Happy Birthday, Mariano

Let's see . . . USC baseball hat: check; USC shirt: check; USC baseball bat: check; USC baseball: check. Now all we need is the scholarship!

My college roommate (and lawyer extraordanaire) Marita, sent Mariano's gift via the bookstore. He thinks the hat is "just like Matt's" and all he wants to do is play baseball in the hallway now. I probably threw 50 pitches before I made him stop so we could eat dinner. He can actually HIT that little softball too!

I started to sound like my mom this afternoon. "Mariano, do you know what mommy was doing RIGHT NOW four years ago?" "What?" he said. And then I looked at the clock. 2:25. Uh oh. "Actually, I think I was saying goodbye to you as they got ready to take you to Children's Hospital." THAT wasn't the story I meant to tell. I'm supposed to describe the flutter of kicks, the anxious first contraction, the painful but forgettable pushing, all climaxing in a miraculous and joyous cry from a new baby introduced to the cold.

That's not my story. That's not Mariano's birth. Mine is one of waking up on a Saturday morning and not feeling any life from my 35-week belly. Of using our Fisher Price baby monitor to try and find the heartbeat that was so happily pounding the night before. How my legs felt like noodles standing in the bathroom when I believed the baby had died. We left for the hospital immediately--without any of the bags or cameras or phone numbers that had been packed. At 1:07 p.m. an emergency C-section introduced an unconscious baby to the delivery room where needles and oxygen and little tiny restraints were the first things Mariano experienced. His APGAR was 5. That night he had a seizure 15 miles away from my hospital bed where I tried to ignore the babies in adjacent rooms crying and being soothed by mommies at hand.

Four years ago another me, living in a parallel universe, had not gone to the hospital. She waited too long as the baby was delivered lifeless. She did not listen to her heart nor her son.

Today I remind myself that I must always listen to both. That is my birthday gift to Mariano. It's not as cool as a USC baseball bat and ball, but it will do.

Happy Anniversary, San Francisco

What on earth possesses a person to wake up on a Tuesday at 4:30 a.m.? Today is the 100th anniversary of the 1906 Earthquake and I dragged myself out of the warm covers to scooter down to Lotta's Fountain and join 10,000 of my neighbors before the sun arose. It was a moving ceremony, highlighted by one of the survivors laying a wreath on the fountain just before a string of four horse-drawn fire engines charged up Market from Kearny. That was really a moment to remember--the sounds of horse hooves racing on the streets while bells and sirens alarmed the people. If you closed your eyes, you could almost go back in time.

Mayor Gavin Newsom--our City's own celebrity bachelor--talked to all 12 survivors there. He was so kind and respectful to each person and quick with a little humor should a memory waver. He's really an impressive public leader when you see him in person and was swarmed by admirers seeking his autograph after the ceremony. You would have thought that a movie star stood in the center.

The Mayor asked each of the survivors what they remember about the day or the years following. One woman, who was 3 years old when the quake hit, talked about the empty lots and the challenge that people faced while living in tents in Golden Gate Park. "What did people do?" He asked. "Well," she said, "they just had to rebuild." So simply put. I guess that's the charge in life: when we're hit unexpectedly, when nature or tragedy or random events slap us around, we "just have to rebuild." No excuses. No time to whine or cry. Just pick up the pieces--whether they're bricks or emotions--and start adding new mortar.

I don't know how long it's going to take New Orleans to recover from her own natural disaster. I hope and pray that the people will find within themselves the strength and power to rebuild. San Francisco rose from the ashes and established itself as a survivor. One hundred years from now, the Katrina survivors may stand in the French Quarter and talk of a day when the challenges seemed insurmountable, how they were sent to places far from their homes, and yet they rallied and perservered. Then they can write their own song . . .

It only takes a tiny corner of/This great big world to make a place you love/My home up on the hill/I find I love you still/I've been away, but now I'm back to tell you:

San Francisco, open your golden gate/You let no stranger wait outside your door/San Francisco, here is your wandering one/Saying, 'I'll wander no more.'

Other places only make me love you best/Tell me you're the heart of all the golden west/San Fransicsco, welcome me home again/I'm coming home to go roaming no more.

America vs. Italy

"The Americans live to work and the Italians work to live."

This might be the very thing that tips the scales in favor of leaving the U.S. I did not understand that quotation my first time in Rome. I had saved our money for several months to take the family to Italy for 2 weeks and we stayed in the apartment of Massimo's aunt. Everyday the stores in the neighborhood would close for lunch and not open up again until 3:00 or later. It drove me crazy! I didn't come all that distance to take a nap every day!!! Massimo, meanwhile, was loving life. He was "home."

After many trips back to Rome, Ortona, and other cities, I've come to really appreciate that mindset. A shop closes down so the employees can go home and eat lunch and rest. In Ortona, families were out walking around at 10:30 p.m. after dinner and gelato. In Siena, it was New Year's Day and hundreds of people were out in the town center, yet very few stores were open for business. Here were tons of people out and about, but included in those were the store owners! They didn't want to be at work and miss out on the fun either. Many Italians take the entire month of August off for holiday. We spent our first anniversary in Rome and called 15 restaurants before we finally found one that would be open on Aug. 3! =)

I wonder if I can do that--change my very thinking process. I wonder if I can slow down enough to eat, take a nap, and live.

What is there not to love about tents?

I built Mariano's first "tent house" today. He wanted a front door, but I told him he'd have to just pretend. Apparently there's a loading dock there because he's moved in quite quickly and there's really not much room for any visitors, so who really needs a front door anyhow?? =)

So what's the deal about tents? I remember making hundreds over the years--mostly in our living room with the help of a wooden chair and the pillows from the sofa. Of course this one is using that classic style: the wooden rocking chair makes a nice side wall.

I'm thinking that we feel comfortable sometimes by the close sides of friendly blanket-tent. It's a smaller universe there: a place that is manageable and intimate. We can escape the crazy world without having to leave home and hide from all sorts of things--in Mariano's case, dinner, Mommy, and the cats. As we get bigger, so do the things that make us want to escape. Oh, and our tents get bigger too.

It reminds me of that wonderful scene in Harry Potter: Goblet of Fire. On the outside, the tents in the field look like they can hold 3 people max. When you enter, an entire house exists with a kitchen, rooms, etc. Harry walks through and, startled with the sight in front of him, says, "I love magic." Yes, that's what we're looking for!

Mariano asked me to come inside and join him. I'm sorry that I'm too big for this one. However, his birthday is coming up and he's invited two friends over to play. He's asked if I can build one large enough for the three of them. Maybe we'll use the bookshelf to be safe . . . and maybe I'll just have to test it out myself.

Insert Sinister Laugh Here

Hahahahaha! I guess it was just a matter of time before I joined the blog world. Blame it on my deep desire to constantly chatter; blame it on my tech-savvy husband; accuse of me of being trendy. No matter.

This actually reminds me of when I first became friends with the Internet. I had a buddy at The University of Alabama, Patrick Crispen, who showed me what this new-fangled doo-hickey was. I was thrilled to get email, but when I asked him why anyone would want their own website, he said, "Why would anyone want a phone number?" Well, now he's rich and famous (okay, sorta' famous and makes a decent salary) and I'm out $400,000 trying to start a restaurant.

Hmph.

Anyhow, I look forward to using this and sharing with you my thoughts, reflections, creations, and chatter. Check in whenever you want to see what the MP LIFE has in store!