I discovered a lump in my breast a few months ago.  It was more noticable during the glorious time known as PMS, and honestly I didn’t think much of it (HINT:  If you find a lump.  Think much of it!).  Finally, after enjoying a day at my mother’s swimming pool I asked her to feel it–Michael had been feeling it for a few months already but we decided to seek a parental opinion.  She suggested I make an appointment with my so-called “Breast Man.”  What’s that?  You don’t have a “Breast Man?”  Well, you see dear readers…I had another lump in my right breast (back in 2003).  It was benign, but the experience earned me my very own breast surgeon.

So, I called ye olde breast clinic and they got me in first thing in the morning the next day (a Monday).  After my examination I ended up having a mammogram (nothing new to me…and ladies, they don’t hurt, that is a myth).  After the mammogram I went in for an ultrasound and then, a biopsy.  Oh, the joy!

Tuesday evening I received the call that pretty much has changed my life forever:  “You do have a tumor,” were the words I heard.  And despite being a well-educated person I didn’t quite grasp what my doctor was telling me until he began explaining I will be assigned an oncologist.  HEY!  WAIT!  Oncologist.  Don’t they work with people who have cancer?!?!?!?!  Well, after much weeping, much irrational fear and much overall horror…I underwent many tests that ruled out any spread of the cancer outside of breasts–the tests, a CT scan, an MRI and a full-body bone scan were extremely thorough.  Oh, and I’d love to give a shout out to the technician who let me listen to Green Day throughout my MRI!

For those of you who are interested (and in the interest of it being National Breast Cancer Awareness Month), I have been diagnosed with a Stage 2, ER/PR+, invasive ductal carcinoma (with evidence of non-invasive cells as well).  This is highly curable–literally, the cure rate on this is 95% and with my bi-lateral mastectomy (yes…I voted to rid myself of this glorious 34 A rack o’ mine)…the cure rate is closer to 100%.  Psst…I don’t intend to die, so I’ll be 100%!

Since I don’t want to eat up all the space on honestbaby.com’s server, I’ll direct anyone who would like to know about the details from diagnosis to present to my blog (it’s a homeschooling blog–we’re eclectic, secular homeschoolers so do not be afraid!).

Now that I’m in the full swing of things and I have a better idea what my chemo treatments are going to be like, I’ll try to post at least once a month.  honestbaby has been a joy to work with–and so, so patient with me during this battle.  Plus, I’d love to represent the positive in a story like this one.  I read so much negative and I’d like other women (especially mamas) to know there is hope–crazy mad hope!  This is just a blip on my radar.

Oh, and…FYI the photo of me in my profile is a bit outdated, ’cause now I’m rocking the circa 1970s Rhoda scarves…

And, I have a nifty new port inserted into my chest.  Yep!  It saves wear and tear on my veins.  Visit my personal blog to see the poison, er…I mean, chemotherapy, going directly into my heart.  Good times!

Oh, and…

Thank you everyone at honestbaby…you have been so sweet & patient during this ordeal.  I couldn’t write for a greater bunch of people.  I hope to keep my keyboard active. 

Upon our return from vacation (in early July), we made a special effort to travel around our town, visiting all of the tourist attractions, etc. so we could collect goodies for her.? We came home with a bag of loot any little kid would love to receive in the mail.? One of the items Benjamin wanted to buy for her was a little necklace, but I dissuaded him because I didn’t want the other mommy to think I was promoting some sort of romance (LOL!).? In the weeks following we collected more goodies–maps of our area, educational resources from some of the field trips we’d taken and other little trinkets.

On Monday, with the mailing deadline approaching (August 3rd) I typed up a letter for Benjamin’s pen pal.? It included all the details he’d dictated to me the week previous–all of the information he wished to share with her and questions about her to which he wished to learn the answers.? I spent an hour and a half typing up the damn four-page letter.? An hour and a half!? I went through all the goodies and organized them and typed up a sort of “key” to go along with it all.? Literally (no exaggeration here!), the moment I saved the letter to my hard drive and checked my email there was as note from the little girl’s mom.? She was dropping out of the swap.? DROPPING OUT!

It turns out she is pregnant.? And, apparently she has been so debilitated by morning sickness she has done nothing, NOTHING, to prepare for the pen pal exchange.? Now, you might think, Aw.? Poor thing. Sure, it’s true.? No one should have to suffer through morning sickness,? I guess.? But, she also never told her daughter she was part of any pen pal exchange.? What?? And…oh…did I mention, she is the co-organizer of the swap.? Yes.? The person who not only created, organized and promoted the swap got her kid assigned to my kid and then…dropped out!

No worries, though.? When I explained it all to Ben he just looked disgusted and eventually, after a long pause, he said…”I was a little embarrased about having a girl pen pal anyway.”? No more swaps for us.? That’s for sure!? Glad we didn’t buy that necklace, too.

Anywho…

Benjamin and I set out (with our picnic lunch) to find that nature trail on our own.? Turns out…there is a blatant sign at the entrance to the park.? So, after enjoying a delicious peanut butter and jelly lunch we headed off down the trail.? I was really stoked.? I grabbed a map on the way in and was delighted to discover it listed every tree, shrub, flower and plant growing in the woods.? We began to leisurely stroll along the fern-lined trail, stopping to ponder each little mound of moss.? We spotted fairy mushrooms and other such delights.? We found a babbling brook and stopped to explore.? Oh!? The joys.? As we began to climb a slight incline, using the roots of trees as our staircase, I looked up at the canopy of dabbled sunlight and thought This is positively beautiful.? I can’t wait to discover more! Just that quickly…we stepped out of the woods into harsh sunlight.

Onto a soccer field.

I was so pissed you would have thought I had paid admission.? A soccer field?? Are they kidding?? Before us lay 100 yards of bright green grass.? With a couple of random trees planted on its perimeter.? What kind of Nature Trail plops you out onto a soccer field?? So, I tried to hide my disgust.? I cheerfully turned to Ben and chirped, “We’ll just turn around and retrace our steps.”? When I say chirped, think:? through clenched teeth.? So, we turned around and headed back into the woods.? As we revisited some of the spots we’d explored already, we did discover a few new things–a couple of daddy long legs, some snaily things, and mosqitoes.

Hundreds and hundreds of mosquitoes.? I spent the remaining ten minutes of our hike smacking myself and grumbling about West Nile Virus.? As we emerged from the no longer idyllic canopy Benjamin assured me that he had had fun.? So, as I was walking to our minivan I had to smile because he had no idea how disappointing that Nature Trail had turned out to be–perhaps when your legs are only a foot and a half long, you don’t require much from a hike.

Did I mention the deer ticks?? Yea…found them later.? So, if you don’t hear from me for a while check the CDC’s records concerning West Nile or Lyme’s Disease.? Don’t bother calling FernMillieBetty, she’ll just put you into some unsuspecting guy’s voicemail.

Every evening Michael grinds beans and programs the coffee maker to make 12 cups of java while he’s in the shower.? Because coffeemaker manufacturers believe we are all idiots who will forget to turn off our machines, it is hard to find a coffeemaker that doesn’t have an automatic 2-hour shut-off feature.? So, because Michael cannot drink 12 cups of coffee in the hour before he leaves for work, we purchased a thermal carafe.? He fills his travel mug and a small thermos (to take along to work) and pours the rest into the carafe for me (who, because of the auto shut-off feature,? would otherwise wake up to cold coffee almost 4 hours later).

Now…back to my original tale.? It’s Tuesday.? Michael wakes up to discover the coffeemaker has spewed coffee grounds over the top of the permanent filter and into the glass carafe.? No worries-we are willing to drink grounds.? Hell, I think I’ve chewed on a bean at some point.? Did I mention we love coffee?

Ah but the next morning…nothing’!? The machine never turned on.? It is as if it was trying to warn us.? It regurgitated grounds in an attempt to predict the future.? When Michael woke me to say “Goodbye,” he muttered, “The coffeemaker is broken.”? I vaguely remember thinking it would have an impact on me;? I didn’t realize how severe an impact…until the lack-of-caffeine headache set in.

I woke up hours later and shuffled downstairs.? No smoky scent of recently brewed coffee.? No warm carafe awaiting my sleepy arrival.? “Oh,” I groaned to Ben, “I forgot.? Dad said the coffeemaker is broken.”? “You can drink water!” Ben cheerfully exclaimed.? Seriously.? Water versus coffee.? The lack of caffeine is fairly key in that equation. So, like some kind of heroine addict, desperately trying to get her fix, I fiddled with the machine–unplugging it as if I had placed a call to the Java IT department and they had suggested I simply needed to reboot.? I pulled out the filter.? I put it back in.? I lifted the door to the water reservoir and closed it.? I pushed every goddamn button–even the “Clean” option.

My mom came over to our house that afternoon and:? unplugged the machine.? Pulled out the filter.? Put it back in.? Lifted the water reservoir lid.? And closed it.? She pushed every goddamn button–even the “Clean” option.

Later that night…at almost 9 PM? Michael and Benjamin and I stood in the Small Appliances aisle at Lowe’s clutching a $ 25 gift certificate (a timely Father’s Day token from Michael’s parents!).? We gazed at the various machines–priced from $ 29.99 up to $ 149.99.? We grabbed the exact same coffee maker we already owned-but in faux stainless steel instead of metallic red (our headaches made coffee, rather than decor the necessity). ? We skipped up to the counter with visions of Sumatra dancing in our heads.? The clerk scanned the appliance.? “That comes with the option to buy an extended warranty,” he said.? Michael and I laughed.? “Yea, our other one broke–that’s why we’re here,” I joked. ? The clerk laughed and then Benjamin launched into a dramatic retelling of our day.? “My Dad woke up and there was no coffee,” he began…”then, my Mom–this girl here–(he said pointing to me to clarify) came downstairs and guess what?? No coffee.”? The clerk howled.? I’m sure he had some inkling what a coffee-free morning can do to a person.? Well, Benjamin kept going on and on and when he was finally finished the clerk probed, “So were they walking around growling and grunting.”? Yep!? That about describes it.

The two of us without our coffee=two sasquatches.? If we had not showered & shaved…caffeineless, we would easily pass for Yetis.? Life is back to normal now.? We have a new coffeemaker, sans all the bells and whistles of a $ 149 one. And, my carafe is again filled with the sweet nectar of morning.? It takes so little to make us happy.

I’ve come to the conclusion that when one decides to be a stay-at-home mom, the Grand Canyon of Motherhood is The Workplace.My best friend has been on vacation in The Outer Banks.? A few days ago my mind wandered to her and I thought, I hope Kristin comes home soon-I miss her.? Then, unceremoniously it hit me:? She works full-time.? It’s not like her return home from The Outer Banks is going to alleviate any of my loneliness.

At that point my Grand Canyon analogy started to form.? When I worked full-time I ingested a steady diet of my closest friends.? Even those with whom I did not work were somehow emotionally closer to me because we were all part of the same race–The Rat Race.? But steadily over time I’ve found myself alone in my backyard, yearning for my friends to come home.? However, unlike when I was 10 and my list of “Stuff I Have to Tell Jenny When She Gets Home” was easily remembered, now that I am 37 that list is longer, more detailed and a lot more difficult to recall when I finally get together with someone I haven’t seen in say, six months (rather than six days).

I am the only one of my pre-baby friends who is a stay-at-home mom.? Well, that’s a bit of a fib, my friend Jenny (childhood vacationer extraordinaire) is a stay-at-home mama, but she lives an hour away and her sons are nearly tweens.? Ho hum.? The rest of my friends have remained a part of Corporate America and oddly enough, this makes remaining close nearly impossible.

When you wake at 6 A.M., race to get yourself showered and dressed, your kid(s) to daycare and your butt in your office by 9 A.M., I totally get it that your stay-at-home mom friend is last on your list of concerns.? At 5 P.M. you are racing from the office to get to the daycare to grab the offspring and get your butt home to eat whatever you have yet to think of making for dinner.? I get it.? I really do.

The moral of my story is this:? Being a stay-at-home mom is wonderful.? I’ve experienced every second of Benjamin’s development and I would never complain about it or trade it for the world!? I just wish I could shake this feeling of swinging alone on a swingset in the Backyard of Life.

Don’t be impressed.? It never got published.

Finally, when Benjamin was potty trained we moved two of the four IKEA bookshelves out of the library and into his bedroom and we moved his changing table (a handmade piece crafted by my father-in-law) into the library.? This created a sort of? organizational wall unit.? We filled the drawers of the changing table with dress-up clothes, Ben’s musical instruments and “school stuff.”? And the library became…the schoolroom.

For the last two years we have referred to that room as the schoolroom.? It was cozy.? Too cozy.? One day Ben was stumbling into things, doing his hilarious “life cycle of the butterfly ” interpretive dance,? when I realized the room was way too small!? So, brainstorming began.? And it hit me…why do Michael and I need a large Master Bedroom?? We sleep there.? We do other stuff…don’t get me wrong, but basically anything we do in the bedroom does not require a lot of space.? So, we dismantled the armoire (a dilapidated piece of newlywed era furniture) and put the dresser in the attic.? All of the clothing that was stashed in those two pieces was relocated.? Everything was moving along swimmingly.? Is that the term?? ‘Cause to be honest, I am not a fan of water…so swimmingly is sort of an odd word for success in my book.? Anyway…

We began the renovation last weekend.? Everything that could go wrong…went wrong.? First, we realized we did not have enough primer.? We thought we had a full can of white primer.? Nope.? So…off to Lowe’s we went.? We were going to start priming but colossally bad preparation by the previous homeowners left us with a bunch of crap to deal with–i.e. Michael having to strip the woodwork before we could prime.? While he melted paint off the trim with a fiery hot Black & Decker gun thingy, I went outside to photograph some of my Etsy items.? When I returned I learned he’d set off the smoke detector.? And, it never woke Ben.? Great.

Eventually, we did begin priming.? And, I stepped in primer.? And, I left my footprints on the hardwood floor.? Nice.? But then we got to roll on the real paint–and I also stepped in that (however, this time I wiped it off before stepping off the drop cloth).? After the walls were completed, Michael spent a few days painstakingly painting the trim (molding, trim and three doors).

We moved our bedroom furniture on Saturday and last night, spent the night in our new bedroom.? We love it!? The paint is beautiful and the bedroom is so cozy.? Cozy is okay for a bedroom…not a schoolroom.? When Benjamin bounded into our room this morning, he climbed between us and announced, “I love your new bedroom.”

Now, if only he didn’t sleep through the smoke alarm that hangs outside his bedroom door!

[Stay tuned for the Schoolroom Makeover...]

The first few years of Benjamin’s life he was privy to the live concert CD, Bullet in a Bible.  Bullet in a Bible is like American Idiot…on steroids.  It has been in my minivan CD player almost continually since 2005.  If you are a reader of this blog (you, and a few other million) you might remember my blurb on profanity in the music we listen to in the car.  To ease any concerns you might have, rest easy…Benjamin is now well aware which words only Billie Joe may say and which words are for four-year-olds to repeat.  A few weeks ago I exchanged Bullet in a Bible for American Idiot and Benjamin learned to sing every word (sans repetition of profanity, of course).

When I had to tell him Green Day’s 21st Century Breakdown would be coming out this month, I was worried he wouldn’t be able to make the switch.  I started prepping him a couple of week ago.  First, I began following @GreenDayNews on Twitter.  Then, when one of their video performances was posted on YouTube, we’d watch.  [You see...Green Day started playing secret shows in California a few weeks ago and of course, people were videotaping and uploading clips as quickly as the band played them.]  So, we’ve been sampling the new material for about a month.

Well, Friday…21st Century Breakdown dropped.  Is that the term?  Anyway…the CD came out in stores.  I am one of the few people who does not prefer the digital download.  I love to open my CD cabinet and see shelves of space-raping plastic cases glistening back at me.  So, on Friday we rushed to Target and bought the “Target Exclusive,” which included 21st Century Breakdown + a 5 song CD of live pieces, recorded in Japan on the American Idiot tour.  We tore the package open and slid that baby into the minivan CD player–and it was love at first guitar strum.

I feel seventeen again.

[Okay, I am exaggerating.  When I was seventeen, the boys in Green Day had just recently formed the band.  They had not yet released 39/Smooth and I surely was not yet cool enough to know of their existence.  At that time, Vanilla Ice was still hanging around and Kurt Cobain was just about to shake everything up.  My musical landscape was indeed, askew.]

Yet, since Friday I have stumbled into adolescence again.  As I said, I purchased the CD the moment it arrived in stores.  We listened to it all day Friday and then Saturday…Green Day was the musical guest on SNL.  In the meantime, I’d also begun following Billie Joe,  @BillieJArmstrng.  By the time the boys graced my television screen on Saturday night, I was crazed.  The following morning Benjamin asked, “Did you tape Green Day?”

So, we watched the SNL performance a couple of times and spent most of Sunday, listening to the CD again.  By Monday we each had the lyrics memorized and while washing dishes on any given day, I can be found humming “Christian’s Inferno.”  We even had a chance to revisit the profanity issue.  Ben noted, “Billie Joe says bad words like funkin’.”  Although the term, “funkin’” is not generally acknowledged as bad, I allowed him to consider it off limits.  No one wants to offend the mass public if her four-year-old is overheard singing, “I’m not funkin’ around!” along with Billie Joe Armstrong.

So, needless to say…my Facebook status is emblazoned with Green Day love, my daily tweets include at least one Green Day reference and our living room and minivan sound like CBGB (assuming it still existed).  It has been a good week in the Allen Household.  Thank you, Billie Joe.  Thank you, Mike Dirnt.  And, thank you, Tre Cool.

Benjamin had a well-child visit with his pediatrician last week.  He is rarely ill, so we don’t get to see his doctor very often.  The once-a-year well-child visit is it!  Believe it or not, it’s kind of a shame.  Dr. H is very cool.  She’s young.  She’s hip.  And, she gets me.  She isn’t the least bit judgmental.  Or preachy.  She treats Benjamin like he’s an equal–that is, an “adult equal,” not a “medical professional equal.”  A visit to Ben’s pediatrician is like sitting down for coffee with an old friend (okay, okay…this time coffee with an old friend included three immunizations for Ben and some hysterical crying…but you get my point, right?).

So last Wednesday, at the height of Swine Flu Mania, Benjamin and I ventured to his doctor’s office so we could sit for ten minutes while my spine cramped up from trying to avoid touching any of the furniture and contracting H1N1.  While we waited another woman and her son arrived.  Unlike my son, who I was soon going to discover is now 40″ tall, the other mom’s son was 6′ tall.  He was draped in parochial school garb and wore just a hint of teen angst.  When his mom spoke to him he shrugged.  .  He was polite, but far from accommodating.  His mother could not rent so much as an inch of room in that adolescent mind.

I’ll admit right now: last week I was premenstrual.  My hormones were in flux.  So you can probably guess where this post is going, can’t you?

I sat with my four-year-old on my lap, bouncing him up and down like I would when he was one, and two and three-years-old.  I know he is now four-years-old.  It’s not like I could forget.  He tells me everyday.  But, I like to hold him.  I like to bounce him on my lap.  So there we four were:  Dueling Life Stages.  On one side of the waiting room sat a sixteen-year-old boy with his forty-something-year-old mother and on the other side:  Us.  I gazed at that lean, muscular boy dressed in his crisp shirt and tie, his slacks and dress shoes.  I watched his mother fidget with her purse, her phone and her day planner.  In those first few seconds, while they were settling in, everything she said to him seemed like an intrusion.  I looked at my own son, sitting contently on my lap and thought, My God, When do I become a thorn in his side?  When will I be that unwelcome occupant of space in my son’s brain?

As I lapsed into a premenstrual depression, I noticed something.  The boy had begun to talk.  In fact, he began a dissertation about something that happened at school that day.  His tone was emotionally charged and just as he came to the climax of his story, his mother cut him off.  “I’m going to go see if there is a bathroom I can use before they take you back–,” she interrupted, standing up and walking away from him while he stared at her, cut off mid-sentence.  His eyes darted across the room and met mine and then they dropped.  With such a weight of defeat I swore I could almost hear that blue-eyed gaze thud against the carpet.  Something inside of me wanted to stand up and shout, “Ma’am!  Come back here…listen to your son.  He has a story to tell.  It may not be interesting to you, but it means something to him.  It’s important to him.”    By the time she re-appeared he was called in to the office.  Whether or not he ever got to tell his mother his story, I don’t know.

Just as soon as that mother and son duo disappeared, another one arrived.  Same scenario.  Teenage son, forty-something mother.  He was texting.  She was flipping through a magazine.  I sat there with Benjamin on my lap, wishing there was some potion that would slow down time.  I don’t ever want to be that tired, forty-something mom accompanying her teenage son to the pediatrician’s office–a place where boys who look like men, but because of their chronological age, are still required to visit.  I can’t imagine a day when Benjamin will display those mixed emotions–desiring my attention while barely conceding his own.

After our visit to the pediatrician I vowed to make every moment count.  I think we’ve all made that promise to ourselves at one time or another, haven’t we?  We wake up every morning thinking we are going to be the best–the best mom, the best dad.  We are going to pay attention to every word our kid says–every one.  Whether he repeats that story about his Playmobil firefighter and the pirate ship with the sea turtle and the thingy with the dude and the hurricane.  Heard it a million times?  Well…here’s to a million and one.

This year, when I receive those holiday cards from all of my friends–the Snapfish photo collage–I am going to marvel at the maturing faces of those ten, eleven and twelve-year-old kids.  I am going to think back to that sixteen-year-old boy who was starved for his mom’s attention in the pediatrician’s waiting room.  And hopefully, in my Christmas stocking I will find a potion that slows down time.  I need just a little bit more of it.

Michael and Benjamin are out on a secret shopping trip right now.  Maybe I’ll get that secret potion a few months early?  Let’s hope.  Happy Mother’s Day to all you tired, frazzled, hormonal mamas out there!  Now, go give your kiddo a hug!

The same month Michael and I decided to start our family, my corporation announced a merger.  They called it a merger, but we were in fact consumed by a larger company–this resulted in a mass layoff of 600 employees (including me!)  At the time of the announcement nothing was finalized.  But, we all pretty much knew we would lose our jobs.  I was wary of going ahead with our baby-making plan–we had just bought a house and with this news, we would now earn half the monthly income.  Nonetheless…we forged on!

I became pregnant within a month and despite all the stress at work, I could not have been happier.  I did all my mommy-to-be homework concerning maternity leave, FMLA leave, my pending unemployment compensation benefits and my severance package.  By the time Benjamin arrived (two weeks early), I was able to ride my maternity leave right into full-time, stay-at-home motherhood.  Those first few weeks at home proved to be far more work than sitting in a cubicle all day, deciding when it might be a good time to sneak to the vending machines for a chocolate-frosted cupcake and a Coke.

I believed the first few weeks were the hardest part of motherhood:  Diapers.  Bottles.  Diapers.  Bottles.  Diapers.  Bottles.  That damn Pack-N-Play.  Diapers.  Bottles.  Then, Benjamin began to walk.  Despite myriad safety warnings against their use, we were one of the few couples who registered for a walker (rather than a stationary entertainment center).  When I see video of 8-month-old Benjamin whizzing around in his teddy bear-themed walker it seems like a decade has passed.  He is a round-faced, chubby armed little baby boy.  When I look at him now, he seems so tall.  Tall and thin–like a big kid.  When I think back to him bouncing in his bouncy swing, I wonder how he could have ever been so small.  Even in the walker he was a mere baby–a chubby little baby pushing himself around on his tiptoes, chasing the cat with glee.

By one year old, he was talking.  And then, within what seemed like only months, he was amassing vocabulary at a disturbing rate.  I still have the unfinished “Word Book” I started, to be filled with all the words he could say along with corresponding photographs.  He started acquiring vocabulary so voluminously, I could not keep up–I think the book consists of only 20-30 pictures/words.  At the same time he was also perfecting walking and running. 

By age two he already seemed like a “big kid.”  He walked and ran and climbed.  He was able to utilize playground equipment and handle paper and crayons.  His fine and gross motor skills were developing by the second.  If I had been stuck in a cubicle all day, I wonder if I would have noticed those minuscule week-to-week developments like gaining balance on the rope bridge or learning to climb the sliding board steps.  Some things happened even from day-to-day. 

We’ve been through potty training, the conversion to a “big boy bed” and learning to ride a tricycle.  He has mastered writing his name (among other words), counting to 20, doing simple math problems, and even on occasion…if given a few practice rounds, he can “read” a short book to you.  Okay, okay, he reads from memory mostly–just give me my shining parental moment.

Being laid off was truly a blessing in disguise.  There are many times when I think I might have placed Benjamin into daycare because it never would have occured to me that we could afford to live on only one income.  I would have been afraid to try it–to gamble.  I probably would’ve enrolled him in one of the daycare centers my friends’ kids attended and from there, registered him for kindergarten with the rest of the masses.  Because of a corporate merger I was able to stay at home with him, research homeschool options and now…realize despite the fact he is no longer my chubby armed little baby, I am incredibly fortunate.  I was here–every single day–to witness every exciting aspect of his development. 

Perhaps I should pen a letter of thanks to the CEO of the corporation that consumed my company?  Nah.

His wardrobe could use a little work.

The dream man I speak of is “The Man with the Yellow Hat.”  Yea, that guy.  The caretaker of PBS’ animated monkey, Curious George.

Every morning I sit in my living room and think to myself, This guy is fantastic!  He is smart, well-spoken and articulate.  Sure, he’s not classically handsome…but looks aren’t everything.  He’s not homely by any means–just a little average.  Each day, as Benjamin munches on his mid-morning Pop-Tart, I gaze into the big, brown eyes of a two-dimensional man who is known only by the moniker, The Man with the Yellow Hat.

As anyone knows from reading Curious George as a child, George is unintentionally  mischievous.  At least once in every episode George causes a colossal mess–but does The Man ever get angry?  No!  The Man with the Yellow Hat is blessed with exceptional patience.  He immediately recognizes George’s intended path and he always guides his young charge in a more socially acceptable direction.  George learns from his mistakes within a warm, nurturing, scaffolded environment.

Not only does The Man with the Yellow Hat offer George a parental presence, but he also provides the little monkey with cultural experiences offered to few other primates.  In this month alone The Man and George have traveled to the antarctic to photograph chinstrap penguins, they’ve flown to Paris to aid in the design of a children’s museum and they’ve orbited into space.

Did I mention The Man with the Yellow Hat owns a spacious city apartment (in a swanky building with a doorman), a country house and…a sweet yellow convertible.  He is a total catch!  I mean, this guy is mythical, isn’t he?

I remember watching an episode in which The Man and George were visiting Professor Wiseman at the Museum of Science.  The Man and Professor Wiseman were assembling a rare dinosaur skeleton and of course, George caused some trouble.  The curious monkey and his feline friend, Gnocchi, dissassembled the dinosaur and just in the nick of time…reassembled it.  When The Man appeared on the scene he was cool as a cucumber.  Ever patient and understanding, he did not scold George or give him a Time Out–instead, he gave him a chance to explain.  Of course, as is often the case…George had discovered an inaccuracy.  There had been an error in the original assembly of the dinosaur!  Thanks to George and the unwavering trust of The Man with the Yellow Hat, the correction was made and the exhibit was complete.

The Man with the Yellow Hat may only be a figment of the imagination of Hans and Margaret Rey, but to me he represents the ideal man.  He is funny and wise.  He is patient and kind.  The Man with the Yellow Hat seems indeed, mythical.  But, I’d like to think every dad wears a Yellow Hat once in a while.  I know Ben’s does!