Oh hi, this is me, typing with no head. It blew off. Or up. I don't know. I don't remember. Your head is where you keep your memory. All I know is that one day I looked around and realized that I have an freaking buttload of deadlines and work obligations every day and two very high maintenance children who want love and attention and someone to keep the little one from drinking dish detergent or slamming his fingers in drawers or...or...oh HELL, he's got the adjustable-blade slicer from the kitchen. Again. Today.
Head. BOOM! Just like that.
Hilariously, optimistically, I placed an ad for a part-time mother's helper-type person about three weeks ago. And I got a ton of interest and applications and promises of never-ending love and devotion to my children, at least for 10 hours a week, as it seems This Fucking Economy has left a bazillion previously-out-of-our-price-range, actual-real-professional nannies unemployed around here, so they're all promising stuff like cooking meals and housekeeping and taking my baby to the ART MUSEUM, or something. Teaching him German. Handicrafts. I'm like: Or you could just keep his hands out of the toilets, more or less. I'm fine with that too.
And yet I have not actually contacted anyone to move forward with the whole screening/interviewing/hiring process, because I am trapped in an endless vicious cycle of deadlines, work obligations, two very high maintenance children, a blog audience that starts looking at me bug-eyed and impatient if I go more than three days without updating because UR BLOG SUX NAO. So I've determined that what I ACTUALLY need is to hire someone to hire the babysitter for me. Are you interested? I will pay you in harried weeping.
Moooommm, I set the living room on fire again. Just FYIIIIII.
ANYWAY. Sorry. That was a boring and whiny-sounding story. I'm not doing too well as a Headless Neckstump, I guess. Oh, hey! Squirrel! And! We went to Pennsylvania this weekend for my dad's birthday party. His 80th birthday party. If you've read along for any stretch of time, at least long enough to know that my dad has nearly died like, oh, four dozen separate times, over half of which occurred this year alone, I hope you will join me in an appreciative FUCK YEAH to that.
<here is where I would insert a totally kick-ass photo of my dad holding my boys, or maybe one of the two of us, or maybe one of just him, looking healthy and vibrant, laughing at his party, surrounded by his friends, looking more like himself than he has in over a year>
<here are some crickets instead, because I did not take a single actual photo all weekend, except for that last one I just described, but that actually only exists in my head, from memory>
<and I've already discussed The Thing With My Head, Which Is Gone>
The weirdest part of the weekend was at one point realizing that I was absolutely surrounded by my parents' friends -- all people I've met before, but whom I ONLY know in the context of hospital waiting rooms. They're the ones who show up to visit with my mom while we pace the hallways, stare at the vending machines, grimace over cafeteria coffee. They come in, make jokes, cheerfully compliment to view from my dad's window, even if it's mostly of the hospital parking lot. They offer rides and food for my mom, and for me, big warm hugs that I accept in a stiffened panic. One friend showed me photos of a three-month-old Ezra he still had on his camera phone, snapped last January in yet another hospital room, right before my dad's heart surgery. My parents' next-door neighbor was there, a woman I've probably spoken a dozen words with, even though I know she's the rock who keeps my parents' grass mowed, plants watered and mail collected whenever crisis hits.
I chatted politely with them all, flushing whenever another nice older lady or man told me how gorgeous the boys were, and how lovely I looked. I wondered if I really did look different to them from the usual drawn, worried hospital version who had driven in after midnight the night before. One woman looked across the room at my dad and burst into tears, overwhelmed by exactly what we were all thinking. I can't believe he's still here. I'm so glad he's still here.
I didn't know what else to do, so I hugged her and thanked her. For what? She asked.
Oh, goodness. Where to even start?