Short new post up at DotMoms.

Adam and I spend a great deal of the fall bickering about time. Weekends are precious, and in the fall, they're booked weeks in advance. It annoys me, a lot.

OU generally has seven home football games. That's at least five hours of a sitter on a Saturday. Adam plays soccer sometime on Sunday, usually late in the evenings, and he's gone about three hours for that. And he volunteers for OU's women's soccer team, which has games on Friday nights and Sunday afternoons, usually the same weekends the football team is home.

I bitch about the soccer team. A lot.

Adam's an enormous soccer fan. We planned a vacation to L.A. a few years back around going to some women's World Cup games. He regularly got up in the middle of the night during the last Olympics to watch the U.S. play. He used to run a soccer website. Long before Emma was born, he coached a preteen girls' team. He played regularly as a kid and all throughout (and since) college. He was always peeved that OU didn't have a team he could pull for.

Until they did, with a brand-new women's team in 1996.

He's been volunteering for the team for years. He started out as the PA announcer at the games. The first season after Emma was born, I was really snotty about it. I gave up my football ticket time and again to stay home with her, because it was hard to be gone that long while nursing, etc. So I'd have all day Saturday with her, and Adam was often out Friday night and Sunday afternoon, too, plus his own game Sunday night. He'd done it while I was pregnant with Emma too, and I let him have that. But he agreed to volunteer that next season without even discussing with me, and I was pissed.

It's been an argument since. Our weekends are the only time we have as a family, both for fun and errand running and chores. Soccer meant he was spending a lot of time away from us.

He's no longer just announcing over the PA, though he does that some, too. He runs the stats table -- overseeing the PA, the scoreboard, the people keeping track of stats. He gets into the games free and gets to spend a few hours hanging out with folks who love the game as much as he does. I get that. I know soccer isn't a big sport at OU, and the team needs as much support as it can get. But the way I looked at it, they pay folks to do those things. Adam doesn't have to spend hours there.

It wasn't until yesterday I realized his efforts are appreciated.

Someone from the Athletic Department stopped by my office to drop off a gift for him: a Sooners ball, signed by every member of the 2003 team. And not only that, it's in a gorgeous display case with a plate recognizing his commitment and support of Sooner soccer. The guy who brought it over went on and on to me about how much Adam means to the team. By the time he was done, I felt like a heel.

Which isn't to say when the next season rolls around, I'll be happy to see him head out the door twice a weekend. But Emma will be old enough then that maybe we can go to the games for a while, let her watch Dad in his element. And maybe I'll be able to back off a little bit and be happy for him, glad that he's found something he loves so much and that the team and staff love him back. I'll just have to learn to share more graciously.

Eighty-three years ago next week, Bessie Adeline Smith was born. Two years ago last month, she died. In between, she had a hell of a life.

Grandma Bessie was my role model growing up. Her home was the only stable place, and she the only stable force, I knew. We moved around a lot, following Mom's man of the moment or drugs of choice, and in between stops, we lived with Grandma Bessie and Grandpa Jess.

And we weren't the only ones. Grandma had five boys and one girl, my mom. At any given time, at least two of them lived with her. Her Shawnee, Okla., farmhouse had four bedrooms -- one was hers, one was Jess's, two usually belonged to my uncles. I slept with Grandma, my brother Jesse usually got the couch and Mom wherever. Even when we weren't there, the couches and floor were usually full, too. Sons and nephews, grandkids and neighbors all crashed with her.

And with good reason. Grandma Bessie couldn't say no. Even though her kids disappointed her again and again, she'd always let them come home. It's a good thing for me that she did, because we often had no where else to go. She was always able to stretch a dinner planned for four to a meal to feed a houseful. She always found $25 worth of room on her JCPenney charge card so that Jesse and I could have at least one new set of clothes for school. She always had room for me in her bed, a book for me to read and ample advice to share.

Bessie was a feminist long before the term was popular, though she'd probably shun the term now. She and her first husband divorced in 1949, leaving her a single mom with three young boys at a time when divorce turned women into pariahs. She told me much later that he'd been an alcoholic, and she wanted a better husband and father. How amazingly brave that must have been.

She got more lucky the second time around with my grandpa. They were together almost 50 years. Their marriage is the only positive example I had until far into college. Yes, they had separate rooms, but that was because she was 75 pounds fully clothed and he weighed at least more than 250. She'd slide right into him if they tried to sleep in the same bed. Their love was always tangible, though, from the way he'd pull her into his lap in his old recliner, her fighting the whole way. "Jess! Not in front of the kids!" They'd bicker and spat while I laughed behind my hand. He could make her blush, and she could make him smile.

Grandpa Jess raised her three boys as her own, and they had three more kids together. And though I know they raised the kids to know right from wrong, they gave her hell. Drug dealing. Jail terms. Out-of-wedlock kids. Drunken binges. Fighting. Failed relationship after relationship. I don't know how she never turned her back on them, but she didn't. I know she'd be disappointed in my relationship with all of them now. I've pulled away for my own sanity and safety, but she never did. They were her kids -- and grandkids -- and she'd have given them anything.

And give she did. She supported her children long after they should've been taking care of her. She worked as a cook in a diner-type restaurant long past retirement age. Grandpa worked on a ranch. They were the hardest-working people I know.

She was incredibly protective of her brood (six kids, 14 grandkids and a slew of great-grandkids). My father remarried when I was young, to a woman who didn't like me much. Grandma (who stood 5 foot 2) threatened to whup her when I came home crying. A girl who dated Ricky, her youngest child, broke his heart, and I was terrified we'd run into her in town. Grandma said she'd break her nose. I had good reason to worry. She'd once smacked Mom with an iron skillet.

She made me see everything differently. I started doubting organized religion because of Grandma Bessie. She believed in God and was the most caring, giving person I could imagine, but she didn't go to church. I couldn't understand the religions that said she had to find God's spirit in a building rather than in herself.

She bought me my first padded bra, saying I just needed a little encouragement. She took me to see "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas," which, it turns out, was just a good ol' love story. And Grandma LOVED love stories. She helped instill my serious love of reading, as any spare minute she had, she had a book in her hand. Usually a Harlequin or some other bodice ripper, and I'd giggle when she'd pass it on to me, embarrassed to be reading the seemed-steamy-then sex scenes.

Her spare minutes were few and far in between, though. She cooked three meals a day, and I mean, cooked. I was never up for breakfast, as it was ready before Grandpa headed out the door at dawn. He'd be back in at noon for lunch, expecting a full meal. There was another. And then dinner, complete with fresh vegetables from her garden, was on the table in time for everyone to eat and the dishes to be done for Grandma to curl up in bed with a book by 7. She mopped the floor, I kid you not, two or three times a day. All those boys tromping in with their muddy boots. Despite the frayed sofa or the water-stained ceiling, she was proud of her home.

Only it wasn't really theirs. They didn't own the house we all lived in, and eventually, the ranch Grandpa had been at for more than 30 years sold. There had been promises that the house was theirs forever, but promises aren't always kept. They ended up with a small settlement, enough to buy a trailer close to one of my uncles in southeast Oklahoma. It was the first place that was every truly theirs, and by the time they lived there, I hated it.

I was in college when they moved, and it hurt me to give up the one stable place I'd known. And while they had lived on a farm, it's true, it was only 10 minutes from a decent-sized town. And it was big and clean.

When they moved to the trailer, she and Grandpa were old. They couldn't keep up with the house anymore. And though they had sons there to help (my mom moved down a couple of years later), the place was always pretty nasty. I'm so ashamed to think of how uncomfortable I was there. Adam and I never stayed the night. Emma visited twice. And it wasn't just the physical location; she and Grandpa ended up really closely tied to the family I was trying so hard to break away from. I couldn't see them without seeing the rest, so I just didn't go down much.

Grandma's health started to seriously deteriorate, and she stopped making much sense on the phone. I'd still call religiously. Jesse and I were her favorite grandkids, and she didn't make a secret about that. We were her only daughter's children and had spent so much time with her growing up. She wrapped my hair in wire curlers, even though I'd never sleep through the night in them. She taught me how to two-step. She'd make one meal for us and a hamburger patty for Jess, because he was never happy with what he had. My mom's oldest brother married when Mom was 10, so I had cousins closer to her age than mine. Jess and I were the babies of the family -- the last of the 14 grandkids before all the greats started. We were her babies. She knew how bad things got for us with Mom and did all she could to help. I talked to her even when Mom wasn't.

I gave the eulogy at her funeral two years ago, and I know I didn't do her justice. Nor was I entirely honest. I read from an Albuquerque Tribune article I'd written for Mother's Day about her in 1997. At the funeral, I downplayed how terrible her first husband had been, how horribly her kids had treated her over the years. I didn't talk about how she'd smoke a cigarette with the tube to her oxygen tank draped around her neck or how sad her last years were, in a crappy trailer in the woods. By the time she died, she couldn't see well enough to read, so she'd lost the only refuge she'd had. I didn't tell the crowd how embarrassed I was to have forgotten her, now and then, as I built a successful life of my own.

I can't believe I never asked her more questions. She was my rock as a child. I wish I knew how she'd handled the shit my mom and uncles put her through. How she'd been able to make ends meet all those years. How she stayed so happy, so wonderful and giving. How she and my grandpa made a marriage work under circumstances that were always far from perfect. I have a few photographs, a pieced-together recipe for cream pecan pie that was her specialty. And a lot of love and guilt.

It makes me ache that Emma will never know her. Truthfully, though, even if Bessie were alive and well, I'd likely want to shield Emma from the life she lived those last years. I wish Emma could've known her 20 years ago, as I did. When we'd start her old station wagon and be dazed by the blaring country music pouring out of the tinny speakers. She'd always laugh and say, "Who drove this last?" when we both knew it was her. She'd buy me a BBQ sandwich while we grocery shopped at 9 in the morning, because she knew I loved them. She'd talk to me for hours on her party line. When we rode with the windows down, breeze in our face, laughing and talking.

I don't think I realized it when she died, but I turned my back on her as I turned my back on my past. At least I can admit it now.

After much debate, we chose preschool No. 1. Dropped off the enrollment forms this morning. Done. But that would be much too easy, right?

We don't know if we're in and won't know for a few weeks. They will open enrollment to the public next week, and just start calling, by date of forms received, families who've expressed interest. And the director said that class will fill really quickly, but she doesn't know how many forms she's got waiting. She didn't sound hopeful for us.

And after calling around the few other places we might be interested in, I've learned they're all full or nearly. It's only FEBRUARY. School doesn't even start for six or seven months. But one has an "extensive" waiting list. One has one or two spots open, only two days a week. So we'll need to start visiting those schools, getting on their lists.

I could've filled out a form while we were at school No. 1 last week, but I really wanted to choose the right one and then decide, not just apply willy-nilly. But that week might make the difference in Emma getting in.

This is ridiculous.

Today was our third -- and planned to be final -- preschool visit. But I'm even more confused than I was a week ago.

Each school had some great qualities, but none were exactly what we were looking for. One has an amazing facility, including a playground to die for, and a warm friendly environment. The school encourages creative play and has lots of cool areas to facilitate that. But it basically no curriculum. One has a little more curriculum, but is housed in a church (they do state firmly they only lease the area, but one of things mentioned again and again was the Christmas program). Watching Em in a Spanish class was fun, and the teacher does more than the first to work on letters and numbers. But the toys weren't nearly as cool, and many, donated by parents, weren't age appropriate. The playground looked like a deserted back yard. The third, by far, had the coolest stuff. It's facility was nearly as nice as the first and the materials were amazing. Manipulatives that teach math and reading, a practical learning area, an area set aside to learn about various countries. Its curriculum beats all the others, hands down. But I didn't feel welcome there, and the activities, while teaching the kids a lot, were very regimented. Emma was told she couldn't mix types of pasta in the home area (scooping shapes from one bowl to another). A kid made sure to let us know one toy was a desk set, not for floor play. And the kids themselves were a little robotic. They certainly didn't seem to be having any fun.

Basically, we'd love to lift the learning stuff from the third school and drop it into the environment of the first. Have those teachers encourage Em to play creatively AND to count with beads and trace her name. Unfortunately, though, that's not an option.

I feel like I'm running out of time, because two of the schools only have a slot or two left and one starts open enrollment very soon. There are other preschools we could evaluate, but I don't know that we'll find anything that's a better fit. Right now, I'm leaning toward the creative school, the one we visited first. It seems by far the best at what it does, and she's learning the academic stuff already. I was inspired by the curriculum of the second until I saw the mega-learning at the third ... it made me realize she already knows most of the stuff being taught at the second. So why accept the mediocrity in other areas to just enforce ideas she already knows?

We're still debating. Checking and doublechecking our pros and cons lists. And seeking input from others. So if you have thoughts, please email me. Discussions with some of you already have made me view this process in a whole different way. And I think the folks around me might be getting tired of hearing about it !

I was gleeful when Emma gave up her morning nap. Gleeful. Her first year was so regimented, and it was a joy to be able to leave the house for more than two hours at a time. With a nap at 10:30 and another at 2, we didn't have much time to do anything. Dropping the 10:30 one gave us all morning to run errands, have playdates, go to the zoo, and not worry about being home in time for Em to sleep.

Of course, it wasn't pretty. We moved her afternoon nap up to 1, and by the time I picked her up at day care those first few weeks, she cried all the way home, exhausted. We decided to change her schedule -- and Em's all about routine -- because she'd still sleep at 10:30 a.m., but not in the afternoon. And by bedtime, she was wiped.

Em's early life was scheduled nearly down to the minute. I think even if I'd been a stay-at-home mom, we'd have fallen into a very similar routine, because she thrives on it. If we hadn't set one for her, she'd have set one for us -- she was always ready to nurse at the same times and she still poops like clockwork. But when she was wee, it was vital she was on a routine. I went to her day care to nurse her every day at lunch, so she had to be awake and she had to be hungry. Everything else grew up around that.

Her schedule hasn't changed much since then, and that was more than a year and a half ago. Even on the weekends, when we're more flexible, we don't vary too much. And everyone's better for it.

Lately, though, change is in the air. If I dare suggest, "Do you think Em's outgrowing her nap?" Adam scoffs and promptly throws salt over his shoulder and knocks on wood. Some days, she goes down in minutes (after the requisite books, cuddle/songs, potty and kiss, of course). And then she sleeps a full three hours, just like she has for the last 18 months. Others, though, she doesn't sleep at all. She sings. "Reads" to her animals. Takes trips to Polly's house. Needs her quiet music started over. A drink. Wanders to the potty on her own. Calls for us, again and again. Insists she doesn't want to sleep. Eventually, after many talks about "quiet time if you're not going to sleep," we let her out of her room. And, inevitably, an hour or more before bedtime, the breakdowns begin.

Last week, she came unglued at Gymboree because someone threw away the remainder of her snack before she was done. I couldn't tell you the last time she's cried there, and this was a full-out fit. Last night, she had a breakdown at the mall when Adam told her for the third time she couldn't climb up the front of the slide. He'd warned her a couple of times, and went over to talk to her as she got slid into. Before he got a word out, she collapsed into his arms, sobbing. Tears come easily over dinner, at bathtime (particularly over hair washing or who will dry her), during teeth brushing and book choosing. On nap-less days, the last hours of the evening are often a mess.

We can't give up on the nap entirely, because she so obviously still needs it. And we need it. On weekdays, she's with Adam (who works from home full time) in the afternoons. She comes home, ostensibly goes right to sleep and wakes with only an hour left in the workday, easy for him to handle. When she doesn't sleep, that's four hours of balancing an impatient preschooler with urgent work. On the weekends, I often nap when she does. Or pay bills or watch a movie with Adam or work or clean house or do any of those things it's hard to do with a nearly 3-year-old underfoot. It's the only time between 7:15 a.m. and 8:15 p.m. that's mine.

So we can't give up on the nap yet. But neither can we convince her to sleep. There's just no way to do that for any 3-year-old, and Em is one of those kids who sleeps in the exact right place under the exact right circumstances and never, ever elsewhere. So if she sets her mind on not sleeping -- even while we curl up next to her, watching her yawn and her eyelids droop -- it ain't gonna happen. Just prepare for the tears that will come later.


... a napping house,
where no one now is sleeping.

We visited another preschool today, and Adam winced as the teacher called for Mackenzie. At the doctor's office last week, we overheard a mom explaining her daughter's name was Madison Mackenzie -- her husband wanted Madison, she wanted Mackenzie, so they squished them together. Trendy much?

We chose Emma's name because it was simple, traditional and full of meaning for us. When we named her, Emma wasn't high on the top-name list (a factor we seriously considered.) A year later, it was No. 4. (I blame the writers on Friends. Why didn't they pick Sophie?)

Lots of our friends' kids have traditional names -- Jack, Cora, Thomas, Luke, Lily, Catherine. I'm sure when Em starts school, along with all of the other Emmas, we'll see a Paola, a Marisol, a Cierra, a Haven or Heaven, a Julissa, a Mercedes or Cristal, a Deja, an America or Liberty, a Nayeli, a Brooklynn or London, a Fabiola or even a Baby or Lulu. There will be plenty of random I's, E's (Emilee? Destinee?) and Y's (Zoey? Jordyn?) and maybe even an apostrophe here and there. (Those are all real names from last year.) A lot of parents want their kids' names to be unique, and I get that. I really do.

What I don't get, though, is this guy. He named his kid Jon Blake Cusack 2.0 (instead of Junior or the Second). Seriously.

The mom told the Associated Press she had "picked out the theme of the baby's room and done other things. I decided to let Jon have this." But see, you can repaint that nursery in a year if you no longer like the Pooh decor. Version 2.0 is stuck with his name.

How long is that joke going to be funny, if it ever was? Poor kid. He's probably lucky his dad didn't name him NFL or Doritos or Microsoft.

Em's library basket (in the sidebar) is newly overflowing with fun reads. Find one for yourself!

Awwww, my first negative comment. Yup, I think highly of myself. Don't think that should come as a surprise to any readers. I hope all of you like yourselves, too.

I'm not sure what it was about this post that set her off, though. I take things seriously, whether the activity is serious or no. I'm anal. I know not everyone is, and in some ways, I'd be better off if I were more casual. But I'm a dork.

And if she's read much more than that day, she should know I have "thought that not all people have the situation" that I have. I've lived other "situations" that were far less pretty.

Mostly, though, I'm oddly pleased that I made someone a little mad. (See, there's that dorkiness again.)

I need to be more careful about what I do just before bed. Last night, Adam and I were discussing the similarities between Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bronx, the nonfiction book I'm reading, and my childhood and teenage years, surrounded by drug use and deals.

Small-town Oklahoma and the Bronx don't have a lot in common. But the crank (now called "crystal meth," at least by newscasters, I have no clue what users call it) lifestyle here 10 to 20 years ago and the heroin/crack one in New York during the same time are remarkably alike. It's mostly a matter of scale. My parents -- and, as far as I know, the folks they sold to -- dealt out of their bedroom, not from a street corner. And though there was violence, gun play and jail terms, it wasn't to the same degree as in the book. My life certainly wasn't that of Jessica's or Cesar's, the sister and brother who are the book's focus. But if you look a little beyond me, to the circle of customers and friends my parents had, the pictures aren't that different.

So Adam and I talked about it a little, and I was thankful that, as bad as it was at times, at least I lived here. The life would've been much more dangerous in a bigger city. I was able to escape my past, to claw my way out with desire and education. No one in the book has done that.

But, as is mostly inevitable after discussing my childhood, all of the things we were discussing got stuck in my subconscious and spit out as dreams.

I woke so angry at Adam after the first dream I wanted to shake him awake and yell at him. I dreamt that, like the "wives" of drug dealers in the book, I had to share him with other women if I wanted to keep him. That was my role. I agreed to it, and had to watch as girls tromped through my house and into my bedroom. I basically lived as Coco, Cesar's "wife," and Jessica did. Even knowing it was a dream when I woke, I lay there, heart pounding, as pissed off as I could be at Adam for putting me in that position. I tried to think of other things, to not analyze the book or my family any more, knowing I'd fall right back into the dream.

The first dream would've been better, though, than what came next.

Though it's downplayed amid all of the other violence and tragedies, sexual abuse plays a key role in the book. Jessica was abused by a stepfather. All of the women have their own tales of unconsentual sex as adults and abuse as kids. Jessica's young children are touched, though it's unclear by whom. I think I'd have rather dreamt about Adam and other women than dropping myself in that scenario. Unfortunately, no luck there.

I was in a dentist's office, in some sort of recovery room, waking from sedation. A man joined me in the room, reaching under the blankets I was covered in. I kept trying to scream, but all I could get out was "Adam!" or "Help me!" in a hoarse whisper. I have recurring dreams like this -- where I can't fight or stop something -- fairly often, but this one was bad. As were the similar ones that followed, where I'd hit someone and he felt made of steel, where my kicks caused no pain.

Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep last night. I was so panicked and pissed when I woke that it took forever to nod back off, and I wasn't sure I wanted to sleep anymore, anyway.

I'm not going to put the book down. It's such an interesting look into the lives of a community most middle-class Americans never imagine. And I'll of course compare it to my own stories; how can I help that? There are so few things I read that hold even elements of my childhood that I can't ignore one that scares me a little. (White Oleander will forever be one of my favorite books. It's a well-written, painful story for a "normal" reader, and it's one that evokes a lot of memories for me. The details of Astrid's life may not be identical to mine, but the feelings are much the same.)

Tonight, though, I'll prepare myself for dreams a little better. Maybe I'll flip through Entertainment Weekly's Oscar issue. It certainly would be more pleasant to turn my sleeping self into a celebrity.

Emma's been extra-snuggly lately, and we love it. She'll run up and ask for a quick cuddle in her bed, and we all pile in, surrounded by animals. We curl up and read books, she buries her head in Adam's chest for the walk from the car inside and wants to sit as close as possible to me on the couch.

This morning, we rocked for 15 minutes. It was heaven. I was putting a new throw on the rocking chair, and she asked what it was for. I said it made the chair look nice, and we could wrap up in it when we rocked. Immediately, she wanted to, and we left the groceries in the kitchen floor while we enjoyed some closeness. Rocking is one of the things I miss most from the nursing days, and I love that she's been wanting to do it so much lately.

Today, though, I can likely pinpoint an exact reason; she's sick again. The blame should lie squarely on my shoulders, as I said just before I got pneumonia that Emma hadn't been to the doctor since her 2-year checkup. Then I got sick. Then we all got the stomach virus. And now she has a cold. I jinxed all of us.

Though we still can't figure out where the stomach bug came from, I've got a good idea about the cold -- Gymboree. There was a coughing, sniffly kid there this week. Even if I hadn't already made the assumption, Emma did. "I have a cold just like Evie," she told Adam last night. "We match." Granted, the little girl was mostly over it, and we probably would've taken Emma to class in the same state. Plus, there are a million and one other places Em could've caught it. Still, it's so frustrating: Her nose is red and chapped, as are her lips, cheeks and chin from the snot. Her little voice is raspy. I just feel for her. But I'll take the cuddling when I can get it. Who knows how often she'll offer when she's well again.

The amount of love I have for Wal-Mart's new self-checkout lanes shows how anal I am. I can scan all of my own items, bag them myself and pay without ever having to talk to a cashier. There's never a price check. I know that I'm buying Bosc pears, not Bartlett, and I get charged accordingly. My bread never gets squashed. All of my refrigerated items are bagged together, and I can even organize the bags according to which cabinet the groceries will go in at home. I save all of our non-groceries for last, making categorizing in Quicken fast (just total all of the "household" items at the end of the receipt, and the rest are food).

And oddly enough, it's faster -- partly because the lanes are new and few Norman folks are willing to try them, so there are never lines. And the more I do it, the faster I get at scanning. Granted, now and then the automated voice tells me I can't put my frozen chicken breasts in a bag, because they will "damage other items." And if I move a sack off the scale too fast, it stops me. But all in all, it's handy. Emma is content to stay in the cart -- she wants to get out and explore the lane if a cashier is checking us out and we have to wait in line. But there's entertainment if I'm checking us out. She helps load the conveyor belt, watches as I scan everything, finds the picture of our bananas for the produce lookup.

Adam says we should get a discount for doing it ourselves, and I'd certainly love that saved 1 percent or whatever. But that would likely be reason for more shoppers to do it themselves, thus slowing us down. Besides, I don't need the incentive. It gives me that preschool sense of accomplishment, too. Emma and I both walk away marveling that "we did it ourselves."