Conversations With My Son

Him: Mom, did you know Dunkin' Donuts has a new Munchkin flavor? [Ed. Note - I think it's just new to him]

Me: I did not.

Him: We had some in school yesterday. They're vanilla with sprinkles.

Me: Did you like them?

Him: Well, Ryan had four of them and didn't get sick of the sprinkles but I had two of them and got sick of the sprinkles. It's like we're on a whole different level.

Be Not Afraid

A year and a day ago I lost my Mom to her third battle with cancer. It was hard but surreal, and while I sobbed uncontrollably at the time of her death I have not really cried since then. I reasoned that I was probably numb, that the shock hadn't hit me yet. It was all so different and fast, yet methodical and controlled.

She was having a lot of trouble eating, and upon investigation they found her stomach to be full of tumors. They went in to do a bypass in her stomach so that it wouldn't be so painful to eat but when they opened her up they saw it had spread quite uncontrollably and that she had little time left. When she awoke from her anesthesia she was nonsensical and a little silly, giggling and talking in baby talk. We chalked it up to the after effects of the morphine. When the morphine stopped the loopiness didn't and my brothers called me. I flew out the next day.

Her liver was failing and couldn't process the anesthesia or any ammonia from her blood, which was why she had trouble with her cognizance. She refused to take the meds that would help. She kept fighting them and saying they were trying to poison her. So they just didn't give them to her. They felt fighting with her would be too much for her to handle. When I arrived I saw they were putting it in orange juice. I explained to them it was probably the o.j. she was objecting to as she had cut citrus out of her diet because she also had severe kidney disease. We were able to convince her to drink apple juice laced with the icky, syrupy meds and for one afternoon she came mostly out of her fog and I was able to talk to her and explain what was going on. She was very brave. She asked about trying another hospital and I told her that we might be able to if she took her medications and cooperated with the nurses. That was a little bit of a misleading statement. The cancer was extreme. Her condition was frail. She had beaten it valiantly two other times before but this time it had won. It was only a matter of time. After a few minutes of thinking about it she then asked why she wasn't in hospice. I told her that was the next step and she would be moved there by the next day. She said, "Good." and seemed genuinely relieved when she laid her head down on her pillow.

In the years leading up to this she had told me repeatedly that she was ready to die, that she hated chemotherapy, that she didn't want to fight it the next time. But my impression even then was that she was telling my brothers something different. I don't think she was lying to any of us, I think she had conflicting feelings and dealt with them by discussing a different emotion with a different kid. For instance, it upset my younger brother Dereck to hear her talk about her end so she reserved that conversation for me. I was willing to support her no matter what she said because I didn't want to upset her. I knew what she was feeling was something she needed to talk about so I usually listened while automatically taking her more dramatic statements with a grain of salt. My Mom loved drama, so I had been doing that for pretty much all my life anyway.

This led to a pretty brief but big fight between Dereck and I. He wanted her to come home with him, and I felt like it would be too much for him. He is a young man who had been taking care of my mother for decades. She had relied on him way too much, and for way too long. I felt that hospice was the answer because she would get what she needed medically and he would be able to begin the process of life without her. But he knew her better than anyone, knew how much fight she still had left in her, and felt he was the right one to care for her. The problem was we both kept looking at it as a long term thing. We pictured my mother living months, and maybe even another year. There were grand schemes at work in both our heads. The truth was, we were to discover, she only had eight more days.

She was moved to an absolutely wonderful hospice. It wasn't the way I had pictured it: musty, dark and smelling of urine. It was bright and sunny, newly built and still smelling slightly of fresh paint. There was art on the walls and tiled mosaic flowers crept around door frames. There was a patio with a beautiful fountain that was wheelchair accessible. The best thing of all, they welcomed dogs.

My mom had a big white dog named Max. This dog was so sweet and so devoted, and she had said repeatedly that she couldn't die until Max did because the idea of leaving him without her was too much for her. The first few days she was there he was there too. But by early on the third day it was becoming apparent that her condition was changing and we stopped bringing him. She had stopped waking up and talking and had started to breathe strangely. With the nurses coming in and out more frequently, and us spending so much time at the facility, it was too hard to confine him to the one room for so long during the day.

On top of all this there was someone else we had to take into consideration: her husband. My Mom's fourth marriage was to a man she had dated for about two years back in the 70's. They rekindled their romance through the US Postal Service in the late 90's, traveled to see each other and quickly decided to get hitched. Unfortunately, in the years following they discovered Joe was suffering from Alzheimer's and had to be moved into a nursing home. Other arrangements were going to need to be made for his care and so we called his kids. His daughter Trish flew out on the sixth day after my Mom entered hospice.

And then, the next day, St. Patrick's Day 2009 it happened. The universe aligned in perfect order to arrange for my Mom's move to the next realm. My older brother Bill had been handling all the paper work issues, and he and Trish had things they had to work out. They hadn't seen each other since we were kids and even then Bill hung out with her older brother. I decided to tag along, my only contribution being that I knew both of them and I was the buffer for the slight awkwardness of having lunch with a complete stranger you're related to. Lunch went until about one, and I had promised Trish I would be back at the house by 4:30 so I could babysit her daughter while she took care of the kind of grownup errands to which you don't want to drag a 2-year-old. As I started to leave for the hospice I looked over at Max and thought, "it's only a few hours, this is a perfect time to get him over there again."

When we got there Max went over to say "hi" to her. I held out her hand to him to give a lick. He seemed satisfied and found a comfortable spot on the cool floor. I sat down and talked to her about Trish's arrival, how lunch went, all the daily news. Then I had The Talk I had every other day with her since she went into hospice. I told her it was ok to let go whenever she was ready. That she didn't need to worry about us kids because we were handling everything. Bill was doing great with all the paperwork, Dereck was doing great at taking care of the house, and all of us were getting along better and getting closer than ever before. Joe was going to be well taken care of by his kids, and even though Max was going to miss her, Dereck was going to give him the greatest home and take just as good care of him as she had. I also pointed out on this particular day that it was St. Patrick's Day and if she wanted to make sure no one ever forgot the day of her death, doing it on a national holiday was a good start. Trust me, if you knew her you'd know that would be just the thing that would make her laugh.

For the past four days her breathing had been very noisy. This was because as she exhaled she made noises with her vocal cord. About 45 minutes after I had arrived, after I had had the talk with her, and done a few other things, my phone rang. It was my husband. While we chatted I noticed that Max's bowl of water was empty so I brought it and the phone into the bathroom, rinsed it, refilled it, caught up with how things were going back home. As I carried the bowl out and placed it on the ground I was struck by how silent it was. She wasn't making that sound. My words caught in my throat. I hung up the phone and ran out to get a nurse. I couldn't even explain I just looked panicked and pointed back at my mothers room. They know what that means. A nurse came back with me and checked her heartbeat. She told me she wasn't gone but it was coming. It might be in five minutes, it might be in five hours but it was imminent. Bill and Dereck were each pretty far from the hospice at the time. I started making call but couldn't concentrate so I called Bill and had him call whoever needed to know right now what was going on. In retrospect that was probably a really bad idea since he was trying to drive over at the same time.

I sat in the chair next to my mom and studied her face, watching to see if anything happened. They say sometimes people wake up just before they go and say one last thing. I was looking to see if she suddenly looked more blissful, more scared. More lifeless. Which seemed impossible. I neurotically checked her breathing with a finger under her nose every few seconds. Then I began to doubt my senses so I started checking with a wet finger. At first I would feel breath. And then I wouldn't. And then I would. It seems like an obvious pattern but sometimes there was a whole lot of long lags between them. Was she only taking a breath a minute or was I missing 55 seconds worth of breathing at a time? After what seemed like a few minutes of not feeling anything, feeling like I had to know, and not knowing how to calm myself down I grabbed my sunglasses and held them under her nose. When nothing fogged them I rationalized that it had to be that I wasn't holding them close enough, or the tinting made it to hard to read. As I reached for my regular glasses to repeat the experiment I stopped myself. I had lost my mind. I needed a nurse. As much as I feared this was going to be a long day of embarrassing myself by grabbing an increasingly annoyed nurse every 10 minutes, I had to know. But it wasn't going to turn out that way. This was the last time I was to need her.

I always felt this was the perfect end for her. She didn't die frightened. She didn't linger forever. She had her dog with her and someone who loved her. She was in hospice, which she knew would be comforting. She was in a place that was beautiful and artistic. Her kids came together for her. I was sad, and I cried, but mostly in a "OMGMyMotherJustDiedRightInFrontOfMe!!!" kind of way. I had told her everything I needed to tell and I believe we were at peace with our relationship. I had been preparing for two weeks and I knew her suffering was over. It was a good death.

When we met with her pastor about her memorial service I remember deferring a lot of the questions to my brothers. They knew her better than I did, having lived with or near her for years and years more than I had. When asked what music she would have wanted, Dereck mentioned that she loved "Be Not Afraid," and that he noticed it was being performed by the churches choir that Sunday. He requested that they sing it at her service, or if that wasn't possible, that they record the one from the upcoming Sunday and play it. Her memorial service was held the following month so that friends and family from far away could arrange to attend. After it was over I noticed they hadn't played "Be Not Afraid". I wondered at the time if the pastor had forgotten or if they hadn't been able to get the recording, but since it was all over I didn't want to make waves so I never found out why it hadn't been featured.

And so a year went by, and yesterday was the one year anniversary. I had thought about placing an in memorium notice in the paper, but I didn't. I mant to post something on my Facebook wall to commemorate her. But I didn't. My husband approached me and told me it was ok if I wanted to cry. But I didn't. I spent the day feeling like I had forgotten to do something, and couldn't really concentrate on anything but I wasn't depressed or distraught. Although I did feel guilty about that this morning.

My son goes to a small parochial school up the street, which is attached to a church to which we do not attend, but keep meaning to. After dropping him off at school today I walked past the church and the idea struck me that I needed to think about Vacation Bible School this year. His friends will be there and since we are terrible at religious stuff, I don't want him to be too far behind in that area. So I went home and brought up the church's website and saw a link to "Start Your Day." It's not like me to go clicking around the internet looking for religious things, and it didn't look like it had anything to do with Bible camp but, being easily distracted, I thought maybe they'll have a prompt I can use in my quest to update my blog more frequently. Immediately some music came up with the page, but I didn't recognize it. Then I saw the music credit at the bottom of the page in small type.

It was "Be Not Afraid."

And that's when I cried.

I miss her. I almost bought her a Christmas present a few months ago. I sometimes forget I don't have her on this world with me anymore. But hearing that song this morning tells me she's still here, somewhere, and doing just fine. My Mom always told me the God always found her a parking spot and a quarter. Looks like God found a way to give me what I needed today too. It's nice to know he's on the internet!

Conversations With My Son

Me: Please don't blow spit bubbles.

Him: Why not?

Me: It's gross.

Him: But I only blow spit bubbles because I can't blow booger bubbles.

Me: (gags)

Conversations With My Son

Son: (walking into kitchen) I need help drawing a boat.
Me: I need help cleaning the kitchen.
Son: (turns around) I can draw a boat.

And a bonus classic "Conversation" from two years ago:

Son: Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.
Me: Patience, young Padawan.
Son: (looking perplexed) I'm not a Padawan. I'm a Pada-three*!



(*He's five now, in case you were not aware.)

A Christmas Ham

Last night was the Christmas show at my son's school. Who knew that having two parents with ties to stand-up comedy would produce such a shy and withdrawn child. Oh wait, mine is the one in the red vest? Then disregard that last statement.



My biggest wish this holiday season is that my parents' computers can play this video.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

Conversations With My Son

My Son: Mom, who's Joe Biden?

Me: He is the man who will be the Vice-President in January.

Son: (exasperated) No, Mom, he's John McCain's father! (rolls eyes like he can't believe I didn't know that.)

5 Years Already?

Happy Halloween!!

When I was a kid, my brothers and I spent a lot of time unsupervised. It was the 70's, my mom was a single mom raising three kids, and also worked and went to school. Back then, "latch-key kids" were pretty much the norm. My older brother was a huge fan of scary movies. The gorier the better, at least to me it seemed. Because I idolized my big brother, and what girl didn't if she had one, I wanted to watch what he watched. By the time I was 13 I had seen Rosemary's Baby, The Exorcist, The Omen, Carrie, Alien and Jaws. A couple of them in the movie theater. My little brother was six when Jaws came out, and I know we all saw that in the theater because afterwards he was too scared to take a bath for a year because he thought a shark would come out of the drain and eat him. In addition to watching scary movies, my older brother also read about them in fan magazines and books. He would show me pictures of how the special effects were done, and when we watched the movies on TV he could point out the obvious fake heads and rubber knives to me until the scary movies had little-to-no effect on me. It took a lot to scare me when I was a tweener. And I was pretty darn proud of that. When I was 16 and at an all-girls boarding school (which sounds a little like it could be the opening to a slasher flick script in and of itself) we had a Halloween night scary movie marathon. As the girls around me screamed and hid their eyes from the creepy killer chasing kids around in Halloween -- probably, I don't really remember what it was -- I sat and pointed, saying things like, "that's not even a realistic blood spurt, and look, I can see the 'dead' guy breathing. Sheesh." I probably ruined it for the others, but at the time I couldn't believe anyone could have been fooled by such schlock.

That doesn't mean I was never scared by a movie. There was one in particular. One movie gave me the heebie-jeebies more than anything ever has. It was the movie that made me lie in bed, wide-eyed with vivid images of dozens of tiny little hands coming out from under the bed to grab me and drag me under... to drag me away. I think I was around eight or nine. Definitely old enough to have had the mysteries of movie gore totally explained to me. This movie, however, had not blood, nor ginormous glinting weapons, nor masked menaces jumping from behind doors to fill the screen and startle me. This was a made-for-TV movie that was called Don't Be Afraid of the Dark. It is from 1973. It's about a couple, Sally and Alex Farnham, who inherit an old mansion from Sally's recently deceased grandmother. After moving in, she discovers a bricked-up fireplace in the basement den, and asks the estate's handyman, Mr. Harris to remove the bricks, and allow the fireplace to be used. He reluctantly does so. It turns out some bad little critters come out of that fireplace once it is opened up, and they want the "spirit" of Sally for themselves. The embedded video below is the last eight minutes of the movie, and this is the part that set off a long stint of my life where I made sure every spare item of clothing, and/or all toys that could be spared were shoved into every square inch of space under my bed. I figured, if all that stuff was under there, then the little demons couldn't possibly fit. But just to make sure, I also kept my sheets tucked into the bed so they couldn't get to my feet. I'm not kidding. I still kind of do that last one. At this point in the movie, the little demons have spiked Sally's drink with sleeping pills, cut off the electricity and locked her friend out of the house. Her husband had been over at the handyman's house when Sally called and was abruptly cut off. This clip starts off during the frantic car ride home where we learn why the fireplace was bricked up in the first place. (And yes, the handyman is Uncle Charley from My Three Sons.) Don't be surprised if you sleep smack in the middle of your bed tonight. With the lights on.



ETA: I found out while looking for the clip that Guillermo Del Toro is remaking this movie but it doesn't mention a release date.

Conversations With My Son

Scene: At restaurant. There is a family a few tables away with a toddler girl who has wandered over to the little old lady sitting at the table next to us. We can hear them talking.

Little Old Lady (to toddler girl): Why, aren't you the cutest thing I've ever seen? You are so cute! Do you know how cute you are?

My son: (to me): Mom, is that lady talking to me?

Me: No, sweetie. She's not.

Son: I think she's talking to me.

Me: Really? Why do you think so?

Son (shrugging shoulders): Because I'm the cutest kid in the whole wide world.

Current Self Esteem Status: High

Mii, Myself and Wii

It's been an exciting week for our now Wii addicted family. For one thing we found out that we all love the tennis game. Even my 4 year old plays better than us sometimes. He waves the controller around frantically for the most part, but it works for him. He's even beaten us more than a few times. And between my foot still not being right and the weather being alternately stupid hot and down-pouring lightening storms, seeing him jump around and get at least a little exercise has been great.

Also, my son and I went to GameStop and bought our first gamey type Wii games. Not games that smell, but the games with story lines and tasks, as opposed to those "regular" Wii sports games where it's all about the score. Does that make sense?

I got Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I already had it for PlayStation2, so I was already familiar with everything I needed to achieve and pretty much where to go. I had heard that the Wii graphics were nothing compared to the newer game systems, but I am used to the PS2. Both versions of this game looked pretty much the same on each system. The reason I bought a game I had already "mastered" was because in the Wii version you handle the controller like a wand. How cool is that? I'm hoping they come out with an attachment that makes it look and feel like a wand as well! When the next Harry Potter movie comes out in November, I'll get the Wii version of that game. But since I am impatient, I got this one to play with until then. Besides, there were some tasks on the PS2 version I never got the hang of, but Wii-wise were a snap, so maybe I can finally complete it all the way. That's right. I can justify anything.

My son got The Bee Movie game. This is definitely designed for younger players, but probably older than my boy (4). He likes to drive the little car around the hive but you have to unlock pretty much most of the games one by one. Which of course means I have to unlock the games one by one. This shouldn't be a tough job, seeing as how it is supposed to be for kids, right? Nuh-uh. There is almost no instruction on what they want from you. I am currently stuck on an early level where I think I am supposed to be flying through the rain and pollinating flowers as I try to find an apartment. There is this flow of air that zips me along, but always ends up "killing" me and making me start over again, so maybe I'm supposed to avoid it? But it is filled with all the little doohickeys that you want to collect, so maybe I'm supposed to go in it. Either way I get to a point where the air stream ends and I don't know what they want me to do next. That's when I get hit with rain, "collapse" and go back to the beginning. Usually when I get stuck on a game (I am terrible at figuring things out) I can go online and find a "walkthrough" guide or a forum where I can get the answer I need, but nobody out there has done any thing like that for this game. So I remain stuck, and my son just tools around the hive, occasionally being a taxi for a little variety. I can't even figure out how to get into the buildings that say they are an arcade or a delivery van mini-game. So I don't care for this game all that much.

The most exciting news of all is that we were able to buy a Wii Fit today. I have been thinking that after I finished physical therapy, since I have a Wii and all, that using a Wii Fit would be really useful for getting my strength back. Plus I think I'm on a gadget bender. Some women can't get enough shoes, I just want more expensive gizmos! I started looking around just to get an idea of how much they go for. Amazon had them for $170! A friend said she got one for about a hundred bucks. All my regular stores (Target, Walmart, Toys 'R Us) had them going for $89.99 but they were sold out with no idea of when they would have them back in. Even their on-line stores were sold out, with no one taking pre-orders. I was beginning to realize this was not an easy device to locate. I am not ready to do more than a quarter of the exercises, but I figured if we see one, we should grab it now anyway, and the exact scenario I envisioned happened today. My husband was in Target for something else and as he walked by a shelf, one lone Wii Fit box caught his eye. So he grabbed it. He's a good man. Just goofing around with it today, I love it. So does my son. There is a balance game called Ski Jump where he has to squat down as the guy goes down the jump, and when he gets to the end of the ramp he stands up straight to make the guy jump. If he doesn't stand up, my son realized that the guy will tumble off the end of the ramp and roll down the hill in a big snowball. He thinks that's the greatest thing ever. I liked how the Wii Fit fitness age assessor had me five years younger than my actual age but the Wii Sports fitness age assessor had me fourteen years older than I really am. Wii Fit totally knows how to flatter a gal better.

The Daily Crutch

I am getting very excited because my incision is almost all healed up. Every day I see it changing for the better. Unfortunately due to my doctor being on "summer hours" I can't see him again until the end of the month and therefore won't be able to start physical therapy until August. I feel like I'm ready to start walking, and occasionally find excuses to go to the kitchen and just "forget" to put the aircast on. It feels good in the ankle area for the most part, as long as I don't overdo it, like make more than 4 or 5 trips throughout the day. More than that and it feels like I'm tugging on the incision. One new thing I have found is that every once in a while I take a step that feels odd in my heel area, almost wobbly, but not painful. I finally remembered that the doc told me that while he was in there he took out a heel spur. I had no idea how much of a difference that would make.

My son had some fun this past week playing with my aircast. I pumped it up so it would stay on his little leg and figured he would be tired of it pretty quick, but despite a fall after every other step, literally, he still wanted to keep it on. I also had my husband take a picture of my calves to show me, and now the whole blessed world, exactly how much muscle tone I have left in that leg. In related news, I weighed myself today and I've lost 2 lbs. Gee, I wonder where if will be most noticeable?

So That's What The Name Means

Saturday we went to our friend's annual block party. I am pleased to announce that there were NO Kia's parked this year. We are so proud. This year my son discovered a tree across the street from where we were sitting had edible sour cherries. He decided he wanted to make a cherry pie.

The hunt for ingredients:

The bounty gathered:


He actually tastes the cherries:

I apologize for the awkward watermarks. I'm sure there is a more professional and/or subtle looking way to do it but I am still new to all of this.

Wii Will, Wii Will Hurt You!!

I am now a proud and pleased owner of a Wii!

I had been hinting to my husband for quite some time that I really wanted one, but I knew they could be expensive and we already had a PlayStation 2, so I never thought for a moment about outright asking for one. And it is possible that had one not practically fallen into his lap, he never would have considered getting me one either. But by some crazy stroke of luck, a friend of my husband's was looking to sell his barely-used Wii console with three games and three controllers. When he first heard about this he came home that evening with a sneaky smile on his face, teasing me that he had the best birthday gift for me. I didn't believe him.

My husband has a long tradition of bait-and-switch subterfuge. He will often make me think my birthday or Christmas gift is being held up in some kind of customs dispute and/or will require a home loan to afford. And of course, it is always perfectly nice but never have I needed a crane to get one of them into the house no matter how much he swore it would be necessary. My standard response is to just roll my eyes and act like whatever it is I'm sure it will be all wrong. A few days after he started bragging about this awesome gift I was getting, he mentioned it was going to be more expensive than he would have liked. Now, for the record, just this past Mother's Day he claimed the beautiful digital frame he got for me cost $280. I was stunned! I couldn't believe he so stupidly paid that much since I had seen the same frame for under $100. My gullibility struck again, and he let me believe that story for weeks before he admitted he got it for about 90 bucks, but this is what I mean about him trying to trick me. I figured this new claim that my birthday gift was too pricey was more of his typical BS and figured I would call his bluff. I told him his love was enough of a gift (cue sappy music) and he didn't have to go through oh so much trouble to get it for me. And if it was really something he thought I would want he could give it to me at a later date. So he canceled it and then told me all about his friend's situation and what a great deal it would have been, and that as soon as I said I didn't want it the man's sister-in-law was told she could have it to donate it to a nursing home. This time I believed him, and it turned out he was, in fact, telling the truth.

I spent about 2 days moping about what a big mistake I made turning down his gift. On the 4th of July, no doubt to get away from all of my whining, he went around to the neighborhood pub and ran into his friend. Turns out the sister-in-law had gotten a system of her own, thinking I had taken the original one, and it was still up for grabs. My husband wisely snatched it up and they brought it home for me for an early birthday gift, set it up on Saturday morning, and I played for most of that afternoon. Today I have very sore arms. Even two days later. I tried to play a little yesterday but literally could not lift my arms. I feel it in my biceps, my forearms and my shoulders. I can barely use my crutches. The forearm pain is still the worst today. I feel broken. And I love it!! I really feel this will be a good addition to my up and coming plans to lose weight, which will commence after I am done with my physical therapy. Hopefully if I save my pennies I can get the Wii Fit attachment before the weather turns cold.

Now all I need is an attachment to teach me how to tell when my husband is bullshitting me. I wonder how much that will cost?

Top Ten Reasons Why I Love My Dad

On this Father's Day, I would like to share the top ten things I love about my Dad, L. Cameron Hyers.

Number 10: Made me animal shaped pancakes. My parents divorced when I was pretty young, and it wasn't an amicable split by any means. Their relationship post-divorce was strained and imperfect, and we didn't see him every weekend like some kids got to do. But when we did see him, he went that extra mile for us, making it special, but not in that "if I buy my kids a lot of the crap they want they won't hate me" way. It was special in the little things things he did, like trying to make me the unicorn shaped pancake I requested even though thats really hard to do. And now, it's something I do for my son. But I only make Mickey Mouse shaped heads because I have a mold. Hey, Daddy didn't raise no dummy here.

Number 9: Didn't make me get a summer job. The summer I turned sixteen I was living with my Dad and stepmother. Around that time, my stepmother asked me when I was going to get a job. When I stammered that I really hadn't thought about it, my father spoke up and said he didn't think I needed to. He pointed out that I had the whole rest of my life to work, so why shouldn't I get to enjoy the summer like a kid should? We prevailed and I got that summer off. How cool is that? And the next summer, when the argument didn't work, he drove me to my job every ridiculously early morning, and picked me up every afternoon even though he had to interrupt work to do so.

Number 8: Taking care of his mom. My grandmother was not what you would call, um, "easy to get along with". She was quite difficult and opinionated, and that only got worse as she got older. She lived on the opposite coast from him, and he often flew back and forth tending to her almost pretty much every time she demanded it. He also made sure she was in the nursing home that she wanted, even if it meant moving her back and forth until she decided which one that was. He spent a lot of money doing that, money that I know he could really have better used in his retirement now.

Number 7: His boyish enthusiasm. Whenever my Dad finds something that he likes he gets so excited about it you would think he just discovered a new way to slice bread. If it's on the TV or the radio he will tape every show and play back the highlights to us as he explains what he loves about it. Which sometimes gets comical as he gets so enthusiastic telling us how much he loves it, that we miss it and he has to rewind it and restart it. And more often than not, he talks so much about how he was talking about it that we have to rewind it yet again. It is truly infectious.

Number 6: His support of me and my husband as comics. When I first started doing comedy, approximately two months after I first set foot on stage, I went to see my Mom in Tucson. When I talked to my Dad before the trip he mentioned he was also going to be in Tucson around the same time. Meanwhile, I was encouraged by some of my Boston comedian friends to try to get a set at the Tucson comedy club Laff's, so I mustered up the courage, called and got a guest set on what turned out to be the same day my dad was arriving. In order to see his little girl perform this barely five minute guest spot my Dad, as soon as he landed at the airport, rushed to rent a car, rushed to his hotel, changed, rushed to club and then bought his ticket at the door even though I had left his name at the door and made it to his seat pretty much as they were lowering the lights. That happened in 1993. If you ask him about it today he can still tell you about that set and the set of the other comics on the show that night. Not only that time, but after I met my husband my Dad would go to as many shows as he could with us, tape them and I think he still listens to them to this day. He remembers more of our old jokes than we do.

Number 5: My Dad is an amazing artist. I have paintings he gave me all over my house and I am so proud when visitors come and admire them and I get to say, "My dad did that, and all the other ones here as well." This is one of my favorite paintings by my Dad, and it hangs proudly in my living room. He takes such joy in his painting. Sometimes I wish he would be "discovered" and he would gain the great amount of fame and fortune that he truly deserves, but on the other hand I would hate for his painting to become a chore or just a job.

Number 4: Nobody is a stranger to him. My Dad is one of the friendliest people you'll ever meet. He can go anywhere and strike up a conversation with anyone, about just about any subject. I remember well the time I asked for, and got, a trip to New Orleans for Christmas. My school was in the Sugar Bowl and my friends and I all wanted to go and see the game. So after Christmas, to get ready for my trip, my father and I spent the day doing errands like getting traveler's checks, getting a new pair of glasses and other stops for him as well. At every place we stopped at, just after we handled whatever errand it was and before leaving he would say to the person who waited on us, "My daughter's going to the Sugar Bowl." I, of course, being a teenager, rolled my eyes thinking he was annoying the clerk. But no, the statement always led to some kind of conversation about something, whether it be football, college, or just traveling. And they all enjoyed themselves immensely.

Number 3: Introduced me to great comedy. I credit my dad for my love of comedy. He has an amazing collection of old time radio programs. Back in the days before the internet and Time-Life compilations, collectors would get cassette tapes of old radio shows from small companies that advertised in the back of magazines, or swapped them amongst themselves. My Dad had an entire bookshelf full of these cassettes. He would pick me up for our weekends together and inevitably, one of those cassettes was playing in the car. I heard Jack Benny, Burns & Allen, Bob & Ray and so many more. And I laughed. I didn't want to sometimes. Sometimes I wanted my square old Dad to put on some hip and happening Carpenter's music, but we listened to the late great comedians, and for that I am forever grateful. I also took great joy over the years when talking to other people of my dad's generation. More often than you might think I would hear them say, "You're probably too young to have heard of Fibber McGee." I would say, "Are you kidding? I've practically modeled my closet after his." Oh, how the jaws would drop.

Number 2: Drove me to school. And not just any school. My last two years of high school were at a boarding school three hours away from home, and he drove me up and back from there for every major holiday, and for the start and end of each school year. Considering how much I loved going to Miss Hall's School, I loved him for dropping me off at those doors. And it wasn't just to Miss Hall's. He drove me to Syracuse University in a blizzard for my interview, and before MHS he drove me to some of the most remote places in New Hampshire to look at other boarding schools we were considering. One school had a two mile long, dirt driveway surrounded by pine trees. We pulled up to the small rustic buildings that made up the campus and he looked at me.
"Do you want to go here?" he asked me.
"I don't think so." I answered.
And without hesitation he turned that car around and we drove away. Then he said,
"Good, because I don't want to have to drive through all this every winter."
Smart man.

And the number one thing I love about my Dad: He's Uncle Grampa Cam. My son graduated from preschool last month. While standing up in front of the room, he pointed to my Dad and told the girl next to him, "That's my Uncle Grampa Cam." I love that he called my Dad that because that means that he's not just the guy who is his Grampa, he's his friend, just like all the other friends of our family he calls "uncle." My son adores his Grampa, and whenever my Dad comes up no matter what they are doing together, my son wants to hold Grampa's hand, show Grampa what he can do and tell Grampa about all the things that interest him. My son definitely got the gift of gab directly from my father, because my son also never meets a stranger. I love to see my two chatterboxes together, because I see so much of each of them in each other. And I look forward to many more years of eavesdropping on their lengthy, lengthy conversations.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Beware the Naked Man-child

Some of you have read this many times before, but it just needs to be included here. The whole ordeal occurred in the summer of '07.

So I kind of accidentally started potty training my son when he got yet another horrible diaper rash because he was withholding poops. I told him "Thats it, no diapers tomorrow (Friday) they are giving you these rashes" (They weren't, it was his own fault, but it was another desperate attempt on my part, and I was surprised when it worked) and after one early accident he did great all day Friday peeing, but never pooped. There was an ill timed block party we were invited to on Saturday, and we went, armed with his only 3 pairs of underwear and about 5 pairs of shorts. So, he of course peed on the sidewalk at one point because he never has these kinds of distractions anyway, much less when he's supposed to be remembering to use the potty. So that took out one pair of underwear. He then soiled the last two pairs trying to hold in a poop, which had been occurring a lot because of the aforementioned diaper rash. So, I was left with no choice but to send him out to the party in shorts "commando style" while we tried to get his underwear washed and dried. About a half an hour later we are sitting there and I see him go across the street and start his "holding-it-in" dance. I figure he's yet again sure to win this battle so I don't think much of it at first, but all of a sudden, he uncrosses his legs, does a little shimmy move and out of the leg of his shorts drops the biggest freakin' turd right out into the street. I don't know whether to laugh or scream, so i try to do both (doesn't work) and I tell(screech at) my husband to get a bag or something. There was no hope of keeping it a secret, either. If he had been the slightest bit freaked out by this I wouldn't be sharing it, but I guess he was just happy to be rid of it (remember, it had been since, I think Tuesday or Wednesday since he had gone!) and wasn't phased at all. Which is weird seeing as how 45 minutes earlier the idea of pooping at all, anywhere, was freaking him out.

Anyway, I expect a day to come, perhaps his college graduation party or his wedding, where at least one guest will turn to me and say, "Hey, remember the time he crapped in the street?"

In the weeks since The Incident... [side note: I have come to find out that the hosts of the party now use the phrase "parked the Kia" to describe Cameron's unfortunate on-street deposit. I find this a little offensive. This thing was at least a Camry!] Cameron has had his fair share of forgetfulness, some wet beds and a slew of almost-made-its, but I am happy to report that he is completely potty trained and has not had a single diaper rash since he decorated Ardale St.

Personally, I'm pretty happy we let him take his time. We had considered quite a few methods when he was younger. There was one that was pretty much like housebreaking a puppy: confine him to the bathroom, pump him full of water and keep up a routine of taking him for a walk, er, um, putting him on the toilet at regular intervals, complete with praises and treats and belly rubs when he had success. I decided against that method because what the hell do you do between pee breaks? Scrabble? The redecoration that would have been necessary from him bouncing off the walls was a little out of our price range. The method of putting a sticker on a reward chart was an appealing one... for about a week. Complete a row and get a new toy! Who knew the bladder had magical powers? All the logic, threats and pleading to get a kid to give up a toy at the store, but face a kid with the question "don't you want to pee on the potty so you can get a new train?" and he suddenly becomes completely uninterested in the acquisition of material things. Like he turned into a monk overnight.

We went with the "wait until he's ready" method. That way they practically train themselves. See, the amazing thing about a 3.75 year old boy is that he has finally discovered his peeper. The appeal of the potty comes best when they realize how much more handy it is to have that thing, well, at hand. No diapers covering it up, just letting it all hang out, balls in the wind freedom for the little buddy. That's when you can say "No more diapers" to them, and they will say "Thanks, Mom! Oh, and by the way, have you seen what I can do with it?"