A Hug from Old Dad

It's easily been one month since I felt the last twinge of tooth pain, marking the end of a week of misery, sleepless nights and long days where I knew what was in store for me every minute of the day and didn't know for sure there'd be an end to it.  At least with tightened braces, root canals and pulled wisdom teeth, all in my distant memory, I knew the pain would eventually subside and had a general idea of when that would be.  The tooth pain that inexplicably popped up in March wasn't like that.  Its source was unexplained.  It was familiar only early on until it got worse and decided to stick around.  It hurt every... minute... of... the... day and gave me no sense for when it would be leaving.

I battled that week.  I battled to pretend it wasn't there.  I battled just to ... make... it... better.  I took more ibuprofen than I should have.  I went to bed with my jaw resting on an ice pack and a heat pack just to sooth it for a few minutes with the hopes I'd fall asleep for a few hours.  I paid an emergency visit to a new dentist near work, had x-rays taken and accepted their explanation that everything looked good and I must be grinding my teeth at night.

"Are you stressed?" the dentist asked.

I answered honestly, "Yes, but I have been for months now."  Why would it be any different now?

It wasn't the first time a dentist used this as the explanation for some random tooth pain I was experiencing.  This time, though, the pain was bad enough that I got fitted for and ordered a custom mouth guard to ease the effects of this supposed grinding.  I left that first dentist visit with a hope that the pain would end in a couple of days, once I started using the mouth guard, and a plan just to  keep popping the ibuprofen to survive the days in between.

It's not that the pain got worse; it's just that it got unbearable.  So when I returned for my mouth guard two days later, I shared this with the dentist and found myself being examined by more dentists and taking 3-D x-rays and being told they could just pull the tooth but didn't really want to because that MIGHT NOT BE THE PROBLEM.  Oh, how I wish it had been the problem.  I could live without the tooth.  The source seemed to be my root canal tooth, but the root canal still looked good.  There appeared to be no inflammation and no infection.  We collectively couldn't pull the trigger on pulling it because it SEEMED healthy.  So I left that day with my mouth guard, a prescription for an antibiotic in case it was an infection they couldn't see, a prescription for codeine to help with pain and a promise from the head dentist that he'd have some dentist friends look at my x-rays to see if they saw anything that might explain my tooth pain.

They didn't.  By Friday, that head dentist was calling me and telling me that I should consult an independent specialist, an endodontist, to see if he might have some thoughts.

After calls to three dentists' offices, I got in to see an endodontist near my home that Saturday.  He, too, could not find an explanation for my tooth pain (which was still going strong).  I cried when he told me this.  Would there be an end?  He told me to try something different, though -- I was to lay off the ibuprofen as I was taking too much and would give myself an ulcer, and he prescribed for a me a steroid, I can't even remember why but only remember being hopeful because it was something different.  I think the steroid would help the antibiotic do its thing and would help with inflammation.  And I was to continue to use my mouth guard in case I was grinding at night.  I still didn't think I was grinding, but I'd've slept standing up or in the backyard that night if I knew it would relieve my pain.

I slept through the night on Saturday night and felt better on Sunday, better enough to take one codeine pill, no ibuprofen and take my steroid and antibiotic religiously.  By Monday -- one week later -- the pain seemed to be gone, though it took me a good week to admit that it very likely was and another week to  chew any food on the right side of my mouth.

As awful as the pain was and as much misery I was in, it is very difficult for me to remember exactly how that pain felt that week.  I remember it being quite possibly the worst pain I had ever felt.  Just as it did to my recollection of childbirth, my brain has wiped away any physical sense for how painful that tooth was. It amazes me how one's mind works to protect one against oneself.

But the kicker is this: what I do remember very vividly is something that happened when I was smack dab in the middle of my week of tooth pain hell when I was tired and sad beyond what is familiar to me.  My dad was at our house, paying us an uncommon mid-week visit.  He had read bedtime stories to the Leatherkids, and we were in the kitchen making small talk.  I told him about my tooth, and I started to cry.  I don't cry much in front of him anymore, so it wasn't familiar to him.  Without skipping a beat, he wrapped his arms around me; and at that moment, I wasn't his grown, adult daughter with a career, a house and a family of her own and he wasn't the grandfather to my kids.  Rather, I was his little girl who was suffering and needed a long, comforting hug from her dad.  It was so soothing and perfectly delivered.  I remember exactly how it felt.  I don't remember him saying much, if he said anything at all.  He didn't need to.  His hug spoke for him -- it'll be okay, Little Girl... you'll get through this, and you'll be okay.  It was just what I needed.

Turns out, his hug was right -- I am okay.

Dear Ella

I started this in early March, got into a writing rut and just never finished it.  It's a bit outdated now but too far along not to finish and share.  I hope it still works...

Dear My 5-year-old, Ella,

I watched you sleep the night of your birthday party for just a few minutes before I finally went to bed myself.  It's not uncommon for me to stare at you in your sleeping state and marvel in your mere existence; but this time... this time, I sat on the edge of your bed and just watched you and took you in after a full day of people celebrating you.

You were so still, so calm and relaxed, so peaceful.  That you had spent the better part of your bedtime routine shouting at the world and upset with the consequences of doing so didn't even show.  You were getting the rest you clearly needed and doing it well, like most things you do.

I stroked your forehead with my hand a few times, the first time to move a couple of long strands of your beautiful blonde hair away from your face, the others because Grandma would do that to me when I was your age (and older); and it was just natural -- I vividly remember the feeling of her hand pressing down on my forehead not softly but not strong, either, just enough to have a soothing effect on me.  It's not that you needed soothing that night.  I think I needed to do it for you.  I needed the soothing, and my hand on your forehead was my way to get it.

I thought about the day and the things that had made me sad about the day.  Imagine that -- I was sad on the day we were celebrating you turning five.  I thought about how I felt as I sat on the bench on the side of the pool, noting the kids who were at your party.  Only two of your little friends were there, and only three even responded.  Many of your cousins were there, which was nice; but they have to be there, not to diminish their love for you and their significance in your life.  Only 2 friends, one of whom I barely even know.

I started thinking and wondering why that is... why only two friends?  How is it that Cal had 15+ kids at his 5th birthday party, none of whom were even cousins, and you only had two?

Maybe it's entirely explained by your experience at daycare -- really, school -- being so different from your brother's.  His was so easy and natural.  The school was vibrant.  People were excited to be there and proud to have their kids enrolled in school there.  There were so many kids, and they were so close.  We knew all of the kids and many of their parents, and I don't even really know how that happened.  Maybe if I spend some time thinking about it, I could figure that out; but it doesn't matter.  Cal's experience was different. 

Your experience has just not been as good, not necessarily from the start, but certainly for the past 2-3 years.  Many teachers have left, unhappy with the school's administration.  I'd need two hands to count your little friends who have left, mostly unannounced, for a start-up school down the road.  They, too, were unhappy with the school's administration and high teacher turnover rate.

We thought about leaving; but your relationship with Ms. Tawania is so strong, so positive, and so fruitful that we felt like we had to stay to see that through.  She's wonderful.  That is one thing that you have in common with Cal -- we credit Ms. Ally for Cal being more than ready for Kindergarten, and I expect to be saying the same about Ms. Tawania and you in the Fall.

Given that gap, I keep wondering if somehow I'm failing you.  I feel like it's my job, not to make your friends for you, but to put you in positions for you to make friends, to cultivate friendships.  And that's just not happening.  It's not happening at school, and I'm not finding an alternative for you.  You've made several pleas to have a playdate, and I just never acted on them.  I'm sorry I never did set up that playdate with Colton Stewart... or Keira... or Wrigley... or Aryn... and most recently Ms. Tawania herself.  You asked me, and I didn't.

It's not that I didn't or don't want for you to have a playdate.  I want more than anything for you to have friends.  Setting one up would be a simple email exchange with a fellow mom.  But a playdate at your age still requires small talk on my part, and I'm not great at that, nor do I enjoy it.  I know it'll most likely end up being two hours of an unshared discomfort where I can't and don't want to match the stories of your friend's mom about your friend's many activities and familiarity with all of the goings on at school.

I know, you're five.  I don't remember who my friends were when I was five, if I even had any friends.  It's right around when we moved to Illinois, so it's very likely that I didn't!  
I started making friends that stuck when I got into grade school, and I'm sure that'll happen for you, too.  That you don't have a lot of friends or a single close friend now is probably not any big deal.

You were so happy on the day of your birthday party, and I should have focused on that.  I saw it.  I watched you follow the instructions for the pool games to a T, better than even your older cousins and brother.  I was so proud of you.  I watched you swim -- you're such a good swimmer!  I watched you try to dance to the "Whip/Nae Nae" song and laugh while you did.  I watched you smile... and smile that beautiful, toothless smile some more.  I know you enjoyed yourself and probably didn't notice or care about the absence of friends.

I'm excited for you to start Kindergarten in the Fall. I think you and I both need it -- a new start, new faces, new opportunities to make friends.  I promise to make sure that happens.  The world deserves to experience you.

Anyway, I love you and hope I'm doing right by you, Ellie.

Mommy

On the Eve of My 40-Whateverth Birthday

Tomorrow is my birthday.  I won't mention which one it is.  I made the mistake a few years ago of telling Cal how old I am, and, with that freakish memory that he has, he's been able to keep track of its growing value ever since.

I didn't make that same mistake with Ella, though I think I could have.  I'm certain Cal has blabbed about my actual age in her presence, and it just hasn't stuck.  She never knows how old I am.  Good girl.  She's so sweet.  We had this conversation later this afternoon:

Ella: "Where is your birthday going to be?"

I love how she thinks birthdays aren't dates, that they're events... celebrations.  I'm not sure how I answered that particular question, but our chat continued.

Ella, smirking: "How old are you?"

Me: "I'm not going to tell you."

Ella: "Cal, how old is Mommy?"

Me: "Don't tell her, Cal."  And he didn't.  "How old do you think I am, Ellie?"

Ella: "18."

Me: "No."

Ella: "60."

I wasn't insulted.  Afterall, her first guess was a young 18.

Me: "No."

She proceeded to throw out a bunch of other ridiculous ages, more on the low end than not; and I told her "no" to each of them.  We never did reach the real value, which I'm not going to share but which the handful of people who actually read my blog regularly know. I don't like to talk about it.  It's not that I'm embarrassed.  There's a part of me that's kind of proud of it and an even bigger part of me that doesn't really believe it.  Really, it's just a number.

Today, the day before the day my age increases by one, I didn't think about how old I really am.  I had other things on my mind and just wanted today to be a good day.  I've been battling some unexplainable, awful tooth pain for a week that has really thrown me into "the dumps," an unfamiliar place and one in which I don't like being.  I woke up this morning after sleeping through the night for the first time in a week and decided that the new plan proposed by a dentist I had consulted just yesterday was going to keep working. I was feeling far from normal, but I wasn't hurting.  Things were looking up.

This morning I tuned out the bickering, whining, talking back, negativity and hitting that's typical of a weekend morning in the Leatherman household.  It wasn't necessarily effective parenting; but it was the only way I could make sure that I was free of stress, the leading theory of the cause of my tooth pain.  I mean, I tuned it out.  I was like Peter in Office Space, all hypnotized, content and completely unaffected by the goings on around him.

Later in the morning, I took Cal to a birthday party and then ran errands with Ella before heading back to pick him up.  I managed her perfectly -- we didn't fight at all, despite being exposed to typical scenarios that lead to fights.  After we returned to pick Cal up, we ran to a couple of stores to buy some rewards that the kids had earned (well, that Cal had earned; somehow Ella wriggled herself into getting a reward, too).

Cal with the Easter Bunny during his playdate

I then dropped Cal off at his friend's house for a play date, which I knew would involve a trip to see the Easter Bunny and participate in an Easter egg hunt.

Ella after our 3-mile run today

Ella on her bike after our run

Ella and I headed home and acted on our plan to run and ride.  I strapped her in to my treasured BOB stroller and took her with me for a long overdue 3-mile run (I hadn't run since Wednesday).  It was one of the best runs she and I have ever had.  And after that, I rewarded her (to be fair, it was part of the plan going in to the stroller ride... call it a bribe to cooperate with me) with a ride around the neighborhood, she on her new bike from her birthday, me on "the ushe."  My tutued and purpled-and-pinked girl led the way, choosing when and what direction to turn when we reached an intersection or a dead end.

By the time our bike ride was over, it was already time to go get Cal; and Ella, of course, joined me for that trip.  We got him, dropped him off at home and headed to Trader Joe's for some groceries and then to a local Chinese restaurant to pick up the dinner Dan had ordered.

It was a busy, well-paced, relatvely stress-free day and one that I needed.  I feel like I made that happen, even on heavy kid duty.

And to put the exclamation point on my good day before my 40-whateverth birthday, I had a fun conversation with Cal about super powers, one of my favorite topics.  He started it by telling me that his super power would be breathing under water.  When I asked him why, he told me that it would come in handy when he's "on a pirate ship and the pirate pushes him off the boat" and he has to survive.

I, of course, challenged this a bit.  "Cal, you should pick a super power that'll come in handy in realistic situations.  Something practical.  Do you EVER expect to be a on a pirate ship being pushed off the boat by a pirate?"

He laughed.  I then told him what I would want my super power to be.  "Speed."  I told him and then proceeded to explain why.  I told him that I have so much to do and not enough time to do it all that if I could get from one place to another really, really quickly, I could do it all.

He wasn't impressed, but at least I got him to change his mind about his desired super power.  "Laser vision," he told me, which, of course, required some explanation.  I asked him if that meant his eyes could see through walls, and he told me that no, it was more that they could do damage to something or someone.  I think at one point he told me his laser vision could turn a bad guy to dust.  I was liking the breathing-under-water super power more and more, if he'd only had a more practical use for it.

By now it was bedtime.  Ella was already picking her books to read, so Cal and I headed upstairs.  On our way up, he told me that flying would be a better super power for me than speed.  I told him he had a point but concluded they kind of achieve the same thing as far as I'm concerned.  I just need to get places fast.

And, now, it actually IS my 40-whateverth birthday.  If I were actually counting the years, I'd say it went fast.  Since I'm not, I'll just say I arrived here happy.  I am.  A couple of days ago, I was in the dumps; but after the good day I had on Sunday, things are looking up.  Happy Birthday to me!

And We Laugh

Cal's and my relationship has reached a really fun stage.  The kid doesn't really do much to get under my skin, other than dealing with his "issues" with general neatness and cleanliness (uh, yeah, does he HAVE to wipe his mouth with his shirt?); but even that has become fun.  I see food dropping from his mouth as he eats and I stare.  I mean, what else am I supposed to do?  I stare.  I am amazed at how unfazed he is by it.  With every crumb and clump of sauce that fails to stay in his mouth, I think about how much work is ahead of me.  My general verbalized response to this is, "Cal, you are never going to have a girlfriend if you continue to eat like that," said as I shake my head from side to side.  This is naturally followed by his wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve... or neck of his shirt... or just not at all.

Anyway, on Sunday, I was all over him about changing his socks before we went to, well, kind of my boss's boss's house for an afternoon of a little work (she and Dan had some Rebuilding Together planning to do) and a little socializing, with drinks, of course.  Why it was so important to me that he change his socks, I don't know.  I didn't have any facts to back this up, but I envisioned them being the same socks that he had worn to school on Friday and then again on Saturday because the kid only has a couple pairs of socks that he actually likes to wear.  Why wouldn't I think they were three days in to being worn before being washed?

So it was getting close to our target time to leave for their house, and I said for what may have been the fiftieth time, "Cal, did you change your socks?"  He responded by insisting he had put them on fresh that morning, but I wasn't listening.  I insisted again.  And he responded this time by coming to me, his arms outreached, and saying with his sweet voice as he hugged me, "I love you, Mama."

I got sucked right in, hugged back and reciprocated, "Aw, I love you, too, Baby Bear," setting the whole sock thing aside.  He does this.  He knows how to pull on my heartstrings.  All he needs to say is, "I love you, Mama," and I'm done.  Wear whatever you want, even that shirt with spaghetti sauce on the sleeve and Cheetoh juice on the neckline.

I told him this, that he just needs to tell me he loves me and I'll forget any issues I might be tackling with him; and he laughed, a playful yet devious laugh.  He all-encompassingly knows exactly what he's doing.  I'm a sucker for that kid.  For now, it's fun.  Battling dirty socks and food-stained shirts just gets overtaken priority-wise by enjoying a good hug and laughs with that Leatherkid.

We laughed again on Monday night during reading time.  Dan and I are back to the read-two-books-to-Ella-together-followed-by-reading-one-book-to-Cal routine.  Lately (where "lately" seems like the last two years), Cal chooses to read his Lego Star Wars book, which usually means he and I lie side-by-side at the head of his bed, Dan lies across the base of it, and I read the book to him.  Every once in awhile, Cal says that he wants to read, which, of course, I oblige.

The book is very worn and damaged (this is the one I threw against the wall a month or so ago), posing a challenge to bedtime reading as pages frequently fall out of it.  Despite its condition, this book gives the readers a good sense for how the Star Wars characters evolved, who trained whom, who moved to the Dark Side of the force, who killed whom, who descended from whom, and, in the case of the droids, who made whom.  It also describes the spaceships and general modes of transportation and tools for battle.  All of the aforementioned in their Lego forms, of course.

I wouldn't describe it as a funny book, though some of the cartoon talk bubbles have some witty banter.  There is one page that, when Cal and I hit it, makes us laugh because I just can't pronounce the word the way it's supposed to be pronounced.  It's about a spacecraft, the Executor, which seems like an easy word to pronounce but really isn't... on which syllable does one put the emphasis?  I inevitably pick the wrong one and, even after a lot of thought, awkwardly say it with the emphasis on the second syllable, "ExECutor," you know, the person who executes a will.  Cal laughs and corrects me by saying with the emphasis on the first syllable, "EXecutor," you know, the person who kills, or executes, people.

Executor excerpt

Monday night, Cal read that page.  We both giggled when he first arrived at it, knowing full well what was ahead of us.  It was early on that he came across the word, said it just as he usually does ("EXecutor") and then smiled.  Thinking he had said it incorrectly and I had caught him, I said, "wait..." and then bounced the word around in my head a few times before realizing he had said it correctly.  We laughed at the notion that I had thought that I had caught him saying it incorrectly.  As if.

Yes, despite my not-so-excited reaction to the news that he has selected it as his bedtime book again, reading this Lego Star Wars book is fun... or can be fun.  He has clearly read it an estimated million times.  Either that, or he has a freakishly good memory. Or maybe it's both.  I say this because when we hit the pages

Bounty Hunters, page 2

Bounty Hunters, page 1

Monday night that provided Darth Vader's notes (data files) on the different bounty hunters he was considering for the job of hunting down Luke, Cal recited the notes for each hunter either close to or exactly as old Darth had written them himself.  That one about Cad Bane (right) he nailed word for word with no help or leads from me.  Amazing.  And we're not always talking everyday, easy peasy words, either.  Cal laughed at my reaction to his being able to recite virtually word for word all of content from these pages; and that, in turn, made me laugh with him.

We really do have fun together these days, Cal and I.  Dirty socks, food-stained shirtsleeves, mispronounced words in a kids' book, amazing memory -- on the surface, these don't seem like funny things; but they are.  At least, Cal and I find a way to laugh about it all.

Cal's Hug

Not that I ever question our having two kids, even having to endure all of the lunacy that raising them entails, but tonight I experienced one of the benefits of having two of my own flesh and blood in our house.

I came home from a busy, tough day of work and tried to exchange pleasantries with Ella who was sitting at the island in our kitchen and frantically typing on her "Discovery Kids" laptop.  Yes, I tried.  She didn't bite and eventually grunted a frustrated response that had nothing to do with me... or anything, for that matter.  I don't remember what it was about, other than nothing that had anything to do with her, me or Dan, who was fixing dinner at the stove at the time.

I really just wanted a hug from her.  She gives good hugs.

Rather than sulk and be sad that my kid wanted nothing to do with me, I immediately asked where Cal was.  "In his room," Dan said.  He barely had the words out of his mouth and I was calling for Cal.  "Baby Bear?!" I called.  No response.  Dan followed by announcing that it was time for dinner; and, with that, I heard some footsteps and eventually saw Cal bounding down the stairs.  He was smiling.

"Hi, Mama!" he exclaimed through his big smile.

"Hi, Baby Bear!" I replied, my arms outstretched and inviting him into them.

He ran to me and wrapped his arms around my neck.  I wrapped mine around his torso and and then around his butt and picked him up to fully enjoy my much-needed, big-hearted hug from my firstborn.  It was a long hug and made me smile.

And that is a benefit of having two kids.  When one wants nothing to do with you, you can always turn to the other and just try again.  It won't always work, but the odds of getting something good from a child increase exponentially when you have two.

Things That Make Me Smile

A couple of days ago it was Friday and the end of what was a long week of work.  So much done, so much to think about, so much yet to do.  Next week will surely be not much different, possibly even worse.  But it's all good -- I'm not complaining.  I'm enjoying it.

Friday has turned into "beer train Friday," which, as its name suggests, involves drinking a beer on the long train trek home.  Usually, it's just a friend and I; every once in awhile another friend joins us.  Once, it was just I.  And every time, unless they're sold out, my choice of beer is the Two Brothers Wobble IPA.

Halfway through my beer during Friday's ride home and while talking with my friend, I felt happy.  I don't know exactly why, maybe it was the IPA, maybe it was the good end to the workday that I had, maybe I was overtired and delirious.  Whatever it was, it was the inspiration for this post -- a list of things that make me happy.

1. Drinking IPAs.  This has been my beer of choice for awhile now and lately has been the only type I drink.  Except for the Rebel IPA, I haven't had an IPA that I haven't liked.  I don't know if it's bad that I don't drink a variety of beers, but I don't care because IPAs make me happy.
2. Ella, reaching the end of the lane at swimming.  I watch her "make pizzas," kick, flip to breathe, crawl and dolphin kick her way from one end of her swimming lane to another, and I do enjoy witnessing that.  The best part of her trip down the lane, though, is when she reaches the end.  She goes under for a bit, explodes out of the water and smiles a toothless smile so big that you know that she is having so much fun.  That she's having fun and showing it makes me happy.
3. Dan getting a well-deserved raise. That Dan recently got a good raise was entirely his doing.  He works hard and sensibly and is productive.  His customers, both internal and external, appreciate the care and attention that he gives their accounts.  He takes on additional responsibilities above and beyond what is expected of his role. If his work ethic and product don't say enough, Dan also verbally regularly reminds his management of how valuable he is to their organization.  They hear him and have no choice but to reward him.  I am proud of him for this, and this makes me happy.
4. Talking with Cal about Michael Jordan.  I never pass on an opportunity to tell Cal that Michael Jordan is the best basketball player EVER.  I believe it, and I want Cal to know how good Jordan was.  Just yesterday, I reminded him of this.  I told him, "Michael Jordan was better than LeBron James.  He was better than Steph Curry... well, not as good a shooter as Curry but better all around."  Cal then asked me if he was better than "that guy who scored 100 points in a game," and I responded, "Wilt Chamberlain?  Yes, Jordan was better than Wilt Chamberlain."  As I talked with Cal about Jordan, I got excited tears in my eyes.  I was happy.
5. A run to the United Center at lunch.  Every once in awhile, I am able to escape work at lunchtime and go for a run to the United Center and back -- two miles there, two miles back.  It's a perfect distance with good distractions (including a statue of the aforementioned thing that makes me happy).  It really is an escape, and I always feel better having done it.  This run makes me happy.
6. The Leatherkids' artwork.  Not that I like the sheer volume of this (I get anxious

   

   One of my favorites of Cal's

   just thinking about it), but so much about the Leatherkids' artwork they bring home everyday makes me smile. Sometimes, I think it's brilliant, and it lands in a frame; other times it touches my heart, like when Ella writes "Mommy" somewhere on it.  I love that she thinks of me during the day when we are apart.  This makes me happy.
7. A full moon on a clear night.  Sometimes when I know it's a clear night and when everyone but I (is that right, Dad?) is asleep in the house, I step out onto the deck and look up at the moon. (I also do this on my walk back from the end of the driveway after taking the garbage out, which doesn't sound as glamorous.)  If I'm lucky, it's full.  It's dark outside.  It's quiet.  The air is especially refreshing.  The contrast of the moon's light against the dark sky is striking.  I take it all in and smile.  And then I think about the millions of people who could witness the moon at the same time if they chose to and wonder who actually is.  All I do know at that moment is I am, and what I'm witnessing makes me happy.
8. The Leatherkids, fast asleep.  They are not talking or talking back.  They are not making noises with their mouths or their bodies.  They are not wiping their mouths with their shirts or or just not sitting still.  They are still.  Perfectly still.  I watch them breathe for a few seconds and then look over their entire bodies.  I marvel in their existence.  I made them.  I kiss them and smile, a sure sign of happiness.
9. The Leatherkids getting along..  They may push each other's buttons and yell at each other.  They may push, kick or hit each other.  They may each shed tears over the other's doing.  And they may say that they "hate" one another.  But that's just part of being siblings.  I know that because I regularly witness the two of them interacting and laughing, playing off of one another, genuine joy expressed by their eyes which are looking at each other.  I love this.  They are friends, and they do love each other.  This makes me happy.
10. An unexpected compliment and show of appreciation from a co-worker.  To be honest, I work hard at my job for myself and sometimes for my co-workers who I also know are working hard toward the same goal.  If I don't think I'm doing a good job, I am not happy with myself, even if others think I'm doing just fine.  I don't seek or need praise from co-workers or managers.  But I tell you what: when, out of the blue and without a clear trigger, my co-worker tells a room full of people how much she appreciates the work that I've been doing and how helpful it's been to her team, I feel pretty darn good.  This happened on Friday, and I'm still smiling about it.  This made me happy.
11. Sunset behind the Chicago skyline.  I love this City and its skyline.  I can look at it

    

    Sunset behind the Chicago skyline

    and know what's going on between the buildings, having lived there for many years and worked there for even longer.  It's familiar.  It's alive.  It's beautiful.  It's now a far trek, but I love that I get to go there every workday to feel, share and witness it.  What a fantastic symbol of the City, made even more fantastic by a sunset.  This makes me happy.

So this isn't an exhaustive list of things that make me happy, just ones that came to mind during the timeboxed window I gave myself before starting to write.  I wanted ten but did eleven because I like odd numbers.  And I am happy just having written about these.

Bananagram Fun

I had another rough... let's call it day with Ella yesterday, and somehow righted the proverbial ship in the evening by asking her if she'd like to help me fix dinner.  I "needed" "help" cleaning and mashing the potatoes and pouring the baked beans -- her choice over lentils -- into the pot to heat up.  As she cleaned the potatoes, I poured myself a much-needed, much-deserved glass of wine and enjoyed it.  Honestly, despite still recovering from our... let's call it fight, I enjoyed that time with Ella, too.  It's not that it wasn't without its stresses (spilled cat food, potatoes flying everywhere while mashing, beans dripping from the serving spoon); but they were expected from an unskilled 4-year-old, and one who was eager to help and learn.  It also helped that we both had the right attitude, listening to and content with each other.

Anyway, we came up with some alternate seating arrangements for dinner.  With Legos pieces sorted by color in piles everywhere, our typical options for dinner tables were taken.  Instead, we decided she and Cal could eat at their little red table that we'd place alongside the kitchen island, where Dan and I would eat.  Ella then excitedly carried the red table and chairs into the kitchen on her own and proceeded to set our dinner places with plates, spoons and napkins.  Why just spoons, I'm not sure, but it didn't matter.

And then we ate.

After dinner, Dan had gotten back to Star Wars Lego set assembly duty, with Cal kind of participating.  I was on post-dinner kitchen duties, and Ella was running around.  Dan distracted her with the question, "Boopers (that's his name for her, short for Belly Boopers), do you know how to spell MIX?"  She scrambled to the pantry looking for something and after a bit of time scrambled back to Dan saying, "M-I-X" as she did.

Kitchen duty complete, I noticed that Ella had carried the yellow, banana-shaped bag of large Banagagrams into the family room, which is next to the kitchen. I asked her if she could spell MIX with the letters, and this led to an attempt to work on her sight words. I don't remember what I tried first, but I eventually got to the "AT" words -- there are so many, and I felt like I could get her to sound and reason them out.  We did AT, CAT, BAT, SAT, HAT, FAT... possibly more.

Eventually, it was bedtime; and I decided to end our Bananagram fun by finding and then laying out the letters:

(I really wish there were punctuation marks in these Bananagram sets.)

Anyway, Ella and Cal wanted to do their own... let's call them phrases.  Ella went first and assembled this:

(I love that she used a couple of the words that we worked on a few minutes earlier!)

And then this was Cal's gem:

(I'm still letting him sound things out when spelling and not worrying too much about misspellings; but I did tell him the correct way to spell RETURN after taking this picture.)

Their phrases made me genuinely laugh.  Leatherkids + Bananagrams are a fun combination!