When Penny was born yesterday afternoon, she was scuttled away to the NICU for some special attention, and in the first picture I saw, her sweet round face was covered with tubes and bands and cords. My first thought was a shout out to the Universe to tread lightly with this one, please and thank you. My second was a shout out to my brother.

"Penny looks like an X-wing pilot."

"That's my girl."

His girl. That my brother has a child is so far out, I can hardly stand it. He will be a great, if absurd, daddy. Frankly, I'm a little surprised she wasn't named after a Transformer, but I assume that has a great deal to do with his wife's firm and graceful touch. Still and all, she was (and I report this with glee) middle-named after a character on Firefly, little miss Penelope Jayne.

She is, by the way, out of NICU and sleeping off her birthday adventures (being born is very hard work). I simply cannot wait to gnaw on her cheeks (in stupid MARCH, which is so far away she will probably be doing calculus by then and want nothing to do with her old maid auntie). With her parents' permission, I will try to post a picture of those glorious cheeks later this afternoon.

Oh, and for the curious, I did not die at hot yoga. In fact, I've been back three times. Bow pose will be mine, dammit. Also, I did not die on my bike ride. In fact, our 15 mile ride to the lake and back was 100% incident-free. I'm still waiting for the Boy to take back all that crap about me falling and breaking all my bones. I have a feeling I'll be waiting a long, long time. And maybe by the time I get some satisfaction on the matter, my freaking tailbone will have stopped the ohmyhell aching. Those seats are made for folks who already have trim fannies. Those of us who want them, well, we have to suck it up or learn to pedal standing.

TA DA!

Next month, thanks to my generous family, the Dork Lord and I will be heading to Utah for my sisters' graduation(s).

<Tangent>Just typing that sentence conjures up some super fantastic images of my own (nine - god, can you believe it? - years ago). I have absolutely no idea if I walked the stage and shook anyone's hand, though I'm sure I must have. What I do have is a very clear memory of tripping down the stairs of the Marriott Center and breaking the heel off my shoe. In front of a mazillion people. Oh, yeah, it was a pretty special experience. My own graduation was so stressful (what with moving to Boston the next day sans job), that I was uncomfortably and awkwardly heavy from eating my feelings and sporting a complexion that even three inches of Clinique's thickest goo wouldn't mask. It wasn't attractive. And neither was my JCPenny suit. </Tangent>

Not only will my Utah family be there for the event (oh, baby Owen, lend my your thigh), but my everywhere else family will be there, too - grandparents, included. Which, of course, is the perfect opportunity to immerse the Boy fully into the complete insanity that is my genetic affiliation. I anticipate strangeness, if not a complete meltdown or two. It will be awesome.

I've always thought that my brother and by beau would get along famously and I'm excited to test out that theory. Though, I'll admit to being a little worried about letting my brother cook for him. See, to date, the Boy is under the impression that I am competent in the kitchen. My brother? He is truly gifted. And he's going to make me look bad. I will have to ease my pain with a piece (or two) of his chocolate cake. Ganaaaaache. 

The Dork Lord and I spent the weekend at the ranch where His Nerdiness had a very successful first experience with gun slinging (the bruise on his right man boob is ever so pretty) and where I did what I always do there - eat, sleep, read, eat, play with dogs and eat - only this time, with added making out. It's so very easy to be in love where there is lots of sky and no responsibilities. And hardly anyone tells you to get a room. Anyway, I'll get back to the weekend stories later, but I have to interrupt our previously scheduled entry to show you this:
 

If you've been around these here parts long enough, you know I make it a point not to write about politics. It's just too divisive. People will say the nastiest thing under the cloak of anonymity anyway, and when it comes to parties and their lines, they can be exceptionally ruthless. So, except for saying I was happy for Sir Hal when his candidate won the presidential election, I have not commented on This Major Thing Which Is About to Happen. And I still will not comment except to say, holy crap, today is a really, really good day and it feels a little bit like an entire lifetime of Christmas mornings all rolled into one infectiously giddy celebration. That pony in the backyard? It's yours! Now, go take care of it.

Another point of glee: my nephew is coming to visit on Monday. Also, my sister and her husband. But you know, mostly my nephew and his thighs. Omm nomm nomm. If you would like to get visually lost in some baby rolls, I refer you to the photo below. Keep scrolling. Yes, there it is. God, so much cuteness.

Speaking of my delicious nephew and politics... What? You don't see the connection? Yeah, neither did I. But to the commenter who lambasted me for my American Ignorance (apparently not writing about politics and world events is a sure sign I am unaware they even exist) by telling me that my nephew may be sweet and beautiful but do I KNOW how many BABIES are dying in GAZA I say, take it somewhere else. And shame on you. Yes, the world is a difficult, dangerous, brutal place. This blog, however, is pink and silly and about babies and making out and what happens when you forget you're wearing underwear and pee all over yourself at work. And it might, if you let it, give you a break from some of the harsher realities - even if just for a minute or two. What I'm saying is, the content is purposely light and conspiculously lacking in dead babies and I intend to keep it that way. Capiche?

Now, go take care of your pony.

Sure, it was only one of you. But one voice clamoring for updated baby nephew photos is all the encouragement I need. Two words: sheriff onesie. I've been sitting on this one for a couple weeks now and the discipline that took, I just can't tell you.

What I can tell you is keeping the peace in this one horse town must be exhausting work.

He never calls. In fact, he had never called me on this phone ever - the one I've had since I changed my phone number way back when. I actually checked. Scoured online records to be sure. My father had not called me in almost two years.

So when he called the day after Christmas, I was surprised and delighted. I was not suspicious, because it's not in my nature to be. It's in my nature to be happy when someone calls. To love being remembered. Do you know there's nothing that scares me more than being forgotten? I'd rather be resented, or even hated, than never thought of at all.

When he called, he was upbeat; this is not common. He wanted to talk about Christmas. I hadn't opened his present yet, I told him, we were celebrating a bit late this year. I would call him on Saturday. But on Saturday, he didn't pick up; this, on the other hand, is very common.

When I got his text on New Year's Eve I was confused, but not because of the fever or the painkillers. The man hasn't mastered the fine points of voicemail and he'd suddenly learned to send text messages? Still, I thought, This is good. He's reaching out! To me! I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and pressed the green button.

Dad: Did mom accept my peace offering or not

And all at once, by the glow of my cell phone, everything was illuminated. Calling me on Christmas was not about me. Sending me a Christmas present for the first time in five years was not about me. It was a smokescreen. A gift-wrapped Trojan Horse to gain access to my mother.

Me: Yes, she did. She's sending you a thank-you note.

But then, I was wide awake, spurred up and out of bed, my skin stinging from the shock of cold and the pain of fever. And I was filled with ugliness and rage. Hurt, anger, malice. I paced between my bedroom and the kitchen, flinging insults into the darkness, hurting him in secret. I pictured him obsessing over her, buying that CD - one she won't have any reason to listen to, one that reaches back years, to my early childhood, when they may actually have been happily married. And I wanted to scream at him to fucking let it go. She doesn't think about you!

Me: Please don't use me to get to Mom.

Plaintive and simple, as though I hadn't asked him a dozen times before. As though this time he was going to keep his promise. I clicked the phone to silent, dug my toes into the carpet and threw it. I heard the crack of the battery as it hit somewhere in the dining room, knew I'd be gathering up the pieces in the morning. I ground my back molars together and went back to my room. This time, I thought, when he calls, I'm really going to let him have it.

But of course, he never did. Because he never calls.

Heather: disturbed by Kiafest
Brother Jason: shopping Kiafest
Mom: what's Kiafest?

Jason: Poor mom, doesn't watch TV.

Heather: Those commercials where the salesman is flashdancing? Kill me. And not in the good way.

Jason: Yeah, they bugged the hell out of me last year.

Heather: I worry that mom is not aware enough of her surroundings. Kiafest could be going on and she would have no idea.

Jason: We may need to think about a live-in current events nurse.

Heather: Yeah, maybe you're right. I just don' t have the kind of time it takes to care for her multi-media needs. Can we afford in-home care? I think it's time to call a family meeting.

Jason: I mean, does she even know about the Dodge Sales Event, or Toytoathon? Maybe she could move in with me and Jamie. The rest of the family would have to pitch in for care costs, but it might just have to happen.

Heather: The cable bill, we could split that.

Jason: We'd have to upgrade to HD - that might be a hefty cable bill.

Heather: She's our MOM. We can't not. I mean, what if she gets WORSE?

Jason: But they didn't even have HD when she was a kid. How can that be considered a necessity for her? No, you're right... we have to.

A couple weeks ago, Mike J and I had dinner at a local pub, and afterward, I came home and crawled directly into bed. An hour later I woke up, feeling like something was not right. After a quick assessment (ooh, I think it's my stomach), I rolled over to swing my feet to the floor, and threw up all over myself.

Attractive, right? I don't think I've had such little control over my puke power since that time in the third grade when I yakked all over Mrs. Ashby's shoes. But this was only the beginning of the night's adventure in pathetic.

I scrambled for the bathroom, where I spent the next two hours begging for death. I'm no stranger to the glorious experience that is food poisoning (Boston 2003, Morocco 2004) and I knew where I was headed. To the hospital for Compazine and an IV full of saline. Only, these days I don't have health insurance, or a roommate, and I was in no position to get myself to the living room, much less to the Emergency Room.

I texted Mike, on the off chance that he would still be awake. Nada. I texted Jamie, who works nights. Nada. So I curled up on the bathmat and cried. Hard. Here I was, almost thirty years old, and completely alone. And for a girl who really likes alone, I was not digging it at all.

Finally, at a quarter of two, I called my mom.

"Mom, I'm really sick," I bawled into the phone. "I'm sick and I don't know what to do."

She said something about urgent care, which I couldn't process because I was thinking really important thoughts about crawling back to the toilet. And then she said the magic words,

"I'm on my way."

It was 1:49. It takes 30 minutes from her door to mine. I grabbed my watch from the bathroom counter and counted. Forty-nine, fifty-nine, oh-nine. Then I crawled back to the toilet, and buried my face in the bowl until help arrived. And when it arrived, she bundled me up, put me in the car, volunteered to pay for a trip to the ER, and listened to me bawl about being alone and pathetic.

"When you're this sick, you're always alone."

Man, you can always count on Mom in times of crisis. If for nothing more than really solid words of wisdom. That, a spare bed and ginger ale, with a bendy straw.

A dozen or so hours I was back on my feet and feeling much less pathetic. I was done feeling sick and more importantly, done feeling sorry for myself. Because on the upside of upchuck, Mike J, moved by the guilt of choosing a bad restaurant, finally Top-Friended me on MySpace. See? So not alone.

Of divorce and war, I don't know which my father blames more for his misery, but they are the only two topics he wants to talk about. On Christmas day, it was divorce. When he should have been asking about presents and stockings, he was carrying on about how he’s been robbed of a wife and his future. I passed the phone to a sister.

A few times, when support and sympathy couldn't rouse him from his self-pity, I’ve become contentious, throwing logic, like stones, at a crazy old man. Here is the hard truth, I say, taking aim, feeling smug and powerful and right. And then ashamed and sorry. And cruel. Because, what kind of a person takes satisfaction in overpowering the weak?

Loving someone with a mental illness sometimes feels like a punishment. For a sin I don’t remember committing.

For years now, I’ve been straddling the divide between reality and the sad, twisted world my father has created for himself. As time wears on and those two worlds grow further and further apart, I’ve struggled with the idea that I must either become smarter, deal with it better or fail, and be ripped apart with the shifting.

Last week, I decided I was done. Not done loving or caring, but done straddling. Putting both feet firmly on the reality side of the line, I told my father I would no longer indulge him in his wallowing. I wouldn’t respond to even one more email about my mother and her new husband, wouldn’t let another lie go unchecked. Then I told him I loved him.

He may have heard me and understood. He may have decided I was just like the rest of them – another black-hatted villain in his serial melodrama. But my guess is the latter, since I haven’t heard another word. I should be sorry or worried. I know I should. But mostly, I am relieved. And disappointed in myself for how good that feels.

In the last year, his beard has lost all of its color and become shock white against his pale skin. His face is broader, cheeks hang flattened and deeply creased. His hands shake noticeably – a fact he seems to try to showcase, rather than conceal. I watch as he plays it up and then scans the table for a reaction.

I look quickly back at my own plate. I do not want to play this game. With this man I hardly recognize.

When he accuses his children of selling him out – amid rants about the government, his ex wife and the gun he keeps beneath his pillow – he grows stranger and stranger. From his mouth pours paranoia and self-pity and from his eyes, nothing. At times, the color grays out of them, leaving them pale and cloudy, like those of newborns and the dying.

I sit, pressing the tips of my fingernails into the flesh of my palm, trying not to feel the sickness that is ripping through my gut. Who are you… I think, searching for the familiar. And where did my father go?

Had we never met, I wouldn’t have found him alarming. Only unbalanced and odd, a statistic of an earlier war. But now he’s frightening and foreign.

One moment, he is calm and sentimental and the next, irrational and angry. His children – who were a sentence before, his heartbeat – are now cruel traitors in a plot to undermine and hurt him. I do not know whether to be furious or distraught. I do not make up my mind. Instead, I hiccup for the next several hours, my body unable to suppress the upset.

A year has made him a stranger. There are very few remnants of the man I knew in this man with the wiry mane and distant stare. In this profound absence, I feel as though there’s been a death. With so much loss to contend with, each new encounter becomes a small funeral. I find myself wearing sackcloth and ashes, and my emotions so close to the surface I’m sweating grief. And lacking a corpse, I’m forced instead to bury my expectations and my need for the way things were.