The gods of bad timing...

... smiled down upon our household last night, gleefully striking me with a nasty case of PMS with a side of migraine — on our 7th wedding anniversary.

(Note to Hubs: Yes, I know exactly when I've crossed the line into irrationality, but I never can seem to find a graceful exit from the insanity that follows. Besides, do you know how annoying it is to be told I'm being ridiculous when I already know I'm being ridiculous? Just let the moment pass and I will slink away on my own accord.)

Anyway.

We aren't celebrating until tomorrow night, when our friend Amy has graciously volunteered (read: been duped into) babysitting for us.

Still, my deluded spouse somehow thought there might be anniversary-related marital relations last night when he slid into bed seductively and rested a hand on my thigh.

"I have cramps," I said, not bothering to look up from my book.

"I know what will make them better."

I put the book down.

"Why do men always think that sex is the cure for any ailment? If a stray softball hit you in a vulnerable area during a game, how would you react if I sidled up and whispered, "I know what will make that better."

He grinned.

"OK," I said. "Scratch that. Clearly, you would take me up on that offer, which shows how pitifully eager men are."

He moved closer.

I held up a hand.

"Scoot right back over to your side, buster. It's not happening tonight. When my ibuprofen kicks in, I am turning out this light and we are going to sleep. Correction — you are going to sleep. I, on the other hand, will lie here listening to you snore, wondering how long you will live after I apply duct tape to your nostrils."

He sighed.

"Happy anniversary!" I sang.

So — no sweet, loving tribute to my suffering spouse today. Perhaps tomorrow, after our evening out, when the PMS has vanished.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I'll regale you with the story of how we hooked up. It involves humiliation (mine) and cheating (mine).

Meanwhile, here are a few photos of the happy couple during non-pre-menstrual times.

The neat shall inherit Grandma Hattie's linens

I'm a few days late on this (busy week), but ...

... bless you, Mrs. C. for this.

I hate clutter. I am constantly picking things up and returning them to their rightful spots. (Or, if an item belongs to Hubs, quite possibly donating it. shhh...)

I do my best, but alas -- I am outnumbered. Two tots plus a packrat husband.

Which is why, on Saturday mornings, our living room looks like this:



Look past that cute little boy trying to ride his toy firetruck. See the nightgown on the table? The coffee cups? All that *shudder* clutter?

Now imagine that, over the years, you have been forced repeatedly to enter your husband's ex-wife's pristine home. Some women complain about ex-wives who are prettier or thinner.

Me, I'm jealous of whatever enables her to ward off dust mites.

In the past, we would visit and I would wonder, "How, how does she manage it?"

And then I would remember -- oh, yeah ... she divorced the packrat.

I wouldn't go to such extremes, don't get me wrong. However, if the Hubs should ever again leave town for any duration, Goodwill will be getting quite the haul.

Anybody want Grandma Hattie's faded, yellowing, mothball-scented pillowcases?

Oops! Forgot. Gave those away last year. Sorry.

My biggest fantasy? Packaging up all Hubs' clutter and depositing it on the ex's doorstep with a little note that reads:

Didn't you forget something?

A how-to guide for driving Daddy crazy...

... during his attempts to photograph you & your siblings.

(written by the E-man, age 3)

Step One: Complain upon waking from nap that something is in your eye. Refuse to open eye. Do NOT smirk as Mommy Googles "toddler eye pain" and "scratched cornea." Keep eye closed for the next hour. Maintain squint even when Daddy insists on herding you and siblings out the door for the planned photo shoot. Just remember, you will show him who's boss very, very soon.

Step Two: Make sure your eye pain is evident in photos. This has the added benefit of ensuring you maintain a proper, non-photogenic grimace.



Step 3: Look to your right...



Step 4: Look to your left...



Step 5: Recapture grimace and ignore Daddy's pleas to look at the camera. (Note that brother and one sister are beginning to show the strain. Heh.)



Step 6: Ignore Mommy's stupid antics. She is not funny. Note that oldest sister also appears to be losing patience. She is no match for the E-man.



Step 7: Intensify scowl. Keep ignoring Mommy, who is now pretending to be a monkey. THEY CANNOT BREAK YOU!!



Step 8: Don't let them catch you off-guard with a change of scene. You aren't so easily fooled. Why does my mother persist in acting like such an idiot? Clearly, she is suffering from some sort of crazed belief that she is Carol Burnett reinvented.)



Step 9: Realize that parents are annoyingly persistent creatures. When they make you stand behind the stupid tree, pucker your face to show contempt for this blindingly obvious maneuver.



Step 10: Wait until after the group has disbanded before flashing a look of triumph toward the camera.

The trying times of toddlerhood

My toddler is terrified of flies.

Houseflies.

So this evening, when I heard the Scream of Terror, I knew -- a fly must have gotten in.

The only other thing that elicits that kind of scream is a cat. The E-man had a few bad experiences with kitties in earlier years and hasn't ever recovered. I'm not really a cat person, either, however, so I totally get this particular fear. I compare cats to premenstrual women -- one minute they're adoring and slathering in their affection and the next minute they're swiping you with newly unsheathed claws. I have no patience for that. Only one PMSing creature per household, and that is ME, thankyouverymuch.

So -- back to the flies.

The scream traveled from the living room to the kitchen, where I was cooking dinner. And then the E-man hurtled toward me. "Mommmmmmeeeeeee! A flyyyyyyyyy!"

Thus followed 30 minutes of sobbing. Each time he subsided, the fly would buzz by and the screaming started all over again. Finally, out of desperation -- the kid wouldn't touch his dinner -- I pretended to kill the fly and dispose of its freaking carcass.

I am so diabolically clever.

Five minutes later, as a forkful of noodles was headed toward the E-man's mouth, the fly rose from behind the couch with a loud buzz.

"WAAAAHHHHHHH!! MOMMEEEEEEE! THE FLY!!!!!"

Again, I chased it around the living room, thwacking my library book against walls and windows. I smashed the damn thing umpteen times. But. It. Would. Not. Die. At last, after much cussing and flailing, I killed it.

"Look, E.," I said, holding out the paper towel. "It's dead. No more fly."

"Let me see," his sister said, pushing forward.

After she peered into the folded paper towel, I headed toward the trash. Just as I approached -- I kid you not -- that freaking fly miraculously came back to life and buzzed upward.

I flew at it again, book still in hand, and this time, I flattened the little f*cker into nothingness.

By this point, however, the E-man was so distraught, he wouldn't eat his dinner. So my efforts were in vain.

.......................................

OK, psst...

Since I know how this works -- brag about your kid and the vengeful gods fling karma bolts at your house -- I'm just saying...

My son is NOT peeing or pooping in the potty after we sent him to daycare without pullups, hoping the sensation of cold, wet pee would convince him to head for the potty.

He is NOT telling us when he has to go. He is NOT running into the living room to proudly declare, "I POOPED in the potty!"

And I am not cartwheeling through my house, shrieking "YIPPEEEEE!!!" or toasting Hubs with an overly full glass of wine or calculating how much we're going to save by not buying those useless pullups.

No, indeed. None of that is going on here. I always wear a party hat and perform cheerleading jumps in the bathroom.

Really.

*wink*

A dose of Dolly

My dad's from east Tennessee, so I grew up listening to Dolly. To say that I heart her -- well, that would be an understatement.

When I found out this season's American Idol contenders would be singing Dolly songs, well, Hubs and I tussled over the television that night. (He likes her too. He's not so fond, however, of AI.)

And then tonight, I stumbled across her on the Biography Channel. And Hubs lost the TV again.

There's a Dolly song for each phase of my life. But this one -- the original version, not the one from Straight Talk -- is one that I played over and over ... in my 20s, my 30s ... from South Texas to West Texas to, well, here.

I adore that woman.

*sigh*

A post in which I rant in a totally non-PC way

OK, here it is, in a nutshell --

I grow so weary sometimes of all the animal-rights activism.

I've been a reporter for nearly 15 years. And I feel pretty confident in making this claim --

For every animal story I've ever written, the response is at least twice what I get for stories about abused kids, the mentally ill or those living in horrific poverty.

I write about a giraffe who needs a friend and oh-my-freaking-god -- the phone calls and emails are astounding in their numbers.

But the toddler who was stomped to death by his mom's angry boyfriend?

Nada.

Yeah, yeah, I know. The animals can't speak for themselves.

Guess what? Neither can a battered 1-year-old. Neither can the paranoid schizophrenic who's been jailed for eight months because there's no room in the state hospital.

I spent a couple of months in 2004 shadowing caseworkers for Child Protective Services.

I met a girl who was beaten with a meat tenderizer. I saw the patterned wounds on her head and shoulder. I watched a caseworker agonize over a missing toddler. I listened to mothers explain why they kept dating men who burned their kids with cigarettes or punched them in the stomach.

The caseworkers had a saying:

"Kids under 5 are the ones who die."

Kids under 5, you see, are unable to articulate what is happening to them.

But in my experience, the riled masses would rather speak for elephants than find a voice for the children.

I love my dog. I cringe when I hear reports of animal abuse.

But if I had to choose -- and bear in mind, I've owned and loved this dog for almost 14 years -- I would always, ALWAYS put my children first. I think, I hope, most parents feel the same way.

So why -- WHY? -- do animals get all of the attention and reaction? Why will people storm City Hall after hearing about a high number of animals put to sleep at the pound and yet ignore the increasing number of children abused and killed by those who were meant to love and protect them?

There are days I really lose all faith in people. This is one of them.

I didn't know

I see her once, maybe twice, a week -- the tall woman with a smooth, glossy, blond bob and wide, white smile.

She -- I'll call her Laura -- runs her own business, quite successfully from what I hear. Has a 3 year-old daughter with dimples and a mop of curls. My son adores Laura's little girl, talks about her all the time.

I don't know Laura real well. We've share only hurried exchanges at daycare pickups and birthday parties. But she's the type who always goes out of her way to greet people, even when it's clear she's in a rush.

Laura strode into today's birthday celebration in her usual confident fashion, calling out greetings and flashing that smile.

A few minutes into a light-hearted conversation, she told me that our last round of tornadoes hit her house. She and her little girl huddled in the bathtub as shingles popped off the roof and a tree punctured their home. "It did $40,000 worth of damage," she said. "And now my daughter's afraid to sleep alone. She's been in my bed every night."

I wondered again about the husband. I know there is one, but I've never seen him at the daycare. He wasn't at his daughter's birthday party a few months ago. On that February afternoon, I overheard a man asking if Laura needed anything.

She teared up, thanked him, said they were doing fine.

I speculated silently. Maybe she's recently separated. Maybe something happened to her husband -- an accident?

But the tears were gone in an instant. "OK, honey," she said to her daughter, clapping her hands together. "Let's finish opening these presents!"

In the weeks after that party, I saw Laura several times. She didn't act like anything was wrong. I wondered if I had imagined that moment at her daughter's party.

One day, a few weeks ago, after she flew down the hall after her runaway daughter, she called out to me from her car window -- "Hey! I didn't mean to be rude. You know how these guys are once they're let out!" She laughed and gestured toward her child. "So how are you doing?"

We chatted a few minutes, and then she pulled away, throwing a breezy wave as she drove down the street.

Today, even as she described the tornado, she was upbeat. "It could have been so much worse," she explained, describing the devastation at her neighbors' homes.

She shared a funny anecdote about her daughter. She talked about her shop. She asked about everyone else's kids.

About thirty minutes into the party, as the kids ate their cake and ice cream, Laura leaned into a group of mothers and said, "He's coming home."

One shrieked and offered a hug. Another said, "Your husband?"

Laura saw my look of puzzlement. "From Iraq," she said. "He's coming home on emergency leave."

Her eyes filled with tears. "This tornado ... the house ... I can't do it all by myself."

She said her husband is due in Tuesday, for a two-week leave. Their daughter doesn't know yet.

Just in case.

Laura cried again when she told us he would have to go back at the end of his leave. Then, swiftly, furtively, she wiped her eyes.

"How's that cake?!" she called out to her daughter.

As the party drew to a close, I watched her stride out the door, laughing and waving goodbye, and I marveled again at how strong we women are.

Laura told us she couldn't do it by herself. But she already has -- from the moment her husband left the airbase, through the lonely evenings and the worrying news reports, to the terrifying night she spent with her toddler in the bathtub.

She can. And she will.

Why are girls getting meaner?

OK, first, are the mean girls becoming meaner?

Or do YouTube and MySpace just make them appear more horrible than I remember?

I refer to this. And this.

In the latter instance, a girl's mother, ideally the adult in these all-too-common scenarios, is the meanest of the mean girls.

WTF?

I remember slumber parties at which sleepy, cranky girls would get into endless rounds of arguments. Sides would be chosen. I recall one sleepover during which several girls got mad at the one hosting the party. (This was junior high.) The 13-year-old hostess ended up curled inside her sleeping bag, weeping, while a few of us sat on the floor, trying to console her. What prompted the drama? That I cannot remember.

Once, when I was in my early teens, a girl named Tina urged several girls to gang on up me as we returned from a week of church camp. I cowered in a van seat while Tina yanked out a hunk of my hair and several of my "friends" laughed.

Even now, all these years later, I remember that moment and loathe Tina still.

Anyway.

We've read the books, discussed girls and their bullying. We can recite in painful detail our own bouts with this behavior -- but still, this stuff, now readily available on social sites, just blows my mind.

I worry about how my daughter and I will plow through her adolescence.

And I wonder what upsets me more -- the possibility that she will be the victim of mean girls, or that she might become one of them?

Ah, new beginnings. And sleep!

That sweet post? About kids crawling into your bed in the middled of the night because they're scared of storms?

I TAKE IT ALL BACK!!

OK, first -- today. It is sunny. And dry. Which means I am finally taking a break from building our family ark and ... blogging. Yes, I finally remembered I have a blog — once, that is, I peeled open my eyes, chugged some coffee and thanked the sweet heavens for not spitting and spewing on us last night.

Sleep, how I have missed thee.

For weeks, we have tried to doze alongside the children wallowing in our bed. We have been awakened every 10 minutes by a panicked dog pacing our bedroom and scrabbling against the wood floors each time it thunders. (How can a deaf dog — the dog I'm constantly afraid has died because she doesn't hear me calling for her — how can this hearing-impaired canine possibly know that it is thundering? How?)

But this morning — glorious! I am refreshed. I am renewed. I feel so good that I have vowed to to spend tomorrow painting our 1950s minty-green-and-peach-tiled bathroom.

Voice drops to a whisper: The real reason I'm in such a wonderful mood is that I am FINALLY losing weight.

My motivation?

This photo from Easter weekend:



Now before you attempt to console me, take a gander at this one, just for the sake of perspective. This was taken a mere two years ago:



Clearly, action had to be taken.

Enough already!

It started with the Feb. 5 tornado, which remained on the ground for 123 miles -- through the freaking mountains, for pete's sake.

In March, we moved on to flooding. Half the state has been declared a federal disaster area.

Last week, tornadoes tore through several large cities -- from Hot Springs to Little Rock. Just as people were emerging from their damaged homes and trailers, they were warned to seek shelter yet again because round two was on the way. Tornado sirens blared across the state for several hours.

This week, it's rained. And rained. Tonight, the tornado warnings are again in place. And we've been told tomorrow's weather will be severe -- thunderstorms, possible tornadoes and hail.

Until I had kids, I never fretted much about tornadoes. I mean, really, there's not much you can do. And as a reporter -- well, storm-chasing is pretty exciting. (Unless you happen to encounter a flock of newly freed sheep congregating in the highway and accidentally kill eight of them with your Isuzu pickup. *ahem*)

Now, however, I have the wee ones to consider. And given my line of work, the new difficulties involve more than just dragging a mattress into the hallway and emptying the bathtub of its toys.

As last week's tornadoes ripped through town, Hubs and several other photographers were out in the storms shooting damage, seeking shelter, shooting damage, seeking shelter, repeat umpteen times.

One poor photographer was taking both pictures and phone calls from his frantic wife, who was huddled in a closet with several kids wearing bicycle helmets. (No, people, that was not me. My specialty fixation involves bird flu, not natural disasters.)

Meanwhile, the city desk was calling me here --

"Yeah, Cathy, can you be on call if we need more reporters?"

"Sure!" I chirped.

Uh, dude. Don't you have two kids sleeping in the next room? What exactly do you plan on doing? Bundling them into the car so that you can chase twisters? Stoooopid.

"Uh, once Hubs gets back, I mean."

I spent the night calling my spouse with the latest reports. No big deal except that the E-man had awakened, which meant that I had to sound extraordinarily calm each time I called.

Normally, such a call would sound like this: "Hey! A tornado just went over the National Weather Service's offices! Get the hell over there!"

Instead, I had to run with a less exclamatory version: "You might want to check in the vicinity of the National Weather Service's offices."

Through it all, the E-man clung like a burr. The repeated tornado sirens did not help.
(I am most grateful for said sirens, however. Don't get me wrong.)

I guess what I'm saying is that it's a difficult balancing act sometimes, this business of mothering and newspapering.

Still, I love both elements of my life.

So -- I'm checking the weather one more time and then it's off to bed, with the assumption that I'll be wandering around my poor, waterlogged state in the morning.

People here are weary and worried. So if Mother Nature could give us a break in the near future, we would be most grateful.

A few photos from Hubs --

First, a deer swimming in floodwaters...



This was taken in Little Rock...



This is from south Arkansas...



'Night all. Here's to a few hours' sleep without the blare of tornado sirens.

Can I get a butt reduction? Seriously.

"Let's take the kids to the movies!" my dad proposed in that enthusiastic dad sort of way. "How about Horton Hears a Who?"

"Uh, well, I'm sure Tootie would love it, but the E-man -- well, there's a good reason he hasn't been to a movie yet (ever) and that's my devout belief that he will never sit through one."

But they convinced me, yes they did, those conniving grandparents who never miss a chance to make me pay for my own childhood misdeeds.

So Horton it was.

Little son sat contentedly through the previews. When Horton finally began, however, he piped up. "Mommy, is it over? Can we go home?"

Pick him up and run now.

"No, sweetie, it's just starting. Isn't this FUN?! We're watching a MOVIE!"

"Mommy, can I get down?"

"No, we sit here all through the movie."

Please, just once, let the filmmakers have realized that small children do not have the attention span required for a 2 1/2-hour feature. Plus ads. Plus trailers.

Thirty minutes passed. Then little son developed a sudden and severe aversion to the sound of Jim Carrey's voice and Horton's ear gymnastics and demanded to leave.

"Hey, how about if I take you out to buy some candy?" his granddad inquired.

"No," the E-man replied. His brow furrowed.

What do you mean, "no?" Look kid, the Easter bunny is long gone. You'd better take the bribe because Mommy polished off the last of the jellybeans yesterday.

"YES! How about some CANDY?" I chirped, prompting the row in front of us to turn around. For the eighth time.

"No."

"OK, well, how about we go out to the lobby for a little while?" Granddad persisted.

The E-man decided this was a much better proposal, but was adamant that Mommy would be the only acceptable companion.

"All right," I said. "Let's go."

The E-man started down the row, easily squeezing by three sets of knees.

I was slower, however, since I was facing my parents and Tootie (impolite to subject people in your row to your butt as you slither by, right?) as I followed my little boy.

The E-man paused to make sure I was following and promptly bonked his head on a fold-up seat.

"WAH!"

"Shh!" I shout-whispered. "It's OK."

"I HIT MY HEAD!"

"I know. Keep walking."

But the E-man refused to budge, and in my haste to prod him forward I somehow became wedged between my mother's knees and the seat behind of me.

ohnoohnoohno....

I waggled my butt, hoping to free myself without catapulting the man behind me from his seat.

I was stuck. And I was also laughing. And blocking the view of the half-dozen or so rows behind us. Worse, I was facing all these people, who did not seem to be amused by my predicament.

"E-man!" I hissed. "Move!"

"No!"

I wiggled some more.

"You have to go so that Mommy can get out."

"No."

I swore right then that I would never again sneak candy from the children's Easter baskets if only I could free myself.

Finally, after one last wag, I made it down the row and slunk out of the theater.

And then, two hours later, I helped myself to the E-man's robin's eggs and pastel M&Ms.

I figure I earned them.

Joy

Only seconds

I've seen this photo -- Fire on Marlborough Street -- many times over the years, most recently on the cover of my husband's News Photographer magazine.

The magazine, in chronicling the most memorable photographs, included two other pictures taken just before the woman and child fell.

The photographer's first shot shows a fireman standing with the frightened pair. Just a click later, the fireman now dangles from a ladder as the structure collapses beneath him and the victims he was trying to save.

And then there's the above photo, which won a Pulitzer in 1975.

It's heartbreaking — how only a few seconds determined whether this woman, only 19, would live or die. According to News Photographer, the little girl lived because she landed on the woman, who was her aunt.

A few more seconds, and the firefighter would have had them on the ladder, on their way to safety.

As a reporter, I usually arrive after tragedy strikes. I'm the one knocking on the door and asking to talk to the mother of a little girl who was killed by a drunk driver — only seconds after she stepped off the school bus.

Only seconds.

The little girl's brother was right behind her. He felt the whoosh of the SUV as it whizzed by him. He watched his sister's schoolwork flutter to the ground. He remained frozen, in the middle of a rural two-lane highway, trying to figure out whether to run to his dying sister or up to the house for his mother.

Can you imagine having to make that sort of call? He was only 15.

My husband has been a news photographer since the early 80s. He's taken thousands of "after" photos. He's also been there as tragedy unfolds. The camera offers a little distance. But my husband often dwells on what he saw seconds before he started shooting.

Or seconds after.

When we drive through town, he remembers where wrecks occurred, where bodies were found, where grieving family members threw themselves on the pavement and cried.

I cannot imagine, not even from my own jaded perspective.

Before we started dating, I remember Hubs walking back into the newsroom, visibly shaken, having just photographed a crime scene that involved a father who had slammed his toddler, head-first, against the asphalt. Repeatedly.

This is the photo Hubs shot.



A few years later, I saw my husband cry for the first time when we returned to New York for the first anniversary of 9/11.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he took this picture.



I can search our photo archives here at work and there are hundreds Hubs has taken of fires and their victims.

Like this one.



That time, seconds worked in the firefighters' favor.

I often wonder when Hubs will decide he's done, if he will ever put down the camera, or maybe use it in another field.

But then I see pictures like these. And I so hope he doesn't.

Tease me with book titles

I'm normally terrible about getting around to memes, but I'm proud to say I'm all over this one.

She tagged me, after being tagged by her.

Here are the rules:

Pick up the nearest book of at least 123 pages.

Open the book to page 123.

Find the 5th sentence.

Post the next 3 sentences.

Tag 5 people.

I love to read and am always on the lookout for new title & authors, so this meme sounded mighty appealing to me.

So — here's my contribution, from The Sonnet Lover by Carol Goodman. (I'm about halfway through it. Loved her other books.)

"That was her room," he told me. "Some say she built a pyre out of broken furniture and firewood right on top of her bed and burned all her poems and all the roses her lover had sent her over the years so that everyone for miles around could smell the scent of burning roses."

"Wow," I said, imagining it -- the dead rose petals catching fire, their scent rising on the air.

And now I'm tagging:

flutter, because a lot of my favorite authors, such as Alice Sebold, appear on her goodreads bookshelves. She has not yet listed, however, what she's currently reading.
Julie, because her essays intrigue me so much that I simply have to know what she likes to read
Mrs. Chicken, because I want to know if our tastes are similar
Redsy, because I love the turn her life has taken and am interested to find out what's on her nightstand.
and the moosh's mom, because I'm betting she's got a few surprises on those bookshelves.

So go for it. My book stack is dwindling. Give me some ideas. And then tag a few others while you're at it.