Monthly Archives: October 2015

Update: Wearable Activity Trackers; Polar M400 vs FitBit Flex

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I wrote a little while ago about a FitBit Flex my husband and kids got me for Mother’s Day. The idea wasn’t some passive-aggressive pitch a la, “You’re a sloth and we want you to get active, so put on this attractive arm band and report back to us every day” hint. I was curious about the technology and wanted to see how active I was because I felt reasonably exhausted at the end of each day.

By the end of June, the FitBit died.

“I win!” I thought to myself. “I killed the FitBit! I am so active, it couldn’t keep up!” Because we were still within the 90-day period from its purchase, Brookstone gave me a store credit because it was beyond their 60-day something or other. But we ended up having a bonus even more, because I didn’t want a new one, I felt the piece / technology was limited. But FitBit sent me a new one anyway after they noticed through their Minority Report software that the pod had died (but they didn’t bother proactively contacting me, I had to go to them…grr). So I took the new one, my kids use it for curiosity and I bought two blankets and a nifty lap desk from Brookstone with the store credit.

Over the months, I’ve had conversations with friends and strangers alike about the FitBit concept and one of them said to me, “I didn’t like being FitBit’s bitch. Granted, I lost some weight and my health improved, but I didn’t cotton to the idea that I was being scrutinized.”

“Sort of like being under house arrest, huh? ‘Cept, you’re encouraged to go wherever you want, vigorously and repeatedly, but still being accountable to something outside yourself…” I said.

“Yeah.” She said, laughing at the irony of the whole thing. “So I’ll probably go juice it up and put it back on in the fall…” I have no clue if she did.

Another friend, who is a runner and yoga lover just puts her in her purse. “It was a gift. I don’t like plastic on my skin. It doesn’t breathe… ”

“And let’s not kid ourselves, it’s ugly as ass,” I added and she laughed.

And then there are the cheaters: I know people who put the devices on their dog’s collar, to get more steps in and win on the leaderboard of their FitBit challenges with “friends.”

Other people give them to their kids to wear to school. My oldest two go to a high school that used to be the largest in the state. I KNOW there are felonious FitBits roaming those hallways…

Another friend talked about how she liked the idea as a form of incentive, but she’s pretty active anyway, and after a while she determined that it was not so far off from an Orwellian world where we all wear bracelets to condition us into conformity. A nagging yet vocal 5% of me nodded in agreement; the other 95% of me, convinced that I’d already done too much to indoctrinate myself into this Orwellian culture, looked for the troops to drag me away, denying me my steps to the van.

As my brother and I decided over a conversation about primitive wearables like the FitBit Flex and Jawbone Up that we already know how active we are. It’s nice to have “sleep data” but honestly, you know when you slept like a dog and when you slept like a meth addict. So for people like my brother and myself, the concept was redundant after a while.  Plus, I became sleep paranoid: “IS THIS QUALITY SLEEP? AM I TOO FITFUL? IS THIS GOOD? DOES THIS SLEEP MAKE ME LOOK FAT? WILL I GET A BAD SCORE ON MY SLEEP TRACKING?” That. As I say to my yoga students, “If this breathing exercise brings tension to your body, breath, or mind, that’s counterintuitive. Please ignore it and let my voice be a drone in the background.”

Over time, it became just a thing to have and for me, if I was going to wear something to track my activity, I wanted more. I wanted data. I wanted to know really, how “active” I am. I wanted, given the specter of Orwwellian threat, to also be put into the “moderately active  with potential” camp when the van comes.

So I researched, a lot. I already have a “relationship” with Polar heart rate monitors (I attribute my ability to stay motivated and aggressive in my workouts because of the feedback), I decided on the Polar M400 which is part smartwatch and part workout buddy.

It’s Bluetooth 4.0 compatible which means it will connnect with most smartphones; it also connects with the Polar H7 heart rate monitor (HRM), which also connects to your smartphone if you want. The M400 is big. It’s about the size of the Apple Watch, but it costs about $130 from heartratemonitorsusa.com; if you need the H7, the pair is about $180.

 

FitBit Flex on the left; Moby Dick on the right.

Its smartwatch capabilities are pretty nifty and also pretty useless in the grand scheme of life.

Nifty: Paired with and within range of your smartphone, it will notify you of all the notifications you receive on your phone, including texts messages, traffic and weather alerts (thus configured) and incoming calls. Some of its features are executive: You can “silence” an incoming call and it will send it to voicemail. It will also provide turn-by-turn navigation if you are using a GPS app and your phone is running the free “Polar Flow” app. If you’re out with friends and are expecting a text, you don’t need to have the phone in your hand to get it (unless you like that barrier to socializing and being fully attentive to your peeps); its preview will show on your watch and you can decide what to do next.

Useless: come on. Who needs to have this shit in their face all the time? If you do, you need to get a life. Work with the homeless. Run for office. Volunteer with animals.

But as I said, I like data and I knew the FitBit was no longer going to satisfy me when I went for a five-mile row one morning and it came back and said I’d taken only 4,000 steps. So I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Here is another important aspect: these gadgets don’t know if you’re hiking the Ozarks wearing a 70# rucksack, pushing a double stroller with two 40# toddlers in it, or if you’re walking around the house with a feather duster in your dominant hand which is not the wrist bearing the tracker. 

The M400 has some sort of genius meter in it that knows when I am standing, sitting, lounging, and walking or running. After initial set-up with the Polar Flow desktop application, you can import upwards of 30 activities on to the watch and when you’re ready to get it on, all you have to do it choose one. I would love one for “housework” but I suppose “other indoor” will suffice. There is rowing, yoga, dancing, fencing, treadmill, rock climbing…Assault & battery… I wonder how it would have measured the two inmates who escaped from the maximum security prison in Clinton, NY? There is no “crawling” option.

It also boasts GPS service, so when you go on those five-mile runs or rows or hikes, it shows you  where you went. The more data you give to it, the more you get back. If you wear the heart rate monitor, it provides a summary of the activity with very encouraging praise. I’m into praise. If you just use the GPS and forget the heart rate monitor, then it tells you your pace, and says something nice about how your activity will benefit you in the long run. It’s not like Jillian Michaels: it’s not going to call you a mess and tell you how much you suck. If you want a sado-masochistic relationship with your activity tracker, this is not the one for you. I”m not sure there is one for you. You have issues.

Deep down, you know that even getting up and moving a little is better than not moving at all. If you sit still for more than an hour, it beeps at you and tells you “It’s time to move!” Sometimes (when I’m writing) I tell it to go screw itself; others, I get up and try to unbend my tight knee.

Is it flawless? No. It’s close though. There are still some connectivity issues to wortk out; the most trouble seems to stem from the Bluetooth and the GPS — basically, don’t pair your H7 HRM to your phone. I did that in the beginning before I ever got the M400 or even my FitBit because I wanted to use RunKeeper and have it connected to my music and the Polar Beat app which communicates with the H7 via the phone… blah blah blah… so don’t synch the H7 HRM to your phone. That seems to solve a lot of problems. I think the people at Polar like to THINK they know a lot about the Bluetooth stuff, but they don’t. They just don’t. Also, if your H7 is paired to your phone, sometimes the H7 will communicate with the phone if it’s in range and that will kill the non-rechargeable battery on the HRM…

The M400 is not constantly online with the app the way the FitBit is. You have to consciously synch the watch to your app. I don’t think that’s a bad idea; it saves battery life. Speaking of which, it lasts a pretty good while: five days? Charging takes very little time too. The graphic interface on the watch is customizeable. I chose analog because I’m under some delusion that setting this small television on my wrist it to look like an actual watch will make it appear elegant and less HAL / Space Oyssey 2001 -esque. I know… I’m troubled. Sometimes it just doesn’t synch; I call it Scarlett O’Hara then. Try again. Tomorrow is another day.

 

See the little iPhone in the upper left corner? That means it can’t find the paired iPhone.

The Polar people were too close to the watch when they wrote their user manual. There are definitely instances when you lose connectivity with your phone and an icon in the upper left corner shows a tiny smartphone with a question mark in it (see above photo). That means the connection is lost. Not to worry, it will reacquire when in range. But you won’t find data anywhere that tells you what that icon means. I had to make four calls to get to the bottom of that. Even the people at Heart Rate Monitors USA didn’t know what it meant. I considered returning it because the issue was so problematic between the watch, the H7, the Bluetooth to the phone and the Bluetooth to the H7 and the planet Mars and Orwell… But I figured it out. Just keep the H7 unpaired from the phone.

Polar has upgraded the apps a bit, so that has been a plus. I will say this, however, Polar could make some serious improvements to the firmware, such as allowing users to create more alarms and other customizations such as editing what “other indoor” could mean for you. In that realm, FitBit has them beat.

In other ways, the M400 doesn’t deserve to be compared to the Flex. Polar knows you’re more than a walking machine. It offers three grades levels of your personal activity and goals based on your lifestyle; not just steps, so when you’re having a busy day, but you’re “not getting your steps in” the M400 has your back.  

these are ways to meet my activity goal, which is level 2: sitting for short periods but otherwise active… or something like that.

 It knows you’re doing other things. Throughout the day, as you check your progress on the watch, it also offers ways to achieve your goal with examples of activities ranging from playing 30 mminutes of squash to walking your dog for 50 minutes to baking for two hours and 15 minutes. Yes, baking… Niiiiiice

I’m shocked by how easy it is to keep the M400 clean. As you can discern from the photo above, I bought the white one, for some reason it felt less ominous and monolithic and more like Moby Dick, and I’ve thrown major yard work its way.  I even spilled mustard on it and it came off. The band is comfortable, oddly velvety soft and non-binding. The FitBit is harder and less negotiable. Plus, the FitBit just pops off every once in a while. My husband had to buy tiny O-ring washers to put around the clasp to keep it from popping off. FitBit knows about this, the complaints about the clasp are rampant. Their offers of assistance are mediocre. They already have your money, suckers.

The Polar community has always been a motivating group. It’s neat to see how long these watches have lasted. I’ve had a Polar F5 for at least 10 years, and way back when in 1995 my husband and I bought a NordicTrack skier and it came with the polar heart rate system and ever since then, I’ve been hooked. I could chalk all this interest in my own presence and performance as narcissism or consider it a form of validation from recovery of a pretty hard childhood with dysfunctional parents and a lot of addiction chaos.  When people tell you all through your childhood that what you’re seeing isn’t happening or they deflect your inquiries altogether or dismiss you, it can be hard tobelieve  yourself when you say you saw and did things. Either way, I love the hard data and the encouragement.

The Polar Facebook wall is very cool and the staff seem relatively responsive. People have been posting pictures of their V800 watches, which is a souped-up version of the M400, and there’s some crazy clamping thing going o when folks are trying to recharge their watches. The V800 is prohibitively expensive (for me) but quite rugged.  It makes the Apple Watch look like a lace doily. Which we alll know it is…

A while back, I posted some intial inquiries and unsolicited suggestions to the Polar FB wall and I can’t find that thread anywhere; they seem to have removed it. I knew I would be writing this post eventually though, so I’m glad  I saved it to my reading list, and here’s the link if you’re so interested:

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10153167053619915&id=28748279914&ref=m_notif&notif_t=feed_comment&actorid=100003924260590
The bottom line, for me, is that these devices make me more mindful; the M400 encourages me when I need it if I’m slacking and praises me when I’ve rocked it out. However, when I’m brushing my teeth it thinks I’m running. When I’m drying my hair, it thinks I’m running. When I’m running it thinks I’m running. So the only reliable measure of you actually stepping is if you put a sensor on the sole of your foot. Just take your data with a grain of salt and be aware that you’re moving around.

I am also more mindful about standing instead of sitting or leaning. Somehow it knows. The paranoia can get a little tiresome, so I don’t wear the M400 all the time. I’ve actually had an “easy day” when I just wear the FitBit because it’s there. I also go several days or weeks not wearing either. 

I will admit that when I first got the M400, I did try to compare them. And I’ve found that they vary in step count by about 150 steps at the end of the day. However, I find it vexing that when I teach yoga, the M400 says I’m sitting but I’ve learned to get over that. If I tell it I’m going to teach or practice, it gives me little heart icons because I’m awesome. Here’s what a typical Wednesday looks like for me:


On Wednesdays I don’t sit much; but when I do, I’m either teaching or driving or peeing, and as you can see, I went to bed close to midnight. Thay “grey” zone from 12am to 8am is me not wearing the device until 8.

I like the concept of the buddy or the “sponsor” but I also like to take a break every now and then knowing that I’m really a pretty good person and am active when I can be and when it feels right. If you are someone who’s second-guessing yourself and you have trouble making decisions, and you don’t know what from whatnot, don’t complicate your life. Go simpler. Go with the FitBit. But if you like technology, you are already active, but you LOVE the idea of it all being right there for you, get the MM400. Just be OK with not wearing it every once in a while, or you’ll turn into one of those people who talk about their steps all day… and if you’re one of those people, don’t sit near me at a restaurant. While I will be proud of you for making your health a priority in your life, I will still point and laugh at you. You truly are a Stepford.

The M400 offers tons of other stuff, too. This is a just a couple of numerous feedback pages from a row last month:

 

so even though i was technically “sitting” for my row which lasted 80 minutes, I was busy too.

 


this is some of the feedback i mentioned: it’s encouraging.

Given the cost of the M400, what it tells you and how it motivates you, I don’t regret this purchase a bit.

Thank you.

And lookee here… Just as I was finishing the post… This is what I do for you guys… 

  

Why Words Matter; Don’t be a Dick

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Last week I read some comments after an article about Oliver Sacks, the recently late brilliant and influential neuroscientist and physician, and his lifetime of chastity and abstinence.

The article detailed that when he was quite young, 12, his mother excoriated him after she learned he was gay. This blast fell on the heels of a conversation his mother had with his father. It turns out his father had betrayed him after he’d promised he wouldn’t share Oliver’s confession that he made during an earlier discussion about the birds and the bees and young Oliver’s budding sexuality.

According to the article, the conversation went along the lines of:

Dad: You don’t seem to have any girlfriends. Do you like girls?

Oliver: no; not especially. I like boys, but I’ve never acted on it. It’s just a feeling I have.

The resulting excoriation from his mother, to Oliver’s face was, “You’re an abomination. I wish you had never been born.”

I admired Dr. Sacks, I didn’t know he was gay; it didn’t matter. Why should it? The man was a gifted and loving observer of humanity and his work provided immense insight into who and what and why we are.

The comments on the article were mostly sympathetic to Dr. Sacks and conveyed a sense of tragedy for his life; that his mother could be so hateful. Lots of people, cited an irony in Dr. Sacks’ inability to move past his mother’s comments: he was quite adept at psychology and through his study and life experiences he clearly might / could / should have been able to see his mothers’ comments for what they were: a projection of her self-loathing and rigidity. Her comments had nothing to do with Sacks himself, they were about her.

Then later on the thread, someone said that those who’d never been chastened by their mothers in the severity of Dr. Sacks clearly was, will never be able to understand the carriage and shame and weight from a mother’s words.

I found myself nodding softly in agreement, while I also felt a pull in my gut.

Mothers say some pretty mindless shit. My mother was no exception. To the people out there who knew my mother and were fans and supporters of her, I will repeat my refrain: she was complicated, you aren’t her daughter, you didn’t live with her and you really didn’t know her.

I had a neighbor who told me (without any irony at all) that her son didn’t know his name was James because she and her husband always referred to him as “boy” so when she was calling him one time when he was about FIVE(!), he never responded until she fumed, “Boy! I’m calling you! Don’t you hear me?” and he got up and said, “I only now just heard you call me; who’s ‘James’? Is someone here?”

WOOOOOOOOAHHHHHHHHHHH…..

Right? I also know someone who thinks that calling his kid “psycho” is a nice nickname. Yet they wonder why the child is so unpredictable and wild and summarily come down on him when he is.

I will concede that no one is all of one thing and none of another. We are kaleidoscopic.

I hear Dr. Sacks’ mother’s words in my head, it’s like they are large, black, heavy and broad: like the Chicago Daily Tribune’s “Dewey Defeats Truman” headline. Oops. While my mother never said things that severe, there were some pretty heavy contenders. But now I know the truth about my situation and her condition, and I don’t carry that stuff with me anymore and I’ve released it.

However, I am brought back, swiftly, to moments when *I* say really stupid and reactive things to my children. The level of things I say aren’t even close, but I do say stupid things like, “Please try to act like a normal person and _____ ___ _____.” Or, “You’re crazy, there is no ____ ___ ______.”

Why? Why do I say such stupid shit?

Do you remember when you were younger, a child? You wanted appreciation and acceptance from your parents; it’s the same for our kids from us. All our kids want is for us to see them. We don’t have to agree with them, we just have to see that they are their own people and to accept that they likely will think and do a whole bunch of stuff that we mightn’t agree with or care for.

That’s on us.

It can be exhausting to not be a dick. It takes awareness and mindfulness to not react like a horrible human being. If you’re unkind to yourself, you will become unkind to others. It’s only natural. And if you have kids, count on it that you will be unkind (a dick) to them.

“Until we have met the monsters in ourselves, we keep trying to slay them in the outer world. And we find that we cannot. For all darkness in the world stems from darkness in the heart. And it is there that we must do our work.”

― Marianne WilliamsonEveryday Grace: Having Hope, Finding Forgiveness And Making Miracles

If our kids end up doing things we don’t expect as a traditional (conservative?) thing: getting a tattoo, a piercing, eloping, coming out, making performance art, dropping out of ____ school, dating someone we don’t like, preferring another parent over us, marrying someone we don’t like, running for office, buying a gun, advocating pro-choice, canceling out our vote… our reaction is ours.

Some of this stuff comes out of us because we feel a certain way about ourselves, and that’s a deep habit we need to unbraid. Before saying something caustic and life-changing to our kids (or simply adding to the verbal crap we’ve unwittingly heaved on to them because we don’t hear ourselves) we need to take a pause and learn to watch the things we say not only to our children, but to ourselves. When we can hear what we say to ourselves and put into practice the art NOT saying it, then we will find we can be smarter and kinder with our kids.

Wake up…our kids are teaching us. Get out your red pen and edit yourself.

Thank you.

Staying in My Lane, The Gift of “xo, Mom”

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Last weekend, my eldest and I drove off to my home state, New York, to tour Rochester Institute of Technology. He is a high school senior, and swinging by Rochester from my cousin’s house in Buffalo, where I grew up, was really no big deal. Except that it was.

My son, as it turns out, loved the school. It’s eight hours away by car.

“We really haven’t looked at any bad schools, Mom, so, it would figure that RIT would be great too.”

Astute. It’s a goal of mine to not waste any time and show him any “bad” schools… I mean, who would do that?

Watching him grow up, is a mixed bag.

I find it hard to stay in my lane.

I find myself channeling my first and best therapist ever, Cooke: “What would Cooke say about this? How would Cooke talk to me about things like this…? How would he phrase what I want to get to the heart of, but not sound like the gestapo?” and most importantly, “How would Cooke help me feel that what he’s inquiring about is really about the person on the couch rather than the person on the chair asking the person on the couch?”

Just when I find myself off the couch, I find myself sitting in the chair across from the couch.

Let me be clear: my son is not in need of a couch; I’m simply stating that when I engage with someone these days, I am finding that I still need to get the hell out of their lane and stay in my own: not make anything they’re saying about me. Keep the streams uncrossed.

It’s hard.

My son is embarking on new chapters and it has nothing to do with me.

Keeping these posts, these essays relevant to him, because he is a human on this planet, makes for interesting story telling, but keeping these posts about me and my growth and not divulging too much about him and his brothers or his father or anyone else, is always my goal. I have to sit back, read and then ask about the relevance of content as my own editor and do my best to ensure the posts are mostly expressive of my seat and perspective in the shared experiences.

It’s hard to not feel like a hopeless narcissist though when I find myself writing in the pathetic bathos tense…

It’s a fine line, a narrow lane.

It’s nearly impossible to relate to life as a mother, a caring person on this planet and an empathetic person without relating to others. So I find myself softening the crayon strokes as I near the edges of what I’m coloring.

Given the alignment of American tradition / history, he will be gone and in some dorm in ten months and I will have to absolutely let go, as he turns from his gentle wave goodbye as I turn my body forward from craning over the back seats and pressing my face against the tailgate window only to leave him there. Maybe I will put his “Momo” — a stuffed baby cow he was given as a toy when he was born (I took Momo to Vegas with me) into a sock and he will find her and smile.

Live in the moment. He’s still home. Breathe. 

I write about him more than the other two boys these days because he has a lot going on. He’s not more important, he’s not more valuable.

He’s my first. He’s my first true teacher of humility, of the dangers of narcissistic extension, of fear and its sneaky cousins: denial and self-sabotage.

Last week when we were in Buffalo, my cousin threw me a birthday party. I’m 48 now. My life is more than half over, as I have no intentions of living to 100, drooling, having my kids wipe my undercarriage and repeatedly asking people to repeat themselves. Those are my intentions… we will see what fate delivers, always, of course.

At the party, I was speaking to someone about age, having kids and the biggest gift of all, the true honor and privilege it is to write, “xo, Mom” at the end of a quick note or text.

I said, “If you were to tell me 25 years ago that I were going to be married, with three sons and everything else I’ve been blessed with, I’dve told you to walk. Writing ‘xo, Mom’ on a note has been my greatest honor ever; words fail to express the journey and its gifts wrapped in lessons.”

So I see him, with his hairy man legs and hear his deep voice and his sharp observations, and words come back to me that a friend recently said of her own experiences watching her son grow up: “Suddenly, there is another man in your house. The step is heavier, the pace is slower, the tone more deliberate and the entire vibe doesn’t so much change because he’s not a ‘man’; he’s your kid who likely needs to tie his shoe or tuck in his shirt to you, but there he is nonetheless: a man.”

And you’re that much older.

So the adjustment must be made. I guess it’s only natural to still treat your child like a child, but sooner or later, you have to look at them as they have always been: separate and individual and capable of their own triumphs and disasters and no matter how deep the desire to meddle, parents can only set up their children for coping with the consequences of their choices. We can’t do anything else… ever.

And it sucks, I think.

We can’t make people be nice to them and see them for the fantastic people we believe them to be. We also can’t be so blind to their humanity that we deny their flaws. That’s the worst thing we can do: pretend they are perfect.

So, as my friend continued about her own college drop-off experience, “I heard the landing gear lock in when the jet cleared the runway, and all I could do was breathe and try to deal with the onslaught of doubts: Eighteen years… did we hug enough? Did I speak kindly enough? Was I patient enough? Did I tell him ‘I love you’ enough? Did I play enough with him under the dining room table? Did we have enough heart-to-heart talks? Did I show him how his choices affect him? Did I tell him enough about the dangers of peer pressure? …”

And I hear my own thoughts compete with hers, Did I instruct him about changing a tire? What about the allure of self-pity and trap falls of despair? About the value of hard lessons? Have I taught him about resilience? Egad! Does he even know how to cut an apple? Make lasagna? HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO MAKE LASAGNA!!! I’VE BEEN AFTER HIM FOR YEARS TO MAKE LASAGNA WITH ME…sauce noodle goo … sauce noodle goo …

I still have time. I know he’s going to really want to spend time with me now… at 17. There’s nothing cooler than spending the weekend with your mom while she teaches you how to make lasagna. I know that’s at the top of his list of things to do before heading off to wherever is next.

Can you imagine…?

While we were in Buffalo, he went off for a walk with his cousins. Soon after that, the cake came out and it was time to sing to me.

But I knew he was out.

I was at an impasse… Do I call him back? Do I interrupt his “me time” for my “me” time?

I felt strongly that I knew what my mother would do: she would interrupt him. She would call him in to gather round her with the upcoming generation and venerate her with song.

I decided to wait a few more moments to see if he would come in on his own.

He didn’t.

So I did what I thought was only fair. I decided to let him know, because in my own twisted (yet I’m working to untwist it) and fearful mind, I would have thrust at my mother also a vengeance that she purposely didn’t tell me so that she could thrust guilt at me and I could summarily thrust shame at myself:

IMG_5913

So while I sat there, letting everyone sing to me, which was really nice an’ all, I was quite aware of his absence. And I was aware of my awareness, so I took a breath and let it all go.

And at some point, as aware we are of our children’s maturity and individuation, we must also allow our parents their past and realize that we are our own separate adults now and that they don’t have reign over us anymore, for good. That we don’t have much time left, even in the best of circumstances to live our lives. So, yeah… pull up our own bootstraps.

He came in later, and after everyone was gone, he sang “Happy Birthday” to me all alone. He sang every verse. Even the “dear Mommy” part, looking at me right into my green welling-up eyes and smiling, completely void of any irony, weirdness, or self-consciousness.

“… happy birthday to youuuuuuuu…”

And I sighed, hugged him deeply, almost cravenly, and I softly wept a little because he’s so sweet, and thought to myself, “Just one more year…”

Nope.

This is all we get.

Note to self: stash Momo in a sock.

Thank you.