table where I’m sitting with my laptop, typing and talking. He raises his arms and says “Up.” I shake my head and try to shoo him away. (Yes, I “shooed” my son. It didn’t work.)
3:06:04 p.m.: He begins to whine.
3:06:05 p.m.: I get up and lead him back to the living room, still talking to the source but now missing crucial quotes that I should be writing down. I drop a puzzle on the floor, and again point to the TV, my silent expression trying to convey some “Look! It’s a snowman!!” excitement. He sits down.
3:07 p.m.: Resume typing.
3:10 p.m.: The doorbell rings. The dog begins a furious barking frenzy. Kostyn starts to cry. I can't believe my bad luck.
3:10:20 p.m.: I apologize to the source while getting up again, corralling the dog and opening the door. It’s a UPS driver. He begins talking to me while my source is saying “Um, do you need me to hold on for a minute?” “Yes, please, just one second...”
3:10:22 p.m.: I silently curse myself out for not knowing how to put someone on hold, then press the phone to my chest as I answer the driver’s questions. The dog continues her verbal assault.
The UPS driver takes forever to explain that he’s here to pick up a package, of which I don’t have. I ask him to return tomorrow and he smiles (a little too big, if you ask me) and says, “Sure!”
3:12 p.m.: Another round of apologies to the source while kicking my foot in the general direction of the Godforsaken dog and trying to silently reassure my son that his favorite puppy isn’t going to kill us all.
3:13 p.m.: Kostyn isn’t so sure he’s safe from Sadie’s wrath, so I scoop him up and resume the interview while holding my son. Typing is now not an option.
3:15 p.m.: Listening to a particularly good answer, I think to myself, “I’ll just have to remember this stuff and write it all down after we hang up. I’ll paraphrase.”
3:16 p.m.: Still listening to the source, I think, “Shit, what did she say a minute ago about fiscal responsibility? That would have been a great quote.”
3:17 p.m.: I try to put my toddler down in front of the TV. He starts crying. I pick him back up, bring him over to his Fisher-Price bus, set him down again and start to walk away.
3:17:50 p.m.: He gets right back up and follows me, arms up, whining as if I’ve just rejected him, which, let’s be honest, I have.
3:18 p.m.: The source chuckles. “I have a 3-year-old at home,” she says, and for this, I secretly love her and want to give her top billing in the story.
3:18:20 p.m.: I run into the kitchen and take out a box of mini Nilla wafers. Throw five of them in my son’s direction. He quiets down and starts chewing. I resume typing.
3:25 p.m.: The interview ends. I’ve been able to capture about half of it on my laptop. Story of my (so-called) life....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)