Sick of Being Sick

http://www.cnn.com/2008/HEALTH/conditions/02/15/flu.season.ap/index.html

We are under attack from one of the flu viruses that the vaccine does not protect against, and it is ugly. Doug has been home for a week, and I have been drifting in and out of consciousness/ codeine-cough-syrup fog for the past three days. We let Drew watch 4 hours of television yesterday, mostly repeating the same 10-minue choo-choo show over and over ("Thomas' Trusty Friends").
Ugh.

Talker

Here are a few of the latest additions to Drew's vocabulary:

crooked
wind chimes
water tower
vestibule*
fart

Just a year ago, when Drew had yet to utter a single "mama" (not that he couldn't say "Debbie," who took care of him every day when I was at work), I couldn't imagine him talking.
But once he started, he literally exploded with language. The books say that at one point toddlers add something like 10-50 words a day to their vocabulary, which seems impossible, but if you don't know any words I guess there's a lot to learn.
I can't tell you where he even picks half of his words up - not that I mind him saying "Oh Man!" when he drops something instead of "f**k," but he only has to hear something once and it's in the repertoire. Sometimes it's clear the word came from a teaching moment, where his father or I lovingly explained the difference between "spiders" and "ants" while he watched with wonder as the latter marched across the kitchen windowsill, through the cat's food and onto our counter tops where they were apparently having their annual convention. But more often than not, the random words used in the appropriate context will take me by surprise, and I will suddenly realize why every parent thinks, at least once, that their child is a mad genius.

*Drew likes to lock himself in the short back hallway and close all the doors to create a little echo chamber, and I call the game "vestibule."

so sorry for the incontinence

Despite a tremendous and expensive counseling effort to clarify the boundaries between my personal and professional life, today was the kind of day where I had a hard time separating what I do from who I am and I let it get to me.

PR is such a middleman profession, and on bad days you have to tell people you do not have the specific information they need, but here is a lot of other information you did not ask for that will maybe make you not notice I never answered your question. Now, it's easier for me to keep a straight face and sleep at night than, say, a While House Press Secretary in the Bush Administration, but I sent maybe 10 e-mails today that groveled about things that I actually have no control over, and it got to me.

Maybe 8 years ago, I sent a note to a reporter apologizing for the inconvenience a scheduling issue was causing, and copied my colleagues and client to show how willing I was to take one for the team. My phone rang immediately, and my friend Teddi let me know I should always quality control my spell check, because I had apologized for the incontinence. "Do you know what 'incontinence' means?" Teddi asked (Yes. Can I spell it? No.).

I usually tell this story (and of course I tell this story) in a different context, but tonight I am trying to remember: I am not my job. This is not a difficult concept for most people, but I assume they have different issues, like chemical addictions and emotional codependence. Or incontinence.

I am NOT my job... does anyone else even have this problem?

All Aboard (almost)

See How hard it is to keep this up? It's been 3 weeks, and I needed to have a day off of work to post.

My friend Melanie said the other day that other girls disappear when they meet a boy, but she always knows that when she doesn't hear from me for a month it means I'm working all the time... we don't need to explore that now, but it's true.

Today, though, Drew's preschool is closed for Lincoln's Birthday (whatever), and we're having a day of Fun. He woke up early, talking about "the red one" (James, the Red Engine, from Thomas and Friends, for those of you without a two year old boy in your lives), and we played choo choos for a while, then rode his bike around the block for our morning cardio session. I tricked him into getting a haircut by saying we were going to play with a train set (the kids salon does have one, but I left out the part about the electric razor), and then it was on to the toy store to... wait for it... play trains! We stopped at Trader Joes before we went home to buy banana yogurt and ABC pasta, and I was very pleased with myself when we got home and I successfully transfered my sleeping child to his crib. Then I realized that I had left my bag of groceries on the curb in Berkeley when I was putting Drew in the car. Nice.

I'm sitting at the computer drinking iced tea from a Sesame Street cup because I am trying to convince Drew that its fun to drink from cups without valves (he is not buying it). When he wakes up, we're going to go to the zoo, ride the train, and then go to my mother's house. My parents have several hundred dollars worth of Thomas paraphernalia they got at a Piedmont garage sale when my nephew was under Thomas' spell, and, needless to say, Drew loves to visit.
My mother doesn't know it, but tonight I am going to see if I can commandeer her kitchen and an extra muffin tin to bake 30 cupcakes for Doug's class' Valentine's Day party.

I have not, however, checked my e-mail.