Last season, on How It Is For Me.

Earlier this year, I lost my howitsisforme.com domain and tried to rely on The Facebook. But there are Friends and there are friends.

Here, I can say, "Come fill your plate if you're hungry. If not, I'm happy to eat alone."

Here, I can also take my metaphors too far. And I always, always, like to take my metaphors too far. Eat up.

So I'm back, 8 months later, wondering if I have anything left worth saying. So here's what you missed last season on How It Is For Me:

I hosted a kick-ass fundraiser for children's cancer research in the Spring.

After missing 80 days of Kindergarten, Aria went into "full remission." and hasn't missed a day of 1st grade. Her chemo-goldilocks are still royal.

We almost moved to Silicon Valley. Then didn't. Bye-Bye to my imaginary equity windfall. Bye-Bye to sunshine, ocean, redwoods and mountains. Bye-bye to Berkeley and UCLA listed as "state school" on the college budget.

I'm damn happy to have chosen the People's Republic of Oak Park. I'm alternately delighted and frightened to discover what I will do next. I'm filled with gratitude to have the freedom, at least for a little while, to try to figure it out.

Stay tuned, batfriends.

The Awesomeness of My People

(that is NOT a full "thank you" list. This is just the beginning. More to come.)

I planned last year's fundraiser mostly on my own, and it was a pretty simple affair. It earned $5K. I was motivated to up the ante this year. It's way more work than I expected, but I'm learning a lot. This week, I learned:

When you want something done, ask a busy person.  (credit: my mom). 

People who are too busy to help, but those who do anyway are the ones who know how to prioritize. They take the initiative, move fast, wrap up the details, and move on to the next thing. They don't need you in their face asking how it's going, because it already went. You don't follow-up with them, they follow-up with you.

Noreen, you are the busiest person I know, and your help has been extraordinary, unexpected, and deeply appreciated. Getting people in the door, getting donations from unexpected places, getting yourself and your great ideas all the way to Oak Park just to help nail down the details. Thank you.

Erica and Chris and Kath, thank you for being such great friends and reliable humans that you respond to every request and take care of things without me thinking twice. You are there to help how and when I need you, no questions.

Anna....thank you for booking a diverse music line-up that makes me think we should have charged higher admission, and for asking me for my 2 cents every step of the way. Chris Connelly, for serious? Thank you.

Andrea, your hot pretzels twists are extraordinary. And I cannot believe how much #$%^! work they are. Barbara I tried to make them, and the only extraordinary thing was the three hours we spent failing. I praise both your fortitude and talent. You are making hundreds of them? We are so not just giving these away at the fundraiser. I'll start making the price tags now.

Megan, you solicited raffle donations and recruited makeup artists for a fundraiser you can't even go to!

Lincoln School PTO, even though I can't help with your fundraising as much as I promised, you still stepped up to promote Aria's event in multitude ways to make a difference and reduce my anxiety about walking into an empty room on March 15.

You all just make things happen in the background, and whoosh, there they are. And your individual style in getting there makes me feel lucky to have such diverse and kick-ass friends.

The best help is the help I don't have to ask for, give much direction on, or worry about getting done. I need to step up my game and figure out how to get more people in the door so I make sure all your efforts are leveraged to their fullest.

Thank you!

We're Back! And we'll see you at Aria Rocks the Lemonade Stand!

Last year, we raised $5,000 for children's cancer research through a combination of wine tasting, online donations, and my dear uncle's marathon running.

This year, we're going to raise $8,000, because that's how Aria rolls...upward! And this year, she also rocks. Specifically, Aria will be at WIRE on March 15th at 1:30  for our fundraising party.

This year it's a family affair -- no sitter required!

Here's the place to donate to pediatric cancer research.

Here's the site with event details and to RSVP.

Endless thanks and gratitude to all who made last year's event a success. Every donation counts, even volunteer matters, and every one of you made a difference. 

Speaking of volunteers....who's meeting me Thursday night at the local watering hole to talk about gourmet pretzels, limoncello gelato, rainbow lemonade, and the 21+ lemonade stand? Clock's tickin'.

Aria Update: She has been mostly homebound for the last 2 months because her immune system isn't playing well with others. In fact, it's being entirely antisocial. But we hope by spring--actually by the time of this party---she will be back to her social butterflying. So make sure you come see her...she'll be looking for you.

They Drank Wine, Ate Truffles, and They Gave!

We had a terrific turnout at Aria's cancer research fundraiser at House Red...just the boost my serotonin needed.

I was so caught up in the cheer and generosity that I didn't take a single photo. No matter. It's an afternoon I won't forget.

Aria made an appearance to sell her 50-cent blinky rings for $20 apiece. In 15 minutes, the kid collected $1000+ in cash for Childrens Cancer Research Fund. Leukemia doesn't stand a chance with her around.

Last year, we garnered $2700 in donations. This year we aim to increase that by 50% ($4050), for a total of $6750.

Will you help?

My uncle is running a marathon to support the fund, so you can donate via webpage he set up:
http://ccrf.convio.net/goto/Aria_McCarthy

Volunteer party planners will be fully compensated at each meeting with cheap wine and even cheaper jokes. (And a free playdate for any kids you find lying around the house...)

Aria's Quarterly Review & Annual Report

Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of Aria's leukemia diagnosis. It's been three months since I last wrote. It's time to write something down. 

A year ago today, I was debating whether to take Aria to her fifth doctor in a week (and to her second emergency room in a day), because no one but us seemed to see that she was dying. 

She was. I knew it. Someone with a stethoscope needed to get that, too.

So, Kevin stayed with Lyric while I took Aria to another ER on the cusp of a blizzard. Finally someone -- the second doctor, not the first -- actually, truly *saw* at her. And he knew. 

Finally.

Within hours, she was hooked up to a dozen monitors in a pediatric ICU. I was staring at her thin gray body, and pushing the word "cancer" from my throat over and over.

Fast forward (not so much) to today, and I'm camped with Aria in our living room until her immune system returns from Spring Break (hopefully in better shape than your average post-Cancun college student).

Twelve months of cancer, capped off with two months of polar vortices and cabin fever, and we're both ready for something new. She's on the sofa pretending to read a Last Airbender book, and I'm on my laptop pretending to be confident about what comes next for us.

Truthfully, I haven't written in a three months because I was busy burning out. But now must be the time for something new. At my house, we do major changes in sync with the seasons. Every. single. season. 

Jump in my WayBack Machine, will you?

Summer 2012. I'd just laid off many people I deeply liked and had to reassess the future of a company that employed both me and my husband.

Fall 2012: Kevin and I began working on how to start our own business. Scary but exciting. 

Winter 2013: We put that endeavor on hold as I examined a potential partnership in my company. Also, scary but exciting.

Spring 2013: Aria is diagnosed with cancer, and I focus on getting us through something very scary. Not exciting. 

Summer 2013: Our financial future is increasingly unstable. Our jobs provide more flexibility than others might. Employers don’t recruit parents who have their own room at the chemo clinic. Kevin had to look for a stable corporate job in Supply Chain instead of one in Film Production, where he had the potential to be passionate and excellent. This makes us both even madder at the world.

Fall 2013: Kevin gets a sudden but serious job offer back in California. I force myself to start preparing for new homes, schools and hospitals while breathing a small sigh of relief that his search is over with minimal effort. The job falls through as suddenly as it emerged. 

Winter 2014:  The holidays were a blur. For a few months, I was quietly Pissed Off at the World (the title of my unsent annual Christmas letter). I get a "parenting coach" because my first grader and I have failed to achieve "goodness of fit." Kevin and I are stressed beyond what a bottle of Malbec alleviates. And, oh, my preschooler still has cancer. The realization sets in that I’d labored for a few months over a brilliant business plan for a dream business that I can't start without selling both of my children – and one of them is clearly not under warranty any longer.

Spring 2014: I hoped to make it the year of improved health, careers, and calm. Sure, it could've been way worse, but really, obviously, people, 2013 was not our year. It took me three months just to recover and write about it.

Now Aria’s immune system is on a downswing. The career situation is perilous but active. I’ve started meditating. Lyric's talking about Airbender birthday cakes. 

I'm climbing out of the abyss for a while. I'm hosting a wine-tasting fundraiser for children's cancer research. Without the medical research that relentlessly worked on my child's specific cancer, I wouldn't be caring about my career options or parenting skills today. I would be grieving. It'd feel good to help at least one other parent have the luxury of worrying about daily life bullshit instead of grieving over a child. 

In the process of planning this fundraiser, I also hope to reconnect with all the people I've missed since stuff got wacky a couple of years ago. Thanks to everyone who has expressed excitement about the event or making a donation. Your interest and support makes me feel less distant from real life. 

  

Mommy NTBFW

When Aria was diagnosed with leukemia, we had to leave behind the Montessori, along her first friendships. We couldn't afford to pay tuition when her attendance would be erratic so we started art classes, which she loves. Though, she would have love Street Cleaning Class, if it meant getting to leave the house.

We took advantage of our public school's free Pre-K program for kids with "special needs." Qualifying "needs" run the gamut from financial to developmental to physical... ding ding ding! Cancer is a winner.

Aria's personality, coupled with her cancer, has revealed one of her most impressive superpowers. She is: Adaptability Girl! She ran in those school doors Monday without looking back.

At pick-up a mere 2.5 hours later, she had wilted: pale, empty and droopy. Though now a seasoned 4-year-old, she lifted her arms toddler-style and said, "I'm sweepy,"  I happily hoisted all her 33 lb. of squishy perfection onto my hip.

We all know that chemotherapy tends to weary a person -- especially a 4-year-old person. And by "all" I mean "everyone except the 40-something Preschool Coordinator, who is fully aware of Aria's on-going chemo treatments.

She instructed me to put Aria down and make her walk, invoking the Royal We, as in, "We don't carry the children."

The sole message my brain could form: "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Historically, however, I wait until Week Two to swear at preschool teachers. I manageed to squeak out an apologetic, "She's exhausted."

In lieu of realizing her error, however, the Coordinator decided she did not quite agree that our excuse was acceptable, but that she was willing to let our violation slide this one time, benevolent leader that she was.

This is the part that pisses me off the most: I put Aria down.

I made my sick kid walk because an adult-who-should-have-known-way-better cited policy. The last time a preschool administrator inappropriately cited a policy to me, I explained why she didn't grasp the underlying point of her own policy, encouraged her to redirect her misplaced sense of authority, and then to have a nice day. That preschool director called me hostile, and she was right.

As a policy, I hate policy (unless I wrote it). I'm more of a "guideline" kind of gal. Most rules are written to CYA for the bureaucrats to deal with humans whose thought processes are...not thorough.

I understand there are many humans for whom that unfortunately applies, thus making policies crucial to group functionality. However, I am not one of those humans.

Back to CarryGate. Why didn't I woman up and explain the situation? Why did I retreat? Where was my mamabearness? So disappointing.

Sure, five seconds after I put Aria on her feet, I picked her back up. But it was five seconds too late for my pride. I'm the mom of a kid who has a fucking port installed in her chest. A kid who had to tell her first friend at her new school that no, she is not a boy and can't you see all my fuzzy hair that's grown back?

CarryGate was two days ago I'm still replaying it with a different ending, where I'm crisp, assertive, clever, and self-assuredly holding onto my wrecked 4-year-old. Had I countered the woman's misguided directive with a response more befitting my imaginary self-image as a bad ass, I might not be so feeling so wronged.

I know this sort of thing happens to everyone. I know this is my ego tugging at me. I know this preschool teacher a famed power-tripper. I am even aware that my self-censure is because, after 40 years, I'm still trying to unlearn the idea that aggression  is power and power is survival.

But, I still feel better when I say this: I look forward to the opportunity to redeem myself as a Mommy Not To Be Fucked With.

Goodness gracious, mommy, isn't the snow so exciting!

That's a lot of snow for early November. The last time it snowed was 8 months ago. The first leg of that wintery wonderland emerged on a Friday afternoon in March, and I posted this picture with the caption "Finally, proper snow."

They were so freaking excited about this snowman. I remember I ducked inside before it was done because it was so damned wet and cold.

By morning, Aria had a 105 degree fever and we headed to the pediatrician's office, only to be told that kids with strep get crazy high fevers. Something similar happened Sunday at 3AM in the ER. By Monday night, we had a blizzard and I was taking Aria to a new ER while Kevin stayed home with Lyric.

By morning, Aria had cancer.  That's what I think of each time I see this picture, one that I should love.

A few minutes ago, Kevin took the girls out to play in the first little snowfall of the season. All afternoon, I've tried to love their excitement and delight in how exciting and pretty it is. But all I manage is a smile that never reaches my eyes, doing little more than remaining upright, lucid, and taking in just enough oxygen to remain so.