madgetastic

My Dogs Ah Bahkin'

I indulged Tugboat and tagged along to see Dropkick Murphys last night. The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, who I looooove, were also on the bill so the evening seemed to hold a little something for everyone.

The show was originally supposed to be at Hadlock Field, as this was DKM's "Minor League Ball Park Tour." But, some grumpy greenskeepers who work for the Sea Dogs got nervous and vetoed the whole thing. So, instead of an uncomfortable ball park seat, I had, ahem, NO SEAT.

People, do you know the last time I stood for five hours straight? No, me neither. Can your puzzlers possibly puzzle how one is supposed to achieve such a feat without the benefit of alcohol? (The Cumberland County Civic center does not sell beer. Stupid, stupid, ugly building and no beer. Also frequently hosts life-sized Elmo. Must be Earthly incarnation of Hell.)

Here is a sampling of thoughts that ran through my head during this particularly physically (and aurally) challenging event:

"Where is everybody?" (The last concert I attended was Bruce Springsteen at MSG. There were hordes for ten blocks in every direction.)

"Merch table!"

"Yikes. Merch is expensive."

"I think the last time I was here was for the theatrical wonder: Disney Princesses on Ice."

"Oh, crap. There's a third band."

"It's a girl punk band. This should be good."

"Wait. Those chicks are hot."

"And loud."

"Wow. Really loud."

"Ear plugs would have been a good idea."

"I wonder if they sell ear plugs at the Merch table."

"Did that girl just puke on the floor at my feet?"

"Seriously? Because the show's barely started."

"Is that dude wearing a kilt?"

"And that dude?"

"And THAT dude?"

"Is this security guard really here to guard the barf?"

"Yup."

"I wonder if there's a code for that, 'Dispatch, we have a code one-niner. Please send back-up. And a mop.'"

"Let's just keep leaning on the Engineer's barricade."

"Finally. The Bosstones."

"I forgot how good looking the lead singer is. Holy crap."

"Wow. That kid to my right has absolutely NO rhythm."

"It's remarkable. I actually can't tear my eyes away."

"This guy is the reason comics of other ethnicities make fun of us."

"My feet hurt."

"Phone's camera sucks. Should have brought my point & shoot."

"My back hurts."

"If my back is this tired, how is the guy with the spinal fusion still standing?"

"Whoa. He's actually hoisted himself up on the barricade."

"I hope we don't get kicked out."

"Mmm. 'Simmer Down.'"

"Bob Marley should have had a horns section."

"Shit. I feel old"

"Bosstones. Out."

"How long are these breaks between bands?"

"I reee-eee-eee-ly need a drink of some sort."

"Honestly. Water only? Are we at a rave?"

"Wow. My feet hurt."

"I'm going to look at the merch again."

"Oh, jeez. Here we go. Dropkicks."

"Right! There's a piper. Now I understand the kilts."

"Except for that asshole wearing Merrills with his. Don't understand that."

"Couldn't find a cooler shoe, Chief?"

"GOD. My back."

"Chronologically, I could have given birth to better than half this audience."

"Will it ever end?"

"How do these kids know all the words?"

"They must read the liner notes, because this is unintelligible."

"That's so cute! They sit around and study the words."

"Wait. That's my husband knowing all the words."

"That guy just complimented Tugboat's shirt! My guy's still got it."

"I think some dude is checking me out."

"Looks like I've still got it too!"

"Wait. That's more of a What's-Billy's-Mom-Doing-Here?-look."

"MY BACK!"

"Thank f*%@^ing GOD. It's over."

I jest, slightly, because it was actually a very good time. I think perhaps I felt extra-old because earlier in the day I was in a boutique downtown shopping for dressy shoes. The middle-aged saleslady asked if I was going to a wedding. "No," I said. "A fortieth birthday party."

"Yours?" She asked.

".........." Said I, stunned into rare silence.

I know I hadn't showered or put on make-up. But I don't think on my worst day I look five years older than my actual age.

Although, it might explain some of the looks I got last night.

Settling In

I think I might have been a little high on Saturday.

Oh, please. Not like that! What were you thinking? I'm a parent now. (Which means I save the crack for really, really special occasions.)

But, seriously, I felt AMAZING. I'm trying to figure out if it was the energy burst of finally, after several months of hooky, getting back into the rhythm of taking my vitamins. Or perhaps it was the surprise, and disturbingly rare, almost-8am sleep-in the children performed. More than likely it was actually our visit to the park.

I think may have mentioned I don't love the parks here. I grew up in Manhattan and believe the playground should be the center of a kid's universe. What are these backyards of which you speak? Pshaw! Stow that Childlife monstrosity and give me a splintery old climber on a bed of black cushion tiles any day.

This is not to say the playgrounds here are inferior in scope or architecture. Nay, in fact they are quite good in both areas. What they lack across the board is population. It has seemed to me that moms here go to the playground on arranged dates and have no interest in meeting new people. For that matter, they don't even want to have passing conversations with anyone they don't know. I have, on occasion, gotten the feeling when I've gone to the park alone, that the other paired-up moms are actually shunning me. Am I paranoid? Quite possibly.

When it comes down to it, I'm lazy. One of the things I loved most about my old neighborhood was the playground. I never had to try very hard there. I can be a pretty friendly person and I could easily get a banter going in the playground. A self-effacing, parental anecdote will usually bring out the chat in most Brooklyn moms. I even had a short exchange with her once.

But here? I make what I assume is a universally funny comment and get looked at like I have lobsters coming out of my ears (points for the reference). They turn around and roll their eyes at the weird mom who talks to the air. Because, please! I hope she wasn't speaking to US!

So, Saturday. I have the kids to myself all day while Tugboat goes to Mystic for the Woodenboat Show. We laze around the house for as long as any of us can stand it and then I pack everyone up to go to the Farmer's Market. They both know this as The Route To The Playground, so I end up stopping for a quick play before getting my lettuce.

We beeline it to the swings because Oh, They Are So Different From Our Swings At Home! (I caved and we, too, have a veritable playground in our own yard.) There are two occupied swings and two available. After swinging a while, I make a comment about one of the kids' shirts to his mom, fully expecting to get my usual blank stare in response. She took my bait, however, and we had a little, jokey chat.

Emboldened, I looked to my left and realized that I actually knew the child swinging next to The Bird. I re-introduced myself to the mom and we ended up playing and chatting with them for a while. After a decent amount of time I decided to wrap up the playing and head over to the market. But, here was a friend from The Bird's old school. She, who is supposedly delayed socially and the other girl end up playing and running around for almost an hour while I chase an increasingly grumpy Boo and chatting with the girl's father. Finally, I break up the girl-on-girl love-fest and wrangle the boy into his stroller only to run into a mom I knew from our first music class in Maine and one of the only real people I sent over to my old digs (Hi Alex!).

I head back to the car feeling better than I have in as long as I can remember. I had that old feeling I used to get after walking down Seventh Avenue on a busy Sunday. I feel an ease and a comfort of knowing where I am and the people around me. I feel less alone in this still-strange place. I feel like maybe, no, definitely: This is our home now.

Diagnosis: Not Crazy

If I try to think back on how long my knees have bothered me I have to go realllllllllly far back. Like, gulp, 20 years.

I can't recall a specific injury. I do remember, with no small amount of regret, that I used to be an athlete. Every time I see somebody running, I feel regret. When I see women at my same life stage in great shape, I feel regret. Whenever I bend my knees I feel regret.

I played volleyball and basketball, but softball was my game. My father (always an athlete, and now a nationally-ranked squash player on the Senior Circuit) started playing catch with me before I can even remember.

I was very good softball player. I always bat third (Big Bat) or fourth (Clean Up). In ninth grade I was still a big fish in the small pond of my private girls' school and was the starting catcher on Varsity. For tenth grade, I switched to a bigger, better co-ed school and was relegated to JV. I also had to give up my favored position because, for some reason, I couldn't hack the squatting anymore. What?

Part of me can't believe that I didn't see a doctor right away about the fact that all of a sudden, as a healthy, active 16-year-old I couldn't squat. But then I remember the order of priorities of a typical 16-year-old. In the late spring of 1989, my priorities went something like this:

1) Don't get busted smoking at the diner around the corner from school.
2) Find a dress for last minute prom invitation.
3) Get organized to leave for summer job at the beach.
4) Study for finals.

Nowhere on that list is there anything about figuring out that random knee pain that just sort of showed up out of the blue.

Years later, after I'd allowed the chronic pain to completely discourage me from working out, I asked a doctor about it. The HMO PCP that I'd never met before told me to lose weight. Extra weight is bad for knees. Right, that must be it.

So, I go to get in shape. At some point I take a sample session with a trainer who tells me I need to strengthen the leg muscles around me knees. He has me do leg extensions, leg presses, squats, lunges, etc., etc., etc.

Guess what? Didn't help.

I started to think I was crazy. Was this fake pain? I was reticent to see another doctor who would tell me to lose weight. When you are even slightly overweight having medical professionals say dumb shit like, "Well, you know, the weight isn't helping," is flat out infuriating.

Fast forward 10 years. I've fully had enough. I've been working with a trainer for almost a year and the knee pain has reached new heights. I have to steel myself at the top of every flight of stairs. The wrong step can have me cringing for days. I almost dropped my kid after my knee gave out.

Now that I have good health insurance, for which I pay through the nose, ears and every other orifice, I decided to get this settled once and for all.

So, after 20 years, I have my answer: Chondromalacia Patella.

A section of my right knee cap is actually resting on the bone, the cartilage having completely degraded. Across the rest of both knees there is diminished cartilage and both knee caps are misaligned. I should be upset about this, but I'm actually delighted to have a real diagnosis. The doctor encouraged me to get my glutes and quads in top shape, but warned me against doing just about every common leg strengthening exercise. (Thanks, Old Trainer! All those leg extensions, leg presses, squats, lunges were apparently doing more damage than good.) And cardio has to be limited to completely non-impact.

There's no real treatment outside of what I'm already doing, but that's okay. At least I now know I'm not crazy. About this anyway.

Torn

There's a popular bumper sticker around these parts (besides everyone's favorite—1.20.09 BUSH'S LAST DAY!). It says:

Restore Boston! Leave our Maine way of life alone.

I think I understand the crux of the message. I assume it is directed at wealthy city folk who come into Maine and snatch up old gems, renovate them, maintain them as second homes, all the while keeping their tax dollars back in their home states.

I mean, I hope this is the intention. Because could Mainers really be against people moving into their state and rehabbing antique structures and restoring them to their former glory? Can they really complain about breathing life back into the architectural history of their state? Are they really against young families moving in and bringing their income with them? Is there really enough animosity about this for a bumper sticker?

(For my money, a bumper sticker that warned against stripping the landscape for more plastic McMansion developments would be far more appropriate. But that's a post for another day.)

I've had some mixed feelings about our project lately. Some of this is tied up in me not having a lot going on that's just mine. There's the house, The Bird's assorted therapies and education plan, The Boo. And, of course, the absurdity of going directly from waiting for our case to be done to waiting for the house to be done. Just waiting and waiting. Almost five years of waiting to MOVE ON WITH MY LIFE. But another part of it is the statement our house makes and my sometime discomfort with that.

I'll be frank, it's a big house. It's no mansion, but I know no real estate agent would ever use the euphemism "cozy" to describe it.

Is it more space than we need right now? Absolutely. But here's the thing: I've moved 13 times in the last 15 years. My primary goal for the settlement (after setting up Tugboat's medical care and our kids' college funds) was to find a home we could live in forever. Or at least until we need to move to somewhere more handicapped-friendly (like, um, the Caribbean).

When you think about living somewhere with a couple of teenagers, it changes the physical load of the space. Four adult-sized humans take up a lot more space than our current configuration. If we were going to move and move ONCE it was going to have to be a place that could accommodate all of us, at any age. Since we both work from home and spend a lot of time around the house, having the right space is key.

I have a friend who lives around the corner from the new house. She's a regular girl like me, with an extra-regular husband like mine. She's noticed some wide-eyes over at the elementary school when people find out where she lives. Very often she's introduced along with her house, "This is Katie, Ethan's mom. They live in that AMAZING yellow house on the corner." Which is inevitably followed with, "WOW! I love that house." While she also loves the house, she has admitted to feeling self-conscious about it. Not wanting to be judged, or rather sized-up, as being something she isn't.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not apologizing for this house. In fact, I'm so excited about it that I hardly allow myself to think about it being finished. And, I'm so proud of how Tugboat is managing the project I want to scream from the rooftop, "SEE THESE! THESE ARE SOLAR PANELS! ALL OUR HOT WATER COMES FROM THE SUN! AND THIS, THIS IS OUR NEW GAS-FIRED BOILER! THERE'S NO OIL UP IN HERE! AND, THE GOVERNMENT IS PRACTICALLY PAYING US TO DO THIS!" We're using all local suppliers and locally made product (when available). He's recycled or donated every window, every bolt of insulation, every old appliance. He's sold all the old flooring and trim. The only thing that went in the dumpster was the vinyl siding and that was only after an exhaustive, but ultimately unsuccessful search for a recycling facility that would take it.

I want to drop flaming poop bombs on the previous owner's doorstep for the way the house was generally neglected or patched to fool the inspectors. Turns out the "Updated Electric" was actually 90% original and 100% fire-hazard-y. In spite of that, I am delighted that we now have officially, inspector-approved updated electric. I am relieved to know that our plumbing is new, the basement is dry and the chimney isn't going to collapse taking all three floors of the house with it.

We are still months from getting into the house, but there has been some great progress. It hasn't been terribly glamorous work, but it's been worth it.

So, every day when I pick up The Bird at school and see that stupid "Restore Boston!" sticker parked in front, I want to find the person who drives that car and take them on a tour of my house. I want to ask them, "Honestly, what is wrong with taking this piece of history and respectfully and beautifully updating it for the next century?"

Wherever I came from originally, I love it here and will not feel guilty for saving a small piece of it from the scrap heap. Guess I'm not so torn about the house after all.

A Little Acronym Confusion

So, we had the big Diagnosis meeting with the Developmental Pediatrician. The meeting went something like this:

"Well, she's definitely on The Spectrum."

"Really? Okaaaay."

"She's not Autistic."

"Okay."

"This isn't Asperger's."

"Okay."

"So, that leaves us with PDD-NOS."

Apparently PDD-NOS stands for We Have No Friggin' Idea What's Up With Your Kid, But We Know It's Not This Or This, And If We Label Her Like This She'll Get Services She Wouldn't Otherwise.

My first instinct was to fight the diagnosis. To say, "Where did you get your degree? The back of a cereal box? You can take your diagnosis and shove it. I'm going to blow this one-horse town and take my kid back to New York where there are REAL doctors. Where my best friend's mother, a world-renowned speech pathologist, will find us an audiologist who can tell me this is Auditory Processing and not some catch-all fake disorder that means nothing and only serves as a stigma for my daughter!"

But, then I took a few deep breaths and really thought about who's interests that would serve. As it stands she will get 15-18 hours of Developmental Preschool at a minimum. We have her IEP tomorrow, so we'll see what other services for which she might be eligible.

I'm seriously baffled by this diagnosis. My kid is cheerful, interactive, easy-going, friendly, loving and the list goes on. The one thing she struggles with is conversing with her peers. She wants to have friends and interact, but she just doesn't seem to know what to say.

I must have had zero previous knowledge of The Autism Spectrum, because I would never, in a million years, have put that label under her name.

I mean, come on! She even has a sense of humor...*

Knock, knock... from Madge Love on Vimeo.

*You'll notice how she overheard me telling Tugboat about Leta Armstrong's obsession with "Donkey Bellies." It's now in contention with "Banana Pudding" for her favorite silly words. Thanks, Dooce!

The Madgeboatlets Go Green

Guess what happens when the fantastic photographer who took your family pictures last summer moves in next door and becomes your friend?

Impromptu photo shoot! Yay!

Happy St. Patrick's Day +1!

Photos courtesy of Tess and © Seaglass Photography.

Picking It Apart

Wow. So, the logjam right now? It’s huge. I have five half-written posts and a brain addled with anecdotes and “Oh, that’s good!” moments. So, I’m going to shove it all into one post to clear the dam and move on. Stupid brain beavers.

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It has become clear that Tugboat and I are starring in a hilarious remake of the 1986 renovation romp starring Shelley Long and Tom Hanks: The Money Pit.

As often happens when you start messing with the fragile homeostasis of a poorly maintained 98-year-old building, the shit is hitting the fan. At every turn we are faced with another multi-thousand dollar fix job that simply has to be done. There are no, “Okay, let’s put that on the list for the future” jobs. It’s all, “OH MY GOD THE HOUSE IS GOING TO FALL DOWN TOMORROW IF WE DON’T DO THIS IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES.” 

Fun stuff like the bricks around the chimney being so degraded as to be transparent. The foundation is so rotted it must be ground out and re-filled and oh, while we’re at it we should really do the pea-gravel drainage system around the exterior. When the ground thaws, that is. And, like a hillbilly winning the lottery, the knob and tube wiring that we knew about before seems to have all kinds of previously undocumented relatives.

At this rate we will be living with inflatable furniture in a house that will survive nuclear holocaust.

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We went to Amsterdam. Did I mention this?

In January. I know, crazy. Right?

Why? Well, Tugboat’s brother lives there. Not only was he getting married, but The Bird has a cousin who is a few months older than she is that she’s never met. So, we thought it prudent to haul our two kids to northern Europe in the middle of winter. The wedding was lovely, the new sister-in-law is fantastic and the meeting-slash-instant love affair between the cousins was amazing. But, I’m putting it down in writing so I never think to myself, “Hey, remember that trip? That wasn’t so bad.” Because it was.

The flight to Amsterdam wasn’t too bad. Thank you KLM with your built-in TVs and huge selection of child friendly movies. (Even Baby Einsteins!) It was an overnight flight that was not nearly full. If it weren’t for the near fisticuffs between Tugboat and the asshole German/Dutch/Austrian guy in front of me who complained about Boo kicking him before we’d even taken off, then it would have been almost easy. (The minute I noticed all the extra seats I asked a flight attendant to move me after take-off. They guy clearly heard me and still had to complain about a baby kicking, not him, but the seat next to him, where his kid was sitting in a seat they hadn’t even purchased! BLAAAAHHH!)

The time change on arrival wasn’t too bad either. The kids were just up a lot later than usual. A lot later. Like, until midnight. (My kids go to bed at 6 and 7. Mama needs her alone time, See?) So, I didn’t love that, but it wasn’t horrible since they were also sleeping a lot later in the morning.

We discovered they love chocolate croissants as much as we do, which was not at all unexpected. They also loved the zoo (Real elephants! And giraffes! And lions! Oh my.) They loved looking out onto the canal and saying hi to the horse who pulled a buggy passed our window every evening. So, yes. There were some spectacular moments.

Holy hell, though, the return trip? Dreadful. Eight (thank you fiercer than normal headwinds) fucking hours of intermittent turbulence that was bad enough to have one flight attendant shriek into the loud speaker, “SIT DOWN NOW!”

It was an all daytime flight during which The Bird never closed her eyes once and Boo only cat-napped. Then, THEN! We had to drive home from Boston. HA! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha. Ha. Haaaaa. (she trails off)

Oh, and the best kick in the ass about the return trip? Three weeks. It took three weeks to get my kids acclimated to the local time. It took them five days to get hip to GMT +1 and three weeks to get back on Eastern Standard Time.

So, no. I will not be going on “vacation” with these kids anytime soon.

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I was emailing the woman who restores my faith in the public school system by her mere presence in it. She had asked what was up with The Bird and the whole Early Intervention thang.

I tried to explain it but found there was far too much backstory to paint the whole picture for her. And, let’s face it, my posting commitment is spotty at best. I am never going to sit down and lay it all out like Nancy did in her 7+ part series about Rosie. I was initially hesitant to talk about it at all because I wasn’t sure it was my story to tell. It’s the Bird’s. But, then I thought about how hearing Nancy’s (and Julie's) (and Amalah’s) experiences with Early Intervention had made me so much more receptive to the process than I would have likely been otherwise. And, while I’m quite sure no more than five people still stop by here, I thought I would pay forward their gracious help by divulging my own Early Intervention experience.

Two weeks ago we had our first team meeting with Child Development Services. The Bird was referred based on our (her parents’ and school’s) observations. She seemed to be having problems with social interactions, attention and focus. Stage 1 in the process (a case worker from CDS comes to observe her in the classroom) appeared to be a sort of weeding out of the paranoid helicopter parents. We sailed through that observation which initiated Stage 2—an evaluation by a Developmental Therapist.

The results of this evaluation were mildly disturbing but not unexpected. The Bird did not qualify for any services based on her cognitive skills. She scored a year or more above age level for Language Production and Pattern Recognition. But, these high scores brought her overall scores high enough to mask some much lower scores. For Language Comprehension and all the pre-writing categories, she scored under three years old. These scattered results prompted the Developmental therapist to recommend further Speech & Language and Occupational Therapy evaluations.

She did, however, qualify for services based on her social development results. As of last week she qualifies for developmental preschool, aka Special Purpose Developmental Therapy, 4x/week for 3 hours/day. This approval is good through the summer. She will get the other evaluations and they also approved her for a Developmental pediatrician.

While she couldn’t commit to any sort of diagnosis, the Developmental therapist was leaning toward this being some sort of Auditory Processing Issue. It would explain the social element (she doesn’t understand cues), the attention element (she doesn’t get the parameters of circle time, centers time, etc.) and the focus (can’t follow directions), but also leaves room for her incredible verbal strengths and normal emotional reactions.

We spent last week calling around and visiting different facilities that offer this level of therapy. I started the process excited to have a plan in place and fired up to get her started.

Then we visited the first school.

(Apologies for any offense taken to the next few paragraphs. If I’m going to be truthful, this was my visceral reaction.)

The first kid I saw had Down’s. The next thing I saw was some sort of restraining chair and there were several of them strewn about. I came out of my near coma to hear the director explaining how all the teachers are trained in the MANDT 10-step process to help a child in crisis and how they try all nine steps before putting the child in a “therapeutic hold.”

We watched a classroom of six kids and two teachers. And the kids? Each one was off. Not right in one way or another. There was the bizarrely over-friendly boy who immediately came over and held Tugboat’s hand. There was the kid who looked like he’d taken a Daisy razor to his own head. Sullen kid. Too Quiet kid. Too Physical kid.

I couldn’t look at Tugboat because I was sure I would cry. This was not for my kid. I started to question why I started this whole process. I mean, so what if she uses mostly scripted language lifted from books and TV? So what if she doesn’t play like the other girls? They’re bitches anyway. She is just a regular kid. This was a mistake.

But when I really focused on what happens in a classroom with a 3:1 ratio, I had to admit that it was what she needed. I was devastated.

A few days later we visited another program that reminded me to trust the process. This place had one developmental room in a school with otherwise typically developing kids. She could spend part of the day in the regular room and part of the day in the therapy room. Unfortunately, they only have 3x/week available, but I’ll take less therapy to have her in a place I can visit without choking back tears.

We have to do our due diligence and visit one more place on Tuesday, but I think we’ve made our decision.

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Speaking of scripted language, we have a lot of sayings in our house. One of my usual phrases is, “What’s shakin’ bacon?” One day The Bird asked me this and I responded with a dose of my typical smart-assery. Now the interchange goes like this:

Me: “What’s shakin’ bacon?”

Her: “What do you think, sausage link?”

Mmm. Pork products. Always good for a laugh.

Mwah ha ha! That's a good one, Julie.

I recently had a short email exchange with one of my first blog friends. In her response she wrote: "I've been thinking about you guys and would love to know how the four of you are doing, especially now that everything's settled and you're in the new house."

At this point I did a spit-take worthy of SNL and nearly pissed my pants. I realize that with my lack of updates, it is not immediately obvious why her comment was so hilarious, so I will explain...

Ah, the new house.

I'm closing my eyes and imagining how lovely it will be. One day. One very mysterious day in the even more mysterious future.

So, no. We are not in the new house. The house we purchased last July. The house we foolishly thought we'd be in by the new year, even as my architect brother-in-law chortled right in front of us.

We knew it needed a lot of work. We also knew that architects can take a lot of time in their "process." I mean, hey, I worked in a creative field. I know that client desires and time constraints very rarely match up with reality. But. Hoe. Lee. Crap. This has taken forever.

I think they lifted their hammers for the first time about four weeks ago. And lest this become a renovation blog, I will briefly itemize the work and chronicle the progress.

But first a little history: Ours is a 98-year-old Victorian home. It is three stories with a walk-out basement. A garage was tacked to the back of the house and, we think sometime in the 40s or 50s, an enclosed family room was added above it. At the time of purchase, this room was basically structurally unsound. Additionally, the house had been chopped up a few times. At some point the house was re-zoned as a two family with the third floor as an apartment. It was further divided into an illegal three-family. A more recent owner eliminated the third apartment, but did it using the least possible thought, style and money.

We bought the home with the intention of making it our 20-year home. For now, Tugboat can handle the stairs. But we think this might not always be the case, at which point we will move to something single story.

Since we are both home so much, the space and layout are the best parts of the house. The third floor can be a complete office and two-bedroom guest suite that is set apart from the rest of the house. Or, when they are older, the kids can move upstairs. (I see lots of bead curtains and beanbag chairs, just like Greg's brief makeover of Mike's office.)

The second floor has three bedrooms. This means that each of our kids will have his and her own room. THANK HOLY HECKFIRE. Because this sleeping with a kid in our room got old about a year ago.

The main floor has a foyer, parlor, dining room, random second dining room, butler pantry, half bath and crazy broken-down family room on top of the garage. (Did you notice I didn't say kitchen? Yup. There was no kitchen. The previous owner had crow-barred a fridge, stove, dishwasher and every other kitchen necessity into a smaller space than my smallest tenement apartment kitchen.)

So, here's the plan from the top:

Third floor is being almost completely gutted. The apartment was the sorriest part of the whole house. The walls had hideously textured plaster covering who knows what. The kitchen was a mid-80s eye-sore and the bathroom was not much better. The two bedrooms seem to be more original to the house, so they are staying fairly untouched. The rest, not so much. To wit...

To expand the usable space, we are adding a shed dormer running the length of the backside of the house. This is the most dramatic part of the process as it will require blowing out the original roof and putting in all sorts of support beams. There will be an office and media room in this large space. The far end of the room will be enclosed into a bathroom and laundry room.

The second floor is getting new bathrooms and some built-in work.

The main floor is getting re-configured a little bit. The crazy, broken-down family room is becoming the kitchen...

...which works nicely because it's off the dining room.

The butler pantry...

...is becoming a new powder room and computer station.

The random second dining room (which was likely the original kitchen)...

...is becoming a playroom-slash-den.

The trims were a disaster, the plaster walls are in poor condition and the floors wave like the ocean. So, that all has to be fixed. Since we have the unusual advantage of not having to live in the house while we are working on it, we are trying to get as much done as we can swing financially.

I think that's all. But that's enough. Enough to keep us in The World's Smallest House for several more months. Hopefully we won't kill each other.

Supporting The Team, Sort Of

Let's face it, I'm not a super-fan of anything.

Not even Madonna.

It's true! My love for her has waned over the years, much like my former devotion to Duran Duran. Now, I feel about them the way one might feel for one's first love. Thinking of them makes me smile and feel a little warm inside, but that's about it.

This laissez-faire attitude also applies to sports. I was raised a Yankee fan. I am the fourth generation, so I really had no say in the matter. I remain a Yankee fan, but don't ask me scores or even the current line-up. I won't know any answers. I do know where to get good beer near the stadium, though. And, thanks to the in-view-of-the-stadium location of the Bronx County Courthouse, I also now know where to get the best diner lunch.

So, yeah. Sports.

Have I ever mentioned how the color Royal Blue makes me twitch a little? No? Well, I like to think it was all those years of living with New York's Biggest Football Fans. Seriously.

My father possesses the kind of encyclopedic knowledge of football that actually makes it interesting to watch (instead of just another good reason to drink Bloody Marys on a Sunday). He is very nearly obsessed with the strategy of the game and counts it as a necessary element of any boy's education (This will pose an interesting dilemma if Boo prefers soccer, because my Dad is already collecting JetBlue miles for all the football games he's going to fly up to see).

My father, 5'6" on a good day, is a frustrated football star. He played to great acclaim until his junior year in prep school when a back injury killed his career. He spent his senior year coaching the freshman team and all of college drunk and/or naked in the stands of the Yale Bowl (AH!!! It's always BLUE!). As soon as there WAS a Giants team he was a fan.

My Grandfather, an equally fervent football nut followed the Jints in an almost pathological manner. A normally elegant and well-heeled man, he would resort to calling names and various other indelicacies every Sunday afternoon in the fall. (He died a few short months before they made it to their first Superbowl and it was probably our family's most bittersweet moment.)

Imagine their glee when my brother displayed a natural talent for The Greatest Game. Unfortunately, he was also blessed with my father's height and penchant for injury. So, while he had his share of glory days, they didn't extend much past high school.

I'm thinking that this lifelong proximity to complete football nutballism contributed to my choice of husband. Tugboat enjoys sports, but he can take or leave them too. We've gone to games and watched them on TV, but with no amount of regularity or true fervor.

But now we live in New England. OH MY GOD. These people are Fans with a capital EFF. Since there's only one of each team (as opposed to New York where we've got choices) there's this crazy unilateral, obsessive, beat-you-over-the-headedness about the whole thing. With baseball, it's easy. Any claim to fame can be countered with, "Oh, yeah? Get back to me when you win another 24." Or, "Twice in almost 90 years? You're right. You ARE the best!" (sarcastic wink, wink)

But football is a little tougher. These Pats are good. Very good. Okay, they are freaking amazing. An undefeated season? That's ridiculous. And this is no fly-by-night operation. This is no freak occurrence. They've been this good for quite some time.

Back when the Giants were flying under the radar, it was a little easier to keep my allegiances quiet. I don't like to stir the pot. Moreover, since I don't possess much in the way of technical knowledge, I can't really back myself up in a chesty, Who's-Better confrontation. I must say I fumbled (ha!) the other day in Lidz when I went in to purchase a Giants hat for my brother-in-law who lives in Amsterdam. As soon as the dude behind the counter went for it with the Go-Go-Gadget extender-arm a posse of teenage boys yelled in unison, "Hoooooooo! Who's buying THAT!!!" I sheepishly claimed it was "not for me." To which the whole store said in unison, "Yeah, right!"

My brother has lived in Vermont a lot longer than I have lived in Maine. Maybe he's used to the ribbing. Or maybe he's just a real fan. Unlike his sister.

Here's my brother representing on the half-pipe.

While I may be shy, okay cowardly, I am still a fan. Right? I did, after all, put my daughter in this even when the Giants were having a shitty season.

EDITED TO ADD: Yeah, BAYBEEEEEEE! Suck on that New England.

My Vent Alarm Went Off

It's been a while.

Lately I've been straining against my self-imposed sabbatical. One of the main reasons I uplugged in the first place was The Bird. I don't know if it was the exhaustion or the inability to split my attentions between two kids, but I got to a point where I felt I'd abdicated my role in her life.

I'm not sure where to start, or if I should start at all. Mostly it's her story and I'm not sure the details are mine to reveal. Without being too annoyingly obscure, her beginning of the year Developmental Checklist revealed some serious deficits. All were things we'd previously wondered about. We had consulted her teachers last year and her pediatrician on several occasions. Everyone always said these things were, "not age-inappropriate."

But, now? They are.

They were serious enough to bring in the county assessors and we are knee-deep in the process right now. Part of me is relieved, but another part feels an overwhelming wave of nausea every time I think about it. With every phone call and every interview there are more complicated predictions, more speculation, but very few concrete answers.

I don't think I had a handle on how I felt about the whole thing until I spoke to my oldest friend about it on the phone the other day. I was telling her how guilty I felt, how surprised I was at how far behind The Bird has fallen and cataloguing the myriad things I should have seen and done to help her. I talked and talked in circles. She said all the things a best friend should and even injected a little of her professional perspective (she's a psychologist). When she stopped speaking, I couldn't respond because I was crying.

Crying, I think, because it was the first time I'd admitted how responsible I felt. I don't have a family member other than my husband to whom I speak everyday. There are very few people in this world who know me like this girl knows me. And her comfort felt like letting go of clenched shoulders for the first time in months.

But now I can't stop crying. I can't shake the feeling of failure and the sadness I feel when I think about my daughter struggling. In the grand scheme of things they are not insurmountable issues. Many of them are actually quite workable. But it will be a lot of work.

I used to have an outlet for this type of venting and it wasn't until today that I remembered I still had it.

So, I'm back.