Cold Spaghetti

The Preface: We have no child safety equipment in our home. None. However, we do not have stairs in our home. My parents have even less safety measures in their home. And they DO have stairs. Big, tall, hardwood ones. With spindles to get caught in, slippery floors to lose traction on, and hard surfaces to pack the punch.

So how do we keep an eye on ever-so-active Kate? And how did we keep an eye on Will before he was old enough to tackle them on his own? This is how: we communicate constantly, keeping tabs on who is watching which child where and providing updates when the situation starts to change. All the time clarifying and updating the who, what, and where.

Somehow, this didn’t happen so well this weekend.

See these stairs? Straight, long, tall, hard, and unyielding?Yup. What you’re now thinking is exactly what happened.

Kate fell down these stairs. From the top, or at least very very very close to it. It is a fall that could have killed her, should have seriously injured her, and in the very least must have decently hurt her. The thudding sound of her body going down these stairs is, without question, the worst sound I have ever heard.
I found her at the bottom, lying on her back, having just hit the bottom floor. Still in her hand were pieces of clothes (freshly washed and folded and placed among our suitcase upstairs) with others lying up and down the stairs around her. It was obvious that she had climbed the stairs alone, rummaged through the clothes, and chosen some to carry back down. Somewhere near the top, it all went very wrong.

I reached her so quickly that she hadn’t yet started to cry. She was in that moment of shock and surprise, the split second before you register pain. She let out the first cry after her eyes met mine. But, surprisingly, her cries did not last long — they were very short-lived, actually. She did have (has) a bruise on her forehead and red marks along the right side of her cheek, but nothing that looked truly serious. No blackout. No vomiting. No strange eye movement. No odd limb positions, pain while moving, or stiffness in walking. Nothing. After a minute of crying, pushing away bags of ice, and fussing over us looking at her head and eyes, she calmed down, pointed outside, and asked for “bubbles.”

It seemed like I was in worse shape… shaking, swallowing back bile, trying not to think about the sounds etched in my head and the pictures they painted. I have never been so afraid.

Some lessons:
— No matter who is watching, supposed to be watching, or assumed to be watching … everything is always on my watch. I am having a much harder time being around while others keep an eye on her and am definitely more nervous over her.
— Kate’s head is a diamond. Nothing is harder.
— Kate will make an excellent addition to the NFL or NHL.
— Kate does not learn well from accidents. The very next day, I stopped packing in a moment of dread and rushed to the stairs on instinct… and found her halfway up the stairs.

To my children: please, let this be the last of your near-death experiences. It’s too much for your poor Mother to bear.

Slides for kids, huge water fountains on a crawling-kid-friendly squishy foam surface, big huge slides for adults, a ton of swimming space, lap lanes, and a huge beach-style entrance… is there any place more perfect to escape the summertime heat???
Will LOVED the frog slide — a huge frog where the open mouth and tongue provide the slide into the water. He spent almost every moment — from when we arrived to when we left — on this slide.Brayden tried it out, too… although he seemed to like climbing out and around the edges of the pool more than anything else.
Cool water features! Will ran in and out of this circular sprayer several times — much to the delight of me and my camera.
Paul and Amy tackled both big slides with me snapping pictures… unfortunately, Paul didn’t pay attention and went down the vertical slide the same time Amy was coming down the tube slide, so I missed his picture (which is why Amy is giving him a hard time here.) They both did repeat performances and I joined them for a trip down the tube slide.
Nana holds the babies while Moms and Dads play on the big slides.
It was actually a “chilly” day for swimming (temps were in high 70s, low 80s with a breeze) but still a beautiful day. Kate wasn’t as interested in being chilly (she is our NOLA baby, after all) and instead hung out with the three plastic ducks Nana brought along and raided our bags in search of snacks, snacks, and more snacks.

Will and Kate love to “help” open gifts. Anyone’s gifts. Brayden, being the chill kid that he is, had little problem with it.

Although most of the neighborhood is in firm belief of it, Paul is actually not a spy. But close.

Still, he is a pretty in-demand guy. Remember that post about the mystique of The Wombat? Apparently, this is not too far from what actually happened (I picture some MacArthur-like General, a big stoogie in the corner of his mouth, bellowing out, “Who is this Wombat!? Get him up here!”) On Tuesday, his work called him up suddenly (Paul’s boss: “What do we have to do to get you here in the next 12 hours?” Paul’s answer: “Talk to my wife.“) So on Wednesday, Paul left in the wee hours of the morning to fly to DC. They offered to fly him back for the three-day holiday weekend. Instead, we opted for me to fly up with the kids and spend the weekend in Fredericksburg, Virginia, with his sister Amy, brother-in-law Kevin, our nephew Brayden, and Paul’s Mom (who was coming up from her home in North Carolina for the weekend.) The week started out normal; but ended up in a spontaneous family reunion 1000 miles from home.

Paul worked for most of our trip, but we still enjoyed the family time in Fredericksburg and a day on the National Mall taking in the some of the fabulous Smithsonian museums with friends Randy and Katherine. Pictures and details to follow.

All through the Memphis airport was the headline: Katrina + 2. Not that the Memphis news needed to give a reminder. I having been looking back to August 2005 for weeks, reading about the things were doing then… Will’s exploration of our neighborhood, Paul’s refinishing a hanging door, my intense summer of MLE and hierarchal models. The days seem innocent and disconnected, so different from the gritty realities that we so causally discuss now (“maybe we should keep the back door without stairs since so many break-ins are occurring from back doors being kicked in?”) I’d wanted to write something, not necessarily of great significance, but just something to remember that day, two years ago, when everything changed.

But this year, a slew of things came unexpectedly and blew us all over the Eastern seaboard in under 24 hours… so writing about It didn’t happen yesterday.

Years ago, I worked in crisis counseling (sexual assault and violence). A call coming in at anytime to meet someone of just about any age and be the calm in the midst of disaster. Despite the horrific situations and details beyond the scope of what a normal person can even stand to hear; I could hear it, keep it together and be there professionally and on some level, personally. Ultimately, it wasn’t the details I wanted… the important stuff was the work of emotions. Later, these things would affect me. I would fall apart during the 30 minute ride home through the mountains, listening to irresistibly happy music (Sesame Street, They Might Be Giants) to help brush it off. After less than a year of work, I stopped crying during the drive home — which is when I knew I needed a new profession.

It took me months to understand that our lives had been changed by Katrina. Months. I problem solved and worked in crisis mode and shaped our lives accordingly. After bouncing around in the immediate weeks, we settled in at my parents house and Paul continued to work; his profession became a magic source of stability. I found out I was pregnant with Kate the day we evacuated and became fixated on completing my timetable of requirements, passing my comprehensive exams, and keeping up with all pre-Katrina plans. Remaining solid with the program was an obsession. Maybe I was worried that any lag time would be attributed to my being a Mother? (Feelings which are not unwarranted.) It didn’t occur to me that everyone’s lives were now different, that everything was different.

Nothing else crossed my mind. Life was an overwhelming combination of studying and raising Will. Then around April of 2006, I was driving through the then familiar blinking stoplights, when it hit me. REALLY hit me. It took that long for the logical and emotional reactions to meet in reality. There wasn’t an epiphany, just a realization that it was okay for me to be feeling lost and misdirected. It was okay to abandon pre-Katrina plans, and to let myself be changed by the new, post-Katrina world around me. Just like that, previous plans were forgotten and we opened ourselves to the true possibilities of our lives here.

And that’s where we are in + 2.

“Godzilla is a really big alligator.”
“It is not time for bed. I am not going to bed right now BECAUSE.”
“Sometimes I’m 14, but really I’m 3 1/2.”
“If I drink my milk ALL UP, I get a treat.” (no, Will… you have to finish your peas and chicken first.) “NO MOMMY. Those are GREEN DROPS and SHARK BITES.”
“I didn’t paint at school today because I really needed just to run because.”
“Sometimes I don’t listen to my body fast enough and I have an accident. People have accidents sometimes.”
“Stories are very important.”
“Sometimes Katey doesn’t listen because she is a baby.”

The Saga of the House Next Door began long before we bought this house. For us, it began as an empty lot (there had once been a house — around 1900 or so — but it burned down years and years ago). The bank that foreclosed on this house mistakenly thought the lot was included in the foreclosure. When they listed the property for sale, the lot was included. Potential buyers tried to purchase the house and lot, and when a host of title problems exposed the reality, they walked. The bank was forced to relisted the house, but with the stigma of rumors of “title problems” it sat. Then we came along.

Long story short… we bought the house. During closing, the attorney (who had overseen the initial problems involving the lot) told us that the title problems were so far-reaching that the lot was going to be under our care for a long, long time. A little lagniappe to our home purchase. A place where we could maybe put up a swing set or park the car, since we were going to be assumed as the ones responsible for taking care of it. We were fine with this arraignment. In fact, we hoped to buy the lot one day… a beautiful grassy expanse with a twisted live oak and a beautiful willow tree of amazing size and grandeur. It made the hefty buy-in on the empty box with no kitchen and no bathrooms a bit more worth the price.

Right after closing, we visited Our New Home to find a man mowing the lot next door. A developer. The lot’s new owner. Damn.

So construction on the house next door started at the same time as our moving in. We endured some pretty ridiculous abuses over the year it took for the place to get built. Noise at insane hours. Workers pleading with us to move our car in front of the lot to hold space for their equipment — then showing up hours before their scheduled return (read: at 6:45am) and banging on windows and outside walls of the house for us to move it. Borrowing our water & hose (without asking) and not even being careful in the process, destroying plants in the front garden. Tearing up the grass on the side and front of the house with bobcats. Illegally building the ground up so that the house sits a little higher and not putting in the requisite drain system, which instantly began eroding away our foundation (at the time of purchase, our home inspector said our home was the “most level he had ever seen in the city — unheard of at less than 6/10 of an inch” — but more on this later). Spraying both our freshly sanded and painted fence and brand new brick stairs and walkway with specks of concrete. This list of abuses could go on for a few hours. But we took it all in with general fortitude. We were friendly and helpful to the workers and went out of our way to help (translated for Spanish-speaking labor, offered help with reserving street space, gave drinking water, and more). Some of the workers repaid in-kind (like the foreman of the project letting Will drive the Bobcat).

So the house got built. Poorly and with many corners cut (some that were, frankly, shocking), but still — it was built. It was a good lesson in New Orleans construction as apparently, this particular builder has a reputation for quality work… which is sort of like saying a slice of Wonder bread is a quality product. But all that aside, the house was done. Finally.

Two weeks before Katrina the buyers moved in, a loving and friendly family with three children. The youngest was born the very week they moved in (we attended his naming ceremony) and the daughter possessed an incredible artistic talent that left me speechless and hoping that she could rub off some of her passion to my kids, since the whole reason I had kids in the first place was to do art projects. (One day, she shared a charted drawing she’d done that showed ways to be a good friend along with picture diagrams. I was blown away; she might as well have come in with her recently completely translation of Ulysses into Swahili, I was that impressed.) While well intended, they weren’t quite aware of some overall housing issues (like the drainage problem, which still hadn’t been addressed — although by this time we’d built a levee system on the side of the house in an attempt to better protect our foundation).

Then Katrina came. The nice family didn’t come back. But after a year (during which we took a lead role in maintaining the home and pool — including some yard care, mosquito tablets, and other necessary measures, since they weren’t happening) they rented the house. The renters turned out to be a dream: a fun family of three girls that we adore. On days we forgot to take out our trash cans, they took it out for us (and vice versa); we shared recipes and dinners — they even cooked the cabbage I caught on St. Patrick’s Day when I declared my inability to produce something edible from it. The girls came over almost everyday, bringing great energy and enthusiasm. They helped with our kids (particularly the oldest, who has incredible skill with kids and even volunteered for Abeona House for a few weeks) and were a source of entertainment for Paul and I. (We learned that even when completely still, you can actually hear noise blasting out of 9-year old girls. It’s an incredible phenomena.) A few short months ago, the family moved back to their home (taken in by The Flood) and the house next door went on the market.

In a competitive housing market with a huge over-stock of high-priced homes, we thought the house would remain on the market for awhile. Low and behold — it sold! And last weekend, while we were away, we got a new neighbor. I did go and say hello (with cookies and phone numbers) and although I was flying on meds, managed to have a pleasant conversation. So we have a nice new neighbor. One who seems to have fine taste and be a really impressive drummer (despite the choice of midnight on weeknights to practice). We figure that these were symptoms of what was undoubtedly a very busy and stressful few weeks of closing, packing and moving. A big plus: the drain was finally fixed. (At least on our side.) Additional improvements seem to be on the way, so we are excited. With another musician on the block, maybe we can resurrect the pre-Katrina jam sessions that used to spill out on the sidewalk, the kids dancing around in the jerky way, adults hanging back to take it all in. In short, the Saga may be ending and a turn-around may really have reached us, too.

Friday night, Paul and I went to a bar, drank beer, and socialized. We were pretty sure that it was the signal of the Apocalypse; Paul clutched his chest and hyperventilated when I seemed disappointed that Buffa’s was out of Abita’s Summer Wheat. But yes: we ventured out Friday night to meet some of the city’s bloggers.

In post-K NOLA, blogging has taken on a bit of a life of its own, becoming a source of “real” news, saying what other civic minded (but paycheck bound) citizens cannot, reporting on local recovery meetings, throwing out leads to local media outlets for potential stories, serving as a place for political organizing, and even showing up en masse to gut homes. You can even call it a “community”… with its own cliques, heroes, and established social order. Whatever you call it, you can’t call it aside; it is loud enough to warrant a degree of respect and in the least, some interest. Without question, I missed much of the meat of the weekend (particularly the advocacy and activist forums) but would have been happy just to pay registration to show financial support and make an attempt to see the folks behind the curtain, so to speak. So the fact that I got in a little Saturday morning action is an achievement.

I wasn’t expecting a particularly diverse crowd, since the internet itself it still a pretty white bread sort of place. (Note to self: re-connect with Guerrilla Girls for updates.) But it rekindled in me something I’ve been chewing on for awhile: where is the voice of the newly arrived Latino in post-Katrina New Orleans?

I’ve mentioned blogging to folks in “the community” (code for: newly arrived Latino community), which is a term that, in itself, irritates me; as if reinforcing this idea of difference within the city. That we exist in these separate (but unequal) spaces that are homogeneous within themselves and decidedly apart from whatever mainstream “community” is running the show. Granted, the folks I work with are often clandestine by choice (hence, one of my interests as a social scientist, health advocate, and concerned human) yet, I do believe that there is place for their voices to be heard here — in NOLA politics and recovery, online and other.

A hundred times I’ve started to write about an experience… a person… a combination of the two to get some information out there. But I don’t publish it, I struggle with voice, and I come up with nothing. Writing about what I have seen or experienced comes too close to writing about the lives of others in ways that give me pause. Rather than write myself, maybe it makes more sense to help reduce the socioeconomic barriers and socio political isolation that quiet these voices from being heard in our city. Or maybe I underestimate myself (something Paul says I do more and more the further I get up the academic food chain) or maybe I haven’t explored the right places to find what I think is missing.

Or, maybe once my “formal” research begins in earnest, I’ll have more official things to say. As for now, these are just thoughts in my head.

“In outer space, you have to be careful because there are lots of COLD COMLETS. They FLY through the air and will BURN YOU UP.”

(Paul): “Will, don’t you mean COM-ET?”

“No Daddy! I said COM-LET.”

(Me): “Yeah, you tell him, Will.” (To Paul) “Let it go, this one is too good to fix.”

“Okay. It just makes me want to vom-let.”

This happened back on 8/9, but I wasn’t there. The first appointment for either kid that I missed…!

Weight: 18 lbs, 12 ounces (5-10 percentile) — thank goodness, she’s finally gaining weight!
Height: 29 inches
Immunizations: Chicken Pox, DPT

Kate was given eye drops for some type of eye… something? Paul noted that her eyes were really “crusty” and after giving the drops as directed, all is fine now. I was out of it for most of this, so no one knows the specifics. But she’s okay now! We go back the second week of September for a re-check on weight.