Howie's got a new best friend or two

It's been interesting having Andrew's family here. Howie took to his gramma like a fish to water, having long involved conversations with her.

It makes me happy, and more excited than I had thought I would be about travelling to see them for Christmas--I'm nervous about everyone staying in the farmhouse, and us with a baby. But seeing his gramma and his grampa with him is worth it.

Even better, his cousin showed a side I'd never seen.

Howie's cousin is six, and smart as a whip with more energy than... a very energetic thing. And all he wanted to do was spend time with Howie. Well, and play basketball. But basketball and Howie, Howie and basketball. That was it. (Maybe, after Howie was in bed, watch cartoons, but then that really is it.)

Maybe that's what makes me the most excited for Christmas. Howie gets to have extra cousins, different cousins, older cousins who can show him how to do things and be someone for him to look up to, who can watch out for him. And it looks like this kid really wants to step up for the job.

"I'm making Howie look strong!" he said. And maybe he will. Which is pretty cool.

Relocation

When my parents decided to move here (oh, about day eight of visiting their new grandson, when they bought a house) it hit them: they'd have to find a home for my grandmother.

When my grandfather passed away in September, we found out how bad things really were. I think Grampa covered for her a lot, when she couldn't remember. And his presence probably comforted her, too. Smoothed out the rough edges of what she didn't understand. And he was the most patient of men.

Then we (by which I mean, my parents--I was safely ensconced back in Portland by then) moved Grandma into a senior home and really found out how bad things were. It started with the hourly calls to my parents' house ("something's wrong with this hotel!"), the panicky searches for cash ("where's my spending money?"), the near-escapes ("I need to get back to Duluth."). It ended with her decking an attendant.

All ninety-eight pounds of her ninety-two year old self, decking an attendant because he wouldn't let her run out in the middle of a Michigan winter.

We had to face it--what we had taken for dottiness, for gentility, was actually Grandma losing the ability to remember things. She was moved to the Reminiscences wing as soon as there was an opening. Which is a very genteel way of saying, someone else died so we took their room.

So Mom and Dad decided to move to Portland, and more on the "sooner" timeline rather than the "later" one--where could Grandma go? And more importantly, where could Grandma go quickly? Grandma staying in the house with them was difficult. She'd wake up in the middle of the night, panicky, lost, confused, agitated. Where could we get her to stay so that she could stay there the first night?

I did the shopping, and got a whole new perspective on elder care. It's actually a lot like daycare. There's differing philosophies on how to provide said care, but when it comes right down to it: you walk in a place and can picture your loved one there, you can picture a visit there.

I went to four different homes, calling my mom after each visit to update her on what I saw. They were fine, really--Grandma would have been fed, been cared for, seen a doctor, gotten her meds at each one, but some didn't feel right. One felt like everyone there was so much worse than Grandma, it'd bring her down to their level. One felt like a hotel: generic art on the walls, and a long, endless hallway of just rooms. It was the last one that struck that cord in me, that set that thrum. Organized into "cottages" in a cohort idea, so that everyone in each cottage is at roughly the same level of ability, a dozen rooms organized around a comfy, cosy, common space.

"That's it," I called mom to say. "It's the furthest away from home, but that's the one."

It's been, what, two months now? I go to visit grandma, I try to make it once a week, I make it about once every two weeks. I bring the baby--which, let me tell you, bring a baby to a retirement home? You are the most popular person there that day, let me tell you. Sometimes too popular. But she loves it. "Is that so?" my grandmother asks as Howie coos at her. "I don't believe a word of it!" she replies with a smile.

It's tough, because she asks his name every time we come. "Howie," I say. "Oh! That was my husband's name!" she'll tell onlookers. "He would have been so happy."

I always agree with her.

But even better, the other day she said to my mom, "I think I could like it here." Those are words we haven't heard out of her mouth in... ever.

I think this move will be good for her.

Firsts

The bath: the aftermath
Originally uploaded by karijean

We gave Howie his first bath. He didn't hate it (he hates dirty diapers a whole lot more--and I can't say I disagree with him) but he did have a "what the hell?" look on his face for most of it. Which was pretty funny in and of itself.

What he doesn't know yet is that his grandparents just bought a house. Fifteen blocks from here. They came to visit their newest grandchild and left with a new house. That is, the house is still here, but by the time they left, ten days after they'd arrived, they had made an offer, and had it accepted, for a house that is literally down the street.

I don't know why this should surprise me. I learned to say, "A kitchen gut remodel six weeks before I'm due? Sure! Let's start tomorrow!" from somewhere.

Plus, my parents have a history of calling up their children and saying, "Guess what? we've bought/sold/remodeled a house!" So really, the only thing different is that this time I saw it happen. And I was still amazed.

So now, in the space of a spring, my sister and nephew moved here, my son was born, and my parents are moving here. One more addition to Portland's tax base and the city is going to give me a set of china.

I'm excited. I'm excited for the cousins to know each other as more than once-a-year relatives. I'm excited for my son to have a relationship with his grandparents that doesn't involve only special occasions.

I'm also nervous. This time last year, this family was spread out over nine time zones. It may be a lot to ask to have us not just in the same state, but literally within a half-mile radius of each other.

It is a little backwards, what we're doing. Most families end up dispersing. Our little family, with no real home town to return to, is--what is the opposite of dispersing? Persing? Finding some reason and some way to come together. Not at all something I would have predicted five years ago.

Family

Up close
Originally uploaded by karijean

So, my sister has moved here.

Having her as a house guest while she does things like make sure her apartment has heat has been the easiest and funnest thing ever. First of all, she does dishes, which, let's be honest, don't get done that often around here. Second, she brings the most awesome toy with her. He's about two feet tall and has the best-smelling head ever.

We've been tooling around Portland trying to get her the necessities to set up a household with a wee little boything (you know, little things, like, a bed... and maybe a crib... girl travels light) and since it isn't my money, it's been tons of fun.

I'm generous that way.

There's no plot twist to this blog entry, no funky story, just... things are good.

Homeful and hopeful

Basement door-no-more
Originally uploaded by karijean

Okay, only a mild freak-out yesterday. Today sucked, but I got through it. I only had to stay til 4:30.

I was able to meet with my sister's new landlord today. And as a further sign that Portland is the smallest big city--or the biggest small town--you've ever seen, I've met him before. In fact, five years ago, I interviewed with him for a job. Of course, he didn't remember me at all (giving some indication of how spectacularly I failed in that interview) but still. My sister is now not officially homeless. In fact, she's quite homeful.

And then I got home and--the workmen were still here! And there were changes! Huge changes! It's crazy how fast this is moving. See in that picture? that there's completely new subflooring? And the basement door opening that's already framed out? because they've already moved the basement door. (to the other side, just FYI--opening in the hallway) Here we are, one week into construction and one major move--done!

Of course, it's just that much closer to having to have everything else lined up, but here we are. I can do this. I can do what needs to be done, and then be done and relax.

No mo pouting!

Grin
Originally uploaded by karijean

Don't pout CNIU (cutest nephew in the universe!)! Your mama got a job! and you'll be back out here soon!

WOOO HOOO!

That's kinda how I feel, too.

Pout
Originally uploaded by karijean

They were here for a three days. And I loved it. I took about a thousand pictures of The Cutest Nephew In the Universe, culled it down to 272 for saving on my computer, and culled further, oh the culling! to flickr. And Lee and I stayed up way too late (like, till TEN!) watching trashy reality TV and didn't even GET to the Top Chef! And it was like we'd never lived nine time zones away from each other.

She, of course, was mildly freaked out by how nice Portlanders are, taking me back to those first months in Portland when the bagger at the grocery store really did seem to care about whether my afternoon had been going okay and how that freaked me, a verteran of Minnesota Nice. And then Lee took Portland by storm, rustling up interviews for every spare hour or four. So my fingers are way crossed for her.

And then, after a whirlwind where we didn't really do anything but then were never bored either, in the dark of Daylight Savings Time Morning, they were gone. And that kind of sucks.

holiday madnesses

holiday madnesses
Originally uploaded by karijean

See all those stockings? Pretty impressive. Especially considering that two of them are over thirty years old, and three of them are under a year old.

There was also a surprise: inside my stocking, a wee little red-and-white baby bootie, adorned with our baby's name on it. Get it? Because he's still inside me? So his stocking is inside mine?

My mom, dad and sister had been giggling to themselves for three days about that before I was told to look in my stocking.

Also note the menorah on the mantel (which totally sounds like a cheesy holiday album: Menorah on the Mantle: Seasonal Songs for Your Mixed Family). Gail held eight-week-old Ellie up to it and said, "Look, sweetie! that's for the Jew in you!"

Click on the picture for more.

A note before I leave.

This whole "coming clean" thing is hard. I don't want to be all, Lookit Me I'm Pregnant! to every person I see--or even to most of them--but, uh... well... it's starting to get obvious. And now I don't know if there's people I should be like, "Hey, how's it going Sally? Cute new shoes today. Oh, and I'm pregnant." Like the secretaries in the main office, who are totally awesome and if you're smart you make them your best friends in the whole school because they can save your butt. Do I tell them? Or is it just too... too? Or my students. "...and that's how we solve a system of equations. And, I'm pregnant, due in May, so don't worry, I'll be here most of the year." It's just odd.

It's great that I have this to worry over!

I leave or a ginormous Family Wedding Event, or as ginourmous as our family gets. It'll be the first time I meet my new nephew which I'm positively delighted about. Everyone at school agrees that he is quite possibly the cutest baby since cameras were invented, but I need to test this hypothesis in person.

Moreover, it'll be good to get away and just be for a couple days. We have no obligations past a dinner on Thursday and a wedding on Saturday. I don't know what I'm going to do with all this time!

Endings/Beginnings II

My mom was an only child, so we were the only grandchildren for my Minnesotan grandparents. Not only that, Grandma was an only child too, and Grampa's only sibling had passed away in the sixties, childless. We were it, for family.

We'd visit, as often as we could. That's probably a little white lie; we could have visited more often, technically. But they were in Cold As Hell Minnesota, and we gradually spread as a family over nine time zones (although, curiously enough, pretty much all at the 45th parallel, lattitudinally speaking). As children, we went up in car trips (bookstore trip before we went, stop at Tomah for McDonalds, fight over the middle seat in the caravan). As adults we would try to visit when we were in the vicinity (which was anywhere in a five hour driving radius, because, really, when are any of us in the vicinity of Duluth? it was tough enough to be THAT close).

At the end of each visit, as we backed up out of the driveway and pointed the car towards the freeway, Grandma and Grandpa would stand, arm in arm, large and solid Grampa, tiny bird-like Grandma, forlornly waving until the car was out of sight. Even as new cars (or rental cars) had tinted windows and they couldn't tell if we were waving back (or looking at all), they would wave and wave and wave. Not frenetically, but gently, continuously, graciously.

Last Sunday, my brother, Andrew and I each packed up our clothes and whatever family pictures or documents we were salvaging from years of fruit crates. Fortunately, we had only brought one carry on suitcase, so we also grabbed a suitcase (oh, so ancient suitcase) from the collection of suitcases in the basement for our piles of precious cargo, figuring we could check it on the way back.

Mom had spent the previous day helping Grandma pack up clothes. At one point, Grandma had turned to me, showing me one of her trademark Classy Lady jackets, tailored, timeless, (in fact, the one she wore to our wedding), red and black houndstooth-checked, with subtle gold buttons, asking me if it "widows wear such things."

"Grandma," I said, "widows wear whatever they want to."

"Oh," she said faintly.

"Do you feel pretty in it?" I asked.

She looked at the jacket, with her head tilted. "Howard always liked me in it."

"It comes with us, then," Mom said decisively, and folded it gently into the suitcase that had been requisitioned for this trip.

Grandma is nearly blind, partly deaf, can't drive, and has very little short term memory and is losing her long-term memory. Convincing her that she couldn't stay in the house she and her husband had built fifty years ago was a traumatic and heart-breaking process, because she couldn't always remember which parts of the conversation she'd already had. She would be sitting quietly at breakfast, and then turn to Mom and say, "You know, dear, I think I should just stay here," as if she were politely refusing an invitation to winter in Michigan. Even after we reminded her that her doctor, the reverend at her church, and her friends all said she could not stay in her house by herself, all were relieved to know that Mom wanted to bring Grandma back with her, she would find a new reason to stay. Or rehash an old one. Again and again and again.

But there is no way possible. And each time we have to remind her of that, it's incredibly hard not to cry. Or grind our teeth into oblivion. Because it's tragic and frustrating all at the same time.

So when the time came Sunday morning for Mom and Dad to be off (they had a two-day car trip), the car was packed and all it took was getting everyone into the car. Andrew and I didn't fly out of Minneapolis until after 7 that night, and my brother's flight wasn't until that afternoon either, so we were leaving a little later. The plan was, we would do thing things to close up the house, those little things that would have been terrible for Grandma to witness. Toss any remaining food in the fridge (some of the eggs, by the way? "Use by 2006"). Take out live plants. Lock all doors, close all curtains. That kind of thing.

But first, Grandma was leaving.

We all went to the door, out into the yard. Grandma took Andrew's arm as she negotiated the steps down to the driveway. He walked slowly with her, not taking a step until he was sure of her footing. Mom tried hard not to look like she was crying. Dad forced himself to walk patiently behind the procession. Surprisingly, no last minute petitions to stay. Maybe it was the influence of walking on a man's arm, but she was graceful as she sat in the car and waved at us, her grandchildren, staying behind.

They loaded themselves into the car, Grandma in front, Mom in back with the dog, Dad driving. As they backed slowly out of the driveway, and pointed the car towards the freeway, my brother, Andrew and I stood in the driveway, waving good-bye, long past when we could tell if anyone was waving back. Or looking at all. Waving until the car was out of sight.

Endings/Beginnings

It seems weird to be in this house and not have him asleep in the chair across the room. Not have him about to walk in the door after having taken the dog for a walk. Not have him hold Grandma's hand.

Sixty eight years. That's how long they were married. We found old birthday cards, old anniversary cards, addressed "To my bride of fifty eight years", signed "You're ever-lovin' guy." We also found every check he's ever written since August 2, 1940. Every income tax return since 1955. And every piece of mailing he's ever received having to do with medicare, his bank account, or the masonic lodge he had been a part of in the fifties. No, seriously. Literally. Every. Mailing. Every newsletter, every bill, every invoice.

We found the invoice for heating repair in 1962.

This week has been a flurry of trying to find all the necessary paperwork for Grampa's accounts--insurance, social security, etc. The man was a serious packrat. On the bright side, though, that meant we found my great-grandfather's ticket from Norway to the US, and my great-grandmother's Norwegian baptismal certificate. We also found every single one of my mother's grade reports--all twelve. Including the one that said, "Mary needs to talk less with her neighbors." For a man who didn't like to talk about the past a lot, he sure kept it around. In triplicate. Just in case.

It's a conflict of bittersweet and tenderness, what I've found filed around the house. I've found itineraries and fliers for trips planned, but never taken. But I've also found every single letter my mom wrote to them, bundled and stored in a fruit crate. I've even found the letters my brother and sister and I have written to them. Of course, they were stored in a cabinet in the bathroom, but still. They were saved. (But then, so was the invoice for the bathroom tile. That was laid in 1957.)

It's bizarre, seeing a life from this vantage point. Reading letters about things he never talked about (apparently his retirement wasn't quite as gracious as he liked to talk about). Identifying the dreams that were realized--the house that they designed and built themselves, that they documented, every step of the way, that they lived in for 49 years. But also noticing that they never did visit their friends in Scotland like they wanted to. Or retire to Sun City, like they had talked about (apparently, going by the voluminous paperwork they had filed).

I'm leaving for home tomorrow, taking with me a suitcase full of irreplacable family history. Leaving behind a houseful more.

In Duluth...

When I played rugby, we had one of those singing-forever songs, where you make up verses as you go, that had everything occuring "in Duluth." ("Oh, there's keyholes in the doors and knotholes in the floors in Duluth...")

Let me tell you, not much occurs in Duluth.

Yesterday, we spent about forty-five minutes talking about the grocery stores in the area. Because one had been updated, "and let me tell you, that is the nicest grocery store I've ever been in." And then we compared it to every grocery store in the area.

And then we ate.

That is the major activity here. If we're not eating, we're planning to eat. If we're not planning to eat, we're planning to snack. And so on. I'm falling into the soporific speed. It's 2:00 and my major accomplishment is that I'm dressed.

But I'm seeing my grandparents (92 and still living on their own, in the house my mom lived in when she was a teenager!) and that's good, and it's all good. Plus I got to change my schedule so that I can stop of in Minneapolis and see some of the best women in the world.

As soon as we decide where to eat.

PKW event

I got an email from my mom for a "Pamper Kari Week" event. I guess I'd sounded a little pathetic on the phone on Thursday.

Okay, maybe a lot pathetic.

"You're doing much better this month!" Em had said.

Apparently I'm crying less in public. This is good. But I still have crippling self-pity, though, that sneaks up on me. Yeah, it's still self-pity, so I'm not proud it's there, but regardless, it comes out of nowhere (a JC Penny's ad, a picture, a thought) and then I want to do nothing ever again.

So on Thursday I sounded really sorry for myself. On Friday, Mom emailed me for a chance to be pampered at her home in Michigan. They'd pay the freight.

It's novel, really, to be in my thirties and a guest in my parents home by myself: no siblings, no husband, no crisis for a change. And aside from some snippieness when we were on the way to the movie but MIGHT be LATE, MARY, WHY DID WE CHOOSE TO EAT AT A RESTAURANT ACROSS THE CITY FROM THE MOVIE THEATER, but we'll ONLY MISS THE PREVIEWS, KEN (me in the back: LALALA I'M NOT LISTENING) type of tomfoolery, it's been a really mellow week.

I helped Mom with her newsletter formatting which unexpectedly turned into a lot of laughter. Dad and I have watched the Tour de France and taken the dog on walks through their Faux French Provincial Community. Mom and I went to the Ann Arbor Art Fair and counted people who bought art on sticks. And might have maybe perhaps bought some shoes.

Mellow.

I miss Andrew (hi hon!) but maybe he can USE THIS TIME TO FINISH HIS DAMN BOOK so that I'll see him some when I get back. (hi hon!)

I can dig this PKW event.

...and so it goes...

In an ass-crap shitty week that started with the dildo-cam doctor's appointment (that included this phrase: "...and that's... well, I don't know what that white spot is. We'll... huh. Need to test that."), proceeded to four nights in a row with five or fewer hours of sleep for various reasons, had a dining room chair finally collapse, just unfortunately while I'm sitting in it, and decide to take a big chunk of my quad with it (hellloooo, tetnus shot!) and ended with some really mean accusations that I was unprepared to field, there's a wee bright spot. A 7 pound, 11 ounce bright spot.

Mateo Andrew, born June 13th at 12:12 a.m. I'm an aunt! And he's a wee peanut with the cutest fingers this side of the... huh. It's actually the other side of the Mississippi. And Atlantic.

But really cute fingers. And nose. And everything else. That's what I'm getting at.

I'm an aunt, 2007! (part 1)

I have a nephew! 3.5 kilos, which teh interweb tells me is 7.7 pounds, so approximately 7 pounds, 11 ounces? ish?

No word on a name yet.

More deets as they come.

Bridges.

I've been trying to process my parents visit. I don't remember visits with my parents being this... difficult, for lack of a better word.

Of course, the last time they visited, I had lots of percoset and dilaudid, so maybe, I shouldn't trust my memory.

Just maybe.

I want them to have a good time when they're here. I want them to enjoy themselves. I just don't know how to merge my desires with, y'know, reality.

Amazingly, it took my mom two days to give me the head-tilt-"How-are-you?" Note: don't start conversations that way.

I spent days and days and days, cleaning our house, setting up our guest room, planning and researching, and hoping. And Mom and Dad stayed at the Comfort Inn ("We don't want to make you uncomfortable."). Dad got impatient with everything we planned. Sightseeing Oregon's beautiful waterfalls like a drive-by attack? A short walk on a flat path through a beautiful park? Looking into pioneer history? Ashland's antiques?

I finally broke down and asked, "What do YOU like to do on vacations?"

This, I asked of a man who went to Bermuda to play bridge. And that was all he did.

He looked at me and grimaced, and ground out, "Horseback riding." Which, if you met him--you know was sarcasm. Thanks Dad.

It wasn't all bad. I mean, I love my folks. I think I was just hoping for too much. They hadn't seen me in almost a year, and as previously noted, that one time they've seen me in the past year and a half, I was stoned as all freaking hell on prescription pain killers, so where on Earth did I think insta-bonding would come from? You think maybe I put too much weight on My Parents Will Love Me More If I Entertain Them Really Well? Maybe?

Nah.

On the bright side: I now know how to play bridge. A really really lot of bridge. Hours and hours of bridge.

Because that's what my dad does on vacation.

Thanks be.

It's spring break. It's the first day of spring break, nine sweet, holy days in which I'm sure I'm meant to contemplate the fact that Jesus rose from the Dead, but instead I get to do whatever the hell I want. Which involves my parents coming to stay for a week.

I"m not anxious.

No, not at all.

First off, they've never visited for more than two days before. Second, they've never visited on their own. Third, they've never visited because I guilted the hell out of them, singing the refrain of "You Go See My Siblings All The Time" and "Plus You Screwed Us On Christmas", with the added encore of "And That Birthday Gift? Who's Sorry Now!" in three part harmony. It was like Row Row Row Your Boat sung in a round, only with more guilt. In my defense, I never thought they'd seek retribution with seven straight days.

So They're Coooooooming!

We're going to Ashland to see the Oregon Shakespeare Festiveal, which isn't so much Shakespeare so much as it's Plays Which Include Shakespeare and not so much a Festival as Plays All Year Long (We Have Them Too, Y'Know). We actually have tickets to see a Stoppard play, which my little drama-girl heart is totally thudding for. But other than that? We'll play it by ear.

And hopefully we'll find lots of things to do, or my dad might end up reframing the walls in my basement while my mom buys lots of shoes.