Jenerations

When I started this blog, and named it "Jenerations", I was thinking, as you might infer from the logo, of being a mother, and of being a daughter; of being sandwiched between the generation of my children and that of my parents. Particularly, I was thinking of the female side of things, of being my mother's daughter, of being my daughter's mother. And also of being myself caught between childhood and old age.
I found out Thursday night that my Mom has been diagnosed with a serious, rare, and potentially fatal autoimmune disease. I would name it, but she, at 60, is internet savvy and in doing a search to find out what the future holds for her, would likely stumble upon my blog. It doesn't look good for her, or for all of us who love her. It is a progressive disease, and the treatment seems to cause more discomfort than the disease. She is scared and depressed. I hate thinking of her being scared. I hate thinking of her crying. I think of all the childhood tears of mine she dried, of all the monsters in the closet she chased away, and I am here helpless against this thing that is paining her.
I also think, morbidly perhaps, of all I don't know about her, of all the many talents of hers I have yet to acquire. There always seemed to be time to learn.
Last night, my son had trouble sleeping, and so between 3 and 4 a.m. I could be found holding him in the rocking chair in his room. It's actually a good time to think, 3 a.m. The house is quiet save the creaking of the rocking chair, and even if I wanted to get up and fold a load of laundry, call a friend I haven't spoken to in a while, or channel surf, my job is to hold the baby, to quietly rock and quietly think. I wondered what my Mom was doing at that moment. Sleeping, I hoped. But more likely, awake and fretting in the darkness of her room, wondering about her future. I closed my eyes, and as sleep started to overcome me, saw the baby in my arms not as my son but as my mother, and I rocked her, rocked her, rocked her.

Housebound

The kids aren't napping today, and I'm sitting here watching them jump on the 3-year-old's bed like a couple of maniacs. The screaming is so loud the windows are shaking. I wonder what will happen when the kids start screaming, too.
Good thing I found this hilarious blog to cheer myself up. Fart and bodily fluid jokes abound. Having spent the day with persons under 3 feet tall, it is just what I was in the mood for.

867-5309

jennifer
n. a collective or quantitative noun for friends.
"Kelly, that's a whole jennifer of friends!"
(Source:The Infinite Teen Slang Dictionary)

So my name's Jen. You might have guessed that, or maybe you just figured spelling wasn't my strong point. Born in 1969, and, unlike the scads of just-younger Jennifers named after the heroine of Love Story, was named after Jennifer Grant, the daughter of Cary Grant and Dyan Cannon.
At different times in my life, I've gone by Jenny, Jennifer, Jen, and even Ginger. Met a lot of Jens along the way. In college, I lived in a 3 bedroom apartment with 5 other roommates - 3 of us named Jen.

Phone rings. "Hello?"
"Hello, may I speak with Jen?"
Sigh.

I've been reading a number of blogs lately, and noticing several good ones written by Jens. I even found a Jenblog webring. I've added a short list of the favorites I've stumbled on lately, I'll continue to add to it. We live all across the country, and beyond. We're moms, we're daughters, wives and girlfriends. We're conservative and liberal, straight and gay. We're sassy, we're shy; we're having midlife crises, we are full of teen angst. We are joined together by the white wave - we are Jen.

Self-indulgent cute kid post

Last night my 3-year-old daughter and I were doing a jigsaw puzzle in her room before bed. Perhaps impressed with my skills at putting Caillou's face and shirt together in a matter of minutes, she stopped her work, looked at me, and said "Mommy, I want to be you when I grow up." I said "Thanks, Honey," and then, perhaps privately congratulating myself on my decision to trade my career for motherhood, I said "I want to be a Mommy when I grow up." She again stopped her puzzling. "But Mama - you're already up!"

Foiled again

Too much aluminum foil, and too much time on your hands? This guy came home to find his houseguests had aluminum-foiled his entire apartment. With friends like this ...

Jenerations

A little over a week ago, we were invited to join some friends on the last day of Hannukah for a cocktail party and candle lighting. It was a fun, loud, festive event, attended by lots of famlies with small children and infants. I really enjoyed seeing the holiday first-hand, and was honored to have been invited. The hostess actually helped us decorate our Christmas tree last year, so I suppose it was partially return for the show-and-tell.
We got home late, for us anyway, past the wee hour of 8:00 p.m., and the kids were wired from being up past their bedtime. My husband and I both went upstairs to team-change the baby for bed, as he can be the Screaming Child With 900 Flailing Arms and Legs when he is overtired. Midway through the change, we heard my daughter crying downstairs, really wailing, which is unlike her. My husband ran down and found her bleeding from her lip. She had been jumping off her sugar-cookie-past-bedtime high on the sofa and hit the window sill. She is 3 years old. I think this was the third time I have seen her bleed.
We did fairly well, my husband and I, getting her calmed down and sucking on an ice cube in a cloth. I ventured to look at it - eeeyew. I am not big on blood. Fortunately for me, my mom was a nurse, and is used to calls like this from me:
"Hello?"
"Mom. She fell and hit her lip and it's really bleeding and I don't know whether to take her to the emergency room and there's all this blood and she's crying and - "
"How long ago?"
"Two minutes."
Seemingly interminable pause. "Is she crying now?"
I listen. "No."
"Is it still bleeding?"
I look. "No."
"Is the lip hanging in two pieces?"
"No."
"Then she doesn't need stitches, don't take her to the emergency room, she will only pick up something there and get sick for real."


"Thanks Mom."


She was right, the lip was fine. My mom is always right. When will my daughter's mom always be right?

Phase 1, Day 1 ... again

I put on a few pounds over the holidays, really less than 2, but certainly threw my South-Beach pure blood out of whack with candy, cookies and - yesterday, as a sort of Mardi Gras last gasp - a short stack of buttermilk pancakes with syrup at iHop. Today, it is V-8, eggs and vegetarian "ham" for breakfast. In a few short hours I will indulge on a stick of string cheese, then chicken on romaine for lunch with sugar-free Jello. Afternoon snack is celery with Laughing Cow, a soft spreadable cheese. Dinner will be Grilled Rosemary Salmon and cauliflower whipped into "South Beach Surprise Mashed Potatoes". Mouth watering yet? Mine neither. But it works.