The Rage Within

I spent three years in the Peace Corps in Gabon, Central Africa. I was an English teacher for two years in the remote town of Makokou, the capital of the Ogooué-Ivindo province, then for my third year, I lived in the Gabon's capital, Libreville, and worked with officials at the Ministry of Education to write English books for sixth- and seventh-graders.

Anyone who thinks the Peace Corps is about helping other people is suffering some serious delusions. Sure, I helped a few hundred kids learn some English—a valuable life skill in the heart of the rainforest—and I opened some eyes to what else it out there in the world. I'm not saying I didn't help anyone. But what I really got out of my three years in the Peace Corps was a lot of knowledge about myself. It was a crash course in Hard Life Lessons, and I learned most of them by making a ton of bad decisions. It was an exhilarating, exhausting, difficult time in my life. I'm so glad I had that experience, but man, it was a tough, tough road.

One of the things I learned while I was there was just how angry I am capable of getting. I grew up in a house where we're always fine. Things are always good. We don't do extreme emotions very well, at least not the bad ones. We're fine with extreme happiness, but when it comes to being sad or mad or anything else that's uncomfortable, we tend to do a lot of faking it 'til we make it and hauling ourselves up by the boostraps and Moving On. It's a philosophy that's actually served me pretty well; there are times when I pretend I feel great and all of a sudden I do. Magic! If I'm feeling pissy about something that's actually quite petty, or irritated by something that's really not that big a deal in the grand scheme of things, I am well-served by having been taught that I just need to Get Over It.

But when it comes to anger, I learned in the Peace Corps that you can only push it aside for so long before you Blow the Fuck Up. It all came to a head for me at the post office in Libreville. If ever there was a place designed to piss people off, the Gabonese post office is it. I once went to mail something when I lived in Makokou, and despite the fact that there were at least four workers behind the counter, I was told that "the person in charge of mailing things" was not there. It's the post office. Isn't everyone in charge of mailing things? Pfffttt. Care packages are what keep Peace Corps volunteers sane, and we usually had to pay bribes to get them. Even worse, sometimes Package Guy (yes, there was only one of him, and he worked limited and unpredictable hours) would glibly tell us that there were no packages to be had when we could see them behind the counter. I'm sure he did this just to make us sweat, emotionally, that is, since it was 90°F with 110% humidity and we were already drenched with physical perspiration.

So one day, I battled the heat and humanity of Libreville to go buy stamps. It cost 260 Gabonese francs to send a letter to the U.S. There was no such thing as a 260-franc stamp. You had to cobble together a collection of CFA20 and CFA50 and CFA10 stamps to make the sum total of CFA260. Once I had to put twenty-six ten-franc stamps on my letter, layered so as to show just the value and thus not cover the entire face of the envelope. Crazy. So I go, to buy fifty-thousand stamps that will allow me to mail ten letters, already feeling annoyed just by the idea of the post office. I don't remember for sure, but I'm certain that I was harassed for being white, or a woman, or fat, and someone probably groped my ass or my boobs, and at least a dozen people likely hit me up for money before I even got to the counter. But eventually, I made it to the front of the "line" and asked for enough stamps to mail ten letters to the U.S.

"We're all out of stamps, Madame."

Out of stamps? I repeat: it's the post office. How does the post office run out of stamps? I was livid. LIVID. I'm sure I yelled at the woman behind the counter, and I'm sure she yelled back at me. But what I remember most about that transaction is that for the first time in my life, I felt that if I were able to physically harm the Stampless Woman, I'd feel better. I wanted to punch her right in the face. Multiple times. She was my scapegoat for all that was wrong with the Gabonese postal system, the final straw in my two-and-a-half years of postal frustration.

I had never before felt like physically hurting someone would make me feel better. Of course, I didn't punch her and I'm sure that it wouldn't have made me feel better at all if I had. But the idea was so, so tempting. As I left the post office, I knew that it was time for me to leave Gabon and go home to the States to regain my cool.

That deeply physical feeling of rage was quiet for years after I got home. Sure, I got mad—one of the things I started learning in Peace Corps was how to express anger rather than repress it. But then I became a parent. Kids do all kinds of things that make their parents feel angry. That's part and parcel of parenting. But I find I'm often angry with the twins about things that are my problem, not theirs, and yet I end up unleashing my anger on them even though they don't deserve it.

This morning, for example, I screamed at the twins. SCREAMED. It was gutteral and primal and, shamefully enough, quite satisfying. Their crime? Not wanting to get dressed. A toddler classic that I just didn't feel like dealing with today. So I screamed, they freaked out and got scared, and then they were compliant out of fear. I just said in a post yesterday that I don't like to be ruled by fear, so it hardly seems right that I'm ruling the twins that way. 

So we end up in a disgusting cycle of me blowing up, the twins being scared, me apologizing, and us all having a big snuggle and moving on. Sigh. I'm sick of it. They are sick of it. We have even instituted a house motto: No Freaking Out. It's cute and funny to hear little Maddie and little Riley say, "Mama freaking out. No freaking out, Mama!" 

I'm working on this with my therapist. And it's helping. Slowly. It used to be that I'd be yelling before I even knew what was happening. We'd be going along all fine and dandy and then poof! I was yelling, and I wouldn't have even felt it coming. Now I usually feel it coming, and sometimes I can stop it. I'll say things like, "Mama is feeling angry right now," or "What can we do differently right now?" or "I need to take a break for a minute." Sometimes I still end up yelling, but that awareness is slowly coming. 

I think that part of what's at work here is that being in therapy is bringing up a lot of anger I have about John's illness and death. I have a lot of resentment about what cancer has done to my life (not to mention what it did to John's). I spend more time during my sessions with the therapist talking about how to handle the anger that bubbles (boils) to the surface rather than talking about where it's coming from. I think the combination of keeping the anger at bay for so long combined with devoting more time to thinking about its causes mixed with a couple of two-year-olds is making a lot of uncomfortable things surface. 

I'm OK with that. I'm OK with yelling at the twins occasionally. I would never, ever, EVER hit them, nor have I even come close (although I have thrown a lot of things across the room and nearly broke my toe by kicking a bookcase). But I want to spend a lot of time in the next weeks figuring out how to release my anger in ways other than taking it out on the twins as they have somehow become my primary target. I want them to learn how to handle big emotions appropriately, and I have not been modeling that very well. I also want them to know that when I get angry, I mean it, and that it's not a more-or-less constant state of being.

Related to this is that I want to get more comfortable with just hanging out at home with the twins. I pretty much never get angry or yell when I'm out in public. That would be so shameful! So white trash! The truth is that one of the reasons the twins and I are out and about so much is that I know it's emotionally "safe" for us to be away from home. Home is where I lose my shit. Home is where my buttons get pushed. It's said that the reason a lot of kids cry when their parents pick them up at daycare is that kids feel safe releasing their emotions in the presence of a parent. I have a little bit of that going on with being at home. I feel like I can let it all out there, which is fine, but sometimes I need to redirect it. Maybe I need to start wearing a rubber band on my wrist and snapping it when I start to feel out of control. I've been working on naming my anger (or other feelings), acknowledging that it's OK to have that feeling, then choosing not to invite that feeling to be a part of my present interaction, but I think I need something more physical and immediate for when then a child says, "No, Mama, all by self," for the thousandth time, wanting to do something that is physically impossible for said child to do and refusing all help. Grr.

The weather is supposed to be gorgeous this weekend. We have a few things planned: a playdate at the park, a trip to have dim sum, a very low-key BBQ at our place with friends. We're going to start the weekend with a walk on the bike path after daycare tonight, as I know that exercise is a great way to get out some negative stuff and bring on some endorphins. I want to not expect myself to be perfect, but I do want to work hard. And I want to have fun with my kids. I want them to have fun with me. I want them to love being at home, to love for the three of us to be together. It seems so simple, doesn't it?

[NB: For those of you who (a) made it through this long piece and (b) might have missed another long piece, there is a post below yesterday's Idol post about how and why John and I decided to have kids despite his diagnosis. Due to Blogger weirdness with drafts, I posted it after the Idol post, but it appeared as though I posted it the day before. You can find it here.]

Idol FInale: My Take (It or Leave It)

Yesterday was all kinds of screwed up for me. I wasn't at work most of the day because I had to be at home waiting for National Grid to come install a new gas meter at my house. Their window for when I should be home? Noon to six. Thanks for narrowing that down, guys, thanks a lot. At first I was all annoyed about it, but then it occurred to me that I would have to be at home. By myself. Just waiting around.

Oh, darn.

I haven't had that much alone time at home in a good long while, and I really enjoyed it. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that I neglected to do a few of the things I had meant to do, such as blog about Idol. So here are my belated thoughts.

The Davids were my favorites for most of the season. (Well, them and Hottie McHotterson, Michael Johns, but alas, we had to say goodbye too soon.) I was ultra-excited about the finale because never in my Idol-watching career have my two faves gone head-to-head at the end.

I really enjoyed Tuesday's show. I thought that Clive Davis picked great songs for both contestants and loved both of their first performances. Here's my question, though: why can't the contestants ever pick good songs for themselves? When they are given the choice of anything—anything!—they want to sing, I find that they usually make odd and poor choices. What gives? That's my long-winded, semi-rhetorical way of saying that I thought the second two performances were not as strong for either of the D's, although I did love hearing Little D do "Imagine" again.

So after the show, I was sure that David A. was going to win. I thought he had stronger performances overall and was guaranteed such a slew of teenage girl voters that he had it clinched. I think both contestants were—are—equally talented in different ways, but I thought that Archuleta had it all sewn up.

Last night, I settled in with some friends for lots of food (spinach/artichoke dip, Chinese, cookies, ice cream, Gio's Soon-to-Be-Famous Spiked Strawberry Lemonade) and had a blast watching last night's results show. The highlight was David Cook's Guitar Hero ad. Awesome. Low point: that endless, dirge-like, George Michael song. Good lord that song was BORING. And those glasses! He looked like some kind of fly. Amanda Overmyer was also a lowlight. In all of the group performances, she looked so pissed off about the drudgery of having to appear on the results show. Boo-hoo for her. 

Of course the real highlight was when it was announced that David Cook had won. I was truly surprised, and excited, and he looked so genuinely overwhelmed and happy. I love that his mom and brother came up on stage, and how clearly thrilled he was to see his family. And I love the confetti that comes out of the ceiling! I know that sounds goofy, but it's so fun! 

And now, no more Idol until January. Boo-hoo. Alas, 'twas a great way to end Season 7, I have to say.

The Decision

This is the long story of how John and I decided to have children, knowing that he was going to die and that I was going to end up a single mother.

I was never sure I wanted to have kids. I never liked babysitting. I always felt uncomfortable around infants, unsure of what to do and how to handle them. I never felt that maternal longing, that deep desire to procreate. For me—ever practical—the idea of having kids hinged entirely on who I married. My pragmatic philosophy was that if I ended up with someone who really wanted kids, who was really committed to the idea of being an involved, invested, and devoted father, then I'd be ready to jump into the big unknown of parenting.

My ambivalence around becoming a mother was most certainly grounded in fear. I feared what I'd have to give up: the spontenaety, the sleep, the freedom. Ultimately, I feared that I was too selfish to be a good parent.

Then I met John, one of the most selfless people I have ever known. He wanted to have kids for sure; we talked about it during the heady days when we were quickly realizing that we wanted to spend our lives together. I don't know that I ever mentioned my ambivalence as, faced with his clear longing, my ambivalence faded away. If ever there was a man who would be an involved, invested, loving father, it was John. Knowing I would have that support, I felt that I could face my own fears.

When John got his cancer diagnosis, we had been married for less than a month. At his diagnosis, the doctor gave us a lot of information about prognosis and treatment, but no information about fertility. Frankly, I'm sure no one thought that John would live long enough for the question of fertility to be worth discussing, and John and I were too shell-shocked to ask that day. But when we went in for his first round of chemo, we asked about the drugs' impact on babymaking. No one had any answers for us. To be fair, John's oncologist did everything she could to find the answers we needed. She looked up research and called drug companies, but she came up empty-handed. Pancreatic cancer most often strikes older men who are not likely concerned about their ability to procreate. The long-term effects of the drugs was simply not known, although given their extreme toxicity, the reasonable conclusion was that it was not good.

I remember that day with utter clarity. We waited in an exam room while John's doctor made calls and did research, crying together between updates. The end result was that we decided to delay John's treatment for a week so that he could make some deposits at the sperm bank. A week was not going to change John's prognosis. We knew that John might live only weeks, perhaps months, but we also knew that it could be longer. We had a couple of banks to choose from; I made the calls to get the details about appointments and procedures, and from that, we made our decision as to which bank would get our business.

John went to the bank twice. Clients are actually referred to as "bankers" who conduct "transactions" such as making "deposits" and "withdrawals." The staff member I talked to when I made the appointments told me that I was welcome to come in with John if that would, um . . . help. Both John and I found that creepy, and so he went alone. He told me that it's just like you'd imagine it would be: a small, sterile room, porn available (print and video) if needed or desired, stern warnings that the sample cannot be obtained via blow job or intercourse: jacking off ONLY (I'm sure they had a more delicate way of phrasing it). So the deposit was made, the fee was paid, and off to chemo we went.

We had no idea what to expect from chemo, of course. For all we knew, we'd seen John's best days and it was all going to be downhill. But John was a responder, as they are known, these people who have a quick, positive response to treatment. Not that the treatment was without side effects, but within a month or so, John's tumor marker numbers were down and overall he was feeling better.

We started to talk about the kid option. We wanted to move forward, but it was not as simple as calling the bank and making a withdrawal—as if that in an of itself would have been simple. No, no, I had fibroids. Big ones. Ones that needed to be surgically removed before my OB would clear me to get pregnant. And so in March of 2005, I had a myomectomy. Perhaps oddly, I have fond memories of that time. The surgery went off without a hitch, and my mom came out to Boston to nurse me through my recovery. That's when I became addicted to 24, and acutely aware of how much John hates hospitals. He could not stand to see me in a hospital bed, could not wait to get me home.

My OB recommended waiting at least six months after the fibroid surgery to try to get pregnant. During that time, I focused on getting myself in the best shape I could. I had always been an avid exerciser; once I was able after the surgery, I got back in that routine. I had started doing acupuncture before the surgery; I kept up with that. I ate extremely well. I got a lot of sleep. During this time, John continued to do amazingly well overall, with ups and downs to be sure, but steady improvement.

I made an appointment to see an RE five months after my surgery. (If you are curious about which specific doctor I saw, you'll be able to figure it out from the name. One of my children is named for our RE. I loved him that much.) After undergoing all of the requisite testing and such, we did our first IVF cycle in October, and it was successful.

It's at this point that I started blogging. When I look back on those initial posts, I'm surprised at times by the lack of detail. No mention of the numbers in my beta. No mention of the fact that in our initial ultrasound, one of the twins had a very slow heartbeat and our doc thought that it would fall prey to vanishing twin syndrome. Clearly that did not happen, but it looked like a real possibility. Odd that I didn't mention it, but a testament to how deeply I believed that nothing would go wrong in my pregnancy, that the universe owed us, and owed us big time.

I'm well aware that things don't work that way. Life is not some card game of fairness where a bad hand get karmically balanced out by a good one. O! Were it so simple. But for whatever reason, from our first meeting with our RE, I knew with utter certainty that my pregnancy was going to be OK. Call me crazy, call it denial, call it whatever you want: I knew. I knew I would feel good throughout, go full term, and have an uncomplicated delivery. This was a feeling utterly different than the "power of positive thinking" bullshit that John and I battled during his whole illness. I harbor no illusion that I willed my easy pregnancy and delivery into happening via positive thoughts. I took good care of myself, but so do plenty of people who have difficult gestations and births. I was lucky, and I'm telling you: I knew I would be.

Our families knew that we had done IVF, and we told them the results of my beta, shared with them what we saw in the ultrasounds during those early weeks. I also shared some of that with the Internet, not that many people were reading at that time. We waited the standard twelve weeks before we started sharing our news with friends, coworkers, and the like. Most people were thrilled for us, an unmitigated joy and excitement that helped me feel less terrified about the fact that I was going to have two babies and that their dad was going to die sooner rather than later. Some people expressed joy and concern both, their feelings an empathetic reflection of my own.

And then there were the brave few who said what I'm sure a number of people were thinking behind that joy: How could you? How could you make the decision to bring two children into this world who will functionally never know their dad?

There are a lot of issues to respond to when you get into this line of questioning. I found that people who expressed their doubts fell into two broad categories: (1) In your situation I would not have done the same thing, and (2) Kids need two parents.

I can totally understand the people in category (1). I had my doubts along the way, from my initial doubts about wanting kids at all to my doubts about my ability to raise kids as a single parent (those are ongoing). Most of those doubts, if not all of them, are ruled—as always—by fear. And I do not like to be ruled by fear. And I respect that what we did is not what everyone would have done. For some people, the fear that single parenting while grieving would be too overwhelming would have kept them from going ahead. Totally legitimate. For others, they fall into a combo category where they would not have made the decision because they think kids need two parents. I (obviously) disagree, but expressed as "you did what you did, I'd do what I'd do," I respect that. And that's just it. It's largely semantics. We made our decision. It was our decision, no one else's, and not a decision that everyone else would make. I get that.

The people who seem to think that kids need two parents—a mother and a father, to be precise—baffle me. I can see a lot of reasons that having two parents (mom, dad, two moms, two dads . . . whatever, in my book) is good for all parties. I know there are times I'd be a better parent if I had someone to share the ups and downs with, and it's good for the kids to have more than one adult role model in their lives.

But here's the thing: they do. Maddie and Riley—and the children of single parents everywhere—have a huge community of people looking out for them, honorary aunts and uncles and grandparents galore. They are loved by countless multitudes. And they were loved by their dad for as long as he was able to love them.

Which brings me to another point. Some say it's unfair to Maddie and Riley that John and I brought them into this world knowing that they would barely know their father. Unfair? Unfair? I don't see it. Would it have been fair to deprive John of the experience of being a father, an experience he'd always wanted? While we're at it, what about cancer is fair? What about life is fair?

I would love nothing more than for John to be here, with me and Maddie and Riley. I wish that Maddie and Riley could know their father and benefit from his infinite patience, dry wit, and kind heart. But I also know that Maddie and Riley are not doomed to a life of failure for being raised by a single mom, even with all the faults that this single mom has. And I know that being a father brought a purpose and love to John's life that he would not have traded for anything, even as he got sicker and sicker and became so consumed by that love that it started to hurt, and he had to pull away a bit because he had so much love for me and the kids that the idea of losing that love was what was killing him.

I also know that Maddie and Riley know their dad on some level. Last night, as I was making dinner, the kids were in their high chairs, chatting happily. As I rinsed a dish in the sink, my back to them, I heard Maddie say, "Maddie miss Daddy."

"What was that, Love?"

"Maddie miss Daddy."

"Oh, honey, I do too. I miss Daddy a lot. What do you miss about Daddy?"

[pause; gaze out window]

"Birdie eat that corn."

And so works the toddler mind. But it's not the first time she's done something like that. And both kids are often calmed by seeing pictures of John. We talk about him a lot, and some—most, maybe all, eventually—of their memories of their dad will be ones that I've helped them create. Hardly ideal. But worse than not being born? I don't think so.

Welcome Home

It's always the same with vacations. It's like you never left.

The kids and I had a great reunion. They clearly had so much fun, and so did I.

But they cried when I put them to bed. I was up twice with a screaming Ri-Man in the middle of the night. They were up for the day at 4:30 a.m. When I went in in give screaming Madeleine her ducky back at 4:45 a.m., my loving comment as I tossed it in her crib was a hissed, "Shut. Up. It's time for SLEEPING." I promised the kids oatmeal for breakfast only to discover that we were all out. Maddie threw a hissy fit at the table because one of the crackers I gave her was broken in half. I let Riley sit in the front seat of the car while I buckled Maddie in, and he honked the horn by accident, which scared the holy living crap out of him. A brand-new sippy cup of milk leaked all over the back of the freshly-cleaned car on the way to daycare. I was leaving for work at the time that I normally arrive.

Holy Monday, Batman.

I know the kids are just readjusting to being back at home after a weekend out of the normal swing of things. I'm sure their crying last night was at least partly related to the tease of Mama finally coming home only to sling them into their cribs and leave them again until morning. I'm sure the troubles this morning were related to the kids being tired from having gotten up so early, and having gotten up so early because of wanting to see Mama sooner rather than later. I had tried to mentally prepare myself for this kind of night and start to the week, but I still feel drained, the Zen of vacation already slipping from my grasp, my teeth clenched, my eyes drooping.

There's a thread on my moms of twins listserv right now, a flood of responses to an overwhelmed mom of newborn twins, telling her how great she is doing and how it really will get easier. I replied to the thread, but in regards to things getting easier, I have to disagree. Overall, it's not really easier, it's just different. The challenges have changed. I'm trying to wrap my mind around the fact that this is parenting. Easier? Not so much. Different? All the time.

Chicago, Friday Night

We went out for Korean food in K-town, straight from the airport.

Kalbi, soon doo boo, and another soup, a spicy broth with brisket. More banchan than I've ever seen, at least twenty little dishes covering the table.

Smoke filled the air as we grilled our kalbi. The soon doo boo bubbled in its clay pot. I had to ask for more kochujang; I put it on everything, in great quantity.

I miss this food. We ate all the kalbi, most of the soup and the banchan. I could smell the smoky aroma of kalbi on my hair when I went to bed that night. I ate the bit of leftover soon doo boo for breakfast the next day. When I unpacked on Sunday, the scent of the grill lingered in the shirt I'd been wearing at the restaurant.

Post 625

Tomorrow I am not going to work.

Instead, I'm going to Chicago to spend the weekend with my sister-in-law.

Maddie and Riley will be spending the weekend with some very good, very kind, very brave friends here in greater Boston who have twins of their own, boy/girl twins who are six months older than M&R. Twinapalooza, baby.

While in Chicago, I plan to:

sleep
eat
drink
exercise
wear my pajamas a lot
generally relax

I had thought about seeing if my SIL was up for trying to get tickets to the Cubs game on Saturday afternoon, or maybe going to the Art Institute or blah blah blah, and while those would be fun things to do, I think what I really need is just a break from DOING all the time. Of course, I've had to DO extra to get ready to go, but that's OK.

I remain woefully behind on e-mail, although I'm making inroads. Part of my weekend break includes not touching a computer, though, so I risk falling further behind. I'll get caught up eventually. I'll also eventually start playing Scrabulous again. Anyone waiting for a message from me or a move on the Scrab board: be patient. All in due time.

Have a wonderful weekend. More next week.

Idol Top 3: My Take (It or Leave It)

I took the moral high road and had dinner with my in-laws after the kids went to bed, but I still managed to see the second and third round of performances as they happened last night and to find the first round on YouTube before I went to bed. From the looks of things, Round 1 was the strongest set by far, so I'm bummed that I missed it live, but so be it. Here are my thoughts:

David A.: I thought "And So It Goes" was the best thing you've done since "Imagine." Kudos to Paula for picking such a perfect song for you. (Full disclosure: I absolutely adore that song.) Your song pick? Forgettable. What was it again? See? And the Dan Fogelberg? Before Simon even made his comments, I turned to my friend and said, "Why did they pick a song that makes a seventeen-year-old kid sound like an old fogey?" So one great, two OK, and we'll see you next week for the Battle of the Davids.

Syesha: I actually didn't watch your Round 1 on YouTube because I didn't care. I thought "Fever" was fine. That's what I always say about you: fine. Frankly, I was distracted during "Fever" by how short and transparent  your dress was. There was a lot of backlighting shining through that silvery skirt. The song the producers chose for you was awful, although your performance was . . . fine. Fine is not going to cut it this week. You're gone.

David C.: I liked 'em all. Even if David A. wins it all with the teenybopper vote, you're poised to make a great record. Your creativity didn't come through as much on this round, but your performances were solid and enjoyable. 

Bring on the Battle of the Davids! I can't wait. I will be *pissed* if there is some upset and Syesha is around next week. In fact, I was so worried about that possibility that for the first time ever, I voted last night, twice. Once for Archuleta, once for Cook. I did my part. Let's see what happens tonight. Hopefully I'll be home from book club in time to catch the end of the results show.

"Earth's Last Eden"? Really?

I've never watched Survivor, but I might have to start next season. It was just announced that Survivor: Gabon—Earth's Last Eden will begin filming in late June. Having spent three years there in the Peace Corps, I know from personal experience that Gabon is a gorgeous, lush, tropical country. But Earth's Last Eden? I'm not so sure. Guess the producers need some media hype to get everyone excited about a country virtually no one in the U.S. has ever heard of.

As for Jeff Probst's comment in the EW article that "no one has really hung out there," what the hell is he talking about? He must mean no one from the Survivor crew, because plenty of other people have hung out there and could give him some ideas on what to expect in terms of wildlife. Sheesh, Jeff, do a little research already.

On the subject of reality TV, my in-laws are in town this week for my father-in-law to attend a medical conference. They are coming over tonight to see the kids. And me, I guess. I might have to miss Idol! For the second week in a row! Tragedy.