Beat It!

Many of you reading this blog probably know or have met my dearest friend, Kristen. I've been lucky enough to be buds with her for my entire adult life, and just last year we gave birth to our babies within two months of one another. I love her fiercely, and so when I found out this summer that she had stage four lymphoma I was terrified and heartbroken. I could hardly wrap my mind around the possibility of losing her-- the pain just loomed up too large, and my brain would shut off.

Her doctors were very optimistic and so I was hopeful that with a lot of treatment and a lot of time this disease could be beaten, but it turns out that my little best-case scenario didn't do reality justice. My amazing friend has completely beaten stage four lymphoma in eight weeks! She'll finish up this round of treatment with just a few more chemotherapy sessions, and then it's back to the serious business of raising her beautiful son, growing her beautiful hair and living her beautiful life. Kristen, you blow my mind. You're the strongest woman I know.

These photos were taken of Kristen's sweet son (and Geneva's buddy) Thomas at her parents' home in Bellevue.

   

Oh Boy, Part II

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new winner. My eyes were actually watering with the effort of holding in paroxysms of laughter. Today a very sweet old lady came up to Geneva and started telling her what a good, helpful little boy she was. Geneva was wearing a dress and holding a pink blankie, but here's the kicker:  

I was changing her diaper.

So folks, forget everything you used to know about the anatomy of little boys. Apparently that thing we all used to think was so essential is in fact more like an add-on. An accessory. An app. Men should stop getting so hung up on size because I'm telling you, my little "boy" gets along just fine with none whatsoever.

Fickle Fickle

The scene: Bathtime. The Girlie, having been washed, is now playing in the tub. She stands up and reaches for me as if wanting to be picked up, then plops back down in the water and laughs. This goes on for a few minutes.

Me: Ooooh, you're fickle.

Geneva, tickling me under the chin: Fickle, fickle, fickle!

Pardon the Mess...

I'm kind of wigging out. This week I will be looking after a three-year-old boy while his parents, who are artists, teach classes at The Seasons Performance Hall. Fun? You betcha! I'm absolutely looking forward to the experience with nothing but excited anticipation. No no, the reason I'm wigging out is that the parents, these highly successful, detail-oriented strangers are going to see my house. And it is a mess.

What is it with me? This is a continual battle I fight: anxiety over what others will think of my home maintenance skills. The weird thing is, I am not a fastidious person. I like things clean-- as in, scum-free-- and I like things to have a place, but when it's just me and the Girlie I am generally satisfied with a state of controlled chaos. Without anyone watching I think I strike a healthy balance between extremes. I do not spend all of my time whisking away evidence of human habitation, nor do I actively create a pig-sty environment (which, by the way, was my teenage rebellion form of choice. You're welcome, Mom. Seriously. It could have been so much worse). But oh, when visitors arrive on the doorstep... Sigh. I am suddenly caught in the iron grip of this crushing fear that-- that-- honestly, I don't know what I think is going to happen. Maybe that they'll take pictures of my laundry room and report me to CPS or something.

With a one-year-old in the house it's kind of ridiculous anyway. Children accelerate the process of entropy: it's a scientific fact. Look it up. Toys become one with the floor. Food becomes one with the tablecloth. The organizational structures of your drawers disintegrate and decay and fall apart until you find yourself looking for the can opener in the refrigerator. Who can conquer the forces of domestic collapse? Some people. Not me. But domestic collapse and I have an understanding. We're cool.

So you know what, highly successful, detail-oriented strangers? Come on over! I'll invite you in and say, in the words of Roseanne, "Pardon the mess, but we live here." I'll assume that you're not judging me, and you can assume that I mop occasionally. Just don't report me to CPS. And don't look in the laundry room.

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

Geneva's new favorite leisure activity has me breaking out into song...

Baby, you can drive my car.

Yes, I'm gonna be a star.

Baby, you can drive my car,

And baby, I love you.

 

 

Beep beep, beep beep, yeah!