The Sky is Falling

There I Am in Younger Days, Star-Gazing

2011-05-11T22:33:00.000-07:00

Twenty years ago, after a long day of improvising Elizabethan daily trials (alack! the Queen is coming and I've naught to wear!), wearing layers of clothes in 90 degree weather, and mooning over whatever boy I was too shy to talk to at the time...a bunch of us were hanging out on the near-empty grounds of the Renaissance Faire. I was about 15, the rest of the group was older and much more sophisticated...why, I'd put their average age at 22! My friend Colin was playing guitar, and I was pretending that I, too, was cool enough to know all the words to REM's "The End of The World As We Know It" (by the way, you're welcome for the earworm). He played some other stuff I didn't know, and then he played the Indigo Girls' "Closer to Fine." And I was struck. By the end of the song, I was joining in on the chorus, and my next paycheck took me to the record store (remember those?) in the mall and I bought the album. By which, of course, I mean the cassette tape. It lived in my car that summer and I memorized every word.

In college, that tape was never far from my stereo. OK, to be fair, my dorm room was tiny enough that nothing was very far from my stereo, but still. Eventually I got other albums, and my college boyfriend, Eric, finally convinced me to move to these new-fangled CDs, which was basically his only useful contribution to my life, I see now. These albums were the soundtrack of my early 20s. One of my closest friendships from those days was my friend Mandy (she of the socks in the bed story), who was an alto, and she and I spent hours singing these songs, harmonizing as we drove or to cover our poor attempts at learning the guitar. Later, we found people who would play guitar not-poorly, and we performed at talent shows, coffee houses, and basically wherever someone would hold still. I may also have worn a lot of Doc Martens with dresses, but that's not important now.

I was thinking of all that today, as I drove windy country roads and sang at the top of my lungs. I had to go see a kid of mine who was recently pulled into foster care (the list of reasons included filthy house, meth use, living with sex offenders, and various suspicious marks on her 2-year-old body) and her new home is in another district, an hour away. I started out listening to NPR, but couldn't stomach doing what I was doing and listening to debates over whether we teachers are overpaid and "should learn to live within our means like the rest of the country" (thank you, call-in listener!). I put in the Indigo Girls' live album that I haven't played in years and all of the words and harmonies were right there where I left them. I remembered other drives on country roads in the Midwest, which boy I was crying over at the time, how cool and weird it was when my sister independently started listening to the Girls as well, and which songs would be forever tied to certain people.

I am sometimes struck that, ten years ago, I don't know if there was anyone in my life who didn't know that I sing, that didn't think of me as a singer. And now, I can probably count on two hands the number of friends who have ever heard me sing. It's not any less important to me, but it's somehow become less of my identity. When I sang at a friend's wedding, I got a lot of lovely compliments, most of which started with, "I didn't know you sang!" While I understand how this happens (I haven't performed much since moving out here, due to grad school, cancer mom, job, baby, etc.), it makes me inexplicably sad. Which is kinda weird, because it's not like my ability has changed or disappeared. In fact, since I took lessons for a while (after grad school, before baby), my technique has improved. But now it's a skill that I bring out from time to time, whereas before it was something people knew about me, sometimes before they knew my last name. It was a way that I connected with some of the most important people of my life. It was how I exorcised that hamster wheel in my brain and the little fuckers who ran on it.

And, because I am exactly that unwell, sometimes that sadness somehow keeps me from singing more now. Or rather, the fear of that sadness welling up and wrecking what was once a source of comfort and release. Because now it's also a reminder of something I'm not doing, which feels like pressure, which sucks out all the fun or relaxation that could otherwise be there (that sound you hear is MOTH shaking his head in disbelief of my labyrinthine logic). It makes me miss people with whom I once shared strong musical connections.

But today, I did it. I was able to put all that aside and just enjoy it. Just singing, harmonizing, matching the timbre of my voice to Emily's, rocking out in my little Prius bubble. It was great.

The Indigo Girls play each summer in a local concert series at the zoo. Picnic blankets, snacks, and probably disturbing the elephants--what more could you ask for? The last time I went was the week I found out I was pregnant, and we hadn't told anyone yet. I remember thinking, "If I'm actually pregnant [I was fairly disbelieving up until the first time I saw the sea monkey on the ultrasound], then this is baby's first concert." They're coming this July, and I think we'll take Tankboy. Let him hear it from the outside.

Because it Can't all Be Wise 'n' Shit

2011-04-29T23:54:00.000-07:00

First, I'm so amazed and gratified that you're still out there. I gave serious consideration to just slinking away in shame and never coming back.

But if I did? Then I wouldn't be able to share ridiculous stereotypical mommyblogger moments with you. I do beg your pardon, and appreciate your willingness to pretend that no-one else has ever waxed rhapsodic about potty training.

So, Tankboy has shown some interest in toilet training, and we got a little plastic potty to offer as an option. He's only used it once (during an evening when we had dinner guests, who were very gracious about the fact that their hostess was getting weepy over 30 ccs of baby pee), until the last 24 hours. He tells me "baby pee" or "baby hah doh pah-ee" and then insists that "mama doh 'way" so that I will "yeave yone" (oh yes, for a future date, let's discuss Teeny Speech Therapy). He gently ushers me to the door, pausing only to ask for a pile of books. And if I peek in to check on him, there he sits, naked from the waist down, reading. "Honey? How're you doing in here?" Smile. "Duhd." "OK, then..."

But yesterday I heard the clunk of the toilet seat and went in to find him attempting to empty his little potty into the large bowl. He's only two, so this meant that most of my bathroom was dripping with pee. But that's nothing compared to...

This afternoon, when I came in to find him scaling the toilet to reach the kleenex, the better to wipe himself with. Because he had pooped. Riiiiiight next to the potty. Originally, that is. He had...traveled a bit.

Or this morning, when I opened the door to find him perched on his little seat, holding a (wrapped, thankfully) tampon and carefully considering his nethers. I stopped him, but I'm kind of wondering what his next step would have been.

Plopping and Hanging my Head

2011-04-18T22:11:00.000-07:00

We just passed the fourth anniversary of my mother's death, and once again I wrote lengthy, detailed memoirs in my head that never made it out.

I am working late almost daily and bringing work home, trying to find some way to quite literally change the course of this one child's life, knowing that the odds are that the System is going to claim him as thoughtlessly as it has so many others. Meanwhile, my agency is facing up to 25% less funding next year, and if I'm not laid off myself, I will be doing the same work I can't get done this year, but with 25% fewer people and resources. And I can't make myself write about it, because it's a recipe that requires too much back story and too little hopefulness.

I am still running, but have lost the focus on letting go of anger and on learning to meditate and am feeling that dull, run-over lethargy and I just don't want to talk about it.

My friend had her beautiful baby girl, on Tankbaby (excuse me, Tankboy, as he recently turned two and is doing things like wearing cargo pants and shaving and calling girls)'s birthday, in the same hospital where I had Tankboy, and the visceral memories of that night and how weird but comforting it is to be the experienced mama...all plenty of writing fodder and I never even opened the Blogger window.

I'm pretty sure you guys have all given up on me anyway, because it turns out that I kind of suck at this being-part-of-the-blogosphere thing.

BUT.

Today, on the way home, I was listening to NPR, and they had a brief interview with Anne Lamott about Easter. And she talked about Lent and Easter being this "dark night of the soul," when it's time to just stop the crazy head hamster wheels (um, that's my imagery, not hers), and she told a story about going shopping:

"When I was 38, my best friend, Pammy, died, and we went shopping about two weeks before she died, and she was in a wig and a wheelchair. I was buying a dress for this boyfriend I was trying to impress, and I bought a tighter, shorter dress than I was used to. And I said to her, 'Do you think this makes my hips look big?' and she said to me, so calmly, 'Annie, you don't have that kind of time.' And I think Easter has been about the resonance of that simple statement; and that when I stop, when I go into contemplation and meditation, when I breathe again and do the sacred action of plopping and hanging my head and being done with my own agenda, I hear that, 'You don't have that kind of time,' you have time only to cultivate presence and authenticity and service, praying against all odds to get your sense of humor back."

And I almost drove off the road.

"Annie, you don't have that kind of time." God. Damn. How could I not share that with you lovely people, especially those of you raising kids, especially those of you raising girl-type kids? You don't have that kind of time. You don't have time for self-doubting, self-critical bullshit. You don't have time for worrying how to impress other people. You don't have time to be less than yourself, to be not as good as you are, to hold your breath and spin your wheels.

You don't have that kind of time.

Damn.

Zen Schmen

2011-02-15T21:37:00.000-08:00

So, ajm wanted to hear more about my little happy-making-ness thing I'm trying. I wrote (and wrote) about what drove me to it and I'm basically just trying what I said: I'm trying to find wisdom in other people and just fill my brain with some of these alternate thoughts in hopes of changing some really not-useful thought patterns.

Anger is one area that I'm really working on. I've never felt like this was a huge thing for me, but in the last couple of years, I'm finding myself getting frustrated more often and to an occasional object-throwing extent. It is ugly and it's not what I want to model for my son (who already does more than the occasional object-throwing, regardless of emotional state). So I'm working on letting it go. On deliberately and consciously recognizing my anger/irritation/frustration and rejecting the impulse to coddle it and feed it with righteousness until it grows toxic. It is exactly as hard and tedious as it sounds, and it makes me feel stupid and petulant at times, but it is working. I'm reading that Thich Nhat Hanh book I checked out, and while I'm not totally sold (he keeps talking about "embracing" the anger, but, halfway through, I'm still a little lost as to how to do that, if you mean "embracing" in a way other than "smothering"), I am finding a few things that stick with me. He describes anger as a house fire and points out that, in that case, you don't chase down the person you think set the fire, you take care of your house. So you don't spend energy trying to argue with or punish the person who is making you mad; instead, you take care of yourself and your own anger. I can get behind that, although part of me also says, yes, but after I put out the fire, you can be damn sure I'm going after that bastard with the matches. I guess I'm still working on enlightenment.

I'm also trying to be very kind to myself in this process and not see it as something I'm doing "right" (or, more likely, "wrong"). I'm just trying to watch for moments where I am doing something different and trying something healthier and appreciate those moments. Great googly-moogly, but I get tired of the phrase "living in the moment." Only slightly less overused is "be present." But I don't have a better way to describe what I'm trying to do, unless it's the phrase a dear friend once used, "cowboy the fuck up." I'm trying to get over myself and get some perspective. I don't know that I'm happier so far, but I think more peaceful isn't exaggerating.

Also, we bought a new oven. So that helps.

Also, also? Yesterday I put three different colored tutus on Tankbaby's head and watched him waddle around the living room, two stout legs under a black, orange, and blue cloud of tulle. It was like watching some sort of Goth cheerleader Ewok. A drunk Goth cheerleader Ewok. It's no meditation practice, but it did make me guffaw unattractively.

In Which I Pretend I Didn't Disappear for Weeks, and Hope You Buy It

2011-02-10T21:51:00.000-08:00

Cute Kid (Not My Own) Story #1: This morning at school, this kid wanted the binoculars that another kid was using. He told me so, and I asked him, "What do you need to do?" This is a kid who has the verbal skills and the experience to ask for a turn independently, so whenever possible, we try not to solve the problem, but to provide him with some cues to solve it himself. Sure enough, A turned to B (hee...those are actually their initials, although it reads as if I was just not terribly creative with "Kid A and Kid B") and asked, "Will you share with me?" B replied firmly, "No share!" and A turned back to me with big sad eyes and a quivering chin: "He don't wanna share."

I asked him, "OK, so now what can we do?" because we teach kids that first, you ask your friend, and if the other child says no, then you can get a teacher to help you. A looked confused at first, then brightened as the idea dawned on him. The tears disappeared from his eyes as he jumped up and shouted, "We can trap him!"

Cute Kid (Not My Own) Story #2: My afternoon group is my social skills group, kids who are cognitively typical (and often quite bright) but have social-emotional/behavioral issues. We were at circle today and there was a fight over a blue cushion. And when I say "fight," I mean bellowing screams and flying fists. Possibly someone's mom was insulted.

One teacher grabbed J, who was sitting on the cushion and sobbing, and I grabbed D, who had been trying to get the cushion. We pulled them apart and spent a few moments helping them calm down (a tenet of the Positive Discipline thinking that we follow is that kids do better when they feel better; also, brain science tells us that kids can't problem-solve when upset, so our first step is always to get kids to calm down). Meanwhile, another child saw what was going on and offered D an identical blue cushion. He was instantly cheered, and happily sat down. J was still seething a bit about being attacked (go figure), so I asked him, "Did you want to tell D something?" inviting him to use his words to tell D "that made me mad" or whatever. He crossed his arms, furrowed his brow, and said firmly, "No."

So I turned to D and said, "Did you want to tell J something?" (we don't force kids to apologize, but we do give them opportunities to; sometimes they say "sorry" or they might explain "I was really mad that you wouldn't give that to me" or whatever). D solemnly said, "Yes," and crawled over to where J was sitting. "J, I want to tell you something...I want...I want...I want to tell you that...." I waited, wondering what heartfelt words he was trying to find.

"I'm gonna play T-ball this spring."

I'm sure that made J feel much better.

***************

MOTH is always telling me that it is unnecessary (as well as possibly boring) to open with abject apologies about not writing for a while. But! I bet it's totally different if I close with those apologies, right?

Yargh. I don't even have a single good excuse. I wanted to write more about my little happy-being experiment and how it's mostly working but it is exactly as hard and tedious as you'd think it would be. I was going to tell you about how within 48 hours we lost power and then our oven died and then my car's key fob stopped working and somewhere Laura Ingalls Wilder was all, "Deal with it, bitch." I still need to tell you about how my sister and I are planning a Gradual Surprise Party (tm Aunt Benevola) for my dad when I go back to Chicago in a few weeks. I have a bunch of sad foster kid stories that I don't think I want to tell you because they are sad and frankly you guys already have that Egypt thing to think about. I wanted to copy my cousin's Facebook post about a CNN report that Bristol Palin was considering running for office that read: "HAHAHAHAHA no."

In short, I'm here, and except for the part where I suck, I'm OK. I hope you are as well, except for the sucking part.

Look! Shiny!

2011-01-18T21:40:00.000-08:00

Um, I now feel a little bit like that weird girl at the party who you make accidental eye contact with and suddenly she's oversharing about her boyfriend's thyroid problem when all you wanted was to reach past her for the chips.

So! (claps hands briskly) Let's move along, yes? I only have a minute, as I am nearly a month overdue on completing my BFF's birthday present, which I really want to mail tomorrow, but in the interest of shaking off whatever Morrissey shadow still lingers over this blog, I present another installment of...

Things That Make Me Happy

1) Kinda cheating, but seriously? Drunk fucking Hulk, man.

2) Running. I know, ew. But it does. Not the running per se, but the fact that I am actually following through on my goal to exercise (which, by the way, I started in mid-December, so it totally counts as having fulfilled last year's resolution) is comforting to me in a way I can't describe. Plus, you know, fitness blah blah.

3) Listening to NPR podcasts (often while running--I can't do the music thing, I end up trying to run in rhythm, which only works on very specific songs...it turns out I run at exactly the pace for The Magnetic Fields' "I'm the Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side," and nothing else). I love Pop Culture Happy Hour, even though all my TV viewing is on Hulu.com, and I've seen exactly one movie since 2008, because they are all so smart and funny and in my mind, they'd be friends with me. I also adore Radiolab, and it distracts me suitably for plodding along.

4) I listed some friend-related sadness last time, but there are also some friend with wonderful, wonderful things that make me happy. My not-at-all-miscarrying friend from the summer, who got married in December and will have the most loved baby girl in March. Another friend who, at 40, fell in love with a guy she'd known for 15+ years. They're getting married (also in March), and she's moving to Florida to be with him. A relatively new friend invited me to her voice studio performance and it was stunning and inspiring and she was so open and vulnerable and courageous in her performance...I got chills.

5) I could make this list all about Tankbaby, because he's just so full of awesome lately. He is talking more and more (which has not been the case lo these many months) and his chirpy little voice slays me, in a very "he thinks he's a person" way. He also has taken to requesting that his head be covered by the blanket when he goes to sleep, and this seems to really help him go to sleep faster most nights (maybe he's part parakeet?), and he is Holy Mother of All That Is Good And Holy, pretty consistently sleeping through the night. Like, until 6:30 AM. Those animal sacrifices must have really paid off. And finally, he recently learned to recognize the letter "R," so it's now like we have a tiny pirate walking around our house. Win.

6) I just figured out how to make the filter motor on MOTH's aquarium stop making that annoying noise. I know that probably doesn't mean much to you, but trust me. It was really annoying.

Navel-Gazing-est, now with Drunk Hulk

2011-01-15T22:21:00.001-08:00

I've been avoiding writing.

Because I don't want to write about Arizona. I don't want to write about feeling scared and defeated and hopeless. I don't want to write about feeling worried all the time for me, for my son, for all of us. I don't want to write about the colleague at work whose bloodwork came back high for the marker for ovarian cancer. I don't want to write about the friend whose separation is becoming a divorce full of anger and sadness. I don't want to write about the other friend whose deepening depression I missed and can't be there to help him with now. I don't want to write about another holiday season without my mom and how it still colors everything. I don't want to write about how worried I am about money all the time and how I think I'm deciding I do want another kid but that it's not a good idea. I don't want to write about the tenuousness of work lately and the way everyone walks around tentative and defensive and resigned. I don't want to write about the constant undercurrent of panic, that I've done it all wrong, that it's too late, that it will never be right again.

Yeesh. It does feel a little better to rip all those band-aids off. You know, except for the resultant oozing.

But, as much as my brain is full of all of that lately, I don't want to write about it. Because I haven't yet found a way or a point at which I can write about it and have it be productive in some way, whether that means it's cathartic to me or helpful to someone who reads it or even just a good exercise in writing. I mostly want to get a big black crayon and scrawl "LIFE SAD" a couple dozen times, like some sort of Goth Drunk Hulk. (OK, I just read the last dozen tweets there and am actually giggling out loud, despite all I just wrote. "EVERY GENERATION NEED IT OWN RICHARD GRIECO! DRUNK HULK THANK ZAC EFRON FOR STEP UP TO PLATE!" Maybe the solution is to just have this piped into my head at all times.)

So, unlike other times when I've neglected this blog, I've been sort of purposefully neglectful as of late. Not because I don't think it's OK to write about sad stuff, obviously, but because I am in a weird chicken-or-egg place where I'm not able to tease out a sad thing about which I have thoughts versus just ME SAD ALL TIME. (Hee. I have some notes about what I'm doing to try to change this, but as I write, I'm just thinking that I need a whole lot more Drunk Hulk.)

Where was I? Right. I clicked a few posts back and saw a comment from cd over at The Frangipani Journals (which, by the way, hi! You're in India! The internet is magic!) and went and saw this perfectly timed post on her blog, where she writes about answering another writer's question, "What is your word for 2011?" That writer describes the word as your "North star," and an "organizing principle" for, in her case, writing, but cd framed it as more overarching goal for the year. She chose "risk," a word I could certainly get behind, as I am about as risk-averse as they come.

But as I sat with it for several minutes, the word that I kept coming back to is...happy. I would like to be happy.

Because--and I'm going to get a little down here, but just keep that Drunk Hulk tab open in another window and you'll be OK--I haven't been happy in a long time. Like, since I was pregnant. Now, I don't mean that I've been depressed for the last two years. But I've been so (take your pick) tired, worried, overwhelmed, lost, straining, focused, and/or stressed that I can't look back and see any decent stretch of time when I was content. When I felt like, "yep, I've got this, this is enough, I'm good." I've had that in moments, but only moments.

And don't get me wrong, it's not like I haven't also been excited, giddy, and madly in love with my son. I am so grateful for a healthy family, really exceptional friends, and a job that--despite changes and uncertainties--is still there, still providing some sense of fulfillment, in addition to health insurance. And, because I'm feeling guilty because of the timeline I've laid out, let's go back again: madly in love with my son. Like, cannot get enough of him. I don't regret having a baby for a second. But it was a very hard first year, for me individually and for us as a couple and a family, and I think the second year has been about coming back from that. And having a kid changes everything (what a completely original idea! I wonder if anyone's ever noticed that before!) and puts extra pressure on any pre-existing cracks. And then there are the things that aren't at all baby-related, like the tanking economy and all of its myriad effects (at least, I don't think that's related to Tankbaby. I can't vouch for what he does while I'm at work all day).

So, I had a hard year. And a year to try to come back from it. And now I'm ready, antsy even, to make some fucking forward motion. You know, as soon as I'm done being sad and angry and fearful and stuff.

Last time I linked to the terribly wise DoctorMama, but in case you got sidetracked by her running wisdom and overlooked her life wisdom, I send you to parts one and two of how she changed her life. You really oughta go read them, but for our purposes, I'll sum up: she writes about taking control of your own outlook and of letting go of anger (and its root, fear) and being...happy. Content. Peaceful with herself. (She also continues to be whip-smart and rapier-witted, which reassures me.)

I apologize. I stopped to re-read (again) those posts to organize my thoughts some more, but it's late and I'm afraid I'm going to crash to a rather inelegant end. What I want to make sure I put down, what I commit to in this vaguely public forum, is my current game plan. I have a therapist I see on an as-needed basis, and have been seeing her again. I have taken meds in the past, and am not averse to taking them again. But I also feel like, at some point, I gotta find something a little more internal that I can change. And I need to do it in a way where someone can gently kick my butt if needed or even just ask a curious question that makes me kick my own butt. Consider that an invitation, y'all.

So. I have started running, using the Couch to 5K program, with a healthy dose of DoctorMama wisdom. I have never been a runner before, and I hesitate to call myself one now, only 5 weeks in (although yesterday I ran 20 minutes in a row, which I'm not going to pretend isn't a triumph), but I've been trying to get regular exercise back in my life. In terms of flexibility and efficiency, this is working for me right now. I don't see any racing in my future, mainly because crippled tortoises are still faster than I am, but I know that it's good for me, both in terms of aerobic fitness and in terms of doing something just for myself.

I have bookmarked all of these bits of wisdom I've been talking about, and I'm going to pull key passages and print 'em all out and read them. Every day. I keep thinking about adding some sort of regular prayer/meditation in my life, and until I figure out how to do it properly, I figure it can't hurt just to take 5 minutes to read something that makes me say YES.

Thich Nhat Hanh's name has crossed my path twice today, which I took as a sign. I've requested his book on anger from the library. I also requested a Henry Rollins CD (to listen to while running), and am hoping that the two don't create some sort of matter/anti-matter explosion on the hold shelf.

And I'm going to keep sitting with that idea of happy. For me, that isn't gleefulness or cheerfulness, because I've had those. I'm looking more for contentment. For peace. Hell, mostly for just the absence of the whole fear/angerball thing. I want to be a better person, for me, for my family.

Well, and for you all, because then I won't write big old depressing blog posts anymore. Wish me luck.

A Lot of Wise Words That are FREAKING ME RIGHT OUT

2011-01-11T22:14:00.000-08:00

I'm odd.

People who know me are all nodding and snorting, "Tell me something I don't know."

No, I mean, I'm feeling odd lately. Anxious. Twitchy. Teary. I mean, I'm having trouble sleeping. Think about what my night-times have been like for the past two years, and then know that my son is finally, finally sleeping through the night (in some form, 80% of the time, but let's not be greedy, here), and then think about that: I'm having trouble sleeping. That's both ridiculous and depressing.

I'm not totally sure what's going on. A drop in hormones going along with a drop in breastfeeding? General world ookiness (economy, Arizona...)? Previously wacky brain chemistry becoming wacky once again? I dunno. And I haven't wanted to write much, because I don't know what to say or how to make it entertaining or at least helpful to me.

But. I have recently come across some other, smarter people who are writing good stuff. Stuff that hits me, sometimes in inspiring ways ("Yay! I could do that!"), sometimes in depressing ways ("Boo-hoo! Why can't I do that?!"). But it's hitting me and I'm trying to see that impact as a...sign? Ech. Not really. But as...important. If I'm feeling oochy and detached and slouchy lately, something that makes me feel energized and reactive and engaged is worth paying attention to.

The first is from (and this is weird to even type) the Dalai Lama's Facebook page. He wrote an essay called "Countering Stress and Depression." It's here in its entirety, and I particularly like this:

"One of the approaches that I personally find useful is to cultivate the thought: If the situation or problem is such that it can be remedied, then there is no need to worry about it. In other words, if there is a solution or a way out of the difficulty, you do not need to be overwhelmed by it. The appropriate action is to seek its solution. Then it is clearly more sensible to spend your energy focussing on the solution rather than worrying about the problem. Alternatively, if there is no solution, no possibility of resolution, then there is also no point in being worried about it, because you cannot do anything about it anyway. In that case, the sooner you accept this fact, the easier it will be for you. This formula, of course, implies directly confronting the problem and taking a realistic view. Otherwise you will be unable to find out whether or not there is a resolution to the problem.

Taking a realistic view and cultivating a proper motivation can also shield you against feelings of fear and anxiety. If you develop a pure and sincere motivation, if you are motivated by a wish to help on the basis of kindness, compassion, and respect, then you can carry on any kind of work, in any field, and function more effectively with less fear or worry, not being afraid of what others think or whether you ultimately will be successful in reaching your goal. Even if you fail to achieve your goal, you can feel good about having made the effort. But with a bad motivation, people can praise you or you can achieve goals, but you still will not be happy."

I don't know what to do with that at the moment; I kinda find it more daunting ("whyyyy can't I do that?! Help me, Dalai Lamaaaaa!") than helpful right now, but I think I want to keep coming back to it.

Also? Elly. Elly is smart, yo. And I'm not just saying that because she liked my mollusk joke. "YOU are a possibility." Again, at this moment, I find that a little intimidating, because yikes! What if I can't live up to being a possibiliteeeeee??!!!"

And? Doctor Mama. She not only inspires you to run, she also helps your whole life become better. (Even if you don't run.) (But she'd really like you to run.) "I have a sticker on the back of my laptop that reads 'HAS ANGER SOLVED YOUR OTHER PROBLEMS?' that is quite entertaining to make people gaze upon in meetings." I love this. It totally applies to me, but I love it.

So, that's where I am. Trying to find some smartiness elsewhere, because I'm feeling dull. Got any wisdom that you find helpful when you're feeling fragile and anxious and twitchy and needing some quiet and some kind and some humble? Share, share...

Freakosystem

2011-01-04T13:38:00.000-08:00

We're all sick over here. Nothing ebolaish, just your garden variety head cold thing, with symptoms and severity fluctuating by the hour and body. So Tankbaby coughs and sneezes (IN MY EYE) all morning, but then when I try to put him to bed early, is suddenly all, "I feel fit! And hale! Bring me my badminton set and my mountain climbing harness! Go!!!" while MOTH, at 8:15 pm, is snoring next to us. And I stayed up to finish prepping the chicken broth for tonight's soup, feeling grumbly and sniffly and sorry for myself, even though I was also kinda enjoying the quiet warm kitchen and my Dick Van Dyke Show reruns.

I hate making chicken broth. Why don't you remind me? I love homemade soup, and I love the simmering smell that permeated my kitchen all day, but the whole straining/picking out meat from the dessicated carcasses thing at 10:30 at night? HATE. Oh, and what? You take the meat off the bones before you simmer the chicken? Well, la-di-da for fancypants. Over here, our method is as follows:

1) Buy a purse chicken (I recently heard this phrase to describe the pre-cooked rotisserie chicken-in-a-bag, and love it) for dinner
2) Without ever removing chicken from bag, peel off large yummy chunks of breast meat
3) Put bag in fridge so that we can use the leftover chicken the next day
4) Two days later, realize we're never going to use that chicken
5) Throw whole bag in freezer
6) Repeat, according to recent freezer contents, seven times in four months.
7) The night we plan on having homemade chicken soup, pull a bunch of carcasses out of the freezer
8) Realize that we forgot (again) that homemade broth takes two days to make (one day to simmer, then let fat congeal overnight-yum!)
9) Curse
10) Thaw carcasses just enough to be crammed into stockpots
11) When broth is ready to be strained, go through hot, falling apart chicken carcasses to pick off perfectly good meat that we are too frugal to waste, but not smart enough to take off before freezing the damn things, often including the stupid string that ties the whole thing together, necessitating a whole lot of chicken carcass fondling

Wait. Did I just make this post about how to make chicken broth very poorly? I told you I'm unwell.

Not that I had anything else of import to share. The title up there doesn't mean much, except it's a word that popped into my mind as I watched Tankbaby play with his new Lego set. It's a zoo kit, and MOTH keeps making these lovely exhibit areas with trees and waterfalls which makes me giggle because I think a certain adult in this house is looking forward to the upcoming toy sets (Legos, trains, etc.) more than our child. Anyway, Tankbaby clearly doesn't watch enough National Geographic specials about the natural order within the animal kingdom, as indicated by his pretend play with the animals. This morning he had the giraffe stomping all over everything, including an entire family of lions. "WAH, WAH, WAH!" he growled ("walk, walk, walk!" for those of you with out a Tank-to-English dictionary available) as the giraffe jumped on the lion's head. The lions in this set are apparently pacifist vegetarians, whereas the giraffe is...well, ballsy. The elephant likes to jump on things (while we haven't shown Tank any Animal Planet shows, he has seen this clip more times that I can count, mainly because watching him sign "elephant jump" is so dang cute), and the alligator exists solely for the purpose of Tank ripping his hinged jaw off so that we may reattach it, repeat to fade.

Oh, and speaking of inappropriate use of child's toys, y'all were so pleased by the Playdoh naughtiness, I thought I should also share the following:

Ignoring the dog-top in the background, you see here a few pieces of plastic food that can be peeled, shucked, whatever (I actually requested this for Tankbaby for Christmas, as otherwise he keeps requesting actual food that he peels, then discards with great velocity). Looks OK, right?
Yeah. Could they have put the velcro anywhere else on the banana? Must it be so...circumcisey?

OK. I have to go. Tank is sleeping and I have to learn Quicken before he awakes. We bought the software ages ago, after yet another of my complaints that I don't have any sense of our money around here. When we lived together in sin, we each handled our own bills. Then we got married and we generally just kept everything in one place and one or the other of us would pay whatever needed to be paid. I kept a handy-dandy Excel sheet so that I could track stuff, but mostly it was a checkbook and a credit card. Then we moved here, I went to grad school and MOTH took over a large chunk of household stuff so that I could focus on my studies (and watch a lot of Law & Order reruns in a depressed stupor, although that might not have been as clear at the start). I took out student loans, we switched to mainly a debit card system, and he put most of our bills into on-line payment. I graduated and took back my fair share of cooking, cleaning, etc., but somehow never got back into the financial management duties. As a result, although I am the major breadwinner (as much as a teacher in this economy can be, that is), I have no idea where our money goes. I'm like a 1950s household in one person.

As a result, I have to ask MOTH about stuff like, can I put this on the debit card or are we waiting for a payment to go through? Because although I get paid regularly, his income is scattered in amount and timing, so he always knows how much money we have and where it's coming and going, and I do not. Which makes me crazy, not just because I feel like I have to ask permission to use my money and then find a check for $200 worth of magician's insurance and then I have to call my friend and freak right the fuck out because, really? magician's insurance? it's not like he's sawing a lady in half--he does card tricks? are we worried about papercut liability? Wait, where was I? Oh, yeah, I don't like not knowing anything about our money other than that we perpetually don't have enough. Also, what if MOTH gets hit by a bus ('cause you know that shit's not covered by no magician's insurance)? I'm gonna be that stereotypical widder woman who's all quivery, "Oh, my husband always took care of the money..." Not on your life.

So, we bought some basic software and I'm gonna learn it. Then we can both be looking at the same data and if MOTH has been siphoning off some money for his chippie on the side, I'll know about it.

(Not that he would ever do such a thing, of course. Whenever the subject of infidelity or open marriage has come up, MOTH's standard response is: "Are you kidding? I can barely handle you." Aw. Ain't he sweet?)

Aw, Wha, and WHAAAA?

2010-12-30T10:36:00.000-08:00

First, the "Aw": MOTH had a show last night. A mentalist show. What's mentalism, you might ask? Or you might not, but I'm-a gonna tell you anyway. Mentalism is a branch of magic that is sorta towards the psychic-telepathy side of things. So, you basically study people, group psychology, patterns, etc., and learn to make educated guesses that make people gape and go "Duuuuude...." So he and his friend the hypnotist (like how I made that sound totally normal?) put together a double-bill show and last night was the free preview for friends and family.

I got all decked out, met up with a surprisingly large number of wonderfully supportive friends, left Tankbaby in the car (what? I cracked a window) and went to the local Eagles Club hall (which they call an aerie, which I think is adorable, in addition to being an excellent crossword answer). MOTH did things like somehow figured out which of five envelopes had the black card and somehow predicting which card a person would pick. I literally don't know how he does these things, which makes me insane. Then his friend (you remember, The Hypnotist) hypnotized people and made them forget they had butts and do ballet and stuff.

[Side Note: What was interesting was that the audience was mainly actors (friends of MOTH and TH), so there was definitely some speculation about who was actually "under" and who was just realllly good at improv. If you know anything about hypnosis, you know that it's not about being a zombie or being under someone else's control, it's about being in a very relaxed state and therefore extremely suggestible. So you basically focus and get into this hyper-relaxed state. The Hypnotist would watch the volunteers and, if someone wasn't going under, would gently send them back to the audience. A friend who'd been onstage said that he was aware of everything going on, but that when The Hypnotist said "OK, now you're going to be boxing! Practice! You're the Champ!" he just thought, "Well, why not?" He said he was totally unselfconscious and it never crossed his mind to care about what anyone thought. However, another friend, Paul, was up there at one point, and I could tell that he wasn't actually hypnotized. But, he's an actor, and a friend, so he just kept going and acting on The Hypnotist's suggestions, although definitely with a self-consciousness. He eventually got sent back to his seat. Later, a friend noticed that, after The Hypnotist had all the volunteers catching fish and then snapped them back to sleep, everyone just dropped what they were doing and went limp. Except for Paul, who, with his eyes closed and his face neutral, carefully set down his fish before going limp. Good improver, bad hypnotized guy.]

Anyway, the show was lots of fun, especially after MOTH's show got going and I could relax. I was really nervous for him, mostly because he was nervous, which is unusual for him. So I was in my seat, clutching my wrap (OK, well, that was because it was really cold in there--apparently Eagles are hot-blooded birds) and holding my breath during each trick until it was over. I'm gonna be fun at Tankbaby's first play, dontcha think?

Where is the "aw," you all ask? It's this: I want to publicly recognize MOTH (for the second post in a row, even) for not just his show, but for the fact that he came back last night and spent an hour on the couch with me last night dissecting the show, asking for feedback. And not just asking, but really wanting feedback, even when it wasn't positive (not that I had lots of negative stuff to say, but this was the first time he'd ever put together this show, and I had some definite ideas about "the next time..."). I was really impressed at how well he took this feedback, because I really, really struggle with this myself. Even when it's presented gracefully and gently and truthfully, even when I need to hear it, I really struggle with hearing anything even remotely negative about something I'm emotionally invested in.

But MOTH freaking took notes.

I find humility very attractive. (Which is a shame, because I have a hard time being peaceful with humility in myself, as I mention above. Now, humiliATION, that's different. Lots of experience there.) Yes, confidence is attractive, but only when it's unspoken. Otherwise, it becomes braggy (remember seventh grade, when that was, like, a horrible cutting insult?). And as much as I loved MOTH for being brave enough to get up on that stage in the first place, I was even more in love with him for being able to, in an effort to improve, be willing to sit down and hear constructive criticism.

OK, now for the "Wha?": I looked under my "Stats" page on good ol' Blogger, and, although I admit my interpretation of these charts and graphs is rudimentary at best, I am puzzled. For example, the majority of my page views have been from the US (not surprising), and a few in Canada, and then some scattered European and South American readers (Ola, Brazil!) (also, I realize that it's probably crazy to call them "readers," when in reality, it's more like "brief clicks before diverting to lolcats.com"). But! More than any of those? Russia. Da! Apparently they love me behind the Iron Curtain. But in what universe does this site send some to read about my giant baby?

Also, this? Is my blog, my entry, but a picture of the lovely and amazing Kitchen Witch. (Kitchie, I know you're on break right now, but girl...wha? How did my silly prattling get linked to your gorgeous pic?) I don't feel like translating it from the Cyrillic, but feel free, anyone so inclined, to let me know WTF?

And, finally, the WHAAAA?: We went to buy the boy some Playdoh tools and found a package that claimed to include "rollers, cutters, and more." And it's the "more" that I question. Look at the picture below. What do you see? A rolling pin, some cookie-cutters, scissors, and...what? What is that yellow phallic thing in the back? Is what my Russian friends would call a Фаллоимитатор?

Merry Merry Merry

2010-12-26T23:17:00.000-08:00

So, I had a couple pre-Christmas posts forming, but they weren't happy. They weren't merry. They weren't seasons greetings fodder. It was a lot of not-going-home-this-year-rain-isn't-Christmas-weather-by-the-way-my-mom's-dead-at-Christmas-AGAIN sort of stuff. I was trying to get into the mood, I really was. We bought and decorated the tree, we sent and received many, many Amazon boxes, and I even made stockings for the three of us.

And I tried and sometimes, for some moments, I was OK. And then, I'd hear or read or see something and be all...meh again. Which didn't seem fair to MOTH or to Tankbaby, or to my fives of loyal readers. So I just kept skimming YouTube for claymation Christmas specials, and humming "Baby, It's Cold Outside" in the grocery store, and making my mom's favorite candy cane cookies (recipe from the Betty Crocker Cooky Book, the family copy of which is spattered with eggs, batter, and seven-year-old scrawl of "DELISHUS" next to the peanut butter cookie recipe).

And, after yesterday morning, I'm glad I kept going. Because I would have hated to have been grumpy and Grinchy on Christmas morning, when I opened this:

(WAIT! Go away. Go find your spouse/partner/significant other/mom/dog and tell them to keep reading for the Best. Present. Idea. Ever. Then be surprised and thank me in a year.)

How effing cool is that? MOTH found this website and did all the proofing and layout work and published one year's worth of this little blog of mine.

Can you believe it? It's 205 pages long, which made me feel slightly better about my pathetic posting rate. I opened it, thinking that the back pages must be blank or something, but it's full. Full of my words, which looked like actual words when printed on real paper. With page numbers and everything. I don't know if I can adequately express how cool this was. We had agreed not to do presents this year, for financial reasons--only stocking presents. My big gift to him was a DVD of an old silly movie from MOTH's childhood. It seemed nice at the time. It seems a little inadequate now.

At least I also got him a chocolate orange.

Hope you and yours had a safe, lovely, and calm holiday.

In No Particular Order

2010-12-16T21:18:00.001-08:00

A few snippets, just to empty my brain, then I need to go catch up on y'all's blawgs.

On Monday night, we went to get a Christmas tree (this is our first since moving out here, as we--or at least I--always traveled back to Chicago for the holidays, it never made sense to get a tree). I'd intended for us to buy one from the stand a friend recommended, run by and profiting at-risk youth. But when we got to the lot, we saw neither flora nor potential felons, so we moved on. Two more lots, and we began to realize that we'd clearly missed the memo that said that all trees must be purchased by Sunday, December 12th, unless you wanted a Charlie Brown-esque twig. (Does this seem really early to anyone else? Maybe I'm spoiled, as we grew up with mainly--gasp!--fake trees and MOTH and I used to live across the street from a parking lot that became a Christmas tree lot during December, so we would just watch out our window for a good time to pop over. The entire selection, purchasing, and transportation process would take about twelve minutes.)

Sidebar: I just had the memory of the next-to-last Christmas with my mom. MOTH was working, so he stayed out here, and I was home with my folks. Dad had hauled up the tree box and we were in the process of assembling the tree when we noticed...an odor. A musty, mildewy sort of odor. We deduced that the tree had gotten wet during a recent basement flood. We kept trying to put a good face on it, but the reality was that our family Tannenbaum smelled vaguely but persistently of old wet socks. So we abandoned construction and Dad and I hauled the fake branches out to the cold snowy yard, in hopes of airing them out. Meanwhile, Mom spread the tree skirt expectantly around the 1 1/2"-wide green wooden dowel rod that formed the "trunk" of the "tree." The next evening, we tried again. Still that smell. We gave it another day, and the smell was fainter, but not gone. I'm not going to name names, because this isn't that kind of blog, but someone had the bright idea of spraying the branches with pine-scented Lysol. Which killed whatever mildewy microscopic creatures were nestling in the PVC needles (which were likely rife with lead! Yippee!) but left a smell that, while different from mildew, was not exactly...tree-like in nature. Back outside they went. We finally gave up a few days before Christmas and just assembled the damn thing, holding our breath during the decorating. It was fine in the house, but if you leaned close to place a present under the tree, you were likely to wonder who was giving someone the Parfum du Hospital Floor. End sidebar.

Anyway, it got late, so MOTH dropped me and the Tank off at home so we could start dinner, then went off and bought a tree. By the time he came back, it was time for dinner and then putting the baby to bed, so he ended up setting it up while I was laying down with El Boyo. We were planning on putting the lights and ornaments on with Tankbaby the next night, so we just left the tree alone and went about our evening. The next morning, when Tankbaby went into the living room, he was delighted. "Tee? Tee? Biiiiiiih! Dah! Dah! Tee!" ("Tree? See? Biiiiig! Soft! Soft! Tree!") He couldn't get enough of this marvel. I told MOTH, "If just a tree provokes this kind of reaction, Christmas morning is going to BLOW HIS TINY EVERLOVING MIND."

*****

Speaking of the Man Of The House (it's been a while since I explained the MOTH acronym; also, I'm still struggling with a new nickname for Tankbaby. He continues to be quite tall, with substantial cheekage, but he is not the chunky monkeybabe he once was. Tanktot was Benevola's suggestion, but it makes me think of tatertots. Mmmm....tatertots.), where was I? Oh, yes, your thoughts on this, please: a few nights ago, I was working on Christmas shopping while MOTH played a video game on his phone. At one point he said, "Huh. This is weird. I'm playing this World War II game, but it's a Japanese game, so I'm on the other side." I asked, "You're playing a World War II game, as the Japanese?" He answered blithely, "Yep. Just bombed Pearl Harbor."

Now, I'm a hippie liberal anti-gun pro-public service yay-gays anti-war no-nukes kinda gal who has occasionally wistfully flirted with Canadianism. But I still found myself muttering to him, "Traitor."

Right? I mean, even in a video game, you don't bomb Pearl Harbor. It's in bad taste. I don't care what you thought of that Ben Affleck movie.

******

And finally, because he knows when you're sleeping and when you're awake...LoveGreg is back. Just a friend request, no poorly-comma'd letter. I...I don't know. I think we may have wrung all the humor out of him and now it's just tiresome. Feel free to correct me on this. But, dude. You're going to make me block you? On Christmas?!

******

Huh. Snippettier than I thought. I gotta go to bed. Don't write anything too funny tonight; I'll check on you guys tomorrow.

Too-Too-Tudio

2010-12-12T20:44:00.001-08:00

Quickly, my pretties, for I must, must, must do some Christmas shopping before bed, and, given the coughing sniffling tossing turning fiasco that was our 25-minute nap today, I'm guessing that my night ahead isn't going to be too restful. Might as well try to start it early.

Poor Tankbaby. When vertical, he seems just fine, apart from a few sneezes, but when he lies down, some internal mucous barometer (hey! I used to play bass for...never mind) goes all wonky and he ends up breathing through his mouth like an asthmatic ferret.

(Like a what now? I don't know...it just sounded...poetic.)

I have had such a productive, grown-up weekend that I've been feeling alternately self-satisfied and depressed. Like, on one hand, yesterday alone we:

Finally picked up a second oven rack (having lived three years here with a single rack)
Bathed the dog
Scrubbed the bathroom (necessary after Dog, the Bathing)
Bought a new fish for our tank (fishtank, that is, not for Our Tankbaby, although he enjoys the fish in his own aquarium-banging way)
Picked up diaper liners (disposable soft paper liners that go inside cloth diapers and make solid waste removal less unpleasant--see, you're always learning something here at ol' Falling!) and, because he's vaguely interested and we had a coupon, a potty seat for Tankbaby. Not that we're actively trying potty-training yet, but hell, he keeps saying "potty" and I figure we can keep offering it as an option for sitting. Who knows? Maybe my sleepless infant will redeem himself by being an easily-potty-trained toddler. Shut up. It could happen.
Vacuumed the living room (and the oven--Elly, was that you who recommended this practice? Brilliant! Especially since we'd extinguished a rather...persistent oven fire several months ago with copious amounts of baking soda and...just...left it there. I guess in case the fire resurfaced?)
Tried turnips and parsnips for the first time (roasted with other veggies--verdict: neutral, earthy, benign)
Let Tankbaby help make a holiday craft project
Cleaned tiny blue footprints off a beige rug
Rued letting Tankbaby help make a holiday craft project

As you can see, a rather full day. Which is very impressive and I felt pretty good about it, except when I was feeling kinda lame, like, what happened to my life that picking up diaper liners and vacuuming my oven are now occurrences that make up a Great Saturday? Then I feel even lamer, because it's not like I used to have amazing Saturdays where I learned French while building houses with Habitat for Humanity and making homemade soup and reupholstering antique chairs before a night of dancing with the Olsen twins. I used to watch a lot of TV. And sleep. Because I was apparently 17 for about seven years.

So. Established: Me. Lame, now and for always. But now with accomplishments!

Oh, and if you have any hints for getting "washable" blue tempera paint out of carpeting, let me know, would you? MOTH scrubbed away with some spray stuff and got most of it, but there are distinctly not-so-much-beige spots remaining. I don't know what was up with that paint, anyway. I had to give Tankbaby two baths (the first one, the water in the tub instantly turned an opaque sky blue, as if he was bathing in Smurf blood) and while the paint was clearly dissolving in the water (and easily wiped off the counter, tub, toilet seat, cabinets and scale that he managed to touch on the way in to the bath), there are also these spots where I couldn't scrub it off for love or money. It just left bruise-y shadows in places, so I guess this would be a bad time to have DHS called on us.

Today we puttered in the morning and failed to nap in the afternoon and in the late afternoon, we joined a dear friend at the zoo for Zoolights, an annual event where they hang millions of tiny colorful lights all over the place, decorating trees and paths and whatnot, but also have hundreds of light sculptures of animals, birds, etc. It's delightful (ha! deLIGHTful! get it?) and lovely and festive and impossible to see and feel Grinchy, even for someone like me who still doesn't believe that Christmas in the Pacific NW counts, because 47 degrees and rainy just isn't really December. Anyway, the lights and animals are all well and good, but what we really go for is the train. You can take a steam train ride around the zoo and see all the displays, and if you happen to have a train-obsessed toddler who will spend the three hours prior to the ride walking around, plaintively saying "too-too" (choo-choo) while signing "train," well, so much the better. We went a few weeks ago, and since then, about 60% of the time we put Tankbaby in the carseat, he hopefully asks, "too-too?" so it was a relief to finally say yes this time. We also got to see a very interactive otter (MOTH ran his finger around on the glass and the wee sleekit creature followed it, doing loops and swirls and generally being adorable), some crabby lions prowling about, wondering what the EFF was up with this decidedly non-African-savannah weather, and a whole lotta bats. Everyone but me found the bats very cool. I find them unsettling. Yes, I can appreciate their unique physiques, and I will admit that they have cute faces, but come on. Are you a squirrel? A bird? A snake? Pick one and go with it. Creepy little things.

OK! Christmas shopping time (in my pjs! Remember when shopping meant you had to be dressed? And outside of your house?). Good night all! Try not to dream of bats.

Throughline? Phoo-line.

2010-12-09T20:56:00.000-08:00

Rambling, that's what's on the menu tonight, and then off to be with me. After a couple crummy nights, Tankbaby had a better night Wednesday night (Jeez, stop saying "night"), but at about 5 am, he started calling for some open debate about wake-up time. Finally, at 7, I figured I'd go ahead and get up early and get a shower. But MOTH staggered out of bed and got to the bathroom first. And then, there were...noises. Unpleasant noises.

So, I ended up staying home from work yesterday and watching Tankbaby so that MOTH could rest. I tried to keep Tankbaby out of the house so that MOTH could get some sleep (when you share 740 square feet, there's no place you can sleep and avoid the toddler shrieks), so we went to the museum's "Science Lab" (a wondrous room of water tables and sand areas and flubber and fake hollow trees and block play and air chutes and fossils and basically anything your toddler or preschooler could want). I thought I could make a good snarky, funny post about the people-watching (MOTH likes to play a game he calls "Mommy or Nanny?" in such circumstances), but I lost my stomach for it when, as we were getting ready to leave, I saw a mom sitting in the employees' room, shaking and crying, while the purple-vested museum staff asked questions like, "Does he know his name?" and "What color shirt was he wearing?" while they radioed the front desk. This mom had been over by the water table when we were there earlier, and had strange, snappy passive-aggressive moment with me when she thought I was judging her for bringing in her stroller (which isn't allowed), because she didn't want to disturb her sleeping infant. I found myself getting bristly in response, but I remember too well those early days of Tankbaby, and if he'd given me the gift of momentary rest, you couldn't have paid me to risk waking him. So I tried later to give her a friendly smile when her kid splashed water on my kid, and she smiled gratefully back and I moved on feeling like, wow, a little moment of compassionate connection. And a half-hour later, she was sitting, stunned, trying to dial a cell phone with trembling fingers, and I found myself irrationally worked up over it. I'm sure they found the kid eventually (seeing as how it hasn't made the news), but I just kept thinking about what that moment must have been like. As moms, we have a thousand moments where you think the kid is about to fall or where it looks like he's choking or where she almost slips in the bath, or where you glance up and have a split second of panic when you can't find him...but then he rights himself or swallows or you grab her arm in time or you turn around and he's right there. I can imagine, with too much terrifying clarity, what it feels like when you look up and can't find him, and then turn around...and he's not there. And you think to yourself, "OK, don't panic, he's probably right over--" and he's not. He's nowhere.

OK. That was yesterday, and I'm still shuddering, thinking about it. This is why someone with anxiety issues should really never have kids. Or pets. I might be able to maintain emotional calm about a nice houseplant.

Anyway, we went from the museum out to my classroom for lunch and then we stayed a bit and saw my class. I'd intended on just explaining to them why I couldn't stay for class, but Tankbaby was enjoying the room so much and I was so tickled by watching them interact with him that we stayed. These are my social-emotional-behavioral kids, kids who are pretty typically developing in other areas but struggle with things like sitting near another kid without touching them. With fists. But they were so cute and gentle (or their idea thereof) with Tanky. One little girl with a truly horrifying background (Cliff Notes: Went into foster care after mom left her in the care of a convicted sex offender--not the same sex offender that fathered her, by the by--then went back to mom, who then abandoned her at a DHS office. Is now in foster care, but still has visits with bio mom, after which she tells her foster mom, "You don't love me. I'm a bad kid." Add to this behavior physical aggression and deliberate meanness, like intentionally taking the pink cup so that another kid can't have it, and then loudly gloating about it: "I got the pink cup so you ca-an't haaave it!") lit up at the sight of Tankbaby. She cooed, "Ooh! A baby! Hi, baby! You can hold my hand! Aw, you're so cute!" and darned if Tankbaby didn't hold her hand and let himself be led all over the place. If there'd been a Grinch around, you betcha his heart would have grown three sizes, yessireebob. It's possible I might have shed a womanly tear or two myself.

And then there was meal planning and grocery shopping and, gloriously, peeing by myself in the evening when MOTH was finally feeling well enough to shuffle around upright (we disappeared for over five hours and returned home to no indication that he'd ever left the bedroom). So I started to write last night, but at 9:30 decided that I needed rest to combat whatever I was being exposed to in our little germ incubator over here.

Which is why I didn't write all this yesterday. But now that I have, it's 10:30 and I am literally falling asleep while typing (or "falkaaaa" as I just wrote before I caught myself), so this not-terribly-interesting-or-particularly-well-organized post is going to grind to an unceremonious halt.

Oh, except! Can I just share with you these boots, so that we may all ooh and ahh and wonder what the blue fuck they are made of that they are worth $415?! Unicorn hide? I mean, I love them. I really do. But, as MOTH said, "Do they have rockets? Because for $415, you had better be able to fly." He's not wrong. And the copy underneath is pretty rich ("one of those magical styles that make you think God was guiding John's pencil"? I mean, they're divine, but I don't think they're Divine). And while the communist part of me that listened today to how much funding our program is about to lose is appalled at the frivolity of $400 shoes...they're just...so...pretty....

National Geographic Oughta Do a Special

2010-12-06T21:42:00.001-08:00

We've had a lot of wind around here lately, and this morning, many an idyllic lawn scene looked like it had been the site of a sniper shooting. I posted on my Facebook page:

"RESOLVED: If you feel so moved as to put a winter or Christmas scene on your front lawn, you should also be responsible for righting any fallen characters the dawn after a windstorm. A fallen Frosty is sad, but an entire Nativity scene full of prone bodies...that's just creepy."

I got some funny responses, including a friend who noted that, "That was a Necrotivity: The birth of Zombie Jesus," and another who pointed out that yellow crime scene tape would add that certain je ne sais quoi.

It makes me remember one of my favorite mom stories: A few years ago, visiting my mom and driving around the neighborhood and seeing some of those lighted deer that had been knocked down. They just looked so pathetic, stiff limbs jutting straight out. I joked about them being shot, and mom insisted that no, it looked more like some larger predators had come through. "Like pumas."

"Pumas, mom? In the suburbs?"

"Lawn pumas."

"Ah."

Later we drove past an apartment complex that had a nativity scene set up in the courtyard. Mary was there, but Joseph was face-down in the straw, the Wise Men were scattered, and the Baby Jesus...well, the Holy Child was missing.

My mom sighed knowingly and shook her head with regret. "Lawn pumas."

The Waaah-mbulance Rides Again

2010-12-04T21:31:00.000-08:00

As my friend C might put it, "Fuuuuuuuucccccccccccc." ("K" omitted intentionally; we like to play around with various phonetic spellings of the f-bomb. The very French-looking "fuc" becomes "fuccer" as a noun, which for some reason gets thrown around quite often in our text messages.)

I have cried twice today, and it's 9:30 pm. I cried the first time this morning, in the bathroom, where I fled after being kicked in the face by my beloved ~~beast~~ boy. After a Scenario C night, but with a twist, as I fell asleep while putting the baby down (not the twist, there), and so was up until 1 AM. When I went in at 1, some atoms shifted or something, and there was suddenly a very awake boy who wanted milk. No milk? OK, water. No water? I WILL SURELY PERISH IN A BURST OF FLAMES FROM THE DISAPPOINTMENT, MAMA. Fine. Water. Except MOTH, who'd gotten up to go to the bathroom and was thus dispatched for the water, thought it was for me, and brought back a rather full cup, with no lid (because he knows that I've been able to drink out of an open cup for several weeks now, with practice). So, sipping, blind guiding in the dark without contacts, spilling, bracing for screaming, but not prepared for no-screaming-but-instead-very-insistent-conversation about the pj's: "Wah? Wah? Wahhhh?"

Then there was some crying, some pillow-related thuggery, and several wet kisses followed by more crying.

The 5:30 wake-up was quick and painless. The wake-ups at 5:37, 5:52 and 6:14 were also quick, but progressively less painless. Finally, at 6:30 (our chosen end-of-milk-embargo time), I nursed him and dozed on and off for 45 minutes, until he bit me in his sleep.

Did I also mention that the ductal yeast infection (for that is, although I forgot to tell you, what was up with Big Boob Ow) has returned with a zingy vengeance? And that I had terribly painful cramps*? And really had to pee (because I had to drink the rest of that water)? And that it was extremely windy outside, which made our weatherproofing plastic rattle tediously and caused this wind chime** we have to clang repeatedly in between the brief respites from Gitmo Baby?

So you can see where, when during our morning cuddles (where MOTH and I try to keep Tankbaby entertained for as long as possible while remaining as horizontal as possible), Tanky kicked me square in the kisser, I might not be totally faulted for fleeing to the bathroom and weeping into my hands for a few minutes.

I did get a nice, cuddly nap with him later in the day, which is the only reason I've only cried twice today. The second time was while putting away the dishes as MOTH got Tankers ready for bed. I was so tired and physically uncomfortable all morning, and I kept trying to rally, but Goddamn, this parenting and co-parenting and working-parenting thing is so fuccing draining sometimes. I had one thing I wanted to do today and I got half of it done, mainly be being a not-so-hot parent and trying to convince the child I've been away from for 9 hours a day the lat five days that he might rather play with a puzzle or a cracker wrapper or anything not in my lap. And I wanted to see a friend, but we couldn't make it work. And the damn wind kept blowing. And MOTH made a delicious dinner that he and Tank enjoyed but I found vastly unfulfilling (I was skeptical about the collard greens, but tried a bite before sauteing some green beans. The greens weren't all that bad, but I sure didn't like them enough to justify eating the amount of bacon fat they were cooked in. And, turns out, I don't like ribs. I like barbecue sauce, I like pork, but I don't like wrestling fatty tendony meat off of bones with my teeth. Unless I'm at a Renaissance Faire.) (I'm lying, I don't like it there, either.)

Anyway, I kept lapsing into that icky place where you feel petulant and depressed and self-righteous about it, and would hover outside myself and think, "Now, Falling, you don't need to make that face when you're cutting up the greens for the baby. Just eat your beans and shut up about it." And I would, consciously, rise above. For a minute. Then something else would happen and I'd slip again. And get mad at myself, and feel petulant and depressed...and lather, rinse, repeat.

So,when I found a garbage can full of broken glass and learned that while Tankbaby and I were napping--apparently we slept the sleep of the dead--MOTH had accidentally broken one of our set of glass mixing bowls, bowls that were, incidentally a gift from my mom, well, I couldn't restrain the despondent, "SHIT" that came out of my mouth. MOTH apologized, and of course I explained that I wasn't mad at him, but...shit, you know? I like those bowls. They remind me of Mom, they're useful, and...shit.

So while MOTH brushed Tankbaby's teeth and washed his face (overheard over the screaming, "I'm sorry. Next time I'll use the soap without the acid in it."), I put away dishes and scraped off garbage and cried the Feeling Sorry For Myself Rag.

But! Then I curled up with the kid and read some books and learned that my brilliant offspring can--at not-yet-21-months old--identify the colors orange, pink, and yellow. And I had another wedge of the pumpkin bread MOTH made earlier. And got a sweetly giggling, kissy boy to sleep, through the use of another one of my enthralling tales. And now? While MOTH is out for the evening, I'm going to paint my nails in anticipation of tomorrow's wedding, watch some Hulu, eat some more pumpkin bread, and enjoy what seldom-I'd-say-never-but-I'm-trying-not-to-hyperbolize get: a quiet moment to myself.

I wish the same for you all this evening. Especially about the pumpkin bread.

*In addition to some...intestinal issues, I have my period for the first time in 30 months. It's not entirely impossible that this is related to Crying, The.

**The fucking CHIME, man. We've lived here for three years. Every winter, when it gets windy, I talk about how much I hate that thing banging around outside. MOTH balefully informs me, "I think it's soothing." I explain that I believe him, but I find it terribly anxiety-producing and unnerving to have this random bonnngggg outside my front door, especially when I'm up at night. I can't explain why this particular sound undoes me so, but I believe the words I used tonight were, "It makes me feel like I'm in an insane asylum." Finally, as he does periodically, MOTH went out and covered the clapper-thing so that it would be quiet. Which is sweet of him. Not as sweet as just taking the fucking thing down for good, but...

A YouTube Video is Worth A Thousand Words

2010-12-02T22:01:00.000-08:00

How was my day at school?

Yep. 'Bout like that, but without the benefit of horses.

Back Again?

2010-12-01T21:46:00.000-08:00

I thought we covered this last year.

I survived NaBloPoMo and posted every damn day for a month. A month during which I didn't eat any candy. You can't come here tonight and expect anything.

Instead, know that I'm out there now, catching up on all of YOUR blogs. And eating month-old candy corn.

Living the dream.

Going Out With a Meh

2010-11-30T21:42:00.000-08:00

We had a friend over for dinner...and she was delicious!

Heh. No, but she joined us for yummy seasoned fried tofu steaks and stir fry veggies with noodles and ginger sauce...wow. I'm totally full, and yet just reading that makes me hungry.

Anyway, she did, we ate, and I put Tankers down late and still have to shower, so this, my final NaBloPoMo entry will be utterly devoid of ceremony. Or possibly quality.

First, if you haven't already, go give a cosmic hug to BugginWord, who got some perfectly wonderful, deserved news today.

Secondly, for your absent-minded giggles, here are some misspellings and malapropisms that have made me chuckle today (four of the five are from Facebook, which should come as no surprise):

1) "I have to give the dog a shot. I'm a canarian."--Utterly serious five-year-old in class today, armed with a stethoscope, a needle, and, one would hope, a newspaper-lined cage.

2) "My simpathies."--Posted on a Facebook status update of a friend about a recent loss. While, obviously, there's nothing funny about the loss and this person's sorrow is clearly heartfelt, I am a bit tickled at the connotation of simpering condolences. Maybe because I was sometimes on the receiving end of them (again, by well-intentioned people), and found them aggravating. "You know, these things happen for a reason..." SMACK.

3) On an entirely different status update, someone wrote, "Contratulations." I dunno...it seems to...mean less when you write it like that.

4) On one post, a few women were posting back and forth about running off together. The original poster agreed to the plan, and I'm pretty sure she meant to write "definitely." But what she actually wrote? "Defiantly." Like, eff you, world! We're all running off together! I mean, we've all had those moments, no?

5) One more Facebook one: A friend wrote that she once said that she was "bleeding like a stuffed pig," and asked others to post similar oopses. I shared this true story: Once, when I felt that MOTH was being patronizing, I shouted indignantly, "I don't need your condensation!" Ahem. I was going for "condescension." I lost the argument.

I'd list more, but I think it's a mute point.

That's MIZ Cranky T. Mutterpants to You

2010-11-29T21:27:00.001-08:00

I had a six-hour training today at work, on a topic about which I have strong opinions. Strong opinions that are at odds with what the trainer was talking about. Which means I spent six hours alternately participating in and cursing myself for participating in discussions where I started most sentences with "But.."

And now I'm retroactively feeling like a bitchy ol' fusspot.

I hate it that I went into the training without an open mind (with a closed mind?), and I really did try to pry it open throughout the day. Because it felt awful to sit there and be frustrated and mute, except for the temporary reprieves of being frustrated and vocal (there were a lot of discussions and group brainstorming sessions; it's not like I was derailing the presentation) (not that that wouldn't have been pleasant at some point) (but come on, I wouldn't do that).

I was by no means the only person with these opinions, and I don't think I was even the most vocal. Which makes me feel a little better, except that then I think of poor Joe Presenter Guy (strangely enough, that's his real name) trying to preach his gospel to a room full of heathens. Opinionated, vocal heathens. Who knows, maybe he's the kind of guy who went home and said, "My, but what a lively discussion we had today!" I tend to project, however, and worry that he went home to his wife and kids all sad and Bob Cratchitt-y, with only a few sou in his fingerless-gloved hand, shoulders bent under the weight of our criticism, explaining that the Christmas turkey will be small this year...

Huh. Got a wee bit dramatic there. Ahem.

But I do feel badly when I'm watching a presenter do poorly--in this case, not because he wasn't a fine presenter (after all, "Presenter" is his middle name), but because he wasn't teaching to a receptive audience. Which isn't his fault. I tried to make that clear on the evaluation form: "Yes, the presenter was well-organized, friendly, open to questions...I just happen to think he's full of bool-sheet."

Which isn't exactly true (the bool-sheet part, not that I didn't write that on the evaluation form. I totally did.) (come on, how mean do you think I am?) (only somewhat). His ideas were fine, lovely...one might even say ideal. But in the real world, with budget cuts and more a-coming, when we're already having to make more with less, hearing about the ideal anything is a sure-fire way to engender resistance and resentment from the troops.

And I did really take a minute to think each time I added something to the discussion. I tried to verbally and vocally own which things were my emotional reaction (he was describing a model of service that would drastically change my job) and which were realistic, logical challenges. I was polite, I made jokes, and I tried to make notes of where we agreed. And I spent most of the day swallowing my tongue, choosing instead to write snarky notes to the woman next to me (the act of which a co-worker called "pre-texting"). But I was telling MOTH about it tonight, and all I can think about is that I was too negative and that I knew I didn't have an open mind and that I should have just let this roll off me, mentally checked out. Because--say it with me now--what if someone (gasp) disagreed with me? What if they think I'm wrong? AND NOW THEY WON'T LIKE ME--WAAAH!

On the other hand, I know (because they told me) that there are people who agreed with me who don't feel comfortable talking in front of a large group of people. And maybe I was their voice.

Yargh. I wish I could be bold and unapologetic. Or meek and uninvolved. This combination of in-the-moment-mouthy and later-anxious is for the birds.

High Fructose Corn Syr-YUM-p

2010-11-28T13:53:00.000-08:00

Today is the 28th consecutive day that I have not eaten any candy.

Don't get me wrong...I've had sugar in other forms. A friend's birthday cake (only one slice, but I will admit to consuming the leftover frosting over a matter of days), cookies at a bachelorette party, and a cup of hot cocoa even as I'm writing this. I fully recognize that giving up sugar as a whole = impossible for me. And that's sad. Go ahead and judge, as long as you don't take away my chocolate brownie frozen yogurt, I'm fine. (Because I will cut a bitch for some fro-yo, oh yes I will.)

Anyway...I thought I might try to just limit myself and see if I could go without candy for a month. I love candy. I may have mentioned this a few times already, but I don't think I really explained how much I. LOVE. CANDY. I really don't get sick of it. Sick of myself? Sure. But the sweet, chewy, fake-fruity goodness of a handful of Mike & Ike's? Not on your life. Part of it is an oral-motor thing, as I eschew hard candies and, while I certainly like chocolate, I will always pick the sour gummi worms over the Snickers bar. I also like sweet/tart/fruity things, as long as they're chewy. Jolly Ranchers? Are good if you need a small, solid adhesive. Otherwise, get thee back and bring forth jelly beans (Starburst are a favorite, although the Smuckers and Sweetarts are also quite good).

Um. This might not be such a bright idea, posting about this during the period of abstinence. It's possible I might have just drooled a little bit.

Anyway, the point is that, of all the sugar holds under which I am powerless (what? nothing, just keep going), candy is the worst. I can exhibit self-control at the store and not purchase cookies or donuts, but if it's April, there is some sugar-encrusted marshmallow Peep/Chick/Rastafarian thing going in my basket. (Mmm...crunchy sugar crystals over gooey fake marshmallow--marshmal-faux, if you will...) And then it's in my house, in the candy jar, and I grab a handful whenever I walk by. And I live in a very small house. I eat it mindlessly while reading or nursing or chatting or (and this is just sad) cooking a meal. I keep stashes in my car. I try not to bring it to work, but then I just raid everyone else's candy dish/jar. I'm that girl, the one who brings her files in piecemeal to get a separate Hershey's kiss each time.

I've tried to make some changes. Like only purchasing candy that cannot be wolfed down by the handful. No jelly beans (well, except for Easter, but that's just...anti-religious, that's what that is! Jesus wants me to eat jelly beans to remember his resurrection!), no Whoppers. Mini Tootsie Rolls, Smarties...things that require unwrapping and a bit of attention to consume.

But the bottom line is, I'm more than a little embarrassed by how little willpower I have over candy and how unthinking my consumption has become. It was one thing when I was 22 and we were all young and invincible. I didn't smoke, drink, or sleep with caddish men, so I figured, if this was my one vice, so be it. But now...now I'm 35 and have the metabolism to match. And I have a kid. A kid who watches me and mimics me and who has cottoned on to where my hand goes when I reach waaaay up on that one shelf and says, "Baby? Eat?" I really should put some broccoli up there to throw him off the scent.

So, I've gone the whole month. I ate a good chunk of Tankbaby's Halloween candy that evening and then gave the rest out to other trick-or-treaters so it wouldn't be in the house, tempting me. Then, of course, MOTH brought home a whole container of candy corn. But I stuffed it back on the shelf, above the soups, and--while I can't say I don't notice it when I open the cabinet--I have pretty much forgotten it's there.

And that's been the month. I've been tempted and I've been humbled. Working late at the office one night, totally stressed out, I had to stop myself each time from instinctively reaching for the secretary's candy bowl (what I finally did was take that last damn Reese's peanut butter cup and shoved it in a drawer, just to shut it up). On Thanksgiving, my friend's (soon to be ex) husband brought over a bag of holiday M&Ms that they snacked on while we cooked. And it was really annoying not to be able to just grab a handful.

(Except, of course, that it wouldn't have been a handful. All the other grown-ups had a few here and there, but gradually forgot about the bag of green and red goodies. If I hadn't had a moratorium on candy, I guarantee I would have consumed enough M&Ms to calorically outweigh a big ol' scoop of mashed potatoes.)

And that's what has been the most embarrassing and disappointing and humbling: recognizing how thoughtless--no, that's not right, really...it's careless--eating candy is for me. And that I miss it. I wish I could say that after a month, I'm all "Ew, candy is gross! I can't believe I ever ate that junk!" But I'm not. Instead, I'm marking my calendar for December 1st, when, O Desk Drawer Reese's Cup, you shall be mine.

On the other hand, I know that I can do it. I know that I can walk through the candy aisle (can't skip it, as that's also where crackers live) and, stifling a soft moan, not pick up a bag of Fruiti Gummi Squishie Platypi, or whatever. And I think that's what I'm going to hang on to: the knowledge that I'm not powerless over candy. I can refuse to buy it. I can keep it out of my house (mostly, because see above re: resurrection jelly beans). I can take just one piece out of the office candy dish. Or maybe two. Shut up. The point is, I think sometimes I succumbed out of a sense of "I might as well, because I know that I can't stop myself, so why bother trying"--which is fucked up in its own way, yes?--and I can't use my own weakness as an excuse any more.

MOTH says that my giving up candy while still eating other sugar is like an alcoholic saying, "I'm just going to give up gin." I can see his point, I guess, but I'm still kinda stupidly proud of myself. I think mainly because I think of myself as having zero willpower (there's a reason why I never started smoking/drinking/sleeping with caddish men in my twenties, and it's because I have an addictive personality and would now be a lung-cancer-ridden alcoholic riddled with STDs) and this proved that untrue. I feel embarrassed and silly and ridiculous to stake a claim on this particular trial, but I like that I've succeeded (I say optimistically, as I still have two days left to go). I like that I've proven that I can set a goal (no matter how dinky) and meet it, while still being a mom and socializing with friends and dealing with work stress. Now that I know that, just think of the possibilities! What's next? Showering daily? Cleaning out my purse on a semi-regular basis? Finishing that pile of sewing repairs? The world is my mollusk! The top-of-a-not-terribly-tall-tree's the limit!

Dutch Babycakes Tells a Bedtime Story

2010-11-27T23:10:00.000-08:00

So, one of the reasons I keep falling asleep with Tankbaby these days is because we've been breaking the nursing-to-sleep habit (obviously, with MOTH he's been doing this forever, since MOTH simply refuses to lactate for fear of it ruining his figure). It's not something I've been worried about particularly, since I am and always have been very Malcolm X by-any-means-necessary about getting him to sleep (and thus, being able to sleep myself), but lately, more and more, he's not nursing to sleep but nursing himself awake. He gets drowsy, but wakes to keep nursing. Or, worse, doesn't get drowsy and just hangs out, tethered by the mouth, but with flailing hands and legs akimbo. (I have friend who will happily tell you that Legs Akimbo is her name in the Boom-Boom Room. For the record, my Boom-Boom Room name is Dutch Babycakes.)

Anyway.

The unexpected boost in this particular sea change is that Tank has decided that my pillow is da bomb (that's right, folks, you can always count on Falling for the hippest, newest street lingo). So as long as he wants to nurse, he has to stay on his pillow (the Boppy cushion). And I give him a one-minute warning and then put away the sweater cows (tm Stewie) and offer up the chance to share my pillow. This has been working pretty well at defusing any protests that may arise. He crawls up and nestles in, and we cuddle until he falls asleep. The only problem is that I used to use my smartphone to read; since Tankbaby was facing me, I'd simply extend my arm behind him and scroll away, thus keeping myself awake. Now that he's not nursing, however, there's not a way to do the sneaky reading thing, so I end up just lying quietly, miming sleep. Until I'm not so much "miming" as "actually in a dead sleep until MOTH comes in and asks, 'Have you blogged yet today?'"

Some nights, the boy has a harder time falling asleep. In order to keep him in the drowsy (and, most importantly, STILL) state while he snuggles, I've been telling him stories, long, rambly stories in a whispered monotone, creating a background of white noise. These stories are all about a little boy named Tankbaby and his three friends: a fox, a zebra, and a dinosaur. (The zebra and the dinosaur live in the backyard. The fox is more of a wandering soul and lives in the general neighborhood, but the dinosaur can call him when needed.) They don't have names yet (suggestions currently being taken).

In case any of you are having trouble sleeping, here was tonight's story,written as exactly as I can remember it. Have someone read it to you in a boring whisper...works like a charm.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Tankbaby. He had three friends: a fox, a zebra, and a dinosaur. One day, the fox came to Tankbaby's house and said, "There's a princess who needs your help!" Tankbaby climbed on the 's back and they started--wait. First he packed a lunch: apples, bread, and cheese. Then he climbed on the--no, wait, then the zebra asked for a lunch, so they packed some leftover curry for him. Then the dinosaur said, "What about me?" and they asked him, "What do dinosaurs eat?" and he said "Leaves from trees" and they said, "How about you just watch for trees on the way and eat when you want?" and he said, "OK." Then Tankbaby turned politely to the fox and asked, "Should I pack a lunch for you, too?" and the fox sighed with exasperation and said, "I'll eat leftovers. Let's just get going! That princess needs your help!"

So Tankbaby climbed on the dinosaur's back and they started down the road. After a while they came to a big castle, surrounded by a moat. And at one end, there was a turret, which is like a big round room with a cap on top. And looking out of the window of the turret was a princess with long brown hair named Natalie. Wait, the hair wasn't named Natalie, that was the princess' name. Anyway, Tankbaby called up, "We're here to rescue you!"

Natalie replied, "I don't need rescuing. I just need help."

"Oh," said Tankbaby. "OK, well, how can I help?"

"I have this heavy table, and it needs moving and I can't do it all by myself," she said. "Can you help?"

"Sure," said Tankbaby. "Open the door, and I'll come right up."

"That's the problem," said Natalie. "I can't open the door. The key is under the table. And I can't move the table until you come help me move it."

"I can't help you move the table until you open the door!"

"Well, I can't open the door until you get the key!"

"Well, I can't get the key until you help me move the table!"

"WELL, I CAN'T HELP YOU MOVE THE TABLE UNTIL YOU OPEN THE DOOR!!" Tankbaby shouted.

Finally, the fox raised a paw. "Can I interject? What about the window?"

Tankbaby said, "Yes! The window! Only...how will I get up there?"

The dinosaur shrugged and said, "I dunno, but all this thinking is making me hungry," and he stretched his long neck up to get some leaves off the tree...the tree right next to the princess' window.

"That's it!" shouted the fox. "Climb up the dinosaur!"

So that's what they did. Tankbaby climbed right up onto the dinosaur's head and the dinosaur stretched his neck up until his head was at the level of the window. Tankbaby climbed in through the window and said, "So, where's that table?" He and Natalie moved the table and found the key. They ran downstairs and opened the door.

Tankbaby asked Natalie to come home with him, but she said, "No thanks. I've got my mommy and daddy here, and I'm working on that big block tower over there, and later we're getting ice cream and I just have a very full day. Thanks anyway. Can we still be friends?" and Tankbaby said, "Sure," and they exchanged e-mails. And then Tankbaby climbed back on the dinosaur and headed home...and then the fox...fell out of the nest and...the wings were growing on the mushrooms...and they drove for a while...and the...frog took off the grass skirt and....she said, "wear the brown belt," and...they kissed and...then the plates started dancing....and...desk lamp...penguins...Morgan Freeman...The End."

It's possible that I might have been falling asleep at the end, there.

Phoning it In

2010-11-26T22:15:00.000-08:00

I got nothin' today, kids.

I am sleepy and full of half-formed thoughts and not an insubstantial amount of carbs, and the call of my warm bed is so loud I can't hear myself half-think.

I'm a little embarrassed that I'm petering out so lamely tonight, and am already panicking that I won't be able to come up with anything else for the next four days (and then...what? What exactly do I think will happen if I fail at NaBloPoMo? I guess I don't really know, since this is only my second, and I did manage to write every day next year...maybe they hit you with sticks or something. While publicly shaming you. And making you eat pineapple. I really hate pineapple. Jeez, I can't believe I'm not writing more tonight--I'm so clearly on my game, here.).

I offer up the following distractions:

1) While going about my business with Tankbaby today, I listened to archived episodes of NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour. I enjoy it inordinately, especially considering that, given my limited exposure to pop culture these days, I don't get a third of the jokes. But I enjoy feeling like a part of the smart, funny kids' table.

Part of what they do in every episode (issue? session? what do you call a unit of radio?) is end with a round of What's Making You Happy This Week. In that vein, allow me to share something I just discovered that is making me happy this week:

2) Backwash, a strange, strange little web series starring Joshua Malina (of Sports Night and West Wing fame) and featuring guest stars like Allison Janney and Jon Hamm. It's very strange and stylized and kind of impossible to describe. Or, at least, describe well, apparently. But if you have seen minutes at a time to spare and want to enjoy the adventures of someone named Jonesy, I recommend you stop by.

Now, go forth and enjoy smart, funny, people who are stronger in resisting the lure of the warm bed.

Requisite Thanksgiving Post

2010-11-25T22:11:00.001-08:00

Oh, I had big plans to write about something quirky and unusual and long, but that was before I fell asleep while putting the baby down (as soporific as the process usually is, it's twice that when preceded by a large meal of turkey). So, here goes nothing...

Today, I am thankful for:

Good friends who have become family. We have had the past three? four? Thanksgivings with another family, one whose children refer to Tankbaby as their "little brother" and let us run amok in their house. This year had the potential to be tense and awkward, as the parents have separated, but they pulled off an almost entirely tension-free afternoon and evening together. If you'd been there, you would never have known.
The fact that Tankbaby, when he throws a chubby arm over my shoulders at night, freaking patted me with soft, doughy pats. And then I died of cuteness.
Pumpkin stuffed with everything good
MOTH sending me a perfectly phrased text message in the middle of the afternoon, just when my head was starting to explode (I did say "almost" tension-free, you know; it actually wasn't so much about the soon-to-be-exes, but more about that inevitable moment where you realize that the food schedule is all off and your turkey is going to be done but you haven't even started the potatoes AAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE. And I was trying to pass messages along about how to solve problems and everyone had different thoughts about what to do and I was all LET'S JUST HAVE PB&J SANDWICHES). The text started with "I love you and trust your judgment" and just helped me feel instantly better.
Skype! We called my dad this morning and I just keep marveling at the Jetson-like technology that allows him to see his grandchild running around the house and babbling (at least until said grandchild tries to close the laptop lid, effectively ending the conversation).
The fact that I still have a three-day weekend ahead of me. I believe the word I'm looking for is woot.
The moment at dinner where the kids decided to tell us what they were thankful for and the 4-year-old said something like, "I'm thankful for my family and that you guys are our family too because I love you." It was a very "God bless us, every one" little moment and I totally, um, got something in my eye. Sniff.

Erk. Here's a weird and abrupt ending, but the little internet-connected-ness symbol in my toolbar keeps going on and off, which makes me feel like I oughta click "publish" now while the gettin's good. (What the hell does that mean, anyway? I've used it all my life, my mom used it, but...what? The getting is...good?) Anyway, hope you are all full up of love and stuffing. Happy, happy day.

No Battering the Baby! No, Not Like That...I Mean...

2010-11-24T14:39:00.000-08:00

I did not need to threaten to deep-fry the baby...because...

SEVEN HOURS IN A ROW, BABY!!!

Me, I mean. The baby has been sleeping for 7+ hours in a row for some time now, but unless I want to go bed at 9:30 each night, that hasn't meant that I got a similar stretch. But...last night...maybe it's because I wrote nice stuff about him, maybe it was the roofie I slipped him (heh), but that beatuiful baby of mine slept from 9 pm until 6:27 am. I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I tell you that this was the first time in 21 months that I have slept for that long. I've explained to Tankbaby that if he can get me one more hour of consecutive sleep, he can have a sibling. Or perhaps a pony. We haven't decided yet.

In other great news, my sister sent us a thank-you card for her wedding, and it included a Calvin and Hobbes stamp.

In honor of these two momentous events, I give you one of my favorite C&H strips of all time:

Consider this my early-Thanksgiving "what I'm thankful for" post. Mwah.

Bedtime for Bonzo

2010-11-23T21:45:00.001-08:00

I put Tankbaby (Tanktot? Tanktoddler? Tankkid? Chuck?) to bed a while ago. He nursed, as usual, but more often lately, he doesn't nurse to sleep; I generally call a halt to it at some point and just tell him it's time to go to sleep. Sometimes he protests, but tonight he just kissed me and laid his head down on the pillow. A soft sigh, and he dolphin-flopped his little body over so that he was facing away from me, knees bent and feet tucked against my thighs, hard little skull wedged in under my chin. I kissed the back of his head and put a hand on his shoulder, pulling up the monkey quilt a little more snugly. Behind his back, I pulled out my phone so that I could read a little bit (I am trying to catch up on all the blogs I've abandoned these past months) and try to avoid falling asleep, as I almost always do.

After a few minutes, he turned back to face me and flung one little arm over my shoulder, a chubby hot hand on my face, right where my jaw meets my neck. His eyes were closed, his chin raised slightly, and I thought surely he was asleep. But then he opened his eyes (so I quickly shut mine to model "see, now is the time when we sleep"--and this, dear friends, is how I so often am awakened by MOTH saying, "It's 10:30, did you still need to blog/make lunch/shower?"), still breathing quietly, evenly. I peered at him through my lashes and watched him look quietly around, finally fixing his gaze on me. Fully aware that this could be where I derailed the whole thing, I couldn't resist opening my eyes and gazing back at him. We lay there, in the glow of the nightlight, blinking at each other from a distance of a few inches, my body curled around his, his hand still resting heavily on my face as if to mark his place. Finally, his eyes drifted shut and stayed shut. I was feeling dozy, and I knew I should get up before I actually dropped off, but I couldn't make myself move. The warmth, the breathing, the sweet little face that still looks babyish while the rest of him looks like a little boy...I was literally captivated. I cannot believe how much I love this wild, weird, confounding creature.

One of you remind me of this at 5 AM tomorrow morning, when Milk Negotiations are in full swing and I threaten to dip him in batter and deep-fry him.

Poetical Perspective

2010-11-22T22:23:00.000-08:00

A man said to the universe:

"Sir, I exist!"

"However," replied the universe,

"The fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation."
--Steven Crane

Directions: Just add water. Shake. Watch self-pity disappear.

Equalizing

2010-11-21T21:27:00.000-08:00

I had a lovely time last night. Intelligent, funny ladies, all. At one point, the bride-to-be took a picture of me, highlighting my (ahem) abundant cleavage (no, it wasn't THAT kind of bridal shower, but I was wearing a v-neck sweater, and the girls, they are prolific). She sent it to MOTH, with the message "your pretty woman." Later, she got a message back, saying, "Who is this?" I laughed, figuring her number wasn't in MOTH's phone, but really. Who did he think it was? He knew who I was with that night, it was only going to be one of a few people.

Today on our walk, I asked MOTH what he thought of the picture. Raise your hand if you can see where this is going.

"What picture?"

Yep. The "who is this" was not meant as "who is sending me this message" but as "who is this manic-eyed, Muppet-browed girl with the nice rack and why are you sending me her picture at 8:3o on a Saturday night?!"

I have no idea who the recipient could be, but I am wondering if he/she will be at the wedding and have a weird sense of deja vu when they see me.

***

I had a weird moment last night where I think I said the wrong thing. My friend is pregnant, and I was telling her something I wish someone had told me before I had a baby: if you're breastfeeding, the first several months (or longer) are just going to be unfair. No matter how egalitarian your household, no matter how enthusiastic your spouse about sharing the responsibilities, there are going to be times--a lot of them--when you are going to be the one doing most of the heavy lifting. And it doesn't mean anything negative about any of you, it's just the way it is: Mamas got it rough.

I think my friend didn't want to hear that at that moment, and I didn't present it as eloquently as I could have, and I quickly apologized. But I remember vividly a day when Tankbaby was about five months old, visiting my dear friend Ms J and her saying, "Oh, yes! Those first six months...I remember thinking that if J and I got divorced at that point, dammit, I got to keep the kid. Like, sorry, dude, but I've put in the time. You can have the couch."

I felt so relieved, like it wasn't just that MOTH and I were failing or that we were making stupid choices or that I just couldn't hack it...all thoughts that had been taking up more and more real estate in my head when I would take a shower and listen to Tankbaby wail and feel guilty for those fifteen minutes I was taking for myself. But I would also think, Damn, kid, your dad is right there, and you are not actually ON FIRE right now. And later, when I would be quite literally weighted down by the baby and watch MOTH enjoy an hour on the couch reading or playing his video game, and I'd quietly burn with resentment because HOW DARE HE enjoy some quiet down time when he could be sitting and fretting with me over whether shifting ten degrees to the right would disturb Tankbaby's fragile drowsy state.

I remember reading Dr. Sears' books, which I generally quite like, because they appeal to my hippie, attachment-parenting self. But I also remember reading something at one point about "honoring your partner with his share of the parenting," and having hot, frustrated tears spring to my eyes. It wasn't that MOTH wasn't willing (and in fact, really wanted) to be an equal partner. It was that Tankbaby wasn't having it. He was a boob man, a mama's boy, and while he and MOTH did fine while I was at work during the day, once I got home, he needed to be in physical contact at all times.

As part of my work, I've done a lot of reading about attachment and bonding and temperament, and as such was both a) well-equipped to understand what was happening and thus respond generally with patience and acceptance of my child's needs and b) COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT because what I understood on paper was SO MUCH HARDER in real life and what if it was all wrong, or worse, all right and it's just me who sucks for not being able to hack it, even though I am so well-informed and AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEE. I mean, intellectually I understood that Tank and I had a very strong, secure bond, and that babies are designed to want to be around their mamas and that's what has helped keep the species alive and not have our young wandering off to be eaten by cougars. And after I went back to work, I was gone all day. Of course he'd want to be with me as soon as I returned. On the other hand, I was working all day on five interrupted hours of sleep, commuting during rush hour, and I would get to the doorstep and hear wailing through the door. Inside, an exhausted and frustrated MOTH would explain how little the baby'd slept that day as he handed Squally McSleepless over; I'd hold him in one arm and unpack the breast pump with the other, effectively clocking in for the 14-hour evening shift.

You'd think it'd be helpful to have some professional knowledge to back up your instincts. Which it is, sometimes, except when sleep-deprived, hormone-fueled anxiety starts messing with you, in which case you doubt your instincts and then have the existential angst of your personal and professional belief systems crumbling around you in a moment where you think, "Maybe four months old isn't too soon to teach kids that life is unfair and then you die."

Looking back, I don't regret how we handled it. I think it was hard, sometimes feeling impossible, but clearly we all survived it. I think MOTH had a hard time being constantly the second choice, but his hurt and frustration wasn't always voiced, and I sadly didn't have the extra resources to check on him, because I was so busy feeling overwhelmed and HEY AT LEAST YOU GET TO SHOWER IN PEACE. So I felt resentful a lot and he felt rejected and have I mentioned that we were both. So. Tired?

But we found our way. Our co-parenting became more me-parenting, MOTH-everything else-ing, as he did laundry and dishes and cooking dinner while I rocked and sang and nursed. And eventually it evened out, and he could play with the baby on the floor while I made dinner. I think having that desire and intent to share parenting equally, even in the months where that wasn't possible, formed a foundation that we're now getting to take advantage of. Tankbaby can handle new people, but still has a healthy amount of stranger anxiety. He does great for babysitters. Most importantly, he has a dad who knows all of his words and signs and will often tell me, "Oh, now we're doing x for that" and who is in tune with teething and bowels and vaccinations. And while he still likes mama's boobs, he can go to sleep without them.

And two nights ago, during the cacophonous fire drill that was the 5 am wakeup, while Tankbaby cried and writhed and flailed, at one point he wailed, "Da?" And I immediately said, yes, of course, you can have Dada, and rolled him over next to MOTH, who put an arm around him. Tanky quieted and let out a shuddering sigh and I thought, There it is. That was the first time he'd requested Dada instead of me. I had a rush of feelings: happy (for him that he'd found some comfort, for MOTH for being chosen, for me for getting a break), but also sad that I wasn't able to comfort him then, and a little rejected. (And, because it was still early in the battle, the moment lasted only about three minutes, and then all bets were off and we began to play "Who Put Fire Ants In the Baby's Diaper?" again.)

I know that was the first of many times where I will hear "Dada" as my arms are pushed away. I know that in the future, it will be deliberate, sometimes with purpose (Daddy does the train better) and sometimes just to exert a choice, any choice, because that's how kids roll. And I will try not to get bent out of shape, feeling rejected, all YOUR DADDY DIDN’T CARRY YOU FOR NINE MONTHS/WAKE EVERY TWO HOURS TO FEED YOU FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS/HAVE HIS KEGEL MUSCLES SO STRETCHED OUT OF SHAPE THAT TRAMPOILNES ARE NOW A REALLY BAD IDEA and instead smile, kiss them both, and go sit on the couch with a book.

In Which I Provide Effective Birth Control

2010-11-20T09:40:00.001-08:00

Dig me, posting before dark for a change. Tonight I am going off to a friend's bridal shower, so MOTH graciously took the boy to the library and farmer's market so I could come here for a bit. Why not write during Tank's nap, you might ask?

Oh, ho, ho. That's a good one.

Mama's going to nap with Tankbaby today. Or possibly instead of. I don't really care which, but the point is, I'm going to need a nap at some point, or else it's entirely likely that I'll be driving home from the shower tonight and veer off the road, a fiery crash of naplessness and ire. I guess it will bring new meaning to the phrase, "You can sleep when you're dead."

I believe I've mentioned once, twice, or thirty times that Tankbaby isn't, and has never been, a good sleeper. We've really come so far from where we were a year ago, or even six months ago, and the nightweaning has been pretty successful.

Except for lately, when 4:30-5 AM rolls around and Tank decides that his tank (so to speak) is empty. There are three ways this can go:

Scenario A: Tank whimpers and signs "milk" while saying "Mama?" I roll over, cuddle him, whisper, "Milk in the morning." He whimpers again to make sure his objection is noted, and then crawls up onto my pillow, flings a chubby arm across my neck, and goes back to sleep, his sweet baby breath on my face (when do kids start getting morning breath? I thought it might be by now, when he's got most of his teeth and is eating adult food--he had hoisin salmon last night, which you'd think would emit some sort of odor when incubated in a moist little cave--but so far, I'm OK with my nose being an inch from his open mouth). We all go back to sleep for another hour or so, at which point he gets to nurse and we hang out in dozy cuddliness until I have to get up for work.

We get this for a few nights in a row, long enough to lull us into a false sense of security, and then...

Scenario B: Tank whimpers and signs "milk" while saying "Mama?" I roll over, cuddle him, whisper, "Milk in the morning." He whimpers again to make sure his objection is noted, and then crawls up onto my pillow, flings a chubby arm across my neck, and...grabs it, pulling me closer, trying to get access to my tank top. He asks more urgently, "Mama?" and signs "milk" with whatever hand is not involved in snaking its way under shoulder straps or down through the neckhole. I reassure him that milk will be forthcoming sometime after FREAKING DAWN, for crying out loud, but that it's time to go back to sleep. I gently guide his hands back away from all my vital organs. Repeat once or twice more, then we all go back to sleep. Cuddly dozing, get up for work.

This is, obviously, less desirable than Scenario A, but still doable, especially if I manage to get to bed early enough that I've had a nice chunk of sleep before he wakes. (Did you catch that part? Because it becomes important later.) It only lasts about 10 minutes, it's generally still done quietly and I can literally do it with my eyes closed.

But last night? Last night was the dreaded

Scenario C: Tankbaby wakes with a cry, I pat him on the back or cuddle him. He asks for milk. I explain the (at this point, extremely well-established, consistent) no-milk-between-10-and-6 policy. He crumples as if I have told him that Santa Claus is a lie (and, I guess, that Santa Claus existed in the first place...a poor simile, but I'm running against the clock, here). He cries piteously, saying and signing "milk?" with his best Charles Dickens orphan face. I remain sympathetic but unmoved, disentangling his hot little hands from wherever they've managed to lodge themselves (dude, WHY are your hands down my pants?). He gets more agitated, arching his back, crying more loudly, flinging himself around the crib, into our bed, trying to climb over me to lie between me and MOTH. I continue to pull him back down, offering cuddles, kisses, and sometimes cash if he'll just lie down and go back to sleep. He refuses all such reasonable offers, crying "Nah! NAH!" (his version of "no") repeatedly, long after I've stopped offering the pony rides and free magazine subscriptions. He continues to flail, I continue to try to be calm and soothing and sleepy-looking while simultaneously catching all those little limbs of his (dude, WHY are your hands down your pants?) and trying to mentally calculate, "If he falls asleep right now, I can still get another 47 minutes of sleep." He finally buries his head against a pillow or my chest or my armpit and quiets, breathing more deeply, juuuust long enough for my heartrate to slow and then the slowly erupting cry, "I thought I was feeling better but I just remembered THE MILK THING and now I AM VERY UPSET ALL OVER AGAIN WAAAAAHHHH!"

Repeat. And repeat. Eventually, he gets so worked up that he is just sobbing inconsolably, those jagged, hiccupy sobs that you cry if you're foolish enough to go see the new romantic comedy too soon post-breakup. And I rock him and hold him and MOTH hugs him and he finally, finally lies down and sighs, those long, staggering sighs that follow sobs. His eyes, screwed shut from crying, finally relax a bit, although the lashes are still wet on his cheeks.

It is simultaneously the most infuriating and most pathetic thing I've ever seen.

To be fair, last night was only the second night of this we've had since the nightweaning process back in June, and the other was the night we moved the clocks back for Daylight Savings Time. But still. You can see where it would grow tedious rather quickly.

Part of it is my fault: when putting Tankbaby down for the night, I accidentally fell asleep with him, until MOTH woke me at 10. (In case I haven't described our co-sleeping situation before, we have Tank's crib up against our bed with the side rail out, so we can lie with him to snuggle, but he also has his own space. So I was sleeping in my bed, not crammed into the crib with him, in case you were wondering why MOTH left me in there so long.) I came out into the living room to blog, while MOTH went to bed, but was in that logy place where I was too groggy to write much (or well), but couldn't actually sleep, either. I watched Glee on Hulu (which will explain why, at 5:37 AM, I was shushing with Tankbaby while singing Cee Lo in my head, and also illustrate how unhip I am, that I learned about Cee Lo from a FOX sitcom) and finally went to bed after midnight, but I tossed and turned for another hour (still singing Cee Lo, "I pity the fooo-hool who falls in love witchoo...").

Anyway, the point is, I'm gonna need to take a nap later.

If You Can't Say Something Nice

2010-11-19T22:47:00.000-08:00

Yeah.

It's been one of those days, at the end of one of those weeks.

Luckily, I have all of next week off. Except for the day I'm going in and not getting paid, because I have to have to have to get caught up, because that constant screeching in my head is getting louder, and at some point it's going to drown out the constant screeching of my kids. So I spent a little time today getting all hinky about how the Department of Ed keeps adding paperwork requirements with one hand and taking away funding (and therefore, staff and time) to meet these requirements with the other. The whole agency is nervous and on edge, the general feeling being that we're lucky to have jobs...jobs that are rapidly becoming impossible to do. Or at least, to do well or meaningfully.

So! (claps hands briskly) Let's ignore that. And look! Over here!

Growing up, one of our traditional holiday viewings was a little thing called Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas, a little special that Jim Henson made back in 1977. Based on the children's book of the same name, it's a very Gift-of-the-Magi-esque story about a mother and son otter, a talent contest, and a washtub. I defy you to watch it and not have your cockles warmed.

We used to watch it on a rapidly-decaying VHS tape, labeled with Sharpie, taped off of TV with the commercials paused out. A few years ago, they released it on DVD, which means that I can enjoy it without feeling like each viewing is one step closer to the disintegration of a cherished childhood memory.

So, rather than blather about Job Woes, which is fun for exactly no-one to think about, including me, I direct your attention to the following. As much as I love the Muppets (which is a LOT), I love Muppet outtakes even more:

Scene From a Grocery Store

2010-11-18T21:41:00.000-08:00

Setting: Neighborhood grocery store

Time: Eveningish

Shoes: Chuck Taylors

Me: Oh, Tankbaby. You are so cute. Can I give you a kiss?

Tankbaby: Nah. (his version of "no;" I'm from Chicago, I can dig it.)

Me: I can't? OK. How about...can you give me a kiss?

Tankbaby: Nah.

Me: Fine. Can I give Dada a kiss?

Tankbaby: Nah. (points to teenage employee, stocking soup on a nearby shelf and makes kissing noise)

Me: You want me to kiss her? (He nods.) I don't think so.

Tankbaby: (makes kissing noise and points to the girl) Mama!

Me: Yeah. Mama's not going to kiss her.

MOTH: Can Dada kiss her?

Me: Nah.

MOTH: OK. Just checking the boundaries.

Me: (clobbers him with a can of Campbell's tomato soup)

End scene.

But How Does That Make You FEEL?

2010-11-17T18:01:00.000-08:00

I so love therapy.

For a verbal processor like me, an hour of yakking, answering probing questions and gathering feedback...ah. Torture for many, I know, but for me a good therapy hour is like a mental massage: I leave feeling relaxed, refreshed, and other spa-advertisement adjectives. Lest you think I'm being terribly selfish to admit that I like an hour of talking about myself while someone listens, I should point out that a) I do pay for the services, and b) I try to throw in some jokes.

I have been feeling absolutely overwhelmed the last few days (weeks? longer?) and am now at that point where something like misplacing my keys brings actual tears to my eyes for a second, when Perspective is not only something I've lost, it's a fictional character to me, like the Jabberwocky. Some of it is work stuff, and I've finally resigned myself to going in one day next week when we're closed and just working for the day (unpaid, natch) in hopes that getting caught up (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) will be worth it. I do love being productive. I love crossing stuff off of lists and making files and finishing projects, but I think at this point, a thought I get to have to completion also sounds mighty nice. Not that I wouldn't get a nice buzz off of a clean workspace, an x-ed out To Do list, and a nice color-coded binder...mmm...

The stuff that isn't work is less easily solved, but...today, at least, I'm feeling more optimistic about it. I talked to Dreamcatcher Therapist today a lot about the notion of there being One Right Way for things, and that, while I intellectually understand otherwise, I still secretly believe in it. (Please note: I'm not saying that my way is the right way, I'm saying that there is some independent, external right way that should be obvious to all and I am holding myself to it.) And am constantly judging myself as to my success in attaining this One Right Way, Anything Else is Wrong and Worthless. Which, of course, leads to peace and enlightenment, right?

Dreamcatcher Therapist: It's like you're a kid coloring, and you look down and see that your house isn't perfectly in the lines, and it's a different color, maybe not quite as good as those kids', but that's OK, you know?

Me: Totally foreign concept.

DT: Okaaaayyyy....(scribbles furiously)

The best part is that, at no charge to you, I will also judge you about your willingness to follow the light. So when someone (cough...MOTH...cough) manages to be all Zen, like, "Heck, I'll color my house pink, 's cool...whatevs," I am very threatened because there is only ~~Zool~~ One Right Way, dammit! And if you have another Right Way, then my Right Way must be Wrong and then I am doing it Wrong. And no-one likes the kid who does it Wrong, Right? So just tell me WHAT COLOR DO I PAINT THE DAMN HOUSE?!

Ahem. Or something.

Of course, I know better intellectually than to go down these roads, but emotionally, that's where I head. Judging those around me so that I know how best to judge myself when I inevitably compare myself. And this is truly where the approval junkie thing goes off the rails. Where I have this innate desperation for external approval, but I know that's not what I want for myself, so I try to intellectualize around it, stuffing it down and smothering it with appropriate words while my hamster-wheel brain spins ever faster.

DT: How do you walk around doing that all the time?

Me: I'm...very tired.

See? See how I'm feeling more optimistic? Doesn't it just shine through?

You'll just have to trust me. I'm feeling like I'm starting to untangle some stuff, which feels good (see: organizational high, above). Also? MOTH is making chicken tikki masala tonight, with warm naan on the side. How bad can life be with warm naan? (And, I don't care what you say, warm naan definitely falls into the category of Things That Are Right.)

And This is Why I'm Eating Chocolate Frosting on Graham Crackers at 10:00 at Night

2010-11-16T22:10:00.001-08:00

OK, first of all? I'm still in it to win it, NaBloPoMoFos. I dunno what happened, but I did post yesterday. It was the post I started on Sunday before the evil virus got me down. And for some reason, when I hit "publish" yesterday, it just stuck in on underneath Sunday's Evil Virus Post. So, um, scroll on down to where you see "Gazing Comma Navel," why dontcha.

Secondly? When you've had a day where:

* You started the day with a 5 AM, 40 minute period of coaxing your toddler back to sleep, so that you ended up grabbing the fifteen minutes that you should have used to get up early and wash your hair so it is now twisted on your head in a devil-may-care-but-she-sure-doesn't poodle poof...

* A child runs out of your classroom and runs for the front doors and when you catch him he makes all 50 pounds of himself go boneless while the school secretary watches, and

* You learn that a kid on your caseload went into foster care not just because of the homelessness and neglect and mental health issues, but because, when he was 18 months old, his mother flung him against a wall in a grocery store bathroom, and

* You work through lunch (again) and somehow still can't get your head above water, even though you'll be working for 12 hours today, and

* You listen to a radio interview with an economist on the way in to work and realize that you can't afford a second kid and will probably have to sell the first one when you run out of plasma...

Well, that is a lovely day indeed for your MOTH to show up at work with hot, homemade beef stew for dinner, complete with crusty loaf and cloth napkins. Even better if he brings your kiddo, smiling and calling, "mama!"as his chunky legs pedal towards you. And you can eat and relax and watch your kid insist on eating out of your bowl and thirty minutes are all it takes to reset.

A bloggy kiss for my partner, who sat in traffic both ways in order to do a little something nice for me today, even without knowing how badly I needed it.

These Are Not the Droids You're Looking For

2010-11-14T22:05:00.001-08:00

You guys.

I had a whole real post I was working on. It wasn't a random assortment of thoughts with occasional puns thrown in--I had notes! And time to ponder! And I was actually writing something kinda heartfelt that was making me think...

And then my computer started FUH-REAKING out. I started getting pop-ups like, "Stealth Intrusion! Infection detected in the background. Your computer is now being attacked by spyware and rogue software" and "Your PC activity is being monitored. Possibly spyware infection" and "ZOMG YOU'RE TOTALLY BEING HACKED RIGHT NOW BEEYOTCH!"

Best of all, the calls were coming from inside the house. It claimed to be "Vista AntiSpyware." A quick Google search revealed that this is a fake anti-malware scam, where they want you to "click here for an anti-viral scan." So while there isn't any program "IRC-Worm.DOS.Septic" trying to "exploit Windows security holes," what this shit does do is screw with your existing anti-viral software. So my hours-long McAfee scans were for naught, and cheerful green screens told me my computer was squeaky clean, even as more dire pop-ups sprouted, screaming "YOU'RE IN FOR IT NOW! VIRUSES! VIKINGS! ZOMBIES! YOU REALLY OUGHTA CLICK HERE, OR YOU'LL BE SORRRRYYYYY!"

More Googling (which took forever, because these stupid, tedious thing also throws dire pop-ups whenever you try to open a browser) led me to different versions of removal instructions. I tried McAfee's "stinger" first, which did zip, other than gleefully assure me that I was 100% clean! Yes, sirree! Nothing to see here SECURITY HOLE DETECTED BLOCK THIS ATTACK BY CLICKING HERE OR WE TAKE THE CHILD!

I found very clear instructions (complete with screenshots) here, which I'm including on the off off off chance that anyone with the same problem finds this blog. I'll let you know how it works (updated: seems to have fixed it!). (I will admit to a certain paranoid fear that maybe these "fixing" instructions were just another form of malware...they're all in it together! But I found this solution listed other places as well, so either it's the real thing or there's a vast conspiracy and we'd all best decide whether we're going to be Browncoats or Alliance.)

I know I can't take it personally, but I do. These pimply assholes sucked away the rest of my lovely Sunday afternoon. The post I was working on, luckily, was saved mid-draft, but I had to do all these scans and figure out how to manually search and destroy this thing (the success of which has yet to be determined, by the way, as I'm typing this on MOTH's computer while mine is being exorcised) and I snapped at Tankbaby when he kept mashing on the keys and...pleh. Anyway, all this to say that you're not getting my sincere, heartwarming post this evening. I guess you'll just have to wait. It's a shame, too. It came with a pony.

OK, fine. You can have the pony tonight.

Gazing Comma Navel

2010-11-14T13:33:00.000-08:00

MOTH thinks I am a pessimist, because I am constantly worrying about what could happen or what did happen or what what's currently happening might mean. It really bothers me that he would see me as so negative, because I don't want to be seen that way. Other than a brief period in college, for which I blame too many Melissa Etheridge videos, I have never wanted to be that dark, twisted, damaged person. (I have, however, often wanted to date that person, which is another topic all together.)

I maintain that I am an optimist, because I do see all those negative, worrisome possibilities and yet continue to move forward. I got married, I had a kid, I went back to school, I moved across the country, I left everything I knew and started over. And I was terrified about all of those things, but I did them anyway. I think that's optimism. Not that everything's going to be OK, but that it might not be, but I'm going out there anyway. It takes a certain amount of faith in the universe to walk out your front door when you're fairly certain that the hive under the garage is full of killer bees, you know?

Part of what I've had to come to terms with about my own anxiety is that it's always going to be there. It's not something I can just will away. I don't mean that in a defeated way, but that I have learned that I have to figure out how to manage it rather than spend my energy trying to fight it. I try very hard not to indulge it, but sometimes I only manage to tread water when I want to swim. So I don't get into panic mode, but neither do I relax and enjoy the moment. It's like I'm out there on the surfboard, crouching, not being knocked down, but I can't stand up and ride the wave, either. (What's with all the ocean/water metaphors? DON'T KNOW. I am not an ocean person...I've watched Shark Week, you know. Murky depths are not my scene.)

One of the questions my therapist posed for me last week was about living in the present. Being in the moment. Now, my therapist is a little, as my friend C says, "dream-catchery," but she's not wrong here. I struggle with being able to be present and relax in the moment and not think about what just happened or what might happen or what could happen IF I LOOK AWAY FOR A SECOND AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE CONSTANT VIGILANCE!! The way my brain works, I'm able to see all these possibilities in every moment--good and bad, but why spend energy worrying about the good, right? When I could be dedicating myself to anticipating every possible negative ripple and preparing for each?

What a weird way to live, right? And I'm not, like, constantly miserable or anxious or anything. It's just that I'm seldom really relaxed, either. I have trouble feeling like this, whatever it is, is "enough" in any given moment. There's always something I'm missing out on, something I should be doing, something I need to be thinking about. My hamster-wheel of a brain is always turning, and I keep running, like the thought of just getting off has never occurred to me.

I sort of manage to do this with Tankbaby. I mean, he's just so darn delectable and fun and all-encompassing that I do sometimes find myself just reveling in his sweet, weird babyness (see also: mondo kisses instead of bedtime). And sometimes, when I'm reading a book with him or walking around the neighborhood, I'm wholly there, sucking it all up. But, probably more often, I catch myself thinking about how big he's getting, imagining him as an older kid, worrying about weaning, trying to figure out if I want another, etc. And, as my therapist would point out, whenever I do that, I leave--at least in some way--the present that I'm in.

Weirdly, I was very much about living in the moment when my mom was sick and I was around her. Because it was too painful to remember the blissfully ignorant past, and even more frightening to think about the future, I actually did manage to stay very much in the present when I would visit her. Even sitting in the chemo room, I was just...there, making jokes and being slightly uncomfortable and trying to make personal connections with the nurses. And then we'd leave chemo and go to a play or go home and make dinner, and I just kept taking it moment by moment. However, I don't think that's quite the same thing, as it came less from a Zen place of acceptance and more from a white-knuckled terrified denial. I wasn't relaxing in the moment, I had it in a choke-hold, because it was all I could handle.

One of many lines I love in Suzanne Finnamore's Otherwise Engaged is when one character, imitating Deepak Chopra says, "If you think of your mind as a seething serpent, why would you walk toward it?" Or our inimitable Anne Lamott, who says, "My mind remains a bad neighborhood that I try not to go into alone." These two quotes pop into my head when I think about meditation, and the idea of just sitting quietly with my hamster-wheel brain makes me roll my eyes. But I keep considering it, because I've gotta learn a way to quiet the shoulds and coulds and maybes and whatabouts and whatifs. And I don't drink, so blackouts are right out. What's left, you know?

I'm not done thinking about this, but I am done writing about it. For now. Head-shrinking again this Wednesday, maybe I'll have be awarded with great clarity. Or possibly a root beer. Both sound nice about now.

In Which I Push the Boundaries of What Could Be Considered a Reasonable Segue

2010-11-13T20:52:00.000-08:00

So if you've been following along (or if you're Elly), you may have noticed that our own darlin' BugginWord has been leaving me random topics to write about. This saved my NaBloPoMoAs for many an entry already, I can tell you. But I haven't used her prompts the last couple of times, because I had (gasp) actual things already in mind to write about.

Part of why I'm doing the whole NaBloPoMo is to just force myself to write something every day. Not something long or great or worthy of future readings, but just something, for God's sake. I'm just trying to get back in the habit. Now, if you've read this for any length of time, you might have picked up on the fact that I'm the teeeeeensiest bit perfectionist, and that I must have everyone else's approval about all things (kinda makes you wish I were single, doesn't it?). So blogging is a challenge for me in general, because EEP WHAT IF SOMEONE OUT THERE READS THIS AND...DOESN'T LIKE IT? AAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE! And to write daily, without the option of spending a day or two tweaking or editing, well, that's just crazy talk. And, I know from crazy.

So that's why I want to give a shout-out/big ups/props/other street lingo for recognition and thanks to Elly from the Block. I might sit here thinking, well, I kinda wanted to talk about x, but then funny thing y happened, but what if I can't tell it right and FUCK IT, I WILL WRITE ABOUT PACKING TAPE.

In that vein, I present to you a little melange I call FUCK IT, I WILL WRITE ABOUT ACRYLIC NAILS, SANDWICH BOARDS, AND TOPAZ:

(Ahem.)

Acrylic nails were always both a mystery and somehow the height of sophistication to me in my impressionable teenage years. I have been lucky enough to have good, strong nails of...German peasant stock, I guess, and I generally don't have trouble growing them out. In fact, as I got into my 20s and 30s and my life was about guitar lessons and puppet-building and kid-wrangling, I mostly had trouble keeping them short and practical. But I was a young girl during the age of Lee Press-On Nails.* As you can see from the commercial, these were nothing sort of genius. A bit of adhesive and you had talons to rival any of those Dynasty bitches. You could buy them at Walgreens and apply them at home, and for the next 24 hours, you could walk the halls of your junior high with your head held high, your nails blood-red (or frosted pink!) and a sudden inability to spin your locker's combination lock. I wonder what our teachers thought, when they saw nails that begged for Vanna White sequined dresses or shoulder-padded power blazers on the hands of young teens wearing pegged jeans and rocking the baggy-sweatshirt-over-turtleneck look (with your necklace charm dripping up and out of the turtleneck, if you please). Like the big crispy bangs of yore ("yore" meaning circa 1989), my own laziness, cheapness, and unsophistication mostly saved me from this particular craze. I'd like to say it was foresight, independence, and taste, but I'd be lying.

Speaking of things that have changed since the 80s (Nice segue, Falling! Thank you, Falling!) I don't know the last time I saw someone wearing a sandwich board in person. It's certainly a cartoon/comic staple, and you'll occasionally get people wearing them as part of a protest or rally, but in terms of human-as-advertisment, now you get those people who hang out at intersections with a plain old non-sandwich sign, dressed as food or the Statue of Liberty (MOTH and I have a friend, Tall Matt, who is 6'8" who occasionally does this gig. So every once in a while, you drive past the tax service and get to see a nearly seven-foot-tall Lady Liberty).

Did you know that the Statue of Liberty was officially finished on October 28th, 1886? Only a couple of days later, and her birthstone would have been topaz (Ooh, that was a rough one. Judges?). Topaz is a silicate mineral of aluminium and fluorine...with, um, orthorhombic crystals and....

DAMN YOU, ELLY....I AM BESTED.

*When I Googled LP-ON, I came across this piece of brilliance on wiki.answers.com:
Q: Who invented the nail?
A: It was Thomis Edeson.

Just...sigh.

I Used to Play Bass for Elaborate Pseudonym

2010-11-12T22:47:00.001-08:00

Just returned from a lovely evening with friends. We joined some friends J and J (huh...identical initials foiling my elaborate pseudonym plan) to celebrate E's birthday. There were homemade pizzas and shrieking children chasing each other through the house and I made a cake! From scratch, even! We fed the children first and sent them downstairs for a movie (Mr. J casually informed us that he'd rented Apocalypse Now), then the adults (and Tankbaby) sat around and ate pizza and drank wine (um, not Tankbaby) and laughed. It was just easy and constantly amusing (at one point, MOTH referenced the Simpsons' "fifth-level vegan...eats nothing that casts a shadow," and Mr. J chimed in, "They consume only pollen and dew.") and had that lovely rhythm that comes of a group of people who have known each other for years. It was all warmly-lit and I stepped outside myself for a bit and panned around the room, aware of how this would clearly be the scene tat the end of the episode, where the beloved characters took a break from resolving plotlines while some Decemberists song swelled gradually in the background.

J-the-woman was rea-hilly enjoying the wine, and the rest of us were enjoying her. E had borrowed J's luggage for a recent trip and, while unpacking, came across this purple post-it with names and dates and things like "Edwardian period" written on it. Realizing it wasn't hers, she took it to work the next day and put it on J's desk. An unremarkable story, except that in the telling, tipsy J began to moan and shriek, "I'm a sham!" She then burst in to explain that the subtext of that meticulously placed post-it on her desk was, "And you call yourself a former lit major! You don't know your Edwardians from your Victorians! I thought I knew you, but it's all been a pack of lies! Lies! LIES I TELL YOU!!!"

E kept protesting, "I put the post-it down. That's the end of the story as far as I know it."

But J would burst in, "No! I just...I needed to remember! Anne Bronte, Elizabeth Gaskell...I should...I couldn't..." and then fall into embarrassed giggles, hiding her face.

I finally asked, "Um, do you think we're friends with you because of your literary knowledge? Because I'm friends with you because you give me all your kids' hand-me-downs."

It degenerated from there, and after finishing her glass of wine, J turned abruptly to me with a mock accusatory finger and asked, "So, what's the deal? Why don't you drink? Is it a thing, or just a... thing?"

I started to answer, "Well, I don't like the taste, for one thing, and it just never seemed like something I wanted or needed to bother to cultivate, and--"

She turned to the rest of the table, triumphantly shrieking, "Who's thinking about the Brontes now, eh?!" She couldn't seem to believe that we hadn't been thinking about the Brontes before. Mostly we were thinking, "Hmm...maybe we don't open that third bottle of wine." But Ms. J seemed reassured by the idea that a quick left turn into my abstinence would distract the angry hordes from the public stoning in the town square that would otherwise be her fate.

This is, by the way, the mom of the kid who opened with "You know what's cool about me?" So in addition to that as an opening gambit, I now offer you "Who's thinking about the Brontes now, eh?!" as a way to declare victory in conversation.

********************

This actually happened today, I swear: I was folding laundry and Tankbaby kept tugging on my pants leg, whimpering. I was all, "What is it? What is it, boy?" and finally followed him...to where the dog was trapped. Suck it, Lassie.

********************

P.S. Confidential to Elly, some more: Don't give up on me. I'm going to collect your random suggestions and weave them all into a hilarious, coherent, culturally-relevant entry. No, really.

This is My Head, Shrinking

2010-11-11T22:56:00.000-08:00

I went to therapy tonight for the first time in over a year (boo to increased co-pays, but yay to my old therapist now on my new insurance!). So I have scrawled notes about "humility=vulnerability=why a negative?" and "SPLITTING" (underlined twice) and "judgment--know you're right," all of which will provide ample navel-gazing fodder for future posts (she said, optimistically, as all three of her readers raised eyebrows with a collective "yeah, right"). But I left therapy, came home for a quick sandwich with my boys, and then went to see a friend's play. It's now quite late, and in the interest of my own sleep and getting this post up before midnight (and thus counting it for today), I'm tabling these Big Important Thoughts for a Favorite Funny Story:

When in Chicago, when I first started to understand what was happening to me as panic attacks, an actual thing that I could learn about and manage, I loved therapy. I loved my therapist. I didn't love the anxiety, but I was learning to live with it. All was going swimmingly for some time, and then one day I got slammed by a big wave of panic. The circumstances allude me now, but I remember calling my dear wise friend C and complaining about how I thought I had it under control and would I always be like this and and and...

I finally sighed, "I just don't want to be crazy anymore."

She, in her dearness and wisdom, told me, "Listen: crazy people don't think they're crazy."

I found that very reassuring: the notion that the very analysis of my wacky brain probably meant that it was actually a pretty functional organ. A few weeks later, my friend J and I were walking together and discussing our mutual histories of anxiety and panic. I relayed my frustration with the recent weeks and told him about my conversation with C.

Me: So she said, "crazy people don't think they're crazy."

J: No, crazy people think they're Napoleon.

****************************

I must be tired. In my comments on my last post, I went to type the word "phrase" and what came out was "frace."

****************************

P.S. Confidential to Elly: Can I have an extension? (Get it? Fake nails...extensions? What, am I reaching? Ha! I kill me.) In the meantime, I saved you a Google search.

If You Googled "Pasties," "Yooper," and "Microsoft Word," You're in the Right Place

2010-11-10T21:12:00.000-08:00

So. Ten days in and I'm doing OK, right? Yes, some of my posts are lame (my BFF pronounces that "lem," very Valley Girlesque, as in, "my mahm is sehh lem!" and that is now how I always hear that word in my head, assuming it's used to mean "pathetic" as opposed to "crippled." Wait, where was I?), but I'm here! Granted, I haven't read anyone else's blog in weeks, and I'm relying on my househusband to prepare dinner, the leftovers of which I then use for lunch, but hey, that's why I set the bar knee-high.

Elly, who I think reads me out of pity, has offered up another topic for tonight, and I'm grabbing it. I keep making notes to myself about things that I should blog about, but when someone says, "Write about pasties," well, I hear and obey.

So, I'm guessing that when Elly writes "pasties," she means something like these. Or these. Or, dear God, these. And, I gotta say, with the current MNP (mysterious nipple pain), I'm not thinking sequins, I'm thinking some sort of analgesic patch. With a tassle, if you like.

However, when I see the word "pasties," in my head, I don't read it as PAY-steez. I read it as PASS-tees, with a nice flat, broad A sound, and I hear it in a very particular northern Michigan voice.

Several years ago, I worked in a small adoption agency. After I'd worked there a little over a year, they hired a new front desk person, a girl I will call...Danika (because she was Dumb ANd KIndA mean...I realize the letters are screwy, but go with me, will you?). So, good ol' Dani was always talking about her husband, Bri, and how she (please put on a proper Yooper accent here) "made him a whole batch of pasties dis weekend." And, while I have nothing against meat turnovers per se, this particular phrase, in that particular grating voice, became the quote that my friend M and I would use as a shorthand for, "Oh good gravy, can you believe they hired this chick and that she makes more money than us?"

Now, lest you think I'm being too harsh, allow me to share some illustrative moments. First of all, this girl had no computer skills. She had to constantly ask M or me about how to do x. We'd show her, then she'd ask us again the next time. Then again. Eventually, one of us would just do it so that we could move on with life. Then the Big Bossman would compliment her on x, and she'd smile and say "thank you" with some "aw, shucks" false modesty. And then she'd take a long weekend.

Just seems like your average office oops? I got another one for you: Without going into too much detail, the fee structure of our agency for a traditional domestic adoption was that you paid for some services (application fee, etc.) at the beginning of the process, and then a whopping ($18,000) placement fee at the end. This is because the agency paid for all the advertising, screening, birth parent counseling, medical bills, etc. The adoptive parents paid a placement fee only after the adoption was finalized, so the agency took on the financial risk. Now, our primary demographic was upper class white people (everyone's favorite!), but we had non-white birthmoms, as well as white birthmoms with non-white babydaddies. Because our primary client demographic generally wanted babies who looked like them (white, in case I'm being too subtle), biracial or African-American babies were sometimes harder to place. For these babies, the agency offered a "scholarship" for the placement fee: a discount of about $10,000 for biracial babies, and the entire placement fee waived for African-American babies.

Now. This was the policy that was in place, and I had nothing to do with it. As someone who often answered the phone, however, I did have to explain it to prospective adoptive parents. I tried to present it as neutrally as possible, of course, as did my friend M, who also answered the phone quite a bit.

One day, M and I were both up in the front desk area, making copies and filing and whatnot, when Dani answered the phone. We listened to her fumble through the explanation of the process and fees, and then we heard her ~~say~~ Yoop, "Now. If you're willing to take a black baby, den you don't have to pay dat fee. Dat's if you could do dat. I don't tink I could, but you know..."

Yeah.

She also had some charming stories about "dese black guys" in her neighborhood. You get the idea. And yet, the Big Bossman loved her, probably because she was willing to suck up (or she actually felt like this receptionist job was her dream), whereas the rest of us were willing to do our jobs, but not to pretend that we were fulfilled by bureaucratic paper-pushing. She got long weekends, long lunches, and special field trips (she got to go to a filming of Oprah!).

So, given that, and the fact that we were young and stupid (although much, much less stupid) ourselves, I hope you won't think too ill of us when I tell you that one day, M came back to my cubicle, giggling and snorting and gleefully rubbing her hands together.

"I fucked up her buttons!"

"What?"

"I fucked up her buttons!!"

In the olden days, before Windows Vista, Microsoft Word had a customizable toolbar. This meant that you could assign icons to functions, like a pair of scissors for "Cut" and a clipboard for "Paste." Now, the icons were only one way to cut and paste. You could also use the right-click shortcuts or the drop-down boxes, or Ctrl+X. That is, if you knew anything about Word. But if you were really dependent on the little pictures AND a little dumb and racist, and someone...switched the icons, well, then you'd cut every time you tried you paste, and vice versa. And if you'd constantly taken credit for work you hadn't done, you wouldn't have anyone to turn to to ask for help. And if you'd let your boss think you were terribly proficient, you wouldn't be able to explain to him why you were having such trouble finishing that document.

Hee.

Oh, unclench. M only left it that way for a few minutes, then when Dani was at the copier, she went back and fixed it. Which, of course, only confused Dani more.

Luckily, she could go home and drown her sorrows in pasties.

Let's play Bad News, Good News!

2010-11-09T22:01:00.000-08:00

Bad News: Due mainly to financial reasons, we won't be going back to Chicago for Christmas this year, for the first time since moving out here.
Good News: We get to pick out a Christmas tree for our house for the first time since moving out here.

Bad News: I didn't manage to have lunch today. Again.
Good News: Lunch for tomorrow is already prepped!

Bad News: I still have this mysterious pain in my nipple. Plugged milk duct, thrush, and bacterial infections have been ruled out and no-one seems to know what to tell me.
Good News: There's no "s" after "nipple."

Bad News: Tankbaby has taken to seeking renegotiation about all manner of nighttime rules...between 2 and 5 AM.
Good News: Some day he'll be a teenager and he will mow my lawn.

Bad News: I didn't manage to have lunch today. Again.
Good News: Guilt-free second helping of bacon-squash risotto this evening
(Boy, that skipping-lunch thing just keeps giving!)

Bad News: You get a rather lame blog entry.
Good News: I get to go to bed early.

P.S. For Elly: You say typewriter, I think, "Noo, ne noo ne noo noo..."

Deep Breathing Time...or Shallow, Panicked Gasps, Whatever

2010-11-08T17:50:00.001-08:00

There is this noise. In my head.

I hear it when I'm driving, listening to NPR and thinking about the midterm elections.

I hear it when I look at my work calendar and the growing to-do list and the furlough days that are eating away at my time to-do.

I hear it at 4:30 in the morning when Tankbaby decides to stage a late-game renegotiation about nightweaning, Malcolm X-style.

I hear it when I look ahead in the week and can't figure out when I will blog/exercise/do laundry/write e-mails/be a good, non-preoccupied friend.

I hear it when I'm trying to calmly think about whether or not I want another kid.

I hear it when the bag of dog poop breaks, leaving a smudgy fecal trail down my pant leg.

I hear it when I try to sleep.

And that sound goes like this:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!

Maybe if I turn up the radio a little louder.

The Hole (No, It's Not Dirty)

2010-11-07T22:58:00.000-08:00

We've lived in this house two years now, and I haven't yet found The Hole.

In my mid-twenties, when I first started to learn about anxiety and recognize what was happening to me as panic attacks, we were living in a loft in Chicago. It was basically one large room, with the only door the one for the bathroom. The kitchen and the living room were divided only by a counter, and above a closet was a ladder that led to a small platform, which we called our sleeping shelf. We had a mattress on the floor up there, a small set of drawers, and enough room to sit up, but not to stand. I was going to therapy regularly then, reading about anxiety and taking Zoloft for the first time. I practiced breathing deeply and getting enough exercise. And I pretty much had the panic attacks under control, but I still struggled with a free-floating anxious antsiness that would have me walking aimlessly around the apartment sometimes.

One day, when I had wandered around for a bit, lost in my own repetitive brain cycles, and ended up stopped a few feet in front of the ladder, staring at the wooden steps. After a few minutes, MOTH came over and gently teased, "Are you stuck in a hole?" And I kinda was. I shook myself and moved on to whatever it was I'd been about to do, but over the next couple of weeks, I found myself back in that spot over and over again. I don't know why I'd get stuck there, but it was never intentional, it just seemed like a natural stop. It was oddly comforting, this weird space where I would just rest, physically, while trying to slow down my mental gymnastics. Later, we rearranged our furniture and found a second, slightly lesser Hole, between the TV and the bookshelf. Occasionally, MOTH would find himself stuck in The Hole as well, and we both agreed that there was just something about that spot (and neither of us are particularly woo-woo, voodoo people who talk about "energy" much, but there it was).

When we moved out here, we lived in a little white box of an apartment for the first year and a half. It didn't happen immediately, but MOTH and I both agreed that the Hole there was just to the right of the TV stand, almost in front of the bedroom door, facing the kitchen. I didn't get stuck there as much, probably because I was too busy being depressed about leaving my mom and the rest of my family behind, and instead of a fidgety anxiety, I was more overcome by a crushing lethargy that seemed to require endless reruns of Law & Order.

I love our little house. I fell in love with the windows that face the backyard, taking up one whole wall of the living room. The strange built-in cabinets by the fireplace, the falling-down carriage house, the park at the end of the block...all these were the things I obsessed about when we were trying to figure out if we were going to buy the house. And I've certainly had my share of anxiety here. But I haven't found The Hole here yet. Maybe it has to do with having multiple (OK, five) rooms, instead of that open space. Maybe there are smaller Holes, one in each room? Maybe not all dwellings have Holes. It's not like I need one, of course, but...is it weird that I miss having one? A place where I could stop, where I got stopped by something I couldn't explain, without feeling claustrophobic or pressured, but where I just...rested. I sort of want to figure out where it would be...just in case I need it.

Anyone else out there have any idea what I'm talking about?

Some Like it Not At All Hot, Not Even a Little Bit

2010-11-06T22:49:00.000-07:00

You know how you'll be driving in your car and see a neighbor and wave, but you'll only mouth "hi" because they can't hear you from behind the windows anyway? Well, I did that today to my neighbor and looked at me a little funny. Possibly because I was riding a bike at the time.

To be fair, I'm pretty sure I was suffering from head trauma at the time. I put Tankbaby in the trailer and rode to the optometrist for a quick glasses adjustment. Someone around here, and I won't say who, thought that maybe Mama's glasses were silly putty and twisted them so that they would sit on my face like a cartoon "after"picture when a safe is dropped on someone. While keeping Tankbaby from eating the jar of decorative potpourri resting on a window ledge, I stood up with great intent, right into the glass-topped podium nearby. Luckily, none of the $300 frames were damaged. The skin smack in the middle of my forehead was not so lucky. Good thing I had Tankbaby with me all day to poke me right in the third eye there and crow sadly, "ow," like a miniature E.T.

So! Elly, in her infinite wisdom, has given me "curry paste" to work with today. Not that I'm complaining, oh no, because when she gets bored of this game, I'm gonna have to come up with something to write all by my lonesome. What you should know, however, is that I am very cautious about anything involving the word "curry." My palate is quite infantile when it comes to anything even remotely spicy. I have to modify almost all of Kitchen Witch's recipes in order to not sweat just reading them.

In case you think I'm exaggerating, I offer this illustrative story: MOTH and I were out with some friends, having Thai food. The other four adults at the table ordered dishes to share, with varying levels of spiciness. When the server turned to me, I ordered my usual: Pad Se Eew with chicken, no spiciness whatsoever. The waitress raised a questioning eyebrow and repeated my order. My friend E leaned over and said, "She can't handle it. She needs, like, baby food." When the food arrived, the waitress passed out the dishes: "Chicken cashew, medium hot," "Mussaman curry, hot," and, when she placed my plate in front of me: "And...for the baby..."

So, I basically avoid any curry paste that I didn't assemble myself. I actually enjoy curry powder, tumeric, etc. It's just the chili aspect that sets me back (and here is where I lose 95% of the world, when you all shout, "But that's what MAKES it curry!"). I like Thai food and Indian food, but only familiar dishes at trusted restaurants. That being said, MOTH and I have been experimenting with Indian cuisine at home, removing all the heat for the basic prep, and then MOTH grabs his Sriracha later.

Now, I know that some of us have very...particular feelings about Rachel Ray, but if you can overlook the chirpiness, the strange second-face syndrome (seriously...has anyone but me noticed that she had surgery or something? She has a totally different face than she had five or six years ago), and--most egregious to me--the marketing of her own particular "EVOO," this is a quick, yummy recipe with a lot of flavor. And no heat. Unless you add it later, you sadist.

Curry Crunch Salad

1 cup plain Greek-style yogurt
juice of one lemon
2 tbsp curry powder (for this and the following three spices, I used what you might call "heaping" or "rounded" spoonfuls--see, I like spices!! Just not spicy.)
1 tbsp honey
1 tsp tumeric
1 tsp ground cardamom
ground cinnamon, for sprinkling
3 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil (I refuse to abbreviate this, just on principle)
salt & pepper
3 cups poached chicken or skinned rotisserie chicken
1 cup red or black seedless grapes, halved (or quartered, if you're sharing with a toddler)
4 scallions, thinly sliced on an angle
1/4 cup slivered almonds, toasted

Dig this: two steps!
1) Combine the first six ingredients in a bowl; sprinkle with cinnamon, whisk in olive oil, and season with salt and pepper.
2) Add the rest of the ingredients and toss to coat.

Easy peasy, right? Serve it with warm naan and you will, I promise, exclaim out loud.

(I feel a little bit like I'm cheating by responding to "curry paste" with a recipe, not to mention being a poor imitation of our Kitchy, but it's almost midnight, so I'm going to learn to live with disappointment.)

Ornithorhynchus Anatinus

2010-11-05T20:49:00.000-07:00

(First, remember my opening paragraph from last night? My sweet story about the kissy baby goodness? Yeah. Guess who has a runny nose and a bad case of the Pissies? So, I give myself about 48 hours before I also succumb to both.)

I so heart Elly. I mean, just generally on principle, as should you all. But especially because, rather than berate me for my absentia here and my even less frequent appearance on her blog, she continues to graciously provide me with writing prompts for NaBloPoMo. Platypus, she says! Tell us about the platypus! And I live to oblige...

OK, this is the first thing I thought of (make sure you watch to the song!). Does anyone else remember this movie? We watched it over and over again at our babysitter's house. Looking back, I'm flabbergasted at the weirdness of this movie. Also, I still find the Bunyip song creeeepy.

I actually have two contact entries in my phone labeled "Ben Platypus" and "Steve Platypus." And, as disappointing as this may be to hear, I'm not actually friends with a couple of Platypi Brothers. A couple of years ago, at Burning Man, we had the luck to camp across the street from these two wonderful guys from the Southwest. By the end of the week, we were all like old friends. They sat out dust storms in our dome, we enjoyed the rarer gentler breezes in their shade structure.

MOTH had built a solar oven for the trip that year. We'd used to to great effect on a recent camping trip; it actually worked so well that we over-cooked our pasta. MOTH had made a yummy cornbread for our 4th of July BBQ, and we had visions of yummy, fresh-baked food in the middle of the desert. Most of our experiments panned out. However, on an impulse, we'd also bought a tube of cookie dough (wow, just writing it like that makes me realize just how wrong that clearly is...dough in a tube. And yet, mmmmm....). We thought, how cool would it be if we could make fresh-baked cookies out on the playa. Imagine, if you will, a long week of dust and heat and freezing nights and constant techno and all your meals come from either the cooler or the camp stove...and then? Warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. (To be fair, to me, you could put anything in that first sentence and follow it with "warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies" and I'd be sold.) We set out the cookie dough blobs, set up the oven, and waited. And while we waited, we giddily hyped up our sweet snack to our new friends across the way.

We waited. And waited.

The dough got flatter, spread out, but failed to...solidify. After about 45 minutes, we gave up and gathered around the tinfoil contraption. A collective silent regarding, each of us looking at the dough, then at each other, wondering just how judgmental the other people might be. Finally, someone who might or might not have been me, said, "Screw it. I'm eating it." And we all dove in with dusty fingers, scraping the dough up and licking it off. Someone complimented us on our cookies, and someone else pointed out that these were not so much cookies as they were hot dough. Because I am my father's daughter, I said, "I used to play bass for Hot Dough." The group chuckled, and without missing a beat, Steve thoughtfully added, "I think I saw them play at that new hot club...Convection?" And it began: "I remember their comeback album, We Will Rise Again!" "Oh, yeah? I prefer their live album, Raw." "Is that the one with their hit single, 'Slow Rise'?" "You know what their fans are called, right? Doughboys." "I remember dancing to that great slow song, 'I Wish You Kneaded Me (Like I Knead You)'."

You know when you're laughing and laughing and you look around and you just have a moment of, these are my people? It's one of the best feelings in the world. Possibly my favorite.

So, when it came to the night of the burn, the night when the whole thing goes from a level seven party to a level twelve, the night where you stay up all night under the stars and you dance and you hold hands with everyone and you head back to camp at three, four, or five o'clock in the morning, knowing that you'll be up with the sun to pack up your entire camp...that night is always bittersweet, but I was more sad than not that night. The idea that these people lived so far away and that I wouldn't see them for at least a year...it depressed me. And, not unlike camp, every year at Burning Man you forge these crazy bonds with strangers, but other than the occasional e-mail in September, you don't actually keep that bond going throughout the year. And the next year, you get lost again in the swirling chaos of new people. And that thought made me sad. It's not everyone who appreciates the power of the pun.

Steve and Ben were going to the burn with other friends of theirs, and our camp was headed out together. I asked, rather forlornly, "But how will we find you out there?" to which Steve replied, "We'll have a code word! You shout it, we'll shout it back, and you can find us." Because I always like a good echo-location plan, I agreed. "But what will our code word be?"

That's right. "Platypus."

So, we all dressed up. We watched a whole lotta stuff burn. And we wandered around, calling plaintively, "Platypus?" But really? Fifty-thousand people, most of them stoned out of their gourds, and seven voices calling out the name of a semi-aquatic mammal? It was bound to fail. I don't know why we kept calling.

And then...

"Platypus!"

Seriously? "Platypus?"

"Platypus!"

I think it came from over there! "Platypus?!"

"Platypus!!!"

(See, and you didn't think I was going to get there, did you?)

In Which I Mention Nipples and Packing Tape, But Not In The Way You'd Think

2010-11-04T21:41:00.000-07:00

I just finished putting the baby down and have to note that I'm just nuts about that kid. We're still nursing, but I have some Mysterious Boob Malady on my left side (former breastfeeding moms out there: the hell? I've had a couple milk blisters that have healed, but I still have sharp, throbbing pain during nursing and afterward. I was thinking plugged duct, but no swelling, no tenderness, just shooting pains. The doctor ruled out thrush and infection. Help!), so I switched him back to the right after a while. We've talked about the "owie" on Mama's milkmaker, so Tankbaby will sign and say "ow" and then pat me gently, and then kiss me somewhere between nipple and clavicle. But tonight, he just kept kissing: my neck, then my chin, then he would put one hand on my cheek and lay one on me. Smiles, starting peaceful and becoming coy, and more kisses, damp smacks that bear at least a passing resemblance to human kisses, instead of those open-mouthed, drooly stamps of a few months ago. In the dark, his intent face looming before me, a hand pulling me closer, smooch, smile. Repeat approximately 14 times. I know I could have put a stop to it and insisted he lie back down for bed, but I couldn't refuse. He's changing so fast now (almost like he's getting older every day), and I know that in a very short time, I'll look back and remember wistfully the days when I was allowed to smother him with kisses and vice versa.

I don't care if he does eventually kill MOTH, drive me to suicide, and blind himself: it's really freaking cute right now.

(An aside: I just did a brief Wikipedia search in preparation for making that Oedipus reference and remembered just how twisted that whole story is. If it's been a while since you've read your Sophocles, go check it out. And remember, we read that shit in high school.)

***

Elly has set forth a challenge for me: write about packing tape. You ask, I give.

This one time? I had a boyfriend who preferred video games with the boys to spending time with his girlfriend. One night, after he'd forgotten he'd promised to come over, I went over to his dorm room. I could hear the Mortal Kombat music through the door. With the help of a good and immature friend, I carefully stretched clear packing tape across the door jamb, until the entire frame was covered entirely with a thin film of sticky tape. When he opened the door, full of Mountain Dew and in dire need of a bathroom, he stumbled straight into it.

And I left him there for days until he died, and then I ate him.

OK. So I don't have a really good packing tape story (although the crummy boyfriend part of the story is, sadly, true). But I did find this. And this. And this (do check out the uber-creepy tutorial on that one). Partial credit?

SNAPPO!!

2010-11-03T21:44:00.000-07:00

First of all, Elly, if you think I don't have a good plaster cast story, you don't know me very well. Shall I tell you the story about how, the summer before 7th grade, I fell off my pink Huffy dirt bike and broke not one, but two arms? For those of you keeping track, that means I broke all of my arms at once.

Actually, I couldn't even do that right. I ended up needing to have surgery in order to "complete the occlusion" on my right arm. Even as a precocious pre-teen, I didn't know what that meant, so imagine my disbelief to learn that I was going under anesthesia so that they could FINISH BREAKING MY ARM. (Recently, I asked a doctor friend what kind of fancy procedure that would entail, and was a little horrified--but not that surprised--to hear that they basically just take your arm over someone's knee and...just...snap it.) Apparently, had it been allowed to heal the way it was, it would have been all twisty and gnarly. So scared was I of this surgery, I remember trying to convince my dad that I didn't care if my right arm was all S-shaped. I would just wear a lot of long sleeves. Luckily, my pitiful reasoning went unheeded and...snappo!

So, there I went, into the fall of 7th grade, with two plaster casts, one over the elbow. I had to buy shirts in the maternity section so that they would stretch enough to get my unbending arm through the sleeves. Good thing junior high is so forgiving of differences, huh? They cut a long slit in one of the casts to allow for swelling, and my dad labeled it "San Andreas Fault," which I totally didn't get. Remember when casts were plaster and you could draw on them? Or, you know, you could if your OTHER ARM wasn't also in a cast.

So, there you are, friends. Go ahead, gimme another one.

***

Not that I didn't appreciate this tumble down Embarrassing Memory Lane, but originally I'd planned on writing about (what else) the elections. Nothing remarkable, and nothing that probably hasn't been said better (and sooner) elsewhere, but...Jee-zus. A friend posted on Facebook, "Listened to future house speaker talk about how he can't wait to repeal the healthcare reform law and felt physically ill." I listened to NPR's coverage on the way in to work and can certainly attest to a visceral sense of unwellness that I don't know I've ever felt about politics before (I shamefacedly point out that, until the last six years or so, I basically avoided knowing anything about politics, which, while immature and tragic, was also waaaay easier). As someone who works for a publicly-funded agency, I'm so scared and outraged by all this "smaller government" crap. They keep cutting our services, when for many families, we are the only help for their kids with special needs. Where was all this brouhaha about cutting spending when were funding unjust war? Argh.

Another friend wrote, "Goodbye, middle class. It was nice knowing you." Indeed.

Huh. This is ending on kind of a downer. Go read the lovely story about gross bodily injury again.

Not Even A Little Bit About Vaseline

2010-11-02T21:44:00.000-07:00

So, I'm not sure what it was last night, but I'd set this goal of starting a daily writing thing in November, and yet the very act of doing so just froze me right up. I kept thinking, what the hell could I write that anyone would want to read? Bless his heart, MOTH tried to help. He would suggest, "How about writing about hanging out with your pregnant friend?" and I would type, I saw my friend. She is pregnant.

"What about the play?" he offered. I typed, I saw a play. Eh.

"What about taking your son trick-or-treating for the first time?" I took Tankbaby trick-or-treating for the first time. It was really cute, but you don't care because you're not his mom, and I can't get the damn video oriented correctly to prove how cute and funny it was and why am I even writing this blah blah blah.

Good times, eh? I expressed my frustration to MOTH about being unable to write something funny and interesting. He tried to reassure me that I shouldn't put pressure on myself. He said, "Even if one out of five is any good--and with you it's more likely to be, oh, say, one out of three--that's something." (Pop Marriage Quiz: Where does that statement go horribly, if well-intentionedally, awry? Wives, you're not allowed to help your husbands.)

I'm very much afraid I growled unattractively.

But! It's a new ~~day~~ final two hours of the evening, and as a peace offering, I'm going to take up MOTH's helpful writing prompts and tell you about My Halloween.

I did, in fact, go see a play. And it did, in fact, leave me rather...eh. I went in with unfairly high expectations, because MOTH (who did the props and is a member of the company that produced the play) kept raving about it and how it moved him to tears each time. I will admit to a mild prickling about the ocular region at one point, but I wasn't swept up into it. In the first act, we meet a young couple who are just meeting each other for the first time and are instantly drawn to each other, although they're both dating other people. We are also introduced to an older couple who have a very active sex life and no compunction about passing on wisdom about life and love to young strangers. In the second act, we learn that this older couple is planning a suicide pact. The man has cancer and the wife has agreed to give him an overdose. She later reveals to him that she's planning on going with him, as she doesn't want to live without him.

There are some lovely moments throughout the play, as well as some wonderful lines (one of my favorites is when the young girl asks the old woman about the idea of knowing whether or not love will last, and the woman replies, "No one stands on the side of the dance floor and thinks, "He'll look good in dentures!"). But I didn't find myself lost in the stories of these couples, for a couple of reasons. First, I found the young woman rather...unlikable. I don't know if it was the actress or the way the part was written, but I had a hard time seeing what, outside of the physical attributes, the young man saw in her. Secondly, I had figured out the suicide pact angle early on (they drop increasingly obvious hints before revealing what's going on), so the long buildup to the (quite lovely) end dragged a bit. And finally, and probably mostly? I am ruined for cancer/parental loss storylines. I can sniff 'em out a mile away and I am unable to see them as isolated fiction. I detach from the story and become immersed in my own thoughts.

So, there you go: eh.

Considerably less "eh"? My pregnant friend! This is the same friend with whom I spent a night in the ER and received a call that she thought she was miscarrying. She's due in late March. And I just want to thank all of you for your good vibes/prayers/animal sacrifices back in the summer when I mentioned this, because clearly y'all are Very Powerful.

And trick-or-treating with Tankbaby (who, at nearly 20 months, will soon be in the market for a new moniker, one without the word "baby"--taking suggestions below) was pretty damn idyllic. He was dressed as...a mammal of some sort. What? I don't know. We had something figured out for a costume (the little suit that he wore to Aunt Benevola's wedding, plus a violin case and a fedora, possibly with a small mustache penciled in), but MOTH's mom had found this brown furry suit with ears and a head and paws and...we think it was a bear, but we also heard monkey, mole (side note: really? You think we dressed our kid up as a mole?), or beaver. Although the orientation is all wrong, I'm putting up this video I took of Tanky playing downtown. Just tilt either your head or your computer monitor. He falls down and begins to crawl, which actually works for the costume.

However, you can see where, when the kid's just wearing it, it has a little less...definition, shall we say. And a lot more...goiter.

But once you add a collapsible pumpkin bucket and a shuffling waddle through the fall leaves, it's a little ridiculous how cute he was.

Tank was quite uncertain about the whole thing for the first few houses, but once he got the hang of it, he became very enthusiastic. He'd start up a driveway, calling, "Teee? Teee?" and I'd explain that the "Trick or Treat" was really for once the door was opened, or at least when you were standing at the door. He knocked with ferocity, but then learned to take a few steps back to allow for door opening. On occasion, he would grab the hand of the treat-hander-outter, like, "You gotta get out here and try this. Do you know about this "treat" business? Also, look! A leaf!" I felt a little bad about the fact that he was never going to get to eat any of the candy he was collecting, but figured he didn't know what he was missing, and was mostly interested in the shiny wrappers and the whole meet and greet aspect of the evening. My favorite was the woman who exclaimed over his cuteness, and then looked at me and asked, "What kind of candy does Mama like?" before choosing something to drop in his bucket. I asked for a Reese's cup and appreciated her forthrightness. Because, really. Taking a toddler trick-or-treating? Is just a way to pimp out your kid for sugar.

Anyway, strange mammalian costume and baby-whoring aside, it was a lovely evening. The weather was perfect, crisp but not chilly. My kid was having a great time (although I did keep thinking about how disappointing our next neighborhood walk would be, what with significantly less candy and far fewer doorbell-ringing), and I had one of those moments where I was just struck that, wow, I'm a mom. What an iconic image, the adult crouched behind the costumed child, prompting the line, cuing the thank-you, and then, tiny paw in grown-up hand, trundling off down the street.

NaBlowMe

2010-11-01T22:07:00.000-07:00

What, in this blog's recent sad history, makes me think I can post something every day this month?

But...the quilt is done. The kid goes to bed at a reasonable(ish) hour now (unlike last year at this time, when I wrote 90% of my blog entries while the baby was sleeping on the boob). I have no travel plans to make nor keep. And I miss this. I miss y'all. I'm missing out on brilliant words from smart, funny women. I'm tired of feeling like I need to start every blog post with an apology/excuse/explanation for why I haven't written more.

Now if I only had one Goddamned thing to say.

Seriously. I just spent twenty minutes staring at, variously, the screen, the fishtank, my socks, my shoes, Tankbaby's shoes, the screen again, and typing a tentative five letters before swearing, deleting and staring at my shoes again. I am just absolutely, totally uninspired to write ANYTHING right now, despite the inauspicious timing for writer's block.

So far, this whole NaBloPoMo is going swimmingly, wouldn't you say?

The Something for the Someone

2010-10-20T21:18:00.000-07:00

I'm back! From the wedding! And the project that took me so many nights and naptimes that I'd disappeared entirely from the Interwebz. Have you been losing sleep over what it was? Have you been pacing the floor, wondering, what could be so important that she, previously so dedicated and consistent and prolific, could suddenly just disappear for months? And then you stop, angry, pounding your fist into your hand, crying, NOTHING COULD BE SO IMPORTANT!!

Well, I've got three words for you: Dead Mom's Quilt.*

See? See how I immediately play the Dead Mom card, thus neutralizing any impatience you might have felt? Hey, the gig is crummy, I gotta take the perks where I can get 'em.

Anyway, what I was spending literally every free moment on for the last several weeks (and many other moments on prior to August) was a quilt for my sister as a wedding/housewarming present. But not just any quilt, you see...several years ago my mom had decided she would make a quilt. My mom was an experienced seamstress, but hadn't quilted before. But, being who she was, this neither intimidated nor bothered her. My mom had a way of doing things, and that way was always, to quote Jamie Buchman, whole-assed. So, while you or I might say, "Gee, I've never made a quilt. I guess I should start with something simple," Mom would say, "Well, if you're going to make a quilt, MAKE a QUILT."

A Very Short Primer on Quilts That Will Provide a Frame of Reference: Quilts are basically blocks of fabric, sewn together. The simplest way to do this is to have x number of squares sewn in rows. More complicated is to sew together other shapes to make up larger blocks that then get sewn together. Then you get into the patterns and such. If you want to be very complicated, you take zillions of teeny tiny squares of fabric and arrange them by color, making an Impressionist, watercolor mosaic effect. Guess which way Mom went? Right. So I inherited two box lids of teeny tiny squares of floral fabric, sorted out into color families, arranged in tidy piles. Along with these were two books about watercolor quilts, and a pad of graph paper. So I thought to myself, I will finish my dead mother's quilt! I will continue her legacy!

Then I realized that Mom's true legacy was this: Mom liked to start projects. She always began them with gusto (and a full set of expensive supplies), but then she got busy. Or got distracted. Or, got cancer. So what I found was no pages marked in the books, nothing but a packing list on the graph paper, and no real clue as to what her quilty dream might have been. So, a lovely friend who knows quilts helped me pick out a pattern, and instead of Finishing My Dead Mother's Quilt, I settled for Making a Quilt Out of Fabric Chosen, Cut, and Arranged And Then Put In the Basement By My Dead Mother.

So (and yes, I realize it's daring, nay, outrageous to assume that, having not posted in weeks, I'm assuming that what you'd really like to read about is a sewing project that has already taken place), I sewed and sewed and sewed, and ironed and cut and ripped seams and counted and sewed some more. During naptimes on weekends, and each evening after Tankbaby went to bed, I would set up my ironing board, put the sewing machine on top of the dishwasher, pull out scissors, pins, and rulers, and work. I watched (well, listened to) countless episodes of The Daily Show, Louie, and Lie to Me, courtesy of Hulu.com. MOTH would go off to bed, pleading exhaustion, and I would whimper with envy. Sixty, ninety minutes at a time, before I'd pack everything up again (have I mentioned that my sewing studio is also my kitchen?) and trudge off to bed, hoping that tonight would not be one of the nights that Tankbaby decided to check in at 3 AM just to see if I was serious about that whole no-milk-between-10-and-6 thing.

Somewhere in here I also worked a whole bunch, started teaching another course of my parenting class, got eight inches of hair cut off (which all of five people noticed, as I started with approximately twelve feet of hair), bought a dress for the wedding, bought a bra for the dress that didn't actually work with the dress, and begged with Tankbaby to please, please, please learn to say "mama." (He's got a few words, like "dada" and "zebra," all the important ones.)

But I did it. Two days before we left, I finished the binding (the part that goes around the outside of the whole quilt and has to be hand-sewed), packed it into the top of my carry-on suitcase, and had a whole extra day free to really freak out about flying alone with a toddler.

I gave it to my sister the night before the wedding. She's going to put it in the front room of her new house, draped over the wooden rocking chair that we grew up with. I think she was appropriately moved, and I made her promise to use it and wear it out. I have fantasies of Tankbaby--as a Tankkiddo--coming to visit and curling up under the quilt and finding the three cat faces among all the flowers (WTF, Mom?) and running his fingers over the seams and knowing that Mama made this quilt for Aunt Benevola.

The cool part is that, the day before the wedding, my aunt came up for breakfast. I showed her the quilt and she told me that she thought my mom had also pulled fabric from my grandmother's stash to incorporate into the quilt. So you got your dead mom, you got your sister's wedding, and now you got the whole three-generations thing. Not too shabby, eh?

So, assuming you're still reading this and even politely feigning interest, here's the finished product. I'm really really pleased with how it turned out, although during one particularly long evening of seam-ripping, I will admit to shouting, "Screw it! We're getting her a fondue pot!"

*If you just muttered to yourself, "I used to play bass for Dead Mom's Quilt," then we are BFF. Or possibly, you're my dad. Hi, Dad!

Assuming a Picture is Worth A Thousand Words, This Should Make Up for a Few Posts

2010-10-03T22:02:00.001-07:00

So I'm only about twelve behind.

Once again, the kids at the school where we have a classroom are making those PSA posters. The current movement is about recycling batteries. Or...

A List is TOTALLY as Good as a Real Post

2010-09-16T22:17:00.000-07:00

Things I've Been Doing That Have Distracted Me From Blogging (and, Occasionally, Showering):

Working on...Something. That I can't tell you about yet, because it's for Someone. Someone who reads this blog. I've already said too much.
Trying to find the time to participate in this puppety-performance art thing (oh, yes, you read that right) so that I can be Doing Something Creative for the first time in two years.
Taking my first stab at making Indian food (thanks, Kitchen Witch!)
Making mad lists of things that must be done before I travel to Chicago in October for my sister's wedding. Yep, Aunt Benevola's getting hitched, and I am flying with Tankbaby by myself (MOTH to join us later). Eep. So far I have: bought a dress and airline tickets. I have not yet: begun to hoard prescription pain meds to survive the flight. (Not for me, you understand, I would generously share with those around us.)
Obsessively, raptly, constantly listening to this song, and really, this whole album. What's not like to love about British bluegrass? Gorgeous harmonies, foot-stomping bass lines, and cute boys in suspenders. Am swooning.
Trying to process the swarm of thoughts and feelings I had when MOTH took me on my birthday date: going to see Rufus Wainwright in concert with the symphony. The first half of the concert was selections from his opera (His opera. That he wrote. In French, no less.), which is not my genre, despite the fact that more than one voice teacher has tried to steer me that way (I am a lyric soprano who wants to be a gutsy alto). But the second half, when he sang and the strings and the horns swelled in the background...ah. It made me want to stand up and sing along--frowned upon at the symphony, sadly. But it all made me think about music and how it's missing from my life these days and how most people in my life now don't even know that I sing. I was taking voice lessons for a while, but stopped when it got prohibitively expensive. I don't miss the lessons, per se, but I miss singing being a priority in my life. But even as all of these thoughts were bubbling up, I was also swept away by the gorgeousness of Wainwright's voice, along with developing a big ol crush on his sweet, flamboyant, self-effacing self (see also, this song, which is what he opened with, and I have been singing it for a week now). And then he sang songs for his mom, who passed away earlier this year, and I cried. And then he sang "Hallelujah." And I cried. Altogether, a really lovely, if emotionally overwhelming, evening. All hail MOTH, Best Birthday Gift Giver!
Making gallons of homemade chicken noodle soup, the process of which nearly drives me to veganism every time.
Consuming my weight in chocolate brownie frozen yogurt.
Wondering why I don't need a belt suddenly.
Getting really worked up over things like midterm elections and insurance deductibles, and realizing that I am officially a Grown-Up, and kind of a boring one at that.
Obsessing over whether 35 is too old to put a purple streak in my hair.
Getting really excited about my friend's pregnancy--the one that we thought might have been ending at the ER one night, and then the next day, but that your collective good voodoo saved and is now almost twelve weeks along! I'm also hoping to help her plan her shotgun wedding (the official theme), and just generally revel in the fact that sometimes Good Things happen.

And, perhaps most importantly:

Teaching Tankbaby to make claw hands to request Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance"

But enough about me. What have you been up to?

Not So MILF

2010-09-04T21:23:00.000-07:00

On Monday (Labor Day), I will turn 35 years old.

Mostly, I'm fine with this. I have all the same insecurities about aging as anyone, but I also really like cake, presents, and attention, so I'm not one of those birthday haters. I don't get those people. It's not like denying your birthday actually slows down the aging process, so why not just run with it and have fun? My friend E is a proponent of the "birthday train," which is what you're riding the entire week surrounding your birthday. She's been known to wear a tiara at work while on the birthday train, and when her husband turned 40, she got him 40 (mostly small) presents. Her kids get cake for breakfast on their birthdays (with a side of scrambled eggs, for protein). I am totally in favor of all such things.

For me, age isn't a number, it's a small person in diapers. I don't feel old because I'm turning 35, I feel old because I'm someone's freaking mom. Well, "old" isn't the right word, because I don't actually feel old. I actually feel like I'm about twelve, and someone soon is going to realize that and take away Grown Up Stuff like my car and my water heater. But since having a baby, I'm definitely feeling pretty asexual. I just see my body these days as something different, utilitarian. Not in an all-bad way; I'm damn proud of what my body did during pregnancy and labor, and what it continues to do to nurture and feed my child. I think it's kinda awesome. And I'm not abandoning hope: I still shave my legs (um, sometimes) and wear makeup (ditto), and generally attempt to have my socks match each other, but I don't find myself primping the way I used to (and used to kind of enjoy, in a girly way).

Obviously, time and opportunity play large roles in this. Who can apply mascara while also standing with one leg blocking the vanity drawers, the other foot planted on the toilet, singing another round of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" while attempting to buy enough time to put in both contact lenses? Why bother with lipgloss for the impromptu trip to the zoo? Am I trying to impress the manatees? I work with kids and get messy, so my day to day wardrobe of Goodwill t-shirts and jeans is perfectly sensible. The difference is that, before Tankbaby, I would Go Out sometimes, and Going Out usually meant impractical shoes, sexxxy hair, putting my face on, the whole bit.

On the rare occasions that I Go Out these days, I do enjoy getting all tarted up. But it's different. There used to be this shallow ulterior motive of looking pretty so maybe someone else will think I'm pretty. Why? I dunno. I've been married to MOTH for eight years, dating for six before that. It's not like I was out there picking up guys. But I like to flirt. And I like those little zings of recognition when you catch someone attractive finding you attractive. Cheap thrills, to be sure, but enjoyable nonetheless. And while I physically look pretty much the same post-baby, I am different. I can dress up, put on the makeup, get all fancy, but I don't feel like I'm sexy right now. Sexy implies mystery and sparkle and edginess, and I'm blunt(ed) and tired and useful and focused on cutting to the chase, because the kid just went down for a nap and there's all this laundry to do...and if you don't feel sexy, you don't exude that energy, and...fizzle.

This is sounding more negative than I mean. I'm not feeling badly about myself, it's more like I'm having trouble seeing myself as belonging in more than one category. For the last two years, my body has been all about function, about serving another human, and it's hard to shift to see it also as a source of pleasure for myself. It's as if someone told you your perfectly lovely, sturdy dining room table also wants to know how your day went and give you a backrub.

I feel like I should probably do something about this. I know that when I stop breastfeeding, those wacky girl hormones will shift again and help reprogram my brain. I'm sure I could find no fewer than twelve magazine articles detailing how to Get My Groove On! or Refresh Myself!, possibly with a 20-Minute Makeover! But in the meantime, I'm just chugging along, really meaning to schedule that haircut before my sister's wedding, but mostly wondering if Tankers will still be nursing in October and should I get a dress that allows access to what Stewie Griffin calls the sweater cows?

Huh. This was not what I started out writing about, but there you go. And now it's late and I'm off to bed to--get this--possibly sleep uninterrupted (thank you, Dr. Jay, for your gentle nightweaning plan, that has led to four separate occasions of Tankbaby sleeping for 8+ hours in a row! I am out of ways to font-ly emphasize that tidbit, but don't let that fool you into underestimating the Goddamn miracle of which I speak). (Huh...is "Goddamn miracle" an oxymoron?) (Hee...I just typed "oxymormon" by mistake, and I just know there's a punch line to be had, but I can't find it.)

Same Old, Same Old

2010-08-24T21:57:00.000-07:00

Scene: A sunny yard. A clothesline is stretched across the yard, a basket of damp laundry rests in the grass. A stunning woman, with a perfect pedicure and hair that has absolutely been trimmed some time since last October, stands in a spotless sundress (as opposed to, say, a sweaty tank top with cheese on the hem). Also present: one toddler clad in a short-sleeved plaid button-down shirt and an overlarge bucket hat that eliminates all but approximately 78 degrees of vision, and one large, long-suffering German Shepard (not wearing a hat).

TODDLER: Da ya da. Da! ("Hm. This sand is fascinating. I could look at it all day, just watching the individual grains stick to my--hey! A dog! That dog I like! Is right there! I wonder if that dog wants some sand on her! I will go find out! At great speed!")

MOTHER: Tankbaby, stop. No sand on the dog, please.

TODDLER looks at MOM, making eye contact and nodding, while walking steadily toward the dog with a shovel full of sand, which he then dumps on the dog.

DOG: Um, a little help here?

MOTHER: Well, go lie somewhere else, then, dummy.

TODDLER: Eee-ee! ("Yaaaay! Sand! That fell out! Onto the dog! And got mama over here! Let's go do that agaaaaain!")

TODDLER walks purposefully back to sand table, chuckling gleefully while waving shovel wildly, occasionally whacking self in head, eye, or ear. After several attempts, manages to get twelve grains of sand in the shovel. Looks at MOTHER.

TODDLER: Ba! ("Chekkit, bitch! Got me some mothereffing sand!")

MOTHER: I see. You've got some sand. In the table, please.

TODDLER takes a few slow steps toward the dog.

MOTHER: Tankbaby...

TODDLER begins to run, inasmuch as he can, which is to say a very fast tipsy waddle, while shrieking, toward DOG.

DOG: Huh. Here comes that kid again. I sure don't want sand on me. I wonder if there's anything I can do to affect the outcome of this situation. On the other hand, I'm here now. And, you know, it's sunny. I like sun. Hey, do you smell something? I think I smell---

TODDLER dumps sand on DOG. DOG does not move.

DOG: --some other dog on the next block. Huh. Where did this sand come from?

TODDLER: Ba! ("Hey! I can raise my arm! The arm holding the shovel! And then can bring it down rapidly! On the dog!")

MOTHER (warningly): TANKBABY. No hit. Be soft with the dog.

TODDLER whacks DOG with shovel. DOG looks baleful, but does not move. TODDLER repeats whacking. MOTHER, who has approached unseen, grabs the shovel on the upswing, accidentally knocking the enthusiastic TODDLER off-balance. With renewed purpose and vigor, TODDLER lunges for the DOG, who finally decides to lie in one of the other twelveteen sunny spots in the yard. TODDLER drunkenly follows. MOTHER, who has so far hung one towel on the line, sighs. DOG lies down. TODDLER lunges. DOG gets up and walks elsewhere in the yard. TODDLER, after recovering balance from lunging headfirst at an empty spot, staggers after.

TODDLER: Ba! Ba! ("WHEEEE! HI DOGGY! HOLD STILL, DOGGY! CAN I RIDE YOU, DOGGY? CAN I HIT YOU WITH THE SHOVEL SOME MORE? WHEEEE! I HAVE FEET!! WHERE'S MY HAT! DOGGY!! HAT!! FEET!! WHEEEEEEEE!")

TODDLER wipes out, tripping over a tree root or his own feet or possibly a spiderweb, or a deep thought. Wails. MOTHER goes over, brushes him off, administers kisses and wise advice about not chasing the dog. TODDLER immediately resumes chasing the dog.)

End scene.

Showtimes: 10:15, 10:27, 10:39, 10:51, 11:01, 11:12, 11:23, 11:31, 11:40, and 11:58.

Indy (not Indie) Girls

2010-08-19T22:04:00.001-07:00

Back in college, I had a dear friend named Mandy. She was quietly odd, which is one of the things I loved most about her. We lived on the same floor in the dorm, a floor full of other quietly odd girls (I went to school in Indiana. Quiet oddness was tolerated much more so than exuberant weirdness). One day, Mandy told me a strange story. She came home one night; her roommate, Carolyn, was already in bed. Mandy climbed into her lofted bed and burrowed in. But...huh. There was a strange lump. Soft, not painful, but not comfortable, either. Mandy reached down in the dark, thinking maybe a balled-up pair of shorts or something had gotten tangled up in the sheets. She pulled out a balled-up pair of socks, shrugged, and threw them to the floor. Turning over, she felt another lump. Another pair of socks. And another. "What the...?" She dug out and threw down several more pairs...about a dozen all told. In the dark, Mandy heard the not-so-asleep Carolyn start to giggle. Mandy snapped the light on. "What the hell is with the socks?!" Carolyn progressed from giggles to guffaws.

Turns out, another floor-mate, Jessica, had stopped by earlier, looking for Mandy. While chatting with Carolyn, Jessica--for reasons known only to her--casually rifled through Mandy's sock drawer, pulling out rolled-up pairs of socks and stuffing them throughout Mandy's bed. (It's worth noting at this point that this is the same Jessica who used to leave yellow chick Peeps floating cheerfully in the toilets on Easter to greet the cleaning ladies. Indy girls are weird, yo.)

Mandy told me this story the next day and we both laughed. Wacky story, but the best part is that, about a week later, it happened again! Jessica stopped by, Carolyn let her in and maintained a straight face when Mandy came home, and Mandy found half her sock drawer planted in her bed. Again.

(Along these same lines, when I was an RA in a different dorm, one day a girl came home and carefully turned each and every wall hanging, postcard, print, and post-it in the room 180 degrees--but in the exact spot on the wall--and then just sat quietly, waiting to see when her roommate would notice.)

Fast forward a few weeks, to a dinner with Mandy where I was trying to explain this fretful, anxious feeling I'd been having. "It's not any one big thing," I said, "it's just, like, a bunch of little stuff but it's all piling up and I can't get to a comfortable, relaxed place because there's just all of these little niggly things poking at me..." She interrupted, "Falling! You have socks in your Bed of Life!"

So now, whenever I have that feeling--that overwhelming sense of urgency coupled with despair, where you can't stop thinking about all the little things that are swarming around you like so many gnats, forming a black cloud that itself inhibits you from taking any productive action--I make a list. And at the top of that list I write "Socks in My Bed of Life." And usually I can fill up a good page or more of things as trivial as "schedule hair appointment" and as large as (ahem) "get your effing blogging shit together." And often, just seeing these things written out (I'll cop to ~~occasionally~~ often writing a few things that I've already accomplished just so that I can cross them off) helps me feel a little more in control and less drown-y.

It's time to make a list.

What do you do when you've got Socks in your Bed?

Extraordinary Intergalactical Upsets

2010-08-09T21:21:00.000-07:00

OK, first? I am embarrassed to admit the number of times I read through your comments on the last post and how many of those times I got a little weepy. Thank you for responding with empathy and empowerment (and more than one crotch-kick to The Man), rather than scorn for my wimpiness.

As a weird/sad corollary, there was an article in the paper yesterday that a local teachers' union is, in the face of impeding layoffs, fighting for insurance coverage...of Viagra. Now, I'm all for equal coverage--meaning that if you cover my birth control (and only if), you can also cover whatever male enhancement drugs you like--but, people! Jobs versus penile uppers? Focus!!

And now, because I have been so navel-gazey and somber and adult over, I give you Things That Have Made Me Laugh Out Loud in the Past Week:

Thing #1: Hanging out with some friends yesterday, their five-year-old opened a conversation with, "Hey! You know what's cool about me?" It was rhetorical, and he went on to tell me about how he could count to five in Spanish or had vestigial wings or something, but I completely lost what he was saying, so tickled was I with that opening gambit. I exhort you to go forth and try it yourself: at the bar, at the PTA meeting, with your partner. Lemme know how it goes.

Thing #2: As part of a show several years ago, I made a large, Muppety monster puppet, which I named Smudge. I found him in the basement last week and took him in to school for the kids to see at circle time. One little girl, E, was quite enamored of him, but couldn't quite get his name right. When I went to put him away, she protested, "But I love Smut!" (Aaaand, hello pervert Googlers!)

Thing #3: As is contractually obligated when you have a baby, we have several of those hooded baby towels. After a bath, I wrap Tankbaby in a towel before he lunges his slippery wet body at me. He likes to hang on to the corners and help wrap the towel...and he also loves to fling the towel open, catching a nice breeze on his...um, block and tackle. Being mature, I like to yell, "Flash!" when he does this. And on Thursday, I followed with "Ah-ahhh! He'll save every one of us!" So now, while Tank waddles around, his towel hood up over his head while the rest flows majestically behind him, looking from behind like a miniature sheik meets E.T., you can shout, "FLASH!" and he will crow, "Ah-ahhh!" And show you his junk.

That's my boy, savior of the universe.

I Used to Play Bass for The Vitriolic Loons...

2010-08-01T21:27:00.000-07:00

First, the good news: my friend may not have miscarried. We spent a night in the ER together (after I caught her Googling "ectopic pregnancy" on her smart phone at karaoke and informed her that we were going to the hospital, even though I hadn't yet had a chance to wail my signature Olivia Newton-John song). They ruled out an ectopic, but diagnosed her with a "threatened miscarriage" (isn't that reassuring-sounding? even more so in print on a discharge summary...), so on Monday night when she had more bleeding and cramping, we figured this was It. But it may not be. There is still hope, as her pregnancy hormones in her blood are still rising and--well, let's just say those are some pretty darn powerful prayers, good vibes, and other voodoo that y'all have got there. Now, if you could just harness that same energy and take care of that pesky oil "spill," that'd be great. Kthxbai.

(Sigh. Fucking oil. That's another post, though, and one which SubWOW has already written far more eloquently than I would have.)

(Oh, yes, that's right, friends...I am getting caught up on all the blog-reading on which I've fallen behind. I read all your old entries on my tiny phone screen, while I'm lying in bed nursing Tankbaby, so as to distract me from the bursitis I'm giving myself. I haven't gotten ahead of the game yet--and it's a very tiny screen--so you won't see comments, but I'm out here, reading. You know that creepy, hairs-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck feeling of being watched silently by one not participating in the conversation? That's me! Hi there!)

Thanks for the kind words on my last entry. I struggled with the writing of it for some time, because I was trying to communicate a foundational shift, not just write a depressing monologue. I feel like you guys totally got it (which may say more about your perceptiveness than my writing ability, but let's go with it, mkay?).

And I needed those kind words this week, because other folks out there on the Interwebz (tm Elly, I believe) have not been so kind to me. Let me 'splain.

Two weeks ago, a letter to the editor in our local paper complained about an article mentioning how much money the teachers' union had spent fighting a couple of ballot measures. The writer said, basically, that the union money should have been spent on schools instead, and added a catty comment at the end. It got my goat, as every year for the past three years, I go to work hearing about more cuts coming, the possibility of layoffs, the constant requests to do more with less. And every year, the union backs us up. We have consistently voted to take unpaid furlough days, to give up our cost of living increases, etc., so that staff doesn't get laid off. So, with my britches firmly twisted, I wrote the following:

"...As a teacher and member of the union, I would like to point out that the money spent on the ballot measures was not money that would otherwise have gone into the schools. That money came not from the state or the taxpayers at large, but from union members' dues and donations.

At a time where teachers are being laid off by the thousands, it's ludicrous to think that we should also take money out of our own (already paltry, even before you factor in that many of us have given up raises or even cost of living increases) paychecks in order to pay for our own jobs.

It is not the union's job to pay for education, it is the union's job to advocate for teachers, who in turn advocate for their students. As noted on their website, the purpose of the Oregon Education Association is to "assure quality public education for every student in Oregon by providing a strong, positive voice for school employees." I pay dues to a union and vote on how I want that money spent so that they can fight for me, to pay for my salary, for my supplies, for assistants, for equipment. In turn, here's who I fight for in my job in early intervention/early childhood special education: the 4-year-old who has been in six foster homes in six months. The toddler who was born prematurely and had a brain bleed. The preschooler who can't talk, but whose family's insurance covers exactly two private speech therapy sessions. The baby adopted from an orphanage where she was never held, never allowed to learn to crawl.

I dream of the day when our culture values education half as much as we like to say we do. Until then, I will go to work for these kids each day--hoping for my sake, and for the sake of the families I serve--that this is not the year I get laid off. "

Now. I am certainly not saying that the union is the solution to all of education's problems, nor am I saying that it doesn't have its own problems. I'm just saying that the lack of funding in our schools is not the union's fault, nor is it the union's responsibility to repair it. Do I sound a little defensive? Lemme 'splain some more.

So, my letter wasn't published in last week's paper, but I received an e-mail telling me I could post it on the on-line editorial page of the paper. Which I'd considered doing, but then, you know, life happened, and it slipped to the back of my mind. Until I received an e-mail on Thursday morning from a co-worker saying, "What a firestorm you started! The vitriolic loons are out in full force!" He was gleeful. I...not so much. I went online, and sure enough, there was my letter, complete with my full name, and approximately 55 comments in response, most in varying degrees of Disgust, with some Crazysauce on the side. These people--and "vitriolic loons" is an accurate moniker--were cloaked in the anonymity of the internet and from behind their pseudonyms, they had no trouble addressing me by name and explaining just how wrong, dumb, misguided, and selfish I was.

To be fair, I only read through the first 15 or so comments. I stopped, because I was having a really visceral reaction to the responses. I was trembling, my pulse rate had quickened, and I felt sick to my stomach. It's possible that the last 40 comments were rallying in my favor (there was one very nice person who came to my defense many times in the initial comments to refute points and tell me not to listen to the "crazy old codgers who have nothing better to do than attack people." I love this person.), but I couldn't read any more.

Now, no-one threatened my life or even called me a bad name (directly...). As internet trolls go, these were pretty mild ("crazy old codgers," remember?), and I was a little taken aback at how taken aback I was. I think that part of it was the shock, in that I hadn't submitted my letter and so wasn't prepared for this. Also, I was especially ooked out by those commenters who used my name ("Ms Falling, sweetie, it IS taxpayer money...my taxes pay your salary!" I guess by that measure, she also pays for my groceries and I should check with her before buying the creamy Skippy, huh?). It was a submission requirement to include my full name, but if the letter had been published in the paper, a) people could have sworn at me from the privacy of their kitchen tables where I couldn't hear it, b) anyone who wanted to write back to me in the paper would also have to give their name, and c) it would have been out there temporarily, to be shredded or recycled or used to line the birdcage. Instead, my name now languishes in the netherworld of internet archives while crazies with poorly phonetically-spelled pseudonyms use it to chastise me roundly.

But, still. It was nothing, not compared to what lots of bloggers get every day. And yet, it was so upsetting to me...I thought about it later that day, and while my first reaction was an overwhelming sympathy for celebrities ("leave Britney alone!"), I also realized that I should, as a dear friend once put it, "cowboy the fuck up" and own what I said. Did I believe it? Yes. Do I still stand by it? Yes. So what if some people disagree? And, according to a friend who read the rest of the comments, it wasn't even that many people that disagreed with me, per se, it became an argument among the commenters fighting with each other over issues that neither the original letter writer nor I had even brought up.

So why am I having such a hard time finding my big girl panties about this?

Well, remember the approval junkie thing? There's that, for sure. Big time. And also? I'm easily intimidated by bullies, which makes sense for a kid who was a geek (and I mean a geek like the Geek in 16 Candles, before being a geek was cool). And, and, and...I just really think I'm right, I guess. It's not that I don't see the problems in powerful unions throwing their weight around. Or in tenured burnouts. But our society's priorities are so effed up, and we keep cutting education funding and teachers are getting laid off around the country by the hundreds of thousands. And yes, schools and teachers are "failing" according to the ridiculousness that is No Child Left Behind, but that doesn't automatically equal lazy, over-paid teachers. And while there are numerous faults in our educational system, it is what we've got to work with right now, and while I'd love to hear about an overhaul, I can't get behind just chipping away at it and still expecting results. And if we're willing to spend billions of dollars to fight wars that many Americans think we shouldn't have gotten into, then we have to be willing to spend a fraction of that on our kids' education, which everyone likes to spout off about during elections, but no-one likes to actually FREAKING PAY FOR.

Hey, who left this soapbox here? And what's all this foamy white stuff around my mouth?

Anyway, I've decided not to go back to the page and read any more comments from the loonies, even though this means I might miss some supportive comments. I want to be the kind of person who is comfortable taking a stand, hearing reasonable opposition, and dismissing the rest. You know, without peeing on myself. So I'm taking the small step of resisting the temptation to go back out there and debate/defend myself to my detractors. I'm also trying not to listen to the voice that says, "We'll just never speak up again, and that way everyone will like us, right (nervous laugh)?" I want to speak up again, if the situation requires it. It is ridiculous to be willing to be a bad-ass only in like-minded company. I'd like to be a bad-ass wherever I go, please.

You know, if that's all right with you.

Surface Tension

2010-07-26T21:35:00.000-07:00

Goddamn.

I just deleted several paragraphs of not-funny, not-particularly-well-written updates on my friends. Despite what I'm sure are top-notch prayers and good vibes from you all, things aren't well. One's husband is dating, not quite two months after moving out. The other is having a miscarriage of a longed-for pregnancy. I feel sad and helpless and guiltily lucky, but also like the membrane separating my (currently quite good) life from their (currently quite awful) situations is very thin, indeed.

I don't remember feeling like this before. When I was younger and I'd hear about awful things, I would lock right into catastrophic thinking and have horrible fantasies about it happening to me. But at the same time, I also had this deep-down belief that it wouldn't, couldn't happen to me. It helped that I only heard about these kinds of tragedies on TV or in books or second-hand through a friend. At 25, I'd never been to a funeral other than an elderly grandparent. I'd never been struck in anger by a parent or partner. I was healthy. I was loved. I was white and middle-class, too, which couldn't have hurt in terms of sheltering me from some of life's ills.

While my anxious nature always imagined the worst and could whip me into a panic just by reading an installment of Reader's Digest "Drama in Real Life" (which, really, I should have known better), I never really felt fragile. My uneventful life, full of love and stability (and, to be fair, very few risks on my part), plus what was probably some youth-fueled sense of invincibility, combined to make this wall between me and tragedy. I understood intellectually that I couldn't protect myself from Life, I also had faith in that wall to do so. I guess you could call this innocence. Or naivete. Or stupidity. You know, depending on how mean you wanted to be.

I don't have that anymore. Not long after I turned 25, a lot of things happened. In a 15-month period: two co-workers lost children (one, an infant, died of congenital abnormalities, the other was 11 and hung himself), 9/11 happened, my mom was diagnosed with stage IV cancer, a friend's five-year-old daughter who had been in remission with leukemia relapsed and died, and a 4-year-old in the day care center (for kids who were HIV+) died of AIDS.

Well, Jesus. When I see it written out like that, I guess it's no wonder that that's about the point I remember feeling that wall start to crumble. I haven't even mentioned the panic attacks or the bike accident or when I broke my foot. Of course, good things happened in there, too. I got a dog. I got married. I found a day job that changed my life and steered me toward what would become my career. I don't remember that time in my life as being particularly sad or dark. It's just that I can look at that time as when I stopped feeling like "Eek! What if this Bad Stuff happens?!" and more like, "Yes. This stuff is going to happen." Not in an Eeyore-y, doomed way, but more resigned. Less innocent.

I no longer feel like there is a wall between me and tragedy. I feel like there's a soap-bubble membrane and right now I'm on the good side, the side where I can be a good friend to those on the other side that need me. Where I can count my blessings and remember that I'm lucky to have a loving, supportive, faithful husband (even if he gets weirdly proprietary about his washcloths) and a healthy, smart, laughing dancing walking baby (even if he has decided he can go down to one nap a day, parents' needs be damned). But I know that it wouldn't take much for me to fall through to that other side.

I don't mean to sound depressed or passive and resigned. That's not it. But neither is it some carpe diem, live-life-for-the-moment thing, not for me. It's more about the realization that life is brutal and beautiful and you have to have both. So instead you just accept the risks and go forth anyway. Not always boldly, not even always willingly, but because that's just how the game is played. And you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have....no, wait, that's The Facts of Life theme song. My bad.

I guess for me it's just about being wildly, quietly grateful in these moments and doing what I can for people on the other side, knowing that inevitably we will some day switch places.

A Hot Dog of a Post (by which I mean full of bits and scraps and offal)

2010-07-21T22:11:00.000-07:00

First, if I may start on kind of a downer note, I'm hoping that those of you who do such things will send prayers, good vibes, karma, what have you to a couple of friends of mine going through some awful shit right now. I don't feel right sharing their stories, but I'll trust that any positive energy put forth in the universe will find them. I think it has to do with magnets or something.

*Claps hands briskly*

OK, then! What randomness have I jotted down lately? Oh, well, for one thing, today at work I was in the supply room and a co-worker was talking on her cell phone. Apparently the other person was having a hard time hearing her, so she shouted, "ONE!" I think it is a mark of my own maturity that I refrained from making jazz hands and adding, "Singular sensation!" Although I did sing it under my breath all the way back to my desk.

***

Saturday night I went to a bachelorette party, my very first. Is that odd? I don't know how I've reached the ripe old age of 34 without attending one of these, but there you are. Anyway, this party was held at a karaoke place--but not just any old bar, no sirree. This is a place where you rent private karaoke rooms. Have you all heard of this? Am I just old/unhip? Anyway, picture if you will a small room, only slightly larger than your average handicapped bathroom stall, crammed to the gills with ladies of varying degrees of shrillness. Then add a large TV, two microphones, and a whole lotta adult beverages. You put Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" in there and shit is ON. Also, for future reference, the eight-minute cut of "We Are The World" is amusing at first, but after five minutes, you don't care who does a great Cyndi Lauper imitation, you just want to move on. You'll thank me later.

***

If I can ever figure out how to master the technology, I'll break my anonymity vows to post a video of Tankbaby dancing at one of the weddings. Truth be told, about 30% of the cuteness can be credited to the suit. A friend gave it to us: black velour overalls, white button-down, red plaid necktie (just the knot and hangy-downy part attached to an elastic band), black velour jacket with lapels. We added tiny red Chuck Taylors and Tankbaby added the total lack of rhythm. He looooves music, and couldn't be kept off the dance floor. His coordination is such that he can only move in quadrants: he could nod his head or wave his arms or drop his booty or move his feet, but none of them all at the same time. However, rapid succession was achieved, all with an expectant look on his face as he approached non-dancers with his wild drunken lurching as if to say, "Do you not HEAR this?" Sometimes he supplemented his argument by signing, "Music!" frantically, which, being as how it was his own mutation of ASL in a crowd of non-even-not-mutated-ASL-using folks, didn't sway people the way he clearly expected. My poor mother-in-law laughed until she wept, and I think only a little of that was due to the open bar.

***

Oh, and speaking of the weddings, I promised stories. It's growing late, so only one for tonight. No, just one, and then I have to go to bed. And no, you won't be getting me a drink of water later. OK, fine, one drink, but then no more, or I'll have to go potty in the middle of the night.

Where was I?

Right, wedding #2 was outside. In addition to a dance floor under a pavilion and a large dining area, they'd set up a little outdoor living room space with white leather couches and end tables. And on these tables there were various large odd-shaped receptacles filled with candy. I wholly endorse this practice. Anyway, Tank missed his nap due to timing, and while we were waiting for dinner he began to literally fall over in his high chair. I took him out and went down to the living room area, positioning myself near the GIANT BRANDY SNIFTER OF JELLY BEANS so that I could nurse him a bit and let him sleep. MOTH came down later with a plate of food, carefully cut up into easily-stabbable pieces so that I could eat one-handed. As we sat there, listening to a truly awful drunken maid of honor speech (oh, yes, that story is coming), we noticed a woman milling about near where we sat. She had a nasal cannula (that's a thing, right? The teeny tube hooked up to your face when you're on oxygen?) and her oxygen tank casually dragged along behind her. She approached the couch and table across from us and from the large vase on the table, withdrew a handful of...sparklers. Unlit, of course, but still...seemed an unwise choice given the whole flammable element thing. I mean, what do you do with sparklers unless you light them? But I'm pretty sure she's not supposed to be having any open flames near the oxygen. I think I learned that from Grey's Anatomy. Anyway, MOTH and I snickered a little curiously, stifling ourselves when she then ambled over to where we were sitting. She looked down at Tankbaby and murmured, "Beautiful baby" (clearly nothing wrong with her vision), then proceeded to open her small evening clutch and shovel in seven or eight scoopfuls of jelly beans. All casual-like, as if this was completely normal behavior. She then nodded at us and moved off to the nearby cocktail tables, where she proceeded to empty the small dishes of Swedish fish into her purse.

I don't know what she had planned for when she got home that night, but either her pulmonologist or her dentist is going to be very displeased.

Suck It, Amazing Race!

2010-07-14T17:19:00.000-07:00

I survived over 1200 miles with a 15-month-old. I'll take my merit badge now.

Following the advice of my terribly smart commenters, I made small notes about things I wanted to tell you. The first? Is that if you have to drive 1200 miles with a 15-month-old, try to do it while heavily medicated (unless you're driving...then only a light analgesic haze for you). It actually was not too awful, considering that a) even though we left at night, thinking Tankbaby would sleep through the first several hours of the trip, he actually woke about 1:30 AM, freaked about why he was strapped into a chair and, btw, WHERE IS THE BOOB? and b) the entire state of Idaho is currently under construction. What should have been a 12-hour drive took about 20. Go ahead and read that again, those of you with young children, and let me hear your collective "ech." And then! We left Monday night, got into town Tuesday night, had the wedding on Wednesday, and were back on the road Thursday morning, getting back into town Friday night. Poor Tankers. When we got back, he joyously stumbled around the living room, all, "MY TOYS! And a floor! I thought the rest of my life was a carseat, three books, and that old cell phone!" (Of course, it goes without saying that after twenty minutes of sweet, sweet freedom, we bundled him back into the carseat for a trip across town to see the other side of the family, in town for the wedding that happened on Saturday. About 20 miles away.)

Here's the most important thing I learned about traveling across three states in two days with a toddler: make sure the event you drive to is held at the Four Seasons in Jackson Hole, and that you get the roast beef. It is, as the kids say, off the hizzook. (The kids still say that, right?) Totally worth the drive. I considered smuggling some out in my purse for a reward after the return trip.

Oh! You guys! There are more stories to tell about the traveling, the in-laws, and the two very different weddings in general, but those must wait, because the baby's awake and--while a year ago I couldn't imagine this day--he won't nurse for long. But! I gotta tell y'all: THE TROLL STORY LIVES!

We were over at MOTH's aunt and uncle's house the night before the second wedding. It was a full house and I was on Tankbaby Recon Duty, making sure he didn't feed the Weight Watcher bars to the dog or pull all the labels off the canned goods. MOTH approached me excitedly and whispered, "Didja hear it?" Apparently a friend of his uncle's had told everyone about her "friend" and the poor census worker that had come to the door and been mistaken for a, well, you know. Everyone exclaimed appropriately and MOTH nearly chewed off his own chin, trying desperately to catch my eye. He didn't know the woman, so he didn't want to correct her in front of everyone, so he just quietly choked all by his lonesome.

OK, must run. Trying to do this more in manageable, if slightly incomplete chunks. Next time: Attending a Wedding Where the Bride is a 20-Something Fashion Student from SoCal, or How To Feel Old and Frumpy in Ten Short Minutes.

Contrition, Walking Babies, and the Great Hot Dog Dilemma Solved

2010-06-24T11:56:00.000-07:00

Let's get this out of the way: Feh. Work. Worky work work. Cold. Fever! Very high fever! The croup. Another cold. Teething. Holy Mother of God, MOLARS.

Now you're caught up with me. What's new with you? You look great. Seriously. That's a really good color on you. Have you lost weight? I love what you're doing with your hair!!!

And now we hug and you forgive me for being such a loser. Everyone wins!

Actually, let me self-flagellate a little more: I'm on summer break! The first of two (I don't have all summer off, but have a two-and-a-half-week break in June and another three weeks off in August). And MOTH is finally done with his part-time gig on evenings and weekends, so work stopped being an excuse a week ago. And I had Big Plans to post every day to appease the blogging goddesses (this means you), but, well, see above. And next week we're driving to Jackson Hole, Wyoming for a family wedding. (I know! Two 12-hour trips in a car with a 15-month old within a five-day period? Who's jealous? You are.) And then in-laws in town, and then work starts up, and, and, and...I know I've asked this before, but HOW DO YOU PEOPLE DO THIS? Seriously, how do you find time to blog and knit and cook and paint and do non-essential life stuff? We don't have a TV (although I do keep up on Glee and Modern Family on the interweb...Mama likes her stories, dontcha know), I only wash my hair once a week...where is the time I am wasting? Because at some point, I want to do all those things (well, except paint...I'd love to paint, but unless you follow that with "by numbers," it's not likely to be a worthwhile pursuit for me) and when I stop breastfeeding I need to find some time to work out, and God I STILL haven't figured out how to work my videocamera...

Hm. I seem to be a bit of a runaway train today. Let's go with that, because otherwise I'm gonna get all het up about how I haven't posted in three weeks and now any post I write must rise to some David Sedaris level of brilliance, and that way lies less posting, and more insane muttering around the house. Therefore, in no particular order...

Things I Was Going To Tell You, Baby-Related:

1) Tankbaby is walking. I know that this is not news to anyone outside of this family (excepting possibly people I work with, because we are early childhood geeks and developmental milestones are the equivalent of, like, new iPhone unveilings to Mac nerds), but I have to say I find it entirely awesome. Like, I am literally in awe of these previously useless--if delicious--steamed pork bun baby feet that now propel chubby legs all over the house in a tiny drunken stagger. There is not a single ounce of grace in this movement, what with the stampy steps and the slightly flailing arms, but it is functional and hilarious to watch. He has progressed from tentative steps to being able to squat, pick up something, and stand back up without holding on to anything. Our pre-bedtime hour is now spent watching him toddle from place to place, moving objects from here to there according to some odd toddler feng shui. Last Friday he moved every single pair of his pants from the drawer to the living room. MOTH kept coming around the corner with a pile of discarded pants and a sigh.

2) We can just call this the category of So You Think You Can Childproof (there's a show you won't see on NBC, although wouldn't you like to see, like, Tori Spelling try to figure out how to install cabinet locks?). The walking? Is awesome. The added mobility, height, and access? Not so much. MOTH told me that earlier today he had to repeatedly pull Tankbaby away from the silverware drawer--where the KNIVES are--because Tankbaby had somehow gotten the child lock off the drawer, and...hidden it. Wah-wah.

3) Only tangentially related to the baby, but it cracked me up: on Father's Day, MOTH was cleaning the baby up after breakfast and made up a Tom Waits-esque growly spoken word song thing called "Banana-Headed Boy," which included the lyrics, Banana-headed boy/Can't find hats that fit/And has a heck of a time getting on elevators.

Things I Was Going To Tell You, Non-Baby Related:

1) Work has kinda sucked. My student teacher remained lovely, but also very passive and quiet, which means that for nine weeks I spent all day at work feeling like I was the chatty one desperately trying to keep up conversation on an ill-advised blind date. It was tiring. And there's been lots of kid drama, as kids I work with go in and out of foster care. I kept coming close to writing about it, because it is interesting, but it's also depressing as hell. Like, a two-year-old I used to work with had been reunited with bio mom, but is now back with her old foster family, because mom was leaving her and her 15-month-old sister alone in the apartment at night. Locked in their rooms. Where the neighbors could hear them crying, "Mama, let me out!" See? Depressing. And infuriating. And nauseating. And it mostly makes me want to come home and hug my own baby. Well, and sit in a watchtower with a hypodermic rifle and shoot sterilization drugs into crowds of people. (Hello, crazy Googlers! Please seek professional help!)

2) My dad's visit, while lovely, made me quite sad for a few days following, and not just because he lied about that dwarf thing. We've lived here for seven years, and I spent the first four miserable to be so far from my sick mom. And then I finally got to a place of relative peace, and now I have this baby, and he sees his grandpa three or four times a year. Which I know isn't unusual, but I also know people whose parents babysit on random Thursday nights, and who are around for trips to the pumpkin patch, and who know their grandkids' bedtime routines, and...it makes me sad. We live here now, we have roots, and I no longer fantasize about moving back, but...it makes me sad. For all of us.

Argh. There's more, but the boy has been awake for a bit now, and is tiring of playing with Mama's breast pump. (What?) So, rather than end on those depressing notes, I will tell you of MOTH's latest idea: hot dogs with holes drilled in the middle, so that, when sliced into coins, they are "like Cheerios," and thus less likely for kids to choke on them, because of the breathing hole and all. Now if you'll excuse me, we're off to patent that shit.

P.S. I am, as mentioned, a late-adopter, so I know you've all already seen this. But it still makes me giggle. "I'm her mom!" "No...she's not!"

Apologies All Around...

2010-06-07T18:56:00.000-07:00

What, you say, apologies for not writing in over a week? Old news.

Apologies for being so behind on reading and commenting on all of your superior, more prolific blogs? Feh. Been there.

But, an apology for inadvertently contributing to the spread of a ridiculous story via the internet, in a blog read by fives of people? Well, sign me up!

Yeah. Big freaking sigh. My poor dad. He was so befuddled when I told him. It was, after all, his cousin who told him the story, and now he maintains that no-one is trustworthy, especially Iowans. My sister also found out (after repeating the story several times) that this myth was on Snopes.com, and is now recommending that we also question Dad's whole "false alarm shooting in the church story."

So, in sincere contrition, I offer you an almost equally ridiculous story, one that involves Actual People I Know Personally, sources apparently more reliable than my lying father.

Until Tankbaby was born, MOTH and I went each summer to Burning Man. What, I never mentioned that? Yes, yes, we're big hippies. Anyway, one year, some friends of ours from Chicago drove out to join us. At the end of the week, we were all dusty, filthy, and grinning. One couple, Jill and Eric, got their entire bodies painted (Jill in a stunning blue-green, Eric in red), as you do when you're out in the desert with a buncha weirdos. So, picture if you will this dirty, dusty SUV, with four people, all unwashed, one wearing a fisherman's hat with cat ears attached, one painted entirely red, one entirely blue. On the drive home, somewhere in the Midwest, they pull up next to another car at a stoplight. They look over, and there's a guy dressed as Ronald effing McDonald driving the car.

He looks at them. They look at him.

Ronald rolls down his window. Eric does the same.

Ronald says, "Hey, man. What's McHappening?"

Almost as good, yes?

Apple, Meet the Tree--UPDATED

2010-05-27T17:44:00.000-07:00

Stories That My Dad has Told in the First 24 Hours of His Visit:

1) Last week, at the church where he works as a maintenance man, two guys from the neighboring sketchy apartment complex came over and went and sat in the church. The office ladies asked my dad to go check on them, just to make sure things were kosher. Dad did, and in doing so, left his walkie-talkie behind. The office ladies (one of whom is named Stella, so of course, the telling of this story had to leave room for occasional Brando-esque shouts of "STELLA!") then thought that they heard gunshots. So they called Dad on the walkie, and when they couldn't reach him, they freaked right the hell out and CALLED 911. To report A SHOOTING. AT THE CHURCH. When my dad came out of the church, he was greeted with seventeen squad cars and body-armored cops shouting at him to put his hands in the air and get on the ground. You guys, they cuffed my dad! The poor clucky office hens tried to reassure the cops that it had been a false alarm, but apparently once the "shooter-in-a-church" bell has rung, you can't unring it. Once they saw all four employees who were there that day, they uncuffed them, but there was still full-on searching of the premises, closing of several local major roads, lockdown of the neighboring high school...and, did I mention, they put my dad in freaking handcuffs! I believe I've mentioned my family's obsession with old school Law & Order, so you'll have to imagine our delight at the idea that Dad was preparing to drop a dime on someone in order to take a plea and do the nickel at Riker's.

2) A while back, Dad was called for jury duty, for a case involving a guy who shot someone in front of several witnesses. Dad's jury selection questioning session went as follows:

Defense Attorney: Sir, do you own a handgun?

Dad: No, I do not.

Defense Attorney: May I ask you why?

Dad: I don't intend to kill anybody.

Defense Attorney: Challenge, your Honor!

3) UPDATED: This story is, as it turns out, a hoax. A big fat lie. Clearly, I and my entire ilk are not to be trusted. On the other hand, I guess it's OK to laugh out loud about it, since it's entirely fictional.

OK, this story? Is really kinda sad and definitely politically incorrect on several levels, but I dare you not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. So, Dad was out in Iowa visiting family, and Cousin So-and-so was talking about Other Cousin, who has an adult son who is developmentally delayed. This son, let's call him...Darryl, is apparently independent enough to live on his own, and one day he called his mother with some news. "Ma, I caught a troll." "What?" "I caught a troll, Ma, you gotta come home." So Ma-Other-Cousin rushes over, as naturally one would when you hear such news. When she gets there, she hears banging on the closet door and goes over to let out...a little person. A dwarf.

This poor guy was going door to door, working as a census-taker, and when he got to Darryl's house, well...Darryl...um...thought he was a troll. And, decided that the next logical thing to do was to "catch" him, and lock him in a closet. And call his mom. Like you do.

So Ma-Other-Cousin lets this guy out, profuse apologies, and apparently he hasn't pressed charges, because a) Darryl obviously can't be prosecuted as being "of sound mind," and b) he probably isn't in a hurry to be known as the guy who got locked in a closet for resembling a mythical creature. And of course, this was probably quite scary for him, and embarrassing for the mother, and indicates something about Darryl's ability to live independently, but...

"I caught a troll, Ma."

I mean, you can't make this shit up. (UPDATE: Yes, you can. And then someone like me will fall for it.)

Not Pictured: Gun Rack, Tiny Flaccid Penis

2010-05-19T22:32:00.001-07:00

I was stuck behind a truck today in traffic. This truck was plastered with many bumper stickers, the messages of which were so...remarkable that I called my own voicemail at work and read them off, just so that I could later relay them to you:

Ass, Gas, or Grass...No-one Rides for Free

With Beer, Deer, and Pickup Trucks, Who Needs Women?

Tickle This, Elmo! (accompanied by a truly foul little drawing)

www.offmyass.com

Brakes are for Pussies

I gave the driver my number. I sure hope he calls.

The Bad Place

2010-05-16T18:16:00.000-07:00

I realize I've been rather maternally focused lately around here, and for those of you who are not parents and have no interest in becoming parents, I apologize for the monochromaticity. And, yes, I believe I did just make that word up, but I like it. I have an English degree, which I'm pretty sure is a license to fabricate words. I also think that the verb form of "adhesive" should be "adhese." You adhese that sticker, the back of which is coated with adhesive. If it was coated with adhersive, then you'd adhere it.

Where was I? Right. Motherhood.

I have a wonderful, dear friend who just had a baby about three weeks ago. She called me yesterday, in A Bad Place. Those of you who have had newborns in your life might know about this Place. It's dark, it's scary, it's full of despair, and it lurks around what you expect to be a time of sunlight and soft-focus, gauzy clothes and the smell of Johnson's baby shampoo. I told her all the stuff that I knew that she knew (much of which she'd actually told me a year ago, when I called her from that same Bad Place): that sleep deprivation and hormones really mess with your mind, that I had faith in her that she could do this, that having these awful feelings didn't mean anything bad about her as a mother or about her baby or their relationship. I told her that I found great comfort in my midwife pointing out--at my appointment to deal with the mastitis, when I was weeping in despair about how was I supposed to rest and apply hot compresses when I had this constantly crying creature that didn't seem to like me much but insisted on being held by me every single second of the day--that the problem is "we're no longer in the long hut." She went on to describe how, biologically speaking, we're still designed to live in communities where you could sleep while your sister-in-law nursed your babe with her own, or your mother would tend to your other kids while you cleaned the new baby, etc. This was really comforting to me, this notion that of course it felt wrong and awful, because this isn't how we're meant to do it.

And yet, we do it. I used to tell myself, on the really bad days (or, let's be honest, in the really bad hours), that somehow people do this. People with other kids do this. People with twins do this. Single moms do this. Now, there was always the danger that this could then spiral into me feeling even worse, because I just had my one little baby and was still feeling like I was about to fall into the abyss (that's me, always looking on the bright side!), but for the most part, I tried to focus on the notion that this is survivable, so therefore I will survive it.

I told my friend all of this yesterday, as she sat alone in her apartment and I wended my way through a street fair with Tankbaby strapped to me, pressing my cell up to my ear so that I could hear my friend over the capoeira music and the street violinist and the ladies hawking tutu kits. And I thought about how, a year ago, I couldn't envision this day. If you'd asked me to imagine myself a year in the future, I would have still pictured myself with lank hair and post-baby belly and a screaming newborn, just one year more exhausted. Possibly something in the background would have been on fire.

It really can suck, those first weeks, and I wish people talked about it more. Of course, I supposed we'd run the risk of our species dying out, but still. I wish more people talked about those scary weeks after the elation has worn off but before your ability to function on three hours of sleep has kicked in, when you look at the sweet face of your child and think, what have I done? When you really need your wits about you, but they're dulled from lack of sleep and shock. When you could use some serious back-up from your partner, but he's sleep-deprived too and therefore doesn't have his own full tank upon which to draw to shore you up (as I put it to my friend yesterday, "He's getting just enough more sleep than you for you to hate him, but not enough for him to be actually useful to you as a resource").

So I'm trying to change that, and I'm asking you to help. I'm not going to ask anyone to share the worst moment, because I don't think I can write my own out yet, but if you'd be willing to share (either here in the comments or on your own blog) one of those awful, horrible, no-good, very bad new parent moments, I'd love to read it and share it with my friend. If you don't have one of those moments because a) you're not a parent, or b) you are some sort of alien being who adapted seamlessly to parenthood, you can either share a story that happened to someone you know (wink, wink), or you can tell me why you do or do not like the color orange. See, something for everyone!

I'll go first. I may have mentioned one or 57,209 times, that Tankbaby has never been a good sleeper. One night, when I was desperate to go to bed and he was squalling his head off, I was sitting with him in the rocker and began to rock, harder and harder. Now, this was a baby who liked his motion, and for a while we'd had success with him sleeping in the swing, set to its fastest speed, so a good brisk rock was sometimes part of the ever-changing magic formula to get him to go to sleep. But on this night, the rocking was not soothing to either of us. I held my crying baby tighter and tighter and pushed with my feet, smacking the back of the chair into the wall over and over again until I burst out, crying right into his little face, "What the hell do you want from me?" At which point, MOTH got up from the couch, stood in front of me, and calmly but firmly said, "Give him to me. Right now." I did, and folded over myself in the chair, sobbing. I just remember feeling so hopeless, so anguished, so guilty. I knew better than this--I have a degree in early childhood development, for chrissakes--and yet I had come to this. The Bad Place.

And remember, I said that this wasn't my worst moment.

And now, the obligatory happy ending: I took a break. I learned to ask for help. MOTH learned to offer it a little earlier than when I was On The Edge Of Madness. We survived. That night, and more like it. And I spent today in the sunshine with my boy, watching as he examined every flower, as he waved hello to man, woman, child, and dog alike, and I bit my fingers to keep them from grabbing his delicious hammy thighs as he walked. And that night, and those others like it, are just a part of our story now. I can't honestly say I hardly remember them, nor that I can laugh at them...no, not yet. But I can see them for what they are: awful moments in an otherwise blessed life. And yes, I know that's cheesy. I do not care.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go gnaw on some babythighs. Possibly dipped in a cilantro-butter sauce. Nom nom nom.

Lend Me Some Sugar--I AM Your Neighbor!

2010-05-13T22:03:00.000-07:00

Oh, you guys.

Please bear with me...this work schedule plus parenting class plus teething/cold-crummy naps is just killing me over here, and I'm woefully behind in reading, commenting, and writing. Does it help if I tell you that I feel disproportionately guilty about it and often have fits of pique where I'm all, "Goddammit! If I can't handle the responsibility of a blog, then maybe I don't deserve to have one!"? And then I throw things.

Anyway, I didn't mean to (um, again) post this big ol' dramatic Dead Mom post and then disappear. And I wanted to thank you all for your--for lack of a better term--positive vibes and thoughtful responses to my Mother's Day post. MOTH mentioned that it made him sad to read it, which, of course, wasn't my intention, and I actually had quite a nice day with minimal wallowing. But, as I noted in the comments in response to Fie, I'm trying to sort out my ambivalence about it all. Also, maybe Anne Lamott will Google herself and find that post and be impressed and then we'll be BFF writing friends. You think?

I have eight million things I could write about, and I want to think about none of them. My head is full of friends in unfortunate situations, of oil spills and floods and fucking Tea Partiers who have a shot at political office, of this horribly sad drama around a family I work with where the kids just got pulled into foster care, of the fact that three of our big bosses at work are taking early retirement in quick succession because of the changes being wrought upon us, of union meetings and vet bills and did I mention the baby with the cold and the up-all-night thing? Yeah, I'm a regular Typhoid Mary Sunshine over here, and I just haven't wanted to go there. (You know, more than I did just now in a weirdly passive-aggressive run-on sentence.)

So instead, I'm listing a few things that make me happy no matter what. In no particular order, and just now off the top of my head:

1) A bike ride in the sunshine. I went out again last weekend, and that 30 minutes totally recharged my soul and smoothed out all my rough edges.

2) The sound "Hey Ya" by Outkast. I can't help it...no matter where I am or what I'm doing, you play this song and I will shake it like a Polaroid picture. I will sing along in my white girl way about my baddest behavior. And it will always, always cheer me up.

3) Talking to my dad. He's hilarious and he's wise and he's coming in two weeks! Whee!!!

4) The way Tankbaby laughs when I read Sandra Boynton's "Blue Hat, Green Hat." For the uninitiated, basically each page shows three animals wearing some item of clothing correctly, and a turkey wearing it incorrectly. The text is minimal: "Blue hat, green hat, yellow hat...oops." It tickles me to no end that Tankbaby gets that there's something funny about the "oops" part, even though he likely doesn't get what's funny about a turkey with a hat on his foot (to which the correct answer is, "hell, what isn't funny about a turkey with a hat on his foot?"). He waits for it and then he laughs this Ernie-esque chuckle that just slays me.

5) Calvin and Hobbes. Unequivocal brilliance in each and every strip.

6) Rereading a book I've read a dozen times already. When I'm stressed or depressed, I don't want some new book with its potential for unpleasant reminders or less-than-perfect dialogue. I want a book I've read over and over again, that I know chunks of by heart, that won't surprise or disappoint me. Give me my Fannie Flagg and a warm spot on the couch and I'm good.

7) Mike & Ike candy. I can't have it in the house because I literally never get sick of it. When I was in college (and had the metabolism to match), my parents would sometimes give me the 5-lb bag from Sam's Club at Christmas. It was always gone before Valentine's Day. But diabetes-causing-gluttony aside, the fruity chewy goodness of Mike & Ikes will always cheer me up, even as I'm mentally prepping myself for eventual insulin shots.

OK, now your turn. What random things cheer you up?

Do Not Read Until 12:01 AM

2010-05-09T11:59:00.000-07:00

If you have a baby, have had a baby, or ever plan on having a baby, you should read Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions. It's brilliant and funny and scary and heartbreaking and I read it three times in the last year and a half alone, first to learn, then to reassure, then to remember, as I went from pregnant to new mom to not-so-new mom.

Lamott's piece on (in?) Salon.com this weekend is entitled, "Why I Hate Mother's Day." And although the people-pleaser in me was all squeamish at the idea that some people might be offended, I agree with her. Not necessarily about hating the day, but I am, at best, ambivalent about it these days. I found myself nodding and murmuring, yes, exactly, as my heart broke a bit when I read, "I hate the way the holiday makes all non-mothers, and the daughters of dead mothers, and the mothers of dead or severely damaged children, feel the deepest kind of grief and failure."

I am, I'm fully aware, blessed beyond reason to have my healthy, happy boy, and for him, I want to celebrate being a mom. And I'm touched by the two cards at my plate this morning at breakfast (one from MOTH, one from Tankbaby, plus a crayon-pocked piece of paper that MOTH describes as an example of Tankbaby's "pointillism period"), and if MOTH takes the baby to the store later so that I can have an hour or two to do "whatever I want, because it's [your] day," well, who am I to complain?

This is only my second Mother’s Day, and I’m still adjusting to that being a part of my identity: I am a mom. Even writing that seems odd to me, still. When I think of “mom,” I think not of myself, but of my own mother. For the first 30-odd years of my life, Mother’s Day was about her. So I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that this day evokes grief first, as the daughter who lost her mom, instead of the joy of being a mom. I fully expect that to change over time, but right now, I still cringe during the radio ads and snarl unnecessarily at the on-line florist coupons that bombard my e-mail and avoid the card aisle all together. It’s not as sharply painful as the first Mother’s Day without her (which, of course, happened to fall exactly one month after her death, because the universe is like that sometimes), but it’s still inexorably linked in my mind. It takes several minutes, or an outside voice, to remind me that this day can now be about something else. And for my sister, who doesn’t yet have any kids, this holiday is still one-dimensional, and it’s about loss. That will change for her, too, someday, as it continues to change for me. But I think we both know that it may never be totally without grief, without resentment, without jealousy.

And, as Lamott points out, it’s not just those of us without moms who are gut-punched by this holiday. As a preschool teacher, I think I’m contractually obligated to have the kids make some sort of sunny, cheerful Mother’s Day art project of some sort, preferably something that points out how quickly time flies and is guaranteed to evoke a few tears. And I did, in fact, have several little yellow and red handprints going home this week. But the words “Mother’s Day” were intentionally left out. Because in one of my groups, I have two kids with moms in jail, one kid whose schizophrenic, drug-affected biological mom gave birth to him on a psych ward, two kids whose moms have just up and left the family, one kid who was just last week put into foster care…you get the idea. These kids can take their handprints and cheesy poems home to whoever they like, but I’m not going to ask them to celebrate a holiday that is puzzling to your average four-year-old and devastating to the four-year-olds I work with. And we all know adults who fit into this category, as well. I would not trade my dead mom for some live moms I know. As Lamott says, “…many mothers were as equipped to raise children as wire monkey mothers. I say that without judgment: It is, sadly, true. An unhealthy mother's love is withering.”

And then I think of my friends who want kids but don’t yet have them. Like the rest of us, it’s not that it’s not painful on an ordinary day, but to have a day—and a day that is preceded by so much media hype, replete with blanket clichés and inexplicable linen sales—specifically designed to focus attention on the very thing we lack (be it a mother or our own motherhood)…well, it seems tedious at best, cruel at worst.

I guess I feel about Mother’s Day the way a perpetually single or recently divorced or widowed person feels about Valentine’s Day. And yet, it’s much more socially acceptable to curse Cupid and his boxes of chocolate. Anyone who hates Mother’s Day must be an unlovable commie, right? Well, maybe I am. And I suppose I make it worse by saying that, unlike Lamott, I don’t want my kid to boycott the holiday. I’m looking forward to those burnt toast breakfasts in bed and yellow handprints. I guess I’m hoping one day not to hate the holiday, or at least to hate it only on the (totally valid) principles that Lamott lays out, instead of hating it for what it does to me personally. I hope that one day I can hate it for being a holiday of exclusivity, instead of just because I’m feeling excluded.

Until then, I will continue to say and receive the words “Happy Mother’s Day” without rancor, but with a slight lump in my throat. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear them, it just means that they don’t make a card for what I’m feeling today.

Evening

2010-05-05T18:30:00.000-07:00

I walk up to my door, actively turning my mind away from my day, from stories about miscarriages and foster care nightmares and undone paperwork and nefarious committees. Through the front window, I see MOTH pick him up, set him on his feet so he can take two, three, four, now five steps toward me before collapsing on his knees. His face is full of joy and also a lot of “holy shit, I’m locomoting independently!” with raised eyebrows and nubbly teeth showing in his big drooly grin. I come in, collapsing on my own knees to collect him in my arms. I get the nap/eat/poop report from my comrade in arms, all the while unloading bags, putting away pumped milk, and reassuring my son that yes, I see him signing “milk” frenetically and that we’ll go lie down together soon. We wave bye to Daddy and go do a diaper check. He obliges me by playing with his toys and letting me clean him up, forgoing the recent mournful cries and alligator death rolls that have plagued our diaper changes of late. I scoop him up again and we go into the bedroom, where I tuck him under the quilt and lie next to him, undoing one side of my nursing tank before I spoon myself around him. He latches on eagerly, humming a bit, and we spend the next several minutes with me willing him to fall asleep and him closing his eyes to fool me, before pulling off and lifting his head up to look around. It’s dark in the room, but I can see every eyelash as he leans close to me with his lax, open mouth searching for my face to give me his version of a kiss. I whisper, “Yes, baby, kiss. Now naptime. Night-night,” and rearrange our bodies into our snuggle. He nurses for a few minutes, then holds up one hand to sign “milk” some more, pulling off to look at me intently. “Yes, baby, milk. Have some milk. Naptime.” His left hand is cupped under my breast, flexing as if to help pump the milk directly into his mouth. His right hand, no longer signing, is now tucked between my breasts as if searching for change between couch cushions. He wants to twist, to use his bare foot to explore the rods of his crib, so I gather him once again into a snuggly pile and will my breathing to slow down, to relax my body so that his can mimic mine. It works. After a few minutes, the sucking stops, and I marvel that I can no longer feel his mouth and wouldn’t know if he was latched on unless I was looking. I think back to year ago, when it felt pinchy and foreign and I couldn’t relax and was constantly hunched over my inadequate nursing pillow. And now, I am warm and comfy and could fall asleep myself if I didn’t have things to do, and I can’t even feel him. I can’t tell where my body ends and his begins. His breathing slows, his jaw relaxes, and the hands that were so fervently grasping fall slack. I disentangle myself and look down at him, grateful he’s sleeping, painfully aware that the clock starts now for everything I’d like to accomplish without a small human attached to me, and yet unwilling to walk away just yet. I’m trying to file this away, to savor these sense memories of his soft hair, his ridiculous robustness in a tiny flannel button-down and khakis, his hot little hands and the way he tilts his face up when he sleeps, creating a determined chin that is otherwise lost in baby cheeks and rolls. A man stopped us in the parking lot yesterday, saying, “You’re so lucky. I’d give anything to have those days back.” I made my standard joke about him probably getting eight straight hours of sleep these days, and he smiled gently and agreed, but the wistfulness was still there. As it is in me now, as I slide the crib rail up and close the door, knowing that one of these days will be the last time I do this, and that day will come sooner and faster than I can even imagine.

Rich Tones! Conturing Highlights!

2010-05-02T17:46:00.001-07:00

The baby is napping. I am finally, finally doing something about the legions of gray hairs that I'd like to be confident enough to wear with grace, but instead dye into auburn submission. I can't remember the last time I did this, but it was at least five inches ago, apparently. I am too poor and cheap to go to a salon (you're talking to a gal who only gets her hair trimmed every 4-6 months), so I do it at home. If you've done this yourself, you know that this involves ammonia fumes, swearing, ruined shirts and little splats of color on your bathroom vanity, discovered long after it's become a permanent stain (and by the way, Miss Clairol, calling them "expert colorist gloves" does, in fact, give me a little burst of confidence. By gum, I can do this! When I put on these gloves, I'm transformed into an expert colorist! Maybe I'll add highlights and a little trim while I'm here! After all, I'm now an expert!). So now I have this nice window of babyless wait time while the toxic chemicals leach into my scalp, and I figured I should grab the opportunity to write before I am driven, as the commercials would have me believe, into an ecstatic shower experience after which my hair magically dries into silky, natural perfection.

I'm not sure why I feel the need to begin every post lately with an apology and an explanation for not posting more, followed by another apology for not reading/commenting more. MOTH keeps reminding me that this is for me, but I feel an obligation as a (tiny, insignificant) part of the blogging community to participate more often. And, as y'all know, nothing is more inspiring for witty, poignant writing than ENORMOUS PHANTOM PRESSURE. But there it is: I am sorry, and I do continually hope to get better. As for the explanation, I think I mentioned that I'm working full-time and MOTH part-time, and I just started another round of the parenting class that I teach, so we have approximately 20 waking hours a week that all three of us are in the same place. Add this to the fact that Tankbaby has recently become enamored of my laptop--well, that's not exactly recent, he's always been interested in it, but we're now moving into high-school-first-love-but-Mom-you-don't-understand-we-NEED-to-be-together territory--and I have had to forgo my writing-while-nursing time.

Also? I have student teacher shadowing me this quarter, and, while she's perfectly nice, it's unnerving to have someone ALWAYS THERE, watching your every move. All day, every thing I do must be explained, analyzed, and dissected. Not in a bad way, mind you, and she's not, like, bludgeoning me with questions, it's just that she's learning, and I feel obligated to try to make this experience as rich as possible. Also, she's really quiet and I find myself jabbering into the void because surely that will make her want to talk more, right? Sigh. There's a part of this that is challenging, but necessary, which is to try to do my job well and efficiently while still taking the time to train another person and give her opportunities to take on responsibilities. Then there's a part that is challenging, but unnecessary, unless you're me. And insane. And that's the part where you torture yourself wondering if that joke was lame, if you have something stuck in your teeth, if she's judging you for wearing the same jeans three days in a row. Imagine that feeling of standing up in front of the class for a book report or whatever, but it's ALL DAY. Every day, FOR NINE WEEKS. It's the intense scrutiny that gets exhausting, even though I'm sure this cute, perky, 26-year-old has better things to think about than the batty new(ish) mom who talks too fast and drives too slow and really does wear the same jeans three days in a row. I'm sure she doesn't notice two-thirds of what I do, but a) I can't help but be aware of it, and b) OMIGOD, THAT MEANS SHE IS NOTICING ONE-THIRD OF WHAT I DO I AM A LOOOOOSERRRRR.

Ahem. Anyway, the point is that I'm feeling rather under-the-microscope all day lately, and am therefore often coming home wanting to not talk (or write) to anyone about myself. I'm happy to listen, but I'm a little sick of my own brain right now.

And finally, my little corner of the world is being bombarded with sadness lately. We here in the Falling house are doing alright, but in the last two weeks:

A friend's husband is facing disfiguring surgery in another attempt to halt the cancer (don't chew tobacco, kids. Really, really, just don't.)
Another friend is beyond ready to have kids, and her partner keeps flipping back and forth, so she's caught trying to decide whether to stick it out with this (really quite wonderful) person and hoping that he stabilizes, or go off on her own and try to meet someone quickly or resign herself to single motherhood.
A very very dear friend just told me that she and her husband might be getting a divorce. I'm beyond shocked and sad and I don't know how to help and I'm scared because it's so close to home. Like, I've had friends split up before, but there was always something intrinsically wrong (at least to us outsiders) that was there from the beginning. This would be the first couple that we know who is...well, like us.
A family that I've been working with for a year just had their kids pulled by DHS. The kids are now in foster care and I'm just praying that they stay in our area so that I can keep working with them. It's a family that's been in crisis as long as I've known them, and I can't say I'm terribly shocked that it's finally come to this, but the whole situation is so sad and awful. This is just a part of the job sometimes, and I know that, but I get punched in the gut every time anyway. I'm worried about the kids, and I'm sad for the parents, and I am disgusted by the system that fails us all.

While any one of these things could probably make an interesting post, I find myself loathe to get deeper into the sadness. I am also hurting for my friends, and don't feel right about mining their tragedies for a blog topic. But when I go to write, these are the thoughts I keep straying to, and so I watch the Madonna episode of Glee again and prop my boy up on his tiny round steamed dumpling feet and watch him stand on his own until he realizes what he's doing and then drops to his knees.

Aaaaand, I gotta go. It's been 15 more minutes than the box advised, and I'm fairly sure I can hear my hair shafts crying out in pain. Beautiful, reddish-brown, natural-looking, expert-colorist pain. Time for that soft-focus steamy shower, during which I'm sure I'll think of something better and more cohesive to write about next time. Maybe I'll wear my expert blogging gloves.

Now Where Did I Put My Stamps?

2010-04-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Guy Ahead of Me in Line at the Safeway Who Declined to Donate $.50 to Kids with Special Needs, But Then Bought Smokes and a Lottery Ticket:

You're totally going to hell.

Love, Falling

Dear Person or Committee Who Chooses Waiting Room Music:

Really? A Muzak version of Lollypop? Huh. You might also be going to hell.

Love, Falling

Dear Co-worker Who Was Rude To Me and Later Claimed Not to Recognize Me:

1) We've worked together for four years.
2) I wasn't wearing Groucho glasses

Love, Falling

***************

In other news, my friend C had her baby! (C sometimes comments as "Anonymous," but not always. I mean to say that all of C's comments are Anonymous, but not all Anonymous comments are C. See?) (That was funny when I said it out loud. If you don't find it funny, try reading it aloud. In a library. Also, be drunk.) Welcome to the world, baby T (isn't that a sweet name?)! You're a lucky girl to have such an amazing mama. Also, in about 20 years, I know this great guy. You like 'em large, right?

The Internet Is, In Fact, For Porn, Apparently*

2010-04-22T18:43:00.000-07:00

So, I finally got myself hooked up with Google Analytics, purely so that I could do one of those funny posts where you list the web searches that brought people to your site and then write pithy remarks about them.

I fully admit I don't know how to fully make use of all these pretty pie charts that I now have access to, but I figured out how to get the keyword search report. Sadly, so far, I don't have a whole lot to go off of. There are a couple related to birth stories ("having contractions videos," "homebirth story," and my favorite, "hypnobirthing and hippies," which I'm pretty sure is redundant). Someone found me by searching for "creepoid," which is a word I thought I made up.

But the rest?

"blogspot xxx amateur"

"enematime"

"i jerk myself amateur video"

So, um, not only are people coming here for porn, they're coming here for awkward, novice porn. Swell.

*This blog title refers to the song "The Internet is For Porn" from Avenue Q. If you're familiar with the show, you'll appreciate this little story: my mom saw the show in NY on a business trip and enjoyed it. As she would do with any musical she enjoyed, she promptly bought the soundtrack. Later she told me about how she had it on the stereo on a bright spring day, with the windows and doors open, only to realize that she hadn't really paid close attention to many of the (hilariously dirty) lyrics until she found herself blaring lines like, "Me grab my dick/and point and click" to the sleepy suburbs.

Possibly the First Time Brangelina Has Been Mentioned in a Treatise on Grief and Loss

2010-04-18T18:48:00.000-07:00

Wow. So, um, who's cool? You guys are.

I didn't mean to post a big ol' "Hey, my mom's dead, plus I have to change my password" thing and then disappear for days while you all wrote such lovely things in the comments. I think about you all the time, I swear. It's just that right now, MOTH is working three nights and one weekend day each week, plus my full-time (and then some, lately) job, and...and...and...well, let's just say I don't know how Brangelina does it. (Grammar nerds: do it? Is "Brangelina" a plural noun?) (Humor nerds: would the Duggars have been a funnier reference?)

I started to reply in the comments, but it got so long, I just thought I'd write it here. Huge, weepy, embarrassingly effusive thank yous for all the kind words, thoughts, and hugs. Yes, yes, to those of you who mentioned writing about your own loss as a method of catharsis. And, of course, it was our own dear Elly Lou who (no relation to Cindy Lou Who) parsed it out so perfectly:

"I'm compelled to write about the cancer thing. Even though many people think I should just never speak of it again. But it was a huge momentous thing in my life that I think warrants documentation...if only so that I can purge it from my brain into a tangible record that I can file away somewhere safe...somewhere permanent...so I don't have to relive those moments over and over again for fear that some detail will be forgotten or trivialized. Then once it's out and safe and documented, it doesn't have to live in my head. Like waking up in the middle of the night to jot down a reminder to drop off the dry cleaning."

Yep. That's it, exactly. That's why I want to write it: not because I want to relive it, but because I worry that to forget the detail would be to trivialize what happened. And, while I don't want to relive the details, I don't want to forget them, either.

I think that what happens, at least for me, is that you tend to hang on to these awful moments, these stark flashes that can instantly take you back to a particular second, going through them again and again in your head. At first you do it because there is no choice, it's like your brain has to go through this loop to figure out that this is really what happened. And then it becomes almost comforting, in a weird way. Like, it helps explain why you feel so odd. You're walking through Target and everything is terribly normal, except that it feels like there's this invisible, thick film between you and that normalcy. You can participate in the rituals, the mundane exchanges with the salespeople, the pleasant surprise of a price slash for your favorite granola bars, and yet it's all weird and surreal and dream-like and you wouldn't be surprised at all if a bear walked out of housewares or if your 7th grade science teacher showed up with a test you hadn't studied for. And you need to relive those details to remind yourself that, oh, yeah, that really did happen, and that's why I'm like this. You need those little mini-blows to keep from getting hammered by the big picture, which is what happens when you do manage to forget for a while. (Also, those little details tend to be in the past, which make them easier to grapple with. It's perversely less distressful to remember how I used Mom's eyeshadow when getting ready for her funeral than to consider that she'll never meet her grandchildren.)

But then, after some time, you start integrating this New Reality into your life. It becomes part of you, for better or for worse. And you're ready not to be confronted with daily reminders of specific, sad moments. But letting those moments go doesn't feel right, either, because it's still a connection. It's still a part of you and your story. So those stories, those details, those moments can still exist somewhere, just not in your brain-box.

So I'm going to keep working on it. It helps to have a better sense of why I want to work on it, and it helps to know that y'all are out there with your own stories and willingness to share in mine. So many, many thanks to you guys.

What? I'm not crying. Shut up.

P.S. Homework! When do you blog? With my crazy job and MOTH picking up work and shifting nap times (curse you, DST!!) and the occasional desire to see a three-dimensional person outside my home, I'm finding myself feeling like I can't eke out the time that I'd like to write, to read and comment, etc. So you tell me: how do you balance your own writing and participating in the blogosphere with your job/kid/s.o./working on your velvet Elvis portraits? Am I just that lame? Is there, perhaps, a trick that I don't know? Or are you all just bending time to your very wills?

Spam from the Great Beyond

2010-04-14T22:35:00.000-07:00

So, first of all, you all are awesome and comforty and I'm totally coming to you with my next bad day (like, um, in a few paragraphs). Thanks for your sympathetic words on last week's post. I noted this in the comments, but it occurs to me that it's almost a week old (bad! bad blogger!), and in case people don't check back there: things worked out OK. I called the mom today about something unrelated, and she was all, "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry I forgot to call last week about the burn!" It was, as I suspected, an accident, and she knew that the kid was going around saying, "Mommy burned me," but she'd forgotten to call me. Neither of us acknowledged the DHS call, but I felt OK about telling her I'd been sure there was an explanation. We have a meeting coming up, and hopefully our relationship can continue intact. I feel like a huge weight's been lifted, because I literally lost sleep over that stupid call. (For now, let's ignore the fact that a colleague had to make a call the next day about a different family, one about which we do have serious concerns, because...well...sigh, you know?)

Hm, let's think of something cheerier to discuss. Hey, who wants to move from talking about child abuse to cybercrime and dead moms? You do? Well, you're in luck...

My mother died three years ago on April 13th. Yesterday, I had planned to post something about the story of what happened. I wanted to write about getting the call, about the surreal plane ride, returning to the house I'd left only a week ago, seeing her slippers still on the floor. Like writing out my birth story, I've had it in my mind that I need to write about this. However, unlike my birth story, I'm not sure why I want to write it all out. I wanted to be able to remember everything about Tankbaby's birth, all the little details and the order in which they fell. I don't really want to remember the little details around Mom's death, I guess, but I feel like...I need to? Maybe because, three years later, it still seems unreal lots of the time. Or maybe because it feels like some sort of honoring ritual or closure (although my suspicion is that Mom herself would brush this off and tell me to go do something cheerful). Or maybe simply to document a horrible, scary thing in case someone else needs to know what one person's experience was like. I don't know. My compulsion to write it is almost equal to my revulsion in thinking about it and I've danced around the possibility for three years now. But I figured, hey, I have a blog and a newly re-affirmed mission to write more boldly and honestly...

...and then I found out that my e-mail address had been hacked and I'd just sent about 200 contacts links to some Canadian sex aid site. Dontcha hate it when that happens?

Anyway, I generally only have the time that Tankbaby naps in the late afternoon/early evening to write, and instead of composing a touching, brutal, memorial post, I spent yesterday's hour cleaning out my inbox, contacting everyone to warn/apologize about the link, changing my password, etc., etc.

Oh, and receiving e-mails from my dead mom.

I'm not sure how this all works, but I'm guessing it's related and that the hacker also got into her account, or from hers to mine or something, but there it was in my inbox: new message from deadmom@aol.com (um, not her real address). On the date of her death. Swell. What's the appropriate phrase for punched-in-the-stomach-but-creepily?

I called my dad to warn him about the link and also to commiserate about the weirdness of the e-mail. It just so happened that my sister, the famous Aunt Benevola, was over for dinner, so I talked to both of them. Benevola wanted to know what the e-mail said. I explained that it also contained a link, but that I didn't click on it. Later on we had this text exchange:

Me: Hmph. Found a few more e-mails from mom in my yahoo acct. Looks like hers might've been hacked, too.

Benevola: Or maybe mom wants you to buy Viagra.

Me: Wow. That's creepy in, like, so many ways.

So, I never got around to writing the post I'd planned. Maybe I still will (because, Goddammit, there's always next year). Or maybe this is Mom's way of telling me to cheer up and focus on the blessings in my life (of which there are plenty, including a Tankbaby who can now find his ears on cue and a MOTH who sent me a text today with a picture of the first spring lilac blossoms and the message, "Your mom sent you something today to cheer you up").

Or maybe Mom really is shilling penile enhancers from the afterlife.

Might Want To Look Elsewhere for Sunshine and Rainbows

2010-04-08T22:03:00.000-07:00

My assistant pulls me aside. "When I pulled up P's sleeve to wash his hands, I saw a round mark. I didn't get a good look at it, but he's got something on there."

Swell. Circular owie? I'm thinking ringworm.

I go over to the three-year-old. "Hey, P, Carrie says you have an owie. Can I see?" I pull up his sleeve and see not the raised round rash I was expecting, but a small, perfect circle. It's about the diameter of a marker cap, but even thinner. In fact, I look closely, thinking that somehow he's stamped himself with a cap rimmed in ink, or something. But it's not ink. It's not a rash, either. It looks like a scab. "What happened, sweetie?"

"Mommy burned me."

"What?"

"Mommy burned me."

Well, shit.

Here's the thing. I know this family. I am 95% sure that this is one of three things: 1) that something happened where his mom accidentally burned him, like he came up behind her and she turned around too fast or something, 2) that he did this to himself somehow, but his mom was involved before or after and he's mixing that in, or 3) something else entirely happened. However. I don't get to make that call.

The call I get to make is to the child abuse hotline. I am, by law, a mandated reporter, which means that any time I see a suspicious or unusual mark or a child reports an injury or basically any time I suspect abuse or neglect, I am legally required to make a call, or risk license suspension, termination, and fines or even jail time. Even when I suspect, as I do here, that there is more to the story. Even worse, I'm not supposed to interrogate the child, so I can't ask many follow-up questions, lest I later be accused of "leading" the child. I ask again, "What happened?" and he repeats himself, but this time with more stuff that I can't understand and "ow" and "hot." The thing is, he's three. And in special ed. So his language skills are not so hot. So I don't get a lot more information.

Here's the other thing: I'm not allowed to call the family, either. It's one thing if they call me and say, hey, just so you know, xyz happened and that's why Petunia has that black eye. But I can't call them. I can't tell them that I have to call the hotline.

This might be the part of my job that I hate the most.

I understand the rationale behind all of these rules, and I respect it. Child abuse and neglect is especially prevalent among kids with special needs, because they are less likely to be able to defend themselves, to report it, and to get help. As a reporter, my job is only to repeat what I was told or what I saw, without making any judgment on it. But in a case like this, I feel like I'm totally screwed. I have to report it, and theoretically my call is kept anonymous. But if a caseworker investigates, it's not too hard for a family to figure out who made the call. After all, these are preschoolers. They don't go out on their own very much. So then the relationship, the trust that I've spent the past however many months building, is wrecked. Parents feel (rightly) betrayed and don't want to trust us anymore. They may even pull their kids from the program. That's a lot to risk for what, in this case, I think is a less than 5% chance of there actually being abuse.

However. That 95% certainty I mentioned? That's because I've been doing this for a while, and I'll never say I'm 100% sure. Because I can't be. Because kids that I've worked with have been hurt while I'm working with them, and I didn't know. Because kids that my agency has worked with have died at the hands of their caregivers. Thankfully and obviously, this is extremely rare, but it's happened. So I'm never 100% sure. So I have to make the call.

I called, and I did tell the intake worker that I was calling because I had to, that I've never had concerns about this family, that the child's reporting could be garbled or missing information. In all likelihood, this won't even become an active investigation, because it's (as far as I know) the first report. It'll probably just get filed away, and if other incidents occur, an investigation will be opened. (Which, of course, is tragic in other cases, where there is likely something horrible and ongoing happening, and it can take several incidents to get an investigation going.) Odds are that the family will never be contacted and the report will just languish somewhere, unless something happens in the future to warrant further examination.

But still, I won't sleep well tonight, knowing that somewhere I've put a likely perfectly innocent family's name on a list. I'm sick over it, and sick of it. I hate that this responsibility rests on me, and that they system that places this burden is the same one that regularly screws over the very people it's supposed to help. I never feel like a call to the hotline is "saving" a kid, even when I do suspect that the child's safety is in danger. I feel like I'm dooming them to a faulty process with failing resources, and that I'm covering my own ass and that of my employer.

It all sucks, and right now I wish I'd gotten that nice graphic design degree my mom wanted for me.

In Case You Want a Reason To Scratch Out Your Own Eyes

2010-04-06T18:32:00.001-07:00

My friend E (yes, that wonderful wise woman presence from my birth story) posted this on my Facebook page recently. I don't know why she hates me.

(Caution: Twisted stuff. Like, if the Yardbabies freak you out, this is probably not for you. Would you enjoy some interspecies cuteness instead?)

If you need me, I'll just be over here. Shuddering.

I'll Never Be Able To Show My Face Around Here Again

2010-04-04T21:28:00.000-07:00

This is the last day of personally-imposed little challenge, and I thank all of you for being so awesomely supportive and pretending you actually wanted to read all about the most unflattering things about me. Tomorrow I go back to work and likely back to my post-every-couple-of-days pattern, which will hopefully allow for some more time for reading and commenting on all of your blogs, a task which I did not accomplish this week.

So, Fie Upon This Quiet Life asked, "Have you ever dated someone you worked with? How did it go, if so?"

Interestingly, this seemingly innocuous question provides a perfect opportunity for my final likely-to-embarrass-myself post (well, it's probably more accurate to say "my final intentional likely-to-embarrass-myself post"). Because the answer is sort of and I married him. MOTH and I worked together for two summers, although we didn't start dating until a couple years later.

Here's where the embarrassing part comes in: We met? At a Renaissance Fair.

Now, now, quiet down...I can't type with all that laughter. Besides, you'll wake the baby. Yes, yes, indeed...I spent my summers in late high school and college (and a few years post-college) performing a Renaissance festival, complete with accent, bodice, and an over-reliance on Kenneth Branagh movies for historical knowledge. I called paying customers "m'lord" and pretended not to know what a videocamera was.

You can generally sort the people who work at (or visit with any frequency) a Ren Faire into the following categories:

1) Faerie Folk--these are the hippies who love walking around in leather bikinis (just like in Shakespeare's time!), live for the afternoon drum jam, and wear glitter and wings and feathers without irony. They generally dig on the "mystic energy" and can probably tell you where the good 'shrooms are to be found in the parking lot.

2) D&D/Magic/Other Wizards, Vikings, Pirates, etc.--like their ethereal brethren, these guys are totally into this mythical world, and relish the opportunity to play dress-up and live out their fantasy play...whether or not it actually has any historical accuracy or relevance. There was this one guy who used to come every damn weekend (not a performer), in full loincloth and fur regalia. My friend Melissa used to call him Pronoun the Barbarian.

3) Historical Re-enactors--on the opposite end of the spectrum, these history buffs learn every damn thing there was to know about Elizabethan England, and are liable to corner you explaining why that turkey leg isn't really period, you know, because barbeque sauce wouldn't be invented until the 1800s when Edmund Kumquatch brought high fructose corn syrup to the New World. Or something.

4) Performers (actors, musicians, etc.) who want to entertain, and treat this as a job. However, they also dig the community that comes from performing with the same people for nine weeks in a row, year after year. This was me. This was/is my friends, some of whom actually work the Faire circuit, traveling around the country performing and making a living at it. And while I would understand why a "serious" theatre artist might look down on a Rennie, I can also promise you that it's not an easy gig. You're wearing hot layers of clothes, you're in character all the time, and everything you do is improvised in front of a live audience. You perform in all weather, for nine hours at a stretch. As a result, the people that I worked with are some of the funniest, quickest people you'll ever meet. Who can also juggle fire.

I was 15 when I started, and 25 when I stopped, and in those ten years, I made some of my closest friends, people who stood up in my wedding, people I've now known for over half my life. I met my best friend there. I met my husband there. I felt pretty there for the first time in my life. It is the home of wonderful, amazing memories of me transforming from a terribly shy nerd into a garrulous, (semi)confident proud-to-be-a geek.

So mock me at your leisure, but I know people. People with swords. And people who swallow them. We're fun at parties.

Don't Drink, Don't Smoke...What Do You Do?

2010-04-03T16:47:00.000-07:00

So, here's the thing. I don't really have any deep, dark secrets. I'm quite boring, and have had a life-long fear of Getting In Trouble, so I don't have any wonderful stories about youthful madcap foolishness that turned legendary with the application of time and adulthood. I want to keep with my challenge theme about posting potentially embarrassing things, but today I'm drawing a blank. How embarrassing (heyyy...)!

So, for tomorrow's post, I'm going to give you an assignment: you ask me something, anything, and I'll answer it honestly. What do you want to know?

In exchange, I will offer up these tidbits of cringiness (seriously--I actually cringed while writing each one). They may not seem like much (certainly none of them alone are enough for a whole blog post, dammit), but these are exactly the kinds of things that my subconscious likes to offer up in the wee hours of the morning, whenever it feels like I might be thinking too highly of myself.

Pretty Minor But Still Awful Things I Have Done

I totally manipulated a friend in high school into throwing me a "surprise" party when I was 14. I can't remember how, but I got her to offer it, and then to be in cahoots with me about how I would act (duh) surprised. I don't think I even helped her decorate or anything beforehand, as that would have...um...wrecked the surprise. Wow. I was a tool. I remember really having a good time at that party, though. So much for learning a valuable lesson, hm?
In eighth grade, those of us with no detentions were allowed to go on a field trip to a nearby amusement park. One of the girls in my group, Diane, shoplifted a bunch of stuffed animals and other tchotchkes (screw you, spellcheck, that's a word. No, I didn't mean to write latchkey, artichoke, or crotchless) and passed them around to the group. We were summarily busted by the amusement park rent-a-cops, and while I can laugh now, I was TERRIFIED at the time. I mean, they read us our rights and everything! The rest of us were released (and ejected from the park, which was convenient, considering the buses were waiting...my friend Casie went back the next day, just to thumb her nose at The Man, while I didn't return for a year and only then wearing a pair of Groucho glasses), because we hadn't actually stolen anything. And while we maintained to the cops that we didn't know she was stealing things, and I've always made that part of my story when I related this to other people, even as an adult...I knew. We all did. I mean, we weren't sending her in with a list of things to steal and a blueprint of the kiosk security system, but when she handed us that candy or stuffed animal, we knew she wasn't buying it. We (or at least I) didn't know that she also had her shoulder bag crammed with over $100 of merchandise until the cops emptied it out when she claimed innocence. But the point is, I knew that these were ill-gotten gains, and I pretended I didn't. Even when I told this story as an adult. I guess I was worried about the statute of limitations on juvenile receiving of stolen goods. So don't drop a dime on me, OK? I've done my time. My sentence was to ride to the waiting buses--full of the good students--in a police car so that I'd hear "Ooooh...busssted!" from a bunch of white, middle class twelve-year-olds.
In college, I was an RA in the dorms. As a fundraiser, we held a date auction, where you were signed up by someone (this way you were guaranteed a bidder) and you describe the date you would take a person on, which is then bid upon by the audience. Bidding started at a dollar, and usually went up to $15-20. When my friend Amanda went up, bidding went up in the usual dollar increments, until our friend Eric offered $50. It was sweet and unexpected, and they ended up dating that year and later got married (and then divorced, but I don't think that had anything to do with the date auction). I was next, and was flattered and, to be honest, a wee bit triumphant that I also got the bids up to $50. However, the guy (tall, confident, funny) who made the final bid was not buying the date for himself, but for this other guy (short, timid, possibly funny but who would know because he was so quiet) who we'll call Roger. And, in the finest tradition of teen TV sitcoms, as Tall Funny Guy stepped aside so Roger could shyly step forward, I could hear the "wah-wah-wahhh" in my head. I'm so ashamed about this now, but I was disappointed. And really nervous. I mean, the guys had helped this kid buy a $50 date...what if he really liked me? It is a testament to how inexperienced I was that I was absolutely panicked at the idea of this guy making some kind of move that I'd have to refuse and I wouldn't know how and even if he didn't, I'd have to TALK to him and he didn't talk and what would we talk about and STOP SAYING TALK, and, and...and I chickened out. I swapped out my original date offer (dinner and...a walk? a movie? I can't remember, but there was definitely a phase two) for a double-date with my friend Jason and his date. Roger and I had dinner in this pseudo-sandwich shop that was actually an extension of the dining hall, then we met Jason and his date at Ben and Jerry's. It was an uncomfortable, early evening, and I never gave that poor guy a chance. I was so terrified of awkwardness...in me, in him, that I ended up creating the most awkward situation anyway. I saw him in the dorms, of course, and was nervously friendly, but mostly embarrassed. And now, of course, I can see how much worse I made the situation by being so obviously uncomfortable. I mean, if he didn't actually like me and was just caught up in the camaraderie of the guys doing something nice for him, then he probably just thought I was weird.. If he actually liked me, well, I bet he didn't after that night.

Whew! Doesn't that feel good, to get that off my chest? And you all still like me, right? Right? Um, hello? HELLLLOOO?

Damn. Should have stuck with the pooping stories.

In Which I Mention Star Wars, a Death March, and Gypsies--Yes, It's About Parenting

2010-04-02T11:29:00.000-07:00

I have wrested the computer away from my son's eager hands, and MOTH is distracting him with the Scooba (it's like a Roomba, but for mopping instead of vaccuming), so I have a precious few minutes to write. I've had this week off for spring break, and thus felt confident in my posting-every-day challenge, but somehow it's still hard. I've managed to post, yes, but I haven't gotten to read/comment elsewhere all week, so...anyway, I'm cheating a bit by digging out something I wrote when Tankbaby was about four months old. Consider it a sequel to the enormously loooong and drawn-out birth story. Like The Phantom Menace to Star Wars. Except, you know, without the weirdly racist overtones.

I wrote this in a good moment, one where I was feeling OK about the not-so-much-OK-ness that had permeated the first couple months of parenting. That wasn't, and isn't, always the case. I still struggle mightily with the moments where I feel like I'm losing my shit, where I am so frustrated with this perfect, healthy, vulnerable little boy who is just being a baby. I know that it's normal, I know that I'm not alone, but it feels awful. It feels awful to have such strong negative feelings about the most precious being in your life, the one for whom you'd lay down your life, except you're pretty sure he's going to be the death of you long before you can make the sacrifice. They are flashes and they go away, but these moments are there in parenting, and it's scary to see how close we all are to the abyss in those moments. I felt immediate affection for this guy I met when Tankbaby was about five months old who, within minutes of talking about non-sleeping babies, offered up, "Oh, I TOTALLY get how someone could shake their baby." Because you do. You see how parents, especially those who are young and/or without knowledge and support, could lose it entirely for a minute. I don't understand the whole "wait until your father gets home" thing where you nurse a grudge against your child for hours and then administer physical punishment coldly and methodically (which is ironic, because the people I know who are pro-spanking are often very proud of the fact that "I do it when I'm calm, I never hit out of anger," which to me is waaaay more fucked up), but I can understand losing your nut and reacting out of the monster that lives inside all of us.

Anyway, in hopes that this somehow reaches someone who someday needs a little light at the end of the tunnel, or maybe someone who is continuing to beat themselves up for those awful moments, I offer this:

The First Trimester

When you are first pregnant, the traditional wisdom is that you don’t tell anyone for the first trimester. You’re all excited and want to share the news, but you hold off, lest you get everyone else excited and then Something Bad Happens. The first three months of parenthood are kind of like that, but in reverse. At least for me…I didn’t want to share too much, lest I scare people off from ever having a baby. But now that we’re into the second trimester of parenthood, I feel like I can share.

I was at L’s house today with Tankbaby and he was grinning up at me gummily. I leaned over and said something like, “Oh, man, you are so cute. I’m so glad I kept you, even though at around week five I thought of returning you to sender.” L’s mom said, “You don’t really mean that,” and before I could reply, L said, “Oh yes, she does.” She explained that, when she came to visit during those early weeks, particularly when I was also in the throes of mastitis, I was not smiling and instead resembled a member of the Bataan Death March (um, I might be paraphrasing here).

She’s not wrong. I loved my son pretty instantaneously, but that love came more from an unconscious, biological, hormonal place than the affection I feel for him now. That early love was powerful, but it needed to be in order to outweigh the sleep-deprived, equally-hormone-fueled desire to put the baby in a drawer for a few hours. If possible, a drawer in someone else’s house. On Mars.

So, while I loved my kid, I wasn’t all that crazy about Motherhood at that point. It’s different now, better. I have a chubby baby with big eyes and bigger cheeks and ham thighs who can smile and make eye contact and flirt, instead of a little crying grubworm, with whom the best I could hope to achieve is a state of neutrality, of just being still and quiet. Now, Tankbaby looks for me and follows my motions across a room, and I think I am finally more to him than just the Blur Behind the Boobs. It is all, as the clichés say, totally worth it. But I still remember those early weeks, when I wondered, “What have I done?” and I could look down at this tiny, vulnerable human being and say, “I love you so much. But you know what? If you would sleep a little longer? I could love you MORE.”

I don’t know. Maybe this was just me? But I would respectfully contend that those of you who are parents, if you don’t remember feeling doubt and desperation, feeling like you might want a do-over, feeling like you might well sell that baby to the gypsies in exchange for four hours of sleep or one hot shower, you a) are lying, or b) probably didn’t have a baby, but a houseplant. Think back—were you able to ignore it for long periods of time? If the answer is yes, you probably didn’t have a baby, or at least you shouldn’t have.

If I Haven't Gone to Bed Yet, This Counts as Today's Post, right?

2010-04-02T00:51:00.000-07:00

(Spoiler alert: I had a baby!)

Part 3, or You'll Notice That While I Mention Poop, I Somehow Tell A Birth Story Without Every Using the Word "Vagina"

You know the drill by now, right? Labor, breathe, smugness. At my next cervical check, I was at…nine and a half. Now, a half inch may seem like a tiny amount, but apparently when you’re trying to push an infant’s cranium out of your hoo-ha, eeeevery leetle bit helps. However, Karen knew I was fatiguing, and she offered to try to “stretch” my cervix to get it all the way open.

Now, friends. If anyone, even someone you know and trust, offers to stretch your cervix, you tell them NO THANK YOU JUST FINE OVER HERE GO AWAY NOW. If only someone had given me this same advice. As it was, I thought this sounded like a dandy idea, because I was all too ready to be done with these chump contractions. I wanted to get on with the pushing, which I’d heard that many women actually like, because it feels like such a relief to be doing something. So I assented, thinking, how bad could it be, compared to what I’d been doing and what I was about to do? The answer: worse and not quite as bad, but darn near. But it must have done the trick, because not long after, I felt like pushing.

When you take a childbirth class, they’ll probably tell you that pushing feels like needing to poop. They’re correct. It is one of the more unnerving feelings (and there are many to choose from) in labor, especially if you’re a nancy-prissy-pants like me who has been TERRIFIED at the idea of pooping in front of people, ever since I heard that was a possibility. So after the “stretching” (which is stretching in the sense that being put on the rack is stretching), I resumed the position. Karen left to check on someone, telling the nurses, “Page me when she’s ready to push.” About three minutes later, I felt what could only be The Urge. I mumbled, “Um, I think I’m ready to push?” like I was asking permission. The nurse asked if she should go get Karen, and I confirmed the pushing-similar-to-pooping theory, and said, yes please.

So Karen came back in. I was squatting at the edge of the bed and pushing, like they do on TV, only to be informed that I was not, actually, pushing. “Push here,” I was told as someone’s hand, um, invaded Normandy, shall we say. I pushed. I was told I wasn’t pushing. More emphatic handling of the lady bits. More pushing. But, apparently, not really. Finally, Karen told me I have to push like I’m pooping, and that, in fact, there is poop in them thar bowels and that I should go have some contractions on the toilet to help “move things along.” She says “poop” like an experienced mom: there is nothing self-conscious about it, it’s almost cute. (By contrast, you should know that I’m blushing every time I type the word.)

And here, dear Teh Interweb, is where I would draw a curtain to preserve my modesty (what? Stop laughing), but I do want to be honest. So, let’s quickly blow by the fact that…I pooped. While MOTH knelt next to me. We do not speak of it. However, for any of you who might find yourself in a similar situation, I can promise you that in the moment, I didn’t care. I was certain that I would feel embarrassed about all of these indignities, because, well, come on. But I didn’t. In the moment, I was all about getting the job done, nudity or bodily functions be damned. And when it’s over, it’s like it never happened. You know, unless you put it on the internet.

Back to the bed. I’d requested a “squat bar,” which is a metal bar that attaches to the end of the bed so that you can use it as leverage when you’re squatting and pushing. I remember that there was some fumbling during the installation, and at one point one end of it clattered as it slid out of place. Finally it was stable. I thought I would use the birth ball and different positions, but I ended up lying back in the bed (with the back still raised) to rest, and during contractions, I would pull myself up to the squat bar and push. For days after I gave birth, I had sore shoulders and arms, and I’m pretty sure that three hours of pull-ups was the culprit.

As my Splendoula, E was also in charge of documentation, and she took pictures and video of me a few times throughout the labor. I wasn’t sure that I would want them, but in the days and weeks following Tankbaby’s birth, I went back and looked at them over and over again*. There are pictures of me kneeling over the back of the bed, with MOTH and E in position, massaging and stroking and appearing very somber and respectful, like they’re at a museum. The picture of me pushing (torso and up) looks like I’m trying to do a particularly tough long division problem in my head. These pictures are, incidentally, followed by silly self-portraits of Karen and E (did I mention that Karen was also E’s midwife for her kids?), waving and grinning at the camera. They were clearly having a better time at my labor, with their little love-fest reunion.

Rest, contraction starts, pull-up, push, lie back. Over and over again I did this. I was getting really tired, and wished the contractions would slow down so that I could grab a quick nap in between them. Karen called for ice chips, and directed MOTH to give them to me between pushing, since she was worried I was getting dehydrated. I pushed and pushed, positive I was bursting blood vessels in my face, imagining bloodshot eyes and WC Fields nose in my post-partum photos. At one point between contractions, E leaned over and rubbed my back gently and whispered, “Is there anything you want right now that you don’t have?” I answered, “A fucking baby.”

I pushed for about three hours. Towards the end, not knowing it was the end, I asked a nurse desperately, “Is this doing anything?” She misheard me and answered soothingly, “Yes, you’re doing great.” Finally, MOTH told me that he could see the head in between pushes. In my dazed state, I sort of didn’t believe him, because, after all, I was planning on having this baby hours ago, and everyone keeps insisting I’m doing great, but I have yet to produce the child. Realizing that I was faltering a bit, Karen grabbed my hand and put it between my legs to feel the head. This was motivating (Actual baby part! Near the exit, even!), although at that point, all damp, hairy, bloody parts felt kinda the same to me.

A mirror was brought in. I mostly ended up ignoring it, as my eyes were closed during contractions and pushing. I have a vivid flash of watching as a contraction ended, watching that little purple head recede a bit. I also remember the trickle of bright red blood where I would later receive stitches.

Now, if I may be a hippie, the room’s energy totally changed. There were lights being set up, the end of bed was dropped, equipment tables were brought over. I remember E telling me, “See all this stuff? They’re getting busy down there, that means it’s almost time.” Like MOTH, I understood what she was saying, but I still only half-believed her, because by this point I was convinced that, like Sisyphus, this would just be my life’s work from now on: rest, pull-up, push until the end of time.

But she was right. MOTH was gowned up, Karen took up her position and my feet were placed in stirrups, (wo)manned by nurses. I didn’t see E at the time, but a dozen pictures of my girly bits tell me that she was behind the camera (Again, I thought I wouldn’t want these pictures, but wow. To have the very first breath my kid ever drew on film, even if the background is rated XXX, is pretty cool).

I don’t remember a moment of “the next push is it,” but there was one particular push where I knew it was the one. The much-lauded Ring of Fire sensation (fairly accurate, by the way, with apologies to Johnny Cash), and then relief as the head came out. Another push of the shoulders, and a giant slippery rush as the rest of the body followed (which is, in case you’re unfamiliar with babies, what you want to see). MOTH told me later that the baby was crying, although I didn’t hear it. I reached down, greedy, to pull him to me, and heard, “Whoa, whoa!” because the cord was still attached. MOTH cut the cord and the warm, squirming, wet baby—my baby—was on my chest.

I hope you don’t think less of me when I tell you that, in that moment, I was equally elated that a) I had a gorgeous, healthy baby, and b) I was ALL DONE WITH LABOR.

Our birthing class teacher had sent us this crazy cool video about the breast crawl, a natural instinct in babies to, moments after being born, seek out the breast. It seemed weird and neat, so we wanted to try it. Somewhere in my daze, I had pulled up my tank top, and sure enough, that little tiny being, who had so recently been promoted from fetus to creature of the air, squirmed and wriggled and latched on. It was amazing and only later did E tell me how hard it was for her to sit on her hands and watch, rather than just “whomp that baby onto the boob.”

This should really be the end, except that hardly anyone talks about the rest. Before the credits roll, you’ve got to deliver the placenta. Unless you’re me, in which case you apparently hang on to it a bit, until there’s enough bleeding that you get your ass put on an IV with a little Pitocin, as well as some fluids (looking at pictures later, I did avoid broken capillaries, but I am…a little peaked-looking, shall we say. Probably a good call on the fluids, there). Then there’s the stitches and general tidying up of the, well, I don’t want to say “exit wound,” but you know what I mean. At some point, the adrenaline kicked in and I began shivering uncontrollably, while still holding the baby. I remember wondering why no-one was trying to take him. E coached me to do my deep breathing again, and lo and behold, it works. I stop shaking. I turned to her and said, “Tell me the story about the day when no-one wants to do anything painful between my legs again.”

Somewhere in here a hapless cafeteria worker comes up with my long-awaited dinner. She apologizes profusely when she enters the room and finds me…a la carte, but by that point I’m beyond caring, and I mostly want what’s on her tray. I’d heard that the hospital had great milkshakes, and, as the cafeteria closed at midnight and my son was gracious enough to be born at 11 PM, one of MOTH’s first acts as a father was to order the mother of his child a turkey sandwich and vanilla milkshake. They were both tasty as hell, and one of my favorite pictures is of Tankbaby nursing while I have half a sandwich stuffed in my mouth.

Karen finished her naughty-bits needlepoint and dashed out to deliver another baby. I finished my meal and started texting friends and family while MOTH helped clean and weigh the Tank (who, at 8 lbs 6 oz, was perfectly average at birth. Little did we know). E stayed for a bit longer, then went home to her own family when we were moved to a post-partum suite. And Tankbaby slept, which lulled me into a false sense of security about the next thirteen months.

So that’s the story about the day I had a baby. And an excellent milkshake.

*In the days immediately following the birth, I felt kind of weird about it, because I didn’t feel like I’d been a good Hypnobirther. Sure, I’d used the relaxation techniques and I hadn’t ended up using meds, but I complained bitterly…in my head. I felt like a whiner, like I’d been weak. Which I know now is preposterous, but it really helped me to see photographic evidence of me being strong, being calm, doing this amazing work that millions of women have done and do every day. It is the most common and yet most miraculous thing, and the photos I have, while not for public consumption, remind me of that. No matter the method or how it may vary from your original plan, to give birth is nothing short of a miracle. If someone gave birth to you, go hug them right now.

Is the Ryan Seacrest Joke Too Much?

2010-03-31T23:03:00.000-07:00

So you've come back for more, have you? Cruelly, I only offer you part two of what is turning out to be a three-part story. What can I say? I'm remembering more as I write.

(By the way, if you have a birth story, I highly recommend writing it out, even if you don't choose to ~~over~~share with the blogosphere. I'm finding it fascinating to see what I remember and what images can take me back to that time and place. Yesterday I found it really jarring to go from writing about "the baby" to picking up my actual, warm, cuddly one-year-old son.)

Part 2, or If Yesterday Freaked You Out, This is a Good Time to Go Get a Sandwich

After I’d finished…draining, I decided to go back to walking around the halls. I remember looking out the big hospital windows, noticing that it was snowing lightly. I thought about how, some day, I would tell my son, “On the day you were born, it snowed.” Within a few minutes of walking, however, I realized that that little crochet hook had apparently pushed some switch into overdrive. I was having real contractions now, none of this “surges” crap, and I wanted to sit down. Not because of the pain, but because I couldn’t do my full relaxation thing while standing. (Quick explanation: in Hypnobirthing, the premise is that, the more you relax, the less pain you will feel, because women’s bodies are designed to birth babies. Adrenaline and the subsequent tensing of muscles that comes from fear works against this natural design; they call this the fear-tension-pain sequence. So the “hypnosis” part is really about breathing, relaxing, and visualizing. I definitely didn’t have a painless birth, as you’ll soon see, but I really do feel like the Hypnobirthing stuff worked to keep me relaxed, especially between contractions. However, I’d always practiced this sitting or lying down, so the idea of completely relaxing my muscles while hoping they’d support my heavily pregnant self was unfathomable to me. We now return you to our extremely uncomfortable story already in progress.)

We went back to the birthing room and I sat on the bed, propped by pillows and reeling with the thought that this was NOT going to be like the videos and that this was…hard. E came back from lunch and popped her head in the room, asking, “How’re we doing?” I took a break from my quiet, even breaths to mourn, “I was smug.” To her credit, she looked properly sympathetic, even as she snickered.

I labored in the bed for a bit, but I wasn’t making much progress. Karen said briskly, “Let’s try nipple stimulation!” as if she was suggesting a quick and easy method for getting pesky stains out of your linen tablecloth. So I shuffled to the shower, disrobed, and sat on a little plastic stool while I aimed the hand-held showerhead at my breasts with one hand, massaging nipples with the other. I felt a bit ridiculous, especially since MOTH was in there as well, just keeping me company, watching this sad parody of porn. This wasn’t the last point in the process where I felt self-conscious, but it was the last time I cared.

I dried off and put my robe on. The hospital has a Jacuzzi tub for laboring (not for birthing), and that’s where I wanted to head. I liked the idea of warm water, but I wanted to float, to be surrounded by it. A nurse shepherded us across the hall, showed us how the faucets and jets worked. After getting it hot enough for me (apparently I am cold-blooded, because both my husband and nurse asked, “are you sure?” when I kept asking for the temperature to be raised), I lowered myself in with relief. I had heard and read tons about how water was amazing for ameliorating the pain of contractions, how it worked so well with Hypnobirthing because it promoted relaxation. Whee! I figured. I’ll just hang out here for the rest of labor and then a little pushing and—poof—baby, right?

I was smug.

The water actually was quite lovely. It really did seem to help me relax, but the contractions felt about the same. For each one, I would switch from my “relaxation breathing” (count in for 4, out for 8, sort of like yoga breathing) to “slow breathing” (inhale and exhale evenly and slowly throughout the contraction). I realized that each contraction was taking about five breaths, and I would count them as a way of remembering how short the contractions really were. It almost worked, except that in my mind I was going, “One…this is OK…two…here it comes, it’s getting worse…three…oh my God…four…I-can’t-do-this-anymore-and-I’m-going-to-have-to-and-I-don’t-like-it-not-at-all…five…oh, it’s ending. Huh. I really should remember that for next time.” And I did this for each contraction.

In between contractions, I really did relax, which I recommend to anyone considering this activity in the future. If you spend the time in between the painful bits obsessing about how painful it was/will be, well, that way lies madness, my chickadees. It’s here that I do credit the Hypnobirthing method and all of our practice, for I was able to be so relaxed that I was practically asleep between surges. This proved slightly dangerous in the tub, as I remember slipping down into the water and feeling it lapping over my mouth. I figured, MOTH was there if I actually did slip under—like, it didn’t occur to me that I might be able to keep myself above water. I was a little dissociated from my body at that point, I think.

After almost an hour, I got out of the tub. Looking back, I wish I’d spent more time there, because it was definitely the most comfortable I’d been, possible-self-drowning threat aside. But I began to be aware of how long poor MOTH had just been sitting there, watching me make what he later called “cute little moaning noises.” Aw, right? Anyway, I figured I’d been in there a while, surely I was almost 10 cm dilated and we’d start with the baby-outing thing any minute, right?

Say it with me, class—I was smug.

I got out, toweled off, and dressed again in my cami and my robe. I’d abandoned the idea of pants by this time. When we got back to the room, I eagerly (well, “eager” is probably the wrong adjective to use when describing a person, even a nimble-fingered person, using said fingers to determine the width of your cervix. You know, that part that you keep WELL INSIDE YOUR BODY) submitted to a cervical check, certain I would hear that we were near the end. I was at five. It’s hard to remember now, a year later, but I’m pretty sure my deep meditation at that point was like, fuuuuck.

The next couple hours are sort of a blur. I remember that I sat, backwards, on the toilet for a while, and that felt good. Leaning into something hard and cool (and, I hoped, given that this was a hospital, clean) while MOTH rubbed my back. I remember walking from the bathroom back to the bed and having a contraction hit me while people were talking to me and I sank down to my hands and knees, like I was dissolving away from the conversation. I remember E kindly stroking my hair when it was down and helping put it up when it was bugging me (and, of course, down again, when the ponytail was bugging me). I breathed. I counted. I know at some point, E had dinner and forced MOTH to do the same. They were really amazing, working as a team so that I always had one or both of them near me, but never felt crowded. I’d heard a lot about becoming irritable (to put it kindly) with labor partners, especially spouses, but I never got annoyed. To be fair, I had my eyes closed much of the time and couldn’t have told you if Ryan Seacrest had walked into the room. Well, I bet I’d have smelled him…doesn’t he seem like the kind of guy who’d wear too much cologne?

Anyway. Another check. Six. Mother fucking six. I believe my kind midwife actually threw me a bone and said, “six and a quarter.” This was really the only point during my labor that I felt a sense of despair, like maybe I couldn’t do this. I really thought I was further along, and the idea of being barely halfway was…demoralizing. I didn’t actually break down into tears, but somewhere in my mind I was conscious of the effort of this, like, “I’m (sniff) gonna be a big girl (sniff)…”

Part of our birth plan (which, thanks to MOTH, also featured the USDA Organic logo and “free range baby” on it) specified that I didn’t want to be offered medication, that I’d ask for it if I wanted it. When we were talking about the plan the night before we went in, E asked me, “What do you want us to do if you do ask for meds? Like, do you want us to try to talk you out of it?” We discussed how I’d depend on MOTH to distinguish between a genuine, calm, logical request and a panicky need for reassurance. Somewhere in the back of my mind during labor, I knew that I wasn’t going to be offered pain relief. And I knew that I didn’t want to ask for it. But it sure sounded nice, so I began to make cow eyes at people when they asked how I was doing: “I’m…so…tired…” I would whisper, thinking that, surely, someone would take pity on me and mainline some morphine or something. Instead, they all patted me on the shoulder and told me I was doing “good” or some such rot. Jerks.

Karen gently but firmly told me that we needed to move things along. She offered more nipple stimulation by using a breast pump, more walking, or…she didn’t say Pitocin, but I knew that it was lurking there. I couldn’t fathom walking in this condition, so I agreed to the breast pump. Hey, I figured, at least I’d get to practice how to use it. I really wanted to avoid Pitocin, because I’d heard how it ramps up the contractions, which was NOT AT ALL APPEALING at that point. A nurse went to get the pump, and I went back to my “breathe-count-‘I hate this’-relax to the point of near sleep” cycle. Karen told me that the baby still wasn’t positioned correctly (you want babies to come out face-down, but Tank had been mostly sunny-side-up for a few weeks), so she directed the nurses to crank the bed into almost a 90 degree angle so that I could kneel and drape myself over some pillows at the top. She then showed MOTH and E how to rock my hips back and forth during contractions. Because I was so focused on the breathing, I was really quiet during contractions, so I was to lift a finger to indicate that one was starting. Somewhere in here I got really cold, and I remember that the warm blankets they draped over me were heavenly. Something about the weight and the warmth was the most comforting sensation at that point. Karen left for a bit to check on another patient.

[Note: Somewhere in here, I threw up. MOTH remembers it being during the early pushing, but I remember it being earlier. The important part is that I totally missed the receptacle that had been offered to me during previous contractions. I threw up. A lot. All over the bed. It was kind of awful, because I HATE throwing up and have only done so three times in the last twenty years, but I have to say, those nurses are pros. Not only did they react quickly and without flinching, they had that bed—and me—cleaned up and changed before the next contraction. It was like the Indy 500 pit crew of linens.]

The nurse with the breast pump came back about the same time as Karen. Another cervical check, which I submit to without hope, considering how the last few hours have gone, and it’s only been about fifteen minutes since I was at six (and a pity quarter). With a brisk snapping off of her glove, Karen pronounces me at nine. Nine! MOTH comes over by my head and says, “You’re at nine, sweetie!” Still with my eyes closed and in between deep breaths, I faintly but firmly exclaim, “I rock!”

But do I? Do I really? Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion (seriously, I promise tomorrow will be the last part)!

A Story That Ends With a Wet Bed

2010-03-30T23:50:00.000-07:00

One of the things I'd wanted to write about (but then chickened out about) is the story of Tankbaby's birth. I've read some really great birth stories on various blogs, and have found them fascinating and funny (if occasionally gross and scary), and I'd planned to write it all down in the weeks immediately following the birth so that I wouldn't forget the details. However, one of those details was a real live baby, so it's now, a year later, that I'm finally getting around to it. I don't know if these stories are appealing to anyone who has not either gone through birth (as the deliverer, not the deliveree) or plans on giving birth at some point, but I've given you this whole nice long paragraph to buy you the time to flee, so consider yourself warned: discussion of bodily fluids, girly parts, and a frozen dairy treat to follow.

Tankbaby's Birth Story, Part 1, In Which I Remain Dressed and Dry (Spoiler Alert: in Part 2, I am neither!)

Tankbaby was due on February 26^th. He was born on March 8^th. That’s ten days late, people. Which doesn’t seem like much, unless you are holding a tiny-but-getting-bigger-by-the-moment human just above your bladder. However, I was on leave, I owned maternity yoga pants, and I was pretty comfortable. However, we’d been taking Hypnobirthing classes (surprise! We're big hippies!) and wanted as little intervention as possible, so I was trying to avoid an induction that might then lead to the need for an epidural. We tried everything. Walking, acupressure, sex—I even allowed a bit of spiciness to taint my beloved pad see ew. Nothing. This baby was apparently just as comfortable living in me as I was having him in there. I felt slightly guilty, like it was my fault that the baby wasn’t coming, just because I was feeling like I could stand to be pregnant a lot longer if it meant putting off this scary thing called “labor,” followed by the even scarier “delivery,” and the most terrifying: “parenting.”

But the baby’s movements slowed from his typical ADHD-gymnast-on-crack routine, and Karen, our midwife, ran a few tests and advised us to induce. It took a little time to let go of the idea of our completely natural (except at a hospital, because the idea of a home birth—well, let’s just say we have a dog and poor tidying habits, and leave it at that) birth. No water breaking at home, no calling MOTH with “it’s time!” Suddenly we had a schedule. An appointment to birth. After a few hours, though, the upside became evident. We had time to pack leisurely, to clean the house so that we’d come home to serene tidiness, to foist the dog off on some generous friends, and generally busy ourselves with comforting routines as we disbelievingly barreled towards possibly the least comfortable experience I would ever have.

When we got to the hospital, we were told that it was a busy night and that our room wasn’t quite ready. Having had ample time to pack well, we were prepared with DVDs, knitting, and books, and were quite happy to wait in the waiting room for a while, which seemed to surprise the nurses, who appeared to expect more protests. I pointed out, “Hey, I’m not in labor. Go ahead and help the women who are.” I promised that when I was in labor, I would be less accommodating. Secretly, I was also hoping that my water would break spontaneously in the waiting room—wouldn’t that have made for a great story?

No such luck. I texted friends and family and worked on the same ½ inch of knitting that I’d been working on for days (because the days leading up to the birth of your first child are a great time to take on a challenging project! It’s not like your concentration is totally shot or anything!). When we’d checked in, we learned that our wonderful Hypnobirthing instructor, Kristen (who was also an L&D nurse), was coming in at 11 pm. It was almost 10 when we got to our room, and the head nurse had heard that we wanted to have Kristen as our nurse, so she asked if we minded waiting until Kristen got there to start the induction. Nope, fine with us. More time to encourage the water to break. I poked my stomach, jumped up and down, but that babe was burrowed in. I donned my chosen birthing outfit (I did try on the hospital gown, but it was itchy and I didn’t like that I couldn’t fasten it myself), a pair of hand-me-down maternity pajamas of mysterious origin and questionable style. They were, however, soft, and tied in the front. There were some capri-length pants under a knee-length robe, and I also wore a cami tank top, being unwilling to have my not-insubstantial breasts unfettered during the upcoming aerobics.

Kristen came in and we hugged and chattered in as nonchalant a way as possible, considering that one of us was in scrubs and one of us wasn’t wearing underwear. I was strangely reassured by Kristen’s presence. Not that it was strange to be reassured by her, because she emanates a serenity and matter-of-factness that was the perfect antidote for such a nerve-wracking occasion. But I had been feeling strange, almost guilty, about agreeing to be induced, because it wasn’t Totally Natural. I believed I was making the right decision, because I was concerned about the baby’s decreased movement, but it helped my neurotic brain to have the instructor of the birthing method there, actually doing the induction. Like a weird kind of permission, as preposterous as that is. Plus, it felt like a neat “I’m controlling the world with my mind” thing.

Kristen hooked me up with two big Velcro straps, each with a fist-sized plastic disc in the center. The blue one measured the baby’s heartbeat; the pink was to measure contractions (or “surges,” in the parlance of Hypnobirthing). She tried to check my cervix, but said it was hard to tell and that it didn’t matter at this point, anyway. She inserted the misoprostil, which I barely felt. She showed me how to unplug the leads from the monitor and throw them around my neck if I had to go to the bathroom, but warned me that if I disappeared from the monitor for more than a few minutes, she’d have to come in and check on me. She encouraged us to try to get some sleep, which sounded perfectly logical, but equally impossible. I wanted to sit up with Kristen and review everything in the Hypnobirthing course, like cramming for a final with the prof. Failing that, MOTH climbed into the narrow hospital bed (which would have been a tight fit with the two of us and was downright awkward with the three of us—um, three meaning us and the baby, not us and Kristen) and watched the second episode of Dollhouse on my laptop. That particular episode opened with a woman in labor screaming. So much for controlling the world with my mind.

It was after 1 AM when the show ended, and we figured we might as well try to sleep. MOTH went over to the narrow couch, which had been made up into a bed. It felt strange not to sleep together on this, the last night when it would be just the two of us. I slept poorly. Even if I’d been able to shut off my brain, I was still tethered to the monitor. I could hear the baby’s heartbeat, which I found to be a sweet reversal, considering he’d been listening to mine all these months. But I could also hear when the baby or I moved in such a way that the band no longer picked up the heartbeat, and would move it around to avoid someone having to come in and futz with it. Around 7 AM, Kristen came in to say goodbye, and to reassure me that she’d hand-picked her successor, Heidi, another nurse who was familiar with and supportive of Hypnobirthing. I was disappointed that I hadn’t spontaneously burst into labor in the night and gotten to keep Kristen. She showed me that I had been having some surges throughout the night, which elated me. First, because I was making progress, and secondly, because I hadn’t felt them, so I figured my Hypnobirthing training was paying off.

The plan was for Karen to come in later that morning and break my bag of water if the contractions hadn’t picked up. We called our friend E, who was serving as our amateur doula, or Splendoula (like Splenda, she was as good as the real thing), around 8 and she came in around 9. Somewhere in there, Heidi came in and checked my cervix. I was a little more dilated, around 3 cm, and Heidi gave me another dose of misoprostil. She was able to tell me that the baby’s head hadn’t been lined up with the cervix, which probably explained why I hadn’t been dilating more. Basically, poor Tankbaby was standing in the doorway, pushing on the doorjamb. Like that Far Side comic where the kid is pushing on the door for the School For the Gifted, a door clearly marked, “Pull.” Heidi also let me know that Karen, who had been on call all weekend, had forgotten it was Daylight Savings Time and slept late (yet another reason why DST is wack), meaning she would be in closer to lunchtime. The contractions started to pick up a bit, and I used my Hypnobirthing breathing through them, greatly reassured that I didn’t really feel any pain, just the pressure I’d read about. I walked the halls with MOTH, feeling supremely confident. E pointed out on the monitor that I was having contractions every 4-5 minutes or so, and marveled and how well I was doing: “You could be one of those women from the videos!” she cried, alluding to the earth goddesses in the Hypnobirthing videos, who rested serenely, only a few looks of intense concentration or exhalations belying their relaxed demeanors until babies slid effortlessly from between their legs, like dropping a sudsy shampoo bottle in the shower. I replied, “I know! Of course, it’s still early…watch the surges kick in and I’ll realize that I was just being smug right now.” But secretly I began to believe that I could be one of those women and that this was going to be a great, natural, easy birth, just like I’d read about.

Karen came in around noon and used what looked like nothing more than an overlong crochet hook to break my water. It felt like nothing, until I felt the rush of hot liquid coming out. The feeling was unlike anything I’d felt before; it wasn’t like peeing, because there was nothing internal that was propelling this. It kept coming, however, and I’d soon saturated the pad they’d put beneath me. Let the indignities begin, I thought.

OK. Must sleep now. Part 2 tomorrow! If you're grossed out by this so far, you reaaaa-heally won't want to come back for that.