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demeterreader
Originally uploaded by Debbie Svoboda
It's time for another "oldie but goodie". As in, Deb hasn't been taking enough pictures of her adorable child because what aperture do you use for a tantrum, anyway?
This is Seph at 14 months, on our "Roamin' Holiday" in October 2006. Bonus points to the first reader who can guess why I posed her in this particular spot. A hint: This is Ostia Antica, outside of Rome.
Happy Love Thursday!
Toil and Trouble
Originally uploaded by Debbie Svoboda
Two year-olds are a lot of work, but they're worth it, right? Right? (Why does nobody make eye contact with me when I say this?) Well, at least they're cute, especially when they're squeaky clean instead of sticky.
There's nothing Seph enjoys more than her beloved "bubbles...baff??" She'd stay in the tub for hours if she could. Can anyone tell me how to make her "put down the ducky"?
Happy Love Thursday!
sephfilbert
Originally uploaded by Debbie Svoboda
It's a jungle in here! My "Love Thursday" photo is a little late this week, because my littlest love has made such a mess of my living room that I don't want to capture it on film! So, here's a "golden oldie" from almost exactly two years ago, when Seph and Filbert (Purple Hippo of Much Emotional Attachment) were both still babies!
::sniff:: they grow up so fast! Also, does anyone know how to re-fluff chenille?
Happy Love Thursday!!
Marabou Barbie?
Originally uploaded by Debbie Svoboda
For years I swore that when I became a parent, I would never, ever spoil my child. That was not only prior to producing an adorable moppet with industrial-strength blue eyes, but long before I'd ever set foot in a Target. Lucky for me, Seph is for the moment content to "visit" the toys and mug for my cell phone's camera. I find this pose to be half workin' the boa, half wise-guy in training.
"Buy me the princess dress, and you won't hafta hear that annoying clicking noise when youse turn the key in the ignition."
**Far-away family and friends, this is your weekly "Love Thursday" post so I can stop crowding your in-boxes while trying to remember who got sent which picture! If you'd like a printed copy, let me know and I'd be happy to send one to you or post it on Snapfish.**
I'm very fortunate. I have two smart, funny and successful brothers who have always been my very best friends. I'm very proud of what they've accomplished (brother #1 is a USAF officer, brother #2 an attorney), and normally am not the least bit envious of either of them. But when Brother #2 actually gets to have a manicure and I'm the one with rough, icky hands? It's time to take the gloves off. (Or slap some moisturizer on my hands and leave the gloves on...oh, whatever.) You've heard of highbrow humor? Get ready for some eyebrow humor.
OK, I'll admit it, I actually have not only his blessing but almost his insistence that I post this. You think I'm gonna cross an attorney? Our mama didn't raise no fools. My barrister bro is probably the funniest person I've ever met, and when he tells me an amusing story about his day, it's too good not to want to write about. I'd tell him to get his own blog, but apparently junior attorneys work 100-hr weeks. Probably a good thing, because those manicures can really add up.
Brother #2 and I are not the "pretty" ones of the family. We're nice-looking, as was our mom, but that honor went to our dad and brother #1. One thing Brother #1 did not get was our dad's hands. Long fingers and nail beds, they look like they should be in a Rolex ad. Brother #2 got 'em instead. (I did not. Sephie did, which is why she has a manicure now and I don't. But I have my own secret weapon.) He told me he went for a manicure to make his hands look nice for an interview (it worked, he got the job!). In retrospect I should have teased him that I got my bikini line waxed for the same reason. In any case, his manicurist asked him, "You want pedicure?". He declined, saying that he didn't like having his feet touched, he just wanted a manicure to look nice for the interview. She pressed on, and asked, "You want eyebrow wax?" He declined, at which point she put her face two inches from his, and asked, "Are you SURE??". The kicker came came when he recounted the story to the girl who cuts his hair, who replied, "Oh, I can see where she'd ask that.."
Had she never seen an Italian before? We all have three eyebrows, or one eyebrow, depending on how you look at it. I put up with the pain and watering eyes of waxing and plucking because I only have a few stray brows that have wandered off to snuggle in the Botoxian valley between my eyes. Plus, as a SAHM, I don't have anywhere I need to go that I have to look extra sharp. I can't imagine being defended by a lawyer who had red, puffy post-waxing skin and eyebrow stubble. That stylist should have seen our brother, who is very handsome yet strongly resembles Sam the Eagle (of Muppet Show fame). And now he's a military officer. Hmm, who saw that one coming ;)
((I'll finish this after my doctor's appointment later this morning. Time to have a mole-like substance removed from the dead center of my forehead. Needle in the face, whoohoo!)
((I"m back now.)) So the dermatologist took one look at my face and said, I don't know what that is. Lie down." He must have been a real hit with the ladies. Anyway, he said that it could be the start of a "cutaneous horn", but though that was strange since he didn't see other sun damage on my face. Heck, it's better than thinking it was skin cancer (he doesn't), although if I am turning into a unicorn I am going to be very lonely because besides my daughter, none of my friends are virgins. The needle to the forehead was much less painful than I expected, too. The only part that hurt was when the nurse accidentally taped the pressure bandage to my bangs. Not a good look. I walked back out into the waiting room, pointed to the large gauze bandage and told the receptionist, "hey, I didn't know he did lobotomies!". While picking up the bleaching cream he prescribed (I don't get much acne, but when i do, it leaves dark spots on my skin), I asked her, "now, this gets stains out, too, right?". She wasn't that quick on the uptake and responded quizzically, "what kind of stain do you have?". I love it when someone walks into one of my jokes like that. "Large bloodstain. On my rug.". It took her a minute to get that I was joking. I also love how having a pressure bandage taped to your forehead lets you keep a straight face.
So, where was I...oh, my brothers. I just have to say, despite the fact that they're both good-looking, funny, and successful, I love them just because they're the best brothers I ever could have asked for. Even if they could both use a good eyebrow wax. Tell you what, guys, if you can't afford it, I'll send you some of the extra tape from this pressure bandage. If I can get it off my bangs, that is. Happy Love Thursday, guys!
Today has been a rough day. I haven't been posting here much because I haven't wanted to spread my stress around. Or, maybe it's because writing things down make them more real, somehow. In any case, I started out frustrated and upset, wanting to file this under my "a gripe a day keeps the shrink away" heading. However, upon thinking about it, I realized that the things in life that bring us the most pain often stem from those that have brought us the most joy. It's partially what led me to start this blog in the first place- to work through the grief of losing my mother and remembering my happy times with her. This "Love Thursday", I want to talk about someone I rarely mention- my dad.
My mother was an even-tempered woman: cheerful, mellow, non-confrontational, a peacemaker who was always concerned with making everyone else happy. It must then be true that opposites attract, because Dad was (and still is) moody, fiery, dramatic, passionate and very temperamental. Mom told me to her dying day that of us three children, I was the most like him. I would have taken it as an insult except for the fact that she loved him so madly that I supposed she didn't think I was so bad, either. (As a result, I am a people-pleaser that gets really pissed-off and moody when I can't please everyone!) It made for a pretty rocky relationship with my father, growing up. It didn't help that he'd grown up the son of a blacksmith and had learned how to pack quite the wallop during a spanking. He wasn't raised in this country, and believed in and practiced corporal punishment a little too often, too hard, and too long. I definitely still have some issues about it, and it's definitely impacted my relationship with him to this day.
Which is why it's so ironic that I'm now my dad's Durable Power of Attorney and basically responsible for making his decisions for him now that he's incapacitated. (I dream all my life of having a super-power, and I get Power of Attorney? I need to complain to Management.) I got a call today from one of his doctors, who's a blood cancer specialist and wanted to know if I wanted him to pursue a bone marrow biopsy, given my dad's advanced age and quality of life. Dad never made out a living will, so I got to give his doctor the DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) order for his medical file. The question "if his heart stops, do you want us to revive him?" should never have to be heard before breakfast. I had no way of asking Dad what he wanted or even of being sure of his comprehension or response if I did, so I made the choice for him that my mother had made for herself, assuming and hoping that they'd been of one mind on this issue as they had been on so many others. I still felt like a heel after hanging up the phone, like my dad was a dog that I was electing to put to sleep rather than incur a large vet bill.
I did a lot of crying today. I thought about all the times my dad was unbearable for me to live with. When I was little and would talk back to him, he'd smack me across my smart mouth with his leather slipper. When I was a teenager, and had acne on my forehead that I would pick at, he used to make a beeline for me the instant I got home, lift my bangs and lecture me on my zits. When he (mistakenly) thought that I'd slept with my college boyfriend, he flew into a rage that his daughter had been dishonored and threw me into a wall. (My mother threatened to leave him for that one. I left home instead.) He was rude to my husband and caused me to not speak to my mother for almost five months when she didn't take my side in the argument. (How was I to know his behavior was the Alzheimer's starting to rear its ugly head? Or that my mother would be dead less than two years later and I'd never forgive myself for all that wasted time?) Now that he was old and frail, he couldn't hurt me anymore, and I was in charge. Right?
Then I cried so hard I started coughing again, from the bronchitis I've been getting rid of for the past three weeks. And I remembered the daddy I adored, who took care of my every winter when I was little and would get bronchitis so bad I missed weeks of school. I wasn't allowed dairy products but he would take pity on me and give me sips of milk, and pour honey on my toast instead of butter. I thought of the dozens of audiotapes he made of my brothers and me because he loved the sounds of our voices. Of the bedtime routine when I was small and he'd talk to me in Italian. I only remember, "Buona notte, sogni d'oro, ciao ciao ciao", or "good night, sweet dreams, see you later". I remember that he always said his babies had the most beautiful skin, and how he used to brew strong, cold black tea to gently pat on our sunburns. Year later he would buy lemons and cut them up for me to use on my acne. (It burned like hell, but it worked.) And when I cried to him several months ago that I was having marital problems, even through the fog of his dementia, he said, "Remember that I am always your daddy, and I will always love you".
My cell phone is back to being on at all hours in case the hospital calls. Dad's infection is under control at the moment, but he's still getting fevers so he'll be there for awhile. No matter what happens this time around, I know that someday, I'll be the one who gets that call telling me to get on the next plane. It's a dirty job, but so was cleaning up after a sickly, phlegmy little girl. The really dirty job is the one where you have to be a grownup. From experience, I can now say that that doesn't fully happen until you can't be the child anymore. Also, that it sucks.
But, I am always his baby girl, and I will always love and protect him. As unbearable as I found him to live with, it will be unthinkable to live without him. Happy Love Thursday, Daddy. Buona notte. Sogni d'oro. Ciao, ciao, ciao.
Can you guess which one of these cuties is my future running buddy? Well, near future, anyway! I'd like to introduce "Baci!" He's a nine week-old chocolate Lab mix puppy that we adopted from the Helen Woodward Center. For all of you unfortunate non-Wop readers, "baci" is Italian for "kisses", and also the name of a scrumptious chocolate-hazelnut candy by Perugina. I figure there are probably about a million chocolate Labs out there named "Hershey", plus I kind of thought that giving him an Italian name was a nice homage to my Italian greyhound.
So, you know how they say pets and their owners look alike? My neighbor pointed out that Baci's fur and my hair are the exact same shade of brown. We both have hazel-green eyes. And on his white markings (face, chest and paws), he has little brown spots. I'm covered in beauty marks. The resemblance ends there, though. I don't typically have people crowding around me telling me how cute I am. However, I do have much mintier breath.
Oh, and he already adores Seph (and it's mutual). And have I mentioned how cute he is?? Happy Love Thursday!
There's no funny way to say this. Cat-tastrophe hit the Charmed household again today, and I said goodbye to my sweet little 12 year-old tabby earlier this evening. I brought my camera along, so I could get a final picture of Bonnie in her favorite spot- riding on my shoulder. The picture doesn't nearly do her justice- she's obviously in pain, so her eyes are slitted and you can't see her beautiful chartreuse eyes with the ring of sea-green around her pupils. A photograph can't show her silky bunny fur, and you can't hear her purring her head off, or feel her starting to drool like she always did on my shoulder, because she has always thought my hair was her mommy.
I kind of was her mommy, since I've had her since she was three weeks old. Back in 1995, when I knew next to nothing about cats, I bought what I was told was a 6 week-old kitten at a pet store in central California. When she started having diarrhea all over my rug, I brought her back to the store, where the proprietor wormed her. That afternoon, the little kitten (who I'd named Callie) collapsed into a coma and later died at the vet's office. As it turned out, the horrified vet informed me that Callie had only been three weeks old, and that the worming had probably done her in. I wanted to take the shop owner to small claims court for my staggering $129 vet bill (ahh, those halcyon days, when I thought *that* was an expensive vet visit!), but since I was moving several hours away to San Diego, I accepted another kitten instead. I brought her straight to the vet, who told me I had another three week-old on my hands, and that she needed bottle-feeding if I wanted her to make it.
I named the new little girl, who wasn't much bigger than a hamster, Bonnie, for Scarlett's daughter in "Gone With The Wind" who had "bonnie blue eyes". That's how young she was- her eyes weren't even green yet. The first thing I did was to de-flea her with baby shampoo. She was immature enough that even that amount of chemical could have hurt her, but she had so many fleas that she could have died from anemia anyway. I had to clean her after every meal, because she didn't even know how to wash her own face, and I rubbed her tiny tummy with a gentle finger to stimulate her digestion like her mother would have done. She refused to sleep in the fleece bed I bought her, and instead scaled the bedspread like some miniature Sherpa until she reached my pillow. She'd curl up under my shoulder-length hair, actually rolling herself into it, and would suck on it like she was nursing. I remember having to cut four inches of dead ends off of it once that summer was over.
Even after she weaned, she still thought of my hair as her mommy, and would climb onto my shoulder at the slightest provocation and start to drool. Our favorite "party trick" was for my to pat my shoulder from several feet away, and she would lightly spring into the air and land on it. She stayed very petite, so I could easily walk around the house and go about my business without disturbing her from her perch.
Though she'd never had much time with a real mother, she had more than her fair share of a maternal instinct. Everything needed a bath, she decided, everything from the other cats to stuffed animals to my then-husband's hair. I'd wake up in the morning to see one neat white-gloved paw laid tenderly on each of his temples, and the front of his hair soaking wet, not so much because he didn't have the heart to shoo her off, but because he wanted to see just how long she would try to groom him before deciding he was "clean". (He gave up after ten minutes, when the sandpaper tongue got to be a little much.)
Bonnie never changed her sweet and loving nature, even through her long illness. Our vet, a lovely man who is a cat aficionado and has twelve of his own, told me today that she was probably the sweetest-natured cat he'd ever seen. I'd love to say that it was because I raised her, but I have the sneaking suspicion that it's the other way around. I wish I could say that she went gentle into that good night, but with how sick she was, her veins had collapsed and it took three separate tries to give her the injection. My poor barely 4-pound cat had me and two vet techs holding her down, along with the vet trying to insert the needle, and by the end all of us were sobbing. I'm glad I at least got to be there, since I'm leaving town next week and I would have been devastated to leave her to die without me.
Goodbye, my little Bonnie bubbles. I'm sure I'll see you again, and I promise you can sleep in your favorite spot.
Happy Love Thursday anyway, and if you have a cat, pet her extra for Bonnie and me.
